Prize of Gor by John Norman Read Free Book Online

as though it might be something unimportant, something trivial, a mere matter of course, something to be simply taken for granted.
    But the blonde, Tutina, had not taken the matter so lightly. She had been clearly frightened. Even now she was clearly frightened.
    The young man snapped his fingers, and Tutina swirled back to her original position, and kept her head down.
    “There is some sort of marking on the thing,” said the older woman, looking down, to her own ankle.
    “Do not concern yourself with it,” he said. “It is a reference number, yours, in our records.”
    “Who undressed me? Who put me in this gown?” asked the older woman, frightened.
    “Tutina,” said the young man.
    She glanced at the blond woman, who then, lifting her head, smiled up at her, knowingly, scornfully. No longer then, at that moment, did Tutina seem timid. To be sure, she was then relating to the older woman, not to the young man.
    The older woman flushed, and then, in embarrassment, closed her eyes briefly, and then opened them, looking down, angrily, toward the rug. Vaguely she recognized that it seemed to be an oriental rug, and might, she speculated, be of considerable value.
    How amused must the blond woman, Tutina, have been, she thought, when she removed her clothing and would then compare her own abundant, vital, provocative riches with the worn, slack, tired, withered, pathetic, impoverished form which, helpless and unconscious, lay before her. She would then presumably, turning the old form about, have proceeded to see that it was once again concealed, though now perhaps, to her amusement, in such a reductive, simple, thin, single, embarrassing, uniform, meaningless, dehumanizing cover.
    “I want my clothing,” said the older woman. She touched the gown. “I do not want to wear this,” she said.
    “You would not think twice about it, if you were in the office of an examining physician,” said the young man.
    “I do not want to wear it!” she said.
    “You may remove it,” said the young man.
    “No!” she said, frightened.
    The young man smiled.
    “I have no money, no wealth, I have no family, no loved ones, nothing, you can get no ransom for me! I mean nothing to anyone! I am a mature, middle-aged, woman. You can have no interest in me. It is not as though I were young and lovely! What can you want of me? There is nothing I can do for you!”
    Again he smiled.
    “I do not understand!” she said.
    He did not respond to her.
    “Monster!” she wept.
    “Perhaps, perhaps more than you know,” he mused.
    “Release me!” she begged.
    “Please be seated,” he said.
    “Release me!” she said, imperiously, coldly, drawing her small frame up to its full height, summoning all the rigor, all the severity, of which she was capable.
    How she would have terrified weak men, administrators, colleagues, and such, by the presentation of such a fierce mien, suggesting implacable resolution, and full readiness to have instant and embarrassing recourse to various devices, procedures, pressures, laws and institutions engineered to impose the will of such as she, with the full force of the coercive apparatus of a captured state, upon the community at large.
    “Do not try my patience,” said the young man. “Sit there.”
    “No!” she said.
    “You will sit there, clothed,” he said, “or you will kneel here,” he indicating at the same time a place to the side, on the rug, “naked, before me.”
    “I have a Ph.D.,” she quavered. “In gender studies!”
    “You are a stupid bitch,” he said. “The choice is yours.”
    She sat down, quickly, and turned a bit to the side, keeping her legs closely together, moving the gown down, as she could, to protect herself.
    “I am not stupid,” she said weakly.
    “No, I suppose not,” he said, irritably. “Indeed, in some respects, you are extremely intelligent. If you were not, you would not be of interest to us. But, in other respects, it seems you are incredibly