Slaves are sometimes kept naked in a man’s compartments

Slaves are sometimes kept naked in a man’s compartments, of course. But, too, after men have risked death, it often pleases them to be served by naked women.

Perhaps such a thing, so simple in itself, speaks to them of joy and life. To be sure, the flavor of nudity, as so many other things, depends much upon context. There is the foolishly outraged and defiant nudity of the stripped free woman, in her capture noose, who does not yet know how she appears to men and what will be done with her; there is her trembling nudity when she lies upon her belly in a hunting camp, awaiting her shackling; there is the nudity of the exposition cages, in which one must move and pose for potential bidders; there is the exposure on the slave block itself, as one is auctioned; there is the sweaty nudity of work, as when she scrubs tiles on her hands and knees in her master’s compartments; there is the nudity of the slave bathing her master; there is the nudity of the slave in the morning, kneeling before the master, waiting to learn if she may clothe herself; there is the beautiful warmth of a loving slave, nude and collared, serving wine in the light of a lamp of love; there is the nudity of the enflamed slave, aroused in her dance, who will beg for her master’s touch; there is the nudity of the women of the enemy serving at the feast of the victors, a nudity that celebrates the prowess of the conquerors and proclaims the fate of fair spoils of war.

There are many nudities, with nuances and flavors. The common denominator here is the beauty of the woman, the capture or slave. It excites and delights men. Accordingly, they will have the joy of it. They will, as masters, have it subordinate to their will—and as it pleases them— fully, completely, utterly.
“Then, tonight,” he said, “you will be slept naked at the foot of my couch, chained by the neck to the slave ring.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. I did not doubt but what she would be used before being spurned from the couch to the floor at its foot. I envied her a private master.

Witness of Gor, p. 760-761

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