Read Online Kajira of Gor by John Norman - Free Book Online Page A

asked.
    “Something more masculine?” asked the girl.
    “Yes,” I said, uncertainly. I had not really thought of it exactly like that, or
    not consciously, but it now seemed to me as if that might be right.
    “Does Mistress wish to dress like a man?” she asked.
    “No,” I said, “I suppose not. Not really.”
    “I can try to find a mans clothing for Mistress if she wishes,” said the girl.
    “No,” I said. “No.” It was not really that I wanted to wear a man’s clothing,
    literally. It was only that I thought that it might be better to wear a more
    mannish type of clothing. After all, had I not been taught that I was, for most
    practical purposes, the same as a man, and not something deeply and radically
    different? Too, such garb has its defensive purposes. Is it not useful, for
    example, in helping a girl to keep men from seeing her as what she is, a woman?
    “Mistress,” said the girl, helping me on with the silken robe. I belted the
    yellow-silk sash. The hem of the robe came high on the thighs. I looked at
    myself, startled, in the mirror.
    In such a garment, lovely, clinging, short, closely belted, there was no doubt
    that I was a woman.
    “Mistress is beautiful!” said the girl.
    “Thank you,” I said. I turned, back and forth, looking at myself in the mirror.
    I adjusted the belt, making it a little tighter. The girl smiled.
    “Are such garments typical of this place?” I asked.
    “Does Mistress mean,” asked the girl, “that here sexual differences are clearly
    marked by clothing, that here sexual differences are important and not blurred,
    that men and women dress differently here?”
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Yes,” she said. “The answer is ‘Yes,’ Mistress.”
    “Sexuality is important here, then?” I said.
    “Yes, Mistress,” she said. “Here sexuality is deeply and fundamentally
    important, and here women are not men, and men are not women. The sexes are
    quite different, and here each is true to itself.”
    “Oh,” I said.
    “By means of different garbs, then,” she said, “it is natural that these
    important and fundamental differences be marked, the garbs of men being
    appropriate to their nature, for example, to their size and strength, and those
    of women to their nature, for example, to their softness and beauty.”
    “I see,” I said. I was a bit frightened. In this place, I gathered, the fact
    that I was a woman was not irrelevant to what I was. That I was a woman was, I
    gathered, at least in this place, something fundamentally important about me.
    This fact would be made clear about me even by the clothing which I wore. I
    glanced at the wardrobe. Deceit and subterfuge, I suspected, were not in those
    fabrics. They were such, I suspected, as would mark me as a woman and even
    proclaimed me as such. How would I f are in such a place, I wondered, where it
    might be difficult to conceal or deny my sex. How terrified I was at the thought
    that I might have to be true to my sex, that I might have little choice here but
    to be what I was, a woman, and wholly. I looked in the mirror.
    That is what I am here, I thought, a woman.
    There was a sudden, loud knock at the door.
    I cried out, startled. The girl turned white, and then, facing the door,
    immediately dropped to her knees. She cried out something, frightened. The door
    opened.
    A large man stood framed in the doorway. He seemed agile and strong. He glanced
    about. His eyes seemed piercing.’
    He had broad shoulders and long arms. His hair was cut rather short, and was
    brown, flecked with gray. He wore a white tunic, trimmed in red. He looked at me
    and I almost fainted. It was something in his eyes. I knew I had never seen a
    man like this before. There was something different about him, from all other
    men I had seen. It was almost as though a lion had taken human form.
    “It is Ligurious, my Master,” said the girl, her head now down to the floor, the
    palms of her hands on the tiles.
    I swallowed hard,