Nancy Meets a Gorean Master

by Thomas Antonson

Copyright© 2018 by Thomas Antonson

BDSM Sex Story: Nancy has read the John Norman books and fantasized about becoming a true slave in the Gorean style. When leather meets flesh and she finds herself truly owned how will she react?

Caution: This BDSM Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa   Consensual   Slavery   Heterosexual   Fiction   BDSM   DomSub   MaleDom   Rough   Spanking   Anal Sex   Cream Pie   Fisting   Oral Sex   Sex Toys   .

This work began as a series of mIRC chats I had with a woman (and, yes, I had proof she was a woman) who called herself Beautyone, back in the ‘90s. She introduced me to John Norman’s “Gor” novels and gave me the first real taste of the D/s world that I’d ever had. She shared her own experiences and patiently provided some understanding of true submission. I posted an early version of this short tale to and it got an award. I’ve revised it several times since and am adding it to my collection of stories here. I tried to make it as true to the Gorean style as my limited understanding would allow.

++++++++Babble above, story below++++++++

He spotted her as he drove down the street. 5-5, nice tight figure; blue summer dress -- not too tight; brown hair. Looked to be forty-something, very attractive. At least to him. At 35, he’d long since learned the wisdom of choosing older partners. Much of his early sexual education had come at the hands, mouth, pussy, and ass of an older aunt. This lady looked like a prime specimen of his favorite dish.

Being new in the neighborhood, he hadn’t had time to really check things out. But, over the next few days, he managed to spot the object of his desire several times -- usually out for a walk. She was fairly predictable. That was good. He found out where she lived. Some casual conversation with a neighborhood busybody got him her name (Nancy), and a bit of other information. She lived alone. Her husband had passed away (heart attack), and her children lived a long ways off.


John began his campaign immediately. First, he went to a local sporting goods store and bought a new pair of jogging shoes. Then, he began walking. Daily. You see, John had won a large pot of money in the lottery, and was not (at the moment) working. Instead of buying some mansion and a bunch of fancy cars, John had moved to a quiet Midwestern town, bought a new, but not ostentatious, house in a decent neighborhood, and moved in. He wanted to write. Now, he’d have the time. And, so, his schedule being rather flexible, he had plenty of time to stalk the lovely brown haired lady who looked tailor-made for his libidinous urges.

It took four “chance” meetings, a brief and friendly “hello” each time before he was able to strike up a conversation with her. He kept it short, but interesting, hoping to pique her curiosity about him. He knew he was fairly good looking, and he worked to keep in shape. He wasn’t Tom Cruise or anything, but he’d learned a long time ago that as far as women were concerned, it wasn’t how you looked to them, it was how you looked at them. He kept his looks appreciative -- so she’d know that he found her attractive -- but not lurid. She knew she was good looking and didn’t find it at all alarming that others shared the opinion.

That first conversation spawned others. Soon, they were walking together. A few days of this became a week. Then, she invited him to her home for homemade lemonade after a walk on a particularly warm July day. He accepted. Still, he made no move, except that he complimented her on how lovely she looked in that particular dress -- she always wore dresses -- the color being especially apt for her eyes. She seemed to enjoy his attention and her movements suggested a certain flirtation. He’d also noticed certain other things about her. If he was right, it promised to be a rich conquest.

Lemonade in hand, he allowed her to lead him on a tour of her home. As he expected, it was as neat as a pin and tastefully decorated. She had one room that was full of books. He looked at the titles. He smiled, to himself. He had been right. Everything John Norman had ever written was on those shelves. So was the “Beauty” trilogy. She saw him pause before that section of her collection. A blush spread across her features. He decided to risk all. John took down one of the volumes (Captive of Gor).

“John Norman. I have most of these but not as many as you, Nancy. So, tell me, do you ever imagine yourself as Elinor Brinton, a branded slave in the collar of Rask of Treve?”

She blushed again. Deeply. Beautifully. She seemed to shudder for a moment, then collect herself.

“Yes ... Master.”

The last word came out almost as an involuntary gasp. He was not the only risk taker in the room. Beautiful, courageous, and submissive; perfect. His gamble had paid off.

“Position,” he said, quietly, but with authority. She complied, immediately, perfectly, as if she had been waiting for this moment all of her life. Almost without transition, she dropped to her knees in the thick carpet, her buttocks resting on her heels, her knees spread wide, her hands at her thighs, palms outward, head down.

“Look at me.”

She looked up at him, her eyes wide open, her expression one of expectancy. She was a slave girl in nadu, awaiting the pleasure of a Master.

“So. What are you?”

“A girl is a slavewhore, Master.”

“How long?”

“Always, Master, as long as she can remember. But, she is late in admitting this to herself or to anyone else.”

“I do not allow slaves to wear clothing in my presence unless it is a bit of red pleasure silk. Stand and strip, slavewhore.”

Again, the obedience was instant and sure. In moments, he was treated to the sight of her nakedness. It was an incredible treat. Not many women of Nancy’s age have managed to defeat gravity. Nancy had. If you’ve seen the pictures of Nancy Sinatra or Farah Fawcett in Playboy, you’ll know what I’m talking about.


She did, the flush spreading from her face to her body. Her breasts were splendid. High and firm, not too large, capped with teats like long cherry spikes. Best of all, her legs were trim and tan, and her pubic pelt was trimmed neatly and did nothing to hide the charms beneath. Her buttocks were firm and well shaped, and her belly had just a hint of the paunch that most women develop in later years.


Again she was on her knees before him, legs spread, her slave-heat on perfect display. Her love cradle was magnificent. He knew he would enjoy subjecting her to numerous slave rapes.

He stepped up close to her, his groin just at the level of her upturned face. He looked into her eyes, locking them to his, as he pulled down his running shorts and athletic supporter, freeing his stiff cock. He let it fall forward, it’s thick head slapping Nancy on the cheek. Her mouth opened and she turned to capture him with it.

“Pleasure me.”

She moaned and began to lick and kiss his manhood. She reached up to grasp him with her hands, but he prevented this, telling her to use her mouth only. Obediently, her hands returned to her sides. Placing his hands on either side of her head, he began to guide her movements. The angle was not right for full throat penetration at first, until she adjusted her position slightly, moving her head forward and the rest of her body back, extending her neck, aligning her mouth and throat. Soon, he was sliding his cock all the way to the root in her gullet, her slurping sounds mixed with moans of pleasure. He noted that her tongue and lips were eagerly active upon him and that her body literally shook with pleasure as she serviced his cock.

It had been some time since he had last had a woman and so he should be forgiven if he did not last long under the assault of Nancy’s ravenous mouth. He made no effort to hold back, but let nature take its course and soon spilled a large load of his frothy seed into her belly by way of her mouth and throat. Her moans of pleasure became much more intense as she felt him begin to spew -- her sounds were muffled by the presence of his mighty shaft in her face. He assumed the slavewhore was cumming, but he didn’t care, lost in his own orgasm. When he was finished, he pulled his cock from her mouth and restored his clothing to its proper place.

“You are a slave. Yet, you have no Master. Is that true?”

“Yes, Master.”

“That is unhealthy. I am going to change that.”

“Please Master.”

She looked up at him, expectantly, a drop of his cum still clinging to her lower lip. She seemed to notice this at the same moment he did and her tongue quickly darted out and captured this stray prize, pulling it back into her mouth where she held it, savoring the taste and texture.

He smiled.

“I am going to leave now. After I am gone, you will make phone calls to your close relatives and whoever might look for you and tell them you are going on a trip -- I don’t care where. In the morning, make arrangements to have your mail and newspapers taken care of for two weeks. At exactly 12 noon, I expect you to be at my front door wearing that blue dress (he pointed to the floor near her) and nothing else. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

John said nothing more. He walked from the room, out the front door, and went home, never giving her or her house a backward glance. Once inside his house, he began to prepare, feverishly, for the arrival of a new slave.

Nancy Morgan was stunned. Here she was, naked, kneeling in the middle of her library, the taste of fresh semen still on her tongue, her nipples hard, her flesh mottled with pink blotches, her pussy streaming juices down her thighs, and her breath coming in gasps. Worse, she’d just called a man Master and had agreed to spend two weeks at his house as a slavewhore.

“My GOD, Nancy! What have you DONE?”

Then, she started to laugh. She laughed so hard, she began to weep. She eventually sprawled on the floor, laughing and crying. And she knew something about herself. She was happy, truly happy, for the first time in years.

As she thought about the suckling she’d given John’s cock, she juiced again and her hands went to her crotch. Frame by frame she replayed the entire incident in her mind, recalling the tastes, textures, and scents as though she were actually re-living the experience. She began to moan and then whine as her climax overtook her, a powerful orgasm that seemed to go on and on.

Finally, sated for the moment, she got up, picked up her clothing, and went to prepare herself for her new life. There were phone calls to make, and notes to write. Lots of work to do before noon tomorrow.

John’s doorbell rang precisely at noon; he smiled, wondering how early his new slavewhore had gotten herself ready; how long she had been waiting to come to his house. If his guesses about her were anywhere near accurate, she’d been ready for hours. John did not go immediately to the door upon hearing the bell. He waited while he counted to fifty, wishing to instill some uncertainty in his new slave.

As instructed, she was wearing the dress he had ordered, and as he could see her breasts clearly outlined through the fabric, he knew she had complied with his other orders as well. When he opened the door, she immediately went to her knees in the position of a slave girl in the presence of her Master.

“What are you,” he asked?

“A slavewhore, Master.”

“What do you want?”

“To serve you totally and completely.”

“In all ways?”

“Yes, Master.”


“Yes, please, Master.”

“You understand what you are doing by entering my house after having said these words?”

Nancy said nothing, but leaned forward, extending her arms upward to John, offering herself to him.

“Tell me, kajira, do you wish to wear the collar which signifies your position?”

Nancy shuddered, thinking she had somehow been transmitted directly into the presence of a real Gorean Master.

“Yes, Master, a girl would be honored to wear your collar and become your property, to do with as you please, without any reservations.”

“Beware, slave, lest you find yourself in a bondage much deeper than you could possibly imagine.”

“Absolute and total service is what this girl seeks, Master.”

“Very well, take off that dress and then crawl into my house.”

Nancy hesitated for only a moment, but John noted her hesitation for later discipline. He knew that the high hedges on both sides of his sidewalk would prevent anyone from seeing her here unless they happened to look directly up the walk. Quickly, she shed the dress, proving that she was, indeed, wearing nothing under it, and then, as a slave, she crawled into his house, pausing in the entryway for further instructions. John followed her inside and closed the door.


Nancy immediately complied.

John kicked her legs apart, spreading them to better display her feminine attributes. Her thighs were wet with juice. Her pussy mouth flared open and shut like a the mouth of a landed fish. She was clearly paga hot. Pulling off his shorts, he fell upon her, taking her from behind, subjecting her to the first of what would be many slave rapes, his cock bursting into her well-moistened slave cunt, ravaging her, causing her to cry out in both misery and delight.

Nancy squirmed and jerked beneath him, pinned helplessly to the floor by his weight, her arms held to her sides in his strong grip, his long, thick, cock ravaging her delicate vaginal tissues. She whimpered and moaned under the assault, but, of course, did not object to this treatment. It was not her place to do so.

She was well used, this first time, and, when he had finished with her, he rolled her over and thrust his dripping dick into her mouth for cleaning. This she did with alacrity and, apparently, great enjoyment. He stopped her before she could arouse him once more, for he had other plans for this slave than just fucking her. He stood up, still naked from the waist down.

“Heel,” he said, walking down the hallway.

Nancy struggled to her feet, rubbing her breasts where they’d been ground into the entryway carpeting (she hoped he’d take her on some softer surface next time!), and followed him, remaining the appropriate distance behind. The went through a large living room, “obviously decorated by a man,” she thought, and down a hallway toward what was apparently the kitchen.

They came to a doorway and he turned into it, disappearing down a stairway. She followed. One flight of stairs down revealed a spacious, carpeted room, with a door at the far end. There was a sofa against one wall which had a number of large, metal, rings protruding from it. There was a rack along another wall which had an assortment of whips, restraining devices, and implements for inducing pain. Nancy shuddered as she considered the whips, noting that one was apparently a reproduction of the five strapped Gorean slave whip. Deep in her heart, she knew that she would not fully realize her dreams until that whip came crashing down on her back.

“Kneel,” John ordered, pointing to a place in the middle of the floor.

“Whip position.”

With a shudder of fear, Nancy quickly complied, putting her head to the floor, tossing her hair forward, baring her back for the whip. She heard John walk several steps away and then return.

“Earlier, outside, a slave hesitated before following the command of a Master.”

“A girl is sorry, Master, she will not hesitate again.”

“I’m sure she won’t. Lift up your head.”

Nancy looked up and was confronted by the Gorean slave whip. Without a word she began to kiss and lick the whip, paying homage to the instrument of slave discipline she had long dreaded, yet, dreamed of experiencing. John took the whip away from the slave’s worshiping mouth and stepped back. Nancy put her head down, without being told to. John smiled, noting the automatic submission. He wondered how long this beauty had been simmering, alone with her desires, waiting for the right Master to come and fulfill her dreams.

John’s arm moved up and sharply down, the five leather tongues whistled through the air and landed with a SPLAT across the naked back of the kneeling slave. There was a quick, loud intake of breath; a long, pregnant pause. Nancy’s mouth opened wide in surprise and shock but for a moment no sound emerged. John waited, arm poised.


Nancy sobbed, her breath coming in heaving gasps as she realized for the first time what a whip in the hands of a real Master could do to her. Her whole body trembled, and, to her utter and complete amazement, she felt her pussy throb, a steady stream of juices dripping onto her thighs, betraying her innermost needs.

“Thank you, Master,” Nancy sobbed, finally, her body still trembling in fear, and ... anticipation.

Once more John’s hand went back, and Nancy heard the whoosh of the thongs as they flew through the air, propelled by his manly strength. SPLAT the five leather blades exploded across her back once more, causing her to suck in great gulps of air through clenched teeth, but she did not scream this time, only moaned in pain and pleasure as she accepted her punishment, knowing that there was more to come, but also knowing that she had, at last, found someone capable of reaching inside of her and grasping her deepest desires. And, so, she accepted the pain, not knowing that John was using but half strength strokes at this point.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, SLUT?”

“Oh! Thank you for another stroke of your whip, Master ... a slave needs correction when she errs.”

“That’s better. Now, are you ready for a REAL stroke?”

Nancy’s mind reeled what had he been giving her? Love taps?

“A slave begs mercy from her Master and promises to do better in the future.”

Nancy crawled over to John’s feet and began to lick and kiss them, attempting to placate her Master so that she would avoid a more painful whipping than she had already endured. He kicked her away from him with his foot. Then, reaching down, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet.


“Sorry Master ... please Master ... have mercy on a poor slave girl who knows little of serving real men.”

John said nothing but dragged the slave across the room by her hair, bent double at the waist, until he had reached his destination. Two large eye bolts were mounted to the floor and ceiling at this spot, directly opposed. Each ring had leather cuffs, with the cuffs attached to chains of adjustable length.

“Put your arms over your head, slave.”

“Yes, Master.”

John secured Nancy’s wrists in the padded cuffs and adjusted the chains, lifting her feet somewhat off the floor, leaving her dangling for a moment with her arms stretched over her head. He then similarly secured her ankles and tightened the lower chains, stretching Nancy’s body like the bow of a violin. He stepped back to admire his handy work.

“Beautiful,” he murmured to himself. Nancy heard this low comment and blushed, hotly, from her head to her toes. She, at last, was beginning to have some understanding of what being in real slavery was all about. Her entire body was alive to sensation, be it pleasure or pain, and she found herself not distinguishing very much between the two, in terms of which she was most curious about. It was the intensity of her feelings that occupied her mind at the moment. John had no intention of administering a full whipping to his new slave, but he wanted her to know what it was like to be in this position totally at his mercy and to feel the kiss of the lash at its most powerful. He considered, as he admired her tightly stretched form, where the blows would land. Nodding to himself, he picked up the five-bladed slave whip and began walking around the bound beauty hanging before him, her breasts rising and falling as she gasped for breath; her diaphragm restricted by her position.

He saw her muscles begin to relax somewhat and he quickly brought his arm back, and then forward in a powerful stroke across her previously untouched ass.


Nancy’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. She could not even breathe. The shock of the full strength whip stroke spread swiftly across her entire frame, leaving not one molecule of her flesh unaffected. When sound finally emerged from her wide open mouth, it was a high, keening, wail of pain and anguish. But, she had learned her lesson, at least.

“Th-th-th-thank you Masssssttteeeerrrr,” she gasped and sobbed.

Once more she heard the cruel thongs whistle through the air and felt the fire of their impact this time on the backs of her thighs and she emitted a short shout of pain, followed by a gasp of thanks to her Master.

“For breaking position, a slave might be given 10 strokes like these two.”

“TEN STROKES!” Nancy thought, her mind reeling at the implications. She wondered what she had gotten herself into. But, then, she noted that her cunt was still streaming juice which had wet her thighs all the way to the knees. That ended the mental debate over the wisdom of her choice.

“But,” John continued, “since you are an untrained slave, and new to your collar, I will only give you five more. You will count each one and thank me for it. If you miss count, we will start over. This will be true any time you are whipped. Do you understand?”

“Y-y-y-yes, Master.”

And, so, five more times the whip made its “swish-splat” sound, and each time it tore a new scream of agony and desire from the very depths of Nancy’s soul. But she managed to gasp out the count and a thank you to her Master for administering discipline to an errant slave on each stroke.

When he finished the fifth stroke, John gently took his slave down from the restraints and allowed her to kneel at his feet. Without a word, he offered the whip to her lips and she began to make love to it with her mouth, knowing instinctively that the whip was as much her Master as the man standing before her.

“Take this and hang it on the wall over there, girl.”

“Yes, Master.”

Nancy moved as quickly as she could, her body still consumed by the fire of the lash and her own, unsated lusts. She hoped he would use her, sexually, now, in spite of the fact that her flesh burned from the lash. She ran to the wall, in the short, mincing steps of the slave girl, and carefully, lovingly, hung the instrument of her torture on the appropriate hook. Then, she returned, equally quickly, and knelt at the feet of her master. In spite of the fact that the backs of her thighs were on fire, she dropped into a perfect nadu, her buttocks on her heels, her knees spread, displaying her charms. Her arousal would have been plain, even to a blind man, so strong was her womanly scent. John was not blind, however, and he noted the condition of Nancy’s Venusian temple, smiling to himself at his great good fortune to have encountered this incredible woman.

John took a fitted metal collar and held it out to the lovely slavewhore kneeling at his feet. He said nothing. He just looked into her eyes, searching them. Smiling. The slave smiled back, her body trembling slightly. She extended her arms, wrists crossed, toward her Master of the moment, offering her slavery to him in the ritual words.

“This one begs to wear your collar, Master and prays that while wearing it, she will give the greatest of pleasure to her Master through her service.”

“Repeat after me: I, Nancy Morgan...”

“I Nancy Morgan.”

“Beg to wear the collar of Master John...”

And so the ritual words were spoken, and when they were through, Nancy had declared that her entire being was the total, and complete property of, Master John to do with as he pleased, her will meaning nothing. She was now property. Owned. Possessed. A slave. He showed her the collar, which was engraved “property of Master John” on the front.

John placed the collar on her throat and locked it. Nancy’s body jerked as she felt the steel encircle her throat and heard the click of the lock. She was collared. Heat surged into her loins as she felt the effects of that simple act.

“To my lips, girl.”

Nancy quickly rose and pressed her body against the Master’s, feeling her breasts crushed against him, the teats hard as diamonds drilling into his flesh. John turned Nancy’s face up for a kiss, sealing their union. He gave her the kiss of a Master -- hard and fierce, bruising her lips, drawing blood and licking it off.

Nancy trembled and moaned as the Master broke the kiss and thrust her away. Standing, naked and trembling, she lowered her head once again and waited for her Master’s next command.

“Turn around and present your ass to me, Nancy.”

“Yes Master.”

“Reach back with both hands and open yourself to me.”

Nancy turned away from John, crouched on all fours ... her face pressed into the hard cold floor, cheek feeling the sting ... her legs spread, ass raised, hands clasping each firm buttock, and she slowly parted them, revealing her heat.

John breathed deeply, smelling the now familiar odor of Nancy’s newly realized slave heat. Slowly, he drank in the vision of female beauty and lust displayed before him. He could see the marks of the recent whipping, but it only added to her beauty in his estimation. The individual muscles of her sleek back twitching as if belonging to a mare awaiting the mounting of a stallion (“a very appropriate metaphor,” he thought to himself); the delightfully curved buttocks, submissively held apart like the halves of a ripe peach, an open invitation for him to pierce her two lower slave openings; the upper hole, from this angle, a brown rosette, clenching and releasing in a wanton display of unbridled lust; and, the love cradle itself, the fur glistening with a thick coating of the evidence of Nancy’s descent into her slavelusts. Yes, her slave heat was well displayed, and she knew it.

Nancy felt that slave heat quickly spread throughout her thighs and her belly, as she remained motionless for her Master.

John slapped his hand to his forehead.

“OH! I forgot something. I have purchased you a gift, sweet slave.”

“Master is too generous with a slavewhore.”

John laughed and went to a nearby cabinet from which he extracted a package. Walking back to Nancy, he unwrapped it. She immediately caught the scent of leather, and her lust went up another notch. Her cunt dripped and the splashes as her exudate hit the floor were clearly audible in the otherwise quiet room. Then, she felt something being pulled over her head. It was a leather helmet of some sort, except that it covered her eyes, left two small holes under her nose, and an opening for her mouth. She was effectively blinded, and the smell of freshly tanned leather filled her head. A new surge of pure, white, heat flashed through her body. Master John had guessed one of her most secret pleasures and had just exploited it. She could not even choose whether to react or not, as all choice had been torn from her at the closing of the collar lock. She was helpless, hopelessly, consumed by her slave-needs. The leather hood was just the most recent demonstration of this.

“Ohhhhhhhhhh, Maaaaassssssssttttteeeeerrrrrr ... a slavewhore thanks you for the gift,” she moaned.

“I will now claim all three of your slave openings in succession. You must ask for my cock in each of them in turn. First your cunt, then your ass, and finally, your mouth, which will receive my seed.”

“Yes, Master. May this one please be honored with Master’s cock in this one’s now dripping, hot, slavewhore, cunt, please?”

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