What makes a good slave?

 This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside the RP logs. 

Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman

The reporter adjusted her satchel as she stepped into the marble courtyard of the Slaver’s house. The air in Var-Kor was warm, thick with the scent of spice and dust. A single slave knelt by the fountain, her chains catching the sunlight like threads of gold.

“Greetings,” the reporter began with a polite nod. “I hope this is still a good time for our interview?”

The Slaver rose from his seat and gestured toward a carved chair of dark wood. “Welcome. The day treats me well enough, and yes — let us begin. I thought it fitting for you to also hear the voice of one who serves. Perspective is everything in understanding our city’s ways.”

The reporter smiled faintly, unrolling her parchment and drawing out a quill. “Then perhaps we’ll start with a simple question. You are known both as a merchant and a slaver. Which trade brings you more satisfaction — and why?”

He leaned back, considering. “As a merchant, I travel. I deal in silks, metals, perfumes — I see the world through the eyes of the free. But as a slaver…” he smiled faintly, “I deal with the world beneath the veil. Each slave is a reflection of a culture, a temperament, a story. It is a different kind of trade — one that deals not in goods, but in souls.”

The slave rose gracefully, her movements quiet and deliberate. She fetched a silver bowl, filled it with a pale golden drink, and knelt once more before her master. Her voice was soft as she offered it. “May your drink please you, my Master. Mistress, I have also prepared juice, if it pleases you.”

“Thank you, girl,” said the reporter, accepting it. Then she looked again to the man. “Tell me — what makes the perfect slave?”

“There is no perfection,” he said. “Only what suits the hand that holds the leash. Some girls are silent shadows, content to simply exist near their owner. Others crave to be seen, to be known. Each is shaped by her nature and her training. But loyalty,” he paused, “and the hunger to please — those are what I value most. The worst are the ones who still believe they are free.”

The reporter nodded, writing quickly. “And jealousy? It’s said that in the chains, envy can burn hotter than fire.”

“Jealousy has no place on a chain,” he said simply. “If it appears, I end it. I’ve sent more than one girl back to the kennels for it. The wise owner knows how to select his chain — to balance temperaments, to prevent conflict before it blooms.”

The reporter’s brow lifted. “And if you failed to do so?”

“Then the fault would be mine. A Master’s hand shapes his property — his neglect breeds discord. A slavehouse can survive conflict; ownership cannot.”

The slave bowed her head as she listened, her voice a whisper. “A Master teaches what the whip cannot. He removes the false layers — pride, fear, vanity — until what remains is truth. To be owned is not to be broken, but to be made clear.”

The reporter watched her carefully. “And tell me, girl, what punishment do you fear most?”

The slave hesitated, then smiled sadly. “To be ignored. When my Master looks past me, when I am no longer seen — that is worse than any whip.”

The Slaver nodded. “A wise answer. Ignoring a slave is to deny her existence. Even pain is better than indifference.”

The reporter took a slow sip from her cup. “It seems that mastery, like slavery, is a discipline. You demand perfection because, on Gor, imperfection can mean death. Do you agree?”

“Entirely,” said the Slaver.

The reporter turned to the slave again. “And if you were to lose your Master — what would you seek in another? Strength? Punishment? Control?”

“A slave cannot seek,” the girl said softly. “But she can hope. I would hope for one who sees the best in me — who believes I can be more than I am. Dominance without faith is empty. To be owned is not merely to serve the body, but to be guided in spirit.”

The Slaver’s hand brushed her hair. “Each girl has a soul, even if she is owned. Some Free treat them like beasts — others as companions in chains. There are many truths in Var-Kor, and none are simple.”

The reporter smiled faintly, setting down her quill. “You’ve both given me much to think on. I thank you for your honesty.”

She rose, tucking the parchment beneath her arm. “I’ll send word before publication. Perhaps next time I’ll speak to one of your other girls.”

“You are welcome to,” said the Slaver. “Each has her own story — her own truth.”

The slave bowed her head deeply. “May your words help the Free understand, Mistress — and perhaps, in understanding, make the world gentler.”

The reporter smiled as she stepped back into the streets of Var-Kor, where the light caught the dust and the air still carried the faint, sweet scent of paga and perfume.