"John Norman - Gor 14 - Fighting Slave of Gor" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John)

Fighting Slave of Gor
Gor 14
John Norman

1 The Restaurant; the Cab
тАЬMay I speak to you intimately, Jason?тАЭ she asked.
тАЬOf course; Beverly,тАЭ I said.
We sat at a small table, in a corner booth. The small restaurant is located on 128th
Street. A candle burned on the table, set in a small container. The linen was white, the silver
soft and lustrous in the candlelight.
She seemed distracted.
I had never seen her like this. Normally she was intellectual, prim, collected and cool.
She looked at me.
We were not really close friends. We were more in the nature of acquaintances. I did
not understand why she had asked me to meet her at the restaurant.
тАЬIt was kind of you to come,тАЭ she said.
тАЬI was pleased to do so,тАЭ I said.
Beverly Henderson was twenty-two years old and a graduate student in English
literature at one of the major universities in the New York City area. I, too, was a student at
the same university, though pursuing doctoral studies in classics, my specialty being Greek
historians. Beverly was a small, exquisitely breasted, lovely ankled, sweetly hipped young
woman. She did not fit in well with the large, straight- hipped females who figured
prominently in her department. She did her best, however, to conform to the standards in
deportment, dress and assertiveness expected of her. She had adopted the clich├йs and severe
mien expected of her by her peers, but I do not think they ever truly accepted her. She was
not, really, of their kind. They could tell this. I looked at Beverly. She had extremely dark
hair, almost black. It was drawn back severely on her head, and fastened in a bun. She was
lightly complexioned, and had dark brown eyes. She was something in the neighborhood of
five feet in height and weighed in the neighborhood of ninety- five pounds. My name is Jason
Marshall. I have brown hair and brown eyes, am fairly complexioned, am six feet one inch in
height, and weigh, I conjecture, about one hundred and ninety pounds. At the time of our
meeting I was twenty- five years old.
I reached out to touch her hand.
She had asked if she might speak to me intimately. Though I appeared calm, my heart
was beating rapidly. Could she have detected the feelings I had felt towards her in these past
months since I had come to learn of her existence? I found her one of the most exciting
women I had ever seen. It is difficult to explain these things. It is not, however, that she was
merely extremely attractive. It had rather to do, I think, with some latency of hers that I could
not fully understand. Many were the times when I had dreamt of her naked in my arms,
sometimes, oddly enough, in a steel collar. I forced such thoughts from my mind. I had, of
course, many times asked her to accompany me to plays, or lectures or concerts, or to have
dinner with me, but she had always refused. It did not seem, however, that I was unique in
collecting this disappointing parcel of rejections. Many men, it seemed, had had as little luck
as I with the young, lovely Miss Henderson. As far as I could tell she seldom dated. I had seen
her once or twice about the campus, however, with what I supposed might be male friends.
They seemed inoffensive and harmless enough. Their opinions, I suppose, conformed to the
correct views. She would have little to fear from them, save perhaps boredom. Then, this
evening, she had called me on the telephone, asking me to meet her at this restaurant. She had
not explained. She had said only that she had wanted to talk with me. Puzzled, I had taken a
subway to the restaurant. I would take her home, of course, in a cab.