In romance novels of the past, “no” often meant “maybe,” and men in such tales sometimes took what they wanted until women realized they wanted the same thing. Mary Clare’s White Man’s Slave, originally from 1949, with our Leisure Library digest paperback coming in 1953, is a particuarly unequivocal example, as a British traveler in Damascus named Maria Standish is abducted by the “great white chief” Paul de Ruez and spirited away to his Palace of Dreams deep in the desert. Forced embraces and forced kisses lead to forced everything else, but Maria comes to adore de Ruez just in time for outside forces to attempt to rip her away—not least of these being Maria’s anguished father, who’s been hot on de Ruez’s trail.
Here’s a typical passage:
One moment she was standing with her back towards the man quite oblivious of his presence, the next she was swung round and drawn into a tight, possessive embrace, and his kisses were being rained passionately on her mouth, her cheeks, and her bare white throat. For a few moments she was passive; imprisoned in a strong masterful hold, then fear and indignation replaced her surprise and she began to struggle wildly. But the man retained his hold of her with a vise-like overpowering strength that reduced her resistance to a writhing and squirming that availed her little.
Sexy, right?
Because behaviors like these were somewhat tolerated, you realize why some men, having been taught by their parents, are baffled that women have preferences about how sex is to be conducted. Such men can’t be convinced that their beliefs are harmful. They believe society suddenly got too sensitive and everything. It doesn’t matter though—despite the occasional regressive eddy, on the long timeframe Westerners (in terms of the cultures that produced this type of material) make progress. Judged contemporaneously with its publication date, White Man’s Slave isn’t bad. It isn’t deftly written, but neither is it a travesty, and the cover art by Reginald Heade adds to its value as a very expensive collector’s piece. We just wonder whether the price is more for the art, or for the fantasy of women as chattel.