This pilgrimage to the Sardar, enjoined by the Priest-Kings according to the Caste of Initiates, undoubtedly plays its role in the distribution of beauty among the hostile cities of Gor. Whereas the males who accompany a caravan are often killed in its defense or driven off, this fate, fortunate or not, is seldom that of the caravan’s women.
(edited January 25th, 2026)
.Stories tie back to Stories on EmmaOfGor.Blogspot.com in particular Steel Worlds Inc by Emma of Gor and Banks of the Bighorn by Tracker, and The Paga Diaries by Arizona Wanderer.
Recent Posts:
Waiting for the Bus by Peony D Beckside
The Paga Diaries (33) Kajira Care by Arizona Wanderer
What the Hell is this Place?
a short story by Pauline Armitage
Tales of Drysdale House (9) The Slave’s Tale
by Tracker
The Paga Diaries (32) Move Well Kajira by Arizona Wanderer.
Bunkum; An Inquiry Bu Peony D Beckside
Tales from Drysdale House (8) The Slave Girl
Authors crave feedback on their stories. Let us know what works and what doesn't and what you think.
I lie in that half-awake state where one doesn’t want to admit it’s morning as that would be a commitment to getting up out of bed. In my semi lucid state I recall the dream, or was it a nightmare with absolute clarity, yet for all that my mind grasps to hold it, The dream is the very antithesis of what I am, an upwardly mobile business executive that takes no shit from anyone, let alone any man that tries to denigrate me or get in my way. The dream frightens me on several levels. It speaks to me as a threat to my ambitions. It worries me, making me wonder even doubt what I am, the kind of person that I am or that I strive to be. Its voluptuousness, and strangely, seductiveness threatens to engulf and overwhelm me. Its barbarity and cruelty frighten me for themselves alone. Its outlandish sensuality seems so addictive. Perhaps that’s why in my semi slumber I yearn to re-enter the dream. One part of me knows that if I allow myself to go back to sleep, I’ll have a different dream and I will lose my hold on the one I’ve just had. Another part tells me I should be waking up properly and getting about my business. They war with one another. Me, the present me, in my lassitude am the spoils. To the victor I go. Right now this semi sleep with it’s memory of the dream is so luxuriant that I don’t really want to leave it.
I could smell her and it wasn’t pleasant. Mena was beside me, awake but lying still on her side. Nude. When was the last time she had bathed? She was scrubbed at the slaving house before her release to me, but this washing was only a cursory removal of the grime from the street abuse of the gauntlet after her sentencing. Her hair had not been washed and it was a mess of tangled braids, stray locks, the remnants of a ruined elaborate hair tress. After the reading of Mena’s slave papers and my command for her to “move well kajira” on the couch, I languished and felt like taking a brief nap. But, I couldn’t have a good nap with that smell so close. I had put her to use now three times since bringing her home to my one room insula apartment.
With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the
wonderful world of Gor, in which this story is set.
This is a strange dream. In this dream, I awake from sleep. I mean it has to be a dream, right? There’s no way that it can be real, even though it feels as if it is. I know that last night when turning in for the night, I’d thought that I’d not get to sleep for worrying about the creepy men who’ve been watching me, following me for the last fortnight or so. Clearly I did get to sleep, otherwise I couldn’t be in this dream now. Logical! If this was real, I’d still be in my own bed, waking normally. Ergo, dream. Or perhaps nightmare. I’ll say ‘dream’ for now. Nothing’s happened in it yet to make me think it’s a nightmare. Since it is a dream I must enjoy or endure it until my brain decides it’s time to wake up properly, or something in the dream is too horrific or too wonderfully impossible causes me to arouse from my slumber.
And many are the dead men,
Too silent to
be real.
-Gordon Lightfoot.
Lena collapsed into Anders’s arms as she burst into tears. It was one of the most surreal moments I had ever experienced: Anders with two dead men at his feet, and a crying naked woman in his arms. Maybe that was normal in his world, but I was a patent attorney from San Francisco. My life had changed so much since I and my girlfriend had set out on a camping trip to the Yellowstone Valley for the Memorial Day weekend. In the valley of the Bighorn River, a tributary of the Yellowstone, we had played a game of make-believe. We had role-played as barbarian and captive, Master and Slavegirl. Gradually role play had become reality, games had become life. We had become entangled in a range war out of the 1880s, had met piratical ranchers who were shipping enslaved women to another planet, and in self-defense I had killed two men.
“You made me yield, Master,” Mena said as we lay together on the wide couch, the leash on her collar still attached to the metal slave ring.
“Yield? What is yield?” I asked, not familiar with the new word.
Some quotations from the Books of the Learned Professor. This pilgrimage to the Sardar, enjoined by the Priest-Kings according to the Cas...
