Blog Schedule and Contributions

 (edited February 4th, 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: 

The Paga Diaries (34) by Arizona Wanderer

Heartless Cruelty by Pauline Armitage

Sayings of Gor

Waiting for the Bus by Peony D Beckside

Paga Diaries (34)

 

34.  How To Train A Kajira?

 With her back to the fire and her hands braceleted behind her, Mena knelt on the floor with her knees spread wide.  I had just applied healing salve to her fresh brand, and cut her hair.  She watched me as I went to the couch and sat.  My mind was racing.  I was excited to own a beautiful woman and have her kneeling naked on my floor.  I had put my collar on her!  So many thoughts and training ideas competed for attention in my head.  How to train a kajira?  I was slightly nervous about my ability.  My next steps would be very important, with mistakes having unpleasant consequences.  I knew from my military experience that initial instruction was crucial in accomplishing desired training goals, and that if this initial stage was improperly done, it would be difficult to correct later.  This early opportunity should not be squandered by me.  I needed to be strict, deliberate and focused.  I needed to rein in any concern that I might have for her feelings, discomfort, or opinions regarding me or the training.

Heartless Cruelty

 

Heartless Cruelty

Pauline Anne Armitage

This is brutal!  Heartless in the extreme.  What the poor girl is suffering is cruelty personified.  But then, this is Gor.  Civilised standards, as I grew up with, being an Earth-girl slave, a barbarian by Gorean thinking, are not the same here.  I suppose that it’s a matter of perspective.  

Sayings of Gor.

 Some quotations from the Books of the Learned Professor.

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.

 

Waiting For The Bus

Peony D Beckside

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.

Paga Diaries (33)

 33.  Kajira Care

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. 

What The Hell Is This Place?

 

What The Hell Is This Place?
Pauline Anne Armitage

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.