After The Bighorn, Chapter Six May it Please the Court by Tracker

 After the Bighorn  Chapter Six

May it Please the Court

“May it please the Court”

I still like hearing that.  After all these years, I still like hearing that.  I am the Court, Senior Judge Franklin Kellogg.  Senior Judge means that I am over sixty-five and don’t have to work full time if I don’t want to. A new regular judge has been appointed to take my place, and I still get paid, have chambers and can work if I want to.  And I do want to.  But not murders, or drug cases or fraud, just slow, dry cases that don’t excite much public interest or comment, where I can take my time on judgements and court dates are few. Like this case.  VanRijn Investments vs Frick Steel.  Patent case.

 

“All rise, United States District Court for the Western District of Pennsylvania, The Honorable Frankin Kellogg presiding”

And then I sweep in wearing my robes.  I think it is a pity that the lawyers don’t wear robes as they do in Canada or the UK; and in those places the judges get to wear red and white robes.  I think it adds something to the majesty of the law.  Still, in these civil cases, the lawyers do dress well, better than in the criminal cases, where the District Attorneys, poor underpaid souls, are so scruffy.  And the defense lawyers too, unless the malefactor is rich.  Then their lawyers are really well-dressed, or at least expensively but often tastelessly.

Still these lawyers look good, some I know, some I don’t.

“Barbara Quigley for the plaintiff your honor”.  Nicely dressed, good-looking, conservative clothes, old Pittsburgh legal family. I overheard her once talking in the Solon Club, our local lawyers’ club, to another woman. The other woman, one of those tedious complainers was going on about how Miss Quigley should be a partner already, “You certainly would be if you were a man!”  Miss Quigley, pointed out that she wasn’t a man, and that there was no point in complaining about it.  A sensible woman.  She will go far and manipulate many a foolish man with that attitude.

“Your honor, this is Mr Samuel Vansittart, counsel for VanRijn Patent Accumulators of Oakland, who has been admitted to the Western District bar yesterday.”  Some tension there, I think, Miss Quigley thinks she can handle things on her own, this Vansittart in his sharp coastal suit, looks like he looks down on all we Mid-Westerners.  I wonder how this tension will affect the case.

“J. Augustus Frick IV, esq, for the respondents, your honor, and our associate counsel, Patrick Masters of Masters Patent Law.  Mr Masters has been admitted to the Western District bar this morning.”  Clever of old Augie Frick not to mention where Mr Masters is from, even if right now there is no jury.  Mr Masters of Masters Patent Law is well known to those of us who read the law reports, though not much outside it.  And the appearance of Masters has rocked Vansittart a bit, he was not expecting Masters who is mostly in the tech patent world. Poor Barbara Quigley looks a little confused, but she will soon be up to speed no doubt.

And so, we begin.

“May it please the Court”

Vansittart and Quigley both rise, but Vansittart pushes Quigley into her seat.  He talks about discovery, lone lead times for motions, all the usual from a patent troll looking to force a settlement out of court. Now we will get some postponement ideas from the Frick people and I will see them all in six weeks.

“May it please the Court”

Augie Frick gets up, some quick talk about uncertainty being bad for business, and pushing for an expedited schedule.  That upset Vansittart, he expected a quick payout if the Fricks wanted to avoid uncertainly and a long postponement if they wanted to drag things out.  Quigley is smiling, she knows both her fees and her involvement will go up if there is more wrangling and court involvement.  Vansittart looks unhappy, already he looks like he does not like the heat of our midwestern summers and expected to spend the next six weeks in Oakland by the bay.

Then Masters is up with a flurry of motions for immediate discovery, summary decisions, and requests for returns from the VanRijn people.  He asks for a next Tuesday court date, and today is already Thursday.  Quigley looks like she wants to get her teeth into things, Vansittart asks for three weeks to prepare. I remind the Oakland lawyer that the VanRijn people wanted a decision when they filed on the day after the death of Willard Frick.  But I don’t want the San Francisco lawyer to be too happy, so I set a date of Monday afternoon rather than the Wednesday I think he was wanting.

And with that, it is 5.00 PM and Court is adjourned.

“All Rise”

(This story takes place in 2016 earth reckoning, before the Corcyrus-Argentum war, so Scipio Metellus does not encounter Roland, Chelsea, or Rykart).

Scipio Metellus of the Caste of Slavers awaited his turn as his caravan prepared to leave through the gate that led to the road to Brundisium.  He had business in that City, a long-maturing scheme that due to the costs and time involved would bring little profit, but would afford the Slaver a great deal of enjoyment.  It would not even add to his reputation, because after the scheme was successfully completed, he would not bruit about what he had done.  That would mean he could not carry out similar plans elsewhere.  And the joke was too good to only complete once.

The gate guards were a little distracted, due to events in the city the day before. Argentum’s most skilled general, its best at training and leading troops had been killed.  His body had not been discovered until one of his slaves, coming to tell the general that his bath was ready, had discovered him dead in his salle des arms where he practiced daily with sword and spear. A crossbow bolt was in his back.  A black crossbow bolt!

Speculation ran high in the city of Argentum.  Who had hired the assassin?  Who had ordered his death?  Was it the jealous leader of the city, or was it another general coveting his position?  There were at least three consensus suspects, but no conclusions.

Scipio Metellus’s portion of the caravan, his three thalarions, his short coffle of beauties, and his six hired guards and two assistants inched towards the gate.  A peddler and his cart were in the gateway.  The fellow did not appear prosperous, but he did have two slaves, a brunette with the look of Ar, and a tall girl from Schendi to pull his two wheeled cart. Peddlers did not usually use thalarion to pull their light carts, they ate too much and girls could be rented out at night to eke out the meager profits of peddling to tight-fisted peasants.  But two girls argued some level of prosperity.  Scipio Metellus did not look at the peddler.  He did not want to appear to have anything to do with him.  Besides he was not sure that the fellow was who Metellus thought he was.

Metellus and his group passed out through the gate of Argentum.  Going through, he noticed the scanted maintenance, some brickwork that should have been repointed at least a year ago, the metal bands and hinges on the gates showing more rust than they should. After the general’s death, the marketplace had whispered that the deferred work on the defenses of the city was one reason for the tension between the general and the treasurer.  Well with the general dead, it looked like the treasurer had won, and money would not now be spent on the walls of Argentum.  Scipio Metellus did not suspect the Treasurer in the general’s death though.  He had information that the marketplaces of Argentum did not.  For Scipio Metellus, before coming to Argentum had been in Corcyrus and had gathered a few straws that suggested that the orders for the assassination of the general had come from outside Argentum. 

Scipio Metellus was a noticing man.  He noticed little things and added them up to big things.  When in Corcyrus, he noticed that the walls and gates of that city were in excellent repair.  He noticed that in the markets of Corcyrus, the price of vulos was low, lower than would be expected given the supply on sale daily.  Scipio nosed around because he did not like unexplained things.  The price of vulos, the main meat of the poor was low, not because the supply of vulos was high, but because there was more of another bird than would normally be expected.  This fowl had less meat than a vulo but was prized for another quality: its feathers were considered superior for fletching arrows. So Scipio took a stroll not along fletcher’s lane, but down amongst the glue makers.  To attach feathers to arrows, glue made from boiling the skins of a rabbit-like creature the resulting liquid strained then reduced.  This glue held the arrows in place while they were being stitched to the shaft of an arrow making a secure connection. 

As was natural for a member of the Slaver Caste, Scipio Metellus visited a few neighbourhood blacksmiths, using a pretext the desire to add a collar or two or perhaps an ankle ring to his inventory.  In each place, in the back of the shop, he noticed veiled and gowned women, doubtless the Companions and daughters of the blacksmith hammering out arrow points.  Such a task was easily within the strength of the women and would add to the income of the shop.  And why was it important that Free persons were making these arrow points – because the points of war arrows would be made by the free, not the enslaved!  And if the neighbourhood blacksmiths were turning out points for war-arrows, it was certain that the main production blacksmiths were doing so as well.  But Scipio was too clever to go poking around there; if Corcyrus was stockpiling arrows and crossbow bolts, then it was wise not to be too openly curious. 

Then Scipio Metellus went over to the metals market, not the makers of bronze, but the sellers of the raw materials for making bronze for cauldrons, lamps, the beautiful daily goods that Goreans loved, and spearheads.  Those foot-long, broadleaved extremely lethal heads of spears and pikes used by the infantry on the field.  He calculated the number of cauldrons and the like in the markets and was sure that more bronze was being made in the foundries of Corcyrus than was being sold as goods in the markets.

So Corcyrus was stockpiling weapons of war.  Not obviously, and not a great deal in any given month, but it was clear once one looked deeply that the armories of Corcyrus would soon be bulging.  And who would be the target of such a war.  In the main market of Argentum, not the slave market, but the main market itself, Scipio Metellus saw the display of slaves of tribute from Corcyrus, youths delivered yearly.

Taxes were lower in prosperous Argentum than in grim Corcyrus.  Argentum fattened on tribute from Corcyrus, on trade with mighty Ar, and from its silver mines.  Corcyrus had higher taxes, but not suspiciously high, yet there was little grumbling in the marketplaces of that city.  So largely the people of Corcyrus approved of the way their Tatrix was spending their money; and what spending would they approve? – spending for revenge and war.  And those who complained doubtless found their sons and daughters included in the tribute to Argentum!

Scipio judged that the war would not begin for a few years and made a note in his mind to have a low inventory in about five years.  Slaves would be cheap then.  Scipio had visions of villages, towns, even cities burning as invaders surmounted the walls and entered killing and burning.  Such visions meant profit to him, as many girls lost their fathers and their freedom on the same day.  

Which brought to mind the girl, still in her veils and robes in the false bottom of one of the chests in his caravan.  For yesterday when the tributes from Corcyrus had been displayed in the marketplace, among the leaders of Argentum making speeches glorifying their city had been the general.  And in the crowd, at the edges had been the peddler with the two slaves, one from Ar, one from Schendi watching.  Not obviously to many, but to a keen observer like Scipio Metellus, it seemed that the peddler was watching most closely the general.  And Scipio thought, but was not sure, that he knew that peddler.  But he did not approach him.  But Scipio was watchful, and when the hue and cry went up following the discovery of the body of the general, the opportunist in him was ready.  People were crowding in and out of the part of the Central Cylinder where the general had lived.  Crowds of officials and even more, crowds of the curious.  The daughter of the general was distracted by grief, the crowds of people were many, and Scipio was able to spirit her away in a rug.  Now, gagged and bound, she awaited unwrapping, stripping, collaring and branding.

On Gor it was not unusual for a girl to lose a Father and freedom on the same day.

As the great caravan took the road to Brundisium, neither the peddler nor Scipio Metellus gave any sign that they might know each other.  When the peddler took a turn-off leading to a peasant district, neither the peddler nor Scipio Metellus gave any sign of farewell.  Along the road to Brundisium Scipio made some purchases and sales, in one town he came across a sale in the street, A tailor had died leaving debts, the companion and the children were being sold by the magistrates to satisfy the creditors.  He purchased two likely girls, still so stunned from their bereavement they did not protest their enslavement. 

On Gor it was not unusual for a girl to lose a Father and freedom on the same day.

J Augustus Frick IV, esq. seemed pleased with the outcome. “Well, that rocked them, our being ready to fight.  Willard would have done so of course, but these patent trolls who tried to take advantage of us didn’t expect anything else but a settlement.”

I agreed, “they will have to scramble to get all their submissions ready for Monday Afternoon, meanwhile we can get busy on preparing more defenses against them.  I will work with your people tomorrow and fly to San Francisco Friday night, and put together a team to come and work here, while another group works at my offices.  The difference will be Vansittart and VanRijn did not prepare for a real fight, and my office is always prepared. It is what we do.”

Augie Frick smiled, “in some ways you remind me of Willard, always ready for action.”

I had not thought of myself that way, but recalled my confrontation with two enemies of the Fricks on the Bighorn that left them dead and me with Juli as my slave and the friendship of the Fricks.

We agreed to meet at the Frick Mansion to brief Wyandotte and Woodrow Frick, Augie said he would drive himself while Zach Frick was to continue as my chauffeur and aide.  Young Zach was grinning at the discomfiture of Vansittart at the Frick readiness to do battle.

Augie Frick was at the Frick Mansion before us, greeting us at the door with two of the house-slaves I hadn’t met yet. Woodrow Frick was there making drinks while a couple of other slaves, wearing only collars attended waiting. 

“Chelsea is in with Wyandotte, she is just learning that she is to be deprived of all of her personal kajirae, they were property of Willard, and Wyandotte is making a point of who is Master here now.  She can have the services of Family property while she is here or at the ranch, but she is a guest here now.’

Augie Frick answered, “it is hard to lose a father and her position at the same time, and she was quite spoiled by Willard, one of his few weaknesses was his indulgence of that girl. I am surprised though that he didn’t have another legitimate son before this now though.”  He made a no offense gesture to Woodrow.

“He always thought he had lots of time, he was very vital, he had taken a few spins on the Carousel you know.”

Augie cast a quick look at me, apparently Woodrow had said something he should not have, but I pretended it passed me by.  I don’t think they were fooled, but it is such pretenses that make life possible.

“It made him vital, it didn’t make him bullet-proof.”

We were interrupted by Chelsea Frick coming out of the den, she was crying, Wyandotte was sitting at the desk.  He did not look up as the crying girl exited.  Mrs Magruder, the outgoing housekeeper, who was apparently also losing her position, came out after the crying girl.

“There, there, now,” she said with a tenderness I had not suspected, “you have gotten all disarranged, your top button is undone, you don’t want that.”

It was true, the top button of Chelsea’s black mourning dress was undone, her throat was exposed.  I remembered Woodrow telling me on the Lazy F that traditional women of the Families did not expose their throats or ankles.  He told me among men who had been to Gor that an exposed throat made men think of encircling it with a collar, and an exposed ankle made them think of dancing bells.  Indeed, looking at Chelsea’s throat did make me think of it in a collar, my collar.  Thinking of girls in my collar made me think of my beloved Juli, in my collar already.  Apparently having one woman in one’s collar did not stop a man of thinking of other girls also kneeling naked in his collar. I envisioned Juli and Chelsea kneeling side by side, both beautiful, each unique. 

Woodrow looked after the weeping Chelsea as we prepared to meet with Wyandotte.  “At least she still has her freedom.  It is not unusual on Gor for a girl to lose Father and Freedom on the same day.

After The Bighorn Chapter Five: Battle is Joined by Tracker

 Battle is Joined

by Tracker.

(Originally published by Emma Of Gor, 29 August 2024, https://emmaofgor.blogspot.com/search/label/Tracker%27s%20Stories)

(Illustration, entry of the Mistress, courtesy of The Palatine, , https://palatine.bdsmlr.com/

Battle is joined

( reminder that these events take place in 2016, the early days of the new feminism)

The Frick building, the Marriot Downtown where my lawyers were to be housed and  headquartered and the Federal Courthouse form a triangle within a block of each other in downtown Pittsburgh.  There is a sort of park between the Marriot and the Courthouse, with a Plaza connecting to the Frick Building.  The Hilton, where VanRijn’s minions lurked, was across the street from the Marriot.

Wyandotte Frick proved competent enough at Administrative chores, though I was still unsure if enough strength lay hidden under his bland exterior. He assigned me Zach Frick, who is a lawyer, though exceedingly young.  He should be able to understand my requirements though.  We first toured the Marriot Downtown.  It was Wyandotte’s idea that my team of lawyers should work and live there while he wanted me to stay at the Frick Mansion where I could be close for consultations.  I was not at all adverse to the idea of staying where there were so many curvy distractions, hot in their collars.  

I wanted to observe the running of a headquarters of an acquisition operation just in case the chance to operate one for myself should occur.  I truly miss Juli, I treasure her so much.  I know she has much to learn; she is eager but needs instruction.  But still, semi-trained as she is, I would not trade her for any of the hot lovelies in the Frick Mansion.  I would like, though, to have that Chelsea Frick at my feet, begging for mercy, begging for love and use in a collar.

Last night she was permitted to eat again with the Family.  She is very manipulative and seems to be worming her way back into Wyandotte’s favor.  Not by flirting, but by pretending to be all properly chastened and submitting to male authority.  She did not stamp her pretty little foot once during her appearance last night.  In a mirror, when she thought she was not observed, I saw the mask drop, just for an instant. Part fury, part calculation, all needing a spanking.  When Wyandotte, Woodrow, Zach, and I joined the ladies following our after-dinner brandies she was all honey.  I don’t think that Mrs Wyandotte Frick, or Mrs Magruder were fooled.

Chelsea maneuvered to have me help her distribute the coffee, which she poured daintily.  It was in no way blatantly sexual, not at all the gracious servings ritual performed by the collared girls when I had first arrived.  She seemed to follow a Victorian ladies ritual; I don’t think I would have been fooled, even if I had not caught that glimpse of malice earlier in the mirror.

“Do you live in a house or an apartment in San Francisco,” Mr Masters.

“I have just purchased a house”, Miss Frick, “an old Victorian, built just following the Civil War by a banker.  It is, I think, about the same vintage as this house, built by your illustrious ancestors.”  After that thrust, reminding her that she did not own the house of her ancestors, the house in which she grew up, I went on to describe the glories of Drysdale House.

“It is French Second Empire in architecture, a grand main floor, bedrooms above, and more on an additional floor under the Mansard roof.  A lovely grand ballroom, with dining room.  Because it is on a slope, the level below walks out into the gardens.  There is a swimming pool on that level, and below that cellars with all the room, space, storerooms and accessories one could desire.”

She was rocked a bit by the veiled reference to her not being the Mistress of Frick House, but did not show it.  That was not part of her plan, whatever her plan was.

“You must have me out to visit some time, Mr Masters, I would truly be excited to visit you there.”

“And I would be happy of your visit.  I hope I can accommodate you as you deserve; as is fitting for one of your qualities.”

She went on, “Of course here at Frick Mansion, we have some land and can keep horses, with stabling and forges for horseshoes, and for branding beasts.  And cages to keep dogs and other animals.”

I was not fooled by her smiling allusions.  She wanted her slaves back.  Fliss and the other handmaiden that had been repossessed as the property of the Mansion.  I could not remember the other girl’s name.

I smiled blandly as she politely and, in all deference, poured me more coffee, then offered some to the other ladies and the men of the House, Wyandotte, Woodrow and Zach.  She was gracious enough, but a little stiff in her pampered freedom, not at all like the supple grace of Angela, the collared slave.  With only a little experience of slaves though, I could, I thought, discern the raw materials, the potentialities of the Chelsea Frick.  Or maybe it was from my imagination, born of desire? 

“We still have at Drysdale House the old stables, mostly converted to parking now, that were there in the old days.  The forge is still there though, I suppose we would have the capacity to mark such beasts as we might find necessary or desirable.  And the old kennels are still there in the basement.  There are rumours of the former owners’ involvement in the shanghaiing of sailors and other cargos in the old days of the Barbary Coast.”

Sadly, even if Miss Chelsea Frick did visit San Francisco, out of deference to her family, she would be unlikely to occupy a kennel next to my darling Juli.

We chatted after that, she trying to find out my financial circumstances, me deflecting with interesting cases and instances in patent law, which sadly, so many people do not find fascinating at all.

Janey’s Narrative.

I am so scared.  Ever since I was grabbed at the exit area of the Festival I have been disoriented and frightened.  

I keep going back over my last hours before being grabbed.

After the last night of the Festival, I went back to my tent to sleep. My plan for the morning was to grab one of the shuttle buses to the nearest town, and then take the commuter train back to Ann Arbor.  I go to the University of Michigan there and was fortunate to find an intern’s job in the Art Department for the summer, although I declined the extra money that would come with being a Life Model.  I have standards.

I didn’t want to travel by car with the friends I came to the Festival with, because it was a mixed company of men and women without a chaperone.  A single woman has to be so careful about her reputation these days.  Not that that bothers me, I approve of the New Feminism that is starting to make headway in advanced circles like Universities and Colleges.  I expect it will soon start to spread into wider Society.  I am proud to be innocent of congress with men and believe my innocence and demureness attracts men to protect me.

My tent was in the Women’s Protected Area of the Festival. This innovation provides a safe place for women to camp.  The portable sections of crossing wire keep us safe, even though they seem to have been borrowed from a cattle handling ranch.  Soon, I expect, as our New Feminist Movement Spreads I expect that there will be companies dedicated to making fences for keeping women safe.  Perhaps the Frick Company Lazy F Ranch division that made these Livestock fences will branch out?

Just before going to sleep, I got a text from Amanda Sloan, telling me that she had secured me a ticket on the first Woman’s Safe Shuttle to leave in the morning.  This shuttle would get me back to Ann Arbor earlier than any other method.  I was very touched.  Amanda and I had been tussling for two years over the leadership of our New Feminist Chapter.  Rivals in a way.  I had helpfully pointed out to her that sometimes her pursuit of Jimmy Klein had been a little too blatant, her skirts a little too short.  She had not responded well at the time to my kind suggestions, or to losing the leadership of the group to me, but I was very touched by her gesture.

I set my phone alarm to wake me at 6:00 Am and blissfully awoke to “It’s a great day to be Pure.” by the Veiled Ladies.  I quickly washed, packed and got ready to leave for the Exit Area.  I contrasted the order and neatness inside our area (I nearly said cage, how silly), and the disorder outside. Things were so much better when arranged the New Feminist Way.  The Safe Watching areas at the Festival where so much nicer than the free for all areas of those caged outside.  We were protected from the men leering at women from outside the enclosure, safe inside our steel wired walls.  Some silly women said they felt caged in, but they were just not used to being protected.  Of course, some women were not modestly dressed, wearing short shorts and skimpy bikini tops to encourage the beastly men outside.  One or two even pulled up their shirts!  I wrote in the suggestion box that a dress code would be appropriate next year.

As I approached the departure gate, I saw about 15 or 20 women already gathered. I joined them under the watchful eyes of three large burly men.  I was glad of their protection, but happy they kept their distance.  Just as I walked up, one stood up on a green and white picnic table and started speaking.  He had to start a few times before he could get all the women to be quiet and listen.  It was a bit funny to see him go red in the face waiting for the women to let him talk.

“Ladies, ladies, please.  The bus is a little delayed, but there will be a free breakfast while you wait.  In that grove behind those trees, the Nutri-Girl people are having a free tasting of one of their new flavors.  Please move there in an orderly way.”

Rudely, some of the ladies, laughed and shouted at him.  Many were not really dressed as ladies should be, nor behaving as they should towards a helpful, protective man.

I felt that in my position as Leader of the Ann Arbor New Feminists, a position I meant to keep from Amanda Sloan, I should set I good example.  

“Thank you, sir, for your consideration.  This way Ladies, to the free breakfast”

Sometimes a cheerful disposition and Innocent Manner are not appreciated, especially in the morning.  Some of the Ladies, especially a blonde who was not only dressed inappropriately, but in a way I can only describe as Modern Slut, told me to stuff it and stuff the Nutri-Girl.  Others joined her.  However, armored in my knowledge of my virtuous state, I led the way.  Some others followed saying, “free food is a good hangover cure.”

In the grove, nicely hidden from the views of curious gawkers, thus suitable for a group of Ladies to eat, was a small booth reading Nutri-Girl and a delicious smell.  There were wooden bowls ready to be filled, spoons and blessedly, hot coffee.

I asked the women serving, what flavor was being tried.  

“It is a variation on our Apple and Cinnamon flavor.  This is Apple, Cinnamon, and Tassa.”

I tried to look like I knew all about Tassa, but really it is hard to keep up with all the new foods, the Quinoas and bubble teas and such.  An immodestly dressed woman behind me, with lovely long black curly hair didn’t try to hide her ignorance, “What is Tassa?”

The older women putting Nutri-girl into the bowls laughed, “Why bless you honey, you will never forget your first taste of Tassa.  Or rather, you won’t taste it, but you will remember its effects.  It is odorless and tasteless, it is macrobiotic, and organic, and it promotes deep healthful sleep.”

Well, I love my Nutri-girl in the morning, so easy to prepare and so healthful.  And I had been having dreams lately that kept me up.  Dreams of strong men taking away Amanda Sloan as a slut and putting me in undisputed charge of our New Feminist Chapter.  Strong men putting her at their feet.  So I eagerly took a full bowl of the Nutri-girl.

I took my bowl and coffee a little distance from the rest of the group.  Some were too immodestly dressed and behaved for my liking and I kept my distance so it would not be thought I was with them or like them.

After three spoonful’s, I stopped eating.  Something about the taste was off.  One of the special things about me, besides my purity, was that I am a supertaster.  We are a small minority of the population who can taste minute amounts of flavors that others do not notice. We know the exact amount of pepper in a dish; we can detect the smallest dash of a spice.  Something was a little off.  I emptied the bowl of Nutri-girl out, but secretly and behind a bush.  I did not want to hurt the feelings of the Nutri-girl people or the nice Lady who so kindly served me the food.  A Lady is always considerate, even when pointing out the faults of others.

I must have dozed off a little.  I woke with a start when two men grabbed me.  A hood was pulled over my head, a smelly leather hood.  As it was being laced behind my head, an attached leather gag forced its way into my mouth.  I could feel it had interior pads over my ears and eyes.

I should not have wandered away from the group.  But what a shock these men will get.  Inside of one of the slutty girls, they got one of the few modest women in the grove!  The joke will be on them, as I am a certified Innocent, my wholesomeness will shine through and they will be prompted to led my go with apologies, as men do when they make a mistake with a virtuous woman.  I will let them beg for my forgiveness, maybe on their knees.  If and when they grovel enough, I will graciously grant them pardon.  I am a Lady, and a certified Innocent.

Then I was grabbed, my wrists were tied behind me..  I was too tired and ill to fight; I just went limp.

Now I think I am in the back of truck being taken who knows where to what I am sure is a terrible fate.  My Grandmother was right about men, they are such beasts.

Zach Frick and I crossed over to the Frick Corporation Building after settling matters at the Marriot Downtown.  It was a strong masonry building, but seemed also light and airy and beautiful.  Zach, almost reading my mind said, “Goreans respect strength but revere beauty.  The building went up in 1912, it was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, he did the annex too, in 1937.  The annex has our consumer products division now, well, the shipping and testing, the manufacturing we do in one of our factories.  We still manufacture here in the States.”

“Really, not offshore?”

“Home manufacturing keeps pesky customs officials out of our business, and it is convenient to have access to a supply of Factory Girls.  They come and go. Girls come, and Girls go.”

The offices of the Frick Legal Department were on the third floor.  The patents department was pushed up against an engineering section that shared the floor.  Beyond the engineers, mostly men, there was a portal to the annex, a sign said Product Batch Testing and Quality Control.

“The engineers would like to move to a blank space on the Fifth Floor, they find the lawyers boring and the girls in testing flighty and distracting.  They are very very serious men, obsessed with tensile strength and breaking points and the qualities of specialty steels.  We manufacture those in the US too.  The Chinese can make them too, but we have some secrets we want to keep secret, so we don’t manufacture there.  Besides, if we did they would keep the best stuff for themselves and we would get the rest.”

I looked around at the engineers’ section; it seemed like something out of an early 60s NASA photo.  All those serious men with very short hair, and wearing white short-sleeved shirts and ties.  The computers sitting on the wooden desks seemed the only modern things in front of me.  There didn’t seem to be any women in the department at all.  Not surprising, I guessed, with the way the Fricks ran their business.  The hard-working  men barely looked up as Zach led me to the Frick legal department.

Zach and I approached the Frick Corporation Legal Department, I noticed the carpet was thicker, the paneling on the walls became real wood.  

“Some of the original furnishings here, the distinctive Frank Lloyd Wright touches and decorations.  Wyandotte wanted to restore the building, but Willard Frick was not interested.  What he wanted to get done, got done, what did not interest him, did not get done.  He didn’t delegate well.”

Zach’s voice had dropped a little.  Even in death, Willard dominated the Fricks.

We stopped outside a door that read J. Augustus Frick IV, esq.  Zach knocked and entered.  A puckish man, cheerful looking, bald on top, white hair around the sides and back, came out from behind a huge desk.

“Patrick Masters?  A great honor, a great honor, sir.  So pleased to meet you.”  We sat down around a mahogany table, round and intricately carved.

“It doesn’t go with the FLW stuff, but I like it, I like it.”  The little man in the old fashioned but immaculate three piece suit could have come out of a play by Agatha Christie by way of Charles Dickens. He opened a file and took out his papers.

“Now, let’s get ready to tear these bastards a new one.”

In the next hour, I learned that Augie Frick had a keen legal mind. He wanted to go for the jugular against the Vincent VanRijn Patent Aggregators Corp.  

“Unfortunately we have been starved of resources here.  Cousin Willard believed in going hard and violently at any problem.  We only did basic work here, no defensive patent aggregation.  Not enough lawyers and not enough smart lawyers.  I hope Wyandotte will give us what we need here in the future. We will see what he is made of in the next few months.”

He went on, “One of the main problems is documentation, some of our most important patents don’t have a lot of work product behind them, to outsiders it might look as though they dropped into our hands from a clear blue sky.”

He looked at me to make sure I understood.  I nodded. I continued, “so the most important alloys and processes will be the hardest to defend?  Will I like a good challenge.”

“I want to have two teams of my people, one working here with your people, and one in San Francisco, sifting information and discovery and putting together exhibits.”

Zach Frick and J Augustus Frick IV, esq, nodded.  “Can we move the engineers to another location so my people can move there and be in direct contact with the in house legal staff.?”

The two Fricks looked at each other. Evidently it might be a problem.

J Augustus Frick looked at Zach, “talk to Wyandotte tonight.”

Apparently previously every thing of any consequence had gone through Willard the Strong.  Now it was up to Wyandotte to either step up or delegate.  I wondered if he could do either.

But now it was time for Court.  A short appearance for formality’s sake.

After the Bighorn Chapter Four

 After the Bighorn Chapter Four by Tracker.

Council of War

While I was waiting for the strategy meeting with Wyandotte Frick and a horde of Frick cousins to begin, I read the local newspaper, the Post-Gazette.  I am fascinated by the differences from city to city, in layout and organization, each city thinking its way is normal and the way other cities’ papers do things slightly off.  The Post-Gazette had an old fashioned news round-up column of strange and off-beat stories from around the world; “World’s biggest cucumber grown in Swansea, Wales.  That sort of thing.  Today the second last item was from Montana, the Bighorn country in fact.

It was that Dateline that got me to read further.

 Evidence of Old Cowboy Feud.  University of Montana archaeologists have discovered evidence linked to legends of a feud between old west outlaw gangs, The Hole in the Wall Gang and the Robber’s Roost Gang.  Old West folklore has long held that a 1887 battle took place between the two outfits, but more sober historians, who insist on evidence had pooh-poohed the tales.  Well now evidence has been found in the form of a burial pit inside an cave on the Lazy F ranch by the Bighorn.  University of Montana researchers, consisting of Professors and students found the cave with the aide of a foreman on the ranch, a man named Smith.  Mr Wilson Frick provided funds for the dig, the bones recovered will be housed at the U of M Frick Museum of Western History.  On a side note: four U of M co-eds who wandered away from the dig-site are still missing, and feared eaten by Bears.

I smiled.  I did not think that the co-eds had been eaten by bears.  I believed that by now the young women had begun a journey through space to a new life. From an accompanying picture of the cave, I reconstructed what had happened.  It was the same cave to which the Fricks had carried the bodies of the slain mercenary contractors that had attacked the ranch earlier in the summer in an effort to force its sale. Knowing nothing of the Fricks, they had been surprised and overcome by the Fricks.  Their bodies, now disintegrated, had been recovered from the cave under the cover of an archeological dig and would rest among the bones of thousands of others in the bowels of a museum.

Clever of the Fricks to remove the evidence from their land in such a way.  There was also a lesson there for me. Do not take an enemy for granted.  I emailed my office, ordering extra digging on Vincent VanRijn, his methods and resources.  Do not prepare for what you think the enemy might do, prepare for what they have the capability to do.

 

“Please, sir, you must help me.”  Of all the unnecessary interruptions, Chelsea Savannah Frick was the most unnecessary.

“I apologize again for my behaviour earlier, but I just lost my father, and then my birthright was stolen from me.”  I looked up.  Today Chelsea was playing the innocent, helpless waif, appealing for a man to protect her from the world.  What a ploy, when from what I saw earlier, she was as venomous as a snake. A very comely and fetching snake.  Chelsea launched into a tale of woe, of being thrust aside because she was a young girl, could I not be her knight and champion her and other nonsense which I cut off swiftly.

“I am the lawyer for the Frick Companies, I will not entertain any conflict of interest.”

Which launched Chelsea into a tirade.

“I knew you were a weakling, a weak puling man of Earth.  Afraid to stand up and fight for a lady. Weak. Weak. Weak.  I will show you.”

I moved to the door and as I was leaving, the she-snake went on, “that’s right, run away. You’re no good anyway.  I hope you lose, you chicken.”

Schoolyard abuse.  The only thing I was afraid of was that Woodrow or Zack Frick might resent it if I slapped a lady of House Frick, as she deserved.

 

My first impressions of Wyandotte Frick were not favourable ones.  Compared to the forceful man in the photographs that Mrs Magruder had shown me, he seemed just an early middle-aged businessman in a grey suit.  He was tall, and not pudgy, but did not have the aura of danger that Wilson Frick, or Woodrow Frick had. But I knew that appearances can be deceptive and that some snakes are even more dangerous for not having rattles.

One of my recreations, before I discovered the owning of enslaved women, was to read popular novels of previous decades.  Tai-pan, by James Clavell, came to my mind.  The protagonist, Dirk Struan was a force of nature that forced his world to bow to his will.  His son, who grew up in the great man’s shadow, never developed his own force and went down in history as Culum the Weak. So often strong men do not develop strong heirs. It seemed likely that this Wyandotte might prove a weak vacillating figure, a danger to the strength of the Frick Family to which I had aligned myself.

Small talk was made while a group of middle-aged and older men, men with little force or seeming intelligence arrived in ones and twos.  We were served more coffee and breakfast pastries, while I hankered for something more substantial after my overnight flight. Almost last to arrive was Woodrow Frick from the Lazy F, a breath of fresh air after these fusty non-entities.  I tried to get near him to talk, but about half the grey suited men crowded around him, seeming to court his good opinion, while the other half avoided Woodrow as though he had a disease.  Change has come for the Fricks, I thought. Wyandotte Frick was watching the group of courtiers around Woodrow; he did not appear pleased, but he had not been happy since I had met him.

Young Zack Frich opened a pair of double pocket doors that led out of the parlor and invited us to follow him.  Beyond the doors was a dining room, with a large mahogany table and chairs.  Wyandotte nearly sat in the chair next to the chair at the head of the table, but at the last moment, took the seat at the head of the table, he seemed ill at ease there.  Half the grey-suited men sat near Wyandotte, half around Woodrow near the other end.  Two kajirae I recognized from the Lazy F ranch, Tiffani and Fliss, wearing black silk tunics placed water carafes on silver plates on the table and then knelt by another set of doors which I assumed led to the kitchen.  Woodrow nodded at them, which recollected Wyandotte to the fact that he was Master in this House now.

“You are dismissed”

They rose and left. Juli is graceful, but I see now she needs more training to become as graceful in movement as the House Kajirae of the Fricks.  Thoughts of my girl almost overwhelmed me, she has grown so much in my affections since I put my collar on her.

Zach Frick closed and locked the kitchen doors, then took a seat by the doors to the parlor.  He did not join the rest at the table.  I was at one end facing Wyandotte Frick.

He made some welcoming noises, Chamber of Commerce style, paying tribute to my talents, thanking me for coming etc. I preferred a more direct style of just getting down to business, but Wyandotte needed to talk, I suppose.  My mind wandered a bit.

Finally, we got down to business with my dismissing from my mind all thoughts of Fliss and Tiffani and their grace, my speculations regarding the suitability of Scarlett the flight attendant for the collar, and Leigh for a free woman’s clothes.  Free Woman’s clothes led my thoughts to the tight ‘mourning’ outfit of Chelsea Frick, which led my thoughts to her kneeling naked next to my Juli, both in collars.

Finally to business.  I laid out the history of Vincent VanRijn.  His family had settled in New York with the Dutch and had been unscrupulous landlords and merchants for generations.  They had moved to San Francisco in gold rush times, after their family estate of Dragonwyk had been burned out during the Land Wars.  He made his money squatting like a troll on other people’s inventions, claiming defective patents or dubious infringements.  Poorly capitalized companies ended up losing everything, other people mostly paid him to go away.

I laid out for them the legal options.  VanRijn really had no case, but paying him to go away was the cheapest option.

Endless discussion ensued.  Most of the cousins favoured this option, but wanted the money to come from Wyandotte and Wilson, and certainly not from them.  Finally Wyandotte asked what other options there were.

I explained they could fight a long-drawn-out legal battle, countering every argument as he put it forth.  It could go on for years and might never reach a decision.  The last option was the most expensive and risky.  Put his claims to the test, challenge everything pre-emptively, Crush arguments he hadn’t even raised yet.  It would mean demanding large amounts of discovery from him, hours of sifting through papers.  The Fricks would either lose or win swiftly.

There was, of course, more discussion.  To my disappointment but not surprise, Wyandotte did not lead the discussion but listened to all points.

Finally Woodrow weighed in.  He scared them, he pointed out that with the family weakened by the death of Willard and his removal from the Council, the Family must appear strong.  The attack on the Lazy F must be hidden, wealth could not be drained away in payoffs, “for blackmailers always return again for more.  Like a disobedient slave-girl this VanRijn must receive a strong chastisement now.”

The majority were afraid of a fight, afraid of any confrontation.  Mostly they supported the middle option, don’t pay, but let the matter drag on indefinitely, the worst option.

Finally Wyandotte called for a vote.  Two or three were for biting the bullet and making a payoff; the majority were for fighting on the cheap and over a long time; entering a quagmire..

Woodrow voted for the Intense Fight Back option.  To my surprise, so did Wyandotte.

“I am Head of the Family, we need to fight, we need to project strength and confidence. Patrick Masters will lead his team, and our corporate counsel will support.”

“Meeting adjourned”

So, the right decision.  But if Wyandotte had been more decisive, we would not have wasted two and a half hours.

But one of the querulous old men spoke up.  “This is the wrong decision.  You cannot risk the future of the Family in this way.  You are as bad as Willard Frick, taking too much risk.  We must conserve our resources, temporize, compromise, beg our way back on to the council.  I demand you reverse this decision.  The money you are using for this fight, the money you are risking in general, comes from our trust accounts. You cannot be allowed to do this. I demand you make peace.”

He took a gun, a pistol, from his pocket.

Wyandotte looked up, he did not stir.

“Demand, you cannot demand, you live on the funds of the family without contributing anything.  You are cast out from the family.  Dismissed. Disowned.”  His voice when handing down this sentence was no different from when he was delivering the platitudes at the start of the meeting.

The man with the gun wavered.  Woodrow Frick knocked the gun from his shaking fingers, sliding it along the table to stop in front of Wyandotte.  The mass of the grey men, muttered and looked down, not daring to either look at Wyandotte or the condemned man.  Those who looked at Woodrow Frick quickly looked away.

Wyandotte got up, and left the room, followed by the rest of the Frick council.  The man who had confronted Wyandotte started to leave, but was stopped by Woodrow placing a hand on the arm of his grey silk suit.  As I left the room with Zach Frick, the grey man sank back into his chair.  Woodrow stopped by the end of the table, where Wyandotte had left the pistol.

“Franklin Atherton Frick, you know what you have to do.”  He then slid the gun down the table to in front of Franklin Frick, joined me by the door.  We went through into the parlor, Woodrow closed the doors.  As we walked over towards the coffee service, we heard a shot from the Dining room where we had had our council.

Nobody moved towards the Dining Room.  I knew though that the Fricks had plenty of experience in dealing with removing embarrassing bodies.

 

               ************************************************************************

Another three quarters of an hour was wasted getting the old cousins out of the house.  They wanted to talk and talk about how good the old times were, and not face the dangerous future.  Finally, they were gone.  While Wyandotte and Woodrow talked, I was left to chat with Zach. 

“You did not give anything away during that long conference, I can’t read you when you want to shut down your face”

“I could not really interfere with the decision, I am you lawyer, not your boss.”

“And what were you really thinking about”

I deflected, I did not want to tell him about my encounter with Chelsea.

“Mostly Fliss and Tiffani, a bit about Angela, the running of a big house, the management of the household duties.  I need more help than I expected running Drysdale House.” 

Zack surprised me by mentioning his cousin himself.

“Did you know that Cousin Chelsea had snuck into the parlor and was listening at the door?”

He grinned at my surprise.

“She has not given up, that one.  She wants things she can’t have; things that don’t suit her.”

“Have you told Wyandotte, or Mrs Magruder?”

“No, I will keep that to myself for now.  No need to bother Wyandotte, he has enough on his mind.”

I contacted my office and spoke to Billy Purden, the managing director of resources. He was to get a team out here to Pittsburgh as soon as possible to liaise with the Frick corporate lawyers and go through their patent files.

Juli’s Narrative.

I shelved books last night for three hours.  Without direction, I am sure I am doing things wrong.  Now he is my Master, Patrick can whip me if displeased.  And I cannot keep up with the cleaning, and my stitching, I am sure is not yet good enough.  Additionally, the automatic feeding machine does not add the flavour packets to the Nutri-girl and so I live on unflavoured mush.  With all the work, no company and no slave orgasms, the life of a slave whose Master is away is very miserable. 

I dread going to Master Patrick’s office now that he has left for Pittsburgh.  Even before he left, it was hard after I was collared.  Even without knowing my changed circumstances, the people at the office treated my differently than they had when I was free.  Before when I went to his offices, at reception, it was always, “Good morning Miss Chen”, or at the very most, “Hello, Juliet, go right back.”

But now that I am barely dressed, I am always made to wait, “I will check if Mr Masters is available to see you, Juli.”  They have picked up by the change in Master Patrick’s attitude towards me that I am less than a free woman.  I am due less respect.  Miss Jane Bennet and Miss Caroline Pomerantz are particularly nasty.  Miss Pomerantz is very prim, while Miss Bennet only pretends to be, while both treated me with respect before, now I only feel their contempt.  Going there without Master Patrick’s protection frightens me.  Even on Earth it seems that Free Women fear and despise kajirae.

After The Bighorn Chapter Three

 

After The Bighorn  Chapter Three An unexpected Death.

(Originally published on EmmaOfGor on 03 August 2024, https://emmaofgor.blogspot.com/2024/08/after-bighorn-chapter-three-unexpected.html#more )

Shocking News comes to the Lazy F.

Early in the morning on July 14^th shocking news came to the Lazy F.  Willard Frick, head of the Family had been murdered in London. (Steel Worlds, Chapter 28).  Despite the early hour, the Fricks on the ranch were already up and at breakfast, setting the tasks for the day.  The news pushed all that to the side. Woodrow Frick and his uncle Wilson set out immediately to see to the security of the Lazy F.  Every man capable of bearing arms was on high alert. Around mid-afternoon, Wilson and Woodrow met alone in Wilson’s office.  The meeting was grim, and the two men were wary of each other.

Wilson began.  “I have talked to Cousin Wyandotte Frick in Pittsburgh.”

“I as well.”

“Then you know the situation.  It was some kind of power play by the folks in London. They have been getting above themselves and denied Willard his rightful tribute.  And then they killed him with the Families Council on the line.”

Woodrow looked grim and strained.  “He was my father.  I need to take vengeance.”

“The Ubar of the North American Families will exact vengeance.  We need to pick a new leader for the Family. Urgently. The Family needs a leader.  My brother Willard left no son.”

“He left me!”

“Willard did not marry your mother, that matters on Earth.”

“They were Free Companions when I was born.”

“Except for those who have been to Gor, they don’t understand that.  Wyandotte understands, I understand, you understand, but the rest of the Family does not understand that, not in their bones.  Even many of the council do not understand and we need a leader tonight. London may take further action; our less friendly friends on the council may try to diminish us. Willard was removed from the council; we need someone who can push to have the Head of the Family back on the council. Otherwise, our interests suffer. Most of the rest of the cousins are too old or too weak. We need a leader right now.”

“Do you seek the Headship?”

Wilson shook his head. “I have been out of things here on the ranch, not in the center of things at Willard’s right hand like Wyandotte was.  I have just called Wyandotte and let him know I will support him. I am to have more autonomy here on the Lazy F and it is to become our main shipping point.  London and Europe in general know too much about our Pittsburgh operation.”

Woodrow leaned back.  He relaxed a bit. It seemed a fight that he was braced for might not occur.

“Before I came into the office, I called Wyandotte as well.  I have pledged him my support. He is the only logical choice. As you yourself said, you have been out of things here on the ranch.  We need someone who can reclaim our rightful place on the council.  I just hope he is strong enough, he has mostly operated as a counselor and aide to Willard.  He is going to have to lead now, not be an administrator. He will have to maneuver to regain our rightful seat on the Council of the Families; in our time of weakness, our rivals will try to take advantage.

As for me, leaving aside Free Companionship vs Marriage, I am too young at twenty-four, and have been away on Gor for eight years. I don’t know our operation, or the Council. It must be Wyandotte.”

Both men were more relaxed now that there wasn’t going to be fight for the Leadership.

Wilson poured them both drinks.

“There is one thing I want to know, really, I need to know.  I didn’t ask you before, it didn’t matter with Willard alive.”

“How did you get to Gor?  You had no ring; Willard had the Frick ring.  No one has been to Gor since Wyandotte returned over fifteen years ago.”

“I used the McMurtry Ring.”

“In the name of the Priest-Kings, who are the McMurtrys?”

“They were one of the original North American families, going back to the beginning, like the Fricks or the Bannons.  My mother was the last of the McMurtrys. She was at least fifteen years older than he when I was born.  Then Willard terminated the Free Companionship when a better alliance came along. His new wife didn’t want a bastard baby under foot, so I was left with my mother, while Willard formed his disastrous first marriage.”

“Do you blame him for that?”

“No, my mother did, she was a woman, emotional. I understood he needed to make the best alliance for the Family.”

Woodrow nodded.  Women can be emotional; men need to understand strength and power.

“My mother was getting sick as she grew older and sent me to my father when I was twelve.  The first wife was gone by then. Mother died when I was fourteen.  When I was sixteen, a lawyer sent me a packet. In it was information about her family and a ring. I had been spending my summers on the ranch, one night I took the ring and summoned a ship to Gor. I was there eight years.  I was a warrior and a rider of Tarns.”

Both men took a sip of their drinks.  Wilson was entranced by the romance of the story.  He had been to Gor for a short period but had never ridden a Tarn. Woodrow went on.

“So, while Wyandotte stabilizes the strength of the Family after this disaster, and fights his way back on the council, and you run our operation here on the Lazy F, I suggest I travel around to our cousins, our Friends, and our assets to put the Family into fighting trim. We have become complacent and need to retire retainers and cousins who have grown too old or too soft. We must harden ourselves for the coming struggles to remake Earth and claim our rightful place in the new Order.”

“The Council would never have dared to remove Willard from its ranks if the family was stronger.”

Wilson demurred, “Willard was strong, we have strength here.”

Woodrow shook his head, “But there was no strength behind him.  He was a force, but he needed a phalanx of spearmen behind him. On the Lazy F, we had strength enough resist attack, but not enough to go on offence.  We need power to attack, power to influence, and though my father would not admit it, we need friends and allies.”

Wilson nodded again. He was naturally taciturn; he was not the kind to influence a council with words.

The younger Frick took another sip. Talking was thirsty work.

“Another thing I want to do is find out what happened to the McMurtry money.  There was a lot of it, but little enough ended up in my mother’s estate.  Collateral cousins and dodgy trustees, I suspect.”

Wilson nodded.  “Thank you for filling me in on your story.  But you left out one important thing.  What City? To what city are the McMurtrys connected?  Our Frick connection is Glorious Ar, the greatest on Gor, as befits our standing; but what city for the McMurtrys?”

Woodrow laughed. It was a private joke he had been waiting years to share.  “It is Ko-ro-ba.  The darling of the Priest-Kings, enemy of Ar, and Home City of that posturing pirate, Tarl Cabot. And one of the Great Families of North America right under their nose.”

The two men smiled, finding humor even on this tragic day.

Then the phone rang.  Wilson answered and listened, his face becoming grave.

“With Willard dead, a patent troll from Silicon Valley has attacked our patents.  This could cost us hundreds of millions.”

“It would really weaken us.  How do we fight this off, with all our other problems.”

The answer came to them both at once.

“We have a Friend who is a patent attorney.  Let us see what his friendship is worth.”

“Patrick Skull-Ax”

“Patrick of San Francisco.”

Wilson picked up the phone.  That night Patrick Masters left for Pittsburgh to do battle on his favorite battleground.

 

 

Legal Combat with Vincent VanRijn

 

Patrick Masters’ Narrative

I took the redeye to Pittsburgh.  Wilson Frick apologized for not sending their private jet, but Woodrow was also on his way to Pittsburgh. I noticed in a small section of the San Francisco Chronicle that the old Grand Duke of Lutha had died.  I made a note to send letters of condolence to the Prime Minister Count Rupert and to the new Grand Duchess.  She is a young woman; I hope she has the sense to leave important matters in the hands of older and wiser men.

As I got out some of the legal papers on the Frick vs VanRijn case, I felt a pang of sadness for being away from Juli.  I truly leave her deeply, and so much more now she is in a collar.  Our relationship is so much better now it accords with the natural order.  Our bliss is great.

Business Class on the plane was not crowded. I had a row to myself.  A young woman, a stewardess, or as they say now, a flight attendant welcomed me to the flight.  She was quite beautiful and not at all dismissive and snippy as was the other stewardess, a fake blonde with the name of Scarlett.  The name likely as phony as the blonde hair and the dismissive attitude.  She would be saving herself for a rich man.  With only seven passengers in Business Class, neither Scarlett nor her brown-haired colleague were overworked. Scarlett concentrated on two young men with open shirts, golden chains and loud voices.  They were trying to give off an aura of entitled wealth, and fake as they were, they fooled Scarlett into fawning all over them.  The other girl, Leigh, according to her name-tag, looked after me and the other passengers with quiet, self-effacing efficacy.  She seemed to have a kind smile. As I had done with greater frequency since I had returned from the Bighorn, I considered them both as possible captives.  Scarlett was the obvious candidate for a collar, but it seemed that Leigh might in time make the better kajira.  But for now, she seemed to be a proper young free woman. 

I wrote my letters of condolence to the Luthans on the death of their Grand Duke and put them in envelopes to mail when we landed. I then sent an email to Jerry Reiss, offering him temporary employment organizing the defense of the Frick Patents from my San Francisco office.  He is a hard worker and very organized and it will be good to get him away from that bitch Maya for a while.

At the Pittsburgh airport I was met by a young man who introduced himself as Zach Frick.  He looked about eighteen or so.

“I thought all the Fricks first name started with W, no offence of course, but I am curious.”

He grinned, I was to learn he was always grinning, as though he found life to be huge joke.
“Oh, that’s just the main branch, I am just a lowly second cousin. I help out running errands and doing odd jobs while I study for the bar exam.”

“You seem awfully young for that.”

“I am older than I look, I turn twenty-one next week.  I went to college early, then law school. I am supposed to be quite smart, but really I work hard, though I seem irresponsible.”

I could not help liking him, he was so irrepressible.  He stopped chattering and I studied some of the legal papers in the lawsuit which was opportunistic but meretricious. VanRijn was clever and unscrupulous, so defeating him would be difficult.  He likely would want to be paid money to go away, but my impression of the Fricks was that they were fighters; I expected them to decline that option.

I looked up as Zach Frick drove the car to the front door of a sprawling brick mansion. Like Drysdale House, it was of the Nineteenth Century, likely built by the same sort of Robber Baron.  From what I had seen on the Lazy F, I was sure it had facilities and kennels for the keeping and training of slaves and female beasts.  I hoped to get ideas for further improvements to Drysdale House while I was here.

Zach surprised me by getting my luggage and briefcase from the trunk.  I had expected to stay downtown, near the Frick offices, and to set up my team so we were close to all the papers of the Frick Companies.  I looked at Zack and raised an eyebrow.

That young imp just grinned.  Then he relented. 

“This was the great man’s house, Willard Frick’s place.  It has been occupied by the Head of the Family for a hundred and fifty years. Cousin Wyandotte will be moving in, and he wants you close for discussions it would not be prudent to have in the offices where there are too many ears.  A great one for prudence and caution is Cousin Wyandotte.”

As we walked towards the entrance, the two great doors opened, each by a young, healthy woman, barely clad, with lovely legs and bosoms straining the front of the thin short dresses they wore.  The loose weave and the tightness of the material displayed them well. As we entered, they sank very gracefully to their knees, opening their thighs wide and sitting back on their heels, thrusting out their breasts. They were breathtakingly gorgeous.  Their collars, for of course they wore collars, had black ribbons woven around them, in token, I supposed, of mourning their slain master. I considered that much as I loved my own slave Juli, she needed further training in graceful movement from someone who was more than a novice.  They were, in their collars and training so much superior to the stewardesses on the airplane. I was sure Scarlett needed a collar; I wondered if Leigh was too much the dignified free woman for a collar.

A dignified black clad woman of middle age approached us.  The two door slaves moved their legs together.  She glanced at them.

“Close the doors, you stupid girls, our guests are inside.  Just because the Master is dead is no reason to get slack.  It will be the switch for you if you fail in decorum again.”

The two girls looked frightened.  And she did seem very formidable. Her long black dress entirely covered her legs, torso and arms to the wrists.  A little bit of white lace at the throat was the only relief from the entirely black costume she wore.  Her face showed her grief.

“Welcome to Frick House.” She began but we were interrupted.

Another woman clad in black was coming down the grand staircase.  Her dress was tight, and quite short, like a black widow in a 1940s film noir trying to con the judge and jury into giving her the benefit of the doubt.  She had great legs.

“This is unacceptable.  Wyandotte shall not have my house.  I am my father’s heir, his only legitimate child.  I am the Tatrix of the Fricks.”

The last words were almost in a shout.

The older woman slapped her face.  Then slapped it again.

“Chelsea Frick, you shut your mouth.  Behave yourself.  The Fricks are led by men, strong men, not silly girls.  You shame yourself; you shame this house with such antics.  You go upstairs, you wash off that whore’s make-up, you dress yourself properly.  Then you come down and beg these gentleman’s pardon.  On your knees.”

Chelsea Frick was crying; she turned and ran up the stairs.

The severe woman turned back to Zack and me. 

“I am sorry you had to see that.  The poor girl was distrait with grief”

It seemed to me that Chelsea had been full of anger and self-pity, not grief, but I accepted the lie at face value.

“I am the housekeeper, Mrs Magruder.  Please come this way.”

She led us into what I imagine was the formal parlor when the house was built.  The two girls followed and when we were seated, knelt by the fireplace.  I tried not to stare.  Mrs Magruder had the two girls serve us coffee.  It was so gracefully done it took my breath away.  They went to a side table, where there was a carafe of coffee, and two china coffee mugs, and silver containers for milk and sugar.  The carafe, the creamer and the sugar bowl were all of silver, with silver tongs for the sugar.  One of the girls, asked how I took my coffee, then held the china cup up between her breasts, slightly warming the cup.  As she pushed the cup against the thin material, it stretched it more, clearly delineating her curves.  She then put in the milk, I don’t take sugar, and filled the cup with coffee, bringing the cup against her chest then raising it up to me from her knees. The coffee was good too.  I wondered if I would be given the opportunity to console this pretty morsel in her grief for her master.

Zach Frick was then served in the same way.  The girls left the room to return to the door.  Zach and I sipped our coffee.  He finished his quickly and excused himself to be about other errands for the family.  This left me alone with Mrs Magruder.  After an awkward silence, Mrs Magruder spoke again.

“Willard Frick was a great man.  You didn’t know him, I understand.  He was a force of nature. A True Man.”

I could hear her capitalize the last words.

She leaned forward. She was under a great deal of stress.

“I have worked in this house for the Fricks for thirty years.  I don’t know where I will go now.”

I didn’t say anything.  I didn’t want to break the thread of her thought. 

“Mr Wyandotte has his own housekeeper, one used to his ways.  I expect he will want to have her take over here and serve him.  I expect I shall be sent to the ranch in retirement.  I don’t know if I am ready for that.”

It was likely the first time in her thirty years in this house that a personal emotional confession had broken her reserve.  I did not embarrass either of us by saying anything.  We sat in silence sipping coffee until we were interrupted.

The girl, Chelsea Frick, came into the room.  Her face was bare of makeup, but angry marks showed where she had been slapped.  She wore much more modest clothing and looked younger than the termagant who had raged about the unfairness of not being made head of the family.  She begged my pardon most humbly for her display.  It is always pleasant to have a woman kneeling in front of you.  She kissed my hand as I granted her pardon. Her demeanor was humble, but her eyes showed how much she hated kneeling and begging pardon.  She then rose and knelt in front of Mrs Magruder, thanking her for her discipline and bringing her to her senses.

I did not show it, not in the House of the Fricks, but I thought how suited Chelsea Frick was to being on her knees, how good she would look, collared and naked, her curves displayed for the appreciation of men, her body trembling in submission and need.  I thought how good she would look; the tips of her breasts quivering in anticipation and need.

Of course, to even think such a thing about a daughter of the Fricks was a severe disrespect to the House and a free woman, no Friend of the Fricks could contemplate dishonouring them by collaring Chelsea.  But it was clear to me, that like the stewardess Scarlett, Chelsea Frick belonged in a collar.

I could hear the front doors open in the entrance hall and the door slaves greeting Wyandotte Frick.  I rose to meet my new client and thrust ideas of Chelsea Frick caressing my manhood from my mind.