TroyDM Tarnsman of Gor

 A Tarnsman Warrior

Art by TroyDM

An Illustration of a Tarsman Warrior by TroyDM, both full version

And a detail in full resolution

So which warrior? Rask of Treve, Woodrow Frick when living on Gor, Tarl Cabot himself?
Which do you think?

 

After the Bighorn, Chapter Nine, The Processing of Kajira Nineteen

Janey Anstruthers’s Narrative.

Slowly all the girls around me in the big stone walled room awakened. There were twenty of us, each secured by a chain to a curved pipe in the centre of the floor. The curve was about the 8^th  part of a circle and faced the stairs and the doors. The room was about twenty feet high and huge, about 50 feet long and thirty feet deep. The walls, floor, and ceiling were all of stone, the ceiling vaulted like an old church. Facing us there was a broad platform, about three steps up from the main floor. The steps ran all along the platform, the platform ran the length of the wall. Steps ran up the wall from the left side of the platform to the right, with a landing and a door about halfway up. The door was made of wood planks and had a grill in the centre about eye height, like in an old movie about medieval times. The whole place had a medieval air. There were no railings on the stairway, likely built before modern health and safety regulations. The stair was of stone too, with arched niches built into the base. I wondered if there were secret passages behind the other niches. Ominously, pairs of medieval looking iron bracelets hung from the top of each niche. If the room was designed to scare people, women, brought there, it was succeeding.

 

Light came from what looked like medieval torches, but they were some kind of electric fixture, I think. Behind us, were more arched niches about five feet high, but these were barred like cells or cages, with little doors built into the bars. Each would hold about two people, I thought. There were eight of the cages. There were two more niches one at each end. There were curtains over the openings of these niches.

It was a gloomy and scary room, and it scared most of the girls chained to the pipe. Each of us had a steel ring locked around our left ankles, which rings connected by chains to the pipe, which was about four inches above the floor. I was second from one end, with a tall girl in overalls and boots to my right. Next to me on my right were two girls with hair ribbons, one multi-colored, and one a white purity ribbon with an Ohio State edging. I have said before I don’t like defacing the purity of the ribbon. Some of us were dressed properly and completely, some were wearing clothes that revealed entirely too much. Sluts! I could understand them being grabbed, but why the decent girls like me?

I was very hungry. It had been a while since I had eaten, and that was only the partial bowl of Nutri-girl, supplied by men, which had tasted off to me. I am a supertaster, and I think there was something in the Nutri-girl that had knocked us out. I assumed that once our captors, whoever they were,arrived, would sort us into the sort of girl who could not expect consideration, and the Innocent Girls, those of us who should be released. I could not wait to give them a piece of my mind!

Each girl, as she had awakened, had reacted very similarly. First, they wondered where they were, how they got there, and what this place was. Their voices were loud and fearful, and in this large stone room, as big as a ballroom or a gym, had echoed. Then there was the screaming, then the sudden terrified silence. I tried to organize some sort of order, but even an exchange of names was beyond these sobbing, worried girls. Even I could not put some sort of backbone into them.

Quickly though they settled down, but I still could not organize them, they became giddy and started chattering, some thought it was some sort of adventure or prank. It did not help that I was second from one end of the line. Many of the girls were not as afraid as I was, or as scared as I thought they should be. It took a while for me to realize that they had all eaten an entire bowl of the drugged Nutri-Girl, and had no idea how long they had been unconscious. The girl to my left, in an Ohio State sweatshirt and one of those rainbow hair ribbons said to her companion that she thought she had been out at least as hour. I did not think it was the time to tell her she had been out all that day, then two nights and another day. I would not have been believed. If I was to lead this group to freedom I had to keep my credibility. Because I am a natural leader and a good giver of orders I understand these things. Even Amanda Sloan came to accept that, even that Claudia Rogers finally fell into line in our University of Michigan New Feminist Chapter.

Some girls thought this was a fraternity prank or even a Reality Program. The girl, to my left, on the end, was dressed in overalls looked worried and nervous, as did the girl on the other side of the two from Ohio State.  Because we were all secured by our left ankles, I could not gather them around to set up a strategy. I would have to wait and see.

The little peephole door in the Upper door opened, then quickly shut. I waited. Then the door on the platform opened. I expected it to creak, like in a movie, but it did not. That should have worried me. It meant that whoever these people were, they were efficient.

Five men came through the door. The first to enter onto the platform was dressed in a suit with a vest, what the English call a waistcoat. He seemed very young, like my age. The other four looked like brutes, very muscular in tight shirts and khakis; they had on boots; lace up boots like working men wear. Two of them walked behind us, which made me nervous, the other two went to the ends of the platform. Then two girls came in, each pushing a four-wheeled cart. They were not New Feminists. Frankly they looked like sluts with no hair ribbons at all, their hair was hanging all loose, and dressed in sleeveless very short tunics. One tunic looked almost sheer.

The young man in the suit stood at the centre of the front of the platform. He ignored all the pleas and shouts from the women chained in front of him. I did not join in the din, the pleas, the jokes. It would be undignified in a leader to be ignored as the young man was ignoring the women. As the noise settled down, I saw two older men, in suits, one in cowboy boots come down the stairs from the upper landing. They passed behind the young man and over to side of the room where I was chained. The man in the cowboy boots, stood just at the bottom of the platform stairs looking at me, he looked in his mid to late twenties. The other man, in his mid to late thirties, just sat himself down on the platform stairs, as if he had nothing better to do then look at us. Suddenly I felt grubby and unwashed.

The young man started speaking.

“You have all been selected and harvested because of your suitability to be slaves on Gor.”

The woman in overalls to my right stirred uneasily. I was confused, what did that mean, slaves on Gor?

“If there hadn’t been a mixup with the Silver Ship, you would all be in your travel canisters, not to awaken until you were being sold in the slave markets of Ar”

None of this made any sense, spaceships and slave markets? The two concepts did not even go together. Slavery and advanced civilization were anti-thetical concepts!

One woman, down near the other end said, “Reality Show of some kind, I told you. We don’t need to sign up though, unless the money is good. They need releases and agreements. The money better be good.”

The woman, on the other side of the two Ohio State women spoke up, saying what I had been thinking.

“Slavery is old fashioned and out of date, it has no place in modern life.”

The young man shook his head. “Slavery, especially female slavery, is ingrained in human evolution. The female belongs at the man’s feet. Even the New Feminists recognize that we are not the same. Changes in Society that go against biology as it as evolved over thousands of years are unsustainable.”

There were mutterings, but he continued.

“Some of you have become frigid, shying away from your natural urges, afraid to be sensual, sexual creatures.”

I did not like to hear that. I had priorized my education to be a leader, a contributor. I was someone to be listened to.

“Others of you have gone from man to man, trying to find, among the men of Earth, someone to submit yourself to, someone to obey and follow.” The woman next to me in the multi-coloured hair ribbon looked uneasy; I could see other women blushing.

“But you found no one who satisfied you, so you continued to seek out what you could not find. You have all been recommended for acquisition and transport to Gor, scouted and found suitable in looks, beauty, submissiveness to be acceptable as slaves, to men on Gor, kajirae to the Masters.”

Some of the words were strange, as was the whole concept, but the woman in overalls to my left seemed to recognize something when he was talking. She stood up taller and threw her shoulders back, as if to be better assessed.

It was time for me to assert myself, to tell this man off.

“I am not a slave, I am free, more than that, I am wearing my Purity Ribbon, I will not dally with men until I am properly companied. I am not a slave slut. You must release me, all of us who are wearing Ribbons, and treat us properly with deference as free and intelligent women. In fact you must release all of us; you have no right to seize any of us.”

Suddenly I was flat on my face; my back was stinging. I had been struck by something that had hurt my back terribly; struck with such force as to knock me to the floor and drive all the wind out of me.

“You were not given permission to speak. A kajira, a slave, only speaks when permission is granted by a Master or a Mistress, a Free Woman. You must be pleasing to all men and obey instantly. If a command needs to be repeated, you will be struck fifteen times with a Gorean slave whip.”

I was finally able to find enough strength to look up. The young man (he was only about my age!) was holding up an evil looking short, handled whip. The handle looked like it was made of wood or something and had five leather straps.

“This is the slave whip. It will hurt but not mark. It has five broad blades. As slaves you should fear it.”

I was not a slave, but also I did not want to feel that cruel thing again. Luckily I had been wearing my University of Michigan sweatshirt, but I was in great pain. From my hands and knees, I could see behind me one of the booted men in khaki pants and blue shirts with a similar whip to the one the young man in the suit was holding.

“You hurt me; you struck a woman!”

“I barely used any strength; you were hardly touched. Now shut up and attend the slavemaster!”

He then laid hands on me, daring to touch me, grabbing me by both my arms and lifting me to my feet. I could hear my ankle chain jingle as he set my down. It was a thinner chain, it would not have held a man, but I wasn’t a man; it was enough to hold a woman.

The young man, the slavemaster as the brute had called him, resumed speaking

“You have all received your one warning, speak only when spoken to, and obey all orders.”

He then walked right up to the woman at the far end of the line; she was almost as short as I, and more delicate. Any man would want to protect and cherish her. She wore, like me, a Purity Ribbon. She should have been freed. Instead the man spoke to her, standing in her personal space.

“Remove all your clothing for your assessment.”

“I can’t, I am modest. Look, I have my ribbon; you can’t”

“Does an order need to be repeated?” The young man was grim and insistent.

“Really I can’t, I just can’t.”

“An Order has been repeated.”

One of the brutes seized her from behind, grabbing both arms, just as I had been grabbed. He lifted her off the ground. With no purchase for her feet, and both arms seized, it is a effective way to seize a person. The young man undid her ankle chain with a key and the brute carried her to one of the niches under the stairs with the dangling bracelets. As her hands were placed in the bracelets and the bracelets raised up, lifting her arms over her head, the girl repeated again that she could not obey, just could not.

“You can; you will, you will learn.”

The bracelets had now been cranked up so high that the poor girl’s feet did not touch the floor. She was crying and begging. Then the young man, the Slavemaster, went to a chest and removed a pair of sheers. While one of the skimpily dressed women removed the young woman’s shoes, he cut along one side of her leg right up to her thigh, ruining her lovely dress. He did the same with the other side. He then continued right up to under her arm, first on the right them the left. He caressed a place on the outer part of her right thigh.

“You will be marked there.”

 The skimpily clad woman started gathering the braceleted girls shoes and socks, putting them in a large paper bag; she folded the pieces of cloth cut from the poor girl as they were handed her by the Slavemaster. In short order she was naked, hanging from her wrists. All that remained of her clothes were her Purity Ribbon.

I was relieved. At least she had not been whipped. I closed my eyes thankfully. I did not want to stare at her in her condition.

I heard a terrible sound; she had been struck. She cried out. Most of the women in the line gasped. One, three places down from me, just past the Ohio State women, spoke out.

“Stop that, she is already out of clothes, no need for that.”

She staggered as the man who had earlier struck me, used the whip on her. I cringed away.

The Slavemaster drew back and used the whip again, her body had swung around after the first blow, she was hit on a different part of her body. And then again. I was relieved it was over, she had felt the whip fifteen times, three blows times five blades. Surely her torment was over. Then he did it again. I was horrified, it was fifteen blows, each with the five blades of the whip.

After she had felt the whip about seven times, I noticed a girl down the line pull her top over her head, and then take off her bra. Another girl took over her top too. By the eleventh blow, at least half of the captives were totally or partially undressed. The Ohio State girl next to me in the multi-coloured ribbon was completely naked, the girl next to her almost totally so. She had hooked her thumbs into her panties and was pulling them down her thighs when the man in the cowboy boots walked up to her. The Slavemaster halted to watch what was happening. He did not seem surprised that so many of us were naked or partially so.

“Why did you do that,” the man with the cowboy boots asked the nearly naked Ohio State girl with the Purity Ribbon. I was curious myself. A Purity Girl should not have done that.

“I don’t know. I don’t know. The other girl was being whipped and I was afraid.” She went to pull up her panties. He stopped her. He touched her naked body! He traced something on her left thigh. He nodded to the Slavemaster, who resumed with the suspended girl. There was no sound in the large room except the landing of the whip and the girl’s cries.

The Slavemaster finished and turned. “Kajirae, slavegirls, must learn to obey. Men of Gor are not as lenient with disobedient slaves as I was.”

The man in the suit with the cowboy boots walked up to the girl in overalls who was at the end of the line of shackled girls.

“You did not remove your clothes.”

“I was given no orders.”

“Master, I mean. I was given no orders, Master.”

He turned to me.

“You didn’t remove your clothes either.”

“I didn’t because this is all a mistake, I shouldn’t be here with girls who took their clothes off. I have a Purity Ribbon, I am head of the University of Michigan Chapter of the New Feminists. We have 150 members, I am Janey Anstruther. This is all a mistake.”

I was babbling incoherently. I did not want to a slave, I did not want to be whipped. . These men were so strong, so overbearing. I could not put my ideas in order. The man turned, one of the henchman handed him a folder, it was a sort of ring binder. He looked through the pages. He turned back to me

“You are very much supposed to be here. You were scouted twice. Not only that, you were recommended to our scouts three times, by three different people. One was a visiting professor from Mount Holyoke; once by one of your male classmates, and once, interestingly, by one of your own members of your New Feminists Chapter. You are very much meant to be here.”

My mind reeled. A traitor in our ranks! I would have to escape and warn Amanda Sloan. We would have to root out the snake in our midst. We could get Claudia Rogers to help. Unless it was Claudia Rogers. Amanda would help me find out. Maybe her boyfriend Jimmy Klien could help us find out who the man who said I should be enslaved us was. I had trouble thinking clearly about this; these men were so unfeeling about my sensitivities.

The other suited man had come over to me. He looked down.

“She has a lot to say for such a little thing, Woodrow.”

“She seems to be about half mouth,” the suited man with the cowboy boots said.

“And half boob”, laughed the older man.  “She’s a little bit of a thing, half mouth, half boob.”

Well I do have a lot up top for a short woman, and how dare he use my hated high school nickname, L’il Bit!

“Oh, I think L’il Bit has some other interesting bits as well, let’s get her unwrapped,”

“Let’s see you then, display yourself in front of men,”

I did not pretend that I didn’t understand. I didn’t want to be whipped. I found I could not lie to these men. My ankle was untied, I was brought forward where the light was better.

Quickly, way to quickly I was naked in front of these three grinning men. One of the sluts of the Slavemaster gathered up my clothes. For the first time I noticed that she wore a steel collar.

“L’il Bit definitely shows some areas of interest”. The cowboy Woodrow was touching me while the henchman held me from behind. Three men, towering over me, I felt so vulnerable. They had me stand, legs apart, arms behind my head. My flanks were stroked, my muscles felt.

“I still say, Woodrow, that she is half boob,”  I felt like crying as I was caressed there by the older man. Then my hands were tied behind me with rope.

“Tracker of Gor recommends rope for the First Binding. It is so tight and conforms to the body. She knows she can’t get away.” It was the first time the henchman had spoken.

“Tracker of Gor?” enquired the older suited man.

“Tracker of Gor is one of the leading Slave theoreticians and writers. His scrolls are avidly sought after.”

“Thank you, Bruno. I shall have to seek out his works.” The men had this conversation as I was bent forward from the waist with Bruno’s hand in my hair. Then OMG, I was penetrated! By a finger. Then two.

“Definitely white silk, oils nicely though” Woodrow the Cowboy announced.

I started to cry. The men ignored me. Before when I had cried, men had always tried to be nice to me, to help me. Now I was bent over, naked while they talked of me. The older man was counting girls from the far end of the line. Other girls were being treated as I was. I was not special.

“Eighteen”, he announced as he came to me.

“Nineteen, Mr Masters, there is the girl on the platform.”

“Right, nineteen.”

Bruno produced what looked like a marker. Mr Masters held my left breast as Bruno wrote 19 on it. It felt wet going on, but dried immediately.

“Gorean slave marker, Mr Masters. Recommended by Tracker of Gor in the Intake Scroll.”

Then he wrote on me again, on my belly between my navel and my sex, they on my left thigh, then he turned me around and repeated, on my right buttock, my lower back, my right shoulder and on the back of my neck.

“What’s her collar size?” asked Woodrow.

I didn’t understand Bruno’s answer, it was in a foreign language. Woodrow took a collar from one of the carts that the collared sluts had wheeled in. It was a thin metal band, about an inch in height. It was held in front of me, it had a lock where the two ends came together, opposite the lock was a ring. It had a band of white enamel around the circumference.

“This is your transfer collar. When you are sold, it will be replaced by that of your master. It is engraved in Gorean, I will read it to you.

“Transfer collar, deliver to Atticus of Ar for sale. The white band means you are white silk, not yet opened for the use of men.”

He fastened a medallion to the collar, it read 19.

“As a slave, you have no name. Names are a possession of Free People, and as a slave you possess nothing. For now, you will be known as 19, Janey Anstruther is no more.”

He fastened the collar on my throat and led me to my place in line.

I was 19^th in a line of slave girls.

Nineteen.

TroyDM Slave Trading with the Kurii

 Slave Trading with the Kurii.

A warrior purchases some slaves right of the transport capsules from a Kur and its human minions.

They reach a price each can live with.

Please give acknowledgement and feedback to the creator. 

After The Bighorn Chapter Eight Preparing the Merchandise

 Chapter Eight

Preparing the Merchandise.

Two of the illustrations for this Chapter are Courtesy of TroyDM and were created specially for this Chapter and are copyright TroyDM

Janey Anstruther’s Narrative.

I awoke in the night.  The hood that had gagged me and prevented me from hearing and seeing was off.  I was glad to breathe freely.  That hood had stunk of sweat and fear.  I surmised I was not the first girl who had been confined in it by those brutes!

But they did make mistakes.  They had grabbed me for a start even though I was wearing my Purity Ribbon.  I touched my hair, and I could feel it, still tied in its place, proclaiming my Innocence and Purity.  They should have let me go as soon as they had seen it!  It was only then I realized that my hands were free.  The only thing securing me now was an ankle ring around my left ankle that led to a chain looped around a pipe.

And that was their second mistake, after the one they made grabbing me.  They had left the lights on, so I could see that there were other girls all similarly secured.  It seemed that all the girls who had been waiting for the bus had been kidnapped.  I counted nineteen of them, which, with me made twenty. More than half of us were wearing Hair Ribbons.  I was pleased that so recent an innovation had been adopted by so many girls.  It indicated how much our movement, the New Feminism, was making progress.  Not all were perfect Purity Ribbons; there were a few with University Colors.  There were more pure Purity Ribbons, than the ones with University Colors meaning that I was correct in the position I took in the Ribbon Dialogues.  I am usually correct, almost always in fact; something that Amanda Sloan just cannot understand. I think she is jealous of me and my standing in the Society and would do almost anything to supplant me.  Hers is not a very sisterly attitude, as I have often pointed out to her.  I am helpful to my sisters in pointing out to them the way to proper thought and behavior.  It is why I am so popular with them.

There were also a few rainbow ribbons, the sign of the Old Feminists.  And how they hate it when we call them that.  They support the old, outdated idea of Feminism, that women are the same and equal to men.  So, we call them Old Feminists.  I suppose any young, vital, University girl would hate being called old, but they really hate it.  They say they are new women, and many have started wearing Rainbow Ribbons.  The fact that they now wear ribbons, something we started, shows how much influence we are gaining.

I work alongside one of the Old Feminists, Agnes Morrison-Atherton, who is studying to become an Astronomer.  Ms Morrison-Atherton, as she calls herself, is adamant she is as good as any man, or better.  Every setback is blamed on men standing in her way.  It seems like there is a lot of anger in her.  She is a good sort though, and very pretty, but not as pretty as me.  A little flat actually, with freckles across her nose.  A visiting professor once was talking about the freckles being indicative of something or other, but he started mumbling when he saw me listening.  Likely it means she is stubborn. 

I don’t think I would go far in Astronomy, it has a lot of math, which is hard for girls. Agnes Morrison-Atherton is determined to struggle through though.  A few days after I received my Purity Ribbon from our faculty advisor, she started wearing her Rainbow Ribbon.  Another front in the Ribbon Dialogues, but not as heated.  I don’t think she is as jealous of me as Amanda Sloan is.

I am very hungry and thirsty.  Those brutes need to come and let me go and give me something to eat.  No Nutri-Girl though, I won’t fall for that again!

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

(Illustration of Juli knelling as she imagines Patrick courtesy of Troy DM)

I miss my Master so much.  Living alone was hard, even when I was free; as a slave I feel bereft.  Without him I am without purpose.  I follow his instructions to the letter, just for the structure it gives my life.  Today, I washed the floor and dusted the furniture in the formal dining room and in the small dining room as well. This is a lovely small room, paneled in light coloured wood, overlooking the garden between Drysdale House and the Hathaway Building. I spent two hours unpacking and shelving books in the library.  I love that room with its dark wood paneling, which is mahogany, I think, high windows and magnificent fireplace.  Then I broke down and put away the empty boxes and vacuumed the oriental rugs on the floors. 

I dressed in the skimpy clothes I am allowed to wear outside Drysdale House.  I was catcalled and followed on the streets and groped on the cable car.  It made me feel so pretty and valued.  The stop is just outside the Hathaway Building where Master Patrick has his new offices.  The car turns around right there, at Hathaway and McMurtry. I try to time things so I don’t wait too long in front of the Hathaway Building.  When I am seen by people from his office, I feel small. They knew me when I was free and Patrick’s girlfriend.  Now they look down on me.  At the Exercise Studio where still teach, which is the only place I am allowed a nether closure, I led three classes.  By now it was a relief to get back into my ‘street slut’ clothes after class. I don’t like pretending I am not a slave, even though I don’t want people who knew me before I was Master Patrick’s slave to see me now.  The contradictions in being an owned kajira are still being worked out in my mind.  I know I should glory in what I have become, in what I have been made to become, but it is hard when I meet people who knew me before.

In ‘ethnic’ dance class, I could just let go, just physically express my sexuality as a submitted kajira, trying to attract male attention, arouse male interest in me.  Such a relief. I even flirted wordlessly with two young men on the cable car home, but they were confused and ashamed to respond publicly to me.  Master Woodrow Frick is right when he says that the men of this planet have forgotten to be men.  I am sure on Gor a flirting Slavegirl like me would be put to use for such a display.  Maybe Master will find a way to take me to Gor some day.

When I got off the cable car at Hathway and McMurtry and started walking up the hill to Drysdale Avenue where the front door to Drysdale House is I felt so good. The sun was out, there was a slight breeze, and I would soon be home, home to where Master Patrick lives, even if he is not there.  I could go up to his room, sneak in, and smell his clothes, look at his things, surround myself with memories of him.  But when I turned the corner onto Drysdale after the two-block walk up McMurtry along the high brick wall which surrounds the gardens of the House, my stomach sank.  She was there again.  The woman from yesterday, with the binders and the books.  Ringing the bell, knocking on the door, as if she had the right to disturb Master Patrick at his house!  I crossed the street to the little park that faces Drysdale House.  Fremont Park is just two blocks, a few trees and benches, a swing set and monkey bars.  I sat on a bench under the statue of Fremont and waited until she went away.  I fear strange Free Women when there is no man to protect me.  As soon as she turned the corner back down to Hathaway, I ran across the street, punched in the code to allow me to enter and collapsed on the floor, breathing heavily.  When I composed myself, I removed all my clothing as I am always to be naked at home.  Then on the marble floor of the Foyer, I started practicing some of the moves I had learned in dance class.  This fixed them in my mind and muscle memory.  I want to please Master and dance like Tiffani the Frick’s dancing girl.  I want to be desired, to arouse men, to excite them as I display myself in all my helplessness. So, I practised my dance moves until I was calm again.

Patrick Masters’s Narrative.

(Illustration of Patrick Masters watching Tiffani practice courtesy of TroyDM)

I am watching Tiffani dance, or rather, practice her dancing.  We are the only people in the ballroom of the Frick Mansion which is about the same size as the one I have in Drysdale House.  The proportions are not as fine here as Drysdale House’s are though, at least in my opinion.  Of course, Drysdale House has just been restored and renovated back to its original Nineteenth Century glory, albeit with all the Twenty-first Century conveniences and comforts; the best of both worlds. The curtains here are a little threadbare and old, Mrs Magruder tells me that neither Willard Frick nor his father cared much about upkeep of furnishings unless they were of practical use.  She says that Mrs Crandell, the new housekeeper who Wyandotte Frick is installing in her place, informs her that Wyandotte Frick will put more effort into the upkeep of the House.

“Mr Willard was always very focused on essentials, building up the Family, increasing its Standing amongst the Old Families, of bending society to his will.  Mr Wyandotte sometimes seems a little trifling.”

I knew she was loyal to Mr Willard Frick, who it was clear, she adored.  But I had my reasons for seeing if she could see things another way.

“But aren’t displays of wealth, of position, a part of projecting confidence and wealth?”

Mrs Magruder sniffed, “the other Families never came here much, I think that they were afraid.”

What about local people, to build up allies and local power.

“Mr Frick had all the power he needed; he did not need local influence; he was a national figure.”

I did not point out that Willard Frick was dead and a lack of allies was hurting Wyandotte in his quest to restore the Fricks to the Families Council.  I mentioned that the slave basket at the foot of my bed was lacking the thin pad it usually was supposed to have.

“I will mention it to Mrs Crandell, that sort of thing is her responsibility now.”  She was very snippy about that, losing her position, her job, and her place in the world clearly stung.

I left it at that; we sipped our coffee in silence. It was then I received at call from the Frick Company Lawyer, J. Augustus Frick IV. 

“Patrick don’t bother coming to the office today. The entire third floor is in an upheaval.  The Engineers we share the floor with are moving more quickly than I have ever seen them move.  They are determined to beat the Marketing department to get that prime space on the Fifth Floor occupied.  Once they are gone, we can get your people moved in alongside mine.  Wyandotte’s idea of a contest has certainly worked.  It is not how Willard Frick would have done it, but it is effective enough I suppose.  I will see you for supper before you leave for San Francisco”.

I was pleased enough to spend the morning wandering around Frick House which is how I found myself in the ballroom, watching Tiffani the dancer practise her moves.  She was dancing naked of course, with a long piece of narrow yellow silk as a prop. To the sound of a drum machine, she was repeating a long sequence of moves over and over.

I stopped thinking about the strange event of last night and watched her graceful sensuous dance, expressing her femineity and surrender, enticing and arousing in equal measure.  How beautifully women can move, when unrestrained by society and convention, restrained only by their collar.  Naked women in repose are enticing, when in movement they are doubly so.  Still as I watched, my thoughts drifted to another girl, equally enticing when naked and collared; my own lovely Juli.  What a joy to possess her, to own her!  I longed to have her here, to throw her to the inlaid parquet floor, to take her right in the middle of the ballroom.  As she wasn’t here, my thoughts drifted to Fleur, the former classmate of Miss Chelsea Frick and now nothing but a slave in the Frick House.  As I had said goodnight to Wyandotte and Woodrow Frick the previous evening, Fleur had been kneeling by my chair, rubbing against my leg.  As I rose, I put my left hand in her hair, pulling her to her feet.  Bending her forward at the waist I had led her through the Entrance Hall and to the stairs.  There I had pulled the knot tying the scrap of silk from around her hips, leaving her wearing only her new collar, the one with Wyandotte’s name on it.  I had her proceed me up the stairs, watching her buttocks undulate as she climbed, the dimples of Venus in her lower back just above the butt cleft moving enticingly in the shadows cast by the candle I was carrying. 

At the top of the stairs, there were three corridors, straight ahead, to the right and to the left.  The corridor to the left was shut by a heavy oak door.  It was the door to the Free Woman’s wing, which could be locked at night for their safety and protection.  I considered that I might have to install such a door at Drysdale House, should my plans for a Luthan Consulate there prove successful.  The door was ajar.  A hand in a black silk sleeve reached out, grasping at my wrist.

“Please Mr Masters, I have to talk to you.  I still need your help.  As a gentleman you must help me.”

It was Chelsea Frick of course.  Before I could say anything, she was jerked back.  The door was decisively shut, and I heard the key turn in the lock. Obviously Mrs Crandell, the new housekeeper was on the job, protecting the reputation of Free Women and the sanctity of their quarters.  I shrugged, grinned, and smacked Fleur on her beautiful bottom and pointed her down the opposite corridor to my room.  In my room Fleur proved quite satisfactory and begged to sleep on the bed.  I pointed to the floor. 

“Maybe the basket, Master, please.”  I had outfitted Drysdale House with the same baskets as the Fricks used on the Lazy F Ranch, I knew what she meant.  There were woven rattan baskets, like dog baskets, at the foot of the bed, in which a pleasing slave could sleep curled up on a thin pad instead of the hard floor. I considered the matter.

“The basket then, but I am securing your ankle to the ring.”

She nodded and ran to the foot of the large comfortable bed and pulled the basket from its storage place under its foot.

“Oh Master, someone has played a nasty trick, they have removed the little pad.  Please let me sleep on the floor instead”.

I looked, the thin pad was gone, Fleur would have to sleep on the hard woven strands of rattan, each about an 1/8 of an inch thick.  It would be very uncomfortable and leave marks on her skin, but she had begged for the basket, so she would sleep in the slave basket.

I secured her left ankle and slept comfortably in the large soft bed.  It was not until morning that I found the episode stranger than just a trick one slave might play on another. For how could the trickster be sure that she would not be the one selected for the night?  Not that I was going to get involved in a squabble among slaves, but it seemed odd.  It was not until I was breakfasting with Mrs Magruder that it seemed clearer to me.  Chelsea Frick!  She had been angry with me earlier in the day; and did not want me distracted by kajirae when she was trying to incline me to her side.  Of course I would not get involved with a Free Woman who did not belong to me.

I did mention that the slave pad in my room needed replacing.

“I will report this matter to Mrs Crandell, such things are her responsibility.”

Mrs Magruder was still tight-lipped about losing her place and her authority with the change in leadership of the Family.  Wyandotte might have an angry and jealous Mrs Danvers type on his hands, I thought. But again, not my worry.

I was concentrating again on watching Tiffani practice.  She was now repeating one short sequence over and over, a step and glide with a particular hand movement and head bob. She was covered with a sheen of sweat now.  I heard footsteps and turned.  It was Woodrow Frick.

He walked up and watched Tiffani for a moment. 

“Bruno tells me the new merchandise have awakened a couple of hours ago and are pretty much screamed out and cried out by now.  Would you like to watch the next steps?”

“I would, very much.”

The Emery's Pay a Visit.

we walked back to the main part of the house, where a young man was standing with Wyandotte Frick and young Zach Frick.  The two young men looked like two newly full-grown lions, each ready to take over a Pride.    They had all just come from Wyandotte’s office.

“This is Michael Emery, who has come to convey his condolences on the murder of Willard.  Felicity Emery is one of Chelsea’s closest friends and is condoling her now.”

Michael Emery shook hands with me, and then shook with Wyandotte.

“Again, our most sincere condolences, and I will convey your thoughts on the other matter to Uncle Elliott.   I will wait outside by the car for Felicity.”

He and Zach headed outside.  Woodrow steered me towards the parlor where Chelsea sat with a young woman her own age, almost as beautiful as she was. This morning Chelsea was a picture of propriety, collar done up to the neck, the sleeves of her gown falling down over her wrists.

“This is my best friend ever, Felicity Emery.  We were such great chums at school, inseparable, forever.”  She and Michael came to say how sad they were that Daddy was killed.  So kind of them.”

I was not convinced that Chelsea and Felicity were in truth great friends.  Allies yes, but close friends?

“Michael says we need to get back on the road.  He is driving the convertible you know.”

“Of course Darling.  The important thing is that you came and that Michael was able to talk to Wyandotte about boring man stuff.”  The girls giggled.

They walked arm in arm to the hall and out the big main doors, with Woodrow and me following.

I don't like your fashion business, mister

And I don't like these drugs that keep you thin

I don't like what happened to my sister

First we take Manhattan, 

…then we take Berlin!

 

A second-rate cover of a Leonard Cohen song was playing on the radio of a vintage convertible.  A pricy little toy.  Michael and Zach were separated by about ten feet not talking, but at least not fighting.  Felicity got in the passenger side of the car, Zach opening the door for her.  Michael made the tires squeal as he roared off; Chelsea waving until they were out of sight.  She went in without saying another word to me.

Woodrow set off to the basement outside door, “shall we see to that merchandise?  You will find it interesting.”

TroyDM Master, Freewoam, Slave

 Title: 'Master, Freewoman and Slave' (Web Version)

Detail

Artist: TroyDM

Digital media using DAZStudio and Photoshop

Dimensions: 1754 pixels x1240 pixels (scaled down to half size from the full resolution original)

Comments: A picture inspired by John Norman's Gor novels alluding to the fraught relationship between the characters Tarl Cabot and Talena of Ar in the context of tensions between women of free status and women reduced to Gorean slavery. 

About the artist: I sign my works as TroyDM. I am a UK-based, self-taught digital artist with a background in filmaking who is primarily interested in creating illustrations and images inspired by science fiction and science fantasy. My main influences in this field are Frank Frazetta, the surrealist Leonor Fini, and the numerous pulp fiction cover artists of the 1950s to the 1990s, as well as the great artists of the Golden and Silver Ages of comics. I most enjoy the challenge of bringing to life the vivid world of John Norman's Gor series of novels. Thanks to Tracker and his kind offer to showcase my work on his blog, I hope to begin exploring new images inspired by the growing body of fan fiction based on Norman's legacy. Thank you all for taking the time to review my artwork; I appreciate any comments and suggestions you may have as connoisseurs of the Gorean way. . .

After the Bighorn Chapter Seven­­
Dinner at Frick House.

(Image by The Palatine, https://palatine.bdsmlr.com)

Seven men gathered in Wyandotte Frick’s study in the Frick Mansion. Wyandotte was not quite at ease in the room which until a few days ago had belonged to that force of nature, Willard Frick. We were Wyandotte, Zach, Woodrow, Samuel and J. Augustus Frick IV, me and another man, introduced only as Bruno. Samuel Frick was another of the cousins, here as a representative of the sidelined larger family, and Bruno was, well what you would expect a Bruno to be, a man of muscle and protection.  We sipped brandy and nibbled canapes, served by a group of collared beauties.  With the exit of Chelsea Frick and the withdrawal of Mrs Crandell, the new housekeeper, the girls shed their tunics and served as nature intended, naked and on their knees.

Samuel Frick kept going into decisions already made, including the selection of Wyandotte as the Head of the Fricks, and the aggressive fight-back against the Patent Aggregator Vincent VanRijn.  Wyandotte was very patient with this querulous middle-aged man, with middle-aged spread, and little mental nimbleness.  He seemed a typical minor aristocrat unable to comprehend changing times and circumstances.  In particular Wyandotte, and J Augustus Frick tried to get into his head that the Frick position had to be fought for constantly in shifting alliances and betrayals among the Families of North America.

“But the Bannons and the Emerys are our friends, our allies.”

“Only as long as we are strong and appear strong.  If we are not, we are no good to them, no value in maintaining their own positions.  Willard was reckless, he fell into a trap in London.  Bannon had to demote him from the Council, now we have to fight our way back.  They are not necessarily our foes, but we have to demonstrate we are worth allying with.  Else they will join with the Robinettes, the Finnegans, the Cortezes, to pull us down.”

“Nonsense, Wyandotte you are too suspicious, the Emerys would never turn on us.  I will go to the Council myself to put this right.”

As he tried to rise from his chair, Wyandotte pushed him down back into it.

“If you go against the Family, it will be the last thing you will ever do.  You have sons and daughters whose wellbeing you should consider.”

“Augie, you can’t let him go power crazy like this!  He can’t threaten my household.”

“Sam, the Family Frick must stick together.  Give Wyandotte your loyalty, and if you can’t do that, give him your silence.  Remember, Wilson and Woodrow have all those rough hands out on the Lazy F.  And there are loyal men closer to hand.”

He didn’t look at Bruno, but that man made the point by cracking his knuckles.  Samuel Frick subsided. 

I thought that if things turned nasty, Samuel and perhaps others might turn traitor.

J Augustus Frick IV, briefed the group on the progress of the legal fight.  He wondered how long it would take to clear the Engineering Group off the 3^rd floor so that more lawyers could have their places. 

“The Engineers tell me that a proper move will take six months to do optimally.  We don’t have that time.”

Wyandotte Frick surprised me then.  He picked up the phone from the big desk of the late Willard Frick.

“Jimmy Sinclair, it is Wyandotte Frick.  You know that space on the 5^th floor that you and the merchandising group have been eyeing?  How long before you can be totally more there?.......  No, I think six months is too long and will be too disruptive.  I have decided that whichever of you can be moved in there first can have it…… I think they said something about Tuesday or Wednesday next week for their timeline…….. You think Monday if you start tonight?.......Good, good, see that you can make it”

He put down the phone and returned to his wingback chair.  A girl I didn’t recognize refilled his drink.  The whole process was a delight to watch.  He patted her on the head.  She almost purred.

“I will tell the Marketing people of the contest in the morning.  Nothing like a little competition.  But the Engineers should win with the headstart I have given them.”

He smiled at Samuel.  “Not the way Willard would have done it, but it will be effective.  Anything else?

Samuel Frick was all for shooting Samuel Vansittart and kidnapping Barbara Quigley the attorneys for VanRijn, “It is what Willard would have done.”

Again Wyandotte interrupted. “Willard would not have done it, and even if he did, I would be against it.  Taking out the lawyers in a prominent case brings attention to us, and makes us look weak, not strong.  It makes it seem as if we think our case is weak.  There are lots of lawyers who can take their place.  It would be a stupid move”

I was glad that Wyandotte was showing both sense and backbone.  J Augustus Frick IV and I both backed him up.  I hoped it was good leadership and not just a reaction against anything Samuel Frick proposed.  Samuel Frick got up and left, trailing dire predictions of disaster in his wake.

“Tap his phones, check his communication within and outside the Family,” he told Bruno.

“Willard already had those precautions in place.”

Wyandotte nodded, “Keep them in place.”

“Now, last of all, I have deprived Chelsea Frick of her handmaids, she is to realize that her position has changed. Fleur, Fliss, and Tiffani, are not to attend her.  Mrs. Crandell shall assign girls on a rotating basis to her.  Fleur was a classmate of Chelsea’s but now she is a general houseslave.”

He nodded at a curly-headed girl, kneeling by Augie Frick, he was caressing one of her breasts.  They had a lovely shape.  He looked down. 

“Once you were a classmate of Miss Chelsea, now you are a slave of her family, Are you content as a slave, Fleur?”

“Oui, Maitre, oui, I have found my destiny.”

She had a lovely voice, the French more present as an intonation than an accent.  Again, I wondered how many kajirae it took to successfully run a large house like this or my own Drysdale House.  I would have to consult either Mrs Magruder or Mrs Crandell.

Janey Anstruther’s Narrative.

I keep going into and out of sleepiness or unconsciousness.  Even a bit of that tassa power must be very powerful.  I am glad I ate less than half a bowl of the poisoned Nutri-Girl.  I am sure that the Bannons would be very angry to know that their product is being misused in this way.  They are such a reputable Family and Company and big supporters of our New Feminism.  I am sure now that I am in a truck, the bumping and rough ride could be nothing else.  How embarrassed by kidnappers will be, when they realize I am one of the New Innocents, armored in my virginity, delicate manner, and upright non-slutty life.  Then they will have to let me go.

I hope that my white Purity Ribbon did not come off when I was put into this leather hood.  It will tell my mistaken captors that I am a pure and innocent woman and should be protected and released.  My Purity Ribbon is pure white, not like that of Amanda Sloan, who sometimes wears one with a Maize and Gold border, the colors of our Great University. She says it means we will get great protection as a part of a great whole, but I think it tinges the white of Purity with other colors.  At least it does not have the red and white checkboard edging that some of those Ohio State girls wore when they came to The Game!  I think that marked them as less than pure, and I told them so to their faces.  I do not mince words when it comes to what is right and wrong!

Even one of our own girls stood up to me, saying she could have a Maize and Gold edging because she was ‘going out’ with one of our stalwart and valiant players.  I told her she better only be ‘walking out’, not being in a boyfriend-girlfriend situation.  That it too close to getting too intimate which is a stain in Purity.  Unchaperoned liaisons may be fine at those private colleges back East, but everyone knows that places like Mount Holyoak are dens of iniquity.

The bumping is more frequent now, and the speed seems to have lessened.  We must be near our destination, where the foolish kidnappers will realize they have made a mistake, and I will be released.  If they apologize, I will not cause them further trouble, as of course sluts need not be protected in the same way, and some of those girls were surely sluts. Besides it would do me no good if Amanda Sloan finds out I was mistaken for a slut, even for an instant.

Kajira Juli’s Narrative.

I wish Master were home, I miss him so much. This Drysdale House is much too big for the two of us.  Even a few girls will not fill it up.  I don’t want Master Patrick to have other girls, just me, but men are men.  But this place is too big.  Too big to clean, too big to be comfortable.  And what do we need with a Ballroom, and one the size of the one this house has?  That whole wing past the Library is just not needed.  And a dining room that can seat almost fifty!  But the Library is a wonderful room!  Big with a huge fireplace, paneled wall, and an office for Master Patrick leading off it.  Why, such a suite with the attached powder room is almost enough for us.  I wish my basket was here.  I would slumber and serve Master all day in this Library, instead of that nasty kennel in the deep cellars where I am confined.  Oh Patrick, please return to me, I shall pine away without you.  Please don’t desert me.

Today while I was naked and alone in the hall of Drydale House there came a knock on the front door, followed by the bell ringing.  I could see through the one-way glass that it was a woman, conservatively dressed holding a book and a binder of papers.  Not a lawyer, I thought, maybe a teacher?  Such a difference between us, one naked and collared, marked on the thigh, the other free to come and go, and knock on strange doors.

I was afraid of her.  I did not dare open the door. Such a difference between slave and free.  I could not face her, or even let her see me naked and kneeling.  Finally she went away.  She was Free, she could come and go as she pleased.

Patrick Master’s Narrative.

The dining room at Frick Mansion would, I guess, sit perhaps fifty with a bigger table.  I suspect that the Fricks have such a table, likely polished mahogany.  The six of us that remained after the unlamented departure of Samuel Frick sat at a more comfortably sized table.  It was round, the legs at least were mahogany, the top covered with an ironed white tablecloth.  The legs matched the skin of at least on the slaves, who, unclothed who served us.  There seemed to be no end of the women in collars employed in the house.  I envied the Fricks.  Hot dishes came from the kitchen to a kind of serving pantry, borne by tunic wearing kajirae from the kitchen, then served by the naked slaves in the Dining Room.  In a low voice I inquired of Woodrow Frick why of the kajirae, some were clothed and some were not. 
“It is because Mrs Crandell or Mrs Magruder are supervising the preparations in the kitchen, and as Free Women their sensibilities are not to be offended by the bodies of slaves.”
I was puzzled, “That is not a rule that it seems that Miss Chelsea Frick observes.”
“There are many ways in which my half-sister does not observe all our conventional behaviors.  She was spoiled by our Father. “
“And he is no longer here to protect and shelter her?”
“Precisely.”
Dinner was excellent and charmingly served.  Near the end, as the candles were burning down.  Bruno got a ping on his phone.
“That was Niles.  His truck is nearing the service gate, I need to go and unlock the gate.”
Zach, spoke up, “I will go to the cellar door, to help unload the merchandise, Patrick would you like to see how such things are managed?”
I nodded.  Bruno, Zack, and I left the table with Wyandotte and J Augustus Frick in deep conversation.  We left by a side door, Bruno hurrying off, Zach and I going to door, set in the foundations, down some outside steps leading to a cellar.  It was cold in the evening air, even in summer, waiting for the truck to come. I guessed it was some way from the service gate, a quiet back way into the estate, no doubt.  One thing I had little doubt about though was the nature of the merchandise that was being delivered so late at night, under the full moon.
The truck was backed up to a basement door.  Stone steps lead down to the door, set into the stone foundation of the House.  The door stood open, a light over the door casting stark shadows.  The driver, I assumed Niles, although we were not introduced, handed a clipboard to Zach.  
”Twenty, all on the order sheet.  There were twenty-three we wanted to get, but three did not show up for the bus and the Nutri-Girl with Tassa.  I guess they slept in.”
“Let’s get them unloaded then, Patrick, once we get inside, it is down the hall, first door on the left.”
Zach and Niles headed to the back of truck which Niles unlocked and then rolled up the overhead door.  I thought we would herd the merchandise inside, but in the light from the door, I saw female forms laying on the floor, hands secured behind them and all wearing leather hoods.  Niles climbed up into the back of truck, picked up the first recumbent form like a sack of potatoes or onions and passed it to Zach who put it over a shoulder, with where the face would be backwards and downwards and started down the stairs.  I stepped up and took the next form, hooded and wearing shorts and a T-shirt.  I followed Zach down the stone walled hallway and turned left through an arched doorway.  I noticed the open door was thick wood, likely oak, and bound with iron hinges and straps.  There was a small barred window in the upper part of the door.  If you have seen an old movie set in medieval times, you know the kind of door I mean.
Inside the door, there were more steps leading down into a large room lit by overhead bright glowing lights.  There were low-ceilinged kennels along one wall.  In the center was a long curved pipe, in a shallow curve, about thirty feet long.  It was about two inches in diameter and was supported about four inches off the ground by bracketed supports.  Zach laid the merchandise down near the far end of the pipe and nodding to me, left to get the next bundle.  I put my bundle down next to Zach’s and went for another piece of cargo.  
We loaded all the merchandise into the holding room, Zach and I went out to the truck one last time. Zack signed Niles,s copy of the bill of lading, Niles nodded, secured the back of the truck, got in the cab and drove away.  Zack and I went down the stairs, Zach locked the door from the cellar to the outside, and turned off the outside light.  
In the big room Zach gave me instructions on what to do.
“Take one of those ankle chains, secure her left ankle to the pipe.  Then take off her hood, spritz out her mouth with water and put her face down.  We don’t want her to choke on anything she spits up.  Niles will have already taken her phone and ID.  Those items will be spread around near their home towns. I noticed the pipe was curved, and asked Zach why?  I was sure there was a reason, the Fricks usually had reasons for their procedures.
“That is so they can see each other and know that they are not unique, just another captive girl.  Once they see one girl processed, they know it is their fate as well.”
I first secured the girl I had brought in.  Once her hood was removed, she proved to be a very pretty blonde, she wore a white hair ribbon with a red and white chequered border.  A college thing I assumed.
Zach and I worked quickly, they were an assortment of very beautiful girls, a variety of forms, shapes, and colors, but all lovely.  
“That will do until morning.  They will wake up in the night, and by morning they will be all screamed out.”
We went back upstairs.  J Augustus Frick had left and Wyandotte was sipping some brandy by the fire, a girl kneeling beside him.
We accepted brandies from a couple of the extra girls in the room.  I spoke up.
“What happens now, how do they get to Gor, which I assume is their destination.”
Wyandotte spoke, “An intelligent question.  A Silver Ship will pick them up within the next week.  The scheduling can get a little imprecise, depending on the pilot.”
I listened, indicating non-verbally my question.
“The ships we use for shipments are piloted and crewed by contractors, not directly by the Others or the rulers of Gor.  They are not as practiced or skilled as the Others.  So it takes them different times to transit between planets.  Some are very cautious; they leave the surface of the planet and wait for the destination planet to come around the sun.”
“That is about six months,” I observed.
Wyandotte nodded.  “Yes, others set out along the line of orbit of Earth and Counter-Earth at greater or lesser speeds depending on their confidence in their navigation. Sooner or later they run into the destination planet They make better time. A few will cut across the orbit, but that is risky, and the deeper they cut closer to the sun, the riskier.”
“There is one legendary pilot, formerly a sailor from a small fishing village north of Port Kar, who not only cuts deeply across the orbits but does it at speed.  Of course in space there are really no brakes, except on the ships of the Others or the rulers of Gor, so it is extremely dangerous.  One error in navigation and…..”
He held out his hands.
“Very few have encountered this Marius the Mariner.  And I hear he is very expensive.  Willard did not want to pay the high costs and insulted him.  Willard was impulsive like that, quick to anger.”
Woodrow Frick had come into the room, his arm around the slave, Sylvia, “I have met him.  A quiet modest man.  He didn’t like me, perhaps because I am a Frick.”
Wyandotte said, “I don’t care if they like us, as long as they fear us”