Blog Schedule and Contributions

 (edited July 17, 2025)

I aim to publish a new Chapter each Friday

This week there will be an After the Bighorn Chapter on Tuesdayy

.Stories tie back to Stories on EmmaOfGor.Blogspot.com in particular Steel Worlds Inc by Emma of Gor and Banks of the Bighorn by Tracker.

This week, Part III of Scipio Metellus at the Fair of En'Kars, and on Tuesday the next chapter of After the Bigorn.

If you wish to have a story or illustration published, leave a comment under the Post, or at Trackerfive20@gmail.com

Feel free to leave comments on the blog here, or comments under individual posts.

 

At the Sardar Fair of En’Kara III       

“Are they slaves, Master?”

Scipio Metellus turned to the slim red-headed slave next to him. She was leaning forward to rest her arms on the top of the plank fence surrounding the green field just outside the grounds of the Fair of En’Kara. She was resting her chin on her hands.

“No, they are not little one, but you are. It is not for you to comment on Free Women?” The reproof was kindly, not usually a characteristic of the Slaver Scipio Metellus towards collared and branded women.

Still the young woman persisted. “Are you sure, Master? They are clad only in short sleeveless tunic, with bare legs and feet?” The young slave sounded genuinely puzzled.

Scipio ruffled the red curls of the slim slave.

“They are prizes, little one. There are two towns, alike in dignity, but dependent on each other, so consequently they hate each other. Tarn Hill City cuts and prepares timbers from the Northern Forest. Tarn Hill Port, ships the timber down the river. Each needs the other, and each five years they negotiate the taxes the Port charges.”

The slave turned a puzzled face to her master.

“But why do these Free Women stand on a platform, like they are about to be sold?”

“To settle the dispute on the level of fees, ten young men from each town will try to capture the ten women from the other town. See that pit over there?”

“Yes, Master.”

“The men from the same town as these young women, will try to catch the young women from the other town and put them in that pit. If they can’t escape, they become the captives of the men who catch them. The first town to catch all the young women of the other town wins. If Tarn Hill City wins, the taxes on the timber will be lower; if Tarn Hill Port wins, the taxes will be higher. It is because of the great advantage to their towns that these young women have volunteered to risk slavery. It is a high honour to them that they were selected, that they had the form and beauty to be prizes. So, they display themselves as prizes, hoping that they survive to go back home.”

The slim red-haired slave shook her curls.

“I don’t understand all this, Master. When will the contest take place?”

“You are very curious”

The slave nodded, “Yes Master. It is a whole big world since I became a slave. I knew little when I was free.”

“The contest will be on the last day of the Fair. That will allow the most time of the placing of wagers as to the winners.”

The Redhaired girl had been a slave for about thirty days.

Her introduction to slavery had been traumatic. The girl now known as Beaker was the daughter of a potter in the City of Aetna. She had lived a sheltered life with her mother and father on a quiet street, the Street of Potters, in the craft castes section of Aetna just inside the Salt Gate. The Salt Gate led to the resources needed by the Craft Guilds of Aetna. The clays for potters, the salts for glazes and preparing and storing food, the minerals for the metal workers and smelters, all came by the Salt Gate. It was the gate for workers, for primary merchants, for local trade.

Not many female slaves came by the Salt Gate and that was important for the mother of the red-haired girl. For red-haired females faced the burden of a reputation on Gor. They were considered to be excessively sensual, especially prone to slave urges, sluts and whores for the most part. The girl’s mother and her companion, the potter, had concealed as best they could their daughter’s affliction. They had sheltered her as much as possible from the open honest sexuality of Gor; its acceptance of gender roles. She was restricted in the streets she could visit. She was not allowed to pass the corner where the local Paga Tavern sat, with its naked girls displayed outside. She was not allowed to stray down the street of brands. The family only attended the local temple of the Priest-Kings, not the main establishment in the Aetna’s main plaza by the Administrator’s Cylinder. She lived a quiet life, helping keep the home that was one side of the Pottery shop. The shop opened onto a main street, the big shutter of the sales counter opening when the shop was open. Their home at the back opened on a quieter street.

On the early morning of the day that Aetna fell by total surprise to the forces of Vesuvium, she had been up early to light the fires in the kitchen so her father could have his breakfast. Then she had lit the fires in the kiln, for it was to be a firing day tomorrow and the kiln needed time to come to heat. It was just as she was heaping the coals into the bottom of the kiln that she heard the shouting. It was barely dawn.

The gates had been opened to the forces of Vesuvium by traitors, and the army of the enemy poured in. She peeked out the front of the shop. She saw fearsome men, in helmets, Y-fronted with red crests carrying spears red with blood. They chased down a girl and man running, speared the man and ripping the clothes from the girl in the streeted putting her to use, raping her in front of the shop of Ambocrates, the amphora maker.

She heard a crash from behind her. She ran back into the home part of their building. She saw her father crumpled in the corner, red blood coming from his shoulder. There were four men, all in the metal helms. The one in the red tunic seemed the leader, the other three were of the militia of Vesuvium. They had five naked girls with them. The girls had rope looped around their necks binding them together. They had their hands tied behind their backs. As the girl watched, her mother was stripped, and the man in the red tunic threw her to the floor. She watched her mother suffer slave rape.

The fall of a city is a terrible thing. As a second man moved to assault again her mother, the girl let out a peep. It was her undoing. She was discovered in her hiding place and dragged into the centre of the room. There she was stripped, the red hair on her head and at her crotch drawing admiring glances. As she was thrown to the floor beside her mother, she heard her father groan and try to stand and reach for a sword.

Father was struck, his sword taken from him. The man in the red tunic was going to kill him with his own sword!

Then He came in. He was tall and broad. The girl cried. More trouble. The man in blue and yellow had a whip in his belt, and a staff in his hand. He struck up the sword of the man in the red tunic.

“No, you fool. Stop. Look around. This man is a genius, an artist, look at the quality of his work. He must be taken to Vesuvium to adorn the city with his work not killed in a fury.”

The man in the red tunic sneered. “And who are you? Who are you to give orders here? This is our booty, our house to loot. Go find yourself another house to loot.”

The large man whirled his staff so quickly it seemed a blur. He struck the warrior in the red tunic on the head. The man fell as if struck by lightning or the flame death of the Priest-Kings.

“I am Scipio Metellus. I have rights here, first call on the first tenth of all women. And some right to some booty as well.”

The other three men stepped back. Scipio Metellus walked over to the shelves. He took an intricately carved piece of tusk, a gift to the girl’s mother from her father and put it into his pouch. He picked a beaker of stoneware, of exquisite shape and curve, a piece by her father.

Scipio spoke again.

“There is better loot here than almost anywhere in the city, save the treasury of silver and gold. Pack that away and you will be richer than most when you get back to Vesuvium.”

He continued. “Patch the man’s wounds, take the woman, she will bring a good price.”

He looped a length of rope around the girl’s neck.

And that was the last that the girl saw of her parents, but at least they were alive: saved by the intervention of the big man in blue and yellow. Naked, her hands secured behind her, a rope collar on her neck for the next six hours she heeled Scipio Metellus as he strode through the fallen city. She saw things that day; her city looted, men lying dead in the streets, women violated with their first slave rapes. It was the end of a city. Aetna was looted and despoiled, the survivors enslaved.

At the end of the day, she stumbled behind Scipio Metellus, footsore and beyond crying into his camp. He handed the end of the rope to a one-legged man standing beside a wagon, with magnificently carved woodwork.

“Feed her, give her water; then collar and brand her. Then place her in a kennel in my wagon. I don’t want to lose her, Longinus.”

“You want to keep this scrawny thing, Scipio? Her boobs are small; her hips are not as full and womanly as the markets like. Why her?”

Scipio grinned. “I see potential in her, Longinus. Make sure she ends up in a kennel in my wagon. I don’t want to lose her.”

He ruffled her red hair, and taking a candy from his pouch, he placed it in her mouth.

The iron that burned her thigh was hot; the mark it made was painful. The one-legged man, Longinus, gave her something to bite down on when she was marked, then carried her to the wagon of Scipio Metellus and placed her in a kennel.

“The boss says your name is Beaker now. Got that, you are now Beaker.”

She looked up at him through the bars.

“Yes Master.”

Alone and deprived of all she had known, her little world gone, she cried herself to sleep.

Except for being removed from the kennel once a day for exercise and relief she remained in the wagon for nearly thirty days. Her new master was too busy to deal with her. He only appeared in the wagon to sleep. Whenever she was taken out of the wagon, she saw a vast number of women, naked and collared. Men were going from group to group, sorting and arranging. There was a twenty-day forced march to the Sardar Fair. The men of Scipio Metellus mercilessly drove the herd of women on.

“Faster! Keep in step! Walk or die! We have no time for stragglers! You want to bring a good price; to be sold to a Master who will cherish you. Faster!”

Every evening when Beaker had her precious thirty minutes outside the cage she saw women being branded, women being collared, women being put to use. When she was in the kennel, she could see, on a shelf across from her, the carving given by her grandfather to her mother, and beside that, the beaker made by her father, the beaker that gave her her name.

Three days after she was placed in the kennel, another woman joined her. She was high caste, and older, but was kind to Beaker. She stroked Beaker’s hair; she soothed her fears. While Beaker had led a sheltered life, the new woman, who Scipio had named Gold Key had lived a High Caste life of sophistication. She spoke of the exciting new life ahead of them.

“Forget about the past, young one,” she said. “Our old lives are gone; nothing can bring them back.” She described for Beaker the delights that a slave girl could experience delights that were beyond a Free Woman’s comprehension. Gold Key had been Companied three times and had a couple of lovers in between. One lover had been a Warrior. She had had to kneel before she had slept with him.

“I believe he wanted to collar me,” she said, “but he was killed on a raid.”

Gold Key had bought lots of slaves for her household and set up many parties for her Companion; parties she could not attend herself.

“But I peeked through the curtains, the slave girls seemed happy. And I bought the first slaves for each of my sons when they were young. Experienced kajirae for their first conquests. And I went with both my boys when they sold their first slaves; and bought their own next girls; girls more their own ages, girls they chose themselves. I was proud of my boys. And of both my girls too, they made good Companions for their men. But that is all past. You and I are collared now, we must look forward.”

Beaker was comforted; the woman was almost like a second mother. She told Beaker of the things slaves had to do; Beaker was first shocked, then excited. Some of these things she had never heard of! So Beaker looked forward not back. She was excited to see new things, not regretting the past. On the trip to the Sardar Fair, Scipio Metellus had no time for them, he was busy with his organizing and sorting. There is a difference between a highly successful slaver like Scipio and one who scrapes by, selling a girl or two from slave ledge in poor part of a city; it is hard work and discipline.

The entrance to the Fair was spectacular. Scipio’s wagon led his caravan, Beaker and Gold Key were displayed on poles at the front of the moving house. As the caravan’s route curved, behind them, Beaker could see the marching lines of the slaves of Scipio Metellus.

All those women, she thought, all those naked collared women, with their chests stuck out, and I was picked to be displayed on the wagon. The once sheltered girl was now full of the pride of a slave, displayed for the joy of men.

Each day at the Fair, the number of women in Scipio’s camp diminished as he successfully sold off his wares. Finally, all the women who were to be sold were gone. Beaker and Gold Key were again hoisted up on the display poles as Scipio paid off the men he had hired for the trip. One hundred spearmen received silver tarsks, and then as a surprise bonus, some kajirae who had already been enslaved when Aetna fell; girls they could enjoy and then sell. Likewise, twenty of the Riders of High Thalarion were paid off.

Finally only Scipio’s own retainers remained: Twenty Riders of the High Thalarion, and the ten men who handled the five wagons and their bosk teams. These men answered to the one-legged wagon master, Longinus.

Scipio turned to Gold Key. “Tomorrow, you will accompany me as I walk through the Fair. It is good to be heeled by a beautiful slave. You, Beaker will be displayed on a wagon wheel, then heel me on the day after.”

In the morning, Beaker had been made to kneel with her back to one of the front wheels of Scipio’s wagon. Her ankles, on the other side of the wheel had been tied together forcing her knees and thighs far apart. She remained thus for the six hours her Master was at the Fair. She saw women being used in the camp. She understood better then the different positions that women can be used in; things Gold Key had described for her. She was not ashamed of her nude state; she had not been clad for thirty days. Twice she watched, fascinated, as one of the men relieved himself near her. She got a good look at the organ that would rule her life as a slave. She longed to be opened, if she was to be a slave, then she wanted to be a full one.

Beaker was untied from the wheel and kenneled in the wagon when Scipio and Gold Key returned. She remained in the kennel while Scipio put his other slave to use. Gold Key had cried out as she yielded to her master. Beaker heard her cry out many times.

So when the day began, Beaker was excited to be put on a leash to be led through the Fair. Gold Key had kissed her, and tied a scrap of yellow silk around her hips, knotting it on the left hip.

“You will be so happy to see the Fair, it is so exciting.”

The Fair was exciting! So much to see, there were peoples she had not dreamed of living in her narrow street in Aetna. Smells she had never imagined. Spices and foods from all over Gor, Slaves of all kinds, Pani from across the wide Thassa, black slaves from Schendi, brown skinned girls from the Tahari, olive skinned girls from cities of the coast. Even a few red-headed girls like her. Her red curls hung down her back, she shifted her hips so the silk rode up a bit, displaying the fine thin red hair at her crotch. She saw another red-haired girl notice what she was doing and that girl gave her a big smile.

They had spent hours walking the Fair, Master and Slave, and had ended up at this enclosure, where two days hence a game of girl-catch was to be played.

Another man strolled up to Scipio Metellus and the slave he had named Beaker, because her father had been a potter.

“Tal, Scipio Metellus.”

“Tal, Atticus of Ar.”

Atticus nodded towards Beaker. “You have a different slave with you today, my friend.”

“This one is called Beaker, she is the other slave I took away from Aetna when it fell. She is young and untrained, but I think she will be worth gold once trained. She is still white silk.”

Scipio nudged Beaker, who remembered to fall to her knees before a Free Man.

Scipio nodded to a man dressed in Slaver Caste Colors who was staring intensely at the Free Women displaying themselves as prizes.

“Who is he, I saw you talking to him earlier. He looks prosperous but I don’t know him.”

Atticus shook his head.

“He is an upstart from Victoria. His name is Atilas. He had the House of Chains there.”

Scipio furrowed his brow. “The House of Chains? I thought that was Spectus?”

Atticus answered, “There were three partners, Spectus, this Atilas, and a women, the Lady Ragenta. Spectus went to Brundisium and this Atilus and the Lady Ragenta travelled to Ar to set up a branch there. That is where I encountered him. Funny thing, he and the Lady left Victoria as partners, and she arrived in a collar.”

Scipio smiled. It sometimes happened that way with female Slavers. As they worked with the slaves their female side overcame their business sense and they identified with the slaves so much they became slavish. The only thing then was to collar them.

Atticus went on. “Funny thing though , he can’t sell her.”

“Whyever not. If she is collared and branded, she can be sold.”

Beaker, the red-haired slave, collared and branded herself, listened to the discussion. It did not bother her hearing about the fall of Free Women.

Atticus patted Beaker on her red head. She purred.

“Because she knows too much. In an lot of ways she was the wise business head among the three, she knows all their costs, their profits, their sources of supply. Another House would snap her up as soon as she arrived on the block. Mine for example, or any of the other major Houses of Ar. It would be a competitive advantage to find out what she knows. She Atilus is stuck with inventory he can’t sell. He has to feed her, and kennel her, having her take up space, but he can’t profit from her. Even if he sells her far away, the network of Slavers would find out, someone would profit at Atilus’s expense. So she takes up room, and eats her head off,”

Scipio nodded. “I am sure Atilus extracts some satisfaction from her though.”

Atticus smiled. “One can always extract some satisfaction from a slave.”

( See Paladin's Tales and Stories, the link is in the blog roll, for more on Atilus and Ragenta. The next After the Bighorn Chapter will be posted this coming Tuesday; the next Scipio Metellus chapter will be next Friday.)

 

(Gorean Kajira by JaymeAlverson)

At The Sardar Fair of En’Kara II.

The proportion of slaves in the population of the temporary gathering at the Sardar Fair of En’Kara at the time of the Spring Equinox was higher than that proportion in most cities on Gor. The Slave Market at the Fair was one of the great clearing houses for the slave trade, the enslaved women that made Gor such a delightful place to be a man. Nonetheless, heads still turned as a delectable morsel passed by, it was just human nature.

It was clear the kajira was new to the collar. Her gait, as she tried to match her stride to that of her large master was uncertain. In time, a girl heeling a man learns to adjust her stride, so she moves gracefully in his wake, usually on his left side, a little to his rear. This way she does not impede his sword arm, which is the right, as Goreans are generally right-handed. A girl heeling on the right may be a clue that the man is left-handed, knowledge a warrior or assassin might find useful.

This girl was not quite as graceful in stride as an experienced slave, indicating she was new to the collar. She tried though and her curves were sweet. Her unbound hair was long and black, her bound hands tied behind her with black coloured rope. The colour of the belly chain around her middle, hanging low on her hips matched her hair and the rope around her wrists. Her owner was careful of the small details. He was a slaver. The only departure from her black accoutrements was the strip of yellow silk, four feet long and four inches wide that passed over the black chain in the front, passed between her legs and then over the black chain at the rear. The remainder was adjusted to hand down front and rear equally. Even the chain which hung down from her collar and was held firmly in the left fist of her master was black.

Her Master was a slaver and meticulous in presentation of his property.

The afternoon sun shone down on the Fair, drying the ground from the rain that had fallen during the night. The man had been careful where he walked, avoiding the damp and wet places and the puddles; his property had not been as fortunate, her feet and calves were splashed with mud.

“Buy us a drink, rich man, help out the poor.” The men at the booth selling cheap paga were clearly well past their first bowl.

“Arrogant bastard, sells two thousand slaves and won’t buy us a drink.”

“Scipio Metellus is a cheap arrogant bastard,” chimed in a third.

Suddenly the man leading the slave, turned on his heel making a sudden turn to his left towards the paga stand. He nearly knocked over the poor woman heeling him.

Scipio Metellus was a large man. Two metres, or six foot six inches in Earth measure, he was broad of shoulder and hip, barrel shaped in body.

Angry, he looked terrifying. The men were not so drunk as to be insensible to fear. They shrank back away from the rapidly approaching slaver until their backs were against the counter of the paga booth. The owner of the booth pulled down the shutter that formed the upper half of the front of the booth. All those standing near could hear the snick of the bolts as he secured the upper shutter to the counter.

Scipio spoke.

“You three did no work for me. Why should I buy you a drink, you are layabouts, disgraces to your Home Stones, if you even have one.”

“We just asked for a drink, Slaver, from a rich man to poor ones.”  The tone was both whiny and defiant.

Scipio was having none of it.

“You demanded, and you demanded with insults. My men all worked hard and are paid well. You are poor because you are lazy, like urts you eat up the scraps of others. Now for the insults, for that it is you who must pay.”

The whiny one, scrawny and pockmarked sneered, “You can’t touch us, there is no violence at the Sardar Fair. It is forbidden by the Priest-Kings.” 

He spat.

Scipio Metellus just looked at him. The scrawny man shut up.

“I am entitled, even here, to administer lessons to the impolite, the impudent, those who while defying the rules of decency, take refuge behind the laws of the Fair.”

He rolled up his sleeve.

Another of the drunken fools quavered. “There is an Initiate right there. I appeal for protection.”

The Initiate started forward, but slowly.

“I don’t care, no white-robed, bean-eating,shaven-headed, woman -eschewing, soft-handed weakling of the White Caste can stop me.”

The Initiate stepped backed, looking around. Another white-robed man who had just arrived crossed his arms. There was a smile on his face.

Suddenly Scipio dropped the leash of his property, and with his left hand landed a huge clout on the ear of the drunkard on his left. As the man crumbled, his left hand seized the next man, the whiny pockmarked one, by the hair and smashed his head into the head of the third man. Both collapsed on the ground.

No one in the crowd moved. Scipio had moved quickly; there was nothing to be done. He turned on his slave.

“You should be kneeling. When I stop walking and am standing still, you should be kneeling.”

“Yes Master.” She started to fall to her knees, even though in front of her was a puddle.”

“Don’t let the silk trail in the mud.” The girl grabbed the yellow silk that hung from the front of the black chain. She looked at her Master almost with tears in her eyes. What should she do?

Scipio gave orders. “Drape the silk over your left thigh so that it is out of the mud and attracts attention to your brand.”

The girl, kneeling in the mud, did so. She looked like she wanted to cry but did not dare.

Scipio Metellus stepped over the fallen drunkards and rapped on the shutter of the paga booth.

“Open up in there, there are thirsty men out here.”

There was no response. Scipio thumped the shutter with his fist. The booth shook.

“Open now.”

The shutter flew up.

“Serve your customers until this runs out.’

Scipio placed a silver tarsk on the counter.

“Except those three.” His foot prodded the pock-faced man. The man did not move.

As Scipio walked away leading his slave, the crowd rushed to the booth. Even the Initiate who had been dared to intervene stepped forth to partake of the slave traders hospitality.  The Initiate at the rear of the crowd just watched.

As Scipio Metellus and his kajira, her legs now muddy to the knees, walked off, the white clad man from the rear of the crowd followed, keeping a discreet distance.

Scipio Metellus strolled from booth to booth, looking at curios. He also looked at leather work, scabbards for knives, pouches for money and small items. He spent an hour looking at jewels, but in the end purchased none. Whenever he stopped, his leashed girl, knelt as a slave kneels before a man, the silk hanging from her belly chain attractively draped on her left thigh. Mostly she was ignored by the venders and her Master. While Scipio Metellus was looking at gems, the Initiate who had been following the slave trader was approached by another of his caste. They talked briefly and the first Initiate walked away, the second remaining, watching the tent wherein Scipio was looking at sapphires and rubies.

Scipio’s attention was then attracted by a show of jugglers and acrobats. He paid his money and entered their tent, noticing as he sat down that the three Free Women from the refreshment tent were also present.

He raised the hopes of his famished slave when he ordered two sausage rolls. The meat smelled so good; the pastry looked light and flaky.

The acrobats and jugglers put on a magnificent show as he slowly consumed the first roll. One juggler handled an axe, a knife, a flat pouch, a hat, and a ball, keeping all these disparate items in the air, while above him, two of the acrobats were performing on long pieces of silk hanging from the roof of the tent. They climbed the silk, rolling themselves up and down in a gymnastic and acrobatic display that caused applause and wonder. In one move, one suddenly switched from one silk hanging to the other, the acrobat on the second simultaneously switching to the hanging silk of the first performer. They caught balls tossed up by some of the jugglers, then tossed them between them as they maneuvered hanging from the top of the tent.

Scipio Metellus extended his fingers to the woman kneeling next to him. Gratefully she sucked the crumbs and grease from them, caressingly his digits lovingly. She still hoped for the other sausage roll, or at least some of it, but after a month of slave gruel, to taste the succulent grease and pastry flakes was heaven. She rubbed herself against her master’s leg and thigh, but did not dare utter a word.

There was a short intermission when Ka-la-na wine was served.

Scipio chatted with his neighbour, a man from Victoria who had come to purchase Kaiila to take back to the barrens.

He nodded at the sausage roll beside Scipio Metellus.

“Those pastries are good, but not as good as those made by Andre the baker.” Scipio Metellus agreed that the goods of Andre were excellent but pricey, and continued, “these are good though, good enough for watching a show. For the goods of Andre the Baker of Victoria, one wants to be able to give them one’s total attention.”

Mollified, the man from Victoria admitted that other bakers made edible goods as well. In amity, he and Scipio Metellus watched the second half of the show, which was even more spectacular than the first. At the end Scipio Metellus was astonished to find he had eaten the entire sausage roll without even noticing and gave his fingers again to the collared beast at his side. She was duly grateful.

Scipio Metellus left the tent in company with the man of Victoria and behind the three Free Women, the older two agreeing that the show was very good, and yet very expensive. The slaver did not think that they were wanting for money as their robes were of rich fabrics with a good deal of embroidery.

No one complains more about prices or is as greedy for more as are the rich, thought Scipio.

Scipio Metellus, heeled by his slave, wandered into the area of the Fair where small pieces of carving were sold. He was looking for items of exceptional beauty, items of ivory, items carved from bone or tusks, items carved of stone, hard  stone like marble, and soft stones like soapstone. After walking through the booths, talking to carvers and dealers that he knew, he decided not to purchase anything, at least for that day. Passing by a booth held by men from the far north, he noticed a blonde who was back-bracleted, a piece of rope knotted around her neck.

“Buy me Master”, she pleaded. “Take pity on a poor girl, purchase her for your use”. Scipio stopped by the booth, looking down at the girl. His own girl knelt beside him.

“Buy poor Sea-shell. I am cold in the north.”

Scipio motioned for the slave to stand, then twirled his finger so she would rotate in front of him, displaying herself in the round.

“You are not from the North, then.”

“No Master, I was taken north by my Companion, he was trading with the People of the North, but he tried to cheat them and was slain. I was collared as you see. “

Scipio shook his head. “You do not suit me right now, girl. Another will buy you.”

The slave-trader and his girl moved on.

“I am glad you did not buy her, Master. You already have two girls with Beaker and Me.”

“You were not given permission to speak. Another word will result in punishment.”

“Yes Master.”

Beyond the carvings area was the outer environs of the theatre, a natural amphitheater carved out of a hillside. During the Fairs proper plays were presented there. Proper plays, not burlesques and rude comedies such as were presented in inn courtyards by the likes of that rascal Boots Tarsk-bit, famous for his low cunning and cupidity. His presentations were all short pieces about foolish free women tricked out of their clothes and into collars. If only it were so easy, thought Scipio Metellus, who had tricked more than a few Free Women into his coffles.

The placard outside the theatre announced the play that would be presented, “The Ubara’s Dilemma”, a drama with intrigue, murder, treachery, love and death. Due to some of the subject matter, when the play was presented in a city with an Ubar, it was titled “The Dilemma of the Administrator’s Companion”, or as “The Tatrix’s Dilemma.”

The play takes place in a city under siege. As the siege continues, factions develop amongst the ruling council, with some counseling making a deal for a limited loss, or even outright surrender, while the Ubar/Administrator/Tatrix holding out and defending the city. There are subplots involving a young Tarnsman who is courting a young Free Woman from a family higher and richer than his, his rival, a scribe who always seems to be elsewhere when the fighting is fiercest, unhappy city folk from the lower castes, a councilor who would betray the city for the body of the Ubar/Administrator’s Companion/Tatrix.

The plot was complex, with many famous monologues and speeches for the actors. The climax comes when the Ubar sneaks out of the city to kill the head of the besieging forces. Through complicated plot evolutions, the Ubara must sneak out as well, and it comes to the point, when the Enemy must be distracted so that the Ubar can sneak in and kill him.

In the end, the Ubara performs the Capture Dance of their city, losing her clothing, distracting the general who is killed by the Ubar. “But sadly,” says the Ubar, “you have performed the  capture dance and so must now be collared. Kneel Slave!”

As she kneels, the former Ubara cries out, “Better I become a slave, than that our Home Stone and city by captured.”

Curtain and much applause.

Interestingly, because it is serious drama and the Ubara is a Free Woman, her dance takes place behind a screen. This, even though the actress portraying the Ubara, is like all actresses, a slave. Sometimes, to preserve the sanctity of Free Women, the dance is performed by another slave actress entirely. In extreme cases, while the dance is performed by a separate actress, the original actress is put to use off-stage by the magistrates, who ensure that the Ubara-actress is not performing the dance. In some cases the cries of delight of the Ubara-actress are said to enhance the sensuosity of the Capture Dance.

But Scipio Metellus was not to see the play today.

At the box office, he was told, “So sorry sir, but we are all sold out.”

Scipio protested, “But surely you can find a spot to squeeze me in.”

“If your honour were a more insignificant man, it might be possible to squeeze another onto the benches, but your honour is so tall and broad, it would be impossible. But if you would like to purchase a ticket for tomorrow for a box at the next window?” The box office clerk smiled ingratiatingly.

Scipio tipped the man a tarsk bit for the suggestion. He joined the line at the next window.

He groaned a little when he found he was behind the same three Free Women who had been dogging his steps all day. There was a man with them, a merchant by the look of his clothes. Scipio wondered if he was been taken in by the flattery of the ladies, paying for their tickets in exchange for honeyed words and implied promises. Or perhaps, he took their protestations of poverty at face value, and wanted to get them into his debt so he could clap collars on them.

Scipio shrugged and waited for the line to move. Ahead, the meekest and Scipio surmised, the youngest of the Three ladies was whispering in the ear of the merchant.

The man turned to Scipio.

“Tal, friend. This lady here is young and from a sheltered upbringing. Until coming on this pilgrimage, she had not been exposed to so many slaves out in public, especially those not completely dressed. It has come as a shock to her.”

Scipio was polite though annoyed.

“Tal friend, it is the custom of the Fair, where many slaves are vended for them to be displayed in such a manner as to attract interest.”

The merchant was placatory. Scipio was a large man, and his expression was not that of a patient man

“Yes friend, I understand, but what has attracted the curiosity of the Lady, is the pallor of your possession. She seems paler than most slaves. Is she some form of exotic slave?”

Scipio laughed. “No indeed, she is but newly enslaved and new to the collar. She came from a high caste, and always wore the full robes of concealment with the full complement of veils. Her face was always hidden, and her hands gloved, her feet slippered. It is only since her freedom was stripped from her that her skin has felt the kiss of Tor-tu-Gor the light on the Home Stone. Soon she will develop the glowing warm skin of a kajira.”

Then dismissively, “I wish you well.”

This time the slave had said nothing as she was discussed. The backs of the Free Women in front of Scipio Metellus had visibly stiffened, even through their robes as the stripping and enslaving of Free Women was discussed. The young Free Woman, covered her face with her gloved hands.

The line moved forward; there was no more talk.

A note on Illustrations

I am fortunate to have TroyMd as an illustrator for many of my stories. Troy creates custom illustrations for most of my chapters now, and for most of Paladen's as well (see link to Paladen in the blog roll). This is custom art, which adds so much.

Sometimes I use art from other sources, giving credit if the artist is known.

The illustration of Chelsea in Chapter 18 of After the Bighorn is by Palatine, and was done as a gift for my blog IllustrationsofGor.bdsmlr.com.

I am so blessed to have the opportunity to work with these talented artists.

Tracker.

 

Scipio Metellus at the Sardar F.air on En’Kara

This illustration of Scipio Metellus organizing the booty from the fall of Aetna for sale at the Sardar Fair is by TroyDM.

Like all of Troy’s illustrations for this blog, it is a custom illustration of a particular chapter developed in consultation with the author. Troy’s work greatly enhances the presentation of these stories.

(In the foreground, the last of the Special Chain of Brunettes is attached to the yokes, in the background, the first of the Redhead Chain is being organized. Scipio’s luxurious wagon displays his two special captives)

 

(A non-book neologism:  Chain or Slavers’ Chain, a measurement used by slavers. Twenty-five pairs of kajirae, yoked or chained two by two in a column. The pairs are attached to a central chain, either by a piece of metal or wood running to the collars of each pair, or by a link of chain running from collar to collar of the pair with the collar chains attached to the main Chain at a central point)

It was the sixth day of the Sardar Fair and Scipio Metellus was finally relaxing; all his business was done. He was sitting cross-legged at a low table in one of the large catering tents that supplied refreshments to the thousands of Goreans attending the Fair of the Spring Equinox. He sipped his bazi tea and watched the entrance. His table was close to one of the side walls. Along the two sides of the large tent, ran platforms from front to rear. On the platforms were curtained alcoves permitting privacy in the crowded tent. At night the alcoves were used for men to take slaves for use, but such use was not permitted in the daytime, when Free Ladies frequented the tent. Scipio Metellus had a slave kneeling to his left. A light chain descended from her collar, hanging between her breasts.

Scipio was watching a nearby table of Free Women, delicately trying to sip their tea and eat their food without exposing their faces. From habit he tried to discern their forms under their robes of concealment, trying to estimate their likely value on the auction block.

“A couple of tarsk bits each, Scipio, that is their likely worth, but you know it is forbidden to forcibly enslave a free person at the Fair.”

Scipio Metellus rose to his feet and embraced the speaker.

“Tal, old friend. How are you, Atticus of Ar, how did you fare at the sales?”

“Tal, Scipio Metellus. I brought to the Fair three Chains of highly trained dancers and sold them for good prices. I did not purchase any slaves here. After the fall of the Aetna, I expect to pick up untrained girls for cheap once the Vesusvians start flooding the market with captives of war.”

“Their sales will be inferior to the ones I brought to market; I had the pick of the top 10 per cent of the women of Aetna.”

“You did indeed, you scoundrel, but I shall do better purchasing in six months once the market settles down. Those who purchased here from you will do well though. What a coup, bringing fifty full chains of fresh slaves, all top beauties to the Sardar Fair slave market and what an entrance you made!”

“One chain of the most gorgeous of all the brunettes in Aetna, followed by a chain of blondes! Then the main body marching through, four chains abreast, followed by chain after chain of beauty. Then the finale; a chain of black-haired girls; then the red-headed girls, the fire-crotches. How did you think to arrange them that way? The red-heads I mean.”

“I wanted to make an impression. So instead of organizing them by height or curves or likely value, I arranged them by gradation of colour, from the most carroty through all the shades of red to the luscious auburns.”

“Scipio, it was genius, I suspect it will become the standard arrangement now. You made an impression with that entrance and sold them all in four days of sales.”

(Vision Entertainment was attempting a graphic novel of Dancer of Gor, but went out of business before publishing the first part. Some of the art survived. Used here to illustrate Scipio on the road to the Sardar Fair.)

“It was a lot of work. We were sorting the Chains all the way from Aetna. We barely had any rest, when we weren’t marching, we were sorting, when we weren’t sorting, we were sleeping or standing guard. We barely had time to try them out on the way. There weren’t many of us, I had twenty riders of the high thalarion, and 10 teamsters for my five wagons. Plus I hired a company of one hundred spearmen, and another group of twenty riders. But we got them here all right.” Scipio grinned.

“I gave those men them a bonus too, I shared my good fortune. Six of those Chains we brought were trained kajirae, already slaves when Aetna fell, those three hundred I gave as a bonus to my men. The other twenty-two hundred, I sold for good prices, especially those four special Chains you mentioned. Now I can turn my attention to the two slaves I kept for myself, this one and one that is chained under my wagon.”

Atticus regarded the dark-haired beauty kneeling behind Scipio. She was good, but not the most spectacular Atticus had seen.

“I call her Gold Key, for reasons of my own. The other is a firecrotch, a potter’s daughter, I call her Beaker. She is white silk. Until now I haven’t had a moment for either of them, just kept them kenneled in my wagon.”

“Your famous wagon, the fabulous house on wheels.”

“Why should a man not be comfortable, even if he is travelling through the wilderness?”

“No reason at all, Scipio, no reason at all, especially if the man is you. Well now you can relax, with all your work done.”

“I can’t relax, I need a new project, something to keep my mind active, a new scheme, a new trick.”

“Always a project with you Scipio,” joked Atticus. Are not the changes of business from day to day enough for you. Keeping on top of the changes in the market is enough for most of us. Last year it was the drought in the plains which diminished the harvests. Half the people in the Street of Chains bet that the market would be flooded as the Peasants sold off their slave girls and even their daughters. So many slavers sold off their stock and expected to buy cheap.”

Scipio smiled. “But instead the drought only diminished the harvest enough to run up the price of Sa-Tarna. The Peasants made money and were looking to buy not sell. Those of us with stock sold well to the Peasants. It pays to have good information.”

“The merchants of Cos brought few slaves to the Fair this year,” observed Atticus. “Contrary winds hindered the fleets of Cos and Tyros coming from the islands to the mainland. You were lucky there.”

“My goods were of superior quality. I had first choice of a tenth of the women of Aetna.”

Atticus shook his head. “Our business is affected by so many things. Why must you make it more complicated by wanting what you call ‘artistry’ in your business life? Save that for your collections of carving and weaving.”

“But Atticus, I like to have my fun, I like a little spice in my life. There is more to life than making money.”

Atticus shook his head. “Most men in your position would do nothing but make money and put slaves to use morning, noon, and night.”

Scipio laughed. “That is not how I maintain my position, nor you yours either. Nor does Samos of Port Kar, or the Slave Theoretician Trakker of Ar do nothing all day but use slaves and drink paga.”

Scipio was in full lecturing mode now. Trakker of Ar was not the only sage of the Slaver Caste. “We think, and we plan, and we work.”

“A half dozen men today already told me they envied me and wanted to attain my stature. Then they turned to their pleasures. Everyone wants to march Chains of Slaves into the slave market of the Sardar Fair, but few want to do the work. You brought three chains of dancers, all trained over months, Samos sent twenty Chains from Port Kar, all selected and trained. The glory is the result of work and thought, as is the profit.”

“Bravo, bravo.” Atticus struck his left shoulder with his right fist in the Gorean gesture of applause. “Bravo, great speech.” Then lowering his voice to a conversational tone again he continued, “And quite right too. And now what?”

Scipio smiled, “I am looking for something that will bring some profit and exercise my brain, something that his difficult and required more than coin and force. I am looking for…a caper.”

“Bravo”, replied Atticus again.

Scipio’s slave moved and slightly adjusted her position. He slapped the inside of her thigh.

“She is new to the collar, as you see Atticus. She is not yet trained to remain still until allowed to move.”

Atticus stroked his chin. “True, true, friend Scipio. Training a Free Woman to remain still when ordered is one of the hard tasks of training. And then teaching them when to squirm in a man’s arms. Even so, it takes time.”

Scipio nodded, “But we know how to do it, it is just a matter of routine. So much is laid out for us in the manuals of the Slave Theorist, Trakker. But I want more than routine, I want excitement, novelty, newness. I always want to top myself, to do something different.”

“How can you top the fall of a city and bringing fifty Chains to the Sardar Fair?”

“It’s not the profit, friend Atticus, it is the artistry, to do something special. That is what I must find.”

Scipio raised a hand to summon a server. A blonde slave came running, her tunic a little loose.  Clever of her, thought Atticus, when most make their tunics tight to show off their curves, she has one that is loose, that she nearly falls out of. It stimulates interest. The girl was only wearing the tunic out of deference to the Free Women who frequented the tent during the daylight. When darkness fell, and the place took on more of the aspect of a Paga Tavern, she would serve in much less, or nothing at all.

The blonde slave took their order, Atticus for some Ka-la-na wine, and Scipio ordering a sweet baked confection, the ba-kla-va.

“It is very good ba-kla-va, Master. It is baked for my Master every day right here at the Fair by Andre of the caste of bakers from Victoria. It is very good.”

“It is very expensive”, groused Atticus.

“Yes, Master. The baker Andre must bring in all the ingredients by caravan and has only the time of the fair to cover his costs, Master. It is said that the excellence of his baking his due to the excellence of his ingredients and the exactness of his measurements.”

“Away with you”, laughed Atticus. “Bring me some of that expensive baking.”

The girl hurried off, stopping to stick her head into the nearest alcove to take the orders of the Free ladies within.

“She is a barbarian, one of the sluts from Earth”, observed Scipio. He noticed everything, it was part of why he was so successful.

“How can you tell, her Gorean is very good.”

Scipio explained. “She has a scar on her upper left arm. Many think that the scar is a form of Slave Mark, like a brand, but it is the scar left by their Caste of Physicians in a procedure to prevent disease.”

“Humph”. Atticus snorted. “Their Physicians should find a way not to mar the beauty of women who are destined to be slaves. All Earth women are so destined. It is a Slave World.”

The girl was returning with a big tray of tea and confections. As was proper, she served the Free Women hidden in the alcove first. They were not impressed.

“Such a small pot for the price. And the cost of this ba-kla-va is outrageous!”

The slave attempted to explain, but Scipio and Atticus heard the sound of her voice being cut off with a slap. The blonde girl backed out of the alcove, but wiggled her bum as she did so; she knew men might be watching, and do to so was second nature for one in a collar.

The men could hear the complaints of the Free Women continuing as the blonde slave brought them their orders. They ignored the complaints as beneath their notice.

Atticus was curious as to whether Scipio was correct as to the origin of the slave serving them.

“Are you a barbarian? A barbarian from the Slave World?”

“Yes Master. From a country called New Zealand. But I have been here for a long time Masters. Over twenty years.”

Scipio paid for both himself and his friend Atticus.  His generosity was habitual, part of his outgoing personality. He put the money in the pouch hanging from a cord around the blonde girl’s neck. Slaves were not allowed to handle money. The pouch hung low, deep in her cleavage. Atticus was sure that also was not an accident. He observed Scipio feel the girl’s flesh, squeezing her breast as he deposited the coins.

“Oh thank you Master. Thank you.”

The slavers watched her shimmy to another table. The girl was comely and well-trained.

The men sat and talked, gossiping about friends, slandering foes, assessing the likely market conditions for the next year.

Atticus observed that he had heard that shipworm had gotten into the vessels of The League of Black Slavers of Schendi. “Until they rebuild their ships, they will be bringing fewer slaves north next year.”

Scipio nodded. “They can afford to build new ships, they brought fifty-five Chains to the Fair, more than I did.”

“Scipio, that was for the entire league! You brought fifty Chains all by yourself.”

Then he continued. “I just thought of a challenge for you. One I doubt even you could pull off. Not much profit in it either.”

“I’m listening.”

Atticus continued. “On the last day of the Fair, there is going to be a challenge between two small cities, more like towns. A game of girl catch. To settle some sort of dispute. Just a small challenge, ten men on each side, ten girls at risk for each city, or rather town. Still, they are the best looking of the white silk free women in each place. They will be beauties.”

“What’s the challenge there for me?”

“Ten of the beauties will leave the Fair as Free Women, but ten will leave as captives, to be enslaved when the reach the town of the victors. The Challenge would be to capture all twenty between the time the leave the Fair, where no one can be enslaved, and the place where the forces of the winning city will meet them to escort them back in triumph.”

Scipio frowned. “Why would not the forces of the winning city meet them right at the edges of the fair?”

“There was trouble over a similar challenge last year. The Caste of Initiates has forbidden the forces of the cities to be within a day’s march of the Fair. So, you would have a day and a night to spirit all twenty away.”

Scipio considered. “Some things even I can’t accomplish. But sometime between now and the contest, I may wander down and take a look at these small-town beauties. The market may be going down, but girls with a story will always sell.”

Atticus, having finished his wine and his meal, arose. “I wish you well Scipio Metellus, I expect I shall see you again before we both depart the Fair.”

Scipio arose, “I wish you well Atticus.”

He watched as his friend left the tent, then sat back down. The big man had many acquaintances and quite a few friends, but few as close or as true as Atticus of Ar. Three Free Ladies were leaving the alcove. They were still complaining about the price of tea and confections and had expanded their complaints to the cost of everything at the Fair. Two of the ladies led the way and did most of the talking. The third followed behind. Scipio presumed that the quiet one was a poor relation or perhaps a downtrodden daughter of one of the lead pair. He watched them as they walked out of sight. He estimated they might bring a middling sum. But like all persons at the Fair, they were protected by the rules of the Priest-Kings and the Caste of Initiates against enslavement or violence.

When the blonde barbarian slave returned, Scipio asked where her master was. He was told that the Master was near the front of the tent, by the table where the money was collected. Scipio’s slave, though new to the collar, hissed something like Barbarian Slut, at the blonde slave. Although the blonde had been enslaved as many years as Gold Key had been enslaved days, Gold Key still despised her as a barbarian. The blonde slave said nothing, getting in a public spat could lead to a whipping. Scipio tugged at Gold Key’s leash and she heeled him as he made his way to the exit.

Scipio stopped by the table with the Master of the tent and offered to buy the blonde slave.

“I can’t sell her; she is my best girl. I certainly can’t sell her in the middle of the Fair.”

Scipio made a fair, but not generous offer, but it was refused.

The big slaver shrugged his shoulders and walked out, heeled by his slave, to wander the Fair, taking in it’s delights.

After the Bighorn, Chapter Eighteen.

 

After the Bighorn, Chapter 18

Narrative of Patrick Masters.

(Patrick imagined Chelsea Frick as a slave. Illustration by Palatine.)

After sitting for a while, I got up from the leather armchair. I took a poker and stirred up the wood fire, then crossed the room and poured myself another brandy and returned to my place. It is astounding how quickly one becomes accustomed to a kajira being present to carry out such little tasks as tending to the fire and fetching a drink. All of the slaves, though, were still locked away in the kennels, lest word get out of Chelsea’s disgrace. With no slaves available, I was in no hurry to go to bed. What would be the point? I missed my beloved Juli, so loving and loyal. Such a contrast between my own sweet slave and the cool, cruel Chelsea Frick. Yet I yearned to own both. Still, better follow the advice of that wise old lawyer, J Augustus Frick IV and forget about Chelsea, at least for now. For the next three years at least, she would be the Companion of Elliott Emery, an elder of a powerful family. Wyandotte needed the alliance to restore the standing of the Fricks among the North American families, and Chelsea’s indiscretion had given him the leverage he needed to make that happen.

I turned my mind to an errant Free Woman in my own firm: Jane Bennet, associate at my law firm. Back at my office in San Francisco, a Free Woman, a lawyer, had treated her superior, my friend Gerry Reiss with disrespect. She was chief of a section of lawyers working on the complicated patent case for the Fricks and was supposed to be reporting to Gerry. But she was taking liberties: calling him Gerry, instead of Mr Weiss, she was walking into his office without knocking or knocking and walking in without waiting for an answer. She was getting out of hand. But she was valuable as an employee, to a degree at least. Demoting her or encouraging the Fricks to collar her would be the cause of a great deal of administrative trouble. Competent staff, even difficult ones, were somewhat hard to find.

I decided to send the disrespectful Miss Jane Bennet a message. She would be removed from overseeing a section in charge of a portion of the case. Instead, she would be ‘promoted’ into a job with less direct contact or face time with her superiors and involve harder work. For this case with its large workload, we had hired a group of temporary workers to handle, file and track the vast amounts of evidence and exhibits. This group worked on a lower floor of our offices.

Miss Bennet would be exiled down to the fifth floor, there to manage our relations with the temporary worker agency and oversee all the tedious docketing of exhibits and evidence. Her knowledge of the case would be valuable there and it would send a message as well. She had a good job and could not afford to lose it.

The fire had burned nearly out. I rose and went up the grand staircase to my room. At the top of the stairs, doors opened to the various wings. To my right, was the locked door of the Free Woman’s wing, locked to keep them safe and from getting into trouble. Behind that door was a corridor that led to the room of Chelsea Frick. She would be recovering from the punishment delivered to her. The punishment was decreed by Wyandotte Frick and carried out by Zach Frick with a slave whip. Chelsea would be recovering for quite some time I guessed.

When I got up Sunday morning, I had a bit of a headache. It was, I conjectured a combination of the time I had spent the day before in the hot sun, the late hour I had finally gone to bed, and the brandy I had consumed the previous evening.

I showered, dressed and went downstairs. The house was very silent. In the front room, I saw Zach Frick sitting alone drinking coffee.

“The House is very quiet,” I said. My voice was low, it seemed wrong to speak loudly.

“We are very worried about Cousin Chelsea.” He glanced quickly at the slave girl kneeling by the fireplace.

“Has something happened to Chelsea?” I pretended I didn’t know anything due to the presence of the slave in the room.

Zach sounded very grim. “Poor Chelsea is very ill. She was out in the sun far too much yesterday, and we fear it is sunstroke. Either Mrs Magruder or Mrs Crandell is with her every instant to make sure she is properly taken care off.”

I nodded. “I hope she is okay.” I knew that the sunstroke from which Chelsea had suffered was in fact her punishment for trying to steal two slaves from a shipment bound for Gor. The secret though, had to be kept from the slaves and henchmen, that a Free Woman had been punished with a slave whip. That sort of them could not be allowed to get out, not if Chelsea was to have any value on the Marriage or Companionship Market.

During the night, I had had dreams that Chelsea had been enslaved as she had deserved. I had dreamt of Chelsea naked and in chains at my feet. I knew I had to stop thinking about that. She was not a woman to become obsessed with. Not with the Fricks as touchy and violent as they are. And anyway, my own sweet Juli is worth dozens of Chelsea Fricks.

“Let’s go and have brunch with the lawyers from my firm, downtown”, I suggested. Alone in the car, we would be able to speak openly.

In the car, I revealed to Zach that I wanted to make an offer to Mrs Magruder, the outgoing housekeeper of Frick House, to become housekeeper of Drysdale House, my place in San Francisco.

“After all, Wyandotte has his own housekeeper in Mrs Crandell, and Mrs Magruder will be at loose ends. She can’t remain at Frick Mansion, and would not want to go the Lazy F. On the ranch, she would be subservient to the Grannies that rule the roost there. She has the experience in running a house with kajirae in it, she knows what it takes and what is to be done.”

Zack was dubious. “I don’t know what Wyandotte would say.”

“It would solve a problem for both of us. He has a discontented housekeeper who was loyal to Willard Frick, and I need an experienced person. I expect that he would want to Mrs Magruder to stay until after Chelsea’s Companionship Ceremony.”

Zach was non-committal. “We will see.”

Zack is reluctant, I find, to make decisions where his family is concerned. Perhaps because he is a distant cousin or a poor relation he is not as certain there as he is in other parts of his life.

Downtown at the Marriot, we found Richard Thornton, Dana Winter, and the two junior associates just coming down for the excellent brunch served in the hotel. All the men looked like they had been making a night of it; Dana seemed fresh and rested. I hoped that she had not been misbehaving while representing the firm. Such behavior by a woman reflects poorly on herself and her employers. Myrna Reiss and the New Feminists are right in that respect at least.

There seemed to be some discord between Miss Winter and Richard Thornton which was a difference from their usual friendly aspect towards each other.

We ate and chatted about inconsequential things. Miss Winter noted that I had seemingly got ‘a touch of sun’ recently and hoped that I would be careful due to the dangers of too much exposure.

“I was horseback riding yesterday, I had not been out much since my vacation in Montana around Memorial Day.” I smiled.

It was on that vacation that I had first stripped and collared Juliet. It was first done in fun and play and had later become deadly serious and the basis of our current life. Juli had strayed onto the Frick ranch, the Lazy F, and we had become entangled with the Fricks and the Gorean Society on Earth. Now I owned a slave, with the prospect of acquiring more.

I did not reveal that to Miss Winter though, nor that my activities on Saturday had involved slave-hunting. She would have been shocked.

Miss Winter nudged Mr Thornton. He ignored her. She spoke then.

“We have found something in some of the material turned over to us by the Vincent VanRijn lawyers; something we don’t understand. It might bear more study.”

Mr Thornton was shaking his head slightly.

She went on, “It is reference to something called The Laramie Project.” Even if it doesn’t have anything to do with the Frick Steel patents, it might be useful as a lever.”

Laramie is in Wyoming, reasonably close to the Frick property in Montana. I was intrigued. The Fricks had withstood a violent attack on their ranch while I was there with Juli.

I said, “That sounds like it might be worth looking into, good work Dana.”

Her forehead scrunched up a little. “That work was all Richard’s. He dug it out of a bunch of files, putting together pieces that were seemingly unrelated. The credit is all his.”

I nodded. “Good work both of you.”

I was happy that Dana had confessed that the work was Richard, once it had received approval from me. That showed character and honesty. These qualities are important in a Free Woman. Dana is a great deal different from Miss Bennet.

Talk turned to other things.

Narrative of Slave Nineteen.

(Nineteen returns to the Frick slave pens - unknown illustrator)

I am so hungry. I have not been fed since the night Seventeen and I escaped. We spent the night and the morning of the next day without food as we scrambled through the countryside trying to find the meeting place designated by the free lady who was going to help us leave this hellhole.

Then our recapture by those terrible beasts! Six legs and stinking of who knows what. They must be otherworldly. The young Slavemaster and the older Lawyer were so cruel. They forced us to march in the hot burning sun through the woods, across the wide meadow and then through the cornfield. I collapsed; I could not go on. But the Slavemaster picked me up and punished me by handling and fondling me the rest of the way back to this evil house that contains this slave dungeon. He touched me places that a man should not touch if he is not married to the woman. But as he told me, I am no longer numbered among the legal humans. I am an owned thing, a beast, a slave without rights. He reminded me, as I squirmed in front of him that I had confessed myself a slave, a true slave.

I certainly felt like a slave, as I was before him on his saddle, laid across the pommel, his hands making me feel things I did not want to feel. I remembered stories of the captives of Genghis Khan who writhed in the arms of the conqueror, the blonde beauties of Gaul who filled the slave markets of Rome, the women who filled the Casbahs of the Barbary Pirates; I reflected I was no different than they, begging their owners to stop tormenting them, and silently praying that they would not.

I was dismayed when we arrived back at the house of the slavers, for I knew that the pleasures of the ride would come to an end, and the punishments for escaped slaves would begin.

When we arrived at the stables, we were attached by short chains to a ring set low in the stable wall. Then Seventeen and I waited, panting for water, while the men took care first of the horses. The Slavemaster pointed out that they were far more valuable than we were. While the horses were unsaddled, rubbed down, and walked to cool down after their time out of the stables, Seventeen and I waited.

We were on our knees on the hard stones of the stable yard and the six-legged beasts were chained near us, just far enough away that they could not reach us. They continually strained at the collars and chains striving to reach us. Their jaws were open, saliva dripping off their fangs on their chins, and down their fronts. Their smell was overpowering. They strained at the collars trying to reach us; we strained at our collars, extending the chains holding us to the slave ring as far as we could away from them. It was just enough for us to be safe.

Then the men, the men who captured us, who claimed to own us, reappeared. We begged the men for food and water, reminding them that we had submitted as slaves. They ignored us.

Our captors dragged the beasts away. As they did so, I learned from their talk, that the beasts were from the dreaded planet Gor, and that they were called sleen. I was so very glad that they were gone. I was very afraid of them. The Slavemaster and the older Lawyer reappeared from the sleen kennels. At last, we might be attended to, given food and water. We were women after all, delicate, even if we were slaves we should be taken care of.

The two brutes who captured us walked into the stable, and then returned with buckets of water, and with buckets that smelled of tasty food.

“Thank you, Master, thank you. I am so hungry. I am even more thirsty, I croaked.”

The Slavemaster stared at me with anger. “This is for more valuable beast than yourself, miserable kajira. This is for the sleen. Even if they weren’t more useful and valuable than yourselves, those beasts are male, you are female slaves.”

He was cruel to a poor Slavegirl. It seems Gorean masters are all like that. I had thought though, that I might have had more consideration from the older man, the one I called in my head, The Lawyer. Did he not recall how I had knelt before in the maze in the little walled garden and served him with my mouth? Taken his penis in between my lips, using my tongue as I had been instructed by Mistresses Jade and Kailieka? His was the first I had ever touched, the first that had ever touched me. I had knelt so submissively before him, ministered so gently to him, while he brutally, casually used me for his pleasure. How could he forget? How could he leave me here, parched with thirst, when he had done such things to me? Did I mean so little to him, had he forgotten the moment we shared? Surely he must remember me with some tenderness?

Or maybe all Masters are like that, use a girl and forget her; leave her pining for his touch? I hope not; I dare wish for some consideration from those cruel men who own me.

I watched with despair as the two men vanished into the sleen kennels with water and tasty smelling food. Seventeen just groaned, she had had an even tougher time than I. She had not been picked up across a saddle, she had marched all the way, falling several times. She had been forced on by the cruel older man. He had struck her with a rope, he had even dragged her for a while. She is tougher than I am. But she did not have to endure the groping and handling that I did.

Finally, the men came for us, the least valuable of all their beasts.

We were taking back to the slave dungeon where we were finally given water. We had been so long in the sun, and were so tired that we threw it up. We were given more until we could hold it down. They were very cruel to us. Our trainers, Jade and Kailieka had been placed separately each in a slave kennel. Each had a hood over her head, but I knew them by their bodies by now. It was clear that they had been punished.

Seventeen and I had our hands placed in wrist shackles and our arms were raised over our heads. We too were punished. Bruno was very cruel, and so was the Slavemaster. Seventeen and I were very sorry we had tried to escape, or at least very sorry we had been caught.

Eventually they stopped. I had a leather hood, similar to the ones over the heads of Jade and Kailieka placed over my head. First a padded leather gag was forced between my cracked lips. It was tied behind my neck. Then the rest of the hood was forced over my head. It had extra leather pads to cover my ears and my eyes. I would hear and see nothing while the hood was on me. With the gag in my mouth, I was feeling the need for moisture again.

After a long time, the hood was removed. I could see Seventeen, her arms high over her head, was now wearing a similar hood to the one that had been removed from me. Her sunburned body bore the marks of her punishment.

I was questioned as to how we had escaped. I was afraid to do anything but tell the truth, I dared hold nothing back. I too suffered greatly under my punishment.

“Would you recognize this free woman if you saw her again?” The man was insistent, angry.

“Yes, Master”, I managed to croak through my dry cracked lips and parched throat.

“Is she one of the women in this picture?” He showed me a picture on his phone of three beautiful women. I could not help but think that they were the type of women that these brutes collected. I did not say that of course.

“Yes, Master. She is the blonde lady, the one in the middle.

He nodded his head, satisfied. “That confirms, lucky for you.”

I was given another drink of water, a long squirt from a kind of drinking flask. Then another. Then the hood was fastened again on me, and I was thrust, alone, in one of the kennels.

I did know the fate of Seventeen, or of Jade or Kailieka. The hood has blocked out all noise. I don’t know if they were taken away or left here to suffer. I don’t know how long now I have been here in this kennel. I am very hungry and thirsty.

My head is hooded, my hands secured behind my back. I am a naked slave named Nineteen, at the mercy of my masters.