Time Changes Everything (1 of 2) by Peony D Beckside.

 

Time Changes Everything

Peony D Beckside

With thanks to John Norman for creating the basic concepts of the world of Gor and those who have dealings with it.  Also to Emma of Gor for her ideas regarding the control at a distance, of kajirae on Earth,
 

Chapter One

 

I have been a slave for a long time.  I have had many Masters; most good, some less so.  My present Master is the best!  I love him unreservedly.  I do not presume to believe that he loves me.  For a Gorean man protestations of ‘undying love’ for a slave, are just not given.  I laugh to myself at such a bizarre and impossible situation.  Often a Master will love his slave, but she must never take that for granted.  It’s one sure way to make sure that one is sold, PDQ[1].

I recall not, how many Gorean years it has been since I was enslaved.  I do know how many Earth years it has been since I was born, and how many since I was put in a collar.  I recall my mother telling me as a child that I was born on the day after Queen Victoria’s[2] death.  In this year, 2025, that make me 124 years old!  I’d be very surprised not to be the oldest Earth woman, and perhaps the oldest Earth person alive!  I giggle at that concept.  Of course I can’t tell anyone, anyone on Earth that, they’d think I was insane.

That I only appear to be some twenty five years old, or thereabouts, is testament to the anti-ageing serums of the Gorean caste of physicians.

Yes, it was in my twenty-fifth year that I was taken from my home in London to the planet Gor, to become and serve as a slave.  Here on Earth, a whole century has passed since then.  The changes since my capture are frankly unbelievable  Even in 1925, New York City was approaching the size of London  Now it is over twice as large.  The most obvious sign of that is the size of the buildings!  I could not believe the height of some of them when I first saw them last year.  As for the noise, bustle, and the huge number of futuristic motor-cars, I thought I was going to go mad!

I have, since arriving back, heard of a condition called ‘culture-shock’.  I don’t think that Master gave any thought to how such might affect me.  Strangely, he seems to have taken to his new life here surprisingly well.  I too am mostly functional in this, to me, totally new environment.  I do however get some funny looks when speaking English, using phrases common in the 1920’s.

Another aspect of this place, at least in Summer when it’s warm enough, is the fracturing of the concept of ‘fashion’.  It seems that women at least, can wear anything they like, rather than the narrowly defined styles of the past.  Even the skimpy Gorean slave tunic is permissible, just about.

Sure I get looked at, stared at, when wearing such.  Not that it’s my choice as to when and where I sport such revealing attire.  The men certainly appreciate it when they see me dressed so, though they tend to look away when I turn to look at them.  Strange.  I know that I’m beautiful!, valued, proud of that beauty.  Not more beautiful than free-women of course (though I suspect we are).  It’s one of the few prides that are permitted to us slave-girls.  It’s almost as if the men here are conditioned to be embarrassed and ashamed to be seen admiring a beautiful woman.

The women, or most of them, particularly those wearing trousers as men would, tend to look at me with the contempt of Gorean free-women.  To such, I suppose I am ‘shameless’.  They are not wrong.  For a Gorean slave-girl, there is no place in her life for the kind of bodily or sexual shame inculcated in Earth women by patriarchal religions.  We have no option but to be lascivious, and ever-ready sluts.  There are however a small number of women that seem to admire my, what I believe they would call ‘brazenness’: perhaps even to be jealous of that.

Immediately upon returning to Earth, the Slave-World, as it is called in the house, it was made clear to me that whilst in the house I would be under strict Gorean discipline, kneeling before all free-persons, and calling them ‘Master’ or ‘Mistress’, outside it was not expected or acceptable to kneel to free Earth people.  I must however be respectful and deferential, calling such ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’.  I suppose that the distinction is that on a slave-world, such so-called free-persons are not really free at all.  They are however more elevated than I, and must be treated as such.

Why my Master brought me here, I have no idea; nor for that matter, why the people he works for allowed such.  I mean, it’s not as if there is a shortage of slaves to satisfy his needs.  Here in the House there are plenty, and each is available for his use.  That’s not to mention the steady throughput of new slaves on their way to Gor, such trade being a big part of what goes on in the house.  It pleases me immensely that Master chains me to his couch and uses me well most nights, rather than some of the other floozy’s round here.

Being a barbarian, an Earth-girl slave, I should be doing everything that I can to expose what’s going on here, to save more Earth-women from slavery.  I do not, will not.  As well as the threat of punishment, even death, for doing so, my own experiences make it clear to me, that enslaving women from this planet is not wrong.  Whether it offends their dignity, Gorean Masters believe that all Earth women are ‘natural slaves’.  I too believe that the socio-cultural milieu of this planet makes them, us, perfect for the ‘collar’.  Once having accepted their slavery, barbarian slaves tend to blossom out into superb slaves.  They like I, come to adore their slavery.  The threat of being returned to Earth is terrifying to most of them.  When Master had told me I was to return here, I begged him piteously not to do so.  Being a slave of course, I have no say.  Master’s will is everything, mine nothing.  That he would also be coming here made the prospect much less daunting.

I don’t like this place at all, it’s dirty!  Not the dustiness of a typical Gorean city, this is not just the greyness of buildings and the dirtiness of the air.  It’s the dirtiness of the soul.  Even though I don’t understand much of it, what I hear on the radiogram and this visual form, called television I believe, makes it clear to me that there is a corruption, a cruelty, a hidden enslavement of even the free, here.  That underhandedness, that lack of honour, I find filthy.  Slavery on Gor, is at least honest. open and above-board.

Of course, it’s not my place to comment, or complain.  One day, Master will return home.  I fervently hope that he will take me back with him, not leave me here.

Now that’s an interesting concept.  I might be a barbarian, an Earth-slut, but Home for me now, is Gor not Earth.  Does that now make me Gorean?  As legally, under Gorean law, only an animal, can I claim to be Gorean?  In my heart, I suppose that I can.

 

Chapter Two

 

My Master Kyril Flavius. answers to Groganto Svensona, who seems to be the person in charge of the ‘House of Three Moons’.  The well-kept house itself is a large building in the style that I believe is called a ‘Brownstone’.  There’s more to it than that though, through knocked-through rooms and doorways it extends into most of the surrounding buildings.  Effectively the whole city block, upon which it stands is part and parcel of the ‘House’.

Master Svensona is a big bruiser of a man.  Broad as well as tall.  He seems to be all mascle, with little fat, as I have felt when Master has allowed my use by his superior.  Master Svensona terrifies me.  He is like a Larl, yet with the temper of a sleen.  He has the unpredictability, and hair trigger of the Warrior that he is.  I am at my most submissive when offered to him.

Of course, my own Master is not soft with me.  I must have, and he drives me to, the most perfect of surrenders in the furs.  My other duties, naturally, must be undertaken to perfection.

I am both multilingual and literate in both Gorean and the English language.  One of my previous Master’s having been of the caste of Scribes, had me taught in how to read and write Gorean.  Perhaps that was one of the deciding factors in Master deciding to bring me back to this cesspit of a planet.  I do struggle a little sometimes in translations.  It’s not just that sometimes concepts are, to use an Earth cliché ‘Lost in translation’.  My Gorean lexicon was to some extent limited by my status and duties.  Here on Earth, I find that not just has the style of writing and speaking changed since I was here last, there are so many new words that didn’t exist in the 1920’s and those that did, are not always used in the same way or mean the same thing.  I am intelligent though, and learn quickly.  A slave must, her Master expects that of her.  Fortunately, none of my errors have irritated any of the Masters or Mistresses in the house, enough to have me punished.

Much of my work, when not serving intimately, is in research.  Research largely about potential subjects being considered for capture and subsequent slavery.  I have been taught how to use the strange magic-window called a ‘computer’.  Deciding what’s true and what’s not, about the information presented isn’t always easy, but I do seem to be able to pull together suitable dossiers for the Masters.

My tasks though are not just of an administrative and intimate nature.  Sometimes I am utilised in the taking of suitable ‘merchandise’.  Such is the present circumstance.

The room is dark.  Not dark enough that I can’t see what I’m doing, but not light enough to wake the sleeping woman.  I hold in my hand a syringe.  The contents is a very fast acting anaesthetic.  The woman will not awake.  The discomfort of the needle entering her body would normally arouse her, but with this drug, it will not.

I have been trained in how and where to inject the woman.  I do not have any qualms about what I’m doing.  For a slave, particularly one who has been so for any significant length of time, obedience is everything.  Right or wrong is the prerogative of free-persons, it is for them to satisfy their own consciences.  Conscience is something that is not permitted a slave.  As are consequences. It is for one’s Master to weigh-up and accept the consequences, if any, of his decisions.  If those consequences affect the slave, she must benefit or suffer those consequences, it is not her choice. She is property.  She is not hers to make decisions that affect her.  The worst that can happen for the Master, is that he will lose his slave.  By definition then, as an obedient slave, I am doing nothing wrong. Ergo, no qualms.

The needle of the syringe goes into the body of the woman.  She does not even groan.  She is caught.  There is no escape for her.  She will become a kajira on Gor.  It might even be argued that she already is; at least under Gorean Merchant law.  Under Earth law, of course, she isn’t and can’t be a slave.  Under that law indeed, I am not a slave!  Inwardly I giggle at that.  There is what the law says and what in practice exists.  I remain slave, legal or not.  Theoretically on this planet, I could reclaim my freedom.  I did briefly, when I arrived consider if I should do that.  Given the choice, not that I ever will be given it, of freedom (or the semi-freedom that most Earth people have) on this ruined world or slavery on Gor, I’ll take the slavery thank you.  At least slavery to my present Master, at least.  Besides Gor is so much more pristine than Earth.  If slavery is the price of one day returning to that world, I’ll gladly pay it.  It’s not as simple as that though.  Master’s strongest chains on me are invisible; literal ones are additional.  Perhaps the strongest of those invisible chains is Love.  I’ve already said that I love Master unconditionally.

I pull the bedclothes off the woman and reach for her feet.  I tug her ankles off the bed, positioning the slave-sack ready to receive them.

A slave-sack is a long tapered bag of leather.  It is a way of restraining and transporting a slave without her features being seen, or she seeing where she is being taken.  The sack tapers from the narrowness at the slave’s feet to the width of her hips and shoulders.  It rises up so as to extend up beyond the head of the slave.  At its opening it has metal-reinforced eyelets.  A chain runs through those eyelets, closing up the top, whereupon it is secured with a kind of padlock.  Once in the sack, and it is locked above her head, the slave cannot escape.  Being leather, it is necessary if the slave is to breathe, that there are air-holes.  These are generally too small, and are reinforced so that the slave cannot get her fingers into them and attempt to tear her way out.  The air-holes are generally lower down the sack away from the slave’s head, so she cannot look out of them.  For aesthetic and identification reasons the air-holes tend to be arranged in a pattern like a Kef, the Gorean letter K.  Thus signifying that the contents is a slave.  It is the same pattern as the most common of all slave-brands.  The same symbol that graces my own left thigh.

With the slave’s feet in the sack, I work the leather up over her hips to her shoulders.  I am about to pull the remainder of the sack over her head.  There is a loud bang as the door of the room smashes back against the wall.  Through the doorway leap two blue-suited men, wearing peaked caps.

Vigiles!  I have to make the mental shift from Gorean to English.  Policemen!  One of them shouts.

“Freeze!”

Even in the 1920’s I knew what a pistol was, and that it would kill me if fired.  Both Police officers point such firearms at me.  The word ‘Freeze’ is sufficiently unambiguous, and besides, a free(ish) man has given me an order.  I am sufficiently conditioned to obey such instantly.  I stay very still.

“On your knees now!”

This is an order I am well familiar with.  I morph down as gracefully and sexily as I am able into the nadu position, my knees wide, my bottom resting on my heels, my back straight, my hands on my thighs.  It’s automatic for me to fall into nadu.  If the order had come from a woman, I would have fallen into ‘tower’ position, the same as nadu but with knees closed, without thinking.

I take in the effect of my kneeling so, on the two Policemen.  It’s clear that both of them have found my compliance with their order somewhat sexy.  I love it when men react to my beauty! It validates me as a woman.  Fortunately, the brevity of my slave tunic still covers my pussy.  It wouldn’t have mattered even if it hadn’t.  I’m well used to being naked in front of men.

One of the officers reaches for the slave-bracelets, attached to his belt.  No, the word here on Earth is ‘handcuffs’.  They are not as beautifully decorated as slave-bracelets, and they are a bit more heavy duty, as they are designed to restrain men, not just slaves.  The man walks behind my back.

“Hands behind your back.”

I comply without conscious thought.  It’s an order from a free-man!  I feel the cold metal circle my wrists and the clack-clack-clack of ratchets.  Whilst he’s fastened them tightly enough to hold me, thankfully they are not so tight as to be painful.

I am fully well aware of how effective slave-bracelets are.  I don’t need to test these, I know they secure me adequately.  I also know that such restraints only hurt if one fights against them, and these handcuffs, being a bit more brutal, will perhaps hurt more.

The other officer talks into a communication device.  I suspect he’s calling up for a ambulance for the erstwhile slave-girl candidate.  Perhaps also for a more senior officer, a detective maybe.  Yes, I know what a detective is.  Such had been a stock character in theatrical melodrama’s when I was here before.  Doubtless, the Police would want to know the full story, and who else is involved.  Even to the most stupid policeman, slight of body as I am, I would struggle to carry the presently comatose woman any distance, and for that matter, how would I get her from the building without being seen.  No, it’ll be quite clear to them that there is an, what’s that Earth word again?; ah-yes, accomplice.

The Policemen watch me carefully in case I try to run away.  I don’t see how I could do so without one or both of them seeing me do it.  Even with the smoothness of my experience and training, rising from a kneeling position without the use of hands is challenging and slower than with the use of hands.  Having ascertained that the sleeping woman is still breathing, the Policemen rather pointedly don’t do anything to upset the ‘scene of the crime’.  Training, no doubt!

After what I take to be about fifteen minutes another man, one not in uniform enters the room.  I take him to be a detective.  He is accompanied by a woman, who has a sophisticated camera.  The man examines the room in detail, pointing out to the photographer, things that are of interest, the syringe, the slave-sack, etc.  The woman takes many pictures.

The detective gives orders to the two uniformed officers.

“Take the woman to the 4^th precinct.  We’ll interrogate her there.”

I am lifted to my feet and impelled out of the apartment[3], down the elevator[4] and into the Police car waiting at the curb.

I am amazed by these modern motor cars, how big, how quiet, how fast they are, even one as basic as this.  The few cars in 1920’s London were utterly crude by the present standards.  I had the distinction of being the first woman in my street to ride in a motor car!

 

Chapter Three

 

The room is bare.  There’s nothing in it to entertain or delight the eye. I note an appliance in the upper corner of the room.  It appears to be pointing at me.  Tentatively I identify it as some kind of moving-picture camera.  Yes, there were moving-picture shows before I left.  I found them fascinating.  I like the dead-pan Buster Keaton and that bashful little clown man with the bowler-hat, Charlie Chaplin, yes, that’s him.  There’s a table and two chairs in the room, each opposite one another.  One chair is facing a huge mirror that takes up most of one wall, the other has its back to the mirror.

I kneel, facing the mirror.  Whilst chairs are uncommon on Gor, those that exist are clearly only for free-persons.  I therefore don’t presume to sit on one of the chairs.  Besides, I’m no longer used to sitting on such things.

I kneel in ‘Nadu’ position.  So far I have only seen male vigil.. Police officers.  I admire myself in the mirror.  I’m one gorgeous piece of slave-flesh though I say so myself.  Not bad for one hundred and twenty four year old Earth woman!  Whilst the skimpy slave-silk tunic I wear is short, it’s just long enough to cover my pussy.  The reflection of my collar is surprisingly bright.  I take in the delicate beauty of my dangling ear-decorations.  Yes, I am that low a slut.  Among Gorean women, slaves and free alike, the concept of pierced ears is barbaric.  For a woman, a slave, to be made by her Master to have her ears pierced, is traumatising.  A pierced-ear girl is by definition the most debased and low of all sluts.  A free-woman of course would never allow herself such humiliation.  If it was forced on her, whilst it would not be tantamount to slavery, the shame would force her to declare herself slave, and accept the consequences of that.  I did not feel the same trauma as Gorean slaves when my ears were pierced.  Culturally it was not so shocking for me.  It amuses me now just how many Earth women, these semi-free ones voluntarily of their own free will have this, to Gorean women shameful act of ear-piercing done to themselves!

The building where I have been brought is busy and bustling, with many people all trying to get the attention of a harassed uniformed man.  I am taken through a side door and along a corridor before being deposited in this room.

The officer bringing me here removed the slave-bracelets.

“Wait here.”

It’s an order from a free-man.  Only one from my Master, or his superior would have precedence.  I do not try to leave.

My Master will know precisely where I am. 

The door opens.  A woman enters.  I sense a kind of sneering smirk in the set of her mouth, perhaps at my kneeling position.  The woman is wearing black trousers with a slight flare at the ankle.  Her shoes rise her heel slightly on a blocky heel; unlike the sharp pointed heels I’ve seen on some women here, or the hideous boots or canvas-looking shoes worn by some others.  Me?  Shoes are not something I am familiar with at all.  The woman wears a blouse of green shiny satin, that’s cut similarly to a man’s shirt, but shaped to accentuate that the woman has breasts.  Her hair is quite long, but pulled back into a style reminiscent of a horses tail.  Whilst not heavy, there is a hint of colour on her eyelid, eye-socket, and lips.  Despite the general mannishness of the woman’s appearance, I sense that men would not wear a shirt of such material, or have such long hair.  I tentatively conclude that the woman is not completely masculinised, that there is still some femininity in her.  At her belt there is a tiny shield shaped piece of metal.  It’s too small to be effective.  Is it then some kind of badge of authority?  That she’s not wearing a blue uniform, even a feminised one, makes me wonder.  Is she some kind of detective?  I find the concept of a female detective somewhat intriguing.

There is something about this woman that I sense she’s more important than the average Earth woman.  Almost without conscious thought I mentally switch to using the Earth equivalent of the Gorean word ‘Domina’, Mistress, not the ‘Madam’ that I have become accustomed to using when addressing Earth free-women.  She indicates one of the chairs, the one facing the mirror.

“Sit on the chair.”

“I comply, Mistress, but such could be seen as disrespectful.”

There’s a look of surprise on her face, perhaps at being referred to as Mistress, but also at me considering the usage of the chair as being ‘above myself’.  I sit as ordered.

“I am Detective Hannah Greenwood.  I am obliged by law to tell you that ‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you free of charge.  Do you understand these rights?”

I have rights?  This detective says I have, but I know otherwise.  I am a slave.  A slave has no rights. She must then think me a free-woman.

“Yes, Mistress, but what’s an utt-tour-ney?”

She looks at me as if I’m mad.

“A legal adviser.  If you wish one, you must ask for one.”

I trawl the memory of my youth.

“Ah!  A solicitor[5].  I understand Mistress.  Thank you.  I have done nothing wrong, Mistress. Why would I need a solicitor?”

My Master gave me an order.  I fulfilled it to the best of my ability.  I don’t think I did anything to draw the attention of the Policemen; and in any case I don’t really understand why these Police seem to think I was doing something wrong?  I obeyed my Master, as I must, as I have no choice but to do so.  What wrong then have I done?  It was a perfectly ordinary slave-capture until the blue-coated men stormed in, pointing pistols.

The woman starts formally questioning me.  Where are the torture implements?  I know that on Gor, the testimony of a slave is always taken under torture.  Am I to be spared that?  I sigh with relief, but can I take it that I won’t be tortured if the woman doesn’t think I’m telling the truth?  I have to hope so.

“What is your name please?”

I am unused to the courtesy of the word ‘please’, but can think of no way to say so without offending this woman.

“I am called Alyena, Mistress.”

“And your other name, Alyena?”

“I have no other name, Mistress.”

“Don’t get smart with me, lady!  If Alyena is your first name, you will have a family name. If Alyena is your family name, you will have a forename.  What is your full name?”

“I have only the one name, Mistress.  It’s all I’m allowed.”

I know that I must be respectful, not just because of this woman’s position, but because my Master or someone else at the House of Three Moons would know and expect that of me.  My earrings. as they are called here though they are not rings as such, are more than mere decorations.  They are miniature listeners that feed back everything that I hear (including what I say) back to the House.  Masters can listen in directly or to a period in the past.  Such inventions amaze me.  They are like magic, compared to my 1920’s understanding of scientific advances.  Such a powerful control on what I say and how I say things is both frightening, yet strangely erotic.  Is there no aspect of my life that is not subject to review and if appropriate, correction?  I have yet to find such.  That rigidity of bondage without physical bonds I find quite carnal.

The word ‘allowed’ seems to puzzle Detective Greenwood.

“You’ve had another name before?”

“Yes, Mistress.  But it was a long time ago.”

I dare not tell her how long ago, she truly will think I’m insane.  I contemplate remaining silent. Sadly I have no way of knowing what’s the right thing to do.  I am unable to tell what course of action will be seen as pleasing to my Master and his colleagues, and by extension what will be considered displeasing.  I quail at the thought of being displeasing to any Master, to the House.  For so many years it has been drilled into me, often with the lash, that I must be honest, forthcoming and fully open to all free-persons.  Offering dumb resistance to a free-person is something that is totally unacceptable for me.  I must therefore answer the questions put to me, whether the answers are believed or not.  I have to hope that Master understands that.

“And what was that name?”

I have to think for a moment.  It’s been so long since I used it.

“Christine Punstunby, Mistress”

Not a common family name, even in England.

“Your accent is strange.  Not American…”

A momentary amusement flits through my brain.  Definitely not, but it’s unlikely this woman would guess ‘Gorean’.

“English?  Are you English?”

I’m amazed.  I’d have thought that by this time any trace of an English accent would have been lost. But how do I answer?  I don’t know how I can claim to be English, not having been there for a hundred years or so?  How do I phrase this so it isn’t a lie?

“I was born in London, Mistress.”

Detective Greenwood turns to the mirror and calls out.

“Check that, please Charlie!”

What?!  Is there another room beyond the mirror?  Can someone in that room somehow see through the mirror?  I snigger to myself.  When I’d ben kneeling in nadu, had someone beyond the mirror been watching me?  Did they perhaps see more of me than I saw in my reflection?  Lucky them. I’ve no dignity to defend.  Any embarrassment over my body was lost decades ago.

I presume that this ‘Charlie’ will use a computer to try and check up on me, as I do on prospective captures.

Since returning to Earth and having been taught how to use them, I’ve been astounded by the interlinked information sources allowing one to learn practically everything about someone else. Doubtless those sources that the vigiles… er… Police have will likely be better than I usually have access to, but can they find out about someone captured in London a century ago?

“Why do you keep calling me ‘Mistress’?”

“You are superior to me, Mistress.  It is an appropriate honorific for one in your position.”

I can see that she’s still puzzled by that.  I see her looking at my collar.  It too mystifies her, like a half forgotten memory.  Has she at some point read those autobiographies of persons taken to Gor, that are passed off as fiction here on Earth?

“Interesting necklace.  It has markings on it...  Take it off, please.”

Perhaps in this light she cannot read the legend incised into the metal.  There is only one possible response to her request.

“Forgive me, Mistress.  I cannot.  I do not have the key.”

Her shock is genuine.

“It’s locked on you?!!!  You are unable to remove it?”

“That’s so, Mistress.”

I lean forward, tilting my head back.

“Please feel free to read, Mistress.”

I know what it says.  ‘Alyena.  Property of Kyril Flavius.  If found, please return me for punishment.  Reward.’

Detective Greenwood leans forward.  I hear her shocked intake of breathe.

“Property?  Like in slavery?  Punishment?”

“Precisely Mistress.  I am a slave.  I am subject to punishment if I am found displeasing in any way.”

The woman is clearly marshalling her thoughts.

“You can’t be a slave.  Slavery is illegal”

“Nevertheless Mistress, I am a slave.  With respect Mistress, have I somehow  committed a crime in having been enslaved?  I was not given the choice, Mistress,”

She has to think about that one.

“I don’t think that you are guilty of an offence by being enslaved, but it’s clear that someone, presumably this Kyril Flavius is guilty of enslavement.”

“Mistress, I was first enslaved in other lands, lands where slavery is legal.  My slavery then is legal, is it not?”

This is so.  I might have been captured in England, but was not actually enslaved until arrival on the planet Gor.  The brand and collar, slave papers, etc., where applied to me outside the jurisdiction of any Earthly government.

I sense some sympathy for me, from the woman.  Her voice is gentle.

“No, it is not.  From the moment you landed on American soil, you were a free woman. That you were not told this, that this Kyril Flavius clearly continues to treat you as a slave, is prima facie evidence that he has and still is committing a criminal act.  You are legally free.”

I’m not sure that I want that.  I love my Master.  I am happy in my slavery, as happy as any slave can be.  I’m not sure that I want the pretences and choices of being a free-woman, Gorean, or even an Earth free-woman.

Detective Greenwood’s mood however hardens.

“There is still the question of your attempted abduction of the woman you were stuffing into a type of large body-bag.  As a free-woman that makes you culpable.  You are in a lot of trouble, lady.  You are going to spend the rest of your life in jail.  Why don’t you tell me who your accomplices are?  If you cooperate, I can ask the judge to be lenient.  Is this Kyril Flavius your partner in this crime?  Where do I find him?  Are you acting under his orders?  If you are, that might just mitigate your sentence.”

I really don’t know what to say for the best.  Whilst I hope that Master will save me from this invidious situation, I would not want him to be caught too.  I am concerned that he might simply abandon me to my fate, considering me replaceable, a small financial loss of my ‘purchase price’. It doesn’t help that I can’t actually tell this woman where in this huge city, the House of Three Moons is situated.  No-one’s ever told me.  Whenever I’ve left or arrived it’s been in an enclosed vehicle.  As well as that, the Masters would probably be extremely displeased if I told this Policewoman, even if I knew.  There’s a difference between obeying the general order to tell the whole truth always, and causing trouble to Masters!

There’s a crackling voice from somewhere.  Where I can’t quite tell.  From beyond the glass perhaps?

“Detective Greenwood, we need a word with you, please.”

The woman leaves the room.  I have not been given permission to leave.  I remain seated.

---

[1]     Earth phrase: Acronym-Pretty Damn Quick

[2]     Queen Victoria 24^th May 1819 to 22^nd January 1901 Queen and Empress of the British Empire

[3]     UK: Flat

[4]     UK: Lift

[5]     UK term for an attorney