A Talendar for Shirley (6) by Peony D Beckside

 A Talendar for Shirley

Peony D Beckside

With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set.

Chapter Six: Reality With A Bump!

 

The building is solid, almost forbidding, like one would expect the facade of one of those old Victorian prisons.  The blue and yellow banners somehow don’t alleviate the exterior drabness.  Master swings the big solid door knocker.  The sound echoes back within the building.  A man in robes similar to those of Master opens the door.

“Is this the house of Thromberg?”

“It is, Caste Brother.  How may we be of assistance.”

“May I speak with your Proprietor?  Assuming that’s not yourself?”

“No,  Perhaps one day I might have a house of my own.  Do come in, I’ll call Stephanis Thromberg.”

I take these few words to be some kind of introduction.  Master enters; I, of necessity, must follow.  We are shown into a plush room, fitted out with silk hangings and thick rugs.  Clearly the owner of this place is wealthy, hence powerful.  Master doesn’t need to tell me to kneel.  I get the feeling that here precision, at least in a slave is important.  My kneeling posture is as has been taught me, my knees widely parted.  Master glances and smiles.  I take it that he is pleased with my apparent submission.  A corpulent man enters the room.  Again Master and he jabber away.  I think that I’m picking up odd words in this weird language, but I still can’t get a coherent thread of what’s being discussed.

Stephanis Thromberg, whilst somewhat overweight does not carry himself with the air of someone who lives a soft life.  Given that I’ve not used a sword in over ten years, I’m not sure that I’d want to take this man on.  It’s in his look, I think, that sense of dangerousness I perceive.

“Greetings sir. Who do I have the pleasure of greeting?”

“Michalis Dundras, Caste Brother.”

“I know most of the slavers in Tharna, and the nearby cities.  With no disrespect, I don’t recall us ever having had business before.”

“You wouldn’t.  I’ve been working in barbarian lands for the last ten years and have only just returned.  Prior to that, I was little more than an apprentice in the caste.”

“This Earth place, I’ve heard of?  The slave planet.  It sounds rather bizarre, yet clearly the stock that comes from there are truly slaves.”

“That’s the place, and yes, bizarre is as good a description as any.”

“How may I help you, Brother?”

“I gather that you may have recently taken delivery of a batch of barbarian kajirae.  I’m assuming that you will be training them prior to putting them on the Block^[1]…”

I wave at the kneeling Shirley.

“...This is a souvenir, a thank-you gift from my previous employers.  She too is an untrained barbarian.  I do not have the facilities as yet, to train her except in the most basic and crude expectations.  You, I surmise do.  I wonder if it would be possible to have her trained here alongside those that you have recently acquired.  For a fee of course…”

Thromberg had barely glanced at my slave when he entered this room, but then he sees and assesses many women, Shirley is just another.  To me she is beautiful, but in reality she’s not yet high-price merchandise.

“Does she speak Gorean?”

“No more than the few words necessary to show basic respect.”

“We’d have full usage and punishment rights over her?”

“Of course.  I’d not have your staff being hamstrung in their training of her, by excessive restrictions.”

“I may assess her?  Put her through slave paces?”

“Certainly, Brother.  I’d be surprised if you didn’t!  I’ll translate for you if you are unfamiliar with the Earth language ‘English’.”

“I think I can manage.  I’ve often listened in on the training of barbarians, deeming it beneficial to get a smattering of this tongue, if only to strengthen my control over the stock.”

“A good precaution.  Please go ahead.”

“Shirley.  This man will assess you.  He will give you a series of commands.  He may caress you. You will obey him perfectly, instantly, and gracefully without demurring.  You will not embarrass me with insubmissiveness.  I trust you haven’t forgotten the whip?”

“No Dominus, yes, Dominus.”

Assess me for what, I wonder.  This fat man wears similar robes to Master.  Is he in the same ‘line of work’ as Master, a slaver?  Is Master thinking of disposing of me, selling me?  I sure hope not, given the effort he’s taken to get me here.  If the truth’s known, I’m terrified at that prospect.  Is such simply fear of the unknown.  It’s bad enough not knowing ‘which way is up’ in this culture, so as to know what is the best option.  I fear though that any decision about what happens to me, will not be mine to be made.  I doubt I will have any say at all.  At least Master is a kind of anchor.  I’d truly be adrift without him to guide me.

I am driven by the man to a whole string of positions, many of which are quite demeaning.  The speed starting slowly as many of the terms for the positions entered into are explained to me.  I have to learn fast, to remember what each position is called, as once explained an English description is no longer given. The man speeds up to the point where I am effectively an automaton, a puppet.  I try so hard to slide gracefully from one position to another.  I’m breathing fast, sweating, my heartbeat pounding, but more than that, I’m finding to my shame that this obscene exhibition of my nakedness is exciting me sexually.  I feel my nipples harden, the gooey stickiness between my lower lips gushing.  I feel the man’s fingers rubbing me stoking my fires even more.

“She oils well, and just from slave-paces.  That speaks of a deep sexual latency, but yes her movements are crude, no fluidity.  You are correct, she does badly need formal training.”

“Would you be prepared to carry out that task?  How long would that take?  How much training would you normally give to barbarians before putting them on the block?”

“I’m aiming to have the new batch of barbarians on the block by the end of the next but one passage hand.  You can put up with that?”

Two months or so, by Earth time measurement.  Yes, that’s acceptable.  I discuss a price with Stephanis Thromberg.  Whilst quite pricey, it’s within my expectations.  I agree.

“There’s just one minor matter.  Shirley has just had the first of her stabilisation serums at the house of Ermelo Gratchis.  Paolus Vonci, his assistant asked me to bring her back in about a week’s time for a final booster…”

“Think nothing of it Michalis, I’ll have her taken there and the shot given.  I’ll only charge you what Assistant Physician Vonci charges me.”

“A pleasure doing business with you Sephanis!  Do you want paying now?”

“Half now, and the remainder upon collection will be best, I think.  If that’s fine with you.”

“Eminently, thank you.”

I’m frightened!  It sounds to me as though Master is bargaining with this other man.  Even though I haven’t forgiven him for abducting me and whipping me, the prospect of him selling me terrifies.  A momentary memory of the gloriousness of Master’s taking of me, chained in his ‘fuck-corner’ alcove surfaces.  I’ll forgive him for that effective rape, since it was so good.  Any further such explorations, assuming he isn’t selling me, will not be unwelcome and hence not rape.

Demeaning as it would be, I want so much to throw myself to Master’s feet and beg him not to dispose of me to this odious fat man.  What stops me is Master’s stricture on not embarrassing him.

I’m trying very hard to make it look as if I’m not taking any notice of the discussion taking place. Whilst I can’t understand what’s being said, much can be learned from body-language.  I decide that just listening, immersing myself in the language, will aid me as I learn and become more and more proficient.  Just picking up the lilt and flow of a language is half of the task.  The vocabulary and syntax will fall into place if I can acquire the basic diction.

There’s something in the to-ing and fro-ing of the conversation that give me the impression that it’s winding down, some agreement having been reached perhaps.  It’d be a lie if I were to say that I didn’t have any trepidation.  I switch my pretend inattention to Master.  He speaks to me.

“Shirley, you will stay here for a while.  You are to be trained in how to be a good slave.  You will learn the minutiae necessary for you to survive in your role, and in this world.  This slave-house will have full rights over you in everything.  Your stay here will not be easy.  You will put your heart and soul into learning the lessons they will teach you.  The house will not let you do otherwise.  Your training will be intense, and many of your lessons may be repugnant to your Earth sensibilities.  Such inhibitions are inappropriate to you now, you must abandon them and embrace your new reality with fervour.  Slack off in your lessons, and you will be punished by your trainers and perhaps also by your peers, the others with whom you will train.  When I return, I will expect you to have improved immeasurably.  Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master, but I’m frightened…”

“So you should be.  Use that fear to drive you to excel.”

With some ruefulness, I acknowledge.  What now for me?  The fat man claps his hands.  Two of the most beautiful women that I have ever seen enter with a flowing grace that takes my breath away.  They take my arms and bid me rise and follow.  As I am taken away, I see Master count out some coins from a small leather pouch.  I look at the women directing me.  They are slaves.  High slaves, I surmise.  The collars locked on their throats are not simple steel.  The collars are beautifully lacquered.  The tunics they wear are no less revealing than those I’d seen on slaves I’d seen on the streets of this city, but there is a subtle pattern and sheen deep in the cloth.

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[1]              Selling at auction