At some Universities in the United States and Canada, female students who offer themselves for auction and service ( in all senses) at fraternity 'Ancient Times' banquets are asked to leave their sororities and transfer to Kappa Epsilon Digamma.
or KEF
The two cowboys who took me yesterday
had planted an unpleasant thought in my head.
That I was not sexually responsive enough as a slave; that my reactions
to being mastered were not intense enough; that I was failing and shaming
Patrick.
I am finding it hard, even in a collar, with Patrick’s initial on my thigh, and traipsing around naked all the time to let go of my entire life since I can remember – being respectable, being contained, not over-reacting to sexual stimuli.
With acknowledgement and thanks to John Norman for creating the world of Gor, in which this story is set.
Chapter Nine: The Pastry Vendor’s Booth.
I am beautiful! Even I have to admit that despite my Earth-girl reserve. I don’t know how this has come about. It’s not just the make-up or the new hairstyle, it’s something much deeper in me, something revealed that I wasn’t aware was in me. A realisation perhaps that I am, and can only be, one thing a woman. A woman in the deeper sense than the restricted sense of mere femaleness that most women on Earth are kept in.
Am I that kind of cruel author, who after setting up a cliff-haner with the stealing (not kidnapping, that is for free people) of Patrck's slave Juli, would made the readers wait another week for the resolution.
Yes, I am. Tale 18, A New Hope will be posted next week.
Bonus: The
fate of Nicola Van Rijn
A blonde slave knelt in front of Atticus of Ar of the Caste of Slavers. Clearly she had not been long on Gor; her Gorean was broken and halting. Outside the streets of Glorious Ar were as quiet as ever they got. It was night, the three moons were the only light, as it was so late that the lamps which dimly lit the streets were low. They had been turned down to save the use of unnecessary fuel. It was the hour of thieves and knives in the night. Men rolling home late from the taverns would be lucky to lose only their coins and retain their lives. Marlenus might be Ubar in the daylight, but under the moons, the only law was a strong arm and a sharp blade.
“What is the spirit of the bayonet?” the drill sergeant barked out loudly.
To KILL!” I yelled out in unison with the other recruits.
“What makes the grass grow?”
“Blood, Drill Sergeant!”
Lunge, parry, upstroke, butt stroke, slash, thrust!
I couldn’t get my bayonet to stick in the hard rubber of the tires that made up the target.
