After the Bighorn Chapter Ten, The Weekend.

Patrick Master’s Narrative.

Young Zach Frick was driving me to the Pittsburgh airport to catch a Friday afternoon flight to San Francisco where I would organize that end of the Frick’s fight against the patent troll Vincent VanRijn.  I would spend time with my own beloved Juli as well. We discussed his handling of the new intake of twenty kajirae that morning.

“The slave pens are some of the oldest parts of the house, and we have a lot of experience with the acquisition work we do in the trade between the worlds.”

“Some of the girls seemed afraid, some stunned, some eager, some relieved. Are those the normal reactions?”

“I think so, remember, I am young, just their age or younger, and I have helped out a bit on summer holidays and such, but this was my first time in charge. Of course, Bruno and Niles and the others are experienced, but they like to see a Frick in charge. And seeing the two already enslaved kajirae working for us helps as well.”

“I hadn’t seen either of those two before, do they work just in the pens?”

“No, Jade and Kaileika belong to Wyandotte, he brought them over from his old house. Kaileika is actually Gorean-born and bred. Willard brought her back from Gor after his time there, she was his first ever capture, the first girl he ever collared. Not like cousin Willard to be sentimental, but I guess in this case he was. Jade is just an earth girl we haven’t got around to shipping yet.”

“Is it usually necessary to whip one of the girls to have the others obey?”

“Often, Earth girls don’t grow up with the knowledge that they can fall slave at any moment. As much as many Gorean women believe it could never happen to them, somewhere in the back of their minds they know slavery exists, that it is a possibility. So on Earth when it happens, it is a shock.”

“That girl I had use the slave whip on, I probably saved her life. On Gor, a moment’s hesitation can get a girl killed, or thrown into a canal. Gorean masters are not patient with anything but immediate, exacting, perfect obedience. If she remembers this morning, it can save her pain or death on Gor.”

“Did you expect that half the women would strip and display themselves during the whipping before even being commanded?”

“It was nine of nineteen, not half. Niles won the pool on that. Bruno was sure it was going to be ten, but the tall kajira in the crop top fooled him.”

“The one with the long legs and the very short skirt and no bra?

“Yes, that one. Bruno was sure she would be the first naked as a matter of fact, but it turned out she was very reluctant and in fact she is white silk.”

“She should bring a good price.”

“She will be hot once her fires are kindled, but she will need some work.”

“L’il Bit, Kajira Nineteen, seemed very stiff and resistant, even when being handled. Will she be difficult as well?”

“Not really, she has some intelligence, which will help, but is not introspective, and remember, she was recommended to us by three separate sources. Once you develop more of an eye for these things, you will notice how much she relaxed once the collar was locked on her throat. That ‘click’ often does the trick, the feel of the metal all around her throat, the weight of it, however light. A girl knows it is there; she knows she is bound.

Willard always thought it was important that a girl hear that first click of the lock, others like the Slave Theoretician Tracker disagree. It is an interesting debate, but essentially, once the collar goes around her throat she is a slave.”

“That incidentally, is why Kaileika and Jade retained their tunics until the last of the new kajirae were collared; until then, they were technically captives free women. Although from a different point of view, as women on The Slave World without a Home Stone, they were already really slaves. Just a point of etiquette really.”

“Watching them parade naked in a circle was interesting. This was to exercise them and get them into shape after being in the truck?

“They are not really in slave shape, their curves need better definition, good ankles of course, and smooth curves under the skin. Kajirae on Gor have to walk, they are not driven except occasionally in slave wagons. Between slave gruel and the appropriate exercise they can achieve their block measurements.”

“And the exercise works up  an appetite for the slave gruel.”

“An appetite, but not an entitlement. You had left by then, but once it was time to feed the beasts, they were not just given food.”

“No?”

“They could smell the gruel, Kaileika and Jade brought in a large pot.  Jade put out some wooden bowls, no spoons of course. They were ordered to kneel in a line, they were looking at the food. They wanted to eat, but were afraid to say anything. Finally a girl put up a hand, after a bit I told her to speak.”

“Are we going to be fed?”

Kaikeika switched her bottom, once, hard.

Bruno said, “Are we going to be fed, Master?”

A small voice, “Are we going to be fed, Master.?

“Does a girl wish to be fed, Kajira?”

“Yes, Master, a girl wishes to be fed, if it please Master.”

It will not surprise you to know that the girl who asked was one of the first to strip herself in the presence of men. She was also Red Silk.

Niles brought her forward, put her to her knees, tied her hands behind her and returned to watching the other kajirae.  Jade took a bowl and measured two ladles of gruel into the bowl. It was enough to nourish her, it would not fill her up. At a nod from Bruno, Jade placed the bowl in front of the woman.  He took two fingers and putting them in the gruel, scooped some out and thrust the food into her mouth. She greedily sucked swallowed the tasteless food.

“Please, more, Master, please.”

“After a moment, Bruno repeated the operation, making the slave suck food from his fingers, worshipping them and begging for more. When the bowl was nearly empty, he placed it on the ground in front of her, and give her permission to lick the bowl clean. She was not pleased at the degradation of the feeding but she was so hungry.”

“It is important for her, as I understand that she understands that food comes to her by the hand and grace of her master?”

“Exactly, and to reinforce that on the first day, each girl ate in turn, watching the others eat from men’s fingers, at men’s permission. The whipped girl was fed last, and only half a bowl.”

“Then the beasts were watered and caged for the night.”

Zach was just dropping me off at the curb, when I asked a last question, “all the clothes that were collected, what happens to them?”

“They will be kept in paper bags inside leather pouches for now. If a girl tries to escape, we keep a pack of hounds, Willard used to like to ride out with the dogs. Sometimes a game of girl catch amused him. Just catch them you understand, nothing more.”

On the flight to San Francisco I had much to think about. Ever since returning with Juli in a collar from the Bighorn, and more so since visiting Frick house, I had been examining woman as potentialities. Particularly those suited or not to the collar. Business class had the same two flight attendants as had my previous flight. They wore the same uniform, but outgoing flirty Scarlett was clearly making herself agreeable to eligible men, while quiet Leigh was doing most of the work in a quiet competent way. On Gor, there is no doubt which would wear the collar, and which the veil of a free woman. I might even recommend Scarlett for acquisition.

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

Master is coming home, Master is coming home, I have missed him so. I long to kneel at his feet, to feel his strength overpower me, to cover him with kisses. This house is far to big for one or even two people, it needs to be full of bustle and life, things happening, excitements.

I hope I can please him, I have been practicing my stitches so I can hand make a tunic and a camisk to his satisfaction. My first efforts were not very good, I have practiced and practiced since then. Once I can make my slave clothes to his satisfaction, I may be allowed to wear some. The clothes I am allowed outside Drysdale House are already pretty slutty, Mrs Hernandez who is the Chief receptionist at Masters Law LLP says it is a disgrace that I am allowed in the building. While I am waiting for an escort to take me to Master Patrick’s office to sort his official from his personal mail, she makes me stand behind a curtain in a little supply cupboard just off the reception area where clients and visitors cannot see me.

That was how I heard two of the younger lawyers talking about a big opportunity. Master Patrick has a big case in Pittsburgh for the Fricks, and a group of lawyers from our office are going to join him. I hope he takes me back with him, but likely the Fricks already have lots of girls there already.

Dana Winter and Jane Bennet both want to go to Pittsburgh to work closely with Master, they are both ambitious, and I think, they want to marry him.  If only they knew. Jane says she has the inside edge because she has slept with Master, but with so many kajirae in Pittsburgh, why take a free woman?  We will see.

I am only allowed in Master Patrick’s office now under supervision, Mrs Hernandez’s orders. But I did get his mail.  One of them is a large envelope with foreign stamps and a coat of arms. Mrs Hernandez says I must come up the freight elevator from now on, no travelling in the passenger elevator with decent people. She is free so I must obey; and if I ask Master Patrick, he will doubtlessly take her side.

I think I hear his car pulling up.  I run to the perfect place to greet him.  There is a wide hallway that runs from the Front Door to the terrace at the back of  Drysdale House which overlooks the gardens. There is another that runs the length of the house from the ballroom to Porte-cochere  covered car entrance. I kneel at the intersection of these corridors, at the centre of the house, where the grand staircases ascend to the upper floors.

I lower my head and arms to the floor, arms outstretched awaiting my beloved Master.

Art by TroyDM - Sleen attack.

 This week in Gorean Art.
Sleen Attack by TroyDM

Main Illustration.

Hi Res detail.

TroyDM Tarnsman of Gor

 A Tarnsman Warrior

Art by TroyDM

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

And a detail in full resolution

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

 

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

Janey Anstruthers’s Narrative.

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

 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The young man started speaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There were mutterings, but he continued.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You hurt me; you struck a woman!”

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

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

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

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

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

“Remove all your clothing for your assessment.”

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

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

“Really I can’t, I just can’t.”

“An Order has been repeated.”

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

“You can; you will, you will learn.”

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

“You will be marked there.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You did not remove your clothes.”

“I was given no orders.”

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

He turned to me.

“You didn’t remove your clothes either.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Right, nineteen.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nineteen.

TroyDM Slave Trading with the Kurii

 Slave Trading with the Kurii.

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

They reach a price each can live with.

Please give acknowledgement and feedback to the creator. 

After The Bighorn Chapter Eight Preparing the Merchandise

 Chapter Eight

Preparing the Merchandise.

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

Janey Anstruther’s Narrative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

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

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

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

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

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

Patrick Masters’s Narrative.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He walked up and watched Tiffani for a moment. 

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

“I would, very much.”

The Emery's Pay a Visit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't like your fashion business, mister

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

I don't like what happened to my sister

First we take Manhattan, 

…then we take Berlin!

 

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

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