A note on Illustrations

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

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

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

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

Tracker.

 

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

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

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

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

 

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

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

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

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

Scipio Metellus rose to his feet and embraced the speaker.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Bravo”, replied Atticus again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It is very expensive”, groused Atticus.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh thank you Master. Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m listening.”

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

“What’s the challenge there for me?”

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

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

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

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

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

Scipio arose, “I wish you well Atticus.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the Bighorn, Chapter Eighteen.

 

After the Bighorn, Chapter 18

Narrative of Patrick Masters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr Thornton was shaking his head slightly.

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

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

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

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

I nodded. “Good work both of you.”

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

Talk turned to other things.

Narrative of Slave Nineteen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the Bighorn Chapter 17 The Trial of Chelsea Frick

 

After the Bighorn, Chapter Seventeen.

The Trial of Chelsea Frick.

(illustration; Meeting at Frick House by TroyDM)

Narrative of Patrick Masters.

“I pronounce Chelsea Frick guilty of stealing two mostly untrained slavegirls, kajirae, from the family by facilitating their escape with intent to pick them up and add them to her own property. This scheme cost the Family two trained and experienced slaves and cost time and effort by not only members of the family, but by an outsider, to whom we already owe a debt of gratitude. Does the prisoner have anything to say before sentence is passed?”

Wyandotte Frick was stern and angry. It was late at night, following the events of day that had seen the disappearance of two female slaves, the release of two sleen, carnivores from Gor. Zack Frick and I had used these dangerous beasts to track the two escapees and capture them. If the sleen had escaped….  Well, that did not bear thinking about.

Chelsea Frick stood stunned before us. We were in Wyandotte’s office, so recently the office of Chelsea’s murdered father, but now, like everything else in this mansion, the property of Wyandotte Frick, the new Head of the Frick Family. He was paterfamilias, judge, and Ubar of this group of earth-born humans who trafficked with Gor.

Chelsea was wearing only her thin white summer nightdress. Her feet were bare. Beside her, standing on either flank were two, older grimmer women, clad in grey. Mrs Crandell, the housekeeper that Wyandotte Frick had brought with him when he arrived to take over the Family, the House, and the Leadership; and Mrs Magruder, the outgoing housekeeper who had served Willard Frick, Chelsea’s Father, foully murdered in London. (Steel Worlds Inc, Chapter 27 , Emma of Gor https://emmaofgor.blogspot.com/2022/08/steel-world-inc-chapter-twenty-seven.html).

While waiting for Chelsea Frick to answer, I thought back on the long day Zach Frick, Chelsea’s distant cousin and I had tracking the errant kajirae then returning them to the mansion. Luckily, they had become lost, and missed their rendezvous, else they would have been far away by now. We had not told these foolish slaves that Chelsea had never had any intention that they should escape, only that they be stolen and added to her own service; exchanging one servitude on Gor for another, to a Free Woman, here on Earth. To be owned by a Free Woman is the hardest kind of slavery. For while a slave must strive mightily to please a Gorean Master, who is uncompromising in his demands, it is impossible, it is said to please a Free Woman. Free Women hate and fear slave girls for the sensualness, the hold they have on the minds of Gorean Men.

On their return to the Mansion, the recovered kajirae were defeated, dispirited, hungry and tired. They had not eaten since their evening bowl of gruel the previous day, they had been running and hiding all night. Now, captured they were being herded by sleen, fearsome, six-legged creatures from the planet Gor.  We had tied ropes around their necks and drove them in front of us. Zack reminded them of the possible fates awaiting escaped slaves. “You could be fed to sleen, maybe even these sleen here, or have your feet cut off. Shipped to the mines of one of a dozen Gorean cities. Or maybe the Ubar will be merciful, and just have you slain, or maybe whipped every day for a year.”

With such cheerful pronouncements, Zach encouraged the girls back towards their fate. Did they not realize that once the collar had been locked around their throats that they were forever slaves?

The shorter of the two, the busty Nineteen (named after her position in the original processing lineup), finally stumbled and fell just at the edge of the cornfield. Zach dismounted, but even the slave whip could not encourage her on. She shuddered as the sleen sniffed at her, and even licked her body, but the girl just could not go on.

Zack picked her up, and mounting, threw her across the saddle in front of him. Even while holding the leash of one of the sleen, he still found himself able to fondle the body of the exhausted girl.

Gamely, Seventeen, the other girl struggled on. She would not give up. Arrogant, proud, and yes, foolish, but still I found her courage in defeat admirable in a way. She would walk to her punishment, whatever it was.

Twice under the hot afternoon sun, she fell to her hands and knees in the cornfield. I jerked her to her feet by the neck rope and forced her on. If, in her pride, she would walk, then walk she must. The third time she fell, she was retching, her stomach rebelling against its emptiness, trying to rid itself of the built-up bile. She had eaten nothing all day and had walked through the night, and now was walking to a terrible fate under the hot sun. I could see that her naked body was already becoming sunburned. How the whip would scorch that red skin!

I smiled as I used the end of the rope looped around Seventeen’s neck to encourage the proud slave to greater speed towards the mansion.

***

“Are you sure it was Chelsea?” had asked Wyandotte when he returned from the County Fair later that evening. He had had a long day, repairing the relations of the Frick Family with its immediate neighbors. In the days of greater power under Willard, the neighbors had been ignored; now the Fricks needed all the allies they could find.

“It was her car that I saw speeding away from the rendezvous that had been set with the runaway slaves when Patrick Masters and I rode up with the sleen. Another couple of minutes and she would have been away with our property.”

“You just saw the car though? Just the car, and not Chelsea?

“No I didn’t see who was driving, but Chelsea does not allow anyone else to drive that car.”

J Augustus Frick IV, the old family lawyer spoke up.

“I was at the house when Chelsea, drove up in that same car about forty-five minutes later. That is about how long it would take to drive by the back roads from Frick House to the place where the girls were captured.”

“She was angry. She slammed the door and ran up to her room. As far as I know, she has been there ever since. She did not come down for dinner. Mrs Magruder took a tray of food up for her. I hear Chelsea ate half and then hurled the tray against the wall.”

Zack spoke again.

“I questioned the training kajirae that oversaw the training cellar. Neither Kailieka nor Jade had anything to say about the escape. They had no light to shed on things. I had them punished for letting slaves escape under their noses. They are spending the night without supper in the slave kennels. They are hooded, and cannot hear or see anything. They await your judgement.”

“The escapees, Nineteen and Seventeen were questioned separately while the other was in a slave hood. They said a free lady had arranged everything, with a map, a key, instructions and a vial of powder to dose the other members of their kennel.”

“They were going to leave half their sister-slaves behind? So much for loyalty amongst slaves!”, exclaimed Wyandotte.

“They both claim they were following instructions.”

“They should have followed orders instead, and remained in their kennels and not run away.” Wyandotte was not about to cut the would be escapees any slack.

“And they told you that their accomplice was “Chelsea?”

“They did not know her name. But I showed her a picture I had on my phone of the three of them, Chelsea, Felicity Emery, and the Bannon girl. Each separately picked Chelsea out of the three.”

Wyandotte rubbed his forehead. He too, had had a long day.

“Zack, go to the kitchen, get me a plate of food. Then make sure that all, and I mean all, the kajirae are locked up. I don’t want any of those creatures getting wind of any of this. Then make sure that all the men are in their barracks or at their stations. I don’t want anyone in the main part of the house, except us and those we can trust.

“Augustus, get Mrs Crandall and Mrs Magruder. Have them have Chelsea Frick here in half an hour. I want this settled tonight.”

And so, here we were, Chelsea standing in front of Wyandotte, who was sitting in judgment.

When confronted with the charges, Chelsea had completly denied everything. Denied even knowing about the captives that had been stored in the training cellars awaiting the arrival of the silver ship which was to take them to Gor.

Step by step, that experienced litigator, Augustus Frick drove her back.

He produced statements from Bruno and Niles, the chief keepers, that she had been in the cellars numerous times, assessing the captives, even looking at their files.

Chelsea denied that she had paid any particular interest in the two that escaped.

Augustus Frick produced statements from the two slaves that Chelsea Frick had spoken to each of them several times.

Chelsea claimed that slaves could not give testimony against any Free Person.

Augustus Frick quoted Gorean Law that slave testimony had to be taken under torture, then had Zack Frick confirm that the slave whip had been used during his interrogation.

Chelsea claimed that the two of them must have made it up.

Zack told Wyandotte that the two escapees had been questioned separately while the other was in a slave hood that prevented her seeing or hearing what was said.

It was then that Chelsea made a break for the door. Mrs Magruder, who had known her since she was a child; had grabbed her harshly by the upper arms and forced in back towards the desk.

“Stop! You’re hurting me. Make her stop, make her let me go.”

“Show some dignity you little thief”, hissed Mrs Magruder.” Your father would be ashamed of you, he always valued courage.”

At these words, Chelsea was silent. She was held up by Mrs Magruder and Mrs Crandell as judgement was pronounced.

“Chelsea Savannah Frick, I pronounce you guilty. I pronounce Chelsea Frick guilty of stealing two mostly untrained slavegirls, kajirae, from the family by facilitating their escape with intent to pick them up and add them to her own property. This scheme cost the Family two trained and experienced slaves and cost time and effort by not only members of the family, but by an outsider, to whom we already owe a debt of gratitude. This adds to the burden on the family at a perilous time when we have been excluded from the Council of the Families of North America and are under assault in the civil courts. Does the prisoner have anything to say before sentence is passed?”

“You owed me! You owed me two slave girls, you took away the two girls my father gave me, Fliss and Fleur. They were mine, and you took them away. My father gave them to me. To me. You can’t take them away! So I took two girls for my own. You owed me two girls.”

The hysterical girl stopped for breath. Wyandotte intervened.

“The girls were property of this House. I inherited them. I can do what I want with them. I have other uses for them. They will be given to loyal men to cement their loyalty in this time. They were mine. I took them.”

Chelsea was incandescent with rage.

“They were mine; my father gave them to me, you aren’t half  the man he was.”

She broke down crying.

“You have cost the House of Frick the two experienced kajirae that we had to add to the shipment to make up the promised numbers. Recovering these two untrained slaves does not and cannot make up for that loss.”

Wyandotte’s tone turned dark and harsh

“So here is your sentence. You will partially repay us, the Frick family with yourself. While I doubt you will ever make a satisfactory slave, it will be partial recompense.”

“First you will be whipped as a Free Woman, as a punishment. Then you will be collared, and marked, and added to our pool of slaves.  This is my judgement.”

“NOOO!!!  I beg you, not that, anything but that, anything that I can do to repay the family. But not that, NOOO!!”

Wyandotte sat in the chair. He considered. He looked up.

“A week ago, I suggested to you that a Companionship with Elliott Emery could win him to our side and help regain our seat on the Council of the North American Families. You turned me down.”

“But he is old!”

“It is too bad you declined him. Too late now, as a slave you would have no value as a Companion.”

“I will be his Companion, anything but the collar. I can do that for a year.”

“A year is no longer enough. The companionship must last at least two years; preferably three. It will take us that long to repair our position.”

“But a Companionship only lasts one year.”

“Then you must make sure he renews it. That is up to you. For three years you must be a compliant, happy, supportive Companion, the kind that makes sure he wants to renew.  If he renews the Companionship, then after two years you will no longer be under suspended sentence of Slavery. If the Companionship is renewed for a third year, and if it lasts the full three years, then your Trust Fund, your dowry will be returned to you. But you must be good for every day of those three years. Elliott Emory will not be easy to fool, So you must be a good Companion, every moment of every day.”

“Yes Ubar, it will be as you say.” Chelsea Frick sagged, defeated and scared.

Wyandotte nodded and turned to Mrs Crandall.

“Strip her, and secure her by the fireplace.”

Then turning to Zach Frick. “Thirty times with the slave whip.”

Then he turned to Mrs Crandall again. “Then take her up to bed, she can recover in her room. Tell the slaves and anyone else that she is recovering from sunstroke. I have had a long day, and I am going to bed.”

Wyandotte left the room. He had turned the embarrassing escape of two slaves into an alliance with one of the other Families and neutralized Chelsea Frick for three years.

I got up to leave as well, but Augustus Frick stopped me and pointed me to an armchair by the fire. “By Frick custom there must be two witnesses to the punishment of a Free Woman.”

So, I watched the two housekeepers remove Chelsea’s white nightgown and using shackles, secure her hands over her head. I was not averse to watching the proud beauty humbled and punished. Stripped of her clothing, she looked as I had imagined. I only regretted that she was going to escape the collar. I had irrationally wanted to own her, to have her kneeling beside Juli as my property.

Chelsea’s punishment was long and thorough. She would not forget it. When he was done, young Zach Frick quietly left the room. The sobbing Chelsea was released from the shackles and the two housekeepers led her from the room.

Only Augustus Frick and I remained. He poured two brandies, handing me one. We sat in by the fire, in matching leather armchairs.

“Something happens to a Free Woman when she is punished like that,” he said. When she is stripped and had the slave whip used on her. It strips her of more than her clothes. She is stripped of her illusion of power, her illusion of immunity, of invulnerability.

“She learns that her position as a Free Woman is something that is granted to her, and that men can strip it away.

“She learns that her body can be disposed of by men. She learned her vulnerability. She will never forget that. Even once her pain heals, the marks fade, she will remember that. She will remember that she was whipped naked in front of men.

Augustus Frick paused and sipped his brandy. He looked into the fire and continued.

“On the one hand, she will work and scheme incessantly to avoid that ever happening again. She will try to amass position, money, power. I predict that Chelsea Frick Emery will endure the full three years of her Companionship. She will smile and nod and do whatever she must to make Elliott Emery happy. When the Companionship expires after three years and two renewals, she will have him convinced it is his idea to end things. She will last the full three years because she wants that Trust Fund. She wants and needs the money to try to armor herself against an uncertain world. She will try to gain as much as she can, make her own allies amongst the Emerys. She will become dangerous, well as dangerous as a woman can be.”

He stopped, we sat in silence. Finally, he began again.

“That is one side of a Free Woman whipped, cautiousness and a desire for protection afforded by money and standing. And yet, sometimes she will do reckless things. She will seek security, but sometimes in risky ways. Remember, she has been stripped naked before men, felt the power of men. She will subconsciously remember that she was under the power of men. There will be times she will risk much to gain much. She will tell herself that it is only the thought of gain and security that impels her to take such and such a risk. But the risk itself, deep down, also calls to her. The risk she may again find herself in the power of men has its attractions, the risk of being stripped and shackled will pull at her subconscious. She may do something extremely foolish.”

“So, my friend, you may still have her collared at your feet, naked and vulnerable.
I started, shocked that he observed that.

“Don’t worry, you hide it well.” He smiled.

“But I am an old man. I can see your desire for Chelsea in a collar. Be patient, it may yet happen. Just don’t you do anything foolish.”

Then he left. I finished my brandy, alone with my thoughts.

 What should I read next?

A couple of years ago, I started re-reading all of the Gor Novels. I started at number one, Tarnsman of Gor and proceeded from there. So much I had forgotten or not picked up on at the time.

I have just finished number Thirteen, Explorers of Gor. 

So what should I read next. I had skipped number six, Raiders of Gor, and number eleven, Slavegirl of Gor.

I am looking for advice in the comments below. Should I go back and read Raiders or Slavegirl?

Should I proceed on to the Jason Marshall trilogy starting with number 14, Fighting Slave of Gor?

Should I skip the Marshall trilogy and jump on to number 17 Savages of Gor?

Advice please.

 

After The Bighorn, Chapter Sixteen.

Release the Sleen.   

(illustration by TroyDM used by permission)

Patrick Masters's Narrative

“Release the Sleen”, J Augustus Frick IV had commanded, and Zach Frick pulled the lever, the two sleen thrust forward and off we were in full pursuit of the two escaped kajirae.

Well, no. It was not quite that simple. First, we had to saddle a couple of horses, so we could follow the sleen without slowing them down too much. Second, we needed to attach leashes to the collared sleen. But soon we were in full pursuit. Zach and I were on the horses, with walkie-talkies so we could communicate with Augustus Frick at the house. We started in the walled garden, with the two sleen, each on its six short legs, snuffling around for the scent. We started in the garden, of course, because the ballroom opened out into this charming space, and the exit from the dungeon training room, a trapdoor, was the only one that had not been secured when the absence of the two kajirae, Seventeen and Nineteen, had been discovered.

I surmised that the trapdoor in the ballroom to the dungeon had served two purposes. The first, to bring kajirae  up to the ballroom to perform for the guests at Gorean themed events, the delightful curvaceous bodies delighting with their beauty and availability. The second, more sinister, was to remove such Free Women who had fallen afoul of the games of the Fricks and were condemned to a life of slavery, perhaps on Earth, more commonly on Gor.

Zach Frick had described such games to me, games designed for a selected woman to lose, with the forfeit being their freedom. Rigged games of chance, where the cupidity of the woman was enlisted to have her risk her freedom against a prize. They would be allowed to win small prizes, then asked if they cared to risk their small prize against a larger one. The targeted women would have seen other women walk away with the larger prizes and would eagerly agree. Of course, when they lost, they would lose all, the small prizes and their freedom. At some point they would be taken behind the curtains on the dais or orchestra space, and down the trapdoor they would go. The civilian guests would be none the wiser, the Fricks and the other members of the Families of North America, the Families aligned with the traders who were on Voyages of Acquisition, would have a good chuckle.

In their own way, the slavers of Gor, were as cruel as the tawny sleen Zach and I watched casting about for a scent, playing with their quarry before seizing it.

“Are they a breeding pair” I asked Zach as the sleen darted towards an exit from the walled garden.

“They were supposed to be,” but the dealer on Gor cheated Uncle Willard.”

 I had never met the murdered Patriarch of the Fricks, but from all I had heard, he was a cruel and vindictive man, unlikely to overlook an injury.

“The dealer sent us two males. He thought he would be safe, and we foolish Earth people would be unable to tell for years. But Uncle Willard had spent six years on Gor as a young man. He knew as soon as he examined the sleen that we had been swindled. We have contacts on Gor, that dealer died a painful prolonged death. These are juveniles, coming into their full growth, they are prairie sleen, they won’t grow much bigger than the six-foot length you see here.”

Suddenly, the sleen started off. They were clambering at the gate of the walled garden. This was the gate by the hedge maze, where I had been pleasured by the Kajira Nineteen. Zach opened the door; the sleen rushed through, with Zach and I following.

Out into the treed, grassed area behind the mansion, past the stables, then off the Frick property. We traversed a corn field, with the sleen on their stubby legs pulling at their leashes. They wandered through the corn, then for a moment were confused. Apparently the escaped kajirae had not taken a direct path through the corn. Perhaps they had lost their way in the dark?

After some time in the corn, we plunged into the woods. The low-hanging branches forced Zach and I to dismount and lead the horses, the sleen straining at their leashes to follow the trail. We ended up on the edge of some wetlands, nearly a swamp, mosquito infested, where we found some footprints. Naked feet had made these footprints, and they were fresh in the mud. The sleen circled around, then started away from the swamp into the woods. Back through the woods we went, Zach and I panting as we tried to keep up the pace that the hunting sleen set. The animals were enjoying themselves, their strong weasel-like smell increased in pungency.

We re-entered the cornfield, the sleen plunging through with greater confidence this time, ignoring the false trails. Zack and I remounted and followed the hunting beasts again across the corn, then re-entered the wood at a different point. I was sure this was the true trail, we were following a bridle path this time and did not need to dismount. The beasts pressed on, seeming to know no fatigue, pulling at the leashes.

Born hunters, cruel killers; they were enjoying this. Even when domesticated, the sleen is never truly tamed, it is like having a tiger as a house pet. Even when the beast is disposed to be friendly to you, it can turn at any moment. Zach told me these things as we rode along. Like the sleen, he was enjoying the hunt.

This was food for thought. I enjoyed consorting with the Fricks; I expected it to have its rewards. I must never forget though, that the Fricks too, many of them, were ruthless hunters, capable of cruelty, living in a harsh world. If they held their hands against VanRijn, fighting in the courts rather than with violence, it was because it was sound tactically to not to break cover, not from any moral scruples. Riding with them was like riding a tiger, or a sleen. I would have to be careful in this environment.  I thought of Juli in her collar, of owning her completely and legally, and decided it was worth the risks.

At a large dead oak at the far end of the woods, by the bridle path we came out into a meadow. The sleen did not even stop to gather a breath but headed straight across it. It had recently been cut for hay, the smell was captivating and delightful, although it did was not strong enough to cover the stench of the hunting sleen.

“Tally-ho,” shouted Zach as we moved quickly across the open grass carpeted meadow.

I grinned. I too was enjoying the chase. A couple of times in England, I had been invited to ride to hounds with ancient packs. This was much better than chasing an inoffensive fox. This was real quarry. Naked, curvy girls, collared already, slaves. So much better than an inedible little creature. They were Man’s natural prey in fact.

The meadow was large, it contained clumps of trees, but the sleen bypassed all of them. I saw we were headed towards an apple orchard. It looked old, as though almost forgotten and abandoned.

We swept into the orchard, through it and ended at a country road. The sleen stopped, circled around then came to a stop under two of the trees in the middle of the orchard. Up in the tree’s branches were fruit more delectable than the ripest apples: two naked women, clinging to the branches out of fright. The sleen were trying to get at them, their two front legs reaching up the trunks of the trees, their four hind legs crouching to leap.

We heard a car coming to a stop. Zach went towards the edge of the orchard. Suddenly the vehicle took off, going back in the direction from which it had come.

“They got away.” I was angry. Who were these bold thieves that tried to steal the property of the Fricks?

“I recognize the car.” Zach got on his walkie-talkie.

“Augustus, we have the girls, and I know who set them free, and who tried to steal them.  It was Chelsea.”

Kajira Nineteen’s Narrative.

If I had not been so scared as to what was to happen next, lying in the sun in the apple orchard, waiting for our savior, the person who had arranged for us to be freed would have been idyllic. Seventeen and I had spotted a stream on the other side of the road, and greatly daring, had dashed across and then laid on the ground, drinking from the cool running water. We were very thirsty. We drank until we were full.

A farm truck drove by. We did not flag it down, instead hiding in the bushes. The two young men did not look the sort to rescue two naked women, they looked like old time folk, unaffected by modern ideas of treating women with respect. That was the feeling about them that I had, and Seventeen agreed. We would wait for our rescuer. Surely after going to the trouble of getting us out of the House of Horrors where we had been confined, they would come and get us.

What horrors we had endured! Stripped of our clothes, of our freedom, then of our identities, finally of our very names; sorted like merchandise for dispatch to an alien world. I now believed in the alien world, I had been forced to start learning its language, and even worse, its ways. Women were slaves there, subject to men and their demands. Their representatives here kept us naked, forced us into submissive positions, took their pleasure with those who were already ‘opened for the use of men’. Those of us who were virgins were destined to have our ‘first use’ auctioned off. How degrading it was!. The worst was that it was beginning to seem natural, as though it were genetically encoded. I had learned to please men on my knees, using mouth and hands. And, well after a while it had seemed not too bad. The man was pleased, and sometimes I was given a piece of candy. Because everyone in our kennel shared in any rewards or punishments earned by any of our group, everyone in our kennel received a candy when I did well.

Punishment. I hoped that the other two who were kenneled with Seventeen and I were not punished because we had been rescued. It was not their fault! Eighteen was not white silk, she had been opened by her fiancé, but they had broken up. Our captors used her often; she claimed to like it. I liked the extra rations and sweets we got because of her.  Twenty had known about Gor from books she read; I think somewhere deep in her heart she had always hoped Gor was real.

I really hoped they were not punished because of our escape. We had drugged them, so our escape was not their fault. I did not mention this to Seventeen, I did not want her to worry.

We took another long drink, then carefully watching the road to make sure no one was coming, we dashed back across it to the orchard where we were to meet our rescuer. We had been late getting to the rendezvous but we hoped they would return.

The sun came filtered by the trees down into the orchard. We lay on the grass, luxuriating in being out of the enclosed dungeon feeling the breezes of freedom on our naked bodies. We were still naked, but it was more like being in the garden of Eden than in the slavery we had known for the past ten days.

“Nineteen, do you really think that they would have branded us. Burned us with white hot irons, marked us on our skin. Like people do with animals.”

“I don’t know for sure. Kailieka and Jade, our trainers, were branded. You could see it on their left thighs. So, they must have been branded, terrible as it is to think about.”

“Do you think it hurt very much, when they were marked as slaves. Marked for life?”

“I think it would hurt very much. I burned myself a bit once, when I accidentally got some hot boiling water poured on my when I was making tea. It really hurt and that was only second-degree burns. I think a hot iron branding would hurt more, and longer.”

“I think the Masters want it to hurt. So the girl remembers it. Remembers that she is marked as a slave.”

“Do you think we would have got used to it, got used to being slaves.”

“Oh no, I think that getting used to it is for natural slaves like Eighteen and Twenty. Eighteen liked it when the men fu.. I mean put her to use. She really liked it. I heard her beg Niles one time for just a quick use. She didn’t use the word use though. I think she was a natural slave.”

“Twenty as well. She had dreamed of it, I know she spoke of it lots of times, that she had had those kinds of dreams. And she read those kinds of books.”

“Nineteen, did you ever have those kinds of dreams?”

“Not really, maybe once or twice, but not really, It was certainly not what I wanted.

“Of course not.”

“What about you, Seventeen, did you ever dream of being ravished by a strong man, under the moon in a strange place?”

“No. Never. Well maybe as with you, if I had seen a movie or read a book. But no, Not really, not like I ever wanted to be a slave.”

I wondered as we lay on the grass in the orchard if Seventeen was lying as much as I was. Sometimes, when I was near sleep, waking or just going to sleep, when I was not in control of my thoughts, I had had those kinds of dreams. But those were just dreams. Not an indication of something my subconscious wanted. Indeed, the whole idea of the subconscious has been rather debunked these days anyway. I was free now and I intended to remain free.

We heard a vehicle coming. We crawled on our bellies to the edge of the orchard. It was that same farm truck going back the other way. There were a couple more men in it now. They were sitting in the back, in the truck bed and they were drinking beer and singing. For sure we were not going to hail them now. I was glad we had not revealed ourselves to them earlier.

We returned to the center of the orchard. It was a lovely day to be free. Even our nakedness did not bother us, it seemed normal somehow to be naked in nature.

“You will crawl on your belly, begging to be used.”

Where had that come from? Obviously, I had remembered something that one of the trainers had said. Yes, it was Jade. She was telling us that once we were trained, once we were opened, once our slave fires had been lit, we would crawl on our bellies to men, begging for use. Just a memory triggered by crawling to observe the truck go by. It meant nothing.

“She is too pretty to be freed.”

One of the trainers had said that about me. Were pretty women destined to be prey to men? Were we destined for the collar?

I had come into a room when Jimmy Klein, Amanda Sloan’s boyfriend had been talking. I had heard him say ‘Janey Anstruther is to pretty to…’ Janey Anstruther had been my name. I mean it is my name, it will be by name again when I am free. I think Jimmy was one of the people who gave my name to the Gorean slavers. I have to escape so I can warn Amanda about him.

I looked at Seventeen, as she lay in the grass, collared and naked, gently dozing. Was she too pretty to be freed? Objectively, if pretty women were destined for the collar, she would remain as she was right now, a collared naked girl. She was my friend; I could admit her beauty. Not quite as good looking as I am, but definitely pretty enough.

I shook my head to rid it of such thoughts. I was free, and Seventeen was my friend, and soon we both would be free for real. As soon as the car with our savior came.

“Tally ho.”

What was that?

“Tally ho.”

The sound of hoofs. I recognized them from movies I had seen. And some other sound of animals running.

“Quick. Up in the trees, we have to hide up in the trees, maybe they will miss us.”

Seventeen was up on her feet. She was alarmed but had a plan to hide. Clearly, we could not run to escape the men on horses. I was sure it was men.

I am short, Seventeen held me up so I could catch a bough and climb into a tree. She is a good friend. She climbed into the tree adjoining mine. Two men on horses rode into our orchard. It was no longer our haven, our Eden. One was the cruel young Slavemaster who had ‘processed’ us on the first day we spent in the dungeon. The other was the older one, the first man I ever pleasured. I remembered him in my mouth. I hoped that if he remembered that; he might treat me with some kindness.

With them were two tawny beasts. Beast with six legs and a foul stench. They circled our trees. They tried to climb up at us. I was very afraid.

“Protect us. Protect us from the beasts!  I beg you. I beg you.”

“Why should we protect you? You are runaway slaves. You can be whipped, or have your feet cut off, or thrown to sleen to devour.”

“You have to protect us. We are women; men are supposed to protect women.”

“You are beasts, slaves. Men protect free women.”

Seventeen was desperate.

“If we are slaves, we must have some value. Surely you want to protect your property?”

“But you claim to be free women.” It was the older man, the one in his thirties. He seemed to enjoy arguing; like a lawyer.

Seventeen would not give up. She was very afraid of the beasts. I was too.

“We are slaves, see our collars. We are slaves. Protect your property.”

The Slavemaster spoke to the older man, the one I called The Lawyer.

“Hold the sleen back, please.”

The older man, The Lawyer dismounted. He took the leashes of the beasts, the sleen. They seemed very reluctant to obey as he pulled them away.

“Come down from the trees, slaves. Come down if you would live.”

Seventeen came down from her tree. How beautiful she looked standing there naked and collared..

“You too, down out of the tree.”

I came out of shock and climbed down until I fell out of the tree.

“Nadu.”

Automatically Seventeen and I assumed the slaves’ position. Kneeling, hands on our thighs, back on our heels, legs and thighs widespread.

“Do you confess yourselves to be slaves, truly slaves, slaves forever, without any appeal?”

“Yes, yes Master.”

“La kajira?”

La kajira, Master.” We both confessed to being slaves forever. We had tried to escape but just ended up more enslaved than before.

La Kajira.