The Emma of Gor Trilogy: An Introduction

The 'Emma of Gor' trilogy is a series of fan-fiction books set on John Norman's Counter Earth world of Gor. Chronologically speaking, they occur in the following order:

Gods of Gor Chapter Eight

 

Chapter Eight: A Question of Honour

 

Kwame rose slowly, his grin vanishing, replaced by a thunderous scowl, muscles tensing like coiled vines. "You placed the flowers around her shoulders. You took Meralisha under them. You bound yourself before the spirits!"

 

“A simple misunderstanding,” said Brinn, as he regarded Kwame with a soppy smile. 

 

Here’s the thing – people sometimes misunderstand Brinn’s expression. When he’s trying to be diplomatic (and believe me, it doesn’t come easy to him) he ends up with this dopey expression on his face, and people either assume he’s intimidated (he really isn’t), he’s mentally deficient (okay, so the jury is sometimes out on that one) or he’s being patronising (Brinn is the least patronising person I’ve ever met. He always means exactly what he says). And I could see that right now he had that expression on his face, and Kwame was reading it as Brinn mocking his family.

 

“You bedded my sister!” snarled Kwame.

 

And here’s the other thing – arguments aren’t helped by delays, where Mina has to translate back and forth. Brinn would say something, Kwame wouldn’t understand him, and then both men would have to stare at each other and wait for Mina to find the words in the corresponding language. And God knows what important subtleties were lost in translation. And all the while a dark mood was boiling amongst the tribal men and women, and that in turn was making Brinn more defensive. Right now he would be thinking they weren’t listening to him, and they weren’t appreciating just how ‘nice’ he was being about the situation.

 

This was going to be a bloodbath.

 

We were all going to die.

Gods of Gor Chapter Seven

 

Chapter Seven: Blood Brothers

 

“I wear scarlet,” said Brinn, thumping his tightly muscled chest with the clenched fist of his right hand. “I am of the warriors – a High Caste on Gor. I do not… sneak around… like some common thief in Port Kar. Do not speak of this again, Emma.”

 

This was going to be difficult. 

 

I sighed, fearing the worst now. “They will try and kill you, Master. There will be spears raised and…”

 

“It is a misunderstanding – nothing more. But were I to slink away in the dead of night, then what would men say of my honour?”

 

“They might say you’re still alive?” suggested Tijani as he gazed out of the hut towards the river.

 

“Thank you, Master!” I said, grateful at least that Tijani was taking my side. 

 

“I am sometimes concerned you may not fully appreciate the concept of honour,” said Brinn, frowning now, to Tijani. “It is a complex principle, of course, but even so…”

 

“I’m a pirate,” said Tijani with a grin. “I reave, I pillage, and I wench. Not necessarily in that order.”

 

“Those things can be done honourably,” suggested Brinn.

 

“But not for long,” added Tijani. “Men like you always spoil things by demanding – say – one on one combat... to the death.”

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Seven

 

London 2014:

 

I was twelve years old when I bled for the first time. 

 

“You have your moon blood, Rebecca,” said my mother, proudly, as if I had just graduated to using the toilet on my own. “Oh, my dear baby, how the years have sped by.” She reached out and hugged me with a fierce joy that left me wondering whether now was perhaps a good time to ask her for a pony? 

 

I so wanted a pony. I had been begging my mother for over a year, but she had remained steadfast in her resolve. “Where would we put it, darling? We don’t have a stable.”

 

“Mother?” I had stained the bed sheets last night and my initial reaction was one of fright. Had I injured myself? The blood was clearly coming from between my legs. But when the house maid had secretly smiled at me that morning, and nodded her head in tacit understanding, I knew I wasn’t going to be told off. 

 

Father had been lost for words. He had looked clearly uncomfortable with the idea that he might speak to me about whatever had happened.

 

“Your mother will explain things, Rebecca.” And then he headed to the safety of his study before anyone might include him in the conversation. I heard the door lock with a degree of finality which meant he wasn’t to be disturbed. When my mother did talk to me, it was with a formality I hadn’t expected. I had been told to wait for her in my bedroom.

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Six

 

They didn’t tell me about Chastity Reach when I was arrested.

 

Or when they shot my dog.

 

They didn’t tell me about Chastity Reach when they took my parents away down a different corridor; my mother - with a leather hood over her head, buckled tightly around her throat - turning back once, already learning not to reach for me. They didn’t tell me during intake, or the first nights, or the days that blurred together in a way that made time feel like another thing they had confiscated.

 

They waited until the worst of it was over.

 

That was how I knew it mattered. By then, my body had learned the rules. How to sit. How to stand. How to answer without tone. The pain had receded into something dull and instructional. I had stopped expecting explanations. I knew how to ‘play the game’. I knew what made the difference between punishment and approval.

 

So when they moved me to a smaller room - cleaner, quieter - I felt something close to relief. There was a chair. A table. A cup of water already waiting for me.

The woman who came in wore a soft institutional grey instead of black. No insignia. Her hair was neatly arranged, her hands folded as if this were a conversation between equals.

 

“Rebecca,” she said.

 

It startled me that she used my first name.

Gods of Gor Chapter Six

 

Chapter Six: Rite of the River Whisper

 

There’s a scene in an early episode of HBO’s TV series, Rome, where an entire Roman legion is standing around in a long column, not going anywhere, and then the camera tracks over to the side of a tree where General Mark Antony (played by the always brilliant James Purefoy) is fucking a peasant girl up against the trunk, and the entire Roman army has to wait for him to finish before they can continue marching. 

 

Well, I know what’s that like now, because this was day three of us sitting around in the village while Brinn fucked around with one of their Free Women.

 

“I thought you, as a rule, never had sex with Free Women, Master?” I said to him on the third day. 

 

“I never said that,” said Brinn as he sat on a cot bed beside a beautiful, sleeping, black skinned woman. I had seen her walking around the village, and she was as graceful as a gazelle, with long legs and a seductive smile. I knelt, lacing up his sandals as he yawned and stretched his arms. “When did I ever say that? Is it too early for paga?”

 

“Yes it is too early for paga.” I had already hidden his bottle. “Master, this is all lovely, I’m sure, but even Tijani is getting impatient. You have four slaves. You don’t need to…” I stopped talking as I saw the Free Woman stir in her sleep. A few seconds passed by and then when I felt sure she wasn’t waking up, I continued to speak in a quiet whisper. “And the village men here think you have companioned her.”

 

Brinn laughed at that. “You have quite the imagination, Emma. Companioned her – as if I would do that.”

 

“No, Master, listen to me – I’ve been picking up some of the language, and Mina filled in some of the details last night while you were…”

 

“Wasn’t there a paga bottle by my bed?” mused Brinn as he scratched his enormous hairy balls. The shaft of his penis looked impressive even while it lay flaccid. It resembled a short hosepipe. 

 

“I think you must have drunk it all, Master. But, please, listen to me… 

What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Five

 

Chapter Five: Adjustments

 

I heard the bolt slide back before I heard the hinges creak.

 

I was sitting on the floor with my back against the wall, the blanket pulled around my shoulders, when the door opened and a man stepped inside carrying a pair of scissors. They were large, industrial-looking things, the metal dull and nicked, like they had been used for purposes other than hair. He did not look at me at first. He closed the door carefully behind him, then set a small stool in the centre of the cell. “Stand up,” he said.

 

My stomach dropped. I stayed where I was. “What is this?” I asked. My voice sounded thin, even to me. “Please. What are you doing?”

 

He glanced at me then, briefly, without interest. “Grooming adjustment,” he said. “Routine.”

 

“No.” The word came out before I could stop it. I pressed my hands to my head instinctively, fingers threading into my hair. “Please don’t. You don’t need to do this. I’ll cooperate. I have been cooperating. You know I’ve been cooperating! Please, let me talk to Michael!”

 

He sighed, as if I were being tedious. “Stand up,” he repeated.

 

When I didn’t move quickly enough, he crossed the room and took hold of me by my hair. His grip was rough and absolute as he pulled me to my feet and guided me to the stool as though positioning a piece of furniture. My knees trembled as I sat.

 

“Please,” I said again. “My hair - please. It’s all I have left.”