Mistress of Gor Chapter One

Chapter 1: I meet the predatory Udumi Ayeola, and am kidnapped to Gor

“Pretty little kajira.”

That was it. That was the moment that all this began, in the final weeks of that tumultuous year in which the threat of Ebola, fundamental Islamic terrorism and the collapsing Russian economy dominated the headlines on Earth, when I first met the manipulative, single minded, ruthless and yet incredibly beautiful woman, Udumi Ayeola, who set me on the horrifying road to my current life as I know it now. It seems hard to imagine that a cold night in December, which at the time seemed so much like any other, was the spark that changed my life forever, and yet it was no chance meeting, for Udumi had been aware of me for several weeks before hand and, without my knowledge, had built up a comprehensive dossier of my most private life. I understand now that men working for her had acquired copies of all my Internet records, had in fact tapped my computer and had broken into my home, searched my personal effects, all without leaving a single trace in their wake. Udumi's people are professional and very experienced at the black subterfuge that they perform on her behalf.

So, it all truly began that night a week or two before Christmas when I was sitting on a bar stool in the 'Hellfire club', slowly tapping out a text message on my shiny new iphone with my long fingernails. The Hellfire club is a monthly BDSM night club event that takes place in Milton Keynes where it attracts a heady mix of alternative types from all the broad and diverse strands of the fetish scene. If the name itself puts you in mind of the notorious club set up by Sir Francis Dashwood in the 18th century then I regret to inform you that the contemporary namesake doesn't live up to the decadent and baroque comparison. Like virtually every public BDSM club it operates on a strictly consensual kink basis only, and by and large you'd find that the so called 'submissives' top from the bottom, which is to say, the dominants only get to do to the submissives what the submissives want done in the first place. The dress code though is strictly enforced to prevent vanilla men from wandering in off the street out of curiosity without making any effort to blend in and harass the regulars. The venue tends to change every six to nine months but recently it was held in a mostly derelict building on the outskirts of Milton Keynes. In addition to the open plan bar area it has rooms spread out on three floors. Some of these rooms are changing rooms for customers who prefer not to arrive in full fetish wear. Other rooms are fitted out with a range of dungeon equipment – T bars and X frames equipped with shackles, spanking benches, cages, whipping posts, stocks and so on. Other rooms are simply equipped bedrooms with double mattresses covered in elasticated rubber under sheets and complimentary condoms and lube for those who like to 'play'. If you are not familiar with the BDSM scene in England you might perhaps imagine some decadently attractive scene resembling the stately home orgy party in the film 'Eyes Wide Shut' where everybody is a lithe super model. The truth is a little more ordinary and suburban as the scene attracts the same mix of body types as your average High Street bar. For every one good looking person in a fetching leather and rubber ensemble, there are several out of shape and sweaty men and past their prime middle-aged women, who through no fault of their own would never make it as cover stars of Skin2 magazine.

I had grown familiar with the BDSM scene over the last couple of years on account of the fact that the various club nights across the South of England were T-girl friendly nights out where I could indulge my deep rooted and sadly secret passion for dressing as a beautiful woman. They were places where I could flaunt my artificial femininity in considerable safety. T-girls (or transvestites or cross dressers if you prefer) usually made up a small percentage (perhaps 1 in 20) of the attendees on any one night. Though there were no doubt a few BDSM types who felt we didn't belong there, we were generally made welcome and in my case often approached to join in group spanking sessions. With very rare exceptions I tended to decline politely, and this was chiefly on account of the fact that most of the invitations came from bi-sexual men. A lot of people make the assumption that because I go to great lengths to dress and present myself as a fashionable woman, I must be gay. Not so. The simple truth is that I adore women so much that not only do I want to have sex with them, I want to look like them as well. A lot of people are surprised by that, but that's okay because surprises can be fun, or so I thought at the time.

This wasn't a full time thing for me, but it was gradually becoming more and more frequent. At work I was an ordinary guy, albeit maybe a little more metrosexual than most, but most nights when I got home I would change into a wig and female clothes to relax in. Everything felt better when I was dressed as a girl. At night I wore silk chemises and camisoles to bed, and in the morning I would eat breakfast wearing a silk wrap, tightly belted at my waist. But my real pleasure came from the nights when I would go out to bars and clubs with like-minded friends. Then came the full ritual of bathing in hot scented water, painstakingly shaving my legs and what little hair I had on my chest, applying expensive cosmetics to my face, shaping my slim body with a waist cincher corset and C-cup latex breast forms, drawing stockings up my long legs, applying a good quality Noriko wig and MAC eyelashes, painting my nails, or fixing false ones depending on my mood, and dressing in daring but well cut dresses. That put me in my happy space. Then, with glossy heels, a designer handbag or clutch, several puffs of Dolce & Gabbana Light Blue perfume, and a nervous feeling in the pit of my stomach, I would call up a taxi and enjoy an intoxicating night out as a girl.

I lived in a rented flat in North London and gradually over the last few years it had filled up with girl things to the point where I was having to put some of my boy stuff in storage. Wigs, cosmetics, silk lingerie, clothes, shoes, handbags, and costume jewellery began to fill every nook and cranny of my modest two bedroom property. To begin with everything was hidden away but within a year I had grown careless and much of it was left lying around, giving the place a very feminine feel. I liked seeing pretty dresses hanging from the back of a door. I liked seeing my dressing table covered in cosmetics with a couple of wig stands close by. I liked seeing strappy 'fuck me' heels scattered around the floor. And I liked to see bangles, earrings and necklaces casually discarded on my shelves along with a collection of perfume bottles. I liked having silk wraps hanging in the bathroom, ready for me to slip into in the morning.

All my adult life I had longed to dress and look like a girl. The fantasy had eaten away at me since early puberty when in noticing girls properly for the first time, I had been captivated by heir clothes, their hair and the way they moved. Men's fashion was dull and boring in comparison. It really seemed that we had drawn the short straw, for girls had access to everything that I wanted to wear. For years I longed to look like the girls in Vogue, Cosmopolitan and Marie Claire magazines. On the High Street I would feel guilty as my eyes would inevitably be drawn towards window displays of women's fashions. Gorgeous clothes by All Saints, Karen Millen, Lipsy, Jane Norman and Ted Baker would take my breath away and I would long to wear them. And then one day I took that fateful first step and decided that I would do. The first six months were a steep learning curve. Everything that a real girl had learnt slowly throughout her life, I had to learn in a crash course. Make-up, hair, nails, clothes, shoes, how to walk, how to emote with my hands and my body. I watched women closely in the street and in cafes – their body language was a joy to behold, the way they sat, the way they moved, the way they gestured with their hands while they talked, and the way they leaned forward when confiding quietly with a friend. I took everything in and as the months rolled by I got better and better at this.

I make no claims that I'd 'pass'. I'm too tall, I have an Adam's Apple, and my facial features, while reasonably pretty when wearing a wig and full make-up, were never quite feminine enough to pass detection, though being blessed with an oval/inverted triangle face and high cheekbones helped. I kept myself slim and was paranoid about not putting on muscle on my arms and legs. I could enhance my figure with a punishingly tight waist cincher to give me an hour glass shape when combined with breast forms, and I had the advantage of superb long legs that were good enough to attract the envy of real women when they spoke to me in bars and clubs. But no, I was never 'passable'. The common reaction would always be something along the lines of “look, I know you're a man, but you look really, really good dressed as a girl.” And on the whole that was good enough for me. After all you have to accept your limitations in life. It was good enough to be able to turn heads for all the right reasons when I walked into a bar in my strappy heels and scandalously shirt skirt. If many bi-sexual men (and a few women) wanted me sexually, did it really matter that they knew I was actually a guy? After all it wasn't as if I'd ever have the option to be a real girl...

If I'm being honest I wasn't at the Hellfire club that night for any other reason than a night out as a girl. I had booked a friday night room at the nearby Hilton hotel for a very reasonable ￡65.00 which I would use as a place to get changed and then crash out when I got back from the club. Usually when I'm out at what I call 'vanilla' bars and clubs I dress accordingly and wear up-market High Street fashion – the skirts, tops and dresses typically worn by fashionable twenty/thirty something girls. I don't go for a 'sissy' look nor the Pantomime Dame/Shirley Bassey looks favoured by Drag Queens. I'm kind of 'Little Miss Top Shop' who dreams of one day going to sleep and waking up as Kate Moss. But when I go to a BDSM club the rules change a little and I release my 'inner slut'. The Hellfire Club in particular has certain strict 'fetish' dress code rules. Luckily for me, the fact that I'm a guy who dresses as a girl means I automatically qualify as 'fetish dress' whatever I choose to wear. But one rule still applies regardless, because at the Hellfire club you are either clearly dominant or submissive, and this is expressed by the fact that submissives must wear a collar, and dominants don't. Which was fine by me for the idea of having a collar about my throat was something of a turn on. That night I had dressed provocatively in a light white clingy tunic dress of stretchy fabric with a risque hem line that barely covered my panties. The artificially induced girlish contours of my body were amply displayed by the skimpy garment. On my feet I wore light tan coloured strappy heels and around my throat I wore a steel collar that came with a rigid O-ring and a pin locking system that I had purchased from Honour, a store near Waterloo station in London. It was thrilling to place the collar around my throat in my hotel room, close my eyes, click it shut and lock it. The collar came with a single key which I placed for safe keeping in my handbag. I accessorised further with jingly bangles on my left wrist, hoop clip-on earrings and, a nice finishing touch I thought, an anklet covered in small dancing bells that I tied about my right ankle. I had bought it from a mail order supplier that sold Belly Dancing accessories. I wore a long blonde wig and heavily contoured make-up matched with smouldering layers of eye-shadow and cherry red lipstick that made my lips look bigger. I felt good with the look, daring as it was, and knew I was bound to have a great night out. Unfortunately the T-girl friend I was due to meet at the club had failed to turn up and I was in the process of answering her text (her car had broken down on the way from Bristol) when I heard the fateful words spoken behind me that were about to change my life forever.

“Pretty little kajira.”

It's quite possible the phrase may mean nothing to you, but it was very familiar to me. 'Kajira' is the term for 'slave girl' in the Gorean novels of John Norman. Gor is a specialised and rather too serious sub-set of the English speaking BDSM scene, popular in both Britain and America. While never a big scene in real life, it commands quite a following on the Internet in chat rooms and 'Second Life'. I had read a couple of the books when I was a teenager and was therefore more or less familiar with John Norman's fictional world of dominant warrior Alpha men and the correspondingly submissive slave girls. The books had been a guilty pleasure and an early trigger for experimental masturbation during my confused and nervous adolescence.

So when I heard those words I glanced up from where I sat on the bar stool with my slim ankles crossed, my thighs pressed tightly together, which is of course the only way you can sit on a high bar stool when you're wearing a dress as brief as mine. It was a woman, young, dark skinned, possibly of African-American origin, impossibly beautiful for a mainstream fetish club such as this, dressed in what could only be a very expensive and hand made skin-tight leather cat suit. A coiled whip hung from a clip at her belt and she wore no collar, so it was clear from the outset that she was dominant by nature.

I felt a nervous flutter of butterflies in my stomach as I quickly cancelled the text message I was in the process of writing, and replaced the phone in my open handbag to regard this gorgeous creature instead.

“Thank you, Mistress,” I said by way of reply. It seemed the most appropriate and flirtatious thing to say at this point. I smoothed down the fabric of my dress skirt with long fingers tipped with French nails and I smiled softly as she checked me out. Please let her like what she sees, I thought to myself.

“You know what a kajira is, don't you?” she asked as she sat down on the vacant stool next to mine.

I nodded as I picked up my wine glass. “I do, yes.”

“Good. You're very pretty. What's your name?” The woman hung her own black leather handbag on the back of her stool. As I watched she clicked her fingers which was the signal to make the barman stop whatever he was doing and attend to her needs immediately. “A Manhattan please, Karl.” Obviously she knew his name.

“Emma. Emma Price.” This was good. This was very good. Usually it was men who approached me, and I had no real interest in men. Even when women did approach me, most assumed I was gay and simply wanted a 'gay best friend' to hang out and go shopping with. Rarely would a woman want anything more with a T-girl, and even those who did would never look as stunning as this one did.

“Hello Emma, or should I say Tal, Emma. My name is Udumi.” 'Tal' it should be noted is another Gorean word from the series of cult SF 'sword and planet' adventure novels. It is a form of greeting used by free men and women. The world of Gor is supposed to be a Counter Earth that occupies the opposite position in space to our own, the idea being that it is always out of sight screened by the sun. One of the main themes of the books is that this Counter Earth has had its technology level frozen at a quasi 'Conan the Barbarian' level by an alien insectoid race called the Priest Kings. The other main theme is that some Goreans, who despite living in a world where swords and shields are the most advanced forms of weapons, have access to alien space travel enabling them to journey to Earth, abduct beautiful women and sell them in the slave markets of Gor, thus fulfilling many bondage fantasies of its readers. There are complex reasons why this anachronistic mish-mash of technologies exists side by side, but I will go into that later when it becomes more relevant. The stories are written in the first person, usually through the eyes of either the main protagonist - a warrior called Tarl Cabot - or through the eyes of Earth men and women brought to Gor and enslaved against their will. The books can never be regarded as bespoke literature but as escapist bondage fashion on an exotic alien world they have introduced many readers to erotic concepts that were otherwise the preserve of specialist magazines in back street sex shops before the days of the Internet. That these books were freely available to readers of any age in the SF section of ordinary book shops meant they got into the hands of otherwise vanilla readers such as myself who were looking for something 'a bit like Conan' and subsequently corrupted us at an impressionable age. That's my excuse anyway and I'm sticking to it.

“I approve of your dress,” said Udumi as she was handed her Manhattan in the traditional glass. As far as I could tell she wasn't charged for it. “It suits you and is appropriate. Your make-up is of a very high standard and you have better legs than most women.” She gazed at them again. “They're almost as good as mine. You are very lucky.”

“Thank you.” I smiled and ran my index finger around the rim of my wine glass. I couldn't help but uncross and cross my long legs as she watched.

“I think you are also vain which is appropriate in a kajira.” She sipped her drink and watched my reaction. I admit I was enjoying this. With my free hand I fingered the metal collar around my throat. This was turning out to be a very good night indeed. “When did you first come across Gor?”

“When I was a teenager. I bought a couple of the books not knowing what they would be like.”

Udumi nodded. “Of course many men enjoyed them because they identified with the strong, powerful men of Gor. They would read the stories and imagine how exciting it would be to have a slave girl in a camisk and sirik chains kneeling before them, desperate to please their Master.” Udumi paused. “But that wasn't the case for you, was it, Emma?”

“No...” I whispered and blushed a little.

“No, that wasn't you, Emma. You imagined you were the helpless slave girl in her steel collar, her dancing silks, beautiful but chained, abducted from Earth to be trained under the threat of the whip and sold in the slave pens of Gor. Always longing to be free, but always the slave at the mercy of free men and women. You identified with the slave girls. That was your fantasy.”

“Yes...” I squirmed a little on my bar stool for I was never comfortable admitting to or talking about my fantasies.

“Lift your skirt to expose your thighs, Emma.”

I did so, my breath quickening a little as Udumi gave me a command and then reached into her designer bag to produce an indelible marker pen of some kind. It was a deep burgundy red with a broad tip. With a smile she carefully inscribed a cursive and graceful character high on my left thigh, under the hip, somewhat similar in style to the letter 'K'. As she drew her hand back to admire her work she asked me, “do you know what that is Emma?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “A representation of the Gorean 'kef' slave brand. The first letter for the word 'kajira'.” I glanced down at my thigh. Udumi had drawn it in the exact position where a slave girl would be branded with the mark. It is high enough to be covered even by the brevity of a typical slave girl tunic. It was a powerfully erotic feeling to have been marked like that by this beautiful dark skinned woman. More so since I knew that the ink from the marker pen would take a week or so to disappear. I would continue to wear that graceful mark under my trousers long after I had reluctantly changed back to male clothes.

“Mmm, it will serve as a brand for you tonight, Emma. Of course you understand I'm using your name as a slave name. I could call you something else, but for the time being Emma will suffice.” She could clearly see the effect this way of talking was having on me as I self consciously touched my 'brand' and tugged the hem of my skirt down to cover it as a slave girl might. I was by now very turned on and if my penis hadn't been tucked away by tight knickers, trapped between my thighs to give me a smooth panty line under this skirt, I would already be in the throes of a full erection. As it was it was an uncomfortable trapped feeling. I was already under Udumi's spell and falling deeper with each passing minute.

“I can see a lock on your collar.” Udumi smiled as I nodded. “Where is the key?”

“In my handbag.” I watched and didn't object as Udumi took my bag, searched inside and withdrew the slim key from a side pocket.

“So small,” she said as she unzipped her cat suit a couple of inches and placed the key inside her bra. “How does that make you feel, pretty little kajira?”

I hadn't felt this turned on in months. I sat there entranced as she left me with no way to remove the collar from my neck. Of course I knew this was just an erotic game in a BDSM club, but even so the idea that I couldn't now remove the collar without her permission was intoxicating. A lot of my sexual fantasies seem to be an exercise in walking a very thin tightrope between safety and danger. You never truly want things to tun bad, but you want the thrill of feeling they could do at any moment and being as close to the point of no return as possible without actually taking that final step.

“La kajira, Mistress.” It was a phrase I remembered from the couple of Gor books I had read many years ago. The phrase translates as “I am a slave girl” and I knew it would make the beautiful Udumi smile, which of course it did.

“Very good. I'm extremely pleased to have met you tonight, Emma. You're exactly what I was hoping to find. Even better than expected.”

“I'm glad. It's been a long time since I talked to someone like you in a club.”

“But Emma, you've never talked to anyone like me in a club before. Look after my drink. I'm going to freshen up in the toilets. I'll be back in ten minutes. In the meantime consider the thought that you're a branded kajira in a steel collar that you can't remove. Think how that makes you feel deep inside. I'm going to make a decision about you – a very important decision, Emma – and if the decision goes the way I think it will, I'm going to give you tonight what you think you have always wanted, and what you therefore deserve.”

It was a curious turn of phrase but I nodded as Udumi rose from her stool, picked up her handbag and walked with confident steps towards the communal toilets. I let out a deeply held breath as I considered what the events of the coming night had in store for me. Would she want to take me to one of the dungeon rooms upstairs? Oh God, I hoped so. I squeezed my thighs together tightly in excitement and imagined the things that were still to come. I would be her kajira for a couple of hours of exquisite role-play. My attention was distracted by the barman, Karl, placing a glass of wine by my elbow. “Compliments of the Mistress.” he said as he watched me. As I looked closely I could tell it was sparkling fizz of some kind. “Champagne, not sparkling wine, he said. “Relax. Enjoy.”

I sipped the champagne with a growing sense of nerves. This was going to be a night to remember. Sadly, I had no idea how right I was. Five minutes turned to ten and then to fifteen and then suddenly my mobile phone rang. I retrieved it from my bag and checked to see that there was a text message from 'Udumi'. But... she didn't know my number? How did she know my number? A second text appeared quickly after the first. The first text message was a photo taken on her phone camera. It was a close up of the key to my collar hanging on a wire around her throat. The second text gave the address of a nearby house. It also read 'let's take this further, Emma. You have 15 minutes. Come as you are now. Otherwise you will never see me again.'

The implication was clear. If I didn't go to that address immediately, this very minute, I wouldn't have any way of removing the metal collar around my neck, except through the incredibly embarrassing option of calling out a locksmith. This was stepping outside the boundaries of consensual play and I suddenly felt a wave of anger. That sort of behaviour could get her banned from a club like this. How dare she! I checked the time stamp on the texts. Already three minutes had gone by. Did she mean what she said? Would she really leave the house in another twelve minutes time, taking the key to my collar with her? I touched the collar, rotated it around my throat and felt the small lock. Fuck, it really wouldn't come off without a key. Udumi really had crossed a line here. And yet... it sounded like this was still a promise of kinky bondage sex to come. She was going to give me what I wanted, what I needed, what I deserved. Maybe I shouldn't be quite so quick to get angry. After all, to her this was probably part and parcel of being dominant. Maybe she was just more hard core and took the play more seriously than the other Dommes.

I hurried out of the main club area, out into the entry hall where the cloak room was situated. No time to queue for my coat, and anyway she said to come as I was. Outside it was cold, no more than six or seven degrees centigrade, though thankfully no wind or rain to speak of. I rubbed my bare arms and pressed my thighs together as I glanced towards the taxi rank, twenty yards away to the left of the club, on the other side of the road. Before I could cross the road in my high heels, one of the taxis peeled away from the line and drew up beside me. Now that's what I call service, I thought. Quickly, I hurried to the rear door and pulled it open. It's always difficult to climb into or out of a cab gracefully and with dignity in a short skirt, but by now I was reasonably practised in doing so. Nevertheless, I noticed the taxi driver gazing at my long legs in his rear view mirror as my brief skirt rode up almost exposing my panties. I smoothed the skirt back down with a slight blush, closed the door behind me, fumbled in the dark for the seat belt and repeated the address that Udumi had texted to me. “Please hurry,” I said as I brushed my hair from my eyes. “I have a friend waiting for me who can be very impatient.”

“No problem,” came the deep gruff voice of the taxi driver. I could only see the back of his head as I settled back in my seat, but I could tell he was very tall and powerfully built – no stranger to the free weights in the gym. We drove down unfamiliar streets, for my knowledge of the Milton Keynes outskirts is practically zero, and from time to time I saw in the rear view mirror the man's eyes regard me as I gripped the hem line of my clingy dress, holding it in position against my thighs. For some reason I felt a bit exposed like this, though normally I had no qualms in jumping into a taxi, dressed provocatively. But somehow the dark set eyes of this man made me feel more self conscious than usual.

“Have you had many passengers tonight?” I asked, feeling I should break the silence.

“No.” He glanced at me again in the rear view mirror and then turned into a side road. Obviously he didn't want to talk, which was unusual in a taxi driver. I normally can't get them to shut up, for they're forever asking endless questions about my lifestyle choice. Reaching into my handbag I produced my mobile phone and tried to check my Facebook page on the way to the house, but to my irritation I found there was no signal. Frustrated, I replaced it in the bag and tried to figure out where we were. Unless I was mistaken, we seemed to be peeling off and driving into the surrounding countryside.

“Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked.

“Yes.” The man continued to drive, but now his hand pressed a switch situated close to the CD player controls on the dashboard. Without warning a glass partition shot up from the back of the front seats, cutting the taxi cab into two compartments. I jumped forward in alarm, as far as my seat belt would allow, and banged on the glass.

“Hey, what's going on? Stop the car!”

But the taxi driver chose to ignore me. As I banged repeatedly with my fists on the glass, he turned a CD on and some loud pounding heavy metal music drowned out my outraged demands for him to pull over. I slumped back in my seat and tried to wind down the side window but could find no control to do so. And try as I might I could find no catch by which to open either of the side doors. I was trapped inside the back of the cab, being driven out of the city to God knows where.

I felt a rising tide of fear now as I kicked out with my feet at the back of the driver's chair, but it was like hitting reinforced steel. I cried in frustration and pulled out my phone again. Still no signal. Not even a single bar, and this was supposed to be a 4G phone.

“Please! Please stop this car! Please!” I wasn't able to think straight. There must be something I could do. We drove for several more minutes until the car turned off again down a dirt track road. The bumps and jolts suggested we were driving over broken earth with scattered pot holes. Eventually the broad beams of the car's headlights picked out a small isolated farm house with a nearby barn. The farm house was dark, but the barn doors were open and inside was illuminated by arc lights. Close by was an incongruous looking building, very out of place in the setting of the rural surroundings - an oddly shaped structure – almost a perfect cube with three or four floors. It was very plain, giving it an art-deco simplicity, and it had very few windows – merely two large ones facing out together on the upper floor, and infrequent smaller rectangles the size of portholes elsewhere.

Another luxury Mercedes cars was parked outside this structure, illuminated by bright light which streamed out from an open doorway.I screamed as I saw two men waiting by the side of the barn entrance. I screamed even louder when I saw that one of them was carrying a large gun of some kind in his right hand. This was insane! This couldn't be happening to me! The only thing I knew for sure was that when the taxi stopped and inevitably the side door was opened, I was going to fight. I had seen enough film and TV shows to know that you simply did not surrender in situations like this. Once you did you were even more helpless than before and that's when the truly horrible things happened to you, like torture. Even if I was going to die in the process, I would fight as soon as the men opened the door, gun or no gun. I'd rather be shot dead than be tortured slowly in a barn for whatever sick reason. Only now my head was beginning to spin and I was feeling weak and nauseous. I had to blink to stay awake. I began to get tunnel vision and distorted sound effects as the taxi drove into the barn and the two men waiting by the doorway stepped inside and closed the doors shut behind them. I slumped forward against my seat belt and shook my head furiously to stay awake. I was dimly aware of the short hemline of my clinging dress riding high up on my thighs, revealing silk knickers underneath. The champagne – it was drugged.

A door opened and I moaned as hands reached in to unclip my seat belt. I swung my hands up and had them batted casually aside. Struggling weakly, I felt myself lifted from the back of the car and thrown onto the straw on the floor of the barn.

“Please... no...”

Other hands removed my strappy heeled shoes. They were thrown to the far side of the barn to be disposed of later.

“Any problems, Malik? Did anyone pay you any attention?” The voice belonged to the gorgeous Udumi Ayeola as she came in to my line of blurred sight from the far side of the barn. I tried to focus on her legs as I lay there, growing gradually weaker and weaker. Udumi presumably still wore the leather cat suit but now she wore a dark ankle length flowing gown with long sleeves over it, which served to conceal the contours of her body from the eyes of the men. The garment resembled the 'Robes of Concealment' which Gorean Free Women in the books were obliged to wear to ensure they did not reveal so much as a bare ankle, for Gorean society is based on very strict standards for its Free Women. They are obliged to observe strict forms of modesty, not dissimilar to the customs of the Middle East on Earth. Any slight deviation from the rigidly applied dress codes and expected behaviour would inevitably be met with severe consequences for Gorean society is said to be uncompromising on such matters and women are either scandalously attired slaves or modest and chaste Free Women, with nothing in-between. Too, Udumi now wore a veil across her lower face, another feature of the clothing attributed to Gorean Free Women. According to the books it is a serious matter indeed for a Free Woman to reveal her face before men. She is expected to wear a series of veils, the degree of opaqueness determined by her environment and who might see her. It seemed that before these strong men, the lovely Udumi wished to appear uncompromisingly as a Free Woman of the books, reinforcing perhaps her status.

“None. It was dark and no one pays attention to anything these days. Just another pick up.” The man who spoke was the driver. He produced a military style knife and cut away the flimsy dress that I was wearing. He then did the same to the body forming waist cincher underneath it. “Look at him,” he said with a shake of his head. “Earth men are pathetic. First they let themselves be dictated to by their women, and then they pretend to be women themselves. They sicken me.”

“He/she can't help it,” said Udumi. “Don't mock what you don't understand.” She crouched down beside me, resting on the back of her heels as she turned my face to one side. “I'm grateful actually. After all, you make it so easy for us Emma. No one in the club knows who you really are, or what you look like without the make-up and wig. You've arranged things neatly so that no one in your vanilla life has any idea where you've gone or what you get up to. Making you disappear tonight is child's play. If you never turn up at the club night again the others there will simply think you've given up on the fetish scene. It was so much more difficult when we used to kidnap real women. But this... this is so easy.” She stroked my face almost tenderly. “Poor little Emma, so happy playing the role of a submissive little kajira in the fetish club. It was fun for a while, yes? But now you're going to have the real thing. Do you know what slavery is really like, outside of your fantasies? It's like a long, slow death. A long slow death of who you are and what you might one day have become if you had never met a predator like me. It's nothing like the fantasies. But look on the bright side. Very soon you won't have to worry about these any more...” she reached and pulled the silicone breast forms out from my bra, “you'll have real ones of your very own, to give pleasure to men. And no more ugly penis that you have to tuck away in two pairs of tight knickers three sizes too small. You'll be a real woman, Emma. I'm going to give you that. You can thank me now, for I suspect you won't thank me later.”

“Feel so weak... tired... dizzy...”

“It's better this way. Otherwise you might have resisted, and if you had done that these men would have had to hurt you. They're very good at hurting people. The champagne at the bar was drugged of course.”

“Why... I haven't... I haven't done anything...”

“I'm a slaver, Emma. A very good one as it happens. Long ago I was a slave on Gor, abducted from Earth as you will be tonight, but my circumstances changed. You do not need to know how or why, except that now I am free, and now I serve to oversee captures of men such as yourself – men who secretly fantasise of being women and submissive ones at that. There are so many men on Earth who secretly dream of being a submissive woman. Once, not so long ago, my Masters captured beautiful women and shipped them to Gor, but recently an alternative has been made possible. We captured technology from our enemies, and this technology permits the reshaping of human flesh. It is not without an element of danger, but when it works it allows us to turn men into beautiful slave-like women. Precisely the sort of women who my Masters once hunted. Taking men such as you is far easier. You practically offer yourselves up to us.”

“There's no such thing as Gor...” I moaned, feeling the earth and sky swirl around me. “This is just a game...”

Udumi laughed. “Everyone says that, until they find themselves on Gor, on their knees, collared, leashed, at the mercy of a whip. Gor is real, Emma. Very, very real. You will soon see. We have a ship that will take you there, but first...” Udumi gestured to a line of clear perspex cylinders, each just large enough to hold a human being, that were lined up inside the barn on metal supports. A small loading vehicle like the ones used in warehouses was already shifting the first of the cylinders and carrying it across pitted and tracked earth towards the unusual cube-like building. There were 15 cylinders in all, and of them nine were currently occupied by bodies. Seven of the bodies were still recognisably men who were undergoing some form of transformation, controlled by a bank of machinery from which thick cables snaked across the ground towards the cylinders. A thickly muscled man in a black tunic with Roman like short hair was calibrating some of the settings, responding to read outs from the system. The bodies rested in a pink fluid that may once have been translucent but as it dissolved and reshaped flesh, became soiled with non-recyclable matter.

“No...” I moaned softly as one of the huge men injected me in my left arm with some sort of serum. “Please let me go. Please... you don't have to do this...”

“What part of the word 'slaver' do you not understand, Emma?” asked Udumi with irritation. “Better I enslave men like you who dream of being a submissive slave-girl, then take genetically born women by force who never asked for anything of the sort. It's nothing personal. I either do this or I return to a collar on Gor myself.” She turned to one of the men and said something to him in a language I didn't understand. For a few minutes they spoke, and although I could not understand what they were saying, I could tell that Udumi was speaking respectfully to the man, whereas he spoke with assumed natural authority back to her. Udumi, it seemed, was secondary in status to all the men in this remote farmstead, and she was not going to give the men any cause to be displeased with her.

I said that seven of the nine cylinders contained men, so far as I could tell from the shapes floating in the clouds of pink fluid within. The other two cylinders held beautiful women, nude except for collars locked around their throats. Both of them were unconscious, and of course neither was being transformed in any way. The other six cylinders were currently empty, though I could see one of them being opened, presumably to hold myself.

“I think my final capture is arriving,” remarked Udumi as another car drove down the dirt track with its headlights dipped.

“That only makes eleven units,” said the man in the black tunic near the bank of machinery. “You are supposed to procure fifteen units per shipment.” He did not seem pleased. As the new car parked itself close to the barn, Udumi replied calmly,

“It's not so easy any more. I have to be careful. The authorities have many missing persons cases now. They are beginning to spot similarities in the abductions. Eleven units is all I could arrange this time.”

“You were told to procure Fifteen. The Others will not be pleased.”

“I will do better next time,” said Udumi, still sounding calm, but deep down she must have been worried.

“Be sure that you do, woman. This will be your only caution.”

Two men were lifting a reddish-brown haired girl from the newly arrived car. Like me she was semi-conscious and unable to resist. I watched as the men quickly stripped from her the light blue cocktail dress, high heels, panties, brassiere, and tights that she wore and threw her face down on the grass. She sobbed piteously, no doubt ignorant of the fate that was now in store for her.

“Unit eleven,” said Udumi, matter of factly. “Formerly Miss Elizabeth Anna Bentley of Park Lane in London. A particularly fine catch that will attract a high price on the block, particularly in light of her rare hair colour.”

“Why was the delivery so late?” asked the man in the black tunic.

“Complications arose. I almost had to abort.” Udumi stood there while the man in the black tunic considered the matter for a while.

“We are already behind schedule by fifteen ehn. I will report the matter.”

“Of course.” Udumi still sounded confident and calm. “I remain of value to my Masters.”

“For the time being perhaps.” The man in the black tunic walked towards the sobbing girl as she lay in the grass. Taking hold of her by the hair he quickly, casually but expertly examined her body, oblivious to the soft cried of protest.”

“She is confirmed a virgin,” explained Udumi.

“I will ascertain that myself of course,” replied the man. The girl cried out as he did so with his fingers, but semi-drugged, she was unable to put up any resistance. “A valuable catch it seems. It may serve to mitigate the nature of my report.”

“I'm pleased to hear so,” said Udumi. “Collar Miss Bentley and place her in the eleventh cylinder,” she instructed Malik. As she watched, Malik locked a steel collar around the beautiful Miss Bentley's neck. Her small hands curled into ineffectual fists that tore weakly at the stalks of grass close by.

Now I felt myself being lifted and carried with ease by one of the men towards the tenth cylinder. There was nothing I could do to prevent myself from being placed on my knees beside the horizontal tube. My arms were extended inside and then I was lifted and slid down the length of the cylinder. A closing mechanism locked and sealed the cylinder behind my feet. I was vaguely aware of piteous cries from Miss Elizabeth Bentley as she too was being slide arms and head first into her own cylinder. The sight of her like that, so beautiful, so helpless, stirred feelings of arousal and jealousy in equal measure. It had always been so since puberty – both desiring beautiful women and desperately wanting to look like them.

Once my cylinder is sealed, the sound from outside is muted, except for the soft vibration of the machinery. Somewhere close by switches are thrown and in panic I feel cold liquid pouring into the cylinder around me. I claw feebly at the glass, suddenly afraid that I am going to drown. I scream and plead, but of course I can not be heard by Udumi, Malik, the man in the black tunic, or indeed the beautiful Miss Elizabeth Bentley in the tube next to mine. I see her eyes lock onto mine as she lies inside her own cylinder. For a moment we recognise the same degree of fear and uncertainty in one another's faces.

And then mercifully everything went black.