Daughter of Gor by Olga Turlovna (Part Six)

Daughter of Gor

By Olga Turlovna

22 - Aurore of the Sardar serves her master

“Paga, Master,” I say, and keeping my head appropriately lowered I extend my arms and offer the drink out to Him.

Silently Kurtz takes the cup from me. I do not look up, knowing it unwise to do so, but I sense I am being appraised. Then he speaks.

“It would please me to know how goes your life as a kajira, Aurore. Specifically – I wish you to tell me if you find your new life better or worse than being a free woman.”

I take a few moments consider my response. I must answer honestly – slaves are not permitted deception.

As I rest back on my heels, my ears fill with a jingle of chains from the outfit selected for me. It turns out Udumi had reason to be amused at my expense. Slave steel was to be my only permitted clothing for the evening.

The only adornment to bare flesh is this set of interlinked chains locked about me. The longest one of these chains runs head to toe, proceeding vertically from a fastening at my collar down to my feet. In my current kneeling pose it lies heavily on my chest, where it trails in the valley between my bare breasts.

A horizontal set of shackles are padlocked to this at the height of my waist, and secure my wrists in front of me, where at the maximum I can spread them about the width of my hips apart.

My ankles are locked in bracelets, fastened together with a final horizontal chain slightly longer than the one securing my wrists, and padlocked again to the vertical link.

Goreans call this dress of chains a sirik.

With even the smallest movement there is the sound of the metal, the touch of steel intimately on bare flesh. Their weight hanging from my shackles makes me constantly aware of their presence. What is my experience of being a kajira? I feel ashamed; naked; feminine; desirable; vulnerable; beautiful.

Looking down at my naked body, I see that the light from the oil lamps gives my ivory skin a pleasing golden glow. Some kind of moth flutters around one of those lamps, drawn to it the same way I have been drawn all the way across Gor to the Ubar.

“Gorean society is so repressive of free women that in some ways, my new existence is little worse than the old,” I have to admit. “It is better than the death I faced in the cage would have been. Free women do nothing but wait on the will of men, but now as a slave at least I have occupation and purpose to my life.”

The words are true. Improving at any skill brings reward, even if those skills are learning to please men. I cannot deny that Aurore has grown more desirable under Udumi’s tutelage, and it has been impossible for me not to react to my success.

“You think that it is better for a women to be a slave, than to be free?” he asks, sitting forward as if this is very important to him.

“Not in general, Master,” I clarify. “My experience has not been typical of most slave women. Master has been unusually kind – I have not been raped like every one of the others. If I had to endure that, my reply to you now might be very different.”

I steal a quick glance at Him, before letting my shackled hands rest on my bare thighs. Kurtz, the man whose word protects my fragile virginity, is staring directly at me. His eyes glint of the shadows in the semi-darkness.

He is an exceptionally large man, with most of that size being muscle rather than fat. Kurtz wears a pair of loose-fitting trousers on his lower body – a garment unusual on Gor where tunics are more common.

His upper body is bare. I can see he is completely hairless, even without eyebrows, as if he’s descended from one of the exotics bred to engender a particular physical trait.

Kurtz’s brow is low and almost apelike, and his lips are full, with a cruel pout. He reminds me of a Roman emperor, about to give the thumbs down to a gladiator.

The radiating sense of his power and presence is overwhelming. It feels more like kneeling before a tiger than a human being.

It is perhaps his voice that is the most charismatic thing about him though. It tugs at something deep inside me, awakening something female and sexual.

“It has certainly been challenging to keep myself and my men from raping you,” that predator says. “You look exceptionally beautiful, when nude, chained and submissive. But then that was the intention when you were sent here – you were created to be a lure to men.”

I feel my face grow hot. I know how I look, and I’m sure he is correct.

“I am most grateful that Master has protected me from the hands of his warriors,” I acknowledge humbly.

“However you have a unique capability to experience pleasure from the perspective of both sexes and compare. Therefore you must surely be a little curious to find out how your female body might perform in response to a man’s touch, and find your situation restricting? I presume you left the Sardar a virgin?”

He can read me like a book. Yes, I feel relief to have been spared, but I have to admit it is not total relief. I have the virgin’s fear of the unknown when it comes to sexual matters, but that comes with the virgin’s inquisitiveness.

“You cannot, for example, deny there is some eroticism in this situation between us right now – with you kneeling beautiful and naked in your chains before me? Do you claim you find not the least pleasure in your current position? Does not one part of you wish me to touch you and awaken you?”

This one I really don’t want to answer, but my face colours and that probably gives me away.

I try to deflect him with my own question.

“You seem to know everything about me, of my mission and my origins, master,” I ask.

“Of course,” he replies, as if that is self-evident.

To prove his point, he reaches behind himself for something. There is a heavy clunk as an object is placed on a low table next to me. It is a dagger, unsheathed, the handle conveniently towards me.

“Should you still wish to kill me,” Kurtz says, “this will be convenient for you to make your attempt, although I recommend your best chance is when I am seated, otherwise the sirik you wear will keep your wrists low, making reaching a lethal strike point on my body more difficult.”

Now he’s mocking me, daring me to try. Is that why I’ve been chained this way? So near my goal but so far? I consider the dagger. It looks a solid weapon, but it would be difficult to fatally wound a man when I can’t raise my hands above my belly.

“Perhaps, Master, you could spare both of us that unpleasant outcome by explaining your conduct with respect to the Priest Kings,” I boldly say.

I sense I have entertained him with this reply.

Kurtz dips his hand into a bowl at his side, filled with slices of spiced meat. He takes out a piece, and offers it to me, holding it between his strong thumb and forefinger.

“Eat, my slave,” he orders.

I could probably reach out to the food, even with my hands in the heavy bracelets, but this is not what is expected of me.

Shifting forward on my knees I lean towards him, and turning my head to the side I gracefully take the piece of meat between my teeth.

There is a jingle of chains, and my breasts brush my upper arms.

My lips touch his fingers, gently as a kiss, and he releases the food. His eyes move momentarily from watching my nipples to a study of my face.

The contact between us, the first time we’ve touched in any way, is like an electric shock, his fingers linking through me to the apex of my legs.

I am being fed, as a master feeds a female slave. This is done by hand, the way one feeds a pet, not with hands or cutlery the way a free human being might eat.

It is demeaning to me, as much has been this evening, but a common practice in pacifying slaves on Gor. His earlier comment comes back to me, and I admit to myself that yes, there is a kinky thrill to being reduced to this state.

Kurtz releases his hold on the food and I rock back demurely onto my buttocks, hiding any inner turmoil.

The spiced meat is delicious. I realise I’m ravenous.

He speaks.

“When you arrived here, lashed to the front of the longship, you probably observed the two severed heads that adorn my gates?”

I had indeed. I recalled the half-rotted giant bear heads.

“Yes, Master.”

“Those two Kurii were captured during my first mission here, when I claimed this land.”

I have already learned from my conversation with Udumi that these are probably Kurii, but his statement confirms the truth of it.

“I interrogated the creatures for many days. They were abused much at my hands. We had many interesting conversations before I killed them.”

“One day, the more dominant of the beasts asked me a question. He asked why so many human females are raped by human males. The kur do not have this practice, you know. In fact the opposite is almost the case. Their fertile females, the ones they call egg carriers, are known to fight among themselves for access to the sperm of the strongest males.”

“The kur told me that of the higher species of mammals on Gor, Urth and on their home world, only the human is known to commit rape. He wondered why this is the case.”

Kurtz pauses.

“You must be unintelligent, or you would not have been selected for this mission. Tell me what do you think the answer is, Aurore?”

I take a moment to think.

“It is easiest to answer for Gor. The culture of this barbaric world encourages taking of women as captive prizes when men fight with each other. In fact, the most beautiful captives become symbols of male status.”

“Women are also reliant on the stronger males for protection, which leaves them more vulnerable to men’s exploitation, while further nurturing the culture of male superiority.”

My mind races forward, and more ideas occur.

“Finally, Gor’s patriarchal culture represses female sex drive with the supposed importance of retaining chastity and virginity. Women cannot freely engage in sexual pleasure without being branded as sluts, and loss of virtue lowers their perceived value. This means that free women are understandably unwilling to engage in sex outside the bond of companionship.”

“Sexual denial by free women means there are very few available free women to engage in intimacy, and creates resentment among the men, further driving men to forcibly take women in order to satisfy their desires.”

I sit back. I think I have answered well.

He bangs the cup of paga down on a table so suddenly that I jump.

“No,” he says, vehemently, “I used to think exactly the same, but my debate with the Kurii showed me that much of what you describe are the symptoms of the problem, not the root cause.”

“Perhaps Master would tell me the correct answer?” I say, a little disgruntled.

“The answer is that women are raped because of the technology,” he says decisively. “If the technology of this world was allowed to advance, female emancipation would result. A woman with a gun would be the equal in combat to a man, and not reliant on male physical prowess for protection.”

I look up, wondering where he’s going with this. He has a point I suppose - give me a semi-automatic rifle, and Aurore’s days of slavery would immediately be over. But that can’t be all there is to it.

“Now tell me why technology in this place is frozen in the era of bows and arrows. I have seen your world. It could offer many improvements to Gor. Building a railway through the swamp to Schendi would be a much easier and safer way to travel than using the river.”

I begin to understand where he’s leading.

“The Priest Kings,” I have to admit. “It is because of the Priest Kings that progress on Gor is stalled.”

“Correct,” he nods approvingly. “So I propose to you, that all those women suffer a life of misery because of the Priest Kings – those same Gods who have sent you here.”

He presses his argument with another question.

“Do you know why the city of Ko-Ro-Ba was destroyed?”

My answer is sulky.

“It was on the orders of the Priest Kings.”

“Hardly a merciful act, do you think? An entire city razed to the ground to set an example to the rest of Gor. And they’re supposed to be the good guys.”

I feel obliged to defend those who sent me here.

“You think the Kurii are any better?” I counter. “I am female, human, they see me as nothing more than a food source. You suggest siding with those who would eat my flesh? And you’re a human male – only a dumb animal in their eyes.”

He is shaking his head in disagreement.

“I do not advocate either side at this point, but I can at least understand the simplicity in the Kurii actions,” Kurtz says. “I have had much to think about, since the kur made me consider that I am, perhaps, on the wrong side in this conflict. I am still reaching a decision in this matter.”

I am a little incredulous.

“So that’s what all this is about? You’ve spent all these months sitting in here deciding whether rape is a bad thing, and whether you’re on the wrong side?”

Kurtz looks irritated with me.

“I have been involved in other activities, but that is all you are permitted to know for now, slave.”

He emphasises the last word, “slave”.

When I am silent, Kurtz indicates the dagger.

“So that is your explanation, or at least the explanation I am disposed to give. Now you’ve heard this do you wish to kill me, or perhaps you would like to consider your own position?”

The weapon lies there on the table.

“Am I allowed to return to the Sardar to report this information?” I ask.

“Of course not. You are my owned slave, and you are a very beautiful one. It pleases me to watch you, while you come to terms with your own moral dilemma accepting your place in the world. Goreans say that only a fool frees a slave, and I am inclined to agree. I would prefer to continue debating this topic with you here naked and in my chains than send you back for the Priest Kings’ opinion.”

I clench my fists at my sides in frustration, but only manage to make the links between my shackled wrists go taut as I pull the waist-chain into my smooth belly.

“Someone from the Sardar will presumably be watching the slave markets for your onward sale?” he asks. “Well, they will have to wait. You will remain here at my pleasure, Aurore.”

With that statement, he offers me a second piece of meat, like he’s baiting me. I consider rejecting it out of pride, but that would only be spiting myself.

I take the meat, with the same delicate use of my teeth, and the humble touch of my lips to his hand.

He isn’t going to defeat me, though. I can play games as well.

“Master’s intelligence reports are very accurate,” I reply petulantly, as it is pointless denying it. “Master Telisio must have travelled here quickly from Port Schendi to reach you in time for you to intercept the barge.”

Kurtz laughs mirthlessly.

“Spying and scheming are not attractive traits in a kajira,” he says. “You could be beaten for it. I am not unaware of your activities in my camp. You have made quite an effort to learn your way around.”

I’m not giving in.

“Was it his idea to burn the slaves on the boat,” I ask before I’ve thought about it, “or did my Master come up with that one?”

But this time I have gone too far.

“Kneel to the whip,” he orders me abruptly, voice suddenly angry, and I flinch. We had been making progress, conversing almost as equals, and now the relationship between Ubar and slave is back.

I look up, uncertainly, and see in his face that he means it. I have provoked this Gorean wildcat, this larl, to retaliate.

“I said kneel to the whip,” he commands more sternly this time.

This time I obey, although not gracefully, with the sirik so restricting my movements.

I have been taught many of the Gorean slave positions already, so I am familiar with “kneeling to the whip”.

Remaining on my knees, I put my head onto the dirt floor, so my back inclines in an uphill slope from my shoulders to my rump, which then becomes the highest point of my body.

When kneeling to the whip the woman is expected to fold her hands underneath her body, as if bound, but in my case it is not necessary to mimic this position as my hands are truly shackled down at my belly.

My back is unprotected and in a position ready for punishment. I feel very vulnerable.

Long dark red hair drapes over my face, obscuring my vision.

“Many here think I have been too lenient with you,” he says, in a growl. “You have seen many times that it is typical for women new to their slavery on Gor are beaten and raped. When you look upon me, know that I myself have delivered this treatment to many slaves. I would be considered a criminal and a barbarian on your world.”

I do not speak.

But rather than feel any lash, there is a touch from his fingertips on my back, stroking me as gently as one might handle a porcelain vase. Delicately he explores my, tracing out ribs and the bumps along my spine, from my shoulder blades to my coccyx.

The contact makes me shudder more than I would have done if he’d hit me, but my reaction is from pleasure, not pain. I try to hide this response from him.

“I am the only one aware that it is not your nature to respond as a slave in the way the other women might,” Kurtz is saying. “But do not forget that I am an Ubar of Gor, whereas you are a female slave. You grow too bold, asking questions that are not your place.”

Fingers move over my rump, becoming intimate. Nerves in the skin of my buttocks seems to be linked to my groin, and the warm glow starts to build that signals my own arousal.

“I counsel you not to push me, or to challenge me again in public where I am obliged to punish you the way an Ubar might. You are not my only concern in this place.”

“Forgive me, Master,” I say humbly. To my annoyance I feel genuinely contrite, and I curse my conditioning.

He doesn’t hit me in the end, but he shoves my shoulder, so I tip off balance and sprawl undignified onto my side.

“You have displeased me. Go, Aurore,” he says, his voice tired. “I do not wish to see you any more tonight. Have the guard lock you back into the pens.”

My master is a Gorean, and I know when it is unwise to argue. I put my forehead to his feet in supplicant farewell, then stand and shuffle out of his hut.

From a military perspective my first service to him would be viewed as a success. I have learned many things, and I have not been killed. But as I cross the compound back to my sleeping quarters it is disappointment I feel.

For some reason, I did not want him to dismiss me so quickly. I try to convince myself that it was because I enjoyed the intellectual challenge of our mental sparring. Conversing with him was the most alive I’ve felt since arrival in the compound.

Privately I admit I was also aroused, yes, I was aroused by his touch, his voice and his presence, but that surely doesn’t mean I wish he’d kept me there to have sex with him.

I shake my head. No, it wasn’t that.

“Hurry,” the guard says, and my bare backside is swatted with his sword, making me jump.

I have not been naked in public since my humiliating arrival and the morning of my collaring, so I feel self-conscious clad only in slave steel, aware that the guard’s eyes are on me and he is enjoying watching the way that I move.

It’s a good thing the guard can’t tell my body is aflame.

Again I try to convince myself that all I wanted to stay for was the debate. Yes, that was it. I vow to think on his words, and be prepared with better responses by our next encounter. I can show him.

The guard strikes me again.

He knows I cannot in fact proceed more quickly, the chains between my ankles restricting me to small steps, so he must be doing this for sport. Resigning myself, I receive several more swats before reaching the safety of the pens.

Lying on my straw mat, I face another lonely night in the pens. Chiron, he who has the keys to my chains, has also retreated for the night so there is no-one available to release me from the sirik until morning.

I feel sorry for myself. The Ubar’s personal choice I might be, but I am still no better than a slave.

23 – The man who wasn’t there

The woman extends her arms straight above her head, wrists bent, clicking her fingers in time to the barbaric tempo of the music.

With her eyes closed to concentrate on the sound, she keeps her head still, but begins to rock her hips back and forth in a blatantly sexual gyration. Her face grows strained, as if even that motion is not enough to express the emotion she is feeling.

Overwhelmed she rips the dancing silk from her body, thrusting out her bare breasts, extending further with each bar like a pendulum gathering momentum.

I hold my breath, unable to tear my eyes from watching her.

She’s spellbinding, I’m in the presence of greatness. I couldn’t have imagined a human could perform something so evocative, and without even using her legs. But it’s true. All the while she has been on her knees.

This is the first time I have watched one of the wild dances of Gor. I decide it remind me most closely of flamenco, having its roots in barbaric folk dances, and being very reliant on marking out tempo and rhythm with the use of the body.

Gorean music also has similarity to flamenco in the way it draws in the audience, making it impossible not to tap feet or clap in time with the rhythm. These accelerate through the duration of the performance, along with the volume, reaching an eventual orgasmic climax.

I use the word orgasmic deliberately, because here is one of the notable differences. Flamenco is also a dance of passion, but it is more subtly sexual that the overt way a Gorean slave dance might be. In that respect Gorean performances are closer to the pole-dances of Urth, or routines performed on stage in a burlesque performance or a sleazy strip club.

Gorean dances are almost universally created to please and arouse men. They are always danced by a woman, and they serve to display the girl’s sexuality and desirability, making the men want to claim her for themselves and prove themselves powerful enough to tame her.

I was once a man, so this performance I now watch certainly inflames my desire and I lust for this dancer. But juxtaposed on my male psyche is that of Aurore, a female.

I want her, but I also want to be her, and be so utterly desirable, feeling eyes unable to look away from my body. I am aroused, but I am aroused as a woman, being heated, rather than hardened. I am excited of the power I might hold performing as she does, even as I fall under her spell. I am excited, but afraid.

These fears and doubts will have to be put aside because I am a kajira, one of the slave women of Gor. Whether I wish to be like Carrie or not is irrelevant. My hidden craving to be like her will inevitably be fulfilled, because Carrie is the slave chosen to teach us to dance. Before our first lesson starts, we are treated with this demonstration, and witnessing it is a privilege.

Carrie dances a need dance. This particular style of performance progresses in a number of phases, beginning with the girl appearing indifferent to men, and progressing through stages where the girl become more and more aware of her own sexuality and the presence of the males about her.

Finally at the climax of the dance she surrenders, abandoning herself to the barbaric music and the needs of her own body, desperate for the touch of any man present. She has been reduced to slavery by her own desires.

Whether I agree that this performance bears any truth to female psychology does not matter. The women in the pens will learn to dance in this fashion anyway.

Carrie finishes her performance still on her knees, but slumping with her head to the floor, so her torso rests on her thighs, showing great flexibility.

She is breathing heavily, and I can see her ribcage heaving and a light sheen of sweat breaking on her skin. Then she sits upright, smiling with pleasure.

There is loud applause, in the Gorean manner. I jump to my feet, along with many other girls, shouting out my approval and stamping my feet on the floor.

A number of men have joined us in the room – this class being a popular one for spectators, and their praise is even more enthusiastic than that of the women.

I look down at Carrie in admiration. She looks older than many of us, physically almost approaching middle age, so assuming she’s been dosed with the physicians’ caste serums that extend life, this might mean she is in fact many hundreds of years old. Her hair is still jet black however, and she has olive skin like the Hispanic women on Urth, also reinforcing my impression of her as a flamenco dancer.

One might expect that aging has reduced her beauty, but instead it has given her a full bodied elegance. There kneels a true woman, rather than one recently out of girlhood who still has much to learn about her sex.

Carrie is to teach us this and many of the Gorean dances, as a master may demand to see any style – the belt dance; the whip dance; the capture dance; the need dance; chain dances; and the dance of the seven thongs being just a few examples.

As the remaining warriors gradually filter from the room she tells us that we will specialise in only one, and develop it more completely to be our showcase. Carrie informs us she will select these for us after observing us over the first few days of training.

I smile ruefully at her words. She will have her work cut out getting me to look good. Aurius danced like he had two left feet. I could keep in rhythm, but little more than that.

Our lesson commences.

I am expecting her to begin training us by passing on some complex moves typical of an Urth lap dancer – the grind; the breast stroke; arching my back into a crab shape; but she orders the class to their knees.

“An expert dancer can delight men just using her hands and her arms to perform,” Carrie says, raising her hands up high. “Position yourselves like this.”

I am lifting my arms over my head, crossing my wrists in a cruder copy of her first position, but she looks right at me, shaking her head.

“You are the one called Aurore?” she asks. Even her voice is sultry and passionate.

“Yes Mistress,” I say, not sure why she’s singling me out.

“You are not to participate in this class,” she says. “You can only watch. Your master orders that you are not to be trained in dancing until you are red-silk.”

My face glows with embarrassment, probably as scarlet as if it was red silk. Everyone has stopped to look at me, watching my reaction. Some of the girls that consider themselves my rivals, or that are jealous of my status here, show pleasure on hearing Carrie’s judgement.

“Why has he done this?” I protest, so indignant I forget her title. “White silk girls are still taught dancing in other cities on Gor.”

I am sure on this point. Free women are, of course, not taught dancing – the wanton sexuality of a slave dance being entirely inappropriate for such as they. But white silk slave women are often prepared ready to please their owners, learning to replicate sexual acts before they have experienced them.

“I’m sorry,” Carrie says sympathetically. “Those are the Ubar’s instructions.”

No-one is going to dare disobey Kurtz.

I have to kneel there, seething with rage but keeping my body still, as I watch the others practice. I’m even made to kneel with my knees together, whereas the other women move with their thighs wide in the aspect of pleasure slaves.

My hands stray to the collar locked round my neck and I fidget with it, rotating it and fingering the metal. This seems to have become a habit when my hands are idle and it annoys me further when I catch myself in the act. Hateful thing. I don’t like being reminded that I am a slave.

It takes half an ahn before my anger is overcome by interest in the class, but eventually I’m completely distracted by watching and even the humiliation of being a spectator is temporarily forgotten.

I would never have believed a woman could communicate so much just by using her upper limbs. Attention is paid to every detail, for example the angle to bend the wrists; whether the fingers are together or spread; arms lifted or lowered; elbows bent or not.

Much of lap dancing back on Urth is about the tease and the titillation. The girl touches and moves her body erotically, so the man imagines the delights that would be his if he possessed her.

She is telling a story through her movement, and the mental aspects of the performance are therefore as important as the physical moves.

Slave girls must be similarly confident in expressing sexuality in front of male and female watchers, so in the second part of the lesson, all of the slaves except me are ordered to remove their clothing ready to display that sexuality.

Then, kneeling naked before Carrie, they are instructed to spend half an ahn intimately touching their own bodies.

I feel particularly miserable at being denied participation this part of the exercise. Aurore’s frustration has been building steadily since my collaring, and a temporary repeal of the prohibition on masturbation would have been a very welcome relief.

Being ordered to watch a room full of nude beauties caressing themselves, but unable to enjoy any pleasure myself is an experience close to torture for me.

When our class is dismissed, I stomp across the jetties of the compound and consider marching straight into my master’s hut to demand an explanation.

A guard stands outside his hut though, which is unusual.

I want to walk past this fellow, but I know better than to try. The Ubar warned me not to act above my place in public, and I can see the wisdom in this.

While there is unrest in the compound, it would be dangerous for both of us if I make him appear weak.

I control my emotions, accept that venting my frustrations will have to wait for another time. I spin round and stare into the muddy waters of the harbour, clenching and unclenching my small fists.

It comes as a relief when I am instructed to go with Jaya into the marshes and gather bunches of the burning reed to fill the braziers. The two of us walk through the gap in the wall, waving at the warrior on watch who smiles at us appreciatively, pleased with the distraction.

The reeds that produce the best effect in deterring the insects are to be found in the water of the swamp, so we make our way a short distance from the dry land, where the vegetation is particularly dense.

The marsh is only six-inches deep, but below that the lakebed is soft and thick with eons of decayed vegetation, so we quickly sink up to our knees in the dark clinging mud.

This is a menial and messy task where getting filthy is inevitable, and therefore one best allocated to slave girls.

With my short hooked knife I get to work, cutting the stems. Neither of us says anything.

Jaya is one of those demurely quiet women, whom you first think is very shy, and then wonder if they have nothing to say because they’re very dull.

Behind Jaya’s back, some of the other kajirae say she needs to find a man while she still has her undeniable beauty, for she won’t win a man through her intellectual charm.

I make an effort to break through this demure wall while we work together, but eventually I give up attempts at conversation and we gather bundles of plants in silence, standing close together. It is this silence that saves us.

Jaya suddenly places her hand over my mouth, raising her finger to her own lips to indicate the need for quiet.

I nod to show my understanding, and she withdraws her hand.

Noiselessly I mouth “What?”

She indicates an area in the swamp across to our right. Although it away from the land occupied by Kurtz, and is deeper into the marshes, there the ground rises enough to break the surface of the water, forming a small dry island surrounded by chest high grasses.

I see the movement of the tarn first within this grass, the flicker of a vast wing. It is a giant brown bird, a true war tarn rather than the smaller varieties used for tarn races in the cities.

Then, walking by his mount I see the tarnsman.

He is a lean specimen, middle aged with a face disfigured by a scar that looks like a relic of a sword wound. The man is pale skinned – a northern colour, rather than the beautiful ebony tint of the jungle warriors. His tarn also suggests distant origins, as the local jungle tarns tend to be as brightly coloured as birds of paradise.

Wary in unknown territory, he has his sword drawn.

We crouch as low in the reeds as we can.

There is no need for either of us to convey that the danger to us is very real.

Over my time in the protected captivity of the compound I have not much considered the many other threats Gor continues to pose to women. But exposed in these marshes, I am reminded how Jaya and I would make a pretty prize for this fellow to carry off.

If the tarnsman comes this way trying to reach the higher ground of the compound, he’ll walk right across our hiding place. Two slaves armed with reed-cutting knives will not present much challenge to an armed warrior.

We can’t even attempt to flee, as moving through the thick mud is too precarious. It would be easy to overbalance and draw attention to ourselves.

Our best strategy is to freeze, and hope to remain unseen. Females are prey, not the hunters.

I did not see his tarn land, and for this I silently berate myself. It must have passed very close by us, unless he has been here since daybreak. I am losing my warrior’s instincts.

We spend a nervous few ehn, but luckily for us the tarnsman makes directly for the large area of higher ground, presumably intending to inspect the compound. His bird waits obediently hidden in the circle of vegetation.

Where he makes landfall the reeds change to meadow grass that is almost chest high.

Jaya and I squat in silent anguish. Granted the man has not seen us, but he will soon be between us and the fortifications, cutting-off our route to safety.

However, fate turns out to be on our side. Others have been more watchful than we.

There is the sound of movement approaching, and I glimpse our head slaver, Chiron moving rapidly through the grass.

His twin blades are already drawn. Chiron is an intimidating sight, but rather than attempt to flee the tarnsman waits for his arrival.

They face each other in a cowboy standoff. Blood will be spilt today.

“What is your business here, stranger?” Chiron asks him, using the Gorean word “stranger”, which can also mean “enemy”.

“My business here is my own,” the man shrugs in a gravelled voice.

“We do not welcome visitors here,” Chiron states.

The man seems unconcerned by this news.

“It is your people and not me, who are the invaders on this land.”

The tarnsman looks as if he’s about to elaborate on this claim, but those are to be his last words. From out of the high grass right behind the tarnsman rises my master, standing bare chested and godlike.

In his hand he holds a long knife with a serrated blade.

Kurtz wraps the man’s head in the crook of his giant arm, taking him by surprise, and with the knife he slits the warrior’s throat in one quick slice. Blood pours like a waterfall down the front of the man, who, when Kurtz releases his hold, is already dropping dead to the ground.

The tarnsman’s loyal bird screams at this outrage and it rears up at the Ubar, flapping its huge wings and giant claws extended ready to deliver a killing strike.

The attack would be successful were it not for Chiron, who comes from nowhere to stand between Kurtz and the bird. He holds his swords crossed above him, as if he’s warding off a vampire.

The tarn screams its fury once again at the two men, but then it abandons its late master and the beats of its wings carry it up and away.

All present watch it flying to the north east away over the lake, before the two men turn to examine the body.

I’ve never seen my master outside his hut before, let alone this far away from the fortifications. He is unnaturally pale in daylight, almost albino white, but his eyes still look dark and merciless, like a shark’s.

“This was not simply a young warrior proving himself by snatching a girl,” Kurtz observes, nudging the corpse with his foot. “This is an older man, experienced. He came here with deeper purpose.”

“Reconnaissance for our friends across the lake, do you think?” Chiron asks crouching to search the body.

“It is unlikely,” Kurtz says. “The warriors of the Black Slaver are themselves black skinned. No... he comes from afar, and so represents a far greater threat.”

When Kurtz concludes his search Chiron says, “We will never know. The man has nothing to identify himself.”

“They will send others,” Kurtz says with certainty, standing to look to the horizon. “Tell no-one of these events. If these further men arrive in peace you are to welcome them, showing disloyalty to me in order to determine their purpose.”

“That is unwise,” Chiron disagrees. “Already your absence causes much unrest. Even loyal men whisper that it is time for a new Ubar when all your attention is on that girl.”

My heart skips when Chiron refers to me.

“Perhaps if you gave her to me, and selected another?”

Kurtz laughs cynically, as deep a sound as a bull snorting.

“Your intentions are too obvious. Aurore is part of a greater plan, and one that requires much effort. For now she must be treated differently to the others. In time my reasons might become clear.”

Chiron looks disbelieving, but does not say any more.

As the two men move away I consider that such is the trust between Gorean warriors that Kurtz didn’t even need to comment on Chiron saving his life.

24 - A slave is permitted to choose

The concerns of female slaves are unimportant compared to the business of men, so seven days then pass where I have to endure the daily humiliation of sitting out the dancing class, before I am next summoned to next kneel before my master.

He is unkempt this time, or as unkempt as a hairless man can appear. Kurtz looks morose when I first enter, but his spirits seem to lift as I very grumpily clash his cup on a tray, preparing to serve him paga.

My temper has not been good for the past week. I am not pleased about the denial of dance training, and I am not pleased at unknowingly being part of this “greater plan”.

He sits forward in his chair, amused with my actions.

“Perhaps if serving your master does not suit your mood, you would like to be whipped instead?” he asks.

Momentarily I freeze. I think he is jesting with me, but with a Gorean man one can never be sure. I reflect, and decide that I do not wish him to have me lashed.

So I serve paga then with slavish humility, kissing the rim of the cup before offering it to him on my knees, extended my arms out to him in the perfect position, and keeping my head down.

Kurtz has permitted me clothing for my second visit, and I am unshackled. By his request I have been given the simple camisk of a domestic slave though, and not the silks that the other women usually wear when summoned to please their masters.

This is strange, but no one in the pens dared question it as I was handed my garment ready for my evening.

“Look upon me,” Kurtz commands, and I do so, gazing up at him from under my heavy feminine eyelashes.

From my humble kneeling position his giant figure looms over me, pale and almost ghostlike.

His eyes are almost jet black, and they stare so intently at me that I have to break the gaze and look down first. I fix instead on his cruel mouth. Between us persists that animal magnetism I’ve felt since my arrival in this place.

Kurtz picks up a meat pastry and breaks it in half, placing the first section into that sensuous mouth in one go.

I’ve not been fed all day and my mouth waters.

“You want some?” he asks me, presumably spotting my longing glance.

“Yes Master,” I tell him.

He smiles tauntingly.

“You may have some only if you disrobe.”

My insides give a lurch.

Why is he doing this? Yes, he wants to see me nude, as men will always want to view naked women, but if so why not just order me to undress? Why make me undergo this humiliating barter?

If it is a challenge to my will, dressing me just to see me remove the camisk, then it is one I will win. He has seen me unclothed enough times that one more occasion will not matter. So I shrug with deliberate nonchalance and unfasten the knot securing my belt, and slip the poncho camisk over my head.

Folding the garment nearly beside me I shake my hair so it falls tidily into place down my back. Two can play at this game so I cup the undersides of my breasts, checking they’re level in a deliberate act of provocation.

Nude, I look casually up at him.

“Is this satisfactory, Master?”

Kurtz smiles again and holds out the other half of the pastry to me.

“Quite satisfactory,” he says.

The offered food is far enough away that I have to lean forward onto all-fours. Freed from their support in the camisk I feel the weight of Aurore’s full breasts swinging underneath me.

Thus, using my teeth once again in the submissive manner expected of me, I take the pastry from him, kissing my lips briefly to his fingers. There has been much coaching from Udumi in correct execution of receiving food as a slave, and I know I look graceful and beautiful as I extend my neck.

Sitting back on my heels, I lift my hands to my face to delicately chew the rest of the food.

“Do you think my decision to bar you from participation in the dancing is motivated by cruelty?” he asks me with abrupt directness.

I have had a week to consider this.

“No, Master,” I admit, shaking my head. “Master never seems to act without it being part of a greater plan, although in this case I cannot divine his exact purpose.”

I use the words “greater plan” deliberately, referring to the mysterious purpose he has for me.

“We teach women to be slaves in this place,” he says, like he’s beginning a sermon. “For you, the process is different to the others, as you need to learn something of being a woman, as well as how to please as a slave.”

“And that’s what this is about?” I say critically with a full mouth, indicating my naked body. “This, and denying me the dancing? Why does that help?”

He does not answer. Rather, his hand is abruptly under my chin, turning my head from side to side so he can examine my face. His skin is rough and calloused with a lifetime holding weapons, but he feels warm and the tender contact is not unpleasant.

I keep my eyes down.

“You really are exceptionally beautiful, my Aurore,” he says.

As with his earlier order to undress, this abrupt jump in direction also hits me without warning. And also as before, when he describes me as “his” Aurore I get such an intense flush that it’s like my belly has turned to liquid.

Inwardly I curse and reject any thoughts of pleasure. I’m busy being angry with him. I refuse to get turned-on.

Swallowing my food I try to concentrate on the pastry, which happens to be delicious.

“I have not taken a woman for many months, you know,” he says, “not since my discussions with the Kurii.”

His eyes following my curves are loaded with intent. He is a man and I am a woman, and the intense tension in the room is the same that has existed between the sexes back into pre-history.

“I was raised to believe I wasn’t doing anything wrong when I used to take females,” he says as if he’s missing those days. “The girls I have previously been with, at first I had to force myself on them, but they soon took pleasure from our encounters, and eventually they longed for them, begging for the opportunity to please me.”

“But after the Kurii, I lay with no-one, although I did not prevent my warriors enjoying the pleasures of women. There would certainly be a mutiny if I denied them all access to the slaves, and my dilemmas should not be theirs.”

“Then the day came when you knelt on my dock, beautiful, naked and completely helpless, yet so courageous and undefeated. And I wanted you to take you more than any woman I had ever seen before.”

My heart rate seems to double.

“Yes, keeping to my vow has not been without difficulty.”

My stomach is rolling, and I feel light headed now. The worst thing is that a small part of me really wants his resolve to break. I’ve seen enough of how women can enjoy sex that I’d like to experience it for myself. Who in this place would be a better option than Kurtz? Between my legs is already warm and liquid in anticipation.

“Perhaps Master should return me to the Sardar if his lust is uncontrollable?” I say, not quite managing to keep my voice from quavering.

He sits back in his chair then, tension dispersing as he laughs out loud.

“No, my Aurore, you do not escape your duty to the women of Gor so easily. And, I am strong in many ways, but I am too weak willed to part with you. Rather – I intend to offer you a choice – one that will teach you something of being a woman, permit you to be of service to womankind, while answering the more important matter of whether I should return to service of the Priest Kings. I think it is a most elegant solution.”

This sounds ominous.

“You eventually accepted that part of the responsibility for the subjugation of women on Gor is with the Priest Kings, were you not?”

There is a pause.

“Yes, Master,” I say cautiously.

“Then the first option I offer you is to reject those same Priest Kings and remain safely here with me, continuing your white silk existence as you are now. I will accept your view that the rape of female slaves is wrong. I will also see you are protected for your life here, and I will not permit you to be sold.”

“But I might never return to the Sardar?” I say, picturing endless years of scrubbing tunics in the lake. “Why can’t you simply let me leave as a free woman?”

Kurtz smiles, amused.

“How could you return to the Sardar when we have agreed their rule perpetuates the rape of women?” he says smugly, and my irritation starts to rise as I see he’s manoeuvring to trap me. “That would be a betrayal of your many sisters here on Gor. Besides, although I am Ubar here, my men would make use of you as soon as you were out of my sight.”

“You would also be under threat from the rest of Gorean manhood as soon as you left my sight in your robes of concealment. Aurore, you must see that the risk to your virtue would be too high while you were transferred.”

I look at him, eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“And my other option?”

“If you want to return to The Sardar, logically you can only do that by willingly submitting to me sexually, and therefore making yourself complicit in proving that the morality of the Priest Kings is correct,” he says, as catlike as if he’s sprung a trap. “If you too discover pleasure in surrender to lovemaking, you vindicate that woman can indeed be happy in slavery, and I should return to the service of The Nest. Gor returns to normal, and we avoid the doom to this culture you represent. At a time of my choosing I will escort you to Port Schendi myself, where you will eventually be delivered to an agent of the Sardar for return to Urth.”

He’s smiling like he’s delivered an argument of genius. Something explodes within me, his suggestions makes me so angry. My vision turns white for a moment.

“And this is supposed to teach me about being a woman?” I demand. “By only offering me the choice to become your whore in exchange for my future, instead of being kept in the pens to avoid being raped? That is no choice. It’s just a different kind of force you’re using. I’ll have to sell myself in the furs to you, in order to get home.”

But my master is pressing on, keeping his cool.

“You might act outraged because you think these choices are different for a free woman, or even a woman on your home world, Aurore.” he insists. “But you are wrong. Throughout history the female options have only been the ice queen or the whore. You face the same dilemmas as woman through time. Gor simply shows this dilemma at its two philosophical extremes.”

I am ready with a reply.

“In that case if I sleep with you, it still does nothing to vindicate slavery on Gor. Rather, it proves the treatment of women across the universe is wrong.”

Kurtz shakes his head.

“Consent is the concern we must address with both rape, and slavery. A woman on Urth does not live a life so very different to a pleasure slave on Gor. Both have to use their sex to their best advantage in life. You have just removed your clothing in exchange for food, as might a stripper on your home world. All that is different on Gor is the removal of her first consent, and even that is similar to what faces many females in your Urth’s arranged marriages. All I’m trying to do is help you see that whether there is choice or not, the sex slave will be happy, while the nun’s life is empty.”

Seizing my camisk from the floor, I jump to my feet.

“I’ve heard enough of this ludicrous argument,” I fume in Aurore’s high voice. “I’m not proving that rape is acceptable just to get home. I’d prefer to grow old in the kitchens. Beat me if you want, but I’m leaving. Screw you.”

I’m not sure if he was expecting me to fall into his arms, but at last my replies finally get a reaction. Kurtz’ expression grows thunderous. He quickly stands as well, making me realise how large he is compared to me. The top of my head doesn’t even reach to his chin.

I am seized without warning, one of his hands knotting in my hair and the other gripping tightly round my back, forearm running diagonally from my rump to my shoulder blade. In this fashion I am pushed backwards so I look up into his huge face.

My bodyweight is supported by his arm. If he released me like this I’d fall back. But I’m sure he’s not going to. He holds me with the fierceness of an assailant, but also as if I’m as delicate as porcelain.

“Look, I could take you easily if I wanted,” his voice filled with emotion. “I even know it would make you happy, but you don’t know what’s good for you, Aurore.”

I’m about to come back with that being the most used patronising line in history – the man knows better than the woman what she wants.

But I’m utterly silenced by the kiss.

He presses his lips to mine hard, forcefully and passionately. It’s a kiss of possession, of desperation. Something in me ignites in response and my legs turn to water, but I’m also pressed into him so firmly I think he’s bruising my mouth.

I’m trying to push him away – both hands on his chest. It’s futile – he’s far stronger than I am, but my resistance is unnecessary.

“No,” he gasps, releasing the pressure my mouth, and he casts me aside as if I’m the dangerous one and not him. “This is not what must be.”

Then Kurtz sinks down to the floor, cursing and putting his head in his hands.

Cautiously I crouch down to pick up my camisk, which has been dropped in the struggle.

“Go,” he says in a voice still filled with emotion. “I am not strong enough to control my lust for you. Do not come back unless you do so ready to serve me fully.”

He doesn’t need to ask a second time. Turning my back I race from his hut, not even bothering to dress before I leave.

25 - There are exceptions to many rules, but not all.

Six nights later, the combined population of Kurtz’ compound gather in the largest of the buildings.

The slaves are told that we have guests, and there is going to be a feast in their honour.

Amongst us women there is great excitement.

Those who have never experienced slavery might imagine that for kajirae one evening is as miserable as any other, but Goreans know that it improves the demeanour and conduct of captives if they are occasionally rewarded with participation in pleasurable activities.

We will thus be permitted to enjoy the events, when we are not performing our many duties. For both slaves and warriors, any break from the normal routine is welcome.

My spirits lift for the first time since I fled from my master’s hut.

We will see entertainments and musicians; and there is to be opportunity for those of us that please to be gifted improved food and drink, fed from the hands of our masters.

Allocated tasks at the command of Udumi, girls rush around in the pens, prettifying themselves as much as they can.

Some girls wrap themselves in the silks of pleasure slaves and are permitted access to makeup, in preparation for serving the sexual needs of the men.

The less attractive and the lower ranking slaves are given simple work camisks, and their duty is to serve food and drink, satisfying the more mundane appetites.

I am numbered among the latter group, not on grounds of beauty but because my unique status means I am not to be used for pleasure.

This should be a relief to me, but for some reason it is not. Perhaps it is because I see the pleasure girls are evidently looking forward to the evening with more relish than the serving girls.

Sluts. I am annoyed with them, as everything here has irritated me since I parted from my master. Over and over I have replayed the scene in his hut – the deal offered to me; our argument; and the kiss.

Oh, that kiss – why I am cursed with the company of a man that bugs me more than anyone, but gives a kiss such as that?

No, I keep telling myself. The kiss doesn’t matter – it is the argument that is important. And there I know I’m in the right.

By sleeping with him all I’d have proven is that both of us are aching to get laid. But his ultimatum turned it into something more. Things were going well, I was about ready to put out, and he’s gone and screwed that all up with some Kurtz-like mind game.

If I go to him now, he’ll interpret that to mean that all this secretinner -slave crap is real, and all women really need is a man to give them a good seeing-to.

What a ridiculous situation, in a hateful world.

There is only one who is immune to my general ill feeling towards the Gorean planet.

Nessa passes me with a jingle of the slave bells that are buckled to her wrists and ankles. Her face is flushed with excitement.

“I am chosen to dance,” she informs me, “I can show my talents to my master.”

So please is she that she risks breaking the prohibition of physical contact, and gives a chaste kiss to my cheek.

Her beauty has bloomed in the collar, and she looks breath-taking clad only in pleasure silk, a garment of a red shade as dark as my hair.

Desire groans in me. I have been a woman amongst women for some time, so a female naked or provocatively dressed is a common sight for me, and yet her beauty can still have this effect.

Nessa is one of the many reasons I haven’t just run away and tried to cross the treacherous marsh - an option that I’ve seriously considered since my master’s proposition. I tell myself I can’t leave Nessa here as slave, when we both fell captive in that brutal raid.

But mostly, it is down to Kurtz that I remain. He is a beast.

He’s got me, and he knows it. He knows that I know it. I’m powerless to help myself - my only way out of here is through yielding even more profoundly, but I’ll have to do it anyway.

When I agreed to my mission to find him, I’d never expected to be placed in this dilemma where my only route to personal salvation is to betray every other woman left behind, “proving” that we are meant for slavery.

May the Priest Kings curse him!

What he feels for me is nothing but physical lust, I am sure, but I am wrong-footed anyway by having never been the subject of such desperate and intense desire before. My inexperience at handling his attention makes me feel like a nervous teenager again, even though the emotion in one of my years is entirely inappropriate.

“Talunas!” interrupts Vani, one of the more experienced slaves in the pens, rushing excitedly into the hut where we are dressing ourselves. “Master Petrucus told me there are Talunas in the compound!”

Nessa flashes her a look of irritation. Petrucus is her master, what is he doing telling this first to Vani?

For the rest of us, it is only news. I have never seen a Taluna before. They are the panther girls, Amazon-like women of the forest, escaping from unwanted companionships or slavery to live in small tribal groups in forests and jungles.

Unlike most Gorean women, panthers are skilled with weaponry, although this ability is self-taught so they are no match for males in combat.

Aware of their inferiority they rely on guerrilla tactics, striking and retreating to hostile terrain where they can evade their enemies.

Taluna is a name for women of the jungle tribes, and the girls that escape to the northern forests are normally known as panthers. The name “panther” comes from the way they dress themselves, in the skins of wild predators.

It is a hard life, wherever these women live. Outcast from society they live in poverty, subsisting under constant threat of capture by men, who find the hunting of such women a pleasurable sport.

“Your master is in the hall as well,” Vani says, turning to me now and giving a conspiratorial nudge with her elbow. “The panther women bring him out from his rooms, when you cannot.”

“Paga slut,” I retort calmly, to her, hiding the rush of emotion.

Should I consider this development a threat, or should I be unconcerned? Kurtz has shown interest in none but me up to now, but the qualities he likes in me – beauty and spirit – might well be found in a Taluna. What would I do if there was competition?

It is with increased urgency that I hurry to the kitchen and then to the large hall, carrying a heavy tray of tarsk meat.

The circular chamber is busy, and is noisy with conversation. A large fire burns in its centre, the smoke rising to a hole cut in the ceiling to facilitate its escape. The fire is very bright, making the edges of the room behind the people deep in shadow, and difficult to discern.

Music plays, the wild rhythmic melodies of Gor, amateur players amongst our population being led by one of the musicians’ caste who sits humbly at the side of the room.

My master sits in a far more prominent position, in his place on the carved hardwood Ubar’s throne.

My heart jumps into my mouth. I study him – the man who wants my virginity. Then he right looks at me.

I drop my gaze, but it’s too late. I’ve been caught staring.

Being so easily busted makes things feel like they’re worse for me. We both know what’s in the air between us. As he seems able to read my mind, I expect he guesses how much I’ve thought about his ultimatum.

Do I want to sleep with him or not? Since I was given my mission, to be transformed into Aurore, I have constantly feared rape. Seeing the face of a stranger leer over me in victorious conquest is an image that haunts me.

But being taken by someone like my Master – feeling his hands on me; hearing that deep voice that tugs deep in my sex – yes - that might not be so bad.

Arran, or Aurius of London, as he was known to Goreans, was entirely a heterosexual male. But the prospect of being penetrated by another male is no longer abhorrent to me. Perhaps it is the influence of my female body, and perhaps it is the many months of mental conditioning. Whatever the reason – that’s my shameful secret.

Even if I had to take the role of the slave, the submissive party, it doesn’t matter much to me. All that holds me back, is him thinking he has won this debate.

I steal another glance at him, and he is looking right at me. Why are we drawn to each other in this way? Most in the room are studying the Taluna.

I too examine the women, feigning disinterest in him.

They are barefoot and clad in brief animal skins, barely less revealing than the pleasure silks of the slaves. Panthers do not wear the robes of concealment, either because of practicality, or because by revealing themselves they deny their status as women.

All of them stand, rather than sit. Each is armed, from a combination of spears, daggers or short bows and quivers of arrows.

It should be noted that panthers do not use swords, the Gorean weapons being made of a grade of steel that is too heavy for a woman to wield effectively.

The leader of their band is obvious, a blonde woman who stands taller and stronger than all the others. Her followers stand behind her, some of them looking nervously about the room, others looking with distain.

The targets of this displeasure are obvious. In the flickering firelight I can see some of the pleasure girls already in the arms of the men, but before our guests can get too offended by the debauchery Kurtz bangs his cup loudly on the throne, bringing the room to a sudden silence.

“You have requested a parley with us,” the Ubar says to the leader of the Taluna band, “even though it is not our custom to permit women who are not slaves to enter the compound.”

The blonde nods.

“I am Ailsa,” she says. “I am the leader of this tribe of Taluna. We are the Jerags Sa’ng Vana’shii - The Sisters without Masters, and we live in the jungle upriver of the lake.”

Ailsa, she is called, like a lioness, and like a lioness she is.

She stands proud and beautiful, a magnificent creature. Anyone who believes women are meant to be slaves only need look at her to understand this is not true.

She has the superbly toned body of an athlete, but she is not muscular in such a way as to make her un-feminine. Ailsa’s legs are long and lithe, and her breasts strain against the brief skins of her top.

Her butter-blonde hair is straight and extends down to her rump. This woman’s beauty rivals that which the Priest Kings gifted Aurore.

I wish for a moment that I could again be a man. Then I would tame her and make her my own.

“Like you,” Ailsa continues, “we make our living from the trade on the river. And like you, we are threatened by the strongest in the region, the Ubar known as Bila Haruma.”

“We are here to suggest an alliance to our mutual benefit.”

Kurtz considers her silently, his brow furrowed.

Finally free to study him while he’s looking at someone else, I try to read his emotions, but his face is inscrutable.

The name of Bila Haruma is not unknown to me. He is the leader of the Black Slavers – they who dominated much of this territory before the arrival of my master.

He is reputed to be a great leader – a true Ubar. I am surprised that he has not already clashed with the men under the command of Kurtz. But apart from the tarn incursion, things on Lake Shaba have been peaceful since my arrival.

“Sample the hospitality of our compound,” my master eventually says. “And later we might discuss the terms by which you might join us.”

Kurtz waves his arm as if he’s tired, and the music begins again.

Ailsa takes her place at a wide stool at his side, sitting crosslegged in the manner of a man, rather than kneeling as wood a female. She lays her spear down at her feet, but retains a dagger attached at her waist to show she doesn’t entirely trust her hosts.

I decide that Kurtz’ prohibition on my serving him is surely intended to refer to service alone in his hut. Ignoring him might also earn me punishment. So I move in to offer him meat, craving being closer to his aura, and I am already part way into my kneeling position at his feet when he loudly says “No, another girl.”

It is one of those moments where conversation seems to come to a stop in time to witness the embarrassment. Everyone has noted what is happening.

The blush begins to flower as I stand and move away.

I have been publicly rejected by my master. I know the reason why – he forbad me to serve him until I was ready to do so more completely as slave, but the rest of the camp is not aware of the situation between us.

My eyes start to blur. Oh no, I don’t want to cry. Priest Kings, it can be annoying having female emotions.

I want to run from here, hiding in the pens for the rest of evening, but I am not to be permitted the chance of escaping his presence.

“Kajira, here,” says Ailsa to me, clicking her fingers.

I kneel before the proud Taluna, keeping my head down. The girl’s cross-legged position means that from my angle I can see straight up her short skirt of animal skins to her most intimate parts, but Ailsa is unashamed of flaunting herself before another woman.

“Tarsk meat, Mistress,” I say humbly, holding the plate out before me.

I try to distract myself from my recent shaming by stealing glances at her exposed sex, but my libido seems to have dropped to zero.

The whole camp will think I’m too poor a slave to serve him. Colleen has already rushed up to take the place that should rightfully be mine, Colleen who all the other girls say has fat short legs.

“The girl has feelings for you, Ubar,” Ailsa observes, taking some strips of meat delicately in her slim fingers. “Your rejection wounds her.”

I can see the Ubar’s feet in the corner of my view. I do not look his way.

“Aurore has a longer journey than many to learn that she is truly woman, and she is slave,” he says. “Some of the lessons are hard, but necessary.”

“Not every woman is a natural slave,” Ailsa counters, “although only a true kajira would cry because she cannot debase herself before men.”

“Perhaps,” Kurtz replies, his tone noncommittal.

“You, the dark-haired slave, come here,” Kurtz says to Nessa, who is flitting past us, the silks of a pleasure slave flowing about her hurrying as she carries a jug of spiced wine. She runs with the short steps of a trained slave, moving as if her ankles were linked with a chain.

Nessa obeys the command instantly, serving the Ubar and then the Taluna, and then kneeling before the two of them with her head down as she waits to be dismissed.

The release does not come.

“Take off your tunic, slave” Ailsa orders her.

Again Nessa complies instantly although she flinches like she’s been struck as she reaches up to her left shoulder for the fastening loop. Pulling the garment away, she is naked.

“This one is dressed as a pleasure girl, but she does not have the body,” the panther says critically. “Her breasts are too small to please a man.”

Nessa is breathing heavily, either from fear or because she has been running, and her chest rises and falls pleasingly. In my opinion her proportions are entirely satisfactory.

“I thought the Taluna were supposed to hate men,” Kurtz observes. “Surely you would therefore prefer that the least suitable of women be sent to please them?”

I smile as Ailsa is temporarily silenced by my master’s logic.

“You may go,” he immediately commands Nessa.

Nessa looks hurt as she retreats. Perhaps she interpreted the Ubar’s reply as agreement in the verdict on her beauty. I who know him better, interpreted the rapid dismissal as a tactic to get her out of the panther’s range.

I do not like Ailsa, although hypocritically I am unable to avoid finding her intensely attractive.

The haughty power she shows is a beguiling display of spirit, and I can understand a little of those men of Urth who fantasise about submission to strong women.

Her bare legs are so close to me that I’d only have to lean forwards to kiss the skin of her thigh.

Denied the chance to taunt Nessa, Ailsa directs her cruelty back to me.

“You are dismissed for now, Ubar’s slave,” Ailsa says contemptuously to me, “but only so you can finish your duties. Return to me later. It amuses me to keep you close to him whom you cannot please.”

“Yes, Mistress,” I say humbly, and keeping my head down I rise smoothly to my feet.

The next ahn of the evening is not pleasant for me.

All know of my rejection, and interpret it to mean that the Ubar is no longer interested in his personal slave.

“Aurore is too gangly,” I overhear one of the other women saying acidly during one of my visits to the kitchen. “Her master does not want her.”

Chiron also reads my rejection as a sign of Kurtz waning interest. When I reach him to offer my tray of vulo eggs, he uses the opportunity to reach inside my tunic and caress the rounded curves of my bare buttocks.

“He tires of you,” Chiron tells me, agreeing with the assessment of the kitchen girls. “Soon he will abandon you entirely, you will become my personal slave, and on that day you will no longer be white silk.”

With this forecast looming over me, the evening progresses.

Nessa overcomes the dismissive assessment of her figure to perform an exquisite belt dance, a routine based on the idea that the woman’s head must not rise above the height of a man’s belt.

I am proud for her.

She is so sensuous; so graceful; so challenging. It’s hard to believe that there in the sand is the woman I knew so recently in robes of concealment. What man would not want her for a pleasure slave?

When she finishes, her head to a man’s sandal, I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

I join the applause, which is deafening. But not everyone in the room is impressed. When Nessa kneels with her head to the floor to receive the Ubar’s approval I know she is close enough to hear Ailsa’s contemptuous comment.

“Slave.”

The night seems to last forever, but only another ahn passes before Kurtz bangs his cup on the throne, ordering the room back to silence.

The Taluna gets elegantly to her feet, standing proud and strong, holding her spear in one hand.

“Do you have a verdict on the alliance with our group?” Ailsa asks.

“I do,” my master says.

“And what is it?”

“No.” states Kurtz.

Ailsa first looks astonished, but then her face clouds with anger as she realises that’s all he intends to say.

“Am I to be given a reason for this uncivil rejection?” she demands.

“You are foolish to bring your band of women into a camp filled with armed warriors,” he says. “And I do not wish to make alliance with a fool.”

Anger turns to fury. Ailsa picks up her spear from the floor, as if she is considering throwing it at him.

“We will depart, then,” she says eventually, bringing her temper back under control.

“I think not,” says Kurtz. “You will remember that our custom is that the only females to enter my compound are slaves.”

“We are not kajirae!” Ailsa states vociferously.

“You certainly think yourself above them. You have treated our women with great contempt since your arrival,” Kurtz notes.

“They are weak,” Ailsa says. “They betray us by displaying their weakness before men.”

“So you are better than any one of these?” Kurtz asks, fingering the arm rest of his throne with a show of indifference.

“Of course.” Ailsa spits.

“Then you wouldn’t mind proving it with a simple test,” he offers, sitting back to look up at her. “If you can best a weak slave of mine in a fight, I will acknowledge you are better than all these women, and you may leave unharmed and with twenty gold tarn discs, of double weight.”

“If that weak slave defeats you, you and your band will join their number in my pens.”

Ailsa laughs viciously. She has suddenly regained her self-assurance, not realising she’s been goaded into a corner. My master is correct. She is not wise.

“I could beat any one of these pathetic females,” she says almost confidently. “You may even select the style of fighting.”

“Unarmed combat, then,” Kurtz says languidly. “You will each attempt to strip and subdue your opponent, either by a hold or rendering them unable to continue.”

The hall has grown loud with excitement. Here is a contest, sport in the Gorean style, where the competition is brutal and the loser has much to fear.

Ailsa also seems eager for the fight. She is already removing her bow and handing it to one of her deputies. She then reaches for the waist tie that secures her dagger in place, and hands that over as well.

She looks powerful and fit, even unarmed. I try to think if there are any slaves in the compound, with a chance of victory over this woman. Uzima comes from the tough docks of Port Schendi, and is used to taking care of herself, being little better than the she-urts of Port Kar. She would be my selection.

“Who shall I make beg for mercy?” asks Ailsa.

“Aurore,” says the Ubar. “Aurore will fight you.”