Daughter of Gor by Olga Turlovna (Part Eleven)

Daughter of Gor

By Olga Turlovna

44 - I learn of the Jungle Rennel, and resume my duties as a slave to Kurii

“Wake up, lazy kajira,” a man is saying.

My senses tell me I’m lying on my back, I have my sanity and I am not in fact dead.

I am trained to obey so I do as he commands, opening my eyes to see a man in the green robes of the physicians’ caste looming over me.

“Welcome back slave,” he smiles at me. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Gradually I recover awareness of my body and its surroundings, and with sensation comes the realisation he is wrong. I am not lucky to be alive. My belly feels like it still burns with that terrible fire, my head hurts, and he called me kajira. Better I had died than face the gang rape that will now be prepared by my enemies.

“I don’t feel very lucky Master,” I say, groaning as a wave of cramp knots my stomach. “What happened to me?”

“You were poisoned,” the physician tells me with smiling unconcern. I steal a quick glance at him and see he is an elderly fellow, with the bloodshot eyes that come from a lifetime of too much paga.

“The venom of an insect was used on you, a creature that moves like a crab called the Jungle Rennel,” he says. “You are unlikely to have heard of it, especially given your Urth origins. Better known across Gor is the Rennel found on the plains of Turia.”

I do not know of either beast.

I try to sit up, but the world spins too violently. I collapse back onto a crude cot, a cot I recognise is located in the infirmary building of the fortified compound.

When my head touches down a pain like a dagger pierces into my skull, and I groan again.

“I am free of this poison? I still feel terrible.”

The physician shakes his head.

“Not quite. You are free of the drug, but not all of its affects. Although the immediate risk to your life is passed, the venom has caused permanent disruption to one of the steps in your digestive process. You will struggle to take in sufficient nutrients for the rest of your existence.”

“I will remain slim?” I can’t help quip in the face of such bad news.

He smiles coldly.

“You kajirae, you are so vain about your beauty. The nutritional deficiency might manifest itself as disfiguring sores on your legs. At times you will not look quite as perfect as you do now.”

I decide I do not like this uncaring man. Eager to be away from his presence, I try to push myself up into a seating position, and this time my balance and my head are up to the task.

I swing my long legs down and perch at the edge of the bed. The brand on my thigh looks rather attractive now it has faded to a pale scar, but it is still a brand.

Aurore’s body is naked, but the physician will have seen everything by now, and there’s little point attempting to cover my nudity.

Something is strange. At first I’m not sure what it is, but I realise I’m expecting blemishes to cover my skin, and there’s not one. What happened to the mosquito bites?

“How long was I unconscious, Master?” I ask.

“The poison rendered you in a coma for five days,”

I rub my slender fingertips over my body, feeling the familiar shape of Aurore’s divine wide hips and narrow waist. The muscles in my stomach have perhaps become more prominent, as if I’ve lost weight or toned-up, during the time of unconsciousness, but they are not unsightly.

Otherwise there seems to be no damage to me at all, apart from a headache and the dangerous contractions I can feel rumbling in my bowels.

I close my eyes for a moment, rubbing my temples with my palms.

“It is a rather fascinating venom that Kurtz used,” the physician says with clinical unconcern for my discomfort. “The local Ukungu tribes deliberately administer minute doses to young men wishing to prove their courage as warriors. They do this because their legends say that the rite earns the blessing of the Ushindi frog, an animal that the tribe revere as gods. The frog is itself a poisonous jungle creature (there are so many on Gor), who’s bite brings a horrific vomiting sickness known as the red death.”

“The Rennel venom used on you must have been the only toxic material that was available to Kurtz. Luckily for you it is an unpredictable poison, and the dose you sustained gave me time to save you before you passed a point of no return.”

The next wave of cramp from my intestines is more powerful, and moan as I have to clench the muscles in my belly. Aurore will have to seek the relief of the straw pile soon.

“What is happening to Kurtz, Master?” I ask in a strained voice while the contraction fades.

“That should not be a concern to you,” the physician says. “You have a new owner now, and you have a new collar to prove it. Your duties are to them.”

My hands fly to my throat, where I can feel that the familiar shape of the collar of Kurtz has been replaced with a different band. This new one is thinner, giving it a more delicate feel, but also a little wider to cover a larger area of my skin. The edges are rough as gravel, as if they’re embedded with precious stones, but they must be something else. There couldn’t possibly be that many jewels on a mere slave’s collar. Their nature will be beyond my comprehension until I find a mirror.

I can feel engraving on the metal band which will be the name of my owner. Pray let it be the grey one.

“However, as it would perhaps give you pleasure to know of Kurtz suffering after his attempt to kill you, I choose tell you that the former Ubar has been undergoing interrogation since his capture,” the physician has already continued.

Interrogation, he said. No, that concept does not give me pleasure. Instead I feel tired, tired of Gor, tired of the cruelty of men, tired of this battle between both sexes and species, and I just wish I could be on Urth sleeping under crisp white sheets and forgetting this nightmare.

I shake my head to show that I bear my former master no ill will for his attempt on my life. I know he was just being Kurtz, and in his twisted morality he was doing what he thought was required of the Ubar.

“Your orders are to return to the grey one,” the physician says, “and tell it that the physicians are finished with you.”

He said “it”, twice. So this is the man who knows Telisio’s secret, the only one that Telisio said was from the same faction. But he also said the physicians were finished with me. That is a more immediate concern.

“I thought I was needed for tissue samples, for experimentation,” I plead.

“We obtained what we required while you were unconscious,” the physician says dismissively. “It was a trivial matter. Now you have no more significance than any other attractive slave woman. Rather than rely on your importance to protect you, you must focus your thoughts on giving pleasure to men.”

He is right. Telisio wouldn’t be cruel to me, but my head spins in sudden acceptance that in theory the grey one could sell me to another master or even load me into the ships to be sold. And this is the fear that other slave girls have to live with every moment.

I am praying it is Telisio’s collar I wear, this strange rock-crusted thing. Not knowing whose name I wear is becoming unbearable. I must return to him and find out straight away.

“May I leave, Master,” I humbly ask, and I am dismissed.

The physician pats my bare bottom to expedite my departure from the infirmary, as many men have wanted to touch my rump since the transformation.

Ignoring his impudence I find myself out in the open air of the fortified compound, stark naked. It looks to be early afternoon.

I dearly want my first move to be towards the lodgings of my master, or more accurately mistress (I still don’t have it clear in my head), where I can learn of my owner and recover a little clothing. But before I get that far nature intervenes, demanding priority, and I must detour to the straw.

When I finally do reach the grey one’s quarters I enter cautiously, making a noise to announce my presence and not wanting to interrupt Telisio washing as I did before. But the grey woman is lying on her cot, knees drawn up. Her hood is drawn back, and the grotesque head is covered in sweat. Here lies someone who might be gravely ill.

Her head turns slowly to look at me.

“Aurore, it is good to see you recovered,” she says in a frighteningly weak voice.

“You’re sick?” I say unnecessarily, and kneeling before the bed I touch my hand to the misshapen brow.

“My body continues its rejection of the transformation,” Telisio says in a whisper. “I will die before too many days have passed, unless I can be returned to the chamber and undertake the process for a second time.”

The skin touching my hand is burning with fever. I fight back a flutter of panic. Telisio is my only protection, so my concern for his wellbeing is not entirely unselfish.

“You will be healed soon - the physicians have what they need of me to amend the process,” I reassure him. “Until then I can remain in this hut, and ease your suffering.”

Taking my hand away, I gratefully begin to pull on Udumi’s ill-fitting camisk, covering myself as best as I can and tying the garment at my narrow waist.

Meanwhile Telisio laughs, but it is a bitter sound that terminates in a fit of coughing.

“Why would the Others test their device on me, unless they fear for its safety and want another victim?” he asks in a hoarse croak. “No, like you, my role in this war is over. This cot will become my death bed.”

“But you said they’d cure you,” I say like a petulant child.

“No, Aurore,” Telisio whispers, shaking her head. “I said my only chance was for them to transform me, but not that they had yet agreed to do it. Those were the dreams of a dying man.”

Tears are forming in my eyes, but whether I cry for me or the grey one, I do not know.

“I can nurse you, keep you alive as long as possible, while we try to persuade them.”

Again the misshapen head shakes.

“You will not be my nurse. Your ownership has been transferred to the local Kurii faction, and away from my own. You are to assist the warriors caring for the barbarian slave girls, chained below decks on the ship. It has become known that you speak one of the barbarian tongues.”

I cannot think of the Urth girls now.

“Whose collar do I wear?” I plead, trying to pull away the strange band around my throat.

“In the Gorean script, it says ‘This slave girl belongs to Kur’s Claw. He chooses to name her Aurore.’”

“Protect me, please Master!” I beg in sudden fear. The idea of having to serve the Claw sexually repels me.

“You must prepare yourself to be his,” the grey woman insists. “Have you still not learnt? Men of Gor take what they want, and he has decided he wants you. It pleases him to have the beautiful agent of Priest Kings reduced to serving him as slave. You were prepared for being taken by Kurtz’ men before you arrived here. This is no worse.”

“But that was for the mission,” I wail. “I was going to be a slave temporarily. It wasn’t for real.”

My tears are flowing properly now. Damn Aurore’s lack of emotional control to the Priest Kings, and damn the Priest Kings for cursing me this way.

I know Telisio can do nothing to save me, and I can’t bear crying like a weakling in front of the man who knew me as the proud strong warrior. So I flee sobbing from the hut, running to hide near the rubbish heap where Kurtz also found cover.

I long to escape more than I’ve ever done before, but the gaps in the compound walls have been sealed, and the gates are all guarded.

I don’t want to be a slave.

My crying fit lasts for some time, and I wait for a further half ahn before recovering my self-control enough to face the world. No one has come to disturb me, but I know it will not be long before I am missed, and punished.

I must resume my duties, as kajira. The grey one said my orders are to assist with the barbarian girls.

I do not anticipate speaking to these women of my homeworld with much relish. I will be the one to destroy their hopes, telling them they will inevitably serve as slaves under the hot lustful hands of men. But at least this duty it will keep me away from the Kur’s Claw, and the look of victory on his face.

Steeling myself I make for the ships.

45 - The women in the hold

After asking for directions I present myself on my knees before the captain of the Kurii slave vessel, a disagreeable looking fellow named Gracus.

“You speak one of the barbarian languages, girl?” he demands.

“Yes, Master,” I say humbly.

He gives a seadog gruff “Hmm” and inspects me, more intimately than would be allowed anywhere on Earth.

“Pretty thing, aren’t you?” he comments, and without waiting for an answer orders me, “Well then, fetch a big bucket of water, and follow me to my ship.”

I get to my feet with the instinctive grace trained into me, and rush to do his bidding.

His request to fetch a bucket of water merits explanation. One might expect that the compound’s water source comes from the harbour, but with much of the settlement’s excreta being tipped there a separate well has been dug for hygiene reasons, which fills itself gradually by being below the water table of the lake.

Into this well I lower a large wooden bucket, struggling with Aurore’s weak arms to pull it back out once full. Then I follow Gracus onto the ship, waddling awkwardly with the heavy load between my legs.

It seems a lowly and rundown vessel, but the decks are scrubbed and he touches the rail as lovingly as if she were a woman when he walks up the gangplank.

Inside is a different story. The stench of humanity hits me as soon as I submerge below the deck.

The ship’s hold is out of the sun, but it is still oppressively hot inside. My eyes adjust to the semi-darkness of the cavernous windowless space and I gradually resolve the ghostly shapes into naked women, slowly and silently rising like a mist to look at us.

They have been chained down in the bilges, pits in the lowest sections of the ships with a raised walkway running between them. Only the left ankle of each girl has been shackled, but these shackles link to eyehooks in the hull that are utterly inescapable.

Gracus and I move above them, along the gangway to the centre of the hold. As he passes between the women he roars like a bull and strikes out at the girls with great savagery, making them scream and recoil to the furthest extent their chains will permit.

All but one girl behave this way, the exception being a dark and leggy Latino beauty who does not flee like the others, but cowers on her knees, extending her slender hands out to him in supplication.

This female, Gracus does not beat.

“It is always like this with new batches of barbarians,” he says to me in his native tongue “They might not speak Gorean, but they can quickly learn the language of the whip.”

He strokes the kneeling girl’s face with his rough fingers, and then he moves his hand to caress her breast. At this violation the girl begins to shake, as if she is suppressing sobs, but she still offers no resistance.

Gracus lifts the girls chin and she nuzzles his groin as if trying to awaken his blood, keeping her eyes closed.

“This is the first step on a girl’s path into slavery,” Gracus tells me in Gorean. “She begins to learn that her beauty is all that is important in her life, and she must use it to please men. Tonight the others will hate her for debasing herself so, but next time I enter, I wager they will all attempt to submit as she does. Thus they will begin to compete for my kindness.”

I can see the other women observing the Latino’s treatment, and I do not disagree with his prediction.

“Tell these women that only this slave will be fed tonight, because she pleases her master, and the others will stay hungry.”

I do so, translating exactly into English and addressing the silent group with no more or less than he said. It would be foolish to disobey, with the possibility that this might be a test of my honesty. Many servants of the Others speak an Earth language as well as Gorean.

The women that understand English – about three quarters of the group, show this by reacting to my speech with sudden hope. They rush to me, each one trying to plead her case.

“Help us, you must help us,” says the closest to me, a milky blonde with a magnificent body. She speaks English with a Scandinavian accent and grasps my hand in supplication.

It is odd that a girl like her would have never considered a man such as Aurius with much to offer for himself, but with Aurore, a mere slave, she is desperate to ingratiate.

But before I can have any more dialogue Gracus rushes in with another growl, viciously lashing out again. The perfection of the blonde’s shoulders is immediately marked with a red welt from the lash.

The girls retreat from me like waves from a beach.

“Tell them they are slaves, and slaves do not speak unless asked a question,” Gracus barks.

This too I accurately relate.

One girl starts to open her mouth but Gracus is already raising his slave whip and she quickly closes it again. The looks on their faces change from gratitude towards me to hostility, and feeling stung that they’re blaming the messenger I add, “I’m sorry. I’m a slave here too.”

This time the flare of hot fire is across my back. The thundercrack of the whip reaches me after the pain, sound travelling slower than the nerve signals in Aurore’s body. My knees give way and I fall to the deck, instinctively raising my arms above my head.

“You also do not have permission to speak unless I wish you to do so,” Gracus tells me.

I do not even reply with a “Yes, Master,” having made that mistake before, long ago.

“Tell the slaves that I wish them to drink from this bucket. Tell them it is important that good kajirae stay hydrated, to remain healthy. Tell them that slaves who do not drink enough water will be punished.”

These facts I accurately relate.

Cautious that my words may be a trick, women get to their feet and shuffle forward like zombies, chains clinking. Their eyes keep flicking to Gracus, watching for any sign of him raising the lash.

With no drinking vessels available they form crude cups with their palms, and sip before the water drains away between fingers. I gradually move the bucket along the gangway, with the chains for those at the far end not permitting them to reach the centre.

All the women eventually comply with my order, those that do not understand my translation copying the ones that do.

Gracus touches the face of the Latino girl almost affectionately as she takes her turn to drink, and her look is questioning. She is lucky she cannot understand the words he then speaks.

“I will permit only her food tonight, and tomorrow I will reward all others who submit,” he says. “But on the third night I will have her cleaned and chained in my furs, and she will be the first that I rape. It is better that these women learn quickly why they have been permitted to live.”

My earth-man’s horror at the fate of these newcomers makes me aware how little I’ve changed mentally since I arrived at this place to be judged on the docks.

When I was a newly collared slave girl I acted unlike most women and boldly defied the Ubar, still retaining my dignity and my sense of self with foolish hopes that I might be saved in some romantic fashion, or that I was different to the others.

Kurtz did nothing to correct this and I believed was special – destined to change worlds as the omen of doom.

Now I see that was all vanity. These women must learn the reason they live, Gracus said, and I am my reaction to their ill treatment is so intense because I still have to learn that same lesson.

No-one will come to save me –Telisio has been changed into a woman and is in more danger than me, Kurtz has been captured, and my other guardians are long dead.

The only important thing in my existence is that men find me desirable. I must submit to the Claw, and these women must also surrender to the Kurii.

Without warning a fierce contraction of my stomach grips me, so painful it doubles me over.

“Forgive me, Master,” I blurt out, risking the whip for speaking. “I am unwell, I need to visit the straw,” and not waiting for permission I run from the hold. I wish I could run and run and run, but I am trapped within these fortifications as I have always been trapped.

46 – An evening with my new master

It is towards the private quarters of the Kur’s Claw I make my way that evening, carrying a serving tray loaded with paga, vulo eggs and tarsk meat.

Rather than occupy Kurtz’ humble hut the Kur’s Claw has claimed the quarters of Chiron. I enter to discover it very much as it was before, with the same boxes of treasures, artworks, and the stack of rugs and fabrics where I hid from the grey one.

Softly glowing lamps would make the lighting romantic, were it not for my situation.

With the hairs standing higher and higher on the back of my neck the closer I approach him, padding across towards the man who is my now my master, and presenting myself on my knees.

I have assumed the position of the pleasure slave gracefully, without spilling the contents of the tray which I place beside him on a low table.

“Aurore,” he smiles, saying the name possessively, indicating his desire to have me move even closer to his feet.

The thin fabric wrap slides over my buttocks as I inch closer.

I have been clad in a similar fashion to the evening I first served him in the hall, only as the Ubar’s slave my adornments are of the highest quality. My beauty is to be a reflection of his power, and I am to be displayed accordingly.

Once again the priceless jewelled pendant rests between my bare breasts, the weight of the chain adding to that of the collar around my neck.

The roughness around that collar I have confirmed are precious diamonds. The wealth of empires decorates the throat of a girl not permitted to cover her chest.

Around my waist is tied a narrow band of the finest red fabric. Unlike the wraps worn by the other girls, mine is like gauze, probably requiring great skill to weave on the hand looms known on Gor, and thus is also very expensive.

The sheer fabric hides nothing, covering me only not to protect my dignity but to make other men wish for the right to remove the final layer.

I am locked again into a sirik, my ankles and wrists joined together before me with short chains, and these linked with a longer chain, joining ankle to wrist to jewel-encrusted throat.

The sirik is the same simple design I wore for Kurtz, only my new one is plated with gold, the colour offsetting my red hair and jungle tanned skin to further please the eyes of men.

Heavy bangles of solid gold are also slipped onto my wrists, above the locked shackles so they cannot slide off over my slender hands.

As a final touch, on my arrival before him the Claw attaches a gold plated chain like a dog lead to the collar at my neck, keeping the other end wrapped around his solid fist.

Using this he will be able to control the position of my head, his superior strength dragging my lighter body about like one would manage a pet.

I must look utterly divine, like a true trophy, I think miserably.

One of the pieces of roasted meat from the tray is offered to me by my Master, and I am obliged to take it from his hand with my teeth, feeding submissively as I once did before Kurtz.

I lift my wrists reflexively, wishing I could take the food like a human being, and the vertical chain of my sirik tugs between my legs, warm metal touching provocatively against my sex.

While I chew he reaches out to stroke me, touching my smooth cheek, my slim shoulders, and down to the soft upper slopes of my breasts, and he begins to speak.

“You probably think me to be some cruel beast, a barbarian and your intellectual inferior,” the Claw says abruptly, “but in fact I spent twenty Urth years on your home world. I am knowledgeable about your culture.”

After a moment he adds, “Your Star Trek is very funny to me.”

In these crude buildings on a violent and distant world it is impossible to visualise Kur’s Claw sitting in front of a TV watching Captain Kirk, so I am silent.

“I have seen that accounts of Gor are published on your home planet, being received as fiction by the people of Urth.”

“At one time Aurore, on Urth these stories were hugely popular. Your men wanted to be warriors, like the famous Tarl Cabot. Your women, in the secrecy of their own hearts, also read the accounts, their empty lives aroused by the fantasy of themselves as slaves to handsome and powerful men.”

He takes his cup from the tray and sips.

“The accounts of the slave girls attracted most interest from your people. The lifestyle that you call bondage was in its infancy, and for many the tales of Gor were their first and only exposure to the concepts of domination and submission for sexual pleasure, so those scrolls awoke allies and enemies both.”

“But although Tarl Cabot was in the service of Priest Kings, the release of his accounts and those of his slaves, did more to advance the cause of the Kurii than that of the Sardar.”

“It was easy for us to recruit agents at this time – a golden era. While the Nest spent its efforts in futile attempts to stop the flow of female captives from Urth, our followers soared. We could easily tempt your men with the promise of access to the pleasures of beautiful women, females they would never have enjoyed in their normal lives.”

He sips from his paga cup again.

“A surprising number of Urth women also rallied to our cause, many because they craved the slavery described in the scrolls, and only a few hired to catch others, betraying their own sex in desperation to escape this fate.”

“But then, as I worked on Urth your culture progressed, while ours remained frozen at the same stage it has been for hundreds of years. On Urth, women and men realised it was possible to enjoy being the slave in the bedroom but the master in the boardroom, and the notion of women being forced into collar without their consent, became abhorrent to most.”

“Suddenly I could find women who sought the restraint of steel just by advertising discreetly, but these females only wanted their submission to be temporary. None of them sought true debasement in the collar of a kajira.”

“Meanwhile on Gor our own free women continued to yearn for the release of slavery, just as they had done for generations, but to your tastes, evolving in sophistication, their accounts began to seem implausible, ridiculous even.”

“Gorean men like myself would claim they love women rather than hate them, as we too have done for generations, but our cultural acceptance of rape meant that on Urth, we are seem as cruel and misogynistic. This is ironic, because it was the men of Urth who grew to hate women, not us.”

At the word “rape” I tense in my shackles, and the chains touch me with unhelpful intimacy again. This might be my fate, tonight.

Unaware of my fears, Kur’s Claw continues his monologue. Ubars do like to talk, I think.

“As your females abandoned Gorean fantasies to explore consensual sexual submission with growing confidence, your men became jealous of women’s rising power.”

“I watched your men’s cravings become darker, with the pleasure of seeing women find genuine happiness in chains no longer being sufficient. The source of male arousal changed to taking pleasure from woman suffering and being humbled to a less threatening level. This made it more difficult for Kurii to recruit the best to our service. Only the sadists ally themselves to our cause, and more balanced men are troubled with conscience about female right to consent.”

He sips from his cup.

“Thus our fortunes waned, and our supplies of barbarian women and the income they bring dwindled to a trickle of coins, now we have only a few loyal agents remaining. The Kurii were defeated on Urth not by Tarl Cabot, but by Christian Grey and The Story of O.”

The Kur’s Claw is silent for a moment.

“You’re probably wondering why I recount my observations to you, Aurore.”

I had assumed he was pleased with his astuteness and the sound of his own voice, but it seems there is more.

“Udumi is on her way back to your world, the first of a new wave of agents acting for the Kur. Her beauty makes her well placed to seek out women suitable to serve as slaves, as they will give another desirable woman their trust. But unlike the men of conscience on Urth, Udumi will deliver them to us without mercy, because she knows if she fails to please, she will end up back here in collar.”

I risk a glance up and see that he is smiling to himself.

“A true born survivor, that one. She will outlive us all.”

Then he hits me with it.

“I recount these facts to you because it is not impossible that you too could eventually win passage back to your home to function in this role.”

I am half hope, half horror at his suggestion.

“You too are in the position to identify suitable women, by infiltrating areas with concentrations of the most desirable - modelling calls and beauty competitions. You too would know that if you fail to satisfy the Kurii with total obedience, you could be returned to the state where you now find yourself.”

I cannot deny that anything which gets me away from this place sounds attractive, but I feel obliged to make objections.

“The Others regard humans as no more than animals, to be exploited as a food source or for financial gain in their war against the Priest Kings. How can you take their side, Master?”

The vast thigh before my face moves in a shrug.

“Mankind has grown under the rule of both species, just as any farm animal survives in far greater numbers than it would left in the wild,” he says.

“Given the choice of sides, it is logical to ally with the one that provides a man with wealth, and women to be his slaves. The farmer has more to offer the animals than the shepherd.”

He tugs at the leash around my neck at the mention of slaves, pulling me closer against him.

“And let’s say I do accept your offer,” I say. “What is to stop me running back to the Priest Kings, as soon as I return to Urth?” I ask.

Claw chuckles.

“Do not worry about that, pretty one. You have been tagged, while you were unconscious. A marker is present in your bloodstream that cannot be removed. You may return to the enemies of the Kurii. We will always be able to recover you if we wish.”

I feel my skin crawl as if I’ve already been violated. I rub Aurore’s lustrous thighs, as if I could somehow clean this marker away, and he chuckles.

“And what happens if I take the courageous path, choosing not to betray the Priest Kings?” I ask.

The Claw shrugs.

“After many months of your sexual service I will tire of your pleasures. Then I will simply have you sold in one of the northern markets. You will be lost forever in the many slave women of Gor,” he says, and then adds, “No doubt this is not a fearful destiny to you, because you believe there is some scheme for the agents of the Sardar to watch for a slave of your description, and wearing the brand of Kurtz.”

“Do not doubt that I will ensure that you are marked a second time, to blur and disguise the original brand. And I will have your head shaved before the auction, so you are not identified by your distinctive hair.”

Instinctively I raise my hands to the gorgeous red tresses created for Aurore by the Priest Kings.

He laughs at my weak vanity.

“But for now, these are no more than shadows in your future. You shall not be permitted to leave while it pleases me to have Kurtz’ favourite woman on her knees before me, and for now that pleases me very much,” Kur’s Claw says, chillingly.

“He will be victorious somehow,” I say, and then boldly risk, “I have never met the leader who is his equal.”

I see the Claw’s black beard move as he grinds his teeth with anger.

“Perhaps then, it is time for you to witness the end of the mad Ubar, and the complete victory of the Kurii power.”

47 - The end of Kurtz.

I have no idea what to expect as I’m led by painful jerks on my leash from the Claw’s quarters.

It is certainly not to see Kur’s Claw begin by ordering the grey one to join us, as if he’s doing nothing more unusual than requesting his presence for a business meeting.

The night air is refreshingly cool after the cloying heat in the Claw’s rooms. I can see stars, and the moons of Gor. Cicada-like insects make their rasping calls, male wooing female in the manner of their species. The universe is ticking on, unconcerned with the insignificant events down here.

Telisio limps slowly towards us. His hooded head is down, and he leans heavily on an oak staff to keep him from collapsing. Two of Kurtz’ warriors are also to accompany us. They take their places either side of their leader.

We are to witness whatever fate awaits the Ubar.

I’m desperately searching ahead, looking for the scene of a crucifixion or gruesome impalement, but Kur’s Claw leads me to the forbidden building that was the former slave quarters. This is a surprise. Goreans usually prefer a public spectacle when enemies are put to death.

Claw raps on the heavy wooden door, and I hear the sound of bolts being drawn back from within. The face I see looking round is a male, dressed in the green robes of the physicians caste. It is the same one who saved me from the poison.

Why would they take Kurtz to a physician? Some humane execution perhaps, where he is given a draught that gives eternal sleep? No, not judging by my experience of Gor. Whatever is coming will be brutal.

We are quickly admitted, and move into the familiar building. The corridor behind the entrance is unchanged from the time of my residence, lit by a sputtering lamp hanging from a bracket, but the room we enter – where once I slept along with the other women – has been transformed.

A complicated network of metal pipes, valves and drums give the room the impression of a chemical factory. These focus down on an object in the centre of the room, an object I recognise as the wardrobe-shape that was carried in from the landing site.

This time it is uncovered, and I understand.

The Kurii have brought their transformation apparatus right here, to the fortified compound. It resembles the equipment I experienced first-hand in the Nest, only my transformation was in a tube and this is a clear box.

Sitting in heavy chains with his back against the wall is my lover.

The once mighty Ubar is naked, shackled at his ankles, wrists and throat to iron rings in the wall that were once used to secure women.

The manacles locked on Kurtz are nothing like the delicate gold plate of my sirik. Kurtz is a man, so the steel needed for him is heavy, and the bands to lock round limbs are much greater in diameter.

I can see he has been roughly treated by his captors. He is covered in bruises and the lashes of whips, and his right knee is swollen. Kurtz left eye, as black as a panda’s, is closed.

He is filthy, and has been left sitting in his own waste.

My heart swells with sympathy for my former master. When tears prick my eyes I curse Aurore’s high-strung emotions and try to control myself. It will be worse for him if he sees my distress.

Kurtz moans when he sees me, and without thinking I run to him, but my leash snaps taut and the painful jerk on my neck almost pulls me over.

“Tal, dread Kurtz,” Kur’s Claw greets him in a mocking tone. “I have come to pay homage to you in your new throne room.”

The shackled man tenses his arms and I see biceps bulge frighteningly as he tests his chains, but the bonds do not break. Then Kurtz relaxes his frame, accepting defeat, and he speaks in that deep voice that resonates through me.

“You show great courage in daring to sport with me, while I am safely restrained in this manner.”

Kur’s Claw laughs.

“Tonight it is not necessary for me to demonstrate my courage. I am not a beardless youth who is desperate to prove himself. My purpose is to show you how completely you have lost, and then watch you spend your last moments, knowing I am the victor.”

With another spine-jarring tug on my leash, I am dragged closer for Kurtz to get a good view of me. He looks up at me with his bloodshot eye.

“You see that your favourite slave is now wearing my collar, and great pleasure it gives me to own her. Your attempt to prevent others possessing her by taking her life was a failure.”

There is another jerk from the leash. Priest Kings, that’s annoying.

“In four days it is the carnival of the Twelfth Passage Hand. On that night I plan to make her dance before all my men, as befits an agent of the Priest Kings, and then I will take her to my furs.”

My face must show the sudden horror I feel. He has drawn the line. Four days I have left, before he rapes me, and nothing will save me this time.

“No doubt in lovemaking as in everything else,” Claw says, “I will be better than you.”

Kurtz growls like an animal, throwing his arms forward with a clang of his chains as if he wants to wring Claw’s neck.

Claw laughs cruelly at the futile efforts of his enemy.

“But you will not witness the pleasure of her body responding as she lies under me, dread Ubar. For tonight is your final night of this life.

Kur’s Claw sweeps his hand back in a showman-like display, inviting his audience’s attention to the apparatus.

“You’ll see that we have stolen the Sardar transformation technology,” Kur’s Claw tells us, “but after our attempt to give our own agent superhuman strength failed, we are reluctant to test it on a subject with any value.”

Everyone glances at Telisio, who stands in silence with his cowled hood hiding his face.

“Therefore we will test the transformation apparatus on you, Kurtz. As well as demonstrating the safety of the process, it will be interesting to see the once mighty Ubar changed to a woman.”

“No!” pleads Kurtz at this judgement, his stone exterior breaking for the first time. He steps back, trying instinctively to get away, but the two warriors have grasped him and are beginning to unlock his shackles.

“When you awaken, Ubara, I will see your first experience as a female will be being raped, as you have taken so many others. Then I will have you branded and trained to please men. Perhaps if you are desirable enough, I will lie with you myself before you are sold.”

“No!” cries Kurtz again.

“Master, Please, No!” I beg, falling to my knees before the bearded giant and hoping that a woman’s plea might move the relentless Claw where I man could not.

“I will serve you in every way if you spare him this,” I even plead, putting my head to his feet in the most humble manner I can manage.

Kur’s Claw laughs.

“Aurore, you will serve me in every way anyway, for you are a slave,” he says dismissively, and turns to his warriors.

“Put him in.”

The men have an almighty struggle posting Kurtz into the tube, but the deposed Ubar is outnumbered. He shouts abuse at his captors throughout, but the outcome is inevitable and his voice is suddenly cut off when they seal him inside.

Only once inside the tube does he abandons all resistance. The naked Kurtz places his palms on the thick glass in supplication, breathing heavily as he watches me.

Events unfold with inevitability then. My own memories of the transformation process are so vivid that I feel as if I am there in the cylinder with him, rather than witnessing helplessly from outside.

It is the green-robed physician, rather than a slave who opens the valves to slowly fill the tube with a transparent pink liquid identical to the one I saw in the Nest.

Inexorably the fluid climbs around Kurtz’ pale body. Outside the tube it is silent except for a gentle hiss of pressurised liquid.

When the level rises above his face he holds his breath for as long as he can, just as I did in his place, and then with a rush of bubbles is forced to inhale, panicking with the same animal instinct for oxygen.

His pale skin is beginning to effervesce, bubbling and disintegrating like a tablet of soluble medication. He grows sexually aroused, which I remember happing from my own contact with the corrosive fluid.

My lover blinks at me, but I know the liquid will be making his vision blur and he will be able to see little but my outline. I am permitted enough movement on my leash to crouch close to the glass and press my chained hands against it, and he reciprocates from inside.

I can see he is growing tired, his body relaxing in defeat. Then his eyes succumb and close and Kurtz, the male, is gone.

I have not witnessed this part of the process, having slept through my own transformation. I discover that the fluid is grows more and more contaminated with flakes of human skin and flesh as Kurtz visibly disintegrates before me. He is still tumescent, even in

unconsciousness.

At areas where the skin has dissolved completely, dark red blood starts to mingle into the liquid. We stand and observe this disintegration of his physical form for almost a quarter of an ahn, until the contents of the cylinder have turned opaque and are almost as red as tomato soup.

Kur’s Claw breaks the silence, addressing the grey one.

“When Aurius was changed into Aurore, the process looked like this?”

“It was exactly the same,” the grey one confirms, with dreadful finality.

“Events progress according to my plans,” Kur’s Claw says with satisfaction.

48 - With my new master I further debate the nature of Gorean morality

Over the next days I am permitted to enter the secret laboratory room as frequently as I wish, as long as the physician is present to ensure I do not grant my lover a merciful death.

In fact Kur’s Claw does more than merely permitted me to visit. He actively encourages my entering the laboratory, seeing it as part of the process of my accepting total defeat.

These efforts to make me feel lost and helpless are successful. Frequently I reflect how my last defender is gone forever.

Rorius was killed on the barge, Telisio is trapped in the weak and decaying form of the grey woman and spends longer each day sleeping on his pallet. Kurtz is becoming female, and will have to endure all the humiliations of being a woman in a male dominated society.

So my allies are now all women, each one as vulnerable as I am on the sexist world of Gor.

When you want time to pass slowly it never does. With growing dread I watch days and hours advance inexorably towards the carnival of the twelfth passage hand, the day when Kur’s Claw said he would take me.

My new master does not permit me to forget my approaching date with destiny, just as I am not allowed to forget my defeat. With each sunset I am summoned to serve his food. During this time his eyes are on me constantly, enjoying the movement of Aurore’s near naked form.

All my memories of being a man, and the impression of how a beautiful female body could affect me, have remained undiluted in Aurore. I know that unchecked, the constant proximity of my flawless form and the anticipation of future pleasures will fuel his lust for me until it becomes obsession.

And my master takes pains to ensure the reminders of my forthcoming date with destiny are not merely visual. He likes to discuss the moment when his conquest of me will be complete, debating the nature of man and woman in a manner similar to my former master.

With no counter to his arguments about male physical superiority on Gor, I try to regain some self-esteem by attacking the only weak point I can find - his culture.

One of these exchanges finds me kneeling at the feet the Kur’s Claw, humbly washing his feet from a bucket of warm water.

“I hope you see now that your submission to me is inevitable,” Kur’s Claw says, “and you have understood that your only future is as slave to me, and then agent of the Kurii.”

I pause in my work, contemplating his question.

“It does seem that nothing will prevent you forcing yourself on me,” I agree in a piqued voice, “and of course I must submit to your desires because it is the pragmatic approach to ensure my survival, but victory over me does not prevent the inevitable failure of your cause. You will be defeated, whether the Kurii aid you or not.”

Rather than take offence he chuckles, rocking back on his chair.

“Doomed, are we? I am eager to hear a kajira’s opinion on how such a military catastrophe will come about.”

“Your defeat will not be a military one, but a cultural one,” I say.

“Elaborate,” he orders with amusement.

“I have had much time to observe this world, as you did mine, and I have concluded the lack of emotional maturity will be the downfall of Gor. That’s why this culture will fall if you don’t learn to change.”

Before he can disagree I press my point. I have had much time to debate my conclusions, while I’ve endured months on this worlds as free and slave.

“The culture of Gor is based on satisfying only animal instincts, where the strong males combat each other to possess the weaker females, who wish to mate with the best. In that respect it fulfils that primal nature of both male and female very deeply, but that is where any gratification stops.”

“The law of survival of the strongest does not account for the many additional layers of emotional maturity - love, mercy and the power that can be created by unified human action.”

“The weak, banded together, can defeat the strong. And the weak will eventually unite when they feel mercy towards another – the old, the sick, those that are different.”

“You cannot defeat emotional richness when the morality here on Gor is black and white. There is no ambiguity or depth in your scrolls. The captive girl, stripped of her robes of concealment, always turns out to be beautiful. It is as gratifying but it is shallow.”

“In contrast, the morality on my world is deep and complex. There the homely girl is still precious to her own. People will risk their lives to save someone, even though they are ancient or ugly.”

I pause.

“I mean fuck – the culture is so teenage here on Gor that in the scrolls I’ve read, no-one even swears.”

I rest back with heels pressing into buttocks, satisfied. Words won’t stop him forcing himself on me, but I’ve made my point.

“So conquer me like an animal, Master,” I say, putting a note of sarcasm into my voice as I linger over the word master, “but watch for my society to be the victor in the end.”

My barbs have struck.

“Speak no further on this,” he says curtly, “or you will be whipped.”

“As you command, Master,” I say in my most mockingly obedient voice.

49 - The transformation of Kurtz

By the time three days have passed the liquid in the tube has cleared entirely, and I begin to see the woman that was once my lover, the warrior known as Kurtz of Ar.

This Kurii transformation is nothing like the process that failed so terribly on the grey one. Female Kurtz is female, and she is beautiful.

I’d expected the Others to give her a full head of long hair, as happened to me, but this woman’s body is entirely hairless. Strangely, she looks more feminine for her baldness, rather than less. It displays the rounded female shaping of her skull more clearly, and she looks more delicate for that fine bone structure being visible.

I had also expected to see someone with the albino white of Kurtz’ skin, but they have changed this female’s flesh colour as well, shifting to a rich brown shade like that which looks so beautiful on women from India.

Her eyes, with long dark lashes, are closed in peaceful sleep, spared by unconsciousness from dwelling on the fate that awaits when she wakes up.

I would not have known this female for Kurtz without having witnessed him being forced into the cylinder. He was a big man, but they have made the female version petite even by women’s standards.

Kurtz was a mighty warrior, but just like me, his female form will be forever reliant on the greater physical strength of men for protection. This one will never be a fighter.

Small breasts add to the impression of her being someone elfin and girlish. Only the wide placing of Kurtz’ female hips betray her age as woman rather than child.

I place my hands on the glass protectively, but I’m warned away by the physician. I can look, but not touch.

She has drawn her knees up and sandwiched her slim arms between lusciously toned thighs, already instinctively guarding the intimate folds of her sex.

While this position might offer her nascent womanhood some protection, it accents the feminine shape of her buttocks.

I had frequently questioned my sexuality when I started to desire Kurtz’ hands on me and the pleasure of penetration from his penis. Now I am even more confused. This is a woman that was once a man, but I still want to touch her flesh.

I conclude that physical appearance overrides much intellectual debate over whether it’s appropriate to feel lust for someone. Now I can understand why Kurtz and Telisio experienced such complex emotional reactions to the body of Aurore. It is impossible not to think of this person as female, information from the senses overriding knowledge in the mind.

While Kurtz rests peacefully, life in the fortified compound continues in the manner of many settlements on Gor, as it has done for millennia.

The change in regime makes remarkably little difference.

Women continue to perform the same menial tasks while men relax; engage in sports to refine their combat skills; or fulfil the military and business duties of the fortified compound.

I am kept occupied with attending to the captive women from Earth, not yet dispatched for sale but still languishing in stench of the ship’s hold. Being the only surviving slave to speak the barbarian language I am given the responsibility of tutoring these women in rudimentary Gorean.

It falls on me to be the deliverer of much bad news to this sorry bunch, chained humble, frightened and naked in the humid hold of a ship.

I have to tell them they are on an alien planet, that there is no hope of ever returning, and that on this world they will live out their lives as slaves. All their misery has been inflicted just to generate a few coins for the Kurii agents.

One might expect that they would hate me for telling them these truths, and for beginning to instruct them in the demeaning ways in which one might woman might please man, but this is not the case.

I represent the only authority not to abuse them or threaten them, and by being another woman I am immediately more approachable. I’ve never had so many women behaving with such pitiful gratitude towards me, doing anything they can to be pleasing.

My instruction begins with the most important word for their survival – “Master”. I teach them to identify themselves – “la kajira” – I am a slave girl.

Then we move onto some likely commands made of them – “nadu” – to kneel; “lesha” – hands behind the back ready for binding; “veck” – to stand.

With this vocabulary in their minds it is possible to move onto everyday objects – “ko-lar” – the slave collar; “larma” – a Gorean fruit; and “paga”, a whisky like alcoholic beverage favoured of warriors.

Among their group there is enough linguistic overlap that those who do not understand English can pass on instructions for those who do not. Inevitably I learn some of their histories through this process, and discover that the women have been selected for intelligence as well as beauty, and all of them come from high status careers.

Hannah from Germany was an investigative journalist for a national newspaper. Ava from the USA is a postdoctoral researcher in genetics. There is a concert violinist from Brazil – Manuela.

I tell them that the only use for all their intelligence and beauty now is in its application to pleasing men, and ignoring the protests we move on to some elementary Gorean verbs.

They learn quickly.

By the time a couple of days have passed I have the girls jumping to command as if I’m a drill sergeant. Gracus offers me a whip to assist in my teaching, but I decline. My experiences are too raw to add to raise my hand against another slave.

Meanwhile the humiliations of my own bondage continue.

On the eve of the Carnival of the Twelfth Passage Hand I am summoned before the man of the physician’s caste.

“Cross your wrists behind your back,” he orders me bluntly.

I am so used to following the commands of men that I have complied, and had my wrists tied tightly together before even questioning his intentions.

We are in the same laboratory where the woman-Kurtz sleeps in her womb-like container. I glance across, wishing she would open her eyes or give me any kind of reassurance.

“Kneel,” is my next instruction.

This too I obey, beginning to feel some flutterings of fear. What could the physician be intending? It must be unpleasant to require restraining me, but I have already been branded and other physical punishments are delivered by warriors or the caste of torturers.

I am still uncomprehending when he orders me to open my mouth, assuming then that he expects me to provide oral pleasure. This is not an uncommon demand for a slave girl from a community pool, although a man would not make use of another’s private slave unless he was certain of his permission.

But the physician is not looking for fellatio either. A funnel is inserted between my teeth and pressed down painfully hard against my lips, so I could not easily expel it without standing.

Then, looming over me, he pours liquid from a gourd into the open funnel.

I swallow it reflexively when it first hits the back of my throat. Within a second the taste overwhelms me and I understand the need for restraints and the funnel.

It’s a disgusting brew, as bitter as lemons but without the pleasant citrus flavour. This is more like drinking crude oil mixed with vinegar.

I’m retching and my eyes are streaming, arms fighting my bonds, but I can do nothing but swallow more and more until the draught is mercifully finished.

The physician removes the funnel, setting it to one side, but the foul taste and its implications do not leave me so quickly.

I have drunk slave wine.

Slave wine is given only to females intended for sexual use, where the master does not wish for an unwanted pregnancy.

It is called a wine, but this title is a demonstration of Gorean humour. There is no alcoholic content. Rather, it contains the extract of a sip-root plant - the same ingredient that adds the unpleasant taste.

It would be easy enough to sweeten it, but no effort is made to do this. The woman is to be reminded of her status by the lingering taste of the drink in her mouth.

Kurtz did not give me slave wine. In this respect our couplings were unusual – closer to true lovemaking than the rape of a female slave. I had not given consideration to the risks at the time, being much caught in the mood of the moment. It is lucky for me that my cramps came afterwards with the same cycle of the moon, and I am not to be the bearer of a little Kurtz.

Kur’s Claw wishes to have sex with me without consequences, and it is likely to be frequent. I will be able to taste the reminder of his intent until the carnival tomorrow and the inevitable event occurs.

My stomach rolls dangerously as the liquid hits my digestive system but I manage to keep it down.

“I presume if you are released, you will not attempt to regurgitate the slave wine?” the physician asks.

“No Master,” I tell him truthfully. Indeed, I have no intention of laying with the Kur’s Claw without some protection. The last thing I want to be is pregnant.

With a nod of satisfaction he releases the bindings on my wrists. I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth to clean away the last smears of the slave wine.

“Return to your duties, girl” he commands. “You are ready.”

I comply, although I think he is wrong. I don’t feel ready at all.