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.
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.
No comments:
Post a Comment