Daughter of Gor by Olga Turlovna (Part Twelve - Conclusion)

Daughter of Gor

By Olga Turlovna

50 - The Carnival of the Twelfth Passage Hand

Closing my eyes I lift my wrists above my head, crossed as if for binding and stretch my hands.

When my fingers are extended to maximum reach a slow tempo begins from the drum, regular as a heartbeat at rest. To this beat I circle my pelvis, thrusting towards the warriors in a blatant display of female sexuality.

My movements might fairly be called wanton, obscene, whorish, easy. But I supress all inhibition I might be feeling and hold nothing back, instead encouraging all that is female in me to show itself, because that is how it must be.

My master, The Kur’s Claw, stands behind me, centrally located in the dancing circle and completely still. A coiled whip is in his hand. I am very aware he might strike me with this lash if my dancing is insufficiently satisfactory, and from the Ubar’s girl any performance is expected to be the very best quality.

Fear is not my only motivation, though. It is my wish in my dancing to pay tribute to Carrie, my tutor killed during the siege of the fortified compound. The display I give today will be a memorial to her skill, and anything less than exquisite would be an insufficient show of respect.

Perhaps I dance right on the line between art and pornography, but I continue to writhe in a manner intended to arouse all the same.

My thighs are apart as I gyrate, but although the movements of my body are obscenely suggestive my female genitals cannot be seen, because for the first time since the attack on the barge my dignity is clothed in robes of concealment.

Tonight is the Carnival of the Twelfth Passage Hand, a festivity celebrated across many cities on Gor. It is a time for feasting and drinking, for sport and for enjoying the pleasures of women.

Leaving the feet of my master I stand and step in steady time to the drumbeat across to one of the warriors, men that encircle us in a ring as inescapable as a collar. Before him I fall to my knees.

His name is Trionus, I recall. He is a young man, one of the up and coming bucks eager to make his name and filled with the courage of youth.

The move I just executed - passing attractively between my master and Trionus is more difficult than it appears, with my legs restricted by the robe of concealment. But I have practiced hard at this dance, and I execute the transition with the grace and fluidity of a ballerina.

Trionus feigns no reaction to the presence of a robed female humbly presenting herself to him, although I see he hides a smile. Perhaps someone barely into manhood feels honoured to be the first chosen by a girl such as I.

Some greater incentive must be required from me to encourage him to respond, so despite being a free woman I tear my veil away and cast it aside, that he might see the beauty of my face, Aurore’s hypnotic big eyes and delicate features.

He waves his hand dismissively, and I assume an expression of horror that this indignity was insufficient. How dare he?

Still moving in time, I am up on my feet and padding across the circle to kneel before a warrior on the other side. The drum has accelerated the tempo just slightly, as if the rejection I’ve just endured has made my heart begin to beat faster. A lute begins to pick out a onenote melody.

When I pass the Kur’s Claw, which is inevitable in the small space allocated for the dance, I shrink from him in a pantomime cower that brings cries of amusement from the crowd.

The second warrior also ignores me. I shake my fists at the indignity that my beauty, face-stripped, is insufficient to engage his interest. I pull a hooded section of my robe away, so my head is bared completely and Aurore’s hair spills out in a dark red curtain.

To my greater chagrin, this too is insufficient to encourage the warrior to intervene and I must flee again.

A second note from the lute counterpoints the first when I fling myself at the feet of a third man, pressing my cheek against his toes, and the tempo of the drum again accelerates by the smallest fraction.

I seem almost irate, but things are progressing as they should.

My teacher of dancing, the slave woman Carrie, was knowledgeable in many of the dance forms of Gor. Tonight I perform one of the more obscure formats.

This is the “dance of a dozen pleas”.

It is believed to have originated in the mountainous eyrie city of Treve, infamous for its courageous and much-feared Tarnsmen. The dance of a dozen pleas was performed by their newly captured women, unfortunately about to be taken by their new masters and desperate to avoid rape at his hands.

Here the analogies with my own situation are not lost on me, as I perform before my own new master, the Kur’s Claw, dreading the imminent moment of his ultimate conquest.

In performing the dance of the dozen pleas I must act as if the one behind me, the Kur’s Claw who has just captured me, would be my last choice of master from any in this room. I must go from man to man, offering more and more as my price for protection. Anything is better than yielding to Him. It is not difficult for me to act this part.

The item of clothing I remove before the third man, a scarf-like wrap around my throat, reveals for the first time to the crowd that I am not entirely a free woman.

This wrap has been hiding a badge of shame – the sign that shows I have already been collared by Him. How dare he have collared me in such a way, when I am a proud and free woman?

The flickering light of the lamps glints off the precious metal and diamonds on my collar. It shows my master can afford the most beautiful things – things such as me.

But even though it is worth more than I am, it is still a collar that marks me as a slave, and someone’s property. Its weight will always be there at my neck.

I pull at that collar, shaking my head rhythmically from side to side.

The third warrior pushes me away with his foot – he is not going to risk himself for an already-collared female, and I beat my slender fists on the floor of the dancing circle in time to the drum, red faced with anger.

The circle understands that I have already been forced to shame myself revealing more flesh than is honourable for a free woman. But even this display of my charms was insufficient.

I hear cries of amusement from the crowd. They know what must come next.

For the fourth man, a short and stocky fellow with his features squashed like a boxer’s, all I have left to remove my robe of concealment.

While a percussive instrument like a tambourine joins the drum I tease the audience for as long as I can, lifting the hem of my robe to flash the bare flesh of my thighs before shaking my head and lowering it, as if changing my mind.

Kur’s Claw takes a step forward to hurry me, playing his part in this carefully choreographed performance, and in an apparent panic I pull my robe away in one quick movement.

It is not in fact a real robe of concealment, but a costume cleverly contrived to part easily during the dance.

The crowd realise they have been tricked though. There is a roar as they see I am not in fact nude underneath the robe. A long wrap is wound tightly about my torso like a mummy’s bandage, covering from under my arms down to my pudenda.

The boxer-like warrior roars with laughter, shaking his head. I am no longer in the robes of concealment, dressed in a manner that would earn me the slave’s collar in many cities of Gor, but I still have not offered enough. I fall to the sand, scratching my nails through the dirt with frustration at these indignities.

The music intensifies, a player of the czehar beginning to pick a bass line to accompany the dance. Goreans are great lovers of all forms of arts, and there are number of accomplished musicians among the warriors.

Considering they are a savage and barbarian people, they perform with remarkable subtlety in building the music towards its eventual noisy climax.

It is worth relating that at no point during the dance has my body stilled. Now, on my knees with my head pressed to the floor, I continue to make circular movements with my pelvis. My body betrays me, revealing me as woman by dancing of its own volition, even while my head is still and occupied with other thoughts.

For her offering to the warriors five and six in the dance, the character I portray is reluctant to remove more clothing and begins to barter her sexuality as a means of securing protection.

Now the choreography starts to present a duality in my movements, where my body continues to betray me as a female in need, but there is an outer shell of chasteness that resists accepting my own desires.

For one man I rest my chin on his meaty thigh, my head completely stationary as I look up with Aurore’s pleading big eyes, but my pelvis still moves in rhythmic circles, appealing to him in a very different way to the innocence of my gaze.

Needless to say, no champions step forward to defend me.

The dance of the dozen pleas is unique amongst Gorean dances in that an audience member can theoretically interrupt and challenge for the girl. So by offering his slave to this performance her owner proves his own prowess and authority over those around him.

Men are cruel beasts though. Why would someone step forward to defend a clothed slave, when he might have the opportunity to admire her nude first?

I pass close by my captor, Kur’s Claw, as I dance away from warrior number six.

Deliberately I have freed the end of the cloth wrap from under my arm, disguising my action as a graceful movement drawing my hands up my sides.

My master does not miss his cue and grabs the loose end, pulling the wrap taut. Taken apparently by surprise I spin round, pirouetting out to the edge of the circle, my precious garment unravelling all the way.

When I fall to my knees before warrior number seven I realise with horror that Aurore’s divine breasts have been exposed.

I must mime the sense of humiliation well, because when I cross my hands across my chest, upper body swaying in time to the music as if I’m about to faint with the shame, there is a roar of pleasure from the crowd.

The man before me beats his fist on his shoulder – the Gorean means of expressing applause, but he shakes his head in a dismissal of my charms all the same.

Without a protector I reach to my waist and pull at my end of the taut line linking me to Kur’s Claw, attempting to reclaim my last item of clothing.

This is a mistake because he drags the bandage inwards, towing me in arm over arm to the centre of the circle.

Sometimes I am still taken by surprise by the superior physical strength men wield over me, and this is one of those occasions. I almost fly across the gap between us, but manage to control my movements to the graceful moves of the form.

My character in the dance now faces a dilemma. Kur’s Claw has captured all the slack from my wrap. In order to retreat from him I must surrender the last of my covering.

I stamp my heel to the ground in anger, timing each step with the intensifying music, and raising my arms above my head much like a flamenco dancer. This movement, I know from practice, lifts my breasts superbly.

Then, admitting defeat I spiral away from my captor, feeling the wrap that was my last covering suddenly go slack and fall away.

Thus I kneel before warrior number eight naked, extending my hands out to him in supplication. The performance has been strenuous, and I see that the skin on my arms gleams with a sheen of sweat.

My heart is thumping with exertion.

When he shakes his head I show that this rejection has been the greatest defeat to me so far. What a humiliation it is, that not even displaying my nude body is enough to save me from the man standing in the centre of the circle. Does no-one care for a woman such as me?

For my final four pleas in the dance, I have nothing left to entice with but my uninhibited female sexuality.

I kneel before one man, drawing my hands up my sides and then pulling my breasts out towards him in a clear invitation. For another, I grind my pelvis into his boot as if I’m so desperate for gratification I must use it to pleasure myself.

With desperation as frenetic as the barbarian music, I have become shameless, a sign of the slave within achieving her own victory over me.

What would they say, those who knew me as Aurius, to see this female version of myself behaving in such a way? Who could refuse such a desirable female?

But no champion presents himself, although not all of the audience refuse my temptations entirely.

When I extend my hands out to one man, as if offering them for binding, he seizes my hands and pulls me into his lap, overpowering me easily and kissing me to the sound of raucous laughter before ejecting me back into the circle.

The sensation of his stubble remains on my face, and I wipe my hand across it instinctively, feeling unclean.

For my final warrior I chose entirely the young fellow I’ve seen around the compound several times, the one with cherub-like curls of blonde hair and small blue eyes who likes to watch me.

The music has grown as frenzied as my dancing, approaching its climax. With my knees apart I arch my back so far that my head touches the ground, bucking my pelvis out to him as though I’m reaching a climax of a different kind.

In a moment I shall be completely defeated, and the choreography dictates that I return back to Kur’s Claw to throw myself on his mercies. It will represent a genuine moment of surrender for me. Shortly he will take me to his furs and I will serve his pleasure for the first time.

Pushing that thought away I straighten back up, my bare buttocks resting on my heels, closing my eyes and weaving my arms in the last few bars of the music. My arms are extended out to the cherub, as if for binding, in my final plea for salvation.

Something is suddenly wrong, though. There is a feeling of tightness at my wrists, gripping me closely, and I cannot move as I wished to. The grace of my dance has been broken, for I am unable to stroke my fingertips up the insides of my thighs, as I had been intending for my final movement.

I open my eyes.

Viewing my extended arms in front of me, I see that my wrists are, in fact, bound.

Lengths of the Gorean binding fibre encircle my wrists, holding them together and joining them by a line to the blonde cherub’s clenched fist.

He has secured me with incredible speed and skill. I was tied before I knew what was happening.

My new captor is standing and drawing his sword.

The music stops as quickly as if someone has dragged a needle across a record. The noise of the audience also vanishes in an instant.

“I challenge,” the blonde cherub says, and the silence is broken as my ears ring with the roar from the crowd.

51 - In which men fight over ownership of a girl.

People are shouting encouragement, excited at the prospect of unexpected entertainment beyond that of the dance.

I am still on my knees before the blonde young man. Uncertain of what to do I keep my head down, unable to risk looking back at my master.

Remaining humble and silent I decide is the best approach – I am to be the prize in this exchange, not a participant.

Kur’s Claw waits until the noise of the crowd has dropped, and then I hear him speak.

“Well met, Erlog of Laura,” says he, with humour in his voice rather than anger. “It is the nature of man that the young mature and want to challenge the leader. I accept your challenge. But as the defender it is my right to choose the method. I say to have an arena prepared for quarterstaves.”

This produces a second cheer from the crowd.

While warriors rush around in great activity, Kur’s Claw has clapped Erlog on the shoulder, congratulating him as if he’s announced his engagement rather than challenging the other man to a dangerous fight.

I gather from the good humour that the combat is unlikely to be lethal, and from Claw’s relaxed manner I can see he expects to win.

Just like my combat with Ailsa, this is mere sport as far as the crowd are concerned. They care not for my feelings, or for the cruelty that I will have to lie with the winner.

Five ehn later we proceed outside to discover the duelling ground that has been prepared with great alacrity. It is set in an open area of the jetties before the hated whipping post.

Night has fallen, but torches and lamps hang in braziers to illuminate the area allocated to sparring.

I am pulled towards this area by means of my bound wrists, but diverted onwards to the pillar-like whipping post. There is a slave ring embedded high in the wood, through this the rope is threaded and I am secured, ready to be claimed by the victor as his prize.

With the rusting iron ring being positioned well above my head height in the post, I end up with my arms held up about my ears. My toes are on the ground, but not my heels, so I have little leverage to move myself.

Tied in this way I face out towards the site of the duel, the bindings arching my back so my rump presses into the post. I will be able to see the contest over who I will sleep with this night.

A large tree trunk runs parallel to the ground, lifted by means of “X” shaped struts to the height of a man’s shoulders.

While the crowd flow like water to surround the area containing myself and this arena, Kur’s Claw and Erlog climb up to stand at either end of the tree trunk.

A quarterstaff is handed up to each man, the staff being cut from smaller branches eight feet in length and a couple of inches in circumferences.

“The rules for this contest will be simple,” a man’s voice booms over the excited chatter of the watchers. It is Gracus, the captain. He has assumed the role of compere for this entertainment.

“The last man remaining on the tree trunk wins the girl!” Gracus cries maliciously to a cheer from the crowd. “Do you both agree to this?”

I look from Erlog to Kur’s Claw as both raise their staves in assent. Claw grins.

“Begin!” Gracus cries, and to a roar both men inch forward towards each other.

The etymology of the word “quarterstaff” is not known for certain, but one theory is that it is because the lower end of the staff is gripped a quarter of the way along its length.

Both men adopt the correct fighting position, holding the other end of their staves slightly above the centre, presenting the upper end of the staff out in a manner like a fencing stance.

They look competent holding their weapons.

The first exchanges are tentative ones as each tests the other with a series of strikes and blocks before quickly retreating.

Staff fighting is both easier and more difficult than duelling with a weapon such as a sword, in that the risk of serious injury is reduced, but the combatant has the additional factor to consider of protecting his hands, the most vulnerable part of the body.

A successful strike to the knuckles could disable an opponent, or cause him to drop his staff.

My master seemed pretty confident but it is the blonde cherub, Erlog, who scores the first hit, feinting a stab to the Claw’s chest and then sweeping his staff low to strike Claw on his muscular thigh.

Kur’s Claw grimaces but remains solidly on the trunk, although I can see a slight limp in his shuffle when he retreats back to his guard position.

It is Erlog who is actually rendered more vulnerable by the strike. He almost overbalances, the momentum of his hit carrying him to the side, and he too has to retreat and gain time to recover.

Tempers are up now, so the second exchange of blows is more serious. The staves move so quickly that they blur, and the feints and strikes are parried with the honed reflexes of warriors.

Neither man is smiling now.

The second success also goes to Erlog, a stab with his staff that strikes home on Kur’s Claw’s chest. He doubles over with a rush of expelled air, and it is only instinct that preserves him while he deflects the follow-up attack.

When he retreats, he momentarily holds his hand to his side and I wonder if he has broken a rib.

People are watching me to see the effect the combat is having on me. I try to assume as neutral an expression as I can, not wishing to offend either potential victor. I do my best to look beautiful, holding my head up to show myself a worthy trophy.

In truth I do not know who I would prefer to win.

Kur’s Claw’s gloating victories over me make the prospect of lying with him abhorrent, but I am at lease familiar with his ways, whereas Erlog is almost a complete stranger. Better the devil you know, perhaps.

Kur’s Claw counterattacks with such ferocity that I flinch, drawing up my thigh and crossing it over my sex as if I am the one under threat rather than being the precious prize.

His speed and aggression bring some success with a hit to Erlog’s right hand that almost makes him drop his staff, but again he is saved by instinctive warrior’s reflex.

My heart is racing now, as it did during my dance. The scene is primordial, two males fighting for dominance and the rights to a female. It has been played out many billions of times across the animal kingdom, only this time the female is me.

I have been the subject of disputes as Aurore before – most notably the attack in the woods on my journey to this place, but that was a struggle for the men’s survival as well as mine. This is the first time I have been the sole cause of a dispute.

Out on the high tree trunk Kur’s Claw presses forward. He aims a strike towards Erlog’s face, but when Erlog blocks I realise the blow was a feint for his main move. Allowing him to move his hands to the upper end of the staff, he drops into a crouch and swings the lower end with terrific momentum in a circular arc towards Erlog’s ankles.

Erlog is forced to hop from foot to foot. His first foot clears the fast moving staff like a hurdle, but he is too slow to avoid catching his other foot against the wooden pole.

It is a glancing blow, only enough to distract him for a moment, but it is enough. Kur’s Claw has charged forward, slamming his body into Erlog’s and the blonde cherub is thrown back and to the side, off the log before he knows it.

His face shows shocked surprise as he falls back, catching his heels to land his butt on the ground. The roar of the crowd is loud enough to make my ears ring.

Kur’s Claw hops down almost nonchalantly, extending his hand and sportingly pulling his opponent back to his feet.

People are milling around us, eager to congratulate and commiserate.

In the hubbub I am released from the whipping post, but my wrists remained bound with the leash of rope. Secured in this fashion I fall to my knees at the feet of the Kur’s Claw.

“What do you say?” he asks, looking down at me.

“Master,” I say, pressing my forehead to his feet.

“Look upon your owner,” he commands, so I do.

Above me the Claw stands, victorious, lifting his staff aloft. The crowd are still cheering, and applauding in the Gorean way. People are slapping both him and Erlog on the back. It has been an excellent evening’s entertainment.

“Now, let us to my quarters. I think it is time to claim what is mine,” Claw says.

This is the moment I’ve feared for so long. I prepare to follow him to my fate. But after almost a minute Claw has not moved. I risk a glance up to see high above me Kur’s Claw’s face has taken on an uncertain expression. A couple of shudders pass through his body, as if he might even be cold in spite of the tropical heat.

That is when he vomits.

52 - The second apocalypse

Joyful faces have changed to confusion and concern. The Ubar must have sustained some kind of injury during the duel, the strike to his chest perhaps causing damage that is more serious than expected.

But then he vomits again, a viscous puddle that narrowly misses splattering me, kneeling with bound wrists at his feet.

In the torchlight I can see that the liquid is not regurgitated food, but is black with blood.

“Do you need a physician?” Gracus begins to say, but his sentence tails off as he too turns ashen white. He stumbles forward one pace and vomits the same dark liquid.

As if a fuse has been lit, then the affliction spreads like a chain reaction through the inhabitants of the fortified compound.

It would be comic, if the suffering of each person was not so very genuine, and the stench of the liquid they vomit so fetid. The smell overpowers me so completely that my own gorge rises with nausea, and I too regurgitate the meat and paga I have been fed at the hand of my master.

I barely notice that my own effort is simply digested food, and it lacks the dark red present in the liquid discharged by everyone else.

I watch as one after the other people double over with convulsions, crumbling to the ground and producing streams so voluminous it’s if their bodies are trying to void themselves of all the blood inside. The sickness is indiscriminate, touching warriors, artisans and slave girls.

Kur’s Claw has recovered enough to grab the leash attached to my wrists, and staggering like a drunk drags me away from the crowd.

I think he means to rape me, even though he is unwell, but I realise he is leading me towards the laboratory.

“He has done this,” Claw says to me, his voice a growl of fury.

I am all confusion.

“Who, how?” I ask, forgetting to use “Master”.

“Kurtz,” the Kur’s Claw spits in a spray of blood. “He has killed us all. Somehow he has poisoned us.”

For a moment I hope he is wrong, that if there is a poison it will not be fatal, but I am silenced by seeing the first corpse. He is a warrior, face down on the planking of one of the jetties.

“All who have the sickness will die – he has even doomed you, his favourite slave.”

I had not considered this, but I realise with sinking heart it must be true. I have not been secretly dosed with any antidotes. Ruefully I reflect that this is just the kind of thing that Kurtz would do.

And yet my waves of nausea have subsided, to the same levels I’ve endured since I was struck with the dart from the blowpipe.

Then, for the first time in many months, I dare to hope.

The blowpipe – everyone had assumed Kurtz was trying to kill me out of jealously with the blowpipe, but what if his motivation was very different?

The words of the physician come back to me. He told me there was a superstition that the venom of the Jungle Rennel used to poison me granted the blessing of the poisonous Ushindi frog. And he said the frog poison brought on a vomiting sickness called the red death.

I look around the torch lit compound, in dawning comprehension of the unfolding tragedy.

Kur’s Claw was right when he said that Kurtz has poisoned everybody to gain his victory, everybody. Claw’s only small error is that one person is not going to die.

I must hide this knowledge. If Claw realises I am immune to this plague, he will kill me out of spite.

My master is hauling me towards the laboratory. His determination is superhuman, but I can see his strength is at last beginning to fail. We have to stop several times for him to void more of the bloody liquid, even over that short distance.

I mime the same convulsions, but I am careful to turn from him, so he cannot see what I regurgitate.

“I swear that he will die before I do,” Kur’s Claw says in a voice grown hoarse and weak.

He hammers on the door of the pens, but there is no answer.

Then he summons his reserves of energy with another epic effort, and charges the solid wooden door with his shoulder.

Slave’s quarters are designed to be resistant to assault, being a natural target for raiders, so I am surprised that the lock gives way and Kur’s Claw tumbles in.

Inside is semi-darkness. Someone has smashed the lamp in the violence of their convulsions, but I can make out enough. On the laboratory floor lies the corpse of the physician, the green robes of his caste stained to brown by his own liquefied internal organs.

I back away in revulsion, hands at my sides, and my fingertips brush against a length of spare iron piping, propped against the wall.

Female-Kurtz is still there in her cocoon, the container glowing with a soft spectral pink light.

Kur’s Claw vomits again, and I think with sympathy and horror that he must finally be done for, but he gradually gets back to his feet and shuffles like a zombie towards the complex valves controlling the transformation apparatus.

I act without thinking, lifting the spare length of pipe in a grip like a baseball bat and swinging with all Aurore’s strength at the back of Claw’s head.

I hear a sickening crunch as I hit home.

Kur’s Claw collapses to the floor as inert as a sack of potatoes, and this time he is final still. Even in the half-light I can see the mortal wound in the back of his skull.

At first I feel jubilation

“Rape me now, bitch!” I taut, hopping from foot to foot.

Then fear floods me, and I drop the length of pipe with a clang, ready to flee.

I have just killed the Ubar. If I am caught this is not a mere whipping offence. I will certainly be put to death, and in an unpleasant. Slaves are typically tortured and impaled for murdering free citizens.

I must get away from the scene of my crime right away.

I turn to leave, but almost faint with terror at the sight before me.

Erlog is in the doorway of the laboratory, standing propped with one shoulder against the frame.

There is a bloodstain on his blonde curls, making his hair appear to have a black patch. His expression is determined, purposeful. He must have seen everything.

I am backing away, but rather than approach me or draw his weapon to put me to the sword, Erlog beckons.

“Come,” he urges in a gurgling croak. “We must leave before I am overcome with this affliction. I am sent by the Priest Kings.”

“You are in the service of the Sardar?” I say, processing this information rather dumbly.

“My orders are to observe the compound without risking my life, report on the fate of you and Kurtz, and extract you if appropriate, “he gasps. “When one of the Kurii warriors was hiring swords, I let myself be recruited by these men as a mercenary.”

Erlog has to pause, as his body doubles over with a convulsion from the poison. When he finishes he looks at me and opens his mouth as if to speak further, but no sound comes out and his eyes widen with fear.

It is like his own throat has been dissolved.

“How are we supposed to get away?” I ask selfishly.

Kurtz had once mentioned an agent in Port Schendi, a woman named Coraline, and I also heard tell that the Ubar across the lake, Bila Haruma, was in the service of Priest Kings.

It would be a cruel twist of fate for me to be liberated from this place only to fall into slavery on my return journey.

But I am too late to learn of a route to salvation. Erlog doubles over, and then collapses to the ground. I kneel next to him, looking into his eyes.

As I cradle yet another man’s head in my lap while he draws his last breath, I weep because Erlog’s death is so utterly pointless.

53 - The red death

The Kur’s Claw is dead. Ailsa is dead. Jaya is dead. Trionus is dead. Telisio is dead. Gracus is dead. Erlog is dead. When I run around the compound in increasing desperation I soon discover that the women captives on the boat are dead – including Hannah, Ava and Manuela.

As the last few victims succumb to the plague, an unnatural silence falls over the fortified compound. Even the nocturnal insects seem to be quiet for once as they mourn the massacre.

Only two of us have survived the apocalypse. Myself, and the woman sleeping peacefully in the transformation chamber.

I have no guidance as to when I can safely open her container, so I decide to leave female-Kurtz there for the time being.

Instead, when dawn breaks I free my wrists and begin the laborious task of dealing with the bodies, under a sky of gathering storm clouds.

I do not have the time or strength to dig a burial pit or build a pyre for everyone. The most dignified end I can conceive is to I undress each one and tip them into the harbour, where their flesh feeds the many carnivorous fish and aquatic reptiles.

Dead human beings are usually dealt with quickly in the tropics, for the practical reason that the heat makes corpses smell very quickly. By late morning each corpse I disturb from the place it fell launches a cloud of flies.

The onset of the deluge of rain comes as a relief, cleansing my naked body as it does the compound. The rain is not cold, so I ignore it and continue my work.

When the turn comes for the corpse of the Kur’s Claw, I discover in his possessions a small silver key, which I insert into a lock on the priceless diamond collar around my neck.

The collar unlocks with an almost inaudible click and it comes away in my hand. With it goes a burden of misery I’ve been carrying for so long I’d forgotten it was there.

At that momentous instant my emotions fly sky high. I could jump for joy. For the first time in many months I am uncollared, free. Even with all these innocent dead around me I cannot help but smile.

I am a survivor. I am a free woman. I can go home.

Casually I flip the jewel encrusted collar into the muddy waters of the harbour, where it vanishes with only a small splash. Not so the body of the Kur’s Claw, which causes the surface to erupt when I despatch it to its watery grave, and I am grateful the silt and the downpour hides the frenzy below the surface.

As a free woman I should now cover my nudity, but for a while I make no effort to dress myself. There is no one to see me, so I rove at will, naked and uninhibited.

I do arm myself, however.

There is no further obligation for me to feign any resistance when under attack, as I did in order to fall captive to the men of Kurtz. Now I can truly fight for myself.

I vow that I will never be taken as slave again.

My physically weaker body still dictates that I must arm not with the direct weapons of a man however, so I choose the stealthy, defensive tools used by a female.

I find a dagger, selected for its razor sharp needle blade rather than its sale value, and from a board in the kitchens used to slice the delicate and flavoursome blue Gorean cheese I steal the wire, fashioning it into a vicious garrotte.

These I secure around my waist with a belt. It is my first adornment as a free woman, although it hides nothing of my body. I recall that in the novel of Doctor No, our hero Bond spies on the girl dressed in this very same outfit.

“Underneath the mango tree,” I softly sing to myself, with a smile.

I remove every single body from the compound before returning to the laboratory. By this time the rain has stopped, as abruptly as switching off a tap.

There is still no sign of response from female-Kurtz. She could be sleeping, comatose or dead.

I can’t leave her there forever though. I have an uneasy and growing feeling of apprehension – a sixth sense that it will be dangerous to remain here too much longer.

Suddenly decisive, I begin turning valves, shutting off the flow of the mysterious pink chemicals. Then I begin to unfasten the series of latches that seal her container.

I have forgotten the weight water can have, and when I release the door it swings open with enough force to knock me off my feet. Chemicals flow from of the container in a tide, spilling the nude girl out onto the floor on her side.

Her back is facing me, and she looks completely limp. I worry I’ve been too late, or too early, but then the girl moves for the first time, gradually drawing up one knee in a sensual, cat-like motion to curve her buttock.

For a moment she is overcome and her shoulders and spine heave as she coughs and retches repeatedly. Pushing herself up on one arm, I see puddles of the clear pink liquid splash down onto the floor.

Then she seems to become aware of herself, and she spins with supernatural speed, looking at me with eyes as sharp and feral as an animal. They are almost amber in colour, making her appear even more feline, and there is no welcome for me in them.

“Kurtz, it’s me, Aurore,” I plead weakly.

She gives no acknowledgement at having understood, but her staring gaze at last breaks from mine as she looks around the room.

“Everyone else is dead,” I tell her, trying to sound calming and harmless. “Men, women, everyone. We’re the only ones left.”

For some reason I am nervous of this female, even though she is smaller than me. Perhaps it is because she still looks like a tiger ready to spring.

I have just delivered news of a massacre, but the girl eventually nods in satisfaction, finally showing she understands me. Some of the tension goes out of her, and she looks down at her naked body for the first time.

“I gambled with my life that they would be vindictive enough to test the transformation process on me,” she says, “and I also had to stake my life that the poison I too ingested would be purged from my body by the change process.”

When I watched her in the transformation chamber I had wondered what she’d sound like. Her voice is high pitched, almost adolescent, but there’s still something of Kurtz’ charisma left there.

“So what Kur’s Claw told me is true - you sacrificed everybody?” I ask in a calm voice.

Female Kurtz is rubbing a hand over her new nipples experimentally.

“It was the most certain way to defeat the Kurii, Aurore,” she insists without looking at me. “The sacrifice of a few slaves is nothing in comparison to the victory I achieved today. Now I have this transformation technology in my hands, I hold the means to change Gor. With this weapon I will rise to be an Ubara like none before me.”

She is ecstatic at her victorious rebirth, but I feel utterly despondent at her words. I had been hoping desperately that the transformation might soften Kurtz, and she would awaken without the megalomaniac madness of the Ubar driving her to win without consideration of the human cost.

I should have known from my own transformation that the personality remains unchanged. This is still Kurtz – it is just Kurtz inside a woman’s body.

I move around behind her, and place my hand with brief tenderness on her new, narrow shoulder. The skin is clammy with the fluids from the chamber.

“We’ll need to get this gunk off you first,” I say, releasing my hold and reaching to my belt.

I don’t know if she is expecting me to try something, but it does not matter. My wire garrotte is over her head before she can react, and I am bracing my knee into the back of her neck, pulling the wire into her throat with all the strength I can muster so I can banish the spirit of Kurtz as humanely as possible from this world.

I have seen a lot of death today, but when I murder my former lover it is the first time I must close my eyes, and she takes a terribly long time to finally lie still.

54 - Alone and not so alone

Afterwards I can do little but weep.

“I’m sorry my love,” I tell the silent corpse, “but you were insane, a monster. You had to die.”

“I gave you every chance – that’s why I awakened you instead of making you die in the tube. I was praying you would awaken with your humanity healed.”

Her eyes are still open, looking up at me in silent recrimination, so I push them gently closed. The hideous gaping wound around her throat, like a distorted smile, I cannot bring myself to touch.

There is one last corpse for return to nature. I drag the remains of Kurtz tenderly towards the edge of the wharf, and roll her off into the water.

The clothes of the dead I pile up on the grass outside the back gate, and then set alight. Standing to watch the black plume of smoke rise like a signal, I recall that I am unlikely to be left alone for long.

While the bonfire blazes I clothe myself. There is no way I am covering my body in the symbolic and demeaning garb of a kajira, but neither do the full robes of concealment appeal to me.

Taking a long bolt of scarlet cloth from one of the warrior’s quarters I wrap it around myself. Red is the colour of the warriors’ caste on Gor, so it is appropriate for me. It is wide enough to run from under my arms down to where I have crudely sliced of the excess. Pinning this in place under my arm I am satisfied with tailoring something resembling an ankle-length evening dress.

I gather some coins, although a great deal more I will leave behind. I find a red-riding-hood like woman’s travelling cloak, made of light material suitable for wear in the tropics, and some shoes small enough to fit me.

From the kitchens and stores I take no food. I do not wish to ingest anything that may be poisoned, even if I have some resistance, and I did not give Kurtz time to tell me how he administered the toxin.

When I’m satisfied with my preparations I emerge from dressing in the buildings, ready to look for a boat. I have resolved to travel downriver, and seek the woman named Coraline in Port Schendi, who is said to be agent of the Priest Kings.

My exit is cut off, however. The instinct that told me danger was coming was correct.

A large war canoe is moored against one of the jetties, and from this climb warriors, led by a giant with a feather headdress. Each is dark skinned – this is one of the native tribal groups.

I attract their attention immediately in my bright red robes. They have me so vastly outnumbered that rather than attempt to flee, I walk boldly up to the one I know to be their leader.

I have never met this man before, but I know him by reputation and description.

Bila Haruma stands before me. He heads an organisation called the Black Slavers, who live across the lake. His reputation is of a Ubar above Ubars. The fellow is a large and muscular, clad in a loincloth made from the pelts of a creature called the yellow panther.

Bracelets of gold adorn his arms, and he wears a necklace of carnivorous teeth.

“Tal, lady,” he says, observing me with great curiosity.

“Tal,” I reply.

Behind him I can see an ornate cloak, decorated with red and yellow feathers. It makes my own cloak look rather dowdy.

“Who are you?” he asks politely.

Across his cheek is a spiral pattern of tattooed spots. I believe it to be a sign of reaching manhood, in one of the local tribal groups.

“I am Aurore, the red death,” I tell him without fear. “I am Ubara of this place.”

“You seem to rule your territory alone, Lady Aurore. What happened here?”

“All these people perished. They called me the omen of evil when I arrived here, and it turned out to be an accurate name.”

My words are truthful. I did bring evil to this place. It is unlikely the men of the Kurii would have attacked the compound without their interest in me, and Kurtz would not have poisoned everyone without the Kurii attack. Only two person died directly at my hands, but I am the reason that many more had to suffer.

“It is the nature of leadership that the demise of your people sometimes cannot be avoided,” he says philosophically, “and one must live with the consequences of the decision.”

I hold his gaze, but out the corner of my eyes I can see his warriors have cautiously encircled me, and stand poised. If he gives the word they will attempt to seize and disarm me.

“Do not command your men to attack me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady. “I would rather kill myself than be enslaved.”

To emphasise this I draw my needle-like dagger, pressing the point against my jugular. Perhaps if they move to attack me, there will be time to press it home.

“But what else should I do with you, Lady?” he says with genuine confusion. “I am a slave trader. I would be foolish to allow such an exceptional beauty as you to escape.”

“You must assist my return to the Sardar Mountains,” I tell him. “There are matters I need to present to Priest Kings.”

I take a gamble in openly discussing the Sardar before him. It may not be that all his own men realise he is in their service. I must risk revealing his allegiance in order to convince him that there is more at stake here than his collaring a pretty girl.

I press the dagger a little harder into place, and feel a bead of blood start to run down my throat.

“My mission is worth risking my life.”

“So I can see,” Bila Haruma says. There is silence for almost an ehn, during which time I pray he is the man of vision depicted in the legends.

He considers me for a moment longer and decides.

“Lady, Aurore, pass in peace into the protection of Bila Haruma.”

Weak with the relief of tension, I feel faint, but manage to keep my feet. His warriors have stood down their weapons immediately.

Bila Haruma gives orders for some of his men to establish a garrison at the compound. I will not be staying with them, however. My fate is to travel back with the Ubar to his palace on the lake. No one will harm me now. The will of this man is not to be contradicted.

After warning them about the poison, I take what will hopefully be my last look around the compound of Kurtz, and there are ghosts are everywhere.

I can see where Chiron stood over me as I waited for my first judgement on the docks, so clearly he might really be there.

I can see the cross where Ailsa was chained after her defeat. I can see Nessa padding around in her camisk with a jug of paga balanced on her shoulder.

I can see the smithy and its branding rack where I endured such agony, the fire now extinguished and cold.

And there is the hut of Kurtz, the curtain still drawn, and I could almost believe he is there with those intense eyes shining in the dark as he was when I arrived.

Such sights I have seen here will never leave me.

“The horror,” I say softly to myself, “the horror.”

Afterword – New York City, 2014

“Skinny latte, ma’am,” the waitress says, placing the steaming cup on the table.

I smile my thanks to her and take a sip, sighing with satisfaction. Priest Kings, I’ve missed coffee.

I’ve selected a corner seat in the café, so I can sit with my back to the wall, have scope to watch the door; look through the full-length front window out over the people on the street; and keep my laptop hidden from view.

Discretion is necessary - the waitress might be less friendly if she leaned too far over me and caught a glimpse of my screen.

On the display before me are computer generated images of the Gorean world, but not one that’s anything like the Gor I remember.

True, this is supposed to be a simulation of the Schendi Jungles, and the foliage looks more like a deciduous wood from cooler climates, but nothing could render the colour, noise and scent of the rain forest. That is a superficial detail.

It is the ratio of people that makes the difference. I count eight kajirae kneeling in a big circle, their Barbie-doll avatars immaculately presented in brightly coloured pleasure silks and slave collars that glint with electronic jewels.

Two free women are also present, clad in black leather outfits that look closer to steampunk costumes than robes of concealment I remember, have a third female bound and nude, the unlucky one being pulled round on a leash that doesn’t quite fit.

The text at the bottom of the screen that represents their conversation shows me a dispute is taking place as to whether the nude one was fairly captured or not.

And there are no men. Not one. Or at least there are no male avatars in this version of Gor. I am sure there are men at the keyboard behind many of these female slaves.

That is the big difference between the computer generated Gor, and reality. Everyone here wants to be a woman, and wants to be a kajira.

I wish them the luck of their dreams coming true.

A movement outside catches my attention and I look up. Down on the street a woman is leaving an apartment block opposite and walking away along the sidewalk.

She’s a beauty this one, with the kind of figure that gives guys fantasies. And the woman doesn’t seem afraid of showing that figure either. Rather than repress her female nature like most women on this world, she still walks like a kajira, because she’s been trained to move until it became so instinctive she could never unlearn it.

Men on the street actually come to a stop, staring at her like they’re hypnotised. Few men on Earth have ever seen a woman walk in such away. And they are unware that as well as the woman on the street that moves with such shameless beauty, there is another watching from the café that received the same harsh tuition.

So it’s true. They really did return her all the way back to Earth. He told me this was the case – the agent I now report to – I only know him by his first name of Agratay, but I didn’t quite believe it until I saw her.

I watch her, this woman that is my enemy in theory.

After all that has passed between us I’d expected to feel aggression, hate even, but instead there is only the bond of shared experience and suffering.

My mind fills with questions I wish I could ask her. Do you still have the nightmares like I do? Do you still wake up clutching at your throat to pull away the collar that is no longer there? Do you try to shower without touching your thigh, because you know each time your fingers brush the mark it will bring everything back? Does it still feel strange to have underwear on, and not feel so constantly open?

This is not the time to reminisce.

I click the speed dial on my mobile that will signal my fellow agents to commence their break-in of her apartment. They will leave no signs of their intrusion – the security on Earth buildings is nothing to technology such as ours.

With my signal sent, I continue to watch her sashay down the street. She’s carrying a bag of heavy-looking study books that pull her slightly off centre, but she still manages to move like she’s on a catwalk rather than a sidewalk.

I wonder why she chose to come to New York, and study a degree in philosophy, of all things. If she wants to learn methods of coping with the trauma and the memories, she’d have been better to study religion or psychology.

As I ponder I again rub my neck, confirming as I am compelled to do obsessively that the collar has not returned.

My throat is bare of ornament. There is no steel, as there hasn’t been since I was delivered back to Earth, but I will always feel myself collared. Indeed, returning me here places me under an obligation to the aliens, so even though I wanted to run and run and forget every image of Gor, I have just entered a new form of slavery. It is merely that my chains are longer and better disguised than they were before.

Like the girl over there, a part of me will always remain back at that god-forsaken fort in the jungle.

She has stopped at a street-side coffee stall. The vendor looks to be flirting with her, but she laughs with relaxed familiarly at his efforts. This must be a daily occurrence.

She is at peace, but I am tensed as a mousetrap. I keep one hand on my phone the whole time that she stand there. If she turns back to her apartment I will need to signal the agents instantly.

How would it be if she discovered that she had not escaped Gor as completely as she might wish, and that she was about to provide fresh assistance?

She would fall to her knees. Anything to avoid going back, would be her plea. I know that because I am the same.

We women have both been losers in the battle of the sexes that has been fought for millennia on Earth and Gor. But this war will not end without a glimmer of hope. Finally the means is within our reach to ensure that only the willing are taken to serve as sex slaves, and I will be the instrument of bringing this about.

I learned this information from that same controller assigned to watch over me on Earth. We are supposed to be on the same side, but I can admit I do not like the man.

Although I may address him by his name, as a free woman might address a Gorean male, in many respects his attitude towards me is no better than a master handling his kajira.

Gorean men often treat women as if they’re less than human.

When he explained the plan Agratay almost identically echoed the Kur’s Claw’s observations that changing attitudes to non-consensual submission have lost the Kurii, Priest Kings and the culture of Gor support. It was perhaps not an original thought of Claw’s, then, but some older report that he merely confirmed.

The warring alien species are for once united in understanding, although their interests in changing the fate of humanity are very different.

Both Kurii and Priest Kings have learnt that not every beautiful woman on Gor wishes to endure slavery, but there is a surplus of Gorean men who wish to be their masters.

On Urth the situation is no better. There are many unhappy men, who long to feel valued as beautiful female slaves in a way they never can at home. There are many desirable women on Urth, but most of them have no interest in becoming kajirae, or even behaving submissively towards the men around them. Waking up in the hands of Kurii agents is their worst nightmare.

Thus continued a cycle of misery for many generations, until recently.

A wise creature from one of the species proposed an answer, and an answer that would be both lucrative and helpful in winning the war. I ridiculed the idea when I first heard this new strategy would actually be attempted, but soon I began to accept the elegant simplicity of the solution.

The alien suggested we claim only those men of Urth who desire to experience the life of slave women, thus easing the consciences of those on Urth in our service, who will be almost doing a good deed in fulfilling people’s dreams.

Those men who crave a kajira’s existence will be shipped unconscious to Gor and loaded into the transformation apparatus, which could be replicated many times now the technology has been mastered. Once the captive men are changed into beautiful women, they will be sold at the slave markets across Gor, and their dream will become their reality.

I must admit to finding some malicious pleasure in giving men who consider sexual slavery an erotic fantasy a taste of the real experience I had to endure. They’ll soon learn.

For the female sex, the idea is a double-win. For each man I deliver to the transformation I will be saving one of my fellow women from a terrible fate.

All that was missing in the alien plan is a means of identifying sufficient numbers of males willing to be slavegirls. And here the human agents familiar with Earth were able to help with submissives aplenty.

Males playing kajirae are rife in the virtual Gorean worlds. It is easily within the reach of alien technology to discover the real identities of these men.

Someone else suggested those who are aroused by master and slave stories in transgender fiction as being even more suitable targets, already being attuned to the psychic shock of waking up female.

This brings me back to the woman out there on the street. My fellow kajira alumnus is going to help.

My laptop buzzes with an incoming message and I open it again. Only seconds have passed, but the agents already have the file from her computer, and they’ve sent it on to me. My screen fills with pages and pages of text.

But before I have the chance to read it properly, someone has stood in my light.

“Aren’t you Udumi Ayeola, the supermodel?”

It’s a girl, as skinny as a beanstalk and barely sixteen. Her face shows the residue of what must have been difficult years of teenage acne, but she’s masked it well with makeup.

I close my laptop, so there’s no chance the girl will see the obscene virtual Gor.

“You’re an inspiration to me, Udumi. I want to be just like you,” she says, her voice growing more hesitant when she sees my frozen expression, and then tailing off into a stammer.

All the confidence she’s mustered to go and talk to a celebrity has abandoned her, and she stands there uncertainly.

I look at her. She certainly has potential, with the right body shape, pleasing eyes and almost elfin features. This time last week I would have invited her to audition in a model call, and we could have marked her for agents to watch.

In a couple of years, five at the most, she would have been ready. She’d have gone to sleep one night in her own bed and awoken the next morning naked and bound on an alien world. There she would have served as slave to men.

Until last week I would have been obliged to give her encouragement, luring her into my power, her loss of liberty the only way to keep a collar from my own neck. But things are changing in the battle between Kurii and Priest Kings.

“Get lost,” I tell her, “I’m drinking my coffee.”

The teenage model wannabe turns away, eyes filling with tears at my blunt dismissal. She deflates like a punctured football, unaware how close she has passed to having everything taken from her.

Opening my laptop I begin to read the document.

Soon I nod with satisfaction. This confirms my expectations.

All the time I knew her as a slave on Gor, Aurore felt the need for self-expression. There was one girl that could never keep her mouth shut if she felt obliged to speak her mind. I had predicted she would document her experiences somehow.

I had left the fortified compound and returned to Earth still ignorant of the transformation apparatus and of Aurore’s masculine origins, although my controller told me soon after my arrival in Los Angeles.

Much became clear about her behaviour once I knew what happened to Aurius, and it explains how Aurore retained her very masculine drive to do the noble thing. Her personality reminded me of Kurtz’ in many ways.

I skim to the end of her autobiography, feeling sympathy and shared remembrance at some sections but smiling at others - particularly her description of me. The only section that makes me laugh snidely is the last chapter. So she called herself the “red death” in front of Bila Haruma, did she? Drama queen...

But the literary quality does not matter. It reads well enough and will be sufficient for our purposes. Aurore of the Sardar will serve the Kurii, whether she wishes to or not, and so will all those males who read her autobiography.

I smile secretly at the real Aurore, still at the coffee stand. She believed the transfer technology was safely back with the Priest Kings when she left the fortified compound as the sole survivor. She didn’t consider that the physician might have reported all his findings before his demise.

Aurore’s narrative does not tell how she returned to Urth. Perhaps this was arranged under the protection of Bila Haruma.

That Ubar’s association with the Priest Kings is already known to us, but the alliance of the woman in Port Schendi Kurtz called Coraline is new. It was unwise of Aurore to document this piece of valuable intelligence.

I shall contact my superiors and see that this Coraline is enslaved.

As Aurore has not finished her history it falls to me to complete the work, perhaps documenting this very moment in the café in the same first person narrative that she used. I shall even tell the readers of our plans for them, but they will continue to read anyway, believing my words to be fiction as they do with all things Gorean.

I will insert some unusual trigger words at the very end of the story, words that our scientists tell me causes a unique pattern of brain activity, identifying the reader to the sensitive detection equipment of our agents. Then we shall watch them, even letting these victims spot our scouts occasionally, and when their fear and paranoia is at its peak will we claim them. So live in fear, all submissive men of Urth. Udumi will see you in collar, and be victorious over you all.

Sasquatch Orang-utan.