Beware the Savage Jaw Chapter Two

Chapter Two: Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow?

13.22 on the 30^th December 2024:

Her singing voice was amazing.

She played pretty good piano too.

'Tonight with words unspoken

You say that I'm the only one

But will my heart be broken

When the night meets the morning sun'

The song was by Carole King and it sent shivers down my spine for I knew it very well indeed. The album was Tapestry and I played it a lot at university when I met... when I met Kurgus. Those were the days when I was a lovesick teenager and I wrote secret confessions in a pink diary with fluffy fur glued to the outside. 'I love him,' I would write, 'but does he love me?'

One night when we drank cheap wine together in my room in the halls of lodging I put the needle on the LP and sat there gazing at the floor demurely as Carole King sang:

'Is this a lasting treasure

Or just a moment's pleasure

Can I believe the magic in your sighs

Will you still love me tomorrow?'

I wanted him so desperately to understand the meaning in those lyrics and why I was playing that LP instead of Dark Side of the Moon. I could hardly dare look at him as Carole sang those haunting words for us both.

Unfortunately the magic moment was ruined when the needle got stuck part way through. I really didn't look after my record collection very well in those days.

I stood near the silver service trays as the white silk girl, Samantha, played beautifully for the pleasure of the men assembled in the drawing room where the grand piano stood. Like all white silk girls she possessed Geisha like charms to entertain in non-sexual ways.  

She was very beautiful in an almost vulnerable fashion. I could see why she had been chosen by the Kurii to be 'lifted'.  

The drawing room was a period piece measuring 30' x 20' in the north wing of the house. At the end of the room facing the east were large casement doors that opened onto the covered decking that wrapped itself around from the front of the house. The doors were of the same design as the front doors with the top panel set with geometric coloured glass. The décor of the drawing room was done entirely in painted pressed metal, with dado walls, crown moulding and ceiling of different patterns. A fireplace was located on the western wall of the room with a tile-bordered hearth of a complex design depicting scenes of Shakespeare on its antique tiles surrounding the firebox. The wood mantel was supported by large brackets with a triplet mirror and overmantel and close to one corner was the grand piano itself.

The white silk girl finished her song and lay her hands gently on the keys as she lowered her head. Only a glimpse of her white enamelled collar could be seen.

The Gorean agents of the Kurii had been clever when they had introduced collars to North America. They worked on the same principle they had used for New Feminism – make these things socially acceptable and then women would demand them for themselves. The first collars were introduced for white silk girls, and yes there was some initial resentment and opposition voiced quietly by various white silk girls at the idea of having a collar locked on their throats, but when it was made clear that this was a symbol of power and status the objections grew less strident. Anyone seeing a white silk girl would now see that white enamelled collar and it would act like the insignia of rank on a military uniform, because white silk girls occupied a high status amongst the elite.

White silk girls can generally call upon anyone they wished at any time they wished. A white silk girl could in theory turn up unannounced at the formal residence of a United States senator and request an unscheduled audience and the senator would grudgingly accede to that request even if he was about to leave to play some golf. He would be respectful of the white silk’s lofty status and listen politely to everything she said. He might not take any action to support her flighty petitions, but he would give the impression of being dutifully respectful to such an established Lady. And the sight of the white collar is what would open doors for her. The senator’s aides would hurry to convey her introductions the moment she touched her white collar meaningfully with a single manicured finger.

Rowell told me a story of a white silk girl who called on a democrat senator who would have none of this. He told her to go away. He told her he was a busy man. He told her he had important work to do.

The next day he woke up naked in a cage in a dank basement where he lived for three days to receive a ‘reprimand’ from the Kur. The white silk girl had simply said to her companion, ‘the senator disrespected your white silk girl. I thought you should know.’ That was all it took.

On the first day the senator was brutally whipped and then returned to his cage.

On the second day the senator was strapped to a steel chair and two of his back teeth were slowly drilled away without anaesthetic. He was then returned to his cage.

On the third day the senator was viciously raped by a brutal man using a handheld leather dildo with a rubber grip handle. The rape was televised to the senator’s tearful wife who was forced to watch the thing live on a computer screen while kneeling naked in her living room.

The senator was then told not to bother the police because if he did he had two teenage daughters who would be abducted and taken to Gor as domestic slaves. Then at age 21 they would be trained in the slave pens as pleasure slaves.

The senator didn’t dare go to the police. In fact he wanted to resign from the senate but the Kur didn’t let him.

A week later the same white silk girl called upon him at the most inconvenient time possible. The senator dropped everything to be as courteous and welcoming as he and his wife could possibly be.

That is why white silk girls love their collars.

Red silk collars came next when the red silk girls became jealous. They begged their companions for their own collars. The Kurii kindly agreed. There is now a collaring ceremony for white and red silk girls and they love it. They wear their collars with pride.

Months later collars were rolled out to the lower household staff of Kur sympathisers. Plain steel of a Turian design, they marked the maids as women who were the chattel of the high families in North America.

And as for the mass population of women who do not serve the high families. Oh, the Kur have been clever there. They passed a law saying the free women of America are not permitted to wear collars unless granted dispensation to do so. So of course hundreds of thousands now dream of earning a status collar. Because the collar opens doors to women. There are tax incentives for respectable families whose women are collared. Collared women are eligible for complimentary upgrades on aircraft; they receive the best tables in restaurants; they are permitted to shop in department stores reserved for collared women and so forth. A woman may plead with her husband to convert their marriage to a free companionship in which she wears a collar for five years. During that period the rights in the marriage move in favour of the man. The woman cannot end the relationship before the five years are up and she cannot refuse to offer herself for sex upon demand. Despite this many women are now petitioning for a collar believing the lack of rights in their marriage is a small price to pay for the many status benefits.

Women are slowly but surely building their own gilded cages and walking inside of their own free will.

The majority of women still resist this of course, but the majority today is smaller than the majority this time last year.   

The piano piece received enthusiastic applause from everyone in the room, but especially so from ‘he’s definitely trying too hard’ Patrick Rowell.

“Bravo! Bravo! Magnificent!” the master of the house said as he clapped his hands furiously.

“Beautiful, my dear,” added Montague as he strolled up to the piano and kissed Samantha on the top of her head. I watched as he wrapped his arms around her shoulders as she sat there on the piano stool, as if to say look what belongs to me. Look what I own.

“Thank you, Jackson,” said the white silk. “Will you still love me tomorrow?” she asked with a soft smile, gazing up at him.

“Forever and ever my dear. You are the jewel in my crown.” He lifted her from the piano stool and kissed her on the lips, something no other man was permitted to do with a white silk girl. They were off limits to anyone other than their companion.

“Do you mind if I have a cigarette?” she asked.

“I suppose not. But freshen your breath afterwards.”

“Thank you.” She gracefully picked up her white clutch bag and walked with small steps towards the bay windows. The decking veranda outside had a tarpaulin cover that screened off much of the rain and it had been designated as a place to smoke for those who enjoyed tobacco. The slim white figure of the girl disappeared from sight.

“You’re a lucky man, Montague,” said Moorcroft. His eyes had never left the girl all the time she had played and sung the Carole King song.

“Not luck, Moorcroft, I earned her.”

“Will you keep her after the five years are up, or trade her in?”

“Who knows. Five years is five years.” Montague glanced at the red silk girl as she reclined on a divan with one elbow resting on the arm piece. There was a mischievous and sultry way she looked at the men in the room, even Rowell, as if challenging them to ask for her use. A red silk girl, unlike the white, could be loaned out to a high ranking Kur sympathiser.

Sex would be ritualised for Montague as he owned a white silk girl in addition to the red. They came always as pairs, never one without the other. His bed chamber would have a large bed big enough for three. The white silk girl would be used for arousal only. She would lie there quite literally dressed in white silk and she would kiss, touch and play with Montague for as long as he wished. It was her job to make him hard and excited. The red silk girl would lie on her back as this occurred saying and doing nothing. Montague could enjoy as much foreplay with his white silk girl as he wished, but never any penetration of any kind. When he was ready for that he would put the red silk girl to full use. She would raise her hands to grip the headboard, for she was forbidden to reciprocate in any way that might involve her touching him. That was the role of the white silk girl alone. Montague would raise the hem of the red silk chemise the girl wore and push inside her. She would lie there, holding herself as still as humanly possible while Montague put her to use. The white silk girl in the meantime would be experienced enough to whisper suggestive erotic thoughts in Montague's ear, touching him gently while he fucked the red silk girl, keeping him fully aroused with the various skills she had to hand. When sex was over the red silk girl would depart to a side room and Montague would sleep with his white silk girl only. If during the night he grew aroused again, it was the duty of the white silk to summon the red silk and the ritual would begin anew.

The women who were ‘lifted’ to white or red silk status enjoyed one priceless benefit that even their male companions didn’t have. Every white and red silk girl was given the Gorean stabilisation serum as routine. While their powerful male companions would age with the passing of years, the silk girls would remain blessed with the kiss of eternal youth and health. Immune to the ravages of disease and old age they would watch their men wither and droop as the years took their grip. For the men to attain their own sense of immortality they would have to work hard over decades of faithful loyalty to the Kur cause before they might too have the prize that was so easily offered to their beautiful women.

“You were in London weren’t you, Moorcroft?” asked Rowell. “What’s the news on that cluster fuck in the New Forest?”

“A full blown Priest King assault on our people,” said Moorcroft as he paced the room. “I had no idea they had the resources in and around the south east to do something like that. Must have been dozens of them. Came in at night on our landing zone with military grade weapons. Killed Andromedus with a tactical sniper and then rained all manner of hell down on our men. Damn near wiped them out.”

“Jesus,” said Rowell in shock. “It’s war then?”

“Fucking hell it’s war. We’re going to hit them hard. Earth is ours. Those insect worshipping fucks are going to rue the day they even looked in the direction of our operations. The Sleen himself is going to take command personally on our retaliation options.”

“How exactly are we going to retaliate if we don’t know where any of the Priest King men are?” asked Montague. “They’re like cockroaches, except you can generally stamp on cockroaches.”

“Oh, we’ll find them all right. It’s just a matter of time. If I get hold of one of them I’m going to castrate the fucker and make him eat it.” Moorcroft knocked back a large scotch and signalled for me to pour another one. “I can’t believe they even had the guts to take us on! They must know what we’re going to do in return. As far as I’m concerned the Kurii should just launch a sun bomb at Gor.”

“Don’t be so fucking stupid, Moorcroft,” snapped Montague. “You honestly think the Sardar will let a sun bomb come anywhere near Gor? And don’t go saying something as stupid as that to a Kur commander. Gor is the prize remember. This planet is just a beach head and supply dump.”

“Well, anyway,” Moorcroft stopped by the bay windows and gazed out at the heavy rain. “We’re going to scorch and burn every insect nest we can find. I met Andromedus once. He was genuine Kur. He deserved better than a bullet in the head from three hundred yards. The Priest Kings are cowards. They attacked us with multiple armed squads and they still didn’t dare take Andromedus on face to face. It had to be a sniper. Cowards! We should remember Andromedus. He was Kur and proud of it!” Moorcroft raised his glass of Scotch to the accompaniment of ‘hear hear’ from Rowell and Montague.

“You, maid, what is your name?” asked Montague as he sipped his brandy.

“Rachel, Sir.” I dipped into a curtsey, acknowledging that a man had addressed me.

“Go check on my white silk. See that she doesn’t do anything stupid like wander off in the rain.”

“Yes Sir.” I bobbed up and down again and then followed Samantha out onto the veranda, closing the doors behind me. I found her gazing out over the garden grounds at one side of the veranda, a cigarette held elegantly between two fingers of her right hand. The rain was lashing down now and from where we stood we could see the motor launch departing. It veered dangerously as the storm churned sea shook it from side to side but it valiantly ploughed on towards the mainland, receding into the far distance from our line of sight.

“Ma’am,” I said as I approached softly.

“Oh, you startled me.” She turned quickly and regarded the house maid who stood a respectful distance from her own position. Her eyes regarded my Turian style rounded steel collar. It meant I too was ‘lifted’ but far removed from her own lofty position. Senators would not greet me in their parlour at awkward hours. “You’re a maid here?”

Stating the bloody obvious, I thought to myself as I bobbed into another curtsey. “I am, ma’am, yes. Your companion asked me to watch over you.”

“Jackson is paranoid about his valuable things.” She regarded my skirt that fell to just below my knees – the same length as a red silk dress did. She saw my cheap stockings, my cheap shoes, the white frilled apron at my waist. “How long?”

“I’m sorry?”

“How long remaining on your contract?”

“Four years and nine months, ma’am. Although Mr Rowell has the option of a single five year extension.”

“I see.” She flicked ash over the side of the veranda. “They treat you well?”

I knew what she meant. “No one has touched me, ma’am.”

“Hmm.” She had very rich, lush eye lashes. It was one of the first things I noticed as we stood facing one another. They were beautiful and required very little in the way of mascara. “But you are ruined, yes?”

“I am, ma’am.” I hated that fucking phrase. Ruined...

“A shame. You’re pretty. Still, you could easily be a red silk girl.” She tapped more ash away as she studied me.

“Thank you, ma’am.” There was something lovely about her lips when she spoke, the way they seemed to move softly around the vowels of her words, almost kissing the syllables as they left her mouth. I was almost drawn to staring boldly at those lips as she spoke. I could see why she had been lifted to white silk status. The way she moved was quite mesmerising.

“Come here, maid. I want to see your collar.”

I stepped forward and stood there compliant as she reached with her left hand and touched the steel with its smooth rounded edges. “It’s very different from mine.”

“It’s based on a Turian design,” I said without thinking that I really wasn’t supposed to know anything about Turia.

“Where is that?” she asked, a flicker of interest in her eyes as she ran her fingers along the smooth steel.

“I don’t know. I just overheard a man say that once.” I felt her finger trips brush lightly against the skin of my neck as she lingered with her hand on me. Just a few seconds long, but there was almost a daring signal in that touch unless I was misreading things.

“You’re definitely Jackson’s type. I can tell.” She said as she withdrew her hand now. She continued to regard me casually but there was no mistaking the occasional glance down at the shape of my calves.

“I wouldn’t know, ma’am.” I gazed into her eyes and held her gaze in a most un-maid like way just to see how she might react. Apparently she chose to gaze back without blinking, a slight hint of a curl of a smile registering at the corner of that beautiful mouth.

Was I imagining things, or…

“What are you looking at, maid?” she said after a few seconds of this mutual eye lock. I automatically broke the circuit and glanced down at the floor of the veranda instead.

“Nothing, ma’am.”

“I think you’re quite the brazen little maid. What’s your name?”

“Rachel, ma’am.”

“Hmm. I like that name.” She glanced at my stocking clad lower legs again and took another taste of the cigarette. “You look like a Rachel.”

I had no idea what the fuck that was supposed to mean.

“I liked the song you sang, ma'am. It brought back some memories. You have a wonderful voice.”

“Thank you, Rachel. And you? Can you sing?”

“Not like you, ma’am.”

The white silk girl laughed softly. “Perhaps in time you’ll enjoy some of my other skills before we depart Bear Crag,” she said gazing at my breasts now.

I really wasn’t imagining this…

“That would be nice, ma’am,” I said with a warm smile back.

She laughed softly, seeming to like my reply. “We should go inside, Rachel.” I saw her stub out the butt of her cigarette. “I’m sure you will have a lot of chores to do this week and it wouldn’t do for you to catch a cold looking out for me.”

It was cold and damp out here on the veranda and I was shivering a little, dressed in only the twill uniform. “Besides which, the men will grow restless without me to charm them.” She added, motioning with a curled finger for me to follow. I watched those white booted feet go click-clack along the stained wooden floor,  brushing through a few fallen leaves on the way. She took short graceful steps in that narrow sheath of a dress as she reached the bay doors. There she paused for a moment and glanced back at me. “You have nice calves, Rachel,” she said with a smile. “I’m actually just a little bit jealous.” And then she was gone, back into the drawing room where I could hear the laughter and conversation of the men as they drank expensive brandy and scotch.

I had the awkward feeling that I had just been flirted with by Jackson Montague’s high ranking white silk girl.

This couldn’t bode well at all because although I hated to admit it, I felt more than a little turned on by it all...