Companions of Gor: Chapter Eight

 

 

I cycled through feelings of shock, disbelief and rage in a matter of ihn, and then my emotions changed to that of fear and abandonment. Simon had dressed himself and then left me here, alone! I tried to think of a motive, why he could possibly have done this to me. 

 

“Well?” said the huge woman as she stood behind me.

 

“There was a man…”

 

“Your Master?” she asked.

 

“No! My companion! He was here!” I felt a push and I staggered forward several steps into the room before I could steady myself. I looked to where my shredded robes should have lain on the floor, and they too were gone. There was no evidence the room had even been used at all! 

 

The woman leaned in the doorway, her arms folded as she regarded me. 

 

“I’m listening,” she said.

 

“I was here with my companion. We dined downstairs. This slave,” I pointed at Esavina, “served me all evening!”

 

Esavina choked something that might have resembled words, but she was still struggling to get her breath back from my kick to her stomach. “I ate crab, and, and… I think… a parfit fish! I drank wine!”

 

“Your Master was generous then,” said the woman as she regarded me still. 

 

“No! I dined as a free woman!”

 

She snorted in amusement. “Then how do you have collar?”

“My companion locked it around my throat, here, in this room.”

 

“So he made you slave. I see.”

 

“No! He didn’t make me a slave!”

 

“But you say he collared you?”

 

“Yes, but…”

 

“A man collars a woman to enslave her. We all know that.”

 

“It’s not like that! Simon just wanted to see me in a slave collar…”

 

“Because you slave? Natural slave?”

 

“No!” I blushed and moved to the window. I gazed out onto the courtyard below. Everything was quiet, though I saw a dim glow of light from lamps now lit in the stables across the street that belonged to the café. The stables had been dark when we had first arrived. “There’s a light in the stable!” I cried.

 

“So?”

 

“That might be Simon! He may have gone out there! Into the stables!”

 

“Your Master go to stable? Why?”

 

“He’s not my Master,” I said, turning round.

 

“Then who is your Master?”

 

“I don’t have a Master! Why aren’t you listening to me!”

 

The woman snorted a laugh again. “So man in stable is not your Master? Your Master elsewhere?”

 

I stared hard at her. “Who are you?”

 

“Curiosity not becoming in kajira. You might be beaten for it.” She placed a hand on the handle of her slave crop.

 

“Ohhh!” I stamped my foot in frustration. “Just listen to me!”

 

“I have been. Show me wrists.”

 

She had seen the deep red lines from when I had struggled hard against the slave bracelets. They stood out clearly on my skin. “I can explain those,” I said.

 

“No need. You have worn slave bracelets. It is obvious. Markings are clear. Slaves wear slave bracelets. Where were you collared?”

 

“Here!” I pointed to the place by the mirror where I had stood when Simon had walked up behind me with the collar in his hand. “He locked the collar on my throat right here, but…”

 

“And then put you in slave tunic?”

 

“No, I was already wearing this…” I stopped, realising that statements like that didn’t help my story. 

 

“You wore slave tunic when free, before being made slave? Why?”

 

“I… I needed to go to the toilet.”

 

“Why you not wear free woman robes?”

“They were damaged. Torn apart with a knife.”

 

“Hmm, by Master?”

 

“By SIMON!”

 

“Simon is your Master?”

 

“No! NO!”

 

“But Simon collar you after you put on slave tunic?”

 

“Yes, of course, he collared me after I put on this slave tunic.”

 

“I am not surprised. Slutty thing for woman to do.”

 

“What?”

 

“Understand now why man enslave you.”

 

“He did not enslave me!”

 

“This all interesting, but hour grows late,” said the woman. “I have better things to do. Adopt leash position.”

 

“What?!”

 

“Simple position,” said the woman. “You learn now. First of many positions you will know instinctively in time. Wrists behind small of back, lift chin, turn head to left. It is called ‘lesha’.”

 

“I know what it is called!” I snapped. “I have slaves of my own!”

 

“You own nothing, now you wear collar. Lesha!” she barked the command.

 

There was no way past her without violence that I didn’t think I could win. Angrily I pressed my wrists together behind my lower back, and turned my head to the side, chin up, fighting back some tears. “He was here! He will come back for me!”

 

“We talk to him when he does,” said the woman as she took a slave leash from a hook on the wall. She advanced on me and attached the leash clip to the ring on my collar. “Good.” She gave the leash a quick tug and I stumbled forward, righting my footing after three such steps. 

 

“Wrists!” she barked, for they were no longer pressed together behind my back when I stumbled. “Lesha!” She slapped my ass hard, and the movement of her hand was like a thunderclap. I screamed, for my bottom was still red and sore. As she raised her hand a second time, I adopted the position of lesha properly again, feeling a sense of panic rising in my chest. “Acceptable,” she said. “For new kajira.”

 

“Simon will be back for me!”

 

“Why should I care? You say he not own you?” She tugged on my leash and made to move towards the open door. “You abandoned slave.”

 

“He does!” I cried out, quickly. I recognised only too clearly what might happen to me now if this woman thought I was an abandoned slave; a discarded, masterless kajira. “He owns me. It’s true!”

 

“You said not.”

 

“I lied! He is my Master. You were right. He collared me tonight in this room. You can see that clearly. I wear a collar!”

 

“Hmm. His collar?”

 

“Yes! And he will be back for me.”

“So you ARE kajira?”

 

I looked away from her. “Yes,” I said, through gritted teeth. “As of tonight. He has legal papers of ownership for me. I have been claimed. They were filed in the central cylinder of justice before he placed the collar on my neck. I was already a slave when I came here to dine in my gowns and veils, without even knowing it.”

“I see. Why lie?”

 

“I was ashamed. I was a free woman, or thought I was. I am sorry.”

 

“I suppose we must respect ownership of you, kajira,” said the woman with a chuckle. 

 

I stood there, gripped by a tightness in my chest. I had to buy time, for time was on my side. In the morning my men would return for me, and then there would be a bloody reckoning. I just had to hold out until then, for my instincts told me I could not prevail in a direct fight with this woman, here and now. I was outclassed. Unlike my brother, when I go to war, honour plays no part in my strategy. My only goal is to win.

 

My favourite writer, Tacitus of Ar, once said, ‘the wise general refuses combat on unfavourable terrain.’ Those are certainly words to live by.

 

“Will you be docile and meek?” asked the woman as she held my leash and gazed into my eyes.

 

“I will be docile and meek.”

 

“At first sign of disobedience, you will be beaten with crop.” She placed a hand on the whip handle at her belt. “Do you know what most common words spoken by new slave are?”

 

“No, I do not.”

 

“I am not slave.” She grinned. “They all say to begin with. It is what marks them out as slaves.”  

 

“My Master said he will be back for me in the morning,” I said. For some reason she found this statement amusing. “I was foolish in thinking I could lie to you and perhaps escape this collar. Forgive me, Mistress.”

 

“I suppose we had better hold you for him then.”

 

“He will reward you, I think, for looking after his property.”

 

“I knew you were a slave,” said Esavina as soon as she had regained her voice. “Cassandra Assante in a slave collar!” She walked up to me and slapped me hard in the face. I stood there, reeling, and took the blow, that and the line of spit she then landed on my face.

 

But that did not go down well with this monstrous woman. She cuffed Esavina and I saw the girl thrown back and strike the wall behind her. “Behave, girl! You kajira, too!”

 

“Yes Mistress!” cried Esavina as she looked shocked. Immediately she dropped to the floor in obeisance. 

 

I waited for what I thought was going to be said, and when nothing was said, I considered what it might mean. Because Esavina had not shouted out words like, “this woman is not Lucia of the city of Lara. Her real name is Cassandra Assante!” No, she had simply said, “Cassandra Assante in a slave collar,” as if there was no need to explain who I was, and that I had lied about my name. 

 

A cold shiver ran down my spine. This woman had not shown any surprise when Esavina had used my real name. None at all. Had she then known who I was to begin with?

 

“We put you in kitchen, out of way,” said the woman as she pulled me along by the leash. I followed, keeping my wrists pressed together behind my back, the way she seemed to want them. If I resisted, she might choose to bind my wrists. There was certainly ample binding fibre and cuffs in this room for her to choose from. 

 

Esavina followed close behind me as we descended the staircase. I felt her pull my hair, which was a childish thing to do. Esavina had always been childish. If you’re going to hurt someone, you may as well do it properly and not simply pull hair. 

 

“You can’t trust anything she says, Mistress,” said Esavina. “Cassandra is deceitful.”

 

“That is her Master’s problem, not mine.”

 

“Mistress, do I have switch rights over her?”

 

“No.”

 

That was interesting. The woman showed no particular favouritism towards Esavina, and I sensed she didn’t care in the slightest about the girl. 

 

“But she needs to be kept under discipline, Mistress! You don’t know her like I do. She should at least be whipped. Let us whip her.”

 

“Be quiet, or I whip you.”

 

Esavina stopped talking. She pulled my hair again, and I ignored it. Then we were downstairs, back in the café area. I gazed sideways at the front door. There were three sliding bolts in place, one at the top, one at the middle and one at the bottom of the door. All were slid tightly shut. There were no windows on the ground floor, which was typical for the area, to deter thieves, and the only interior doorway was the open arch that led to the kitchen, which was where I was being taken, and a heavy side door that led into the rear courtyard which had high walls surrounding it, edged with razor wire. Earlier in the evening the men had gone out into that courtyard to drink liquors while I had spoken quietly with the Lady Trublia. On returning, they had mentioned that the courtyard was small, and how impressed they had been by the razor wire.

 

I was led by the leash into the kitchen. The woman was saying something inconsequential, so I focussed my mind on my surroundings instead. I had counted nine paces of corridor between the café floor and the kitchen, once I had stepped through the archway. The kitchen was large with a hearth fire and work tables, and like the café itself there were no windows. There was a set of stone steps at the far end that presumably descended into a basement. Basements and cellars are commonplace in Vonda, as they maximise living space in an otherwise crowded city where no one wants to live outside of the city walls. Sometimes the cellars back on to sewage tunnels, and it is known for some men in the poorer districts to dig through the short distance to reach those tunnels, facilitating movement underneath the city for various criminal reasons.   

 

A slave girl – the second one who had been serving tonight – lay on the flagstone floor, on a blanket, close to the hearth fire. A chain was locked to her collar ring, and the chain trailed some short distance to a large iron ring rivetted into the flagstone floor. It is common to chain slaves like these in a kitchen if you do not have bespoke kennels. A number of other chains were already secured to the iron ring, in case other girls needed to be chained in place. The girl looked up at me, curiously, as I was led into the kitchen.

 

As I stood there the large woman unclipped the leash from my collar and indicated the blanket lying on the floor. “I have busy night. No time for you. You sleep here. In morning, Master come for you, yes?” She seemed to find the idea amusing, once again. 

 

“I am his property, Mistress. Of course he will.”

 

I felt her lift the flap of my skirt, over my bottom. She laughed as she saw the bright red of my skin. “You have had your first whipping as kajira.”

 

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “I now know to fear the whip.”

 

“Good.” She patted my bottom, briefly, and then lowered the short skirt. Turning to Esavina, she said, “chain girl to ring. Then chain yourself for night.” And then she walked out through the short corridor, back into the café.  

 

“Slut!” swore Esavina at me when the woman had left. “You’re going to suffer as I did when I was branded and enslaved. You have no idea what it is like to be a slave in the early days when your Master sends you to a slaver house for training! I suffered because of you! And now you’re going to experience it all, yourself.”

 

“You talk too much, Esavina,” I said. “You always did. Even the men found it tiresome. They only tolerated your babble because you were pretty. Slave pretty,” I added.

 

“I hope I will be there when they brand your thigh with an iron kef! This is what your thigh will look like,” she hissed as she raised her skirt on her left thigh, revealing an old brand. “It hurts for weeks.”  

 

“You should have been branded at puberty, Esavina. I simply corrected the oversight.”

 

“Time to chain you, Cassandra. No soft bed for you tonight.”

 

As soon as she took her eyes off me to reach down for a chain, I hit her. She really was stupid. I followed up with a second hard punch before she hit the floor, and then I was moving quickly. It was unfortunate that I didn’t have time to locate a kitchen knife and cut her nose off, as punishment for pulling the hair of a free woman, but I couldn’t lose the initiative now. 

 

Tacitus of Ar once wrote, ‘the wise general understands the point of no return,’ when he discussed the circumstances that led to the two year siege of Kargash in the year 10,135 Contasta Ar. In his writings he explained there often comes a moment when, despite the risks you face, your analysis of the situation leaves you with one conclusion – unless you act now, and decisively, the odds in your favour will decrease exponentially. Simply put, I was about to be chained to an iron ring and once that happened, no further opportunities would present themselves. People often make the mistake of allowing themselves to be made helpless, because they fear the risk of harm if they resist. Allowing yourself to be made helpless only increases the risk. Ergo, you must act, no matter the risk at the present time. This to my mind is the obvious conclusion, though it does require a woman to banish her natural fear, which even for me, an Assante, was a hard ask, when I was about to face the monster before me. 

 

I seized the heavy glass jar that I had identified while Esavina had babbled in that tiresome voice of hers, and I ran through the short corridor into the café beyond.

 

The large woman had of course heard Esavina’s scream, and she was already on the way back to intercept me. There was a look of surprise on her face as she saw me run towards her, and then I threw the contents of the heavy vinegar jar directly in her face, momentarily blinding her. As she reeled back, her eyes stinging, I threw the empty jar at her face and ran to my left towards the front door. 

 

Tacitus says, in his excellent writings on the kaiila mounted archers of the Turian steppes, that a heavier, more ponderous foe, can be incapacitated by short flurries of hit and run missile fire.    

 

I reached the heavy wooden door and worked the top bolt loose. I moved then to the middle bolt and slid that back too. Panic rose in my chest as I heard heavy boots running towards me as I placed my hands on the lower bolt, sliding it away. I had my hand on the door handle as a whip struck me hard across my back. I screamed in agony, but still had the sense to pull the door open before I fell out onto the cobblestones of the courtyard outside. I rolled on my side, crying from the pain of the whip. This was far, far worse than the crop Simon had used on my bottom. This was agony in an instant. I felt on fire, and knew I couldn’t take many more blows like that. I rolled some more and saw the tip of the whip crack down, through the open doorway, to where I had been lying. I scrambled onto my feet, feeling myself in shock, and as the woman appeared in the open doorway, I fled as fast as I could, across the courtyard, breath coming tight in my chest as tears from the shock of the whip filled my eyes.

 

The woman was screaming something at me, but I just ran and ran and ran into the darkness of the night.