Kajirus of Gor Chapter Eight

 

From that point on, I threw myself fully into my lessons. I listened to everything Iona had to say, and I followed her instructions to the letter, trying to become the perfect silk slave who could soon be sold to a Free Woman. Why? Well, I had seen and heard of the alternatives: the harsh truth relating to silk slaves who had remained in the kennel pens longer than expected, because of some stubborn resistance. Escape was impossible from this place. I knew that. Escape would be almost as difficult in the collar and chains of a Free Woman, but the odds had to be better to some degree. And there was the cold hard fact of what happened to silk slaves in training who remained obstinate and resisted their submission. 

 

A slaver house will not accumulate the costs of housing such a slave indefinitely. It doesn’t make economic sense.

 

And so I learned to bathe a Free Woman, with Iona playing the part. There is delicate skill in soaping her body with a sponge, in first scenting the water of her pool to her precise requirements, in softly massaging her feet, in towelling her dry. 

 

All this has to be done without any evidence of sexual arousal. For a Free Woman feels incredibly vulnerable when she is naked, and even more vulnerable when she is naked in the presence of a man. Think then how vulnerable she would feel if she was naked, in the presence of a man, and that man was plainly aroused by her!

 

It would be unthinkable. 

 

The truth is I towered above Iona, and all other things being equal, could easily have overpowered her, had the consequences not been so severe. How could the slight figure of Iona possibly hope to resist me if I chose to subdue her? I was evidently far stronger than her. In truth, most men would be. In a barbaric society such as this, where technology had seemed to progress little beyond the sword and shield, women were at a crucial disadvantage. Technology offers women an equalising factor. Without it, they are plainly at a disadvantage, and history has told us how disadvantaged they can be. From what I could perceive, from what I had overheard, women on Gor enjoyed a lofty position in the cities at last. They were honoured and respected by their men, and so enjoyed a level of status that they could never hope to seize by force. They were permitted to speak their minds freely, even if men might not like what they had to say. 

 

Iona remained dominant in her behaviour with me. Just a sharp gaze from her face would make me submit. 

 

For now.

 

But I was concerned how natural my submissive emotions now seemed to be. I didn’t have to think first, I just reacted the way a silk slave was trained to react. 

 

No wonder Iona felt safe in my company. No wonder a Gorean Free Woman would feel safe in my company, when she eventually owned me. 

 

“Women on Gor are not truly dominant,” she said one day as I bathed her. I found this remark surprising and interesting. The women I had seen since my abduction had all struck me as very dominant, but then I had only seen Iona – a trainer – and the various Gorean Free Women who entered the private enclosure where they might freely assess male salves without the pressure and intimidation of being in the company of free men. 

 

“How is that so, Mistress?” I asked, as I soaped her body with a thick, wet sponge. She raised a languid arm and allowed me to glide the sponge all the way down to her wrist. 

 

“Because on Gor, men are the masters. Do not confuse how Free Women are with you, with how they are before true men. There is a natural order to the sexes.”

 

True men, she said. Men other than the men of Earth, it seems. Always, she reminded me, of the weakness of Earth men, in contrast to the men of her own planet. 

 

Iona was a slave, of course. She spoke in the context of the way a slave views a free man. Surely Free Women took a very different view? 

 

“You were a free woman once, Mistress?”

 

“I was. A woman of Corcyrus. Argentum preys on Corcyrus for slaves.”

 

“You were taken? Seized in war?” Chelsea had mentioned that Argentum and Corcyrus were rivals, enemies on the battlefield.

 

“No. For many years Corcyrus has had to pay Argentum a levy in slaves. Once every year the levy is paid. We were defeated by Argentum, many decades ago, during the wars of the Silver Mines. Our Tatrix at the time – Sheila - failed us. She was a tyrant, and her decisions led us into a futile and bloody conflict that we ultimately lost. Every year there is a lottery. The ladies of the city stake themselves to meet the requirements of the levy. One hundred women are delivered to Argentum each year, naked, in chains. The ladies who submit to the lottery are cheered by the populace for their bravery. They are respected and adored for risking their freedom to save their city, for if the levy was not paid, Argentum would take swift action. They would seize far more women, and kill many of our men to teach us a lesson. Such were the terms for peace, originally.”

 

“You submitted to the lottery, Mistress?”

 

“I did.” She turned in the water and regarded me. “I love my city. I love my Home Stone. I was a brave daughter of Corcyrus. It was my duty.”

 

“What were the odds?”

 

“In a typical year, five thousand ladies will usually submit to the laws of chance. Sometimes more. Sometimes less. Some women are turned away of course. Argentum insists on beautiful slaves. Not all brave ladies are in fact beautiful. We are rewarded, provided we do not fall to the collar. Once a Lady has submitted to the laws of chance, she cannot do so again for another five years.”

 

“Rewarded?” Again I gently washed her other arm, marvelling in the soft smoothness of her alabaster skin. 

 

“We are paraded through the city by the white clad Initiates, in our sumptuous gowns and veils, and cheered by our men folk for our bravery. Flowers are strewn at our feet as we arrive at the halls of submission to dare our chances. Dashing young men vie for our attention along the leaf lined avenues of the central passages. The young men of Corcyrus press upon us flowers and tell us their names, and where they may be found, within the city, should we honour them with our company. We want for nothing. And our Tatrix, our glorious Tatrix, Aliyyah, she rewards each of us with a coin of solid gold, stamped with the year of the levy.”

 

“Is that a lot of money?” I didn’t understand the Gorean coinage.

 

“It is.”

 

“How did you feel when your token was drawn?”

 

“Terrified. I knew then that I would be a slave, and worse than that, a slave owned by the city of Argentum.” She lowered her eyes. “My life as a Free Woman was suddenly over. I had gambled with my freedom, for honourable reasons, and I had paid the price. I was stripped. I was collared. I was branded. And I was given to the slavers of Argentum. That was ten years ago. A thousand of my sisters have followed in my steps since then. Every year, another hundred are delivered in collars and chains.”

 

“Mistress, is Argentum currently at war with Corcyrus?”

 

“Who told you that?” She looked at me sharply.

 

“A Free Woman at the slave platforms told me so, many weeks ago. Is it true?”

“Did she, now?” She seemed interested that Free Women chose to converse with me. 

 

“Yes. Sometimes they make conversation with us.”

 

“I see.”

 

“Is it true, Mistress? Is this city really at war with Corcyrus?”

 

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajirus,” said Iona, sharply. “You might be whipped for it.”  

 

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I drove past a billboard that displayed a proud looking housewife, in a pretty frock and apron, standing beside a clean looking kitchen, holding a freshly baked sponge cake in her hands, and smiling, with the slogan, Meekness is never Weakness. A second billboard presented a picture of a well turned out 1950s style housewife, pampering her hard working husband, who had obviously just returned from the office, serving him a dry Martini as he sat in his armchair, with two young children gazing up at him with affection, now that he was home. In the picture the woman seems to regard us with a ‘breaking the fourth wall’ happy smile and the slogan I don’t just know my place, I Love it! Both posters had a secondary phrase at the bottom of the images: Real Women Embrace New Feminism. Do You?

 

I parked the car on a side street, ignoring the sign detailing the strict parking regulations for the area. If I was illegally parked, I felt sure that Felicity’s father would sort that out for me, after the event. 

 

There were some couples walking down the street, but no women on their own. You rarely saw women on their own any more, not after dark. They swiftly grew tired of ‘well meaning’ and ‘concerned’ men stopping them every five minutes to enquire if something had happened? Were they lost? Were they meeting someone? Had they had an argument with their companion? Did they require an escort back home?

 

And when a woman dug her heels in and became obstinate, and if she began to raise her voice, demanding she be left alone, that she had every right to be out on her own, sometimes a police officer would appear and tell her she was causing a disturbance, and perhaps the kind police officer might offer to drive her back to her house? And if she refused, the police officer might warn her that she was growing belligerent, and that she needed to calm down right now, and this was her first and only warning.

 

And so, no, you didn’t often see a woman walking on her own, after dark, not in the centre of the city, where the nightspots were. Everyone knew it wasn’t safe to do so. There were men there. 

 

I walked into the piano bar and immediately saw Felicity. She stood with another woman who was also on her own. Bars and restaurants are permitted to discriminate against single women if they so choose. There is no longer any right of contesting sexual discrimination, where a woman might claim she’s being treated different to the way a man might be treated. Quite the contrary, it was now expected that venues would treat a woman differently, precisely because of her sex. Men and women are plainly different, so the common logic now goes. Why should they be treated the same? 

 

The Campbell, like so many exclusive bars, has a space to the side of the entrance lobby where an unaccompanied woman might wait for her escort, should she be so bold as to arrive on her own, before he is at his table. I saw a well-heeled couple arrive, give their names, receive a welcome bow from the doorman and be escorted through to their table. The woman was modestly dressed and I saw the disapproving look she gave Felicity, as she passed by. For Felicity tonight wore a pretty cocktail dress with a reasonably short hemline that was perhaps mid-thigh. I thought it a lovely dress, but I had to confess it was a bit daring for a place like the Campbell. Felicity looked uncomfortable, perhaps because she was probably the only woman here wearing such a garment. Dress hem lines were far more modest these days, especially in the finer parts of New York. 

 

She rose from her seat when she saw me, but was not permitted to cross the line that marked the boundary between her waiting area and the main establishment.

 

“Roland Martell,” I said at the counter, to the hat check girl. “I’m here to meet Miss Felicity Emery.” I turned slightly to indicate the anxious features of Felicity. “That’s her.”

 

“Will you be dining or drinking?” asked the girl, whose name badge read Linda.

 

“Just drinks,” I said. I felt obliged to at least stay for one. Otherwise it wouldn’t look good. 

 

Linda nodded and called out to Felicity. “Miss Emery, if you please.” Quickly, Felicity got up again and joined me.

 

“Roland, thank you, I’m…”

 

I reacted in surprise as Linda returned Felicity’s clutch bag from behind the counter. She opened it and retrieved a compact mirror and while I watched she quickly checked her face for imperfections.

 

“You may go through, Sir,” said Linda.

 

“They took your clutch bag?” I said, as we entered the main piano bar. 

 

Felicity nodded. 

 

“That’s a bit out of order.”

 

“Welcome to my world,” she said. “I could have refused, of course, but then I’d be told to leave the venue.”

 

“And what are you doing here anyway?” I reached the bar and ordered us both a drink. To the side a pianist was tinkling away on the ivories, playing something traditional from the Great American Songbook, as the saying goes. “I thought you were having dinner with Dexter?”

 

“I was. We argued. He was being a pig.”

 

“Comes as no surprise.”

 

“I hate him!”

 

“I thought you did.”

 

“He offended me!”

 

“And you just left? You walked out?”

 

“Of course!” Felicity turned to regard me. She seemed a little more relaxed now that I was here, though I could tell she felt conscious that so much of her legs were on display in a place where that form of dress stood out. Several of the women in the bar were giving her very unfriendly looks. One or two whispered to one another. 

 

“You could have called a taxi.”

 

“I walked out on impulse. It wasn’t pre-meditated! I was angry. What do you expect me to do? Stay with him until a taxi arrives?”

 

“What did he say?

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Felicity raised the glass to her lips, and sipped the prosecco. 

 

“Well, obviously it did matter.”

 

“I don’t want to repeat it. Dexter Bannon has outmoded concepts when it comes to women. He doesn’t respect my sex!”

 

“I could have told you that, and I only met the man once.”

 

“Thank you for coming,” She smiled softly and took a step closer to me. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. I’m on edge. I don’t like being made to wait for my escort. I don’t like the way I was being looked at.”

 

“You know we can’t keep doing this. I’m not on call 24/7. That’s not how this works, Felicity.”

 

“I know.” She reached for her clutch bag again and produced the compact mirror. “You’re angry with me?” she said as she applied a bit of pressed powder to her face. “Please don’t be angry with me. I don’t whether I could cope.”

 

“I’m not angry with you, Felicity. I like you, but… you can be infuriating at times.”

 

She smiled. “Of course. I’m female. That’s my prerogative. I may speak my mind. I may be bold. And men should respect that.”

 

I pretended to sip my drink. I looked at my watch. Ten minutes. If we stood at the bar for ten minutes, we could probably then leave without a fuss.

 

“Would you?” Felicity hesitated, but then she said, “would you like to dance with me?”

 

There were a few couples on the dance floor, the men holding the women close to themselves. The piano music was relaxed and conducive for romance. 

 

“Felicity…”

 

“Just one dance? To soothe my nerves. Look at me, I’m still shaking.” She fumbled the compact bag into her clutch bag.

 

“I’m not sure we should…”

 

“You would dance with me if you were on the clock and we were at, say, Chelsea Frick’s garden party?”

 

“That’s different.”

 

“How is it different?” 

 

“You know how it’s different.”

 

“If I say you’re on the clock?”

 

“You don’t get to decide that.”

 

“One dance. Just one. And then we go. It will seem normal.”

 

And so we slow danced, me leading, with my right arm about her waist, and my left holding the fingers of her right hand. And I confess she felt good moving in time to my body. She laughed softly as we turned slowly, imitating the other couples. “The look on your face,” she said. “Relax. I’m not going to bite.” She pouted. “Why are men always so scared to be on the dance floor?”

 

“You’re a client,” I said, trying not to look into her eyes. Those beautiful Bambi-like eyes. She really was soft and lovely.

 

“Okay, so I’m the client, and this is what I want. The client is always right.” Her face was upturned. Her cherry red lips parted slightly. It was an invitation to a kiss.

 

“The client is always right,” I said.

 

She laughed softly, again. Still those lips presented themselves to me. “Is this really so awful?” She felt good in my arms. Very natural, in fact. “Am I really so terrible to hold?”

 

“I’m taking you home after this.”

“Of course. Home.” She smiled. 

 

“It’s a lovely dress, by the way.”

 

“Oh?” Those lips. Those cherry red lips. Moist, inviting. So close to mine. “That’s very bold of you, Roland.” 

 

“I thought you should know.”

 

“I think I wore it for Dexter.”

 

“His loss.”

“His loss,” she agreed as she gave my left hand a light squeeze. “I don’t have any feelings for him, you know. I really don’t.”

 

“So you said.”

 

“He’s not my type.”

 

“And what is your type, Felicity?”

 

“I like the way you say my name. I like hearing you speak my name. It sounds…”

 

“Sounds?”

 

“Sounds like the word means something to you.” 

 

And then I kissed her. God help me, but I kissed Felicity Emery, my client. 

 

And that single kiss was enough to seal my fate.