Kajirus of Gor Chapter Five

 

My training was humiliating. 

 

Much of it was menial, and yet Iona had exacting standards that Dexter and I were expected to meet.

 

“You will learn today to pour wine,” she said as I knelt before her. I was typically naked when I trained with Iona, and this made me feel exposed and vulnerable. What was particularly humiliating was the way she would smile when, much against my will, I grew aroused by something that really shouldn’t have aroused me. There’s no disguising an erection when you kneel in nadu, bereft of any garments.

 

“You enjoy training with me, Roland?” she said as she saw how stiff I was. It was crazy. There was no reason for me to be aroused. I was kneeling as a collared slave before a beautiful girl who held a short whip called a switch, and I knew she might use it at the merest sign of disrespect. There was nothing arousing about that, surely?

 

And yet, there was no denying my body felt healthy and alive after several weeks on this alien planet. The air was fresh, the food nutritious, devoid of any of the saturated chemicals and sugars that Earth food was routinely subject to, and this, combined with the exercise I received, meant I felt awake for the first time in years. It was as if on Earth I had been sedated, and not knowing any differently, I had assumed that was how people were supposed to feel. But here on Gor, my body felt alive, and with it came a stronger libido. A much stronger libido. 

 

“I asked you a question, Roland?” Iona touched my shoulder with the tip of her whip. She was a beautiful girl, and if there was any justice in this world, she’d be kneeling before me, not the other way around. 

 

“Yes, Mistress, I do.”

 

She smiled at that. “Your body is emerging from its unhealthy dormant state. I have never seen your world, but I know enough about it to know your people sleep walk through life, feeling only a fraction of the sensations that a healthy man or woman is supposed to feel. Your world poisons your body. Here on Gor, that all changes.”

 

There was something in what she said. 

 

And so that day I learned to carefully pour wine and serve it before a Free Woman. Sounds simple? No it isn’t. A silk slave must serve with submissive grace. His body must be an extension of his mental submission. A Free Woman expects graceful feminine movements of her silk slave, and she expects the muscles of his body to flow like water, not tense like steel.

 

“You’re not really a man, Roland,” Iona said as she crouched low to face me as I placed the bronze goblet on a low table beside her. “Not the way a man is defined on Gor. You could never survive on this planet alone. You need a mistress to look after you, to care for you, to feed and clothe you. A Gorean woman could endure hardships that you never could. You are weak. A pathetic creature that has surrendered his manhood though centuries of conditioning of his sex.”

 

I lowered my eyes before her and said nothing. 

 

“Now serve me ka-la-na, boy.”

 

I lifted the goblet, pressed the rim to my lower ribs and then extended it smoothly towards her.

 

“Speak, slave.”

 

“I am your slave, Mistress. I bring you wine.”

 

“Who is dominant here?”

 

“You are, Mistress.”

 

“And who is submissive?”

 

“I am, Mistress.”

 

“I see you fear the whip and the hand that holds it.”

 

“I do, Mistress.” And it was true. By now I was actually scared of Iona. I was very aware of her mood at all times, and I strived to anticipate how those moods might change, for Iona was a woman, and women can change their mood without any warning at all. Their emotions are volatile. I had seen that often when I was free, but when you are a silk slave it is far more alarming when it happens, because the woman can whip you.

 

-------------------------------------------------------------

 

After that first night when Felicity had bid me enter her house to receive my fee in cash, a boundary had been set aside, and now I was expected to enter her house after each social assignment in her company. She was becoming more relaxed in my presence, outside of the roles we played. I had seen this before with clients, and I knew the warning signs when they began to form emotional ties. Roleplay – for that is what this was – can be a powerful conditioning tool. Pretend to be a couple for long enough, and often you do become a couple. With all the problems that can entail.

 

I liked Felicity. She was intelligent, well spoken, demure, to a degree at least, and really quite beautiful. But I had made mistakes in the past with clients when I was new to this, and now I knew better. There could never be anything between Felicity and myself. We came from different worlds, and although she might fantasise some romantic Lady Chatterley’s Lover liaison with the muscular hired help, it would never last. Her peers would never appreciate such a coupling, and like so many women of her class and position, she feared the disrespect of her family and wider social circle. 

 

Women like Felicity think they can break free of the strait jacket conventions that govern their lives, but really they are locked into a rigid set of rules with all the inflexibility of steel chains. 

 

I stood in her living room as she poured herself a drink. Her hair was swept up, as it usually was for social events, and she wore a long black sheath dress with golden pumps with three inch heels. 

 

“I’d ask you whether you wanted a whisky, but…”

 

“But you know I always decline,” I said with a smile.

 

She had poured herself a small measure of vodka with lots of ice. 

 

“You’re always so stiff, so formal, outside of our arrangements.”

 

“I’m a professional,” I remarked. I watched Felicity sip her vodka. I watched the way she watched me, as she sipped her vodka.

 

“You told me off tonight,” she said with a pout. Her lips were cherry red and they left an imprint on the rim of the vodka glass.

 

“I did?”

 

“When I wanted a glass of champagne.”

 

“You’d already had two.” I paced about the living room. It hadn’t escaped my notice that there were no longer any armchairs in this room. There were now simply three sofas set in a ‘u’ shape around a large glass coffee table. 

 

“So? I wanted a third.”

 

“You told me you wanted me to act possessive in public.”

 

“I think we need to reassess that, Roland.” She walked towards me. “I like to drink at parties. What you said was awkward. What you did was awkward.”

 

“What I did?”

 

She sipped her drink. “You took hold of my wrist. Tightly. When I moved to pick up a flute.”

 

“Like I said, you’d already had two drinks. I decided you wouldn’t have a third.”

 

“Did you now?” Her eyes flashed. Was this part of her game, or was she really annoyed? It was hard to tell with women.

 

These conflicting double standards annoyed me. She had told me to act possessively. I had gone to the trouble of arranging a safe word with her, that she had never used, and yet now she was complaining that I was acting the way she wanted. 

 

“You have a safe word, Felicity. You can use that if I overstep the mark.”

 

“Safe word.” She sneered as she paced about the room. “Always the safe word! And what if I don’t want a safe word? What if I just want you to do what you’re paid to do – act professionally and understand the boundaries without constantly expecting me to provide a running commentary!”

 

“What do you want, Felicity?”

 

“I want another drink.” She finished the vodka and moved back to the mini bar.

 

“No.”

 

“What do you mean, no?” She turned, angrily, on the ball of her left foot.

 

“Don’t have another vodka.”

 

“This is my house! I’ll do what I want!” I was reminded of a cat, who, after you tell it not to knock an ornament over from a shelf, the cat studies you for a moment, daring you to do anything about it, and then proceeds to knock over the ornament in complete defiance of your command.

 

Felicity was that cat. She stared hard at me as she poured herself another vodka. 

 

I shrugged. It was her house. She was the client.

 

“I’ll bid you god night, then, Felicity. Enjoy your evening.” And then I left, but I didn’t drive straight home, I went instead to a late night jazz bar down town that I knew remained open until five in the morning.

 

I like jazz, and I’m unusual in that. Very few people my age appreciate anything other than modern pop music, but jazz, and by that I mean real jazz, not the high production pop music that passes itself off as jazz these days, works its magic on me.

 

I sat at the bar with a drink and listened in appreciation to a sax led trio who were improvising on some Stan Getz compositions.

 

I’d only been there maybe ten minutes when my phone rang. It was Felicity. I wasn’t in any mood to speak to her, but you don’t ignore a call from a client.

 

“Hello Felicity?” I don’t know what I was expecting – an apology, perhaps, for the way she’d snapped at me, but when I heard Felicity’s voice on the other end of the line, there was an audible sense of fear in that voice.

 

“Roland. There’s a man in my garden.”

 

Her property includes half an acre of grounds at the back with high stone walls around all sides. 

 

“An intruder? You’re sure?”

 

“I saw movement through the second floor window. I think he’s watching the back of the house.”

 

“Have you called the police?”

 

There was hesitation on Felicity’s part. “No,” she said.

 

“Why not?”

 

“I don’t think…” she paused. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t. “Please. Please, Roland. I’m scared.”

 

And she sounded scared. “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Keep your doors and windows locked. Do you have a gun?”

 

“Yes. But I’ve never taken it out of the box or loaded it.”

 

“Okay. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

 

Felicity wore a long night gown and belted robe when I turned up back at her door. She had obviously prepared herself for bed when she had seen the movement in the garden. Her eyes looked puffy as if she’d been crying. 

 

“Have you seen anything?” I asked as I produced a heavy camping torch. 

 

“I was too scared to go close to the windows. He may still be there.”

 

“Not if he has any sense, he won’t be. Go inside, then I’ll explore the garden.”

 

“I don’t want to be in there alone. I’d feel safer beside you.” She looked nervous as she clutched my arm.

 

“Okay, but if anything happens, you run back inside, and quickly, and you DO call the police. Understand?”

 

“Thank you.” Her lips were moist and parted as she gazed up at me. “Thank you so much.”

 

We went round to the back of the property, along the side alley, past a small green house full of cacti, and once we were in the garden proper, I trained the powerful torch light onto the bushes and trees to the side where she had first seen movement.

 

Felicity stood behind me, to my left. There was an evening breeze that caused her night gown and loose robe to billow slightly as we paced further into the garden. I could smell her soft perfume as she stayed close to me.

 

We searched every part of the grounds but drew a blank. There was no one there. I gazed up at the stone walls surrounding the property. They were possibly fifteen feet high. In the dark, even with the powerful torch light, I couldn’t see any boot prints in the soil that might suggest someone had scaled the wall from the other side and jumped down into the garden. Come daylight I would make a. more thorough inspection of the place. 

 

“I wasn’t imaging things,” said Felicity in a tremulous voice.

 

“No one’s saying you were.”

 

“I feel so foolish.”

 

“You did the right thing.”

 

“You can bill me, of course, for the additional time,” she said. She touched my arm again.

 

“Consider it a freebie.”

 

“Don’t be silly, This is your time, and I’ve brought you here out of hours.”

 

“It’s not a problem, Felicity. Shall we go inside? I’ll make you an herbal tea or something to soothe your nerves?”

 

I checked the locks on the windows and doors while Felicity sat at the kitchen table sipping some hot chamomile tea. “The locks on your windows are sturdy, and the doors have solid deadbolts top and bottom.”

 

“It’s not the first time,” she said as she held the cup between her hands.

 

“Oh?”

 

“I think I have a stalker.” She breathed at the cup to cool the tea a little.

 

“And you have been to the police about that?”

 

“I have… spoken to people.”

 

“People?”

 

“My family can usually sort things out. My father employs a private security firm.”

 

“I see.” I folded my arms and leant against the far wall. “They’ve looked into this?”

 

She nodded.

 

“Felicity, getting answer from you is sometimes like wringing blood from a stone. Can you provide some answers that actually use more words than my questions?”

 

“They looked into this,” she said, sharply.

 

I sighed and gazed out of the ground floor window. It was dark outside, but areas of the garden had upraised spot lights. I could see how Felicity might well have noticed a movement between the trees or bushes. 

 

“When did this start?”

 

“Will you stay the night?” she said, suddenly. “I’ll pay for the hours, of course. There are spare bedrooms. I’d feel safer.”

 

“Full time security isn’t really something I do. I can recommend firms that can arrange that kind of thing.”

 

“I don’t want strange men in my house. But I feel safe with you, Roland. Please. I’ll pay double.”

 

Double?

 

“Okay. Tonight, then. But this can’t be a full time arrangement.” I moved away from the wall. “And really you do need to speak to the police if you have a stalker.”

 

“You don’t understand.”

 

“Obviously not, because you’re not telling me anything at all.” 

 

-------------------------------------------------------------

 

I lay in my kennel pen, my thoughts turning back to those final days at the cattle ranch in Montana, when Felicity Emery and myself had been guests of Chelsea Frick. The floor of the pen was raised timber boards lifted maybe six inches above a concrete surface. I had a piss pot and a thin blanket, though the night was warm and I didn’t really need it. 

  

I thought too of Iona, the slave girl, my trainer, and how beautiful she looked in her steel collar and tightly fitting slave tunic. I was scared of her, yes, but I was also aroused by her, and the feelings were both conflicting and confusing. Normally I should feel only one or the other of the emotions, and I was aware of things such as Stockholm Syndrome where supposedly captives began to confuse those emotions and form an attachment with the jailers, no matter how cruel and unpredictable those jailers might be. 

 

As I lay there, I dreamed a fantasy that Iona came for me one night in my kennel pen, arriving in the dark with a candle.

 

“Be still, boy,” she would say as she quietly unlocked the cell door. 

 

“Mistress?” I would say in my dream as I turned to face her on the timber floor.

 

“Remember who is dominant here. Remember who is the slave,” she would say as she crawled into my kennel.

 

“What do you want?”

 

“I want you, boy. I too am a slave, and I too have needs, and tonight you will serve those needs. And you will do so well, or in the morning I shall have you whipped. Are you going to please me, Roland?”

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

“You had better. Now lie back and grip the bars of the kennel with both hands. Part your thighs. I am going to take my time with you and teach you just what it is to serve the dominant sex.”

 

I woke up sweating. The night air was hot and stuffy. There was little movement of air. In the kennel pen next to me I heard some soft sounds from Dexter. It sounded like he too was awake, and perhaps he too was aroused. I listened in the stillness of the night and heard soft gasps as he seemed to play with himself. Then, minutes later there was a groan and I assume he had come. 

 

Iona was right. My libido was much stronger, here on Gor. And the lessons during the day – the submission to her – the training with its overt sexuality – they all enhanced my libido even further.

 

I groaned softly as I turned on the wooden floor, feeling sore and uncomfortable from lying still for so long on the stout timbers. I wanted a woman. I reached down and felt my penis. It was hard. Very hard. I wanted a woman. I thought of Iona and I tried to imagine her lying back in some furs, an aroused look on her face as she parted her thighs for me, but then that fantasy changed without warning to Iona on top of me, her left hand gripping my hair, twisting it, as she snarled into my face and positioned her hips over my groin.

 

Iona. Lovely, beautiful Iona. Lovely, fierce, dominant, uncompromising Iona. 

 

How was it that Gorean women were so strong? So confident? So sure of what they wanted? So capable of handling men like this?

 

I began masturbating myself in the quiet of the night, sliding my hand up and down my shaft, feeling the pleasure it could give me now. I thought of Iona looking down at me as she tied my wrists to the cell bars. Iona forcing my thighs apart with her hands. Iona telling me that I was hers, that she would take her pleasure from me. And then Iona squatting down over my groin, penetrating herself on my stiff cock, arching her back with a hiss of pleasure as she settled down further, pushing me deeper and deeper inside of her. 

 

Iona. She commanded me to serve her as a silk slave.

 

And in my dreams, not knowing any better, I did just that.