Kajirus of Gor Chapter Four

 I received intensive training in the slave pens of Argentum.

 

The building and grounds occupies a prominent position in this Roman-esque city, and during my incarceration I saw nothing of the wider city outside of the area in which I was imprisoned, and in which I lived and learned. I was ignorant even of the other areas in which slave girls were trained. I knew they were there, because the slave trade in Argentum operates predominantly on female slavery, and I knew the kennel masters routinely bought and sold hundreds of such girls, many originating from my own planet.  

 

I also learned that most male slaves on Gor were bought and sold as captives of war and conquest, and that they were purchased mainly to endure hard manual labour, toiling away in mines and fields, living brutal lives during their time in bondage.

 

On day thirteen of my Gorean training, the briefly attired kajira, Iona, informed me that I was one of the ‘lucky ones’. 

 

“You will not dig coal in a dark mine shaft, or drag a plough against your shoulders, or endure the brutality and short life spans of those sent to work the salt mines. You are special, Roland, you are to be a Lady’s gentle silk slave.”

 

She looked down at me as I kneeled before her in nadu. Nadu was the first thing I had been taught, back when my lessons in Gorean had begun. 

 

That, and the most important lesson of all: to banish any dominant male thoughts and to be fully submissive before a woman. 

 

A silk slave on Gor is a man who has been bought to act as a full servant to a Gorean Free Woman. And when I say ‘full servant’ I mean that in its obvious context. My household duties would involve dressing and bathing her and attending to her every whim, assisting her on the public streets, such as when she went shopping, or visiting friends, and also, should she desire it, offering her sexual service in private.

 

Gorean Free Women seem aloof and mysterious as they glide about the streets of their city. You must understand they seem impenetrable, unapproachable even, dressed in full gowns and robes that conceal all but the extremities of their fingers and the tips of their ballet-pump slippers. Their hair is often shrouded in the folds of loose hoods, and their lower faces are obliquely veiled. You might pass your own Free Companion on the street and not know it is her. These women are anonymous and mysterious.

 

But they are women, and I suppose they have sexual desires of their own.

 

On Gor a woman may have sexual desires within moderation. No one suggests a Free Woman is not attracted to men. Of course not. Gorean Free Women are raised and educated to aspire to companionship with a man. But they do not have ‘slave needs’ – that burning heat that it is said, marks a woman as a natural slave. 

 

If this all sounds a bit abstract, I suppose the distinction could be illustrated through the analogy of alcohol dependency. A slave girl, a natural slave, as the Goreans might describe a woman, would be the functioning professional middle class alcoholic – the man or woman who routinely opens a bottle of wine every night after work and who, without realising it, would feel anxious and unhappy if they tried to go without alcohol for any period of time, because they needed it to cope with the stress of their lives. The noble Free Woman on the other hand resembles the man or woman on Earth who generally only drinks occasionally, perhaps a visit to the pub once a week, if that. The ones for whom alcohol is not a routine, not an addiction, but perhaps simply an occasional diversion. 

 

The Gorean Free Woman can enjoy sex, but must never be a slave to those needs, desires and feelings. 

 

But it’s a tortuous and difficult path to tread, which is why it is often easier for a woman of means to indulge herself with a silk slave who cannot question her commands. 

 

‘Lie back and please me’, she might say to her silk slave one evening, knowing that he would never dare speak of what he is told to do in the privacy of the Lady’s bed chamber. 

 

“Forget everything you think you know about pleasing a woman,” said Iona on the first day of my sexual training, as she paced about the room, gazing down at Dexter and myself. “You are not free men. Should you act inappropriately towards your mistress, you will be whipped, and if you embarrass her in any way, your punishment will be far more severe, and you might well be sold, or possibly put to death. A Free Woman may be attracted to you, but she does not necessarily wish to acknowledge it to herself. You will learn to be sexually attractive to a woman without formally making any invitation or approach. And importantly, you will always be submissive in the context of any coupling. We will begin by seeing how you naturally act before a woman. Stand, Roland.”

 

I rose to my feet and of course towered over the small figure of Iona as she stood before me with her slave switch.

 

And then to my surprise she paced to the far side of the room where a white sheet hung from a wooden hook. I saw now that the white sheet had three holes in it – one for her head, and two for her arms. She draped this about her body to perhaps mark her out now as a Free Woman, though the sheet fell only to her upper calves and her arms were bare. She then took a long strip of rep cloth and wound it about her lower face to resemble a veil.

 

“I am a Free Woman,” she said, staring up at me. “You are to please me. But beware my anger.”

 

At first I didn’t quite comprehend what this archaic instruction meant, but obviously this lesson was supposedly to teach me how to pleasure a woman. Iona had no way of knowing I didn’t need any lessons in that. I had enjoyed many women in my time. I walked towards Iona and raised my right hand slowly.

 

She watched me, narrowing her eyes slightly as my hand moved to touch her hair. When she didn’t object, I then lowered it and touched her upper arm and slid my fingers down her bare skin. 

 

There was a slight intake of breath as she felt my fingers upon her. I had to remember that Iona would react differently to the way a Free Woman might, for Iona had been trained to be highly sensitive to sexual responses in her body. 

 

And then I obviously made a mistake, for my hand reached to undo the veil, where the ends had been tucked beneath one another. A simple unravelling would bare her face, her lips, to me, and allow me to kiss them, softly at first

 

“No!” she hissed, suddenly, as she raised the switch and whipped me twice across my shoulders. “No! Kneel to the whip, now!”

 

I dropped to my knees before this weak slip of a girl and knelt, head to the floor, wrists crossed beneath me. 

 

The blows came suddenly and swiftly, and they hurt like hell. 

 

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I first met Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick at the race track at Saratoga in August where I was accompanying Felicity. It was a hot August afternoon, and the formality of the occasion with its strict dress requirements made me feel uncomfortable as I stood in one of the VIP enclosures with the racing programme in hand.  

 

Felicity wore a fetching nude woollen mid-length dress with suede kitten heels and a striped mini-handbag on a thin leather strap that was impractical for wearing over the shoulder and had to be held like a clutch bag or hung suspended from an elbow arm. I wore a dark blue suit, light cotton shirt, and a striped tie that suggested maybe some sort of military or public school background. A fresh, clean, white handkerchief was artfully arranged in the top pocket of my jacket. 

 

Saratoga Race Course is a Thoroughbred horse racing track located on Union Avenue in Saratoga Springs, New York, United States. Opened in 1863, it is often considered to be the oldest major sporting venue of any kind in the country, but in actual fact is only the fourth oldest.

 

The grounds at Saratoga Race Course contain several unique features. Prior to each race, a bell is hand rung at exactly 17 minutes prior to scheduled post time for each race to call the jockeys to the paddock. Patrons can get close up views of the horses being led to the paddock as the path from the stables runs through the picnic grounds, which was precisely what we were now doing. 

 

Since 1864, the track has been the site of the Travers Stakes, the oldest major thoroughbred horse race in the United States, which is the event Miss Felicity Emery was attending that day. Like the famous Kentucky Derby, the Travers Stakes is contested on dirt and is open only to three-year-olds, with a prize purse of $1,250,000. The winner of the race is presented with a blanket of carnations, which is approximately 10 feet long and requires about 1,500 flowers. The carnations are red and white, which are the colours of the Saratoga Race Track. The blanket is prepared fresh the night before the race by a Saratoga florist.

 

“Well, here’s a familiar, but long since absent, face,” said a woman who approached us both in the private enclosure. “I had heard you were socialising again, Felicity. Emerging from your self-imposed confinement and exile.”

 

I regarded Chelsea Frick and could immediately tell she was a girl of good breeding. You can always a tell a girl from a rich family by her poise and air of entitlement, not to mention the impeccable grooming that comes from vast reserves of wealth. 

 

“Miss Chelsea Frick,” said Felicity by way of introduction. “And this is Mr Roland Martell.”

 

“Roland Martell.” Miss Frick smiled and offered the back of her hand, bent at the wrist, for me to lightly kiss. “I see Felicity has been fishing.”

 

When Felicity blushed, Miss Frick laughed softly and quickly added, by way of explanation, “we were at school together, Felicity and I. Finishing school. We had a term for girls of our year who set out to attract a boy.”

 

“Fishing?” I suggested.

 

Miss Frick nodded. “Fishing. And the girls themselves were bait. The way they dressed, the airs they put on!”

 

“I don’t ‘fish’, Chelsea,” said an embarrassed Felicity. “We met at an art gallery. Roland was the perfect gentleman.”

 

I had of course prepped Felicity at our second meeting with what she might say when she was inevitably asked how we had met. The backstory was incredibly detailed, but I won’t go into it here.  

 

“Were you?” Chelsea Frick turned towards me with an amused look on her face. “The perfect gentleman?”

 

“I suppose.” Miss Frick had long dark brown hair that she wore pinned up in an elaborate coiffure, topped off with a large sun hat that shaded her beautiful face. She wore an expensive midi dress of the kind ladies wear at private racing enclosures, and high heeled pumps from some Italian shoemaker no doubt. You could tell that both girls came from, and moved within, the same social circles. Miss Frick, however, seemed a little more forward and daring than my own Felicity Emery. “I was there to purchase a painting. Felicity was considering the same purchase. I suppose you could say we were rivals at first.”

 

“How amusing. And which of you bought it in the end?”

 

“I confess we got distracted talking to one another, and some oilman from Texas moved in while we got to know one another’s stories. A loss, but not one that I regret, under the circumstances.”

 

“I don’t know the Martells,” she remarked. 

 

“It’s not an established family,” said Felicity with a touch of rose to her cheeks. Her kind was no doubt meant to court men within their own circle. 

 

“Quite the dark horse, is our Felicity, casting her gaze audaciously beyond the confines of her narrow paddock.”

 

“Roland is doing very well for himself.” It seemed important to Felicity that her old school friend didn’t think she might be ‘dating down’.

 

“I am, Miss Frick.” I smiled with the confidence of a self-made man. “I’m doing very well for myself.”

 

“Obviously.” She smiled again and touched my arm. A movement not lost on Felicity, it seems, for her eyes narrowed at this slight sign of rivalry from her school friend. “I love your accent. It reeks of old culture.”

 

Americans usually do love my English accent. 

 

“We are becoming companions,” said Felicity, quickly, as she moved to place her arm with mine. “Who knows where it will lead?”

 

“Aren’t you all grown up now, Felicity, dear?” Miss Frick regarded me again, particularly my broad shoulders.

 

“Are you courting anyone, Miss Frick?” I enquired politely. It was the sort of thing men in her social circle seemed to ask of a Lady, upon first meeting her.

 

“Nothing serious. It’s so hard to find the right man these days. They’re either insufferably weak and boorish, or…” she smiled.

 

“Or?”

 

“Too demanding.” She shrugged. 

 

I raised a polite eyebrow. “And which would you say I am, Miss Frick?”

 

“Oh, you’re neither, Roland. You’re something else, altogether. You have… potential.”

 

“I’m not sure what you’re referring to, Miss Frick, but I’ll assume it’s a compliment.”

 

“Oh, it’s many things, Roland. But don’t worry your pretty little head about it.”

 

She was being condescending now, but I was with a client, and one doesn’t embarrass a client in public. Her choice of friends and acquaintances were her business, not mine. 

 

“A word of advice, Roland,” said Miss Frick. “Don’t get too comfortable.” She wiggled a couple of fingers. 

 

Don’t get too comfortable?

 

“You really must both come out to Montana in the Fall,” said Miss Frick as she turned away. “Visit my family’s ranch. The landscape is breath-taking, and the riding, exquisite.”

 

“I don’t know my plans for the Fall,” said Felicity as she tightened her grip on my arm.

 

“Nonsense. I won’t take no for an answer, Felicity.” She smiled in a way that wasn’t necessarily friendly. “I mean that, I really won’t take no for an answer. I’ll be in touch to arrange a convenient date.” She turned to regard me again with what seemed to be a hungry look in her eyes. “It’s a pleasure meeting you, Roland Martell. I think you’ll love Montana in the Fall. I know I will.”

 

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And so I learned the hard way in my first lesson that a silk slave never even dares dream of face stripping a Free Woman. Such a thing is beyond the pale, for it implies a dominance that a silk slave will never have. 

 

The whipping was severe, even taking into account the limit of Iona’s strength. In her hands the switch brought screams from my mouth and I learned to fear the raising of her whip hand that day. 

 

I learned to fear and understand that a girl, much smaller than myself, could actually hurt me. 

 

“You were stupid,’ Dexter said as we lay in our kennel that night. “Even I know you don’t try to take a veil from a Free Woman.” He sneered. He hadn’t been whipped. He had served well. Iona had given him a small piece of candy as a reward.

 

Well, Dexter knew that now, but I suspect he would probably have made the same mistake as me, had he gone first. He had quickly tried to make Iona believe he would never have done that, though. For all his complaints in private, Dexter was quick to suck up to our slave girl trainer in public, trying his best to please her and avoid the whip on his own back and shoulders.

 

When I was well enough that I could stand again, the lessons in pleasing a Free Woman began with simple basics. 

 

Dexter and I wore clean white slave tunics, knotted at each shoulder. We were clean and perfumed. The first lesson was simple, it seemed, but it took us days to master it. 

 

“You will learn to undress yourself before the eyes of your Mistress,” remarked Iona. Again she wore the sheet about her body, Again she wore the rep cloth about her lower face. Again she held that sharp slave switch in her right hand, tip pointing downwards while we obeyed her.

 

I felt ridiculous, humiliated as I was made to strip myself like some sort of Chippendale on stage. Iona watched, pacing around me, as a Free Woman might, as I toyed with the slip knot at first my left shoulder and then my right. I would turn my face away from her, shyly, demurely, as she regarded me, and only look at her if and when she commanded. Even then I would lower my eyes.

 

“Who am I?” Iona would say.

 

“You are my mistress.” 

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“You own me. I am your property.”

 

“Then undress yourself, slave. Display my property.”

 

I took my time, releasing first the left slip knot, and then, pausing only momentarily, the one on my right shoulder. I did not let the silk tunic fall, but rather I slid the silk down my chest, to my waist, while my so-called mistress watched. 

 

“I am your property,” I said. “I serve you in all things, Mistress.”

 

“Of course.” She touched my thigh with the tip of her switch and then traced it around my legs and across my shoulders. “You are a pretty slave. A pretty silk slave. Show me more.”

 

And then I slid the silk down past my hips, down past my thighs, letting it pool about my ankles. I stood naked, submissively so, not daring to look directly at her face. I felt the tip of the switch touch my cock and felt it stroke the length of my shaft that began to respond to the touch of the tooled leather.

 

“You are growing excited, slave. Why is that?”

 

“Because I exist to serve my mistress.”

 

The touch of the leather switch brought me to a semi-rigid erection. I had been a long time without a woman, and Iona was now standing a mere two feet from me. Now I felt the palm of her right hand touch my buttocks and trace the curves of my thighs. My erection grew rigid, stiffer until it stood out firmly to her gaze like a flagpole. 

 

“So eager.” Iona laughed. She stroked the head of my penis with her switch. 

 

I breathed deeply, feeling this sensuous girl pace around me, examining my body at her leisure, and touching it with her whip. 

 

“Dress yourself. Calm yourself. And do it again. But this time more submissively. You are a sexual plaything for your mistress, and while you cannot beg for her touch, you will do all in your power to invite it. You have a long way to go, sweet Roland.”