Kajirus of Gor Chapter One (an advance chapter ahead of the main series)

 

It was hot. Fucking hot.

 

I was sweating where I stood, my hands chained behind my back, a heavy steel collar locked around my throat, and a rag wrapped around my loins. That was the only garment I was allowed, and it was, I suppose, more for the modesty of the women gazing at me than for my own peace of mind.

 

I say rag, but I suppose if you read fantasy novels of the hack and slash variety you might call it a loin cloth. But that implies some sort of Conan like dominance, and the slave collar locked around my throat put paid to that notion.

 

A couple of men stood close by, and they were armed with swords and whips. They looked tough and I had no doubt they were. They had already used the whip on me earlier and I had screamed after the first few strokes. There was no way I wanted to feel it again. 

 

I stood, barefoot, on a wooden platform made from rough planks that was circular by design and raised from the earthen floor to a height of sixteen horts, which equates to about twenty inches on Earth. The hort is a Gorean measurement, and I’ve already begin thinking in terms of such things now that I’m a slave on that planet and have been taught the language by a slave girl called Iona.

 

That’s right. Taught to speak the language by a slave girl who carried a vicious switch. 

 

“Is he a barbarian? Does he have all his teeth?”

 

The voice was female. I didn’t dare to look directly towards the woman in question for fear of being beaten. Manfred, the man who had led me up to the platform earlier that morning had made it clear what would happen if I looked directly into the eyes of a woman without permission.

 

“I will have you dragged from the platform and you will be whipped until you can’t stand. You will then crawl to the feet of that woman and place your face in the Earth and she will decide whether I am to have you hung by your wrists in the hot sun from a slave ring eight feet above the ground until dusk. Is that clear?”

 

It was very clear.

 

And so I didn’t dare to look at the face of the woman who had asked the question. 

 

I could see her soft slippered feet, the tips of her toes peeking out from under a long skirt that swept the ground as she moved, and I already knew from a distance that she would be like the other women I had briefly glimpsed. Each and every one was richly dressed in what I would describe as a Muslim fashion, with long gowns and intricate veils that disguised both their features and the lines of their bodies. 

 

“He looks like a barbarian. Look how soft his skin is,” said the second veiled woman as she touched my thigh with her soft gloved hand.

 

“I think he’s excited,” giggled the first woman. “Look!”

 

The rag about my loins was stretching from an erection. I had mostly been deprived of the touch of a woman since being abducted and taken to Gor, and I think it showed.

 

“Do you like that, you beast?” said the woman who trailed her fingers down the inside of my leg. 

 

“Yes, Mistress,” I had been taught by Iona to always call a Free Woman, ‘mistress’ on pain of death. 

 

“They really can’t control themselves,” remarked the other woman. “The thing would rut away in the open street if he was given a kajira.”

 

The hand withdrew from my thigh, but my erection remained. 

 

“Well, he seems to be virile, but let’s take a look at some of the others.”

 

I stood there, my eyes still downcast as those slippered feet swished quickly away, dragging the ornate hems along the ground.

 

I was a kajirus, which means male slave on the planet Gor, which is, I’m told, a counter Earth that orbits our sun. But once upon a time I was Roland Martell, a free man on Earth.

 

This is my story.

 

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Nine months ago:

 

I arrived early at the table, because that’s the way this works. A woman with a respectable reputation in North America can’t be seen to arrive at a restaurant unaccompanied, if a man isn’t already waiting for her. It’s no longer the done thing. Well, I mean, she could – of course she could, but people would stare and possibly tut to one another. She’d stand there while the maître ‘d took his time examining the list of bookings, adding to her discomfort in public.

 

So, no, in my game, my line of work, I don’t put my clients, or my potential clients, through that embarrassment. You book me and I’ll be there on time, come Hell or high water. And I’ll be looking respectable.

 

I saw her speaking to the maître ‘d and he nodded as she mentioned my name. I’d made a point of slipping him ten dollars when I came in, telling him to ensure the Lady would be taken straight to my table.

 

She had a slender build, light brown hair that she wore in the popular ‘New Feminism’ style, gathered up above her neck and secured with pins, clearly displaying her lovely bare throat that was simply adorned with a string of pearls. She wore a tasteful long-sleeved blue dress with a hem that fell modestly just above her calves. She wore black heeled pumps and simple but tasteful makeup. She seemed nervous.

 

The maître ‘d indicated my table, and in conjunction with it, me. I smiled as I caught the Lady’s glance and smiled again as she seemed flustered and quickly looked away. They were always nervous, like skittish does. I could tell I was her first ever booking. Her fingers clutched and played with the gilded snap catches of her clutch bag which featured a small gold chain against its black fabric. It was a very feminine bag – large enough to accommodate a few essential things such as lipstick, credit cards, a powder compact and so forth, but certainly not practical enough for the things I carried.

 

Although tonight I didn’t carry a gun. I generally don’t on a routine meet and greet. I’m only armed once the client books me.

 

“Hello Mr Martell,” she said as she stood beside my table. I quickly rose from my seat, walked towards her with the warmth of a man who had known her for many months, and I drew back her chair, assisting her with seating.

 

“Call me Roland, Miss Emery. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

 

“None at all,” she said as she sat herself down on the chair. “A simple taxi ride.”

 

“Good.” It would have been a taxi company that catered for unaccompanied women, no doubt. The ones that offered that air of security and respectability. Single women were advised not to set foot in the mobile cabs that routinely prowled the city streets after dark. It was probably just urban rumours, but women had gone missing in the past.

 

“It’s never easy for any woman,” I said as I returned to my own seat and tried to make her feel comfortable. “Your first time?”

 

She nodded quickly and reached for a glass of water. I watched as she drank some of it and then I added, “My services are very discrete. I assume I was recommended by a friend?”

 

She nodded again. “Clarice.” She looked at me, expecting some sign of recognition, some subtle signal that I indeed knew Clarice, but my face betrayed no such signs.

 

“Clarice Preston?” she said again.

 

“As I said, Miss Emery, I’m very discrete. I’m unable to confirm or deny any possible client I may have helped in the past. I took the liberty of ordering some wine.”

 

There was a bottle of a very good white burgundy currently holding its optimum temperature in an ice bucket to the side of our table. “I assume you drink wine?”

 

“I do,” said Miss Emery. “Though not to excess, of course!”

 

Of course. Nothing to excess. Not Miss Emery. She was very pretty. That made the job far more pleasurable, though of course I’d have taken it regardless of her looks. Her dress had a rounded neckline which matched the modesty of her calf length hem. Yes, Miss Emery was very pretty.

 

One of the joys of this job is that I love the company of women. I love everything about them – well, most everything. Who wouldn’t want a job that involves looking after beautiful women, because the wealthy ones often are. Money buys you what you need to enhance or correct the physical attributes nature provided to begin with.

 

“Miss Emery, the services I provide will, to all intents and purposes, seem to be a warm relationship to the outside observer. I will be there to accompany you in the evenings, make interesting conversation with people you meet, and of course look after you when you move about town. Waiters, doormen, barmen, they will all assume we are courting.”

 

She nodded quickly again.

 

“You will enjoy all the benefits in polite society of a courted woman, with none of the oppressive disadvantages. You will remain your own woman, you will call the tune, and I will have no claim on your time or freedom.”

 

“That’s what I want. I don’t want to belong to a man.”

 

I thought that a curious phrase. But I understood what she referred to. The laws in America these days leaned in favour of the man in any relationship. Fair enough. To my mind it’s the natural way, and one of the reasons I’d upped sticks and moved to the USA several years ago. I’d grown tired of the Woke movement in England, with its safe spaces, snowflakes, cancel culture and outraged teenagers who would take to Twitter each day to express how offended they were by something someone said, or did, or didn’t say, or didn’t do. England had become a cess pit of self-entitled whining brats, with their thirty five different genders and their ‘mansplaining’ and ‘whitewashing’ and ‘fat shaming’ and I thought, God help us if we ever have to fight another major European war. Our troops would all need comfort blankets and emotional support hamsters.

 

From what I’d heard, America was going the other way, and while some of the measures might seem a bit extreme to me – at least the Woke movement seemed to have crumbled from a loud backlash called ‘New Feminism’. 

 

You may not agree with me, but the fact is men are naturally the dominant sex, end of story. Yeah, there will always be a bunch of hissy feminists who will argue otherwise, but they’re very much in the minority and always will be. Women on the whole want men to take the initiative. For want of a better word, they yearn to submit. 

 

But you say that in England and you’ll be called a Nazi. So I moved to the United States, where here at least a man can actually be a man, and not some pussy-whipped ponce. 

 

Take Miss Emery, for example, sitting opposite me. One look at her, and I could tell she instinctively knew which of us was dominant, and that dominant person was not the one wearing a modest calf length blue dress. Oh yeah, she proclaims her independence and all that – of course she does. But I know what she really thinks. And she’s going to ask me, any time…

 

“I have a…” she squirmed, clearly embarrassed, “sort of question…”

 

Of course you do, Miss Emery.

 

“That’s what this meet and greet is for, Miss Emery. I’m here to explain how all this works.”

 

She swallowed a lump in her throat before she could ask her burning question. “What degree of intimacy…”

 

I smiled. “You set the tone, Miss Emery. You are in control at all times. Some clients want a completely hands off experience. That’s their prerogative. Other clients authorise the occasional hand on their arm in public, perhaps an occasional kiss on the cheek to carry the illusion. A few…” I lowered my voice.

 

“A few?” She seemed agitated, her cheeks slightly flushed.

 

“A few suggest I flirt with them in public. Good naturedly. They feel the attention cements the illusion of a relationship. They enjoy laughing and rolling their eyes in response to my occasional approaches, telling their friends that they’ll have stern words with me afterwards.”

 

“Approaches…” Miss Emery’s eyes grew wide.

 

“There’s usually a safe word that can be used if I stray a little too far, though that’s unlikely to happen once I know your boundaries.”

 

“I see.” She gazed at her glass of wine that had been discretely poured during a lull in the conversation. “Has anyone asked… for more?”

 

I leaned back in my chair. “Miss Emery. I’m not sure what you’re referring to. I’m a bodyguard stroke escort. The arrangement is an illusion.”

 

“Of course!” Flustered, she quickly backpedalled. “I didn’t mean to imply…”

 

“Of course not.” I’m a good looking guy. Handsome, even. Strong, with good shoulders. Of course she imagined me carrying her to her bed and parting her thighs, after stripping her down to her underwear. She can’t help that.

 

But I don’t do that as a rule. Well, once or twice. A few times. If the client is really hot, and I’m in the mood, and the invitation is clearly given in some subtle fashion. But following through like that can often sever the client relationship. The client never sees you in the same light again afterwards, and inevitably she feels ashamed, blaming herself for ‘letting herself go’, for having a ‘moment of madness’ (though in bed with me it’s far more than a ‘moment’, I can assure you) and soon after telling me she would no longer require my services.

 

So there’s that price to pay for a quick fling in the sack with a hot body.

 

Best keep it in my pants and just think of the business. 

 

“Every client is different,” I reassured her. “And every client is precious. I do my job well.”

 

Yes, the United States was a very different place now from Europe. New Feminism had taken hold, and all of a sudden women were pressured to revert back to a pre-sixties concept of femininity where they would be more concerned with wearing pretty frocks, and baking delicious things for their husband to enjoy when he got home, than protesting for equal rights in the workplace.

 

I read once that it was the introduction of the contraceptive pill for women, approved for use in the United States in 1960, that opened the floodgates to feminism. Once a woman had control over her own reproductive cycle, she lost her fear of sexual encounters with men – by which I mean the possibility of unwanted pregnancy – and thus was born the ‘swinging sixties’ with promiscuity and hedonism on a scale undreamt of before. 

 

The strength of feminism is arguably linked to the availability of contraception. 

 

And abortion, too.

 

When the Supreme Court in the US ruled that the famous Roe vs Wade court case no longer gave women a constitutional right to an abortion on demand, it played fully into the hands of the New Feminism movement. Pretty soon it became extremely difficult for a women to find anywhere in the USA that allowed easy access to abortion, and two years later there came stringent controls on the availability of, first the morning after pill, and then, the daily pill.

 

The argument put forward by the New Feminism movement was that if a woman was single, then she clearly wasn’t having sexual intercourse, in which case she didn’t require the pill. And if she was then subsequently in a relationship with a boyfriend or husband, the principle of reproductive rights wasn’t simply hers to decide upon. The man in theory had the expectation from his partner of having children at some point. If a woman secretly took a form of contraception without him knowing, that was essentially a breach of the principles of companionship (a term growing in popularity now in the US. Men and women have ‘companions’ it seems). And so many states began to issue regulations that a woman would have to produce a signed legal declaration from her companion authorising the issue of contraception. Without it a doctor would usually refuse to prescribe the pill.

 

What this did was to create a new air of celibacy among women who didn’t want to risk unwanted pregnancy, which I suppose was pretty much what the New Feminism movement wished for in the first place. The sexual liberation that women had achieved in 1960 began to be stripped away as soon as they no longer had control over their own reproductive cycles. 

 

Which brings me on to the second thing my clients are often interested in, but are too shy to ask for outright.

 

“As your apparent companion, I am of course at liberty to provide you with a signed consent form, should you wish to acquire contraception.”

 

She almost seemed to jump, startled, in her chair.

 

“Why would I want that?”

 

I had seen that reaction before. By offering her contraception, I was in a way suggesting she might be the sort of loose woman who might have sex with a casual stranger.

 

“I don’t ask questions,” I said. “I don’t pass judgement. But the opportunity is there as part of the service. I always mention it in these preliminary meetings.”

 

“I’m not a woman who has casual sex,” she said quickly.

 

“Of course not.”

 

“I despise those women,” she added, looking nervously over her shoulder. We were speaking quietly. No one would have overheard me, least of all any of the (possibly) New Feminism ‘sisters’ in the room who would be first to judge her critically. 

 

“I understand.”

 

“They are slaves to their feelings, their desires.”

 

“Slaves?” I smiled. “An exaggeration, I think.”

 

“It is a turn of phrase. A New Feminism turn of phrase.” She sat uneasily, paying lip service, I think, to the concepts of New Feminism.

 

“And are you part of that movement? A New Feminist?”

 

“I suppose.” She glanced away. So many women claimed now to be part of the movement for fear of being ostracised by their peers. 

 

“You believe in the dominance of men?”

 

“It’s not about that,” she snapped. “Meekness should never be confused with weakness.”

 

A New Feminism saying: to be meek before a man is not to be considered weak, but rather to be a true woman. “I’m not going to judge you, remember.”

 

“All men judge women. Some are just more honest about it, Roland.”

 

“Touché. But so long as you’re my client, I have your best interests at heart.”

 

She nodded and seemed to lose a little of her supressed anger. She smiled for the first time as she toyed with the rim of the wine glass again.

 

“I’m sorry. I must have sounded very defensive. Can we start again? I think this is going to work. Let us talk some more.”

 

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I stood in the hot noon day sun on a platform built to display male silk slaves, in a walled city called Argentum. Women in full gowns and veils had come and gone, some touching the firmness of my legs, my arms, my chest; others too afraid to touch me, but obviously intrigued by the potential I offered. 

 

I was for sale, you see. I was being exhibited, following many months of intensive training in a slave pen.  

 

And then a solitary woman appeared. She was indistinguishable from the others in the fashion of her outward appearance, but she paused to consider me, where many others had simply walked by.

 

“Well, you’re a pretty silk slave, aren’t you?” There was a trace of amusement to her voice.

 

“Mistress,” I said, speaking the word automatically. Again, I didn’t dare to look upon her, even though I towered above her, especially with the additional height of the platform. 

 

“Do you know how to please a Free Woman?” she asked. Again, her voice sounded amused.

 

“I do, Mistress.”

 

“Or you think you do?” She reached out with her left hand and turned the flat piece of wood that hung from a post beside my platform. On it, written in Gorean, that I couldn’t personally read, would be some saliant details relating to my training and general performance.

 

“Have you been given a girl recently?”

 

“No, Mistress.” 

 

“How frustrating for you. But then you’re an Earthman? Presumably you’re used to shying away from sexual encounters with woman for fear of upsetting them?”

 

“I’m experienced, Mistress.”

 

I gasped, startled, as she suddenly touched my erection, through the rep cloth rag, with her gloved hand. 

 

“Hold position,” she said. “or I’ll have you whipped.” Her fingers curled briefly to take measurement of me. “Adequate.”

 

I simmered as I was assessed in such a fashion.

 

“More than adequate if that pleases you…” she paused and made a pretence of looking at the wooden plaque once again, “Roland?”

 

“Mistress,” I said.

 

“They let you keep your name, I see?”

 

Now I felt startled again. How did she know that? How did she know that had been my name on Earth?”

 

“Don’t you recognise my voice, Roland? Does the fact that I’m speaking Gorean make me sound so very different?”

 

And then I knew; I knew who she was behind those gauze-like veils and smoky robes.

 

“You’re…”

 

“Yes, Roland. Its me. You remember me?” There was amusement in her voice again. “How sweet.”

 

And of course I remembered her. Of course I remembered Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick of the Rocky Mountains, Montana, USA.

 

And she, it seems, remembered me.