Kajirus of Gor Chapter Seven

 

Three days later, as we knelt in the chamber of submission that was our training room, a Free Woman entered and turned to regard us both.

 

Only of course this was not a Free Woman at all, but rather Iona, the slave girl. She wore loose layers of opulent robes and gowns that shimmered as she turned on the spot. She wore soft sequinned slippers, the toes of which protruded from the floor length hem, and she wore layers of veils about her lower face, and a soft, floppy hood that concealed her hair.

 

She looked, as far as I could tell, every inch the proud Gorean Free Woman.

 

But it was the voice of Iona that spoke to us. “You may gaze upon me, fully, both of you.”

 

And so we did, and we were in awe of the figure that we now observed. 

 

“Behold a Free Woman of Argentum,” she said as she walked before us. Her gloved fingers motioned to us from the long, floppy sleeves of her garments. “Beware my anger. Beware my rage.”

 

“Mistress, I lowered my head without realising I had done so.

 

Beside me, Dexter did the same. It was an involuntary obeisance that came naturally to us both as such a regal figure addressed us.

 

But it was only Iona. I had to remind myself now that she was, herself, a slave girl. 

 

She too wore a steel collar that she couldn’t remove.

 

“Today’s lesson will be the hardest you have faced to date,” she explained. “Today you learn to undress your mistress.” She paused to let those words sink in. I heard Dexter draw a breath, no doubt excited by the prospect. I too felt excited.

 

“You think perhaps it will be easy? I suspect you are wrong. Farouq. You may join us.”

 

A man entered the chamber, and I could tell immediately that Farouq was a trained silk slave. He was pretty. Not handsome, but pretty. And he moved like a slave should, gracefully, submissively, fully aware at all times of what might please his mistress, and what might anger her. 

 

“You will of course not be familiar with the intricate folds, the loops, the fastenings, the buttons, the hooks, the complex arrangements of veils. You will watch then as Farouq serves me as he would serve a mistress. You will watch as Farouq peels away my garments and veils with his hands. You will observe how, at no time, does Farouq touch my skin with his hands. There is an art to undressing a Lady. Even harder will be the dressing of a Lady, but first you must master the peeling away of layers of garments. She will expect grace, submission, deference, gentle movements, and if she is displeased, she will whip you. You may begin, Farouq.”

 

“Gentle Mistress,” he said as he bowed slightly, placing his hands together as if in prayer, with the tips of his fingers touching his lower lip. There is a fine art to undressing a Goren Lady. There is a symmetry and order one must follow to peel away the layers of garments as if they were a puzzle that must be unwrapped carefully with skill and patience. I watched as Farouq began with the very tips of his fingers gently touching and drawing back the ruched velvet of the hood, revealing Iona’s glossy hair that was drawn up and intricately arranged high above her shoulders. I watched as those skilled fingers glided about her body, seeming to pass over clasps, hooks, buttons , loosening each one sufficiently to peel away a layer of a robe or unravel a sheath of cloth. And each garment, once removed, would be neatly folded or hung, so as not to disturb the precious fabric. 

 

It did look complicated, and I struggled to imprint into my memory the sequence of fastenings that must be followed in just the right order. 

 

The veils were last, Only when each sequinned slipper was gently slid from its arched foot, were the veils then peeled away to reveal Iona in all her nude splendour. 

 

And then Farouq bowed to her again, and withdrew a graceful step backwards.

 

“Good. You have done well,” she said. “You may watch what follows,” she said to us again, “but do not concern yourself with the dressing of my body, for it will be many, many days before you will move on to that.” And so then Farouq began to dress her, and to my amazement the movements and care were even more complex, even more difficult, especially in the way Farouq avoided sullying Iona’s skin with the touch of his finger tips. 

 

Undressing Iona took Farouq seven minutes. Dressing her took him fifteen. 

 

And then she was once more the haughty free woman.

 

“Roland,” she said, without gazing at me. “You will be first.”

 

I stepped up, and imitated the bow that Farouq had offered her. She said nothing, She made no movement to suggest pleasure or displeasure. Nervously my fingers moved towards the ruched velvet of the hood of her outer robe. I drew it back. Still no admonishment or comment. And so I began to undress her. I would be slower than Farouq, of course, but I think that was expected. But hardly had I begun, hardly had I undone the first small clasps, and peeled the first stretch of cloth, than Farouq sharply rang a hand held bell.

 

Instantly there was a snarl of anger from Iona. “Whipping position! Now!”

 

I didn’t understand. I hadn’t touched her! But I dropped to my knees and bared my back. Iona lashed me four times with her switch, saying, “How dare you!”

 

I didn’t understand.

 

I didn’t understand!

 

After four harsh blows, she paused and gazed down at me. ‘Do you wish to spend the night in a slave box?”

 

“Please , Mistress, no!” She meant it! This wasn’t a game! She really meant it! “Please, a slave doesn’t understand! Please! What have I done wrong?”

 

“Stand!” She snarled. “Ignorant slave!”

 

I stood trembling as she touched me with the tip of her whip. She touched me where I had displayed a semi-erection that the whipping had banished. I had been aroused by the process of undressing her. Farouq had been watching and he had rung the bell the moment my penis had risen.

 

“You dare!” she hissed. And then I understood. I understood that for a silk slave to become aroused while undressing his mistress, he is in a sense reducing her to an object of sexual desire. She is no longer the proud Free Woman, but rather he looks upon her as if she is but slave flesh for his pleasure. A male slave must control himself, control his feelings when he undresses, bathes and dresses his mistress. And that is why Iona had said this would be so very difficult to learn.  

 

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I spent the evening at home with a glass or two of whiskey and my jazz LPs. I was listening to Dizzy Gillespie, but I was distracted by thoughts of Felicity. Damn the woman, for telling me, and planting in my head, images of her dining with Dexter Bannon tonight. 

 

It was a hot evening and I had all the windows open to let in what little breeze there was. Gillespie was working through the track Manteca from his 1957 Newport session, but I wasn’t giving his improvisation the attention it deserved. 

 

Felicity had got inside my head. It had taken a while, but she was there now. 

 

Damn the woman.

 

Why couldn’t she just be a client. 

 

I imagined her wearing a pretty cocktail dress with an above the knee hem, sitting down with Dexter, his knee close to hers beneath the table. 

 

I knew what I should do. I should go to a bar somewhere, pick up a woman, get laid, get Felicity out of my mind. Or I could call someone from my phone book. Susannah. I was still on good terms with Susannah. We’d never actually broken up at all. We’d just got out of the habit of seeing one another. I could ring her tonight. Suggest a drink.

 

I reached for my phone, brought up her number and dialled it.

 

“Roland? This is a surprise.” Her voice was just as I remembered it. That southern drawl. She was a Texan girl, with wide hips and a thin waist.

 

“Susannah, hi. I’ve been thinking about you recently.”

 

“Is that so, Roland?”

 

“Yeah.” I sat back in my armchair. “Did I last call you, or did you last call me? I’ve been so busy, I kind of lost track of things.”

 

“I last called you, Roland.”

 

“You doing anything tonight? I know this really good steak house, and…”

 

“I’m seeing someone, Roland.”

 

“Ah.”

 

“He’s a nice guy. A Teacher.” 

 

“Good. Is it serious?”

 

“Serious enough.” There was a moment’s hesitation in her voice. Not really serious enough, then.

 

“Just a catch-up. As friends. Steak, and a drink. It’ll be a laugh.”

 

“That would be wrong.” There was hesitation to her voice.

 

“Wrong would be us not being friends anymore.”

 

“It wouldn’t just be steak and a drink, though, would it, Roland?”

 

“Why not? Millions of people behave themselves. We’re grown-ups. I’d like to see you again, Susannah. This isn’t a booty call.”

 

“Yes it is, Roland. It’s precisely that. It was nice hearing from you again. Be well.”

 

And then she hung up.

 

Gillespie had finished Manteca and was now working his way through I Remember Clifford. I drank some of the whiskey and allowed myself an audible word, ‘fuck’. I shouldn’t have left it quite so long with Susannah. 

 

And then my phone rang. It was Felicity. I let it ring three times before I took the call.

 

“Felicity,” I said. There was piano music in the background. She was in a restaurant or a bar.

 

“Roland? Can you come and get me?”

 

“What? Why? Aren’t you with Dexter?”

 

“Not anymore.” She sounded like she’d been crying. “Please. I’m on my own. It’s awkward. It’s horrible, in fact. I’m being asked if I’m expecting a companion. They’re judging me…”

 

I switched the phone to rest between my neck and shoulder. “Where are you?”

 

“A bar.”

 

“That’s not very specific.”

 

“The Campbell.” 

 

I knew the place. The Campbell showcases many of the thirteenth century Florentine-inspired design intricacies that upheld its legendary allure, including soaring, 25-foot hand painted ceilings, a grand stone fireplace, Campbell’s personal steel safe, a century-old leaded glass window and original millwork, not to mention bold brass finishes, custom wood and leather furnishings in the interior design. You had to be dressed well to get past the doorman.

 

“The Campbell isn’t a bar for single women,” I said. A woman dining or drinking there was expected to have an escort. New Feminism set the rules at many of the finer establishments in New York, these days. 

 

“And that’s the problem. Please, Roland.”

 

“Can’t you just get a taxi back home?”

 

“I can’t get a booking. The single women cabs have a waiting list of forty-five minutes, minimum. That’s why I’m here. I can’t walk the streets. It’s humiliating, Roland.” She sounded desperate. “Everyone’s looking at me. The ladies, especially.”

 

“Okay sit tight. Tell them that your companion is just running late.”

 

“They want to speak to you,” she said, quietly. And then she put a man on the phone.

 

“You are Miss Emery’s companion?” The voice sound formal and not particularly welcoming. He reminded me of an old teacher who had been particularly condescending to children at my school. I knew his type.  

 

“I am, yes. My name is Rolland Martell. There was a mix up with the venue address. I’m very sorry.”

 

“The Lady should not be on her own after dark, Sir.”

 

“I know. I know.”

 

“How long are you going to be?” 

 

“I’m on my way now.”

 

Fucking New Feminism. It was getting to be a joke. A single woman turning up on her own at one of those places was being singled out to feel like she was some sort of street walker hustling for business.

 

I grabbed a jacket and tie and headed out the door. If I took some short cuts and skipped a few lights, I’d be there in under ten minutes.

 

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Five days later, my hands trembling slightly, my mind focussed and concentrating on anything that might stop me feeling aroused as I undressed Iona, I successfully peeled away the last folds of her gowns without hearing Farouq ringing the sharply toned hand bell. 

 

I must not think of her body. I must not look at her body. I must not be aroused by her body.

 

It was very hard. 

 

But at least I wasn’t.

 

It was even harder as she turned round and presented me with a view of her firm, ripe breasts. 

 

Think of wrinkled old grannies with sagging breasts. Think of naked fat men. Think of anything but Iona’s desirable body.

 

“Now do you understand what is expected of a silk slave, Roland?” Iona gazed up at me. 

 

‘It’s not easy, Mistress.” My back was a criss cross of whip marks from the last week or so. 

 

“No one said it would be.” And for the first time she smiled at me in a way that wasn’t cruel. For some reason I began to cry. I actually began to fucking cry!

 

“Farouq was the same as you, once. They all are,” she said. “You are a Lady’s silk slave. You must not become aroused by her body unless she wishes you to be. Then and only then may you ready yourself for her touch.”

 

“You’re so beautiful, Mistress,” I said. “You have no idea how difficult that makes this.”

 

She smiled again and motioned for me to kneel. And then she knelt before me and took my hand. “I don’t hate you, Roland, but I have to be strict with you. Better that, then you are killed for displeasing your first mistress. You will look back on these days, and the savagery of my whip, and you will be grateful for them.”

 

“Why am I here? Why was I taken?”

 

“Because there is a market for a certain kind of male slave, and your planet is the best place to hunt for them. Your world’s men have had centuries of conditioning that make them ripe to serve a Free Woman of Argentum. You belong on your knees before a Lady of Argentum. Never doubt that.”

 

“I don’t even know why I’m fucking crying,” I said with a sniff. “This is so embarrassing. I’m a man! I shouldn’t be crying!”

 

“Because you’re weak, Roland. Because you’re coming to terms with your submission. Because you are surrendering to a woman. And because there is still some residual pride inside of you that feels humiliated by what is happening to you. When you accept that this is your new life, when you accept that this is who you are, then it will be so much easier for you.”

 

“I’m not a slave.”

 

“So many slaves say that.” She smiled. “in the early days. And they all learn to accept and love their collars.”

 

“Not me. Never me,” I suddenly realised I was speaking truthfully to Iona, and she hadn’t whipped me. I think she recognised that surprise in my eyes.

 

“I am allowing you to speak freely for the moment. But consider the purpose of your resistance. Will it make you happy? No. It will make you unhappy. Regard Farouq. He has accepted what he is. He knows peace now.”

 

I gazed at Farouq. I guessed he was Middle Eastern in origin, but whether he was a Gorean or an Earth man was impossible to tell. 

 

“If you’d known me on Earth, you’d know that I never give up hope.”

 

“Then you will live an unhappy life as a kajirus, but you will be a kajirus regardless. The choice is yours.” She rose from her knees and fetched a sugar candy from a table. “Here.” She offered it to me.

 

“I’m not a pet. I don’t want it.”

 

“Yes you do.”

 

“No.” I turned my face away.

 

“It is this or the whip.” Her eyes narrowed. 

 

I swallowed, and took the candy between my teeth, feeling wretched for having submitted to her will again.

 

Later that night I lay in my kennel pen, thinking dark thoughts. Iona was right. There was no escape. I had a steel collar hammered shut around my neck. To the Goreans, I was a barbarian, with no rights in their society. I did not have a recognised Home Stone. Iona had explained to me once the concept of a Home Stone, and how it offered a citizen protection. I didn’t know this planet. I didn’t know its customs, and my speech, although basically fluent in Gorean, would always mark me out as an outsider. There was no escape. I would be a slave, a silk slave, for the rest of my life.

 

My future was now set in stone. I would train, and then one day a Free Woman would buy me. Whoever she was, I would be her legal property, and I would serve her in her home. I felt wretched. I wanted freedom. I wanted…

 

I thought of Iona.

 

I wanted Iona. The thought made me smile. Yes, I wanted Iona. I forced myself to imagine, not a scenario where Iona secured me to a slave ring before mounting me, but a scenario where I had Iona on her knees, and I tied her to a slave ring, and I heard her gasp in surprise as I forced her thighs apart and I looked down upon her before ravishing the slave beauty. 

 

Did Dexter have these thoughts, or was he further down the path of conditioning than I was? Who knows. He slept in the kennel pen next to mine, but I held on to thoughts of taking Iona in the furs and bringing her to orgasm as she squealed and gasped and writhed beneath me. I would hold onto these thoughts, improbable as they were. 

 

They would keep me sane.

 

These thoughts would keep a spark of freedom alive inside of me, come what may.  

 

And one day. One day, I swore to myself, I would be a free man again. 

 

One day.