Kajirus of Gor Chapter Three

 

“I see no one bought you,” I said, as I walked to the stone water trough in the shaded part of the courtyard where Dexter Bannon was already washing his naked body. Like me, he had been sweating all day, chained on his own display platform for Free Women to touch and clinically examine, under the direct gaze of the fierce sun.

 

It amused me to see that his cock was still smaller than mine.

 

Okay, look, not that I particularly cared about the relative size, except that I knew it almost certainly bothered Dexter Bannon, and knowing he was uptight about it was always amusing.

 

“No one bought you, either, Roland, so don’t start on me!” Dexter continued to splash water over his chest and thighs as he spoke. He didn’t much care for me on Earth, and nothing had changed now that we were both slaves with steel collars on the planet Gor.

 

At least he hadn’t started saying…

 

“This is all a fucking mistake, and when my family find out, they’re going to have this fucking barbarian city razed to the fucking ground!”

 

Scratch that. He had. 

 

“I think I’ve heard this before, Dexter.” I joined him at the water trough, under the watchful eye of two armed slavers, and started to cool myself down. There were a few slivers of cheap soap so I picked one up and started scrubbing my wet body with it.

 

“Fucking bitches!” he swore. “Fucking Muslim bitches!”

 

“They’re not Muslims. Gorean women worship the Priest Kings. Just like the men do.”

 

“Well they fucking dress like Muslims!”

 

“What’s the matter, Dexter? Didn’t any of the Gorean Free Women fancy you?”

 

“They handled me like I was some sort of prize steer!”

 

“Hardly a prize steer, Dexter, more like a Wallmart budget range steak, heavily discounted because it’s close to its sell by date.”

 

“Fuck you!”

 

Yeah, that’s right, Dexter Bannon was a male slave on Gor. We’d been brought here together. Trust fund boy and me. There’s no accounting for taste when it comes to the male silk slave trade.

 

“This is a fucking sick place, enslaving men. I mean I can understand keeping women as slaves. But not men!”

 

He really didn’t have much of a grasp on history, it seems.

 

“When I get out of here…”

 

“And how’s that going for you, Dex? Any grand escape plans? Started digging that amazing tunnel?”

 

“My family will find me. They’re very powerful, and they’re not going to let this go. Hey, maybe I’ll fucking buy you when I’m free and I’ll sell you to some salt mine where you can slowly see your flesh rot and peel away as you toil in the salt pits. How would you like that, Roland?”

 

“So long as I don’t have to spend any time in a kennel cage with you, it sounds like an improvement.”

 

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I leaned against the stone rail that ran the length of the outdoor patio, just gazing up at the star studded sky, for it was a very clear night with not a cloud to obscure the view.

 

“Are you enjoying the party?”

 

I turned slightly and nodded at Felicity as she walked slowly towards me through the open patio doors of the house. 

 

“Hullo, Felicity. More importantly, are you?”

 

She held two glasses of bubbly – one in each hand - and she passed me one of them.

 

“It’s point scoring, Roland. I’m scoring points tonight. It’s important.”

 

“Well then, can’t say fairer than that.”

 

“I don’t like these people any more than you do.”

 

“Me?” I smiled. “I don’t have opinions. Not me. I like to keep things simple.”

 

“I think you do.” She leaned against the stone rail beside me and sipped from her flute. “Have opinions. I think you have a lot of opinions about people.” She paused. “About women, too.”

 

“Harvard business school, huh?”

 

She smiled. “I wanted to run my own company, not simply own it.”

 

“You have a company?”

 

“I have several. Well, on paper anyway. I’m not on the board.” She sighed. “I’m not even a controlling shareholder of any of them. My father makes sure of that. But I’ll inherit the other shares when he dies. Provided I’m the dutiful daughter in the meantime.”

 

“It’s always about the money.”

 

“It’s more than that. I don’t want to spend my life as a trophy on the arm of some man.”

 

“Then don’t. Sounds like you have money, and money will give you whatever you want.”

 

“You have no idea what I want, Roland. No idea at all.” She kicked off one of her heels and then the other. Suddenly she lost four inches of height and somehow seemed even more vulnerable. 

 

“Sore feet?”

 

She nodded and sipped some more bubbly. “The shoes cost three thousand dollars. I have a walk in wardrobe full of shoes. Most have never been worn. This is the first time I’ve worn these.”

 

“Always a good idea to break shoes in before a party.”

 

“An expert on women’s footwear, are you, Roland?” She regarded me with mock amusement.

 

“Shoes are shoes. They never fit properly on day one.”

 

“They do if they’re made to measure. Mine are all made in Rome. I’m flown out there once a year to see if my feet are any different.”

 

“Your father flies you out to Rome just to have your feet measured?”

 

She laughed again and raised her glass to mine. We clinked the glasses together and drank.

 

“Welcome to my world, Roland, where I can have all the shoes I want, but not the final year of a business degree.”

 

I drove her home an hour later. She sat in the passenger seat, not really saying much, so I didn’t try to engage her in conversation. She was the client and if she wanted some quiet introspective time then that’s what she was paying for. 

 

I parked the car in her private garage (large enough for five cars. There was a mustard colour Maserati parked there, along with a more convenient town car) and then walked her to the front door of her Brownstone building. The night air was warm and refreshing at the same time, thanks to a sea breeze in play. I watched as she produced her keys, unlocked the front door and then tapped in the security code for her alarm system.

 

The numbers were 9-7-0-8-5-5, not that I’d ever do anything with them, but in my line of business you take note of things like that if you’re looking after a client. You never know if you might need to use the code for her sake.  

 

And she really needs to be more careful when she types in the disarm code for the alarm system if she has a guest present. 

 

“Thank you, Roland.” She turned to regard me, hovering on her doorstep. A little of her hair had come loose during the drive and the wisps fluttered about her face as she tried to sweep them away with her left hand. “I felt very safe with you.”

 

“And so you should. You want this to be an ongoing arrangement, then? Three nights a week?”

 

“I do.” She gazed up into my eyes.

 

I think I recognised that look. Like I said before, a lot of women think I’m handsome. 

 

“You’ll have my invoice in the morning,” I said with a cheeky grin as I was about to say good night and return to the hire car.

 

“I’d like to give you cash,” she said quickly, before I could leave. “Now, in fact.”

 

I paused and turned slowly around.

 

“Cash?”

 

“To keep this arrangement off the books. My father has men who occasionally look at my bank account. Regular payments to you would raise questions. I assume cash is agreeable?”

 

“Well, yes, it’s fine, but still, you can pay me when you have my invoice.”

 

“I don’t need an invoice, do I?” She touched her lower lip with her teeth. There was that shyness again, that fragility that was so charming and adorable.

 

“Well, not if you don’t want one.”

 

“Let’s keep this totally off the books. No paperwork. Come inside for a moment and I’ll take some money from my safe.”

 

“Uh,” I smiled pleasantly. “You don’t really want me to go inside. You’re probably tired.”

 

“Mr Martell, I think you’re still on the clock.” She put one hand delicately on her hip as she regraded me. Was this her bossy look? It was endearingly cute. 

 

“Technically, yes.”

 

“So, I call the shots, still?”

“You’re the client.”

 

“I’ll only be a few minutes. Please.” She motioned for me to step inside.

 

And so I followed her inside, in through the beautifully appointed hallway and through into a large reception room with modern furnishings. There were two wide sofas, two armchairs, and an impressive selection of paintings and sculptures that had obviously been passed down through the family.

 

“Would you like a drink?” she asked, as she placed her clutch bag down on a small side table.

 

“I’m driving back,” I said, as I walked around the room, pausing by a heavy set of book cases packed with vintage hardbacks.

 

“You drank at the party.”

 

“I’m glad you thought so. That was the impression I was trying to give to the other guests.” In actual fact I’d only really sipped the drinks, doing that thing where you might appear to be drinking but you don’t actually swallow anything in the glass. 

 

“You’re welcome to leave the car here and take a taxi back.”

 

I smiled as I regarded this beautiful woman. “You were going to fetch some money from your safe, Miss Emery?”

 

You have to be careful in situations like this, Maybe she was offering me a ‘come on’ or maybe she was just being overly friendly – either way the obligation was for me to act professionally. I’d been in situations like this before with clients and in one or two cases things had gone a bit too far, and it soured the relationship afterwards. The woman always had ‘buyer’s remorse’ afterwards and I soon lost the client. Women, I think, suffer from heavy guilt syndrome when it comes to casual sex.

 

“Well, make yourself comfortable. I’ll be back in a moment.” If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it. I loitered by the book cases and pulled out what seemed to be a first edition of Sallinger’s novel, Catcher in the Rye. It was autographed inside by the author. Impressive.

 

I ran my fingers along the book spines, looking for anything interesting that might lend me some insight into Felicity as a woman. Aside from a hardback copy of an Anaïs Nin novel – innocent enough in this day and age – it was simply a respectable bookcase of classic modern fiction. 

 

True to her word, Felicity returned within five minutes. She held a thick wad of notes and presented it to me. “I’ve upped your fee a little to a round thousand,” she said with a smile, as she then went to a bar area in the reception room and poured herself some gin which she mixed with tonic. 

 

“You don’t need to do that, Miss Emery.” I didn’t count the money. It’s rude to do that in front of a client.

 

“It’s Miss Emery now, is it? It was Felicity earlier tonight.”

 

“I was playing a role. Now I’m not.”

“I know.” She turned to regard me, with the drink in her hand. “But perhaps you should call me Felicity all the time? There’s less chance of you breaking character that way.”

 

I shrugged. “Your call, Felicity.” I placed the money in my inner jacket pocket. 

 

“I…” she regarded me closely, “wanted to speak to you about something, actually.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Do you mind if we sit?”

 

I took an armchair opposite one of the sofas. Rule one when you’re in a client’s house and you’re invited to sit – don’t take a sofa. She might choose to join you. Felicity smoothed the back of her dress and sat down on the sofa opposite. I watched as she crossed her feet at the ankles.

 

“We, um… that is… you talked at our first meeting about… levels of intimacy?”

 

I nodded.

 

“I was thinking that maybe we should set a level of intimacy now that we know this is going to be a medium to long term arrangement?”

 

“What do you have in mind, Felicity?”

 

“I…” she blushed a little. "I was thinking, maybe... you could be... a little bit..."

 

I waited for her to finish.

 

"A little bit… possessive of me?”

 

“Possessive?” I sat back and crossed one leg at the knee. 

 

“Well, you know.” She seemed flustered. “It’s just an idea. I saw that some of the men… in terms of the companions… they were… I just think it’ll be more believable if you seem to… want me.”

 

“Okay, I think I understand. But we need to agree a safe word in case you think I’m overstepping the mark. It’s a delicate situation and one that you’re probably not comfortable in outlining in detail, so it’s probably best that I play it by ear and work from your own signals.”

 

“Okay, if you think so.”

 

“Well, I won’t know your boundaries to begin with. What would you like as a safe word?”

 

“Do I really need one? I trust your judgement.”

 

I sighed. “Probably best we do agree one.”

 

“How about,” she furrowed her brow, trying to think of a word she could use in casual conversation, “how about dizzy? I could say I’m suddenly feeling a little dizzy?”

 

“That would work perfectly.”

 

“Let’s try it out.”

 

“I’m sorry?”

 

“Just so… we know… how it works.” She took a deep breath. “Imagine we’re still at the party and I’ve been talking to a man that you don’t know. Imagine he… touched my arm.”

 

She gave me a look.

 

It was actually a very sexy look, though she probably didn’t mean it to be. 

 

I narrowed my gaze just a little. “Okay.”

 

“You don’t like that, do you?” 

 

“Okay.”

 

“So?”

 

I got up from the chair and walked slowly towards her. She took a deep breath and couldn’t take her eyes from me. “Who was that?” I asked.

“Who was what?” she said.

 

“The guy you were talking to, Felicity? You seemed awfully chatty with him.”

 

“And if I was? What of it?” she shook her head and turned her back to me.

 

“Hey, don’t do that.”

 

“Don’t make a scene, Roland. There are people here.” She turned to regard some imaginary guests who were listening to us. “I’m sorry. He sometimes drinks too much.”

 

I suddenly broke out of character and began to laugh.

 

“What? What’s wrong?”

 

“Okay, let’s just play it by ear next time. I think I know what you have in mind, but it’s late and we really don’t need to play act like this. I’m going to wish you a good night, Felicity.”

 

“Good night, Roland.”

 

She walked me to the front door and I think she wanted me to kiss her, but I didn’t. 

 

Clients, you see. 

 

There have to be boundaries. 

 

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Iona, our kajira trainer, was waiting for us when Dexter and I returned to the basement kennel pens.

 

“Nadu,” she said, with a sweep of her wrist. That wrist, and its hand, held a long switch that had been used on both of us many times during our gruelling training.

 

I quickly dropped to my knees before this slight looking girl, that ordinarily would pose no threat whatsoever to me. But here, in this place of incarcerations, she had the power of life or death over us both. Nadu was the first thing I was taught on Gor – a slave position that I adopted near perfectly now, with my thighs open, my back straight, and the palms of my hands resting on my thighs.

 

The slightest imperfection in my posture would earn a swift whipping from that slight looking girl. 

 

And under normal circumstances I would be thinking instead that she was incredibly beautiful, for Gorean slave girls are. It’s not simply the way they look, in their steel collars and their tiny, clingy, slave tunics, but something else too – the air of open sexuality that they project; the way they walk, move, and speak. There is no mistaking a slave girl. Even if she wore the smoky gowns and veils of a Free Woman, I think you’d know what she was after a while. You haven’t seen a true woman until you’ve seen one kneeling in a collar with a brand on her thigh. 

 

Iona had blonde hair, cut in a flame style down her shoulders, which I believe is very popular on Gor. She had blue eyes and very full lips. She was native Gorean, though I knew for a fact there were many female slaves taken from Earth and housed in the other kennels of this slaver house. Male slaves in fact comprise a very small minority of abductions from Earth. The market demand is mainly for women. 

 

“What are you doing here, slaves?” she said. She paced about our kneeling figures, tracing the tip of the switch across my shoulder blades. 

 

What she meant of course was, why haven’t you been sold?

 

“We have not been purchased, Mistress,” I said. Yes, I am forced to even call a slave girl ‘mistress’ in these kennel pens. 

 

“Useless!” she struck me three times with the switch. And then she did the same to Dexter. I stiffened with each blow but managed to hold myself from crying out loud. I still hold on to some pride, it seems. It’s one thing to scream when you are whipped by a man; quite another to scream because a lovely slip of a girl is whipping you. 

 

“Why didn’t any woman want you?” she asked, with a snarl.

 

“I don’t know, Mistress,” I said.

 

“I think perhaps neither of you wish to be sold?” she suggested as she paced around us again. “I think perhaps you were doing your best not to be sold.”

 

“No, Mistress, we want to be sold,” said Dexter. I could hear the pain in his voice, the choking sound, from the vicious blows he had received,

 

“Liar!” she whipped him again, another three times. This time there was a sound from his throat after the third blow. “You must love your kennel pen and the switch in my hand very much if you prefer those things to the touch of a gentle Free Woman who owns you!” She turned now to me, eyes blazing.

 

“I want to be sold!” I said. “I want a Mistress! I want the collar of a Mistress!”

 

“Liar!” And then she whipped me again. Unlike Dexter, I managed again to not cry out, though the pain was sharp and burning. 

 

“Useless! I look at you and I see worthless animals! No wonder a gentle Lady did not purchase either of you! Well, you are both going to do a lot better tomorrow, aren’t you? Tomorrow I will be at the sales platforms watching you, and the worthless slave who receives the most interest and attention from the gentle Ladies – that slave will sleep in his comfortable kennel that night. But the worthless slave who receives the least attention, he’ll spend the night in a slave box.”

 

“Please, Mistress,” sobbed Dexter. Neither of us had ever been placed in a ‘box’ overnight, but we had seen a slave who had been, and more importantly, had heard his agonised cries throughout the night. 

 

“Yes, I think you will both do much better tomorrow,” said Iona with a cruel smile.