Kajirus of Gor Chapter Two

 

It occurs to me that I’m telling my story all wrong. I mean, what’s the point of a dramatic reveal that I was face to face with (gasp) Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick, when I haven’t even mentioned her before? That’s not the way it’s done. If I was a proper storyteller, I’d build up to that point by describing how I met her, and how our interactions went on Earth, before suddenly discovering she too had been taken to Gor! Then you could also sit back with surprise that she turns out to be a major player within this story.

 

Not Chelsea Savannah Frick?! 

 

Yeah, something like that anyway.

 

What can I say? This is my personal story, and it’s going to jump around a bit. 

 

“Oh, are you surprised?” Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick gazed up at me. Chelsea is five feet six inches tall, if she stood in her bare feet, and I’m six feet two inches, plus twenty inches of raised platform, so she was definitely looking up at me. Hardly helps a woman if she wants to feel dominant in front of a chained man, I guess. But Chelsea didn’t seem to have a problem with it. 

 

“How are you on Gor?” I asked, my mind racing now.

 

Montana. The ranch in the shadow of the Big Horn Mountains, where the self-same river flows into the Yellowstone river. The ‘cattle round-up’ at the Lazy F. The Wyld Wymen of the pine forests and canyons. It all came back to me. 

 

All those months ago. 

 

She tapped her foot. “Should you be asking questions, Roland? Really?”

 

What was this? She wasn’t Gorean. She was born in the USA. She’d lived in the USA. She was a young American woman, and she couldn’t be part and parcel of this Romanesque slave owning culture. 

 

But contrary to all logic, here she was.

 

“You have to help me, Chelsea. You have no idea what…”

 

Her eyes narrowed as I said that. She turned and walked to where a slaver was resting in the shade. He had been watching our exchange of words, though he probably couldn’t have made out what we’d said.

 

I watched as Chelsea said something to him, and then he looked at me, angrily. 

 

I dropped to my knees when I saw him pick up his whip. 

 

“Please, no, Master.” I’m a proud man, so begging doesn’t come easy to me, but I’d felt that whip before.

 

“You do not speak to a Free Woman other than to answer her questions,” said the slaver as he raised the whip. I waited for the first blow to fall, but then Chelsea asked him to pause.

 

“I’ve changed my mind. You can leave us again.”

 

“As you wish, Lady.” The slaver seemed confused by this, but Chelsea was a potential customer, and so with one final warning look towards me, that seemed to suggest my punishment might only be deferred until tonight, he put his whip away, back on a hook on his belt, as he returned to the comfort of the shade.

 

“You see what I can do, Roland? With just a word to a man?”

 

“You were going to…” I swallowed and realised how close I had come to another vicious beating.

 

“Oh, Roland. You’re on Gor. This is your life now. Has it been horrible? You can answer my question, but do not ask any of your own.”

 

“It’s been horrible, Mistress. I’ve been beaten whenever I’ve done anything wrong, which is frequently, because I couldn’t even speak the language when I first came here.”

 

“But you were taught? Your Gorean is clumsy, but I can understand you.”

 

I nodded. "I was taught by a kajira.”

 

“Oh, how delightful that must have been for you. She had a switch, yes?”

 

I nodded again. “And she wasn’t afraid to use it.”

 

“Tch. Kajirae can be so cruel to male slaves. Do you know why, Roland?”

 

“No, Mistress, I do not.”

 

“Because they despise you. They despise any man who surrenders his manhood.”

 

“I haven’t…”

 

“Hush. Correcting what I say is almost as bad as asking an unwanted question. Shall I call the slaver back? The slaver and his whip?”

 

“No, Mistress, please, no.”

 

“You have so much to learn still, Roland, if you are to be a gentle Lady’s silk slave in Argentum. But you will learn. I’m sure of that.”

 

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And so Miss Emery became my next client. She chose to reserve my services for three nights a week, at a cost of $800 a night. I make good money, as you can see. And my expenses are on top of that. The expenses are considerable, of course, because part of the arrangement is that I obviously pay for everything. That’s pretty much expected now, in polite society. Some men with New Feminism wives and girlfriends actually dislike the idea of their companions carrying money with them, when they are accompanied outside the house. 

 

And so I’d visibly pay for everything when we were out, and I’d then invoice Miss Emery afterwards. 

 

She was nervous when we attended our first social function together. A party at some beach house in the Hamptons. She had explained that the owner of the house was a family friend, and that she wanted to make it clear she was currently with a man. 

 

We arrived by car – a car I had hired for a few days. It was a good car, because it’s important to make the right impression, and anyway, it’s not actually my money that’s paying for it. I was the perfect companion, opening the passenger door, helping Miss Emery out, handing the keys to the uniformed man who would then park the car in a secure area, and escorting her by her arm to the brightly lit building.

 

She wore a long black gown that covered her arms and ankles, and she looked breathtakingly beautiful, in a fragile and delicate flower kind of way. I looked very presentable, myself, in a smart tailored suit and freshly pressed shirt, with expensive shoes and a silk tie. 

 

I didn’t carry a gun, for this kind of environment doesn’t require one. 

 

Once we were inside, Miss Emery greeted various men, introducing me as her current companion. There was a lot of shaking of hands by the men and me, and enquiries as to what I did for a living. I have a set of business cards I hand out at times like this, where I’m listed as a company director of an Internet Start Up business where, unless you know what you’re talking about, it’s impossible to understand in any shape or form what that company actually does, or how it makes money, though I hinted it made a lot of money. 

 

“Currently closing a new investment deal worth eight figures.”

 

There was much nodding and acceptance of me as ‘one of them’. Miss Emery glowed warmly in my presence as I made this good impression.

 

“Better snap him up soon, young Lady,” a man said to Miss Emery. “Before some light-headed, but quick thinking filly does.”

 

“It’s still early days,” she explained, though she glowed again at the air of respectability I gave her here. She glanced up at me with the look of a woman who was possibly imagining that all of this was real and not some pretence that she was paying for. 

 

And then the men suggested she might want to spend some time with the other wives and companions, and one such wife came along to take her into an adjoining room where said wives and companions chatted and gossiped about socially acceptable female things.

 

“We don’t want to bore the silly little things with too much man talk,” remarked Dexter Bannon.

 

“Oh, I don’t really mind,” said Miss Emery. “I did go to Harvard Business School.”

 

The men all laughed when they heard her say that.

 

“I did, really.”

 

“She didn’t graduate,” said Dexter Bannon, with an air of smugness. “Her father pulled her out in the last year. Had a change of heart. Saw the way the wind was blowing, and rightly decided his daughter didn’t need to bother herself with such things.”

 

“Here’s to New Feminism, and women seeing sense at last!” said Peter Phipps.

 

Miss Emery flushed a little. I suspected losing her chance at a degree hadn’t been her idea, and she had protested to her father.

 

I smiled sympathetically at my client, but knew better than to object. It did seem a cruel thing for her father to do, but as Bannon said, the times ae changing. 

 

That’s the way these evenings tend to go. Women depart to another room, to leave the men to talk openly. And that’s part of my act, too. I can bullshit with this kind of breed. They’re a lot stupider than you might think, and once they assume you’re one of them, they’ll accept most things you say as gospel. 

 

“Come along dear,” said a beautiful woman, who seemed to be one of the trophy wives. She took Miss Emery by her elbow and steered her away from the rest of us. “You really must see the new curtains I had installed in the drawing room. And have you met Miss Marshall and Miss Roden? Let me introduce you. Miss Roden has a wonderful recipe for a quick and easy hot pot.”

 

“Harvard business school!” Mike Draper roared with laughter as soon as Miss Emery was out of earshot. “Can you imagine!’

 

The rest of the men guffawed, raised glasses and mocked my client in her absence.

 

“Now, a degree in dress design, or Home Economics, that I don’t have a problem with,” remarked Steven Tramer. 

 

“Of course all the dress designers at college these days are raving queers,” said Draper. “Women don’t get a shot at that any more. They just model the dresses when they’re finished.”

 

“Home Economics, then.” suggested Bannon. “The queers don’t bother with that.”

 

And that’s pretty much the way the conversation went. 

 

And, yes, they thought I was one of them. 

 

“Any intentions with the lass?” asked Dexter Bannon after a while. “Honourable or otherwise? Like her, do you?”

 

“Well, yes, she’s a lovely girl. Still early days though, as she said.”

 

“Hope you don’t mind me saying, but I made a pass myself a couple of years ago. Felicity politely brushed me away. No hard feelings though.”

 

I nodded and casually assessed the man who was speaking to me. I’m a good judge of character, and when Dexter Bannon said ‘no hard feelings’ about Miss Felicity Emery turning him down, well, I don’t think he was the sort of man who liked to be rejected, and I’m pretty sure he did harbour some ‘hard feelings’. 

 

“Is this awkward?” I asked, politely. “Me being here with Felicity?”

 

“Not at all! Water under the bridge.” He regarded me with a look that confirmed he would never be my friend. “Plenty more skirts in the barn.” He made a sweeping motion with his free hand as if to uplift a skirt.

 

“You have someone else now?” I asked.

 

He nodded. “Gwen Lehman. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months. Mind you, she’s not the only one I’ve been seeing, if you know what I mean.” He winked.

 

I offered a polite expression back. “Not sure what you mean, Dexter.”

 

“Heard of Red Silk girls?”

 

“No.” I gathered this was some sort of high class prostitute. I wasn’t familiar with the term.

 

“Get yourself a Red Silk girl on the side, and you’ll have the best of both worlds, believe me.”

 

So, unfaithful to his Gwen, as well as harbouring resentment towards my client for wisely having nothing to do with him. Nice guy.

 

“I like your style, Dexter,” I said, with another smile. 

 

“And I like you too, Roland,” he lied, almost convincingly. 

 

The double doors to the Ladies’ room remained open, so it was possible to observe my client standing there with a slim glass of champagne in her hand, no doubt being bored stupid by the inane conversation with the trophy wives and companions. I witnessed her being given an escorted tour of the paintings on the wall, and I saw her nod appreciatively at each one. A couple of tiny yappy dogs were allowed to run wild in that large room. I hate those fucking things. A dog should look like a dog, not a barking hamster.

 

“Missing her, are you?” The voice belonged to Reuben Schroder. 

 

“Felicity?” I laughed softly. “Can’t keep my eyes off her sometimes.”

 

“Lovely looking girl. Need to keep an eye on all those outdated aspirations of hers, though.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Used to have silly thoughts. Wanted to be independent. Can you imagine?”

 

“Some women still do, I guess.” I sipped my own glass of champagne. 

 

“Hmm. You’re not wrong there. Some women take it to extremes. I’ve been reading about those settlements in Montana. The Wyld Wymen?”

 

Again, the phrase wasn’t familiar to me.

 

“I have friends out that way, in the ranching business. Well, steel, too, but they love their ranching. Some of the neighbouring areas are a thriving community for women who have turned their back on polite society. They think they can rough it out there without men, like some Wild West cowboys. They can be a bit of a nuisance to the ranching communities who just want to get on with their work.”

 

“They live without men?” The obvious assumption entered my mind.

 

“Well,” he laughed. “I’ve heard stories that they keep a few men with them.”

 

“Like minded husbands?”

 

“Not quite, Roland. Not quite. Backpackers who went a bit astray, perhaps. Let’s just say these women have needs, and the men satisfy them.”

 

Oh yes, the Wyld Wymen. It wouldn’t be long until I saw them in the flesh, so to speak.

 

But I’m getting ahead of myself again.

 

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I was sweating under the heat of the sun as I stood on that slave platform, being assessed by Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick. The climate in Argentum resembles that of, say, Crete or Malta. And bearing in mind that Gor is by and large a pre-industrial society, there’s no air conditioning. The Goreans, of course, are used to this, but not me. In the early days, when I had first been brought to Gor, I had been housed in basement slave pens where at least it was relatively cool, but being chained under the hot sun all day was extremely uncomfortable for me. 

 

“You’re priced reasonably Roland,” she said as she examined the wooden plaque again. Obviously enough she could read and write the native language, which begged another question, how did she learn?

 

I didn’t dare ask, of course.

 

“I suppose you’re curious what you might cost?” she said, looking up at me again. I truly had no idea.

 

“Yes, Mistress.”

 

I was vaguely familiar with Gorean currency: the copper, silver and gold coins, though I had only ever seen copper coins being exchanged.  

 

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajirus,” she remarked. “You could be whipped for it.”

 

“I’m sorry, Mistress.”

 

“Rest assured your price is reasonable and affordable.” She paused in reflection. “I could easily afford you if I wanted to buy you.”

 

I said nothing.

 

“Would you like me to buy you, Roland? Would you like to be owned by Miss Chelsea Savannah Frick of Montana? Would you like to proudly wear my collar and serve me?”

 

Was she serious? Was she actually thinking of buying me? As if I was livestock?

 

How could she even comprehend such a thing? She was an American girl.

 

“Please buy me, Mistress.” That had to be a better option than any of the alternatives.

 

“You’re begging me to buy you Roland?”

 

“Yes, Mistress. Please buy me." I felt sure she would free me. She couldn't keep me like this. She wasn't a Gorean. She couldn’t possibly own a man!

 

“Only natural slaves beg to be bought.”

 

I said nothing.

 

“So that makes you a natural slave, doesn’t it?’

 

“Yes Mistress.” I ground my teeth as I said what would keep me from a beating. Why was she acting like this? Why?

 

“Roland Martell admits he is a natural slave, and he begs me to buy him. How delightful. And how utterly pathetic.” She laughed softly and then, without further words, turned and walked away.