Steel World Inc. Chapter Twenty Four

 “And you think this is real? A savage Counter Earth orbiting our sun? Space aliens visiting our planet to abduct women? I mean, you must see how ridiculous this all sounds. Why hasn’t anyone ever detected this planet Gor before?”

 

Miss Whitlock and I walked through the garden of the house that was nestled in the green belt outside the built-up confines of Southend-on-Sea. It was early afternoon, and despite her assertions that she wasn’t tired, I had suggested we both got a few hours rest after we arrived at the safe house. We rose shortly after one in the afternoon and drank some very good coffee as we admired the wildly overgrown bushes and vegetation dotted around the grounds. Although the house itself was well stocked with anything and everything a couple of fugitives might need, no one came around on a regular basis to tend the secluded garden. There was consequently a savage, untamed, natural beauty to the wilderness here, and the lack of maintenance had turned it into a haven for bees, butterflies and all manner of insects. Lily ponds boasted a wide range of amphibians, and the plants thrived, competing to grow out towards the sun. We sat down on some garden chairs overlooking one of the lily ponds.

 

“A lot of people seem to believe it exists, and I’ve seen with my own eyes that there is a sophisticated system in place for abducting and processing women,” I replied. “They are obviously being shipped somewhere in great numbers. If not an alien planet in our orbit, then the question remains: where?”

 

“But outer space? Really?”

 

Miss Whitlock now wore long flowing gowns of a Middle Eastern style that covered her body demurely from throat to ankles. The sleeves were long and stretched partly down her fingers and the fabric was loose, concealing the curves and lines of her body. Upon arrival we had found two bedrooms in the house, the larger of which was obviously furnished for a man with a spartan like simplicity and hard contours to the furniture. There were Greek or Roman motifs and bladed weapons and shields adorning the walls, and a huge bed made from solid oak, with steel rings set into the headboard and around the frame. The other bedroom, by contrast, was exceptionally feminine, with soft fabrics, cushions, and drapes along the walls. Interestingly, whereas the male bedroom had large windows that could be opened to the fresh country air, the woman’s bedroom had a small barred window for rigid security, almost as if the woman herself was a prized and precious thing that could be stolen and needed strict security to protect her at all times. I noticed also that the woman’s bedroom had a complicated lock on the outside that couldn’t be accessed from the inside. The woman could only bolt the door from the inside. There was no other locking mechanism accessible to her. It occurred to me that although the sliding bolt offered the woman some notion of privacy, it could, I suppose, be forced in by the blows of a strong man, whereas the woman would be helpless to bypass the key lock that she couldn’t reach from her side of the room. 

 

An interesting arrangement. 

 

“Maybe ‘Gor’ is a euphemism for a location here on Earth. Some faraway place. You’ve read the books, Arabella. You tell me.”

 

“They’re just books.” She looked lovely, precious even, in her flowing gowns. We had found them in the single wardrobe in her bedroom. There were no typical English clothes for a woman, just these middle eastern style coverings in fabulously colourful and embroidered fabrics, and soft slippers for the feet. There were also veils. Quite a few different veils, with varying degrees of opacity.

 

Although the choice of clothing took Miss Whitlock by surprise, once it became evident there was nothing else for her to wear here, she chose one stunning gown in a peach fabric that she donned over her chemise.

 

“The garments resemble the ones described in the Gorean books,” she explained when she finally came out from her room to show herself to me with a slight modest twirl.

 

“They’re beautiful,” I said. There was a subtle transformation in Miss Whitlock. In these clothes she seemed aloof, unapproachable, dignified, and slightly mysterious. 

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re veiled,” I observed. I could only see the bridge of her nose and her eyes. Her mouth itself was obscured by veils.

 

“This is how the garments are worn, Simon,” she said. She wore soft white gloves under the long sleeves. “A Free Woman conceals her features. Especially her lips. It is scandalous on the planet Gor for a woman to expose her lips to a man. What might he think when he looks upon them!” She laughed softly, obviously understanding how archaic and irrational such an idea might be here in 21^st century Britain. 

 

“I wouldn’t recognise you,” I remarked. “If all women dressed that way.”

 

“It does afford some anonymity, I suppose.” She raised her hand to the pins securing the veils and hesitated. It was a teasing gesture that I appreciated with a soft smile. 

 

“I can see why a woman dressed this way would be described as a Free Woman,” I suggested.

 

“Oh yes. There is no mistaking a Free Woman in the books. They are very different from the kajirae. A world apart.” She toyed with the heads of the veil pins once again, observing my reaction. 

 

“Kajirae? That’s the word for slaves, yes?”

 

Miss Whitlock nodded. “Of course, in the privacy of her home, in the company of her beloved, a Free Woman of Gor is permitted to remove her veils.”

 

I watched as she did so, slowly, unravelling them, and I sucked in my breath as I saw her beautiful features once more. Now her lips seemed especially tantalising, after I had been deprived of the sight of them to begin with. 

 

“You’re beautiful, Miss Whitlock. Like a precious Lady in an Arthurian romance.”

 

She smiled, liking that compliment. 

 

I had read one of the Gor books many years ago, but  remembered very little of it. I think it had Vikings in it. 

 

“I feel different, dressed like this,” she said as she walked about the room. “I feel like a Lady.”

 

The house had once been a farm house but had been extensively converted to reflect what I presume was a classical Gorean style. If so, then the Gorean style seemed to resemble that of ancient Rome and Greece. The floors were stone in places, but also bare wooden boards at times. There were small tiled mosaics in the bathroom, and the building, with the exception of the woman’s bedroom, maximised interior light by the appointment and positioning of large windows. 

 

The natural palette of the painted walls was Mediterranean blues, sea foam greens, and royal plums. A south facing room was painted in a cool white shade, with an abundance of indoor plants. And regardless of the palate chosen, there were subtle touches of gold colouring, which highlighted a certain regal opulence and formality associated with that Greco-Roman styling. 

 

The windows were dressed with light weight drapery in silk or linen to add a level of casual richness. The use of longer drapes gave the illusion of classical columns in places, and many of the windows were topped with pelmets.

 

The furniture tended towards a classical simplicity. There were weathered wooden pieces, often with carved detailing, and mosaic topped tables with scrolled iron legs. The seating consisted of straight-lined sofas with no skirts to resonate the formal, tidy feeling associated with Greco-Roman, and the bedrooms followed a similar style with couch beds with straight lined head boards. Light weight drapes hanging from iron rods again resembled columns. In the woman’s bedroom the femininity of the soft drapes was maximised, whereas in the man’s bedroom it was toned down with more use of leather, such as a leather bench.  

 

The designer had also added subtle ornamentation in line with the recurring themes: terracotta and stone pots filled with dried grasses and twigs, oversized wicker baskets, fishermen’s nets, iron candlesticks and sconces, painted, glazed pottery, and in one room, a brightly toned, crushed velvet ‘love seat’. There were also heavy brass lamps, antique bronze shields displayed on the walls, and similar period items. 

 

The house felt restful, welcoming, even.

 

And there was a basement.

 

“What’s down there?” I had originally asked Emily when we first arrived and were exploring.

 

“The slave kennels,” she replied. By now she looked tired and needed sleep.

 

“Show me.”

 

I left my companion to explore her new bedroom and sort through the gowns hanging in her carved wooden wardrobe, while Emily led me down a set of stone steps to a surprisingly dry basement. Some illumination came from horizontal window spaces set close to the ceiling, at ground level on the south facing side where sunlight would stream through, but that aside, the basement was dark until I found the light switch. 

 

There was a row of four kennel pens – simple cages, each one large enough to accommodate a single girl, and large enough that she could lie comfortably. She could not however stand up in the cage as it was little more than four feet high. The floor of the basement was stone, but there was a roll of stuffed bedding in each cage, along with a toilet bowl, and a heavy, coarse blanket for comfort. 

 

“Slaves are housed here?” I asked.

 

“It is a Gorean home,” Emily replied. She yawned. She had been through a lot, last night.  

 

“You look tired, Emily.” There was kindness in my voice. This had been a difficult twelve hours for her.

 

She nodded. “I think we all need some rest, Simon.”

 

I looked at her and my eyes grew stern.

 

“Master,” she corrected herself, though again I saw a look of irritation in her expression. She did not truly want to call me Master, it seemed. 

 

I slid open the bolt that secured the front of one of the barred kennel pens. When slid back in place, the bolt could be locked by slipping a padlock through its ring. There was a box of padlocks and keys on the far side of the basement where a slave might not reach them. There were also boxes of various restraints. 

 

“What are you doing?” Emily gazed at the open door of the second kennel pen with alarm.

 

“You need some rest, Emily.”

 

“I don’t want to sleep in there!” She took a step back.

 

“Oh? Tell me, what is the purpose of these cages?”

 

Emily frowned and tossed her head, annoyed once more. “To house slaves.”

 

“To house slaves in a secure fashion?”

 

“Yes,” she said, angrily. “That, too.” 

 

“How would I know a slave when I saw one?”

 

“A slave wears a collar,” she said, angrily. “And is routinely branded on her left thigh.”

 

“I see. You wear a collar, Emily.”

 

“I do not like the way this conversation is going.”

 

“Perhaps not. I am still not sure I can trust you. I’m not sure I want you sneaking around the house while Miss Whitlock and I take our rest.”

 

“You can trust me, Master.”

 

“Can I?” I smiled. “Perhaps you are too beautiful to be trusted.” I thought it a clever phrase: ‘too beautiful to be trusted’.

 

“You do think I’m beautiful, then?” She smiled now and took a couple of steps towards me. “I’m pleased.”

 

“Of course you are pleased. Your vanity has been flattered. You are a woman.”

 

“Oh! You can be insufferable at times!” Emily stamped her foot in frustration.  

 

“You will make a lovely slave, Emily.”

 

She looked momentarily frightened as I said that, and then, I think, she reassured herself that a man like me could never truly keep her as a slave. She was in fact quite safe in my custody. 

 

“Let me sleep instead with you, Simon, in your bed.”

 

“Miss Whitlock is here!”

 

“It is permitted, under Gorean tradition. A man is permitted both an honourable companion and the pleasure of slaves.”

 

“I suspect Miss Whitlock would not be too enamoured of the arrangement.”

 

“She would have to get used to it,” said Emily. “As other Gorean Free Women do. You are a man. You have rights when it comes to slave ownership. Your companion has no reasonable grounds to object. A slave can satisfy needs in a man that a Free Woman companion never can.” She took another step towards me and touched my chest. “Take me to your bed, Master. Don’t cage me. Enjoy what I can offer. Unlike your companion, I am experienced.”

 

What was she saying? That I could have both a slave and a companion? And that Miss Whitlock would have to accept that? I could hardly imagine Miss Whitlock complying with such an arrangement. And yet, Emily’s hand felt good on my chest as she traced it across my body. 

 

“Emily,” I feigned mock surprise. “Are you telling me you actually have slave needs?”

 

She didn’t like that one bit. 

 

“I am a healthy woman. I have a healthy sex drive.” She seemed somewhat offended.

 

“And how would your so-called Goreans refer to such sexual desires? Tell me.”

 

She seemed flustered. “It’s not like that.”

 

“In their opinion. Theirs. Not yours. How would they describe such strong indications of sexual need in a woman?”

 

She swallowed. “Slave needs.”

 

“And what type of woman typically has slave needs? According to the Gorean mind set?”

 

“Slaves.” Emily looked uncomfortable.

 

“Well then, that makes you a slave. And slaves should be securely confined to a kennel pen.”

 

I placed her inside the second of the cages and securely locked it. 

 

I gazed at Miss Whitlock as I sipped my coffee in the garden. It was a lovley afternoon, and I felt relaxed and in control of the situation. We were safe now, and I could well imagine how frustrated Frick must be as the hours counted down until he would have to leave England for the United States. How he had hoped to convey Emily to his ranch in Montana and burn the Lazy F brand deep into her thigh, marking her as another piece of his property. How he had looked forward to training her in his cattle pens and taking her for his pleasure. I sipped my coffee again. Too bad. I had frustrated his desires, and I guessed that would lend me in very good standing with Karl Magnus. Karl Magnus would be grateful to me. He wasn’t a man I’d want as an enemy, after all. 

 

“You look lovely, Arabella.”

 

She looked at me with wry amusement. “For the first time?” she suggested with a trace of a smile.

 

“No I mean, sorry, of course you’re always lovely, but to see you today, dressed so beautifully. You just look so dignified. So feminine.”

 

“I should hope so.” She played with her coffee cup with her gloved fingers. I watched her lips move as she spoke. I think the so-called Goreans are right to fixate on the lips of a woman. “You like me dressed like this?”

 

“Well, yes, it lends you… I don’t know… status.”

 

“Status?” She laughed softly again. “”You wouldn’t rather see a glimpse of my legs?"

 

I flushed a little. How could I tell her that of course I wanted to see her legs, but there was a time and a place for a woman such as Arabella Whitlock to display her legs to me. She wasn’t a woman with slave needs like Emily. 

 

“I just, really treasure you when I see you like this. I feel possessive. I know that sounds silly.”

 

“Possessive?” She laughed again. “You would like to own me?”

 

“I would like you to be my woman. Fully. I would like us to eventually marry. To be companions, as Karl would put it.”

 

“Steady on, Simon. We still have a lot of getting to know one another, first. But, yes, I hope things will proceed in that direction, too.” She reached her gloved fingers forward and touched the back of my hand. “Let’s work at this, one step at a time.”

 

I nodded. 

 

“Unless you would prefer a girl like Emily?”

 

I shook my head. “She means nothing to me. She isn’t like you, Arabella. You can see that, can’t you?”

 

“Of course. We are worlds apart.. Where is she now?”

 

“Sleeping,’ I said. “There are slave kennels in the basement. I locked her in one, because I don’t really trust her.”

 

“Oh!” Arabella seemed startled. “You… caged her?”

 

“Well, as I said…”

 

“No, you’re right.” Arabella smiled now, perhaps enjoying the thought of Emily lying in a small cage. “I have no objections.” She sipped some coffee and then added, “So what do we do next? Do we just stay here indefinitely? What about my job? My flat?”

 

“We wait until Emily remembers Karl’s phone number, and then we ring him. He will be angry with what Frick has done. He will come for us, and woe betide if Frick is still in England when Karl gets back from Amsterdam. But I suspect he will be long gone for the safety of Montana. Until then, let us enjoy one another’s company. It is, after all, a beautiful afternoon.”