Kajirus of Gor Chapter Eighteen

 

Days passed, soon becoming weeks, and so I settled into a daily routine, making breakfast for Chelsea in the morning, then cleaning the loft space, before being sent out to shop for supplies. In the afternoon she would often walk with me through the city of Argentum, and we would talk in a more informal manner. I think she enjoyed relating to a man who understood her cultural references, even if that man now wore a steel collar and called her mistress. Or perhaps especially because that man wore a steel collar and called her mistress.

 

There was perhaps an element of her wanting to show me off. Other Free Women began to notice her, for few Gorean women are wealthy enough to own a silk slave. I was admired, touched and remarked upon, and soon Chelsea enjoyed some social interaction with the veiled women who lived in her quarter.

 

As the afternoon turned to evening I would cook for her again, clean some more, and perhaps, in the earlier hours, wash and press her garments. All this had to be done the old fashioned way. There were no labour saving machines to hand. She rarely left the building once night fell. Few single Free Women would dare such a thing. Instead she would slide heavy bolts across the door and keep her barred windows closed, with the heavy drapes drawn. Occasionally we would hear the wings of a Tarnsman flying close by. It would of course be a city Tarnsman, one flying in defence of Argentum and not, for example, a daring raider from a neighbouring city, keen to chance chain luck on the women of this city, particularly those who dared to venture out onto the precarious walkways threading the spaces between soaring cylinders; but even so, I saw Chelsea flinch each time she heard powerful wings beating through the night sky.

 

There was no television, no radio, no Internet, so we conversed to pass the time. In some superficial manner we probably resembled a married couple living together, except for the fact I was completely subservient to her every whim and at her mercy. When it grew dark enough to light lanterns and lamps, Chelsea would recline on a couch and drink some weak wine. She would look at me and talk, the way women do. I would listen and answer her, and sometimes it was easy to forget that I was her actual legal property. The relationship between a free man or woman and his or her slave is complicated. Yes, there is strict discipline, but as time goes by there is often a relaxing of the boundaries as a form of relationship naturally develops. We’re only human after all. I found that in the evening, in private, I could talk relatively freely with her, so long as I remained obedient and respectful. I would talk about my past life, and she would often prompt me with questions.

 

“I want to know my slave,” she would say. “I want to know who you are.”

 

Chelsea told me that in time I would grow to love my collar, that I would begin to associate sexual arousal with being chained, and with kneeling at her feet. I struggled hard to resist such impulses. I felt strongly still that it was not the natural place for a man to kneel before a woman. And yet I did kneel before her, and I grew concerned that as weeks passed by, that act became more natural to me, as did my automatic deference in lowering my gaze until instructed to look upon her. I knew I was being conditioned, and I had to fight it and hold on to my manhood. 

 

After two weeks she decided the standard of my spoken Gorean was so bad she would begin to teach me properly. I had to admit her own Gorean was of a very good standard, though you could still tell by her accent that she was a barbarian, and not born to a mother in Argentum. She did however possess citizenship papers, which you need if you are to pass through the gates of the city. 

 

I actually enjoyed the lessons by lamp light. I was able to relax and she was a good teacher, and surprisingly patient, though my clumsiness with the vocabulary often made her laugh. “Do you have no aptitude for languages, Roland? None at all? You mangle the verbs like a clumsy tarsk rooting for truffles!”

 

It turns out she could speak French and Italian, and had a passing knowledge of Latin, good enough to read the classics in their original texts. She did have an aptitude for foreign languages. 

 

“Again, you see clearly how a woman is superior to a man,” she said when she finished laughing at another poorly constructed sentence from my lips. And then she demonstrated the correct sentence with grace and charm.

 

When I got something right she would reward me with candy. At first I was annoyed by this, and viewed it as a deliberate humiliation, but as the days progressed into weeks, and as we often set aside an hour or so in the evening for me to mangle Gorean sentence structure, the whole thing became less of an embarrassment and more of an actual treat. I was her slave, and surprisingly she enjoyed treating me. It gave her some pleasure. When I finally understood there was no malice in her gifts, no intention to humiliate me, I began to acquiesce and take the offerings. And yes, they tasted good. 

 

Some evenings, I would kneel and gently massage her feet while I practised my Gorean. She enjoyed the sensation of having her feet rubbed and she would lie back on her couch, as I took one foot after the other and ran through the words and sentences I had learned that day. 

 

I ate surprisingly well, by which I mean the food I was given was nutritious and healthy. I put on extra muscle and I had more vitality as my body began to purge itself of the accumulated toxins from my Earth diet. My libido grew ever stronger. I had never felt so alive before.

 

It didn’t take much for me to achieve an erection now. The sight of my mistress barely dressed often did the trick. And Chelsea didn’t seem angry when this happened beyond my control. In fact, I began to suspect she occasionally and deliberately provoked me to such a state.

 

“Roland!” she would exclaim in mock outrage. “What is this?!” And she would touch the tented fabric of my tunic where my penis had risen. “Why do you look at me that way? I am your mistress! You must not lust after me!” But there would be a sly smile, and she might playfully spank my bottom, and at times, the sight of me like this would stir certain feelings inside her own body and she would push me back onto her couch and say, “I want you, now. Lie back, Roland. Let me see what effect I have on you, handsome silk slave.”

 

And then she would mount me and enjoy half an hour of leisure in the afternoon as the sun shone through slight gaps in the heavy linen drapes.

 

“Do you remember what you once said on the ranch in Montana?” She liked to routinely remind me of those words. 

 

And yes, I remembered them. “We’re not going to have a relationship. It’s not going to happen.”

 

“And how is that working out for you, handsome silk slave?” She would laugh softly. “I think it was then that I decided I would buy you if I had the chance. You laid down a challenge, you see.”

 

Sometimes she would ask questions of a sexual nature, or she would ask about my previous relationships. I soon learned that she enjoyed hearing me criticise past girlfriends, remarking on their deficiencies. It was as if she felt they were rivals, even though she had never met them.

 

Some nights I would be chained to a slave ring and left to go to sleep. Other times, maybe twice or three times a week, Chelsea would take me to her couch and chain me there to put me to use. She was easier to satisfy than the Lady Kelapina was. This made things easier for me, for I could not have controlled myself indefinitely if I had worn Kelapina’s collar. At some point my body would have betrayed me and I would have involuntarily come inside of her. That danger, too, existed with the beautiful Chelsea, but I soon became accustomed to her arousal, her convulsions, and I began to read her body and knew how to drive her rather more quickly than planned to an orgasm. It was safer if she came sooner rather than later, because it grew more and more difficult to control my own as time went by. 

 

During the day, in rare moments of privacy, I would masturbate myself to reduce the burning need I felt to experience a woman more fully than I did. I couldn’t have carried on indefinitely without relieving myself by my hand. It would have been too much. 

 

One thing began to change during the nights when she put me to use on her couch. She began to touch me as she quivered, embedded deeply on my cock. First she began touching my chest and thighs, and then gradually as the weeks went by, she began to scratch at me with her nails as she hissed softly, her back arched. Once or twice she might lean forward in our coupling, close enough that the silk covering her beasts would touch my skin as she quivered in position, impaled upon me. At those times her lips came perilously close to mine, and it would have been possible for me to reach forward and kiss her if I so dared. 

 

I so desperately wanted to seize and kiss her, but my wrists would always be bound to the headboard. I would always be helpless as she took me. 

 

Soon she began to lie beside me for a while after climaxing. She seemed content to some level, but there was also a growing sense of frustration in her demeanour, as if she had explored certain limits with a silk slave, and she craved something more substantial, still. My wrists remained chained to the headboard as she would lie there and talk softly with me. Soon she began to ask me if I enjoyed sex with her.

 

I didn’t tell her how frustrating it was to not be allowed to come, and so I said instead that it was wonderful. She enjoyed hearing me say that, and she would sometimes place an arm about my waist as she talked to me. Sometimes her fingers would curl in and around my pubic hair as we lay there. Sometimes she would begin to stroke my penis and watch carefully as it quickly became excited and aroused.

 

After the first month of ownership, and after she typically experienced climax, she began to play with my penis as I lay there, still handcuffed to the bed. She enjoyed seeing it grow hard, She enjoyed watching it quiver, upright. And I think she enjoyed the controlled anguish displayed on my face.

 

“Oh, but it wants me so badly,” she would say. “Look at the poor thing. So hungry for what lies between my thighs. Poor silk slave,” she would tease.

 

And yes, I wanted her. I wanted to throw her onto her back, push her thighs apart and drive myself into her hard and fast. I wanted to come between her legs and come hard.

 

But instead I lay there as she touched my penis and watched it react to each touch of her finger tips. And I tried hard not to succumb to arousal from being chained. I was a man. I must not begin to associate arousal with bondage and submission. I must not. 

 

One night, maybe seven weeks into my slavery in Chelsea’s personal collar, she lay beside me, flushed with post orgasmic bliss, when there was the loud screech of a tarn from beyond her windows. I felt her body stiffen in sudden fright, for I think women instinctively fear the great tarns of Gor. I felt her suddenly grip me as she shrunk herself small beside my body. The night holds many terrors for free women on Gor. 

 

“Are you all right, Mistress?” I whispered in the dim light of the lamps.

 

“I hate those things,” she said. “I never know whether they are our Tarnsmen, or savage raiders from another city.”

 

“Ours, Mistress. Ours, of course.”

 

“I am being foolish. I am being a woman now,” she said, bitterly.

 

“I wish I could comfort you, Mistress. Hold you perhaps.”

 

I felt her body react to those words. I felt her hand touch my stomach.. “You want… to comfort me?” It was dark. I could make out the lines of her body, though little detail. But I could feel the silk of her slip against my bare skin.

 

“I would, Mistress. But it is not my place. I know that.”

 

“Sometimes I am very frightened, Roland,” she whispered in the darkness, her silk moving sensually against my thigh. It was easier for her to speak personally, in confidence, when night fell. “Sometimes I feel alone on a world that is not my own.”

 

“I am here Mistress. I would not let anything happen to you.”

 

“Oh.” She seemed to consider this for a moment. And then, reaching past me, brushing her silk clad breasts inadvertently against my chest as she leaned past me, she fumbled for the key to my shackles, resting on a low table with the other heavy keys. 

 

I held my breath. Was she going to free my wrists?

 

“Do not take liberties,” she warned. There was a trace of excitement in her voice now, I think, as she fumbled with the bracelet key, having difficulty at first in finding the small locks on my bracelets in the dark. She wrestled with the first cuff, and I felt her thigh rub against mine as she shifted to reach it properly. And then she freed my wrists from the headboard.

 

“May I comfort you, Mistress?” I asked as I rubbed my sore wrists.

 

“I am a woman,” she whispered. “Sometimes I need to turn to a man. Sometimes…”

 

I put my arms about her and embraced Chelsea Savannah Frick for the first time. She sighed and nestled deep within my embrace. “How does this feel, Mistress?”

 

“Shamefully good,” she whispered. She seemed nervous. This wasn’t appropriate behaviour with a silk slave as far as Gorean Free Women are concerned. Kelapina would surely not approve.

 

Again we heard a loud tarn screech not far from this room. Again, Chelsea seemed to sink closer to me. “Why does it keep flying so close to this street! So close to my window! It scares me.”

 

“Perhaps it senses women here, Mistress. Perhaps it has been trained to seek out women.”

 

My words made her seek the comfort of my arms. I suspected they might. I do not truly believe that tarns are trained to sniff out concentrations of women, but it was enough to suggest such a thing to make Chelsea Savannah Frick forget the accords of our mistress-slave relationship. With my left hand I caressed her soft hair in the darkness. With my right I encircled her waist. She had no idea how vulnerable a woman is, like this. She was in my arms now. She would not be able to easily free herself if I chose to keep hold of her body. 

 

“It feels good, Roland. It feels comforting.”

 

“I’m glad, Mistress. I should be able to comfort you when you need such a thing.”

 

She buried her face against my chest as I said that. “Sometimes I think I made a mistake coming here. I don’t belong. I have no real friends, except perhaps Kelapina. I’m scared to leave my apartment when the sun goes down. This is my life now.”

 

“You have me, Mistress.”

 

“I do.” She smiled. “Oh, Roland, it is so wonderful to own a slave. You have no idea. That I own you.” She reached with the fingers of her hand and touched my steel collar. “This marks you as mine.”  

 

“I belong to you, Mistress.”

 

I lay there, holding her as the eyelids of my mistress began to drag and gradually close. Soon she was asleep and breathing softly. A thought crossed my mind. I wasn’t chained to a slave ring. There was nothing to stop me gagging Chelsea, and, as she awoke, struggling, protesting, with soft mewling gasps, tie her wrists and ankles with binding fibre. I could then, at my leisure, search for the key to my collar, and, once I had it in my possession, unlock it. I could flee.

 

In my fantasy I imagined escaping through the city at night, overpowering guardsmen at the gates, scaling the high walls of Argentum, dropping softly onto the ground on the other side of those walls, and fleeing into the night to make a new life for myself on Gor as a free man.

 

But I knew nothing of Gor. I had no possessions, no money, and I would be a hunted man. How far would I get before hunting sleen were sent to find me? The practical thing to do would be to kill Chelsea in her sleep, to buy more time to put some distance between myself and the walls of Argentum. But as I gazed down at this slight, vulnerable woman, I knew I wasn’t capable of such a thing. Perhaps if she had been exceptionally cruel to me, but no, possibly not even then. I am hardwired in my head, I think, to find the idea of killing a beautiful woman distasteful and abhorrent. But if I let her live, she would have sleen sent after me. I knew enough about tracking sleen to know I would never escape them; not on foot, anyway. 

 

My mind fantasised then about stealing a tarn, mastering the great winged beast, causing it to swoop in and around the city as I pulled upon its reins, forcing the great war bird to submit to me, but again this was ludicrous. A typical tarn would kill me the moment I approached it. Sometimes they even kill their own trained riders. 

 

I stroked Chelsea’s hair softly, pondering the moment. I could overpower her easily. But I had nowhere to go as a slave fugitive. 

 

I fantasised then of binding the little beauty, of throwing her naked over my shoulder and taking her with me across the rooftops like some daring jewel thief. She would struggle and protest silently through her cruel gag, until many pasangs away, past the city walls, I would sit her down in the long grass of the Gorean countryside. It would be night, and dark out, except for a small camp fire when I would unbind her wrists and gag, and she would demand to be freed, to be given clothing. I would smile and tell her she was far now from the authority of Argentum and that she would now serve me. And in my fantasy I would put her to full use, time and time again, and she would cry out in orgasm as it was I who mastered her. And in the morning, expecting then to be freed, of course, she would be startled as I bound her wrists again and marched her further away from the high walls of Argentum. “Where are you taking me, Roland?” she would cry, feeling fear now. “To a metal worker, I would say. “To mark your naked thigh.”

 

And so I lay in the darkness with Chelsea curled happily in my arms. I wore her collar. I was her property. No matter that we shared intimate moments like this; our relationship was not one of equals. She could sell me if she wished, or have me put to death on a whim. And yet, my time in her collar had not been subject to random cruelty. She had in fact bought a five stranded Gorean whip on the third day of owning me. We had walked to the market place and she had selected a whip from those on display. Back at home she had made me kneel and kiss the whip, and then she had hung it on the wall, but so far it had not been used.

 

I had felt her switch only twice, and, after the first time she had used it on me, she had seemed uncertain, confused. She didn’t seem to understand why she had punished me. I don’t think I had done anything wrong, but Chelsea had seemed unhappy, and nothing I did was therefore right.

 

My life wasn’t unbearable as her slave, for Chelsea Savannah Frick isn’t a cruel mistress. But there are times when she is unhappy, and during those times nothing I do is good enough and she threatens me with the switch. But rarely does she use it.

 

I caressed her hair again, and, as I moved on the couch, shifting position slightly, I felt the sensation again of her silk slip against my skin. I was hard, where I lay, stiff, and the tip of my penis touched her inner thigh as I settled back into position. The edge of the slip had risen up slightly and with my fingers I slid it further past her thigh. Her skin was so smooth and soft. I touched it gently and felt her sigh softly in her sleep. I watched her fingers open and close against the pillows. She was dreaming. Carefully, very carefully, I slid back a thin spaghetti strap of the slip, down past her upper arm. I then slid the other one back too. Still being very careful, I slid the front of the slip down past one luscious breast. Chelsea stirred again in her sleep, and made the sweetest, softest little gasp as she dreamt. I kissed her softly on the back of her neck, and then beside her shoulder. Again she seemed to sigh and quiver in her sleep.

 

I felt so hard. I wanted nothing more than to push her onto her belly and thrust deep inside of her parted legs. But I was her slave. I wore her collar. She could have me killed.

 

I lifted some locks of her hair and touched my lips with them, whispering in the darkness, “Whatever am I going to do with you, Chelsea Savannah Frick?”