Kajirus of Gor Chapter Sixteen

 

Any doubts I may have still harboured, in respect of whether this truly was an alien world or not, swiftly vanished once I was taken out onto the streets of Argentum for the first time. I remember staring in disbelief at the skyline of tall cylinders in the centre of the city that rose majestically to almost touch the clouds, or so it seemed, and the sight of the narrow walkways that threaded between those cylinders like an elaborate spider’s web – walkways that seemed to defy gravity, as there were no central supports, or handrails for that matter, and yet men and women could be seen confidently moving about them, possibly hundreds of feet above street level. While a Gorean city might superficially resemble a city of Roman antiquity, it has its own equivalent of modern day skyscrapers in its skyline that house the administrative functions and many of its citizens. The conurbation of cylinders is the Gorean equivalent of the New York skyline, surrounded by tens of thousands of more mundane buildings that reach back to the city walls. 

 

And my last remaining doubt vanished at my first sight of the Tarnsmen of Argentum, wheeling and patrolling the skies of their native city. I could only marvel at the bravery of men who learned to tame and ride these giant birds of war. 

 

“Impressive, isn’t it, Roland?” 

 

Chelsea Savannah Frick held the end of my leash, which was locked to the ring on my slave collar. My wrists were braceleted behind my back, but other than that I had relative freedom of movement, provided I followed the instructive signal tugs she occasionally provided.

 

“It’s incredible,” I said, and I honestly meant it. The vegetation looked alien, too, bearing little similarity to the trees and flowers of Earth. And though I hadn’t mentioned it before, the gravity pull feels lighter than I had been used to on Earth. 

 

“You will come to love this world in time,” said Chelsea, “despite your bondage, or perhaps even because of it. There is much to enjoy, even if you are a silk slave.”

 

“Are we speaking freely, Mistress?” I asked.

 

She laughed softly at that “I suppose so. For the time being, until I grow bored with your words. But do not abuse the privilege, Roland. I have a switch hanging from my belt.”

 

And indeed she had. We walked through a central street, where to the side I saw narrower streets that had never needed to accommodate the passage of motorcars. The buildings here were of classical Roman design as we were some way out from the centre of the city where the science fiction cylinders might be found. 

 

“Do you live in one of those?” I asked.

 

“No. I don’t share well with others. I have a loft style apartment not too far from here.” 

 

We stopped after a short walk, at an open square with food stalls. Chelsea bought a pastry and motioned for me to kneel beside her while she ate. There were heavy blocks of stone nearby, the right size for a man or woman to sit on while they ate. Chelsea settled down on one of these stone blocks, not wishing to stain her dress by kneeling on the grass or on the dusty flagstones of the square. As she ate, she occasionally broke off small pieces of the pastry and fed them to me by hand.

 

“It’s pleasant to own a slave,” said Chelsea as she ruffled my hair which was gradually growing longer. “I had never originally planned on owning you, but I confess I had occasionally dreamt that I did.”

 

“After we met at Saratoga, Mistress?”

 

She thought about this for a moment. “Some time after, yes.” She ate through her veil, breaking off pieces of the pastry for herself and threading her fingers delicately under the layers of fabric. “You seemed to belong with Felicity. And I’ve always coveted some of the things she has. Especially the freedoms she enjoyed by not being a Frick.”

 

I thought back to the ranch and how I had witnessed Chelsea’s lack of freedom there. To be a Frick daughter means you live your life forever under the stern gaze and disapproval of your family. I had witnessed that first hand. 

 

“Is that why you came to Gor, Mistress? To get away from the control of your family?”

 

“My, aren’t you observant?” She fed me another piece of the pastry. “It was a consideration. Were you surprise to see me here?”

 

“I was, Mistress. I didn’t know you could travel to this planet.”

 

“I’m not supposed to,” she remarked as she gazed up into the sky where two Tarnsmen wheeled their birds spectacularly through a space between the cylindrical walkways. “The Fricks only send their sons to Gor. There is no reason to send a daughter. My destiny is supposed to be very different – make myself available for courtship and settle down to raise children.”

 

“And yet you are here, Mistress. I’m curious then how you manged it.” 

 

I caught sight of two lovely slave girls seated on a small wall to the side of the square. They were dressed in brief, revealing garments, with bare legs and arms – a direct contrast to the aloof Free Women, who all seemed anonymous in their full gowns and heavy veils. The slaves seemed to have the freedom of the city, and the freedom to loiter for a while. When they noticed me, they giggled and pointed. The sight of me, tightly leashed, following a Free Woman, seemed to amuse them immensely. Again, I felt my cheeks burn with shame. I was a laughing stock to slave girls, and an object of derision to men. And as for Free women – to them I was some sort of pet with benefits.

 

“I’ve been told you’re quite virile,” said Chelsea as she finished her pastry.

 

“You were told that, Mistress?”

 

“It’s in your papers. I’d show you them, but you wouldn’t be able to read any of the words. Kelapina was impressed by your stamina.”

 

“She took her time with me, Mistress.”

 

“That is very reassuring. Come, heel me, sweet silk slave.”

 

We walked on, taking a route that mostly led through the central streets. Argentum is a busy city, with a large population. But I began to notice formations of soldiers in red tunics, marching in battle groups towards the north west.

 

“Argentum is at war,” said Chelsea. “More soldiers are being sent to the battle lines.” She waved to them, as did some of the other women. A few scattered flower petals in their path to honour their coming sacrifice. 

 

Chelsea had mentioned the war before. We were at war with a city state called Corcyrus.

 

The men marched with spears and shields, and wore Greek style helmets, but nothing in the way of body armour. When I asked why that was, Chelsea explained that body armour, at least metal body armour, was prohibited on Gor by the Priest Kings. She went on to explain that they were the God-like rulers of this world.

 

“You believe that, Mistress?”

 

“Is it any more ridiculous than the concept of a planet on the far side of the sun that has remained invisible until now?”

 

“But God-like beings?”

 

“Anything is possible, Roland, once you accept that you have been easily abducted and transported across space to an alien world with men who fly and fight on the backs of giant birds. The Priest Kings exist in some form or other. Unlike the Gods of Earth, these beings do interfere in dramatic fashion when the opportunity requires it.”

 

I was told they lived in the Sardar mountains, but not having seen a map of this world, I had no idea where that might be. 

 

“Is Argentum winning the war, Mistress?”

 

“Of course we are. Every day brings a new victory as we push the forces of Corcyrus inexorably back. We have one of the strongest armies of central Gor, and our field commanders have a firm grasp of battlefield strategy. Soon we will be at the walls of Corcyrus, and then they will begin to plead for mercy.”

 

We walked on further, passing a canal system that fed water into the city through deep channels that ran through the city walls. Heavy iron grilles covered these waterways where they penetrated the city’s defences. Chelsea then turned on her heels and took me down one of the side streets where the footpath was narrower, made seemingly more so by the height of the buildings in this district, many of which were four or five storeys high, casting shadow over the narrow thoroughfares.

 

“I live in this district,” explained Chelsea. I saw some Free Women walking in and out of the buildings. They all wore street veils of severe opacity and were dressed in the Muslim fashion, as Dexter might have described it. The area seemed clean, well built, but not as wealthy as I might expect for a Frick residence.

 

We reached a door in an otherwise unremarkable terraced building. As is commonplace on Gor, there were no windows on the ground floor, and the windows that I could see were narrow and barred. Many of these homes look out over an internal, private, courtyard, and there the windows can be larger.

 

“This is your new home, Roland.” She produced a key on a ring that she inserted into the lock of the door. Inside was a small hallway with a set of stairs that led up, but not down. “The fourth floor is mine,” she explained, and, as she was American, that meant she counted the ground floor as the first. I couldn’t see any access to the ground floor from this doorway, and assumed maybe that entrance would be at the back somewhere. Chelsea led me up the wooden stairs that creaked with each footstep we took. We then reached a landing with a single door and another flight of steps going up. This was repeated each time until we reached the fourth floor. “Home,” she said as she produced another key from the same key ring. I noticed there was also two other keys, smaller than the door keys, which on Gor tend to be quite large. Possibly one of those two other keys was the key to my collar. Chelsea inserted her private door key, turned the lock and then swung the door open.

 

Inside was what would be described as a loft conversion in New York city. It was open plan, with two doors to one side. Reasonably large windows overlooked the central courtyard, but the most striking thing about the apartment was the minimal furnishings. There were a couple of couches on which Chelsea and her guests might recline, but other than that I only saw rugs and a couple of low tables and a number of scatter cushions. There was a beautiful old wardrobe and some storage trunks. Food is usually eaten on the floor, at low tables, in Gorean cities, with guests kneeling while they conversed. 

 

“One of the doors leads to a basic bath room, with working plumbing,” she explained. “The other to a kitchen space with a coal and wood burning stove.” She took one of the two smaller keys from the key ring and unlocked the slave bracelets on my wrists. “Take a look around, Roland. This is where we shall live.”

 

In New York this loft space would be expensive, but I suspect maybe not so much in this district in the city of Argentum. Again, I wondered why a woman such as Chelsea Frick didn’t live in some large town house with private grounds?

 

As if reading my mind, she remarked, “I am not here with my family’s blessing, Roland. So my funds are more limited than might otherwise be the case. But still, this is a good area, and a large apartment for a single woman to occupy. The other women here are of good castes. They know me, by the way, as Lady Savanna. Chelsea would sound too barbaric a name.” 

 

I walked to one of the windows and looked out into the shared courtyard below. It was pleasant enough, with deep wooden tubs of earth where communal vegetables grew, and other areas where women might sit together in the shade of the surrounding walls. I saw that there was also a balcony door that gave access to a set of steps leading down into the courtyard. As far as I could see the courtyard could only be accessed this way. Though I then saw two narrow doors facing one another down below in the courtyard itself, possibly giving access to the ground floor dwelling space, which had been inaccessible from the street itself. 

 

Chelsea unclipped the leash from my collar ring, wound it about her hand, and then placed it on a low table. 

 

“You will sleep chained to a slave ring at the foot of my couch, Roland. The only time you will ever lie on my couch is when I put you to use.” Her eyes sparkled at the thought. “Make yourself useful, and clean the room. You will find brushes and water in the kitchen space.”

 

And so I did that, washing and scrubbing the floorboards on my knees, while Chelsea knelt beside a low table and worked through some papers. But it seemed her mind and eyes were on other things as I worked.

 

“Enough,” she said after a while. “You can finish your chores later.” She rose and smoothed down her robes. “I want to see… I want to understand what I have paid for.”

 

My pulse quickened. 

 

“Undress me, Roland.” She moved to the barred windows and drew heavy drapes across them, screening us from view from the apartments on the other sides of the courtyard. 

 

I rose to my feet, wiped my hands clean, and approached my mistress. I sensed, rather than heard, her sharp intake of breath as I stood before her. As with Iona, as with Kelapina, I stood nearly nine inches taller than my mistress. I have often speculated whether such a thing invokes submissive feelings within women, when they comprehend how weak they are before a man. “My veils first,” she said.

 

“Mistress?” That was unusual. A Gorean woman would want the veils removed last of all.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing, Mistress.” I had to remind myself she wasn’t a Gorean woman. In the eyes of Goreans she was a barbarian with no discernible culture or sophistication. I began to carefully unpin the veils on her lower face. Once done, and the veils carefully folded and placed on a low table, I set about the order of fastenings on her gowns and robes.

 

I felt her body tremble as I lightly touched her through the voluminous garments, my hands gentle now, respectful, but ever present as the hooks and clasps came loose one by one.

 

“You undress a woman well,” she said. 

 

“Thank you, Mistress.’

“You are gentle, tender, compliant.” She shivered as my fingers gently touched her neck as I opened her robes and peeled them down her body. “I confess I like this.”

 

“I live to serve you, Mistress.”

 

There was a sharp tightness of breath from her now. She was being aroused by the simple process of being undressed by me. 

 

A wild thought suddenly entered my mind. I was undressing her in that thought, not by loosening each delicate ornamental clasp in turn, but by throwing her to her belly, and tearing and cutting her garments away with a knife, and then tying her wrists to a slave ring as she struggled, naked and helpless at my feet. 

 

But no. Carefully, gently, respectfully, with great tenderness, I peeled her garments away from her skin, one by one.

 

“I told you that I came to Gor partly to escape the intolerable influence of my family,” she said. Her skin was slightly flushed. Beneath the silken slip, I suspected her nipples might now be swelling with increased blood flow. “There are two other reasons, and one of them is that I wished to own a man.” She sighed as I drew her inner gown down around her ankles and watched her lift first her left foot and then her right foot from the pool of cloth. “I have always wanted to own a man, Roland. It has been a dream of mine ever since I saw my first slave girl on the ranch when my father decided it was time for me to learn the ways of the family. If men can own slaves, why can’t I?”

 

“Why couldn’t you, Mistress?” I gathered up her garments and smoothed the fabric over my arm before hanging them from a set of pegs. 

 

“Because I’m a woman. Because my family would not permit a Frick daughter to own a man. It would not be seemly. But here on Gor, ironically, despite the veils, the gowns, the robes, the social customs, I have more freedom than I did in Montana. Here I can be my own woman. Here I can own a man.”

 

“You own me, Mistress.” 

 

“Yes! Yes, I do!” she smiled. “I have the power of life and death over you. I could sell you if I wanted.”

 

“Does Mistress wish to sell me?” I asked as I touched the spaghetti thin left shoulder strap of her silken sheath slip.

 

“No,” she said, her voice quivering a little. “You are doing well.”

 

“Mistress is very beautiful,” I said. It was a phrase Iona had suggested I should always say to a woman who owned me, at moments like this, whether or not she actually was beautiful. But looking at Chelsea now, looking at her delicate, almost child-like, unblemished and porcelain skin, I was glad I didn’t have to lie. She was perhaps thirty two years of age, but had been given the stabilisation serum at the age of twenty one. She would be that age forever. Her skin would never grow wrinkled. 

 

Chelsea said nothing as my finger hovered on the thin spaghetti strap of her slip, so I gently moved it past her shoulder, down her upper arm.

 

“No,” she said, quickly. She drew the thin strap back in place. The sheath of slip silk remained on her body. 

 

Iona had told me that few Gorean women would want to be completely naked when they put a silk slave to use. Chelsea seemed to feel the same way.

 

“Lie on the couch, Roland. Grip the slave ring at the head board.”

 

I did so, lying down on my back. She moved towards me and produced the slave bracelets I had worn earlier. “I confess you were something of an impulse buy. I only own a single pair of bracelets. I do not even have a proper whip, just the switch at my belt.” She was talking perhaps to disguise her nerves. I gripped the slave ring and averted my eyes from her. A Free Women can feel dangerously challenged if a silk slave looks at her while he is being restrained. “There are so many things I will need to buy, now that I own you.”

 

This was all new to her. I could see that now. Much of her arrogant composure was a pretence. She wanted to own a slave, but she was also acutely aware that she had no experience in owning a slave. 

 

That was interesting. 

 

I felt her lock the bracelets about my wrists, threading the short chain around a steel rod set in the headboard. She was breathing hard. She looked slightly nervous. 

 

I lay there as she lifted the drape of my tunic, revealing my penis. It was already erect and quivering.

 

“Oh.” She smiled and looked at me. “So soon?”

 

“I mentioned how beautiful mistress is?”

 

“You did.” She seemed pleased that she had this effect on me. Very pleased. She was silent then, and I sensed this was a nervous invitation for me to say more.

 

“I think the truth is, it will not be so terrible after all, to be your silk slave, Mistress.”

 

She smiled again. Her body seemed to relax a little. 

 

She wanted more.

 

“You will probably whip me for saying this…” I gave the impression of being driven to a wild, bold statement by the beauty of her body. “For a slave should never speak so of his mistress.”

 

“No I won’t, Roland. Say what you have to say.”

 

“I have never known a woman as beautiful as you, Mistress. I… I had no idea…”

 

She seemed so happy as she now climbed onto the couch beside me, rose to her knees, and settled just above my loin. 

 

“You flatter me, Roland. Am I truly so beautiful?”

 

“It is true, Mistress. I think many men would secretly desire to be your slave. I do.”

 

Her skin flushed, hearing my words. “You are not to come, inside of me, you understand that?” Her right hand moved between her thighs, under the silk hem of the slip, touching herself intimately, as she began to stroke softly with her fingers, oiling herself so that she could then open to me. I saw how her thighs trembled to her own touch. “Never that.” 

 

“Yes, Mistress. I would not dare such a thing.” I gazed at her now, as she knelt above me, dressed in just that silken slip, and as I looked at her body I suddenly realised how it was she had managed to come to Gor, and how she no doubt felt confident she could leave again when she felt the time was right. The truth was staring me in the face. And then, so many other things clicked into place. 

 

Her voice was breathless. “Then, please me, silk slave, Show me how you please your mistress. Show me what I paid for.”

 

And then, after a few more strokes of her fingers, she touched the head of my penis with the wet lips of her sex, and pushed slowly down on me.