Kajirus of Gor Chapter Thirteen

 

“I’m treating it like a Gap Year. And I’m going to, like, blog about it, if I can ever get a wi-fi signal out there in the middle of nowhere. The Blog is going to be called Wyld in Montana. It’s going to be such an adventure. It will be so me. I was, like, the girl most likely to have an adventure, in my High School Year Book.”

 

She was telling me about the Wyld Wymen of the Montana wilderness. I think I’d read about them once in the New York Review of Books. I suppose it was a natural reaction to the ever-growing influence of New Feminism throughout American society. Not all women wished, it seems, to return to lives of domestic simplicity, taking pride in a clean kitchen, the fresh, homely smell of baking, coffee mornings with like-minded house wives, and a happy husband who works long hours in the city, returning home to his beautiful wife. While some women dug their heels in and simply carried on as before in the towns and cities, and damn the social consequences, some other women, perhaps the more ideological and politically minded ones, cut their ties with urban living and decamped to the remote areas of the United States where they could establish new lives ‘off grid’ and live in a female led society that wouldn’t be governed by men and their sexist attitudes.

 

I’d flown from New York to Minneapolis on the first stage of my journey to Chelsea Frick’s ranch in Montana, and was now travelling overnight by train, seated opposite a very attractive girl called Kelly Milford, whom I initially assumed might be some sort of vacuous bimbo on account of her dress style and habit of excessively using the word like. In an age of New Feminism, Kelly Milford harked back to an earlier, old-fashioned time, when women might routinely wear short skirts, and revealing tops. She was the only woman in the carriage who did, and I could sense the hostility from some of the more modestly dressed women that she had studiously avoided sitting beside. I notice that as she passed vacant seats, those women surreptitiously moved bags and coats onto the seats, making it clear she wasn’t welcome.

 

“The state of the girl,” hissed a woman in her early thirties.

 

“She’s desperate for male attention.”

 

“Disgraceful.”

 

The stage whispers were just loud enough that they could be heard, but Kelly shook her hair and walked right past them with a taunting wiggle of her linen clad hips. 

 

I could have flown to Billings airport, which would have been closer to the land belonging to the Fricks, but I wanted to take the opportunity to see some of the great American landscape, passing by the Mississippi river and watch as the countryside gradually changed from arable to grazing land. 

 

Kelly Milford had walked through the carriage, doing her best not to catch the gaze of any of the other women, her eyes flicking back and forth to find a seat where she wouldn’t be troubled by her resentful peers. When she saw me reading a battered paperback copy of a Hemingway novel, she asked whether she might join me.

 

I of course said yes, and made her feel welcome. Kelly wore a ridiculously short, cream coloured linen skirt with side pockets, a skimpy black crop top that showed glimpses of her toned, flat belly, and three and a half inch strappy block heels in the same cream colour as her skirt. Her hair was expensively tinted blonde and her makeup was flawless. A small shoulder bag, black in colour, with steel rings along the shoulder strap, was her only carry-on luggage. A chunky suitcase containing her other possessions was in the luggage racks. 

 

And, as she happened to cross and un-cross her lovely legs on the train seat opposite me, as she settled down into her seat, I swiftly lowered the Hemingway book, folding over a page corner to mark my place, and engaged her in casual conversation. Despite her sexy appearance, she was no bimbo. Kelly had recently graduated in English Literature and was surprisingly well spoken, despite the overuse of the word like. Never judge a woman by her appearance, it seems. 

 

“Thank you. I saw the Hemingway book, and thought I’d prefer to sit with an intellectual.” Like her peers, Kelly spoke just loudly enough to clearly insult, by implication, the women who had screened of their spare seats. 

 

“I’m hardly that, but thank you for the assumption.”

 

We introduced ourselves, made some small talk, and discovered we were both travelling to the same area of Montana in the South East. I explained about my ranch invitation, and Kelly in turn described her intention to meet and live with the Wyld Wymen of Montana. 

 

She had made contact with the Wyld Wymen of Montana online, and if that seems strange, considering they all live ‘off grid’ with presumably no internet capability, Kelly further explained that they had sympathetic minded women who still lived in the ‘urban blight’, that she referred to, charmingly, as ‘Man’s World’, and those women handled things like their online web presence.

 

“I’m going to live with them for a year. A lot of women are, like, hooking up with them. Especially young women, my age.”

 

Kelly was probably twenty-three.

 

From what she explained, the Wyld Wymen essentially lived in what I would describe as anarchist communes. There seemed no central authority as such, just numerous bands and camps, all of whom elected their own leaders. And while these camps nominally cooperated, there was a great deal of non-co-operation as well. Women, it seems, if left to fend for themselves, live very much like cats. Men are pack animals, like dogs, but women are definitely cats, in social terms.

 

“It’s presumably going to be a back to basics lifestyle?” I suggested.

 

“I suppose. But we’re better equipped and skilled than you might think. There are, like, doctors and engineers and plumbers and carpenters who embrace this exile from the patriarchy. It’s not just idealistic dropouts with a Yale degree in Literature.” 

 

I noticed a steel ring that Kelly wore on her left ankle. As she moved her foot I caught a swift glimpse of a small key hole. It seemed to be locked around her ankle.

 

“This is how they will know me when I arrive,” she explained. “I’m travelling as far as I can by train then by hire car, and then I’ll have to, like, hike into the wilderness to reach their lands. I was sent the ankle band in the mail. When they see it, they will recognise me for who I am: a guest, and an applicant. I won’t be treated as an outsider who has simply stumbled onto their land.”

 

“May I see it?”

 

Kelly extended her leg and raised her foot so the block heel rested on my seat. I took hold of that foot by its shoe and examined the steel anklet. Yes, there was clearly a lock, with a single hole for a key. There was a seven digit number inscribed on the steel in a very small script. 

 

“I don’t have the key, if that’s what you’re wondering,” said Kelly.

 

“Really?”

 

“The package didn’t include the key. Just the ankle band with a snap lock, and an instruction for me to, like, close it on my left ankle.”

 

“So you can’t remove it?”

 

She blushed a little. “It will be removed by the Wyld Wymen when I finally meet them. When I join their community.”

 

“I see.”

 

“It’s an article of faith. To show I’m committed in my determination to be a Wyld Wyman. They have the key.”

 

“An unusual arrangement, but I suppose it harks back to the quaint rituals of sorority societies at college?”

 

“Yes, exactly that kind of thing,” said Kelly as she drew her foot back. “You seem to enjoy looking at my legs.”

 

“Can you blame me? I’m a red-blooded male, and these days there aren’t many women who wear short skirts anymore.”

 

“The fact I wear a short skirt doesn’t entitle you to stare at my legs. Quite the opposite.”

 

“Well, if you don’t want a man to look at your legs, you shouldn’t show them off. Or only associate with blind men.”

 

“I find that attitude offensive.”

 

I shrugged. 

 

“Are you not concerned that you are being offensive?”

 

“Not particularly. It strikes me that you are possibly the sort of woman who is very easily offended by just about anything. I’d be playing a losing game just speculating what your trigger words might be.”

 

“I am joining the Wyld Wymen to escape precisely that kind of Patriarchal oppression.” 

 

“Really?” I sat back, looking rather amused.

 

“The men we allow onto our lands will know their place.” She eyed me with disapproval. “They will have to be submissive to us. That is the way we are.”

 

“You won’t get many men then?”

 

“You’d be surprised. Many men secretly desire to serve a woman.” She smiled. “Perhaps you’ve had such fantasies in the past?”

 

“Why do you think that?”

 

“Oh, I don’t know.” She stretched her arms, accentuating her breasts in her skimpy top. “You were reading a book. You seem intelligent and cultured, and so I would, like, expect you to defer to women in general.”

 

“That’s me being polite. I’m English. I’m not into that Fem Dom scene, though. No disrespect.”

 

“So, you’re a sexist?” She turned her head slightly and gave me an oblique angled look.

 

“What’s a sexist these days?”

 

“A man who does not respect and defer to women.”

 

“Well, I respect women.”

 

“You can’t respect us unless you defer to us.”

 

“That’s a very stupid thing to say, Kelly.”

 

If I’m being honest here, I was perhaps surprised that Miss Kelly Milford was Wyld Wymen material, at all. The article I’d read suggested the Wyld Wymen were predominantly tough, rugged, survivalist types, quite capable of living off the grid, living off the land, and that they generally looked down upon women who… well, there’s no other way of putting this politely… women who looked like Kelly Milford. Kelly had a sun bed tan, painted toenails, perfectly manicured fingernails, a glossy salon haircut that must have been two hundred dollars minimum, and lots of makeup. She seemed obsessed with taking selfies of herself on her phone and scrolling through social media pages when she wasn’t talking to me, and frankly I couldn’t see her coping with a back to basics life out on a remote ranch in the wilds of Montana. Didn’t she say she wanted to ‘blog her gap year’? Quite. 

 

And yet she’d apparently been invited to hike out and find one of the Wyld Wymen communities. They had given her a steel ankle band to lock around her left ankle – a band that she couldn’t now remove herself. 

 

“What particular skills are you offering?” I asked.

 

“Organisational skills,” she said with a self-assured air of confidence. “I am college educated with a Ph.D. in Literature, and I feel I’m a natural born leader. I think the woman I spoke to online, like, recognised that. She said I would quickly adapt to my new role in life out there. She promised me a life changing experience. I can’t wait.”

 

“I see.”

 

I couldn’t actually imagine Kelly Milford being the leader of a Wyld Wymen band, particularly since her leadership skills would probably include a white board and marker pens and business buzzwords like ‘low hanging fruit’ and ‘thinking outside the box’, which is all well and good in a fly by night Internet start-up company in Silicon Valley,  but when you’re dealing with the harsh realities of living off the grid, and your roof is leaking, and your crop this year is stunted because of drought, then all that is pretty much useless.

 

“Apparently this train has a dining car, Kelly. Would you care to share a bottle of wine with me?”

 

An hour later we were on our second bottle, and Kelly was enthusiastically predicting the future. The bangles on her left wrist jingled and jangled as she made sweeping gestures to accentuate her theories.

 

“The world is going to be divided along gender lines,” she prophesised. “Within the next ten years.”

 

“Oh?” We were drinking a pleasant Malbec, though the mark up price meant it cost three times what it might cost in a UK supermarket. 

 

“I think the urban cities, they will be the domain of the Patriarchy.”

 

“That’s me, yes? The evil, permissive Patriarchy?”

 

“Mmm, you certainly act like the Patriarchy.” She smiled over the rim of her wine glass.

 

“And you recognise Patriarchy traits?”

 

“Oh yes, you’re self-assured, arrogant, dismissive of a woman’s true worth.” She began to count off the points on her well-manicured fingers. 

 

We were baiting each other, but not in a truly confrontational manner.

 

“And what is a woman worth, then? Yourself for example?”

 

She wrinkled her nose – a little trait she displayed whenever she found something I said amusing, but didn’t want to show it. “More than you could possibly afford.”

 

And that fired her up some more. “But that’s, like, my point, you see. Women do have a value – in Man’s world we will be assessed and bartered for. It’s inevitable.”

 

“You mean that literally?’

 

“Perhaps.” She regarded me with that sideways look again. “Who is to say that in time a woman might not find herself bought and sold? Who is to say she will not become a market commodity?”

 

“A bit far-fetched.”

 

“New Feminism would have seemed far-fetched in, say, 2008. Do you know there are actually slave markets again in parts of Africa and the Middle East? Openly trading?”

 

I laughed.

 

“It’s not talked about much, but they’re there. And the authorities turn a blind eye to them. And…” she gazed wistfully out of the train window into the darkness of the Montana countryside speeding past us. “It’s not just ethnic girls who find themselves on those auction blocks in chains.”

 

“I think I would have heard about exotic slave markets for white women in Persia,” I suggested. “There would have been a BBC documentary by now.”

 

“Well, maybe you’re not as informed as you like to think you are.”

 

“Or maybe you have romantic fantasies of white slavers.”

 

“Oh no. Don’t try and tell me women have abduction fantasies. That’s the permissive Patriarchy talking. You’d love to believe that.”

 

We both laughed and called for a third bottle of Malbec. 

 

The dining car closed at eleven. Shortly afterwards we were kissing in one of the carriage corridors.

 

“You kiss like the oppressive patriarchy,” she said as she pushed her lips up towards mine again.

 

“Thank you,” I said. ‘That’s the nicest compliment you’ve paid me tonight.”

 

“Where are we?” She felt me press her back against a locked door.

 

“Well, you’re currently leaning against the door to my private sleeper compartment.”

 

“You have a private sleeper compartment?” she said in surprise.

 

Moments later we were inside and kissing again. 

 

“You know I hate this,” she said. “I feel like I am being ruthlessly oppressed by the male sex.”

 

“Excellent,” I said. “As it happens I’m in the mood for oppressing the weaker sex.”

 

I began to fumble with her skimpy crop top and pulled the straps down around her shoulders, rendering her naked from the waist up. 

 

“I suppose I should fight you,” she remarked, in-between kisses. “For the honour of the Wyld Wymen.”

 

“Well, you can try.” I pulled down her skirt and saw the most beautiful pair of white lace panties lurking beneath it. “Kelly, that’s hardly what a Wyld Wyman would wear under her battle skirt!”

 

“All Wyld Wymen wear these white lace panties under their fearsome battle skirts,” she remarked as she then moaned softly, my tongue and lips tasting her breasts and sucking at her nipples. “We wear them to… oh! We wear them… ohhhh!” I think her body was becoming remarkably aroused now.

 

“You wear them, why?” I paused in what I was doing, to allow her to speak coherently.

 

“To distract the hated Patriarchy in moments of intense battle!”

 

“An interesting tactic,” I said as I pushed her down onto her back and peeled away the skirt from around her ankles. “Does it work?”

 

“Sadly, no.” She was breathing heavily as she reached for the belt to my trousers. “The hated patriarchy have centuries of experience in handling us perfectly. We are practically helpless before their lustful desires.”

 

“Indeed we do, and indeed you are.” I began handling her, and enjoyed the soft moans and cries from her body. 

 

Moments later I tore the edge of a condom packet with my teeth, slipped the rubber on my cock and was inside of her, and then we set about, me thrusting, her pushing back with her hips, and us both crying out with the motion of the train adding to our pleasure. 

 

I took hold of her wrists, pressed them down either side of her head, rendering her helpless, and, seeing the excited shock in her eyes that I had done that, set to work in earnest.

 

Later, Kelly lay beside me, her head resting against my chest. One of my hands rested on her breasts, gently stroking them as the train drove on into the dark night.