Kajirus of Gor Chapter Thirty Four

 

I hadn’t expected to feel any sympathy for Chelsea, so I surprised myself when I entered the apartment room that afternoon, and saw her hiding in her bed with the coverings tucked up under her chin. It was almost as if my mistress was hiding something from me. 

 

“Good afternoon, Mistress. I hope you had a good day?”

 

She whimpered and turned her face from me. She would of course now be wearing a steel collar about her throat. I suspected she might be naked, or dressed only in a slip under the coverlets. She had possibly spent an ahn or so before I returned, desperately trying to turn both keys in the locking mechanism of her collar – the very same collar she had casually locked around her throat this morning.

 

At first she probably fumbled with the lock, frustrated, and only after a few futile attempts with both keys would panic have set in. It was locked on her. Neither key now worked. There had to be something wrong with the locking mechanism. Had she run in panic to her wall mirror and stared at herself, clad still in a slave tunic, with an inflexible band of steel around her throat? Had she pulled with all her strength at the band of steel, thinking perhaps she might pull the lock open? There was no chance of that. Had she tried – a ridiculous notion, but panic conveys little in the way of common sense – tried to slip the collar up above her head? Had she beat her fists against the wall in desperation, crying as she realised she had no way of removing that collar now?

 

And had she finally remembered that I would be home soon, and so had rushed to her couch bed, drawing the coverings about her, thrusting them high under her chin to conceal the glimpse of steel?

 

I felt some pity, knowing what I knew, and that surprised me. I had to remind myself that Chelsea had chosen to keep me as a slave. She could have freed me. We could have both lived as free man and free woman in Argentum. She chose not to free me. Why should I pity her now? And yet I did feel such emotions. I suppose cruelty doesn’t come naturally to me.

 

“Is something wrong, Mistress?”

 

She whimpered softly again. 

 

I saw her robes and gowns hanging from a peg where she would have hung them this morning after undressing, before she disguised herself as a kajira. It is not easy for a woman to undress herself without assistance. It can take up to half an ahn. Dressing herself in the full gowns and robes is even harder as so many of the tiny hooks and clasps are nearly impossible to manipulate behind her back. I refer of course to the rich, expensive, clothes of a woman such as Chelsea. The poorer women of Argentum wear simpler garments that they can dress themselves in, as they do not own slaves. In many ways, owning and wearing clothes that you cannot easily arrange around your body alone is a symbol of how wealthy and important you are. You are making a statement that you are obviously an important woman, as you could not possibly dress yourself without the aid of the slaves that you own.

 

I noticed that her garments hanging from the hook included her silken slip under thing. Did that mean she was naked under the coverings? Or… could it even be that she still wore the slave tunic? Had she lost track of time in her attempts to loosen the steel collar, and, hearing my footsteps on the landing outside this apartment, had hurried to hide herself before the door opened?

 

Was she even now dressed as a slave girl? It was an exciting thought. 

 

“Shall I begin cooking your evening meal, Mistress?” I asked. I had brought food with me from the market.

 

“Roland…” there were tears in her eyes as she clutched the coverings about her chin.

 

“Yes, Mistress?”

 

“I have done something very stupid.” She had to tell me of course. It would be impossible for her to live in this apartment without me seeing the collar. There was no way she could hide it from me.

 

I would have to act surprised. I mustn’t in any way act as if I knew what had happened. She might not tell me the full story. I had to be careful that nothing I then said suggested I knew things that hadn’t been revealed.

 

“Can I help at all, Mistress?” I approached the couch bed, the very pained expression of concern. “Are you hurt at all?”

 

“I’m…” she closed her eyes. Perhaps she thought if she couldn’t see me, her shame might not be quite so hard to bear. “I’m collared.”

 

“I don’t understand.”

 

“I’m wearing…” she sobbed. I actually felt pangs of guilt now and had to remind myself again that this woman was keeping me as a slave. “I’m wearing a slave collar…”

 

“How is that possible?” I hope I seemed astonished, confused, wracked with disbelief. “Someone did this to you?”

 

And then she began to cry, and much to my surprise, I felt wretched seeing her like this. I took no sadistic pleasure from seeing Chelsea suffering. 

 

“Chelsea,” I spoke her name for the first time in all the months of bondage to her. It was a slip of the tongue, but she didn’t seem to mind. I sat down on the edge of the couch and touched her hair. “Tell me, tell me what has happened.” When she leaned her head towards my hand, I took a gamble and stroked her head. Her tears became worse, but she seemed to take some comfort from the kindness of my touch. Gently, one at a time, I prised her small fingers from the edge of the coverlet and slowly drew it down to expose her throat. Her crying became worse, for she knew what I would see. What she didn’t know was, I already knew what I would see, long before I even returned to the apartment.

 

And there it was – her slave collar. There were small scratches around the locking mechanism where she had perhaps struck at it repeatedly with a tool, in her frustration and grief. She had to be careful doing that. It would be easy for the tool to slip on the smooth steel, and for Chelsea to stab herself in the neck. 

 

“Who has the key?” I asked.

 

“I do.” She sobbed some more. “Both keys. They are on the side table. They don’t work! THEY DON”T WORK!” There was panic in her voice.

 

“Let me try. Perhaps it is the angle of your fingers.” I reached over and retrieved both of the now useless keys. To the naked eye they would seem the same as before, but now both keys had small bits of metal carefully filed away in the same places. Chelsea would assume that the keys were fine, and that the fault was with the locking mechanism of the collar itself. Everything had gone to plan, earlier on. I had, a few days ago, filed away some edges on the key that was indeed hidden in an upturned hem of her slave tunic, and, after she had left this morning, I had used her concealed door key to return to the apartment and file away the exact same points on the second collar key she had secreted under the loose floorboard, after using it to lock the collar on her neck. My simple plan had worked very well. 

 

And now I actually felt guilty. She was distressed, afraid, possibly even desperate. I was used to seeing a confident and dominant woman during the day. The simple addition of a slave collar had swept aside her confidence and self-assurance.

 

I tried both keys, and of course neither of them would turn in the locking mechanism. I had seen to that. ‘They don’t work, Mistress.”

 

“I know. I know,” she sobbed. “Roland, what am I going to do?”

 

Time to play dumb. Suggest things she knows are impossible.

 

“You will need a skilled locksmith or metal worker to open this, Mistress. It will not be easy.”

 

I knew how she would respond before she even said anything.

 

“I can’t go to a metal worker or a locksmith! Not with a collar around my neck! I would be hauled before a magistrate to explain myself.”

 

“Oh.” I acted dumb. “Could you not claim someone did this to you?”

 

Chelsea looked exasperated as she heard me say that. “Really? Someone just crept up on me and locked a collar about my neck? A magistrate is hardly going to believe that.”

 

“it could happen. Some joke in poor taste perhaps?”

 

“The collar can be traced to a particular trader who made it. He will have records that a Lady bought it for her personal slave. He will know the name of that particular Lady. He would then inform the magistrate.”

 

“That is you? This is your collar? You actually bought it?”

 

She sobbed again, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, Roland, I have been so foolish.” The coverings had slipped down now and I could clearly see she still wore her slave tunic, the one with the plunging neckline that revealed the deep valley of her breasts. The tunic was tight on her, as slave tunics tend to be, for the rep cloth has some stretch to it. I could clearly see the impression of her nipples through the thin cloth. Now I didn’t just feel pity for her, but also a growing sense of arousal. I wasn’t looking at a Free Woman, I was looking at a soft, beautiful, slave girl. 

 

I was an Earth man, not a Gorean native, and yet, I had been on Gor long enough now to begin to appreciate just why Gorean men desired to see their women in steel collars, dressed in brief, clinging, slave tunics, with deep plunging necklines. Was it wrong to treat them in this way? I suppose it was. But was it exciting to see them like this? My body answered that question before I might even consider the moral ramifications of it. 

 

The fact was, I found slave girls to be extremely desirable. You try living on Gor for many months, surrounded by the scantily clad beauties, and you try to keep a detached and moralistic viewpoint, as you see them pass by in their collars and tunics. Ignoring the right or wrong, the sight of them triggered strong sexual feelings in me. I couldn’t help myself. I was a man.

 

“What am I going to do?” She sobbed. Gone was the proud Free Woman. I put my arms about her and felt that lovely body snuggle against my chest for comfort and security. Women forget that their natural impulse at times of trouble is to seek safety with a man. Their bodies will compel them to do this. “I can’t wear a collar! Only slaves wear collars! Only slaves!”

 

She was so lovely. I held her as a man actually holds a woman, for the first time. I was not holding her as a slave might. I brushed her hair and told her I was here for her.

I was hard now, from holding her so closely. I was holding a woman who wore a slave collar. How could I not be hard? Thankfully, she wasn’t aware of how I was feeling. 

 

“You will think of something, Chelsea.” It had been so long since her name had been on my lips. She should have rebuked me for using her name, but she no longer cared, it seems. The collar consumed her thoughts now. The collar was all she could think about.

 

“What am I going to do, Roland? What am I going to do?”

 

“You will need specialist help to remove that steel. We know that. The question then is how you can go to a metal worker without then being dragged to a magistrate for conduct unbecoming a Free Woman. For you are right, the magistrate would investigate, and ultimately sentence you to slavery.”

 

“Slavery!” Her eyes were wide with alarm. “No, no, no!”

 

“Hush.” I snuggled her again to my body and pressed my lips to her forehead. She was so scared now, and in her fear the mistress/slave relationship seemed to be suspended. 

 

“I’m not a slave! I’m not a slave!”

 

“Of course you are not a slave. Anyone can see you are a Free Woman,” I lied.

 

“Really?” There was a slight spark of hope in her lovely features.

 

“Of course. There is the world of difference between a slave wearing a collar, and a Free Woman wearing a collar. A world of difference. But still, it is conduct unbecoming.”

 

“I can’t live the rest of my life in a collar! I can’t!”

 

“You need to see a metal worker. There is no other way.”

 

“But he will send for a magistrate!” she wailed.

 

I had to be careful now. I couldn’t be seen to be suggesting the obvious course of action. The raw idea had to first come from Chelsea herself, or else she might suspect a trap. She had to ask me to pose as her master. I couldn’t, mustn’t suggest it, myself. 

 

I think she was hyper ventilating now. I saw her claw again at the steel band locked about her throat. I saw fresh wet tears. I felt sorry for her again, and had to remind myself that this woman was prepared to keep me as a slave, to deny me my freedom. I had to do this if I was ever going to be free. But still, I pitied her now. 

 

Carefully, I prised her fingers from the steel collar. “You can’t remove it,” I said. “It is locked on you.”

 

Fresh tears.

 

“You can never remove it, Mistress. Not by yourself.”

 

She buried her face against my chest, her body trembling.

 

If any Gorean ever caught a glimpse of that collar, if for example it might be seen briefly under the neckline of her robes, she would be stripped, sentenced and enslaved. It was that simple on Gor.

 

The collar was a ticking time bomb for her, that might go off at any time. 

 

Think, Chelsea. Think about this. You can’t go to a metal worker as a Free Woman. That is impossible. But you could go to him as a slave in the presence of your master. 

 

Think about it.

 

You are an intelligent woman. It is the only way. 

 

“Roland… what if… what if…” her words came with difficulty, “what if the metal worker thought I was… already a slave…”

 

“I’m not sure what you mean?”

 

She wiped some tears away and gazed up at me. She was formulating an idea but seemed horrified by the prospect. “If he thought I was a slave, already a slave, some common slut, belonging to a master, then… then there would be no grounds for suspicion, no grounds to summon a magistrate.”

 

“Slaves do not routinely turn up at the lathe of a metal worker and ask for a faulty collar to be removed, Mistress.”

 

“I know, but…” she seemed horrified by what she was about to suggest. “Hear me out…”

 

“I’m listening, Mistress.”

 

She touched my chest with her fingers. There was a pleading look to her face. She sniffed back fresh tears. “If I had a master… a man who claimed to be my master… if he took me to the metal worker…”

 

I grew so hard now. I hadn’t expected to feel this way, but the thought now struck me of what It might feel like to be, even if it was a pretence, and even if it was for just a short while, the master of Chelsea Savannah Frick. 

 

“There is no free man you could trust with this secret, Mistress. No Gorean man would be party to such a deception. He would have you taken before a magistrate for even suggesting such a thing.”

 

“Roland…” her eyes looked desperate. “There is you.” Her voice was so quiet now.

 

“Me, Mistress?” 

 

Yes, yes, yes. Follow the train of thought, Chelsea. It is the only way for you to lose the collar.

 

“You could…” she blushed, “you could pretend to be my master…”

 

I let silence reign for a moment. I tried to appear astonished. “Me, Mistress?” But I am your silk slave. I too wear a collar.”

 

“I could remove it,” she said, “I have the key. And you could pretend to own me.”

 

“I could own you?”

 

“A pretence, Roland, nothing more!”

 

“Of course. I think you may be on to something, Mistress. Tell me more.”

 

“I haven’t worked it all out yet,” she said, “but what if you owned me.” She laughed softly, for the idea was of course absurd. “I am talking of a pretence, of course.”

 

“Of course.” I held this luscious beauty in my arms, and imagined what it might be like to truly own her. I imagined her kneeling before me – I, now, a free man – her thighs parted, her body naked, save for the sirik chains that looped about her collar, wrists and ankles - ornamental and belled rings, perhaps, pierced through her nipples - as I caressed and prepared my beautiful slave to be put to carnal use upon the soft cushions. 

 

“I would, to all intents and purposes appear to be an actual slave.”

 

“The collar and tunic?” I observed.

 

“Yes!”

 

“You would have to act like a slave. You would have to be convincing, Mistress. Men can spot if a Free Woman is posing as a slave. There is a world of difference.”

 

“I… do not know how to pose as a slave,” she said.

 

“I could correct certain imperfections in your walk and manner,” I said as I pretended to give the concept some thought. “Trivial things that might give you away, or make the metal worker suspicious.”

 

“You would do that for me?”

 

“You are my Mistress,” I said with an encouraging smile. “I would then pretend to be your master?” I seemed eager to hear her plan. 

 

“Yes!” She touched me again. “You would own me! I would be your property.” She smiled softly again. “It would be a pretence, of course. It wouldn’t be real. How laughable the idea is that it could possibly be real.”

 

“Of course, Mistress. But the metal worker would not know?”

 

“Of course not. He would see you, an apparently free man, and me…”

 

“A luscious, exciting, beautiful slave girl, that I owned and mastered?”

 

She trembled a little as I said that. “A slave girl, yes.”

 

“Beautiful, collared, submissive, well mastered?”

 

“Such is the nature of slaves, I suppose,” said Chelsea. I could see I had planted a thought in her head now. Was it possibly, just possibly, an exciting one? 

 

“My Mistress is very clever,” I said, in apparent admiration. “I can see she will not be a collared Free Woman for very long.”