Kajirus of Gor Chapter Thirty Six

 

“What are you doing?” Chelsea took a measured step back as I approached her, holding a supple leather leash in my right hand.

 

“Leashing you, Mistress.”

 

“Don’t even think of it!” she snapped. She stood in her loft apartment, looking the very picture of slave loveliness, as she held up the palm of her right hand, ordering me to stop right where I was. She wore a slave tunic with its deeply plunging neckline that also drew attention to the smooth steel collar about her throat: the collar she was incapable of removing. She was barefoot, and would have no nether under garments under the brief, thin, clinging tunic. I could clearly see the outlines of her nipples. She probably wasn’t aware, but they were slightly enlarged. Standing before a man like this seemed to excite her on some subliminal level.

 

“It is part of your disguise, Mistress.”

 

“And I’m saying it’s not. You are not taking me through the streets of Argentum at the end of a leash.”

 

“It is common practice when men walk their slaves.”

 

“I don’t care. I will not be leashed. That is the end of the matter.”

 

I put the leash aside. She was my mistress, after all. 

 

“How do I look?” she asked, in an apprehensive voice.

 

“Very convincing, Mistress. Can you turn please, on the ball of one foot?”

 

She did so, turning perfectly in a fluid movement that would do a slave proud. I gazed at the loveliness of her slight figure and those rich breasts, curving so well in the revealing garment, and balancing out the neat swell of her ass cheeks. 

 

“Will men think of me as a slave?” she asked.

 

“I’m certain they will.”

 

“They are fools then,” she said with a smile. “I was afraid that if they looked closely they would realise I couldn’t possibly be a slave.”

 

She seemed to relax a bit. She had been afraid that her secret might be found out.

 

“If they look closely, Mistress, it will not be to evaluate you as a possible Free Woman.”

 

“Oh?” She paced about the room, feeling the rough floorboards beneath the soft soles of her feet. We had some time to kill before it might be safe to leave the building without a Free Woman from the other floors seeing us.

 

“They will appraise your body the way they would appraise a slave.”

 

She tossed her head, annoyed. “Men are beasts. Gorean men, that is.” She smiled softly. “You’re different from them, of course. And I appreciate what you are doing for me.” She skipped lightly over to where I stood, and touched my chest with her hand. “You look so manly in that wool tunic, with your neck now bare.”

 

I smiled. I felt more manly, now that I wore the garments of a Gorean free man, and I no longer wore a slave collar. “And I appreciate that you will free me afterwards, Mistress. It is kind of you.”

 

“Oh, yes.” She paused for a moment. “That. Of course.” She looked away and sucked in her lower lip.

 

I had, when the moment felt right, broached the subject of my possible freedom. I had couched the request politely, and I had asked whether she might seek to reward my duty to her by truly freeing me after we returned from the metal worker. Chelsea had to say yes, of course, regardless of her true feelings on the matter. Firstly, there was no advantage to be gained in disappointing me ahead of the visit to the metal worker. Better that I seemed happy and content. Secondly, the promise of my freedom would be strong motivation for me to ensure she remained free. There could be no duplicity on my part if I had the reasonable expectation of freedom once the collar was removed from Chelsea’s lovely throat.

 

And so she had promised me my freedom. But would she keep her word? I didn’t know. 

 

“We will still be together, Mistress, if that is what you want.”

 

She regarded me, but said nothing. She seemed preoccupied by the wood grain on the door, running her fingers lightly down the lines.

 

“But we will live as a free man and a free woman. I will not leave you.”

 

She said nothing still.

 

“That is if you will want me still, after you free me,”

 

Chelsea glanced down at the hem of her garment and tugged at it. “I am concerned that this hem might ride up and expose the area of my thigh where there would otherwise be a brand.”

 

“The tunic is shorter than the one you wore previously, Mistress, but the one you wore before was not really slave short the way it would be if you had a real master. He would never have chosen your old garment.”

 

“I preferred the old one.”

 

I’m sure she did. It covered more of her thighs than the one I bought for her from the market stall. I enjoyed looking at Chelsea’s legs and thought I may as well have that pleasure for a few ahn.

 

“It’s more believable this way, Mistress.” I watched as she tugged the hem again. It was a charming and modest motion. Slaves new to their collar might often do such a thing until their master, irritated by the constant adjusting of the tunic, told them to leave well alone. The simple fact is, if a man puts a girl in a short tunic, it is because he wants to view her legs at his leisure. The constant fiddling with the length of the hem frustrates his enjoyment of his slave. 

 

We timed leaving the building to coincide with the quiet times when we might reasonably not be seen. Even so, I felt nervous descending the stairs with a scantily clad Chelsea by my side. This was no doubt the same level of fear she routinely felt when she sneaked out once a week to meet with her two slave friends. Chelsea had not spoken to me about them, nor had she deigned to explain how it was she had locked a slave collar around her neck. Officially then, I knew nothing of her secret rendezvous in the area of the Dautium square. I knew nothing of the two collared slaves with whom she would roam the city quarter, laughing, gossiping and exploring the parks and streets.

 

Earlier in her apartment, Chelsea had produced the key to my collar and had unlocked it as I knelt before her. For the first time since coming to Gor, I no longer wore a slave collar. 

 

The absence of the weight of the steel was immediately obvious to me after having worn it for so long.

 

“Does it feel very different to have a bare neck again?” Chelsea asked, as she placed the open collar on a side table. 

 

“It does.” What it felt like was that I was free again. And as I stood there, relishing the difference, I swore to myself that I would not submit to have the collar replaced any time soon. 

 

“You are still a slave, of course. There are papers filed in the central cylinder. Do not forget that I am your mistress.”

 

My mistress wore a slave collar and tunic and was barefoot. I towered above her, seemingly a free man. It was difficult to think of myself as owned by her now. 

 

“Of course, Mistress,” I said. 

 

“Is anyone looking at me?” Chelsea whispered as she later paced beside me down the street. We had left the building without being seen.

 

“Some men, yes,” I replied.

 

“Oh.” Imperceptibly, Chelsea straightened her posture, sucked in her stomach and thrust her breasts just a little. There was the slight motion of a wiggle to her hips. Incredibly, I don’t think she realised she was doing this. 

 

“I hardly dare look,” she remarked. 

 

“A man selling fish has just gazed at your legs.”

 

“Oh.” She blushed and tugged down at the hem.

 

“Don’t do that,” I said. I was no longer calling her mistress, of course. It wouldn’t do for anyone to overhear me saying that. 

 

“Don’t do what?”

 

“Don’t tug down the hem of your tunic. I will straighten it myself if it threatens to rise up to where your brand should lie.”

 

“But it’s so short! I should have worn my other tunic.”

 

I wasn’t supposed to know why Chelsea owned a slave tunic for a girl her size, nor had I dared to ask. 

 

“The other tunic is too modest. It would prompt the curiosity of men passing us by on the street. They might stop to enquire why I had dressed you in a modest tunic.”

 

“But still.” Chelsea tugged at the hem again with her hands.

 

“I said stop doing that. It will be noticed.”

 

“But it is so brief!” She crossed her arms about her breasts. “And I am sure this fabric is tighter on me. I feel so exposed!”

 

It was. Much tighter. And she was very exposed. 

 

“Put your arms down, Kelsee, and keep them at your sides.”

 

Kelsee.

 

I had asked her earlier in the day what I should call her, if I needed to use a slave name. Kelsee, she had said. From the speed by which she came up with that name, I suspected it was the same name she had used when she would secretly meet with her two slave friends. Kelsee: I liked it. It sounded both Gorean and a conversion of her actual name, Chelsea.

 

“This is intolerable,” she whispered as she lowered her arms. “Is anyone looking at me?”

 

“Yes. A guardsman just took a look at your lovely ass as he walked by. He seemed to like what he saw.”

 

“How dare he!” said Chelsea. 

 

“He thinks you are a slave, remember.” 

 

She smiled softly to herself, as if in on some obscure joke. We walked through the streets of Argentum, in the direction of the Dautium square, beyond which we would find streets leading to the shop stores of the metal workers. I carried a pouch of coins from the money Chelsea had secreted under her floor board. It would be sufficient to pay for the collar to be cut loose and for any other expenses I might need to settle along the way. Chelsea had placed something else under the floorboard. It was something incredible precious to her, that she normally carried with her at all times, but which she didn’t dare carry as a slave.

 

It was of course the Bannon ring – the one I had first seen hanging around her neck on a light silver chain that first night when she had stripped before me to her silken slip, before putting me to use. Normally it was hidden beneath her robes and gowns.

 

The Bannon ring. Her passage to Gor.

 

She didn’t know that I had recognised it. She didn’t know that Felicity had told me of its importance at the Bighorn hiking trail camp site. She made no attempt to hide it from me during the days and nights I was her silk slave.  

 

“Are you hungry?” I asked.

 

“I suppose.” Chelsea sniffed the air and noticed the delicious scent of freshly cooked street food. 

 

“I could buy you a pastry?” I jingled the small coin pouch.

 

“Like you’d buy a slave a pastry, I suppose?” said Chelsea. Her hands hovered close to the hem of her tunic as she felt the material ride up just a little. 

 

“Don’t,” I said, as I saw those fingers twitch.

 

“You’re not actually my master, you know,” she hissed. She quickly tugged the tunic hem back as far as it might stretch. I grew annoyed that she wasn’t taking this deception seriously. 

 

We walked past a pastry stall and I saw the look of surprise on Chelsea’s face. She had paused briefly, expecting me to stop, too, and then had to take quick steps to catch up with me when I didn’t. “I thought you were going to buy me a pastry?”

 

“I thought you didn’t like the idea?”

 

“Well I do.” She glanced back at the stall. “I do like the idea. I want a sweet pastry!”

 

I bought her a sweet, sticky, berry pastry, and stood here watching her take small bites from it. “Gorean pastries are so delicious,” she said. “I don’t know what they do to them.”

 

“The food is more natural. There’s no artificial chemical additives.”

 

“You’re not having one?” she asked.

 

“Call me master,” I said. “People might notice the absence of the word from your lips.”

 

Chelsea offered an annoyed frown and then said, “you’re not having one, Master?”

 

“I’ll have one on the way back.”

 

Chelsea nodded as she sucked at the sweetness coating her fingers. “Your loss.” Catching my irritated expression, she quickly added a belated, “Master.” 

 

“Shall we just go back?” I suggested. “Because the metal worker isn’t going to believe I have mastered you.”

 

‘Very well. I’ll remember to call you master from now on.” Chelsea finished the last of the pastry.

 

“And you should be on a leash,” I said.

 

“I’m not being led around Argentum on a leash.” She licked her lips. “That was delicious. I may have another on the way back. Something to celebrate being free of this collar.”

 

“Not so loud,” I whispered. “You’ve got to be careful how you speak. You could be overheard.”

 

We walked on. I noticed a nervousness in Chelsea as we entered the area of the Dautium. I saw how she now lowered her head and I realised she was concerned that her two friends might be nearby. She didn’t want them to see her today, not while she was with me. That would be awkward, for she didn’t know I knew anything about her secret life. But I saw neither of the girls and so we passed through the square, and on towards the area where we might find the store fronts of the metal workers. My gaze drifted briefly towards a side street, down which at the end could be found a very particular Paga Tavern, where quite possibly, a very beautiful paga slave was chained in its display alcove. 

 

But I thrust all thoughts of the lovely Fliss from my mind. I had a job to do. 

 

“You seemed nervous in the square, just now,” I remarked as we walked on past the Dautium.

 

“Oh?” Chelsea was now feeling confident again. In fact, she was even possibly enjoying this moment of walking through Argentum in the role of a slave girl beside her master. “Is anyone looking at me?” she asked.

 

“A free Woman hissed as you passed by.”

 

“I mean men,” she remarked, annoyed. “Why should I care if a Free Woman looks at me?”

 

“Why should you care if a man looks at you?”

 

“Um. I don’t. I don’t care.” She blushed. “I’m just making conversation.”

 

“You look lovely, by the way.”

 

“Oh?” She turned, surprised to hear me say that.

 

“Truly lovely.”

 

“How lovely?” 

 

“Well, a collar makes a woman many, many times more beautiful. So very lovely.”

 

“Out of ten?” she asked, laughing softly.

 

“Eight.”

 

“Eight?” She frowned. 

 

“Eight is a high mark.”

 

“It is not a nine or a ten.”

 

“And you do not have a brand on your thigh. With a brand you would be a nine.”

 

“And what would I have to do to be a ten?”

 

“Sirik chains, perhaps? I like the sight of sirik chains on a girl.”

 

“Beast.” She laughed softly again, and skipped a few steps ahead of me until I clicked my fingers and to her surprise motioned for her to heel me.

 

“What?” she seemed surprised that I dared do that. 

 

“Heel me. Slaves do not run ahead of their master.”

 

“Heel you?”

 

I clicked my fingers again and pointed to my feet.

 

“You’re taking this far too seriously,” she whispered as she fell in beside me again. “Don’t forget that I’m your mistress. Don’t forget that I own you.” 

 

We found the store front of a metal worker and entered through the open, arched doorway. It was hot inside from the two furnaces that were burning, along with two braziers containing hot coals. The metal worker looked like a very strong man as he worked with care, inscribing letters on the surface of a slave collar. 

 

“I’ll be with you in a few ehn,” he said, casually looking up. “You can leash your slave to the post over there.” He indicated a slave post set with several iron rings to which collar leashes might be tied. 

 

“She’s a well behaved girl,” I said. “That won’t be necessary.”

 

“I don’t care if she’s well behaved or not,” said the metal worker. “Slaves are leashed in my workshop.”

 

Chelsea seemed to mouth a silent ‘no’ to me as I picked up a spare leash from a table and clipped it to her collar ring. I then leashed her to the slave post. “Kneel, Kelsee,” I said.

 

She looked angry, but she then knelt beside the post. The leash did look lovely, looping down between her breasts from the collar ring. I noticed that she automatically knelt in Tower, the way Free Women do.

 

“Nadu,” I said, before the metal worker might notice the inconsistency.

 

There was a trace of blush on Chelsea’s cheeks as she adjusted her kneeling position, opening her thighs before me. I watched as she then straightened her back and placed the palms of her hands down on her thighs. 

 

“What do you require?” asked the metal smith as he continued with his careful engraving.

 

“Kelsee’s collar is faulty. The key won’t turn in the locking mechanism. I need you to open it.”

 

The metal worker said nothing for a few ihn. He then regarded me. “I can’t place your accent. You are not native to this city?”

 

“No,” I admitted. “I am a traveller, living for a while in Argentum.”

 

“Your Gorean is rough.”

 

“As I said, I am a traveller, from a far off land.”

 

The metal worker continued with his careful and precise work. He seemed to be taking great care with the quality of his engraving. Most Goreans take considerable pride in anything they craft. Each item is personal, and demonstrates their skill and learning. After maybe ten ehn, he put the finished collar down on his work bench, wiped his hands on a rag, and scratched the back of his neck. 

 

“A faulty lock, or a faulty key?”

 

“It is the lock. I have two keys. Neither works.”

 

He man nodded, walked round his bench and approached a nervous looking Chelsea. She was perhaps only too aware of the branding rack that stood prominently in this workshop, and the heated coals with branding irons thrust deep in those coals. This was not a place where a girl might feel herself comfortable. 

 

I watched as the man examined the collar around Chelsea’s neck. She knelt silently, turning her head as instructed.

 

“There are scratches and abrasions around the locking mechanism,” he observed.

 

“Yes, I noticed those, too.”

 

“Your girl has attempted to free herself, it seems.”

 

“I have whipped her for it.”

 

“She does not look like a girl who has been recently whipped.”

 

“It was a long time ago.”

 

“The marks on the steel are recent. Perhaps only a day or two ago.”

 

I nodded. “Thank you for telling me. Perhaps she has been scratching at her collar again with a sharp stone or tool. I will punish her later tonight.”

 

“Where is your Home Stone?”

 

“It is far away. You would not know it.”

 

“Specifically?”

 

“The city of New York,” I said. 

 

“Newark?” he mis-pronounced the name. “You are right – I have not heard of the city.”

 

“It is far away. Hence my accent.”

 

The metal worker regarded Chelsea for a while. “And this is your slave?”

 

“She is my slave, yes. Her name is Kelsee.”

 

“You have papers of ownership?”

 

“Not on me, no.”

 

“You understand that a metal worker commonly asks to see papers of ownership before he removes a collar from a girl? There are always some scoundrels about who might steal another man’s girl and try to switch collars to avoid detection.”

 

“Kelsee is my slave,” I said. “I am sorry I am not carrying her papers with me.”

 

“I am his slave, Master,” said Cheslea, quickly. The man looked angry that she had spoken to him like that.

 

“Did I ask you a question, girl?”

 

“No, Master,” said Chelsea. Her voice sounded a little anxious. “I am sorry, Master.”

 

“She seems poorly disciplined,” said the metal worker.

 

“I will address the matter when we return home,” I said.

 

“You could address it now?”

 

“I would rather wait until later.”

 

I felt the metal worker study me again, carefully.

 

“If you do not have slave ownership papers to show me, I will need to record your identity before I remove her collar.”

 

“My name is Roland.”

 

“Do you have papers of citizenship?”

 

“I am not a citizen of Argentum, rather just a traveller, passing through.”

 

“Papers of residency, then?” His eyes narrowed.

 

“I do not have them with me. I am sorry – I didn’t know they might be required.”

 

“They are required. I cannot just remove the collar of a slave girl without evidence the girl actually belongs to you, or evidence of who you are.”

 

“Perhaps I should return with some papers,” I said, acting as if everything was fine and this was just a foolish oversight on my part.

 

Five ehn later I led Chelsea back out of the workshop. The collar was still locked around her neck.

 

“You didn’t handle that very well,” she snapped. She seemed anxious. She was still collared. “I thought for a moment he might call for a guardsman.”

 

“I thought so, too. I think other metal workers may well ask the same thing of us.”

 

“I’m still wearing this collar,” she said. Her voice rose and I quickly hushed her with a finger to her lips. “What are we going to do?” she said, more quietly than before.

 

To be honest, I didn’t know. My plan had seemed simple. I hadn’t counted on the problem of papers of ownership or residency. Obviously, as a silk slave, I possessed neither. 

 

“I can’t wear this collar,” she cried softly. “You have to remove it! Please!”

 

“I can’t,” I said. “Not yet. I’m thinking.”

 

Chelsea’s breathing grew more erratic. She was in shock again. She wore a collar and her hopes of being rid of it seemed dashed now. Would she now wear that collar around her lovely neck for the rest of her life? It seemed unthinkable. 

 

“Do something,” she sobbed. “Do something!”

 

“Stay calm,’ I said. “You are in no immediate danger.” 

 

“Kelsee!” We heard a girl’s voice from across the square. While talking, we had casually re-entered the area of the Dautium, passing by certain areas where naked or nearly naked girls were being displayed. I turned, and saw one of the two slave girls that Chelsea had secretly befriended. She wore a similar tunic to Chelsea, and she ran now, on scampering feet, to greet her friend. Chelsea seemed mortified to see the girl. How would she explain this to me? I watched as the girl embraced Chelsea.

 

“How lovely to see you and…” her eyes lit up as she saw me for the first time. “Oh! Kelsee, is this your mysterious master? We get to meet him at last!” She smiled softly to me and lowered her gaze. “I am Yarna, Master.”

 

“Yarna,” I said. I had to pretend to be confused by this, of course. Officially I didn’t know what Chelsea was doing, once a week, in the Dautium quarter. 

 

“So this is your friend, then, Yarna?” asked a man in the robes of the Scribes as he emerged from the crowd and suddenly joined us. 

 

“Yes, Master,” said Yarna, excitedly. “It’s Kelsee!” She turned round quickly and called out another name, into the maze of market stalls. “Tasha! Tasha! Come quick! It’s Kelsee! And she is with her mysterious master! Come and meet him! He is so handsome!”

 

Another girl appeared, running quickly in the way a cat might run to you when you rustle its box of dry food at dinner time. Tasha was of course the second of the two slave girls that I had seen meeting Chelsea in the past.

 

“Tal,” said the scribe, pleasantly enough, to me. “It seems our girls know one another. This is my Yarna, and this is my Tasha.” He seemed proud of his beautiful property, and I could see why. They were both lovely.

 

“And this is my Kelsee,” I said. “I didn’t know Kelsee had made new friends. Kelsee, you never told me?”

 

Chelsea looked now like she wanted the ground to open and swallow her up. 

 

The man chuckled. “Yarna and Tasha won’t stop talking about their new friend from the Dautium square. They spotted you both just now, so I thought I should come over and introduce myself.”

 

“My name is Roland Martell,” I said.

 

“And I am Julian Lepidus.” He smiled. “As you can probably tell from my heavy seals of office, I have the honour to be a city magistrate of Argentum.”