Kajirus of Gor Chapter Thirty Three

 

Felicity ran as fast as she could. The wyld wymen had begun to encircle her, but it seemed they were careless. There was a gap still – an opportunity – and she seized upon it. You go, girl. Felicity found herself blocked from running towards the woodland in the distance, and she was blocked from running into the timber settlement, or towards the Bighorn, but the wyld wymen had not yet closed off Felicity’s opportunity to flee across the flat prairie land that stretched out to the far horizon.

 

The wyld wymen had been careless, it seems, in trapping her. Felicity turned on her heels and ran as fast as she could, sprinting across the temperate grassland. This natural topography in Montana is often referred to as a sea of grass, and it can range from 15 inches in height to an impressive 36 inches in the case of green needlegrass. Felicity ran, barefoot, desperate to get away from these women who were about to turn on her.

 

I didn’t understand the meaning of la kajira. I didn’t understand that those words could be spoken in a specific context which was in effect a legal form of self-enslavement. La kajira. I am a slave girl.  

 

Felicity knew enough of the customs and laws of Gor to understand precisely what those words might mean on her lips if she spoke them to Hadley. She had no intention of doing so.

 

“She is getting away,” said Anthea.

 

“So she is,” said Hadley.

 

Felicity gained fifty yards distance, and then a hundred.  I saw her legs and arms pumping as she chose not to pace herself or conserve energy, but rather to sprint, to run flat out, to escape her would be captors. She gained a distance of two hundred yards and then widened it to four hundred. 

 

The sea of grass stretched onto the horizon, featureless, anonymous. It truly resembled an ocean.

 

“Remind me what the penalty for a runaway slave is?” said Anthea.

 

“For the first offence, commonly a whipping,” remarked Hadley.

 

“Of course. And for the second?’

 

“Commonly ham stringing of the ligaments at the knees. I will warn her of that further consequence after she is leashed and whipped.”

 

Anthea nodded. “I’m sure she is already aware of it. She is an Emery, after all. She would have been taught about Gor as a child.”

 

Felicity was still running. She had now gained five hundred yards from the settlement. She was a small figure, plunging on through grass that in places brushed the calves of her legs. 

 

“Rowan, give me binding fibre,” said Hadley. She seemed in no hurry. Binding fibre was brought forward and I watched as Hadley looped it about her left wrist for easy access. 

 

“She will tire soon,” said Aubree. Of all the girls, Aubree seemed closest to Hadley. I had noticed them often talking together, whispering, conferring. “See how she stumbles and her pace slows. She is not a marathon runner.”

 

“No, she is not that,” agreed Hadley. “I will need a neck leash, too.” She was given one by Aubree, and this too was wound about her left wrist. 

 

By now Felicity was glancing back at the distant camp. She seemed reassured that she wasn’t pursued, though I suppose she feared the sound of the flatbed truck being started up. Would the girls pursue her in that? The truck was a four wheeled drive, possibly military surplus, and it was capable of driving across rough ground. But none of the wyld wymen made any move to mount the truck and start the engine. 

 

“How many lashes?” Asked Anthea.

 

Hadley considered this. “For running? It is a serious matter for a kajira to attempt escape. Commonly no less than ten. It depends.”

 

“She is not yet collared or branded,” suggested Anthea. “She still thinks of herself as free. This is a panic reaction. It is to expected.”

 

“I am not as lenient as you,” said Hadley. “I remember the Heathers.”

 

In the distance, an exhausted Felicity stumbled to a halt, breathing heavily, She leaned forward, gulping in lungful’s of air, her back stooped slightly, her hands gripping her thighs as she momentarily rested.

 

“Pathetic,” said Hadley. She lifted and then returned her hunting knife to its belt sheath. “She has barely cleared six hundred yards.”

 

“It is rough ground and she is barefoot with soft soles,” said Anthea. “Also, she is excessively burning adrenaline.”

 

“She is running for her freedom. She should not stop to rest. She must know she is my prey.”

 

Felicity began to move again. She glanced back once more, surprised perhaps that there was still no sign of any pursuit. Encouraged by the six hundred yards that she had already achieved, she broke into a fast paced walk, to perhaps now conserve some stamina. Every now and then she would change her pace to a short run, and then fell back into a brisk walk. She grew more confident, perhaps, as the distance increased to eight hundred yards. Soon a pursuer on foot would have no chance of catching her.

 

“Are you going after her?” asked Anthea.

 

“I am in no hurry. Let her enjoy a moment of hope.”

 

“You are cruel,” said Anthea.

 

“She was one of the Heathers. I will not soon forget them.”

 

Felicity seemed to stop walking for a moment. Perhaps she now gazed out at the vast horizon stretching out before her. There were no real landmarks to be seen anywhere, just that vast expanse of prairie grass as far as the eye could see. Where was she going? She didn’t know. All that mattered was escape, escape from the collar, from the unthinkable horror of a brand. 

 

She had no food or water. She wore only her torn pyjamas, and she limped slightly, barefoot. The ground had probably been rough underfoot. 

 

“She hasn’t come back,” said Anthea. “Would her punishment have been lighter if she had returned?”

 

“Probably not,” said Hadley. “She is a runaway. She will be whipped. And afterwards she will not be capable of standing for the remainder of the day.”

 

Anthea nodded. “She is very foolish. Where does she think she is going?”

 

“She was always weak. I remember her in her pretty check skirt, knee high socks, expensive black heeled shoes, salon tan, and the Italian designer handbags, when we were at High School. She was always so privileged. All three of them were.”

 

By now Felicity would be conscious of the lack of any cover. The grass wasn’t high enough to hide in, and there were no trees, no features that might obscure her from view. She stood out on the wild prairie, obvious to anyone watching, a solitary figure, dressed in soft pink.

 

“She would have a hard time come nightfall,” remarked Anthea. “It can be cold out there when the wind picks up.”

 

“She won’t have to worry about that.” 

 

I think Hadley waited until Felicity had run/walked a good thousand yards before she let out a fierce ululating cry. Her voice carried far enough that Felicity turned round in surprise. Now Hadley raised a spear high above her head and let out that cry again. She looked fierce, strong, dominant – a huntress. Beside her, beside her six foot tall body, Anthea seemed in contrast to be a slender, feminine girl, despite Anthea’s similar form of garments. I was surprised, actually, that Anthea was the leader of these wyld wymen, for anyone watching would think Hadley was the more natural Amazonian presence. 

 

As Hadley’s second hunting cry carried across the prairie, Felicity broke into a sudden run. There was a thousand yards between her and the huntress, but she suddenly feared it might not be enough. And then Hadley launched herself into a galloping pace – the measured strides of a marathon runner. I knew instantly that Hadley was the sort of woman capable of running a swift marathon without rest. Felicity stumbled, picked herself up, gasped, and ran on, her arms waving at her sides as she struck sharp stones with her feet. 

 

Hadley began closing the gap from the moment she began running. And Hadley did not need to slow her pace or rest. It was like watching a Masai warrior sprinting across the African savanna. 

 

Felicity was doomed. It was only a matter of time. The poor girl stumbled on, running as far as she could before she slowed down into a fast walk. She would be gasping for air, unused to running such long distances at such an adrenaline fuelled pace. She glanced behind herself again and must have been startled to see that Hadley was now seven hundred yards and closing. Where had the other three hundred yards gone! She began running, but it was a slow run. Her body felt tired, she was out of breath and her feet hurt. But she had to keep running! Her pursuer was relentless.

 

For the third time, Hadley let out her ululating cry. It would have sent fear through Felicity’s body. She was being hunted! She was being hunted across the prairie! 

 

And she knew, I think, that she would be classed as a runaway slave. The penalty for being a runaway was severe. 

 

Perhaps the sensible thing might be to stop, to throw herself down on her knees, to beg obeisance when Hadley caught up, to submit wholly, to beg mercy, with her wrists crossed before Hadley. No, Felicity still ran. She stumbled. She cried out. She fell, and picked herself up again. She was so tired now. So desperate. And now the gap was six hundred yards and closing. The huntress had a spear and a knife and binding fibre and a leash. 

 

I had to respect Hadley’s prowess. I was a man, with all the natural advantages that nature had bestowed upon me, yet I would not wish to be hunted by her. She seemed less of a woman, and more a force of nature. She would expect nothing more than complete submission on her terms.

 

How as it that she was not the leader of the wyld wymen? It seemed strange to me. Maybe she had no desire to lead. Maybe she recognised that Anthea was better placed to make the sorts of decisions that would be best for the tribe as a whole. 

 

There was now less than four hundred yards between Felicity and Hadley. Felicity would be very scared now. Hadley’s pace didn’t change. She was a marathon runner. Felicity wasted time, repeatedly turning round, hoping beyond hope to see Hadley pausing to catch her breath, but every time Felicity turned round, she saw Hadley was gaining on her. She wept, wiped tears from the sharp wind with her sleeve and ran again, but only for a short distance before she had to slow once more to a walk. 

 

Hadley was now less than three hundred yards away, and once again she let loose with her ululating cry. It frightened Felicity. It was the cry of a huntress sighting prey. Felicity tried to run, but her breath was now so short. Her lungs would be burning. She would be drawing on her last reserves of stamina. 

 

Two hundred yards and then one hundred and fifty. 

 

What might Felicity be thinking now as she considered the inevitable? Hadley was not going to stop, and Felicity could not keep running indefinitely. 

 

One hundred yards.

 

She would be crying now, begging the wind and the grass to save her. Again she turned and saw a distance of but eighty yards. 

 

As the gap narrowed to fifty yards, Hadley sped up into a sprint. She seemed to fly towards Felicity, flashing through the wild grass. She brought Felicity down. No doubt Felicity screamed, but they were too far away for us to hear. 

 

It wasn’t long before Hadley rose up, holding a bound and naked girl by her hair. Felicity’s garments had been cut away, her wrists had been tied behind her back, and now Hadley secured a leash about her neck. 

 

And then, the huntress led home her prey.

 

Felicity was a sorry sight when she limped back to the settlement at the end of a leash. She looked weary, terrified, exhausted, her body covered in minor cuts and bruises. 

 

“We have a runaway slave,” said Hadley to the camp. The wyld wymen raised their spears and saluted her. Anthea watched with a dispassionate gaze. Again, I could not understand how Hadley was not the leader here. The other women looked to her for approval, or so it seemed to me. Well, not all. Rowan stood close to Anthea, like some loyal soldier. But many other wymen cried out Hadley’s name as she displayed her captive, leading Felicity, stumbling, her feet black with dirt, around in a circle.

 

“Do you know the penalty for running away, kajira?” said Hadley as she untied Felicity’s wrists.

 

“Please, no,” she wept. She had no fight left in her. Her body was quivering from complete exhaustion.

 

“Kneel,” said Hadley, and Felicity dropped to her knees. “A runaway who denies her slavery will receive thirty lashes.” There were gasps from the wyld wymen. Thirty lashes would be a severe punishment. Felicity looked terrified at the prospect. Could she survive thirty lashes from a whip held by this fierce Amazon? Possibly not. Felicity’s body was small, slender, deliciously curved. She was not built to withstand such punishment. “A slave, however, will receive only eight. Decide.”

 

“La kajira,” wept Felicity. And, as Hadley gazed down at her, Felicity lowered her forehead to touch Hadley’s feet. 

 

I didn’t understand the significance of those words at the time, but I know now that a terrified Felicity had declared herself a slave girl under Gorean law. From that moment on she was no longer a free captive. 

 

And then Felicity was placed against a wooden post, her wrists lashed to an iron ring above her head. She squirmed on the tips of her toes, struggling to maintain balance, for she was slightly too short for the height of the ring. Hadley was given a whip, which she trailed along the ground.

 

“You have not been found pleasing, kajira,” she said.

 

I think Felicity was possibly numb with shock before the first lash of the whip struck, but once it did her body came alive, screaming, wracked with pain. She writhed and cried out with each blow. She received eight such strokes, carefully measured and paced to maximise the pain.

 

It was clear to me that Felicity’s body was not built to endure hardship. Her body shape had evolved through many generations to be soft, lovely, endearing to men. This must have been hard for her. 

 

After the punishment was over, she was cut down and made to kiss the very whip that had punished her.

 

“What are you?” asked Hadley as she held the whip.

 

“La kajira, Mistress,” sobbed Felicity. Her back was criss-crossed with whip marks. She must have been in agony. 

 

I was furious. Despite Felicity’s deception, despite everything she had done, the sight of her in pain boiled my blood. I turned my gaze and saw the pale, shocked, face of Kelly Milford. I could only imagine what she must now be thinking, having witnessed all of this. Summer and Brielle stood either side of her, ready to act if Kelly made any unexpected motions. 

 

“You will be going to Gor, slave, just not the way you thought you might.” Hadley reached down and worked the Bannon ring from Felicity’s left hand. “And you will certainly not need this ring to seek passage aboard a slave ship. A transport tube has been reserved for you already.”

 

“Please, no…” she sobbed.

 

“I just wish I had all of the Heathers kneeling before me now. But some ambitions are just too ambitious.”

 

“Are you satisfied now?” asked Anthea as she joined Hadley. The two wyld wymen regarded one another. “You’ve had your revenge? How does it feel?” She took the ring now from Hadley’s hand. 

 

Hadley just smiled. 

 

“Take Felicity inside. She’ll need time to recover from the whipping,” said Anthea as she began to turn away to address other business.

 

“No,” said Hadley. She stood there with her spear resting butt first against the ground. “She should be tied to a post, Anthea, displayed as a warning to any other kajira who considers running.”

 

“Have some pity,” said Anthea. “She can barely stand.”

 

“Then let the snug wrist ties from the slave ring support her weight,” said Hadley. 

 

“No.” Anthea shook her head. “Felicity has learned an important lesson today. We will give her a chance to recover before she is brought to the exchange point.”

 

“She is my captive,” said Hadley. “You said I could have my revenge.”

“Within reason. She upset you at school. I understand that. But it was a long time ago, and she was a child then. She has been punished. She will be a slave girl for the rest of her life on Gor. I am tribe leader. My decision stands.”

 

Hadley said nothing, but simply turned and moved away, accompanied by Aubree, Brielle and Summer. Rowan, standing beside Anthea, watched them leave. 

 

Kelly had seen everything. The look of shock on her face told me that she hadn’t expected any of it. 

 

“It’s difficult the first time,” said Anthea as she now approached Kelly. Kelly stood there wearing just her pretty panties and a t-shirt. If Anthea looked smaller, weaker, more feminine than Hadley, there was the same pronounced difference between Kelly and Anthea. “I understand that no one would have told you about this, how we truly live. You have a lot to learn, as do all the girls who join us.” Anthea stood there, with Rowan by her side. “There are those in life who are dominant, and those who submit. It is the age old natural order of life. It reaches down into the animal kingdom.”

 

“Can I go home?” asked Kelly, quietly.

 

Anthea smiled. “You know you can’t.”

 

Kelly nodded. She looked, fearfully, at the pathetic figure that was now the once proud Felicity Emery. She lay in the grass, her back whipped, having declared herself a kajira. Kelly didn’t understand Felicity’s new legal status any more than I did, of course. What Felicity had said and done was impossible for her to reverse or deny. When a woman declares herself a slave, there is never any going back. Not under Gorean law, anyway. 

 

“The question you have to ask yourself now, Kelly Anne Milford, after having seen our ways, is, do you wish to be dominant, or do you wish to submit?”

 

There was only one thing Kelly could day now, of course. And I didn’t blame her in the slightest. “Dominant,” she said. “I want to be a wyld wyman.”

 

“You’re not just saying that because you do not want to be collared and branded and sold?” asked Anthea.

 

“No! I am dominant. I have always been dominant.” Kelly looked lovely in her panties and tight t-shirt. She looked many things, but she looked far closer in build and demeanour to Felicity than she did to Anthea.

 

“Then, this afternoon you will be put to the test, Kelly Anne Milford. For your sake, I hope you are not found wanting.”