Kajirus of Gor Chapter Twenty Four

 

“I’m concerned that my mistress may have financial problems.” I said as I walked along the edge of the canal with the kajira, Amara, pacing barefoot beside me. We were sharing our lunch as we often did. I had a meat pastry and she had a draw string bag with scraps from her master’s breakfast table. Invariably my offerings were superior to anything she could share, but I didn’t really mind. It was the sharing something, that mattered. 

 

“Why is that, Roland?” Her Gorean was heavily accented, as was mine. We were both barbarians, both choice collar meat for the Gorean slavers who had abducted us. Our friendship was blossoming, and perhaps on Earth it might have developed into a meaningful relationship, but on Gor slaves were forbidden from coupling with one another. Amara was property. As was I. The laws of property ownership applied to both of us. 

 

“She has no obvious source of income so far as I can tell, and the money she has hidden in the apartment, what remains of it, was loaned to her by a friend.”

 

Amara took a small piece of the pastry that I offered to her. She smiled and placed it between her teeth as we walked together along the grassy canal bank. 

 

“She is lucky to have a friend like that,” said Amara. 

 

“Her friend is a slaver.”

 

“Oh.” Amara smiled. “Does she not know what might happen to a Free Woman who owes money to a slaver?”

 

“She’s not stupid. Of course she knows. But the slaver feels she has a responsibility towards my mistress. A family responsibility.”

 

“Well, that’s probably all right then,” said Amara. “Goreans honour their obligations.”

 

“Perhaps.” I said nothing of the fact that Kelapina and Darian, and the House of Diamandis believed that Chelsea’s surname was ‘Bannon’, and that their duty and obligations towards her were associated with that family name. But Chelsea wasn’t a Bannon. She was a Frick. To my knowledge, Kelapina owed no duty to the Frick family. The Fricks had connections with the city of Ar. Chelsea had told me that before. Each of the North American families had an arrangement with a different Gorean city. These territorial divisions had been agreed, contractually documented, and signed off by the heads of the various families in 1910 in what was referred to as the Washington Accords. The Steel World Ubar of London had been present to officiate, for in those days London was the foremost power in the Steel World conspiracy. I had learned a lot about the Steel Worlds and the Kurii during my months as a slave in Chelsea’s collar. She spoke often of her family’s past, and how the North American families now dominated the councils of Earth. 

 

London is no longer dominant.

 

These days London is almost a vassal state of the North American families, ever since Chelsea’s father had been murdered ten years ago by their Ubar. The North American families took a savage revenge on London for the killing. Many men were killed and many women enslaved before peace was declared. 

 

It is a sign of London’s weakness that the city is no longer permitted a Steel World Ubar. Instead, a Tatrix now rules there. A Tatrix who is essentially a puppet, advised by her council of ambassadors from the North American families. The Tatrix of London enjoys wealth and privilege bestowed upon her by the authority of North America, provided she doesn’t step out of line. I’m talking about the secret world of London, of course. The London of the Steel Worlds that exists in the shadow of our monarchy, our government; our church and state. 

 

“When London sued for peace,” Chelsea explained one evening as we sat and knelt in our apartment, the doors and windows securely bolted from the inside, “My uncle demanded that their new Tatrix travel to Boston and perform obeisance to us on her hands and knees. She did so naked, of course. My uncle then put her to use as a man does with a slave girl and afterwards sent her back to her so-called throne in London, where she would be under no illusions as to her true status in our eyes. Once a year she is obliged to travel back to Boston and perform obeisance once more. That way London knows never to insult us again.”

 

“My mistress keeps her remaining money under a floorboard,” I remarked. It was common practice on Gor, so I revealed nothing much by saying that. “I can only speculate how much of her original loan remains. I would not have been cheap, and then there would be the cost of her fine clothes, the payment in advance for the apartment, and our day to day living expenses.”

 

“If a family obligation exists, I suppose she can ask for more money?”

 

“Perhaps.” Again, I didn’t say that Chelsea was not truly the daughter of the Bannon family. Argentum had no loyalty to the Fricks, as far as I knew. 

 

The Washington Accords had, as I mentioned, set out which family would conduct business in which Gorean city. In 1910 the North American families were coming into their own and it was important that their business interests did not intrude upon one another. The Fricks were more powerful than the Bannons, and so they staked a claim to deal exclusively with Ar, a city that is arguably the most powerful one in central Gor. The second most powerful family in 1910 claimed the Ubarate of Cos as their area of interest. But the Bannons had to be satisfied with Argentum. They were lucky then, in the mid nineteen eighties, when their fortunes rose in tandem with Argentum defeating Corcyrus in the Silver Wars. 

 

“So why are you so troubled, Roland?” Amara’s fingertips dared to brush mine. We were alone on the canal bank, but even so we both feared that someone might suddenly appear from round the corner. A kajirus must never touch a kajira. It is strictly forbidden. 

 

“I suppose because I’m her principle asset. I’m the one thing she owns that could be sold to raise a significant sum of money. If she had to, my mistress could sell me.”

 

“Oh. You don’t want to be sold?”

 

“Would you want to be sold?” I asked the lovely kajira.

 

“No. No, I would fear that. The uncertainty of who I might then belong to…”

 

“Precisely.” I touched my collar. “If I’m going to be a slave, I would rather be owned by my current mistress.”

 

“She loves you,” laughed Amara. “She is so weak with you.”

 

“She can be strict,” I said, smarting at the suggestion that my mistress, Chelsea, wasn’t strong. “I have a strong mistress.”

 

“When were you last whipped?”

 

“A long time ago.’ I admitted.

 

“See! Weak! And look at the lovely lunch she gives you. And look at your pretty collar!”

 

It was a pretty collar. Almost feminine, in fact. Long gone was the crude collar that male work slaves might wear – the one I wore in the House of Diamandis when I was being trained as a silk slave. Chelsea had spent money and had bought a lighter, pretty, enamelled collar from the market. It was similar to the ones slave girls might wear. 

 

“I don’t like that heavy ugly thing you had from the slaver house,” she had explained on the day she took me to be fitted for a new collar. “You’re not a slave who works in the mines. You’re a Lady’s silk slave.”

 

“Pretty collar,” teased Amara. “For a pretty silk slave.”

 

“Stop it,” I said, as I nudged her with my elbow.

 

“Roland’s mistress loves him!” she said in a sing song voice.

 

“She doesn’t love me.”

 

“And Roland loves mistress!”

 

I blushed. “See!” She pointed excitedly at me. “You love your mistress!”

 

“It’s complicated. She’s a beautiful woman, Amara. It’s hard not to feel some emotions towards her.”

 

I had been in her collar for several months now, and she had put me to use so many times. Had I grown comfortable with her? Had I grown comfortable with slavery, being in Chelsea’s personal collar? Did I now secretly look forward to kneeling before her in the evenings, when she would remove her veils, and when I would massage her feet, and listen to her talk to me; and did I wait anxiously for the moment she might order me to the couch and tie my wrists to the headboard? Was I beginning to accept my slavery?

 

I struggled to remember that I was a man, and on Gor that meant I was the dominant sex.

 

I was supposed to be the dominant sex.

 

But of late it was hard to think in such a way. 

 

I found myself rarely fantasising now of taking a woman in my arms, rather I dreamt of a woman taking me, as I lay, bound and helpless on her Gorean couch. 

 

I was losing my mind, it seemed. 

 

“Would you want to be free, Amara? If you could be?”

 

“Of course,” she said, proudly. “But…”

 

“But?”

 

“I no longer dream of such a thing. I dream instead of being owned by a master, and when I wake up, I remember I am owned by a master.”

 

“A lucky master,” I said as I gazed at the lovely Indian girl.

 

“Would you buy me, if you were free?”

 

“I would. Without hesitation.”

 

She gazed quickly around the canal bank, in both directions, and then, and only then when she could see we were both alone, she quickly raised herself up on tiptoes and kissed me softly. It felt wonderful, but I knew we mustn’t dare linger with that kiss. Even so, several ihn passed before I could force myself to break from her kiss.

 

“But you are a slave, Roland. My kisses are not for you.” She seemed sad as she said that. 

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------

 

Later that day I ventured out onto the streets of Argentum with Chelsea, my mistress: the Lady Savanna. 

 

“Did you spend time with your friends, Mistress?” I asked. 

 

“No.” Her mood seemed abrupt. “I didn’t.”

 

I didn’t press the matter. I don’t think she had seen her neighbours, not socially anyway, for several days now. Had there been some sort of falling out? The whims of lofty Gorean women can be very fickle. 

 

We stopped by a stall, where Chelsea looked at some bolts of cloth laid out on a table. Women rarely buy finished garments in Argentum – that is not the way – rather they purchase fabrics that they like, and these fabrics are then stitched and sewn into garments by a seamstress. You rarely see finished gowns, robes or dresses on display, except perhaps as examples of a man or woman’s handiwork. Gorean society is not one of mass produced cheaply rendered goods. 

 

“What do you think of this brocade?” she asked me. It was brightly coloured with a subtle pattern. 

 

“It looks lovely, Mistress.”

 

“Well, I’m not so sure.” She put the fabric sample back down on the table. 

 

I gazed idly about the market place as my mistress continued to examine other bolts of cloth, and I became aware that passing Free Women might sometimes regard me in turn. A male silk slave is often of interest to women who don’t have the means or the freedom to purchase one themselves. We are in fact quite rare, which accounts for our high price, compared with the equivalent price of a slave girl. This has something to do with the difficulty of training a male slave. Men, unlike women, do not take readily to slavery. The male resents the nature of his slavery far longer than a woman might resent her fall to the collar. Men in collars remain dangerous for long periods of time, and there is some debate as to whether a male slave can ever truly be considered tame. Men – strong Gorean men, that is – have a reputation of acting irrationally, against their own survival instincts, if they are forced to submit to a woman. Many men, knowing full well that they may be killed for trying, will still succumb to their rage and fury and attempt to overpower their mistress, if she foolishly doesn’t keep her man restrained. They are generally indignant at the thought of being made to kneel and submit to a woman. It goes against their blood.

 

Earth men, on the other hand, are believed to be more readily accepting of their slavery, hence the reason why many silk slaves originate from Earth. We, it seems, can be tamed and trained.  

 

We walked on through the market. She was largely anonymous in her veils and gowns, though by now I was able to identify my mistress at a distance, simply from her mannerisms and the way she stood. I had learnt the subtle distinctions that marked her out from similarly attired and veiled females. It’s not as difficult as you might think, if you know a woman well. 

 

We stopped at a street café. Unlike paga taverns, in which no free woman would dream of setting foot, cafes offer a safe and welcoming environment for a Free Woman. Here she may sit for a time, kneeling in elegant Tower, enjoying a break from her idle afternoon of shopping. I knelt beside her as she ordered some tea and a pastry that she would share with me. 

 

I knew Chelsea well by now, and I could sense she was nervous. Something was about to happen.

 

Ten ehn passed before we were unexpectedly joined by a man. He paused momentarily, perhaps not quite sure he was at the right table, and obviously not wishing to intrude upon a Free Woman that he didn’t know, but when Chelsea saw his eyes searching the area, she carefully raised a robed arm and gestured towards him.

 

“Lady Savanna?” he asked, as he stood there.

 

“Tymon,” she replied. “Please join me.” She, it appears, knew this man, Tymon. It was easier for her of course because Gorean men do not conceal their features behind veils. But to him, Chelsea could have been any Free Woman.

 

“Did you not know me?” she said in a gentle voice.

 

“I am not familiar with your veils,” he replied, signalling for a kajira to join the table and take his order. “You are well?”

 

“I am, and thank you for asking. This is my silk slave, Roland.”

 

Tymon regarded me with little to no warmth in his gaze. He simply nodded and then returned his attention completely to Chelsea. “I understand that the ladies Taphenia and Ophelia explained the nature of my business?” He had with him a stiff folder that seemed to contain papers.

 

“In broad brush strokes, Sir, at least pertaining to the nature of our arrangement.”

 

Tymon nodded. “This will be a wise and timely investment for you. I am very particular in whom I associate with. You’ve no doubt made enquiries as to my reputation?”

 

“It would have been foolish of me not to, Sir. You are well spoken of.”

 

“And I in turn have made enquiries of you. You are new to the city, and you therefore understand I seek certain guarantees.”

 

Chelsea produced her own papers. “This is a letter confirming my honour and respectability,” she said, passing it to Tymon. “It is declared and signed by Lady Kelapina.” 

 

“That is good enough for me.” He took the letter and added it to his own papers. “The current war footing of this city requires considerable supplies of grain. The contract I have is with the Port of Cob, 300 pasangs north west of Argentum, as the tarn flies. The nature of my contacts there is such that I have first refusal on many of the shipments that arrive at the port. You are looking at a considerable return on your investment.”

 

“Lady Ophelia speculated a threefold return?”

 

Tymon nodded. “And that is a conservative estimate, allowing for spoilage and assuming the grain arrives in Argentum at the lowest price in the last three months. You may realistically hope for a fourfold return on your investment. I have, to date, arranged five grain shipments, at considerable profit each time. I will take twenty percent of the profit you make. That is what I get for allowing you to invest in my shipments.”

 

“I understand, Sir.”

 

“The grain will travel by river boat, along the Issus. You have a bank draft?” 

 

I watched as my mistress produced two more documents. She slid the first across the table. Tymon picked it up and checked the figure. “Lady, this is a draft for three silver tarsks? Surely Taphenia explained I don’t consider investments of less than five?”

 

Chelsea slid the second paper towards him. “This is a certified credit guarantee on the current market value of my silk slave.”

 

My blood ran cold as I heard her say that. 

 

“The Lady Kelapina has speculatively valued him at four silver tarsks and twenty three copper tarsks. Allowing for a quick sale, she has guaranteed his value as being a minimum of three silver tarsks. I would ask you accept this credit guarantee to bring my investment up to your minimum of five silver tarsks.”

 

Tymon looked at me, then looked at the paper, then looked at me again, and then looked at my mistress. “Very well. I do not normally accept such things, but as you know Taphenia, I will make an exception this once.” He placed both documents in his folder, and then produced a couple of his own. “These are legal papers certifying your stake in the next grain shipment. And this is a receipt for the value of your bank draft and credit guarantee.”    

 

------------------------------------------------------------------------

 

I was tellingly silent as we walked back to the building in which we lived.

 

“You are angry, Roland.”

 

“Am I permitted to speak freely, Mistress?”

 

“No.” She shook her veiled head. “No you are not, for I know what you would say.” She sighed. “You must understand, Roland, that I have no means of income here on Gor. My skills on Earth are not transferable here. I am not even employable in any capacity that a Free Woman is commonly employed. But I am a business woman on Earth, and I can be a business woman here in Argentum. This is a sound investment. Tymon has been doing this for some time. I don’t have five silver tarsks. I had to offer something that would be acceptable as a credit guarantee. I will make ten to fifteen silver tarsks gross profit from this shipment alone. Even after paying Tymon his fee, I will be well placed to repay the Lady Kelapina either all or a significant part of what I owe. We will have some security.” She touched my face as we stopped by a public drinking fountain. She gazed up at me as I looked down upon her. “We are building a life together here on Gor, Roland. This is not a gamble. It is a sensible investment. You want your mistress to be secure, yes?”

 

I nodded. 

 

“Kiss my hand,” she said. She presented it to me and I kissed the soft white glove. “We have a relationship, Roland. It may not be the relationship you ever imagined being in, but it is real and it is genuine and it is heartfelt. You will, in time, be happy to be my slave. You will grow to love your life. You will feel yourself belong at my slippered feet. It will seem natural to you. I will offer you security, and you in turn will offer me complete obedience and submission.”

 

I grit my teeth and clenched my fists. I still had some shreds of male pride, it seems.

 

“Oh, don’t be like that.” Chelsea seemed annoyed now. “You don’t have a say in this, Roland. I am your mistress. I have a duty to provide for both of us. I know what I’m doing. In a few weeks’ time our money problems will be behind us. And after I buy into a few more grain shipments, our fortunes will improve. Wouldn’t you prefer to be owned by a wealthy mistress?” She touched my chest again. “I’ll buy you an even prettier collar than the one you wear now.” 

 

I said nothing. I did not have permission to speak freely, and I did not wish to speak any other way. 

 

And then I must have looked suddenly startled. My gaze turned and I saw what I had never expected to see on Gor. It was a man, casually walking through the market place. He was naturally enough oblivious to us, for Chelsea was just another veiled and robed Free Woman, while I was a collared male slave, and men rarely pay attention to male slaves. But this man I recognised. He wore Gorean clothing now, but his face was unmistakably the face of the intruder who had broken into Felicity’s New York Brown Stone building all those many months ago on Earth.