On the Banks of the Bighorn Chapter Twenty – by Tracker

 

Patrick and Juliette explore their changed relationship oblivious to the Drama around them.

 

Slaves’ Narratives as Range War Rages.

 

From the Slave Viki’s Narrative

 

Throughout the night I lay in fitful sleep in my small attic room in the Three Moon Saloon.  Above the bar and kitchen a false roof had been constructed.  The main room of the saloon was high, almost fourteen feet, so there was space above the service areas for small low rooms for the girls, as long as you don’t mind stooping.  Gor taught me to live on my knees anyway, as the price for living. As I wait for a response from my Masters in far off Montreal, regarding my report of possible treachery by our agent on the Lazy F,  I thought on the strange turns that had brought me to this place.

 

Victoria Mary Elizabeth Diana Windsor.  That’s me.  Or it used to be.  Now I am enrolled as Viki in some slaver’s house on Gor, an unacknowledged Planet circling the sun, in the same orbit as our own.

 

Nerd Girl, Tech Girl, Mat and Kettle Girl.  Now in godforsaken Montana in 2016 known as Bessie, although I told that man Patrick my real name.  He reminded me so much of a Master, I could not lie to him.

 

Going by my original name, you might think I came from some posh English family and grew up sipping tea and oppressing peasants. You would be wrong.  Although I do like tea, and one of the drawbacks of Gor for me, aside from ending up as a collared slave, is that they don’t have tea.  Lots of Black Wine, i.e. coffee, but no tea.  Not a leaf.  And by the way, the black wine snobs on Gor are fully as annoying as the ones back here on Earth; I know, I was owned by one for five long months.  The difference is that baristas here on Earth don’t get whipped if the water temperature is out by a degree or two.  Or maybe they do. Who knows what happens in the back rooms of Starbucks!

 

I didn’t grow up in England at all, but in Montreal, Canada, which makes my mother’s obsession with the Royal Family of Britain really weird.  My Dad’s side of the family, the Windsors, had lived in Canada for three generations, and my mom’s family, the Frasers, since 1760.  They came over with the Wolfe at the time of the conquest by the Brits and stayed, deciding to try to make a go of it in Canada rather than starve in Scotland. When I was born on July 29, 1981, my mom took it as a sign and named me after all the queens and future queens she could.  Which did me no good at all growing up in French majority Montreal.  

 

The stupid royal family isn’t even English anyway. They are really a bunch of Germans.

 

I know that because I sure didn’t grow up to be a little princess like my mom wanted. The only thing I retained from the genteel way I was raised was a liking for good tea.  Good tea served in bone china. Which I can’t get here in Montana.  The English mostly use teabags anyway, and I am a loose leaf girl, but on Gor you can’t even get teabags.  Stick to the point, Viki, just because you are talking into a Kurii recording device to keep yourself sane while waiting for a response from Montreal doesn’t mean you shouldn’t organize your thoughts.

 

Okay.  Organized thought is the path I followed instead of being a princess.  I was a nerd girl, history and technology.  I loved both. I dressed like an engineer, untied boots, baggy jeans, baggy shirts.  I read voraciously and studied.  I graduated from High School early, and went off to university at sixteen.  

 

I went to Western, in London, (Ontario).  Western is a heavy-duty computer and engineering University.  Mom was so happy I was going to University in London, until I added the Ontario part.  I majored in Computer Science and minored in History.  I think those were the happiest days of my life.

 

I was scouted by Gorean agents.  Lots of girls are, but it wasn’t my body they wanted, it was my brain. I was pretty much a genius at communications tech and networks, and that is not just me boasting, as I peeked into my file.  Kurii agents here on Earth and on Gor and quite proud of their security, but really it isn’t anywhere near as good as they think. The different factions, and boy there are a lot of factions, mock each other’s security, but they never check to see if their own is up to snuff.

 

They approached me in 2001, when I was just twenty and completing my courses and undergrad thesis. Very subtly they played on my love of space.  All techies love space.  I was shown pictures of our solar system from different angles, not just Earth.  One day they showed me a picture of two (!) planets in one orbit.  They let me feel brilliant and figure out for myself that one of the planets was Earth.  Of course, I was curious about the other planet, the counter-Earth.  I love teddy Bears and loathe spiders.  They knew that from their research.  I was spun a tale of planetary intrigue, of noble Teddy Bears, and loathsome spiders fighting it out on a pristine planet. Too late I learned that the Kur are no Teddy Bears, although the Priest Kings are pretty creepy insects.

 

I was young, I was adventurous, I was naive.  I signed on to upgrade and run a secure communication net on another planet without even checking if I could get decent tea.

 

On Gor, there were a number of other shocks for a naïve sexually inexperienced and immature girl.  I didn’t get out of our hidden base at first, but when I travelled or dealt at all with Gorean men (those gorgeous delicious brutes) I learned quickly that jeans wouldn’t do, it was long skirts.  The baggy shirts and hoodies met with approval, but talking through a veil became a pain. They did stabilize me though.  I didn’t ask to be stabilized at twenty. In my work, looking a little older would be an advantage. Now I am fixed at twenty, and no one takes a twenty-year-old pixie seriously.

 

I ran the base for two and half years and all went well until Brinn the Bastard showed up.  Everything was fine until this agent of the Spider Kings showed up and wrecked everything. He never took anything or examined it, just wrecked everything I had built in a fury of barbarian incomprehension.

All my work was wrecked and my life changed pretty radically too.  I went from lady boss of my own show to being naked, collared, and branded in under twelve hours. Little Victoria Mary Elizabeth Diana wasn’t a virgin princess anymore, that was for sure. Brinn didn’t even take care of that himself, he staffed it out to a couple of his brutes. There should have been more consideration given had I been boss of the base, the Talking Talon.  You may be surprised to learn I didn’t pick that name.

 

(Not that I had planned on staying a virginal princess that long, but what with going to Western so young, and focusing on my work, I didn’t have time to take care of that detail).

 

Instead of being debriefed, I was discarded and sold.  The agents of the Spider-Kings can be pretty clueless too. I was assessed as not pretty enough and not hot enough to be anything but a mat and kettle girl. No pleasure slave training for me; not even fit for a paga tavern.

 

So I was sold to the Black Wine snob and was there for five months, making his coffee and keeping the guards happy when there weren’t better girls to do so. Then an agent of the Spider-Kings bought me. For my knowledge? No, I was just a trophy.  Not only was I a captured Kurii agent, but I wasn’t even a hot slave. I was mocked.  It hurt.  Even more than the switch, it hurt.

 

Then some Kurii agents raided my new master’s house and I was rescued.  Was I heck!  I was still in a collar and was branded, so no more being in charge for me.  I could handle simple comms for them though, so I became a mat and tech girl.  Still no decent tea.

 

Then more faction wars.  There was a split in the Kur command. My master was put out of business, and I was taken over by yet another group.  Men from Treve needed someone to work their nets on Earth.  Goreans, even those living on Earth aren’t great with tech and comms.  So I ended up in the house of Livius Druses, in guess where, Montreal.  Decent tea, running water, still in a collar.

 

Then a change in management.  These Goreans on Earth are like mafia families, like the Rizzutos in Montreal when I was growing up. Always fighting for dominance. I was out of comms, as the new masters had a man they were sure could handle things.

 

I was sold to a security group for Goreans.  They decided to make me a spy.  I wasn’t good looking enough for anyone to suspect, they said. So my collar was removed, and my brand erased.  (In the old days on Gor, I helped run the op that stole some of those field dressings).

 

But I’m not free, I wear an unremovable ankle bracelet that reports my location at all times. I miss the men of Gor - those brutes who mastered me - but I am stuck on earth, in Armpit Montana, spying on one of the oldest Gorean families, because someone thinks they may be getting too independent.

 

I arrived using the name of Bessie Windsor.  I am thirty-five and look like a twenty-year-old pixie. I collected reports from an agent on the Lazy F and passed them on to Master Robert Desjarlais in Montreal. Now it looks like he has betrayed us by working with another group as well.

 

Look ma, I ended up a Paga Slut after all, with a queen’s name.

 

Not going to lie, I don’t love being a slave, but getting used by a strong master has its good points.  The problem is the strong Gorean men have ruined me for the flabbier men of Earth.

 

Ping.  There it is.  A message from Master Robert. “Determined that our agent is working with other forces to destroy the Lazy F.  Likely not related to Gorean Families, but an Earth conspiracy. Pack up your low power broadcaster and receiver and your Long distance focused transmitter-receiver.  Get out of the Three Moon now.  Wear normal earth clothes, but not like a Free Woman of the traditional Families.  Check into the hotel under the name of Bessie Windsor. Await further instructions. Acknowledge.”

 

It is bug out time.  On with a light slip, like a slave tunic.  Over that a peasant skirt and hoodie.  Normal shoes. Odd to be wearing something on my feet other than slave slippers.  What would be odder for me is undergarments, but I am not crazy, I am a slave.  That would cause punishment, besides being weird after all these years. Reading between the lines, the Desjarlais Security Group does not want to caught spying on the Fricks, let alone being involved in an attack on them.  Those Fricks are vindictive.  Also cunning, and tenacious. I wonder if the attack is just an earth group trying to steal some land, or some anti-slavery group, or even the weakened Spider-Kings striking on Earth.  That last one is unlikely. The Spider-Kings don’t have that power these days.

 

I scrubbed off the makeup I wear at the Three Moon. In my hoodie, and peasant skirt, with sensible shoes, no one at the Hotel looked at me twice or connected me to the Paga Slave I was two hours ago. The only thing that worried them was that I was checking in with only a small backpack, but paying in advance with the emergency credit card provided by my Master covered that.  No one suspects a clean cut twenty-year old Pixie.  I have a room on the second floor with a view of the street and enough supplies to last three days. The front desk thinks I am a backpacking tourist with some belly flu.  I was warned not to trespass on the range of the ranchers.  No worries.  I am not going anywhere near the Fricks.

 

From the Slave Inge’s Narrative

 

Sleeping inside in cells under the Big Ranch House was certainly warmer than sleeping in the slave corral last night. We were moved because they needed a place for the horses.  When we were brought in last night, we were washed by the orders of that witch, Granny Mowbray. Not with hot showers like the last time, just a hosing down with cold water by one of the boys, who are the only ones available to guard us. The men are all fighting the war with the survivalists and their allies. We learned from the Dirts (captive women survivalists) that they have mercenary contractors, paid for by their mysterious rich ally, who, they are confident, will soon defeat the ranchers.

 

I don’t care.  I hope they all kill each other.  I don’t see the survivalists, or the Free Soilers, as they call themselves, freeing Sarah and me. We would be witnesses. Worse, I fear, as branded, collared women, we would be regarded as loot.  Victory for the enemies of our captors would just mean new owners. The only hope for Sarah and me is to escape at some time. Last night, after slave gruel – Nutri-girl K - and hosing off, we twelve captives were divided into groups of three and placed in cells.  I managed to stick to Sarah, and Reading, the English girl from Reading University, whose slave name is Reading, made the third in our cell. The good news is Sarah and I are together and can get along with Reading.  The bad news is that she is weak and will be no help in an escape. Maybe we can use her as a decoy.

 

Today after morning gruel we were chained together in order of height.  Which meant that Sarah led off, with me following.  Bless our Swedish genes and early childhood nutrition. We were separated from Reading, who is rounder and cuddly, but short.  A chain connected our collars, and our feet were shackled so we could not run.  Our hands were shackled in front us, which I thought strange until I found they needed us to work. Our chain, or coffle, as the boy in charge called it, moved at the usual slow pace because the Wyld Wymen and the Survivalists, whom the ranchers had renamed Dirts - Dirts one through five - could not cooperate.  They were still fighting, even though they were captives of the same ranchers, adjudged into slavery by the same European aristocrat. Stupid!

 

We trudged down to the corral, and found we were to collect all the horse manure for the gardens and for the health of the horses. There were two wheelbarrows to place the horse droppings in, but nothing to pick it up with.  Many of the girls revolted and refused.  Of course they felt the switch.  Sure, picking up horse poop is unpleasant, but we have been kidnapped to be sex slaves!  We are branded and collared, and naked. There are more unpleasant tasks we could be forced to do. We formed a line, twelve girls across, and step by step we were moved across the corral, collecting fresh horse dung as we went. 

 

Then, not even a third of the way across in our first pass, a fight broke out between a Wyld Wyman and one of the Dirts. I think it was Dirt Three, who has emerged as a sort of leader. Dirt Three was picking on Lita, the younger and weaker of the Wyld Wymen. This did not concern me, except that Reading was between them. The boy in charge of us was switching the two of them to break them up, but their fury was too intense for the boy’s strength.  Poor Reading, caught between the combatants, with her lovely English skin, caught a lot of the blows meant for the other two.  One of the ranch guards came running, followed by the sinister Granny Mowbray.  Her linen sling, supporting her left arm was again immaculately ironed, as was her starched white collar. The pain from her wound had not made her any less sour.

 

The guard’s quirt finally quelled the fighters.  Both were breathing heavily, and Reading was crying. Surprisingly, the slight Wyld Wyman seemed to have had the best of it.

 

“String the three of them up and let them have twenty from the whip each.  Not your quirt, the whip!” Granny’s voice was strong and decisive.

The guard looked at a foreman who had ridden up on an ATV.  He had crutches in the back and a cast on his leg which explained why he had been left on the ranch.  He nodded.

 

The three women, Dirt Three, Lita the Wyld Wyman, and poor Reading were each attached to one of the poles that supported the corral. These posts had rings high up on the outside, so the girls, strung up by their bracelets, were held close to the post, their arms embracing it, as their hands were attached to the rings on the outside.

 

The scene that followed was horrific.  Each girl received twenty blows from a horrible whip, delivered with a man’s strength. They all howled. I was surprised that poor Reading survived. 

 

Reading steadied herself by repeating, “I am English, I am strong, I am English, I am strong.” She was English, but she wasn’t strong enough to withstand this punishment.

 

The Dirt Woman took it worst.  She cried the loudest and pleaded the most.

 

When the horrible punishment ended, the three thrashed girls were left hanging there while the rest of us cleared the corral of horse dung.  We then cleared two cattle corrals. The boy said the cattle had been run off, but that the corrals needed to be cleaned as the cattle would be rounded up.  Cattle dung is looser and wetter and much more unpleasant to handle than the horse dung.  But nobody dared complain.

 

As we were being returned to the Big House, we passed the horse corral. Large flies were buzzing around the bound girls. I was sure no one would refuse a command again. When Lita was released from the slave ring, she stumbled, but insisted she could walk. Reading made a gallant attempt, but was too weak, and the Dirt just curled into a ball on the ground.  The other Dirt slaves were ordered to carry her.  I asked permission to convey Reading to the house in a wheelbarrow, which surprisingly was allowed.

 

After hosing off, and being fed gruel, I tended Reading with some salve I was given, and gently dabbed the areas that were the worst with some of our drinking water.  She seemed grateful.

 

A couple of boisterous cowboys came down to the cells. They selected four girls, one from each cell, “to serve at our victory feast.”  Apparently they had won the day. I was not chosen, but when a cowboy pointed at Reading, Sarah spoke up, “she is too weak tonight, take me.”

 

When she was returned to the cells after midnight, Sarah was weeping. The chosen girls had been forced to do more than serve at table.  Sarah had been raped more than once.  

 

“It was so terrible, they were so strong and dominant.  Primitive males.”  She lowered her voice.  “They made me do it, and worse, they made me orgasm. Don’t look at me like that.  I couldn’t help it.  They were so strong and uncompromising with my femaleness.”

 

I was looking in horror.  After seeing the expert way these brutes handle women, I am not sure how I would react.  Would I be a slut like Sarah?

 

From Slave Juliette’s Narrative.

 

All day long, Patrick has been ‘training’ me to be a slave.  Even though I am legally his slave for only six more days, he’s determined to make the most of it.  Of course, I am not a brat like that Elinor Brinton.  I signed the contract, and then Patrick determined that I had earned another week of slavery because I ran away.  

 

I am worried that I am beginning to think like a slave, that Patrick truly is my Master.  What if after the week is up I cannot resume our old relations?  What if I truly feel more comfortable at his feet? I will worry about such things when my collar is off.  Right now, I am being trained to assume slave positions on command.

 

In the back of his John Norman book, Nomad of Gor, Patrick found a folded piece of paper with illustrations and descriptions.  The position I knew, that I learned on the ranch, kneeling with my legs apart, my back straight with my hands on my thighs, and my boobs thrust out, is called Nadu. Kneeling with my legs apart, and my arms lifted over my head, is called collaring position. I was in that position when Patrick put the collar on me yesterday morning.  Did Patrick know that, or is it instinctive in strong men? There is also a ready to be raped position and, worse, a begging to be raped position.  They are horribly revealing, but oddly, once I was in one of them, I did yearn for Patrick to take me without apology.  Fortunately, he did, so I did not have to beg.

 

We went for a run today.  Patrick attached a chain to my collar and we ran, me heeling him like a well-trained dog to his left side and a little behind him. As we fell into a running rhythm, the chain made a rhythmic jingle.  It was pleasant and a little hypnotic. 

 

Patrick has a few large tent spikes in our camping gear.  They are for use in high winds.  They are about thirty inches long, about an inch in diameter, and have a wide loop at the top.  He drives them in with a mallet, and I cannot remove them. He now calls them slave rings. He has scattered a few around the camp.  One is in front of tent, one by the fallen tree he bends me over, one by the river, so I can’t swim away again, and a couple in other places around the camp.  I am often secured to these slave rings now.

 

This is becoming more real all the time. My body is responding to bondage and slavery, and seems to be more alive than in a long time.

 

From the spy Fred’s Narrative

 

I could not reach my relay contact today.  All my messages went unacknowledged. Without the intelligence I tried to provide, the Lazy F routed our forces. My employer, my real employer, will be pissed.  It is not my fault though if other people let me down.  I may need to bug out quickly. If so, I will stop in Town and cut up that pixie bitch at the Three Moon.

 

From Smith’s secret diary.

 

A good day for the Lazy F. We have them on the run.  Tomorrow at first light I am being sent to Town to pick up more ammunition and supplies.  I will send off my report, if possible. I will use old spy craft and non-technological means. The Fricks have good technology now.  We have some off-world communication tech now, and from tomorrow we can listen in on all their transmissions.  We are going to win this thing.