After the Bighorn Chapter Two: 'Master Patrick and Slave Juli', by Tracker

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative.

 

My homecoming to San Francisco was not what I had expected when we left.

 

I had expected to be dressed as a respectable engaged woman coming back to sign a pre-nup.

 

Instead, I am a barely clothed, collared slave girl, a kajira in a collar coming back to sign a slavery contract that will bind me until Patrick, Master Patrick, can figure out a legal way to keep a slave in San Francisco.  There does not seem any way to do that, but legality is very important to Patrick, and he is a very good lawyer.

 

I had many adventures and near calls getting out of the car on the way home from the Bighorn.  Patrick obtained a slave tunic for me on the Lazy F, low cut on the top and extremely brief in the skirt, with the skirt split up the left side showing where his mark is on me.  For now, it is only ink, but combined with my shiny collar, there is no doubt as to our relationship, even if it is not a legal one yet. Honestly, as I am allowed no nether closure, as the Goreans say, or no underwear as we say on Earth, I am not sure I always avoided displaying myself a la Lindsey Lohan as I got out of the Subaru. I always wondered what it would be like to be a slutty bad girl, and now I know.  It is terrifying, but I am secure belonging to Patrick.  And to anyone Patrick gives me to.  That is a little harder.  On the night before we left the Bighorn, he gave me to Master Woodrow, while he dallied with that Angela slut. Woodrow knew how to make me testify too.

 

When we got back to San Francisco, it was getting late.  Patrick took me to his place and tied me to the bedpost.  He came back an hour later with a dog kennel and a pet bed.  The pet bed is for me to sleep in when I have been good, the kennel for when Patrick wills, or when he goes out and I am left in the apartment. He has told me I can still go to work until I have worked out my notice, then I will work part time as well as taking dance classes.  The only time I will be allowed a nether closure is when I am in athletic or dancing gear.

 

While at work or at dance class, I am to keep my eyes out for likely women for the collar of my master.  I hate that, but must obey.  Maybe they will turn out like me; happier in the collar. Or not: the Fricks don’t care.

 

Drysdale House 

 

From the San Francisco Chronicle Real Estate Section June 17th, 2016

 

New Tenant for Drysdale House

 

Drysdale House, one of San Francisco’s oldest surviving Mansions has a new tenant.  The lucky fellow is Patrick Masters, patent attorney to half of Silicon Valley. Built in the 1850s in the French Second Empire style, the structure has survived fire, earthquake, and urban renewal.  Spared the fate of being turned into a hotel, or torn down, the house was in the family of the famous Drysdale banking family for over a century. Built by Bradley Forsyte Drysdale, one of the founders of the Drysdale and Hathaway Bank, the home was occupied by the family until the 1950s when the bank relocated its Headquarters to Beverley Hills. Sold to the nation of Sao Tome and Principe, it served as their consulate until four years ago, when they moved to a location nearer to downtown and sold the location to a mysterious foreign investment company who have spent the last four years in extensive renovations.

 

Mr Masters led the negotiations for the owners with the city for property tax abatements and grants that were so favourable to the investors that opposition factions on City Council denounced it as ‘an unconscionable giveaway’.

 

The property and its gardens occupy nearly two city blocks, the remaining downslope quarter is covered by the Hathaway building, a six storey mixed use office and warehouse building. Hathaway Street marks the end of the local business and commercial district, while Drysdale Street is the beginning of the fashionable Drysdale Hill residential section. We wonder though if the place is a little large for Mr Masters who is a childless bachelor.

 

Patrick Masters’s Narrative.

 

I am the “mystery offshore investors” who bought Drysdale House.  My rent will go to my offshore account. Renewing Drysdale House was both expensive and illuminating. Drysdale and Hathaway, in the days following the gold rush, when money and life was cheap, were rumoured to be somewhat shady. In the days of the Barbary Coast, they were accused in whispers of white slavey, shanghaiing sailors, and extensive smuggling. We found tunnels from below the house leading to the Hathaway Building. Because the land slopes so much there are multiple levels of cellars under the house.  The first level of cellars, because of the slope, opens out into the garden on the downslope side. On that level there is the swimming pool and the gymnasium and the kitchens.  But below there the fun starts. There were 19th century barred cells and kennels, some recently used.  Perhaps the consulate was doing some off the books trading. Buried in the walls, behind hidden doors, are rooms, corridors, and stairways not found on the plans.

 

Woodrow Smith has contacted me and advised to have General Security, which his Family recommends, plan and install a camera and security system.  A representative visited today. His card was interesting, when tilted in a certain way, the c in security changes to a K, a kef actually.

 

“I’m sure you understand, sir,”

 

He took extensive pictures and measurements, and their ‘top planner’ will draw up a scheme quickly.  I hope he hurries; I want to move in soon.

 

Slave Viki’s narrative.

 

I am so happy to be back in collar and back at work.  I am drawing up a security plan for a mansion in San Francisco for a man who is a Friend of the Fricks. The place is spooky, despite being freshly renovated. I saw a picture of the owner: He is same man who I met at the Three Moons when I was failing as a Paga Slave.

 

I drew the plans, putting in the usual back doors into the system, both the deep hidden ones and the ones meant to be found so the customer can close them and then feel secure.

 

Master has sent the special anklet to Patricia in Montana.  I hope the subliminal messages bring her to us soon.  I need a special friend and I am sure she will blame me only for a short time for tricking her into a collar.  Then we will be best mates and chain sisters.

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative. Beginning of July 2016

 

We have moved into the mansion.  It is far too big for us.  I cannot keep up with all the cleaning. Master has promised he will get me some help. I don’t know what that means. Maybe he will borrow some collared girls from the Fricks?

 

If I don’t sleep in my pet basket or on the floorboards of his room, Master locks me in one of the kennels in the second basement.  I am not allowed the use of the elevator, so it is many steps to climb every day.  Master says it is good for my ankles. I have not slept in a bed since Master first collared me, back on the Banks of the Bighorn. It is either on the floor of my kennel, or the floor of his bedroom; if I am lucky I get to sleep on the thin pad at the bottom of my basket. Despite that, I love belonging to Patrick.

 

My ankles get some favourable attention in dance class. The dances they teach are scandalous, something I would never have done as a respectable woman. They are billed as ethnic dance but are more like a harem dance or something my dear friend and chain sister Tiffany would do. It is lonely in this big house.

 

July 16th, 2016.  Master has been called away to, I think, Pittsburgh.  Some sort of patent emergency.

 

Slave Juli’s Narrative

 

I miss Master already. We had just finished dining with Patrick’s friend Jerry Reiss and his wife.  Me and three free people.  Of course, Mr and Mrs Reiss did not know my status.  Master booked a table for us at a Japanese restaurant. The tables were low, as Mr John Norman reports Gorean tables are low, so Mrs Reiss and I had to kneel because we were both wearing dresses and could not sit cross-legged as the men did. Patrick did this on purpose, he was getting a taste for having women, even free women, kneel in his presence.  

 

Mrs Reiss, Maya, was wearing a longer, more modest dress than I was, because she was free, and I was Master Patrick’s kajira, his Slave girl.  She was very condescending towards me, not because she knew I was a kajira, but I believe, because it was her nature to look down her nose at everyone she could.  Or maybe she could tell I was not free? Maybe there was something, even when it was not obvious, that showed I was not a respectable woman but a helpless slave, the property of a man; that I was not equal to the free people around me.

 

She was very much like one of those Southern ladies one reads about with her ‘bless your heart way’, which really means ‘fuck you bitch’.  I could not respond as I would have when I was free, because I now wore a master’s collar.  A slave cannot be anything but respectful to the free.  Had I so much as sassed back even a little, I am sure I would have been whipped.

 

“So, you are wearing a steel collar, how amusing and odd.  Whyever would you do such a thing?”  Her voice just dripped poisoned honey.

 

I didn’t know what to say, I tried to think of something that would deflect discussing my enslaved state while at the same time remaining properly deferential and respectful.  Patrick came to my rescue.

 

“Juli’s collar makes a statement.”

 

“A Statement? You mean like a fashion statement?  What strange ways some modern girls have!”  With the load of nastiness, she put on the word ‘modern’, she might as well have said whore.

 

“And you’ve moved in with dear Patrick?  And not married or even engaged?  Are you sure that is wise, dear?  Giving it away without marriage, such a decline in morals. Thankfully we in the New Feminists are working to restore modesty and values to women’s behaviour in our society.”  She was so self-satisfied and complacent as she delivered what was clearly one of the applause lines from one of her public speeches.

 

My knees hurt from kneeling, but I think hers must have as well, and I was far more used to it.  So I might have made allowances, even if I had been free.

 

Jerry Reiss looked uncomfortable, but he would not scold his wife in public.  Patrick again moved to let her know when it was time to stop. He was a man after all, even if she was a free woman.

 

“Well Maya, Juli and I hope that there will be changes to her legal status by the end of year, perhaps by early autumn.”  

 

I knew Master had been working trying to find a way to own me legally, but if he was working on something he had not shared it with me.  Master Patrick had told me that according to a manual he was reading, Gorean men do not tell their slaves where the slaves are going, not what is to happen to them. He said, after all, you don’t tell a horse what field it is to plough, or which cart it is to pull. After all, slaves are animals.  Then he ruffled my hair, as one would pet a favourite dog who had pleased their owner.  And Patrick is my owner.  I feel it so deeply inside me.

 

I concentrated on eating my food, a great improvement on my usual slave gruel, while Mrs Reiss went on and on about immodest dress and behaviour.  When she was talking about modern immodest dress she would keep looking at me, she would have been shocked if she had known what I wore on the street, which was little; or at home, which was often nothing.

 

All through our dinner, Maya Reiss kept interrupting Master and Jerry Reiss when they tried to discuss legal topics of interest to them, and driving the conversation back to New Feminism.  She did not take the hints when Patrick tried to engage her in the teachings of the New Feminism as to deferring in conversation to men when they were discussing politics or business.  She sometimes even talked over her own husband, something I never did to Patrick even when I was free, respectable, and modest. 

 

Master kept trying.  He was unfailingly polite.

 

“Jerry, have you accepted a new position, since leaving the missing women’s task force?”

 

“Not yet, I am still looking for the best fit…..”

 

“Jerry is very much in demand, aren’t you dear?  Very much in demand.  He is highly thought of you know!”

 

Mr Reiss sighed, Patrick started to say he was sure there were many good situations for Jerry, when Mrs Reiss interrupted again.

 

“He is likely the best lawyer in San Francisco, he doesn’t do that dusty patent law, you know.”  Though why he wasted the last eighteen months looking for some conspiracy in all these ‘modern’ girls who ran away somewhere, I don’t know.  Likely ran away to live in sin with unsuitable men.”

 

Then she turned to me, “Oh, I didn’t mean you dear, Patrick is so very suitable.”  So, in other words, I was not only a whore, but a gold digger as well.  Which was unfair, I had loved Patrick when we were both free, even before he put his collar around my neck, making a statement about our new relationship. There are a few times I wish I were still free; I really longed to slap the woman.  I had no idea of exactly how well off Patrick was when we were dating, and of course, I was willing to sign some sort of pre-nup, so I wasn’t really the gold-digging whore that Maya Reiss made me out to be.  I really wanted to give her a piece of my mind, but a kajira cannot do that to a Free Woman, on earth or on Gor.

 

The evening broke up soon after that, with Mr and Mrs Reiss taking an Uber to their home.  Patrick drove us back to the huge and echoing Drysdale house.  I knelt beside him in front of the passenger seat, describing my ethnic dancing class, while he indulged me by listening, as one would to a child describing her day.  He took me down to the kennels, where I have been sleeping. 

 

Ever since we moved into Drysdale House last week, I have been sleeping in the old kennels that date to when the House was built.  I had hoped to at least sleep chained to the foot of Patrick’s bed, even though I am not allowed to sleep in the bed itself, but I don’t sew well enough yet. That sounds strange, but it is like this.

When we moved to the House, Patrick instructed me to make a Gorean camisk for me to wear in the House and for when we were with other Goreans.  I was getting down my sewing machine, when Patrick informed me it had to be hand-sewn.  That was much more difficult.  My first attempt he rejected, because the hemline was too low; the second because the neckline did not plunge deeply enough.  He was not satisfied until my inked ‘brand’ was clearly visible.  Then the front had to swoop down so low, my navel was clearly in evidence.  Then the panels front and back were too wide.  After all the that he criticized the stitching, the hand-made seams had to have stitching that was small, and worse, even sized and regular.  

 

He says that because I belong to a Man of Standing, my work must be immaculate.  Until I can sew a camisk to his satisfaction I have to sleep in the kennels. While he is away I have to lock myself in by ten each night, and a time lock will then release me at six in the morning.  There is a similar system for my feeding. Master measured an amount of Nutri-Girl into the automatic feeder.  It is a pet feeder, for measuring food for a dog or cat, when the owners are away.  It will dole out my food twice a day, morning and evening, until Patrick returns. I miss his presence, his smell, the way he takes me and fills me up.  He likes to bend me over a table or desk, I think it is because he is a lawyer and those are his work surfaces.  Sometimes while he works, I kneel curled up at his feet stroking his shoes; sometimes he reaches down and pets me, and then I purr. 

 

Until my Master’s return, I will go to work, to dancing class, and spend my free time sewing and filing Patrick’s books in the Library on the main floor.