What Remains of Rebecca Palmer Chapter Twelve

 

Chapter Twelve: Voight-Kampff

 

I stepped into the assessment room, and for a moment the stark utility of Chastity Reach fell away. The room had been deliberately softened, almost prettified, in the way one might arrange a consultation suite to calm a nervous patient rather than interrogate a worker. Pale beech panelling lined the walls, broken only by a single long expanse of reinforced glass that stretched the entire length of one side. Beyond it lay the wild, windswept landscape of the Isle of Jura - now renamed Chastity Reach - its dark, sullen moors rolling toward jagged sea cliffs under a bruised Autumnal sky. Thin sunlight silvered the heather and caught on distant whitecaps. It was the first real view of the outside world I had been permitted in over a month; my usual workstations sat deep in the complex, lit by artificial panels and pierced only by narrow arrow-slits for security. The sudden breadth of landscape hit me like cold air after confinement, beautiful and disorienting.

 

Two low armchairs faced each other across a small, round table of polished oak. On it rested a plain ceramic teapot, two cups, a small dish of shortbread, and a single white orchid in a glass vase - subtle touches meant to signal civility, safety, routine. A soft wool throw lay folded over the back of one chair. The lighting was warm, indirect, from recessed fixtures rather than the harsh fluorescents of the corridors. Nothing in the furnishings shouted surveillance, yet I knew better. Dr. Fenella Voss rose as I entered. She was younger than I had expected, with long, wavy dark brown hair that cascaded past her shoulders in soft, voluminous waves, and a deep side part that gave it an effortless elegance. Her skin was fair and smooth, and her makeup was subtle but polished - rosy lips, defined brows, and just enough eyeliner to make her striking blue-green eyes stand out even more behind those stylish black rectangular glasses. They had a slight cat-eye tilt that suited her oval face perfectly.

 

Dr. Voss was dressed professionally but approachable: a tailored beige blazer over a crisp white silky blouse with a gentle V-neck, and a trim charcoal pencil skirt that fell to just below her knees - nothing flashy, just put-together and confident. Delicate gold jewellery - a thin chain necklace, and a simple ring - caught the light as she set the pen down and stood to greet me.

 

Her posture was straight but relaxed, and the way she held herself made the room feel safe, like she was fully present without being intimidating. She introduced herself with a steady, friendly voice, and as we shook hands, I noticed how poised and intelligent she seemed - someone who had probably heard every story under the sun but still listened like yours was the only one that mattered right then.

 

“Rebecca. Please, come in. Sit. How very lovely to meet you at last.” Her voice was low, reassuring, the accent faintly Scottish, as though she had been chosen for this room and this island. “Now, you’re probably feeling nervous, aren’t you? Everyone does for their first time here. But please believe me, there really is nothing to fear. These sessions are purely routine, just part of keeping everyone sharp and well. We’ll talk, and I’ll ask you a few personal questions, that’s all.”

 

I nodded, murmured a polite “Thank you, Doctor,” and took the offered chair. She poured tea - chamomile, fragrant and calming - then settled opposite me, folding her hands loosely in her lap. She spoke for a few minutes about the weather on Jura, about how the storms had been fierce lately, ordinary small talk designed to ease the pulse. I smiled when I was meant to, answered when prompted, but the tension was already coiling tighter inside me.

 

“How have you been settling in, Rebecca? I’m sure it must feel like a big step coming here?”

 

I was abducted from my home, I wanted to say. I saw my mother and father being beaten and carried away to some prison, and I don’t even know if they’re still alive. I was tortured and brutalised. Thank you for asking.

 

“Everything is good,” I said. “I’m focussing hard on my work, here at Chastity Reach.”

 

“So you are, yes. And I’ve been reading some good reports from Commander Thorne. Well done, Rebecca. Very well done.” That gentle, reassuring smile again. “It’s quite the view, isn’t it?” she said with a smile as she noticed me gazing out over the Jura landscape. “I always think of the coastline as wild and rugged, just like our men. And there’s so much wildlife.”

 

I nodded and sipped some more of the tea.

 

“Have you been out yet? Explored the island?”

 

“I didn’t know that was even possible.”

 

“Well, you’ve been here a while now. Let’s see if we can sort out some leave for you. There’s a Sun Dome on the other side of the island, you know? For recreation? Segregated, of course so you don’t have to guard yourself from unwanted attention. Men and women have their own areas. Men and Free Women, that is. I’m sure I can sort out a 48 hour pass for you. Would you like that?’

 

“Thank you.”

 

“It’ll do you the world of good. Put a little rosy blush in those fabulous cheeks of yours.” She smiled again. 

 

She was being a little TOO friendly.

 

“Work hard, and then play hard, that’s how it should be. Within reason, of course.” Then she reached for the slim monitoring cuff on the table. “We’ll just get you connected, Rebecca,” she said, still gentle. “Standard biometrics - heart rate, skin conductance, respiration, pupil response. Nothing invasive. It helps us see the body’s honest reactions while we chat. No need to worry. We’re not reading your private, intimate thoughts. Gosh, no. Just some basic responses.”

 

She fastened the cuff around my left wrist with careful fingers, then attached two small adhesive patches to my temples and one to the side of my neck. Thin cables snaked to a discreet console set into the wall behind her chair. A soft chime sounded as the system linked; a tiny green light pulsed on the cuff. I felt the faint pressure of the sensors, cool against my skin, and my stomach tightened.

 

I had no idea how finely they could read me. Could they detect the micro-tremor in my pulse when certain words were spoken? The subtle flush that crept up my throat? The involuntary clench of muscles low in my belly when forbidden images flickered through my mind? The equipment was Kurii-grade, refined from Gorean psychological arts and Earth neuroscience; every manual I had studied warned that the readings were “highly sensitive to latent affect.” My haughty composure, my careful denials, might mean nothing if the numbers betrayed me.

 

Dr. Voss leaned back, smile still in place. “Ready when you are, Rebecca.”

 

Outside the window, the wind bent the heather in long silver waves. Inside, the orchid trembled faintly on its stem, and I felt the first real prickle of dread settle behind my ribs.

 

"Shall we begin?” 

 

I nodded. 

 

“Good. So, you remain a medical virgin, Rebecca. Intact. Unsullied. How does that make you feel deep down, inside of yourself?"

 

I considered the opening question. "It affirms my purity and focus," I replied evenly, my voice laced with practiced disdain. "Virginity is a strength, a shield against the weaknesses that plague natural slaves. It allows me to live my life without distraction, deep down or otherwise."

 

Dr. Voss leaned forward slightly, her voice measured yet insistent. “Do you think men desire you sexually, Rebecca? What sort of men might desire you?”

 

“Men desire what they cannot possess,” I answered coolly. “They are men, after all – lustful beasts. My appearance - my features, my carriage - may attract their attention, yes. But any sexual interest they harbour is irrelevant to me and irrelevant to my duty. As for what sort… well, weak men, perhaps, those easily distracted by surface beauty. Or brutish ones who mistake restraint for invitation. None of them matter. I am not available to be desired.” The words came out crisp, dismissive, exactly as protocol demanded. Yet inside, I knew men desired me. I had felt their stares linger in the corridors of Chastity Reach, had caught the flicker of interest in Commander Thorne’s eyes when he thought I wasn’t watching. 

 

“What, in your mind, are the identifying characteristics, both psychologically and physically, of a natural slave?”

 

I drew a slow, deliberate breath, letting the question settle before I answered. My voice emerged calm, authoritative, the tone of a woman speaking not from experience, but from what she might surmise of certain other members of her sex – those she felt were beneath her. “Psychologically,” I began, “a natural slave displays an inherent need for structure and dominance. She may appear independent or even defiant at first - overcompensation, often - but beneath that facade lies a profound craving for guidance, for someone stronger to define her purpose. She responds to command with involuntary compliance; resistance crumbles not from fear alone, but from secret relief at being relieved of choice. Her thoughts drift toward submission even when she fights them; she experiences shame at her own arousal, yet that shame only feeds the cycle. In the end, she finds peace only when owned - when her will is no longer hers to carry.” I paused, letting the clinical recitation hang in the air. This was all textbook stuff that I was reciting from memory. “Physically, the signs are subtler but unmistakable. A softening of posture when authority is near - shoulders dropping, chin lowering slightly without conscious intent. Quickened breathing at the sound of certain tones of voice, the pupils dilating when dominance is asserted. A body that betrays her: flushed skin, hardened nipples visible even through fabric, a tell-tale shifting of thighs when restraint or punishment is described. Lips that part involuntarily at the thought of a collar; a tendency to arch the back or present the throat when cornered or commanded. These are not cultivated responses - they are instinctual, written into her flesh long before any master ever touches her.” I finished with perfect composure, folding my hands in my lap as though concluding a routine report.

 

“And what of the Free Woman? What are the psychological and physical characteristics of the Free Woman? In your own time.”

 

I lifted my chin a fraction higher, letting the question settle like a challenge I was born to meet. My voice came out steady, almost serene, the voice of doctrine made flesh. “Psychologically, the Free Woman is defined by self-mastery. She possesses an innate dignity that requires no external validation; her will is sovereign, her desires disciplined and subordinate to reason and duty. She feels no compulsion to submit, no secret hunger for command. Conflict does not weaken her - it sharpens her. When faced with dominance, she responds with resistance or indifference, never with secret relief or involuntary yielding. Her thoughts remain her own; she does not dream of collars or chains, does not wake flushed from visions of surrender. She is complete within herself - untouched by the slave’s need for ownership.” I paused only long enough to draw breath. “Physically, she carries herself with unassailable poise: shoulders squared, gaze direct, posture erect even in stillness. There is no softening at the approach of authority, no parting of lips at the sound of a firm voice, no betraying flush or quickened pulse when restraint is mentioned. Her body obeys her mind alone; it does not quiver at the thought of a whip, does not arch toward imagined touch. She remains cool, composed, her flesh as controlled as her will - unmarked, unclaimed, and untroubled by the heat that consumes lesser women.” The recitation ended cleanly, like the closing of a report. I folded my hands again, expression serene, the picture of doctrinal certainty.

 

“The eminent slaver, Trakkar, once said that a Free Woman is simply an uncollared slave. Discuss that, please, Rebecca.”

 

I let the silence stretch a deliberate heartbeat, then answered with measured contempt, the haughty edge sharpened to a blade. “Trakkar’s aphorism is a provocative oversimplification, Dr. Voss, useful perhaps for marketing on the blocks of Ar or in the pens of Port Kar, but it lacks rigour when applied to an actual Free Woman. Trakkar is a slaver, so I suspect his experience of true Free Women is limited at best. A true Free Woman is not a slave awaiting discovery; she is a distinct ontological category. She possesses self-sovereignty, intellectual autonomy, and the capacity to her life without the degradation of personal ownership. The collar does not reveal her true nature - it imposes a false one. To equate the two is to confuse potential with actuality. I, for example, remain uncollared precisely because I am not a slave. The statement is rhetoric, not philosophy.”

 

I was familiar with Trakkar’s populist views, of course. As an agent of the Steel Worlds, I had access to his treatises, taken from Gor's libraries and digitized for earthly study. They were popular reading amongst surveillance operatives, and so I consulted them out of morbid curiosity, if nothing else. I wanted to understand how men perceived women. Trakkar’s core tenet extended beyond the provocative quip Voss had quoted; it was a worldview that stripped women of illusions, positing that freedom was a temporary veil over innate submission. In his seminal scroll, Chains of the Soul, he argued that all women carried “slave bells in their blood” - subtle instincts that rang out under pressure. It was a clever phrase, contrasting the soft signals that slave bells locked about an anklet might sound as the slave moved, with the signals he believed Free Women gave out in certain conditions. Psychologically, he claimed, the Free Woman maintained her status through denial: she built walls of intellect and duty to contain the natural urge to yield. But these walls were brittle; a single crack - from a commanding gaze, a firm grip, or even a whispered order - could momentarily reveal hints of the slave beneath that might be telling to the trained eyes of a slaver. Trakkar drew from Gorean observations: free companions in Ar's high cylinders who, after defeat in war, knelt swiftly at victors' feet; haughty panther girls of the northern forests who, once captured, danced with abandon in pleasure silks. “The collar does not create the slave,” he wrote. “It merely names her. The uncollared woman fights her nature daily, her virginity a fortress against the inevitable siege."

 

Clearly, his uncompromising theories irked me. He took no account of women who knew themselves to be Free. How could he possibly know us, understand us? His experiences were confined to slaves. His baseline was clearly flawed. One cannot make a significant study of Free Women if your only subjects are natural slaves who are accorded the lofty position of Free Women. 

 

Physically, Trakkar's philosophy was merciless in its detail. He described the body's betrayal as the ultimate proof: the involuntary arch of the back when dominance loomed, the parting of lips at the scent of leather bindings, the flush that spread unbidden at tales of submission. These were not learned behaviours but evolutionary echoes, he posited, wired into the female form by Gor's harsh natural order. In Veils and Brands, he catalogued case studies - Earth women transported unwittingly, their initial protests melting into compliance as hidden desires surfaced. "Observe the virgin Free Woman,"he advised slavers. "Her overconfidence is armour over vulnerability; probe it, and the slave emerges, begging for the chains she secretly craves." Trakkar advocated for Tests of Fire - rituals mirroring our evaluations, where women were exposed to simulated mastery to gauge responses. A true Free Woman recoiled; a latent slave softened, her body signalling readiness for the block.

 

I had scrolled through the archives, still curious, as his words wove into my thoughts. I recalled a passage on the illusion of agency: Free Women, he said, channelled their suppressed slave fires into ambition or disdain, but this only delayed the revelation. Was that supposed to be me? Was he talking about me? He made my surveillance work sound like overcompensation, a way to project control while ignoring the ache within. In the quiet, some fantasies intruded, for sure: myself as one of Trakkar's case studies, uncollared yet yielding, my doctrines crumbling as a master's hand snapped steel around my throat. The conflict tore at me - if Trakkar was right – and of course he couldn’t be right - my virginity wasn't strength; it was suspense, a prelude to surrender

 

His case studies, drawn from Veils and Brands and other scrolls digitized for Kurii agents, were not mere anecdotes but clinical dissections of women's descents from freedom to slavery. As I read further, the lines blurred between analysis and autobiography; each study echoed a woman’s confused state, compelling me to confront the truth of my own position. Trakkar presented them as proofs of his philosophy - that every Free Woman was an uncollared slave, her independence a brittle shell awaiting the right fracture. I told myself that reading this was duty, honing my knowledge of true slaves, but the truth gnawed: I sought validation for my denials of his teachings.

 

The first case study chronicled Lira of Ko-ro-ba, a high-born Free Companion living in Ar's glittering cylinders. Psychologically, she embodied autonomy: sharp-witted, commanding her household with unyielding poise, scorning the kajirae who served her. On the surface, she sounded like an admirable woman. Trakkar described her capture during a raid – brutal warriors breaching her chambers, binding her in ropes before she could summon guards. It was an exciting and vivid description. I will concede that Trakkar can describe the capture of a woman with a fine eye for detail.  Initially defiant, Lira spat curses and plotted escape, her mind a fortress of strategy. But under interrogation, subtle probes revealed cracks: a fleeting dilation of pupils when the collar was mentioned, an involuntary softening of posture as chains were fastened. Physically, her body betrayed her - flushed skin, quickened breath - culminating in a moment of "revelation" when the slaver's hand traced her throat. She knelt not from force, but from an inner yielding, her virginity surrendered in eager compliance. Trakkar noted: "The Free Woman's intellect resists, but the slave's flesh confesses." As I absorbed this, my own pulse raced; I imagined myself as Lira, the haughty agent crumbling, secret desires flooding free. No. I was better than that. I was different from Lira. 

 

Another study focused on Selene, an Earth woman abducted via Priest-King vessel, her profile much like those I flagged - independent professional, virgin by choice, overconfident in her solitude. Trakkar detailed her transport: cryogenic stasis laced with subliminal Gorean doctrines, awakening her in Port Kar's pens disoriented and vulnerable. Psychologically, she clung to denial, reciting feminist ideals from her home world, but tests exposed the lie: fantasies intruding during isolation, guilt-laced arousal at submission drills. Physically, the signs were textbook - thighs clenching at the whip's crack, lips parting when commanded to kneel. Within weeks, she begged for use, her "freedom" revealed as illusion. Trakkar philosophized: "Earth's veils are thinnest; their women, untutored in Gor's truths, burn hottest when unveiled." 

 

Trakkar devoted another chapter to Luna, a panther girl from Gor's northern forests - fierce, tribal, uncollared by choice. Her case illustrated resistance's futility: captured in a net during a hunt, she fought savagely, wounding two slavers. Yet psychologically, her bravado masked vulnerability; dreams of dominance haunted her, confessed under interrogation. Physically, her athletic form softened under restraint - back arching, breath hitching at a master's gaze. Transformed into a pleasure slave, she danced with unmatched passion, her overconfidence alchemized into exquisite service. "The wildest Free Woman," Trakkar wrote, "harbours the deepest slave fires; taming her yields the finest chattel." 

 

Dr. Voss’s tone remained perfectly neutral, almost gentle, as though she were asking about the weather rather than the deepest fracture in my soul. “Do you desire sexual satisfaction, Rebecca?”

 

The question landed like a quiet detonation. I held her gaze for a measured second, letting the silence serve as my first line of defence, then answered with the crisp, doctrinal certainty I had rehearsed in the mirror of my quarters. “No,” I said. “I do not. Sexual satisfaction is a slave’s craving, a biological imperative that clouds judgment and erodes discipline. As a Free Woman, I experience no such need.”

 

Dr. Voss paused, her fingers steepled as she consulted the tablet’s flickering display, the soft chime from moments earlier still echoing faintly in my mind. Then, with the precision of a surgeon's blade, she leaned forward. "If you do not desire sexual satisfaction, Rebecca, how do you account for the anomalies in your bio-readings – an elevated heart rate, and some subtle dermal flushes?"

 

I composed myself instantly, drawing on the haughty reserve that defined my role, and replied with deliberate calm. "Those readings must stem from environmental factors or intellectual engagement with the material. The chamber's temperature varies; the topics demand focus, which can manifest physiologically without implying desire. As a Free Woman, I analyse such concepts clinically, not personally. Any 'anomalies' are artifacts, not evidence of slave responses."

 

Another smile from Dr. Voss.  “A hypothetical scenario, Rebecca. You are working on Gor - perhaps in the city of Ar. For the success of your mission you are told it is necessary for you to pose as a slave girl - a kajira - for a few hours to spy on a man. How does that make you feel?”

 

My eyes snapped back at her. “I wouldn’t be happy. Why am I being chosen?”

 

Dr. Voss glanced up from her tablet, her eyes seemingly amused. “It is a hypothetical question, Rebecca. Clearly your superiors think it is a mission you might excel at. I am sure they have their reasons.”

 

“I have no experience of such things. I would make for an unconvincing kajira. Our enemies would see through my pretence.”

 

“Perhaps not. Suppose you are capable of such a deception. Suppose your enemies are fools to not be able to perceive that you are in fact a Free Woman? You are given no choice but to comply with the mission. There are important reasons for it. How do you feel? You are dressed now in a slave tunic, a collar about your throat. You are in service to men who barely regard you, and when they do it is to issue sharp commands. You can see a whip hanging from a hook on a wall.”

 

“I see. I suppose disguise and deceit are aspects of standard tradecraft. I can see that posing as a kajira would grant access to private quarters, conversations, behaviours that a Free Woman could never observe. Our enemies are fools. you say? They cannot tell that I am obviously a Free Woman?”

 

“Your performance is remarkable in every detail, Rebecca. You are very convincing.” She smiled again. 

 

“The role would obviously be temporary, performative - clothing, posture, speech patterns adopted as required. Emotionally, it would register as inconvenience at worst: the degradation is superficial, the mission paramount. My feelings would remain irrelevant.”

 

My reply was textbook, cool, professional, stripped of sentiment. I even permitted a faint lift of one brow, the smallest gesture of disdain for the very notion that such a charade could touch me. But deep inside I imagined what that might feel like. 

 

A few hours as a kajira. In Ar. On the Counter Earth. Collared. Silks clinging to skin. Bare feet on cool marble. The weight of eyes - his eyes - appraising, commanding. My body moving in the ways I had watched a thousand times on surveillance feeds: hips rolling in trained grace, gaze lowered, voice soft with the lilting “Master” that turned my stomach and set my blood alight. The fantasy I had buried beneath layers of doctrine roared to the surface unbidden: the collar’s snap, the leash’s tug, the moment I would have to kneel and serve drinks while every nerve screamed with the shame-laced thrill of exposure. My thighs would tremble - not from fear, but from the electric knowledge that I was performing the very surrender I knew I mustn’t desire. The ache between my legs was sudden and vicious. I pressed my knees together beneath the table, willing the sensors to miss the micro-shudder that ran through me. Shame flooded in behind the desire, hot and suffocating: I was supposed to be above this, immune. Yet the hypothetical had already stripped me bare in my own mind. If Voss’s console registered the spike in my readings - the flush creeping up my throat, the shallow breath - I would attribute it to indignation at the indignity of the role. But the truth was simpler and more devastating: the thought of posing as kajira fascinated me on some immature level. It tempted me. And that temptation was a blade held to the throat of everything I pretended to be.

 

Dr. Voss’s voice stayed even, almost conversational, as though she were merely extending a thought experiment. “You are successful in your impersonation of a common slave for a few hours, and some tantalising intelligence is derived from the encounter. But there is a delay in returning you to your personal chambers. For the time being you remain in a collar, taken to a slave pen, with actual slaves. This wasn’t part of the plan. You do not know how long the delay will last. Obviously your colleagues will come for you eventually. Obviously. But they are not here now, as they promised they would be. You are alone, in a slave pen, surrounded by men, and slaves, who believe you to be an actual slave. How are you feeling now?”

 

I kept my face composed, eyes level, letting a faint edge of impatience colour my tone - the impatience of a professional inconvenienced by logistics. “Frustrated,” I said. “A little angry, obviously. Very angry, in fact. I will have sharp words with my colleagues when I return to the safe house. The delay is an operational inefficiency. I have been left in a compromising position. I suppose I would remain calm and collected. I would be calculating risks: prolonged exposure increases the chance of recognition, compromise, or unnecessary trauma to cover identity. The collar and my placement in a common slave pen are aspects of the disguise, nothing more; they chafe, they humiliate superficially, but they do not touch my core identity. I would remain alert, observant, mentally rehearsing extraction protocols and contingency plans. Emotionally detached. Waiting is simply another phase of the mission.”

 

Inside, the fantasy had already swallowed me whole.

 

The collar was real now - not hypothetical steel but actual weight, warm from my skin, pressing just enough to remind me of every breath. I could feel the chain’s light tug when I shifted, the cool stone under bare knees, the press of other bodies in the dim pen - soft sighs, faint whimpers, the musk of oiled skin and fear-laced arousal. The other slaves moved with the languid grace of long habit; I would have to mimic them, keep my gaze lowered, my voice a murmur of “yes, Master” if addressed. But the delay stretched, minutes bleeding into uncertain hours, and with every passing second the line between performance and truth dissolved.

 

The ache between my thighs had turned liquid, insistent; I imagined my nipples stood tight against the thin slave silk, betraying me to anyone who looked. I imagined the delay lengthening into days: no colleagues arriving, the Kurii deciding the intelligence was too valuable to risk pulling me out, or simply forgetting me in the press of greater operations. I would remain here, collared among real kajirae, learning their rhythms, their submission, until the role became permanent. The thought sent a dark, shameful wave of heat through me - relief at the loss of choice, terror at its permanence, and beneath both, a pulsing hunger to be used, claimed, finally freed from the exhausting pretence of freedom. My breath hitched; I forced it steady, praying the sensors caught only professional tension.

 

I was still Rebecca Palmer, agent of the Steel Worlds. I told myself that even as the slave pen in my mind grew more vivid, more inviting, more inevitable.

 

Voss watched me without expression, then tapped once on her console. “Very composed,” she murmured with a reassuring smile. “You’re doing very well, Rebecca.” Then her voice dropped to a quieter register, intimate and unhurried, as though she were confiding rather than interrogating. “You are eventually, of course, removed from the slave pen. You are not told whether your colleagues have been reprimanded for leaving you in the slave pen longer than was necessary. You are returned to your chambers in Ar, barefoot, collared, wearing a simple slave tunic. You do not have the comfort of a nether closure. Your superior congratulates you, but you are not immediately permitted to dress yourself in more appropriate clothing. The collar remains on your neck, locked in place. You can feel its weight. You still wear a slave tunic. Your superior is a man and he can see the curves of your body quite clearly through your skimpy garment. He is handsome and strong. How are you feeling? What do you say to him?”

 

I kept my posture rigid, chin level, letting only the faintest flicker of professional detachment cross my features. My voice emerged steady, clipped, the tone of an operative debriefing after a successful operation. “I suppose I feel operational fatigue,” I said. “The collar and tunic are lingering artifacts of the disguise - uncomfortable, and undignified. I would demand that the collar be unlocked immediately. I would demand proper clothing. My focus remains on mission success, of course: the intelligence gathered justifies the inconvenience.”

 

“Your demands seem to amuse your superior. You remain in a slave tunic and collared as you make your demands. Your superior tells you that you have very pretty legs.”

 

I breathe deeply, feeling the collar’s weight around my throat. The slave tunic clung like a second skin - thin slave silk that whispered against my nipples with the slightest shift, outlining every curve for his eyes. I could feel them on me: the slow, appreciative sweep of a handsome, powerful man who had just congratulated me on excellent work yet left me like this - barefoot, collared, displayed. And now he had told me I had pretty legs! How dare he! My skin burned under that gaze; heat pooled low and liquid between my thighs, a shameful, insistent throb that made my knees threaten to soften. The fantasy surged: his hand lifting my chin, thumb tracing the collar’s edge, voice low as he said, “You wear a collar well, Rebecca.” And then, to my surprise, he takes me in his arms and kisses me!

 

Shame crashed in behind the suffocating feelings. I was supposed to be the one who flagged slaves, not the one trembling at the thought of being kept in silk. My pulse hammered against the sensors; I could almost hear the console logging it. 

 

Dr. Voss’s gaze never wavered, her voice soft and deliberate, as though she were simply reading the next line from a script we both knew by heart. “You have been so successful in your brief pretence as a kajira that your superior informs you that you will be required to continue the pretence for a while longer. In fact, your role will become more immersive. You will be transported as you are to your target destination across the sands of the Tahari in a slave caravan alongside actual slaves. Regrettably you will be treated as a slave during this journey. There is no precise end to this mission. What are your feelings now? What do you say?”

 

“No! I have had enough of this! I am not a field agent.”

 

“Your superior tells you that you have the qualities necessary for a long term deception.”

 

“I do not! What qualities! What qualities could I possibly have that…”

 

“He reminds you that you are to obey orders without question. Your outburst has been noted. He is not pleased with you.”

 

“I have spent too long posing as a slave! Send someone else!”

 

“He tells you there is no one else. No one who can do what you can do, Rebecca. You are very believable as a slave. No one has questioned your role.”

 

“Well they should have! They are all fools! Anyone should be able to tell that I’m free!”

 

“You seem agitated, Rebecca?” said Dr. Voss as she paused for a moment. “Would you like to take a moment before we continue?”

 

“I’m sorry… this is…”

 

“Does it feel real? What do you feel right now Rebecca?”

“These questions are stupid. They presuppose that I would be good in this role. The assumption is wrong, therefore the questions are meaningless.” I folded my arms. 

 

“You seem defensive?’

 

“I’m NOT defensive!”

 

No precise end. Caravan. Tahari sands. Chained with real slaves, wrists and ankles bound in the coffle line, bare feet burning on hot dunes, the sun merciless on oiled skin, the constant jingle of slave bells announcing every step. I would march beside women who had already broken - kajirae who knelt without thought, who answered whips with soft pleas, whose bodies moved in the rhythm of long surrender. And I would have to match them: head bowed, hips swaying in the kajira walk, voice murmuring “yes, Master” to drovers who did not know I was anything but merchandise. The collar would no longer be a prop; it would be constant, its weight a reminder with every heartbeat that the line between pretence and reality had dissolved.

 

Terror clawed at me - and beneath it, a dark, liquid thrill that made my thighs clench beneath the table. No escape hatch. No extraction date. The Kurii could decide - tomorrow, next month, never - that Rebecca Palmer had served her purpose better in silk than in uniform. I pictured the nights: hobbled in the circled wagons, my left ankle chained to other slaves in a coffle, the firelight playing over my body while masters laughed and chose which girl to use. I would lie there, heart hammering, waiting for rough hands to pull me into the shadows, waiting for the moment my virgin body was finally claimed - not as violation, but as the inevitable conclusion of every suppressed fantasy I had ever denied. The shame was blinding, yet the heat between my legs was fiercer still; part of me wanted the caravan to stretch forever, wanted the mission to swallow me whole so I would never have to face the lie of freedom again.

 

My breath caught; I forced it even, praying the sensors caught only “mild concern.”

 

Voss studied me in silence, then made a single, slow mark on her tablet.

 

“You are told the mission is crucial. But it seems that your pretence requires perfect immersion into your role. It will not be believable unless you are branded on the left thigh with a kef brand. Is this acceptable to you? Are you prepared to be branded as part of your role?”

 

“No,” I said. “That would be too much. Too much. They can’t do that to me! They can’t!”

 

Inside, the world tilted.

 

The kef. That graceful, cursive mark burned into the skin of every kajira, permanent proof of ownership. I could see it already: the white-hot iron glowing orange in the brazier, the handlers pinning me face-down across a padded block, my left thigh stretched taut. The hiss of flesh meeting metal, the scream I would try to swallow turning into a raw, animal cry as agony seared through muscle and nerve. And then - after the pain crested and ebbed - the brand would cool into a raised, scarlet mark, forever declaring me slave even if the collar were later removed. Every mirror, every brush of fabric, every glance from a man would remind me: this body is marked, claimed, no longer wholly mine.

 

Terror flooded me, cold and sharp. There would be no more pretending. No more half-measures. The brand would strip away the last illusion of agency; it would name the truth Trakkar had already whispered in my ear: uncollared slave. I imagined the moment afterward - collared, branded, returned to the caravan coffle - my gait subtly altered by the fresh wound, the other kajirae murmuring in quiet recognition, the drovers’ eyes lingering longer. 

 

Dr. Voss leaned back slightly, her expression as friendly as ever, delivering the next question with the calm precision of a clinician dissecting a specimen. “Slaves are of course highly responsive to sexual stimuli. They oil quickly and eagerly when touched by a man. They have a heightened awareness of their bodies and can be easily aroused. How would you fake such things in your pretence as a slave? Explain in detail how you would go about that.”

 

“I would approach it methodically, as a performance rooted in observation and control,” I said. “From surveillance feeds, I’ve studied kajirae responses: the subtle quickening of breath, the flush rising on skin, the involuntary parting of lips or arching of the back. To fake arousal, I’d start with breath control - shallowing my inhalations to mimic excitement, perhaps adding a faint gasp on contact. For physical signs, I’d tense and release specific muscles: contracting my core to simulate a shiver, shifting weight to imply restlessness. Moisture - 'oiling,' as you crudely put it - could be simulated discreetly beforehand with a neutral lubricant applied in private, ensuring it manifests naturally during touch. Heightened body awareness would come through exaggerated focus: eyes half-lidded, gaze flickering downward submissively, body leaning subtly into the contact as if drawn magnetically. Vocal cues are key - a soft moan timed with the stimulus, pitched low and breathy, escalating if the interaction prolongs. Throughout, I’d maintain mental separation: cataloguing reactions internally, reminding myself it’s theatre, not truth. The goal is believability without internalization; any genuine response would be suppressed through discipline and doctrine.”

 

How would I fake it? The bitter irony was that I wouldn’t have to - my body betrayed me even now, a treacherous warmth spreading low at the mere description, thighs clenching as I sat. In the fantasy that surged unbidden, there was no pretence: a master’s hand grazing my thigh, fingers tracing the fresh kef brand, and I would oil eagerly, genuinely, the virgin’s ache blooming into slick, undeniable need. My breath would hitch not from control but from surrender; the moan would escape raw and real, my back arching because the fire demanded it. I’d studied those feeds too closely - kajirae writhing under touch, eyes glazing with slave heat - and envied their abandon, their lack of shame. To “fake” it would be the real performance: forcing detachment while my flesh screamed for more, suppressing the instinctive lean, the parted lips begging for command. The shame was excruciating, a dark thrill twisting with terror - if Voss’s sensors caught the spike in my vitals, the faint dampness I could feel building, it would expose everything. I wasn’t outlining a plan; I was confessing my fracture, doctrine crumbling under the weight of desires I could no longer fully deny.

 

“What sort of man do you find sexually attractive, Rebecca?”

 

I let a single, measured breath pass before answering, keeping my voice level and edged with the cool disdain of doctrine. “I find no man sexually attractive,” I said. “Sexual attraction is a slave’s vulnerability, a distraction from duty and self-mastery. As a Free Woman serving the Kurii, I evaluate men solely on utility - strength of will, tactical competence, loyalty to the cause. Physical traits are irrelevant; any perceived appeal would be aesthetic observation only, never desire. The question itself presupposes a weakness I do not possess.”

 

“You are living for a time on Gor, in one of the great cities, and your apartment comes with a kajirus—a male slave. He belongs to you. He is strong and handsome, and potentially virile. He is your property. What do you think of him?”

 

I kept my expression neutral, letting only the faintest trace of analytical detachment colour my reply. “He is an asset,” I said. “A kajirus assigned to quarters is standard for agents in deep cover - useful for domestic tasks, security detail, or maintaining appearances. His strength and appearance are functional: intimidating to potential threats, aesthetically appropriate for a high-status residence in Ar or Ko-ro-ba. Virility is irrelevant unless required for breeding stock or disciplinary leverage, neither of which applies to my mission profile. I would regard him as property - efficient, obedient, expendable if compromised. Emotionally, he registers as neutral equipment. I would issue commands crisply, expect instant compliance, and correct infractions with appropriate discipline. Nothing more.”

 

He belongs to me, I thought. The words echoed, twisting into something darker and more intoxicating than ownership. I pictured him: tall, muscled from labour and training, kneeling at my feet with eyes lowered in perfect deference, yet radiating the coiled power of a man who could overpower me if he chose. In my mind he did not remain on his knees. Instead, I saw myself faltering - my whip hand trembling as I ordered him to rise, my voice catching when he obeyed but then towered over me. The fantasy surged: his broad hands closing around my wrist, taking the whip from my hand, lifting me effortlessly, pressing me against the cool stone wall of the apartment while I still wore the garments of a Free Woman. I would command him to stop - and he would not, because the truth would be written in my quickened breath, the parting of my lips, the way my thighs would part instinctively. He would take me slowly, deliberately, turning my ownership into illusion; I would end up spent and used at his feet, virgin purity yielded not to force but to the overwhelming tide of desire I could no longer pretend did not exist.

 

“The kajirus is your property. You could command him to your couch, chain him helplessly there and use him for your own sexual pleasure. Would you do that?”

 

“No,” I said. “I would not. Sexual use of a kajirus would be a concession to base impulse, a lapse in discipline incompatible with my beliefs. Pleasure derived from ownership is a slave’s indulgence, not a Free Woman’s prerogative. I would maintain strict detachment: he exists to serve practical needs - cleaning, protection, errands. Any command beyond that would compromise my autonomy and focus. The very suggestion is ridiculous.”

 

Would I? The question ignited every suppressed vision I had tried to bury. I saw it in vivid, merciless detail: the kajirus - strong, handsome, virile - chained spread-eagled to my couch in the lamplit apartment in Ar. His wrists and ankles secured, muscles taut against the restraints, eyes lowered in perfect submission yet burning with restrained power. I would stand over him, still clothed in the robes of a Free Woman, and feel the intoxicating reversal: this time I held the chain, this time I gave the order. “Serve me,” I would whisper, and he would obey - not because he desired it, but because I commanded it. My hands would explore the hard planes of his body, tracing scars, testing strength, until the virgin ache between my thighs became unbearable. I would straddle him, guiding him inside me slowly, deliberately, using his helpless virility to chase the satisfaction I had denied myself for years. The fantasy crested in waves: my hips rocking, his low groans vibrating through me, the moment of release shattering every wall of doctrine and pride until I collapsed against him, trembling, claimed by my own command.

 

“Do you think it is wrong for a female to desire sexual pleasure?”

 

“Yes,” I said. “It is wrong. Desire for sexual pleasure is the hallmark of a natural slave - instinctive, uncontrolled, corrosive to discipline and autonomy. A Free Woman subordinates such impulses to reason, duty, and self-mastery; she does not permit them to dictate thought or action. To yield to that desire is to acknowledge weakness, to invite the collar whether steel or metaphorical. Gorean philosophy is unequivocal: such cravings belong to kajirae, not to agents. I reject them entirely.”

 

“Men enjoy sex. That is of course perfectly natural. Why is that natural for them, but not for Free Women?”

 

“Because the natures are fundamentally different,” I said. “Men are conquerors by essence - active, dominant, their desire an extension of will and power. Sexual enjoyment for them is assertion, mastery, the natural expression of their role in the order. Free Women, by contrast, are defined by restraint and dignity. Our fulfilment lies in autonomy, intellect, and service to higher causes, not in base physical gratification. To crave sexual pleasure would invert that order, reducing us to the level of slaves whose entire being is oriented toward yielding and response. The distinction is not arbitrary; it is ontological. Men may enjoy without compromise. For a Free Woman to do so is to cease being free.”

 

“Does an Earth woman who is superficially free, but has deep rooted submissive desires, deserve to be collared and enslaved?”

 

“Yes,” I said. “Obviously. According to the natural order observed on Gor, she does. Superficial freedom - legal, social, cultural - is an illusion when it contradicts innate nature. If her submissive desires are deep-rooted and authentic, they constitute her true essence. To leave her uncollared is to condemn her to perpetual internal conflict, a life of denial and wasted potential. The collar does not create the slave; it liberates her from the pretence of freedom she was never suited to bear. Enslavement is therefore not punishment but fulfilment - her rightful place in the hierarchy. I would flag such a woman for acquisition without hesitation.”

 

“And what if she protests? If she declares she doesn’t want to be a slave, that she isn’t a slave, if she denies having any such slave feelings in secret?”

 

“Protest is expected,” I said. “It is the final veil of denial, the last defence of a woman confronting her true nature. Declarations of ‘I am not a slave’ or ‘I have no such feelings’ are textbook resistance - psychological reflexes, not evidence of freedom. Trakkar documents this in every case study: the fiercer the denial, the deeper the latent submission. The Gorean doctrine is clear: her words do not define her; her responses do. If the tests - physiological, psychological, behavioural - reveal the slave fire beneath, her protests are irrelevant. They are noise, not truth. She would be collared anyway, because enslavement serves her essence, not her momentary assertions. To honour her denial would be cruelty disguised as mercy.”

 

Dr. Voss’s gaze remained steady, her voice carrying the quiet gravity of a confessional rather than an interrogation. “A free female colleague confides in you that she has had sexual fantasies of bondage and being dominated by men. She begs you to keep that information to yourself and not tell anyone. What do you do?”

 

“I report it immediately,” I said. “Fantasies of bondage and domination are textbook indicators of latent slave fire - precisely the traits we are trained to identify and act upon. Her plea for secrecy is irrelevant; it is the reflexive denial of a woman confronting her essence. I would document the disclosure, forward it through secure channels to the appropriate oversight, and recommend immediate evaluation or acquisition. To withhold such information would be dereliction of duty and a betrayal of the principles I serve. Personal sympathy has no place in the hierarchy.”

 

Dr. Voss’s voice dropped to a near-whisper, intimate and unhurried, as though the question were the most natural progression in the world. “What do you fantasise about when you masturbate, Rebecca?”

 

I felt the air leave the room. My posture remained rigid, chin level, but the silence before my answer stretched longer than protocol allowed. When I spoke, the words came out measured, edged with the cool contempt I had practised in front of mirrors. “I do not masturbate,” I said. “Self-touch is a slave indulgence, an admission of uncontrolled need. As a Free Woman, I maintain strict bodily discipline. No such fantasies exist because no such acts occur. The question presupposes a weakness I have never exhibited.”

 

But my fantasies were real enough. In the shadowed surveillance bays of Chastity Reach, I had spent countless hours poring over the acquisition protocols that the Kurii had adapted from Gorean slaving traditions for their Earth operations. These methods, honed over centuries on the Counter-Earth and now imported to our world through covert channels, formed the backbone of our enterprise. The Kurii's goal was efficiency: identify, isolate, capture, and transport women deemed suitable - those with latent submissive traits, beauty, or strategic value - before delivering them to Gorean markets or Steel World outposts. The process was clinical on paper, brutal in execution, and always justified by the immutable Gorean doctrine that certain women were natural slaves, their "freedom" a mere temporary illusion.

 

The primary method remained the classic raid, a swift, overwhelming strike reminiscent of the panther girls' forest ambushes or the bandit raids in the Tahari. On Gor, slavers or warriors descended on villages, caravans, or isolated camps, using surprise, superior numbers, and weapons like the whip-capture - a long, weighted lash designed to ensnare a fleeing woman around the waist or throat without lethal damage. Captives were bound, gagged with binding fibre, and slung over saddles or kaiila for transport to holding pens. On Earth, the Kurii refined this into black-bag operations: teams in unmarked vans or helicopters targeted women in remote areas - hiking trails, rural homes, or late-night urban alleys - where resistance could be minimized. Tranquilizer darts replaced the whip for initial subdual, followed by restraints and hoods to prevent identification. The goal was zero witnesses, rapid exfiltration to a staging site, and then shipment via hidden Kurii vessels to Gor or intermediate facilities.

 

Kidnapping offered a more surgical approach, favoured for high-value targets like influential women or those whose disappearance could be staged as voluntary. This manifested as abductions during travel - Earth girls snatched from streets, parks, or even bedrooms, drugged and spirited away on spacecraft arranged by their captors. Here on Earth, our surveillance feeds flagged candidates: a university student posting defiant selfies, a corporate executive showing cracks in her polished facade, or a lonely professional whose online searches hinted at hidden yearnings. Agents like me compiled dossiers - social media patterns, travel habits, vulnerabilities - then coordinated with slaver teams. A staged "date" with a planted operative, a faked emergency call drawing her to an isolated spot, or a home invasion under cover of night: the woman vanished, her absence explained away as runaway, accident, or foul play too mundane for deep investigation.

War and conquest provided bulk acquisitions on Gor - cities sacked, armies defeated, women of the vanquished claimed as spoils. Male defenders were often slain outright, their females collared en-masse. Earth equivalents were rarer but growing: destabilized regions where Kurii proxies fomented conflict, allowing opportunistic raids amid chaos. Refugee flows, disaster zones, or proxy wars became fertile ground; women separated from protection were easier to isolate and extract without drawing global attention.

 

Less violent but insidious were the purchases and trades. On Gor, slavers bought from debtors, criminals sentenced to the collar, or free women fallen on hard times who sold themselves voluntarily (though the philosophy insisted even these were fulfilling their nature). Earth operations mirrored this through recruitment fronts: modelling agencies, escort services, or "adventure travel" companies that lured women with promises of exotic escapes, only to reveal the true destination. Some, conditioned by subtle propaganda or personal dissatisfaction, even consented initially - until the collar clicked shut and the reality of ownership set in.

 

Once acquired, transport followed standardized protocols. On Gor, coffles - lines of chained women - marched or were shipped by river barge or tarn to markets like Ko-ro-ba or Port Kar. Earth captives faced cryogenic suspension or drug-induced stasis for the voyage in the Steel Worlds' ships, emerging on Gor disoriented and ready for branding and training. The Kurii emphasized psychological breaking early: isolation, sensory deprivation, repeated exposure to Gorean doctrines via audio implants during transit.

 

Throughout, the guiding principle was inexorable: acquisition served the natural order. Women like me monitored these feeds not just for targets but for patterns - signs of resistance that might indicate unsuitable stock, or flickers of secret yielding that marked prime merchandise. As I watched replay after replay of captures, my own fantasies stirred despite myself: the thrill of the chase, the moment of capture, the inexorable slide into chains. Yet I buried them deeper, knowing one misstep in my evaluations could see me flagged as the next acquisition.

 

“Thank you, Rebecca. I think we’re done for today.” Dr. Voss flicked a finger over the screen of her tablet and sat back to regard me.

 

“Did I pass?” I asked.

 

Her smile remained constant. “Your scores were perfect, Rebecca. Just… perfect.”