Plunder of Gor (2 page)

I stepped back.

“The blow was more serious, of course,” he said. “But you are ignorant. It will not be necessary to cut off your hand, this time.”

I was then even more afraid.

I moved backward, retreating step by step, and half tripped, and turned, stumbling, and struck my thigh against the edge of the desk. I winced, and turned back to face him.

“That will not do,” he said. “You were clumsy. You are to move with the grace and beauty of the female, of the slave.”

I feared I had made a fool of myself.

He had not moved.

But I had never before been in the vicinity of such a man.

“Have you heard of Gor?” he asked.

“No!” I said, perhaps too earnestly.

To be sure, I had heard something of Gor, the Antichthon, or Counter-Earth. But then I suppose many have heard something of it.

One hears of such things.

How can one help it?

Do not rumors rustle about? Are not strange stories borne on surprising winds? Are not unusual thoughts found in green places, amongst trees?

But I had never read a Gorean book.

I had been afraid to read a Gorean book.

I now wonder why that was.

I think I feared what might be found there.

What was there to be afraid of?

Surely I had had a course in anthropology in college, and was aware of variations in human cultures. What then is another culture? So what was so different about Gor? Why should I have been afraid, so unaccountably, to do something so simple as to read a certain book, or books? Surely there was nothing to fear. What could possibly be so disturbing about the mere thought of apprising oneself of unfamiliar possibilities? Can ideas draw blood? Surely truth is unavailing against mighty walls. Was I afraid I would find myself in such books, in such a world, that I would find myself somehow therein? Did I fear I might learn something which, in some sense, I feared I already knew?

“You have never heard of Gor?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“I think that what you are saying is false,” he said. “One such as you is not permitted to lie. Only a free woman may lie. One such as you may be punished.”

“‘Punished'”?

“Certainly,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“I am not a slave!” I said.

Again he smiled.

“Gor is only in stories!” I said.

“I thought you had not heard of Gor,” he said.

“It is only in stories,” I said.

“So many such as you have thought,” he said, “who are now on Gor, and, as they should be, in collars.”

“‘Collars'?”

“Slave collars.”

“I shall call the police!” I said.

“They would be pleased to see such as you, naked, at their feet, in a collar,” he said.

“Get out!”

He went to the door and opened it, and then turned, paused in the threshold. “As for Gor, my dear,” he said, “inquire further into the matter. Normally one such as you would not be selected, but I think we may make an exception in your case. You have not been fully pleasing. And Gor, after all, has a use for its pot girls, and its kettle-and-mat girls, as well as for better, more delicious merchandise.”

“You cannot demean me!” I cried. “I tell you I am beautiful, very beautiful!”

“Vain bitch,” he said.

“‘Bitch'?”

“As of now,” he said. “The whip, as I mentioned, takes that out of a woman. It is hard to be a bitch, on your knees, your head down, fearfully kissing and licking the feet of a man.”

“Beautiful!” I cried. “Beautiful!”

He stood in the portal, paused. “It is true,” he said. “In a collar, you might become more beautiful. In a collar, a woman becomes far more beautiful.”

“Get out!” I cried. “Get out!”

“Do not be afraid,” he said. “At least, not yet. This is a preliminary assessment. No decision has been made.”

“I am not afraid!” I said, trembling.

“We may meet again,” he said.

“Get out!” I cried.

He then turned about, and left. Behind him he had closed the door, quietly. I heard him descend the stairs, his step placid and measured.

I then turned about, and bent over the desk, distraught, clinging to it. My thigh hurt where I had stumbled against the wood. I would probably, shortly, have a bruise there. Perhaps it was there already. After a few minutes I had become far more calm. I had very little sense of what had just occurred. Had I called the police what could they have done? What could I have told them? Was I hysterical? Was I the victim of some delusion? Had I misunderstood some brief unpleasantness, or misremembered it? Was I not making much out of little, or nothing? Might they not credit my account to some aberration? I did not know the man. I had never seen him before. I presumed that I would never see him again. He was not in our records. He was not a client, even a prospective client. There was no name, and even the description might have fit any number of large men. I had sensed an accent, but was not even sure of that.

And I was beautiful, very beautiful!

I had planned to go to the beach the next day.

Would I do so?

When I went to the beach, it was not to swim, but to relish the sun, the warm sand, the sight of the water and sky, the crowd, the sound of the surf, and sense the impression one such as I would make in such a milieu, on the young men, so many of them furtive and diffident, so frightened to be noticed in their noticing. How ashamed my culture had made so many of them to be male. Was that not to be a secret, denied even to oneself? In my sunglasses they would not even know if I noticed them or not, not until I turned to them, directly, and they quickly turned away.

It was one of the small pleasures allowed to a young woman in the culture, that of intimidating and shaming men, teasing them, taunting them, torturing them, particularly those suitably acculturated, conditioned to view the most natural promptings of their blood with trepidation and remorse. Who did we fear and hate more, I wondered, they, or ourselves?

I considered changing my plans for the morrow but then decided I would not do so. I would go forward and do exactly what I had intended to do. Also, the bruise on my thigh was high enough to be covered by the skirt of my white bathing suit.

The next incident that I might recount occurred the following afternoon, at the beach. It was not clear to me at the time, but it proved later to be connected with the unpleasantness that had occurred the day before, about closing time, at the office. I was leaning back against a rented wood-and-canvas backrest, set in the sand. I wore a broad-brimmed sun hat and sunglasses. The sand was warm, and my knees were drawn up. My beach bag was beside me, bulging with its miscellany, ranging from brushes and combs to towels and lotions. I had dismissed the incident of the preceding afternoon in the office. It was meaningless. To be sure, certain mnemonic tatters of the interaction did intrude now and then, like the stirring of leaves, like a rustling in brush, scarcely noted, where something might have moved, like whispers, whose source eluded consciousness.

I became aware, abruptly, of a presence.

A young man was standing nearby, regarding me. He wore blue slacks, and a white shirt, open at the throat.

When one is beautiful, one is used to being regarded.

I suppose it is flattering, but, too, it can be annoying.

Or is it really annoying, I wonder.

Do we tell ourselves that it is annoying, feeling we should adopt such a posture, that it is expected of us?

Would we not be more distressed, if we were not regarded?

I feigned displeasure.

It was the thing to do.

How dare he regard me so, regard me in that way, as he was!

Is one a mere object?

How horrifying to be regarded as an object, as something which might be assessed, and bought and sold!

But how accustomed I would become to such an appraisal! And, in time, I would realize that I was an object, a sentient, aware, feeling, fearing, hoping, obeying, and needful object.

It was a way of being.

I would be collared, as what I would then be, an animal, an object.

I would be bought and sold, as the mere animal, the mere object, I would then be.

I looked away, a tight gesture, signaling annoyance.

Surely that should send him on his way.

Surely that should be enough!

But when I looked back, he had remained where he was.

Usually, it is only necessary to convey, by the slightest of movements or expressions, a tincture of impatience, or disdain, and the moment would be done with. A hint of displeasure, or a frown, should be sufficient. The intrusive regard, discovered, is withdrawn, and the offending party, apprised of his oafish vulgarity, withdraws in embarrassment.

I turned to face him, boldly, letting him know I was well aware of his attention.

I almost removed my sunglasses.

He had not left.

I glared at him, allowing my disapproval to be clear, unmistakable.

He did not move.

I became angry, and apprehensive.

I did not know what was going on.

Then I suddenly thought he must know me. That must be it, or something like it. Why had he not melted away, quickly, shame-faced, looking down, or to the side? Surely he would not be where he was, continuing to regard me so intently, if he did not know me, or did not think he knew me.

“Kajira,” he said.

That is it, I thought. It was a simple case, certainly an unpleasant one, of mistaken identity.

“I am sorry,” I said. “That is not my name.”

I drew back, tightly, against the backrest, for he knelt in the sand beside me, and reached to my sunglasses, and drew them away.

“I am not who you think I am,” I said.

“Kajira,” he said.

“No,” I said. “I may look like her, but I am not her. My name is not ‘Kajira' but ‘Phyllis'. You are mistaken.”

I did think that ‘Kajira' was a lovely name for a girl. I was vaguely aware that I had heard the name, or word, before, but I could not recall the context, or the place, or the time.

He reached forth and brushed my sun hat from my head, and it fell back, to the sand, to my right.

“I do not know you,” I said. “And you do not know me. You are mistaken.”

I then became aware of a second man, and a third man. The second man held a small digital camera, and was, apparently, snapping a number of pictures. I was apparently being photographed, a number of times, and, I feared, from a variety of perspectives. The third man, somewhat more mature, perhaps in his thirties, was standing to my right.

“I do not know who you think I am,” I said. “But I do not know you, and you do not know me. I am not well known. I am not a celebrity, not a famous person, or such, and my name is not ‘Kajira'.”

“Kajira?” he said, glancing to his more mature fellow.

The older fellow nodded. “Yes,” he said, “kajira, clearly.”

“My name is Phyllis,” I said. “Stop!” I said.

The younger man beside me, in the sand, had brushed away my sandals, and grasped my ankles, one in each hand.

His grip was strong.

I felt helpless.

“Her ankles will shackle well,” said the younger man.

“Yes,” said the more mature man.

“Let me go!” I said.

“I conjecture a number-two ankle-ring size,” said the younger man.

“It can be measured exactly in the pens,” said the more mature man.

“Let me go!” I said.

He released me, and I drew my legs back, beneath me, frightened.

How I had been handled!

With such simple authority!

A beast might have been so handled!

“Say, ‘
La kajira
',” said the more mature man.

“
La kajira
,” I said.

The men then left.

I did not understand the import of what I had said until later.

I was much shaken by this strange, meaningless interlude.

I slipped back into my sandals, and, reaching into my beach bag, pulled forth my cover-up, which I hastily wrapped about me.

The men had disappeared.

I saw only others on the beach, some reclining, some coming and going, moving amongst the towels, blankets, and umbrellas.

I bent down and retrieved my sun hat from the sand, and my sunglasses. The glasses seemed important. Perhaps I felt a need for some sort of shielding. What a frail wall to hide behind! But I felt the need to seek a sense of anonymity, of security, even be it so little as might be obtained by a bit of colored glass. In a short while, the wood-and-canvas backrest returned, I, fully clothed, uneasy, and frightened, left the beach.

The third incident prior to my acquisition occurred a month later. In the intervening days, and weeks, I had managed to regain much of my equilibrium. Nothing new and untoward had occurred. Life continued in the repetitious, quotidian patterns with which I was so familiar. I had assured myself, if not convinced myself, again and again, that the two incidents just recounted, however disturbing, were unrelated and negligible. Certainly the second incident, that on the beach, was a simple case of mistaken identity. I had tried to make that clear to them. I dismissed both incidents, to the extent I could.

I was not clear on the motivation of the third incident. Perhaps it was merely to let me know that I had not been forgotten, or to let me know I was still under “consideration,” or, perhaps, merely, to let me know that, in a very real sense, I was not free, but theirs, and that they could apprehend me when they wished, and do with me what they pleased.

I wondered if I were a slave, already, without my knowledge. I feared so. How frightful to realize that one is a slave! It was only that I had not yet been acquired, had not yet been “gathered in,” or “harvested,” had not yet, so to speak, been picked from Earth's orchard of young women, picked as slavers pick fruit, “girl fruit.” I was not yet in my collar!