Plunder of Gor (5 page)

“Not I!” I said.

“But do not fear,” she said, “you would not be freed, but would merely be sold, or given away, as might be any other domestic animal.”

“How horrifying!” I cried.

“We are women,” she said.

“How dare you speak so!” I chided.

“You are pretty, Phyllis,” she said.

“Beautiful!” I insisted.

“But what are you good for, really?” she asked.

“‘Good for'?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “what are you good for, really? Do you not know yourself? Are you so far from yourself, so invisible to yourself? Have you not thought about yourself, and what you are?”

“I need not do so,” I said. “I am popular and witty. I have a good education. I wear clothes well. I am a good dancer. I am desirable. Men like me. Women envy me. I am intelligent and beautiful. I am special.”

“Forgive me, dear Phyllis,” she said.

“For what?” I asked.

“You are the most worthless, and meaningless young woman I know,” she said. “You are vain and shallow, self-absorbed, pretentious, rootless, a shred of paper in a park, cast about pointlessly by the wind. You have no purpose, no depth. Your views are superficial and duplicative. Your values are cheap and gaudy, the predictable plastic lies produced for mass consumption. Your relationships to others, such as they are, are dictated by instrumental concerns, those of convenience and profit, by what use they might be to you to further your own projects and enhance your own meretricious self-image. There is no authenticity or genuineness in you. You are a manufactured article, an artifact, not even aware of the machine that created you, and its purpose in doing so, that you might mindlessly consume goods and fuel the engines of others. There is no more meaning, purpose, or weight to you than to a handful of confetti. You are essentially nothing.”

“Paula,” I whispered, aghast.

“But perhaps you would be good for something, a little something, as a slave,” she said. “It is hard to tell.”

Paula rose, and turned toward the door.

“Don't leave me,” I said.

“Then,” she said, “someone might get some good out of you.”

“Don't go!” I begged.

“You are a paper doll,” she said, “something cute, and pretty, which might be dressed in a hundred ways, but a thing of but one dimension, a thing lacking substance.”

“Stay a bit!” I begged. “I do not want you to go. I am afraid.”

Paula looked to the door of the apartment. “I am afraid, too,” she said.

“Stay, a little,” I said.

“I should be leaving,” she said.

“Don't go!” I said.

“Call the police,” she said.

“They would think I was mad or hysterical,” I said. “They would not believe me.”

“Tell them then only that you are afraid of someone,” she said.

“But who?” I said.

“Tell them you do not know,” she said.

“They might protect me for a time,” I said, “but not indefinitely.”

“And,” said Paula, “if there is anything to this, slavers need only be patient, and await their opportunity.”

“I am afraid,” I said.

“I fear,” said Paula, “if they want you, they will have you. It is a business with them. We are women, and not their exalted free women, women possessing Home Stones, who would despise us even more than the men, but women with whom they can do as they please, Earth women, barbarian women, women to be trained, and bought and sold. To the slavers, we are no more than objects, no more than stock, no more than cattle of a sort.”

“Stay,” I said, plaintively.

“I must be going,” she said.

“Then I will tell your shameful secret!” I said. “I will ruin your reputation! I will force you, in misery, to lose your job, to change your work, perhaps to leave the city, and state!”

“There is nothing shameful in being a woman, and having needs, and desiring to serve a master,” she said.

“Stay with me, if only for a bit, or I will tell!” I said.

“Poor Phyllis,” she said. “It does not matter to me anymore, one way or the other, not any longer.”

“I am sorry,” I said. “I will not tell! I will not tell! But stay, please stay!”

“I am sorry,” she said.

“But,” I said, desperately, frightened, “earlier you said, I remember, that in any event, despite whether I would tell or not, that you must do what I wish!”

Paula seemed struck by that.

“Yes,” she said, softly. “That is true. I now know myself. I have acknowledged what I am. I will stay.”

“If only for a little bit,” I said, desperately.

“As you wish,” she said, softly.

Poor plain Paula, I thought.

“I'll make coffee,” I said.

“No,” she said. “I will do it.”

I watched while Paula busied herself with the coffee. After a time, the bright, stirring aroma of coffee excited and charmed the kitchen.

“Would you like cream and sugar?” asked Paula.

“Both,” I said.

“May I drink, as well?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said, puzzled.

Then, to my astonishment, she bent down, and placed both cups on the floor, each wrapped in a napkin. She then knelt, by the table, and lifted one of the cups, wrapped in its napkin, to me, holding it with both hands.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“You are a free woman,” she said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Mistress,” she said.

I took the cup with both hands, it wrapped in the napkin, and put it on the table.

“‘Mistress'?” I said.

“All free women are as mistress to me,” she said, “as all free men are as master to me.”

“You are kneeling,” I said.

“As is fitting,” she said. “A slave often kneels before free persons. It is my honor and joy to serve a free person.”

“I am Phyllis,” I said.

“You are free. You are Mistress,” she said. “A slave may not address a free person by their name.”

“You are not a slave,” I said.

“I am a slave, Mistress,” she said. “I have said the words.”

I sipped the coffee, brushing the napkin aside, holding the cup by the handle.

“May I drink, Mistress?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Thank you, Mistress,” she said, and lifted the cup, wrapped in its napkin, to her lips.

“Sit beside me,” I said.

“I dare not, Mistress,” she said, head down, frightened. “I am a slave, in her place, at the feet of Mistress.”

“You are not a slave,” I said.

“When I said ‘
La kajira
',” she said, “I became a female slave.”

“I said that on the beach,” I said.

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Then it is done,” she said. “The words were spoken.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Then you, too, are a female slave,” she said.

“I did not know what they meant,” I said.

“But it is done,” she said. “The words were spoken, Phyllis. You, too, are now a female slave.”

“No,” I said.

“You, too, should be on your knees,” she said.

Chapter Three

The large, heavy hand was clasped firmly over my mouth. My head was pulled back. I was helpless.

“This one,” said the fellow holding me, “thinks she is going to be troublesome. Gag her.”

“She looks pretty, squirming,” said the second man.

“Shall we remove the nightgown?” asked the third man.

“No,” said the fellow in whose grasp I was, “she is not of great interest. That can be done later.”

Tears sprang to my eyes.

“She might have promise,” said the second man, “given slave gruel and the whip.”

I could not speak, so held.

Paula was kneeling to the side, frightened. When the men had appeared, so suddenly, the bolts flashed to the side, she had gone instantly to her knees, startled, her eyes wide.

Had she welcomed this intrusion?

Why had she not screamed, not run?

I had been so startled I had not had time to scream. Almost immediately I had been seized, turned, and the massive hand clapped over my mouth.

Instantly I knew myself helpless, the prisoner of such strength!

I looked wildly at Paula.

Even now, no one held her!

Why did she not scream, cry out, run?

Did she not see the plea in my eyes, that she should scream, run?

“Shall I use a readied gag?” asked the second man, “a slave bit?”

“No,” said he in whose grasp I was, “let her know that materials suitable for rendering a woman helpless are conveniently at hand. Perhaps she will find that instructive.”

“What of this one?” asked the third man, gesturing to Paula.

I, helpless, struggling, wanted to cry out to Paula, to rise up, run to the door, scream, anything. But she remained kneeling, trembling.

“Let her alone,” said the man holding me. “She is clearly intelligent. Certainly more so than this one.”

“Shall we leave her clothed?” asked the third man.

“For now,” said he in whose grasp I was.

“She looks extremely interesting,” said the third man.

“I look forward to seeing her stripped,” said the second man.

“She should bring us good coin,” said the brute, appreciatively, in whose arms I was helpless.

Paula seemed startled.

“Plain Paula,” I thought to myself. “Surely she was too short, too widely hipped, too amply bodied! Did she not dress poorly? Did she not lack flair, and dash?”

I could see now that the second man had gone into the bedroom and was rummaging through drawers. In a bit he had returned to the living room, some cloth in his hand, and, apparently, two pairs of my nylon stockings.

The heavy hand was removed from my mouth, and I opened my mouth widely, wildly, to scream, but, at the same time, a wadding of cloth, silken panties, was thrust into my mouth, stifling any sound, and a moment thereafter it was bound in place by loops of two of my nylon stockings, drawn back tightly between my teeth.

“There,” said the fellow, standing back, who had gagged me.

I shook my head, protestingly, tears in my eyes.

My protests, muted, scarcely audible, were unavailing.

How frightful it was then, to be silenced by the will of others. This was the first time I had had that experience. I had never been gagged before. I would grow familiar with such an experience. And how conveniently it had been done, and with familiar, approved garmenture! Did we not, in a sense, then, carry our own bonds with us? I had been effectively silenced, and with my own garments! Later, of course, a mere look, or word, would silence me. Indeed, I would soon learn to request permission before I might dare to speak.

Men would decide if and when a woman, or, better, a woman such as I, would be permitted to speak.

I was then put to my belly on the carpet, and my hands were taken behind me, and fastened together, closely, by means of one member of the second pair of nylon stockings. My ankles were then crossed and bound together by the last stocking. I tried to turn. I felt a man's shoe on my back, pressing down, pinning me to the floor. “Lie still, kajira,” said a voice.

That word, again. Gagged, I could not even disabuse them of the notion that my name was not Kajira, but Phyllis.

I lay still. I could not part my hands, nor my ankles. The man's foot was then removed from my back.

How dare he treat me so? I lay prone, bound, hand and foot, gagged, helpless. How I was treated! What did he think I was? Did he think I was nothing, a slave?

How could they be so stupid, I wondered, to think Paula was more interesting, or attractive, than I!

What fools they were!

There was no comparison.

I was far more beautiful!

“It is early,” said the largest man, he who had held me, he whom I took to be first amongst the three men. “We will wait a time, and depart after dark.”

“There is coffee,” said the second man, glancing into the kitchen, noticing the pertinent vessel.

“Good,” said the third man.

At a gesture Paula rose, hurried to the kitchen, and knelt beside the stove.

The men then followed her, repairing to the kitchen.

I was dragged by the arm onto the linoleum of the kitchen and thrust to one side, by the table.

“May I speak?” asked Paula, kneeling by the stove.

“Yes,” said the second man.

“Gor?” she asked, timidly.

“Yes,” he said.

“
La kajira
,” she said.

“We know,” he said. “We heard.”

“I beg to be collared, marked, and mastered,” she said.

“You will be,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said, softly, “—Master.”

“Now,” said the large fellow, he who had held me, “serve coffee.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Appropriately,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Paula, and rose to busy herself with this task.

Shortly thereafter, having ascertained the preferences of our captors, she served the coffee to them, as she had to me, kneeling, lifting the cups.

Is that how a slave serves, I wondered, so subserviently, so submissively?

Did she not know she was the same as a man?

Or was she, or I, the same as a man?

What if we were not, profoundly, really?

“How is it that a beauty like you, kajira, is keeping company with such a mediocrity?” asked the third man. I felt his shoe nudge me in the ribs.

“Oh, Master,” she protested, “do not speak so! She is not a mediocrity! She is my friend. She is bright. She is chic. She wears clothes well. She is extremely beautiful! She is popular. She may be the most beautiful woman I know.”

The third man laughed.

“Now, now,” said the second man, “she is not that bad.”

“A pot girl,” said the third man.

“We would not have picked her up,” said the leader, “were it not for Kurik. She is the one he called a ‘bitch'. Apparently he found her annoying, displeasing, or such, and so decided to have her picked up and sent to Gor.”

“She will be less displeasing there,” said the second man.

“She will learn her sex there, its meaning and uses,” said the leader, “or be fed to sleen.”

I had heard Paula refer to “sleen” before, but she had not clarified the reference. I gathered that, for some reason, she had thought it better not to do so.

“It seems a shame to waste a capsule on her,” said the third man.

“Kurik was annoyed,” said the leader.

“You are too critical,” said the second man. “Many kettle-and-mat girls, and pot girls, are extremely attractive in their way, and they are as begging, and hot, and helpless, on the mat as a two-silver-piece pleasure slave.”

“We need not use a capsule on her,” said the third man. “We could keep her in a girl cage on the ship.”

“We will let Kurik decide,” said the leader.

“I think she has promise,” said the second man. “Consider the ankles, the wrists.”

“Her homeliness,” said the leader, “has nothing to do with her coloring, her figure, or such, for many men are found of such a configuration, but with her character, her impatience, her personality, her vanity, her nastiness, her pride.”

“The whip and slave gruel,” said the second man.

“Yes,” said the leader, “she might have possibilities.”

“Kurik is not a fool,” said the second man. “He might have been annoyed, but I am sure there was more to it than that. Certainly he would not recommend that every woman who is a nuisance, or bother, should be transported to Gor. He is a good judge of collar meat.”

“Possibly,” said the third man.

“Well,” said the leader, with satisfaction, looking down at Paula, “the afternoon has not been wasted.”

“Indeed not,” said the third man. “We are fortunate. How often, when one stoops to pick up a pretty pebble, a common gem, will one find a diamond, as well?”

I struggled, in fury.

“Lie still,” I was told.

“More coffee,” suggested the leader.

“Yes, Master,” said Paula.

I lay on the linoleum, helpless. Later, Paula knelt, humbly, head down, to the side.

The hands on the kitchen clock moved, sometimes it seemed slowly, sometimes rapidly.

The men played cards, at the kitchen table.

It was growing dark outside. After dark, I feared that Paula and I were to be taken somewhere. I was much aware of the time. I was much afraid. After dark, late, a metal-and-leather apparatus was drawn forth from a small case. It had a bit. It was put on Paula, from behind, and fastened in place. I do not know if they feared she might, at last, cry out, on the street, or they merely wished to familiarize her with her helplessness in a slave bit. I was angry! How willingly she submitted, even eagerly, to her bitting! I was drawn upright, rudely, to my knees, still in my bonds. They let me stay that way for a few moments, they looking down at me, perhaps that I would better know myself kneeling, and bound, before men. I put my head down. My ankles were freed, and I was drawn to my feet. My improvised gag was removed, and then I, too, was bitted. The device was forced into my mouth, and thrust back between my teeth. It locked behind the back of my neck. I realized that I could not tear it from my mouth, even had my hands been free. I wondered if slaves sometimes served in such devices, perhaps at suppers with free women present. Well then would they be reminded that they were slaves, and well then would the free women be reminded, to their pleasure, of their difference from, and their superiority to, slaves, such lowly, humble, marketable, negligible beasts. I would later learn that there were several varieties of slave bits, which differ considerably, aesthetically, and in comfort, while being uniform in their efficiency, that with respect to rendering a slave incapable of speech. A major difference amongst such bits is with respect to their closure. That in which Paula had been placed, and that in which I was shortly thereafter placed, once snapped shut, could be opened only by a tool or key. In that sense they were much like slave collars. Such bits are commonly used when one or both hands of a girl are free. Most bits, however, indeed almost all I would become familiar with, are intended, like the common gag, to be used with a bound or braceleted slave who, given her securing, cannot reach the device. In such a case, a keyed lock, most often, is not deemed necessary. It might, of course, be used in some cases, as when one wishes to preclude certain possibilities, say, a secured slave's responses, once relieved of the device, to a stranger's questions. Also, any attempt to adjust, ease, or remove a bit or gag is cause for discipline. Accordingly, gagged or bitted slaves, even if their hands are free, would seldom dare to touch the gag or device. It was put on them by a master. Thus, they must wait until the master sees fit to relieve them of the impediment. Such things help a girl better understand her slavery. The keyed devices in which Paula and I were placed were doubtless intended to make it impossible for us, should we attempt to do so, to dislodge the bits. My wrists were still bound behind me, tightly, with one of my nylon stockings. A handcuff was snapped about Paula's right wrist, and she was drawn toward me. The other cuff was then snapped about my left wrist, after which I was unbound. We then stood before the men, bitted, and handcuffed together, her right wrist to my left wrist. The cuffs were the same as those in which I had earlier awakened. We were then hooded, blankets thrown over us, and belted about our necks.

“You will be fed in the van,” said the leader.

“Slave biscuits,” laughed the third man.

The simplicity of his remark startled me, and dismayed me. I did not fully understand it, but I was frightened. Slave biscuits! Did he think I was an animal? To be sure, when I was hungry, I would learn to accept such fare, even beg for it.

“The trip,” said the leader, “will take several hours. There will be a sheet on the floor of the van. I trust you will be comfortable. You may have to be caged for a time in the warehouse, as additional stock is expected.”

I was not stock, I wished to protest, but could not do so, as I was bitted. And, too, I feared I was now stock.