by John Norman
I was on my stomach. I pressed down with my finger tips, to feel the sheets and, beneath them, the familiar mattress.
But it seemed that something hard was beneath me, not the mattress, but a surface less yielding, more severe.
I kept my eyes closed. There was light. It was rather painful. How foolish I was! I had forgotten to draw the shade last night.
But the light did not seem to be coming from the proper direction. It should be coming more from behind me, to my left, where, as I was lying, or thought myself to be my left, where, as I was lying, or thought myself to be lying, my window would be. But it was not. It was coming rather from before me, and my left. I must have somehow, in my sleep, twisted about. I felt disoriented.
Everything did not seem to be the same. Many things seemed different.
I then, as I became more certain, but not altogether certain, that I was awakening, or awakened, became quite afraid.
I was not yet ready to open my eyes.
I remembered one thing quite clearly from my dream. I had been branded. It had been put on me. I had worn, almost from the first, a light, gleaming, about-a-half-inch-high, close-fitting steel collar. It locked in the back.
Not opening my eyes, frightened, I moved my fingers upward, little by little, toward my throat. Then, with my finger tips, I touched my throat. It was bare!
Again I felt my throat.
No band was there.
I did not wear such a circlet. I was in no neck ring, or such device. My throat was bare. No closed curve of steel, locked, inflexible, enclasped it.
I was not collared.
It would be hard then to describe my emotions.
Should they not have been of elation, of joy, of relief? Perhaps. But instead, perhaps oddly, as I lay there, somehow half between waking and sleep, I perceived a sudden poignance, as of irreparable loss.
As of isolation. As of loneliness. I felt a wave, cold and cruel, of misery, rising within me, a forlorn, agonizing cry of alienation, of anguish. It seemed that I had suddenly become meaningless, or nothing. But then, in an instant, how pleased I tried to be, as I should be, of course. I attempted, instantly, to govern my emotion, to marshal them, and break them, and align them in accordance with the dictates to which I had been subjected all my lift.
Yes, how relived I was!
How wonderful was everything now!
It had been, you see, a dream!
There was nothing to worry about.
It was over now.
I might, now, even open my eyes.
But the surface on which I lay did not seem soft, nor did the material beneath my finger tips seem to have the texture of cotton sheets. The light, too, was wrong. I must have twisted about in my sleep. Something seemed wrong.
Memories of the dream recurred, the movements, the metal wagon, the chains, the hood, the basket, the wind though its course, sturdy fibers.
My head, it seemed for the first time in days, seemed clear. I now experienced, it seemed for the first time in days, a consciousness I recognized as familiar, as my own, neither confused nor disordered. I did not have a headache. I did not know how long I had slept. It might have been a long while.
But the surface seemed wrong, the direction of the light seemed wrong.
Somehow I must be disoriented.
I opened my eyes, and gasped, shaken. I began to tremble, uncontrollably.
I lay upon stone.
That was what was beneath my finger tips. There were no sheets. There was no mattress.
I lay upon stone!
I rose to all fours.
I seemed to be in a sort of cave, carved into the living rock of a mountain, or cliff.
I looked to the opening of where I was housed, for it was from thence that came the illumination.
There was no window there. Rather there was a large aperture. It was regular in form. It was like a portal. Surely it was not a natural opening. It was in shape something between a semicircle and an inverted “U.” it was flat at the bottom, rather squared at the sides and rounded at the top. It was some six or seven feet high and some seven or eight feet wide. It was barred. The bars were heavy, some two or three inches in thickness. They were reinforced laterally with heavy crosspieces, an inch or so high, every foot or so.
My consciousness, suddenly, was very vivid, very acute. I seemed to be in a tiny brown tunic. How had this come about? It was no more than a rag.
I would never have donned such a garment!
I would never have permitted myself to be seen so, so bared, so displayed, so exposed in such a scandalous garment!
It was frayed, and torn. It was terribly brief. It was terribly thin. It had no nether closure, and it was all I wore!
I was outraged!
I might have torn it from me, bit it was all I had.
Who had dared to put me in this garment?
Surely I had not don so!
A sense of acute embarrassment, and then of fury, over came me! What right had someone to do this, to take such liberties, to so barb me, in so little, so pathetically, and so revealingly, and publicly, to so dress me, to so demean, insult and shame me, so deliberately, so grievously!
How could such a thing have been dared?
Who did they think I was?
What did they think I was?
I realized, of course, too, suddenly, the thought almost making me giddy and frightened, that whoever had done so must have seen me bared, fully. Whoever it was must, I surmised, surely have been male. Surely it was the sort of garment that only a man would put a woman in, or perhaps observe a woman being put in, under his direction. I wondered if he had liked what he saw. I felt vulnerable. Had I been violated while unconscious?
Things began to flood back to me.
Certain things now became very real.
It occurred to me that I was no longer the sort of woman who could be “violated.” An animal could be put to use, but surely it could not be “violated.”
It could be done with me as others might please.
And suddenly, it tending to shock me, in my confusion, the thought rose up irresistibly within me that I should, more properly, not be distressed by the rag I wore, but rather I should rejoice that I had been granted this gift, in indulgence, the lenience, of even so minuscule a scrap of clothing! It served to give me at least a little cover. Was I entitled to any? No, I had not the least right to such, or to anything. Surely I should be heartfeltedly grateful for even so little! Surely it need not have been granted me. Had I not, in the pens, as it had seemed to me in my dreams, if dreams they were, often pleaded for so little as a threat of silk?
What was I?
What had I become?
Something within me seemed to know.
The drug had now worn off. But it had induced a sense of confusion, an uncertainty as to what had occurred and what had not occurred, what had been dream and what had not been dream.
Had I dreamed the house, the pens, the chains, the wagon, the strange passage though cold, windy skies?
Was I dreaming now? Was I delirious? Was I mad?
Muchly had I been disoriented by the substance to which I had been subjected.
Was I still, unwittingly, its victim?
But it did not seem so.
The stone, the close-set bars, the long looming, tiered vistas beyond them, seemed very real.
I sought something to prove, or disprove, my fears.
Where was I?
Was I no longer what I had been, as I suspected? Had my reality, as I suspected, been transformed radically, utterly?
I must know!
I knelt back. I again felt my throat. No collar was there! Madly, feverishly, I pulled up the skirt of the tiny brown tunic, to bare my left leg to the waist. Yes! Yes! Yes! There it was, the tiny, lovely mark, incised into my thigh, just below the hip. I wore it, in my body! It marked me! There was no mistaking that small, beautiful sign. How beautiful it was! How well it marked me! It was my brand. It was truly t
here! I had been branded!
I again went to all fours, shaking, almost collapsing, now laughing, now weeping! I was overcome with elation, with joy, with relief. These emotions, from the depths of me, burst upward, like light and lava, like the throwing open of shades and the risings of suns, like floods, like tides, like treasures, like hurricanes, like fire, powerful, irresistible, precious! No longer was I isolated, or wandering alone, apart from myself, not knowing myself, lost from myself. Forgotten then was the cry of alienation, of anguish. I had not been returned to my former condition of meaninglessness, that of nothingness, in which I, denied to my real self, it forbidden to me, must pretend to false identities, must conform to uncongenial stereotypes imposed upon me from the outside. Here I was free to be what I was! Here one need not live as if indoors, sheltered from sunlight and rain, here one might look upon truth as it was in itself, not as it might be distorted in the labyrinths of prescribed protocols, here one might touch real things, like grass and the bark of trees.
Then, quickly, I knelt back, and, hastily, furtively looking about, thrust down the brief skirt of the tunic. What if someone should see? We have our modesty! I smoothed it down, with something like the dignity which, I seemed to recall from my training, we were not permitted.
I looked about.
I was here, truly here, wherever it might be.
The nightmare of the journey was apparently over.
It was now clear to me, as it had been when I was first subjected to the substance, in some house faraway, that I had been drugged. Now, however, as nearly as I could determine, the disordering, sedative effects of whatever substance had been administered to me had worn off. The dosage, apparently, for some time, had not been renewed. Too, I was now no longer hooded, or even chained. Indeed, even my collar had been removed. I had no idea, of course, as to where I might be. It did not seem to me that the drug would have been necessary. Surely the hood would have been enough, and the metal wagon, and such. Indeed, it seemed to me that I might as well have been transported openly, for all I, given my ignorance of this world, might have been able to determine of my whereabouts. Why, then, had such precautions been taken with me? Men had not even spoken to me, and only occasionally in my vicinity. I had heard some things, some phrases, some scraps of discourse, when half-conscious, struggling with the haze of the drug, but very little, and nothing that told me what I most wanted to know, where I was being taken, and why. What was to be my fate? What was to be done with me? To what purpose was I to be applied? Why should I not at least be permitted to know where I was? What difference would it make, I wondered, if one such as I knew where she was?
But such as I, I have learned, are commonly kept in ignorance.
But I was here now, wherever it might be.
Then, interestingly, I became afraid. I was here, and in the power of others, whom I knew not. Surely there was, after all, something to be said for the tepid world from which I had been extracted. Would it not have been better then to have awakened between my own sheets, in my own bed, as I had so many times before, in those familiar surroundings? Was that world not, for all its lies, its hypocritical cant, its ludicrous, wearying pretenses, its tedious self-congratulatory self-righteousness, and such, a more secure place, a safer place? The dangers there, it seemed, were for the most part at least comfortingly slow, and invisible, such as minute quantities of poison in food, significant only over time, and lethal gases accumulating in the atmosphere, molecule by molecule. Indeed, the men of my world, in their self-concern, preoccupied with their own affairs, doubtless of great moment, seemed prepared to let their world die. I did not think, on the other hand, that the men of this world would allow their world to be destroyed. Nature, and its truths, were too important to them. And so my feelings were understandably somewhat ambivalent. Doubtless I would have been safer in my tepid, gray, polluted world, conforming to its values, being careful not to question, or to feel, or discover or know, but I, somehow, perhaps unaccountably, was not discontent to be where I was. I had no doubt that there were dangers here as, in fact, there were on my old world, but the dangers here, I suspected, at least for the most part, would be intelligible. As intelligible as the teeth of the lion, as the point of a weapon. Too, the question, I reminded myself, was somewhat academic. I was not on my old world. I was, whether I liked it or not, and for better or for worse, here.
I had quickly determined earlier that the tiny brown tunic was all that I wore. I had felt a momentary wave of embarrassment, and surely of irritation, even fury.
There had been that much of my old world left in me at that time.
But now I felt gratitude.
To be sure I was clearly dressed for the pleasure of men.
What beasts are men, what commandeering, controlling imperious beasts!
But I did not mind. I was suddenly pleased to be beautiful, and to have my beauty displayed. If one is beautiful, why should one not be proud of it? Even if men force one, for their pleasure, to show it! And are we not pleased to be so displayed, to be seen as they will have us seen? Are we not then in the order of nature, as men will have us? Must one hide one’s beauty because of the envy of the ugly? But here, I thought, men would not permit one to do so, even if one wished. But what beautiful women would wish to do so? I was pleased now, even brazenly so, to be beautiful. But I did recognize its dangers, for it excites and stimulates men. We are, after all, their natural prey. On a would such as this a beautiful woman, or at least one such as I, is in no doubt as to her desirability, her vulnerability, and, I fear, her peril.
I had however learned, in the pens, that not all women on this world were such as i. But I did not know, at that time, if they were numerous or not. I had seen, at that time, only two. I had seen them, disdainful and resplendent, in the pens. How daintily, how haughtily, how fastidiously, they had picked their way about! I shall speak briefly of them later.
But even such women I suspected, in a world such as this, were at risk.
In any even, the men here, I thought, know how to dress women, or at least my sort of women, when it pleased them to dress them.
I was not collared.
I wondered if I had been freed.
Yes, I have used the expression ‘freed’.
I do not see, now, how I could escape its use.
I have hitherto been reluctant, as you may have noticed, perhaps even foolishly, to speak explicitly of my status, and condition, on this world, which means so to this moment, but I suppose it has been evident to the reader — if this is permitted to come to the attention of the reader. I am writing this in English, of course, for I can neither read nor right Gorean. Nor does it seem likely they will permit me to learn. It seems they prefer for me to be kept as I am, illiterate. That is common with women or, better, considering our status, girls, such as i.
Perhaps it has been evident that my status on this world is something with which the reader is likely to be unfamiliar, perhaps even something that he would find it hard to understand.
One does not know.
But I suppose, by now, it is evident to all that I am a kajira, or sa-for a. but of course it is not evident! How could it be? Forgive me. You do not know these words. Aside from the words, of course, my condition, my status, is doubtless clear to you. Would it not be clear from the speaking of chains, and collars, and such? You may find it objectionable. I do not. I love it. In it I find my fulfillment, my happiness, my joy! Perhaps you think what I am is degrading, and perhaps it is, but, if so, it is a delicious, precious, joyful degradation which I treasure, and in which I thrive and prosper, and one I would not, at the expense of my very life, have otherwise.
It is a thing of softness, heat, devotion, obedience, service, beauty and love.
In it I am happy, and fulfilled, completely, perfectly, totally as a total woman, as I could be in no other way.
In brief, the word sa-for a means “Chain Daughter” or “Daughter of the Chain”. The world kajira, on the other hand, is by far
the most common expression in Gorean for what I am, which is, as you have doubtless surmised, a female slave. Yes, slave. The male form is kajirus. The plural of the first word is kajirae, and of the second kajiri. As kajira is the most common expression in Gorean for slave who is female, I suppose I might, in English be most simply, and most accurately translated, as “slave girl.” In a collar, you see, understandably, all women are “girls.” Almost all slaves on Gor are female. There are, of course, male slaves, but most are laborers, working in the fields, in quarries, in mines, on roads, and such, in chains and under whips. Some women keep male silk slaves, but they are rare. The Gorean view is that slavery is appropriate for the female, and not for the male. A saying, a saying of men, of course, has it that all women are slaves, only that some are not yet in the collar. I know now, of course, as I did not earlier, that there are many free women on Gor, and, indeed, that most women on Gor are free. An exception seems to be a city called Tharna. I do not know why that is the case.
I now return to my narrative.
Could I have been freed?
To be sure, the mark was still on my thigh. But that, of course, was only to be expected.
I looked to the heavy bars at the portal.
They did not suggest to me that I had been freed.
Too, I smoothed down the skirt of the tiny tunic. It was so brief! It was little more than a rag! That garment did not suggest, either, that I had been free. As mentioned, it had no nether closure. This is common with slave garb. The delicious, most intimacies of the slave are commonly left unshielded. She is to be open, and know herself open, to the master; this reality contributes to her sense of vulnerability, and informs, enhances, suffuses, and considerably deepens the rich emotionality of her nature. She is to be ready for the master at any time of the day or night, and in any place or manner which he may indicate. This helps her to keep in mind what she is. I had only twice, in my training, in my costuming, and silking, and such, worn a garment with a nether closure. The first was no more than a long, narrow silken rectangle thrust over a belly cord in front, taken down between the legs, drawn up snugly, and then ghrust over the same cord in the back. The other, more elaborate, was a “Turian camisk.” It is rather like an inverted “T” where the bar of the “T” has beveled edges. The foot of the “T” ties about the neck and the staff of the “T” goes before one, and then, between the legs, is drawn up snugly behind and tied closed in front where the beveled edges of the bar of the “T,” wrapped about the body, have been brought forward, meeting at the waist. It may also have side ties, if permitted, strings that tie behind the back, to better conceal, in one sense, and, in another, better reveal the figure. We must know how to put on such a garment, for example, and well, if one is thrown to us. This Turian camisk differs from the common camisk. The latter is little more than a rectangle of cloth with an opening for the head in the center. It is worn over the head and tied at the waist, normally with one or more loops of binding fiber. The comman camisk, of course, has no nether closure. Nether closures, as I have suggested, are seldom permitted to women such as I. We are expected, almost always, you see, to be immediately available to those who hold total rights over us.
