Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “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, ap
parently, 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!

  One collar is fastened on one’s neck, commonly, before the other is removed. In this way, even in a transition of masters, I remained collared. It was fitting. I was a slave.

  Certainly there was little ambiguity about the third incident.

  I twisted about, and awakened, suddenly.

  I sat up in bed, and cried out with misery.

  I jerked at my wrists.

  They were encircled with metal!

  I could scarcely part my hands!

  I was handcuffed!

  I struggled from bed. I stood, unsteadily, fighting to keep my balance. I was still clothed, in my long, blue, silken nightgown. It had not been removed. Did those who had put the metal on my wrists, who presumably could have done anything with me, not care to see me naked? Was this some sort of insult? Was I not beautiful? Was I not one in a thousand! In rage I tried to part my wrists. They were well held! I tried to thrust the cuffs from my wrists, and could not do so. I would only abrade my wrists. I thought of the ruffian who had so discomfited me in the office. I could not part my wrists, no more than the single link I was permitted! My hands, at least, were cuffed before my body! Had they been cuffed behind my body I would have been even more helpless, and my figure, despite what I might wish, and to my frustration and dismay, would have been emphasized. Were they not interested in emphasizing my helplessness? Were they not, in their brutal arrogance, interested in emphasizing my figure?

  Surely I was beautiful!

  I was suddenly affrighted by a possibility.

  I wondered if I were still a virgin.

  I was sure I was.

  Was this yet another insult?

  Anything might have been done with me in the night, but apparently nothing had been done. I had only been put in handcuffs!

  I recalled that the gross boor in the office had dared to use expressions like “pot girl” and “kettle-and-mat girl” of me, whatever those terms might mean. He had referred to me as a “bitch.” He had said I was fit for “rep-cloth,” whatever that was, and not silk. But I was in silk, and I was still in silk. Surely they had seen that!

  I was sure I was still a virgin.

  I was sure this had not been taken from me.

  If not, why?

  Surely this omission was not inadvertent.

  Had they no interest in this?

  Could I believe that?

  Did they not want my virginity, but left it to me, perhaps contemptuously, rather as they had not stripped me, but left me clothed, as they had left my hands fastened before me, not behind?

  Were these things to show their scorn of me?

  Were these things to show me that I was not special?

  To me my virginity was of momentous consequence. How could it not be of such consequence to others?

  Could it be they did not want it?

  Could it be that they had no interest in it, that it was not important to them?

  How could they regard as negligible so remarkable and precious a prize?

  How was it possible that they had not imposed their will upon me? Surely I would be amongst the most beautiful women they had ever seen.

  But I had not been bared, I had been but modestly restrained, I had been left, I was sure, my virginity; I did not think it had been reaped.

  How was I to understand these things?

  Was I not appealing, was I not desirable?

  Consider my virginity. Was it, so momentous to me, of little, or no, concern to them, no more, perhaps, than that of a pig or dog?

  How then could they view women, or women such as I?

  I was accustomed to being regarded, even to being sought. I was not accustomed to being ignored.

  I was angry.

  But I had not been ignored, not wholly! There were metal circlets on my wrists!

  I shook the cuffs.

  I was not a “pot girl,” a “kettle-and-mat girl,” whatever such things might be!

  I was not much interested in men.

  They were nothing, or had been made so. Those I was familiar with, those with whom I commonly associated, were refined, effete, tentative, weak, apologetic, reluctant, well-trained, correct, embarrassed by their sex, taught to suspect it, if not despise it, so conc
erned they were to conform to the required stereotypes of the lubricated, well-tooled, socially acceptable interchangeable part, to whom sex and nature were irrelevant, even inimical, as they might threaten the functioning of the great, shiny beast, the immense machine, sharp-eyed and vigilant, like a vast, jealous, carefully constructed, watchful metal cat.

  How swiftly that metal paw might reach out and strike any small, scurrying errant creature, should it presume to be careless of its assigned, tiny proprieties.

  Where men were not men how could I be a woman?

  I tried to gather my thoughts together, to control myself, to think clearly. I was afraid I might fall. I sank to my knees, on the carpet beside the bed, my head down. How secure and stable is such a posture! I must think clearly. I must decide what to do.

  I was bewildered.

  I felt vulnerable.

  I was vulnerable.

  I could call out, and perhaps others, in the hall, or adjoining apartments, might hear, and hurry to relieve my distress. Surely I could open the door for their entry. The door, I was sure, was locked, or had been relocked. Suppose neighbors, whom I knew only casually, only by sight, should enter the apartment, admitted, in answer to my cries? What would they think? Casting about, there was no sign of a forced entry. How, then, had the apartment been entered, how could it be that I was fastened, as I was? Must I not then have admitted, even welcomed, those who had so discomfited me? Surely some would think so. Perhaps all would think so. Too, how could I dare to appear before them, as I was? How could I explain my appearance, lightly gowned, my wrists in handcuffs? Would they take my plight seriously? Would they dismiss it, would they scorn me, with wise looks, would they find it amusing, no more than an embarrassing contretemps? And what if a man should see me as I was, so provocatively clad, so helpless, so restrained? Perhaps they had fantasized seeing me so, perhaps they would be pleased to see me so, while hastening, of course, to appear otherwise, feigning sympathy, and concern? Could I bear that? What would neighbors or strangers, or the police, or anyone, think? There was no sign in the apartment of violence, no broken latches, no door chains or bolts broken from the wall, no broken glass, no sign of robbery, no sign of anything rifled, or amiss, no sign of physical abuse on my body, no cuts, no marks, no bruises. My gown was not even awry, or rent or torn.