Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Here,” she said, “perhaps here!”

  “Paula!” I cried.

  “No, nothing!” she said, at last, in frustration.

  “There is nothing, Paula,” I insisted.

  “Nothing,” she whispered, “nothing,” tears in her eyes.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “But perhaps?” she said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Do we know?” she asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  She looked about.

  “Paula?” I said.

  She lifted her head to the ceiling.

  What was it but a flat, opaque, plain surface, a familiar, meaningless, inert expanse?

  “Paula?” I said.

  “La kajira!” she cried.

  “Paula!” I said.

  “La kajira!” she cried again, and then, sobbing, cried so again and again, to one side of the living room and then to the other, and even to the carpeted floor, and then, once more, she lifted her head to the ceiling. “I pronounce myself kajira!” she cried.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I am begging for the privilege of being allowed to submit myself to a master, to be the slave that I know in my heart I am.”

  “Paula!” I cried, in protest.

  “I long for a man to put me in his collar,” she said. “I want to be marked. I long to wear the chains of my master. I want to submit to men, to kneel before them, and serve, and love, and please them!”

  “What sort of woman are you?” I cried.

  “The one that I am,” she said.

  “We are alone,” I said.

  “I fear so,” she said.

  “There are no devices,” I said.

  “I fear not,” she said, softly. “And why would they need such things? And they would scarcely wish to risk their discovery.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” I said.

  “What secret?” she said.

  “What you said,” I said.

  “Alas,” she said, “that the world is such, that need, and wanting, and honesty, and truth must be concealed.”

  We returned to the kitchen table.

  I was afraid she would leave.

  “I will tell no one,” I said.

  “I feel at ease,” said Paula, “to have confessed it. I am now at peace with myself. I have admitted to myself what I have long known, and what I have long longed to express.”

  “Do not fear,” I said. “I will tell no one.”

  Paula looked at me.

  “Why do you smile?” I asked.

  “Because I know you, Phyllis,” she said. “You are bright, but self-centered and shallow. Even now you are thinking of the attention you will receive, the gratification you will derive, from regaling the other girls with an account of what you regard as a juicy tidbit, fit for dessert gossip, at one of our luncheons.”

  “No, never!” I said.

  “Your promise,” she said, “is worthless, however intent you may be now to keep it. You can no more hold a promise than a sieve water, you can no more resist the temptation to gossip than straw, seeking one excuse or another, can resist flame.”

  “I assure you that that is not so,” I averred.

  “Perhaps I should have left you in those,” she smiled, nodding toward the handcuffs reposing on the kitchen counter.

  “No!” I said. “I am your friend. You are my friend.”

  “I like you,” said Paula. “I am your friend. But you are not my friend. You are not capable of being a friend. Perhaps one day you will be capable of being a friend. One might hope so. Perhaps once you have learned to kneel, and lick and kiss a whip, and feel metal on your limbs, and know yourself owned and helpless, you will be capable of friendship. One does not know.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “Perhaps now,” I said, angrily, “I will tell! Now perhaps I will let the others know what sort of woman you are!” Then I grew frightened. “Or would you deny it?” I asked.

  “I suppose few would believe it of me,” said Paula, “but I would not deny it.”

  “Then,” I said, “you are at my mercy.”

  “Oh?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “you must do what I wish!”

  “Or you would tell?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “In any event,” she said, “I must do what you wish.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because of what I am,” she said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “I have learned what I am,” she said. “I have found myself. I have confessed myself before another. The war is done.”

  “I might not tell,” I said.

  “It does not matter to me, one way or another,” she said, “not any longer. But I would warn you that in denouncing me you may be denouncing others, as well, despite what they might profess. You may not know those to whom you speak. Do you know their wants, their fantasies, their dreams and needs? I do not think myself unique. Many, perhaps all, have visited, so to speak, the shores of Gor, even if they did not know the continent on which they touched, nor the names of its ports.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “We are women. We need a master.”

  “No,” I said. “No!”

  “I wonder if a master would want you,” she said.

  “I am beautiful!” I said.

  “It requires more than beauty to be an acceptable slave,” she said. “Perhaps you would be fed to sleen.”

  “What is a sleen?” I asked.

  “Hope that you will never learn,” she said.

  “I will never be a slave!” I said.

  “So have said many who are now in their collars,” she said.

  “Why would a master not want me?” I asked, angrily.

  “Do not fear,” she said, “you would be kept anyway, as a slave.”

  “No!” I said.

  “Masters keep their slaves,” she said. “They want them. Slaves are not to be freed, no more than other beasts.”

  “Paula!” I protested.

  “It is said that only a fool frees a slave girl,” she said.

  “‘Slave girl’!” I said, angrily.

  “But one such as you would be kept,” she said.

  “Oh?” I said, archly.

  “Yes,” she said, “collared, you will stay in a collar.”

  “Why?” I asked, angrily.

  “Because you belong in a collar,” she said.

  “No!” I said.

  “And once your slave fires have been ignited,” she said, “you would fear only that you might be freed. You would treasure your collar. You would kiss your fingertips and press them gratefully to the brand that marks you slave. You would beg to be kept.”

  “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 specia
l.”

  “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.