Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 2

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

“Why?” I asked.

  “It has metal value, or bullion value,” he said.

  “Oh?” I asked.

  “Yes, he said. “Do you not understand what it is composed of?”

  “No,” I said.

  “It is gold,” he said.

  I had hurried back and snatched the object, and put it in my purse. I had then,

  hurriedly, left his office.

  “Turn up the fan,” said the man, he who seemed in charge of those in the

  photographer’s studio. The fan was turned up.

  “Keep facing as you are,” he said, “your left side to us, your chin lifted,

  That’s good.” My hair was lifted and blown back, I felt the breeze from the fan,

  too, pressing my blouse back against me, even more closely. It rippled the silk

  at the sides.

  It tugged at the collar. The ends of the blouse, where I bad tied them together,

  high on my midriff, as the man had requested, fluttered backward. “Now arch your

  back and lift your hands to your hair,” he said. “Good, excellent,” he said.

  I was not a professional model. I had often thought that I was beautiful enough

  to be one, but I was not one.

  I heard the camera clicking. “Excellent,” said the man.

  “Now look at us, over your left shoulder.”

  I had had the yellowish, metallic object assayed. It had indeed been gold. I had

  sold it to a bullion dealer. It would be melted down. I had received eighteen

  hundred dollars for

  “Now, face us, crouching slightly, your hands at your hair,” said the man.

  “Good.”

  These men, perhaps, wanted to train me as a model. Yet I suspected this was not

  their true purpose. I was not particular as to what might be their true purpose,

  incidentally. They obviously possessed the means to pay me well.

  “Now smile, Tiffany,” said the man. “Good. Now crouch down in the sand, your

  hands on your knees. Good. Now put your left knee in the sand. Have your hands

  on your hips.

  Put your shoulders back. Good. Smile. Good.”

  “Good,” said one of the other men too. I could see they were pleased with me.

  This pleased Vie, too. I now felt more confident that they might hire me. For

  whatever object they wanted me I could sense that my beauty was not irrelevant

  to it. This pleased me, as I am vain of my beauty. Why should a girl not use her

  beauty to serve her ends, and to get ahead?

  “Now face the camera directly, with your, left hand on your thigh and your right

  hand on your knee,” said the man, “and assume an expression of wounded feelings.

  Good.”

  “She is good,” said one of the other men.

  “Yes,” agreed another.

  “Now assume an expression of apprehension,” said the first man.

  “Good,” said the second man.

  I normally worked at the perfume and notions counter in a large department store

  on Long Island. It was there that I had been discovered, so to speak. I had

  become aware, suddenly, that I was the object of the attention of the man who

  was now directing this photography session. “It is incredible,” he had said, as

  though to himself. He seemed unable to take his eyes from me. I was used to men

  looking at me, of course, usually pretending not to, usually furtively. I had

  been chosen to work at that counter because I was pretty, much like pretty girls

  often being selected to sell lingerie.

  Such employee placements are often a portion of a store’s merchandising

  strategies. But this man was not looking at me in the same way that I was

  accustomed to being looked at He was not looking at me furtively, pretending to

  be interested in something else, or even frankly, like some men of Earth, rare

  men, who look honestly upon a female, seeing her as what she is, a female.

  Rather he was looking at me as though he could scarcely believe what he was

  seeing, as though I might be someone else, someone he perhaps knew from

  somewhere, someone be would not have expected to have found in such a place. He

  approached the counter. He regarded me, intently.

  I think I had never been so closely regarded. I was uneasy.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  He said something to me in a language I did not understand. I regarded him,

  puzzled.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “This is incredibly fortunate,” he said, softly.

  “Sir?” I asked.

  “You bear a striking resemblance to someone else,” he said. “It is remarkable.”

  I did not speak. I had thought he might have begun by asking if he did not know

  me from somewhere. That stratagem, the pretext of a possible earlier

  acquaintance, hackneyed and familiar though it might be, still affords a

  societal acceptable approach to a female. If she is unreceptive, he may, of

  course, courteously withdraw. It was merely a case of mistaken identity.

  “It was almost as though it was she,” he said.

  I did not encourage him. I did not, for example, ask who this other person might

  be.

  “I do not think I know you,” I said.

  “No,” he smiled. “I would not think that you would.”

  “I am also sure that I am not this other person,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “I can see now, clearly, that you are not. Too, I can sense that

  you lack her incisive intellect, her ferocity, her hardness, her cruelty.”

  “I am busy,” I said.

  “No,” he said, his eyes suddenly bard. “You are not.”

  I shrugged, as though irritated. But I was frightened, and I think be knew it. I

  was then terribly conscious of his maleness and power. He was not the sort of

  man to whom a woman might speak in such a manner. He was rather the sort of man

  whom a woman must obey.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “Show me your most expensive perfume,” he said.

  I showed it to him.

  “Sell it to me,” he said. “Interest me in it.”

  “Please,” I said.

  “Display it,” be said. “Am I not a customer?”

  I looked at him.

  “Spray some of it upon your wrist,” he said. “I shall see if it interests me.”

  I did so.

  “Extend your wrist,” be said. I did so, with the palm upward. This is an

  extremely erotically charged gesture, of course, extending the delicate wrist,

  perfumed, to the male, with the tender, vulnerable palm upward.

  He took my wrist in both his hands. I shivered. I knew I could never break that

  grip.

  He put down his face, over my wrist, and inhaled, deeply, intimately,

  sensuously.

  I shuddered.

  “It is acceptable,” he said, lifting his bead.

  “It is our most expensive perfume,” I said. He had not yet released my wrist.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “I cannot afford it,” I said.

  “Do you like it?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.
>
  He released my wrist. “I shall take it,” he said. “Wrap it,” he said, “as a

  gift.”

  “It is seven hundred dollars an ounce,” I said.

  “It is overpriced for its quality,” he said.

  “It is our best,” I said.

  He -drew a wallet from his jacket and withdrew several hundred-dollar bills from

  itg recesses. I could see that it held many more hills.

  Trembling, I wrapped the perfume. When I had finished I took the money.

  “There is a thousand dollars here,” I said, moving as though to return the extra

  bills.

  “Keep what you do not need for the price and tax,” he said.

  “Keep it?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It is over two hundred dollars,” I said.

  “Keep it,” he said.

  While I busied myself with the register he wrote something on a small card.

  “Thank you,” I said, uncertainly, sliding the tiny package toward him with the

  tips of my fingers.

  He pushed it back towards me. “it is for you,” he said, “of course.”

  “For me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “When is your day off?”

  “Wednesday,” I said.

  “Come to this address,” he said, “at ten o’clock in the morning, this coming

  Wednesday.” He placed the small white card before me.

  I looked at the address. It was in Manhattan.

  “We shall be expecting you,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “It is the studio of a friend of mine,” he said, “a photographer. He does a

  great deal of work for certain advertising agencies.”

  ”Oh,” I said. I sensed that this might be the opening to a career, of great

  interest to me, one in which I might be able to capitalize, and significantly,

  on my beauty.

  “I see that you are interested,” he said.

  I shrugged. “Not really,” I said. I would play hard to get.

  “We do not accept prevarication in a female,” he said.

  “A female?” I said. I felt for a moment Iliad been reduced to my radical

  essentials.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I felt angry and, admittedly, not a little bit aroused by his handling of me.

  “I hardly know you. I can’t accept this money, or this perfume,” I said.

  “But you will accept it, won’t you?” he said.

  I put down my bead. “Yes,” I said.

  “We shall see you Wednesday,” he said.

  “I shan’t be coming,” I said.

  “We recognize that your time, as of now,” he said, “is valuable.”

  I did not understand what he meant by the expression ‘as of now.’

  He then pressed into my band the round, heavy, yellowish object which I had

  later taken to the shop of a numismatist, and then, later, on the advice of the

  numismatist, to the office of a specialist in the authentication of coins.

  “This is valuable,” he said, “more so elsewhere than here.”

  Again I did not understand the nuances of his speech. I looked down at the

  object in m~ band. I assumed, from its shape and appearance, it might be some

  kind of coin. If so, however, I certainly did not recognize it. It seemed alien

  to me, totally unfamiliar. I clutched it, then, however, for he had told me that

  it was valuable.

  “You are a greedy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

  “I shan’t be coming,” I told him, petulantly. He made me angry. Too, he made me

  feel terribly uneasy. He made me feel uncomfortably, and deeply, female. Such

  feelings were terribly stimulating, but also, in their way, terribly unsettling.

  I did not know, really, how to cope with them.

  I decided I would take the beginning of next week off from work. I would try to

  find out something about the yellowish object. I would, then try to think things

  out. Then, at my leisure, I would decide whether or not to go to the stipulated

  address on Wednesday.

  “We shall see you on Wednesday,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “Wear the perfume,” he said.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Now kneel in the sand, facing the camera,” said the man.

  “Kneel back on your heels. Place the palms of your hands down on your thighs.

  Lift your head. Put your shoulders back. Spread your knees.”

  “Excellent,” said one of the men.

  “Now assume the same position,” said the man, “but in profile to the camera,

  your left side facing us. Keep your head up. Put your shoulders back more. Good.

  Splendid”

  “Splendid!” said another man.

  “Now face the camera on all fours,” he said. “Good. Now lift your head and purse

  your lips, as though to kiss. More. More sensuously. Now close your eyes. Good.

  “Splendid,” said another man.

  “Open your eyes now and unpurse your lips, and turn, staying on all fours, so

  that your left side is facing us, so that we have your profile to the camera.”

  I complied.

  “Now put your head down,” he said.

  I did so.

  “Splendid!” said one of the men.

  “Splendid!” said another.

  I was keenly conscious of the radical submissiveness of this posture. I almost

  trembled with arousal. I dared not even think of the effect of such a posture

  upon a woman if she had been put in it by men who were truly in power over her.

  “She will do very nicely, I think,” said the first man.

  “She will be ideal for our purposes,” said another.

  “You may get up, Tiff any,” said the first man.

  I rose to my feet. I gathered that the session was over. I was confident that

  they were pleased.

  The fan, which had produced the surrogate of an ocean breeze, was turned off.

  The photographer began to extinguish his lights and put them to the side, in a

  line against the wall.

  One of the men turned off the projector and the beach scene which had been

  projected behind me vanished, leaving in its -place a featureless, opaque, white

  screen.

  “You are very pretty, Tiffany, Miss Collins,” said the first man. “And you did

  very well.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “You may now change,” he said.

  “We well,” I said. I feared I might be being dismissed. I returned to the

  dressing room. I could hear them talking outside, but I could not make out what

  they were saying. In a few moments I emerged from the dressing room. I wore a

  man-tailored, beige blazer with a rather severe, matching pleated skirt, with a

  rather strict white ‘blouse, of synthetic material, and medium heels. I had

  wished to present a rather businesslike look. I did not wish to wear

  particularly feminine clothes as men are inclined to see women who do this as

  females, and behave towards them and, relate to them as suc
h.

  Women are no longer forced, in effect, to dress as females, in particular ways,

  with all the dynamic, attendant psychological effects for both sexes which might

  accrue to such a practice.

  I then stood before the fellow who seemed to be in charge.

  I saw that be did not particularly approve of my ensemble. I hoped this would

  not diminish my chances of meeting whatever requirements they might have in mind

  with respect to my acceptability. Perhaps I should have worn something more

  feminine. After all, I was a woman. Too, the shorts and blouse in which I bad

  been placed, for the pictures, left little doubt in my mind that my femaleness,

  at least in some sense or another, might well be pertinent to their interests.

  “Perhaps I should have worn something less severe?” I said, tentatively. I did

  want to be pleasing to them. Obviously they had a good deal of money to spend.

  Too, interestingly, they were the sort of men towards whom, independently, I

  felt a strong, disturbing, almost inexplicable desire to be pleasing.

  “Your attire does seem a bit defensive,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I smiled. How interestingly, I thought, he had put that.

  “Such defenses, of course,” he said, “may be removed from a woman.”

  His remark, rightly or wrongly, struck me as being broader and deeper in its

  meaning than the mere bantering witticism it might have been taken to be. It

  suggested more to me, unsettling me, than a mere change of, or removal of,

  attire. It suggested to me, for a moment, a reference to a world in which a

  woman might be without defenses, fully, a world in which she was simply not

  permitted defenses.

  “Perhaps I should have worn something more feminine,” I said.

  He regarded me, appraisingly. I sensed that he was looking past the severe

  man-tailored blazer, the rather strict blouse, the rather strict, beige pleated

  skirt. As they had had me pose in the shorts and blouse, and had had me move, I

  was sure they had little doubt, for most practical purposes, as to what I looked

  like.

  “If you are selected,” he said, “any apparel which you might receive, I assure

  you, will leave little doubt as to your femininity.”

  “If I am selected?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “It is my hope that I pleased you,” I said. “I thought you were pleased.” One of

 

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