“Do you think men would like to buy me?” I asked.
“Oh, yes!” she said.
“Well,” said the woman who had worn the expensive jacket and skirt, now tunicked, “it seems they will soon have the opportunity.”
“And to buy you, as well,” I said.
“If anyone would wish to do so,” said another now briefly tunicked beauty, the young woman who had worn the maid’s uniform.
The woman who had worn the torn evening gown tried to pull down the hem of her tunic.
“Why bother?” asked the woman who had worn the maid’s uniform. “Men will like to see your legs. Perhaps they will improve your price.”
“Be quiet, you disgusting servant, you menial,” snarled she who had worn the torn evening dress. “I could buy and sell you.”
“Now,” said she who had worn the maid’s uniform, “it is you who can be bought and sold.”
“Harlot!” hissed she who had worn the torn evening gown.
“We are less than harlots,” said Paula. “We are slaves.”
“Your wealth no longer rules,” said the former maid to she who had worn the torn gown. “It once elevated you, and exalted you, and made you formidable, but it is no longer yours. It is gone. You are now no different from the rest of us. You are now but one female, one slave, amongst others.”
“No, no, no!” she wept.
“Sisters!” cried Paula. “Kneel! A man approaches!”
Instantly we knelt.
He who had brought the tunics to the cell now stood outside the bars, looking within. Behind him were two other men.
“Excellent!” he said, approvingly. “A considerable improvement. A nice lot of kajirae.”
He then called one after another of us to the bars, and had us turn before him. I remembered how the boorish fellow in the office had had me turn before him, when I had thought him in the service of some agency, say, a modeling or theatrical agency. Now I again turned before a man, again being assessed. But now I wore a slave tunic.
We were then returned to our knees in the cell.
“A good lot,” he said. He then addressed us. “You are now slaves,” he said. “Commonly you will find yourself owned by a single master or mistress. Nonetheless, you will address all free men as ‘Master’, all free women as ‘Mistress’. When you reach your destination, you will begin to learn the language of your masters. Learn it as swiftly and perfectly as you can. Much can depend on this, even your life. Keep always in mind, clearly, what you are, barbarians, from a benighted world, permitted to serve your masters in a higher civilization. Be grateful. In your house of training you will be taught the basics of serving and pleasing men, of pleasing them inordinately, as women. Attend well to the lessons of the kajirae who will teach you such things. Your life, too, may depend on this. Even before you leave this enclave, you will be given slave wine. It cannot be administered too soon to slaves. It will prevent conception. As you are now animals, you are doubtless well aware that you will be bred, if bred, as any other animal, at your master’s discretion and convenience. The effects of slave wine are counteracted by a drink called a ‘Releaser’. If you are administered such a potion, you may expect, shortly thereafter, to be hooded and conducted to a breeding stall.”
We exchanged frightened, miserable glances. Even Paula seemed distraught.
The fellow who had been addressing us then turned away and, with the side of his foot, swept our discarded clothing into a heap, a few feet from the door of the cell.
We observed it.
“You will not be needing this,” he informed us. He then drew a small metallic device from his pocket, and trained it on the heap of clothing. He must then have pulled a trigger, or depressed a switch, or something. We cried out, startled. There had been a dazzling burst of light. At the same time there was a sudden blast of heat, wavelike, which swirled about and pressed against us, even in the cell, even where we knelt. I felt my tunic whip briefly about my body. I could not see for a moment, from the light, and the obtrusive afterimage. Then I, and others, cried out with surprise, and dismay, for the heap of clothing was gone. I had no doubt that such a device, if turned on a man, would leave little behind, saving perhaps a clutter of charred, smoking bones.
I suppose that this small exhibition was less than random. Certainly it would not be without its purpose, or purposes. Certainly it proved to us that a fearsome capacity for destruction, even within so small a compass as a handheld device, was at the disposal of our captors. We were confronted with an example, doubtless a trivial example, suggesting an awesome technology with which we were not acquainted. I recalled how swiftly, and apparently simply, the bolts on the apartment door had been undone. I recalled, too, one of our captors informing Paula that they had heard her enunciation “La kajira,” even though we had searched the apartment diligently and had discovered no listening devices. I wondered if I, and doubtless others, had been under a visual and auditory surveillance of which we were unaware. Were there such devices, I did not doubt but what they had been removed from the apartment, probably after we had been handcuffed together and hooded in the two blankets, before being conducted to the waiting van. But one supposes there might have been another purpose, as well, to that seemingly small, but surely awesome, demonstration. There seemed something abrupt, decisive, significant, and final about the destruction of our clothing. It was the clothing of free women, blasted away, to which we were no longer entitled. The clothing of free women was gone, and, in its place, was the brief, humiliating, degrading garb of slaves. And, too, that clothing represented a tie with our old world. Might one not have hoped to don it again, and return to our familiar reality? Was not such a hope real as long as it lay there, even outside our bars? But then it was gone! We had nothing to wear now save what we had been given. How important clothing is to a woman! How much her sense of self, her sense of importance, of worth, of status, of what she is, depends on her garmenture! But we were naked now, stark naked, save for the tunics of slaves. How our clothing expresses us, and how we understand ourselves in its terms, and now we had not chosen our clothing, but others had done so. What would this new clothing do to us? How, in the tunic of a slave, can one be other than a slave? Do we not become congruent with our clothing? Do we not fit ourselves to our clothing? Do we not learn our self-image from our clothing? Do we not think of ourselves in terms of our clothing? Do we not become one with it? And now we found ourselves in the clothing of slaves! And I tried, wildly, to force a thought from my mind, persistent and intrusive. I was not displeased to be in the garb of a slave! “No, no!” I thought. But how frank, simple, and appealing it was, that garb, how honest, blatant, and unapologetic. I was fond of my body, and, despite my pretenses, delighted with its display. Further, though I had found few men in my former experiences of great interest, I found myself reacting differently to my captors. They were so naturally, and unassumingly, masculine, so sure of themselves. I had the sense in them of ambition, possessiveness, aggression, strength, and will. Now, clothed so briefly, and simply, before them, so obviously displayed as a woman, indeed, as a purchasable prize, I became intensely, sometimes excruciatingly, aware of them as men. How aware I was now of how I might be viewed, and viewed as I now hoped I would be viewed, as a slave!
I tried to force such thoughts from my mind.
But I could not do so.
I was tunicked.
On my left ankle was a locked, steel anklet. On it something was inscribed. It was a number, I gathered, but I was unfamiliar with the script.
I dared not conjecture what might be my responses, my helplessness, my feelings, if I found myself collared.
The fellow who had been addressing us turned and said something to the two fellows with him, and they withdrew, to return shortly with some metal bowls which they placed in a lateral line, before the fellow who had been addressing us. There were seven such bowls.
The two men then withdrew again, only to soon return, one bearing a trough, some five feet in length, and the other two buckets, in one of which was a utensil, which proved to be a ladle.
“I gather,” said the fellow who had been addressing us, “that you may be thirsty, and hungry.”
Surely we were. Particularly, I was hungry.
“I will now ask you if you are hungry and thirsty,” he said. “If you are hungry and thirsty, you may respond, ‘Yes, Master’. Are you hungry and thirsty?”
“Yes, Master,” we said.
“Would you like to be fed and watered?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” we said.
At a nod from the spokesman one of the men with him poured the contents of one of the buckets into the trough, that some five feet in length.
“We will open the door of the cell,” said the spokesman. “The trough contains water. You will emerge from the cell on all fours, and, on all fours, slake your thirst at the trough. You may not use your hands. You will drink as dogs drink, though you are less than dogs. You are slaves. You will also note that, before me, are seven bowls, one for each of you. While you are drinking, these bowls will be filled with slave gruel. Slave gruel is bland but it is hardy and extremely nourishing. It is designed for the health and vitality of stock. When you are finished drinking, you will approach the bowls, remaining at all times on all fours. When you reach the bowls you will wait for further instructions.”
The door of the cell was opened and we approached the trough, gathering about it, and then, putting down our heads, began lapping the water. I had almost forgotten how thirsty I was, from my hunger. I recalled that the man in the office, who had been so rude to me, had called me a bitch. And here I was drinking, indeed, as might a dog, a female dog, a bitch. And then I remembered I was less than a bitch, for I was a female slave. How pleased I was that he could not see me!
“Enough!” said the fellow, sharply.
It was not difficult to recognize that tone of voice. It was the voice of a master. We responded instantly, lifting our heads, frightened.
He had been generous, of course.
He had not hurried us.
I viewed one of the bowls, and approached it, and remained before it, on all fours.
In it was some sort of mush.
I would discover later it was warm.
I was terribly hungry.
“If you are pleasing,” said the fellow, “we will put a biscuit in the gruel, and perhaps a bit of meat.”
I determined that I would be as pleasing as I could. I wanted the biscuit, I wanted the meat.
I was at the fifth bowl, counting from the right, as I faced the line of bowls. A short ceremony, or ritual, took place, before her feeding, with each slave, seriatim, beginning on the right, and so I, given my position, by the time of my turn, was well apprised of its nature.
I was on all fours, as were the others.
Then one of the masters was before me, between me and the metal bowl, in which was a few ounces of some moist, warm, granular substance, provender, slave provender.
“Look up,” he said.
I did so, and began to kiss and lick the whip which was held to my lips. I did this as humbly and earnestly as I could, for several seconds. Two of the preceding girls, one the girl who had worn the expensive jacket and skirt and the other the girl who had worn the torn evening gown, apparently had not performed this gesture of obeisance promptly enough or satisfactorily enough, for each was forced to repeat the action, again and again, until the master was satisfied. “No biscuit, no meat,” he said to his fellow, who accompanied him, carrying a small pail. He then moved to the next girl in line. I had noted earlier that Paula, who had apparently performed this simple ritual satisfactorily had been awarded a biscuit and a bit of meat, as had been one of the other girls, she who was next in line.
The whip was drawn away from my lips.
“Thank you for enslaving me, Master,” I said. I then bent down and placed my lips on his shoes, kissing each.
“Biscuit and meat,” he said to his fellow, and, to my delight, I saw a biscuit and a bit of meat tossed into my bowl. He then moved on to the sixth girl. She was one of those who had worn jeans and a sweatshirt. The last girl in the line was she who had worn the maid’s uniform.
Each, I noted, received both a biscuit and a bit of meat.
We dared not touch the food, of course, for we had not been given permission to feed.
“You may eat,” said the fellow with the whip, stepping away from us, followed by his fellow.
We put down our heads and addressed ourselves gratefully to the provender in the bowls. We might not, of course, use our hands.
Such small restrictions are not uncommon, particularly in a girl’s training. Most slaves, of course, feed themselves, and in the vicinity of the master. If he sits at a table, she will kneel near him. If he sits cross-legged, at one of the low, small tables found in many Gorean domiciles, indeed, almost universally, she will also kneel, usually to his right, at the same table. She may not, of course, as she is a slave, feed until permitted, just as she may not dress herself or speak without permission. To be sure, it is common in many households that she has a standing permission to do such things, which standing permission may, of course, be instantly revoked. It might be of interest to note that even Gorean free women, given the usual absence of chairs or benches in Gorean households, often regarded as awkward, unaesthetic clutter, will kneel. Sitting cross-legged is expected of men, kneeling of women. Sometimes the wild women of the forests, particularly in the north, will sit cross-legged. But when captured or enslaved they, too, will kneel. In collars they quickly, gratefully, learn their womanhood.
Following our watering and feeding, we were returned to our cell, on all fours. When we arrived in the cell, and the door was closed and locked, we were further informed that whereas we might sit in the cell, lie down, recline, kneel, or such, we were not permitted to stand. Our heads were to be kept at or below a man’s belt. Further, we were not permitted to speak, though we were free to express ourselves, if we wished, by small sounds, animal noises, whimpers, and such.
I was pleased to note that in our absence from the cell, it had been supplied with a wastes pail.
I think these strictures had two purposes; one was to punish us for our hitherto unruly behavior in the cell, regarded as inappropriate for kajirae, and, secondly, perhaps, to familiarize ourselves with a modality of discipline. It is well to for a slave to learn quickly she is not a free woman.
That night several more women were brought to the enclave, perhaps thirty, or so, in two separate lots, but they were housed in other cells.
Doubtless they, too, would soon be in their tunics.
“We have enough now for the capsules,” we heard one of the masters say to another.
“It is soon, is it not?” said the other.
“You are new?” said the first.
“Yes,” said the other.
“It is not so soon,” said the first. “Two-legged cattle are easy to acquire.”
I did not understand.
What could he mean, ‘two-legged cattle’?
Then I recalled that I and the others were now stock, beasts, animals, and so, I supposed, ‘two-legged cattle’!
I understood better then how we were viewed, what we were.
We were slaves.
“I gather then,” said the other. “The ship will soon embark.”
“Yes,” said the first.
I was frightened to hear of a ship. Surely they were joking. Surely there was no ship. Surely there was no such place as Gor. “There is no place such as Gor,” I told myself. “There is no place such as Gor!”
Chapter Seven
I lay quietly.
I was afraid to open my eyes, and look about me.
I had the s
ense I lay on a closely woven straw mat. I did not know where I was.
Surely I was not on my bed, in the apartment. I pressed my eyelids closely together. I had the sense that there was metal on my neck. Memories rushed back, the incident in the office, that on the beach, my awakening in my own bed, in the apartment, in my blue silken nightgown, discovering I could scarcely part my wrists, that they were handcuffed together, closely. I recalled Paula’s appearance at the apartment, her freeing me of the handcuffs, and, later, the sudden, swift ingress of three men into the apartment, the simplicity and ease of our capture, the ride in the van, the arrival at the warehouse or storage facility, the cell, the taking of our clothing, our tunicking, our feeding.
I grimaced, recalling a horrid, foul taste.
Our hands had been tied behind us, and we had been knelt; then our heads had been pulled back by the hair. I recalled the plain roof of the storage facility. A drain of a plastic funnel had been forced between my teeth, and a man had pinched shut my nostrils. I could breathe only through my mouth. In a moment the funnel was flooded with some vile liquid. I felt it fill my oral cavity. As I was held by the hair and my nostrils pinched shut I could not cast out the liquid. Then I must breathe but I could breathe only through my mouth, and, to do so, to breathe, I had no option but to clear the passage of the intervening blockage. I swallowed down the liquid, swallow by repulsive swallow, shuddering.
“Every drop, kajira,” said one of the men.
“Good little kajira,” said another.
I was then permitted to rise, and run to the cell. I hurried to the wastes pail and put my head over it, sick, but I could not disgorge the liquid. I wanted to put my finger down my throat, to gag it out, but my hands were tied behind me. Paula was already in the cell, her hands, too, tied behind her.
“Do not struggle, dear Phyllis,” she said. “Be patient, be grateful. It is for your own good.”
“They torture us!” I wept.
“No,” she said. “They control us. They are our masters.”
“Torture!” I wept.
Plunder of Gor Page 8