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

Norman, John - Gor 19 - Kajira of Gor.txt Page 4

by Kajira of Gor [lit]

“But, why?” I asked.

  “It would be more convenient for us,” he said. “Matters might then proceed

  somewhat more simply for u~ than might otherwise have been the case.”

  I was angry. Obviously I had been manipulated. I had been ordered to shower.

  Then, while I had showered, my apartment had been entered and my robe and

  slippers removed from the bathroom. I had been surprised in my own apartment.

  Then I had been given little alternative other than to present myself before

  them, doubtless as they had planned, well cleaned, fresh from the shower, and

  half naked.

  “Are you angry?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, suddenly, “of course not.” I was suddenly afraid that they might

  cease to find me pleasing. Doubtless their entry into my apartment had some

  purpose. I was then certain I understood their motivations. They had wished to

  take me by surprise, to observe my reactions, to see me as though I might be

  confused or startled, to see bow fetching and exciting I might appear, captured,

  so to speak, in a moment of charming disarray. I hoped I had not disappointed

  them. Doubtless they were interested in testing me for a performance in some

  commercial, perhaps having to do with soaps or beauty products. I hoped that my

  responses had not jeopardized my chances for participation in whatever might be

  their intended projects. I did so want to please them. They paid well.

  He was looking down at me. He was so large and strong. I was afraid he was not

  pleased. I smiled my prettiest up at him. I adjusted the towel a bit about my

  breasts, seemingly inadvertently, accidentally, pulling it down a bit, and then,

  hastily, with seeming modesty, tucking it securely, much higher, even more

  closely, about my body. “It is only,” I smiled, “that you took me by such

  surprise. I did not know what to do.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  “It is not every day,” I said, smiling, “that a girl finds herself surprised in

  her own apartment and then, in effect, forced to present herself before

  unexpected guests clad only in a towel.”

  “Mat is true,” he said.

  I smiled again.

  “I hope that you are still interested in me,” I said, teasingly, and, I am

  afraid, a bit anxiously.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  I would have preferred a more affirmative response.

  There was a moment of awkward silence. I hoped they were not disappointed. I did

  not want to fail to please them. I would have been willing to do anything. I

  would even have been willing to let them hold me in their arms, or kiss me. I

  would even have been willing to let them make love to me. I knew such things

  were common. Why should a girl not turn her charms to her own profit? I did not

  want them to lose interest in me. They paid well.

  “The coffee is ready,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, gratefully. I could no longer bear it perking.

  I recalled I had been told to make it.

  I hurried into the kitchen.

  In a few moments I was serving them coffee, in white cups on the rectangular,

  black-legged, white-topped Formica table.

  The kitchen tiles felt smooth and cool under my feet. They sat about the table.

  I felt aroused, and very feminine, serving them. I then poured myself a cup.

  “Put your cup on the floor,” said the man, “there, on the tiles.”

  Puzzled, crouching down, I did so.

  “Now, kneel behind it,” he said.

  I knelt down on the tiles, behind the cup, the refrigerator to my right, the

  table, with the men seated about it, in front of me.

  They sipped their coffee.

  “You may drink,” said the man.

  I reached for the cup, before me, on the floor. I lifted it.

  “No,” he said. “Do not hold it by the handle. Hold it in your hands, as a bowl.”

  I then sipped the coffee in this fashion, the cup warm in my fingers. I then put

  it down. They were using the handles of their cups, I noted. And, too, of

  course, they were sitting at the table. Why should they be sitting, and I

  kneeling, I asked myself. Are we not the same? Are we not identical? I watched

  them drinking in the customary fashion. Then I, again, sipped coffee from the

  cup, holding it in both hands, like a small bowl. I felt an urge to put the cup

  aside, tear off the towel, and put my body naked to the cool tiles before them,

  at their feet. I wondered what the tiles would feel like against me, against my

  breasts, my belly, my thighs.

  The men finished their coffee.

  he

  “Have you finished your coffee?” asked he who. seemed in charge.

  I finished the coffee, holding the cup as I had been instructed to do. “Yes,” I

  said.

  “You may clear the table,” he said.

  I rose to my feet and put my cup in the sink. I then went to the table. I began

  to gather together their cups. “What is in the metal box?” I asked, lightly.

  “I told you,” he said. “Nothing.”

  I stacked the cups and carried them to the sink. “Really?” I asked.

  Yes,” he said.

  “I thought maybe you were delivering something to the apartment,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  I rinsed off the cups.

  “Is it really empty?” I asked.

  “Now,” he said, to one of his fellows, “we need not listen to her blithering.”

  I felt my bead pulled back. There was apparently a ring at the back of the

  leather pad now pressed so closely into the back of my neck.

  I shook my head. I whimpered.

  The man then jerked the towel from my hair. I looked at him. I shook my head. He

  then jerked away the towel I wore on my body. I was then turned and thrown on my

  belly, on the table, the two assistants pressing me helplessly against it,

  holding me tightly down by the arms. The men, when I had been stripped, had not

  even paused to look at me. They had seen, I gathered, many women.

  I felt a piece of cotton or cloth touch my back, above and behind my left hip.

  It was wet. The area then felt cool. Then I whimpered. I felt a needle being

  entered into my flesh, in the center of that chemically chilled area. Tears

  sprang to my eyes. The needle was then withdrawn and I felt the area swabbed

  again with fluid. I was then drawn from the table and, by the arms, carried into

  the combination living and dining room of my small apartment. Their leader then,

  be who had ankleted me, opened the side of the stout, metal container. It had a

  heavy door. Inside were various straps, and rings.

  I tried to struggle.

  “Resistance is useless, Miss Collins,” said the man.

  I looked at him pleadingly.

  Then I was thrust, in a sitting position, into the box. The ring at the back of

  the gag, doubtless sewn into the slotted leather pad, was snapped about a ring

  mounted at a matching height in the box. My head was thus held in place. For a

  moment the room seemed to go dark and then I gathered my wits again. My left

  wrist, to my horror, was fastened
back, and at my left side, by straps attached

  to a ring. My right wrist was then secured similarly. In moments both of my

  ankles, too, had been fastened in position. I fought to retain consciousness.

  Then I was thrust back further in the box. A broad leather strap was then drawn

  tightly about me. I winced. Then it was buckled shut. I could hardly move. I

  looked at the men, from the box. My eyes pleaded with them.

  “She is secured,” said one of the men.

  The man in charge nodded. “Close the container,” he said.

  I looked at the door. There was no handle or device for opening it on my side,

  and, even had there been, I could not, restrained as I was, have begun to reach

  it.

  I whimpered piteously, as an utterly helpless, restrained woman. I looked at

  them, piteously. They must show me mercy

  Then the door was closed.

  I was plunged into darkness, save for the tiny bits of light coming through the

  two small, round holes on my right, near my face.

  When the door had closed two snap-fastenings had shut, one near the top of the

  door and one near its bottom. I then sat inside, helpless. I heard ten screw

  bolts twisted shut, unhurriedly. Three were along the top of the door and three

  were along the bottom of the door; two each were at the sides of the door, two

  between the hinges and two between the locks.

  Earlier I had asked the man if the box might have been a safe. I had gathered

  from his response that it was not really a safe but that it might, indeed, upon

  occasion, be used in the securing of valuables.

  I struggled in the straps, helpless.

  I wondered if I might take some bitter consolation in his laconic response,

  which now seemed so ironic. Perhaps I, now so well secured within the box,

  might, at least, count as a valuable.

  I pressed my head back against the iron behind me. I heard the movement of the

  two rings.

  But how valuable could I really be, I asked myself. I doubted, frankly, that I

  could be of much value. If I were really of value, of much value, I did not

  think I would be fastened like this, strapped naked in a box.

  I tried to peer out the small holes in the door.

  I could see very little, a part of the upper wall in the apartment, a small

  framed print, of flowers, which had been there when I bad rented the apartment.

  The box was then lifted, apparently by handles.

  I suddenly felt extremely faint. I fought against the loss of consciousness.

  The box was then lowered into the cardboard carton.

  I turned my bead, moaning. I heard the clink of the two rings. I tried to move

  my wrists and ankles. I could hardly move them. The broad leather strap, buckled

  shut, pressed, too, deeply into my belly, holding me in place.

  Outside of the two small holes now tay the’ cardboard. I could see a little

  light from the overhead lamp.

  I turned my head and struck with the side of it against the iron behind me.

  “Do not be stupid, bitch,” said the man outside the box.

  I sobbed.

  I fought more fiercely to retain consciousness.

  Because of the rings and straps, and the closeness with which they held me to

  the wall, I could gain little leverage. I could do little more than tap or rub

  my head against the iron.

  I had indeed been stupid. Even under ideal conditions, fully conscious, and with

  an abundance of possible rescuers in the vicinity, any girl confined and gagged

  as expertly as I was would be able to do very little to call attention to her

  captivity. It was unlikely that even her fiercest and most desperate signals

  would be audible more than a yard or so from her tiny prison.

  I began to moan and whimper. They must show me mercy

  The top of the cardboard carton was then closed.

  I struggled, fiercely, for a moment, but then felt exhausted.

  I heard a segment of sealing tape torn from a roll and then, apparently, the top

  of the carton was sealed shut.

  I put my head back against the iron. The two rings made a tiny sound. I became

  very conscious of the feel of the leather straps binding me. I pressed back.

  This eased the pressure of the strap at my belly. I felt my hair, still damp

  from the shower, between my back and the iron. Beneath my body, where I sat upon

  it, the iron felt cool, smooth and hard. I felt it this way, too, beneath my

  heels.

  Then the carton was lifted, and was being carried. It would appear to be a

  carton in the care of professional moving men.

  No one would think twice about it.

  The thought crossed my mind that it was Tuesday evening.

  Tomorrow would be Wednesday, my day off at the store. I would not be missed

  until Thursday.

  I then lost consciousness.

  3 Corcyrus

  It was warm in the room.

  It seemed a lazy morning.

  My fingers felt at the red-silk coverlet. I lay on my stomach on the soft,

  broad, red-silk surface. I tried to collect my wits. I moved my body, a little.

  I felt the soft silk move beneath it. I was nude. Too, I felt the warm air on my

  body and legs. I was not covered. I was lying nude, uncovered, on my stomach, on

  a wide, soft, silken surface.

  I remembered the men, the straps and the box.

  I turned and sprang to my hands and knees on the soft surface. I was on a vast

  bed, or couch. It was round and some fifteen feet in diameter. I was, half sunk

  in its softness, near the center of it. I had not realized such luxury could

  exist. A glance informed me, to my relief, that I was alone in the room. The

  room was a large one, and extremely colorful.

  The floor was of glossy, scarlet tiles. The walls, too, were tiled, and glossy,

  and covered with bold, swirling designs, largely worked out in yellow and black

  tiles. At one point there was a large, scarlet pelt on the floor. Against some

  of the walls there were chests, heavy chests, which opened from the top. There

  were mirrors, too, here and there, and one was behind something like a low

  vanity. I also saw a small, low table. It was near the couch. There were also,

  mostly near the walls, some cushions about. To one side there was a large,

  sunken basin. This was, perhaps, I thought, a tub. There was no water in it,

  however, and no visible faucets. I saw myself in one of the mirrors, on all

  fours in the great bed. I hastily looked away. To one side there appeared to be

  some sliding doors. On my right, and several feet away, there was, too, a heavy

  wooden door. It looked as though it might be very thick. I saw no way, no bars

  or locks, no chains or bolts, whereby its closure might be guaranteed on my

  side. It might be locked on the outside, I supposed. But, clearly, I could not

  lock it from the inside. I could not keep anyone out. I could, on the other

  hand, doubtless be kept in. At one point on the floor there was, fixed in the

  floor, a heavy metal ring. I also saw, in one wall, two such rings. One was

  mounted in the wall about a yard from the floor and the other, about a yard to

  its left, was mounted in the wait, about six feet from the floor.

  I quickly, frightened, crawled back off the bed. It was not easy to do, given

  its softness. I felt th
e smoothness, the coolness, of the scarlet tiles on my

  feet. I saw that there was, anchored at one point in the couch, at what may have

  served as its foot, another such sturdy ring. Beneath it lay a coil of chain.

  Smaller rings, too, I noted, circling the couch, appeared at regular intervals

  about its perimeter, about every four or five feet, or so. Beneath these,

  however, there lay - no chains. I fled to the window, which was narrow, about

  fifteen inches in width. It was set with heavy bars, spaced about three inches

  apart, reinforced with thick, flat, steel crosspieces, spaced at about every

  vertical foot. I shook the bars. They did not budge. I hurt my hands. I stood

  there for a moment, the shadows of the bars and crosspieces falling across my

  face and body. Then I fled back to the couch and, fearfully, crawled onto it.

  There seemed something different, frighteningly so, about this place in which I

  now found myself. It seemed almost as though it might not be Earth. This did not

  have to do primarily with the room, and its appointments and furnishings, but

  rather with such things as the condition of my body and the very quality of the

  air I was breathing. I supposed this was the result of the lingering effects of

  the substance with which I had been sedated or drugged. The gravity seemed

  different, subtly so, from that of Earth. Too, my entire body felt alive and

  charged with oxygen. The air itself seemed vivifying and stimulating. These

  things, which appeared to be objective aspects of the environment were doubtless

  merely subjective illusions on my part, resulting from the drug or sedative.

  They had to be. The obviously suggested alternative would be just too

  unthinkable, just too absurd. I hoped I had not gone mad.

  I sat on the bed, my chin on my knees. I became aware that I was very hungry.

  One thing, at least, assured me that I had not gone mad.

  That thing supplied a solid reference point in this seemingly incredible

  transition between environments. It had been locked on me in my own kitchen. It

  was a steel anklet. I still wore it.

  I looked over to one of the mirrors. I looked small, sitting on the great bed. I

  was nude. I wondered in whose bed I was.

  I then heard a sound at the door.

  Terrified I knelt on the bed, snatching up a portion of the coverlet on which I

  knelt, and held it tightly, defensively, about me.

  The door opened, admitting a small, exquisite, dark-haired woman. She wore a

 

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