Kajira of Gor Read online

  "Do you want to store the box here for a time?" I asked. "Do you want me to keep it for you, for a time?"

  "No," he said.

  I turned to regard them, puzzled.

  The man made a sign to his two assistants and they took the table and turned it, lengthwise, in the kitchen.

  "Please sit on the table, Miss Collins," said the man.

  I sat on the table, at one of the small ends, that nearest the dishwasher, puzzled, my feet dangling over the edge.

  "No," he said, "sit on the table, completely, your feet on it, as well."

  I slid myself back and then sat on the table, completely upon it. The Formica top was cool and smooth. The sensations I felt were interesting and disturbing. I had never, of course, sat on the table in this fashion before. I held the towel tightly down by my thighs. I kept them closely together. The man in charge was by my feet, on my left. The other two men were behind me.

  "We did not bring the box here to bring something to the apartment," said the man, "but to take something from it."

  "But I have nothing of value here," I said, "or at least not of much value."

  I saw the man then remove a heavy, sturdy steel anklet from the lower, right-hand pocket of his jacket. It was open. He then flipped it widely open. I then saw it, with a casual, expert gesture, snapped shut about my left ankle.

  "What are you doing!" I cried.

  Something rounded and leathery was then thrust in my mouth, something attached at the back of a broad, leather rectangle, by one of the men behind me. There were straps and buckles attached to this and, apparently, a heavy, slotted leather pad which went behind the back of my neck. I felt the leather rectangle drawn tightly back and felt, too, the apparently slotted leather pad, through which the straps apparently passed, one above, and one below, pressing against the back of my neck. Then I winced as I felt the straps drawn back, even more tightly. Then they were buckled shut. The apparatus was then fixed upon me. I had been effectively gagged.

  I looked wildly at the man who had put the anklet on me. I tried, wildly, with my right foot, to slide it from my left ankle. I could move it, of course, only a tiny bit. I hurt the instep of my right foot. I scraped my left ankle. I looked again, wildly, at the man who had ankleted me. There was no doubt it was fastened on me, locked shut. There had been no mistaking the heavy, efficient snap with which the device's closure had been registered.

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

  I fought the occluding leather in my mouth, so well fastened in place. I struggled. I could utter only the tiniest of noises. This had been done by their will. I could not speak.

  I wanted to scream, to cry out, to argue, to remonstrate, to threaten, to demand an explanation.

  But how absurd then, I thought, would have been such carryings on with such men.

  Did I think they could be swayed?

  Surely such men were not to be lightly diverted from their ends, whatever those ends might be. The will of such men would be adamant.

  And what if they were displeased? They were not as the men with which I was familiar.

  What might they do with me if they found me displeasing?

  I feared I might be punished—yes, literally punished. They seemed clearly the sort of men who might punish women.

  How strange that thought seemed to me—that there should be men who might punish women.

  But something in me thrilled to this.

  I struggled, weakly, futilely.

  I was a female.

  I was choiceless.

  I would be subdued to their purposes.

  Need they have gagged me? Would it not have been sufficient to have commanded me to silence? I would, frightened, have obeyed. I would have been afraid to not to have obeyed. These men were the sort whom a woman understands that she must obey. I wondered suddenly if there were women of a sort, somewhere, who might not be allowed to speak, unless they had first received permission to do so. But what sort of women could such women be?

  I needed not to have been gagged.

  I would have remained silent, if so commanded. I would not have wished to be punished.

  But they were taking no chances with me.

  They seemed professional in what they were doing.

  I felt my head 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.

  "Did you hear her moan?" asked one of the men.

  "Certainly," said another.

  "What do you expect from a slut," laughed another.

  How dare they speak of me thusly? Surely I was not that, however it might be understood! Surely I did not deserve to be the subject of such an epithet!

  But I could not speak, not protest, even if I had dared.

  Well did the crowding, packed, secured leather see to that.

  I squirmed, but was well held.

  "What do you think she would bring?" asked one of the men.

  I did not understand his question.

  "She is not for that," said he with whom I was most familiar.

  "At least not at first," said another.

  "True," laughed he with whom I was most familiar.

  To me their conversation was incomprehensible.

  "I am not a slut!" I thought. And then I wondered about my feelings, my desires, and urges, when I had knelt by the table. Perhaps, Tiffany, I thought, you are a slut. But I did not think I was that different from other women, at least in the arousing presence of such men. I had understood then, or began to understand, what female sexual needs, so long suppressed, might be like. Too, I had begun to understand how it might be that a female might plead for a male's smallest touch. Earlier I had only dimly understood this, or sensed this. I did not think I was different, or that different, from other women. Were all women sluts, in some sense, I wondered. And what did that mean, really, other than the fact that we were healthy, alive, vital, needful, and females? Was it truly better to be sickly, confused, neurotic, miserable, depressed, and sexually inert? But perhaps I was, indeed, more needful or vital than many other women. If so, if that were natural, and was what I was, what was wrong with that? Why should one be ashamed of such things? Why should one be any more ashamed of vitality, health and need, than of one's complexion, or the color of one's hair or eyes?

  I suspected that he with whom I was most familiar well understood these things.

  I was sure that he, if the others did not, understood women, or some women.

  I suspected he understood what we need, and want, but then I was frightened, for I also understood that his relationship to a woman then, and that of others like him, would be quite different from that prescribed by the conventions of my culture.

  My culture had not prepared me for such men.

  I dared not, at that time, follow this line of thought further.

  Then my upbringing, my education, my conditioning, my confusion, my fears, again erupted within me, regardless of trepidation or discretion. I then again wanted to scream, to cry out, to argue, to speak, to free myself. I struggled, wildly, irrationally. I was then again a simple, typical, naive young female of my culture, shaken, confused, and terrified, not understanding what was being done to her, or why, and fearing a looming, unfamiliar future, to which she might be destined, one doubtless quite other than those which she might have otherwise projected.

  "Hold her more tightly," he said.

  This was done.

  I could scarcely squirm.

  I was at their mercy.

  The
y could do with me what they wanted.

  I wonder if you have ever felt so helpless, and been so helpless.

  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, he 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 had 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 head, 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 lay 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 wall, 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 the smoothness, the coolness, of the scarlet ti
les 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.