Plunder of Gor Page 6

  “Step ahead,” said the fellow with us.

  I then felt, surprising me, carpeting under my feet, and sensed, below that, a metal surface.

  I gasped, startled.

  “Steady,” said the male voice.

  The elevator was descending.

  “The holding area is underground,” said the man, “some floors below. Do not be concerned. It is large, well-lit, pleasant, warm, comfortable.”

  After a bit, the elevator stopped.

  I heard a door, or panel, slide to the side.

  “Move ahead,” said the male voice.

  We left the elevator.

  “Kneel,” said the male voice, “your heads to the floor.”

  I knelt down, and put my head to the floor.

  The handcuffs were removed from us, but my hands were drawn up, behind my back. Metal encircled my wrists. I heard two small, decisive clicks. I jerked at my wrists, but could not part them. They were fastened in place, closely together, behind my back. It was the first time I had been placed in such things. I would grow familiar with them. They are designed for women. Many are plain, but many, too, are lovely, designed, like jewelry, to set off, and enhance, not only the utter helplessness, but the beauty of their occupant. So I wore, for the first time, though I did not know it, slave bracelets. I heard two similar clicks, to my left, and I gathered that Paula was similarly secured.

  I felt something of metal, heavy and sturdy, put about my left ankle, and snapped shut. A moment later, to my left, I heard a similar sound.

  “They are ankleted,” said a man.

  “Let us examine the catch,” said another.

  “Kneel up,” said a third man.

  I obeyed.

  I felt hands about my neck, from behind. The lock was undone, and the hood was unbuckled, and then pulled away.

  I looked wildly about, blinking against the light, my eyes half closed, kneeling, my hands confined behind my back.

  It was a large, rectangular area, uncarpeted, low-ceilinged, lit with fluorescent light. About its periphery, as I was facing, were several doors, doubtless leading to other halls, or rooms. Behind me, though I did not realize it at the time, were several cells, with closely set bars. There were also, here and there, some small kennels or cages, in which I would suppose dogs, or other animals, might be confined. Occasionally, too, some chains dangled down from the low ceiling.

  “This one is a beauty,” said a voice.

  “Of course, I was a beauty,” I thought. “Doubtless they had seldom seen a woman so beautiful!”

  I lifted my head, arrogantly.

  “But it was mine to withhold, or bestow, as I might,” I thought. “It would open doors for me. It was my device, fortune, and weapon. Men, the smitten fools, strove to please me. It could be exploited, to my advantage. I had often done so, as a matter of routine and practice, in minor matters, biding my time, awaiting the special opportunity, which must eventually appear, the wealthiest, most handsome, most charming suitor. I could auction it off, when it pleased me, so to speak, to the highest bidder. When one has beauty, what more is needed?”

  But I knelt on a cement floor, barefoot, clad only in a nightgown, my hands fastened behind me!

  “Marvelous,” said one of the men.

  “Of course!” I thought.

  “What is your name?” asked one of the men.

  “Whatever Masters please,” said Paula.

  The men were not regarding me! They had gathered about Paula, plain, shy Paula!

  “Two, silver,” said one of the men.

  “On a first sale?” asked another.

  “Why not?” said the first.

  “What of the other one?” asked a fellow, looking toward me.

  “Copper tarsks,” said a man.

  “She is not bad,” said another.

  “She may do,” said another, “once she has been taught her collar.”

  I wanted to cry out with indignation, and rage, but I dared not speak. We had been warned to silence. These men were of the sort a woman knows she must obey.

  At that time I did not realize that I would, indeed, and soon, be taught my collar, indeed, would be well taught my collar.

  “She is the one Kurik said was a bitch,” said one of the men.

  “What is a ‘bitch’?” asked another of the men, who seemed to have some sort of accent.

  He was answered by a phrase I did not understand, as it seemed to be in a language I did not recognize.

  “Oh,” said the one who had asked the question, seemingly satisfied.

  “Are you a bitch?” asked the fellow who had answered the first fellow’s question.

  “No!” I said.

  “Lying is not permitted to one such as you,” he said.

  “I do not think I am a bitch,” I said. “I hope I am not a bitch.”

  I recalled that the fellow who had appeared unexpectedly in the office, that warm afternoon, near closing time, when the shades were drawn against the light and heat, had dared to use that expression of me. How rude, how insulting! And then I recalled, further, uneasily, that he informed me that a whip could take that out of a woman.

  “Is it true,” asked the fellow with the accent, “that when Kurik appeared before you, you did not immediately fall to your knees?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Do not be concerned,” said one of the men. “She is a stupid, spoiled woman of Earth. She did not know any better.”

  “She must learn quickly,” said the fellow with the accent.

  “She will,” he was assured.

  “More amusingly,” said another, “she struck Kurik.”

  “Surely not,” said the fellow with the accent.

  “I wish I had seen it,” said another.

  “And her hand was not cut off?” asked the man with the accent.

  “She thought herself a free woman,” said a man.

  “Mistakenly,” said the man with an accent.

  “True,” said another. “One can look at her, and see that she is a slave. Regard her face, and lineaments.”

  “She knew no better,” said a man. “Let her keep both hands. She will then be better able to please a master in the thousand modalities of the kajira.”

  “Let us chain and lash her now,” said the man with the accent.

  “She did not then know she was a slave,” said a man.

  “Many females do not,” said another.

  “But they are of Earth,” said the man with the accent.

  “Even so,” said another.

  “Very well,” said the man with the accent. “Put them in a cell, cell six, with the others.”

  “Stand up,” said a man. “Turn about.”

  We stood and turned, and I gasped, for I saw a row of cells, which had been behind us, and, here and there, some small cages or kennels, empty. In some of the cells, I could see some young women. I was very conscious then of the confinement of my wrists, and the heavy metal band locked on my left ankle.

  “This way,” said one of the men.

  At the door of the cell our impediments, the bracelets, were removed, and we were ushered within. The door was then shut behind us, and I turned, and grasped the bars, looking out, across the large, plain room.

  I did not know if we might speak or not. We had not been told.

  Chapter Six

  The fellow approached the cell door.

  “Step back,” he said.

  There were five in the cell, other than Paula and myself. We were all clothed, to one degree or another. Paula wore a skirt, blouse, and sweater. She had apparently drawn on this attire quickly, in order to hurry to my apartment, in response to my unusual call. It seemed she did not care much how she might look on the street. She had, as I have earlier indicated, little s
ense of fashion. It is hard to wear a blouse, skirt, and sweater smartly. She had not even used lipstick. Had I responded to such a call, if choosing to do so, I would have done so more particularly. Of the five others in the cell two wore jeans and sweatshirts, perhaps ill at ease with their femininity, or perhaps fearing it, or feeling it appropriate to discount it, or protest it. Their garments would have been more appropriate to adolescent males. Another wore what I supposed might be a maid’s uniform, black with white trim; I wondered from what penthouse or estate she might have been seized or obtained; perhaps her employer had hired a succession of such girls, to be observed, and examined, and, if found satisfactory, to be remanded here; the fourth wore a chic, expensive business jacket, with skirt, rather as I myself commonly wore to work; and the fifth wore the remains of an evening dress. It had been muchly torn from her. My nightgown, I suspect, was more concealing.

  We moved back, toward the rear of the cell and the man unlocked, and opened, the cell door.

  A few yards away, before the cell, facing it, there were four other men, two of whom carried switches, useful in the disciplining of women. The fellow who had opened the cell then joined them, and all were facing us.

  “Emerge,” he called, “and form a line, facing us, abreast.”

  We left the cell, and formed the line, as we had been told. I looked about, and could see the elevator door. I did not know how many floors we had descended to reach this level.

  Suddenly one of the girls, she who wore the chic business jacket with skirt, cried out, miserably, ran to the elevator, fumbled about it, and pounded on it, futilely.

  “You lack the key,” called the fellow who had opened the cell door, who seemed to be the leader, or spokesman for the others.

  Then, after a few moments, she put her head against the elevator door, sobbing, and was still.

  “There is no escape,” she was informed. “There are barriers, guards, gates, bars. Outside, there are dogs. The area is remote. You might die at the fence.”

  She turned to regard him, dully, defeated, her cheeks stained.

  “You are a female,” he called to her. “That is the single most important thing about you. From that, all else follows. Return to your place in line, directly and obediently.”

  The girl did so.

  We then stood quietly, uneasily, regarding the fellow.

  “You are before men,” said the fellow. “Get on your knees.”

  All of us knelt, except the woman who had run to the elevator. I was suffused with strange, indescribable emotions.

  In the kitchen, on the linoleum, I had been on my knees before the men, for a few moments, but this seemed quite different. That had been, however disturbing, little more than a brief transition between the attitude of a prone, bound prisoner, and that of a wrist-tied, standing prisoner. It was natural that I would have been knelt, that the bonds on my ankles could be removed, making it possible for me to stand upright, before my bitting. There had been little or nothing of anything expected, fitting, or institutionalized in that posture.

  This, however, was quite different.

  “You are before men,” had said the fellow. “Get on your knees.”

  Why should we, women, or, at least, our sort of women, be on our knees before men?

  I recalled the brute from the office, he spoken of as Kurik. “Why are you standing?” he had asked, and had informed me that, as he was a free man, I should have been kneeling before him, as I was a slave. I had denied that I was a slave, of course.

  “Do you think I do not know a slave when I see one? You lack only the collar,” he had said.

  “Get out!” I had said.

  “You might look fetching in a slave rag, or a slave tunic,” he had said, “and, perhaps better, clad only in your collar.”

  “Get out!” I had said.

  I was kneeling.

  I was shaken, half fainting. I had never felt such emotions, such feelings. I was kneeling before men. Could it be, I wondered, that I belonged so?

  Could it be that I was a slave?

  I do not mean, of course, in some legal sense, but in some far more profound sense, a sense in which an explicit legal imposition of servitude would be little more than a technicality, however fearful a technicality, which would recognize, acknowledge, and confirm, in a formal manner, something ancient, something underlying, deeper, and more basic, more real, than statutes, pronouncements, and rulings, something true of my very being.

  “I will not kneel, no, no, never, never!” cried the woman who had run to the elevator.

  “Remove her clothing, and lash her,” said the man.

  Two of his fellows, those without switches, started forward.

  “No, no!” she cried. “I am on my knees! I am on my knees!”

  At a gesture from the leader, the two fellows stepped back, being then as they had been before.

  “You are women,” said the leader. “It is time you learned what you are for.”

  Several of us looked wildly to one another. But Paula’s eyes were bright. Her lips were slightly parted. She looked ecstatic.

  “There are many worlds,” said the man. “You are now familiar only with one, a polluted, dismal world spoiled by selfishness, thoughtlessness, and greed, a barbarian world defiling nature and poisoning seas, a world in which men and women must be fitted to the machine, rather than the machine to men and women. But there are other worlds, better worlds, other civilizations, better civilizations, higher civilizations, civilizations in which nature is not abhorred and denied but celebrated and accepted, civilizations not opposed to nature but allied with her, supportive of her, promotive of her, civilizations in which, recognized, abetted, and enhanced, nature may flourish.”

  I could make little of these words.

  How could one understand such things?

  “One such world,” he said, “is Gor. It is to that world you will be transported, shipped as the merchandise you are for her markets. You are being transmitted to Gor not because of your guilt, understand, though it might be deservedly so, not for your naive contributing to the desecration of a world, nor for your mindless participation in a pathology that mocks nature, but in virtue of the simple right of the stronger to acquire, own, and master the weaker. Each of you has been assessed for Gorean bondage. Each of you has been found suitable for Gorean bondage. Each of you has been selected for Gorean bondage. As soon as this determination was made you were no longer yours, but ours. You will learn the whip, collar, and chain. You are now, as in the case of diverse high civilizations, ancient and modern, merchandise, goods, properties.”

  I almost reeled on my knees. I could scarcely believe what I was hearing.

  “You are to keep your bodies clean, and well-groomed,” he said. “You now exist to serve and please the free.”

  Another fellow then stepped forward. “You will remain on your knees,” he said, “and repeat what I say, aloud and clearly.”

  He then issued a set of utterances which we, as bidden, frightened, repeated verbatim.

  These utterances, which I recall well, were as follows:

  I know nothing of what it is to be a slave.

  I will be taught.

  I will learn.

  I am now worthless.

  That is true, and I acknowledge it freely.

  But I may be permitted to attain some minimal worth, as a slave.

  That is my hope.

  It is the only hope for me.

  Accordingly, I beg to be a slave.

  I beg to be permitted to serve masters, in all ways, instantly, perfectly, and unquestioningly.

  I am a slave.

  Embond me, legally, that I may serve openly, as the slave I am.

  “An interesting lot,” said one of the men, one of those without a switch.

  “Process them,” said the leade
r, turning away.

  “On your feet, kajirae,” said the fellow who had just commented on us. “Return to the cell.”

  We were then soon again in the cell.

  The door was then closed, and locked.

  “You may speak,” said the fellow, turning about, paying us no more attention.

  We looked at one another, and then, suddenly, gratefully, words and cries, and sobs, like the issuance of hitherto blocked fountains suddenly freed, rushed forth, cascades of speech, torrents of confusion, fears, tremblings, threats, pleas, lamentations, and protests. Some of the girls ran to the bars, seizing them, demanding succor, release, consideration.

  Only Paula, sitting on the floor, with her back to a wall of the cell, seemed content, more curious than apprehensive.

  I sat down beside her.

  “What are kajirae?” I asked.

  “Slaves,” she said, “female slaves.”

  “And what is the meaning of ‘kajira’?” I asked.

  “It is a common word in Gorean for a slave, a female slave,” she said.

  “And in the apartment,” I said, “you said ‘La kajira’. What does that mean?”

  “Did you not tell me you said that some days ago, on the beach?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It means,” she said, “‘I am a slave’, ‘I am a female slave’, ‘I am a slave girl’, such things.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “When you said it,” she said, “you became a slave, a slave girl. I told you that, in the apartment.”

  Much had rushed past me. I was confused, frightened. She had said something of this sort in the apartment. It came back to me now, frighteningly, clearly.

  “I did not know what it meant,” I said.

  “That does not matter,” she said, smiling, adding, “kajira.”

  I glared at her, angrily.

  “I thought, often,” she said, “that you belonged at a man’s feet, that you would make a good slave for a man.”

  “You seem calm,” I said, reproachfully, “in a cell, abducted.”

  “I have long hoped,” she said, “to be noticed, to be acquired, to be picked, to be harvested, as slave fruit, to love and serve, to belong lovingly, selflessly, wholly to another. That was my dream. But I thought myself too plain, of too little interest.”