Support Groups of Gor
By Harold
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Foreword
This story is a sequel to "Hitchhikers of Gor" and will probably make a
little more sense if you read that story first.
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This was more like it. I had a job. I was the bartender at the Earth Weenie
Social Club. It was sort of a private paga tavern--members only. The membership
consisted exclusively of immigrants from Earth. I was both member and employee.
I didn't get paid all that much, but the job came with room and board. I still
didn't have a slave girl of my own at the moment, but I didn't really need one.
One of the perks of the job was that I was in charge of the club's slave girls.
There were about a dozen of them and maybe two thirds were Earth immigrants,
although their immigration had not been voluntary. The club's name, by the way,
was always pronounced in English, never in Gorean.
I had been surprised when they offered me the job. A few weeks before, I had
tracked Lysol down and told him I was in need of help finding a job. He'd
invited me to the next meeting of the support group. The group met weekly at the
club. There were about fifteen or twenty guys at the first meeting I attended.
They seemed like a pretty average bunch, but were suspicious of me. They asked
tons of questions. They wanted to know how I'd gotten here, all about my life on
Earth, what skills I had, had I ever been in the military, and how did I feel
about Gor and Goreans.
Finally, I got sick of the grilling. "What's with the inquisition? I thought
this was a support group."
"Sorry," said Bardol (he seemed to be in charge). "We just need to know who
we're dealing with. We can't have the wrong sort of people in here. Besides, the
more we know about you, the better we can help."
I wondered who the wrong sort of people might be. "I need a job. You don't
need to know too much about me to figure that out."
"Don't take it personally," Lysol said. "We're always willing to help a
fellow Earthman, but we have to do it in our own way. This is your first
meeting, so go with the flow until you know the ropes."
"Hey, I'm not trying to be a pain, but this isn't like any support group I
ever heard of."
"Well, hang onto your hat," said Bardol. "We aren't done. Did you bring a
gun?"
"Yeah, I've got a .45."
"So if you came with Octavius, you've probably got fifty rounds. He always
pulls that shit."
"Forty nine. I had a run in with a sleen." I described my encounter with the
sleen.
"If you hit that thing in the head while it was charging, you've got a
cooler head and a sharper eye than average."
"I do."
"That'll come in handy. How many rounds did Octavius keep?"
"A hundred and fifty."
"A bit skimpy, but it'll have to do. I'll set things in motion to get them
back."
"What do you mean?"
"Octavius, and most of the other pilots, usually confiscate ammo when they
can get away with it, then sell it back to us at a premium. A little business
they run on the side. As to your current problem, we'll get to work on finding
some sort of employment for you. In the meantime, you can borrow what you need
to keep afloat from the group. We keep interest rates reasonable among
ourselves, but it would be a bad idea to get carried away. Only borrow what you
really need."
The discussion turned toward general problems and complaints. As an
immigrant community, we faced a number of problems. Ar was the most cosmopolitan
city on Gor, but was nonetheless quite provincial. Our accents, which marked us
as outsiders, and our lack of marketable skills in this economy meant that
making a living was more of an adventure than any of us really appreciated. It
was apparent from listening that the group was headed toward building it's own
economy.
The meeting was being held in English, a fact which I appreciated. My Gorean
was still a bit shaky. "Are these meetings always in English, or are you just
doing it for my benefit?"
"We always do it in English," Lysol said. "We want to maintain fluency;
also, it's more secure." Bardol gave Lysol a look that suggested security had
just been breached.
They loaned me enough money to get me through the week until the next
meeting. I thanked them and left. They said that in the meantime they'd beat the
bushes for some kind of job for me. I was confused as to the exact nature of
this support group. I had expected a social gathering where everyone would
commiserate about how mean and nasty the world was treating them. This was run
more like a business meeting. The members seemed prosperous--well dressed and
confident, albeit cliquish to the point of paranoia. I went back each week for
several weeks. Each week they would probe a little deeper into my past and
present activities, then loan me some more money and tell me they were still
looking for a job for me. The overall atmosphere reminded me vaguely of the
Teamsters--paternal rather than fraternal and benevolent as long as you were
part of the group and didn't make any waves. I wasn't entirely sure what the
rules were, so I tried not to rock the boat. They were obviously checking me
out, getting to know me and evaluating.
Finally, on my fifth visit, I was told they had something for me. Prego, the
current bartender at the club, was being promoted and the position was available
if I wanted it. I accepted and moved out of my rundown insula and into the club.
My duties were less than onerous. In the morning, I'd get the slave girls up,
feed them, then set them at their tasks. They did all the work except make the
drinks. I took pride in doing that myself. That was one of the differences
between us and the average paga tavern. We had real drinks. Most paga taverns
served paga (something like a strong ale) or various wines, but nothing
stronger. The Goreans seemed to have discovered fermentation, but not
distillation. We had a couple of stills out back where we made bourbon and a
pretty good brandy from the local kalana wine. The club was generating some
income by supplying these to other taverns around Ar and there were plans to
enlarge the distillery.
I hung out at the club all day. I wore a white apron over my tunic and when
things were slow I would wipe the bar down and philosophize to whomever would
listen. As the days went by and I got to know the various members better, I
began to get a picture of what was going on. The club had its fingers in a
number of pies, and liquor sales was one of the more legitimate ones.
Apparently, the Goreans had also neglected to invent organized crime and the
club was hard at work repairing this lack (organized crime being defined as
crime carried out on a businesslike basis by organizations other than
governments). I still wasn't sure what all the club was into, but it appeared to
be prospering. I realized that my job was a way for me to start at the bottom
and work my way up. In the meantime, I was where everybody could keep an eye on
me. I didn't mind. I knew that cohesion was extremely important to make it all
work and it would take time for everyone to know me well enough to feel secure
about me.
I set about reorganizing the staff and their routines. The slave girls were
required to line up in front of the bar and stand at attention when they had no
other duties. When a member came in, the girl assigned to the area in which he
sat would leave the bar and attend to him unless he was known to have a favorite
girl. The minute he left, she would clean his table, wash the glasses and
dishes, and return to the line. When the number of occupied tables exceeded the
number of girls, they were required to circulate constantly in their assigned
areas. If a girl's area should be empty, she was to help at the most populous
adjacent area. This seems like a small change, but service had previously been
random, with some girls overloaded at peak periods while others had little to
do. The members commented to me on the improvement in service.
At closing, I would lock all the girls who weren't occupied in their
quarters. There were rooms available for members who wanted to spend the night
with a girl (the girls weren't allowed out of the club), but this was uncommon,
since most members had their own slaves. Like all Gorean taverns, there was no
extra charge for the girls. They came with the price of a drink. Most commonly,
members would stop by of an afternoon for a beer and a blow job.
The slave quarters consisted of several large well appointed rooms in the
basement. They were accessible through one heavy door which I locked behind them
every night. They were equipped with sleeping rooms, toilet facilities, their
own kitchen and a stock of food, and whatever else we felt they might need.
Unlike the Goreans, whom we considered to be a bunch of wackos, we made no
effort to impress the girls with their servitude every waking moment. The tables
were not equipped with slave rings (in fact, there were none in the club--we
didn't feel the need of them) and the girls were encouraged to address the
members by name. We preferred that to the generic and impersonal 'master' the
Goreans were so adamant about. Despite all this, there was no question as to
their status. They were slaves. We didn't put a lot of effort into impressing
them with this fact. They would either get it or they wouldn't. If they didn't,
they were punished or disposed of.
One afternoon, after I'd been on the job about a month, a couple of Goreans
wandered in. I could tell from their red tunics they were warriors ('rarius' in
Gorean--also translated as 'asshole'). Trouble was guaranteed. The girls, as per
policy, ignored non-members. The intruders began shouting for service, but were
still ignored. A girl waiting on a nearby table passed, ignoring their demands.
Being ignored by a slave was too much. Enraged, one stood, grabbed her and drew
his sword. It was obvious he was going to kill her. I had a cocked crossbow
behind the bar. Even if there had been time to pull it out, set it against my
shoulder, aim, and fire, there was a distinct possibility of hitting the girl.
I'd never practiced much with that weapon. I whipped out my .45. Shooting a gun
indoors is not recommended. My ears rang for hours. The slug took the warrior in
the side of the head and he pitched backwards, a chunk of his skull missing. His
cohort, who by now was also standing with sword drawn, dropped his weapon and
started backing toward the door, waving his arms as if to ward off evil spirits.
"Not another step, fart orifice." This was about as close as I could come to
"Freeze, asshole!" in Gorean. He halted as I trained the gun on him. I shot him
right between the eyes. There were to be no witnesses.
I am a man of only one talent. I have no skill at literature or science or
diplomacy. I often do not understand the ramblings of learned men. What I am is
a marksman. I have often thought it would be more honorable to be an excellent
baker or potter or such, but I am what I am: the best shot on planet Gor. I had
been kind to the second warrior. I could easily have shot his balls off--one at
a time.
I had a mess on my hands. Use of firearms is frowned on by the club. We
didn't want the Goreans or the priest kings to know we had them. Had I been more
experienced in the ways of Goreans, I would have known what was coming and had
the crossbow ready. The girl that the warrior had grabbed was hysterical. She
was a Gorean and had no experience of guns. I assigned a couple of the Earth
girls to take her in hand and calm her down. I got two of the members to help me
and we stripped the bodies and carried them out. The other slaves were assigned
to clean up the blood and bits of skull. I wanted the place spotless by the time
I came back in. We fed the warriors' remains to the sleen, meanwhile throwing
their clothing and other combustible accouterments into the furnace which heated
the stills. I wrapped their swords and non-combustible possessions in a parcel
with a couple of stones and dispatched a member to drop them in the river. Then
we retrieved the remains unconsumed by sleen and buried them in the lime pit.
The warriors were gone without a trace, just like Jimmy Hoffa.
A couple of days later, a warrior came by looking for the missing men, but
we played dumb and he went away.
We discussed the incident at the next weekly gathering. I was criticized for
using the gun, although allowance was made for my inexperience. A couple of guys
thought I should have let the warrior kill the girl, but I told them point blank
that nobody was killing any of our girls on my watch. Members who had been
present at the time defended my actions. Although feelings were mixed over my
shooting the first warrior, I garnered universal approval for my actions from
that point on. Bardol in particular was impressed by the way I had kept my head,
eliminated the only outside witness and then cleaned things up efficiently and
methodically. What could have been a terrible black eye actually ended up being
a feather in my cap.
Shortly thereafter, the membership voted a raise for me. I had been living
on half salary, since I'd devoted the other half to retiring my debt to the club
as fast as possible. My debt was now paid and the members had rewarded my
diligence in the matter with a pay increase. With my debt paid, this more than
doubled my take home. I could now afford my own slave girl again, but didn't
feel the need as long as I lived at the club. I slept with a different girl
every night. I had a couple of favorites, but didn't play favorites. I wanted to
know as much as possible about my staff, so I chose a different girl every night
in rotation.
One night, as I was locking the girls in their quarters, I heard one of the
Gorean girls say something to another girl in halting English. She was quickly
shushed. I pretended not to hear and went away, returning stealthily a few
minutes later. I listened at the door, curious as to what was going on. The door
was too thick and I could hear nothing.
Three nights later, it was my night with Marika, the Gorean girl who had
spoken English. After the other girls were locked up, I hung her by her wrists
and whipped her soundly.
"Now, Marika, we're going to have a conversation. What language shall we
have it in?"
"What do you mean, Master?" I lashed her savagely. "Please, Master. Please.
Why do you punish me so?"
"You know what I want to know. Why are you learning English? What's going
on?"
She told me the whole story. It seemed Susan had gotten curious about what
went on at our meetings. The slaves who served the meetings were always the
Gorean girls, since they couldn't understand us. This was obvious to the girls,
and Susan had decided to investigate. She talked Marika into cooperating and
started teaching her English. Marika would also memorize snatches of
conversation from the meetings and repeat them to Susan for translation. The
other girls were getting interested in the project and I was about to have a
major conspiracy on my hands.
I gagged Marika, bound her, slung her over my shoulder, and returned to the
slave quarters. The girls were startled when I barged in. I dumped Marika on the
floor.
"OK, girls," I yelled. "Line up." The girls did as I bid. I walked down the
line behind them binding each one's hands behind her then gagging her. They were
trying not to look at Marika whimpering on the floor, but couldn't help
themselves. I stood next to Marika and addressed them.
"It seems we have a small conspiracy in progress, so we're going to nip this
thing in the bud. As you can see, Marika has been punished and I'm sure you all
know why. I still have one more miscreant to punish before I deal with you as a
group. Susan, come over here." Susan turned pale and stood rooted. I stepped
toward her and she turned to run. I caught her easily.
"Now you're in really big trouble, slave girl." I slung her over my shoulder
as I had Marika. "The rest of you, don't move a muscle until I get back."
I carried Susan back to my quarters and hung her by her wrists as I had
Marika. Then I gave her an even more severe whipping than Marika had received. I
carried her back and dumped her on the floor next to Marika. Both girls were
hogtied and helpless. The other slaves were standing where I had left them.
Marika and Susan would remain in the center of the floor all night as a lesson
to the others. The others would spend the night gagged with their hands tied. I
told them to go to bed and contemplate their folly.
The next day I released all the girls and set them about their duties. The
weekly club meeting was scheduled for the afternoon and I locked all the girls
back in their quarters before it began. The members noticed the lack of servants
and I told them what had happened and what I had done about it.
One of the guys thought it was my fault, but Bardol disagreed. "Vitalis had
nothing to do with this. It's obvious the girls cooked this up on their own and
it probably started before Vitalis even got here. If anything, we owe him our
thanks for catching it, although he was perhaps a bit lenient in his reaction."
This seemed to be the general sentiment. The guys were a lot more pissed off
about this than I had thought they would be and after discussion, we voted to
make an example of Susan and Marika. Security was a top priority and we didn't
want the girls knowing of our plans or activities. On Gor, slaves could legally
be questioned under torture, so this whole thing was a bigger security risk than
I had first realized. Bardol said he would take care of it and assigned Lysol,
Prego, and myself to assist.
Lysol hung out at the club with me and early in the evening Bardol and Prego
showed up. Each bore a withe cage and a heavy backpack. Upon their arrival,
Lysol and I brought the girls up. They had been locked in their quarters most of
the day. We tied their wrists behind them and gagged them again, then lined them
up and joined their collars together with lengths of chain, except for Susan and
Marika. These two each had a cage strapped to her back. The cages were square
and a bit wider than their shoulders. They extended from their necks to just
below their knees. We led them outside. Susan and Marika were led on individual
leashes, while the others followed along behind in coffle. Lysol and I carried
the packs.
We wended our way through the city and down to the river. The chain of slave
girls caused no comment except for the occasional admiring glance. We marched
them out onto an unused pier. We lined the coffle up along the side and chained
the outside ankle of the girl at each end to a convenient slave ring (and they
were convenient--you couldn't go ten paces in any direction in this town without
encountering one of the ubiquitous slave rings). Then we unburdened Susan and
Marika of the cages which we laid down on the dock. I held their leashes while
Bardol and Prego placed a heavy stone in each corner of each cage. Lysol took
Marika's leash and led her toward the cages. I tightened my grip on Susan's
leash. Marika was hogtied and placed face up in a cage, then her gag was
removed, but she was too frightened to speak. The top of the cage was closed
over her face and locked. Bardol and Prego lowered it over the side. The water
was high, only about eighteen inches below the pier. Our captive audience had a
fine view of her. As the water touched Marika's back, she found her voice and
began crying and pleading. She was lowered ever so slowly, the water rising
about her until her pleas changed to splutters and gurgles as she lay on her
back desperately pressing her face against the bars. Once her head was
completely under, the ropes were loosed and she sank into the murk.
Now it was Susan's turn. Her offense was deemed to be the greater, so she
had been forced to watch as Marika was drowned. She wet herself as Lysol and I
bound her and removed her gag. She begged and wept as we placed her in the cage.
Bardol and Prego lowered her even more slowly than they had Marika. Her last
wail was stifled by the water as her face finally submerged, then she too was
lost in the murk.
The other girls were all weeping hysterically into their gags, their faces
wet with tears. I myself was not unaffected. I had been fond of both girls, but
discipline and security were a priority. We had considered simply selling the
two girls as a sound business decision, but ultimately concluded that the
financial loss we would suffer by drowning the girls would generate a greater
return in terms of education and discipline among the remaining slaves. If one
of them ever tried anything like that again, the others would probably kill her
themselves.
Marika and Susan now slept with the fishes. Their drowning had gone largely
unnoticed. That was one of the problems with Gor. The advantage of criminal
enterprise was that the risks deterred most people from engaging in it. That
meant that those who did pursue such endeavors could charge monopoly prices. But
for this to work, there had to be laws to break. We were having problems with
that. Many of the traditional mainstays of organized crime just didn't work on
Gor. With a major population of slave girls, prostitution made no sense.
Gambling was legal, so there was no real money to be made there. Murder for hire
was legal with an established caste of assassins. Robbery didn't even work. To
carry that out on the scale we were interested in would require the hijacking of
caravans. Since they were always well defended a small army would be required
and we were not prepared to lose the number of men necessary to make it work on
a regular basis. We were interested in business, not heroics. Bootlegging and
smuggling had been considered, but there wasn't anything to bootleg or smuggle.
The local idiots didn't seem to have laws against much of anything.
One scam that was working fairly well for us was insurance. We combined
standard insurance with the protection racket. Earth Weenie Fire and Casualty
was selling policies to businesses all around our area. Those who bought
policies were indemnified against loss. Those who didn't suffered fire and
casualty. Policyholders made regular payments to our agent, Prego. (That was the
promotion he had received which made the bartender job available to me--he had
been promoted to bag man.) We actually paid off on legitimate claims. Our
innovative methods of operation and outrageous rates made an actuarial
department unnecessary, an additional savings which we did not pass on to the
customers. We even visited customer locations and advised them on fire
prevention measures and security precautions.
Shortly after the drowning of the slave girls, we had our first 'insurance
fire'. Tantrum, a local perfume merchant, had been having considerable trouble
making his policy payments. We knew he was in financial trouble, so no one was
surprised the night his business burnt to the ground. One of the members,
Pennzoil, had been a claims adjuster on earth, so we sent him to check it out.
He knew every scam there was. Pennzoil could hardly contain his mirth. The
Goreans were unsophisticated in this sort of chicanery and poor Tantrum had made
every mistake in the book. Pennzoil found multiple points of ignition and empty
containers with traces of accelerant on the trash heap out back. There were no
valuables in the rubble. The safe, the closets, and most of the stock room had
been emptied prior to the blaze. Tantrum himself had been out of the city with
his slave girls on the fateful night (a too convenient alibi was always a red
flag to insurance investigators, and the 'out of town' ploy was a classic). We
paid to rebuild his business, then canceled his policy. About a month later he
had another fire in which he himself perished, having foolishly chained himself
to one of his own slave rings shortly before the fire broke out. Once again,
there were no valuables in the rubble and his four slave girls had apparently
run away. Everyone got the message.
The club now had four new slave girls. Three were Gorean in origin and one
was an Earth girl, so we were now back to our original complement of slaves plus
two more Gorean girls. I was a bit disappointed. It would have been my job to go
to the auctions and replace Susan and Marika. I enjoyed auctions and it would
have been fun to spend the club's money. Not that I would have spent it
foolishly--I would have taken pride in getting the club the best deal to be had,
but it still would have been fun to be able to shop upscale from what I myself
could afford. Perhaps another time.
The club was always looking for new avenues of enterprise. At the next
meeting, I suggested we take another look at gambling. It had always been
considered a loser because there were no laws against it, making it necessary
for us to compete on a level playing field, which we didn't like to do. The only
other option seemed to be to try to put a fix in on the public games. The
problem there was that would have drawn attention from high places. The lack of
laws cut both ways. They would simply have killed us all.
What I had noticed was that other than the public games, there was really no
organized gambling, no way for someone to hit the jackpot. I thought a numbers
racket would work. We could run it like the state lotteries on Earth. We would
make it convenient and promote the hell out of it. All the individual betting
that went on was small stakes stuff. We could set up a system where a person
could make a small bet and have a chance to win really big. Of course, like the
state lotteries, the chances of winning big were about the same whether you
played or not. "You can't win if you don't buy a ticket," had been the
prevailing sentiment on Earth. The thing was, your chance of winning was
vanishingly small, but your chance of losing was considerable. A more accurate
statement would have been, "You can't lose if you don't buy a ticket." We needed
a piece of this kind of action and there was no state monopoly here. The house
take on this deal was so great we could afford to run an honest game, so we did.
When somebody won we paid off promptly and whooped it up. We made it convenient,
sending runners out every day to collect the bets. People could play without
even leaving their homes or businesses. We came to them. Whenever there was a
big winner, we would have a public ceremony and make the winner a celebrity.
People loved it and the money rolled in. This was criminal enterprise at its
finest. It was legal, it was popular, and it was such a scam. The Goreans were
even more mathematically illiterate than the denizens of Earth. They gave us
their money in bushel baskets. We paid out less than fifteen percent to winners.
I had noticed on Earth that the lottery customers came disproportionately
from among the poor. The same was true on Gor. Beggars in the street would
eagerly surrender the meager contents of their begging bowls to our runners. On
Earth, I had settled on the superficial explanation of equating poverty with
stupidity, but on Gor I finally got it. These people knew the odds, but bad as
they were, it was still their best and perhaps only hope of escaping the poverty
trap. We could actually pretend we were performing a public service. Every once
in a while, we would, by Gorean standards, make someone rich.
I had displayed an unexpected flair for this sort of thing, so Bardol put me
in charge of the operation. Unlike the crime families on Earth, we were not a
tight hierarchy. Things were done by consensus. Bardol was the de facto leader.
He was well liked, fair, and competent. His decisions could be overruled, but he
always made sure he knew what the consensus was likely to be before doing
anything important. The group would not have held together as well as it did
without him.
Drixoral, a promising new immigrant, took over my job as bartender and I
moved into new, more lavish, quarters. I still didn't have a slave girl of my
own. I would have to do something about that soon. For now, I spent time with
the club's slave girls. I was fond of all of them and had considered asking if
the club would sell me one or two of them.
Fortunately, three of our members had been accountants on Earth. This didn't
really surprise me. You can imagine how sitting around doing people's taxes
could make you long for something more exciting. The field produced a lot of
Walter Mitty types. Three of them had taken matters into their own hands and
found their way to Gor. I put them to work keeping track of the club's money.
They found it quite ironic that they had escaped the humdrum of their lives on
Earth to the barbaric splendor of Gor, only to be pressed into service as
accountants here. They bitched their asses off about the lack of computers (I
couldn't blame them--they had to do everything by hand). But they did crank out
an accurate P&L every month. Double entry bookkeeping was largely unknown on
Gor, so we were probably the only business on the planet that knew where we
really stood at the end of every month. We were evolving into a structure
resembling a limited partnership and I felt it was important that there be an
accurate set of books for the membership to examine.
The numbers operation had grown to the point where we needed more runners
than we had members. We hired a bunch of our customers to work as runners. We
were actually creating jobs. We advertised this fact, pointing out to whoever
would listen how beneficial we were to the local economy. This was extremely
cynical. We were a parasitic organization. Our sole function was to siphon money
from the pockets of the citizenry into our own. We had no interest whatever in a
true exchange of value (goods or services in exchange for money).
Hiring outside help generated a new set of concerns. The problem with
numbers runners is keeping them honest. Since the vast majority of bets lose,
it's easy for a runner to simply pocket a few of them. Who would ever know? I
reassigned all the members who had been runners as auditors and hired new
runners. The auditors would circulate, following runners, interviewing
customers, and whatever else they could dream up to check on the runners. The
horde of auditors circulating added to the impression we ran an honest game.
Early on we caught one of the runners pocketing about a third of the bets. We
posted his name and a description of what he had done on the public boards. The
next day he was cornered by an angry mob. They doused him with oil, set him on
fire, and chased him through the streets until he died. Then they dragged his
body around town, abusing it and shouting. It was reminiscent of the scenes
broadcast from Somalia. Our customers proved to be an excellent deterrent to
employee theft. They were enraged to find out that the bets they made had never
actually been placed.
I was now rather wealthy. Besides a generous salary for my work on the
numbers game, I received a monthly distribution of profits (as did all the
members). Gor was my idea of the land of opportunity--a whole planet full of
suckers.
I also had more time to wander the city now. The bartender at the club was
really facilities manager for the clubhouse so I had been stuck there most of
the time. Now I could not only explore some more, I had money to spend. I wished
there had been something to spend it on. Gor was rather lacking in consumer
goods. On Earth I could have bought a fancy car, a new stereo, maybe a fine
rifle. I just couldn't get all that excited about a sleek tharlarion, the most
dashing style in tunics, or the latest in crossbows. Some of the food and drink
was interesting, but a lot of it was repulsive. Besides, the best of it was
available at the club at subsidized prices. One of the reasons we made sure
there were a number of Earth girls on the staff was to have access to Earth
style cooking. Gor's sole attraction (besides the barbaric splendor/squalor of
it all) seemed to be female slavery, but that was a biggie. Even so, I would
never again hear the three B's (Bach, Beethoven, and the Beatles). Gorean music
really sucks. Consequently, I found myself spending a lot of time at the slave
auctions. There wasn't much else to do when I wasn't working. So I suppose it
wasn't all that surprising that I found her. I didn't recognize her at first.
She was slouched despondently in her cage, staring vacantly off into space. This
was so different from her previous demeanor that it was small wonder that I
nearly passed her by. I stepped closer, examining her. The look of pure hatred
told me she recognized me well enough. She was gagged, so she couldn't say what
she was thinking, but it wasn't necessary. She could communicate quite clearly.
I later learned she had been gagged to keep her from screaming insults at
passers by. It was the blond bitch, of course. The sign on her cage indicated
she would be auctioned in two days. My mouth was dry and my knees weak. I had to
have her. I hurried off to rearrange my schedule. I would be at that auction.
They had to carry her onto the stage. She refused to walk no matter how they
much they whipped her. The auctioneer introduced her as a "girl with spirit", a
challenge to any but the most masterful of men. The crowd went crazy. Bidding
opened at five silver tarsks, quite high for a barbarian. I didn't bid until
nearly everyone else had dropped out. The bid was at seven golden tarn disks. I
bid eight. I finally won the bid at eleven. This was a fortune. It would impact
my finances for weeks to come.
I picked her up after the auction. She was standing with her wrists locked
behind her and a short chain joining her ankle cuffs. I paid, signed the papers,
and snapped my leash on her collar. Then I removed her gag.
"Asshole! You're the son of a bitch who did this to me. Creep, slime,
pervert!" I stuffed the gag back in when she paused to inhale. Actually, I
wasn't the one who had done this to her, but I would be the one doing it to her
from now on.
Her ankle chain was too short for her to walk, so I removed it. She kneed me
in the groin. I punched her in the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of her.
This pacified her sufficiently for me to reattach her ankle chain. I slung her
over my shoulder and carried her off.
She was quite a trial. If she wasn't gagged, she would insult me. If she
wasn't bound, she would attack me. The only way to fuck her was tie her down
securely. As a result, she was bound and gagged nearly twenty four hours a day.
I was eventually able to feed her without her trying to bite me. I worked with
her for weeks. After a while, she didn't attack me if I unchained her. A bit
later, she stopped insulting me. Later still, she would submit to sex without
stringent restraint. Finally, some weeks after her acquisition, I thought she
was ready to do a blow job. I chained her wrists behind her. She knelt before me
and opened her mouth submissively. This was the moment I had been waiting for.
It was the moment she had been waiting for. As I slipped into her mouth, she
bit down--hard. The look of triumph on her face told me all I needed to know.
Her submission had been feigned. I wrapped one hand around her throat and
squeezed, pinching her nostrils shut with the other. After a couple of minutes
she passed out, relaxing her grip on my dick. I chained her collar to a
convenient (sic) slave ring and hurried off to tend to my bleeding member. I had
nearly been unmanned, so to speak.
The next day, I had Prego get me a withe cage. I hogtied the blond bitch and
put her in the cage, then loaded it onto a cart and took it to the docks. I
lugged the cage to the end of the pier, then removed her gag and locked the cage
again. She began screaming insults. I lowered the cage slowly into the water.
"Beg," I thought. "Please, beg. If only you'll beg, I won't have to do this."
She continued as before. "Fuck you, assho...glub." She was gone.
Women can inspire such ambivalence--I mean, what an appropriate end to Miss
Blond Bitch. What a terrible waste. I sat on the end of the dock and wept, my
tears falling on the water where she had disappeared. What a cruel world was the
planet Gor.
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Copyright 1999
Haroldx@email.com
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