Support Groups of Gor

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Haroldx
Haroldx
35 Followers

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’d seen 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 all 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 seemed 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 advertized 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. As such, 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.

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, a setup. 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.

Copyright 1999

Haroldx
Haroldx
35 Followers
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kbatekbateabout 19 years ago
Priest Kings Help Us!

A refreshing look at the counter earth. Support Groups and Hitchhiker of Gor are charming short stories bringing a new look to the Norman Chronicles. Haroldx at times, writes in the Norman style and his antihero "Alf" is a wonderful alternative for Jason and Tarl.

A must for Gor fans everywhere!

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