A Barbarian Girl on Gor Ch. 02

Chapter 2. Amelia Jane in the Pens

Eventually the dreaming ended.

I began to awaken slowly. I seemed in a state of semi-paralysis, but my senses, at least, seemed to be working.

I smelt mustiness, and dampness, and an unpleasant earthy odour. My limbs felt cold. I could feel something cool and damp against my fingertips and body.

I tried to recollect events. I had been almost raped on the tube. I had been drugged in a taxi. I had been manhandled into a plastic pod, one of many.

Surely that hadn't, couldn't have, happened?

I tried to end the dream. I must be late for my work at the investment bank. I needed to get up, not lie here. Mr Smith was always cross if I did not get to work in time.

But I was not in my bed! I was lying on bare wooden planks, cool and damp to my touch. I heard voices, and whimpering.

The numbness slowly faded from my extremities, and I found that I could move my fingers once more.

Gradually I began to make out something from the dim glow. I began to regain the ability to move my neck, and slowly, painfully, rotated my gaze to see my surroundings.

I saw bars of metal, vertical, uncompromising.

I felt dizzy. Something seemed wrong with my weight. It did not feel the same. Something was different at the very heart of the forces working on my body. At the time I put this feeling down to my weakened state. My questing fingertips moved on my limbs.

I felt the anklet that had been given me as a present. Was it yesterday? It could have been weeks ago. I did not know. There was another on my right ankle! I found similar, smaller, devices encircling my wrists. I felt a slight weight at my ears. My hoop earrings were still there, they had not been removed from me at any rate.

And there was something around my neck! I felt it. A necklace, plain and smooth to the touch. But it had a lock!

I put my head to the bars and looked out into the dim light.

I found myself to be naked in a suspended cage with slatted wood below and cold metal bars on all other sides. The cage was hung about four feet from the floor and was about four feet in each direction. Thus, I could not stretch out my body. There were many such cages in the room. Most contained a nude female occupant. Some were asleep, some awake like me, looking around, as if overawed to find themselves thus and unsure how to react.

I was caged like an animal!

It was cold and smelly. I heard quiet weeping and sobbing amongst the caged naked girls. At one point there was shouting and screaming. A man walked along a walkway and shouted. I heard the sound of a whip then a scream. I gasped in horror. They had whips. I have always been very fearful of whips.

I listened. Some of the girls were speaking English, but some spoke other languages. There were a number of men now, walking along a series of connected walkways above the cells. I heard the men speak.

A man was walking on an iron walkway above me. I knelt. One cannot stand upright in the cages.

"Please," I called up to him, "Help me."

He did not acknowledge me.

He poured a liquid into a funnel at the top and it flowed into a small trough-like gutter on one side of my cage. It was water, fetid and unpleasant but I was thirsty, and gratefully drank. In another funnel was poured a thicker fluid with a smell of oatmeal. It was thin enough to flow slowly into another gutter on the other side of the cage. I did not know what it was, but I was terribly hungry.

I sniffed it. I was so hungry. Yet I could not eat an unknown fluid, from a gutter.

I was so hungry. I gathered a small piece in my lips, and onto my tongue. It tasted of little, but was, I supposed, food. Yet perhaps it was drugged or even poisoned. I must not eat it.

I was so hungry. I swallowed some.

It was a watery porridge, lumpy and tasteless. It had not been seasoned. It was a basic form of sustenance, a fodder, as might be fed to an animal.

I was from London, one of the great restaurant cities of the world, I could not possibly eat unsweetened, unseasoned porridge from a gutter.

I was so hungry. I lapped at the unpalatable fare with my tongue.

It tasted of almost nothing, but was so good. Before I knew it my tongue was pressing against the bottom of the guttering, all of the porridge gone. There had been little enough of it.

I still was hungry, though a little less so than before. What sort of creature would obtain her sustenance from cold unseasoned porridge presented in a guttered trough?

I shuddered to think what might be going to happen to me.

I no longer thought that I was dreaming; one does not dream of eating porridge from a trough. It is too mundane, too prosaic, too horrifying, too humiliating, too degrading.

I tried to collect my wits. What could I do? Where was I? I was seemingly in a wood-floored barred hanging cage, suspended, with walkways above, upon which walked gaolers who provided my food and water. I was nude, apart from necklace, anklets, cuffs, and earrings. I was frightened, cold, and despite my meagre meal, still hungry.

Did I fall back asleep? Perhaps the porridge had indeed been drugged. I awoke to the clump of passing footsteps on the walkways.

Some of the girls were shouting, kneeling in their cages. All were awake now. I did not shout. I am not a brave girl. I waited, in my tiny cage, to see what would happen.

More men were on the walkway. The shouting stopped. There was sobbing, and some whimpering. Girls were being removed from their cages, pulled out by the men, and made to crawl on hands and knees down to the end of the walkway that passed at the top of the cages and through a door guarded by one of the men.

There they spent some time before being brought back to the pens and another batch of girls removed. Sometimes I heard muffled screams from behind the door. Some returned in tears. All looked shaken. Next it was my turn. I looked sympathetically at my cage neighbour as she, returning, was lowered into the cage. She looked distraught. There were two symbols written in blue on her left breast. Her breasts were full and attractive.

My cage was opened and I was lifted out. I met the eyes of the man who lifted me out. It was the man from the taxi! I almost collapsed to all fours on the walkway. My eyes were wide. A switch poked me gently on my rump.

I was to proceed him on the walkway on all fours. I did so. I knew the door to which I must crawl. Once more he poked me with a switch. I must crawl faster. I must not dally on my way. I reached the door.

"Steady little animal," said my handler. I supposed that he had been chosen to supervise me because he could speak my language. I stayed on all fours as he opened the door. He poked me again with the switch. I was to proceed. I saw that he had a whip at his belt.

Behind the door was a plain room. A man sat at a simple desk. I was reminded of Professor Jones at college, although I had never entered his office nude and all fours. I remembered that awful day when I went in to his office to try and negotiate a higher examination grade.

I looked at the man behind the desk more closely. It was Professor Jones! My tummy turned upside down with shock.

He regarded me lazily, then grinned, as if recognizing me. I tried to cover my nudity, as best I could with my hands.

"This is the one that caused you all the trouble? That the Earth men almost raped" he asked.

"Kneel," said my handler.

I knelt as best I could on the tiles of the floor. My arms over my breasts.

"Knees apart," said the man, impatiently.

I obeyed, blushing. The pose commanded split my legs affording the man behind the desk a clear sight of my private intimacies.

"Yes, she's the one," said the other.

"Place your hands on your thighs," commanded Professor Jones.

I did so. I think I was in shock. What could Professor Jones be doing here?

I was terribly frightened, not knowing what had happened to me, but I was also determined to obey, come what may, and not be punished. I would make sure that I did not present them with the least reason to punish me. I had felt a poke of the stick on my behind when I was crawling from the cell, when I had apparently dallied. I did not wish to repeat the experience, or worse, feel the whip my handler carried at his belt..

"Knees wider," barked my handler, "split your legs as wide as you can."

I blushed scarlet, but did as commanded, my thighs now splayed.

"Well, well," said the Professor, "so, Amelia Jane, I had heard you were in this batch. And you were the cause of one of our best operatives having to confront Earth men?"

I put my head down. What was he doing here? Where was I? What did he mean, 'Earth men'? I felt sick with dread.

"The position that you have assumed," said the Professor, "has a name."

He told me the name, a simple two syllable word.

"When you hear someone say that word you assume that position. Understand little animal?"

I nodded.

"The little beast understands that at least," remarked my handler.

"It was not so easy to train her on Earth," laughed the Professor.

I squirmed on the tiles, displayed. I wondered what they would do with me.

"When a male is present, unless otherwise instructed, you will assume this position. Is that understood?"

"Y..yes."

"You may regard it as a 'default position'. One which you will soon find yourself assuming unconsciously when males are present, so get used to it."

I nodded, feeling sick with horror. What was to become of me? What was Professor Jones doing here? Why was he talking to me as if I were somehow beneath him? As if I were a 'little animal'. And the way he spoke of Earth, as if it were somewhere else.

Professor Jones regarded me, resting his elbows on the table, his fingertips together, touching his chin. I saw his eyes take me in. All of me.

"To your feet," he said.

I got to my feet. I was determined to obey them, to be a 'good little girl' for them. I was not courageous, nor rebellious, I did not want to feel the whip on my flesh. Judge me cowardly or timid if you wish, but know that it is hard to be alone, nude, having your flesh appraised by men with whips and be courageous or rebellious.

"Hands on your head," he said.

I placed my hands on my head, in the tresses of my long blonde hair that I was so proud of, and looked after so carefully. It was unkempt now, and dirty.

"Stand straight," he said.

I tried to stand straight. I was so tired. My handler put his hand in my hair and pulled it back, sharply, arching my back, exposing the curve of my breasts, the form of my belly, slim and taut. The Professor spoke again.

"Feet apart," he said.

I placed my bare feet, shackled, about a foot apart.

"Further apart," he said, "split those pretty legs wider."

I placed my bare feet, shackled, about two foot apart. Despite my situation, I was gratified to hear that he thought my legs were pretty.

He appraised me from behind his desk.

"Turn," he said.

I turned, facing away from him.

I felt tears in my eyes, but I would strive to obey. I did not care to feel the kiss of the whip.

"Legs further apart," he said. I complied.

After a time he said, "Turn back."

I obeyed, my hands still in my hair, my breasts well displayed. I tried to arch my back, as I had been shown by the man's hands before. I did not know whether I arched it satisfactorily, but at any rate, I did not feel the man's hands in my hair correcting me.

The man behind the desk contemplated me.

"So, little Amelia Jane. The girl who failed all of her examinations."

He motioned to my handler and said something in his own language.

My handler stepped forward, and to my horror began to candidly touch me, commencing at my breasts, then his firm, strong hands down to my belly, to my behind and then, to my intense embarrassment, began exploring my most private intimacies.

Within seconds he had reduced me to a helpless, squirming wreck.

"Oh," I had said.

Then, "No!" I had called out.

Then, "Ah...please!" I had screamed.

I wanted to remove my hands from my hair, but I dare not. I threw my head back, my eyes closed, my lips parted. I was losing my self-control.

The man removed his hands. I whimpered. I could feel dampness on my inner thighs. He raised his fingers to my lips.

"Lick," he said.

I closed my eyes. Were there no depths to which they would not degrade me? Yet I had promised myself that I would do what they wished, that I would not rebel, or be difficult. I would be docile. I would 'blend in'. I would do anything to avoid incurring their wrath. I am not a brave girl.

I licked his fingers, tasting my arousal. I had never tasted such before. How sensuous, I thought. How utterly and exquisitely humiliating. How pleasant it must be for them to degrade a helpless girl so.

He took his fingers away.

I opened my eyes. The Professor was regarding me, as if coming to a decision.

"Interesting," he said, "She is at least adequate."

I was apparently 'adequate'. Certainly, this hardly seemed to be a ringing endorsement, yet should not, I thought, constitute any basis for punishment. I determined that I should always strive to be 'adequate'. A girl who was adequate would not stand out. An adequate girl should not be punished unduly. An adequate girl would blend in and not be selected for the whip.

"So you know her too then?," asked my handler.

The other smiled, "Yes," he said, "I know her. I had the misfortune to try to teach her. Now I have special plans for this juicy little slut."

I reddened, hot with shame. I had never been called a 'juicy little slut' before. I could not help how I had behaved under my handler's touch.

They conversed further in their own language. They both laughed. I wondered what they had found amusing.

I felt something on my breast. My handler was writing there with a thick blue pen. He wrote a symbol, twice.

"That," he said, " is the symbol for '44'. It is now your name."

He paused, as though giving me some time to assimilate this dramatic alteration in my circumstances.

"What is your name?"

"44," I said, numbly.

I had been Miss Amelia Jane Harrington, of London, England. A PR representative for an investment bank in the City. Now I was '44'. A numbered animal in the slave pens. It was apparently written on my right breast, as a mnemonic. Who could be bothered to remember the name of a beast in the slave pens? Now, my name was at hand, scrawled on my breast.

My handler was talking to me.

He spoke a phrase of four simple syllables then pointed at me.

I tried to emulate the short phrase. It took several attempts for me to enunciate the term to his satisfaction.

"It means," he said, "I am a slave girl."

He had me say it again.

It seemed that I had made another step forward in their language. My vocabulary was now somewhat larger.

"Take her back to her cell," said Professor Jones.

"Come, little animal," said my handler.

I crawled back through the door and along the walkway, head down, miserable, and was thrown back into my tiny cell.

"What phrase have you learnt?" asked my handler, sternly, from above me, on the walkway.

"I am a slave girl" I said, trying to enunciate the unfamiliar syllables to the best of my ability.

"Good," he said, "Remember it."

I was a slave girl.

My name was '44'.

They had 'special plans' for me.

I wept, helplessly, in my cell.