The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 02

Unlike the slavegirls who rarely interacted with the freewomen, the bondsmen mixed freely with the freemen. Yet there were some subtle clues. For instance, slaves, regardless of sex, did not pay for their drinks or food... at least not in theory. So a freewoman with her own kajirus paid his bar bill. This was always done discreetly, for in Gorean culture a man's honor stands above everything. However, I now and then spotted a male wearing a silk scarf or wristband. It took me a while to grasp the significance; but I should have recalled immediately, from my readings of the Gor books, that the wearing of silk was associated with slaves.

There was at least one gay master-slave couple. The kajirus showed deference to his lord but spoke on equal terms with the other men. On the other hand, three or four of the freewomen owned girls. These kajirae were usually naked and tended to be more obeisant and obsequious than their male-owned counterparts. They were, in general, treated more harshly by their mistresses and more leniently by the men.

All of this might have been natural on the untamed world of Gor, where men earned and maintained their pre-eminence as fighters, hunters and protectors. In the mundane reality of this tavern in the middle of the campus, however, there were no authentic heroes or desperadoes, no brawny tarnsmen or intrepid tharlarion riders. Everyone was playing a role, and the freewomen took pride in theirs. They could not be warriors and would not be slaves, and this gave them a sense of solidarity. They prized their place in the pecking order, even if it appeared to me as the consolation of the disfranchised.

There was a particular young lady, tall, dark-haired and extremely beautiful, who stood at one end of the bar in a gorgeous full-length green gown with splendid décolletage, haughtily holding court over a clique of feminine acolytes. At the time, I was talking to Paul and Stuart.

"Such a shame," Paul said, nodding in the direction of Princess Pea-Green.

"She needs to be on the block," Stuart replied.

"The block?" I inquired.

"Auction block." The barman leaned across the counter. "It can be arranged." He winked.

Looking about, I felt sure it could be. For whatever else she might be, a freewoman was first and foremost a prospect for enslavement.

I did talk to the freewomen (though not Princess Pea-green, who held herself aloof). As a guest, I was able to mingle freely. But besides personal observation, my main sources of information were the slaves. No one seemed to mind that I did not treat them with the customary disdain, nor did anyone question my curiosity. Once it had been ascertained that I was not an infiltrating agitator or investigative journalist, everyone was open and candid. I think the slavegirls liked having someone who deigned to speak with them, and an outsider to whom they could explain their philosophy and lifestyle. I also discovered, after talking to the freewomen and the males as well, that all the female members, regardless of status, took the whole thing much more seriously than the men. That made sense. After all, in many ways they had a much more personal stake in the Gorean fantasy.

Naturally I was asked the same questions as the other night. "Are you going to join us? Free or slave?" I did not answer; but the truth is that I really enjoyed myself that evening.

On Fridays and weekends, the tavern did not employ a waitress. There were slavegirls to perform those duties. Around ten o'clock the kajirae danced naked, individually or in pairs. They were very good, having had lots of practice. The choreography was intricate and exquisite. A few of the girls were shy about removing their clothing, but they did not hesitate. The barmaid (the same from the other night) took her turn and seemed happy to be out of her metal bikini. The freewomen clapped along with the men, and a couple of them danced as well, albeit with their dresses on.

We stayed until midnight, when Richard abruptly decided that it was time to go. I actually protested. But on the way home he told me that my visitor's rights had run out. If I wanted to go back, I would have to join the Gorean society for real. I just laughed. And that might have been the end of it.

So why I went back to the tavern is a question to which I have only now discovered the answer. It was the same feeling which had impelled me to ride the wooden pony — a sense that there was a void in my life that needed to be filled. For a long time now I had been focused on things and people outside of myself, and when I looked back on my own experiences it was like seeing them through the eyes of a stranger. But it was worse than that. My existence was mundane. I had given up adventure sports, and even in my academic research I felt I'd settled for cosy mediocrity. There was no excitement left in my life, no challenges, no thrills, no stories. It seemed that nothing ever glowed. At least sometimes things in your life should glow.

This was, at least in part, why I had ridden the wooden pony that first night. In that half-hour of pain and humiliation, I felt more, experienced more, lived more intensely than I had in the previous half-decade. It was a good feeling. It was why I had gone back so many times. And now I missed it.

Visiting the tavern was therefore like therapy. Yet I still knew very little about it. Richard was reluctant to share, and given its nature I could not really blame him. And that in itself piqued my interest. The Goreans were publicity-shy, and cautious about recruiting. So the relative ease with which I was able to join puzzled me. New members were invited or, like myself, sponsored. So the ease with which Richard was able to get me in that first night made me wonder. This mysterious, inscrutable side of his nature was something new.

So one afternoon I went with him back to the subterranean lair of the Goreans. In the daytime it was innocuous, almost banal. It was closed for business, with just one person holding the fort. I recognized the custodian as, of all people, the shoe-cleaning girl I'd encountered on my first night. Unlike then, she was fully dressed, in jeans and a sweater. She was sitting at one of the tables reading an economics textbook. She looked up, smiled and called Richard by name — no salutation, no grovelling, no downcast gaze.

When we told her I was ready to sign up, she nodded and smiled. She already knew my personal details. Background checks had been done. That was, oddly, both reassuring and disturbing.

I was again asked the question, freewoman or slave.

"Freewoman, I guess."

"Are you sure?" She looked at Richard.

"Don't look at me," he said, grinning.

I gave it some thought. "Yes, definitely."

She wandered over to the bar and brought back a sheaf of papers for signing.

"Slaves are free," the girl informed me.

"What? Oh, right. It's still my decision."

She just nodded and I paid the membership fee.

"Welcome."

She handed me a certificate and receipt, along with a brochure labelled "Terms and Conditions: Strictly Confidential". And from the latter I gained more insight into the workings of the tavern. As a private club it could operate in the heart of the university campus without official oversight. It did not have a licence to sell alcohol, and the staff were unpaid volunteers (all but the barman and doorman being slavegirls). Patrons didn't pay directly for anything. The cost of drinks, for example, was settled via an intricate arrangement of monthly levies. It was quite an ingenious set-up, but even so skirted the edges of legality, and I was a little suspicious of how they could get away with it.

In any case, I was now a freewoman of Gor.

"The Goreans have a saying. There are only two kinds of women, slaves and slaves."

— John Norman, Kajira of Gor

While I had my own reasons for going back to the Gor tavern, I still struggled, at first, to understand its appeal, especially for the females. In fact it was the lure of the exotic, the seductive power of the transgressive. The tavern was a refuge from reality, a place to shed inhibitions, to shuck conventions, to peel off burdensome layers of refinement and moderation. It was raw, it was primitive, and it was only for a few hours a week.

It had been fourteen days since my last visit. I'd been busy with other things, but in the meantime managed to find a costume suitable for my new character, a sumptuous magenta and indigo dress with gold and silver threadwork trim. The bodice was lace-up and open way down past my belly button, and sat very low on my boobs, which would probably have been too wanton for a freewoman on the "real" Gor; but here in the provinces the proprieties were not so strictly observed. For example, although the rule was that I be veiled, this was hardly ever enforced — only on the rare ceremonial occasion.

The tavern was again crowded, and everything appeared the same, with one interesting addition. In a corner of the room half a dozen slavegirls were kneeling, backs to the wall, knees wide apart, hands clasped behind their bowed heads. They wore iron collars and were tethered by braided leather leashes to a railing. One of them was the imperious freewoman with the green gown... except that the gown was no more.

I joined a group of my sisters, Princess Pea-Green's former devotees, who greeted me with hugs and complimented me on my outfit. I did not ask directly but soon got a clue to the fate of their former doyenne. For there are three classes of freewoman — consort, concubine and companion, or in lay language, wife, girlfriend/fiancé and friend/relative. So I was a companion, and in Gorean tradition that represents a perilously unstable position. Every freewoman had to have a male guardian, and she could be enslaved on his order or with his consent. If she entered the tavern without an escort she could be enslaved. If she broke any of the rules she could be enslaved. If she fell behind in her membership dues, if she said the wrong thing, dressed too provocatively or too much like a male, looked at a man the wrong way, pouted, flirted, strutted or... It was a wonder that there were any freewomen at all!

I never found out what the Princess's offence had been except that, given her high-and-mighty manner, this was an enslavement waiting to happen.

The auction began at ten o'clock, and I had no idea how long the girls had been forced to wait in their corner, since I had come in at around eight. They'd been allowed to relax for a few minutes occasionally, but maintaining their kneeling posture for so long must have been an excruciating ordeal. They were not naked, each wearing a loose-fitting tunic called a camisk. This was similar to a poncho, a rectangular piece of cloth with a hole for the head, draped over the body, belted at the waist with a cord and extending to about mid-thigh. Worn without underwear, it was normally complemented by the standard adornments, a leather collar and metal bracelets. Of, course, as soon as the women were ordered to stand up for the sale to begin, the camisks came off, so that the merchandise could be properly inspected. Their hands were locked behind their backs and they were brought forward one by one, to be led around the room naked on their leashes. The auctioneer warned the crowd that touching was prohibited.

While the sight of naked girls was hardly new in the tavern, it was rather shocking to see them so openly and wantonly displayed. I had to keep reminding myself that they were not unwilling captives. Alycia (the fallen Princess) appeared dazed, but she brightened up considerably once the bidding for the possession of her charms began. Indeed, she was the first of the slaves to be offered for sale. She was bought, as most of them were, by a consortium, in this case four young men; and I was aghast when they took her away to a back room located next to the kitchen. But three of them emerged a minute later, laughing, and my darkening thoughts about the tavern were quickly dispelled. Her new owner was her boyfriend. The money raised went into the club coffers and the girl's most recent membership fees were refunded... to her master, of course, who spent it buying drinks all round. That won him the roaring acclaim of his fellow warriors while his new slave, who had paid for it, knelt humbly at his feet awaiting his commands. She glanced up and smiled.

So the slave sales were, not surprisingly, an elaborate charade. In the fictional, fairy-tale, fantasy world of the tavern it was easy to forget or ignore reality... but it could never go away. No one was going to forcibly enslave anyone. Nobody was going to keep a girl in thrall against her will. A kajira, even if enchained of her own free choice, had the right to cast off her yoke and rejoin the society of freewomen. In that case, if she had been acquired for a price she was required to make recompense to her dispossessed owner; and a freewoman facing the prospect of wearing the slavegirl's collar could avoid her fate by payment of a ransom, in coin or in services. Indeed, there were some for whom enslavement itself was the thrill, and they had been through the process many times.

After the auction came the dancing. I resisted calls to be included in the entertainment. My skills, honed somewhat in the Wooden Pony Club, had not improved to the extent that I wanted to be compared to those shimmering, shimmying belles. Alycia, a talented danseuse who loved to show off her moves, was no less sublime curling and swirling in the nude.

Again Richard was willing to cut short his evening to accompany me home around midnight. I still had no idea how long he had been associated with the Goreans, or why he had brought me into the fold, and my questions on the way to the house were starting to irritate him. Perhaps it was the three glasses of wine; perhaps it the bracing chill of the late night air; but I was insistent, and he started to get angry.

I laughed, thinking "Now you know what it's like to deal with the obstreperous!"

"What's so funny?" he demanded.

I shut my mouth, recalling the fate of Princess Alycia.

He must have guessed what was going through my mind.

"Yes," he said. "You should be careful. You should watch out."

I took heed of his advice. But as it transpired, I was looking in the wrong direction.

"The Gorean Master commands sensuality in his female slaves. You cannot even move like that now. Yet muscles can be trained. You will be taught to move as a woman, not a puppet of wood. You will be taught to be sensual. You will learn your womanhood."

— John Norman, Renegades of Gor

As I took off my clothes, carefully folding each item and placing in the neat pile beside the other bundles on the bench, I glanced about the room. The tavern had been cleared of furniture and rugs except at one end, where two dozen or so chairs were positioned flanking the doorway. On the main part of the floor were twenty small canvas mats set out in three rows. Next to where we put our clothing was a table piled high with coils of ropes, silk and satin scarves and a large collection of gags of all different shapes, sizes and degrees of difficulty.

Our audience consisted of people I had come to know from the tavern, some closely, others not so much. They included half a dozen females, whose expressions were the usual freewomen's blend of vapid curiosity, visible contempt and veiled envy. The men, on the other hand, adopted a carefully contrived "seen it all before" demeanor, while never taking their eyes off the proceedings. Among the latter were my housemate and my new owner.

At the tinkle of a bell we took our positions on the mats. Since even slavegirls have a hierarchy, as a newbie I was assigned to the back row; but the lines were arranged in such a way, staggered and slightly curved, that our audience had an unimpeded view of all three ranks. At the same signal, our instructress took her place on the mat placed out in front, between us and the spectators. Unlike us, she was not naked, but her silver-colored leotard was of such form-fitting, sheer Lycra that she might as well have been. She was small and slim but sturdy, with short, shaggy chestnut brown hair and large, dark eyes. Her voice was high-pitched but powerful. Her tone was harsh, in the manner that a freewoman addresses a kajira... but also the way a zealous aerobics coach might teach her class.

There were no introductions or other formalities. We went straight into the loosening-up exercises. These started off slowly but quickly built to a crescendo. My heart pumped, my chest heaved, the sweat ran down my face, my torso, my limbs. The little woman was unrelenting.

"Lift those legs! Get those knees up! Fling those arms out! Suck in that belly! Squeeze those butt cheeks! Push that chest out! Bounce those boobs!"

Despite the pain and perspiration, it was all I could do to not giggle.

After a scant minute to catch our collective breath, the instructress barked "Obeisance!" and we immediately dropped to our knees. I bent forward until my forehead touched the mat, my wrists crossed behind my back, my belly against my thighs, my backside above my heels (not resting on them) so that my weight was balanced on my knees. In this posture you show reverence to your masters.

"Homage!"

To achieve this pose in a single, fluid movement, I raised my body until I was kneeling with my hands on the floor behind my feet, and then I leaned backwards, with my bottom still holding just off my heels, propping myself on my arms. This arched my torso and thrust my breasts forward. At the same time, I spread my knees to open my thighs for the viewing pleasure of the spectators. They politely applauded.

"Prone!"

I lowered myself rearward, continuing to arch my torso until the tips of my breasts were the highest part of me, pointing to the ceiling. I held that position as I counted ("one thousand, two thousand, three thousand...") to thirty. And then I sank slowly backwards onto the mat, bringing my arms around in a smooth sweep to support my body until my hands were alongside my legs, thumbs against calves. This left me lying on my back staring roofwards, my legs bent up and my feet tucked into the sides of my buttocks but with thighs apart, and with my weight on my shoulders and knees. My bones creaked. My muscles burned. My sinews would have screamed, had they voices.

"Endurance!"

"Damn!" I said to myself. "What the hell am I doing here?"

"The Goreans claim that in each woman there is a free companion, proud and beautiful, worthy and noble, and in each, too, a slave girl."

— John Norman, Hunters of Gor

Habits, once ingrained, are hard to break. I has fallen into the routine of going to the tavern. It was open four nights a week, and I became one of the regulars.

I learned that the Gor tavern had begun its existence as an online community that evolved into a live-action role-play, and materialized as a real-life, brick-and-mortar establishment. Like any such organization, the Goreans had a constitution, by-laws and a governing council. The tavern was the only tangible asset (apart from the treasury). I believe there are several such places worldwide, which have developed independently. And although the original game has long since been abandoned, many members still communicate online and interact on other Gor-themed internet sites.

The tavern society comprised two groups. There were the role-players, for whom their experiences and activities in the tavern were an elaborate (and oftentimes extreme) game. Then there were the lifestylers whose participation was not just an act or performance, whose character was a manifestation of themselves. But what I found most interesting was that the females were the ones whose experience was the more genuine. The men could only pretend to be stalwart warriors. For the women it was real-life. Whether freewoman or slavegirl, your persona in the tavern was your actuality. If that persona was totally different from your "true" nature, this just added to the... well, "thrill" is not the right word, while "fun" sounds trivial. But if I have to choose, it was fun.