The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 02

We started off with a straightforward box-tie. It is one of the more comfortable, less rigorous positions. My partner, Lorelei, folded her arms behind her back and I bound them at her wrists and elbows, and just below her shoulders. For additional immobility, I looped the cord several times around her torso, above and below and between her breasts. Lorelei was sweating and breathing heavily, and her nipples were hard. She wore a bit-gag, which was slightly less vexing than my appliance, if only because she could clench her teeth on the rubber bar to relieve her pent-up stress. We were all keyed up. I felt her skin tingle at my touch, and it quickly occurred to me that the girl was owned by one of the freewomen, and what that meant. Despite my humiliation, performing naked and open-mouth-gagged, I was flattered that she was so turned on by my attention.

I tied her first in a kneeling position, knees spread to display her sex. Then I took hold of her arms and lowered her until she was lying on her stomach on the mat. I hitched her ankles to her bound wrists by bending her legs at the knees to bring her heels up to her backside. She gasped as I shortened the ropes to raise her chin and shoulders off the floor; and she whimpered as I tightened the bonds on her elbows and upper arms. This pushed out her chest, and on our leader's instructions I turned my partner onto her side so the audience could see the aesthetically pleasing effect this had. When I rolled her back onto her belly, the sudden pressure on her stretched and strained breasts drew a pitiful moan from her lungs.

Lorelei sighed as I released her from the hog-tie and helped her onto her knees. But her sense of relief was fleeting. She groaned despondently as our teacher spoke again.

"The strappado is a popular classic. But never, ever," she warned, "suspend your slave off the ground in one. You don't want to dislocate her shoulders. Watch out for constricted circulation, pinched flesh and rope burns."

At first my girl was allowed to sit back on her haunches, already exhausted from the strenuous ties to which she had been subjected. But simply by lifting my arm which held the rope attached to her wrists, she was made to raise herself and part her legs. I passed the crotch-rope between her thighs and tugged as hard as I could. She shrieked through her gag. So did the other girls. Absorbed in Lorelei's sweet suffering, I had almost forgotten their existence.

Our leader stroked the head of the girl kneeling beside her and then induced her to stand up, still bent forward at the waist, by pulling upwards on her arms.

"By adjusting the elevation you can regulate the angle of her body and thus her comfort and pain levels. You can also change the position and orientation of her mouth. In this pose, all of her openings are available to you."

Although she coyly avoided explicit language, the bluntness of the woman's remarks shocked me, more than it should have, given the circumstances. I guess I was feeling vulnerable... not a little ashamed... and more than a little aroused.

After the strappado, I assumed the role of a stool. I got down on my hands and knees and Lorelei, with her hands still bound behind her, bent over me, her stomach across the small of my back so our bodies were at right angles.

"A stool or footrest is good for both punishment and play. Of course, if you have two slaves, as you can see you don't really need a stool."

Finally, I freed Lorelei's hands, but only to tie them again behind her head. Our audience was informed that this is not just to display the breasts but to present a clear front and back for whipping. I did not like the way so many of the spectators nodded in agreement... including my boys.

"This position is often called the bunny ears," they were told. Some took a few seconds to get the reference.

There were other positions and poses. Roles were reversed so Lorelei got to tie me up and down; but by now my emotions were numbed, so the bondage had little effect on me. It was as if I was someone else, observing. Which was a pity, because I wanted to experience what I'd put my partner through. Still, there would be opportunities.

When the session came to an end, for the first (and last) time during my membership of the Gorean community, warriors, freewomen and slavegirls mingled freely, chatting and joking. It might have been a "normal" social gathering, except that we kajirae were still naked... and yoked. Each of us had been fitted with a metal collar, attached to which was a pole, on the ends of which were fastened leather bracelets. Our arms were thus held out sideways, bent at the elbows as if raised in surrender (apt symbolism). Eating snacks and drinking wine were impossible, except with assistance. In any case, I was not interested in eating or drinking. It took me a while to recover from the effects of my gag. My jaws were sore, my lips puckered, the insides of my mouth parched from salivation. I couldn't talk properly, either.

It felt weird, to be circulating and mingling like this, not just helpless but fully exposed, unable to conceal my nakedness. Some of the slaves appeared completely at ease; others were as nervous and as awkward as I. Even so, after a while, with a bit of effort, you can adjust to almost anything; and none of the men (or free women) took advantage of our condition, even Stuart to whom I now belonged. In any case, the bondage lessons and this after-session get-together galvanized feelings that were still largely latent within me. For the first time I felt that I really was a slave, and not simply playing a role. I liked it.

"Men are the warriors and women, she knew in her heart, were among the fitting spoils of their victories."

— John Norman, Blood Brothers of Gor

In the tomboy phase of my girlhood, I was an accomplished leg wrestler. For the uninitiated, in this form of wrestling the competitors lie flat on their backs next to each other, but with their heads and feet pointing in opposite directions, their hips even with the other's shoulder. They each raise the inside leg simultaneously to a vertical position to lock at the knee, and attempt to flip their opponent. It takes skill as well as strength, brains as well as brawn, to be a champion.

Having quickly run through the short list of challengers from my own sex, I took on the neighbourhood boys. I was virtually unbeatable. Indeed, the only time I lost fairly was the first time I wrestled in a dress. As I lifted my leg and flashed my knickers, the sudden burst of applause from the spectators distracted me just enough to put off my timing. But diversions were part of the game, and any tactic to unbalance or confuse one's adversary was allowed. However, after a while, dismayed at being constantly outclassed by a mere girl, the boys resorted to outright cheating. I could not blame them. I really was that good. So I retired with honor unimpaired. In any case, my days of snips and snails and puppy-dogs' tails were just about over.

The memory of those glory days came back to me as I stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by the denizens of Gor.

It had been a week since I had made known my decision to renounce my status as a freewoman and join the company of kajirae. In authentic Gorean tradition, the choice should not have been mine to make, unless I was one of those disreputable types who comported themselves as slavegirls and thus forfeited the right to be anything else. But a respectable freewoman could become booty through kidnap or conquest. On the other hand, since the tavern was located not on the planet of Gor but in the basement of a building on a campus backstreet, there was no prospect of forcible enslavement. So unless the capture was pre-arranged (a not unheard-of occurrence), the victim could regain her liberty through payment of a ransom, usually settled in tankards of ale.

There were, of course, the myriad rules that a freewoman could violate and end up claimed as property. One of these was that she must have a guardian. And given that Richard was the member who brought me into the tavern, and had the requisite maleness, he automatically filled that role. It said so on the papers we signed. But no true barbarian is bound by a few fancy words on a scrap of parchment. On his say-so, and for a suitable recompense, I was fair game for any who might bid to collar me.

Richard said my price would buy him a week's supply of lager.

"Only a week?" I was offended.

"I can drink a lot," he replied. "So who's the lucky new owner?"

I kept my silence and made arrangements. Even then, I was not yet sure that the road I was about to take would lead where I really wanted to go. There were divergent paths before me, and while my head beckoned in one direction, my heart pulled in the other. So I decided that my destiny should be decided in the best barbarian tradition, a trial by combat.

There was a big crowd in the tavern, more so than the usual Friday night assemblage. Word had passed around. Two of the kajirae, Molly and Devashni, prepared me. Molly, petite and pretty, was the shoeshine girl and (I had since learned) one of the tavern's very first slaves. Devashni was a stunningly beautiful girl from India with a student visa and a freshly acquired taste for the ways of Gor. Both were naked except for their leather chokers and cuffs. They removed my dress and underwear and gave me a crimson camisk to wear. Quintessentially Gorean, my "costume" both concealed and exposed. A collar was placed about my neck, but without a tether, for that would be fixed by my new owner. They drew my arms behind my back and locked my wrists together with steel bracelets. As I was brought out to face the multitude, I kept my head up, because though I now wore the raiment of a slavegirl, I was yet free. But when I looked about the room, the other freewomen (including Charlotte and Maryanne) averted their eyes. I was no longer part of their domain.

Richard joined me in the centre of the room and announced that I was now without a guardian and thus up for grabs. But there was to be no auction. Only those already enslaved, those not worthy to be contended for, or those (like Alycia) who had spurned freedom, were sold on the market. I would have to be won. More precisely, the man who won me would have first right of purchase. Those who wished to challenge paid a fee and drew lots.

I would not be fighting for my freedom. My enslavement was certain. In Gorean tradition a woman cannot win her liberty, but only be granted it. And, of course, the competition was contrived. The game was rigged against me. I would have to fight with my hands shackled behind me, a lone woman against a succession of male contenders. But my handicaps were illusory. For while stealth, cunning and deception can be part of one's armory but are forsaken by most warriors as ignoble, a female is not constrained by the manly code of honor, so these are her most lethal weapons. Nevertheless, it could go wrong. I had made up my mind what the outcome should be, but I could still end up belonging to the wrong master. That would turn out not just embarrassing. Buying my freedom (only to be re-enslaved) would be expensive.

The first contender stepped forward. He was tall and wiry, and he beamed confidence. He took his place on the mat, arms at his side. When I took my position, with my hands pinioned I lay on my back with my body arched. Instead of this being a problem, when our legs went up my opponent mistimed the hook. Knowing that the thigh muscles are less effective when working at an angle, I used my slight advantage to pull his leg out of vertical alignment with his hip. With a loud groan he flipped, landing sprawled across my legs. The audience cheered. Devashni came forward to draw the hem of my tunic back down over my pantieless private parts. The victory came so easily that I felt the tension drain out of me. The vanquished warrior proffered curt congratulations. But I could not rest for long on my laurels.

The second candidate, burlier than the first, was wary of tricks and overcompensated. This time I engaged my gluteal muscles in a quick burst of raw power, tossing him even quicker. He looked no less surprised. My years of playing in the dirt and being scolded by my mother were paying off. Devashni adjusted my camisk once more to cover my nakedness. She whispered something encouraging and I glanced about. All the females in the room looked amused, including the freewomen. The men frowned, some quizzically, others with growing concern. But after I'd dispatched the third flustered contender, fatigue was setting in. My legs ached and my manacled arms began to cramp. So number four succumbed to a feint. I pushed hard for half a second and then released the pressure, unbalancing my foe. Reapplying the force, I pitched him in a complete rollover. He protested angrily and the congregation jeered him.

By now, the most eminent warriors of Gor had been defeated, but my strength was waning. I was allowed a short break. Molly helped me to my feet to stretch my legs, and Devashni dabbed my lips with a wet cloth. The master of ceremonies, barman Tony, shoved them aside, seized my shoulders and spun me around in a complete circle to show the crowd that my hands were still pinned behind me. I don't know why that was necessary; but as he did so he lifted my hemline off my backside and forced me to bend forward. I think it was to remind me that, though I had defeated four stout heroes, my fate was already decided, its realization merely delayed. Sooner or later my weakening condition would count for more than skill and resolve.

Yet the sudden surge of indignation invigorated me. I must have been grinning with confidence, because the fifth challenger was reluctant to step forward. So for a moment I thought my plan had reached fruition. But urged on by his companions, he performed some ostentatious squats and lunges to warm up, and then lay down beside me. He was a formidable opponent, and I engaged my last reserves of power to overcome him. As I lay on my back, exhausted, puffing and sweating, he reflexively put out his hand to shake. I rolled onto my belly to offer mine. He laughed and slapped my bare derrière instead.

Naturally I was proud of my triumphs, but at this point vanity could be my undoing. It was therefore a blessing that the next contestant had good reason to not hesitate in coming up to the mat. Even so, I was determined that he would not win me without a fight... though win me he must. I knew I could not survive another round. And as he celebrated his conquest, I scrambled to my knees, every muscle and sinew afire, my head now bowed in servitude. Master Stuart, after acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd, reached down to my waist to untie the cord. He ripped the red camisk off my body. He placed his hand under my chin to lift my head; I kept my eyes downcast as he attached the tether to my collar. With my arms still shackled, I was led by my leash on a lap of honor around the tavern as the new owner showed off his prize and basked in the praise and panegyrics. My beaten opponents were gracious in their salutes. Since (unlike me) they paid no price for defeat, except in terms of pride and purse, I guess they could afford to be.

Richard collected the fees, half of which went to the tavern treasury and most of the rest to buying rounds of drinks for my thirsty audience. I couldn't help thinking how handy that money would have been, added to the housekeeping fund.

I was taken to the back room. It was my first visit. The only furnishings were a washbasin, a full-length mirror and a bed. The sheets looked clean. Stuart released my hands but blindfolded me before he undressed. I found it rather quaint that he didn't want me to see him naked, as he saw me. But it was not my place to judge; it was the master's prerogative.

We had talked about this moment. When I had first approached Stuart with my desire to be enslaved and to become his property, he thought I was making a rather cruel joke. There was nothing wrong with him. He was lanky, good-looking, with red hair and green eyes, a reedy voice but a firm and confident speaking tone. He had an awkward way with women, but he treated the slavegirls in the tavern with respect and didn't take Gorean protocols anywhere near as seriously as some of the males. He enjoyed his role-play and was never in danger of confusing it with reality... as did some of the males.

We had become good friends, and not just in the tavern. We often met for lunch or afternoon coffee, and once or twice he almost plucked up the courage to ask me out. I didn't encourage him because I did not want a romance, or indeed any emotional attachment. Our slight age difference was not an issue, although his status as an undergraduate student and mine as a postgrad member of the academic staff made things a little more complicated. (If he had been in one of my classes there would have been no question of a relationship.) Nevertheless, there was an attraction, which I think I felt more than he did. I consider myself pleasant to look at, and I've always kept my body in fine trim, but I can see how my manner, especially towards young men, could be seen as standoffish. So Stuart was surprised enough when I told him of my impending enslavement, startled and bemused when I offered him my submission.

He should have understood how flagrant I could be. I hadn't told him about the night at Charlotte's, but he knew about the Wooden Pony Club.

I was still aching from the combat when we entered the back room, and could only hope that my new master, exhilarated and energized by his choreographed victory, would be generous and gentle. We stood facing each other next to the bed. He adjusted my blindfold, stroked my hair, grazed my cheeks tenderly with his fingernails, then drew his hands down to my shoulders. He tickled my throat and caressed my breasts. He moistened his fingertips with sweat from my belly and pressed them against my lips. I licked them; his hands were unsteady. I could hear and feel his breathing, could sense his racing heart. I was calm, much more composed than I thought I would be at this moment. I even felt a little embarrassed that my nipples, as he fondled them, remained soft. Between my legs I felt barely a tingle. But it was not that I didn't feel arousal. I had this sudden unnerving thought that Stuart was a virgin. (He later assured me that he wasn't; but he was not experienced. That I could tell.)

He stepped back and his hands slid down my arms to take hold of my hands. He was drawing me towards the bed, but on an impulse I lowered myself to my knees and bowed my head.

"I am yours, Master," I whispered.

"Cut it out," he growled.

There was a smile in his voice, but I was immediately repentant at what must have come across as mockery. He pulled me up onto the bed, onto him, but then he flipped us over. He lay on top of me but rested his weight on his elbows. He was still wearing his shirt, albeit unbuttoned. (I guess he wanted the sense of dominance of wearing some clothing while I was naked.) I put my arms around him to bring him down onto me. But it interrupted a kiss. There was no more foreplay. He raised his hips off mine and thrust into me. It was forceful, and shocking. It was brutal, intense, passionate, intoxicating, electrifying. I felt a release I hadn't expected. He squeezed my thighs between his, pressed his chest onto mine, no longer bothered about squashing my breasts. He shoved his mouth over mine. I tasted his saliva. It had the bittersweet tang of beer. My body went flaccid, my arms and legs limp. He put a hand behind my head and grabbed a fistful of my hair. He let out a guttural moan. I gasped, grunted, groaned, whimpered. It was crude, grinding, relentless pleasure.