The Sisterhood of Slaves Pt. 02

Afterwards, I lay with my head on his chest, he under the sheets and me above them. I reached under the cover to pay further tribute, but he pushed my hand away.

"Well," I said, sitting up. "If you have finished ravishing me, I must go."

"Already?'

"You can drink on with your barbarian buddies. Some of us have to work in the morning."

"What is this thing called work?"

"Can I take off my blindfold now?"

"In denying it we deny our nature. In betraying it we betray no one but ourselves. The master will never be happy until he is a master. The slave will never be happy until she is a slave. It is what we are."

— John Norman, Explorers of Gor

My enslavement was, in retrospect, the highlight of my time in the tavern and certainly of my relationship with Stuart. Yet I think we lost something that night. I don't regret what has happened in my life since then; but I do regret that Stuart has not been a part of it.

I still enjoyed my visits; in fact, more than ever. They were not an escape from the stresses of my everyday life, but at least a retreat.

Naturally things had changed since my conversion from freewoman to slavegirl. But I found a not so unexpected freedom in my new role. It was no paradox that the loss of independence was liberating. I felt more of a sense of individuality and greater self-reliance in obeying the straightforward, uncomplicated commands of my master and his comrades, as arduous and demeaning as they might sometimes be, than in following the elaborate and largely meaningless protocols of the freewomen. And since I was by temperament not at all submissive, at least in no conventional way, I took on the challenge of suppressing my natural inclinations not as a surrender but rather an exploration.

But the truth of the matter is that what I enjoyed most of all was the attention. For all the pretense, the posturing and the playacting that went on about us, the slaves were the why and wherefore of the club. We were its focus, its raison d'être. And that was a weird but wonderful feeling, to be so important, to have so much power, while kneeling at a man's feet or posturing for his amusement or dancing for his pleasure. To be so abject and yet so strong.

It was, of course, Stuart who now took me to the tavern. I gave my last lecture for the week in mid-afternoon on Friday. Afterwards I waited with Paul in my office. He did not resent that I had chosen his friend to be my owner, as we were both aware of the ethical problems in having a relationship with one of my students. In any case, it was sufficient for him to see his teacher, a legendarily hard taskmaster in the classroom, stripped and humbled. And as much as I might have been ashamed to admit it then, this gave me a thrill. Perhaps I was making up for lost time, for the sacrifices and missed opportunities, the unlived adventures and unfulfilled dreams of the past two years, when I had already given up my freedom, to focus on my career, take charge of a household and take care of my surrogate little brother.

We always went straight to the club. It was usually crowded by the time we got there, and Stuart was greeted with grunts and growls of acknowledgement by his fellow warriors as he crossed the threshold. We both went to the back rooms to change out of our day clothes. I normally wore my camisk, but it was Stuart's choice if I was to be naked, and sometimes he was so inclined. Occasionally, one of the men ordered me to strip, but that required a nod from Stuart. Naturally I danced in the nude.

Slaves were rostered for kitchen duty, and throughout the evening we fetched drinks, snacks and meals. Stuart had dinner and I managed a few nibbles, though by the end of the night I could be famished. While I belonged to Stuart, I was required to provide table service to any man. That included male slaves. (We also served the freewomen, but the males took precedence.) The rest of my time was spent sitting or kneeling at my master's feet, on my leash, as he gambled or gossiped. We were allowed to have drinks, and it was a matter of honor that if one of the men bought us one he expected nothing in return but thanks. It was a nice boost to his ego, especially for those like Paul and Richard who did not possess female property of their own, to have us show our gratitude with a grovel. And I did not mind the obeisance. If nothing else, the occasional belly crawl and fawning bootlick helped pass the time. (But being often hungry, I did not want too much alcohol; and most of the men appreciated that.)

It was never boring. My teaching, my research and my household duties left me with few other opportunities for recreation; so it was nice to be able, if not to relax, then to be released from responsibility and accountability. Sometimes the routine was broken by special shows and presentations. The club had its own bondage master, who demonstrated his techniques on the slavegirls. On Saturday afternoon there were more bondage sessions, dance lessons and general slave training, led by the little, leotard-clad woman. Attendance at these was not compulsory, but we all wanted to be better kajirae and I rarely missed one.

Now and then I went to the tavern without Stuart. I needed permission to enter and the consent of a master to leave. I was never denied either, but this was nevertheless a reminder that I could not come and go, or do anything, of my own free will. Rather than remain idle, on such occasions I was expected to make myself available and useful — to approach the men humbly, to request if my service was required. "Don't wait for orders," the slavegirls were told; but we also had to be careful to no be too pushy or intrusive. I always wore my camisk (sans underwear), collar and leash. It was a breach of honor to demand that a slave strip naked when her owner was not present.

As property, it was not my privilege to decide who should be worthy of service or reverence. Not all of the men were the sort whom I would have had much, or anything, to do with outside the tavern walls. Some could be gruff, rude, vulgar. Some derived pleasure from making and seeing me cower and crawl. Some were exemplars of the warrior ethos while others were anything but. Some were long-established members of the club; others were first-time visitors. Some were slaves themselves. But I reveled in the fact that I served them all, that my slavery was unqualified and my service unconditional. And I reveled in the paradoxical sense of power my servitude induced. It was in submission, not domination, that I found myself able to reveal my strength. Willingness to surrender is not weakness.

It was fun to watch the faces of the newcomers. Most had some idea of what went on before their first visit (I had been one of the exceptions), but they were nonetheless surprised and even disoriented by the full frontal reality. Some never returned, but most did, female visitors no less than males.

There were elaborate protocols which I, as a slavegirl, was obliged to follow. I addressed all males as "Master" unless in the presence of Stuart, when it became "Sir". Freewomen were addressed as "Mistress". I kept my eyes lowered and there was even a rule for that. With a man, my gaze must be directed at his feet, because to stare any higher (like at crotch level) was "wanton." Yet for a freewoman, staring at the floor was seen as disrespectful. I acknowledged her feminine dignity by focusing my attention on her bosom. It was all very complicated.

And if I had become enthralled by the contrived, recherché culture of the tavern, I should say in my defense that most of us never lost touch with reality. Only a couple of the weekend warriors ever got carried away with the make-believe, and they were rapidly pulled into line by their fellows. Anyway, we could never forget where the world of Gor ended. On the other side of the front door was a campus with forty thousand students coming and going and leading relatively normal lives. Out there most of the masters were undistinguished, even nondescript. Many of the slaves, on the other hand, were the converse of that — strong, smart, successful — and it quickly occurred to me that (like myself) both the masters and the slaves went to the tavern to shed the baggage of their everyday existence.

Yet there were occasions when the non-fantasy intruded.

Uninitiated guests were rare in the tavern. None gained entry uninvited. And given the nature of the club, a certain degree of secrecy was understandable; but everyone insisted that it was to keep out undesirables — voyeurs and wannabes according to some, mentally defective riffraff in the words of others. Furthermore, since prospective warriors outnumbered potential slavegirls by around ten to one, the Goreans could afford to be selective in admissions to the brotherhood. It was a condition of any man obtaining full membership that he brought in a girl, either as a slave or a freewoman. So it had not surprised me (nor did it particularly offend me) that I had been Richard's ticket of entry.

Now and then, inevitably, a new face in the tavern was one I recognized, and who recognized me. The first looks, especially from the females, were of pity, contempt and curiosity, on seeing me half-naked (and sometimes completely nude) squatting on the floor on my leash. But there was excitement and arousal in those expressions, and I knew from experience that most of the women who stayed would soon be joining me at the end of their own tethers.

But one night there was a visitor who was different from the others. She was small, very attractive, expensively and elegantly attired in a leather jacket and leather skirt, silk blouse and silk stockings. (She made no attempt to fit into the Gorean theme.) Her hair, cropped in a severe, razor-cut style, was a caramel-streaked chestnut brown; her eyes glistened like blue gemstones. She was aged most likely in her mid-thirties, although it was hard to tell because she had that quality, which is hard to define, of appearing younger than she was. But even as she looked more out of place than anyone I had seen in the tavern, she made herself at home as if she'd been there forever. Yet the oddest thing about her was who accompanied her. It was Richard.

Unlike the other freewomen she paid close attention to the slavegirls. For a fleeting moment when I looked up as she spoke to Stuart, our eyes connected, and hers now glittered like cold, hard steel. I quickly lowered my gaze, but my impertinence had not gone unnoticed. She asked Stuart to make me stand up. She did not speak to me.

"May I?" she said. My owner frowned, but nodded. She stroked my hair, brushed it back from my brow, and passed her fingertips over my lips. She ran her nails lightly down my neck and between my breasts, and then with both hands she parted the front of my tunic to uncover my bosom. I winced when she squeezed the flesh and pinched the nipples, and I glanced up to glimpse the faintest trace of a smile.

"Turn around," Stuart ordered. As I obeyed, everyone else in the room had become interested. The woman lifted the hem of my camisk to fondle my rear end. Then she took hold of my arms and drew them gently behind my back. I felt leather cuffs being sealed about my wrists and locked together. She nudged me on one shoulder and I turned to face them again.

"Pull your shoulders back." These were the first words she had spoken directly to me. I did so, feeling my chest tighten and, with my eyes downcast, watching my breasts push outwards.

"She needs to do that," the woman said, "until it becomes automatic. Girls need to be taught. Our instincts have been suppressed by too much freedom." (That was odd, how she segued from the third to the first person.)

She said something else I did not hear, and then untied the cord which held my camisk at my waist. The garment slumped to my hips, but remained held up by my shackled hands resting against my backside. I moved my arms just a little and the dress fell to my ankles.

"Good," the woman said. "Is she always shaven?"

I blushed.

No one answered, unless it was with a look. But she seemed to have already lost interest in me.

"Go to the corner," Stuart commanded.

I stepped out of my fallen camisk and went to join a half-dozen other slavegirls. Then I took a peek back towards the bar, thinking: How did nondescript Richard come to know this strange, sexy, sophisticated woman? What was their association? And this was just in time for me to see something as peculiar as anything so far. The woman went to sit on one of the bar stools; but as she did so, she discreetly unzipped her skirt on the side, and pulled back the flap so that when she lowered herself, the leather was pulled back, away from her bottom. And I could see that there was only bare skin between the tops of her stockings on her thighs and the garter belt on her hips. From the way her mouth pursed in pleasure, I could tell that it was more than just the physical touch of her naked flesh against the seat which aroused her; it was the symbolism of the act which evoked such sensual, shivery delight. Some of the males noticed her gesture, including Richard, but I don't think any of them saw her smile.

The woman held court at the bar until after the dancing, when it had seemed that her eyes stayed focused on me. Almost as soon as we were finished, she abruptly departed, alone.

As he watched her leave, Stuart call me back to where he sat at the bar with Richard, and fingered my leash, frowning as if deep in thought. Then he raised his glass in salute and presented the end of my tether to Richard.

"She's yours," he said.

That's when I discovered that I had a new master.

"Gorean men, on the whole, do not free slaves. The freeing of a girl is almost unheard of. This makes sense. They are not free women. They are belongings, valuables, slaves, treasures. Who discards precious possessions, who surrenders treasures? If the slave girl were worth less perhaps she would be freed more."

— John Norman, Explorers of Gor

On the night that I changed hands, Stuart escorted me home, as he always did. Richard had left not long after the strange little woman in leather and silk. During our walk across the campus, Stuart explained that he was transferring to an interstate university.

"I will miss the tavern... and you," he lamented.

Even when he owned me his property rights terminated, naturally, at the threshold of the tavern. But on reaching my house I usually invited him inside... in both senses of the word. However, our bond was not really intimate. Perhaps because I was older and more worldly-wise than Stuart, I never saw what we had as going anything beyond casual.

This night, at the front gate he kissed me.

"Well, it's been a pleasure being your master," he said.

"And a pleasure being your slave," I replied.

I did not ask how much Richard had paid for me. But at this time I was giving him a weekly allowance, so it seemed that I had financed my own purchase. I was thinking this as I went into the house. In the living room I found him with the mysterious woman. He was reclined on the sofa. She was kneeling on the carpet, naked. Her hands were tied behind her back with her stockings, and her ankles bound with her garter belt. His trouser belt was wrapped about her throat. She spun around, towards me, licking her lips.

"Kate," he announced, "this is Lydia."

"What... the... hell?" I spluttered.

Lydia just blinked and turned back to Richard. She sank down to rest on her heels but leaned forward, and her naked torso began to slowly undulate, her breasts rubbing softly and methodically against his trousers.

"You do this here?" I said, in as calm a voice as I could manage. "In my living room?"

Richard grinned.

"Your living room? We'll need to talk about that."

Lydia drew back from where Richard sat, just far enough that she could bend to kiss his boots. I saw imprinted on the flesh of her left buttock the same § motif I had seen on Desirée's. Then she rose, and after Richard had untied her she gathered her shoes and clothing and walked towards the door.

"I will leave you both to discuss the arrangements," she said without looking back, still nude as she closed the door behind her. It was cold outside, but she had not hesitated before stepping into the frosty air. I heard the roar of a sports car engine and the beams of its headlights swept across the room. She could not have had time to get dressed before driving away.

"Arrangements?" I stood over Richard, but he slid sideways out of the chair and began heading for his bedroom.

"In the morning..."

"Now," I demanded, but he was gone. And instead of chasing after him, I conceded. Perhaps that was a mistake; but I was tired and disoriented. Whatever my excuse, everything which ensued thereafter followed directly from his defiance and my compliance.

By the morning I had once more given in to my aversion to confrontation. At breakfast we talked about trivialities. Nevertheless, that brief exchange puzzled me throughout the day. That evening, I called out from the kitchen, "What would you like for dinner?"

"Who are you talking to?" he replied, coming to the doorway.

"You, Richard. Who else?"

He glowered. "Sir Richard."

"What?"

"You must call me Sir Richard."

I laughed, but his expression did not change.

"You belong to me now."