The Social Club of Gor Pt. 02

In any case, when we gathered at her house it struck me that the six of us were all accomplished, educated women, sensible and down-to-earth, possibly not the type you might expect to be role-play fantasists. We drank wine, listened to music and discussed literature. It could have been a bourgeois suburban ladies' book club. Nevertheless, it was a bit surreal because the works we talked about were the Gor novels; and although we approached the topic with ironic earnestness, the erudition of my companions startled me. We analyzed various aspects of the culture, the lifestyle and the mythology, as if discoursing on Virgil or Shakespeare. We pondered the role and status of freewomen, and conversed on the nature of slavery. We got quite involved in a debate about the consensual nature of servitude in the tavern, and were quite critical of John Norman's expressed and implied misogyny, his opinions on women, submission and the "natural order". We conceded that the elements adopted by the Goreans in our tavern were only a part of Norman's oeuvre... but the parts which had attracted us.

After that we shared and discussed our own experiences. Laura was, like our hostess, married without children. I had seen her just a couple of times at the tavern, and she explained that her husband, Peter, didn't enjoy "games". (She said it with a subtle acerbity that made me think they were estranged, or close to it.) Like Charlotte she held a senior academic position at the university. In fact, she was Peter's superior, and that may have been part of the reason for their disaffection. Joslyn was also her husband's boss in the workplace. But she told us that when they come home each evening, "I let him know he's in charge. I change into something flimsy, or nothing at all, let him relax while I cook dinner, and then I serve him in the bedroom or..." (she blushed, slightly) "... wherever he wants to have me." The other women nodded in understanding; and it was only later that I realized my relationship with Richard was not so much different -- without the undressing and the sex, of course. As his elder, the householder and the main breadwinner, I was unaccountably deferential to him. In his presence I suppressed my ego; and I had to admit I would never do that if I lived with a female housemate.

Indeed all six of us had ambiguously defined relationships with men, and I guess this is why we were intrigued by the Gor books and Gorean culture. However, I was the only one without a husband or boyfriend, though the other women took some convincing that Richard and I were not bedmates. But what happened next made the conversation about our partners bizarrely discordant.

Our service and entertainment were supplied by James. I had seen him at the tavern, and apart from being very good-looking he had not stood out, except for the discreet silk scarf of the kajirus. But tonight he was collared and clad in a delectably brief chamois breechclout. He was tall and handsome, muscular and deeply tanned, with sandy hair and a square jaw. He addressed his wife as "Mistress" and the rest of us as "Lady". But he was not servile or sycophantic like a slavegirl. He spoke with a strong voice and he looked us each straight in the eye. For in Gorean culture, even among the enslaved, pride had different meanings in the masculine and the feminine.

I had no way of telling if Charlotte and James were putting on an act for us that evening, whether they were true lifestylers. In any case, late in the evening the brawny barbarian tradition of Gor asserted itself.

I had expected that things would take a robust turn some time during the evening. When I was first invited, Charlotte made some allusions which eventually crystallized into a straight-out proposition, though still vague on detail. And to my surprise at the time, I agreed. Given some of the things I'd witnessed in the tavern I figured I was ready and willing for just about anything... as a participant, not an onlooker.

James knelt at the feet of his mistress and removed his loincloth. As the rest of us looked on in goosebumpy silence, a breathtakingly prodigious pillar of manhood arose before our eyes. I gasped in wonder and admiration. Charlotte took a sip of her drink, set it down and unbuttoned her blouse. Then, without any words being spoken, James dragged his mistress down onto the floor, tore off her clothes, including underwear, and had his savage way with her, right there on the rug in front of the rest of us.

None of us watching make a sound or a move. I looked on spellbound at this spectacle of unbridled lust. And as Charlotte lay there panting, James seized my ankles and hauled me off the sofa. He stripped me and then each of the other women, more smoothly than he had with his wife, but just as firmly. None of us put up any sort of struggle.

After that it got really interesting. I discovered two things that night. The first was that some men have incredible stamina. The second was that I am much more prey to my passions than I'd ever had reason to suspect. James was neither forceful nor insistent. I surrendered to him without resistance or remorse or regret. He ravished us all, in the reverse order in which we had been pulled down and undressed, so I was the very last. In the meantime I had been kept busy, because as he was thrusting into each of us in turn, the rest of us shared the bonne bouche, licking and sucking and gobbling her lips and breasts, fingers and toes. By the time my turn came, we were all quivering and sweating and puffing. James was not particularly gentle, but he certainly knew his way around the female body. And yet the strangest thing was what aroused me most, what made me all tingly -- something entirely unexpected. Sharing a man with five other women made me feel intimately connected to them, more so than to James even while he and I were conjoined. I felt I was a part of something outside of myself and yet rooted deep within me...

Indefatigable, immediately that he'd extracted himself from the last of his ladies, James cast off his condom and tied his loincloth back in place, and then retrieved a box from behind the sofa. He took out several coils of rope and dumped them on the floor. As I reached for my clothing, Charlotte grabbed my arm. "Not yet," she whispered. She and her pleasure slave organized us all to lie on our bellies with our hands behind our backs. It was a big room, with enough space between the furniture for us to form a line, side by side. I found myself at one end, and Charlotte became part of it at the other. James started with her.

I heard a loud slap, a yelp that was not Charlotte's, and James's voice growling "Stay down! Keep still! Lie straight!" So not daring to lift my chin off the carpet, I could only tilt my head and catch glimpses from the corner of my eye of what was happening. James was moving slowly along the row, accompanied by a chorus of grunts and groans as he squatted between the bodies, working his way towards me. It was slow work, so I lay motionless for a long time. And it was an odd sensation, in a way shameful, given that the six of us had surrendered so abjectly to one man, and in particular one who was by predilection and his own admission a subservient. But this is when I began to appreciate that the power dynamic in relationships is rarely simple.

I had heard of the terms "service top" and "topping from the bottom". Although the relationship between Charlotte and James was not exactly that, I recalled something I had read in Simone de Beauvoir's celebrated book, The Second Sex --

"To make oneself an object, to make oneself passive, is a very different thing from being a passive object. Man wants woman to be an object; she makes herself an object, and at that moment she is exercising a free activity... Even when she is willing, or provocative, it is the male who takes the female. He penetrates her. Her body becomes a resistance to be broken. A woman may thus envisage her erotic life as a form of slavery, since it seems humiliating to lie beneath the man, to be penetrated by him. But in fact man, like woman, is flesh and therefore passive, the plaything of his hormones and of the species, the restless prey of his desires. And she is a consenting, voluntary gift, an activity. They live out in their different ways the strange ambiguity of existence made body."

I'd studied those words long ago. They had stayed with me, but only now did I begin to understand their full meaning. The roles of dominance and submission played by this woman Charlotte and her man were not undercut or overturned by the fact that she was bound and helpless in his power. On the contrary, they were reinforced. Her pleasure was the focus of his attention, in whatever form she chose. Her body was not a gift to him, or a prize to be seized. His taking her (and us) was tribute paid to his mistress. And this caused me to consider again the abject demeanour and behaviour of the slavegirls in the tavern. Were they nothing more than docile accomplices in their subjugation, their performance tailored to their masters' pleasure? Or were the masters the real pleasure slaves, pliable and essentially passive in their dependence on the women's game? Whose desires were being sated?

These thoughts, jumbled and ill-formed, were rudely interrupted as my wrists were roughly seized and bound, my ankles were roped, my wrists and ankles were lashed together. I had never been properly hog-tied before that night. It was somewhat painful but profoundly exhilarant. A black satin cloth was tied around my head, and knotted with a sharp tug. It was a weird experience, to be so thoroughly trussed, immobile, impotent and disabled, naked, shivering, perspiring and panting. All six of us struggled and wriggled and giggled as James played with us, all bits of us, for at least an hour, perhaps two.

Eventually, he untied our feet and herded us to the bathroom. He took us one at a time, blindfolded and with our hands still bound behind the back, into the shower where he washed away the sweat and other detritus from our exquisite ordeal. He neglected no part of me. He kneaded the lather into my breasts, massaged the suds between my thighs, pressed the loofah into my body. He used the hand-held shower head to rinse me all over. I cringed and convulsed, shuddered and shimmied, stamped my feet and barely swallowed a scream of agonized ecstasy. The ablution was more intense than the fucking. Meanwhile the others knelt on the cold, hard, wet tiles, awaiting her turn or coming down from her cleansing climax.

He took Charlotte in last of all, and they were there a long time. The walls of the cubicle trembled, and so did I at the ravenous ferocity of the clash of bodies. My sodden blindfold had slipped down and I saw Charlotte's breasts and one side of her face pressed against the frosted glass as she writhed and moaned. This shower stall pas de deux was a fitting coda to our soapy operatics.

Untied, we dried and dressed ourselves, had coffee in the living room, and engaged in small talk which never approached the subject of the evening's entertainment. On the way home, three of us shared a taxi. I was still flustered by the outrageous turn of events. My companions seemed blasé about their partners waiting (presumably) at home, and none seemed to show any guilt.

Maryanne in particular was talking loudly and quite graphically about our experience, so I nudged her and gestured at the driver, who could catch every word.

She laughed. "Heard it all before, haven't you, Harry?"

He winked at us via the rear view mirror.

About half-way to our drop-off, however, as we started talking about pleasure slaves, Nikki suddenly went silent.

"My turn next week," she finally said.

"For what?" I asked, already suspecting the answer.

"To join the other team."

"Liking the girls now?" Harry said with a toothy grin.

"Always have," she replied, reaching forward to flick the back of his neck with a fingernail. "But that's not what I mean."

"One less freewoman," Maryanne mourned. "We are a vanishing breed."

"More than you think."

She turned to stare at me, wide-eyed in the semi-dark.

"Not you too!"