The Social Club of Gor Pt. 03

"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 unenlightened, in this form of wrestling the competitors lie flat on their backs next to each other, but aligned in opposite directions. 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. However, dismayed at being outclassed by a female, the lads resorted to silly mind tricks, and some to outright cheating. Most didn't, accepting defeat with good grace; but I was ready to move on anyway. Now, 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 join the company of kajirae. In authentic Gorean tradition, I could renounce my freedom and nominate who had the honor of becoming my master. There were, as well, three (nominally) involuntary paths to enslavement. If she was one of those disreputable types who comported themselves as slavegirls, a freewoman forfeited the right to be anything else. A respectable freewoman could become booty through kidnap or conquest. But naturally, 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 through the medium of so many tankards of ale.

There were, in addition, myriad rules a freewoman might violate and end up claimed as property. One of these was that she must have a guardian. And given that Richard had brought me into the tavern, and possessed 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 for me.

Richard disclosed that the price I fetched at the market 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 typical Friday night assemblage. Word had passed around. Two of the kajirae, Carissa and Devashni, prepared me. Carissa, petite and pretty, was the shoe-shine girl. Devashni was 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 affixed 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 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 who had unconditionally forsworn freedom, were sold on the block. I would have to be won. More precisely, a tournament would be held, and the man who conquered me would have first right of purchase. Those who wished to challenge paid a fee and drew lots.

I would not really be fighting for my freedom. My enslavement was certain. And, of course, the competition was rigged against me. I was a lone woman pitted against a succession of male contenders, and I would have to fight with my hands shackled behind me, and I was blindfolded. Yet my handicaps were illusory. Being sightless would not hamper me. Its purpose was to prevent me seeing who I was up against, presumably so I wouldn't "throw" a match. (As if that thought would even enter my mind!) And the men, I was sure, would rely on brute strength. While the techniques of stealth and cunning, diversion and deception are valuable duelling tactics, they are forsaken by most warriors as ignoble. A female, however, is not constrained by the manly code of honor, so without the assets of sheer strength and endurance these are her most lethal weapons.

Nevertheless, my defeat was inevitable. Sooner or later, as the contest progressed, I would weaken with exhaustion. The only way I could avoid my fate was if the men's code forbade them exploiting that fact. On the other hand, there was a general consensus that any female who dared defile the warrior ethos deserved discipline. And I could end up belonging to the wrong sort of master. That would be awkward. Buying my freedom (only to be re-enslaved) could be expensive.

The first contender stepped forward. He was tall and wiry, I could tell as he took his place on the mat beside me. And I could sense that he beamed with confidence. This is when I knew I had him. As 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 slim 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. As he scrambled away, Devashni came forward to draw the hem of my tunic back down over my pantieless private parts.

With my adrenaline surging and my mind focused on my next test, I didn't let myself be distracted by my indelicate exhibition.

Yet the victory had come so easily that I felt the tension drain out of me. The vanquished warrior proffered curt congratulations. I could not rest for long on my laurels; but the second candidate, burlier than the first, was wary of tricks and overcompensated. This time I engaged my gluteals in a quick burst of raw power, tossing him even quicker. He sounded no less surprised than his predecessor. The years of being scolded by my mother for playing in the dirt were paying off. Devashni adjusted my camisk once more to cover my nakedness. She took off my blindfold to mop the sweat from my face and I glanced about. All the females in the room looked amused, including the freewomen. The men were frowning, some quizzically, others with growing concern. Devashni whispered something encouraging as she tied my blindfold back in place.

Even as I dispatched the third flustered challenger, fatigue was setting in. My legs ached and my manacled arms began to cramp. I was allowed a one-minute respite and recovered only somewhat. In consequence, contender number four succumbed to a feint. I pushed hard for a second, 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 permitted another short break. Carissa helped me to my feet to stretch my legs, and Devashni dabbed my lips with a wet cloth. Someone (the master of ceremonies, barman Tony, I believe) 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 this 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 flagging energy would count for more than skill and resolve.

Yet the sudden surge of indignation invigorated me. Perhaps that was the intention. And indeed, the fifth challenger seemed reluctant to step forward. But after he was urged on by his companions, I heard him performing squats and lunges to warm up before lying down beside me. He was a formidable opponent, and I engaged my last reserves of power to overcome him. I faked as I had done with number four, and when he played along I realized I had "psyched" him. Instead of taking the initiative he was trying to anticipate my next trick. So I repeated the move twice, in what's called pulsing. Rather than call my bluff and immediately push back, he waited for me to tire, and so fell into my trap. I summoned the last vestiges of my vigour and... whump! Over he went. The room went so utterly silent it was eerie. No one moved, too stunned to applaud or heckle. And as I lay on my back, exhausted, puffing and sweating, victim number five reflexively put out his hand, no doubt to shake mine, but it brushed my breast and he pulled it back. I understood and rolled onto my belly to offer my hand. He laughed and slapped my bare derrière instead. The crowd erupted in a spontaneous ovation.

Naturally I was proud of my victories, but I knew my course had been run. The next contestant did not hesitate in coming forward. He bounded up to the mat and broke convention with a breezy "Hi, Sarah!" I recognized his voice. Jacob was one of the more faithful habitués of the tavern. I didn't have the breath to reply with more than a guttural grunt, and at that moment we both knew the outcome of our bout.

And as Jacob celebrated his conquest, I scrambled to my knees, every muscle and sinew afire, my head now bowed in servitude. My new master, after acknowledging the plaudits of the crowd, removed my blindfold and then 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 triple lap of honor around the tavern, the triumphant warrior showing off his prize, basking in praise and panegyrics.

All of my defeated opponents lined up and I knelt at their feet to pay homage. Although I had bested them in combat fair and square, I was yet a humble slavegirl. They were gracious in saluting Jacob; and since, unlike me, they paid no price for defeat, except in terms of pride and purse, they could afford to be. Richard had collected the fees, half of which went to the tavern treasury and the rest now to buying rounds of drinks. (I couldn't help thinking how handy that money would have been, added to the housekeeping fund.)

There was a final ritual, one I had okayed before the contest had begun. It wasn't obligatory; and indeed, if it hadn't been for that night with Charlotte and James I would not have countenanced it. This was one of those instances where role-play merged into real-life. In fact, I thought of my ultimate act of submission as an assertion of my autonomy. By consenting to Jacob consummating his mastery over me, I was letting him, and the other men, know that the driving force behind the Gorean culture manifested in our tavern was the woman catering to her own desires and only incidentally to those of the man who pandered to hers. As a pleasure slave I could be neither chaste nor wanton; the terms didn't apply. At the risk of sounding mystical... I felt I was not serving my master but Hedone, the goddess (Greek, not Gorean) of pleasure, who might have been the patroness deity of the tavern.

I gave Jacob a final nod of assent and he took me to the small curtained alcove next to the kitchen. It was my first visit. He drew the drapes closed. The only lighting was provided by a plain bulb which glowed dimly orange. The sole furnishings were a washbasin, a full-length mirror and a bed. The sheets were clean, and there was a neat stack of spare linen in a corner of the room. Jacob released my hands but blindfolded me once again 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. I worried that I stank of sweat, but he didn't seem to mind.

I found myself thinking I could have done worse than Jacob. He was preferable to his predecessors in the contest, and I never found out who would have followed him if he had faltered. He was slightly built, good-looking, with red hair and hazel 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.

I was still sore from the combat and could only hope my conqueror, exhilarated and energized, would be generous and gentle. He sat me on the edge of the bed, 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, caressed my breasts and fondled my nipples. He moistened his fingertips with the 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. Yet I was calm, much more composed than I thought I would be at this moment. Though my nipples were hard as he fondled them, between my legs I felt barely a tingle. His motions were unsteady, his foreplay clumsy. I wondered if it was his first sexual encounter with a woman. (He later confided that he hadn't been a virgin but was inexperienced. That I could tell... but it wasn't disagreeable.)

"I am yours, Master," I whispered.

"Cut it out," he growled.

I heard the smile in his voice, but I was immediately repentant at what must have come across as mockery. I pulled away and lay on my back on the mattress, spreading my legs and raising my arms over my head. He lay on top of me but rested his weight on his elbows. I put my arms around him to draw him down onto me. But it interrupted a kiss. That was the end of the foreplay. He raised his hips off mine, then lunged between my thighs 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 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 moan. I gasped, grunted, groaned, whimpered. It was crude, grinding, relentless pleasure. I'd not anticipated this.

Afterwards, we lay silently for a while with him still inside me. Then abruptly he rolled off my body.

"Well," I said, sitting up. "If you've 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?"

Everybody followed decorum by ignoring us (or pretending to ignore us) as we exited the consummation room. I might have regretted my decision to go there if there had been any kind of fuss. And as if to reinforce that nothing shameful had taken place, Carissa passed us going in to change the sheets for the next couple.

Jacob and I became good friends, and not just in the tavern. We often met for lunch or morning or afternoon coffee, and he almost plucked up the courage to ask me out on a real date. I didn't encourage him because I did not want a romance, or indeed any long-lasting emotional attachment. Our three-year age difference was not an issue, although his status as an undergraduate student and mine as a postgrad member of the part-time 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.) My go-to excuse, however, was the "what happens in the tavern" convention.

The only time we had sex was on the night of my enslavement. I didn't regret my choice that night, nor my ensuing abstinence. Indeed, this would be the extent of my physical sexual gratification for quite a while. And it didn't bother me because I found an outlet for my urges in my role as a kajira. Like most of the slavegirls, I never wore clothing, just a simple gold belly chain gifted by Jacob, plus leather-and-brass bracelets and a burgundy-colored leather collar. These I provided myself. The collar had a ring on the front with which to attach my tether, and another on the rear to connect my wrists behind my back. I purchased the chain at a jewellery store and the collar, bracelets and a brass chain leash at an "adult" shop. I found it amusing that I had to pay for the shackles used to bound, control and humiliate me.

I was now going to the tavern two or three times a week, and enjoyed my visits more than ever. It became my only actual social life. I normally accompanied Jacob; and when he had other things do Richard was my escort. Upon arrival I went straight into the cloakroom to dispense with and deposit my clothing.

Much of my time was spent at my master's feet. But since slavegirls should not be kept idle for too long, we were rostered for kitchen duty, serving behind the bar and fetching drinks, snacks and meals for all the men, including the male slaves. (On those evenings without my master, I spent the entire night working.) 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," we were told; but we also had to be careful to not be too pushy or intrusive. The tasks were much more satisfying than the waitressing jobs of my undergraduate days. The men were generally polite, apart from a gruff reprimand or two and the random crude comment (usually from "newbies" unfamiliar with tavern protocols).

I only served freewomen if directed to do so by a man. In turn they shunned me.

With or without Jacob, I needed permission to enter and leave the premises. I was never denied either, but it was nevertheless a reminder that I could not come and go, or do anything, of my own free will.

We were allowed to have drinks, including alcohol, 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 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, even the occasional belly crawl and fawning bootlick. But we didn't get much of a chance to eat, so I was often famished by the end of the night. For that reason I eschewed alcohol, and the men respected my choice.

I danced, of course, and found that doing it nude released my spirit by freeing me from my inhibitions.

If not a total escape from the stresses of my everyday life, the tavern visits were certainly a retreat. In my new role I found freedom. It was no paradox that it 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. So there was no embarrassment or hypocrisy in the tension between my strong, independent outside-world personality and my slavegirl persona in the tavern.