The Social Club of Gor Pt. 04

"Woman is the natural love prey of man. She is natural quarry. She is complete only when caught, only when brought to the joy of her capture and conquest." (John Norman, Hunters of Gor)

As a slavegirl in the tavern, it was not my privilege to decide who should be worthy of service or reverence. Not all of the males were the sort whom I would have had much, or anything, to do with on the outside. Some were benevolent and chivalrous; others could be gruff, rude, vulgar. Some were gauche, artless, immature, and a few derived pleasure from making and seeing me cower and crawl. Some were exemplars of the warrior ethos while others were anything but. Some were slaves themselves. But I revelled in the fact that I served them all, both long-established members of the club and first-time visitors. (I served the freewomen as well, though they tried to remain aloof and apart from us mere kajirae.)

My obeisance was unqualified, my obedience unconditional, at least within the parameters set by the club's rules. And I enjoyed 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, I had discovered, does not mean weakness.

And part of the fun in going to the tavern lay in the self-consciously pompous theatricality of its rituals. The etiquette could be quite elaborate. For example, personal names were rarely used. So we slavegirls addressed warriors and freewomen as "Master" and "Mistress", visitors as "Sir" (as well as male slaves) and "Lady". On the other hand, warriors addressed freewomen as "My Lady" and the latter replied with "Sir" unless they were in a relationship when it was "My Lord". Warriors called one of their own "Brother". I might be addressed as "girl" or "woman" or "slave". I rarely heard my kajira name Shuriya (which meant, vaguely, mysterious).

I had rules for when to kneel and when to prostrate myself, how to stand (erect, shoulders pulled back, breasts pushed out, arms behind the back), when to adopt the positions of servitude I had learned during that Saturday afternoon session. I always kept my head bowed, maintaining an impassive face. I spoke in whispered tones.

For some, this ostentatious role-play may have helped fill a void in their everyday lives; but most of us were just seeking respite from the mundane through a flight into fantasy. And if I became enthralled by the contrived, recherché culture of the tavern, I should say in my defence that most of us never lost touch with reality. A few of the weekend warriors did get carried away with the make-believe, but they were rapidly pulled into line by their fellows. Anyway, we could never forget where the world of Gor ended. Beyond the tavern walls was a campus with forty thousand students coming and going daily.

There were indeed protocols which reminded us of the world outside. Most important was the prohibition on phones and especially cameras. This was mainly for privacy but was also in keeping with the primitivist mystique of the tavern.

Given all this, it was fun to watch newcomers' faces. Most had some idea of what went on before their initial visit (I being one of the exceptions), but they were nonetheless surprised and even disoriented by the full frontal reality. Some never returned but many did, females no less than males. And most of the latter became slavegirls, either immediately or, like myself, after an unfulfilling stint as a freewoman.

A few weeks after my enslavement, a new warrior and freewoman arrived. They were my former boyfriend and his new girlfriend. Andrew and I had parted on reasonably good terms, but we had quickly lost contact. It was Richard who introduced them to the Goreans, but I have never found out the full story. At home, he and I rarely talked about our second lives or our alter egos; and I have even now not uncovered the story behind his own admission to the tavern (although I had a good idea of the time frame -- when his attitude and behaviour had improved).

From their expressions, I could tell that it was the couple's first visit. Still, they came in character. He was a strapping handsome in his white calico tunic and brown velvet surcoat, accoutered with a fleece-lined hooded cloak and leather trousers and boots. She was stunning in an embroidered indigo silk off-the-shoulder gown. Stephanie was bright, blonde, blue-eyed and beautiful ... the b****!

The doorman ushered them across the threshold as Richard offered his greetings. They stood for a moment just inside the entrance, skimming the place with their incredulous gaze. There were about thirty people present, warriors and women in about equal number, the latter mostly slavegirls. Andrew performed a comical double take as his eyes swept past and then back, to settle upon me. He had been no more forewarned of this personal encounter than I, who had been blithely serving drinks to three fur-clad sleen hunters playing kaissa (the Gorean version of chess). I was naked, of course. I couldn't hide or escape, so I braced myself and approached them.

For a moment no one spoke. I did not have permission, while Andrew and Stephanie just stood there, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. It was on a night when Jacob had not yet turned up, so it was Richard who took charge.

"Well, girl, shouldn't you welcome our guests?"

"Yes, Master," I whispered, lowering my head and descending to my knees with my hands behind my back. "La kajira. Welcome to the tavern of Gor, Sir, Lady."

Neither of them responded, and with my eyes downcast I had no way of judging their immediate reaction. I could guess.

"Fetch our guests some refreshments, girl."

"Yes, Master." I rose and when to the bar where the observant maiden on duty had already filled a tankard of ale and a goblet of wine.

We three were still very much ill at ease when Richard decided to leave us. Fortunately, two impromptu welcoming committees, warriors and freewomen, took over the greetings and salutations and I returned gratefully to my routine chores. But I noticed that Stephanie kept glancing around the room at Andrew, at me and at the other nude slavegirls. And I could tell that she was aroused by what she saw. Her face was flushed and her nipples were hard under the flimsy fabric of her gown. Whatever was going on in her mind -- revulsion, captivation, envy, pity, excitement -- her body was responding of its own accord. And I knew that feeling. I felt it first when I read the erotic classic of sadomasochism, the Story of O. "This is gross!" I said to myself (and a few times aloud) as I kept turning the pages. It was impossible not to feel shame and embarrassment on behalf of my gender even when it made me tingle inside. It was the same when I read the Gor books, and when I arrived in the tavern.

The awkward feeling persisted until I was enslaved. After that, as a kajira, I was no longer ashamed. I accepted that humiliation was part and parcel of my slavegirl experience. I could tell myself that I was just playing a game. But as I've said, many times, when you're fully and emotionally engaged, the line between role-play and real life becomes blurred. In the early stages of the game you are transported to another world of feelings and sensations; but after a while the two domains, the everyday and the extraordinary, merge. What begins as a performance becomes an embodied reality. The exploration of a novel, exciting, transgressive imagery, setting and lifestyle evolves into an inner exploration, of alternative perspectives and selves. The traveller in a strange land is now the denizen. Though you start out with a sense of detachment, through your immersion in the scenario (which as a slavegirl is necessary and inevitable) you become your character.

Of course, the fantasy world and our non-fantasy lives did occasionally intersect and overlap. In addition, some of the activities of the Club extended beyond the confines of the tavern.

There was an annual event which took place at a secluded site in the city's rural hinterland. Nestled within a narrow, flat-bottomed valley between two lofty ridges, the Encampment consisted of a dozen or so wooden huts in varying states of repair. When I arrived, the place was already in operation. Warriors in their best barbarian swank were gathered in small groups polishing and training with their weapons, playing roughhouse games or just relaxing with drinks. Several freewomen, eschewing their finery for a practical, modest linen dress, tended two great cooking fires from which arose the rich aroma of meat rotating on the spit and stewing in a humungous pot. Then there were the slavegirls, naked naturally, flitting and dashing back and forth, hither and thither, performing assigned tasks or running errands, never still, always silent. If a slave found herself standing idle, she made herself useful cleaning, tidying, raking, sweeping and so on. A number were working in the vegetable garden and others huddled over steel tubs scrubbing the laundry by hand. Their bodies glistened with perspiration as they toiled non-stop. Meanwhile a couple of male slaves -- identifiable by their plain apparel and red silk wristband -- were exempted by the privilege of the penis from the menial work of women (as well as the nudity), and loafed at one end of the compound, passing the time with languid chitchat. They looked bored.

The Goreans called their mid-summer gathering, with tongue in cheek, the GorFest. About half the total club membership of two hundred showed up for part or all of the two weeks. The sexes were about even in number, with slightly more females than males. Slavegirls comprised just under half the population but outnumbered freewomen four to one.

The Encampment was about two hours' drive from the university campus. Jacob could not make it. Indeed, he had stopped coming to the tavern on a regular basis. He'd found a girlfriend who didn't appreciate the Gorean lifestyle. So Richard had taken over as my owner. Away from the tavern we continued as normal. His property rights over me did not extend past its walls; and though inside he was a stern master, he never took me to the alcove with the bed. If he had tried to, I would probably have conceded. He had matured a lot mentally, even physically; and I no longer thought of him as a little brother.

To join the GorFest, Richard and I and four others were picked up by a minibus driven by James (Charlotte's husband-cum-slave). We were the last to arrive at the Encampment, around noon on the second day. Among my fellow passengers was Sharna, the former Katrina, with one of her two masters. (I never learned his name because I never heard it used.) We were all, including James, clad in our appropriate costumes. Sharna and I and the other slavegirl, Camilla, wore our camisks (with undies this one time) and collars.

After we left the highway our bus travelled for another fifteen minutes over a dusty, winding road. Halfway along was a tall, sturdily built metal fence and a double-padlocked gate. The track ended at a rickety wooden bridge that crossed a small creek, and from here we walked the final, short distance, along a narrow, meandering path through waist-high grass. The Encampment was on a flat cleared area of dirt and gravel with shade trees scattered across it. Everyone stopped to witness our arrival, including the slavegirls. One of these, Nyssa, came forward, with head bowed.

"Welcome, Masters, Sir," she said, then waited expectantly until Sharna, Camilla and I (who didn't warrant a greeting) caught her subtle cue. We took off our camisks, folded them and gave them to her. She caressed the fabric, as if wistful that this was the closest she would come to feeling soft clothing against her body during her time in the Encampment. We removed our knickers and our sandals and handed them over. My only luggage was a small drawstring bag with a few small personal items. Nyssa took this as well.

James returned to the bus. Richard the other two masters were greeted by their fellow warriors and all went off to the alehouse. Several slavegirls followed them inside.

A couple of the freewomen went back to work in the kitchen. It was early afternoon, and apart from occasionally stoking the fires, stirring the stew and testing the spit-roast, there was not much to do. The rest strolled around the grounds, pottered about in the flower beds, or sat demurely under the shade of one of the jacarandas on the edge of the compound. Barred from the alehouse and too proud to perform chores other than meal preparation, they carried on a passive, stoic, aloof, almost dreamlike existence. It could not have been much fun. Among them, ten in all, was Charlotte, looking drab and slightly jaded.

Sharna, Camilla and I were put straight to work by one of the male slaves, in the vegetable garden. This was in poor condition but the crops showed more than a couple of days' growth. Someone had been maintaining the patch prior to the beginning of GorFest. Before we got started, a tub of sunscreen lotion was passed around and we smeared all our parts with a thick layer. (I'd noticed that about half the slavegirls had no visible tan lines.) The labour wasn't difficult, but my body was quickly caked and my hair matted with a noisome blend of dirt, sweat and zinc cream.

When as sunset approached, I and my fellow slaves went to wash the grime off (and in places out of) our bodies. Bathing and toilet amenities in the Encampment were primitive, so we cleaned ourselves under a crude open-air shower with cold, murky water pumped from the creek. Everyone had the use of private toilets, albeit rudimentary, but only the males and the freewomen were able to shower out of public view. We were likewise segregated at dinnertime. The free men and women sat together at tables and on benches assembled from planks of rough-hewn timber; but that was luxurious compared to the slaves' dining facilities... or lack thereof. Those of us girls not rostered to serve the meal, along with the three males, sat on the bare earth, eating with our fingers and drinking out of cheap wooden cups. However, the food wasn't bad.

Each night after dinner everybody gathered round a roaring fire for singing, storytelling and so forth. We kajirae danced, and sometimes so did the freewomen, even the men. Just outside the circle of light cast by the flames, couples were... well, coupling. We all grinned whenever a moan or a squeal rose over the crackling and popping of the coals. Within the circle the action was somewhat more restrained. On this first night, Richard took my into his lap for a squeeze and a fondle, and then passed me around. I ended up with Mistress Jenna, who asked Richard, "My Lord, may I borrow your little Shuriya?"

"Have her back by midnight," he said.

The woman took me and her own slavegirl, Mari, to one of the huts. Most of these were divided with plywood partitions into cubicles just large enough for a bed and a small cupboard; but this one was a large open area with ten cots arranged haphazardly. Charlotte was already there, with James and another slave, Sareeta. All three were naked; he was on top of and inside his mistress, and the girl was kneeling beside the bed, kissing her face and neck. Sareeta's hands were tied behind her back; and Charlotte's were also bound, though in front, and she was gripping the headboard. As I reclined on the mattress with Jenna and Mari, I saw James withdraw from Charlotte and drag Sareeta onto the bed. She lay on top of the mistress, nestled between her outspread legs. James entered her, and both women's bodies heaved with each of his thrusts. Charlotte, who hadn't made a sound until now, started sighing and panting. She squeezed Sareeta's body with her thighs and hooked her legs around James's. She appeared, to me, more aroused by this second-hand sex, which might have seemed odd had I not seen much that was exceptional since joining the Goreans.

Jenna had taken off her clothes, and I was slightly surprised that she lay passive while Mari and I serviced her from end to end. I started at her toes and worked upwards while Mari began at the top, and our tongues met on Jenna's belly. A tiny pool of Mari's saliva pooled in the navel and I tasted it before moving up the quivering body. When my lips were pursed around her left breast, Jenna held my head there with one hand while the other clamped Mari's face between her thighs. She was quite a bit smaller than her slavegirl, but the latter made no attempt to pull away even as she began to squirm in need of breath. Her mouth and nose were pressed firmly against her mistress's flesh; and when the tension was finally released she gasped and gulped for air. Jenna laughed through clenched teeth. I kissed her throat, licked her cheeks, sucked her nipples. My body trembled and my skin tingled, but even in the throes of my orgasm I felt an vague emptiness within me.

When I returned, alone, to the campfire, there was not much warmth left in the glow of orange embers. So I knelt before Richard and held out my hands. He stood up and beckoned me to rise, and we went to our quarters. We'd known we'd be sharing a bed, but neither of us had been sure what this would mean. But Jenna and Mari had put me in the mood. I lay on the mattress and parted my legs. In the dim light cast by a single, small bulb, I could not see Richard's face as it drew closer to mine; but I felt the warmth of his quickening breath on my face and the weight of his chest descending onto my breasts. And just as his penis slipped into me, I felt a tiny twinge of regret.

"Master..." I whispered.

"My slave," he said.

Just three trite words reassured me, soothed my uneasy spirit. For we had both changed since that evening, not so long ago, when Richard had first taken me to the tavern.

On most days of the GorFest we played games. These were, of course, adapted from sports described in the John Norman novels.

The most popular for the spectators was when we slavegirls were the entertainment. Like everything else we did, we performed in the nude. A crowd favourite was the inelegantly named noseball race. Five of us at a time were lined up, on our hands and knees, blindfolded. The goal was to push a small rubber ball using only the nose over a course of thirty paces. The size and lightness of the ball made it difficult to manoeuvre because the smallest nudge sent it astray; and being sightless, when that happened I had to literally nose about to find it, while also trying to stay on course. As a result, the five of us kept bumping into each other, losing our sense of direction and often ending up with someone else's ball. So to prevent chaos we were followed by a "herder" armed with a cane, whose job it was to keep us on track with a tap on the backside. So we shuffled along on all fours, bare butts in the air collecting pink stripes, evoking much hilarity among the spectators, who wagered on the outcome.

We didn't know who the winner was until our blindfolds were removed. The winner of each round went into play-offs to decide the overall "victrix". I reached the final, and to make this contest more challenging our hands were tied behind our backs. The distance was also twice as long as the qualifying events, being up and back down the course. By the time the race ended we were exhausted, our knees were sore and our backs and necks ached. The "victrix" earned the reward of a faux golden collar and leash which she wore proudly, though for the duration of a day's games (since a slavegirl's accolades have a strict time limit).

In most of the events like this I did well but was never awarded the golden fetters.

Another crowd pleaser was the masters' game of girl-catch, which was exactly what the name described. All of us slaves were corralled within a circle fifteen paces in diameter. As usual we were blindfolded, and our hands were bound behind us. We each wore a chain about the waist, to which was attached a cowbell. This dangled between the legs at knee height, and we were forbidden to bring our legs together to clamp it to prevent it ringing. To keep us within the perimeter, whenever someone strayed over the boundary line she was whacked on the rear end with a cane and prodded in the right direction. This was also chastisement if we closed our knees. Several men at a time came into the circle, also blindfolded, and their objective was to catch us one at a time and carry us out of the circle. They were permitted, indeed expected, to bump and block one another, but not to use their hands for that purpose, nor to trip each other. They could use our bodies, however.