Archive for the ‘Voice of Gor’ Category

SHE WHO MUST OBEY ~ Or My Life as a Warrior PART 4

Saturday, November 1st, 2014

Island of anango

Picture: Island of Anango

SHE WHO MUST OBEY ~ Or My Life as a Warrior PART 4

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni
My chronicle of abduction, collaring, branding, and subsequent ownership by various free males caused me to relive some very sad moments in my life on the planet Gor. As I repeated aloud these unwanted adventures to my Master, it evinced the strong feelings I had while suffering through them. But, to use an old Earth expression, I soldiered on. This story only took me a night to reveal to my Master but writing about it has taken longer. I apologize to readers of The Voice of Gor for such lengthy explanations.
I left off with the Master most called, “the roaming dude”. The first day that I misbehaved in the commons he had me in a headlock underneath the table. It kinda looked like I was performing fellatio out in public but it was not anything like that. My head was in a vise grip under his legs and feet. When the free women left the table, Master Dude dragged me to the jails and beat me senseless. I refused to make a whimper which proved how stubborn I was. All I wanted was to be given back my weapons so I could clear this place of these backward and ignorant people whom I considered “the enemy”.
After the beating, this Master took me to the outskirts of a city called the Oasis of Seraphina. There he had pitched a tent outside the city’s high protective walls. It was a nice place really. The tent was laid out beside a watering hole containing palm type trees. I am constantly amazed when I look at houses, villages, towns and great cities on Gor. They all look like a set designer had thought them into being. It was that way with the tent. I inhabited that tent for 3 days, on and off. I grew to love it and felt very rich being there. The sand was covered with priceless handmade carpets and the colorful tent that was erected above them was brilliant against the beige sands of the oasis.
Well the “Dude” took off. I then started to worry about what would happen to me. I decided that I would go up into the Oasis of Seraphina, the entrance of which was at the top of a long flight of stairs. At the wooden gate I was faced with some forbidding guards. They let me through with some minimal questioning. While walking through the streets, I met the Pasha of the Oasis. I asked him if I could perform some service to him, and in exchange I would be permitted to live in the tent at the foot of the high walls.
I am just chomping at the bit to digress here. I was inside a city that was built with the sole purpose of letting people be what they wanted. Free women would come to this city to shed their “robes” and run around naked performing slave “duties”. You never saw the reverse there. By that I mean, slave’s going to the oasis to experience being a free woman. Also, free women and men, who were not companioned, met in clandestine trysts. The free woman, who was companioned to another, would make herself a naked slave just to experience the lust she had wanted with her actual companion but could not attain. It was a city of love, that is for sure. So you see asking the Pasha if I could perform some service could have bought me a place on his streets, accommodating any and all as a coin slut.
Gratefully, that was not the case. He told me I could live there as long as I needed. In exchange he wanted me to look after three of his prize desert kaiila. I accepted the position warily. I prayed that I would be able to provide them food, water, and happiness every day so that they would maintain their health. I took to sleeping next to them almost every night. I believe they liked it when I told them stories of my home planet. To be sure I had to bathe every morning.
I did this for about a month or so, when one day, during a sandstorm, a Master burst into my tent wielding a scimitar in his sword hand. I had tied the tent flaps down to keep the sand out which prevented him from seeing anyone who might be inside the tent. He jumped blind into a situation that could cause his demise. When he saw me he relaxed and sheathed his weapon. He saw I was a slave sans a Master and so collared me on the spot.
I continued to live in the tent with my new Master, Master Ubik, at the foot of the high walls. After only 4 days, he left, telling me he had to take a caravan on a trade route. He never came back.

I decided to go ask the Pasha if he would sell me in the slave market. I really wanted a stable situation. He took me to his slave house and had the auctioneer take bids from the gathered citizens. I was sold for a pittance to a warrior from Port Olni who was at the Oasis to be with his female companion. It was later discovered that she was having all kinds of relations with free men up and down the Vosk. She went by many names but her identification scrolls all contained similar elements.
And so the free man from Port Olni, who name rhymes with Dum-Dum, took me back to the city I came from just a few months before. Master DD was quite a few years older than me. I mean quite. He was constantly in the commons dozing off in between sips of ale. He conversed with hardly a person. One day the Ubara of Olni ordered some guards to take my Master back to his couch since she was sure he had either lapsed into a coma or died.
It was quite an embarrassment to me which quickly turned into a massive case of boredom. I was forced to sit by the couch of my Master while he was deep in the throes of a pre-dementia stupor. I was glad when the Ubar of Port Kalana spied me at a sword tournament in Sais. He came over and asked my Master, Dunce-Dunce, if he could “borrow” me for a while but instead I was actually sold to him. I was taken to Port Kalana. Thirty-two hours later, the Ubar went absolutely berserk. He departed the city and left a scroll containing all the grievances he felt were nagging him. The angry citizens, converged on the Ubar’s palace and found me practicing in the armory with a Gladius . I was tied up immediately, taken to the jail and questioned for hours. I gave only my name rank and serial number, which they did not understand. They wanted to know what I had “done” to the Ubar and how I had driven him to the point of madness. I pointed out, not to my benefit, that the Ubar was insane to begin with.
I thought I was going to be able to finish my tale to my Master in this column but alas it is not to be. My memory is being flooded with details of my exploits and I feel impelled to note them down.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 178

SHE WHO MUST OBEY ~ Or My Life as a Warrior PART 3

Saturday, November 1st, 2014

chariot racing kasra fayeen

Picture: Chariot Racing – Kasra / Fayeen

SHE WHO MUST OBEY ~ Or My Life as a Warrior PART 3

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

I wanted to finish up this little autobiography of my entrance to Gor and the collection of Masters I have been exposed to. To recap, I was ordered to recount the story of my coming to Gor by my present Master. Ordered is such a harsh word. The fact is he was wanting an evening’s entertainment and my story telling was just the ticket for a relaxing and amusing time.

The writing of my little tome was interrupted by the trial of the century in Port Olni. Namely, the trial of Port Olni vs. Lady Kipsley. That debacle is now over and so I will continue where I left off.

My intro to the planet Gor was as startling as the intro’s of other females who had been taken slave from earth to Gor. I witnessed animals I had never seen before. Horrible animals that were freakish in nature. Besides the sights, sounds, and tastes of this world I was also subjected to many beatings by free men who thought I needed training. After awhile, I came to know that I was nothing but a type of animal to them and just as one disciplines a recalcitrant dog, I also was “disciplined” for indiscretions.

My first Master, the warrior, left me to my own devices pretty much. His Home Stone was the town of Ars Station. It was a pretty place to be sure. The problem was, the town was on the verge of going to dust. Even the tavern keep, who ran a very classy establishment, seldom appeared in his bar located steps from the docks. I believe he was tired of waiting for ships that never arrived. The vessels I did see, floating down the mighty Vosk river, passed by the pretty town perched on the river’s edge without stopping. I would wave merrily to them just to hear the shouts coming from the galley’s. It was one of the few times I could enjoy the sounds of actual people while not understanding a word they said.

I was not branded by my first Master nor any of the subsequent 10 or so that owned me after him. Not one of them sought to mar my flesh with the hot iron. It is strange and flies in the face of Gorean custom. When I told my current Master this, he snorted and proclaimed the preceding Masters a bunch of giani’s. Of this I do know, my current Master branded my ass.

I must digress here, and thank the Priest-Kings that I fully realize that I am digressing. It is an annoying habit and if one does not take pains to nip it in the shorts, the rest of the populace will want to nip you in your shorts when they become exasperated with your many digressions. So I ask that you just entertain another digression to humor me. Branding is the most harrowing and down right uncomfortable procedure that one can be subjected to. I sometimes wonder if free men were made to endure the torture of childbirth, would branding be done under total anesthesia? Free men would be appalled at the amount of pain involved in child birth and would feel great empathy for a slave about to have his or her flesh burned away. But it is improbable that this would take place. First off, there are not enough physician’s present to administer the soporific to the thousands of slaves that are processed each year. Secondly, even on Earth, a rancher doesn’t put his cattle “under” while he applies the ranch brand to the animal’s shanks.

The memory of the pain from branding is seared into my brain, so to speak. I find it odd that slaves do not talk much of the pain of branding among themselves. But, I see them wiggling with glee when they witness the branding of another. I think it must be the pleasure/pain brain connection that governs this activity.

Back to Ars Station. My first Master eventually left on some kind of military campaign, leaving me to come and go inside the city, soaking in the baths, putting cream cakes on my Master’s account, sleazing around the tavern, and generally living the good life. Slavery was really easy at that point. I mean even my Master’s companion was a joy to be with. I did not know it at the time but I later caught on to the fact that free women despised female slaves. My Master’s companion though, Saige (Saige2153 Resident), was a magnanimous and compassionate woman. She introduced me to the fine points of serving free men and women. I practiced for hours at a time. The Lady Saige ordered drink after drink from me, the slave, in the tea room. She observed my movements and coached me on things I was mucking up. I tired quickly of this game, since I had to keep running back and forth to the tavern to obtain the alcohol she ordered, since the tea room where we practiced was not stocked with strong spirits. The Lady, however, did not soon grow tired of this. She was a real trooper who drank every libation I brought to her whether it was served well or not. After a time, I helped her home to her couch. A merry time was had by us as we laughed ourselves to the point of stomachache while telling ribald stories on the way home. Our vulgar talk always stopped when a homeowner opened his shutters and screamed for a guard to collar the women in the street. I wonder what would happen on earth if boisterous women were subjected to collaring and branding just for their madcap indiscretions. Personally, I believe that there would be more “stay at home” types eager to avoid the dreadful brand. One wonders if this is an idea whose time has come.

My Master’s companion, through her legal right, took pity on me and sold me on the block in a large slave market called “The Hub”. It was there I became acquainted with my new Master, who wound up chasing me with a sword through two cities. That was an agonizing run which I did not want to recount to my current Master. On earth I would have been the hunter of the enemy, on Gor I was now the “huntee” , stripped of any bodily covering and issued no weapons.

I was rescued from my imminent demise by one Master “E” who intervened on my behalf just as my psychopathic Master raised his sword to slay me at the entrance to the market in Port Olni. The mentally ill Master was later convicted of a violation of the “master/slave” contract. I was unaware of the contents of the contract but surmised that the treatment, which I was subjected to, while under ownership of this lunatic, was not covered within the document.

And so I came to be in the House of Spiritweaver, a well known and respected slave house on the planet. It was a slave girl’s dream, a plush and nicely decorated building that would never make you think it was a pen for imprisoned females. I enjoyed my time in the “kennels”. Yes, I was a dog in a kennel but oh what a kennel! On the lower floor of the building was an immense pool of hot baths in which one could luxuriate. I enjoyed the oils and soaps, applying them liberally to my body. The uniform I was handed though, was not a flattering color. I have never looked good in beige and so I refused to wear the camisk, removing it when the slaver was not looking. I continued to wear the wardrobe the my last Master, Master Maniac, had supplied me. I did not own these clothes but I managed to hide them under the sleeping fur they provided in the kennel in which I slept. This caused great consternation in the city kennels, especially to the head slaver of the House of Spiritweaver. The slaver was a female and, as a free woman, looked down upon female slaves.

Also, the kennel had a wonderful kitchen where you could prepare bread and porridge. It was a damn sight better than the food we got back on earth while on maneuvers; MRE’s (Meals Ready to Eat) were revolting at the least. And besides, the porridge was not so bad if you put a little honey on it. I afforded myself the use of the baths and kitchen until the slaver started to hector me. It was then that I stayed out all day, hobnobbing in the market place gathering intelligence from the shopkeepers. I figured it would not hurt to let them “cop a feel” while I sampled their wares. While in the kennel, when the slaver was around, I feigned madness…I babbled on about my imaginary friends and spewed the contents of what I was thinking to everyone within earshot. Some of the inhabitants of the city laughed at my antics but the slaver grew tired of me and sold me to the first Master who showed any interest in owning me.

It was then that I fell into the hands of a roaming dude, which is how he was known, whom I felt needed to be met with my full arsenal of thought weapons. I remained stiff lipped and stubborn through out my three days of being owned by him.

Drats…I have to stop writing down this story to accompany my Master to the baths, where he likes to soak in the hot water. It is not an unpleasant duty since he allows me to wash and hobnob with other free men who have come to the bath house minus their slaves.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 177


Saturday, November 1st, 2014

Disturbed Seagulls

Picture: Docks of Tancred’s Landing – Disturbed Seagulls


By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

Tuesday morning, the day after the conclusion of the trial of Olni vs. Lady Kipsley, I was trotting by the notice boards and saw this headline on a scroll posted for all to see….
I tried to search for the person’s name who wrote this, but I could not find a byline. I always put my slave name to a scroll that I hand Master Yuroki. There were times when I had been pelted with stones in the street for writing what some have perceived to be inflammatory words, but the show must go on. It appeared that the author of the scroll headline wanted to remain anonymous since, if the person who wrote this became known, they, too, would be pelted with stones in the street.
Well, it was a long trial. The second part of the testimony and questioning on Monday, started almost an ahn late. The magistrate was in the foulest of moods. He called for order but the attendees were all worked up about this trial and the buzz of voices kept threatening to drown out the testimony.
Lady Kipsley was the first on the stand. The magistrate Master Acciotheon called for the defense to resume the case to produce documents which proved that Lady Kipsley was no longer a slave, but a free woman with proper manumission papers. The defense did produce the scrolls but the courtroom went crazy and the trial goers screamed out that these scrolls had been faked. Now looking back on this, I can say that it might be very possible that this was done. If the trial had been held within one Gorean day, the defense would not have had time to find a corrupt scribe, pay them off, and have the manumission papers changed to suit the court. Obviously, the defense wanted to spare Lady Kipsley from the embarrassment of being collared over a technicality.
The grumpy magistrate, Master Acciotheon, read the scrolls despite the pleading of the prosecutor, Lady Celeste, that the question of the Lady’s date of manumission be taken up at the end of the trial.
The prosecution said that they had the manumitting Jarl available, if he was needed, to appear in the court to give credence to the papers. The Magistrate thought that everything looked in order and the prosecutor was given the chance to scan them. That is where the first commotion started. Master E was ascending the stairs of the library cylinder and when he reached the level where the witnesses were being sequestered and guarded by Master Isnala, Master “E” made a social gaff.
At first he asked the slave, Missy, to get him some water. He was out of breath and sweating because of the long climb up the stairs. It was his own fault, really. I mean everyone has been commenting on his growing middle section. He sits in the commons requesting pastries and black wine.
I digress. Master Isnala, a warrior, told Master “E” that the slave would not be getting anyone water as she was a witness at this trial. Master “E” then turned to the warrior and said to him, “Then YOU fetch me some water!” Those were fighting words to Master Isnala and he replied, “Excuse me, you piece of sleen filth. I am a witness also and I take no orders from any bloody scribe. I would just as soon cut your head off!”
The warrior drew his sword and had to be talked down by free men that were near so that there would be no bloodshed. An Initiate, Thelemenos, took great offense that swords were drawn in the presence of the Blessed Ones. Master “E” sheepishly lifted his cloak to reveal that he was sword-less, hoping that his life would be spared by a show of non violence. Master Isnala sheathed his weapon but not before letting some choice words hit the ears of Master “E”. In all actuality this was one of those paga fueled moments. Master Isnala had been quaffing the potent drink from his personal flask, so that when Master “E” arrived, his face was flushed and he reeked of alcohol. These two were ripe for a confrontation and a confrontation it was. The Magistrate was fuming and his shouts could be heard on the floor below. The crisis was averted but not before a citizen from another city loudly blamed Master “E” of, causing his own public repugnance. The voice in the crowd yelled, “See, even his own people want him dead.” This statement was parroted throughout the courtroom and it quickly turned the tide against Master “E”.
Now it was time for the rest of the witnesses to take the stand one at a time. We had a very nice beating of the slave called Missy for her testimony. It was smartly administered by Master Dark. It was hard to tell who was enjoying it more, the beater, the beatee, or the crowd. I must say, for the sake of accuracy, the crowd was rather vocal in its reaction to the beating, which seemed brutal. I must also say the punishment was administered before her answer was given as is accorded by Merchant Law, or so I am told.
Well the slave accounted well for herself although I think she would have given the same answers under normal questioning. She told the truth and if there was a beating she had to go through, it was not unusual. Every Gorean thinks of slaves as animals; they are subject to all kinds of treatment, whether good or ill.
The questioning skills of the prosecutor were to be applauded. But the defense, Master Çassian Thalassa, was full of objections. I think it would be hard to be his slave as he appears to be a most difficult man. There was a lot said between the time in which the slave was beaten and the end of the testimony of Master “E”. I would feel remiss if I did not report to you that Master “E” was swilling liquid from a flask the whole time he was on the docket. I do not think the liquid had anything to do with the hydration of the one Master “E”.
After hours and hours of questioning we were given a 10 ehn recess to use the rest facilities. I just ran out into the street to relieve my bladder since all the “powder rooms” were full. We all went back to a rather momentous decision by the magistrate, Master Acciotheon. For the crime that Lady Kipsley had committed, the attack and attempted murder on the person of Master “E”, she was sentenced to DEATH!
This verdict caused fights to break out in the amphitheatre. One free man was knocked from the top tier by another. He came rolling by me as I politely moved out of the way.
I was really disgusted with the magistrate for using this pregnant pause to incite the crowd with this provocative verdict. After his shouts to come to order, which made his voice go hoarse, order was resumed. With a minimal amount of buzz from the crowd the magistrate then finished his reading of the verdict. He pronounced that the sentencing of Lady Kipsley would be commuted. Everyone in the amphitheatre went to fisticuffs. I even saw some free women slapping other free women.
This was not mildly amusing to anyone who was on the side of Master “E”. These supporters calmed down when the last part of the verdict was read. It is insufferable that the magistrate was toying with the court. I believe, though, that he was just getting back at everyone for keeping him so long in the first trial. He “bitched” loudly about his lack of sleep and how the trial was impinging on his social life and blah blah blah. Well I am glad he could have his little vengeance. It was lovely to witness.
The last part of the verdict was a proclamation by the magistrate that, the defendant, Lady Kipsley, was never to show herself in Port Olni again. He said, “Should she be found in Olni ever again, this sentence shall be carried out immediately and without further recourse.” I think that was pretty clear. I also think that it would be foolhardy of Mistress Kipsley to darken the gates of Port Olni ever again.
Now back to my crowd watching. I believe I mentioned that I was thinking of writing a little fashion column in this corner within the notes of the first trial.
Well, the trial venue was the perfect place to observe Gorean fashion. You have so many from different cities that you get a sense of trends in other places. Most of the modes of dress were pretty standard. There were a few finely sewn robes of concealment using colors most becoming to the wearer. Most of the free men were dressed in the colors and robes of their castes. I found little fault with the free men. But it seemed to me that the Masters or Mistresses of the majority of the slaves should have their fashion “goggles” readjusted.
It was distressing to see some of the cheap and shoddy work put into slave silks and dress camisks. A good tailor was needed by these beasts. Another sad note was the overuse of bina exhibited by a lot of the slaves.
For the most part the hairstyles were becoming but, I would need more room to explain how one person’s hairstyle appeared as though they were using the same salon as Master David Bowie. I will save that for a Gor version of the earth fashion magazine called Vogue. I think I will call it “Gorogue”.
Well to end this story of the trial, I will tell you that the prosecutor, Lady Celeste, wailed over the crowd, “We have let her go (to) slit some other unsuspecting man’s throat.” She then loudly proclaimed to anyone in earshot, “I will be appealing it.”

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 176


Monday, September 29th, 2014


Picture: Arguing with the Ubar of Brundisium

SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED ~ Or My Life as a Warrior part 2

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

SHE WHO MUST OBEY ~ Or My Life as a Warrior – PART 2
By Teal Razor

In last weeks offerings I felt compelled to reveal the sad story of my abduction and transport to Gor. I had to stop my writing because I was getting so worked up that I feared I might take up one of my Master’s blades, rush out into the lane near his house and challenge the first person I saw to a duel. This action, of course, could have merited me a stint in jail, at the least and impalement, at the worst.

I feel much calmer now and so I feel I can finish writing my twaddle. I left off with being skunk drunk in front of my Master. At his request I was trotting out my crazy story of my arrival on Gor. I was recounting the part of the story in which this Roman type legionnaire had tackled me, cut my clothes off with a dagger, bound my hands and ankles all in a time frame that would have earned first place trophy in a steer roping contest. I was still under the delusion that I was under a hallucinogen and that these “Rodeo Romans” were play acting this whole capture thing.

I decided to play along. I listened for their speech patterns. Their accents sounded like the accents I had heard in my high school Latin class back on earth. I tried to mouth some Latin phrases I recalled to see if they would play along and answer me. I said to them, “Veni, vidi, vici!” The three legionnaire’s turned to look at me from where they were sitting and seemed to swear. I was unable to determine if what I said came out as “I came, I saw, I conquered”, or whether my addled state may have produced a sound more like, “I came, I saw, I vomited”! In any case, they were not amused and one of these actors came and put a gag in my mouth. I felt that this was going too far. After all, I was only trying to communicate. Now they had put a stopper in the hole that was speaking to them. I decided to try grunting in an effort to gain entry into their discourse. That earned me a dragging to a nearby stream and a dunking up and down in it like a teabag.

All the camo paint washed off my face during the dunking and the guy that was dunking me, lifted me up to observe my face sans the green and brown face mask. He held me with one hand and pointed to my face with the other, shouting to the other “actors” something which made them laugh. Now I really did not mind the stripping, binding, and whipping but, being the butt of a joke was not my forte. I resolved to find a chance to humiliate the three of them. That chance never came for anything I could do to them came no where close to what they could do to me.

The “Roman” who was holding me abruptly dropped me and strode over to a pile of goods that was next to where he had been sitting. He rummaged around in it and pulled something shiny from the jumble. He walked back to me, put me on my belly, put his knee on my back to restrain me from wiggling and proceeded to put the shiny metal band around my neck. I at first was terrorized since I thought he was going to cut my throat. I heard what must have been a cylinder lock, close. The “Roman” picked me up and dragged me forward by the hair, to a calm pool where I observed my neck in the polished metal of the collar. It was then, unbeknownst to me at the time, I gained my first Master.

I was growing weary of this day and wished that I would be given some food and water. I was plopped down near the place where the “Roman” actors were sitting in the clearing of trees. The sun was going down. One of them built a fire, another was cleaning what looked like the hind quarters of a deer. The meat was thrust through with a spit and placed over the smoky fire. I sat in silence, observing what I could to hopefully make my escape or at least outsmart my captors. I wondered what intelligence I had to report back as a result of this encounter. I mean what would I tell the team leaders? I kept picturing scenarios in which I told my story. “Sir, permission to speak,” I would say. “Permission granted cadet,” would be the retort from my superior. “Sir, the Romans are at the gates”, or “Sir, beware of Greeks bearing gifts”, or “Sir, I came, I saw, I was totally blown away” were some of the ways I thought to report in.

While mulling this over, my mouth was watering as the delicious smell of the roasting meat was wafting in the evening air. At some point the meat was done and the three of them crouched down eating pieces that they tore off the spit. I was thoroughly pissed that they would be so rude and not offer me some. I tried by several methods to signal them. It was difficult to do as my hands were behind my back and my ankles were bound. With some difficulty I got on my knees and waved my upper torso around to indicate that I needed some attention. This action did merit me some attention since the one who put the gold collar around my neck, arose from his caveman feast and cuffed me down. He stood over me, still eating the meat he had cut from the roast. He laughed, took the gag out of my mouth and straddled me and tore off a small bit of meat and let it fall into the vicinity of my pie hole. I learned quickly that I merely had to open my mouth to receive these morsels that he was dropping. He chewed, then I chewed, then he threw another bit into my mouth aiming it like a basket ball player getting a free throw.

After a time he tired of this game and got up. He went back to the fire and retrieved a bota which he brought over and poured on my face. I opened my mouth to try to catch as much of the liquid, which tasted faintly like water, and swallowed it. After this game, he went back to his comrades and they finished feeding themselves. The sky had grown dark and the three role playing Romans mumbled to each other and fell asleep.

Through the tree trunks of the wooded area, I saw a moon starting to rise. I watched it as it made it’s way up and over the tree tops till it seemed above me. The strangest feeling came over me when I noticed that it was not just one moon but three. I realized that no one could fake this and that if I were under the influence of a hallucinogenic, it would have worn off many hours ago. My mind seemed to shut down at that point as I tried to use logic to determine what was happening. Mercifully, sleep intervened and I did not wake ’til the sun was up.

I felt the nudge of a man’s foot. I looked up and saw the same face who had put the gold collar on my neck. He looked down and said, “Tu kajira.” I looked at him numbly. He repeated, “Tu kajira!” Once again I screwed up my face to impart to him my ignorance of what he was saying. This did not go over too well. He took the whip from his belt and lashed me twice. Then he repeated his little made up phrase, “Tu kajira, again and again.” He whipped me a few more strokes during his litany ’til I fairly screamed out “Tu kajira”. He stopped, startled, and changed his rant to “La kajira”. Oh, he is teaching me a new made up word in this game and so I parroted back to him, “La kajira, La kajira, La kajira”, over and over.

I must have said the magic words since he stopped beating me and smiled. I was glad that was over. He walked back to the fire where the other two were breaking camp. As he walked back, he would turn around to glance at me. Each time I saw him do this, I looked at him and repeated, “La kajira!” When all the gear was on their backs the one who was teaching me the silly language, he had made up, came over and hooked a leash to my collar and proceeded to jerk me to my feet. We started our march to where I do not know.

I looked around the area we were walking in to see if I could recognize a physical landmark. This could have been another planet for all I knew because I failed to find a single familiar sight. We walked for about an hour through some tall grass and then in the distance we saw a small dust cloud arise. It came closer and closer. The Romans stood at attention and forced me to my knees. The cloud of dust turned out to be a line of highly decorated wagons drawn by monsters. There were also men walking by the wagons seemingly tending to the monsters drawing this caravan. The whole scene, shocking though it was to me, also pushed my thought into some incredible realizations. This was not a training exercise, I had not been catapulted back in time, I was not under the influence of powerful drugs. This was real. The scene out of an old “Cecil B. DeMille” movie was authentic. I had never seen animals like these drawing wagons. They looked like large lizards and I wondered what caliber ammunition should be used to kill them.

My Master has just signaled me to stop writing for today. I must go to the market to purchase his dinner. While I am there, I hope I can poke a cream cake at the baker’s.

To be continued…

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 175


Monday, September 29th, 2014

gorean Tarn

Picture: Near the Foothills of the Voltai Mountains

SHE WHO MUST BE OBEYED ~ Or My Life as a Warrior

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

We have all met them. Free and slave alike, who insist on regaling us with snippets of their life on Gor. I must admit I am curious, at times, as to how some persons arrived here. I wonder whether they were brought on slave ships, born to free persons or slaves, or maybe even crawled out of the sea in some predawn mistake by a Priest-King to liberate a fish who had suddenly developed a penchant for breathing air. In fact I think some of my previous Masters may have come up through the ranks of land dwellers brought into Gor by such a mistake. Most were no more developed than troglodytes addicted to mouth breathing and they remain in such a state even today.
And so the curiosity of my Master was piqued last night. I finished serving him his evening repast, a most delicious bosk steak, fresh sa-tarna bread, and a medley of vegetables. As I brought him a warm bowl of paga he encouraged me to fill a pitcher with extra paga. He sat back and had me drink from his bowl. I was content as we sipped the paga and sat warming ourselves by the lighted brazier. Even though it was En Var, there was a chill coming off of the Olni River and the heat was welcome. We sipped and sat in silence. After about a quarter of an ahn he surprised me by asking a question he had never put forth before.
“Teal, mine,” he said slowly, “tell me how it is you came to Gor. When I bought you, I knew you were a barbarian. I desire to know your story.” I put my head down so that he would not see the look of concern on my face. I have never been asked this question by any free or slave so I wondered if it was a test and most of all, if it was a test, would I pass it?
Slaves are never supposed to lie to the free, right? That’s a big “correct” on that one. And so I was not prepared to trot out my story to anyone let alone the Gorean man I serve. So at that point I grabbed the pitcher that the paga was in, filled the bowl, raised it to my lips and drank the whole damn thing down. After that I filled the bowl again and drained the second one. I thought my Master was going to ask me to get the whip, but he was so startled that all I caught was the raising of his eyebrows at my poor behavior.
In retrospect, I should have told him with a logical sober brain how it was that I was “hatched” on this world of Gor. But stupidity intervened and I had a hard time not injecting emotion into this soliloquy of my boring arrival. Also, I had to keep asking my Master for permission to speak while maintaining my placeholder in my thoughts. He would stop me to ask a question and before answering I would say, “May your slave be permitted to speak Master.”
I related physical facts. Master’s like to hear the straight facts. Therefore, as with my Master, I must speak to him with a bullet list of facts. On earth I was trained to give short and “to the point” answers to everything. One must communicate clearly. One must give the “who, what, when, where, why and how” of a situation. As in when I ask my Master for permission to do the marketing for his home. There are two ways in my mind to approach this task. The first and more logical presentation would be to hand my Master a list of groceries that need to be purchased to garner his approval. I would kneel smartly and offer it to him with upraised hands, head bowed between them. I would reveal to him that these supplies are needed so that he will remain comfortably fed this coming week. It never fails that I am granted this request as these appeals are pleasing to the ear of my Master.
Now, the second way takes longer and results in irritating my Master. His face will be a picture of annoyance as he suffers through my rambling presentations. He does not need to know that the birds are outside singing or that the river is flowing downstream and the rate at which it takes paint to dry. All this palaver just to ask permission to buy some vegetables and something from the butcher is a bad way to demonstrate your intelligence. The fact that my Master is of the warrior caste makes it all the more important that I give him the facts…just the facts. Whining and nagging is an unfortunate flaw in a person and in a slave, it is a “whip worthy” offense.
And so it was that I related the story of my exposure to Gor. The facts were spilled but every once in a while my emotions would kick in the door and display my deepest desires. I was irritated with myself for exposing my flanks. I actually should not look upon my Master as an enemy who needs be defended against. I believe this conditioning comes out of the “old brain” that looks upon everyone who is not you as the foe. This dictates that you must look upon yourself as the protagonist and everyone else as antagonists in an “every man for himself” attitude.
Thinking back I remember actually meeting my “slaver” on earth on one of his voyages of acquisition. I wish I could go back to the location that I was kidnapped from to warn other unsuspecting females. The fact that at the time of my abduction I was dressed in full battle gear should have given my abductor cause for concern. I was packing a scoped M4 rifle with an offset tactical aiming laser. In my holster was a fixed blade combat knife, four grenades and some flash bangs. Strapped to my leg was an M9 Beretta pistol. Why anyone would attempt to collect a woman armed to the teeth and shove her aboard a craft bound for another planet seems a foolhardy proposition.
I was out on training maneuvers with another cadet who was also studying at this prestigious military school. We were put in a situation that simulated two soldiers behind enemy lines sent to obtain intelligence on enemy positions and weapons strength. These training maneuvers took place over many days where I was to learn to “have the back” of my fellow soldier at all times. How I was taken in mid week away from my comrade-in-arms by the stalking slaver is beyond me. He must have drugged us both in order to get me. I thought about the shock and awe my partner must have experienced as he woke and discovered that I was no where to be found and had apparently disappeared into thin air.
I related my story to my Master in terms he could understand, explaining the weapons as best as I could. As I spoke I watched his eyes widen and his body stiffen. I imagine it was because I was mentioning handling weapons. He looked at me as though I was about to use a knife to slit his throat due to the passionate way I described my arms.
I continued with my story telling him how I remembered coming to, I know not the hell where, in a clearing in a wooded area. Curiously I was still dressed in my fatigues with my face covered in brown and green camouflage paint. My weapons were missing.

A few yards from me were three men wearing scarlet tunics. They appeared to be Roman legionnaires and were inspecting my person.
To say I was “weirded” out would be an understatement.

True to my training I jumped up and prepared to defend myself in hand to hand combat. I was quickly made aware that this attempt was foolish when I was easily taken to the ground by a seeming giant of a man who reared up to show his umbrage at my “David vs. Goliath” attempt. I am no David to be sure. Although I got in a few blows, the strikes were like bothersome mosquito bites to the male who was squashing me like a pillow. I quickly found myself bound hand and foot. That it was done with such efficiency and speed left me marveling and wondering how I could learn such an act. I was still exhibiting the demeanor of a warrior. In my mind, I perceived this scenario to be some strange tactic of my instructors. I was convinced that I had been given a hallucinogen and was therefore interpreting the scene in a drug induced fantasy. Although, the whipping I received after having my clothing cut off certainly felt real.
After swilling down another bowl of paga while talking to my Master, I started pounding one fist into another to emphasize points in my story. I think I am going to have to wait for my next column to reveal the rest of this saga since I am getting myself all worked up writing about it. It does not help that I need to go sharpen the edges on my Master’s blades after putting down my quill.

To be continued…

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 173

New Voice of Gor No. 167-176

Monday, September 29th, 2014

New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 176 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 175 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 174 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 173 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 172 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 171 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 170 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 169 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 168 (shorter online version)
New Voice of Gor, vol. 4, issue 167 (shorter online version)

GORTECHTURAL DIGEST ~ Reviews of Rebuilds and Home Remodels

Friday, September 12th, 2014


Picture: Kasra – Fayeen River


By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

I usually do not use second hand information without checking it out myself first. But, after talking with an old friend, who recently made a visit to a city I am no longer welcome in, I decided to consider his report on recent construction activity there. I am always excited by the erection of a new structure. I, in turn, like to share that excitement with free and slave alike in the hopes that they too will visit the particular city where these buildings are being done and “check them out”.

My friend is a talented artist and brought back sketches of this city as it now stands. It seems the dust has cleared, at least in the air. I must say I was impressed by the changes made to the city he visited. As I looked at these sketches, I was puzzled as the city seemed much smaller than the city I had visited some time before. I hoped that vicious rumors that the city in question was experiencing an exodus at its gates was not true. The thought, that ANY city was being neglected or in need of some repair on the perimeter walls, made me nervous, fearful, and sad, very very sad. The thought that maybe I was being fed lies regarding this and any other city that was allegedly proceeding “to dust”, also depressed me. Thankfully I seldom hear of disastrous remarks that are false in anyway. I grant kudos to all who impart the truth for quashing nasty rumors and speaking out in the name of accuracy. And I pray for a city that may be experiencing the upheaval that a city is prone to, stay in business, so to speak, and stick around for the total enjoyment of all.

As I listened to this friend about his visit to the rebuilt city and mulled over the drawings he gave me, I was struck by how this grand reorganization and use of sturdy materials made the city seem clean, practical, organized, and strangely beautiful. Although it seemed smaller, the buildings erected inside the walls suited the area nicely.

My friend’s only confusion came at the disembarkation point on the docks. There, against some rocks, were waves crashing atop the stones. He was not aware that this city was anywhere near roaring white water. But, none the less, he thought the sounds thundering from the fresh water waves were reassuring. The wharf area was nicely laid in limestone giving a polished touch to an area usually associated with shabby buildings. I was, thought, disheartened by the approach to this city. I could not remember from the last time I was there, if the entrance from the docks proceeded straight from the wharf as you look up to the city on the hill, but I could be wrong. The drawings now show a pathway that zig zags to the main gates. To be sure the path created is a lovely one set in limestone blocks that conduct you to the main entrance.

I am convinced that the main portal into a walled city should be impressive, clean, direct, and decorated with the best the city planners can incorporate into their steps and ramps. It also should be armed “24/7” with guards or at least a video surveillance camera. Disregard the remark about a camera, it would take too long to explain it. I cannot think of any city that I have visited that has put a massive and easily found entrance to the portals of their turf. I wondered why such easily placed ingress was not designed. Then I came up with the realization that if raiders were about, a convoluted entryway would slow them down and create time for a defensive response to an intrusion. It still would be nice to have a more imposing façade of stairs facing the docks or entry points to a city. What comes to mind is the famous steps to the capitol building in Washington, D.C. on the planet earth. For those not in the know, there is a butt load of stairs on either side of that building to ascend. Impressive but now closed to the public because of raiders that could enter the structure and damage it.

It seems that most cities have this zig zag approach. The reason for this type of construction could also be the lack of land to build a direct approach to the metropolis. Either way, I prefer cities that use limestone or granite in the path to the city. Therefore, this city I am talking about should be applauded for it’s good taste. The entryway sees sturdy from the drawings although not quite as rococo as my taste would have it. I had to remind myself that this city was not designed by the Waniyanpi but by a member of the Gorean Builders Caste. The city interior was nicely arranged on a grid.

It is difficult to give directions when a city is laid out in a mish mash of buildings. There are times when I have asked directions to a place and have been told, “Just wander on down to the market and when you see the stall with household goods, turn left.” These are very unhelpful because many a time the citizen with the household goods stall has moved to a kiosk down the road. It helps when things are laid out on a logical progression of squares and you can say, “the dressmakers is at the corner of 3rd and Main.” It was comforting to see that this city was laid out on this type of grid.

As I carefully examined the renderings my friend made and asked questions it seemed that the city was more compact but nicely maintained inside and out. He mentioned the continuity of design and use of material. He showed me a very nice coliseum on a promontory overlooking the river. It seemed a spectacular place for an arena. He mentioned the requisite housing area outside the walls of the city and also mentioned a rather chi chi area on a cliff above the city and housing area. There were no buildings to speak of, only a group of tents. Now, tent materials can vary from exquisite to cheesy, these particular tents were all constructed of quality black fabric, pitched in an imposing way. I am a slut for organization and my friend assured me that the tents matched and were smartly arranged. I think, if I were an assassin, I would want to live in portable housing, on a cliff overlooking any approach by an enemy, but be able to do it in style.

The only misgiving I have is not being able to revisit this city once more. I guess I shall have to content myself with second hand information regarding any more structural changes within its walls.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 172

SECRETS AND HONOR ~ Loose Lips Sink Tarn Ships

Wednesday, August 20th, 2014

new voice of gor

Picture: Tancred’s Landing – writing the NEW VOICE OF GOR

SECRETS AND HONOR ~ Loose Lips Sink Tarn Ships

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

SECRETS AND HONOR ~ Loose Lips Sink Tarn Ships

I have said previously that Gor runs on gossip. But, you must call that what it really is…”word of mouth”. Gor does not have a vast communication network. If it did, we would see scrolls passed from one citizen to another with such rapidity that everyone would know in a matter of ehn’s what “be the happ’s” all over Gor. On these scrolls would be splashed headlines like, “FREE WOMAN SLAVER SUBMITS!”, or “HIGHEST PAID FOR SLUT AT AUCTION”, and “UBARITE LEARNS OF COVER UP”. It is a tempting thought, to be informed.

I must say, however, there is something to be said for stopping information of a poisonous nature. Stopping the communication, before it starts, would prevent any detrimental news from antagonizing the public.

Think about this, a slave sees or hears something and passes this information on to another in casual conversation. This information titillates the ear of the other slave and consequently this titillated slave then tells everyone she meets of this fact; since she thinks it is a juicy tidbit. Even though the fact that Master Butticus has been frequenting the Zar tables may sound inconsequential to one person, to the “Companion” of Master Butticus, it is a devastating insight as to why their fortunes are fast disappearing. She will find out that her companion has been wagering on games in which his losses out weigh his gains.

I have been privy to many of these well meaning communiqués. My problem has been whether to speak or write of these things. Mostly, after revealing these “sound bites”, I have come to find it is better to keep my “trap” shut.

To this end I employ the “code of silence” which dictates the cover-up of family business and the non-aggravation of authorities. It also begs non-interference in the affairs of others. This is not a code I come by easily. I believe it takes years of practice or being whipped for opening your mouth inappropriately.

On an odd note, I did witness a free woman being asked to leave a tavern by a warrior. It seemed a comedy of errors. Now I have to decide whether telling you that will cause Gor War 3, or whether my mouth is just flapping in the breeze.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 171

DI DOVE SEI? ~ Where are you from?

Wednesday, August 20th, 2014


Picture: The Northern Forest – bargaining with female outlaws

DI DOVE SEI? ~ Where are you from?

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

Back on the planet I came from, the Italian side of my family asked visitors to their home, “Where are you from.” The response would be, “Sono di…” which was, I am from (insert name of town). Those two phrases for me seem aptly Gorean. At the gates of the city one is always asked to declare one’s Home Stone. Then again in the commons, if a free person sees an unfamiliar face, the unfamiliar face is asked where on the planet they hail from. This remark is asked more seriously at the gate but once you declare yourself and you are inside the gates, then being asked where you are from is seen as light banter.

The question of “where are you from”, is never asked of slaves. I mean, you would ask a pet sleen where it is from. Instead you would ascertain its owner. As all slaves are animals, and they, for the most part can speak, the question asked of a slave is “Who is your owner?” Even slaves ask other slaves, “Who owns you?” If the slave being asked, “who is your owner”, adds some inane factoid like, they came from Tafa, no one will give a rosy red urts bottom. The owner is the most important thing. Besides slave’s too have their pecking order. The more important the owner, the more important the slave, or so those princesses claim.

Many Goreans carry around little scroll pouches on their belts or secured under robes of concealment. These scrolls contain their identification, all the particulars the magistrate of another city might need to double check when checking the veracity of certain people. Also, it helps a member of the High Counsel to get a hold of these individuals should they cause a small insurrection or an all out war.

I have been privy to some of these identification scrolls. I have read them at the gate when my Master put ID scrolls down to talk to the stranger as he guarded the portals of Port Olni. I had a hard time not laughing as I read some lengthy autobiographies on those scrolls. Some of them I laughed at because they seem to match the visitor’s demeanor who was standing before us. Some were funny because they were a fantasy concoction of the holder’s own life. For example; a puny free man, dressed in clothes that have seen better days, gave my Master his scroll that read like a page out of an earth manual, Debrett’s Peerage. According to him, he was first in line of succession in a very old royal dynasty on Gor. He went on for paragraph after paragraph about how high he was in that royal family. I was starting to think of him in earth terms again and I wondered how “high” he was when he wrote it.

Now bespoke clothing is quality clothing. When a person wears clothing that is frankly from another fashion period and that ensemble looks smart, that person is truly wearing a bespoke item. The puny man before us at the gate looked like a wastrel and in fact he appeared to be a vagabond. This is only one example I could regale you with regarding the question, “Where are you from”.

I am going to refrain from doing so as I could receive angry threats from those who might see themselves in what I have written. I think all that could be avoided if free persons would avail themselves of my side business, Teal’s ID Scribe Service. I compose smart and true identification scrolls. I correct your Gorean and punctuation. Then I move on to content. I would want to team up with a painter of renown, for instance, one Mistress JJLowe. Her likenesses could be included on the scroll to accompany my words. Together we could produce some of the snappiest identification scrolls upon which would flow understandable Gorean. The owners of these ID’s would be presented in a more favorable light to the viewing public.

To get back to the puny free man at the gate, he was obviously an opportunist. I saw stamped in the lower left corner an advertisement for Sammy’s Slave Auctions with an address and times of operation. I am sure that Sammy paid the puny fellow for taking up space on his ID. But I have seen advertisements on ID scrolls that are there for the sheer pleasure of giving the magistrate something else to look at than just the ho hum life of the stranger.

I will have to respectfully decline composing ID scrolls for the Mamba group. As darling as their language is, I do not read, write, nor understand it. This past week I was treated to the Mamba language by a group of free people in the commons. I listened for repetition of a word and I heard one that I thought I could make a spring board for understanding this foreign tongue. I came to find out later this word meant Bosk Shit.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 170

ASK TEAL ~ Dubious Advice to Goreans

Wednesday, August 20th, 2014

Port Bazi

Picture: The HoY company trading in Port Bazi

ASK TEAL ~ Dubious Advice to Goreans

By Teal Razor, slave of Captain Siri Emerald Jr., Olni

This week, I am going to finish answering the free woman who asked this question last week. I wanted to give the lady a complete guide to getting and keeping a man in the dating stage of the courtship. I repeat here her question to me:

I am a free woman who is desperate to find a companion. I see free men everywhere in my city, they are either with companions or walking with a retinue of slaves behind them. In other words, they are most unapproachable. I have been courted by some five men in the past but after a few weeks, they disappear from my life and if I see them in the commons or the market place, they turn the other way or cross to the other side of the street to avoid me. Will I ever find one? Where are all the men? Please advise.

In the last Voice of Gor, I addressed but a few of the forewarnings to watch for when you submit to a free man’s courting. I have now a few more things to impart on your dress and deportment that you might want to incorporate into your body of knowledge.

I will start this week by saying NEVER keep a man waiting who calls on you at your place of residence. If he invites you to the commons or the tea room for snacks, show up at the appointed hour. Try to arrive an ehn or two after he does. The point being that the shorter time he awaits you, the more he will understand that you do not take his attentions lightly.

When I have served the free in the commons, I witnessed free men sitting by themselves, ordering some libation. They sat for the longest time, alone. I always wondered why they did so. They would order a couple of tankards or bowls of alcohol, stand up, stretch, and go about their business. Most of them wandered off either sighing or shaking their heads. About thirty or forty ehns after they left, a free woman would invariably step into the commons, look around while walking through, and exit the commons without sitting down. Putting two and two together, I can safely say, those free women were late to a date. I doubt whether those free women were asked out again or if they were, the free man’s faculties were set on high gear. He would, from there on out, watch for any more red flags that could appear on the horizon. These warning banners can accumulate until the free man finally sees the proverbial “handwriting on the wall” and rejects the free woman totally.

Now, here is another piece of territory I must cover. Part of not keeping the free man waiting is to arrive in front of him fully dressed. I am not suggesting that you would show up half naked to your date. Free woman are required to conceal themselves in robes named for such use. But, to arrive hooking all your veils in place, adjusting your stockings or pulling on your gloves will have you appear to not be organized. This can kill your allure faster than the peasant bow can fell a verr. Dress and adjust yourself in the privacy of your boudoir. And, for the sake of sanitation, comb your locks in private.

Just two weeks ago, a free woman took out a comb in the commons and started pulling at her hair with it. There was much hair on the comb when she finished. She removed the hair from the comb and threw it under the table where she was sitting. I was not the only witness to this disgusting practice. Two other slaves looked at me in horror with their mouths open. At least we saw it and I was able to sweep up the offending garbage from the eating area once she left. I feared to do it while she sat at the table since I speculated that I might be beaten for my insolence.

Oh, and while I am at it, NEVER borrow his rep cloth from his place setting on the table to wipe your cosmetics from your face. You should request a slave bring you a damp rep cloth to discreetly wipe the bits from your mouth or to remove your lip wax.

Lets talk next about a certain physical attribute of women. Female slaves and free women all have breasts. Granted some of us have more bounteous gifts than others. Those free women, whose abundance is evident under the robes of concealment, should make sure to wear uplifting corsets. You never want your courting man to chase you through a field of Sa-Tarna on a late day in En-Var which would cause your ample assets to bounce up and smack you in the face. Restraint, on your part, could lead to a companionship with one of the opposite sex. Which is why you asked your question in the first place.

Regarding the wearing of a supporting corset, I wish that some female slaves had access to such engineering feats in the form of cloth. I saw a female slave not many moons back who was jumping up and down on a table in the commons. A Master had commanded her to do so for his own entertainment. It was evident that the Master was an aficionado of slaves doing jumping jarl’s. The enormous heft and girth of her breasts caused them to fly up in her face. They hit her with such velocity that it knocked her out cold. It was hard for me to fetch a pan of water to throw on her face to rouse her because I was shaking from laughter.

Speaking of other cautions, you should not be familiar with your escort by caressing him in public. You would be exhibiting slave behavior and it might get you collared on the spot. Leave the caressing and cooing over the Master the domain of the slaves. You, on the other hand, are a lady. This fact is supported every time you are called “lady” by other free persons.

One would also hope that you refrain from talking about the latest robes of concealment from the dressmaker or boots at the cobblers. Talk about things the man would be interested in. You could describe a shipment that arrived recently on the docks. It would be good to note down facts to parade before him. You could make a mental picture of the types of goods being rolled out onto the wharves. Describe in detail, appropriate to a male’s curiosity, the colors and scents you perceived while there. Give him a count of the barrels that were taken off and relate any funny incidents like a slave colliding with a barrel of wine and being thrown off into the river. It might be more exciting if a water sleen were to attack the hapless slave. This might set off response in your date. You want to keep him talking. So your conversation should be scintillating and informative at the same time. It could dazzle the free man you are seeking.

While we are on the art of conversation, I want to give you another warning. NEVER talk to another free man in front of the free man who is courting you. Your courting free man should not be regaled with the exploits of your other “friend” when you talk to this other man in front of him. Acknowledge a “friend” who shows up by nodding and giving a courteous greeting. Don’t greet the person as if you would slap him on the back in a “hail fellow well met” gesture. Free women should behave like ladies, demure, accepting, feminine, correct, soft, and empathetic.

Some time back I exited my Master’s house in the direction of the market. As I walked past many residences in Olni Var, a free woman, who I always perceived as a bit of a “Tom boy”, (translating into the Gorean, a Tom-boy, on earth is a woman who adapts the mannerisms of a man) was talking out the side of her mouth like she was a dock worker. The other person, a free male that I recognized, was hit by the free woman’s language, which was saltier than Thassa. I even saw her slap him on the back a few times. The male was not her brother so I speculated that he had been her “friend” at one point and forsook her for someone else. The appalled look on his face told me he dropped courting this free woman, in part, because of her same behavior in the past.

Lastly, a free man deserves and desires your entire attention. If you look through this little compendium of advice I think you might find which areas need the most attention in your dating arsenal. I hope that you write me back and tell me of any success you might have by following these folios.

From the NEW VOICE OF GOR v.4 Issue 169