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

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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

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