Plunder of Gor by John Norman Read Free Book Online Page B

voice.
    That word, again. Gagged, I could not even disabuse them of the notion that my name was not Kajira, but Phyllis.
    I lay still. I could not part my hands, nor my ankles. The man’s foot was then removed from my back.
    How dare he treat me so? I lay prone, bound, hand and foot, gagged, helpless. How I was treated! What did he think I was? Did he think I was nothing, a slave?
    How could they be so stupid, I wondered, to think Paula was more interesting, or attractive, than I!
    What fools they were!
    There was no comparison.
    I was far more beautiful!
    â€œIt is early,” said the largest man, he who had held me, he whom I took to be first amongst the three men. “We will wait a time, and depart after dark.”
    â€œThere is coffee,” said the second man, glancing into the kitchen, noticing the pertinent vessel.
    â€œGood,” said the third man.
    At a gesture Paula rose, hurried to the kitchen, and knelt beside the stove.
    The men then followed her, repairing to the kitchen.
    I was dragged by the arm onto the linoleum of the kitchen and thrust to one side, by the table.
    â€œMay I speak?” asked Paula, kneeling by the stove.
    â€œYes,” said the second man.
    â€œGor?” she asked, timidly.
    â€œYes,” he said.
    â€œ La kajira ,” she said.
    â€œWe know,” he said. “We heard.”
    â€œI beg to be collared, marked, and mastered,” she said.
    â€œYou will be,” he said.
    â€œThank you,” she said, softly, “—Master.”
    â€œNow,” said the large fellow, he who had held me, “serve coffee.”
    â€œYes, Master,” she said.
    â€œAppropriately,” he said.
    â€œYes, Master,” said Paula, and rose to busy herself with this task.
    Shortly thereafter, having ascertained the preferences of our captors, she served the coffee to them, as she had to me, kneeling, lifting the cups.
    Is that how a slave serves, I wondered, so subserviently, so submissively?
    Did she not know she was the same as a man?
    Or was she, or I, the same as a man?
    What if we were not, profoundly, really?
    â€œHow is it that a beauty like you, kajira, is keeping company with such a mediocrity?” asked the third man. I felt his shoe nudge me in the ribs.
    â€œOh, Master,” she protested, “do not speak so! She is not a mediocrity! She is my friend. She is bright. She is chic. She wears clothes well. She is extremely beautiful! She is popular. She may be the most beautiful woman I know.”
    The third man laughed.
    â€œNow, now,” said the second man, “she is not that bad.”
    â€œA pot girl,” said the third man.
    â€œWe would not have picked her up,” said the leader, “were it not for Kurik. She is the one he called a ‘bitch’. Apparently he found her annoying, displeasing, or such, and so decided to have her picked up and sent to Gor.”
    â€œShe will be less displeasing there,” said the second man.
    â€œShe will learn her sex there, its meaning and uses,” said the leader, “or be fed to sleen.”
    I had heard Paula refer to “sleen” before, but she had not clarified the reference. I gathered that, for some reason, she had thought it better not to do so.
    â€œIt seems a shame to waste a capsule on her,” said the third man.
    â€œKurik was annoyed,” said the leader.
    â€œYou are too critical,” said the second man. “Many kettle-and-mat girls, and pot girls, are extremely attractive in their way, and they are as begging, and hot, and helpless, on the mat as a two-silver-piece pleasure slave.”
    â€œWe need not use a capsule on her,” said the third man. “We could keep her in a girl cage on the ship.”
    â€œWe will let Kurik decide,” said the leader.
    â€œI think she has promise,” said the second man. “Consider the ankles, the wrists.”
    â€œHer homeliness,” said the leader,