John Norman - Kajira of Gor

“When do you think you will know,” I asked, “—about the more important post?”

“it will take at least several days,” he said.

“Oh,” I said.

“Come here,” he said, beckoning to me. I went and stood quite close to him. “Put down your head,” he said. I did so, and he, moving behind me, and pulling the collar of my blouse out a bit with his finger, put his head down, close to the side of my face, by my neck. He inhaled, deeply.

“Yes,” I said, “I am wearing the perfume, as you asked.”

“As I commanded,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, softly, rather startled at myself, “as you commanded.” I then left. I wore his perfume.

I turned off the shower.

It must have been about ten minutes after eight in the evening. It was now some six weeks after my test, or interview, or whatever it had been, in the photographer’s studio. On each Monday of these six weeks I had received in the mail, in a plain white envelope without a return address, a one-hundred-dollar bill. This money, I had gathered, was in the nature of some sort of a retainer. I recalled that the man who had first seen me at the perfume counter, he who seemed to be in charge of the group, had said that he recognized that my time, as of now, was valuable. I was still not clear on what he had meant by the phrase ‘as of now’. These bills, until a few days ago, had been my only evidence that the men had not forgotten me. Then, on a Monday evening, a few days ago, the Monday before last, at eight o’clock, I had received a phone call. I had returned home to my small apartment only a few minutes earlier, from the local supermarket.

I was putting away groceries and was not thinking of the men at all. I had, to be sure, taken the hundred-dollar bill from the mail box earlier and put it in my dresser. This had become for me, however, almost routine. I was, at any rate, not thinking of the men. When the phone rang my first reaction was one of irritation. I picked up the phone. “Hello,” I said. “Hello?” Then I was suddenly afraid. I was not sure there was someone on the line. “Hello?” I said. Then, after a moment’s silence, a male voice on the other end of the line spoke quietly and precisely. I did not recognize the voice.

“You have been selected,” it said. “Hello!” I said. “Hello! Who is this?” Then the line was dead. He had hung up. The next two nights I waited by the phone at eight o’clock. It was silent. It rang, however, on Thursday, precisely at eight. I seized the receiver from its hook. I was told to report the next evening to the southwest corner of a given intersection in Manhattan at precisely eight P.M. There I would be picked up by a limousine.

I was almost sick with relief when I saw that the man I knew, he whom I had met at the perfume counter, he who had seemed in charge of the others, was in the limousine. The other two were with him, too, one with him in the back seat and one riding beside the driver. I did not recognize the driver.

“Congratulations, Miss Collins!” he said, warmly. “You have been fully approved. You qualify with flying colors, as I had thought you would, on all counts.”

“Wonderful!” I said.

The driver had now left the vehicle and come about, to open the door. The man I knew stepped out, and, while the driver held the door, motioned that I might enter. I did so, and then he entered behind me. The driver shut the door, and returned about the vehicle to his place. I was sitting between the two men in the back of the limousine.

“I had hoped I might qualify,” I said.

“I was confident you would,” he said. “You have the appearance, and, independently, the beauty and the dispositions. You are perfectly suited to our purposes.”

“Am I to gather that I have been found acceptable for what you spoke of as the more important position, or post, or something like that, then?” I asked.

“Precisely,” he said, warmly.

“Good,” I said, snuggling back against the seat. I was quite pleased. These men, it seemed, were rich, or, at least, had access to considerable wealth. They would doubtless be willing to pay highly for the use of my beauty.

“I recall, you said,” I said, “that I had already been selected for one thing, even at the photographer’s studio.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But it was less important, I gather, than this other, more prestigious assignment, or position?”

“Yes,” he said. “The other position, so to speak, could be filled by almost any beautiful woman.”

“I see,” I said.

“And if there should come a time in which your services are no longer required for this more important post, as I have put it, you might still, I am sure, meet the qualifications for this other thing.”

“That is reassuring,” I said.

The man on my left smiled.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Were you given permission to speak?” asked the man I knew, he who had originally seen me in the department store, he on my right.

I looked at him, startled.

“Kneel down here,” he said, pointing to the floor of the car, “your left side to the back of the front seat.” I did so, frightened. I was the only woman in the car. “Get on your hands and knees,” he said. I did so. I could then, facing as I was, see him, by lifting and turning my head. He was unfolding a blanket. “You will not speak,” he said, “until five minutes after you have left the limousine.” He then, opening the blanket, cast it over me. I on all fours before them, covered by the blanket, hidden by it, was in consternation. The limousine drove on. No one outside the car could have told that I was in the car. I was silent.

As I knelt on all fours before them my mind was racing.

Why had they done this? Perhaps they did not wish anyone to know that I was in the car with them. Perhaps they did not wish for me to be recognized with them, or they with me.

Perhaps they were driving to some secret location, which they did not wish me to know. I was frightened. I did not know what their purposes were. After a time they let me lie down at their feet, with my legs drawn up, still covered with the blanket. I lay near their shoes. Once they even stopped for gas. “Do not move,” I was told. I was perfectly quiet, at their feet. They drove about for at least four hours. It was all I could do to keep from rubbing my thighs together and moaning.

Then the limousine pulled to one side and stopped. The blanket was lifted from me.

“You may get out now,” said the man who seemed in charge, pleasantly.

I rose to my feet and, crouching down, my muscles aching, stepped from the limousine. The driver had remained in his place. The man who had been to my right when I was sitting, he who seemed to be in charge of the others, had opened the door. I stood outside then, on the curb. There was traffic. The lights were bright. I was in the same place where I had originally been picked up, at the southwest corner of the intersection in Manhattan. It was a little after midnight.

I watched the limousine drive away, disappearing in the traffic. I did not really understand what they had done, or why they had done it. I stood back on the sidewalk then. I was extremely disturbed. I was almost trembling. Too, inexplicably, it seemed, I was terribly aroused, sexually.

Why had they done what they did?

For the first time in my life I had been put to the feet of men, and kept, uncompromisingly, in ignorance and silence.

They had dominated me. I almost trembled, filled with unfamiliar sensations and emotions. These feelings, these responses, were not simply genital. They seemed to suffuse, overwhelmingly, my whole body and mind.

I became aware of a man asking me for directions.