John Norman: Kajira of Gor

He was looking down at me. He was so large and strong. I was afraid he was not pleased. I smiled my prettiest up at him. I adjusted the towel a bit about my breasts, seemingly inadvertently, accidentally, pulling it down a bit, and then, hastily, with seeming modesty, tucking it securely, much higher, even more closely, about my body. “It is only,” I smiled, “that you took me by such surprise. I did not know what to do.”

“I understand,” he said.

“It is not every day,” I said, smiling, “that a girl finds herself surprised in her own apartment and then, in effect, forced to present herself before unexpected guests clad only in a towel.”

“That is true,” he said.

I smiled again.

“I hope that you are still interested in me,” I said, teasingly, and, I am afraid, a bit anxiously.

“Perhaps,” he said.

I would have preferred a more affirmative response.

There was a moment of awkward silence. I hoped they were not disappointed. I did not want to fail to please them. I would have been willing to do anything. I would even have been willing to let them hold me in their arms, or kiss me. I would even have been willing to let them make love to me. I knew such things were common. Why should a girl not turn her charms to her own profit? I did not want them to lose interest in me. They paid well.

“The coffee is ready,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, gratefully. I could no longer hear it perking.

I recalled I had been told to make it.

I hurried into the kitchen.

In a few moments I was serving them coffee, in white cups on the rectangular, black-legged, white-topped Formica table.

The kitchen tiles felt smooth and cool under my feet. They sat about the table. I felt aroused, and very feminine, serving them. I then poured myself a cup.

“Put your cup on the floor,” said the man, “there, on the tiles.”

Puzzled, crouching down, I did so.

“Now, kneel behind it,” he said.

I knelt down on the tiles, behind the cup, the refrigerator to my right, the table, with the men seated about it, in front of me.

They sipped their coffee.

“You may drink,” said the man.

I reached for the cup, before me, on the floor. I lifted it.

“No,” he said. “Do not hold it by the handle. Hold it in your hands, as a bowl.”

I then sipped the coffee in this fashion, the cup warm in my fingers. I then put it down. They were using the handles of their cups, I noted. And, too, of course, they were sitting at the table. Why should they be sitting, and I kneeling, I asked myself. Are we not the same? Are we not identical? I watched them drinking in the customary fashion. Then I, again, sipped coffee from the cup, holding it in both hands, like a small bowl. I felt an urge to put the cup aside, tear off the towel, and put my body naked to the cool tiles before them, at their feet. I wondered what the tiles would feel like against me, against my breasts, my belly, my thighs.

The men finished their coffee.

“Have you finished your coffee?” asked he who seemed in charge.

I finished the coffee, holding the cup as I had been instructed to do. “Yes,” I said.

“You may clear the table,” he said.

I rose to my feet and put my cup in the sink. I then went to the table. I began to gather together their cups. “What is in the metal box?” I asked, lightly.

“I told you,” he said. “Nothing.”

I stacked the cups and carried them to the sink. “Really?” I asked.

“I thought maybe you were delivering something to the apartment,” I said.

“No,” he said.

I rinsed off the cups.

“Is it really empty?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. I put the cups in the dishwasher.

“Do you want to store the box here for a time?” I asked. “Do you want me to keep it for you, for a time?”

“No,” he said.

I turned to regard them, puzzled.

The man made a sign to his two assistants and they took the table and turned it, lengthwise, in the kitchen.

“Please sit on the table, Miss Collins,” said the man.

I sat on the table, at one of the small ends, that nearest the dishwasher, puzzled, my feet dangling over the edge.

“No,” he said, “sit on the table, completely, your feet on it, as well.”

I slid myself back and then sat on the table, completely upon it. The formica top was cool and smooth. The sensations I felt were interesting and disturbing. I had never, of course, sat on the table in this fashion before. I held the towel tightly down by my thighs. I kept them closely together. The man in charge was by my feet, on my left. The other two men were behind me.

“We did not bring the box here to bring something to the apartment,” said the man, “but to take something from it.”

“But I have nothing of value here,” I said, “or at least not of much value.”

I saw the man then remove a heavy, sturdy steel anklet from the lower, right-hand pocket of his jacket. It was open. He then flipped it widely open. I then saw it with a casual, expert gesture, snapped shut about my left ankle.

“What are you doing!” I cried.

Something rounded and leathery was then thrust in my mouth, something attached at the back of a broad, leather rectangle, by one of the men behind me. There were straps and buckles attached to this and, apparently, a heavy, slotted leather pad which went behind the back of my neck. I felt the leather rectangle drawn tightly back and felt, too, the apparently slotted leather pad, through which the straps apparently passed, one above, and one below, pressing against the back of my neck. Then I winced as I felt the straps drawn back, even more tightly. Then they were buckled shut. The apparatus was then fixed upon me. I had been effectively gagged.

I looked wildly at the man who had put the anklet on me. I tried, wildly, with my right foot, to slide it from my left ankle. I could move it, of course, only a tiny bit. I hurt the instep of my right foot. I scraped my left ankle. I looked again, wildly, at the man who had ankleted me. There was no doubt it was fastened on me, locked shut. There had been no mistaking the heavy, efficient snap with which the device’s closure had been registered.

“Now,” he said, to one of his fellows, “we need not listen to her blithering.”

I felt my head pulled back. There was apparently a ring at the back of the leather pad now pressed so closely into the back of my neck.

I shook my head. I whimpered.

The man then jerked the towel from my hair. I looked at him. I shook my head. He then jerked away the towel I wore on my body. I was then turned and thrown on my belly, on the table, the two assistants pressing me helplessly against it, holding me tightly down by the arms. The men, when I had been stripped, had not even paused to look at me. They had seen, I gathered, many women.

I felt a piece of cotton or cloth touch my back, above and behind my left hip. It was wet. The area then felt cool. Then I whimpered. I felt a needle being entered into my flesh, in the center of that chemically chilled area. Tears sprang to my eyes. The needle was then withdrawn and I felt the area swabbed again with fluid. I was then drawn from the table and, by the arms, carried into the combination living and dining room of my small apartment. Their leader then, he who had ankleted me, opened the side of the stout, metal container. It had a heavy door. Inside were various straps, and rings.

I tried to struggle.

“Resistance is useless, Miss Collins,” said the man.

I looked at him pleadingly.

Then I was thrust, in a sitting position, into the box. The ring at the back of the gag, doubtless sewn into the slotted leather pad, was snapped about a ring mounted at a matching height in the box. My head was thus held in place. For a moment the room seemed to go dark and then I gathered my wits again. My left wrist, to my horror, was fastened back, and at my left side, by straps attached to a ring. My right wrist was then secured similarly. In moments both of my ankles, too, had been fastened in position. I fought to retain consciousness. Then I was thrust back further in the box. A broad leather strap was then drawn tightly about me. I winced. Then it was buckled shut. I could hardly move. I looked at the men, from the box. My eyes pleaded with them.