Plunder of Gor Read Free

in such books, in such a world, that I would find myself somehow therein? Did I fear I might learn something which, in some sense, I feared I already knew?
    â€œYou have never heard of Gor?” he asked.
    â€œNo,” I said.
    â€œI think that what you are saying is false,” he said. “One such as you is not permitted to lie. Only a free woman may lie. One such as you may be punished.”
    â€œâ€˜Punished’”?
    â€œCertainly,” he said. “You are a slave.”
    â€œI am not a slave!” I said.
    Again he smiled.
    â€œGor is only in stories!” I said.
    â€œI thought you had not heard of Gor,” he said.
    â€œIt is only in stories,” I said.
    â€œSo many such as you have thought,” he said, “who are now on Gor, and, as they should be, in collars.”
    â€œâ€˜Collars’?”
    â€œSlave collars.”
    â€œI shall call the police!” I said.
    â€œThey would be pleased to see such as you, naked, at their feet, in a collar,” he said.
    â€œGet out!”
    He went to the door and opened it, and then turned, paused in the threshold. “As for Gor, my dear,” he said, “inquire further into the matter. Normally one such as you would not be selected, but I think we may make an exception in your case. You have not been fully pleasing. And Gor, after all, has a use for its pot girls, and its kettle-and-mat girls, as well as for better, more delicious merchandise.”
    â€œYou cannot demean me!” I cried. “I tell you I am beautiful, very beautiful!”
    â€œVain bitch,” he said.
    â€œâ€˜Bitch’?”
    â€œAs of now,” he said. “The whip, as I mentioned, takes that out of a woman. It is hard to be a bitch, on your knees, your head down, fearfully kissing and licking the feet of a man.”
    â€œBeautiful!” I cried. “Beautiful!”
    He stood in the portal, paused. “It is true,” he said. “In a collar, you might become more beautiful. In a collar, a woman becomes far more beautiful.”
    â€œGet out!” I cried. “Get out!”
    â€œDo not be afraid,” he said. “At least, not yet. This is a preliminary assessment. No decision has been made.”
    â€œI am not afraid!” I said, trembling.
    â€œWe may meet again,” he said.
    â€œGet out!” I cried.
    He then turned about, and left. Behind him he had closed the door, quietly. I heard him descend the stairs, his step placid and measured.
    I then turned about, and bent over the desk, distraught, clinging to it. My thigh hurt where I had stumbled against the wood. I would probably, shortly, have a bruise there. Perhaps it was there already. After a few minutes I had become far more calm. I had very little sense of what had just occurred. Had I called the police what could they have done? What could I have told them? Was I hysterical? Was I the victim of some delusion? Had I misunderstood some brief unpleasantness, or misremembered it? Was I not making much out of little, or nothing? Might they not credit my account to some aberration? I did not know the man. I had never seen him before. I presumed that I would never see him again. He was not in our records. He was not a client, even a prospective client. There was no name, and even the description might have fit any number of large men. I had sensed an accent, but was not even sure of that.
    And I was beautiful, very beautiful!
    I had planned to go to the beach the next day.
    Would I do so?
    When I went to the beach, it was not to swim, but to relish the sun, the warm sand, the sight of the water and sky, the crowd, the sound of the surf, and sense the impression one such as I would make in such a milieu, on the young men, so many of them furtive and diffident, so frightened to be noticed in their noticing. How ashamed my culture had made so many of them to be male. Was that not to be a secret, denied even to oneself? In my