Plunder of Gor Read Free Page B

backrest, for he knelt in the sand beside me, and reached to my sunglasses, and drew them away.
    â€œI am not who you think I am,” I said.
    â€œKajira,” he said.
    â€œNo,” I said. “I may look like her, but I am not her. My name is not ‘Kajira’ but ‘Phyllis’. You are mistaken.”
    I did think that ‘Kajira’ was a lovely name for a girl. I was vaguely aware that I had heard the name, or word, before, but I could not recall the context, or the place, or the time.
    He reached forth and brushed my sun hat from my head, and it fell back, to the sand, to my right.
    â€œI do not know you,” I said. “And you do not know me. You are mistaken.”
    I then became aware of a second man, and a third man. The second man held a small digital camera, and was, apparently, snapping a number of pictures. I was apparently being photographed, a number of times, and, I feared, from a variety of perspectives. The third man, somewhat more mature, perhaps in his thirties, was standing to my right.
    â€œI do not know who you think I am,” I said. “But I do not know you, and you do not know me. I am not well known. I am not a celebrity, not a famous person, or such, and my name is not ‘Kajira’.”
    â€œKajira?” he said, glancing to his more mature fellow.
    The older fellow nodded. “Yes,” he said, “kajira, clearly.”
    â€œMy name is Phyllis,” I said. “Stop!” I said.
    The younger man beside me, in the sand, had brushed away my sandals, and grasped my ankles, one in each hand.
    His grip was strong.
    I felt helpless.
    â€œHer ankles will shackle well,” said the younger man.
    â€œYes,” said the more mature man.
    â€œLet me go!” I said.
    â€œI conjecture a number-two ankle-ring size,” said the younger man.
    â€œIt can be measured exactly in the pens,” said the more mature man.
    â€œLet me go!” I said.
    He released me, and I drew my legs back, beneath me, frightened.
    How I had been handled!
    With such simple authority!
    A beast might have been so handled!
    â€œSay, ‘ La kajira ’,” said the more mature man.
    â€œ La kajira ,” I said.
    The men then left.
    I did not understand the import of what I had said until later.
    I was much shaken by this strange, meaningless interlude.
    I slipped back into my sandals, and, reaching into my beach bag, pulled forth my cover-up, which I hastily wrapped about me.
    The men had disappeared.
    I saw only others on the beach, some reclining, some coming and going, moving amongst the towels, blankets, and umbrellas.
    I bent down and retrieved my sun hat from the sand, and my sunglasses. The glasses seemed important. Perhaps I felt a need for some sort of shielding. What a frail wall to hide behind! But I felt the need to seek a sense of anonymity, of security, even be it so little as might be obtained by a bit of colored glass. In a short while, the wood-and-canvas backrest returned, I, fully clothed, uneasy, and frightened, left the beach.
    The third incident prior to my acquisition occurred a month later. In the intervening days, and weeks, I had managed to regain much of my equilibrium. Nothing new and untoward had occurred. Life continued in the repetitious, quotidian patterns with which I was so familiar. I had assured myself, if not convinced myself, again and again, that the two incidents just recounted, however disturbing, were unrelated and negligible. Certainly the second incident, that on the beach, was a simple case of mistaken identity. I had tried to make that clear to them. I dismissed both incidents, to the extent I could.
    I was not clear on the motivation of the third incident. Perhaps it was merely to let me know that I had not been forgotten, or to let me know I was still under “consideration,” or, perhaps, merely, to let me know that, in a very real sense, I was not free, but theirs, and that they