Kajira of Gor (4 page)

Suddenly I stopped, frightened. I had thought I had heard a noise oil the other

side of the bathroom door, from beyond the tiny ball outside, perhaps from the

tiny kitchen or the combination living and dining room.

“Is there anyone there?” I called, frightened. “Who is it?”

“It is I, Miss Collins,” said a voice. “Do not be alarmed.” I recognized the

voice. It was he I took to be the leader of the men with whom I had been in

contact, that of he who had first seen me at the perfume counter.

“I am not dressed,” I called. I thrust shut the bolt on the bathroom door. I did

not understand how he could have obtained entrance. I had had the door to the

apartment not only locked but bolted.

“Have you cleaned your body?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I thought he had put that in an unusual fashion.

“Have you washed your hair?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. I had done so.

“Come out,” he said.

“Do you see my robe out there?” I called.

“Use a towel,” he said.

“I will be out in a moment,” I said. I hastily dried my hair and put a towel

about it, and then I wrapped a large towel about my body, tucking it shut under

my left arm. I looked about for my slippers. I had thought I had put them at the

foot of the vanity. But they, like the robe, did not seem to be where I thought

I had left them. I slid back the bolt on the bathroom door and, barefoot,

entered the hall. There were, I saw, three men in the kitchen. One was he whom I

now knew well. The other two, who wore uniforms; much of a sort one expects in

professional movers, I did not recognize.

“You look lovely,” said the first man, he whom I recognized, he who was, by now,

familiar to me.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Make us some coffee,” he said.

I proceeded, frightened, to do so. I was very conscious of my state of

dishabille. Their eyes, I could sense, were much on me. I felt very small among

their powerful bodies. I was conscious, acutely, how different I was from them.

“How did you get in?” I asked, lightly, when the coffee was perking.

“With this,” he said, taking a small, metallic, pen like object from his left,

inside jacket pocket. He clicked a switch on it.

There was no visible beam. He then clicked the switch again, presumably turning

it off.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Come along,” he said, smiling, and getting up from behind the kitchen table. I

followed him into the combination living and dining room. I noticed the coarse,

fibrous texture of the rug on my bare feet. The other two men followed us into

this room.

“There is my robe,” I said, “and my slippersl” The robe was thrown over an easy

chair. The slippers had been dropped at its base.

“Leave them,” be said.

I knew I bad not put them there.

He opened the door to the apartment and looked outside.

He was seeing, I supposed, if anyone was in the hall.

He stepped outside. “Lock and bolt the door,” he said.

I did so. I then stood, waiting, behind the locked, bolted door. I glanced back

at the other two men, in their garb like professional movers. They stood behind

me, in the apartment, their arms folded.

I heard a tiny noise. Fascinated, I saw the bolt turn and slide back. I then

heard the door click. The man re-entered the apartment. He closed the door

behind him. He returned the penlike object to his pocket.

“I did not know such things existed,” I said, Inadvertently, frightened, I put

my hand to my breast. I was very much aware that only a towel stood between me

and this stranger.

“They do,” he smiled.

“I didn’t bear you enter,” I said.

“It makes little noise,” he said. “Too, you had the water running.”

“You knew, of course,” I said, “that I would not hear you enter.”

“Of course,” he said.

It had been in accordance with his instructions that I had been showering at the

time.

“What are those things?” I asked. I referred to two objects.

One was a large carton and the other was a weighty, sturdy metal box, about

three feet square. The metal box looked as though it would fit into the carton,

and, presumably, had been removed from it, after having been brought into the

room.

“Never mind them now,” be said.

The metal box appeared extremely heavy and strong. It reminded me of a safe. I

wondered if it was. Too, I wondered why it had been brought to the apartment.

“Is that a safe?” I asked, indicating the box. It was sitting on the rug, like

the carton. It was squat and stout, and efficient looking. Because of its weight

it was impressed, with sharp lines, into the rug.

“Not really,” he said. “But it may be used for the securing of valuables.”

I nodded. There seemed little doubt about that. It appeared to me, indeed, that

it might serve very well, by virtue of its strength and weight, for the securing

of valuables. I conjectured that I, with my strength, would scarcely be able to

move it about.

“What is in it?” I asked. I was curious. In the side of the box facing me I

could see two small holes, about the size of pennies. I could not, however,

because of the light, and the size of the holes, see into the interior of the

box. The interior of the box was, from my point of view, frustratingly dark.

“Nothing,” he said.

“I see,” I said, in an acid tone. I was certain he was not being candid with me.

“Come over here,” he said, pleasantly, beckoning to me.

I joined him.

I glanced over at my robe on the easy chair, and the slippers at its foot.

“My robe and slippers,” I said, “were in the bathroom, were they not?”

“Yes,” he said.

“You then entered the bathroom while I was showering, and removed them, did you

not?”

“Yes,” he said.

I had neither seen nor heard him doing this, of course. The water had been

running. The shower curtain had been drawn.

“Why?” I asked.

“We decided that you would appear before us much as you are,” he said.

“But, why?” I asked.

“It would be more convenient for us,” he said. “Matters might then proceed

somewhat more simply for u~ than might otherwise have been the case.”

I was angry. Obviously I had been manipulated. I had been ordered to shower.

Then, while I had showered, my apartment had been entered and my robe and

slippers removed from the bathroom. I had been surprised in my own apartment.

Then I had been given little alternative other than to present myself before

them, doubtless as they had planned, well cleaned, fresh from the shower, and

half naked.

“Are you angry?” he asked.

“No,” I said, suddenly, “of course not.” I was suddenly afraid that they might

cease to find me pleasing. Doubtless their entry into my apartment had some

purpose. I was then certain I understood their motivations. They had wished to

take me by surprise, to observe my reactions, to see me as though I might be

confused or startled, to see bow fetching and exciting I might appear, captured,

so to speak, in a moment of charming disarray. I hoped I had not disappointed

them. Doubtless they were interested in testing me for a performance in some

commercial, perhaps having to do with soaps or beauty products. I hoped that my

responses had not jeopardized my chances for participation in whatever might be

their intended projects. I did so want to please them. They paid well.

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.”

“Mat 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 bear 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.

he

“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.

Yes,” he said.

“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.

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

I felt my bead 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,

be 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.

“She is secured,” said one of the men.