An adult stories – The Social Club of Gor Pt. 01 by sarobah,sarobah Reader’s advisory: This is a retelling, in a stand-alone, slightly amended and hopefully improved version, of a story I posted back in the days of yore. Its genesis was in some of my real-life experiences.
“I do not know what we did, but I think I would now choose to do that action which I would be willing that I should do again and again with each turning of the wheel.” — John Norman, Priest-Kings of Gor
The Social Club of Gor was based at my university. I had been subsisting as a postgrad on a paltry income from tutoring and waitressing, until I was awarded a research fellowship with a teaching position. This raised me out of my genteel penury. I could even afford a small, two-bedroom apartment just off-campus.
I shared the place for a while with Emily, my best friend since we were little girls. However, when she won a scholarship that required her to move interstate, in a moment of reckless altruism I invited her brother Richard to occupy the vacated room. He was two and a half years my junior and I had never much enjoyed his company. I found him to be rather indolent, dissolute and generally undisciplined. He was good-looking in a disheveled fashion, short and stocky with unruly hair and eyes that never seemed to focus unless on a pretty girl.
Emily had been very protective of Richard and fretted about him when he moved into students’ accommodation at the university. And he was so fish-out-of-water disoriented, so babe-in-the-woods lost on the big campus that my attitude towards him softened into sympathy. I had always thought of and treated him as my own little brother; so now I felt a responsibility for him. I took him in.
Unfortunately, Richard didn’t change his self-absorbed, self-indulgent ways, not at first. While I didn’t expect him to contribute much to the rent payments or our living expenses, I demanded that he at least help with the housekeeping chores. Since much of this involved cleaning up his own mess, he could hardly refuse, but he complied sullenly, with contemptuously dismissive remarks about “women’s work” (which was a bit rich since a woman fed and housed him). I also worried about his lack of ambition. He was neglecting his studies and barely passing his subjects, doing just enough to ward off expulsion. And instead of confronting him I pandered to his bad habits. I had recently broken up with my boyfriend and may have assuaged my guilt — I have a tendency to blame myself when things go wrong — by overcompensating.
Then, just as I was rethinking my approach and preparing my “start pulling your own weight” speech, I noticed a change for the better. All of a sudden Richard seemed more focused, had begun to show some maturity. He found a secure part-time job and started to help out with the household expenses. At the same time, he became more discreet about his private business. His job kept him busy most evenings and he was vague about what it entailed. He went out every other night and gave no indication of a romantic interest. I tried not to pry, at first.
However, this enigmatic, inscrutable side of his nature was something new and intriguing. Finally, having always been an inquisitive gal, I decided I shouldn’t let my curiosity fester. I considered following Richard to his rendezvous, like some skulking private eye. I resisted the urge. Instead, as he was about to leave for his mysterious rendezvous one night, I challenged him directly. He was walking out straight after dinner, leaving his dirty plates on the table for me to clean up.
“Don’t worry about the mess,” I said.
“Thanks, I won’t,” he replied.
“So, you’re off to your club.”
It was a shoot-from-the-hip gambit, but the bluff worked.
He swung around with a sternly quizzical gaze — both “How do you know?” and “Why do you care?”
I made it clear, by my expression alone, that I would harass him until I got an answer, so he simply shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay. Wanna come?”
“Where is it?”
“It’s a place on campus.”
“What’s it called?”
“You won’t have heard of it.”
“Then it’s a secret club…”
He didn’t answer.
“Really?” Now I just had to find out. “Let me get my bag.”
“Fine.” He held up his hand and then pointed at my legs. “No jeans,” he said.
“You’re wearing jeans.”
He just stared at me.
“Right,” I said. I went to my bedroom, took off my jeans and put on a skirt. Half-expecting him to have left without me, I returned to find him standing impatiently in the doorway. I decided not to ask why his club had a dress code.
It was a short walk to the campus shopping precinct. Here there are rooms which the students’ union hires out at low cost to various clubs and other organizations. Where Richard took me was in the basement of a building in a side street. I had no idea it existed. Its drab exterior appeared designed for discretion.
Richard turned to me and gave me an “Are you sure about this?” look. It was intended as a cryptic warning, but was accompanied by a faint smirk. He knew I was too naïve, or conceited, to leave a puzzle unsolved. He knocked, a peephole shutter opened and closed, and we were ushered inside by a corpulent, luxuriously bearded doorman dressed in a red tunic, a fur cape and tall leather boots. Behind him was a small cloakroom with shelves storing neat piles of clothing; and above his head hung a large sign with antique-style lettering that conveyed the disconcerting injunction to “Leave your weapons at the entrance.”
In terms of décor, the place was a cross between a quaint pub and a chintzy nightclub. There was a battered but sturdy bar and half a dozen tables made from old barrels, with stools of cast iron and chairs hewn from gnarled tree trunks. Two ornate brass umbrella stands flanking the entryway were stuffed with javelins, longbows and battle-axes. Coat racks were draped in pelts and furs. There was a dance floor which was simply a cleared section in the middle of the room. Oddly, this was covered in fleecy mats and hides that would have made dancing difficult, if not treacherous. There was an alcove at one end of the room which had been converted into a rudimentary kitchen; and next to it was another which was closed off with a thick, black, velvet curtain. The toilet doors were marked “his” and “hers” with silhouette stencils, of a shaggy-bearded barbarian warrior and a shaggy-haired naked woman. (That looked promising!)
Behind the bar were two attendants, male and female. He was cleaning an earthenware jug, clad in a buckskin vest over a rough-twill long-sleeved shirt, with (I saw later) leather trousers and sheepskin boots. In other words, he looked like he’d stepped out of a cheap Viking movie set. She was wearing, in addition to a broad leather collar and steel bracelets, a barely-there metal-mesh bikini. I had seen these before; in fact I once owned one (which I had made for a “mediæval faire” because that’s what the fashionable woman wore back in ye olden days); but my chain-mail had been lined on the inside with fabric. This one was simply metal against skin, revealing just about everything that even the flimsiest bikini is supposed to conceal. It must have been rough on the nipples, as well as irritating, chafing around the edges and, down below, plucking a few pubic hairs. Indeed, I noted that the girl’s movements were all very measured; but even then she occasionally winced. Why, I asked myself, would she choose to wear it like that? I was not really thinking straight.
A waitress was meandering between the tables, also in collar and cuffs and wearing a microscopic bikini, although this one was of soft, gentle-on-the-tender-parts suede.
There were half a dozen young men standing or sitting at the bar, and maybe a dozen others at the tables, some playing cards and others a dice game. Most were in costume, the same sort of faux barbarian garb worn by the bartender (and with no obvious intimation of whimsy or irony). They were quaffing from tankards or, in a couple of cases, horns. But they made much less of an impression than their female companions.
I counted seven young women besides the two staff servers, three at the bar and four at the tables. All were kneeling, sitting or squatting on the floor, in various states of undress. Two were completely nude. Their heads were bowed, their eyes downcast, but from what I could tell out of humility, not shame. All wore leather collars with short tethers attached. The naked girls made no obvious attempt to cover their exposed parts. One of these, crouching at the feet of her master perched on a barstool, was cleaning his boots. He kept tugging at her halter, so her head was bobbing up and down as she was trying to work. The girls all looked up as we entered, but quickly averted their eyes again.
The sight of these naked girls in such servile poses bothered me less than perhaps it should have. But for a while I had been a member of the university’s very own “fetish society”, had seen many things, and so was in a position to be not easily shocked. Nevertheless, I took several deep breaths as I set my jaw, clenched my fists and strode in.
Yet my show of bravado fell flat. The barman frowned and pointed to a sign on the end of the counter: “Property must be leashed.”
I was about to say “Not a chance… let’s go,” when Richard said “Freewoman.”
“Don’t get many in here on weeknights,” the barkeep growled.
“What shall it be, Sir?” the bargirl asked, her metallic bikini shimmering and softly rustling.
Richard ordered a beer and a wine. “She’s paying,” he said, not even looking my way.
The girl said “Thank you, mistress,” as I proffered my credit card. I smiled. Even mediæval taverns accept plastic these days. But all she did was record my personal details. In fact, I saw no money of any actual legal tender swapping hands. Most of the customers had a bar account. Some used proxy currency — bronze medallions for buying drinks and clay tokens for gambling.
Snubbing me completely now, Richard took his drink and moved along the counter to take the seat beside the guy with the freshly polished boots. They shook hands and exchanged a few words. The slavegirl looked up, but only to the men’s chest height, and purred “Good evening, Sir Richard.”
He did not answer but patted the top of her head. Her master tapped her shoulder and the girl began buffing Richard’s shoes with a rag and brush. I noticed she had beside her a little box with a fine collection of cleaning items.
Not really knowing what to do now, having squandered my opportunity to escape incognito, I stood at the bar silently sipping my wine. I kept peeking at the other women, in particular the naked ones, and they stole a few glances back at me. I was feeling awkward and stranded, and it didn’t surprise me when two men got up from a nearby table to stand on each side of me, uncomfortably close. They were clothed in the prevailing warrior chic. One was about Richard’s age and still carried some of the pudginess of adolescence. The other was hardly older, with a sparse growth of flax-colored, peach-fuzz facial hair that looked it had not been shaved since the down first started to sprout. They both made me feel a lot older than my twenty-two (and a bit) years.
“Very nice,” said the one with the chubby physique.
His companion looked past me, towards Richard. “Any chance this one’s for sale?”
I had an answer ready, but Richard pre-empted it… which was probably a good thing.
“No, sorry; not tonight, anyway.”
The pair looked disappointed.
The one who had spoken first gave me a long, hard stare.
“I know you. Have we met?”
I replied that I doubted it, but there was definitely something familiar about him.
He looked hard, thought for a moment, and then his face brightened.
“Got it!” he exclaimed, loud enough that everyone in the room turned to see what was happening. “You’re… you teach my statistics class.”
That figures, I said to myself. Of all the beer joints on all the campuses in all the world…
I heard a growl. The bartender scowled.
“Don’t worry,” the slightly older young man whispered. “What happens in the tavern stays in the tavern.”
“Discretion guaranteed,” the other added.
My new acquaintances introduced themselves.
“Welcome to Gor; I’m Nathan.” He was the guy from my class.
“And I’m Matthew. Can I get you another wine, er…”
“Sarah.”
He seemed relieved when I politely declined his offer.
So this was a Gor tavern. I had read about online Gorean communities, even explored a couple. But this was the first I knew of a real-world, flesh-and-blood version.
Somewhat to my embarrassment I now found myself the focus of attention. My original courtiers were soon joined by several more. I refused several further offers of drinks. The guys were interested that I had read several of John Norman’s Gor novels, and impressed that I knew the infamous author’s name was the nom de plume of a philosophy professor. And they did not seem offended by the fact that I found the books to be rather amateurishly written (for which read: turgid) and poorly plotted, the pseudoscience preposterous, and the Nietzschean ideology distasteful. Nathan, for instance, confessed that he was more interested in Gorean culture than the “literature.” (He actually used air quotes when he said the word.)
Meanwhile, none of the women spoke to me; but they listened intently, and I could see that one of them at least (the second nude girl) really wanted to join the conversation, from her place at her master’s feet. The industrious little slave with the shoe-cleaning box took the opportunity to spruce up the footwear of all the men who had gathered around me. Her blissful smile as she worked made me think “It’s nice to have a hobby.”
“So, you’re thinking of joining us?” Matthew said.
I held my tongue.
“Freewoman or slave?” someone asked.
I looked around, and down, at the girls on the floor.
“Shouldn’t you ask her man that?” said another.
To my pleasant surprise, this earned a few snorts of derision. Indeed, my perception was that the men liked having a freewoman to talk to. The slavegirls were mere chattels, not worthy of attention except for the service they provided… but that did not seem right either. I suspected I was not seeing the whole picture.
I stayed for about an hour. As I left, with my curiosity about Richard’s nocturnal affairs at least partly sated, without any prompting he joined me, so I wouldn’t have to walk home alone in the dark. It was chivalrous of him, because he looked very comfortable in the environment of the tavern. And that was the last I thought I would see or hear of the Goreans.
But the following week, I taught the undergraduate class which included Nathan. Afterwards he asked me what I thought of the tavern and if I intended to go there again.
“Interesting. Doubtful.”
He paused, and his face bore that morose look people have they are about to ask a question of which they already know the disappointing answer. But he swallowed his words before they came out.
“Well then, it’s a definite maybe,” he said instead, and smiled.
But I did return. The tavern and its culture intrigued me. It was so comically outré that I was sure it was an elaborate joke, a satirical role-play. If so, then kudos to the nude girls in particular for their commitment to the game. And I think that’s why I went back, to see how far the Goreans pushed their make-believe. Of course, what I should have realized is that when you act out a lifestyle fantasy in the real world, and take your role seriously enough, then no matter how outlandish it may be, it is the real world.
It was Friday evening and I had nothing much to do besides work. That was depressing. Since my split from my boyfriend, and Emily’s departure, I’d had no real social life. My other friends had gone their own ways after graduation. So I cooked Richard a rather fancy dinner, which I had started preparing as soon as I arrived home from a hard day’s work; and when he came in late he was apologetic. As amends, he wanted to take me out.
Knowing exactly where he had in mind, I was hesitant; but I decided (despite a peculiar sense of foreboding) to be bold.
“You’re not going to sell me, are you?”
He laughed and shook his head. “They couldn’t afford you.”
If that was the finest compliment I was going to get, I would take it graciously.
Unlike the first time, he donned a costume, albeit resembling more a wayward hippie than a barbarian warrior. The best I could come up with was a floral peasant blouse, a ruffled knee-length skirt and boots. Richard advised me that “to fit in” I should pull the top of the blouse off my shoulders and undo the lace-up front down to my midriff. I complied without demur (which surprised me somewhat). He took a couple of steps backward to study my décolletage and cleavage, and nodded his approval.
“It’s come to this,” I sighed, “taking sartorial advice from you.”
The pair of us looked like flower children dropping in from the 1960s. And as we strolled across the campus to get to our destination, it says something about the Friday night university culture that neither of us looked at all conspicuous. When we reached the tavern Richard had a key so there was no need to be admitted; but once we were inside the beefy doorkeeper accosted us with a hearty greeting. The place was crowded, with fifty people or more, and others came in later. This time there were as many women as men, and the atmosphere was much more casual than before. The clientele were in a range of ages, from barely legal (to drink in a bar, that is) to late thirties or early forties. Although a few of the females were naked, there was very little kneeling and squatting. Some of the slavegirls were no more déshabillé than myself; but their collars and leashes set them apart from half a dozen of what I took to be the fabled freewomen. By no means were all of the females beauty queens or supermodels, but neither was every male fit to hunt sleen in the mountains of Sardar or chase down talunas in the forests of Schendi.
[Authors note: Please excuse my occasional lapse into the Gorean lexicon. “Tedious verisimilitude” is a term that’s apt, and fun to say.]
Freewomen, such as yours truly, wore our costumes to the tavern. Slavegirls changed out of their street clothes in the cloakroom at the front entrance.
Slaves rarely mingled; but when one spoke to a newcomer or stranger for the first time, she opened with the words “La kajira”, which means “I am a slavegirl.” (It perturbed me, just a little, that I knew the translation.) Since she was already identifiable by her collar, it was more an affirmation than an introduction, of what she was, of what she was not, of how she wanted to be spoken to and treated. Protocol, I quickly learned, was important here (and enforced mainly by the females, both free and slave).
Conversation rarely crossed the lines of gender or class. The slavegirls were not exactly oppressed but were kept busy when not complementing their master’s boots. Some served ale and victuals, others wiped down tables or carried out sundry menial chores. They did not socialize generally but were permitted to converse with each other as they worked. They almost never interacted with the freewomen. Every so often one would be summoned by her master to perform some extra service — to dance for his friends, to apply a massage, to display her breasts (if she was not showing them already) or her latest tattoo or piercing. There might then be some poking, and the comments could be crude, but I saw no groping or intimate probing. The girl’s reaction would be a quiet, eye-rolling sigh of resignation followed by a plastic smile. But I could tell that the slavegirls loved the attention. (This was something I’d learned while working for a time as a cabaret waitress, squeezed into a tiny showgirl’s costume and balanced on tall stilettos. The gratification is not solely in the paycheck.) It explained their presence in the tavern and their devotion to the game. They were the main attraction, in fact the tavern’s raison d’être. Without them, it would have been just another hangout for semi-dorky role-playing fantasists. And everybody knew that. So the real power structure in the tavern was the inverse of the nominal pecking order, and I was fascinated by this paradox.
But freewomen therefore had an equivocal status. They looked down on the kajirae. In turn, they were looked down upon by the males, being of less intrinsic value than slavegirls. Constrained by hauteur as much as by the Gorean code of conduct, they did not appear to be having much fun. Their speech, dress, behaviour and demeanour were strictly defined and demarcated. They did not sing the men’s bawdy ballads and did not gamble, because their only coin of interest to the men was their transactional freedom. They did not speak to the males unless approached. They drank only in moderation. Whereas for a warrior overindulgence with the beer mug or the wine cup was a source of manly pride and a cause for jest, freewomen who allowed themselves to become inebriated risked their liberty.
There were no female warriors. They had no place in the tavern. (In the Gorean canon there exist talunas and panther girls with martial skills, but they roam the wilderness.) On the other hand, every man was a warrior, or a potential one. The elaborate system of castes described in the Gor novels was not replicated in the tavern. Even the barkeep wore an empty dagger scabbard on his belt. And this was a distinction to which mere females could not aspire. For “the insignia of men, like male garments, become empty mockeries when permitted to women” (John Norman, Mercenaries of Gor).
To put it bluntly, your status in the tavern was defined by what you had or did not have between your legs. It was as simple as that. It mattered not at all what other qualities you might possess. And while there were male slaves in the tavern, every man had it in him to be a warrior.
The existence of male slaves (kajirus; plural kajiri) startled me, though only at first. Even freewomen could own slaves of either sex. But the male ones were hard to spot. This was because, in the Gorean mythos, all men were presently or potentially warriors. To preserve the dignity of their sex, male slaves were neither collared nor compelled to wear distinctive clothing (let alone forced to be naked). Only slavegirls were obliged to display the overt tokens of their status as property. So as I looked about, I knew there was likely to be a kajirus or two in the room, but uninitiated guests had no sure way of knowing. It was certainly not etiquette to ask, and none ever publicly acknowledged his master or mistress. However, one might now and then spot a male wearing a silk scarf or wristband. In the Gorean oeuvre, the wearing of silk is associated with slaves.
A man could own more than one woman, although this was rare, for the simple reason that most kajirae were girlfriends, fiancées or wives. Thus, despite assurances that the two worlds were kept separate, to maintain domestic harmony most of the warriors contented themselves with the pleasures of their one slave. A freewoman, on the other hand, did not have the option. She could not own more than one slave, of either sex, as that would be raising herself above her station.
Unlike the slavegirls who rarely connected with the freewomen, the bondsmen mixed freely with the freemen. Yet there were subtle clues which I soon picked up on. For instance, slaves, regardless of sex, did not pay for their drinks or food… at least not in theory. So a freewoman with her own kajirus settled his bar bill. (Kajiri were permitted alcohol though forbidden to gamble.) This was always done discreetly, for in Gorean culture a man’s honor stands above everything.
There was at least one gay male, master-slave couple. The kajirus showed deference to his lord but spoke on equal terms with the other men. On the other hand, several of the freewomen owned girls. These kajirae were almost always kept naked and tended to be more obeisant and obsequious than their male-owned counterparts. They were, in general, treated more harshly by their mistresses and more leniently by the men. And these female relationships gave no clear signs of being lesbian. Certainly such couples showed no outward displays of affection. This was due partly to the stringent protocols regarding freewoman-slavegirl interaction; but also, a freewoman who too openly expressed her sexuality in any form was advertising her availability for enslavement.
All of this might have been natural on the untamed world of Gor, where men earned and maintained their pre-eminence as fighters, hunters and protectors. In the mundane reality of this tavern in the middle of a university campus, however, there were no authentic heroes or desperadoes, no brawny tarnsmen or intrepid tharlarion riders. Everyone was playing a role, and the freewomen took pride in theirs. They could not be warriors and would not be slaves, and this gave them a sense of solidarity. They prized their place in the pecking order, even if it appeared to me as the consolation of the disfranchised.
There was a particular young lady, tall, dark-haired and extremely beautiful, who stood at one end of the bar in a gorgeous full-length green gown with splendid décolletage, haughtily holding court over a clique of feminine acolytes. At the time, I was talking to Nathan and Matthew.
“Such a shame,” Matthew said, nodding in the direction of Princess Pea-Green.
“She needs to be on the block,” Nathan replied.
“The block?” I inquired.
“Auction block.” The barman leaned across the counter. “It can be arranged.” He winked.
Looking about, I felt sure it could be. For whatever else she might be, a freewoman was first and foremost a prospect for enslavement.
I talked to the freewomen (though not Princess Pea-Green, who held herself aloof). As a guest, I was able to mingle freely. But besides personal observation, my main sources of information were the slaves. No one seemed to mind that I did not treat them with the customary disdain, nor did anyone question my curiosity. Once it had been ascertained that I was not an infiltrating agitator or investigative journalist, everyone was open and candid. I think the slavegirls liked having someone who deigned to speak with them, and an outsider to whom they could explain their philosophy and lifestyle. I also discovered, after conversing with the freewomen and the males as well, that all the female members, regardless of status, took the whole thing much more seriously than the men; which made sense. After all, in many ways they had a much more personal stake in the Gorean fantasy. For them it was not, and could not be, a mere charade.
Naturally I was asked the same questions as the other night. “Are you going to join us? Free or slave?” I did not answer; but the truth is that I really enjoyed myself. And as the evening progressed, the fun built up.
Around ten o’clock all the kajirae danced naked, individually or in pairs. They were very good, having had lots of practice no doubt, and were not hindered by the mats on the dance floor. The choreography was intricate and exquisite. A few of the girls were shy about removing their clothing, but they did not hesitate. (Every slavegirl, at some stage, had to bare herself completely.) The barmaid, the same from the other night, seemed happy to be out of her metal bikini. The freewomen clapped along with the men, and a couple of them danced as well, albeit with their dresses on.
We stayed until midnight, when Richard abruptly decided that it was time to go. I actually protested. But on the way home he told me that my visitor’s rights had expired. If I wanted to go back, I would have to join the Gorean society for real. I just laughed. And that might have been the end of it.
So why I went back to the tavern is a question to which I have only now discovered the answer. It was the same feeling which had impelled me to return for my second visit, a sense that there was a void in my life which needed to be filled. For a long time I had been focused on things and people outside of myself, and when I looked back on my own experiences it was like seeing them through the eyes of a stranger. But it was worse than that. My existence was mundane. I had given up the adventure sports of my youth (though retaining the daredevil desire that would now be channeled in a different direction). Even in my academic research I felt I’d settled for cosy mediocrity. There was little excitement left in my life, no challenges, no thrills, no stories.
Visiting the tavern was therefore like therapy. Yet I still knew very little about it. Richard was reluctant to share, and given its nature I could not really blame him. And that in itself piqued my interest. The Goreans were publicity-shy, and cautious about recruiting. So the relative ease with which I was able to enter the tavern attested to Richard’s cachet in the club — so unlike the young man I thought I knew.
Anyway, one afternoon I went with him back to the subterranean lair of the Goreans. In the daytime it was innocuous, almost banal, closed for business with just one person holding the fort. I recognized the custodian as, of all people, the shoe-cleaning girl I’d encountered on my first night. Unlike then, she was fully clothed. She was sitting at one of the tables reading an economics textbook. She looked up, smiled and called Richard by name — no salutation, no grovelling, no downcast gaze.
When we told her I was ready to sign up, she nodded and smiled. She already knew my personal details. Background checks had been done. That was, oddly, both reassuring and disturbing.
I was again asked the question, freewoman or slave.
“Freewoman, I guess.”
“Are you sure?” She looked at Richard.
“Don’t look at me,” he said, grinning.
I gave it some thought. “Yes, definitely.”
She wandered over to the bar and brought back a sheaf of papers for signing.
“Slaves are free,” the girl informed me.
“What? Oh, right. It’s still my decision.”
She just nodded and I paid the membership fee.
“Welcome to Gor.”
She handed me a certificate and receipt, along with a brochure labelled “Terms and Conditions: Strictly Confidential”. And from the latter I gained more insight into the workings of the tavern. As a private club it could operate in the heart of the university campus without official oversight. The staff were unpaid volunteers. The place was not licensed to sell alcohol, and patrons didn’t pay directly for anything. The cost of drinks, for example, was remunerated via an intricate arrangement of monthly levies. It was quite an ingenious set-up, but even so skirted the edges of legality, and I was a little suspicious of how they could get away with it.
In any case, I was now a freewoman of Gor.