Chapter One

Kristel

I write the following narrative at the command of my Master, a man of many facets, and many skills.

He enjoys such things, I know, for I am not the only one of his slaves to have written her story for him. He keeps them in his library, a trophy of sorts, and a delight. One with little experience with Warriors would take them to be burly, rudimentary men, concerned only with the arts of war, and bloodshed, and conquest, but this is far from the truth. Indeed, the best Warriors are those who see the world in all its colors, who enjoy all of its pleasures, rich and splendid in their variety. How else could they attempt to make their bloody mark on it, if they don’t see it in all its splendour?

So this, like everything else I am, serves for his pleasure. It written in English, as I am illiterate in Gorean. My Master speaks it, having visited Earth on occasion, but I presume he may have this document translated anyway.

Now, to my story.

I was born in the world generally called Earth, into a middle-status family, in a land called America. Our people were called Spanish, though my family itself was of mixed origins, with my mother being three fourths of a people called Berbers, these not too different from the peoples of the Tahari. My family, which included an older brother, emigrated to  this land before I was born, from their home country. My father used to be what we call a gymnast, an athletic performer, and he got a position as an instructor in a prominent learning center in America.

My mother, named Maria, lived the life of an Earthling housewife, a role similar to a low caste free companion, a life which I fear is awfully unfulfilling.

I too practiced gymnastics under my father’s tutelage, and I became proficient at it.

Gymnastics, as we call them, consist of the displaying of physical strength, flexibility, power, agility, coordination, grace, balance and control in a series of exercises. As such, my body was in peak condition, smooth, graceful and flexible. I have no doubt our formation in such techniques played a part in the decision to enslave me.

My name, incidentally, was Kristel, a name chosen for its apparent similarity with those traditionally used in America, but those close to me generally called me Kris. I never thought of myself as particularly pretty, but people around me said I was. I was shy, but amicable enough, and had good friends.

I am dark skinned, like the color of caramel, with almond-colored eyes and dark, wavy hair. My breasts were average sized, but pretty and well formed, with dark nipples and areolas the size of tarn disks, a trait partly inherited from my mother, whose areolas are larger. My hips are wide, and my contour tapers as one goes up to my waist and my flanks. Too, I have a large ass, not grotesquely so, but enough to be a readily noticeable trait.

At seventeen I had my first love, with an American lad a couple of years my senior. I enjoyed his company, and his kisses. His name was David. He was the one with whom I first lay, one marvelous night, long ago, in his quarters. He was gentle and kind with me that night, a true gentleman of Earth. He pampered me, buying me presents, catering to my tastes, and always made love to my like I was made of crystal.

My friends envied me, and everyone around told me David was the best man I could have found, but I don’t think I was truly happy. Something was lacking in my life, and being with David always left me with a feeling of  dissatisfaction, of emptiness, as if I had hoped he would do something more to me. My life was dull, uneventful, gray. The only exhilaration I ever felt was from practicing my gymnastics. I longed for excitement, for danger, and I feared I would never know any of that.

I would have never imagined that I was being appraised by Gorean slavers, evaluated for signs of my potential as a slave, not only physical, but emotional and intellectual. Only females with sufficient responsiveness, sensibility, intelligence and an adequate disposition are considered for slavery.

It is clear that my mother was being observed too, and that she was found worthy of the collar, for we were taken together, the same day, some three months after my eighteenth birthday. They came into our house while we slept, deep into the night. I suppose they sedated my brother and father, though I do not know that for certain.

I woke to them lifting me from my bed, men stronger than what I thought possible, handling me like a doll. I managed to scream for one or two seconds, before they shoved a pair of my panties into my mouth, where they were secured by a thin band of cloth tied around my head, tight.

My eyes were wild, light those of a panicking animal, wide and watery. I tensed and struggle, to no avail, for they were too strong for me, and the muffled sounds from my mouth were similarly useless. They ripped off my sleeping clothes, and the panties I wore, leaving me stark naked.

There were three of them, the two dragging me out of my room, and another one, tall and blue eyed, who seemed their leader, by the way he talked and walked. As they took me to the hallway, I saw my mother, similarly restrained and gagged, already standing there in the grasp of two others, her eyes bloated and dripping tears, her face reddened.

“You too will do nicely,” we heard from the mouth of the apparent leader. A second after that, I felt a needle piercing my neck, and I fell into a deep slumber.