A weaker sex?
Unsure whether free men were not hit harder by the mental effects of slavery, despite the physical side of things, because Panthers knew for Gorean males, especially ones who had been of the warriors, death was favourable to slavery, for death provided an honour able exit. Finding themselves reduced legally in the eyes of the law as something that appears on a balance sheet under livestock, reduced many men to tears, but not as much as the discovery of what a true Panther really wanted and could demand from him. Panthers knew the combination of slave heat, frustration, constant torment and teasing that mistresses put male slaves through were the real killers, and ultimately what really broke a free man.
Thus, the Panther girls combined uncompromising iron will and raw sensuality to be exactly the tool required in breaking in her new kajiri. Wearing revealing animal skins, much of their tanned, fit bodies were exposed, as the skin wraps around their waist and nether regions, with a knot on the side to hold it in place. Some wore light sandals or moccasins, but just as many went barefoot. The only jewelry worn, were delicate threads of tiny shells about most girls’ ankles. Panther girls were sexual and sensual in nature and were afraid to hide nothing of their bodies as most Gorean Free Women did. Along with any weapons they choose to wear, Panther girls presented each nude male slave a daunting and conflicting image.
Unused to such women, yet fully aware of the Panther girl myth, male slaves became confused about how their impassioned responses. It was in their nature to respond both on a physical and mental level to such open female sensuality, however the kajiri found their lust not only restrained and reprimanded via the manhood collars each of them now wore, but they also that their assumptions of welcome sexual advances were ungrounded.
The nature of the Panther girls helped the new kajiri to quickly understand the right of women to dress and act as they please before their slaves. So, by the time the Panther girls finally did require or approach the male slaves on a sexual basis within their slave training, each kajirus would be in a state of general confusion and inner turmoil, uncertain of themselves and their bodies’ responses.
Unfamiliar feelings of inner turmoil, as misery and wanting clashed within, made for a perfect forum for the commencement of the sexual aspects of male slave training. It made for a consummate background for teaching men that it was their tongues and lips that were of far more use to please a woman, than their manhoods; and until they had perfected these oral skills, they could not hope to be rewarded.
Panther girls made ideal slave trainers, not only did they terrify the male slaves with their wild ways and uncompromising demands, they also stirred their loins. Strikingly dressed in their furs, weapons fixed in their belts, the panther girls were unashamed of revealing their supple bodies before the kajiri.
“Was he punished?” Asked Red hair.
“Oh yes,” Sav nodded in confirmation, “The slave concerned was gelded as a lesson to the others and chained in the kajira cages for a week. The girls had a great time teasing him whilst he healed. Red hair smiled, amused that the male slave would have suffered terribly as the slave girls teased him with their bodies
Red hair nodded, not blinking an eyelid, slavery and the gelding of male slaves had never really shocked her. Red hair saw castration of a kajirus as just another decision a Panther girl had to make with her property, on a par with choosing which cock ring a male slave should wear.
“I take it, you mean this one? ” Red hair said tapping the kneeling kajirus’s shaven head with her leather strap.
“Yes, it is,” Sav laughed. Nothing nestling between the kajirus’s muscular thighs , where once low hanging plump balls would have been. The slave ring he wore through his shriveled manhood glinted in the bright sunlight.
“Then sell him to a man!” she said to Sav, pointing to him, as the poor wretch knelt naked and chained.
Sav signaled to another panther girl to remove the male slave from the pole, his fate sealed. “Lesha!” barked Jen, the panther girl. At this command, the kajirus swiftly placed his hands behind his back, ready for binding, and with his head back and chin to the left, ready to have a leash snapped onto his collar. Jen the panther girl then marked his chest with a “O” with her marking stick, before securing him and leading him away.
Impressed with his obedience, Red hair complemented Sav, “You have trained him well Sav, another batch of male slave meat to be sold at our trade post and trained to your highest standards.”
“Thank you,” Sav smiled and nodded, pleased with her sisters complement.
“Shall we proceed,” Red hair said, “I think we have a lively one here.”
Walking over to the next male slave, Red hair grinned, indicating the males stirring manhood.
“Your voice has such an effect on males!” Sav laughed, “Position, boi.”
With a swiftness defying his bulk, he rose, large bare feet widely spread, providing them with full and easy access to his naked body.
Reaching out, Red hair momentarily fondled the males manhood. It was all that was needed. Free of his restraints, probably for the longest time in his slavery, Red hair was experienced enough to know accidents could happen at this stage more than any other. Withdrawing her hand, she said, “I think he’s lively in more ways than one.”
“Indeed.” Sav replied closely watching the males manhood pulse before them.
Her almond-shaped emerald eyes watched him intently, sparkling, challenging him, as her exploring, hand moved across his chest, down past his belly and back to his groin. He moaned softly as she cupped his balls, her finger tips exploring deeply, her forearm brushing the tip of his manhood. His knees nearly buckled by the time she took hold of the ring through his manhood, her nimble fingers moving the ring around.
Annoyed at his lack of self-control, Red hair struck the back of his calves with her leather strap. “Stand still boi !”
Emitting a small cry when struck, he rocked on his toes. She waved her hand to Sav. “Prepare the beast and bring him to my hut later.”
Turning to the male slave, Sav regarded the him closely, looking him up and down, wondering what red hair had seen that was so interesting. He was cute enough, vital enough and well developed enough but so were many of the other slaves that had been on display. Shrugging to herself, she said, “Nadu, boi.”
As he knelt at her feet, knees widely spread, Sav gave him a swift kick in the groin. The kajirus collapsed in pain, sobbing he curled up in a ball, dust from the sand pit sticking to the sweat of his body. Crouching before him, Sav retrieved his restraint and replaced it on his now shrunken and tender manhood. “I’m not sure if the others should envy or pity you boi. Red hair is a harsh one.”
Beg for me
“I want you to beg,” I said. I managed to keep my voice steady, which was pretty impressive considering how drunk I’d gotten on paga, and how much emotion I was trying to keep bottled up just then. I kept my gaze steady too, my eyes meeting his as he looked up from his place near the cage. He was trying to gauge my mood, and usually I let him, wanting him to match me, to be the perfect foil. Not this time, though. Or rather, this time the mood I wanted him to see was something that I already knew he couldn’t exactly match.
Meet, yes. With tears in his eyes and that little catch in his words that cut deeper than any knife could… with his hands shaking and his own body fighting him as he tried to obey… under those terms, he could meet it. But never match it.
He could never match my rage.
And so I showed him nothing but blankness and the deep pits that my eyes could become when I was feeling beyond cruel. I held his gaze for a moment, then turned back to the camp fire, a paga mug still in my hand, letting him kneel near the cages for a moment more. I knew he’d speak eventually, my comment had ensured that.
“Wh..what do you want me to beg for, Huntress?”
He had such a sweet voice, all timid and trembling, the voice of someone who was already frightened before I’d even begun to show him how far I would go tonight. Then again, he knew me. Knew that I didn’t normally play when drunk. That I didn’t EVER let out the beast within me without a reason. So I guess he had every right to be afraid …. I’d suddenly changed the rules on him.
I shook my head, waved the mug languidly at the cage, letting the paga slur my words a bit more than it would normally. I wanted him thinking me completely drunk.
“In the cage, boi. Close the door.”
He scrambled instantly toward it, but hesitated with one hand already inside, resting on the furs that I allowed him.
“H..Huntress? May your slave leave the door o..open, please?” and his voice caught so wonderfully, tripping over the words. He knew how to exaggerate his own fear for me, trying to appease my hungers, to spare himself the pain and fright that I’d otherwise cause him. Normally very effective, but the alcohol helped me wall away my desire to protect him and I’d already made up my mind as to what I wanted.
I shook my head, waved the mug again, my voice still slipping over the phrases with what he could only interpret as drunken carelessness.
“No, little one. Close the door. Then beg.”
He hated it when I did this, ordering him to beg without telling him what I wanted to hear him pleading for, making even the choice of it into a form of torture … he knew that if he begged for the wrong things, it would be worse than if he failed to beg well for the right things. He hated that. Hated being forced to make choices. He’d submitted to me in part because then so often I made the choices, the decisions… and here I was, throwing his own slavery back in his face. Poor boy. I grinned as I heard the cage door shut.
He fumbled about for a moment, turning like a puppy on its rug until he found a reasonably comfortable position, facing me, his hands pressed against the sturdy wire bars of the cage and his eyes wide, mournful, a puppy indeed… no words came out yet, he was thinking. I snickered. Took another sip of my paga. No need to let him know that I’d diluted it…
“H..Huntress? Did I do something wrong?”
He asked that a lot, actually… every time I caged him, every time I gave him an order that he and I both knew he hated. He was more afraid of displeasing me than of the actual punishment …when he failed me he wanted to know, wanted to learn from it. Again, an admirable quality… just not what I wanted right now. I shook my head again. He was silent for a while, thinking.
Finally he took a guess, betting that what I wanted was an excuse to punish him (clever boy, but not quite clever enough) or to make him hurt in some way… and curled up on the furs, silent. Making it very clear that he wasn’t going to beg.
I turned slowly, set the mug down, as I did so. Looked at him. He looked back, trying to keep up his courage, but I could already see his fear building. He knew that sometimes the only way to avoid serious misery was to try to provoke me early on, to draw out a bit of my anger at the start.
But I knew it too. And I just grinned at him. Oh, he shuddered then… he’d seen that grin, seen it when I first decided he was ready to taste his own blood, seen it when I beat him truly, the first time, seen it the few times I honestly wanted him to suffer. And he thought he’d guessed right.