Introduction

 

Kajira, n.

A female who is owned by another person or persons, a slavegirl, a female slave

Pronunciation: Brit. And U.S. /ka-jir-ă/

Forms: pl. Kajirae /ka-jir-ī/; kijirus (male);

pl. kijiri (male); pagar kajira (pleasure slave)

Etymology: Gorean from the fiction of John Norman

 

 

"Fuck me, Billy," she whispered urgently in his ear, "and do it rough, okay?"

Jordan was "tipsy," a state of drunkenness where people say what they are really thinking. She was also hyper-aroused, every erogenous zone in her body was flashing red. It was a dangerous combination especially for someone like her.

He, surprised, pushed her away and stared at her for a moment. The urgency in her voice scared him. He wasn't good with real drama. His goal was to cruise through college without encountering any bumps, to rely on his good looks, his charm, and his athletic skills to get him through unscathed. After, he planned to join his father's hedge fund and live a life of privilege and ease. His plan didn't include any "crazies."

Jordan had never exhibited any extremism which was why he was with her. Which was why they had been together for almost six months. This and the fact that she was drop-dead gorgeous-a silver-blond beauty who could literally stop traffic under the right circumstances. He had selected her in the same way he had chosen his fraternity, clothes, cars, friends...with great care.

"You got it, beautiful," he answered lightly, trying to make her appeal into a joke.

She stared at him with a look he had never seen. Tipsy also promoted persistence. She was not ready to give up so easily especially given the optimal circumstances for her to...

To what, she wondered...to come out?

He had her naked to the waist in one of the spare bedrooms the fraternity kept empty for "guests." They were already lovers, but tonight had been different; tonight, he had carried her upstairs over his shoulder, roughly ripped off her top, and immediately begun to gnaw on her nipples, roughly manhandling her for ten minutes until he was as hard as a billystick.

This uncharacteristic behavior had triggered something in her, something she couldn't control.

"I mean it, lover," she whispered huskily. "I want you to...to fuck me hard. I want to know what it feels like to be with a man, a real man, one who needs to...to control me.

" You can...," she hesitated, clearly at war with herself, "You can tie me up if you want...hurt me if you want...that kind of thing. I know it's been on your mind. You've talked around it for months. Now you need the balls to do it."

He pushed her away, angry that she would insinuate that he didn't have the balls to do something, but she could see the fear in his eyes. He was afraid...terrified. He might do it for appearance sake, but it wasn't in him. She couldn't believe it; he had always projected strength and courage, portraited himself as...as a warrior.

It could not be true!

Quickly, she stripped off her jeans and panties and dropped to her knees.

"I want you, Billy...I want you inside me. I want to feel you, taste you."

With an undeniable need, she unbuckled his belt. pulled his pants down, and began to pleasure him with her lips, tongue, and mouth. She licked his shaft franticly then sucked his balls into her mouth. The sudden urgency aroused him, but it also increased his fear. He had carefully avoided the crazy, oversexed girls on campus; they were nothing but trouble for someone of his class. Jordan had been different-she was a goddess and more importantly, she was reserved in a way that fit his current and future lifestyle. This behavior was totally out of character.

He pulled her off his cock and lifted her to her feet.

"What's going on, Jordan? Why are you acting like this?"

"Just let me suck it, Billy," she pleaded. "I want to...I want you to know how much I love you. Tie my hands if you want and make me suck it. After, you can do mw up the ass. You always said you wanted to try that. This is your chance.

"FUCK ME, WILL YOU; I WANT IT!"

He shook his head trying to look mature and responsible.

It wasn't working. The more she begged for him to dominate her, the more he backed away, scared and unnerved. He wasn't one of them. Despite his family's money and the trappings of power that it gave him, he was not one of them.

"Of course, I'm going to fuck you, Jordan," he said pushing her gently back onto the bed. "But I'm going to do it the 'right' way. You are not some crazy slut; you're my girl, my choice... You've met my parents, my father. You know the kind of person we need."

Now he was speaking the truth. She tried to wiggle out from under, but he had her pinned. She felt underneath and grabbed his cock, pulling on it with a frenzy. She already knew it was over between them. She had exposed herself for nothing.

"Shhh. It's okay, Jordan. You just had too much to drink tonight."

Slowly, he reached down and pulled her hand away from his cock then slipped his penis ever so carefully into her wet vagina and began to thrust lightly with a constant rhythm. In two minutes, he came, suppressing his grunts, then he collapsed on her. A minute later, he rolled over and lay on his back, eyes closed.

"That was amazing, Jor. Did you come?"

The condescending tone of his question stirred her anger once again, but the evening was too much of a disaster for her to care. He was calming her down, placating her, pretending it was all about the liquor. He didn't want to dominate her-none of the boys she had dated did-they just wanted a better way to masturbate.

"It was wonderful, Bill," she lied.

She had bared her soul to him, expressed her most secret, most intimate thoughts, and he had dismissed them...he had dismissed her. Was he right to do that? Were these thoughts of hers all bullshit? Was she just imagining these feelings? Was she just a freak?

The idea that she was submissive had been with her since puberty; the thoughts and feelings that came with it were magical. She dreamed of a strong man, a fierce leader, someone who would take her as his right, not someone who would win her over with his charm.

Was it all a young girl's fantasy?

She was beautiful-everyone told her that-maybe she should just settle for the life that came with unusual beauty-marriage, home, kids, money, privilege... That was what Bill thought; that was what her mother thought, what she advised. Her mother was like her, she could feel it, but instead of following her heart, she had gone with the flow. A decision that had brought her nothing but frustration, anger, binge eating, divorce, and deep depression.

No, she thought. I refuse to accept this. I am not a freak; my feelings are not a phase. I need to find the kind of man that fits...with me. The warrior, for lack of a better term, who will dominate rather than respect, who will demand and not plead.

It's the only way for me.

The next day, she broke up with Billy, William Harriman III, in an abrupt email and joined BDSM Friends, a website dedicated to bringing people with an interest in BDSM together. Billy responded to her email by outing her as a sex-crazed freak to their friends and his parents, claiming he had rejected her because he didn't want to be with a weird nymphomaniac.

Most of her friends accepted his explanation, sensing for themselves that she was different.

Their rejection was the final straw. She began to troll BDSM Friends in earnest, searching for someone who fit her profile, someone who might help her discover if her feelings of submissiveness were real. She never imagined the quest would work; it was just a way to cope with the turmoil, to push back against the disappointments and frustrations in her life.

 

***

 

Dillon sat back on the bed staring at the girl. She was incredibly beautiful, a model of female perfection. Every article of clothing she so slowly removed made her even more gorgeous. Every move she made aroused him. He had been with many other beautiful girls, but there was something special about this one, something that sparked a long-dormant feeling and prompted him to ask the questions.

"Do you do bondage, Paige?" he asked, with an assurance that surprised him. "Can I, ah, tie you up, maybe spank you a little?"

He had this dream his entire life but never acted on it before. As an adolescent, he had been a computer nerd, too shy and too cloistered to even ask a girl for a date. In college, the knowledge that he had great things to accomplish had subdued the flames of his sex dreams. After college, his ambition to create new things, to build an empire had consumed him totally. Now, ten years after graduation, the feelings had awakened.

She looked at him coldly then smiled warmly, almost lovingly as if they were already intimate.

"For $8,000 a night, lover, you can do whatever you want to me. I am yours, totally yours until the morning."

There it was, he thought, the buzz killer, the erection deflator. It would have been better if she had said nothing. The last thing he wanted right now was a common whore-someone who was with him for his money. He didn't need release; he needed the fantasy-he wanted to dominate someone the way he had in his mind for 30 years. All his life he had been aroused by bondage, dominance, and submission, but he had always been too shy, too busy, too driven to show it. It was the real reason he was unmarried at 34. The press speculated that he was gay, but he wasn't, he was just waiting...for the fantasy.

The fantasy...! Was that what it was-something he invented in his mind-a computer game that simply didn't exist in the real world? The question was driving him insane, but he was too public a figure now to pursue it. He had thought if he paid someone enough money that...

He couldn't finish the thought; it was too stupid.

She was ruffling naked through her enormous bag. It was not an arousing or appealing look. In seconds, she removed two lengths of silky black rope and what looked like a tennis paddle covered in soft velvet. She turned and smiled then walked closer and put the items on the bed.

"I carry these 'toys' with me for special clients...those who want to go a little further than normal people. Not that a little spanking is not normal; you should see what some men want from me. It's disgusting."

What some men want...special clients...toys...disgusting...

STOP TALKING...! The thought was a flashing neon light in his head. This was not a business transaction to him, not a game; this was his fucking life, at least the life he had been living in his head. According to the Silicon Valley Gazette, he was one of "America's 100 Richest and Most Eligible Men Under Forty," but to this girl-he couldn't even remember her name-he was just a John, one with a kinky itch he wanted her to scratch.

She turned around and looked back alluringly over her shoulder then crossed her wrists and laid them on the plane over her pert ass.

"Go ahead, lover, tie them tight, as tight as you want. I'm your helpless slave girl, tonight...master."

Slave girl...master...the words coming out of her luscious mouth overwhelmed his objections. The invitation was too good to ignore. He used one of the black ropes to tie her wrists together, just as he had done a million times in his head.

"You should do my ankles too, lover. You don't want my legs flailing around while you spank my ass, right? You want me helpless, totally helpless, and unable to stop you, right? You want to be in complete control."

STOP TALKING...please!

He was getting fiercely excited, but this wasn't right. She shouldn't be giving him instructions, telling him what to do, telling him how he should feel, she should be pleading, begging for him to stop...to have mercy.

And he shouldn't be accepting it. He was fierce in work. Employees did what he told them to do or he dismissed, sometimes destroyed them. To his competitors, he was a predator, acquiring businesses and growing like some plague, yet here he was, accepting the condescension of some little bitch just because he wanted...wanted what, pussy?

She turned and lay face-down on the bed, bending her knees, and holding her shapely ankles in the air for him to bind. He did it, feeling increasingly more stupid with every passing second for allowing his faux slave to set the agenda. This wasn't the way the fantasy played out in his mind.

Bound hand and foot, she wiggled off the bed until her feet were touching the floor and turned her face towards him.

"You should probably sit on the chair, Mr. Braddock, with me over your lap."

Mr. Braddock...

"This bed is too soft for the terrible paddling you are about to give me. Once I start twisting with the pain, I'll slip right off, but of course, you know all this...master."

Master...

Every time she opened her mouth, she made it worse, but he couldn't stop. He did as she suggested, positioning her on the chair with one of his legs holding hers, then he stared at the velvet-covered paddle. The material was too soft and porous to produce much pain. At most, if he hit her hard enough, it might cause some bruising. This wasn't what he wanted; he wanted her to scream, to beg him to stop, to...

"Please, don't hurt me too badly...master. Is there any way I can stop you from hurting me...please...master!"

She wasn't bad as an actress. Her pleas sounded real, but it was all too staged, too stupid for him to stomach. It was as if he was in some tragic comedy with him as the hapless hero. He stared at her amazing ass for a minute.

"What's wrong, Master? Go ahead. Don't worry, I can take it."

He stood up, placing her on the floor, and began to get dressed.

"What's the matter?" she asked, surprised. "You've got a helpless slave right where you wanted her, right? Be a man and paddle my ass. Come on!"

He stared at her a moment then finished dressing. He pulled at the knots, untied her wrists, then lifted her to her feet.

"I'm not feeling well, tonight, Paige. Maybe, we can try again another time."

She turned her back to him and bent over, putting her ass and cunt in his face, and untied her ankles.

"There are no refunds, Mr. Braddock," she said firmly with business-like finality. "That was part of the deal we agreed...no refunds. If you want to do this again, the fee for a full night is the same. I can let you have a 10% repeat-customer discount but that's it."

"Okay, thanks," he said quickly. "I understand. I'll have someone call you."

She dressed slowly then stood in the middle of the room, waiting.

"We'll do it again another time, soon," he repeated. "I'll have someone call you."

"No tip...? An $8,000 evening, Mr. Braddock, and no tip...? Most men put a grand in my pocket for a full evening. It's customary..."

He stared at her for a moment.

"No, no tip," he said quietly.

There was something different in his voice. It wasn't what he said or the way he said it, it was the look in his eyes that frightened her. She had seen it before on some men, on hard men. It was a warning, a cautionary growl to back off. She shrugged as if the tip didn't matter and walked out without another word.

He sat for a long time thinking about himself, about his life.

Were they real-his feelings of dominance-or were they just what adult nerds did, the way they masturbated over a fantasy? He didn't know. All he knew was that he was out of excuses regarding his sex life. He had no real interest in ordinary sex with either gender, in having a girlfriend, wife, or family. He was as asexual as they come with one exception-he wanted the fantasy. He needed to find out once and for all what this...this obsession was about, and an $8,000-a-night escort was not the way to do it.

He thought for another hour then picked up his cellphone and called his personal assistant.

"Frank, I going to take a year off. I want you to release it to the press in the morning. You can call it a sabbatical for the sake of the stock price; you can say I need to do some long-term thinking about where the business is heading. I want you to draw up a plan that makes my year off as painless as possible, but it needs to happen in the next three or four months."

There was a slight pause.

"Okay," Frank said.

His brevity was one of the reasons Dillon liked him.

"I want to meet with Eric, tomorrow. Fly him over from Croatia."

Eric was his sailing friend--a Syrian soldier turned sailor whom Dillon had met in Australia.

"He's living on the Fantasea, taking care of it for me. The boat is moored in Dubrovnik."

"Okay."

"I also want to meet with Ari Boboian. He works out of the New Jersey office, has an apartment in Manhattan, and lives at a ranch in Arizona. You can get his number from my personal contacts list."

Ari was a member of the Boboian Family, one of his company's most lucrative, but shadowy clients. They had purchased $100 million in software and cloud services in the last five years for businesses that his people told him were elaborate cutouts for less-savory enterprises.

If anyone could help him, he thought, it was Ari.

"Okay."

Frank, who had arranged for tonight's escort, didn't ask how his evening went. Dillon's strange call at 2:30 a.m. told him everything he needed to know. If anyone needed a year off to get his head screwed on right, it was Dillon Braddock.

"Thanks."

The phone went dead. Frank started at it for a minute then opened Dillon's personal contacts file and began making calls. It was 5:30 a.m. on the East Coast and 11:00 a.m. in Dubrovnik. He would need to move fast to get the people Dillon wanted here by tomorrow.