Gay, Bejeweled, Nazi Bikers of Gor

For a long time we knelt in the great square of Er. It was long, kneeling there, but we were bound and so we knelt.

Before us, the men of the Harleys rode about, the wheels of their Harleys kicking up much dust from the ground of the great square of Er, which was paved, as great squares in Gorean cities typically are, the caste of the great square pavers being not a low caste but neither it being a high caste, in the caste system of Gor. Gor's caste system is one which governs the functions of economic modalities on Gor, so to speak, and which provides much of the legendary stability of Gorean society, which is very stable, being in rightness with things such as one's caste and one's very cells, bred over millennia to be what one is, and this being known by Goreans but not by Earth men, who are weak and despicable for not following the trueness of their natural modalities.

I blinked as a Harley kicked dust into my face. Blinking, I saw that it was ridden by the one called Cobra. Blergus watched him, tears in his eyes.

"He is so manly," whispered Blergus.

I knew that Blergus' master needs were muchly upon him. It is not easy to be a Gorean master, in the right and natural way of things. It involves many modalities.

Cobra was watching Blergus. His voice was rough and manly as he spoke.

"You wanna ride, cutie?"

I feared that Blergus might faint. He was a Gorean warrior, of high caste and so did not faint, his caste being manly. I trembled as he answered.

"Yes!"

Cobra rose from his Harley and stepped to Blergus and cut his bonds. This had the incidental effect for no particular reason of freeing my bonds as well, and Blergus rose to face Cobra.

"I have waited long," Blergus said, "to feel this way. Always before I was unfulfilled, my master needs unmet. But now--"

"Are you gonna shuddup and get on the bike or not?" demanded Cobra.

"Oh, yes!" cried Blergus. "Yes!" He hurried to the bike and climbed atop it. As he did Cobra patted his bottom manfully.

I fought not to faint. Only the strong, manly discipline of my training as a Gorean warrior kept me from fainting. I was grateful then that I had been trained as a Gorean warrior, which is the training of a high caste of Gor, not like the low castes of the peasants, who nonetheless defend their hotel-stones with great ardor, or the caste of the lawn-care workers, or the caste of the paper-boys, these being low castes which are nonetheless very proud. The lawn-care workers, for example, keep the lawns of Gorean homes cared for, and so are important for the structure of Gorean society, it needing proper lawn-care to maintain the rightness of modalities that is the way of Gor, unlike Earth, which is weak and perverse and not in the right way of things in terms of lawn-care.

Blergus giggled in pleasure, as only a Gorean warrior can giggle. Cobra took the seat in front of him, and with a roar the Harley roared to life, roaring away loudly.

I felt my wrists. I was free, having been freed incidentally when Blergus' bonds had been cut.

I looked around me. Other bikers were coming close now, and the warriors of Er were watching them and were being taken for rides on their Harleys.

Would a biker come for me as Cobra had come for Blergus?

Would I too be made a Gorean master as Blergus had been made a Gorean master? Would I be watered as a houseplant might be watered?

I trembled.

But my hands were free. They had been freed incidentally when Cobra had cut Blergus' bonds!

Across the great square of Er, I saw the Leader of the Pack.

And suddenly, with hurriedness and urgency, I rose and fled.

Behind me, I heard a great shout, and the manly roar of Harleys, over which came another shout that I recognized as that of the Leader of the Pack.

"He's mine!"

I fled. Shame overwhelmed me, for I was a Gorean man, and Gorean men never flee, especially when to flee means the disgrace of one's hotel-stone. But feelings of great confusion swept through me and unthinking, I ran, making my way down the Street of Hermandus Demandus, which sits opposite the great square of Er, and from this I rushed to Mercury Street in the direction of the Avenue of the Off-To-The-Right Cylinder.

Behind me, I heard the roar of the Harley of the Leader of the Pack. Terrified, I rushed away, westward on Clove Street to the Trombone Market, this being the place in Er where the caste of trombone makers peddles its wares to members of the caste of trombone players, so to speak. For the moment the Harley was out of view.

Why was I so afraid? It could not be a fear of death that possessed me, for as a Gorean warrior I gladly faced death, dying being a proper modality for a warrior, this being bred successfully into our genes over millions of years of evolution in which the strongest men died young and in violent ways and so were evolutionarily more successful than weak men, who might flee with the women and survive with them for a long time, fathering many children as a result. No, it could not be a fear of death that had made me flee.

I trembled, and cried out suddenly.

For the Leader of the Pack had suddenly emerged on Venerealus Street, which borders the Trombone Market to the north just as Clove Street borders it on the south. Again I fled west on Clove as I heard the Leader shout after me.

"C'mon, Sweet Cheeks! You wanna go for a ride?"

My knees felt weak as I heard his words. No! I must resist my feelings! I must not admit them!

I saw the wall of Er ahead. But where before it had protected the city, now it trapped me within, just as I was trapped with my feelings, my confusion. Did I dare admit my masterly needs? Did I dare admit that the Leader excited me in manly, masterly ways?

I peered down a side street. As is the right modality of things, many of these streets in Gorean cities do not have proper names, but may be known to those who live in the neighborhood by informal names, such as "the street where the gardener Borin watered his houseplants," "the street where the slave Tiffany wrote a long and pointless description of the naming procedures of small Gorean streets," "the street where you can find the house of the court-martialled private Hoosdrun," and so on. To the chagrin of the reader of any account where small Gorean streets are mentioned, streets are often called different names by different people, so a street may have the name, for example, of "the street where the slave Tiffany wrote a long and pointless description of the naming procedures of small Gorean streets," at one end and a second name at the other end, such as "the street where master Clitoris Vitalis had a bad case of gas," at the other. In between the street might have still more names, depending on who you ask, such as "the street where the free clinic was widely used by the men of Er during the last embarrassing outbreak," or "the street where Gonnorhius had terrible pain when he went to the bathroom."

Behind me, I heard the roar of the Harley again. In terror, I rushed down the side street, hoping the Harley would not be able to follow.

Ahead, then, I saw the figure of a woman, and in sudden relief I saw that it was my slave, Doona. She was in front of me. I had not recognized her because she was clothed now.

"Greetings, Turl," she said. She must have known I would come this way. Manfully I approached her.

"Doona!" I exclaimed. "You must hide me! I am being pursued!"

"I've been looking for you," she said.

"You've been looking for me?" I asked.

"I just said that," she said.

"You just said that?" I asked.

"Oh, for God's sake, shut up, Turl," she snapped. "Why do Goreans always repeat one another?"

"Oh, for God's sake--" I began, but she reached up and grabbed my ear and twisted it.

"Ow!" I exclaimed.

She guided me into an alley and faced me.

"Now," she said, "I've put up with a lot from you, but this is the last straw."

"What is?" I demanded. I could not believe what I was hearing! She was my slave, on Gor, where the right way of things prevails and slaves are slaves and masters are masters and each is content in their right way--

"Will you stop already?" she said. She then reached into the large purse she was carrying and pulled out a massive book, a tome of amazing size such as could only be made on Gor, Earth books being weak, like Earth men, who are weak and contemptible--

"What did I just tell you?" she demanded.

She held the book before me. "More than three million words already," she said. "And now this."

I recognized the latest installment of my accounts of Gor.

"It's 717 pages long," she said. "I'm not going to copyedit it for you. Forget it."

"It is the latest chapter of the saga!" I exclaimed. "It reveals great truths about the Gorean philosophy!"

"Get a damn editor!" she cried, and brought the massive tome down hard on my head.

I was stunned at the force of it. Had it been an Earth book it would have been small and light and weak, and I would not have been stunned. But this was a Gor book, filled with many, many words and pages that made its philosophy utterly and repeatedly clear over and over and over again so that anyone and everyone would understand exactly what its philosophy was no matter what preconceptions they might have had because of their negative Earth conditioning and modalities, and so it was extra large and thick and strong and therefore, following the modalities of books, quite heavy.

I saw Doona slip through a nearby door and heard it lock behind her.

"Wait!" I cried, but I tripped over the massive book before me and fell.

As I looked up I heard the sound of the Harley, and I saw the Leader of the Pack pull to a stop at the head of the alley.

"Hey there, good lookin'," he said.

There was nowhere to run. I must face my modalities.