A Barbarian Girl on Gor Ch. 01

Chapter 1. Amelia Jane's Last Day on Planet Earth

It had been a weekend of parties and clubbing, but now my alarm clock was ringing, and I realised with a sigh that it was Monday morning. I turned over in bed and groaned.

I knew that this was a big day at work, we had important clients visiting, and I was going to have to help entertain them. Mr Smith, my boss, had taken me to one side on Friday afternoon, and had told me exactly what he wanted me to wear. I should explain that at that time I worked for a small, exclusive investment bank in the City of London. It was my first job out of college, and I had only been doing it for a month, but already I seemed to be favoured for such meetings by Mr Smith.

When I had left my minor Oxbridge college, I had feared the worst. I had an English Literature and Media Studies degree, not particularly helpful for paid employment, I had quickly discovered. I had performed poorly in my examinations, scraping a third class honours pass degree, and that only after a personal visit and appeal to the Head of Department, which had been an ordeal in itself.

I had done well in my pre-exam assessments, but I had to admit, I hadn't really studied for the main exams, and hadn't read the course books, spending my time partying and going out. I had not done much work for the assessments either, yet somehow had got good grades.

Most of my lecturers had been fairly elderly males, and it would probably be fair to say that I had 'dressed to impress'. I am a natural blonde, about five feet eight inches, blue eyed, and for my height, possess strikingly long legs, and an excitingly curved figure of 36-25-35.

In classes and seminars I had tended to wear short dresses and skirts, low-cut tops, and had sat at the very front, smiling a lot at the lecturers.This had certainly seemed to help with my assessment grades, but had done me little good in the examinations themselves, where, as I had found to my cost, the bulk of the marks were awarded.

Subsequently, the Head of Department, perhaps feeling sorry for me considering the lengths to which I had had to go to convince him to award me a passing grade, used his influence to get me an interview at a City Investment Bank, where he apparently had contacts. The vacancy was for a PR representative. Although I knew nothing about banking, nor PR for that matter, I had sailed through the interview, at which I had seemed to be the only candidate, and for which I had worn high heels and an exceptionally short little black number, with a hem just below my panties, and a cleavage just above my belly button. I started work there the following week.

The other employees did not seem to regard me very seriously as a PR representative, although I noticed a lot of the men ogling me, and they weren't very subtle about it. Although it was hard to get the other employees to open up much, I learnt that there had been a succession of pretty girls doing my job, although apparently none of them had lasted very long, and had always seemed to move on without keeping in touch. I determined to be different.

The job was fairly easy, and seemed to consist of making coffee, taking out clients to lunch, and attending meetings where I was not expected to speak.. For these tasks, which of course suited me down to the ground, I was handsomely rewarded, considering that I was a new employee. I even had a wardrobe allowance, which I gather is quite unusual in the world of investment banking, and which Mr Smith took it upon himself to supervise personally. His recommendations were surprisingly unconservative, and I found myself attending work in a succession revealing outfits, particularly when certain clients were visiting.

That day I was wearing a complicated updo and Mr Smith had selected a little red dress with a hemline that would be considered scandalously short for the other bank employees, yet for me was standard.

In terms of my decolletage it was one of my more spectacular outfits. It had a cowl cleavage, cut wide, and right down to below my navel. I had used two bits of tape to 'keep myself in place', but even with this safety net, little was left to the imagination, as of course I could not sensibly wear a brassiere with such a dress.

Mr Smith had specifically told me not to wear stockings so the ensemble was completed by high heels and a clutch bag, plus hooped earrings. There was one surprising omission from my outfit, and that was a pair of panties. In our discussion on the previous Friday, Mr Smith had almost casually asked me not to wear any. I had been shocked, but he had pointed out that, given the (relatively) demure length of the dress he had selected for me, there was no danger and a visible pantie line would ruin the lines of the dress, and hence the stunning effect of the whole outfit.

Although I had thought this perhaps 'a step too far' in his control over my wardrobe, I had swallowed my reservations, and obeyed his instructions. After all, it was an important meeting, I could take a taxi to and from work, and we would be taking lunch in the meeting. I am not a girl that particularly enjoys confrontation or standing up to authority.

This meeting seemed fairly typical, a lot of it conducted in a language that I didn't understand. The other attendees at the meeting were all male, and, to my surprise, uniformly rather virile and handsome. Although they all wore immaculate suits and ties, I could not help get the feeling that this wasn't their usual attire, by any means. In fact, most of them gave the impression that they were wearing such outfits almost in the way that one might don a fancy dress costume.

As usual, I was not required to speak, take notes, or do anything really, except occasionally fetch coffee, but the men seemed to spend a lot of the time looking in my direction, and once or twice I had a strange feeling that I was actually the subject of the discussion. My main task was to try not to look too bored, to smile a lot, and to make sure that I sat in a seat where my long legs and deep cleavage were on full show to all. I fulfilled all these criteria, despite the meeting going on seemingly for ever, well past official work hours.

At the end of the almost interminable conclave, and to my genuine surprise, Mr Smith announced that the clients had been so pleased with my contribution, that they had given me a small token of their gratitude. The present was strange, an unusual bracelet, a little large, and rather plain. I reflected that it might be something relevant to their culture.

"It is for your ankle," said one of the men as I tried to put it on my wrist, his accent awkward and heavy.

I was a little taken aback. I had assumed it to be a bracelet. How out of touch with fashion were these men? An anklet, indeed! What did they think I was? I smiled my best fake smile. "Thank you. You are too kind! It is lovely."

Mr Smith looked pleased.

"Put it on!" called one of the men..

"Yes, put it on!" cried another.

I looked at Mr Smith, unsure what I should do. He nodded to me. Obviously it would not do to disappoint these valuable foreign clients, despite the fact that they were taking rather a liberty, and it would be difficult to comply with their request modestly, given the extremely scanty geometries of my outfit.

Nevertheless, I lifted my right leg, as demurely as possible, ready to don the anklet.

"You will need to take your shoe off," pointed out Mr Smith.

I could not see how this was so, as the anklet could simply snap about my lower limb, but I supposed it should not do to argue with Mr Smith.

With difficulty, and endeavouring to keep my skimpy red dress in place as best I could, I undid the strap of my right Christian Louboutin high-heel, black, with its signature red soles. My right foot was now bare.

"It is for your left ankle!" called one of the men, laughing. I blushed a little. How could it matter which ankle I wore it on?

Several others took up the cry. I looked at Mr Smith once more, and he nodded to me again, fairly sternly. I felt that they were perhaps sporting with me a bit, but I supposed it was all good-humoured and not malicious. Besides, my heels were high and it might be best to have them both off, that I not trip.

I took off my other shoe, and then with difficulty, snapped the anklet in place on my left leg.

Mr Smith whispered to me that I should curtsey to show my thanks, and although I had not performed such a gesture since I was a little girl, at his behest I went through with it, performing a graceful English curtsey, which even elicited a round of applause from the clients. I had not realised the effect of the curtsey on the hem of my dress, and realised that I might again have shown a little bit more of myself than intended, but it was nice to be applauded, all the same. I beamed with delight, although I am sure I was blushing a little too.

Some of the men clapped their hands, although some applauded by smiting their shoulders with their hands. This intrigued me, showing another aspect of the cultural differences on show. I wondered, not for the first time, which country they came from. It had not, of course, been considered necessary, at or before the meeting to appraise me of any details of this nature.

In any case, Mr Smith said afterwards that he was very pleased with me, and hinted confidentially that I might soon be expecting a dramatic change in my circumstances, tapping his nose significantly. A raise or promotion, I thought, after only one month in the job! Amelia Jane Harrington was going places!

I was gratified, as, perhaps somewhat impulsively, I had, on obtaining employment purchased a small apartment not far from Canary Wharf. Despite my generous remuneration, this purchase had stretched me somewhat financially, what with having to pay my student debts, and buy lots of tasteful furniture, and get taxis back and forth, and so on, so a raise in my salary would have been a most welcome development

The meeting had ended very late, and the City had emptied out. One inconvenient aspect was that the anklet did not appear to have come with a key, and there seemed no way of getting it off my leg. However, it wasn't painful, it fitted very well in fact, and I supposed it could be quite an attractive feature with some thought as to matching outfits, although somehow it looked a little incongruous with the heels..

Outside, the few taxis that were around were already occupied and did not respond to my increasingly desperate hailing, This was quite unusual - normally I find it easy enough to hail a taxi, but it seemed that bigger fares were on offer, so eventually I got my phone out of my clutch bag and dialled a local company. Unfortunately they told me it would be at least an hour wait for a cab. Crossly, I gave up and went to catch the tube.

On the steps leading down to the station a particularly decrepit looking beggar importuned me for money to buy a cup of tea. I cast him an unpleasant look. How dare he presume to solicit me? I loathed people that presumed upon one's privacy in this way. Why could he not just sit still in his rags and allow me to decide to give him money or not? In response to my look he made a disgusting noise then laughed at me. I carried on down the stairs hearing him call obscenities after me.

I purchased a ticket from the machine, and almost immediately a train came by. At the next station, I realised why there had been no available taxis. The carriage, from being empty, was suddenly filled with football fans, presumably on their way home from a match. I pressed my legs together tightly, and clutched my little bag tightly to my lap. They were chanting obscenely, and I knew it was only a matter of time before I should find myself involved in the 'banter'.

Sure enough, one of them leant over.

"Hey, Jim, look at the legs on that!"

"Yeah, and the tits!"

"You an Arsenal fan, gorgeous, all dolled up in red?"

I studiously tried to look away, wishing desperately to be alone again. The men sitting either side of me pushed in, squashing me in my seat.

"Hey gorgeous, we're talking' to yer! You a fan of the Arse?"

"I'm a fan of her arse!"

There was ribald laughter. I had only one stop to go. I tried not to make eye contact. One of the men put his hand on my bare thigh.

"P..please," I stuttered, "I don't really follow football, I...I'm just going home from work, and my stop is coming up."

With difficulty, and having to press my body against the two thugs who hemmed me in, I got to my feet.

"You live here, eh? Canary Wharf? You must have a bit of dosh. Wotcher do then, Blondie?"

"Wotcher think she does, Stan, dressed like that? She's a tart ain't she?"

"That right, Blondie? You a tart? How much yer charge?"

"If..if...you must know, I'm an investment banker. Now, please let me off."

I was trying to push through the throng of bodies to the doors, as the train pulled into the station.

"You hear that Stan? Little tart says she's a bleedin' banker. Don't look like any banker I ever see!"

They jostled me more. I felt a hand reaching into my decotellage. I took one hand off my clutch bag to try and push it away. I felt another hand high on my inside leg, groping up inside my dress.

"Please! You have no right! Let me off!"

The doors to the carriage opened. The hand groped inevitably higher up my inadequate little dress.

"Ere! The little tart ain't wearing' no knickers!"

I could feel the man's hand now at my slit. Other hands began to lift the short hem of my dress to confirm his statement. I began to realise that I was in real trouble.

"She's wet as an eel! We got ourselves a right little slut 'ere!"

I lunged desperately for the doors, they were going to shut at any moment now, and who knows what would happen to me before the next stop.

I felt my momentum come to a stop, just inches from the door. I began to sob.

Suddenly, I heard a thumping sound, and the man next to me collapsed in a heap. I felt strong hands grip me, round the waist, and push me hard through the carriage doors, just as they began to close. I tumbled out onto the platform, another man with me. The train pulled away.

I got to my feet. The man next to me, dressed in a city suit, seemed familiar.

"Thank you," I said.

I realised with a shock that he was one of the men in the meeting that day.

"You are welcome," he smiled, speaking with a heavy accent, "we would not wish damaged goods."

I could not understand this phrase at all, assuming either that I had misheard him, or that his understanding of English was limited. At any rate, I was in his debt.

"You were one of the men in the meeting today, weren't you? At the bank?"

"Yes, I was. I see you still wear your anklet."

We walked out of the station together, it not particularly occurring to me to consider why he had been on the train in the first place. Outside, I held out my hand, to shake his and say goodbye.

He regarded my outstretched hand curiously, as if he had no idea what to do with it.

"Please," he said, "allow me to accompany you home in a taxi. I would not wish you to walk."

I smiled, "Thank you, but I think you will find it hard to get a taxi."

In response he looked down the street and clicked his fingers. Immediately, a taxi came to a stop beside us.

"Please," he gestured.

Gratefully, I got in. It was true, that I would not want to be walking those quiet streets home after what had happened on the train. It would only take a minute or two by taxi, and I was still shaken.

"Well," I said, "you will have to let me pay the fare."

"No," he said, "There will be no need for that."

I gave him a smile of gratitude. I don't object to offers from others to pay my way, particularly men. After all, it's their choice, and if they want to spend a bit of their money on me, well so be it. I called my address to the driver through the sturdy mesh grille and the taxi moved off.

I looked down demurely. Although I consider myself to be a very pretty girl (I am not one for false modesty), I had not really had time to find a boyfriend since coming to London. I had had several 'one-night-stands' with various boys at the weekends, finding it almost absurdly easy to have them at my beck and call in the city's nightclubs. However, I regarded this handsome, burly, stranger differently somehow, and determined to find out more about him, perhaps even seduce him.

I turned to him, smiling prettily.

"So, do you live in..."

I cut my question short. To my surprise he had put on a mask, that covered his nose and mouth. I heard the sound of some sort of gas entering the enclosed booth of the taxi.

I sobbed and scratched at the door, which was locked.

I felt weak.

"You seem interested to know of me. I will be your handler. We are now on our way to a very different place....your new home"

I opened and closed my mouth, I wanted to protest, but no words came out.

As I lost consciousness, I began to consider that I was perhaps not destined for a lucrative career in international investment banking after all.

****

The spaceship was huge, but I recall little of it. I was very drowsy. I was carried like a sack of coal over a man's shoulder. I realised that I was now nude. I remember looking down the whole length of the ship, and seeing layers and layers of futuristic semi-transparent pods, most with something inside, the size of a small human. I was placed in one of the pods. I saw my handler looking down on me. I tried to whimper. The lid of the pod closed over me. I felt more gas enter the pod. I lost consciousness.

When I woke up, I was not on earth.