Concordia discors

a note: I debated putting this up, as Witless of Gor is such a very derivative work, but its fans claim it subverts the original text to a degree that makes the plagiarism acceptable. If anyone is interested in pursuing the source material, perhaps these ‘writtings’ are a good starting point, or these ebook excerpts, especially this one. I’ve provided footnotes where possible.

yours helpfully, mina_de_malfois



Witless of Gor
a Patricic Rim fanfiction
written by Jane Noman

I RECORD THESE HAPPENINGS AT THE COMMAND OF MY MISTRESS, BAR ALCOTT.

There is much I do not understand. Brain? What is brain? [1] Let others find what meaning they can in this narrative. I am a blonde, and meaning eludes me.

I gather that my story is neither as unique, nor as strange, as it may seem. By the standards of Aristasia I was regarded as extremely beautiful. Yet here on Whirled, I am a fifteen-gold piece blonde, more lovely than many, yet far excelled by many whose stunning beauty I can only envy. [2] It’s as if the universe has paid me back for every time a worthy Brunette felt intimidated by my beauty, back in Aristasia! I had been rich, too, and educated, and popular, so really the whole slave-trade thing served me right. My fate will be a comfort, should this narrative ever fall into the hands of an insecure brunette with grandiose fantasies. To read it is to feel justified.

Traders, I have learned, ply the slave routes between Whirled and Aristasia. If you are beautiful, and desirable, you may fear. Yet I think there are perhaps worse fates that might befall a blonde than to be brought to this world, even as a prize of Brunettes. [3] She could find herself forced to read an entire series written in such stilted prose as this, for example. Far better to be enslaved!

I was on a camping trip when I became separated from my friends and found a strange rubber-coated metal object. I turned it over and over in my hands and studied it by the light of the campfire. It was about twelve inches long and four inches in circumference. The color of the material was blue, and the strange device hummed faintly, and vibrated. [4] I somehow knew, as it throbbed in my slender hand, that my destiny was upon me. Then, by a mechanism too complex for a blonde to explain, and via some prose too turgid to repeat here, it summoned the ship which brought me to Whirled. I think this will be more erotic if I leave out the really dull bits, don’t you?

Once I reached Whirled my mistress taught me I was a slave. "You are a slave," she told me. "You are owned. You are blonde. You will be forced to be blonde. If you were free, and Whirlean, you might be permitted by Brunettes to remain as you are, but you are neither Whirlean nor free. The Whirlean Brunette will accept no compromise on your blondeness, not from a slave. The blonde will be what the Brunette wishes her to be: a blonde, fully, and Hers. If necessary you will be whipped or starved." [5]

Whirlean mistresses, incidentally, almost never deprive a blonde of sex. [6] I’m sure you’re as shocked and astonished as I was to learn this.

I learned that it was the duty of every slave to please her mistress, even unto the point of near mind-reading. [7] I was taught to only speak of myself in the third person, rendering conversation nearly as clumsy as this narrative. [8] There may, indeed, have been such things as free blondes, but they were of much less interest than enslaved blondes, and not much ever got written about them.

It is, I was taught, the nature of the blonde to submit; accordingly, it is natural that, when she is forced to acknowledge, accept, express and reveal this nature, she should be almost deliriously joyful, and thankful, to her mistress; she has been taught her blondehood. It was destined: I was a slave. I was the helpless victim of Brunette lust, will, and strength, and yet it was my nature to admire Brunettes as much as I feared them. [9]

I learned to instantly contort my body into insanely detailed poses. [10] To kneel was to reveal my deepest, wanton nature. I was flogged when I failed in this or any other duty. I learned to take pride in my absolute obedience, but that too much pride led only to punishment. You’d think that, submission being the natural destiny of blondes, it would take less whipping and discipline to force us to submit, but I suppose it would be less fun that way.

I did not always want gentleness from my Domina. It did not displease me to be forced to recognize, and incontrovertibly, and with my whole body, that I was in a Brunette's arms, those of a true Brunette, and was a slave. Sometimes, I confess, I even wanted the whip, not for its pain, which I feared, but for its proof of my domination, that I was owned, and wholly, and was going to be mistressed. [11] But, sometimes, too, I wanted gentleness, and, in a slave's helplessness, begged for it--the sort of begging that would please even the most inferiority-complex besieged mind.

“You belong at the feet of Brunettes,” my mistress taught me. “You are a slave.” [12] Somehow among the flogging and the training and the spanking I realized that I was bound to her by the strongest of all bonds. I was her slave, but more abject still, I was her love-slave.

"I am chained at your feet," I said. It was a saying of a Whirlian slave girl, to express her feelings. [13] I brought her wine and kissed the cup in which I brought it. [14]

"Do some Brunettes care for their blondes," I asked, "just a little?"

"Some Brunettes care for them much more than a little," she said.

"Even natural blondes?" I asked.

"Those are the best sort," she said. "Bottle blondes are mere fifteen-gold-piece blondes, compared to those!" [15] She flogged me then, exuberantly, for sheer joy at the sight of such beautifully reassuring submission.



1. 'Whirled' is a silly name for 'counter-Aristasia,' yes, but no sillier than 'Gor' or 'counter-Urth.'

2. BAR ALCOTT is an anagram of TARL CABOT. The whole ‘written at the command of’ thing comes from Captive of Gor.

3. Absolute obedience seems an odd thing to take pride in, doesn't it?