Dancer of Gor

by John Norman

  "Stay on your feet," she was told.

  "Yes, Master," she said, now at the foot of the descent ramp, shivering, holding her arms about herself. Ila, we noted, to our satisfaction, was now properly deferential. Too, she was quick to obey. It seemed she had learned her lesson yesterday, that she was, like us, a woman and a slave. As she had been the first into the first cage yesterday, and we had had, for the most part, to back out of the narrow enclosures, it was natural that she had been at the head of our group this morning. I, for what it was worth, whether it was meaningful or not, whether it was a tribute to my beauty, or an indication of my assumed esthetic inferiority to the others, or a matter of accident, of simple happenstance or original positioning, with no significance, or height or whatever, was again at the end of the group. To be sure, I was neither the tallest nor the shortest of the group. One of the Gorean girls, Tutina, was smaller than I. It was, thus, I think, only an accident in its way, at least with respect to what was going on this morning, that Ila had been chosen to be the first to enter the fluid. The man had not even seemed to remember that she had been refractory, or resistant, the day before. He was thus kindly, I think, letting her begin again.

  I plunged from the incline of the ramp, from my hands and knees, into the dark liquid, on my belly, as had the others before me, and the tarsks before them. I was suddenly almost totally immersed. I cried out, sputtering, raising my head. It was shockingly cold. It seemed foul. My head went under again and again I desperately raised it. I then had my feet under me, and stood up, the fluid about my waist. I was then, by a man's hand in my hair, pulled from my feet forward, and again into the liquid. It was stinging my eyes and nose. My eyes were filled with tears. I could barely see. I thrashed forward and then, wildly, reaching about, seized the side. I pulled myself, then, clinging to the side, the fluid swirling about my neck, toward the other end. Apparently they wanted us well immersed. At the center point a man seized me by the hair and, to my acute distress, forced my head under the fluid. He held me there, under that terrible, foul, stinging, cold fluid, for a terrible second or two, and then released me. I then, moving forward, getting my feet under me, climbed stumbling, falling, splashing, up the end of the container, and pulled myself, at last, gratefully, onto the descent ramp. In a moment I was standing with the others, in the dirt, in the open courtyard, near the foot of the descent ramp. I was freezing. My teeth were chattering. I held my hands about myself, trembling with cold.

  "This way," said the man.

  Hurriedly we followed him. I looked about. I wondered if the others could possibly be as miserable as I was. I am extremely sensitive to cold, and to feelings of almost all sorts. I wondered if one of the criteria for selecting a woman for slavery might be her tactile sensitivity. I myself, I know, am extremely sensitive to such things as textures, for example, the feel of silk or leather, or a manacle, on my body. It is sometimes almost as though my entire skin was a single, extensive, sheetlike, marvelous tactile organ. Too, I reacted to the feel of a man's hands on me, even in handling me in so simple a manner as to put me in a cage. These types of skin sensitivity, of course, make us much more alive to our environment. Indeed, part of our training was to increase our awareness of subtle sensations. These features and capacities, too, of course, made us more sensitive to both pain and pleasure. Thus, they put us all the more, it seemed, at the mercy of masters. I looked about. Surely none of the girls could be as miserable as I! But I saw them, in their misery, in their cruel discomfort, regard me as well. I wondered if they were thinking the same thoughts as I. We were all terribly miserable. We were all such, it seemed, as to be helplessly at the mercy of our sensitivities, tactile and otherwise, of our helpless responsiveness, and our feelings.

  "This way," said the man.

  We were very pleased to follow him into a large, wooden building.

  "This is the annex to the sales barn," he said. "The exposition spaces are here."

  I hardly heard him, so eager I was to get within the building. Within, in the center of the building, in the center of its dirt floor, was a fire pit, in which blazed a cheerful fire. His stick, held out, prevented us from running toward it. Then, amused, he lowered the stick, and we ran to stand near the fire, crowding about it. Blankets, too, rough and brown, were there, in piles, and, permitted, at a gesture of the stick, we seized them up and clutched them gratefully about us, drying our bodies, and our hair.

  There seemed five exits from the lofty, raftered room. We had entered through one, coming in from the courtyard; another led through double doors to our right, and another, also with double doors, now barred, lay at one end of the room. It seemed to lead to another yard. There were also two smaller doors, giving access perhaps to offices or corridors. In this large room there were also a large number of low, sturdy platforms, raised about a foot above the dirt flooring. Some of these platforms were flush with the walls, but others, by far the larger number, were arranged at regular intervals, about four feet apart, in rows, the effect being that of providing aisles between and about them. I did not know about the platforms next to the wall, but it seemed that the platforms in the open part of the room, though formidable, and heavy, would be movable. They could thus be brought out, and arranged, or removed, or dismantled, and taken away, it seemed, according to desire. In this fashion it seemed the room might be capable of serving various purposes.

  "Comb your hair," said a man, bringing out a box of wooden combs, "and then you will be fed."

  We took the combs and knelt, letting the blankets fall about our waist, and combed our hair. I think it pleased the men to see us do this. Gorean men relish women, and enjoy watching them, even in the performance of such simple, homely acts as combing their hair. To be sure, we were bare-breasted, and slaves, and obeying. We had not been asked to form a combing circle, probably because they were willing to permit us to remain in the vicinity of the fire. There were too few of us to circumscribe the fire. We would have had to withdraw from the fire, or most of us. In the combing circle we kneel in a circle, each girl combing the hair of the girl in front of her. Making us comb our hair before we were fed, incidentally is typical of the manner in which Gorean men treat female slaves. The woman is to be presentable and beautiful, before she is permitted food. How much darker, I noted, did my hair, and that of the other brunettes look, when it was wet. The combs were of yellow wood, and had long teeth. The entire comb, including the teeth, was about five inches square. There are various hairdos in which such combs are worn in the hair. Usually, however, the hair of slaves is worn long, and loose, or confined only in some simple way, as with a ribbon or woolen fillet. Some masters like the ponytail hairdo on a slave, which, on Gor, is usually spoken of as the "leash," or "hair leash," for, by it, a girl may be conveniently seized and controlled. Upswept hairdos are usually reserved for free women, or high slaves. They are a mark of status. To be sure, one of the reasons for permitting a hairdo of that sort to a slave is the master's pleasure in undoing it, in loosening it, thus reminding even the high slave that in his arms, ultimately, she, the high slave, is yet a slave, and as much or more than the lowest girl in the most remote village. The loosening of a woman's hair on Gor in an extremely sensuous, meaningful act. "Who loosens her hair?" is a way of asking, in effect, who owns her.

  "When is Teibar coming to inspect these women?" asked a man.

  I suddenly almost fainted. Teibar! He had not abandoned me, I thought wildly. I gasped. I looked about, wildly. Some of the other girls looked at me, strangely, unable to understand my sudden agitation. My heart palpitated madly. Surely everyone must hear it. My breast heaved. I fought for breath. The other girls perhaps thought me mad. I did not care! It made no difference! Teibar owned me! I was his! Teibar! He was here! He had not forgotten me! He wanted me! He had come for me! It was I he had picked out, even on Earth! I would love and serve him forever, forever and forever, no more than a dog at his feet, but living in the light of his presence, a loving, panting bitch, loving him
forever, loving him forever with a love beyond love!

  "What is wrong?" whispered Gloria.

  "Nothing!" I whispered. "Nothing! Nothing!"

  "They are bringing food," said a girl.

  "It smells good," said little Tutina.

  "Yes, yes!" I said.

  * * * *

  I sat on the long, low wooden platform, in the annex to the sales barn, in the exposition area, naked, my feet tucked back, near my left thigh, my ankles crossed, my left hand on my left ankle, my right hand supporting most of my weight, the chain on my neck dropping down to the wood, to my right, then lifting, running back over my thighs, then keeping its rendezvous with its ring, behind me and to my left. On my left breast, on its upper portion, inscribed there with a grease pencil, in Gorean, was a number. I had been told it was "89," and that it was my lot number.

  After we had eaten this morning, though I, so excited, had scarcely touched food, we were knelt in a line, facing one of the small doors.

  I had strained to hear the smallest scraps of conversation among our keepers. I had learned that this place was an appurtenance of the house of Teibar, who was a well-known slaver in Market of Semris. He owned this complex and dealt also in the sales of livestock, in particular those of tarsks. This particular complex was, it seemed, one of the best-known areas in Market of Semris for the sales of tarsks. Indeed, in the very area where I now was, the platforms cleared away and pens put forth, projected sales lots of tarsks were commonly displayed, often prize lots, to be bid upon later in the sales barn itself. To be sure, the platforms made it obvious that this area, too, could, and did, serve another purpose, as well, the vending of yet another form of livestock, the female slave. To be sure, most of his sales, those of women, apparently took place at another facility, one more precisely adapted to their display and merchandising. How like Teibar I had thought, to deal in both tarsks and women. I had smiled. He well knew how to keep us in our place, did he not? And what a rich joke, I had thought, this was doubtless supposed to be, that I would find myself here, his "modern woman," in a place where really, more appropriately, and usually, not women, but tarsks, were sold! It was this place, I had surmised, thinking I had penetrated his joke, where he had planned to reclaim me, I suddenly finding myself again in his power, that of the house of Teibar, and in a very complex of his, "where women such as I might be bought and sold." Surely he had planned this coup, this joyful, lovely trick, his master's jest, so rich and delicious, even from the time of the library on Earth, even from the time the conical, stiff, rubberized mask had been placed over my nose and mouth.

  We were kneeling, facing one of the small doors.

  "Heads to the dirt!" called a man.

  Swiftly we assumed a common form of slave obeisance, kneeling, the palms of our hands on the ground, our heads to the ground. Many masters, though it tends to be rather associated, usually, with given cities, require this position of their girls, usually when they first enter his presence, or find themselves, as in a room which he has entered, in his presence. She is then, usually, when given permission, permitted to lift her head, but is to remain kneeling before him, beautifully, in a standard position, her knees closed if she is a house or tower slave, her knees open, if she was the sort of slave I was, whatever sort of slave that was supposed to be. It is almost universal, as far as I know, that a slave kneels in one fashion or another when entering her master's presence, or if she should find herself in his presence. She also commonly kneels when spoken to by any free person. This is simply a matter of respect. To be sure, she can be slain, if she does not do so. The kneeling position, of course, which the master's, or free person's, permission, either tacit or explicit, is usually required to break, is commonly an initial position. For example, after its deferential assumption, she may be dismissed from it, to other duties, such as cleaning, shopping or cooking.

  I heard the small door open. I heard some men, one or two of them talking, entering the large, dirt-floored room. I did not hear Teibar speaking. I was sure, though, he must be there. Perhaps he did not wish to alert me to his presence, yet. He preferred to keep me in suspense. Perhaps he would announce his presence to me only when he pulled me to my feet and crushed my small, helpless, naked enslaved body to him, bruising it against his leather.

  I began to tremble, violently. I could not lift my head and look, of course. At the end of our line I sensed men.

  "I think you will find these a good lot," someone said. That pleased me. I wanted our lot, or our group, to be a good one, and I wanted, if possible, to be the best in it! I wanted that, if only for Teibar. But I heard no response to the man's remark.

  "Lift your head," I heard a man say to someone, at the end of the line. It had to be Ila.

  "Excellent," said someone. Ila, I conjectured, was now being scrutinized. She was doubtless kneeling very beautifully.

  "What do you think, Teibar?" I heard.

  I again almost fainted that Teibar, my master, he who had come to reclaim me, was near.

  Then I feared, terribly, that he might more desire Ila than me. A wave of sudden terrible hatred swept over me. I wanted suddenly to leap up, screaming, and run at her, like a raging cat, to scratch out her eyes, to tear every last strand of that long, silky blond hair out of her head! Then I was frightened. I remained exactly in place. I did not move. I could be terribly punished, perhaps even tortured and killed, if I, a mere property, seriously injured, or diminished the value of, another property. Short of such things, though, we could do much what we wanted to one another, and Ila was larger and stronger than I! I felt helpless.

  But there had been no response to the man's question.

  I reassured myself that it was not Ila he had wanted. He could have had her at the house of our training, or bought her there, and for a discount, if he had wanted! He hadn't! To be sure, she was a larger woman than I, and meatier. Did that make her better? I did not know. Perhaps she was more beautiful. I did not know. But it was I whom Teibar had desired, not she! Perhaps I was more beautiful. I did not know. I did know that I was beautiful, and even if I were not as beautiful as she, I was desperately needful, willing and loving. Surely such things should count for something! Too, it seemed, undeniably, that he had found me desirable. I thought, and hoped, that perhaps I might be special to him, somehow, in some way, more so than others, as he was to me, he who was the loved, dreaded master of my heart.

  "Stand," said a man to Ila. She stood. Something then, it seemed, was done to her. "Kneel," she was told. She knelt.

  I kept my head down, kneeling. I trembled. I awaited the approach of my master.

  "Look up," had said the man, then, and then "Stand," and then, after a moment, "Kneel," to one of the women, after another, approaching me, down the line. "Look up," he said to the woman next to me, Gloria. She was a large girl, with swirling red hair. To be sure, before the men, she could be, like Ila, only another female slave.

  "Stand," was said to Gloria. She stood. Something was done to her. "Kneel," she was told. She knelt.

  I kept my head down. They were then before me! I trembled. I awaited the command to lift my head, to view my master, to greet him with joy, to prove to him that I was no longer a hated "modern woman," no longer a spoiled, pampered woman of a sick, antibiological world, that I was now only his, a female slave, vulnerable and exposed in the fullness of her womanhood, belonging to him, totally, fully on his own terms, on his own world.

  "This, Teibar," said a man, "is the last of the lot."

  I had been saved for last. My master had saved me for last!

  "Look up," said a man.

  "What is wrong with her?" asked a man.

  "What is wrong with you?" asked another.

  "Speak," said another.

  I looked wildly, sick, from one face to another. I was shaking. I tried, wildly, irrationally, to shut from my mind what I saw. I tried, in my mind, to change what I saw. I tried, wildly, irrationally, to force myself to see another, among those faces, one wh
o must be there.

  "Where is Teibar?" I asked.

  "I am Teibar," said one of the men.

  I began to shake, uncontrollably.

  "Stand," said a man.

  But I was so weak I could not stand.

  One of the men went behind me and lifted me up, by the arms, holding me.

  I almost lost consciousness.

  I felt a pressure on the upper portion of my left breast. It seemed to be being drawn upon, or marked, by a cylindrical object with a soft, smooth, rounded point. It traversed my skin easily, with little friction, though I was clearly aware of its downward pressure. In the wake of the object there appeared a bright, thick, red line, moving about and circling, completing a course, a configuration, on me, which perhaps to some who looked upon it, but not to me, was significant. And then, in a moment, the object was withdrawn, the marking fixed upon me. I looked down upon it, what was written on me.

  "You have it?" asked the man with the cylindrical marking device, some sort of grease pencil, to another, who held a clipboard, with attached papers.

  "Yes," said the fellow with the board, making a notation on the papers.

  "Kneel," said the fellow with the pencil, putting it back in one of the compartments of an open, triple-sheath attached to his belt.

  The man who was supporting me, holding me from behind, let me sink to my knees. I could not stand by myself.

  I looked down at my breast, at what was written there, so boldly and brightly.

  "Can you read?" asked a man, he who had said he was Teibar.

  "No, Master," I whispered.

  "You are an Earth female, are you not?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," I whispered.