(As performed in Tribesmen of Gor)

The girl wore Gorean dancing silk. It hung low upon her bared hips, and fell to her ankles. It was scarlet, diaphanous. A front corner
of the silk was taken behind her and thrust, loose and draped, into the rolled silk knotted about her hips; a back corner of the silk
was drawn before her and thrust loosely, draped, into the rolled silk at her right hip. Low on her hips she wore a belt of small
denomination, threaded, overlapping golden coins. A veil concealed her muchly from us, it thrust into the strap of the coined halter
at her left shoulder, and into the coined belt at her right hip. On her arms she wore numerous armlets and bracelets. On the thumb
and first finger of both her left and right hand were golden finger cymbals. On her throat was a collar.

He clapped his hands. Immediately the girl stood beautifully, alert, before us, her arms high, wrists outward. The musicians, to one
side, stirred, readying themselves. Their leader was a czehar player.

He looked at the girl. He clapped his hands, sharply.

There was a clear note of the finger cymbals, sharp, delicate, bright, and the slave girl danced before us.

I regarded the coins threaded, overlapping, on her belt and halter. They took the firelight beautifully. They glinted, but were of
small worth. One dresses such a woman in cheap coins; she is slave. Her hand moved to the veil at her right hip. Her head was
turned away, as though unwilling and reluctant, yet knowing she must obey.

The dancer was now moving slowly to the music.

I turned to watch the dancer. She danced well. At the moment she writhed upon the "slave pole," it fixing her in place. There is no
actual pole, of course, but sometimes it is difficult to believe there is not. The girl imagines that a pole, slender, supple, swaying,
transfixes her body, holding her helplessly. About this imaginary pole, it constituting a hypothetical center of gravity, she moves,
undulating, swaying, sometimes yielding to it in ecstasy, sometimes fighting it, it always holding her in perfect place, its captive. The
control achieved by the use of the "slave pole" is remarkable. An incredible, voluptuous tension is almost immediately generated,
visible in the dancer's body, and kinetically felt by those who watch. I heard men at the table cry out with pleasure. The dancer's
hands were at her thighs. She regarded them, angrily, and still she moved. Her shoulder lifted and fell; her hands touched her
breasts and shoulder; her head was back, and then again she glared at the men, angrily. Her arms were high, very high. Her hips
moved, swaying. Then, the music suddenly silent, she was absolutely still. Her left hand was at her thigh; her right high above her
head; her eyes were on her hip; frozen into a hip sway; then there was again a bright, clear flash of finger cymbals, and the music
began again, and again she moved, helpless on the pole. Men threw coins at her feet

The dancer moaned, crying out, as though in agony. Still she remained impaled upon the slave pole, its prisoner.

The hips of the dancer now moved, seemingly in isolation from the rest of her body, though her wrists and hands, ever so slightly,
moved to the music.

Samos, with a snap of his fingers, freed the dancer from the slave pole. She moved, turning, toward us. Before us, loosening her
veil at the right hip, she danced. Then she took it from her left shoulder, where it had been tucked beneath the strap of her halter.
With the veil loose, covering her, holding it in her hands, she danced before us. then she regarded us, dark-eyed, over the veil; it
turned about her body, then,.. she wafted the silk about her, immeshing her in its gossamer softness. I saw the parted lips, the
eyes wide with horror, of the kneeling, harnessed girl, through the light, yellow veil; then the dancer had drawn it away from her,
and, turning, was again in the center of the floor.

The dancer whirled near us, then enveloped me in her veil. Within the secrecy of the veil, binding us together, she moved her body
slowly before me, lips parted, moaning... I slowly removed her veil from her, then threw it aside. Then with my right hand, the
Tuchuk quiva in it, while still holding her with my left, as she continued to move to the music, I, behind her back, cut the halter she
wore from her. I then thrust her from me, before the tables, that she might better please the guests of Samos, first slaver of Port
Kar. She looked at me reproachfully, but, seeing my eyes, turned frightened to the men, hands over her head, to please them.
Never in all this, of course, had she lost the music in her body. The men cried out, pleased with her beauty.

All eyes were on the dark-haired dancer, the skirt of diaphanous scarlet dancing silk low upon her hips. Her hands moved as
though she might be, starved with desire, picking flowers from a wall in a garden. One saw almost the vines from which she
plucked them, and how she held them to her lips, and, at times, seemed to press herself against the wall which confined her. Then
she turned and, as though alone, danced her need before the men.

I idly observed the dancer. Her eyes were on me. It seemed, in her hands, she held ripe fruits for me, lush larma, fresh picked. Her
wrists were close together, as though confined by the links of slave bracelets. She touched the imaginary larma to her body,
caressing her swaying beauty with it, and then, eyes piteous, held her hands forth, as though begging me to accept the lush fruit.
Men at the table clapped their hands on the wood, and looked at me. Others smote their left shoulders. I smiled. On gor, the
female slave, desiring her master, yet sometimes fearing to speak to him, frightened that she may be struck, has recourse upon
occasion to certain devices, the meaning of which is generally established and cuturally well understood...to kneel before the
master and put her head down and lift her arms, offering him fruit, usually a larma, or a yellow Gorean peach, ripe and fresh. These
devices, incidentally, may be used even by a slave girl who hates her master but whose body, trained to love, cannot endure the
absence of the masculine caress. Such girls, even with hatred, may offer the larma, furious with themselves, yet helpless, the
captive of their slave needs, forced to beg on their knees for the touch of a harsh master, who revels in the sport of their
plight....They are slaves.

The girl now knelt before me, her body obedient still trembling, throbbing, to the melodious, sensual command of the music.

I looked into the cupped hands, held toward me. They might have been linked in slave bracelets. They might have held lush larma. I
reached across the table and took her in my arms, and dragged her, turning her, and threw her on her back on the table before
me. I lifted her to me, and thrust my lips to hers, crushing her slave lips beneath mine. Her eyes shone. I held her from me. She
lifted her lips to mine. I did not permit her to touch me. I jerked her to her feet and, half turning her, ripping her silk from her, hurled
her to the map floor, where she half lay, half crouched, one leg beneath her, looking at me, stripped save for her collar, the brand,
the armlets, bells, the anklets, with fury. "Please us more," I told her. Her eyes blazed. "And do not rise from the floor, Slave," I told
her. The music, which had stopped, began again.

She turned furiously, yet gracefully, extending a leg, touching an ankle, moving her hands up her leg, looking at me over her
shoulder, and then rolled, and writhed, as though beneath the lash of master.

The dancer now lay on her back and the music was visible in her breathing, and in small movements of her head, and hands. Her
hands were small and lovely.

She lay on the map floor, her head turned toward us. She was covered with sweat. I snapped my fingers and her legs turned
under her, and she was kneeling, head back, dark hair on the tiles. Her hands moved, delicate, lovely.

Slowly, if permitted, she would rise to an erect kneeling position; her hands, as she lifted herself, extended toward us. Four times
said I "No," each time my command forcing her head back, her body bent, to the floor, and each time, again, to the music, she lifted
her body. The fifth time I let her rise to an erect kneeling position. The last portion of her body to rise was her beautiful head. The
collar was at her throat. Her dark eyes, smoldering, vulnerable, reproachful, regarded me. Still did she move to the music, which
had not yet released her.

With a gesture I permitted her to rise to her feet. "Dance your body, Slave," I told her, "to the guest of Samos."

Angrily the girl, man by man, slowly, meaningfully, danced her beauty to each guest. They struck the tables, and cried out. More
than one reached to clutch her but each time, swiftly, she moved back.

The dancer, now behind us, continued to move before the low tables. The eyes of the men gleamed. Before each man, for moments
seemingly his alone, she danced her beauty.

The dancer turned from the tables and, hands high over her head, approached me. She swayed to the music before me. "You
commanded me to dance my beauty for the guests of Samos," said she, "Master. You, too, are such a guest."

I looked upon her, narrow lidded, as she strove to please me.

Then she moaned and turned away, and, as the music swirled to its maddened, frenzied climax, she spun, whirling, in a jangle of
bells and clashing barbaric ornaments before the guests of Samos. then, as the music suddenly stopped, she fell to the floor,
helpless, vulnerable, a female slave. Her body, under the torchlight, shone with a sheen of sweat. She gasped for breath; her body
was beautiful, her breasts lifting and falling, as she drank deeply of the air. Her lips were parted. Now that her dance was finished
she could scarcely move. We had not been gentle with her. She looked up at me, and lifted her hand. It was at my feet she lay.


Tribesmen of Gor , page 8
All rights reserved.
This research is done on the series of books written by John Norman, the comments in italics are mine and my point of view.
Woman of Gor
Artist
Fabian Perez