Teiber’s Tuka Dances


"Tuka, Tuka, Tuka!" called more men.
The fellow, Teiber, looked down at his slave, who looked up at him, and quickly, timidly, kissed at his thigh. How much she was his,
I thought.
"Tuka, to the circle!" called a fellow.
"She is a dancer," said a man.
"She is extraordinary," said another.
"Put Tuka in the circle!" called a fellow.
"Tuka, Tuka!" called another.
Teiber snapped his fingers once, sharply, and the slave leaped to her feet, standing erect, her head down, turned to the right, her
hands at her sides, the palms facing backward. She might have been in a paga tavern, preparing to enter upon the sand or floor. I
considered Teiber's Tuka. She had an excellent figure for slave dance.
"Clear the circle!" called a fellow.
The other dancers hurried to the side, to sit and kneel, and watch. I considered the slave. She was beautiful, and well curved.
Teiber gestured to the circle.
"Ahh!" said men.
"She moves like a dancer," I said.
"She is a dancer," said a fellow.
I considered the girl. She now stood in the circle, relaxed, yet supple and vital, her wrists, back to back, over her head, her kneels
flexed.
"She is a bred passion slave," I said, "with papers and a lineage going back a thousand years." "No," said a man.
"Where did he pick her up," I asked, "at the Curulean?"
"I do not know," said a fellow.
I supposed she was perhaps a capture. I did not know if a fellow such as this Teiber, who did not seem of the merchants or rich,
could have afforded a slave of such obvious value. A fellow, for example, who cannot afford a certain kaiila might be able to capture
it, and then, once he has his rope on its neck, and manages to make away with it, it is his mount.
"Aii!" cried a fellow.
"Aii!" said I too. Dancing was the slave! "She is surely a bred passion slave," I said. "Surely the blood line of such an animal go
back a thousand years!"
"No! No!" said a man, rapt, not taking his eyes from the slave. I regarded her, in awe.
"She is trained of course," said a man. Only to obviously was this a trained dancer, and yet, too, there was far more than training
involved. Too, I speak not of such relatively insignificant matters as the mere excellence of her figure for slave dance, as suitable
and fitting as it might be for such and art form, for women with many figures can be superb in slave dance, or that she must
possess a great natural talent for such a mode of expression, but something much deeper. In the nature of her dance I saw more
than training, her figure, and her talent. Within this woman, revealing itself in the dance, in its rhythm, its joy, its spontaneity, its
wonders, were untold depths of femaleness, a deep and radical femininity, unabashed and unapologetic, a rejoicing in her sex, a
respect of it, a love of it, an acceptance of it and a celebration of it, a wanting of it, and of what she was, a woman, a slave, in all of
its marvelousness.
"Tuka, Tuka!" called men. Men clapped their hands. The slave danced. Much it seemed to me, though there might be two hundred
men about the circle, she danced for her Master. Once he even indicated that she should move more about which, instantly,
commanded, she did.
"Tuka, Tuka!" even called some of the other slaves about the edges of the circle, sitting and kneeling there, unable to take their
eyes from her, clapping, too. Teiber's Tuka it seemed, was popular even with the other slaves, of which she was such a superb
specimen. I watched her moving about the circle.
"Aii!" cried men, as she would pause a moment to dance before them. I had little doubt she might once have been a tavern dancer.
Such dancers must present themselves in such a fashion before customers. This gives the customer an opportunity to assess them,
and to keep them in mind, if he wishes, for later use in an alcove.
"Aii," cried another fellow. I speculated that she would not have languished for attention in the alcoves.
"She is superb," said the flow next to me.
"Yes," I said. She was working her way about the circle. It was interesting to me that a Master would dare to display such a slave
publicly. I gathered that he was quite confident of his capacity to keep her. He must then, I suspected, be excellent with the sword.
"Ah," said the fellow next to me. The dancer approached. How marvelous are the Gorean women, I thought. And I thought then,
too, sadly, of the women of Earth, so many of them so confused, so miserable, so unhappy, women not knowing what they were,
or what they might be, women trapped in a maze of ultimately barren artifices, women subjected to social coercion’s, women
subjected to antibiological constraints, women forced to deny themselves and their depth natures in the name of freedom, women
trying to be men, not knowing how to be women, women torturing themselves and others with their confusions, their inhibitions,
their pain, their frustrations. But I did not blame them for they were the victims of pathological conditioning programs. Any beautiful,
natural creature can be clipped and then instructed to rejoice in its mutilations and mishappenness. So inhibit, so frigid, so inert, so
anesthetic. That so many of them could even feel their pain was, I supposed, a hopeful sign. If their culture was correct, or
judicious, why did it contain so much unhappiness and pain? In a body, pain is an indication that something is wrong. So, too, it is
in a culture. Then the dancer was before me, and I was awed with beauty. I kept her there before me for a moment, not letting her
move away, my gaze holding her. I wept then for the men of Earth, that they would not know such beauties. How utterly
marvelous are the Gorean females! How utterly different they are from the women of Earth! How impossible would it be for a
female of Earth to match them! I watched the dancer then move to the next fellow, and turn about. Suddenly I was stunned. High
on her left arm there was a small, circular scar. It was not, surely, in that place, and given its nature, the result of a marking iron.
Indeed , it is by means of such tiny indications, fillings in the teeth, and such, that a certain sort of girl, for which there is a market
on Gor, is often recognized.
"She is not from Gor!" I said.
"She is from far away," said the fellow next to me. "From the distand land," said another.
"Called "Earth,'" said another.
"Yes," I said.
The mark on the girl's arm had not been the result of the imprint of a master's iron. It had been a vaccination mark. I had noted,
too, interestingly, just before she had whirled away, that she was shy. I assessed her as being quite intelligent, extremely
sensitive, and an excellent slave. She had now, as the music swirled to its finish, returned to move before her Master. Then, the
dance ended, men striking their left shoulders in Gorean applause, shouting their vociferous approval, some armed warriors striking
their shields with spear blades, she sank to the ground, on her back, breathless, breasts heaving, covered with a sheen of sweat,
before her Master, her left knee raised, her head turned toward him, then palms of her hands, at her sides, vulnerably exposed.
She had been superb. My shoulder was sore where I had much struck it. Then with a sensuous, fluid movement she rose to her
knees before her Master. She spread her knees, widely. She regarded him, beggingly. The dance had much aroused her, and she
was totally his, completely at his will, his pleasure and mercy.
"Our gratitude , Teiber!" cried a fellow.

Magicians of Gor, pgs. 52-56
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