At that moment there was an exciting skirl of music, a flash of bells, a burst of color, a jangle of beads, and a cry of enthusiasm from
the patrons, and a dancer was on the floor. After her entry she stood silent, not moving, posed, ready, on the floor. I could sense
the anticipation, even the difference in breathing, of the men. Then the music began, softly, slowly, and the dancer, looking about
herself, began to move, obedient to the melody of masters.

“It is so beautiful,” I said. “What is it called?” “It is a form of dance fit for slaves, is it not?” he said. “Yes,” I breathed, awed, rapt.
“Slave dance,” said he in whose charge I was. “Slave dance,” I whispered. “Yes,” he said. “I have seen something like it,” I said,
“on my former world, but I scarcely dared look upon it.” “It spoke to you of things which stirred you, things for which you longed,
but which you feared, spoke to you of a distant, or forgotten, world, one a thousand times more real, I suspect, than that which
you knew. It spoke to you of how women might be before men, as slaves, and how men might look upon women, as masters.”
“Yes,” I whispered, “but here it seems somehow different.”

“It is different here,” he said, “for this is such a world.” “I think I know this dance, or sort of dance,” said Astrinax. “It will have its
phases, its swiftness, and its slowness, its emotions, insolence, pride, defiance, apprehension, recognition, fear, struggle, defeat,
surrender, and submission.” I heard, it startling me, the cracking of a whip. The dancer reacted, as though struck, but the blade
had not touched her. Occasionally it snapped again, and again, and, at the end of the dance, as is often the case in such dance,
the dancer is prostrate, clearly submitted and owned. In this particular dance she was kneeling and the fellow with the whip was
behind her. He placed the whip, coiled, against the back of her neck, and she lowered her head. The men about voiced their
approval, and several smote their left shoulders with their right hand. Others uttered trilling noises or staccato bursts of sound.
Others pounded on the tables. She then sprang to her feet and hurried from the floor, followed by the fellow with the whip
Conspirators of Gor (E-book, chapter 18)
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
The Beautiful World of the Gorean Dance
Slave Dance (Conspirators of Gor)
Artist
Fabian Perez