Prize of Gor

Chapter 24 DANCED

Ellen looked about herself, anxiously.

Surely the men were quieter now, less unruly.

She with Louise, and the lad, had a few Ehn earlier, directed by the lad, arrived at the wine station of the exasperated Callimachus.

There were cries about from angry men, and clashing goblets. Some were on their feet. Some were in the vicinity of the vat itself. Some had left to seek their beverage elsewhere in the camp.

“There was haggling, and new wine had to be brought out from the city,” the lad explained to Callimachus.

“Hurry!” said Callimachus. “The wine! The wine! Slaves, here! To me, slaves!”

The bung was drawn from the barrel and the precious ka-la-na, the barrel still on the cart, was released over the vat. Yet little of it reached the vat at first for, at the order of Callimachus, the serving slaves filled their empty pitchers from the cascading stream itself, and then rushed to serve.

Four times Ellen had rushed back and forth to fetch more wine. She saw Renata. Louise, too, was now serving. Now she stood amongst the fires and men, a half-filled pitcher grasped in her hands.

Things now, it seemed, were much the same as earlier.

She knew the sales were to begin soon at the great block. They would last, presumably, for two or three days, as there were many slaves to be vended, probably well over a thousand.

She touched her throat lightly. There was no collar there now. But perhaps as early as tomorrow morning she would once more wear locked upon her neck the identificatory circlet of a master, her master.

Early in her bondage, although she had understood that she had been enslaved, she had, perhaps oddly, not really thought of herself as being owned; perhaps she had thought of herself as being more a prisoner or captive of sorts; then, a bit later in her bondage, but initially while still in the house of Mirus, she had come to understand that she was not a prisoner or a captive, nothing so dignified, nothing so honorable or important, or deserving of respect, but something quite different, simply a property; she then understood that she was owned; and for a time it had been fearful to think of herself as being owned. But later she had come to understand this as a given modality of her actuality, as an aspect of her being, as a quotidian reality. She then understood herself, and accepted herself, quite naturally and honestly, and without fear, as being what she was, as being something which was owned. And this, of course, was particularly in the legal sense. For years before her branding and collaring she had sensed that she was a natural slave and had surreptitiously dreamed, while trying to deny such dreams, of meeting a master who would enslave her and whom she might thereafter lovingly serve. To be sure the slave would like to choose her master. But Ellen now, apart from her natural dispositions and deepest reality, fitting her for love and the collar, had come to understand herself on all levels, factually and honestly, as something which was owned, as something which could pass from master to master, as might any piece of property. Had kaiila or verr the rationality to comprehend such matters they, too, would have such an understanding of themselves. And Ellen, whom I think we may accept as intelligent, perhaps even quite intelligent, forgive me, Masters, given the selection criteria of Gorean slavers, of which we may take Mirus to be one, had this understanding of herself. She understood herself to be a property, in this case a domestic animal, in the same sense in which a rational kaiila or verr would understand themselves as such. In short, she now understood herself, and thought of herself, quite naturally and accurately, as what in fact she was, as something which was owned.

She thought of the tent of the men, and beasts, and of Mirus. For a time she had been frightened there, exaggerating in her own mind the significance of her curiosity and inadvertence. But Mirus had made it clear to her that the matter was unimportant. How foolish she had been, to have been so frightened. Doubtless the men had intended to frighten her, but had intended her no harm. Surely they had let her go, without even a whipping. Mirus himself had conducted her outside the tent. If animal trainers wished to keep the docility of their beasts, and their level of training, secret, in order to make a better performance at a later time, that was surely their prerogative. She did not blame them for their not wanting her to betray their secret, and perhaps spoil their performance. But it had surprised her that Mirus, whom she knew was well fixed on Gor, should have been a member of their party. Perhaps he was investing in the performance, and had wished to ascertain for himself the promise of a substantial return on his venture.

She had no doubt that such, or something much like it, was the explanation for the episode. Too, in retrospect, her momentary fear that the beasts might actually be intelligent creatures, and in communication with their masters, was dismissed, as an illusion of the contretemps, and her fear. Beasts did not speak, save perhaps such as she.

Why had she followed Mirus?

Well, she had not seen him in a long time, and she was curious. Too, it had been in his house that she had been branded and collared. A woman is not likely to forget such things.

Too, had it not been his whip that she had first felt as a slave? Certainly no slave is likely to forget her first whipping.

But certainly her “thighs did not steam for him,” and the mere sight of him did not “lubricate her for the mastery,” nor had she followed him “like a she-sleen in heat”! No! Never! That was absurd!

“Lying little slave girl,” she said to herself. “Your thighs steam for any man, and the sight of any virile male lubricates you for the mastery. And if you are not like a sinuous she-sleen in heat, it is rather because you are more like a sleek, curvaceous little she-urt in heat! You are a meaningless little slut in whose belly have been kindled slave fires!”

“I hate you, Mirus,” she said to herself. “You have called me plain and stupid, and I am neither. I am so sorry that you tired of me! What a disappointment for you, that you made so little money on me! I was not interesting enough for you to have at your feet! You let me go! You rejected me!” But then she said to herself, “But we are both of Earth. You extricated me from amongst the men and beasts at the tent, who might otherwise, in their impatience, have subjected me to the whip or bastinado. And you have not had me summoned to a dancing circle, knowing what that might mean for me. Perhaps you have some sympathy, if not affection, or desire, or lust, for a fellow Earthling, one now in categorical bondage, one who is now no more than I am, a legal animal, a property, on another world. You then, somehow, have at least that much consideration for me. For that I thank you, you who are known here as Mirus of Ar.”

“Turn, face me,” said a man.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen. “Wine, Master?”

He was looking at her left beast.

“Follow me,” he said.

“But I am to serve,” said Ellen.

“No,” said he. “You will follow me.”

He turned about and Ellen followed him. He led their way past the wine vat of Callimachus, and indicated that she should discharge the residue of her pitcher’s wine into the vat, which she did. She then, at a gesture, put the pitcher on the bench, beside two others.

“Master?” asked Ellen. But already he was threading his way through the crowd, and the fires. Swiftly she fell into place behind him, heeling him, behind his left shoulder, but, given the press of the crowd, much more closely than would normally be the case. A slave girl’s heeling distance is a function of a particular situation, of local circumstances, so to speak. In an open area a girl will normally heel three to five paces behind, normally on the left. Whereas following on the left, which is usual, may be a simple matter of gratuitous custom, it might also be noted that this arrangement may have a darker origin. If objects are to be handed to a man, say, a warrior, such as a buckler, or barbed war net, this transfer of articles from the left is not likely to discommode or encumber the most common weapon hand which is, of course, the right. On the other hand, it is thought that following on the left is generally a position of less dignity, and thus appropriate for animals, including slaves. A consideration favoring this possibility is that left-handed Goreans will also, commonly, have their sleen, their slaves, and such, follow on the left. A free woman walks proudly beside a free man or, if the press does not permit this, is often accorded the privilege of preceding him. One of the most humiliating things for a Gorean free woman, after she has been enslaved, other than the loss of her name, is that she must now follow, and neither walk beside nor lead. To be sure, the tunic, the brand and collar are also instructive.

“May I speak, Master?” asked Ellen, struggling to follow him, he moving so swiftly through the crowd.

“If you wish,” he said.

“Whither bound are we?” she asked.

He turned about, looked at her, how small she felt before him, and put his hand in her hair, and then put her head, held by the hair, at his hip, in leading position.

Her face was at the coarse wool of his tunic.

“The ba-ta dancing circle,” he said.

“No, Master!” she cried. “There is a terrible mistake. I am not a dancer!”

“Ai!” she cried, in pain, drawn along, at his hip.

“Do not lie, slut,” said he. “Only the finest dancers are summoned to the first two circles, the al-ka and ba-ta circles.”

“Please let me go, Master!” wept Ellen. “It is a mistake, a terrible mistake! I am not even a dancer! Ai! Ai!”

She had heard of the al-ka and ba-ta circles, named for the first two letters in the Gorean alphabet. They were not like most of the other circles, which were in the open, where naked slaves swayed to distant music for the delectation of masters. The al-ka and ba-ta circles were enclosed, surrounded by walls of silk, held on poles. Men had to pay a fee to enter, for within those confines they were to be treated to the finest exponents of the intricacies of slave dance. Similarly reserved, but for less skilled dancers, were the gamma and delka circles. In these first four circles the dancers were even clothed, that their beauties, if but ill-concealed, might be cunningly enhanced. Each of these circles had its own group of musicians. In the open circles, if a girl was displeasing, which few were, for only dancers were permitted in them, she might be merely hooted from the sand, or pelted with garbage, or perhaps dragged to the side and cuffed, but in the silken circles there were whip masters. Their function it was to see to it that, if not the finest, the most stimulating, the most gratifying, of performances would be elicited from their silked, bangled charges, then there would be elicited from them at least performances which, perhaps to the lash of the whip, would bring howls of pleasure from the drunken, lustful brutes who had crowded into the enclosure, determined to have recompense a thousandfold for the bit of copper with which they had purchased their ostraka of admission.

“Please, no, Master!” wept Ellen. “It is a mistake! I am not a dancer! I am not a dancer! Please, no, Master!”

But he drew her rapidly, mercilessly, through the crowds, she in tears, stumbling, painfully bent over, held in common leading position, her head at his hip, his hand cruelly twisted in her hair.

****

“Here are silks, and veils,” said a whip master. “There, in the chests, are bells, anklets, armlets, bracelets. Adorn yourself, girl. Cosmetics, too! There! Apply them swiftly. Kneel there, before the cosmetics tables. Hurry! The performance is soon to begin!”

Ellen was now within a small, silken enclosure, separated from the dancing area, but adjacent to it. She could see the men outside through a parting in the silken curtain. There were eight or nine girls of exceeding loveliness within.

“Master,” begged Ellen, going to her knees before the whip master, “I am not a dancer!”

Two or three of the other girls turned to look at her. Others were intent on preparing for their summonses to the sand, adjusting their costumes, some tying cords of bells about their ankles, others having others tie such cords of bells about their wrists, regarding themselves in the mirrors, considering their makeup. Ellen heard a rustle of bells as one of the dancers stood and moved. Ellen had not understood that a woman could move so sensuously.

She had heard numbers called throughout the camp, with the associated letters of the circles. On her way to the circle she had heard her number called more than once, announcing that she would be danced, and in the ba-ta circle. She had little doubt but what several of those who had made bids on her might then attend the performance, curious to gather further data on a commodity of possible interest. She had not been advertised as a dancer, of course. And she had not been put in an exhibition cage with dancers. When her attributes had been recorded, her height, weight, measurements, identifying marks, collar size, languages, literacy, skills and such, she had been asked about dancing but she had, of course, responded negatively. And now she found herself, to her misery, waiting outside the ba-ta circle!

“Master!” begged Ellen.

“Be silent, slave,” snarled the whip master. “You would not be here if you were not a superb dancer. This is the ba-ta circle.”

“It is a mistake, Master!” protested Ellen.

He looked at her left breast. “You are 117 — Ellen — are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” sobbed Ellen.

“Let us see,” he said. He turned to one of the poles supporting the silk of the small enclosure. A list was attached to this pole, tacked there, a little above eye level. “Yes, it is here,” he said. “117 — Ellen. You are here on the list, added at the end. Ah, you must be good, very good. You are to dance last.”

“No, no, Master!”

“Prepare yourself, slave girl,” he said.

Moaning, Ellen looked down at the silks which lay at her knees, cast before her by the whip master.

“Hurry!” said the whip master.

Men began to shout impatiently outside.

There was a skirl of music from the musicians outside, to one side of the sand, flutes, czehars, two kalikas, a tabor.

Men shouted in eagerness.

“Ita, are you ready?” asked the whip master. This was the second whip master, he who had his post within the preparation enclosure. The first whip master was outside, and would supervise the actual performances.

“Yes, Master,” she responded.

“Go,” she was told, and she hastened out through the parting of the silk, onto the sand. There was a raucous cry of pleasure from the crowd. The sand was lit with the light of torches.

Ellen reached into the chest for a bracelet, but another girl seized it before her. “That is mine!” she hissed.

“Forgive me,” said Ellen, kneeling, dropping back on her heels, tears running down her cheeks.

“Barbarian,” said the girl.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

Slaves, of course, owned nothing. The materials in the chest were for the use of all the dancers. But Ellen did not want to be scratched or bitten, or thrown to the rug within the enclosure and have her hair torn from her head. The other girl was larger than she.

Ellen then put her head in her hands, and wept.

“What is wrong?” asked one of the dancers.

“I do not even know how to put on silks and veils,” wept Ellen, red-eyed.

“I will help you,” said the girl.

“Mistress!” said Ellen, gratefully.

“I am not “Mistress,” said the girl. “I am Feike.” She lifted a swirling skirt of diaphanous dancing silk, scarlet, and shook it out.

“I am not a dancer,” said Ellen.

“Surely you have had some training,” said the girl. “That is common in most houses.”

“No!” wept Ellen.

“But surely you have seen such dance?” she said.

“A little,” said Ellen. “But then I was beaten, and not permitted to watch.”

“Why was that?” she asked.

“I was to be kept ignorant,” she said, “that I would be a low slave, a cheaper slave, a poorer slave, at best no more than the lowest of kettle-and-mat girls.”

“Your master must have hated you very much,” she said.

“I was sold for ten copper tarsks,” said Ellen.

“That is hard to believe,” said the girl. “You are quite pretty.”

Tears sprang anew to Ellen’s eyes.

“Do your best,” said the girl.

“I do not know what to do,” said Ellen.

“Stand,” said the girl.

Ellen regarded the dancing silk. She gasped. In it she felt she might be more naked than naked.

“There,” said the girl.

“I do not know what to do!” wept Ellen.

“Be a slave,” said the girl, absently. “Good. There. That is pretty. We want your left leg to show, your brand leg. You have lovely legs. Yes, you are pretty, very pretty.”

Ellen smiled, weakly, in gratitude.

“Lift your arms,” said the girl.

“Good,” said the girl. Ellen’s breasts were now closely haltered, in scarlet silk.

Feike then dug about in the chest, and found some bells, on their thongs, an armlet, several bracelets. Before the mirror Ellen found herself, bit by bit, undergoing a remarkable, exotic, barbaric transformation.

“Do you know veil work?” asked Feike.

“No,” said Ellen. “No.”

“Do your best,” said Feike. “Each of us is a different slave. Each of us is unique. Each of us is precious, no matter what the beasts say. Certainly they bid hard enough to own us, they fight wars to possess us, they risk their lives to steal us, they fight for us, they kill for us, do not let them tell you you are not important and valuable! Each of us is different, and special. Each must try to be the slave she is, not another slave, but the slave she is, the deepest and most profound slave, which is her deepest self. Remember, there is no other slave such as I, and there is no other slave such as you.”

“Adele, Lois!” called the interior whip master.

Two slaves looked at him, frightened, nodding.

Those were Earth names, Ellen realized. To be sure, she did not know if the slaves were from Earth or not. She supposed not. Earth names, she had learned, were understood on Gor as slave names. So it was not that unusual to find such names worn by Gorean slaves. Another example, Ellen realized, was ‘Ellen’. Adele was then called forth onto the sand. Ita returned, flushed, covered with sweat, and sank down on the rug, trying to regain her breath. Each of the girls would dance, three times, in order. Costumes and jewelry might be changed. Ellen saw Adele out on the sand, through the narrow parting in the silk.

“She is beautiful,” whispered Ellen to Feike.

“Yes,” said Feike.

“I am a barbarian,” said Ellen.

“That is obvious,” said Feike.

“Are Adele and Lois?” asked Ellen.

“No,” said Feike.

“What of the others?” asked Ellen.

“No,” said Feike. “We must comb your hair. There is a broken comb there. Kneel down, facing away from me. Then we must hurry with the cosmetics.”

Ellen knelt down, facing away from Feike. The hair of slaves is usually combed while they are kneeling. Interestingly, masters often comb the hair of their slaves, grooming them. Masters seem to enjoy this, and the slaves, too, tend to relish it, the intimacy and such, though the slave understands that she is being groomed, as her master’s animal, much as might be a kaiila or pet sleen. Sometimes masters wash their slaves, as well, much as a dog might be washed on Earth. This is sometimes done before slave exhibitions, or competitions. Sometimes it is done for the simple pleasure of it. Sometimes the slave is washed while bound, say, with her hands tied behind her. It is difficult to convey the psychological impact of this on a woman, say, standing, kneeling or sitting in a shallow wooden tub, perhaps out of doors, pinioned, while her body is being carefully and thoroughly washed by a man. She certainly understands herself slave in such a situation. Sometimes the master so arouses the slave in this situation that she crawls to him on the grass, untoweled, her body glistening, still wet, begging to serve his pleasure. Ultimately, of course, the slave is responsible for her own appearance, cleanliness and such. She must keep herself clean, neat and attractive. The carelessness or slovenliness of a free woman is not permitted to her. Laxity in such matters is a cause for discipline. Needless to say, the diet, rest and exercise of a slave are also carefully supervised.

Ellen moaned.

Then, thought Ellen, I will be the only Earth woman here tonight to dance in this circle before these men. I am so frightened! I am only from Earth. These men, these Goreans, these brutes, are so different from the men of my world. They are frighteningly, gloriously different! They are not mindlessly amiable and forgiving. They know what they want and will have it. Certainly they will have it from me, and from any slave! They are severe and demanding. And I must obey! They are innocently possessive, powerful, ambitious, uncompromising. Honor and loyalty inform their ethos. How different from Earth! They refuse to be confused, tricked, crippled, tamed, enfeebled! They think in terms of things and realities, not words. They are the sorts who could see through the bombardments of gaudy rhetorics, unmasking pathological agendas. They are acute, sometimes brilliant, passionate, unconquered men, men who are close to nature, who know her, and believe in her, and will not leave her side, men who have never forgotten what women are for, and what is to be done with them.

And I am a woman, thought Ellen, and here on their world, not mine. And I am to dance before them, such men. Nothing on Earth has prepared me for this.

“Yes, you are very pretty,” said Feike.

“Thank you,” said Ellen.

“Are you frightened?”

“Yes,” said Ellen.

“I understand,” said Feike.

Ellen was silent.

Feike combed Ellen’s hair, with long, deep strokes.

“It is said,” said Feike, smiling, “that no barbarian knows how to please a man.”

“That is not true!” said Ellen.

“Good,” said Feike. “Show them.”

Ellen bit her lip.

She was miserable.

How could this have happened to her? She was a woman of Earth! She had been plucked from civilization, as it had been understood by her former peers, plucked from a busy, complex, crowded, polluted, industrial society, and set down in a very different world, in a fresh, green, natural, primitive world. And here, on this world, she, a woman of Earth, a woman of education and sophistication, that behind her now, would soon be thrust through silken curtains, sent to torchlit sand, to dance barefoot, belled, silked and bangled, as no more than an adorned slave before barbarians!

I am from Earth, she thought, in misery. I will never be able to please them.

“Lois,” said the interior whip master, and, as Adele returned, her head thrown back, gasping, but obviously delighted, Lois hurried through the silk, onto the sand.

Ellen clutched the veil about her, shawl-like.

“Face me,” said Feike.

The two girls knelt facing one another, and Feike, having recourse to the tiny pans and dishes, and the pencil-like applicators on the low cosmetics table, applied her skills to the countenance of the barbarian.

“Purse your lips,” said Feike, “hold still.”

“Yes, Mistress,” smiled Ellen.

Feike laughed.

“Feike!” snapped the whip master.

“Done!” said Feike. “Look in the mirror! See a slave!”

Feike then stood up and lifted her arms, took a deep breath, and twirled, and stamped her feet twice into the rug.

There was a jangle of slave bells.

“Thank you, Feike!” said Ellen, looking up, and then, as Feike rushed through the silk, Lois returning, Ellen turned to look in the mirror.

She gasped.

“Stand slave, face me,” said the interior whip master.

Ellen complied, frightened. How could she stand to have a man see her as she now was?

“Excellent,” said the man.

Ellen sank down to her knees, not daring to look again into the mirror.

“If I had my way,” said the man, “that is the way they would be sold off the block, at least to begin with. They could be stripped, bit by bit, during the sale, until the buyers have no difficulty seeing what they are paying for. It is too bad that they do not permit cosmetics, eye shadow, lipstick, body paint, and such, on the block. We would get a great deal more for you sluts.” Ellen had been sold from the shelf of Targo without the benefit of cosmetics, of course. And she had understood that, whereas it was not unusual to strip a woman, little by little, during her sale, to increase the heat of the bids, that the slaves were always, when all was said and done, exhibited as only slave, raw. Goreans want to know what they are buying. An auction house in Venna was once burned down, she had heard, when it was discovered that it had sold women with dyed hair, especially as the house had not called this to the attention of the buyers. In the courts the owner’s claim of inadvertence was viewed skeptically. Considering the number of slaves to be vended over the next two or three days in the camp, Ellen did not think the agents of Cos would have time for the tantalizing allures of gradual unveilings. Such luxuries in any event were usually reserved for the sales of high slaves.

“You are lovely,” said one of the girls, who had not noticed her before.

“Thank you,” murmured Ellen.

“Do you dance in the manner of Turia, or of Ar?” asked another of the slaves.

“I do not think so,” said Ellen.

“Perhaps,” said another, “in the manner of Schendi, or of the Tahari?”

“I cannot even dance!” said Ellen, suddenly.

“Oh, yes!” laughed one of the dancers, merrily.

The others looked at her, strangely, and then turned away.

“It is very crowded,” whispered one of the girls, peeping through the curtain.

Ellen rose to her feet, and suddenly stopped, frightened by the sound of bells on her left ankle. It was the first time since her training that she had worn such things. There was no mistaking the meaning, the message, of that sensuous jangle. It was stimulatory, and insistently, proclaimedly, excitingly erotic. Some masters keep their slaves in bells in their private compartments. Others may bell them sometimes before putting them to the furs, enjoying the jangle of the bells while the slave writhes helplessly, beggingly, in the throes of her slave ecstasy. The bells bespeak, and would bespeak, of course, even in total darkness, the presence of a slave. Sometimes new slaves are kept for a time in bells, that they may become all the sooner accustomed to their new condition. It is hard to be belled, without knowing oneself female, and slave. Ellen, thus, was well marked for the occasion, and the dance. She was a belled slave.

Then she, too, her movements marked by the sound of her affixed slave bells, went to the curtain.

Feike was lovely.

If only I could dance, thought Ellen, mournfully, to herself.

She could not see the outside whip master, but she had no doubt that he was there, appraisingly there, ready to snap the whip in warning, or, if necessary, or thought useful, to put it to the back of a dancer.

Ellen examined the crowd, desperately. There were many men there, perhaps better than two hundred, crowded within that rather small enclosure. In the front, in several half circles, they sat, closely together, cross-legged. In the back, they stood, some at the very poles at the rear of the enclosure. There was a variety of caste colors. Some soldiers were there, too. Many ostraka had been vended. There were no women in the crowd. Any gentling, refining influence which their presence might have exercised was thus absent. The slaves would thus be dancing for men, for Gorean men. Some of the men in the crowd she had seen before, here and there in the camp. She had served some of them near the vat of Callimachus. She saw the scribe who had been in charge of her in the exhibition cage. She did not see Mirus. “So,” she thought, “he has put me here, to be humiliated, and beaten, here where I will be exquisitely punished for my boldness before him, in daring to suggest that he might find me of interest, slave interest! And he further insults me by his absence! He does not even come to see me perform, and painfully receive the deserts he has measured out and arranged for me, as punishment for my supposed insolence. Well, noble Mirus, of Earth, so be it! But I think you do find this Earth slut of interest, regardless of what you might claim! Do you think a slave is not aware of the meaning of a master’s glances?”

Ellen stepped back.

Feike, smiling, sweating, breathing deeply, brushed back through the silk, and another slave, at a gesture of the interior whip master, hurried to the sand.

I can only be beaten so much, thought Ellen. And I do not think they will kill me. And as each is to dance thrice, it is not as though they will feel particularly cheated, for after me will come Ita once again, who is a fine dancer. They will then see that it was a joke that I be sent to the circle. I will then be drawn from the roster, beaten, and permitted, I trust, to return to the vat of Callimachus. That is what will happen. I did not ask to come to the circle. They cannot blame me. I warned them. Perhaps they will be merely amused at the clever jest. Too, a girl from another circle, say, one of the free circles, might be hurried here to take my place.

But I am frightened, terribly frightened, she told herself.

Girl after girl went to the sand and returned.

Ellen felt she could scarcely move. She was tempted to run, to try to leave the enclosure by the back entrance, through which she had been introduced into it. After all, she was not chained there, one of a set of kneeling dancing slaves, to be released, one after the other, from a shackle, to be returned to its obdurate clasp when her performance was concluded.

She looked to the back entrance, wildly.

“117, be ready,” said the interior whip master.

Ellen knew there was no escape for her. For the Gorean slave girl there is no escape.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

The opening seemed inviting, seemingly beckoning her to flee into an alluring, salubrious, safely concealing darkness beyond, but for all the good it would have done her, it might as well have been sealed with granite and iron. She might as well have been chained hand and foot, and neck, to a heavy ring fixed in the bottom of a narrow, cement, well-like slave pit, looking up at the iron grating yards above her head.

But there was time. The other girl had scarcely begun to dance.

Then there was, from outside on the sand, the sudden sound of a snapping whip. Ellen started. It was not only that the sound was unexpected, and sharp, but that its significance carried a special meaning for such as she, a slave.

Outside there was some hooting, some angry cries of men.

Then, only a moment or two later, she heard the whip again, twice, and this time cries of pain, doubtless from the exhibited dancer.

In a moment, clutching her silk about her, it parted by the whip, crying, the chastised dancer fled within the preparation enclosure. It was she who had appropriated the bracelet from Ellen, and it was still on her wrist. “It serves you right, arrogant slave girl,” thought Ellen. “Now you are not so proud!” The woman knelt on the rug within the small enclosure, bent over, holding her arms about herself, weeping bitterly. There was blood on her back. She looked up at Ellen for an instant, and then looked down, miserably. No longer was she proud and beautiful. Now she was only a whipped slave. “Next time, 51, Dara,” said the interior whip master, “you will dance better.” He held his whip down and she fled to it on her knees and kissed it, and then put her head down, kissing his sandals. “Yes, Master,” she sobbed. “Yes, Master!”

“51,” thought, Ellen. “Such a high number! To be sure, she is so beautiful! What would she have done wrong? Perhaps she had been overconfident. Perhaps she had thought herself too good to be danced in this place, before such men. Perhaps she had not given her best performance? Perhaps she had held something back?”

The men were shouting angrily outside.

The interior whip master looked up from the beautiful penitent slave at his feet, as though suddenly coming to his senses. “117!” he cried. “Out, little fool, onto the sand!”

With one last look at the beaten slave, and with terror and a sinking heart, and a jangle of slave bells, Ellen, clutching her veil about her silks, rushed abjectly through the curtain and half stumbled to the sand outside.

There was a sound of interest, and laughter, from the men, and then they were expectant, quiet.

Ellen realized, suddenly, that it had not occurred to them to take her clumsiness at its face value. This was the ba-ta circle. Surely it was intentional on her part. Slave girls are not clumsy, certainly not after they have learned their collars. They are the most vulnerable, feminine and graceful of women, for they are owned, for they belong to men, and dancers, of course, are also slave girls and thus, and certainly given their special training, will presumably be in no way inferior to their more common sisters in bondage. As an incidental observation, it is interesting to note that the grace of the dancer, though, of course, not the special training of the dancer, is expected of all slave girls, and most certainly of those who like Ellen must kneel before men in the spread-kneed position, that is, the pleasure slaves.

Ellen knelt then in the sand and put her head down to the sand, that it might be clear to all that she was a slave and acknowledged them her masters.

She wanted them to be in no doubt about that.

How well and perfectly she knew herself the slave of men!

It was what she was, and knew herself to be!

I am yours, Masters, she thought to herself.

I am that sort of woman, she who is, and knows herself to be, a man’s slave, only that!

Please do not beat me!

Then she rose to her feet and put her veil about her head, wrapping it closely about her head and shoulders, concealing even her face. It was much as though she might be a free woman, though surely the bells on her ankle and her silks belied that possibility. She then walked about the dancing area, erect, proudly, gracefully, but keeping herself concealed.

To be sure, her feet were bare, and there were bells on her left ankle. This created, to the Gorean thinking, a paradox.

She was sure she was beautiful, and that the men, who had glimpsed her for an instant when she entered upon the sand, had seen that, but only for a tantalizing moment. Her beauty, she hoped, might save her, compensating to a significant extent for her ignorance of slave dance. To be sure, she had seen the women moving in the circles. She could not control her body with the subtlety they manifested, but she could see some of the simpler things they did, and she had some sense of what it might be to yield to such music, to obey it, to surrender herself to it, abjectly, as an aroused, commanded slave.

She walked about the circle once more, the veil closely about her, concealing even her features.

The whip master, whom she noted with care, seemed puzzled, but tolerant. Certainly his hand was not clutched menacingly upon his whip, the coiled blade of which, visibly, bore stains of blood, that of her humbled predecessor. The first czehar player, in whose charge were the musicians, appeared puzzled as well, but continued to elicit from his instrument, held across his knees, subtle melodies which sang of life and nature, which hinted of men and women, and masters and slaves. The music followed Ellen, quietly, expectantly, enhancing her contrived mystery.

Then, suddenly, Ellen, without permission, turned about and gracefully, regally, and with a toss of her head, exited the sand, going through the parting of the silk to the preparation enclosure.

There was silence behind her.

The other dancers were awaiting her, many wide-eyed and frightened.

“I do not understand,” said Feike. “What are you doing?”

“Being a slave,” said Ellen.

Suddenly, from outside the preparation enclosure, there were shouts of pleasure, and the smiting of the left shoulder, in Gorean applause.

“Ita,” cried the interior whip master, “to the sand!”

Ita hurried through the parting in the silk.

“What were you doing?” asked the interior whip master of Ellen.

“Dancing,” she said.

“That is not dancing,” he said.

“There is more than one way to dance, Master,” said Ellen. And, as she knelt down by the cosmetics table, she thought to herself, “I have not yet been beaten. But what shall I do now? Surely I am no more than the width of a strand of slave silk from the blows of the lash.”

The second time the beaten slave, 51, Dara, had apparently danced well. She had not been permitted to change her silks, and they were parted in the back, where the whip had cut through them. In her dance she had piteously, and abjectly, made it clear to the masters that not only did she now respect them, but that she was now pathetically concerned to subject herself to their pleasure, even as though she were their own slave. Gone was now any arrogance or haughtiness. Gone now was any suggestion that she might be too good to dance for such as they. Now it was clear that she was only a humbled, punished slave who had well learned her lesson. She danced now as a grateful slave who was inordinately privileged to, and profoundly grateful for the opportunity to, be granted permission to perform for them, for those who were a thousand times, nay, immeasurably, above her. She even incorporated into her dance, turning away from the crowd, the stripes upon her back, exhibiting them, where the admonitions of the whip had recalled her to a clearer sense of her position and condition. Ellen was, on the whole, pleased that 51, she called ‘Dara’, had not been again displeasing, and had not been again subjected to the typical Gorean consequences attendant upon the least lapse into slave laxity, but, on the other hand, she realized that she herself would now find herself contrasted not with a slave who had failed to please masters but with one who had been only too obviously pleasing. Given the Gorean applause, the striking of the left shoulder, the callings out of the men, Ellen supposed that Dara, upon returning to the area of preparation area, would be flushed with insolent triumph. On the other hand, when she returned, she seemed white-faced, and shaken, and grateful that this time things had gone as well as they had.

“117, Ellen,” said the interior whip master.

“A moment, Master!” said Ellen. “Let them wait an instant! It is important!”

On an impulse Ellen addressed Dara. “Slave girl,” she said, sharply.

Dara looked at her, frightened. No longer was she the insolent slave who had seized the bracelet from her.

“Mistress?” said Dara, quickly, before she had thought.

“When you dance again,” said Ellen, “feature the bracelet you wear on your left wrist. Call attention to it! See that it is well noticed!”

Dara, frightened, went to remove it from her wrist.

“No,” said Ellen. “Wear it when you dance next. See that it is recognized!”

Dara cast a frightened glance at the interior whip master. “Do it,” he said, though doubtless he was as puzzled as she.

Ellen then thrust the armlets and bracelets from her own limbs.

Dara had sunk to her knees within the area of preparation, partly in misery, partly in confusion, partly in relief. Ellen bent down, quickly, and kissed her. “Thank you,” said Ellen. Dara looked up at her, bewildered. It was no longer clear to her where she stood amongst the slaves in the tent. Presumably, before Ellen’s addition to the list, she had been the last dancer, and thus, putatively, the best, for the best is often saved for the last. Perhaps that is why, at least in part, she had danced as she had the first time on the sand, because she was angered at having been unexpectedly supplanted in the favored position of last dancer. But then she had been whipped, and upon her return to the area of preparation after her second dancing, Ellen, a mere barbarian, who had seemingly supplanted her in the favored position, had spoken sharply to her, a liberty which might have been authorized, as far as she knew, by the interior whip master.

“Out, surely out onto the sand!” said the interior whip master to Ellen, uncertain, half in exasperation.

“Yes, Master!” said Ellen, and hurried out through the silk, onto the sand.

The first time Ellen had barely shown herself to the men, keeping herself concealed in veils, and had done little more, after her initial, clear and unmistakable acknowledgment of her abject bondage before them, that they would have no doubt as to what she was and how she understood herself, than move about the sand with a certain cold, superior, lofty, regal pride, moving serenely, insolently, about, as a smug, self-satisfied free woman, doubtless of high caste, one secure in her status, one fully assured of her importance and station. She had then, with a toss of her veiled head, returned to the area of preparation.

It was a different Ellen who appeared this time upon the sand, one who seemed uncertain, and frightened.

With her own hands, but, it seemed, as though with the hands of another, she drew her veil about, drawing it to one side and then the other, this providing a glimpse, then again they concealed, of her features. It was as though two or three men, unseen, might be tearing at the concealment, she fighting them, she trying to restore it. Then, as she spun in the sand, to the music, she unwound the veil and put it down about her shoulders. She threw her head back as though in anguish, in misery and protest, but her features were bared to the men. It seemed then she had undergone one of the most dreaded fates of a high-caste Gorean free woman. Her face was publicly bared! She was face-stripped! Her face was naked! Her face, with all its beauty, with all its readable, betraying, exquisite and subtle expressiveness, with all it would tell about her inner life, about her emotions, her feelings, her interests, fears, hopes, pleasures and concerns, had been publicly revealed; it had been bared; it was naked, stark naked; it was now as that of a slave. One of the interesting things from the Gorean point of view about most of the women of Earth is that they do not veil themselves; most go about, even in public, with bared features. This tends to be incomprehensible to the average Gorean. On Gor, on the other hand, as you have doubtless by now gathered, this omission, or this practice, that of not wearing the veil, is common with, and, indeed, is usually imposed upon, and in many cities by law, slaves. Such are commonly denied the veil, as they are other garments of free women. Indeed, the donning of the garments of a free woman by a slave can be a capital offense. The failure of most women of Earth to veil themselves is regarded as shameless. It is one of several reasons, such as the failure to speak Gorean, which tends to make Goreans regard Earth females as barbarians, as natural slaves, as slave stock. Going about so brazenly, is it not their intention to offer themselves for the scrutiny of slavers; is it not a way to court the collar, to beg for it? Certainly Gorean slavers on Earth are grateful for the custom, as it considerably facilitates their assessment of the slave wares of Earth.

As Ellen had with the veiling of her features, so now it seemed that she struggled with her implicit, but unseen, assailants, to cling to the veil, held so tightly about her shoulders and body. Who could be tearing her veil away from her body? Could these be invisible assailants, of some powerful, but uncertain nature, or were they her own needs determined despite her conscious will to have their way with her, to reduce her brutishly, ruthlessly, to the denied, but beloved core of her being, or might they be the unseen hands of any there, of any within that crowded, silken enclosure, who were determined to see that she became a woman?

Bit by bit, to the music, writhing, turning, twisting, resisting, sometimes winning, sometimes losing, she fought with the veil, and then lost, the veil behind her, in the sand, and she was before them as a silked, belled slave, in swirling skirt, open on the left, with high-haltered breasts, and encircling necklaces. It seemed she fled then about the circle, running here and there, sometimes coming close to the men, who sometimes reached for her, sometimes drawing back, as in fear. She seemed in consternation, frantic, as though she would turn this way and that to escape, but found always her way barred. In this it was made clear to all, by gestures and displays, though unobtrusively, by subtly drawing attention to the matter, that her arms and wrists were bare. At the time most of the men probably did not notice this, but would presumably be aware of it on some level, and would recall it later.

Then suddenly on the sand, she stopped, near its center, and looked out, toward the crowd. The music stopped with her. She took a step backward, and then another step. And the czehar player underlined these steps. Her lip trembled. She put forth her hand, as though to fend away someone who was approaching her. Then she seemed to watch someone approach her on her left, and seemed too terrified, or exhausted, to run. Then she hunched her left shoulder up and looked to her upper left arm in horror, as though it might have been grasped. She looked with dismay, and fear, it seemed, to some unseen captor.

Then swiftly, to music, it seemed she was turned about, fiercely, and then, as she stood still, yet seeming to resist in place, it seemed that her hands, wrists crossed, were lifted up behind her, to the small of her back. They then stayed there. She struggled to free them, but could not. She looked back over her shoulder in fear, as though at an imperious, ferocious captor. Then it seemed she was thrust stumbling, back-braceleted, toward the parting in the silk that led to the area of preparation, and, in an instant, disappeared within.

There was a pause, as though that rude, bestial gathering was for a moment taken aback by what it had witnessed, and then there began a steady, increasing flow of applause. Men cried out with pleasure, and Ellen, gasping, and frightened, within the silken enclosure, trembled, for she well knew the accents of lustful masters and that such as she, the embonded woman, was the object societally designated for the satisfaction of their most profound needs. Such men would not rage in frustration on Gor; they would not starve on Gor; the civilization in its foresight, understanding, wisdom and benevolence had provided such as she for their service, satisfaction, and delectation.

Women such as she existed for men.

They were captured, and stolen, and bought and sold, and exchanged, and traded, for the pleasure of men.

They were not free women; they were something quite different; they were slaves.

The female slave is a property, commonly purchased for, and certainly mastered for, the requirements, even caprices, of men.

The very raison d’être of the female slave, that form of item and article, of object and possession, that form of luscious, living merchandise, is the service and pleasure of men.

“I do not understand, Mistress,” said Dara, when Ellen returned. “Are you dancing?”

“I do not know,” said Ellen. “And do not call me “Mistress.”

“Yes, Mistress,” whispered Dara.

Ellen saw that the interior whip master was regarding her. He seemed puzzled, if not bewildered. Ellen put her head down. One must be careful about meeting the eyes of a free man.

Then Ita was again through the parting in the silk, and again danced, again eliciting cries of pleasure from the crowd, again proving her right to perform as a slave before masters, even in so high a circle as the ba-ta circle.

“I do not know what you are doing,” said Feike.

“I am following your suggestion, to be a slave, Mistress,” said Ellen.

“You are a slave,” said Feike, smiling.

“Yes, Mistress,” smiled Ellen.

“Then continue to be a slave,” said Feike.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Ellen.

As Ellen knelt on the rug inside the area of preparation, waiting, while the other girls danced, she thought of how far away, how remote, so many things seemed. Her life on Earth seemed so far away. It seemed to be dim, distant, faint, intangible, gray, and dull. It almost seemed unreal. Had it been real? Had it truly taken place? Had she once been there, actually lived there, in such a place? Could it be? She listened to the music outside the area of preparation, the cries of the men. “What was there, in that world,” she wondered, “to compare with even the light wisp of silk I feel upon my thighs, with the bells knotted about my left ankle?”

Dara thrust back through the parting in the silk. Behind her there was a storm of applause. She had done well. She sank to her knees, gratefully. For the time she need not fear the leather. Dara was beautiful. Her number was 51, a very low number. It was not for nothing, Ellen surmised, that Dara had been originally scheduled as the last dancer. Doubtless lovely Dara would bring a high price on the block, being valued not only for her skills as a dancer, but for her obvious possibilities as a common pleasure slave.

Ellen did not wish to delay this time on her return to the sand.

“The bracelet, quickly!” she said to Dara.

Ellen had spoken in the voice of a mistress and Dara, startled, responded instantly as a slave, slipping the bracelet from her wrist, putting her head down and lifting it to Ellen.

“Thank you,” said Ellen, and then she hurriedly slipped the bracelet on her left wrist, gave Dara a quick kiss, and hurried out onto the sand.

She knew she was the last dancer of the evening, at least in this circle.

She pretended to stumble out upon the sand, to a point a bit behind its center. It was rather as she had done at first, but this time it was deliberate. She wanted her movements to seem uncertain, frightened.

She turned about, to the music, and then lifted her left wrist, looking upon it, with dismay.

There was an intake of breath in the crowd, a murmur of excitement.

Now, as not in her second appearance, there was a ring of metal on her left wrist. Surely, as she looked upon it, with awe and dismay, it must suggest the bracelet of a slave. It seemed then, given the conclusion of her second appearance on the sand, that she, captured, had been in the interim embonded. Surely her movements suggested those of a new slave, timid, frightened, trying to understand what it would mean to be owned. She then, for the first time in her dance, seemed to notice the bells tied on her left ankle, and the sounds they made. She seemed to cry out in misery and despair, and hardly seemed to move. Surely she must be embonded now, for upon her there were slave bells. But, too, of course, in examining the bells she had revealed her leg, the left leg, the brand leg, through the parting in the swirling skirt of scarlet slave silk. The beauty of this limb was not lost on men accustomed to own women. “Ai, ai!” cried men. She then framed with the fingers of her left and right hand, regarding it, the tiny mark on her left thigh. There was a greater cry of pleasure from the attendant brutes. Surely she was branded, and so she must be now a slave! She seemed not to hear them but to be alone with herself, perhaps in a master’s house, or within a walled patio, or pleasure garden. She then put her hands to her throat, as thought she might be feeling there a circlet of bondage. Again men greeted this concern with delight. “Know yourself slave, little slut!” cried a man. She then, with the music, seemed to swirl about as though in incomprehension. It seemed she could not believe what had been done to her! “Slave!” cried a man. “Kiss the whip!” called another. She then, in moving to the music, seemed to first notice, back on the sand, to the left of the parting in the silk, as one would face it, the veil which she had earlier discarded. It had been left there, deliberately. She approached it, moving with the music, frightened. She bent down, reaching her hand toward it. “Beware!” called a man. But then, to the music, turning away, she drew back her hand in fear. She no longer dared touch the veil. Whereas a woman’s slave may, and often must, handle the clothing of a free woman, assisting the free woman in her cabinet, and such, she is seldom, if ever, permitted to wear the clothing of a free woman. As I have mentioned, it can be a capital offense for a slave girl to don such garments. When she had drawn her hand back quickly, not daring to touch the discarded veil, there had been applause from the men, who were now, it seemed, muchly drawn into the drama which the lovely slave had been enacting before them. It was clear now, if not in many ways earlier, that the character being portrayed by the dancer now understood herself to be no more than kajira.

She then seemed suddenly to see someone approach. She recoiled with fear, half bent over. She tried to cover herself, as though she might have been stripped. She half turned away. Then, as though ordered, she faced forward, and straightened up, but held out her hands, as though to fend away some individual. Then, as though ordered, she put down her hands and, as with a moan of misery, she knelt, looking up, as though into someone’s face. Then it seemed she lifted her hands and received into them an object, which, putting down her head, she kissed, and then, lifting the object, returned it to the unseen master. And doubtless there were few if any men in that audience to whom it did not seem that it was into their hands that the whip was returned.

And thus was the sovereignty of the male, and his command over her, acknowledged by the slave.

She now knelt with the knees closely together. Then, as the music swirled, she apparently protested, and pleaded with the master, regarding him with disbelief and misery, shaking her head piteously, negatively. Then, her supplications obviously unavailing against his sternness, she put down her head and covered her eyes with her hands, as though weeping. And her knees then, slowly, furrowing the sand, widened. Men cheered.

She then uncovered her eyes and her expression had changed dramatically, from tearful protest, to surprise, to awe, to, as though for the first time, a sense of her own sexuality.

She then rose up, as though now an aroused slave. She extended her hands to the master, piteously, now begging, moving her hips and love cradle in mute entreaty, regarding him with wild, startled eyes, beseeching him with her beauty, imploring attention, soliciting, seemingly to her amazement, the touch of a free man, however, casual, on her embonded loveliness. But to her consternation, it seemed he remained adamant. Then, with ever greater desperation, she attempted to stir his interest, to inflame his passion, and as a piteous, now-aroused, begging, needful slave. Whatever might have been the reluctance or severity of her supposed master there was little doubt but what the slave was more than successful with her audience.

Suddenly, to her actual consternation, briefly, until she caught herself, she glimpsed, in the back of the enclosure, near the wall of silk, standing there, back among several other men, his arms folded, Mirus. How long had he been there? Had he seen her earlier appearances? He might have been there, unnoticed. But whatever might have been the case, clearly he was there now.

She cried out wildly in misery that he, Mirus, should see her as she was now, dancing as a slave. How amused must he be! How justified now was all his contempt for her! How could she ever hope to win his respect, now that he had seen her thusly! This was now all she could ever be to him! Never again could he see her as anything but what she now was, something worthless, the most abject and degraded of slaves!

Then suddenly she was furious. You have done this to me, she thought. You have made me like this! Oh, I was always a slave, yes, doubtless, but it was you who forced me to reveal it! You, then, it was who forced me to acknowledge myself, who forced me to show myself as what I truly am! Surely a woman is entitled to this privacy! Surely she is entitled to conceal this truth!

But on Gor, of course, a slave girl is permitted no such thing.

She must be herself, openly, publicly, as innocently and unapologetically as the rhythm of her breathing, the beating of her heart, as innocently and unapologetically as the scar of her brand and the metal of her collar!

Why did you come to see me, she thought, dancing. I am not being beaten! Has your joke, clever master, turned out badly?

I cannot read your expression. It is dark there, and you conceal your feelings well.

I think you do want me, in spite of what you pretend. How long have you been there?

Well, then, see your Ellen! Despise me if you will. I do not care! See her dance, as the slave she is! You sought to destroy her, to reduce and ruin her, but you have succeeded only in giving her the dearest, the most precious and greatest fulfillment a woman can know! I love being what I am, being joyfully, willingly, helplessly, given over wholly to love and service. You put me in chains, and in them I have found the greatest freedom and happiness a woman can know!

Oh, I know my vulnerability, and I fear the bonds of a slave, but I would not have things other than as they are!

Oh, I fear the whip, but I would not be other than subject to it!

So see me dance, Master! See me dance, one you once reduced to bondage, now only another slave, now only another slave before free men!

Ellen had then, in her dance, a sense of her power over men. She saw interest, their fevered wildness, their blazing eyes, their clenched fists, heard their applause, their cries of pleasure. You, Masters, she thought, have the power of strength, and dominance, and weapons, but I, a mere slave, and my lowly sisters, have power as well, the power of our desirability, the power of our beauty!

And our power is not inconsiderable, I assure you!

Who is strongest, I wonder, she asked herself.

Then suddenly it seemed she knew who was strongest for, to her astonishment, she now saw, toward the back of the silk, only a few feet from Mirus, to his left, Selius Arconious!

He, though impecunious, though a simple workman, no more than an ordinary tarnster, was a Gorean master. He was the sort of man, she knew, who could easily, and without thinking, put her in her place and keep her there.

He cannot be here, she said to herself, swaying before the men. He must be in Ar! I do not understand this!

Then tears burst into her eyes.

“I am dancing as a slave!” she thought. “I cannot let him see me in this way! Not in this way!”

She stopped dancing for a moment, confused, but tried not to look at Selius Arconious, lest their eyes meet.

The czehar player looked up, puzzled.

There was a growl from the exterior whip master, and the snap of a whip.

Instantly, frightened, obedient to this warning, she was again a dancing slave.

“Why not?” she asked herself. “Slaves are not permitted to conceal themselves from their masters, in any way. I must be what I am. Gorean masters are not men of Earth! They do not require hypocrisy in women. We must be before them as we truly are. They will have it no other way. We must be naked before our masters, naked not just in the body, for even a free woman may be stripped, but in every way.”

“What are you doing here, Selius Arconious,” she wondered. “Are you searching for Portus Canio, for Fel Doron, for Tersius Major? Beware of Tersius Major!”

“Or,” she thought wildly, “have you come here following a slave? I trust you have not come here for me, for my number is 117, and you will not be able to afford me! You are the sort of man to whom a woman desires to belly, to whose feet she desires to crawl! You are such that even a free woman might beg to bring you your sandals, crawling naked to you, bearing them humbly in her teeth. How much more then a lowly slave! Or have you come for a girl, but not one such as I? You would have no way of knowing that I was here! Then you have not come for me! Are you surprised to see me here, and to see me as I am, in bells and silk? There is a great sale. Doubtless you have heard of it. Men have come from hundreds of pasangs to buy. Many women will go cheaply. Why did you have to come here, and make me miserable, reminding me of your imperious strength and mastery! I will go to a richer master! I do not think you could afford a girl whose lot number is less than seven or eight hundred. Yet there are many pretty bargains, even at that price!” Tears ran down Ellen’s cheeks.

Then, in fury, arrogantly, she danced her beauty to Mirus. Men even turned to look at him, but his expression remained impassive. Ellen saw the scribe who had queried her earlier, in the exhibition cage, and, oddly, momentarily, was frightened. Beside him was a guardsman. Then, with a toss of her head, and a whirl of her hair, she danced toward Selius Arconious. “I will show you what you have lost,” she thought. “I will show you, proud, handsome master, what you cannot afford!”

Then, she moved from Selius Arconious to Mirus again, dancing in the sand, regarding him steadily. Conscious of her power, she danced before these two men, first one and then the other, danced before them the arousing beauty of an insolent slave.

None could have her until her sale, she knew.

“Suffer,” she thought, “Masters!”

Mirus followed her dancing, and looked carefully upon Selius Arconious, and Selius Arconious, when she danced to Mirus, had little difficulty in detecting the object of the slave’s provocative, haughty glances.

“Dance to all, slave girl, or feel the whip!” snarled the exterior whip master.

And Ellen, then, terrified, returned to the character she had created on the sand, and danced her needs to all, piteously inviting the attentions of one after another of the ostraka-possessing patrons of the silken enclosure.

In moments the men again were commending her, with applause, and hearty cries of appreciation.

Ellen, dancing, circumambulated the interior edge of the dancing sand, sometimes closer, almost within an arm’s reach of the men, sometimes farther back. The eyes of men glistened. Slave bells jangled. The bracelet was upon her wrist. The music swirled about her.

She was afraid. What if the men were not pleased? What if the exterior whip master was not pleased?

“Exploit your beauty,” thought Ellen. “You are very beautiful. You know you are. Use your beauty. Use it! Trust in it to compensate for your lack of training, for your lack of skill, in slave dance. Do not regard Master Mirus or Master Selius! You are a slave girl and can be whipped in an instant. You must perform, even as though they were not here. The men seem pleased. Obey the music! Let it teach you! The resources of the slave girl are limited. What have we to offer, to bargain with, to petition with, but our beauty, our desirability, our intelligence, our passion, our desire to serve and love helplessly and wholly, asking nothing, giving all? I feel the music. It is doing things to me. It is like the thought of being a slave. It is like the thought of being owned. It is like being on your knees, naked, before a man, his. It is like straps and chains, it is like the sight of the whip. You are acting a part, Ellen, only that, the part of an aroused slave girl, dancing her need before strong men, before whom she is nothing, only an animal and slave. Do not forget you are only acting a part. You are only acting a part, aren’t you? Please, my body, do not reveal your needs! No! I fear that I am becoming aroused! I must not let this show, certainly not before Masters Mirus and Selius. It is a part I am playing. I must disengage myself from this part. I am acting! I must be only acting! Please, body, be merciful to me!”

But she found herself flushed, and gasping, and holding out her hands to the men. And then in her belly, undeniably, as many times afore, there burned slave fire. Tears came to her eyes. And she and the part, despite her will, became one!

Men cried out.

She did not doubt but what there would now be more than twenty-one bids upon this slave.

In an instant’s glimpse she read scorn in the eyes of Mirus. How helpless she was in the throes of her slave needs. Let her yowl in heat like a she-sleen. What did the men mind? The face of Selius Arconious was impassive. Doubtless he had seen the dancing of many desperate, needful slaves, doubtless many more lovely than she.

And she was only an Earth girl, a scion of female slave stock, a barbarian. How could he do other than hold her in contempt?

Then, exhausted, miserable, aroused, tearful, she, in a sudden swirl of music, concluded her dance, hurling herself to the sand, to her left side, her legs drawn up, she on her left elbow, her right hand lifted piteously to the crowd. Then she put her head down, surrendered. It was then the concern of masters whether or not they would deign to summon her, a needful, submitted slave, to their feet.

Quickly then, flushed, in tears, amidst shouting and applause, she sprang to her feet and fled within the area of preparation.

“Out, out, all of you!” commanded the interior whip master, and the dancers emerged once more, all, to the sand, to receive the plaudits of the crowd.

The exterior whip master waved expansively to the musicians who rose and, smiling, bowed their heads briefly to the crowd.

“First obeisance position,” said the exterior whip master, and this position was instantly assumed.

Ellen, her head down, then heard small sounds, and the murmur of conversation, as men moved toward the exits of the enclosure.

At least she had not been beaten. She supposed now that she would return her silks and adornments, the bells and such, to the interior of the area of preparation, and return to the vat of Callimachus.

She dared to lift her head a little, but she saw neither Mirus nor Selius Arconious within the enclosure. She did see, this frightening her, and she quickly put down her head, the scribe who had interviewed her in the exhibition cage, and three guardsmen, with him, not one but three, all approaching.

Her apprehensions were much increased when she became aware that they had stopped in her vicinity.

Ellen, trembling, pressed her forehead down into the sand.

“117, Kajira Ellen,” said the scribe.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Dismiss your girls, save this one,” said the scribe.

“Return to the area of preparation,” said the exterior whip master.

Immediately, with a rustle of bells, and the clinkings of necklaces and bangles, the other slaves hurried to their feet and went into the area of preparation.

“Master?” asked Ellen.

“Strip yourself, completely,” said the scribe.

“Yes, Master,” said Ellen.

“Help her,” said the scribe.

One of the guardsmen undid the halter, behind her back, and pulled it away. One of the other two guardsmen whistled softly. “Nice,” he said. Ellen, flushing, lifted aside the necklaces and the bracelet and, embarrassed, though a slave, unhooked the swirling skirt of dancing silk. “The veil, there, Masters,” she said. “That was mine to wear, too.” In this way she had purchased a moment’s modesty. Then the veil was put beside her, and on it were laid the halter, the necklaces and bracelet. She looked up and, meeting the stern eyes of the scribe, lifted away the skirt, folded it, and, head down, placed it, too, beside her.

“Bells,” said the scribe.

Ellen sat then in the sand, and drew up her left leg, to attempt to remove the bells. She was at this time naked, save for the bells. Her fingers fumbled. The knots seemed too close, too tight. She struggled, and began to weep.

“On your belly,” said the scribe.

One of the guardsmen, then, crouching beside her, bending her leg, lifting it by the ankle, pressing it closely against her body, so closely she whimpered, undid the bells. With a jangle they were flung to the bit of garb and the few adornments beside her. She remained, of course, on her belly, but put her leg down. Her head was turned to the right, her left cheek in the sand.

“Well, little Ellen,” said the scribe. “You danced well.”

“Thank you, Master,” whispered Ellen, frightened.

“But I thought it strange,” said the scribe, “when I heard your number called in the camp, summoning you to a dancing circle, and, indeed, one so high as the ba-ta circle. I seemed to recall the number, and, accordingly, as is my wont in such instances, checked my records, which I have with me.”

Ellen was silent, lying in the sand, the feet of the men about her.

“According to my records,” said the scribe, looming over her, tall in his blue robes, she could see but the hem of his robe and his sandals, “you responded negatively when queried as to your ability to dance. Perhaps my records are in error?”

I think we may grant, even within this narrative, despite the possible risk of a seeming impropriety, hopefully not one punishable, that Ellen had at least average, or reasonable, intelligence. Certainly her life on Earth, her education, her attainments, her position, and such, suggest as much. More coercively, perhaps, we might note that intelligence ranks high among the selection criteria of Gorean slavers, of which, as noted earlier, we may assume that Mirus was one. I think that it is seldom that stupid women are brought to Gor. The Gorean master, you see, looks for high intelligence in a female slave. It is one of his pleasures to take a highly intelligent woman, even a brilliant woman, provided, of course, that she is attractive, would be of interest in chains, is likely to squirm well in the furs and such, and teach her her womanhood, a lesson which is too often neglected in the education of a free female, either on Gor or Earth. He delights then to take such an interesting, lovely, remarkable creature in hand and, step by step, with great patience, reduce her to an unquestioning, passionate, obedient chattel. The more intelligent she is, of course, the better slave she is likely to make; I assume that that is obvious; she is likely to be more aware of the subtlest and almost unspoken desires of her master; she is less likely to make errors which might displease him; and she is likely to be not only hot, devoted and dutiful, as the saying is, but inventive and zealous, conscientious and creative, intelligently desperate to please, in her unrelieved, categorical servitude. Also, I suppose that there is just more pleasure in owning an intelligent woman than in owning one who is less intelligent. She is a greater prize to have at one’s feet. Too, the average Gorean master wants a woman he can talk to, seriously talk to, one with whom, in a sense, he can share his life. It is not unusual for a master to speak of numerous matters with his female slave, politics, culture, music, history, philosophy, and such, almost as though she might be his equal, though she is likely to be kneeling before him, naked, and back-braceleted. In this way she is not likely to forget that she is a female. Afterwards he can put her in pleasure chains, and, as it pleases him, turn her once again into a begging, submitted, conquered, spasmodic, writhing slave. A dull woman, you see, is not of great interest, whether in a collar or not. An interesting woman, on the other hand, is not the less interesting in a collar; indeed, she is more interesting in a collar.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Your records are correct. I denied that I knew dance.” She supposed that the question had been a trap, but, even had it not been, even if the scribe’s question had been innocently, honestly, motivated, she thought it wisest to answer truthfully. As a slave she feared the penalties for prevarication, the least of which might be a severe whipping.

“Then,” said the scribe, “it appears that you are a lying slave.”

“No, Master,” she wept. “I answered as honestly as I could. I am a slave girl. I would not dare to lie to a free man!”

“You said you could not dance, and yet with my own eyes, and to my pleasure, I may add, I saw you dance.”

“I cannot dance!” cried Ellen.

There was laughter, from the scribe, and from one of the guardsmen, and from the two whip masters who had now come forth from the area of preparation.

“It is true,” said Ellen. “I did not so much dance, as act to music. And I have seen dancers, in the circles. I tried to imitate them! I tried to do well! Then I felt myself taken by the music, and I could not help myself. Then, as though held in its chains, I found myself dancing. I had been captured by the music. I had no recourse but to obey it, Masters! I did not know I could dance, if dance I did.”

“You danced,” said the scribe.

Ellen groaned.

“You had lessons?” said the scribe.

“No, Master,” said Ellen.

“But you have seen slaves dance?”

“Yes, Master,” wept Ellen.

“And you learned from them?”

“Perhaps something, Master.”

“And surely, as a slave,” said the scribe, “you upon occasion, naked, in secret, had swayed before a mirror?”

“Yes, Master,” whispered Ellen. She recalled that she had done this, not only on Gor, but even on Earth, as a frustrated female intellectual, more than once, in anguish, and curiosity, and embarrassment, in the privacy of her apartment, the shades drawn, far above the distant pavement, far above the dismal, crowded, gray streets below. She had wanted to see herself as she might be, and wanted to be, as a beautiful, natural creature, and to see herself, as well, as that creature might appear, beggingly presenting itself, beggingly displaying itself, in all the lure of the dance, to a member of the opposite sex, to a man. Once, to her astonishment, she had found herself whispering to the mirror. “I am here. Where are you, my master? I am ready for a collar. I want a collar. Come, collar me, my master!” She wondered how many slaves danced thusly in such small, lonely apartments, their slave needs starved, longing for a master.

“Then you have not only made observations, from which you perhaps learned something, but you have practiced,” said the scribe.

“Yes, Master,” wept Ellen.

“I think I shall have you remanded for the liar’s brand,” said the scribe.

“Do not have it put on me, please, Master!” begged Ellen, terrified.

“I would think that a good whipping would be sufficient,” said a voice, “say, ten lashes.”

Ellen started, keeping her head down.

“Who are you?” asked the scribe.

“I am called ‘Selius’,” said the voice.

Ellen dared to look up, from her belly, half buried in the sand, into which it seemed she would crawl, as though to hide. Her fingers dug into the sand, at the sides of her head.

It was Selius Arconious!

“Perhaps you are right,” said the scribe. “I myself was inclined to be lenient, though I suppose the liar’s brand would be appropriate for her.”

Ellen dug her fingers into the sand, in terror.

“I did, as doubtless did we all, enjoyed her performance, and that should count for something, I suppose,” said the scribe, “and I, besides, upon reflection, am inclined to grant that she may not have fully understood her latent talents in the matter.”

“It is instinctive in a woman,” said the guardsman. “They are all slaves, with or without their collars. They are all born to dance the dances of slaves. Such things are in their belly from birth.”

“True,” said Selius Arconious. “But she was stupid not to understand this.”

“Yes,” agreed the guardsman.

Ellen bit her lip in anger, remaining quiet on her belly amongst the feet of the men.

“Surely she should at least have qualified her answer, or have been more candid, or more speculative, with our fellow here,” said Arconious, indicating the scribe.

“Agreed,” said the guardsman.

“I am inclined to forget the matter,” said the scribe. “All in all, I do not think the little slut was trying to mislead us.”

Ellen gasped softly with relief.

“But she did mislead you,” said Selius Arconious.

“Inadvertently, unintentionally,” suggested the scribe.

“Then she is stupid,” said Selius Arconious.

“Granted,” said the scribe.

Ellen dug her fingers into the sand.

“Apparently,” said Selius Arconious, “those of Cos are indulgent with their slaves.”

“We do not have that reputation,” said the scribe, unpleasantly.

“Too, intentionally or not,” said Selius Arconious, “she has made a fool out of you, and of Cos.”

“No, Masters!” whispered Ellen, frightened.

“Were you given permission to speak?” inquired Selius Arconious.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master!”

“You see how stupid she is,” said Selius Arconious.

“Yes,” said the scribe.

“I did not know that Cos accepted stupidity in her slaves,” said Selius Arconious.

“We do not,” said the scribe. “Whip!”

The whip of the exterior whip master was handed to the scribe, who gave it to one of the attending guardsmen.

Of the other two guardsmen one took Ellen’s wrists and drew them forward, holding them, and the other took her ankles, and, holding them tightly, drew them back, this extending her legs. In this way she was stretched at full length, on her belly, and held, vulnerably, in the sand.

“What do you think should be her punishment?” asked the scribe.

“I would think fifteen lashes,” said Selius.

Ellen sobbed in misery.

“Ten for the stupidity of imperiling the integrity of your records,” said Selius Arconious, “and another five for the stupidity of daring to speak without permission.”

Ellen saw the shadow of the guardsman, the arm lift, the hand holding the whip. She shut her eyes tightly, in misery.

But the blow did not fall.

She opened her eyes. Selius Arconious had interposed himself, and his hand rested on the arm of the guardsman, staying its blow. The guardsman, puzzled, lowered his arm.

“I will buy the strokes,” said Selius Arconious. “I would suppose that a tarsk-bit a stroke would be sufficient, as the slave is stupid, rather than willful or wayward.”

“That is acceptable,” said the scribe. “Fifteen tarsk-bits.”

“Done,” said Selius Arconious.

Ellen heard the tiny sounds of small coins. She saw the whip returned to the exterior whip master.

The scribe distributed some of the coins to the attending guardsmen. “Good,” said one of them. Such coins would buy more than one round of paga.

“So,” thought Ellen. “How cleverly Selius Arconious demeans me! He knows I hate him, that I cannot stand him, that I loathe him! Now he whom I intensely despise chooses to interfere! From where has he come? Why is he here? By what right does he interpose himself betwixt a slave and an agent of her master, the state of Cos? How he humiliates me! So now I should be grateful to him? With what contempt he buys away my whipping! How better could he show his contempt for me? How better could he impress my vulnerability, my nothingness, my slavery, upon me? And so he wishes to put me in his debt, me, whom he so scorns! Am I now supposed to be grateful to him, for this act of calculated humiliation. I loathe him! I loathe him!”

“You may belly,” said the scribe, “and express your gratitude to your benefactor.”

Ellen, who well understood her condition, needed not be reprimanded or kicked, nor required a suggestion, or command, to be repeated, but squirmed immediately, prostrate, on her belly, to Selius Arconious, and, putting down her head, her hair falling about his sandals, kissed his feet.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, bitterly, angrily.

“Your gratitude may be premature, my dear,” said Selius Arconious.

Ellen lifted her head a little, puzzled. Selius Arconious stepped back, away from her.

“Kneel up, slut,” said the scribe. “Lift your wrists, crossed.”

Ellen, kneeling up, lifting her wrists, crossed, flushed. She was obeying, and kneeling, a naked slave, in the presence of Selius Arconious, whom she hated.

She felt her wrists lashed together, at one end of a leather tether.

She was pulled to her feet.

She looked at Selius Arconious.

“I have always thought that you were a slave,” he said, “and now I see that you are.”

She looked down, angrily. Then she looked up, for her wrists were lifted, by the scribe, he checking the confining knots which bound them.

“There is no more dancing or serving for you this night, 117, Ellen,” said the scribe. “You are being taken to the slave cages. There you will wait. You will be sold tomorrow night.”

“She is a slut, meaningless and stupid,” said Selius Arconious. “I recommend that she be confined straitly.”

“I will see that she is put into one of the tiniest of the slave cages,” said the scribe. “By tomorrow night she will beg to run to the block.”

The slave’s tether was then handed to a guardsman.

Ellen, turning about, cast an angry glance at Selius Arconious, who regarded her impassively.

She turned away, angrily.

Then she was led away.