by John Norman
“I am not a dancer!” she cried.
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
“No, my Master!” she cried, and gracefully flexed her legs, and lifted her hands, their backs to one another, above her head.
“Splendid!” said Glyco.
How beautiful Peggy was, and how frightened!
Tasdron lifted his hand.
The Sa-eela is one of the most moving, deeply rhythmic and erotic of the slave dances of Gor. It belongs, generally, to a genre of dances commonly known as the Lure Dances of the Love-Starved Slave Girl. The common theme of the genre, of course, is the attempt on the part of a neglected slave to call herself to the attention of the Master.
Tasdron then signaled to the musicians.
And then Peggy began to dance.
I remembered her then from long ago, from Earth, also from the restaurant, where she had worked as a hat-check girl. She had worn a black ribbon in her blond hair, a long sleeved, white-silk blouse, panty hose of black netting, and a brief, black miniskirt. Her long, shapely legs had been well revealed. She had been very lovely. I did not find it hard to understand that she might have come to the casual attention of a Gorean slaver.
“I thought she was not a dancer,” said Glyco.
“I have never thought of her as a dancer,” said Tasdron puzzled. “I have never used her as a dancer.”
The former Peggy Baxter, of Earth, nude and in the steel collar of Tasdron of Victoria, her master, now danced before us, a Gorean slave girl.
I sipped a Turian liqueur.
I sensed the lovely little dark-haired slave kneel down quite close to me, behind me and to my left. She put her hands about my left arm.
I savored the liqueur, and observed the dance of the slave.
I also smiled, detecting the swift, astonished breathing of the little slave near me.
“Such movements, of course,” Glyco was saying, “are instinctual in a woman.”
“Yes,” said Tasdron.
“Oh,” breathed the little slave near me, “oh!” I smiled. I gathered that she had seldom seen the dance of a female slave.
The Sa-eela, usually performed in the nude, as though by a low slave, and by a girl freed of all impediments, except her collar, is one of the most powerful of the slave dances of Gor. It is done rather differently in different cities but the variations practiced in the river towns and, generally, in the Vosk basin, are, in my opinion, among the finest.
There is no standardization, or little standardization, for better or for worse, in Gorean slave dance. Not only can the dances differ from city to city, and town to town, and even from tavern to tavern, but they are likely to differ, too, even from girl to girl. This is because each girl, in her own way, brings the nature of her own body, her own dispositions, her own sensuality and needs, her own personality, to the dance.
For the woman, slave dance is a uniquely personal and creative art form. Too, of course, it provides her with a wondrous modality for deeply intimate self-expression. “They all wear collars,” is the first portion of a familiar exchange, of which Goreans are fond. The second, and concluding, portion of the exchange is, “But each in her collar is different.” This exchange, I think, makes clear the attitude of the Gorean toward the slave girl In one sense she is nothing, and is to be treated as such, but, in another sense, she is precious, and is everything.
A familiar bit of advice given by bold Gorean physicians to free women who consult them about their frigidity is, to their scandal, “Learn slave dance.” Another bit of advice, usually given to a free woman being ushered out of his office by a physician impatient with her imaginary ailments is, “Become a slave.” Frigidity, of course, is not accepted in slaves. If nothing else, it will be beaten out of their beautiful hides by whips.
I felt the small hands of the lovely little dark-haired slave tight on my arm.
“She is not bad,” said Tasdron, observing the dancer.
“She is superb!” breathed Glyco.
I looked across the table, to my right. Lola, half kneeling, half lying, in the arms of Calliodorus, his hand in her hair, could not take her eyes from the dancer. She was breathing deeply. I glanced to my direct right. Florence, in the brief yellow tunic, knelt behind Miles of Vonda, clutching him, her fingers caught in his tunic, her chin on his right shoulder. She, too, was breathing deeply. “Master,” she whispered to him. “Master.”
I took another sip of the liqueur. It was quite good.
Peggy now danced upon her knees, at the end of the table, using the table in the dance, thrusting her belly against it, and touching it with her hands, and her body and lips.
“Ohhh,” said the little slave, holding my arm.
I smiled. The Sa-eela, of course, is not the sort of dance which could be performed by a free woman.
Peggy, then, was back from the table, on the tiles, on her back, and sides, and knees, and then prone, and then again, supine, and then writhing, as though in frustration and loneliness.
I observed the dancer, closely, the striking of her small, clenched fists on the tiles, the scratching of her fingernails at their smooth surfaces, the turning of a hip, the flattening of a thigh, the lifting of a knee, the turning of her head, the piteous scattering of her hair from side to side. She lay on her back, and, whimpering, struck down, in misery, stinging the palms of her hands, bruising her small heels. She might have been in a cell, locked away from men.
She then rolled to her stomach, and rose to her hands and knees, and, head down, remained for a moment in that posture. It is at this moment that the music enters a different melodic phase, one less physical and frenzied, one almost lyrical in its poignancy. She crawls some feet to her left and lifts her head. She puts out her small hand. It seems that it there encounters some barrier, some enclosing, confining wall. She then rises to her feet. Swiftly she hurries about, in the graceful, frightened haste of the dancer, her hands seeming to trace the location of the obdurate barriers, those invisible walls which seemed to contain her.
She then stood and faced us, and put her head in her hands, bent over, and then straightened her body, her head and hair thrown back. “I?” she seemed to ask, looking out, as though some rude jailer might have come to the gate of her pen. But there is, of course, no one there, and, in the performance of the dance, that is clearly understood.
Then, in poignant fantasy, within the pen, she prepares herself for the master, seeming to thoughtfully select silks and jewelry, seeming to apply perfume and cosmetics, seeming to be bedecked in shimmering, diaphanous slave splendor. She then crosses her wrists, and moves them, as though they have been bound. She then extends them before her as though the strap on them had been drawn taut. It then seems that she, head high, a bound slave, is being led on her tether from the pen. But, at the gate, of course, her wrists separate, and her small palms and fingers indicate for us, clearly, that she is still confined. She retreats to the center of the pen, falls to her knees, covers her head with her hands, and weeps.
The next phase of the music begins at this point.
She looks up. There is a sound in the corridor, beyond the gate. She leaps up, and backs against the wall of her pen. This time, it seems, truly, there are men there, that they have come for her. She puts her head up; she turns away; she feigns disdain. Then, it seems, as she, startled, looks about, they are turning away. She then throws herself to her belly on the floor of the pen, calling to them, lifting her head, holding out her hand piteously to them. She pleads to be considered.
It then seems, as she shrinks back, lifting herself to the palms of her hands, frightened, that the gate to her pen has been opened. She kneels swiftly in the position of the pleasure slave. Obviously she fears her rude jailers. Twice, it seems she is struck with a whip. Then she, again, assumes the position of the pleasure slave. She nods her head. She understands well what is expected of her. She is to perform well on the tiles of the feasting hall. “Yes, Masters!” it seems she says.
But how little do h
er jailers, perhaps only common and boorish fellows, understand that this is precisely what she, too, deeply and desperately desires to do. How long she has waited, in cruel frustration, unfulfilled and lonely, in her cell for just such a moment, that precious opportunity in which she, a mere slave, may be permitted to display and present herself for the consideration of her master. How can they understand the poignancy, and significance, of this moment for her? She is to have an opportunity to present herself before the master! Who knows if she, in such a large house, one with such cells and jailers, may ever again be given such an opportunity?
It then seems that she is hauled to her feet and that her wrists, tightly and cruelly, are bound behind her back. Her body and head are then bent far over. Her head twists. It seems a man’s hand is in her hair. Not as a high slave, clothed in Jewelries and shimmering silks, tastefully bound, is she to be conducted to the site of her performance, some aristocratic banquet; rather, cruelly bound and nude, she is to be thrown before masters at a drunken feast. She then, with small, hurried steps, bent over, described a wide circle on the tiles. Then, it seemed, she was thrown to her knees, and then her side, before us. Her hands were still held as though tightly bound behind her. She looked at us. We were, of course, the “masters,” before whom she was to perform. She rose to her feet. She twisted, as though her hands were being untied. She then flexed her legs and lifted her hands over her head, as she had in the beginning, back to back.
The final phases of the Sa-eela then begin.
In these phases the girl, in all her unshielded beauty, and naked except for the collar of slavery, attempts to arouse the interest of her master.
In the former Peggy Baxter, of Earth, I now saw little left which was reminiscent of her planet of origin. Before us there danced a Gorean slave girl.
I glanced about, to the small, dark-haired slave clutching my arm, to Lola, in the arms of Calliodorus, to Florence, kneeling behind Miles of Vonda, to she who had been Shirley, in her yellow gauze, kneeling to one side, now the slave of Aemilianus. They were breathing deeply. Their eyes shone. In fascination, and in arousal, and fear, they watched the beautiful slave. They knew that they, too, wore collars.
Peggy’s body gleamed with sweat. She had small feet, and lovely, high arches. Her body was superb. She had retained, by means of diet and exercise, her block measurements, those measurements which were hers when she, after having been prepared for sale, was marketed from a slave block.
The master commonly has a record of such measurements and many masters, using a tarsk scale, used for small livestock, and slave tapes, periodically check their lovely properties, making certain that they are maintaining the measurements. And woe to the girl, in such a case, whose measurements are found to depart to any significant extent from the block measurements! Such a departure can be an occasion for corrective discipline, and of a quite severe sort. Sometimes, when one sees a fearful girl refusing the smallest of sweets and exercising, almost in desperation, one may suspect, in amusement, that the day on which her master plans to check her measurements is not far distant. The lovely figures of slave girls are not accidents. Only free women are permitted to become unkempt and gross.
Peggy was dancing well.
She had lovely arms, and lovely, slender wrists. They would look well roped, or clasped in slave steel.
She had now entered into the display phase of the Sa-eela. In this portion of the dance the girl calls attention to the various aspects of her beauty, from the swirling sheen of her cascading hair to her ankles, from her small feet to her tiny, fine fingers.
Women are so incredibly beautiful. It is a wonder that men do not scream with pleasure, seeing them.
It is little wonder that Goreans put them in collars, and own them.
“Oh!” gasped the naked, collared little beauty kneeling near me. I smiled. I recalled that she had seen little on Gor of the dancing of female slaves.
I looked at her.
“She is so sensuous, and female!” she whispered.
I shrugged. “She is a slave,” I said.
Free women, incidentally, are seldom permitted to witness dances of the erotic power of the Sa-eela. The major reason for this, interestingly, is not that they might be offended or outraged, but for their own protection. Many times lovely, young free women, sometimes thinking that they have cleverly disguised themselves, donning male garments, pretending to be boys, thus seeking admission to the dances, find themselves set upon and stripped. Soon, in chains and well ravished, they find themselves as much slaves as the dancer. Perhaps, in their turn, too, they will be taught to dance. On their way to the market they may, if they wish, reflect upon what they, at that time, are likely to regard as their folly. Later, at the feet of a strong man, they may become clearer on the nature of the motivations that took them to such a performance in the first place. They were courting slavery, begging, in their way, for the steel of the collar, pleading to be subject, if they were not pleasing, to the cut of the whip. They had not truly been free women; they had only been, unbeknownst to themselves, slaves in search of their masters.
“I am hot, Master,” said the little slave kneeling beside me.
“A bold admission,” I said, “for a former Earth girl.”
“And I am frightened,” she whispered, suddenly.
“Of course,” I said. “You now realize, even more clearly than before, what it might mean to be a slave on Gor.”
She then clutched my arm, even more tightly, and then, she kneeling beside me, small and naked, helpless and vulnerable, her throat locked in the steel of my collar, on the tiles, we watched the dance of the female slave.
The music now, pounding and throbbing, mounted headily toward the climax of the Sa-eela.
In these, the final portions of the Sa-eela, the slave, in effect, puts herself at the mercy of the Master. She has already presented before him, almost in a delectable enumeration, many of the more external and rhythmic aspects of her beauty. She has displayed herself hitherto before him rather as an object in which, hopefully, he might take an interest.
A woman may do this, of course, from many motives, such as fear or her desire to be purchased by an affluent master, only one of which might be her authentic, poignant desire to be found pleasing by him, for her own sake. In such displays there can be, though there often is not, a subtle psychological distinction, detectable in the behavior, between the merchandise, so to speak, and the girl who is displaying herself as merchandise. In the first case, where no true distinction exists, which is the authentic case, the girl, in effect, says, “I am for sale. Buy me, and love me!”
In the second case, the girl, in effect, says, “Here is a fine slave. Are you not interested in her?” In the second case, of course, the Gorean is interested, though the girl may not understand this clearly, in not only the merchandise but the girl who is displaying the merchandise. She might truly be terrified if she understood that it was she herself he intended to own, and, in fact, was going to own, she the exhibitor of the merchandise as well as she, the merchandise exhibited. Goreans, as I have mentioned, are interested in owning the whole woman, in all her sweetness, depth, complexity and individuality. They, and their whips and chains, settle for nothing less. To think of the imbonded woman as a slave object is in one sense quite correct, but, in another sense, it is a perversion of, and a failure to understand, the intimate and beautiful relations which can exist between masters and slaves.
The girl now, in all her helplessness, in all her desperation, in all her sensual splendor, was dancing not aspects or attributes of her beauty before her master, but was dancing her own passions, her own needs and desires, her own piteous, needful, beautiful, intimate and personal self before him. There were no restraints, no reservations, no compromises, no divisions or distinctions. Her needs were as exposed as her bared body. She danced herself before her master.
The music swirled to its climax and Peggy, turning, flung herself to her back on the tiles before Callimac
hus of Port Cos. As the music struck its last, rousing note, she arched her back, and flexed her legs, and looked back at him, her right arm extended piteously back towards him.
Callimachus, sweating, overcome, trembling, fists clenched, rose to his feet. He looked down at the supine slave, sweating, her breasts heaving, at his feet.
“She is, of course, yours,” said Tasdron. “Jason and I thought you might find her of interest.”
“Bring me binding fiber!” cried Callimachus, throatily, joyfully. “I must tie her!”
Lola fled from the table to search out binding fiber and, in a moment, returned to the table and knelt before Callimachus, head down, handing him a generous length of soft, silken, scarlet binding fiber. In another moment, Peggy, wincing, had been helplessly trussed, hand and foot, on the tiles.
“Escape!” ordered Callimachus.
“I cannot, Master!” cried the girl, struggling futilely. “You have tied me too well. I am helpless!”
“Escape!” commanded Callimachus.
“I cannot,” wept the girl, “nor do I wish to, Master!”
I turned her over and examined the knots on her wrists and ankles, and then put her again on her back. “The knots are excellent,” I said. “She has been securely bound. She is a well-tied slave. She cannot free herself.”
Callimachus then cried out with joy and went to Tasdron, whom he embraced. He then came to me and seized my hand, and then embraced me, too, weeping. “My thanks,” said Callimachus. “My thanks to you both!”
In his joy he had immediately tied the slave. He had waited not a moment longer than necessary to put her in his bonds. The practical and symbolic significance of binding the woman is, I gather, clear to all. It is a joyful, meaningful way of demonstrating power over the slave, and showing that she, in effect, belongs to you. It is a thrilling, exciting act for the master who binds, and for the helpless, dominated slave, who finds herself bound. “He who ties a woman owns her,” is a Gorean saying. To be sure, strictly, a woman might find herself tied by a man who does not own her legally, but even in such a case, she will experience herself as being owned in a rather practical and significant sense, that sense, namely, in which she is completely at his mercy and under his control, that sense in which he may do with her as he pleases. Consider then the joy of binding when the master knows that he literally, and legally, owns the woman he binds; and she knows that she is the full and legal property, with no hope of escape or rescue, of the one who binds her.
