Dancer of Gor
Page 4
"Look up," he said.
I did so.
"You know where you are, of course," he said.
"Yes," I said. I looked to my right. There, in the darkness, where I could reach out and touch it, on the bottom shelf, in its place, was Harper's Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities. Probably it had not been moved since it had been replaced, months ago. I then looked up at him, again. I was in the same place where, months before, I had, in a very different reality, found myself on my knees before this man. Then, of course, I had been a helpful librarian, obedient, dutifully, to the instructions of an imperious patron. It had been a bright afternoon. I had been fully and modestly, clothed. I had worn simple, quiet, unostentatious, dignified garments. I had worn a long-sleeved blouse, a dark sweater, a plain skirt, dark stockings and low-heeled shoes. Indeed, in the dress code of the library, it was posted in the employees' room, where our lockers lined one wall, such garments were prescribed for us. But things were now much different. It was no longer a bright afternoon. It was now late at night. Others were not about. We were now alone, absolutely and frighteningly alone. I did not now kneel before him in a blouse, sweater and skirt. I now knelt before him, semi-nude, in jewelry and silk.
"Do you remember Harper's Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"Do you remember the paper that was in the book?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"What did it say?" he asked.
"It said," I said, "'I am a slave.'"
"Say the words," he said.
"I am a slave," I said.
He then reached down and took me by one arm, the left arm, and drew me to my feet and then pulled me beside him, down the aisle, toward the open part of the library, the northern part of it, near the reference desk. When we were there, he released me. "Kneel," he said.
I then knelt there on the carpet. Without really thinking I smoothed the veil-like skirt about me, so that it was in an attractive, circular pattern.
He smiled.
I looked down.
The third man was in this area, near one of the tables. On the table he had opened an attaché case.
"Did you see me dance?" I asked.
"Look up," he said.
I did so.
"Yes," he said.
I looked down, miserable. It had been meant that no one would see me dance, especially as I had danced this night!
"But you stopped, and before the end of your dance, and without permission," he said. "Thus, you shall dance again."
I looked up at him, again, startled.
"And," he said, "this will be the first time you will dance knowingly before men."
"How could you know that I have never danced before men?" I asked.
"Do you think you have not been under surveillance," he asked, "that we do not know a great deal about you?"
"I cannot dance before men," I said.
He smiled.
"I will not!" I said.
"Get on your feet," he said.
I rose to my feet. The man near the table ran the tape back on the tape recorder.
"You will begin at the beginning," he said. "You will perform the entire dance, from beginning to end, for us."
"Please, no," I said. I could not stand the thought, the terrifying thought, of putting myself, in the beauty of dance, before men such as these. I could not even dream of letting such men see me dance. It was utterly unthinkable. I had not even dared to show myself thusly to common men, to banal, safe, inoffensive, trivial, conquered men, men of the sort with whom I associated, men of the sort I knew. Who knew what they might think, how they might be tempted to act, what they might be prompted to do?
The man pushed the button of the tape recorder, and I danced.
The tape played for eleven minutes and seventeen seconds, its playing time. The piece was excellent, in its melodic lines, its moods, and shifts. It was one of my favorites. But never before had I danced to it in terror. Never before had I danced to it before men. Then it finished in a swirl and I spun and sank to my knees before them, my head down, my hands on my thighs, in a common ending position for such a dance. Never before, however, I think, had I been so suddenly and deeply struck with the meaning of this ending position, it following the beauty of the dance, its presentation of the dancer in a posture of submission.
"You were frightened," he said.
"Yes," I said.
He drew forth from his pocket a tiny, soft piece of cloth. He threw it to me, and I picked it up.
"Do you recognize it?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, in fear. It was the tiny garment which I had made for myself long ago, that which I had dared to wear only once, in the candlelit secrecy of my bedroom.
"Take off your clothes, and put it on," he said. "Leave the bells on your ankle. They help us keep track of you."
I looked at him, in protest.
"You may, of course, avail yourself of the privacy of your washroom," he said.
I then walked between two men, the second and third man, to the ladies' room, and brushed aside the loose door. They waited outside, almost as though they might have some respect for my privacy. I turned on the light. I removed the jewelry, the anklets and necklaces, and such, I had worn. Then I reached behind my back and unhooked the scarlet halter, and slipped it from me. I looked at my breasts. In the tiny bit of scarlet silk they had given me to wear, their form, and loveliness, if they were lovely, would be in little doubt. I then slipped from the panties and skirt. I was naked, save for a leather thong on my left ankle, and bells. I felt strange, standing there in the ladies' room in the library, naked. Then I drew the small bit of silk over my head. They had obviously searched my room, perhaps ransacking it, and found it. They seemed to know a great deal about me. Perhaps they had thought it their business to learn about me. Perhaps there was little about me that they did not know. They knew even about that bit of silk, now on my body, one of my most closely guarded secrets.
I then turned off the light in the ladies' room and, to the small sound of the bells on my ankle, returned to the central area.
"Stand there," said the man. I did. "Now, turn slowly before us," he said.
I obeyed.
"Good," he said.
I looked at him.
"Kneel," he said.
I knelt.
"In your dance," he said, "you were frightened."
"Yes," I said.
"Still," he said, "it is clear that you are not without talent, indeed, perhaps even considerable talent."
I was silent.
"But it is also clear that you were holding back, that as a typical female of Earth, you would cheat men, that you would not give them all that you had to give. That sort of thing is now no longer permitted to you."
"—of Earth?" I said.
"Women look well in garments such as that you are wearing," he said. "They are appropriate for them."
Again I was silent. It was dark in the library, but not absolutely dark, of course. It was mostly a matter of shadows, and darker shadows, and lighter places, of darker and lighter areas. Here where we were light came through the high, narrow windows to my left, from the moon, and from a street lamp, about a hundred feet away. It was near the western edge of the parking lot, by the sidewalk, fixed there, mainly, I suppose, to illuminate the street running at the side of the library. The front entrance is reached by a drive. It was spring. At that time I did not realize the significance of the time. The building was warm.
"Are you a 'modern woman'?" he asked.
"Yes," I said. Again I did not know what else to say. He had asked me that question long ago, months ago, in the aisle, in our first encounter. I supposed it was true, in some sense.
"It is easy enough to take that from a woman," he said.
I looked at him, puzzled.
"Are you a female intellectual?" he asked.
"No," I said, as I had responded before, when he had asked
the question long ago, in our first encounter.
"Yet in your personal library, that in your quarters, there are such books as Rostovtzeff's History of the Ancient World and Mommsen's History of Rome," he said. "Have you read them?"
"Yes," I said.
"They are now both out of print," he said.
"I bought them in a secondhand bookstore," I said. He had spoken of my "quarters," and not, say, of my "rooms" or my "apartment." To me that seemed odd. Too, as he spoke now, at greater length, his accent, as it had once been before, was detectable. Still, however, I could not place it. I was sure his native tongue was not English. I did not know what his background might be. I had never encountered a man like him. I had not known they existed.
"Women such as you," he said, "use such books as cosmetics and ornaments, as mere intellectual adornments. They mean no more to you than your lipstick and eye shadow, than the baubles in your jewelry boxes. I despise women such as you."
I regarded him, frightened. I did not understand his hostility. He seemed to bear me some hatred, or some kind of woman he thought I was, some hatred. I was afraid he did not wish to understand me. He seemed unwilling to recognize that there might be some delicacy and authenticity in my interest in these things, for their own value and beauty. To be sure, perhaps a bit of my motivation in their acquisition had been from vanity, but, yet, I was sure that there had been something genuine there, too. There must have been!
"Did you learn anything from the books?" he asked.
"I think so," I said.
"Did you learn the worlds of which they speak?" he asked.
"A little about them," I said.
"Perhaps it will do you some good," he mused.
"I do not understand," I said.
"But such books," he said, "are now behind you."
"I do not understand," I said.
"You will no longer need them where you are going," he said.
"I do not understand," I said.
"Such things will no longer be a part of your life," he said. "Your life is now going to be quite different."
"I do not understand," I said, frightened. "What are you talking about?"
"You are doubtless the sort of female who has intellectual pretensions," he said.
I was silent.
"Do you think you are intelligent?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"You are not," he said.
I was silent.
"But you do, doubtless, have some form of intelligence," he said, "in your small, nasty way."
I looked up at him, angrily.
"And you will need every bit of it, I assure you," he said, "just to stay alive."
I looked at him, frightened.
"Hateful slut," he said.
I squirmed under his epithet. I was conscious of the light silk on my body. The bells on my ankle jangled.
"Yes," he said, regarding me, "you are a modern woman, one with intellectual pretensions, I see it now, certainly, one of those modern women who desire to destroy men."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said.
"But there are ways of treating, and handling, women such as you," he said, "ways of rendering them not only absolutely harmless, but, better still, exquisitely useful and delicious."
"I don't know what you're talking about!" I protested.
"Do not lie to me," he snarled.
I put down my head, miserable. The bells on my ankle moved.
"Your garment is an interesting one," he said. "It well reveals you."
I looked up at him, frightened.
"To be sure," he said, "it is a bit more ample than is necessary, not as snug as it might be, not cut as high at the thighs as it might be, not cut as deeply at the neck as it might be, and, surely, as I determined earlier, it is insufficiently diaphanous."
I looked up at him.
"Take it off," he said.
Numbly I pulled the tiny garment over my head and put it beside me on the carpet.
"It may be a long time," he said, "before you are again permitted a garment."
I trembled, naked.
The third man went to the table, that on which rested the attaché case. He removed an object from the case. I gasped in terror. He handed it to the man in front of me. It was a whip. It had a single, stout, coiled lash.
"What do you think your name was?" he asked.
"Doreen," I said. "Doreen Williamson!" That had seemed a strange way to inquire my name, surely. Too, they knew so much about me. They must have known my name. What did he mean then, "What did I think my name was"?
"Well, Doreen," he said, "do you still remember Harper's Dictionary of Classical Literature and Antiquities?"
"Yes," I said. The way he had said my name somehow alarmed me. It was almost as though that name might not be mine, really. It was almost as though he had simply, perhaps primarily as a convenience for himself, decided to call me that, if only for the time.
"Fetch it," he said.
I looked at the whip. I leapt to my feet, in a jangle of bells, and hurried to the place where the book was. In a moment I had it and had returned, and, holding the book, knelt again before him.
"Kiss it," he said.
I did so.
"Put it down," he said, "to the side."
I did so.
He then held the whip before me. "Kiss the whip," he said.
I did so.
"Kiss my feet," he said. I put my head down, frightened, the palms of my hands on the carpet, and kissed his feet. I then straightened up, and knelt back on my heels.
"Put your hands, palms down, on your thighs," he said.
I obeyed.
"Apparently you do have some intelligence," he said. "Now put your knees apart."
"Please, no!" I said.
"Perhaps I was wrong," he mused.
Swiftly I put my knees apart.
"Perhaps you will survive," he mused.
He then nodded to the fellow on his left. To my horror the fellow went again to the attaché case and this time brought out coils of chain. I could not see well in the half darkness what it was. Then he was behind me. To my horror I felt a metal collar locked about my neck. It was a very sturdy metal collar. It had, apparently, an attachment, or ring, of some sort, I supposed, in the back, and to this attachment, or ring, the long chain was attached. The fellow behind me must have held it mostly coiled in his hand. The collar encircled my neck closely. I touched it, frightened. I put my finger inside the rim of the implacable encirclement. There was only a half inch or so between its metal and my throat. I could not think of slipping it. I heard the chain behind me. I felt its weight on the attachment, or ring. I was leashed. I wore a chain leash. I was terrified. Perhaps no one can conjecture my feelings, truly, who has not been, too, the helpless prisoner of such a device.
"Slut," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Are you a virgin?" he asked.