The Gorean Slave Dance
The Slave with her head
held high and her eyes downcast moves gracefuly into the open space. A
rush of exhiliration comes over her as she prepares to dance for Master.
The Slave begins in
a slow and very seductive manner running her tongue across her moist lips,
as she releases her beautiful red silks from her shoulders and they fall
easily below her. She then stands before him showing him all she has to
offer.
The Slave then begins
to dance as she runs her soft hands over her large rounded breasts teasingly
uplifting them, then twirls away. She raises her arms high above her head,
hands turning at the wrist. Her hips grind as she thrusts her large breasts
at him. The Slave begins to twirl faster and faster like the wind to the
unknown music as she sees the Master getting very excited. She looks
into his eyes as he gazes into hers until he knows her need to please him.
The Slave feels the
warmth and wetness between her thighs, as she twirls even faster, her hips
grinding, her breasts bouncing with every move she makes as the music begins
to slowly fade. The Slave drops slowly at her Master's feet, kissing them
lovingly hoping that both the slave before him and her dance has pleased
him.
Dance of Six Thongs
*taken from book 6, pg228*
But yet Sandra was of
interest. She had high cheekbones and flashing black eyes, and cola-black
hair, now worn high, pinned, over her head. She stood wrapped in an opaque
sheet of shimmering yellow silk. As she had approached me I had hear the
bells which had been locked on her ankles and wrists, and hung pendant
from her collar. It would not hurt, I thought, for Midice to have a bit
of competition. And so I smiled upon Sandra. She looked at me, eagerness
and pleasure transfusing her features.
"You may dance, Slave,"
I told her.
It was to be the dance
of the six thongs. She slipped the silk from her and knelt before the great
table and chair, between the other tables, dropping her head. She wore
five pieces of metal, her collar and locked rings on her wrists and ankles.
Slave bells were attached to the collar and the rings. She lifted her head,
and regarded me. The musicians, to one side, began to play. Six of
my men, each with a length of binding fiber, approached her. She held her
arms down, and a bit to the sides. The ends of six lengths of binding fiber,
like slave snares, were fastened on her, one for each wrist and ankle,
and two about her waist; the men, then, each holding the free end of a
length of fiber, stood about her, some six or eight feet from her, three
on a side.
She was thus imprisoned
among them, each holding a thong that bound her. I glanced to Thura. I
recalled that she had been caught in capture loops on the rence island,
not unlike the two now about Sandra's waist. Thura was watching with eagerness.
So, too, were all. Sandra then, luxuriously, catlike, like a woman
awakening, stretched her arms. There was laughter. It was as though
she did not know herself bound. When she went to draw her arms back to
her body there was just the briefest instant in which she could not do
so, and she frowned, looked annoyed, puzzled, and then was permitted to
move as she wished. She was superb. Then, still kneeling, she raised her
hand, head back, insolently to her hair, to remove from it one of the ornate
pins, its head carved from the horn of a kailiauk, that bound it. Again
a thong, this time that on her right wrist, prohibited, but only for an
instant, the movement, but inches from her hair. She frowned. There
was laughter.
At last, sometimes immediately
permitted, sometimes not, she had removed the pins from her hair. Her hair
was beautiful, rich, long and black. As she knelt, it fell back to her
ankles. Then, with her hands, she lifted the hair again back over her head,
and then suddenly her hands, by the thongs were pulled apart and her hair
fell loose and rich over her body. Now, angrily, struggling, she fought
to lift her hair again but the thongs, holding apart her hands, did not
permit her to do so. She fought them. The thongs would permit her only
to wear her hair loosely. Then, as though in terror and fury, as though
she now first understood herself in the snares of a slave, she leaped to
her feet, fighting, to the music, the thongs. The dancing girls of Port
Kar, I told myself, are the best on all Gor. Dark and golden, shimmering,
crying out, stamping, she danced, her thonged beauty incandescent in the
light of the torches and the frenzy of the slave bells. She turned and
twisted and leaped, and sometimes seemed almost free, but was always, by
the dark thong, held complete prisoner. Sometimes she would rush upon one
man or another, but the others would not permit her to reach him, keeping
her always beautiful female slave snared in her web of thongs.
She writhed and cried
out, trying to force the thongs from her body, but could not do so. At
last, bit by bit, as her fear and terror mounted, the men, fist by fist,
took up the slack in the thongs that tethered her, until suddenly, they
swiftly bound her hand and foot and lifted her over their heads, captured
female slave, displaying her bound arched body to the tables. There were
cries of pleasure from the tables, and much striking of the fist on the
left shoulder. She had been truly superb. Then the men carried her before
my table and held her bound before me. "A slave," said one. "Yes," cried
the girl, "slave!" The music finished with a clash. The applause and cries
were wild and loud. I was much pleased. "Cut her loose," I told the men.
They did so, and swiftly, like a cat, the girl ran to my chair, and knelt
at my feet.
She looked up, steaked
with seat, breathing heavily, her eyes shining. "Your performance was not
without interest," I said to her. She put her cheek to my knee. "
Ka-la-na!" I called.
A cup was brought. And
I took her by the hair and held back her head, pouring the wine down her
throat, some of it running down her face and body, under the slave collar
and its bells. She looked up at me, her mouth stained with wine,
"Did I please you?"
she asked.
"Yes," I said.
From #6. Raiders of
Gor, pg. 228, by John Norman. Sandra's Dance of the Six Thongs
Home