Beauty Dance

     “He clapped his hands. Immediately the girl stood beautifully, alert, before us, her arms
     high, wrists outward. The musicians, to one side, stirred, readying themselves. Their leader
     was a czehar player…’

     ”He looked at the girl. He clapped his hands, sharply. “

     “There was a clear note of the finger cymbals, sharp, delicate, bright, and the slave girl
     danced before us. “

     “I regarded the coins threaded, overlapping, on her belt and halter. They took the firelight
     beautifully. They glinted, but were of small worth. One dresses such a woman in cheap
     coins; she is slave. Her hand moved to the veil at her right hip. Her head was turned away,
     as though unwilling and reluctant, yet knowing she must obey…”

     “The dancer was now moving slowly to the music…”

     “I turned to watch the dancer. She danced well. At the moment she writhed upon the "slave
     pole," it fixing her in place. There is no actual pole, of course, but sometimes it is difficult
     to believe there is not. The girl imagines that a pole, slender, supple, swaying, transfixes her
     body, holding her helplessly. About this imaginary pole, it constituting a hypothetical center
     of gravity, she moves, undulating, swaying, sometimes yielding to it in ecstasy, sometimes
     fighting it, it always holding her in perfect place, its captive. The control achieved by the
     use of the "slave pole" is remarkable. “

     “An incredible, voluptuous tension is almost immediately generated, visible in the dancer's
     body, and kinetically felt by those who watch. I heard men at the table cry out with pleasure.
     The dancer's hands were at her thighs. She regarded them, angrily, and still she moved. Her
     shoulder lifted and fell; her hands touched her breasts and shoulder; her head was back, and
     then again she glared at the men, angrily. Her arms were high, very high. Her hips moved,
     swaying. Then, the music suddenly silent, she was absolutely still. Her left hand was at her
     thigh; her right high above her head; her eyes were on her hip; frozen into a hip sway; then
     there was again a bright, clear flash of finger cymbals, and the music began again, and
     again she moved, helpless on the pole. Men threw coins at her feet…”

     “The dancer moaned, crying out, as though in agony. Still she remained impaled upon the
     slave pole, its prisoner…”

     “The hips of the dancer now moved, seemingly in isolation from the rest of her body, though
     her wrists and hands, ever so slightly, moved to the music…”

     “Samos, with a snap of his fingers, freed the dancer from the slave pole. She moved, turning,
     toward us. Before us, loosening her veil at the right hip, she danced. Then she took it from
     her left shoulder, where it had been tucked beneath the strap of her halter. With the veil
     loose, covering her, holding it in her hands, she danced before us. Then she regarded us,
     dark-eyed, over the veil; it turned about her body; then, to the misery of the blondish girl,
     she wafted the silk about her, enmeshing her in its gossamer softness. I saw the parted lips,
     the eyes wide with horror, of the kneeling, harnessed girl, through the light, yellow veil;
     then the dancer had drawn it away from her, and, turning, was again in the center of the
     floor…”

     ”The dancer whirled near us, then enveloped me in her veil. Within the secrecy of the veil,
     binding us together, she moved her body slowly before me, lips parted, moaning. I took her
     in my arms. Her head was back, her eyes closed. I pressed my lips to hers, and with my teeth
     cut her lip. She, and I, together, tasted the blood and rouge of her subjugation. She drew
     back slightly, blood at the side of her mouth. Fist by fist, my hand on the back of her small,
     delicious neck, preventing her from escaping, I slowly removed her veil from her, then threw
     it aside. Then with my right hand, the Tuchuk quiva in it, while still holding her with my
     left, as she continued to move to the music, I, behind her back, cut the halter she wore from
     her. I then thrust her from me, before the tables, that she might better please the guests of
     Samos, first slaver of Port Kar. She looked at me reproachfully, but, seeing my eyes, turned
     frightened to the men, hands over her head, to please them. Never in all this, of course, had
     she lost the music in her body. The men cried out, pleased with her beauty…”

     ”All eyes were on the dark-haired dancer, the skirt of diaphanous scarlet dancing silk low
     upon her hips. Her hands moved as though she might be, starved with desire, picking
     flowers from a wall in a garden. One saw almost the vines from which she plucked them, and
     how she held them to her lips, and, at times, seemed to press herself against the wall which
     confined her. Then she turned and, as though alone, danced her need before the men…”

     “I idly observed the dancer. Her eyes were on me. It seemed, in her hands, she held ripe
     fruits for me, lush larma, fresh picked. Her wrists were close together, as though confined by
     the links of slave bracelets. She touched the imaginary larma to her body, caressing her
     swaying beauty with it, and then, eyes piteous, held her hands forth, as though begging me
     to accept the lush fruit. Men at the table clapped their hands on the wood, and looked at me.
     Others smote their left shoulders. I smiled. “

     ”On Gor, the female slave, desiring her master, yet sometimes fearing to speak to him,
     frightened that she may be struck, has recourse upon occasion to certain devices, the
     meaning of which is generally established and culturally well understood...to kneel before
     the master and put her head down and lift her arms, offering him fruit, usually a larma, or a
     yellow Gorean peach, ripe and fresh. These devices, incidentally, may be used even by a
     slave girl who hates her master but whose body, trained to love, cannot endure the absence
     of the masculine caress. Such girls, even with hatred, may offer the larma, furious with
     themselves, yet helpless, the captive of their slave needs, forced to beg on their knees for the
     touch of a harsh master, who revels in the sport of their plight...”

     ”They are slaves.”

     “The girl now knelt before me, her body obedient still, trembling, throbbing, to the
     melodious, sensual command of the music.”

     “I looked into the cupped hands, held toward me. They might have been linked in slave
     bracelets. They might have held lush larma. I reached across the table and took her in my
     arms, and dragged her, turning her, and threw her on her back on the table before me. I
     lifted her to me, and thrust my lips to hers, crushing her slave lips beneath mine. Her eyes
     shone. I held her from me. She lifted her lips to mine. I did not permit her to touch me. I
     jerked her to her feet and, half turning her, ripping her silk from her, hurled her to the map
     floor, where she half lay, half crouched, one leg beneath her, looking at me, stripped save
     for her collar, the brand, the armlets, bells, the anklets, with fury. "Please us more," I told
     her. Her eyes blazed. "And do not rise from the floor, Slave," I told her.”

     ”The music, which had stopped, began again.”

     “She turned furiously, yet gracefully, extending a leg, touching an ankle, moving her hands
     up her leg, looking at me over her shoulder, and then rolled, and writhed, as though beneath
     the lash of masters...”

     “The girl now, on her belly, yet subtly to the music, crawled toward us, lifted her hand
     piteously to us…”

     “The dancer now lay on her back and the music was visible in her breathing, and in small
     movements of her head, and hands. Her hands were small and lovely.”

     ”She lay on the map floor, her head turned toward us. She was covered with sweat. I
     snapped my fingers and her legs turned under her, and she was kneeling, head back, dark
     hair on the tiles. Her hands moved, delicate, lovely. Slowly, if permitted, she would rise to
     an erect kneeling position; her hands, as she lifted herself, extended toward us. Four times
     said I "No," each time my command forcing her head back, her body bent, to the floor, and
     each time, again, to the music, she lifted her body. The fifth time I let her rise to an erect
     kneeling position. The last portion of her body to rise was her beautiful head. The collar was
     at her throat. Her dark eyes, smoldering, vulnerable, reproachful, regarded me. Still did she
     move to the music, which had not yet released her.”

     “With a gesture I permitted her to rise to her feet. "Dance your body, Slave," I told her, "to
     the guests of Samos."

     “Angrily the girl, man by man, slowly, meaningfully, danced her beauty to each guest. They
     struck the tables, and cried out. More than one reached to clutch her but each time, swiftly,
     she moved back…”

     “The dancer, now behind us, continued to move before the low tables. The eyes of the men
     gleamed. “

     “Before each man, for moments seemingly his alone, she danced her beauty…”

     “The dancer turned from the tables and, hands high over her head, approached me. She
     swayed to the music before me. "You commanded me to dance my beauty for the guests of
     Samos," said she, "Master. You, too, are such a guest."

     “I looked upon her, narrow lidded, as she strove to please me.”

     “Then she moaned and turned away, and, as the music swirled to its maddened, frenzied
     climax, she spun, whirling, in a jangle of bells and clashing barbaric ornaments before the
     guests of Samos. Then, as the music suddenly stopped, she fell to the floor, helpless,
     vulnerable, a female slave. Her body, under the torchlight, shone with a sheen of sweat. She
     gasped for breath; her body was beautiful, her breasts lifting and falling, as she drank
     deeply of the air. Her lips were parted. Now that her dance was finished she could scarcely
     move. We had not been gentle wit her. She looked up at me, and lifted her hand. It was at my
     feet she lay. “
     Tribesmen of Gor, page 8 (also under Pole Dances)