Training A Slave To Dance

        These quotes are aimed at the slave who wants to become a dancing slave of Gor. Not every girl is meant to be a dancing slave. Just as becoming a “pagar” slave or a “display” slave or even a “paga” slave takes training a dancing slave must be trained extensively.
        Please sisters, read these quotes carefully before asking to become a dancer, it is consuming and the training does not cease.
 
 
 

The Musicians began to play, and the girls in Pleasure Silks, hands over their heads, lifted themselves slowly to the melody, their bodies responding to it as though to the touch of a man. "These girls are not much good yet," said Ho-Tu. "They are only in the fourth month of their training. It is good for them to get the practice, hearing and seeing men respond to them. That is the way to learn what truly pleases men. In the end, I say, it is men who teach women to dance."

I myself would have spoken more highly of the girls than had Ho-Tu, who was perhaps overly negative in his evaluation, but it was true that there were differences between these girls and more experienced girls. The true dancing girl, who has a great aptitude for such matters, and years of experience, is a marvel to behold, for she seems - always different, subtle and surprising. Some of these girls, interestingly, are not even particularly beautiful, though in the dance they become so. I expect a great deal has to do with the girl's sensitivity to her audience, with her experience in playing to, and interacting with, different audiences, teasing and delighting them in different ways, making them think they will be disappointed, or that she is poor, and then suddenly, by contrast, startling them, astonishing them and driving them wild with the madness of their desire for her.

Such a girl, after a dance, may snatch up dozens of gold pieces from the sand, putting them in her silk, scurrying back to her master.
Assassin of Gor, Page 90
 
 

"Yes, pretty Alyena,' I said to her, 'I will have you taught to dance, for in your belly is slave fire.' …
…Alyena, in dancing, sensed the power of Ibn Saran. It is not difficult for a female dancer, lightly clad, displaying her beauty, to detect where among those who watch her lies power. I am not sure precisely how this is done. Doubtless, to some extent, it has to do with richness of raiment. But even more, I suspect, it has to do with the way in which they hold their bodies, their assurance, their eyes, as they, as though owning her, observe her. A woman finds herself looked upon very differently by a man who has power and one who does not. Instinctively, of course, to be looked upon by a man with power thrills a woman. They desire, desperately, to please him. This is particularly true of a slave girl, whose femaleness is most shamelessly and brazenly bared. Ibn Saran, languid, observed the dancer. His face betrayed no emotion. He sipped his hot black wine.

Alyena threw herself to the floor before him, moving to the music… I saw her turn, and twist, and writhe, and move, and, on her belly, hold out her hand to him.

Her lessons, which had been intensive, once we had arrived at the Oasis of Nine Wells, had cost little, and had, in my opinion, much increased her value, doubling or tripling it. The modest cost of the lessons had been, in my opinion, an excellent investment. My property had now increased, considerably, in value. But most credit, surely, had to go to the girl herself. With fantastic diligence had she applied herself to her lessons, and practices. Even so small a thing as the motion of the wrist she had practiced for hours.
Her teacher was a cafe slave girl, Seleenya, rented, from her master; her musicians were a flutist, hired early, and, later, a kaska player, to accompany him.

Once I saw her, naked, covered with sweat and bangles, in the sand.

'Have you had to beat her often?' I asked Seleenya.

'No,' said the slave girl. 'I have never seen a girl so eager,' she said.

'Play,' said I to the musicians.

They played, until I, by lifting a finger, silenced them. At the same time, too, Alyena froze in the sand, her right hand high, left hand low, at her hip, her head bent to the left, eyes intent on the fingers of her left hand, as though curious to see if they would dare to touch her thigh; then she broke the pose, and threw back her head, breathing deeply. There was sand on her ankles and feet; perspiration ran down her body…

…I motioned her to her feet. I signaled the musicians. She danced.
I observed her. I thought it not unlikely this slave might stir the interest of a man of means…
…'Resume your practices,' I told her.

The musicians began again, and again the girl danced. It was superb. And it was incredible.
She did not yet know she was a true slave. What a little fool she was.
I watched her move.

She smiled at me, disdainfully. I considered her blond hair, now wild about her head as, suddenly, she entered into a series of spins. Her gaze focused to the last moment on a spot across the room from her, and then, suddenly, on each spin, her head snapped about, and she again found the focus.
Then she finished the spins, and froze, hands over her head, body held high, stomach in, right leg flexed and extended, toes only touching the floor. Then she was again in basic position. Her white skin, in itself, in the Tahari, would bring a good price. Blond hair and blue eyes, too, in this region, made her a rare specimen. But beyond these trivialities, though of considerable commercial import, was the fact that she was beautiful, both in face and figure…

…Behind me, as I thrust apart the beads, I heard the pounding of the drum, the kaska, the silence, then the sound, as the flutist, his hands on her body, to the sound of the drum, instructed the girl in the line-length and intensity of one of the varieties of pre-abandonment pelvic thrusts.

'Less,' he said. 'Less. There must be more control, more precision. You are being forced to do this, but you are holding back. You are angry. This must show in your face.'

'Please do not touch me so, Master,' she said.

"Be silent,' he said to her. 'You are slave.'"
Tribesmen of Gor, Page. 100-104
 

Samos then signaled to the musicians, who were seated to one side, that they should prepare to play. Samos signaled again to the musicians, and they began to play a sensual, slow, adagio melody. Samos glanced at the dancer.

I, too glanced at her. She was not trained. She did not know slave dance. Her movements were those of a virgin, a white-silk girl. She had not yet been taught slave helplessness. No man yet in his arms had taught her the exquisite, transforming degradations of the utilized slave, the wrenching surrender spasms, enforced upon her by his will, of the conquered bondwoman, experiences which, once she has had them, she is never willing to give up, experiences which she comes to need, experiences for which she will do anything, experiences which, whether she wishes it or not, put her at and keep her at, the mercy of men.
"She is clumsy," said Samos. He was irritated. I saw he did not wish, really, to have her killed. A man laughed at her, as she tried to dance before him. "Her throat will be cut within the Ahn," laughed another man. Another man turned away from her, when she approached him, to have his goblet of paga filled by a luscious, half-naked, collared slave.

"Clumsy, clumsy," said Samos. "I thought she might have the makings, somehow, of a pleasure slave."

"She is trying," I said.

"She does not have what it takes," said Samos.

"Her body is richly curved," I said. "That suggests an abundance of female hormones, and that, in turn, suggests the potentialities, the capacities for love, the sensibilities, the dispositions of the pleasure slave."

"She is not acceptable," said Samos. "She is inadequate."

"She is trying desperately to please," I said.

"But she is not succeeding," he said.

"She has a lovely body," I said. "Perhaps someone could buy her for a pittance, for a pot girl."

"She is not adequate," said Samos. "I will have to have her destroyed."

"Dance, you stupid slave," hissed one. "Do you not know you are a slave? Do you not know you are owned?"

A wild look, one of sudden, fearful insight, came over the face of the dancer. She had not thought, specifically, objectively, it seemed, about this aspect of matters. But, of course, she was owned. She was now property. She could now be bought and sold, like a tarsk, at the pleasure of masters.

"Dance, fool!" cried one of the slave girls to the former Lady Rowena of Lydius.

"See the free woman!" laughed one of the slaves. "It is the sleen for her," said another.

"Please men!" cried another. "What do you think you are for?"

She who had been the Lady Rowena fell sobbing to her knees, helpless on the tiles, covering her face with her hands. The music stopped.

"With your permission," I said to Samos. I rose to my feet and went to the girl, now prone, red eyed, on the tiles. I crouched down beside her. I turned her over, handling her with authority, as a slave is handled. She looked up at me. Never before, doubtless, had she been handled like this.

"Her face is beautiful," I said, "her body is curvaceous, her limbs are fair. It seems she should bring a good price." She gasped, appraised as a female.

"Men desire women," I told her.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"And you belong to that sex," I said, "which is maddeningly, exquisitely desirable."

"Yes, Master," she said.

"And you are," I said, "I think, objectively, a beautiful member of that sex."

"Thank you, Master," she whispered.

"It therefore seems not inconceivable that men might find you desirable."

"Yes, Master," she whispered.

"Does that please you?" I asked.

"It terrifies me," she said.

"Do you have normal feelings toward men?" I asked.

"I think so, Master," she said. "Now that you are a slave," I said, "it is not only permissible for you to yield to these feelings, but you must do so."

"Master!" she whispered.

"Yes," I said, "for you are now a slave."

"Yes, Master," she whispered, shuddering.

"That makes quite a difference, doesn't it?" I asked.

"Yes, Master," she said.

"She does not have slave reflexes," said a man.

"We are now going to put these things together," I said. "First, you are an exquisitely desirable woman. You are the sort of woman who could drive a man mad with passion. You are the sort of woman to possess whom men might kill. Furthermore, your beauty and desirability is increased a thousand fold because you are a property girl, a slave."

"Yes, Master," she whispered. "Oh, Master!"

"Men are now of even greater interest to you, are they not?" I asked.

"Yes, Master!" she wept.

"Now," I said, "second, let us consider things from the point of view of the woman, from your point of view."

"As a slave," I said, "it is not only permissible for you to yield to your deepest, most stirring, most primitive, most overwhelmingly feminine urges but you must do so, shamelessly, unqualifiedly, completely."

"Yes, Master," she cried, and thrust herself suddenly, piteously, against my hand. I then, by the hair, pulled her about and threw her lengthwise, prone, to the tiles. She looked up at me, over her shoulder. I saw wildness in her eyes. I saw that she had begun to sense what it might be to be an aroused slave.

"Whip," I said, to a man. The whip was placed in my hand.

"Master?" asked the girl, apprehensively.

"I do not believe you were given permission to stop dancing earlier," I said.

"No, Master," she said.

"As you are a stupid girl and new to your condition, your punishment, this time, will be light.
Three lashes."

"Three!" she sobbed.

"Do not expect masters to be so lenient with your stupidity in the future," I said.

"No, Master," she wept.

Then, doubtless for the first time in her life, she who had been the proud free woman, the Lady Rowena of Lydius, naked, and on her belly on the tiles, felt, like the common girl she now was, the slave whip of Gor.

"Stand," I told her. "Back straight, belly in, breasts out. Lift your hands to your shoulders, flex your knees."

"I have been whipped," she said, disbelievingly.

"See the difference?" said a man to another at his table. "How she stands?"

"Yes," said the other.

I touched her here and there, with the whip, deftly, correcting a line, or the tension of a curve. She shrank back from the touch of the whip. She now knew what it could to do to her. She had felt it. After, a girl has once felt the whip the mere sight of it is usually enough to bring her immediately into line. "What hangs upon the wall?" a master might ask. 'The slave whip, Master," she responds.

"How may I be more pleasing?"

I handed the whip back to the fellow who had had it, and returned to my place at the table of Samos.
He signaled the musicians, and they began, again, to play.

I saw that it was a slave who danced before the men. She gyrated but inches from a burly oarsman, then leaped back, eluding his drunken grasp. She moved between the tables, a slave, an owned woman. Then she was kneeling beside a man, kissing and caressing him, and then, as though it were involuntary, as though her hands were tied behind her and she was being pulled back, away from him, by a rope, she retreated from him. In a moment she was showering another man with her hair and kisses. Then she offered a man wine, holding the goblet, pressing it Against her belly, swaying sensuously before him. She was then again in the center of the tiles, among the tables. She made as if to speak, and then, suddenly, stopped, as though startled. Then she took a wad of her long, golden hair and, swiftly balling it, thrust it, as though insolently, in her mouth. She then looked at the men reproachfully. It was as though a man, perhaps not desiring to hear her speak, had gagged her with her own hair. There was laughter. She drew the hair from her mouth, drawing some of it, in loosening it, deeply back between her teeth, with her head back, as though she might have been in the constraint of a gag strap, all this to the music, and then her hair was free, and, with a movement of her head and movements of her hands, beautifully, she draped and spread it about her. It seemed then she withdrew modestly, frightened, behind the hair, drawing it like a cloak or sheet about her, as though by means of this piteous device she might hope desperately to conceal at least some minimal particle of her beauty from the rude scrutiny of masters. But it was not to be permitted.

To a swirl of music, taking her hair to the sides, holding it, parting it, with clenched fists thrust behind her, twisting, her body thrust forward, her beauty was suddenly, it seemed as though by command, or by the action of another, brazenly bared. "Good!" said more than one man. There was a striking of shoulders in Gorean applause. Even some of the slave girls cried out with pleasure. The girl had done it well. Then she was again dancing among the tables. Her movements gave much pleasure. She entertained well. If Samos had known she would prove this good he might have put her in bells or a chain. I doubted that some of the things she had done, in all their abundance and richness, had been merely thought up on the spur of the moment. I suspected that many times in her dreams and fantasies she had danced thus before men, as a slave. Then, lo, one night in Port Kar she found herself truly a slave, and so dancing, and for her life.
As the music neared its climax she returned before our table, dancing desperately and pleadingly. It was there that was to be found her master.

She lowered herself to the floor and there, on her knees, and her sides, and her belly and back, continued her dance.

Men cried out with pleasure.

Floor movements are among the most stimulatory aspects of slave dance. I regarded her. She was not bad. She was, of course, not trained. A connoisseur of slave dance, I suppose, might have pointed out errors in the pointing of a toe, the extension of a limb, the use of a hand, not well framing the body, not subtly inviting the viewer's eye inward, and so on, but, on the whole, she was definitely not bad. Given her lack of training, a lack which could, of course, be easily remedied, she was not bad, really. Much of what she did, I suppose, is instinctual in a woman. Too, of course, she was dancing for her life.
She writhed well, an utterly helpless, begging slave. Then the music was finished and she was before us, kneeling, her head down, in submission to Samos. She lifted her head to regard Samos, her master. She searched his face fearfully, for the least sign of her fate. It was he who would decide whether she would live or die.

"For the moment, at least," said Samos, "you will not be thrown to sleen."
Players of Gor, Page 19-28
 
 

"Dance," I told Feiqa.
"I do not know how to dance, Master," she moaned.
"In every female there is a dancer," I said.
"Master," she protested.
"I know you are not trained," I said.
"Master," she said.
"There are many forms of dance," I said. "Music is not even necessary. It need not even be more than beautiful movement. Move before the men, and about them. Move as seductively and beautifully as you can, and as a slave, swaying, crawling, kneeling, rolling , supine, prone, begging, pleading, piteous, caressing, kissing, licking, rubbing against them."

"Do I have a choice, Master?" she asked.
"No," I said. "absolutely not."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Would you prefer for your pretty flesh to be lashed from your bones?" I asked.
"No, Master!" she said.
"And as the evening progresses, and as men might desire you," I said. "you will please them, and fully."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"You are slave, an absolute and total slave," I reminded her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
One of the fellows, then, began to sing, "Hei, Hei," and clap his hands.
Feiqa danced.

The men cried out with pleasure, many of them joining in the song, and keeping time with their hands. I was incredibly proud of her. How joyful it is to own females and have absolute power over them! Seldom, indeed, I imagined, did the rude herders of the Alars have such a vision of imbonded loveliness in their camp, in their arms. Such delicious females were not allowed in their camps, I gathered. The free women did not permit them. They probably had them hidden in wagons, until they could be sold off, or killed. How beautiful Feiqa was! What incredible power she excercised, though only a helpless slave, over men! How she pleased them and made them scream with pleasure!

How incredibly basic, how fundamental, how real she was! I then felt a sudden, poignant sorrow for the women of Earth. How different Feiqua was from them. How far removed delicious, exquisite Feiqua was from the motivated artifices, the lies, fabrications, the propagandas, the demeaning, sterile, unsatisfying, reductive, negative superficialities of antibiological roles, the prescriptions of an unnatural and pathological politics, the manipulative instrumentations of monsters and freaks. I wondered how many of the women of Earth wished they might find themselves in a collar, dancing naked in the firelight before warriors of an Alar camp.

"Disgusting! Disgusting!" cried the free woman, Boabissia in her leather and furs, having returned to the fire, and she rushed forward, a stout, thick, short, supple, single-bladed quirtlike whip in her hand. She began to lash Feiqa who fell to her knees, howling with misery, a whipped slave. "We do not allow such as you in an Alar camp!" cried the free woman. Feiqua put her head down.

Again the lash fell on her.

"Feiqa will now again dance," I said.

I looked to Feiqua, still kneeling, her back bright with the memory of the free woman's attentions.
"You may continue to dance, Feiqa," I said.

"Yes, Master," she said.

The men cried out with approval, and smote their left shoulders with pleasure. In a moment Feiqa, vital and sensuous, liberated now from the fear of the free woman, and having felt the whip, in that perhaps being reminded of what might be the consequences of failing to please free persons, addressed herself once more, eagerly and joyously, marvelously and subserviently, to the pleasures of Masters. I was so aroused I was in pain. I could hardly wait to get her back to the camp of the wagoners.
From time to time I glanced at Boabissia. She was on her side, trussed, watching Feiqa. In her eyes there was awe, understanding what a woman could be.
Mercenaries of Gor, Page 60-64
 
 

"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 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."

Dancer of Gor, Page 32-33