Author: Angel the Part-time Succubus (Angelia Sparrow)

Email: valarltd@hotmail.com

Rating: R, full Willow nudity

Summary: The Scoobies are trapped on Counter-Earth, Gor, and must rescue Willow before she
gets auctioned off.

Spoilers: The Zeppo, title

Disclaimer: These are not my character.  They belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and WB.
I receive no monetary gain for these stories.  My apologies to John Norman for borrowing his
world.

Distribution: Any and all.  You want it, you got it.

Feedback: Yes, please, always

Author's note: Title from Willow's two worst nightmares.  "Every nightmare I have that doesn't
involve public nudity or academic failure is about that thing.  Once I dreamed it attacked me
when I was naked and late for a test."--The Zeppo.   I only recently learned that Mr. Norman
hates fanfic with his settings.  Possibly because we tend to leave out the philosophy, and go for
the shagging.  We also tend to be able to write our way out a paper bag.  Also, Angel musta
gotten hold of some really good sunblock or his new mistress is going to get a real surprise the
first time she sends him out to pick Ta grapes...

Dedication: For Darren, who introduced me to Gor (along with _many_ other things)

****
Public nudity and Academic Failure
c1999 Angelia Sparrow
****
 

"Al-ka, ba-ta," Willow mumbled under her breath.  Her knees ached from the marble floor, and
she was sick of reciting the alphabet.  "Kef," she breathed, tracing the brand on her thigh.  It was
no longer new.  She had been in training for two months now, not knowing who owned her,
where she was, or even why.

She had mastered the spoken language quickly, to the delight of her trainer, but she was still an
ignorant, semi-illiterate barbarian.  Semi-illiterate.  She, Willow Rosenburg, who had the second
highest SAT scores Sunnydale had ever seen, was struggling to learn to read and write.

The last thing she remembered was working late in the library.  Then she was waking up in a
small cage.  After a brief time of being spoken to in English, she had been forced to learn
Gorean by total immersion.  And had quickly learned to fear a whip.  A good Jewish girl from a
liberal family that didn't spank had learned to cower when a man's hand reached for the whip at
his belt.  Sometimes, at night, in the kennel, she cried from homesickness.  She missed her
family and her friends.  And more often there were times, after a grueling training session, she
cursed the day Oz had "panicked" and made love to her.  Red silk, the trainers' jeers came in her
ears, red silk but not even awakened.

She was awakened now, all right.  Her body had become her worst enemy in this nightmare life.
To make matters worse, her kennel was full of tactile things: feathers, powder puffs, silks, satins,
all designed to keep her in a state of heightened sensitivity.

Darkness fell on Ar and the crowds streamed into the Curulean.  A petite blonde woman in the
scarlet of the warriors strode in the company of a dark man in the yellow and blue of a slaver.
They turned heads, and some laughed at him for dressing his slave so.  However, near the high
bridge to the Curulean, two warriors took offense.

"Look, the she sleen thinks she's a warrior.  Come on, pretty one, where's your collar?"  One of
them grabbed her and tore her tunic away from her neck.

Without hesitating, the woman drew her sword on them, and attacked.  "You should have her
impaled for touching a weapon, Slaver," was all one warrior had time for, before he found
himself fighting in earnest for his life.

The woman disarmed them and said, "I am of the Warriors.  I have earned my caste.  You may
call me 'Slayer'.  Spread the word I am not to be trifled with."

"Nice going, Buffy," genuine admiration came from her companion.  "Think we have enough?"
Xander jingled the pouch at his waist.

"Probably.  I still feel guilty about selling Cordelia.  And Angel.  I didn't think that male silk
slaves were that much in demand."

"To the Curulean, and maybe we can get Willow before some tarnsman whisks her off to his
nest."

Willow found herself pushed onto a huge stage under many torches.  She was dressed in a
skimpy blue tunic with lens-less glasses and her hair done up in a maidenly bun.

"A scribe?  Who ordered a scribe?" demanded the auctioneer.  A roar of laughter greeted his
words.  "Lot number 327.  Red-headed barbarian girl.  Age 18, green eyes.  Red silk.  Two
months training.  Semi-literate.  Bidding at 40 silver tarsks."

The bidding hit 60 before the audience began howling for her to be stripped.  At the auctioneer's
word, she reached up and undid the bun.  The red hair, longer now, cascaded over her shoulders.
She shook her head back and stood straight.  The bidding climbed to 80.

The glasses came next.  Ugly horn-rims removed, the cries of approval grew louder.

From the back, a familiar voice cried "One golden tarn disk!"  Buffy kicked Xander for jumping
the bidding too high too quickly.

The auctioneer, goaded by the bid, stroked the tunic from her body with his whip, and the bid
doubled.  As he put her through the standard paces, the bid climbed to ten tarns.

Buffy and Xander looked at each other in desperation.  Their pouch only held 12.

From the front, a man in the robes of a scribe stood up and cried "Twenty double tarns!"

There were no further bids.  "Lot 327 to the scribe in the front."

The two friends walked out of the Curulean, their hearts in their sandals.  "Paga?" Buffy said.
She had developed a taste for the strong liquor in the two months they had been here.

"Paga and a red haired dancing slave," Xander agreed.

"You are not going to screw a slave girl the night you watch your best friend get auctioned off!"
Buffy clouted him on the back of the head.

"What, you thought I was going to free her?  You saw her tonight, writhing in the sawdust like
the rest of them.  She'll never be happy without that collar now.  How could she be free with a
brand on her thigh?"

"Alexander Lavelle Harris, I do not believe you.  Our first job is to get Willow and find a way
back to Earth.  Although I like it here.  No vampires.  Besides, a good plastic surgeon can take
the brand off.  Hell, we live in California.  Body art is like t-shirts.  Next time we steal you
physician's robes not slaver's."

He grinned and grabbed her around the waist, "Wanna play doctor?"

"Stop that.  I'm still following the guy who bought Will.  They're in that cylinder there.  Not the
high rent district.  Let's go.  We're taking her and getting out."

Willow followed the man back to his apartments in one of the small cylinders.  He wasn't rich,
and she wondered where he had gotten the money to buy her.  He had not spoken, and she was
too well trained to look at his face without permission.  Still, there was something familiar in the
hands that had leashed her, and in the walk.

He had her kneel at the foot of the couch and secured her collar to the ring.  "Willow," he said in
accented English, "Look at me."  The words were a foreign language and her own name sounded
alien to her.  For two months she had been 327 or 'red hair' or 'red silk.'  She knew the voice.

"Giles?" she barely breathed.  "Is it you?"

"I don't think I gave you permission to speak.  Oh, do come here, girl!"  She crawled over the
foot of the couch and wriggled up through the furs and into his open arms.

"I'll get that collar off of you, and when we get home we'll find a good plastic surgeon... Stop
wriggling like that, it's most distracting."

"Forgive a girl, Master," she breathed, kissing his chest lightly.

"Maybe, before I uncollar you, I should make sure I get my money's worth."  He bent to kiss her
and she submitted to the kiss, her traitorous, well-trained body already aching...

****

Willow banged her head on the library table unceremoniously as she fell off the books she'd
been dozing against.  The Daw paperbacks with their Achillios and Vallejo covers scattered out
of the pile.

"That's the last time I borrow any reading material from Xander," she vowed.  Giles came out of
the office to check on her and she found she couldn't meet his eyes.  Blushing, she fled the
library to regain her composure with a mocha.  And maybe take the dream into a full blown
fantasy...
 

Slayerettes attended the auction.