I kept my head down.
I was well aware of myself as a slave.
I could see the coverings, and cushions, at the foot of the divan.
The music was subtle, insistent.
I lifted my eyes, pleadingly, to the male, who was to me, though I belonged to the state, in this time and place, as Master.
“You may speak,” he said.
I held the veil more closely about my features, as thought this might the better conceal me. But, of course, as I instantly realized, this was foolish. I had seen it in the mirror. My features, my lips, could be discerned within it. It did seem to provide me with some protection from his gaze, but its actual effect, of course, was primarily symbolic, that there was a veil. If anything my gesture might, for an instant, have rendered my features more visible to him. I quickly lowered my hands, the veil, as it were, adjusted.
“I am hungry, Master,” I said.
“Does the Earth woman beg food?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He let me remain kneeling before him, my head down.
I could hear the music.
In it were reflected the nature and values of a complex civilization.
“Stand,” said he, “and go there, and face me.”
He pointed to a place on the glossy tiles, some feet before the divan.
“Remove your veil,” he said.
I obeyed, standing before him, a few feet before him. I removed the veil first from my features, opening it, and brushing it to the sides, and then, with almost the same gesture, I lifted it and put it back, behind me. It was then upon me, behind my neck, and before, resting over my shoulders. This veil, like many of the veils on this world, was quite large. It was some six feet in length and three or four feet in width. It was designed in such a way that it might be, if the wearer wishes, wrapped about the entire head, shoulders, and upper body. A smaller veil may be used, of course, with hooded robes of concealment. It is bound or pinned about the face, within the hood. Many robes of concealment are hooded. The hood may be either an integral part of the garment or an independent accessory. There is an entire lore of veils, having to do with their nature, opacity, style, coverage, and such, as with fans on my old world, in former centuries, much may be done with them by a clever woman. In typical, modest veiling, that called for by most properties, only the eyes and the upper part of the bridge of the nose are exposed. It was in that way that I had been veiled in my serving. When I had parted my veil, and brushed it back, and put it behind me, I could hear, in the music to my right, in a ripple of interest and approval, of delight and excitement, the musician’s reaction. I lifted and brushed back my hair, freeing it. I adjusted it, too, with a toss of my head. Perhaps it was a vain gesture. One of the musicians chuckled.
I then stood before he who was to me as Master.
“Let us see the collar on your neck,” he said.
I adjusted the silks so that it would be clearly visible.
One of the musicians laughed.
I did not need to be reminded that I was collared.
The musicians, it seemed, were pleased. I was sure of that, from the music. To be sure, it was not they whom I must please, not at this moment, in this place.
I looked at the foot of the divan, at the cushions which were there.
I did not even know the name of he who reclined upon the divan. But what needed I to know, other than the fact that he was a free man, and I would address him as “Master”? He knew my name, of course, the only name I had, which had been put on me in this place, ‘Janice’.
I was barefoot. There were bangles on my ankles.
“The Earth woman is hungry?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And would be fed?”
“Yes, Master,”
“We shall see how you perform,” he said.
“Master?” I asked.
“Do you know how to use your veil?” he asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Discard it then,” he said.
I removed the veil from about my shoulders, and dropped it to the side. It floated to the glossy tiles, and lay there, lightly, crumpled.
“Remove your outer silks,” he said.
I obeyed, and put them to the side.
The music rippled.
I wore now a skirt of filmy silk, which would swirl as I moved. It was open to my left. My midriff was muchly bared. My breasts were haltered high. Tiny straps came over my shoulders. In such garments one might serve at more decorous banquets, though, to be sure, most likely not if free women were present. When free women are present, one usually serves gowned, or tunicked. At less decorous banquets one might expect to serve differently, in a ta-teera, in rags, in a slave strip, naked, in such ways. I wore bracelets, an armlet, bangles. Too, I had been given earrings, golden rings.
“Do you know the name of this world?” he asked.
“Gor,” I said.
“Do you know how to dance?” he asked.
“No!” I said.
“Surely they taught you something in the pens,” he said.
“I am not a dancer!” I wept.
“Surely you know something of the basic steps,” he said, “the walks, the glides, the presentations, the turns, the arm movements?”
“A little, Master,” I said, in misery. To be sure, one is not likely to escape the pens without being taught such rudiments.
“You are going to dance for me, Earth woman,” he said.
“I do not know how to dance!” I protested.
There was a tiny, skeptical skirl from one of the instruments.
“Beginning position!” he snapped.
There are several such. I swiftly flexed my knees, lifted my rib cage, and put my hands together, wrists crossed, over my head, the backs of my hands facing out, the palm of my right hand over the palm of my left hand.
He rose from the divan, as I stood thusly before the divan, so posed, and went to the side of the room. From one of the ornate chests he fetched forth a thick, single-bladed, snakelike slave whip. I watched him with terror as he approached. Then he stood to one side. Then, suddenly, at the side, he snapped the whip. The report was like the crack of a rifle. I nearly fainted. I sobbed.
“You are going to dance for me, Earth woman,” he said, menacingly, “and as what you are, and what you are only, an Earth-girl slave before her Gorean master.” He then snapped the whip again. “Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” I wept.
He then returned to the divan, on which he reclined, the whip on the silks beside him, inches from his grasp.
“Begin,” he said.
I danced.
At one point he lifted his finger and the music stopped, and I stopped.
“Do you know the use of finger cymbals?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Continue,” he said.
And so again the music began, and again I danced. Alas, I, so little trained in the art form, fro an art form it is, was only too painfully aware of how far short my efforts must fall from those of a skilled performer. Could I do more than squirm, and writhe, and plead with my body, for mercy? But perhaps my desperation might amuse him? Perhaps he was merely interested in registering, with bemused tolerance, the inept, pathetic strivings of an Earth-girl slave to please him, hoping not to be beaten. Perhaps he was having me do this merely that he might at the end, for my clumsiness, lash me? Yet, too, I did not want to betray the dance. I loved it. It is so beautiful. I wanted, thusly, to suggest, within my limits, at least, something of the richness, the complexity, the profound sensuousness of such dance. Such dance can be a revelation to those who are unfamiliar with it, who have never seen it. Some never suspect how beautiful and exciting a woman can be until they see her in such dance. In few ways better than in such dance is it made more evident what an incredibly beautiful, marvelous, precious, wonderful thing a woman is. It is no wonder they want to get their chains on us. And, too, of course, I was frightened of him. I did want to display myself, and present myself, well before him. I did not want to be whipped. But, too, I confess, I wanted him to want me. I was stirred by him, powerfully, sexually, as I was by many on this world, such men, and I wanted, thusly, to please him and excite him. He, as many men on this world, set fires in my belly. I danced before him. He helped himself, from time to time, to some of the food left on the table, a grape, a tiny viand, keeping his eyes on me. I must remember the hand and arm movements, the spins, the circles, the lifts, the thrusts! And then, at some point, perhaps when I was kneeling before him, moving my arms, and head and shoulders, I think I became one with the music and the dance. Startled I rose to my feet and began to move about the room. Were there hundreds present? Did they feast their eyes on this dancer? I went even to the musicians and moved, presenting myself as a slave, before them. Were they not, too, men, and thus such as before whom it was appropriate that I present myself, hoping for their approbation?In the eyes of the musicians I read something that I had not expected to find, that they were not displeased with the sight of the slave before them. How this made me hope, and how my heart was filled with a sudden surge of elation!