Dancer of Gor

"Heads to the dirt!" called a man.

Swiftly we assumed a common form of slave obeisance, kneeling, the palms of our hands on the ground, our heads to the ground. Many masters, though it tends to be rather associated, usually, with given cities, require this position of their girls, usually when they first enter his presence, or find themselves, as in a room, which he has entered, in his prison. She is then, usually, when given permission, permitted to lift her head, but is to remain kneeling before him, beautifully, in a standard position, her knees closed if she is a house slave or tower slave, her knees open, if she was the sort of slave I was, whatever sort of slave that was supposed to be. It is almost universal, as far as I know, that a slave kneels in one fashion or another, when entering her master" s presence, or if she should find herself in his presence. She also commonly kneels when spoken to by any free person. This is simply a matter of respect. To be sure, she can be slain, if she does not do so. The kneeling position, of course, which is usually required to break, is commonly an initial position. For example, after its deferential assumption, she may be dismissed from it, to other duties, such as cleaning, shopping or cooking.

I began to tremble, violently. I could not lift my head and look, of course. At the end of our line I sensed men.

"I think you will find these a good lot," someone said. That pleased me. I wanted our lot, or our group, to be a good one, and I wanted, if possible, to be the best in it! I wanted that, if only for Teibar. But I heard no response to the man" s remark.

"Lift your head," I heard a man say to someone, at the end of the line. It had to be Ila.

"Excellent," said someone. Ila, I conjectured, was now being scrutinized. She was doubtless kneeling very beautifully.

"What do you think, Teibar?" I heard.

I again almost fainted that Teibar, my master, he who had come to reclaim me, was near.

Then I feared, terribly, that he might more desire Ila than me. A wave of sudden terrible hatred swept over me. I wanted suddenly to leap up, screaming, and run at her, like a raging cat, to scratch out her eyes, to tear every last strand of that long, silky blond hair out of her head! Then I was frightened. I remained exactly in place. I did not move. I could be terribly punished, perhaps even tortured and killed, if I, a mere property, seriously injured, or diminished the value of, another property. Short of such things, though, we could do much what we wanted to one another, and Ila was larger and stronger than I! I felt helpless.

But there had been no response to the man" s question.

I reassured myself that it was not Ila he had wanted. He could have had her at the house of our training, or bought her there, and for a discount, if he had wanted! He hadn" t! to be sure, she was a larger woman than I, and meatier. Did that make her better? I did not know. Perhaps she was more beautiful! I did not know. I did know that I was beautiful, and even if I were not as beautiful as she, I was desperately needful, willing and loving. Surely such things should count for something! Too, it seemed, undeniably, that he had found me desirable. I thought and hoped, that perhaps I might be special to him, somehow, in some way, more so than others, as he was to me, he who was the loved, dreaded master of my heart.

"Stand," said a man to Ila. She stood. Something then, it seemed, was done to her. "Kneel," she was told. She knelt.

I kept my head down, kneeling. I trembled. I awaited the approach of my master. "Look up," had said the man, then, and then "Stand," and then, after a moment, "Kneel," to one of the women, after another, approaching me, done the line. "Look up," he said to the woman next to me, Gloria. She was a large girl, with swirling red hair. To be sure, before the men, she could be, like Ila, only another female slave.

"Stand," was said to Gloria. She stood. Something was done to her. "Kneel," she was told. She knelt.

I kept my head down. They were then before me! I trembled. I awaited the command to lift my head, to view my master, to greet him with joy, to prove to him that I was no longer a hated "modern woman," no longer a spoiled, pampered woman of a sick, antibiological world, that I was now only his, a female slave, vulnerable and exposed in the fullness of her womanhood, belonging to him, totally, fully on his own terms, on his own world.

"This, Teibar," said a man, "is the last of the lot."

I had been saved for last. My master had saved me for last!

"Look up," said a man.

"What is wrong with her?" asked a man.

"What is wrong with you?" asked another.

"Speak," said another.

I looked wildly, sick, from one face to another. I was shaking. I tried, wildly, irrationally, to shut from my mind what I saw. I tried, in my mind, to change what I saw. I tried, wildly, irrationally, to force myself to see another, among those faces, one who must be there.

"Where is Teibar?" I asked.

"I am Teibar," said one of the men.

I began to shake, uncontrollably.

"Stand," said a man.

But I was so weak I could not stand.

One of the men went behind me and lifted me up, by the arms, holding me. I almost lost consciousness.

I felt a pressure on the upper portion of my left breast, it seemed to be being drawn upon, or marked, by a cylindrical object with a soft, smooth, rounded point. It traversed my skin easily, with little friction, though I was clearly aware of its downward pressure. In the wake of the object there appeared a bright, thick, red line, moving about and circling, completing a course, a configuration, on me, which perhaps to some who looked upon it, but not to me, was significant. And then, in a moment, the object was withdrawn, the marking fixed upon me. I looked down upon it, what was written on me.

"You have it?" asked the man with the cylindrical marking device, some sort of grease pencil, to another, who held a clipboard, with attached papers.

"yes," said the fellow with the board, making a notation on the papers. "Kneel," said the fellow with the pencil, putting it back in one of the compartments of an open, triple-sheath attached to his belt.

The man who was supporting me, holding me from behind, let me sink to my knees. I could not stand by myself.

I looked down at my breast, at what was written there, so boldly and brightly.

"Can you read?" asked a man, he who had said he was Teibar.

"No, Master," I whispered.

"You are an Earth female, are you not?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I whispered.

"Perhaps, as an Earth female," he said, "you are not used to having your body written upon, for the convenience of men."

"No, Master," I said.

"But here you will grow used to it," he said. "Too, here, you are no longer really, an Earth female. You are now no longer of Earth. You not belong to this world, ours."

"Yes, Master," I said. It was true. I now belonged to this world.

"Would you like to know what it says?" he asked.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"It is the number "89," " he said. "It is the number of your individual sales lot."

"Yes, Master," I said.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

I looked up at him, tears in my eyes.

"I am Teibar," he said.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Ah," he said, softly, "it is then some other Teibar you were thinking of." "Yes, Master," I whispered.

"Teibar," he said, "is a common name."

"Yes, Master," I said.

"It is a very common name," he said.

"Yes, Master," I said.

"Hold her," I thought I heard someone say. Then I must have lost consciousness. I sat, waiting, on the long, heavy, wooden platform, raised a foot or so above the dirt floor of the exposition area, it located in the a