John Norman - Gor 22 - Dancer of Gor

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John Norman

Dancer of Gor

CONTENTS

1 A Bit of Silk 7

2 The Dictionary 16

3 The Library 20

4 The Whip 51

5 Training 64

6 Transportation 73

7 Brundisium 101

8 The Platform; The Annex to the Sales Barn 106

9 The Sales Barn; The Block; The Cage 121

10 The Kitchen 139

11 The Raffle; The Alcove; The Kennel 165

12 The Floor 219

13 The Passageway; Intrigues 222

14 Punishment 258

15 The Hood and Leash 269

16 Thieves 271

17 The Square of Market of Semris 278

18 The Grating; The Garments 290

19 The Streets of Argentum; The Belly Chain and Disk 292

20 The Key in the Belt 297

21 The Panels 310

22 Inquiries; Gagged, Hooded and Collared 313

23 The Work Camp 316

24 In The Work Camp 322

25 In the Tent of the Overseer 346

26 Mercenaries 354

27 The Pen; Outside the Pen 362

28 The Well 373

29 The Meadow 381

30 The Slave Wagon 427

31 Placation; In the Slave Wagon 435

32 The Camp 446

33 Dust 455

34 Love 465

Chapter 1

A BIT OF SILK

I knew that I did not conform to the cultural stereotypes prescribed

to me. I had known this for a long time. The dark secrets which lay

hidden within me. I had been forced to conceal for several years. I

do not know from whence the secrets arose. They were directly

contrary to everything that had been taught to me. Their origins, it

seemed, were deep within me, and, I feared, as I lay awake at night

afraid, sweating and distraught, native to my very nature. But such a

nature, I wept, could not be, and if it were, so subtle, so insistent, so

persistent, so unrelenting, so tenacious, it must never be admitted,

never, never! Yes, I fought them, these secrets, these covert

knowledges, these anticipations, these dreams. Yes, I struggled, in

accord with the demands of my culture, my training and education,

these things telling me how I must be, how I must be as I was told to

be, to drive them from me. I repudiated them, again and again, but

to no avail. They returned, ever again, mercilessly, horrifying me,

taunting and mocking me, stripping me in the darkness of my bed of

my pretenses and lies. I squirmed and thrashed in my bed, twisting

and weeping, pounding it with my fists, crying out, „No! No!“ Then

I would put my head fearfully on my pillow, dampened with

meaningless, rebellious tears. Could I be so weak and terrible?

Could I be truly so different from others? Surely there could be no

one in the world so degraded, so shameful and terrible as myself.

Then one night I rose from bed and went to the vanity and lit the

small candle there. I had bought this candle weeks before, probably

because deep within me, within my deepest self, in my anguished

mind, in my tortured breast and heart, I knew this night would

come. I lit the small candle. I stood there in the flickering light, for

some minutes, looking at myself. I wore a white nightgown, ankle

length. I had dark hair and eyes. At that time my hair was cut at

shoulder length. Then, not looking back to the mirror, I crept in the

candlelight and shadows to the dresser and there, from beneath

several layers of garments, where I had concealed it, I drew forth a

small bit of

scarlet cloth, tiny and silken, with shoulder straps, a garment I had

myself sewn weeks ago, one in which, save for fittings, often done

by feel, with my eyes closed, I never even dared to look upon

myself. This, in a sense, was the third such garment I had attempted.

The material for the first, not yet even touched by need and thread,

or scissors, I had suddenly discarded in terror, months ago. I had

actually begun work on the second garment, some two months ago,

but, in touching it to my body, for it was the sort of garment which

touches the body directly, with no intervening investiture, I had

suddenly, comprehending its meaning and nature, begun to shake

with terror and, scarcely knowing what I was doing, I feverishly cut

and tore it to pieces, and threw it away! But even as I had destroyed

it I knew, weeping and distraught, terrified. I would make another. I

took the third garment from the drawer. Suddenly I thrust I back in

the drawer, again under the other garments, thrusting shut the

drawer. Then, after a moment, breathing heavily, trembling, I

opened the drawer again, and removed it, once more, from its place.

I went back to the vanity not looking in the mirror. I dropped the bit

of scarlet silk near my feet on the rug. I was trembling. It seemed I

could scarcely get my breath. I lifted my eyes then again to the

figure in the mirror. She was not large, but I thought she might be

pretty. But it is hard to be objective about such thing. I supposed

there could be criteria, of one sort or another, in some place or

another, of a somewhat ascertainable, quantitative sort, perhaps

what men might be willing to pay for you, but even then they would

probably be paying for a spectrum of desirablilities, of which

pettiness, per se, might be only one, and perhaps not even the most

important. I did not know. I suppose even more important would be

what a woman looked like to a given man and what he thought he

could do with her, or, seeing her, knew he could do with her. I

looked at the figure in the mirror. Her nightgown, ankle length, was

of white cotton. It seemed rather demure, or timid, I supposed, but

there was little doubt that there was a female, and perhaps a rather

attractive one, though, to be sure, that would be a judgment for men

to more properly make, within it. There were the stains of tears on

the cheeks of the girl facing me in the mirror, I noted. She trembled.

Her lips moved. Why was she afraid? At what she saw in the

mirror? It was herself, surely. Why should she fear that? I saw she

wore a nightgown. I liked that. I did not like pajamas. To be sure,

she was perhaps too feminine for a woman in these times, but then

there are such women, in spite of all. They are real, and their needs

are real. I looked at her. Yes, I thought, she was objectively

pretty. There was no doubt about it. To be sure, she might not seem

so to a crocodile or a tree but she should seem such to a male of her

species, and that was what counted. Yes, that was what counted,

objectively. To be sure, he would doubtless wish to see if the rest of

her matched her face. Men were with that. They were like traders of

horses and breeders of dogs, interested in the whole female. I again

regarded the girl in the mirror. Yes, I thought, she was too feminine,

at least for these times. This was not the sort of woman wanted in

our times. She was like something beautiful stranded on a foreign

beach. Surely she belonged in another time or place. She seemed in

her hormones and beauty, in her needs, like a stranger flung out of

time. There she stood in a world alien to her deepest nature, not a

man, and not wanting to be one, a victim of time and heredity, of

her genetic depths, of biology and history. How lonely and

unbefriended, how frustrated, unfulfilled and doleful she was. How

tragic is she indeed, I thought, whom the lies on one’s time fail to

nourish. I looked again at the girl in the mirror. Surely she might

better have cooked meat in the light of a cave fire, the thongs on her

left wrist perhaps marking whose woman she was, or with sistrum

and hymns, under the orders of priests, welcomed the grand,

redemptive, sluggish flows of the Nile; better she had run barefoot

on a lonely Aegean beach, her himation gathered to her knees, a

fillet of white wool in her hair, watching for oared ships; better she

had spun wool in Crete or cast nets, her robes tied to her waist, off

the coast of Asia Minor; better she had broken her dolls and put

them in the temple of Vesta; better she had been a silken girl

breathless behind the wooden screens of the seraglio or a ragged slut

on her knees desperately licking and kissing for coins in the sunlit,

dusty streets below; better she had been bartered for a thousand

horses in Scythia or led to Jerusalem tied by the hair to a Crusader’s

stirrup; better to have been a high-born Spanish lady forced to beg

to be the bride of a pirate; better to have been an Irish prostitute, her

face slashed by Puritans for following the troops of Charles; better

to have been a delicate lady of the Regency carried into Turkish

slavery; better to have been a Colonial dame spinning in Ohio,

looking up to see her first red master. I put down my head, and

shook it. Such thoughts must be put from my mind, I told myself.

But the girl stood there, still stood there, in the mirror. She had not

left, or fled. How bold she was, or how deep were her needs! I

shuddered. How many times I had awakened from sleep, moving

against the coarse, narrow cords which had held me down, above

and below my breasts and crossed between

them, leaving their cruel marks on my body! How many times had I

awakened, seeming still to feel the tight bite of cruel shackles on my

wrists and ankles. How many times had I, bound at their mercy,

looked up at them? How many times had I recoiled from the blows

of their whips, only to crawl then to their feet, piteous and contrite,

begging to please them? I was a females. Not looking in the mirror I

drew off the nightgown and held it clenched in my hand. I then

crouched down and put it gently on the rug, beside the bit of silk. I

hesitated. Then I picked up the bit of silk and, standing, not looking

in the mirror, I drew it on. It was on me! I closed my eyes. I felt on

my skin its silken presence, almost nothing, little more than a

whisper or a mockery. I drew it at the hem down more against my

body, perhaps defensively, that I might feel it on me the more, that I

might assure myself, I told myself, the more of its presence, that I

was truly garmented, but this, too, of course, merely confirmed upon

me not uncertainly the insidious disturbing subtlety of its slightness,

the so undeniable, so insistent, scandalous feel of its slightness, its

shameful, mocking silken caress, and, too, as I drew it down, it

clung more closely about me, it seemed that it would then, almost as

though scornfully, imperiously, in amusement, given its nature,

respond to my efforts at modesty only by producing a further and

yet greater revelation and betrayal of my beauty. I stood there, the

garment on. I turned then to the mirror, and opened my eyes.

Suddenly I gasped and was giddy. For a moment it seemed

blackness swam about me, and I fought for breath. My knees almost

buckled. I struggled to retain consciousness. I looked in the mirror.

Never had I seen myself thusly. I was terrified. In the mirror there

was a different woman than the world knew of me, one they had

never seen, one they had never suspected. What was that thing she

wore? What sort of garment could that be, so delicious and brief, so

excruciatingly and uncompromisingly feminine? Surely no real

woman, hostile, unloving, demanding, shrill and frustrated, zealous

in her conformance to stereotypes, attempting desperately to find

satisfaction in such things, would wear such a garment. It was too

female, too feminine. How could she be identical to a male in such a

garment? It would show her simply that she was not. How could she

keep her dignity and respect in such a garment? It would show her

simply that she was beautifully, and utterly different from a man. It

was the sort of garment a man might throw to a woman to wear,

amused to see her in it. What sort of woman, of her own free will,

would put on such a garment? Surely no real woman. It was too

feminine. Surely

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摘要：

JohnNormanDancerofGorCONTENTS1ABitofSilk72TheDictionary163TheLibrary204TheWhip515Training646Transportation737Brundisium1018ThePlatform;TheAnnextotheSalesBarn1069TheSalesBarn;TheBlock;TheCage12110TheKitchen13911TheRaffle;TheAlcove;TheKennel16512TheFloor21913ThePassageway;Intrigues22214Punishment25815...

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John Norman - Gor 22 - Dancer of Gor

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