There was a long silence, of some Ihn, and then, at a nod from Hura, who
threw her long black hair back and lifted her head to the moons, the drum
began again its beat. Mira's head was down, and shaking. Her right foot was
stamping. The panther girls put down their heads. I saw their fists begin
to clench and unclench. They stood, scarcely moving, but I could sense the
movement of the drum in their blood.
The men of Tyros glanced to one another.
It was few free men who had ever looked, unbound, on the rites of panther
girls.
Hura's eyes were on the moons. She lifted her hands, fingers like claws,
and screamed her need.
The girls then, following her, began to dance...
How starved must be the lonely, hating panther women of the forests, so
gross is their hostility, so fierce their hatred, and yet need, of men.
They twisted, screaming now, clawing at the moons. I would scarcely have
guessed at the primitive hungers evident in each movement of those
barbaric, feline bodies. They would be masters of men. Proud, magnificent
creatures. And yet by biology, by their beauty, by their aroused
inwardness, could not, in fact, own but only, in their true fulfillment,
belong, be taken, be conquered....
The drum was now very heady, swift. The dance of the panther girls became
more wild, more frenzied. Vicious, sinuous, clawing, lithe, these savage
beauties, in their skins and gold, with their knives, their light spears,
weapons darting, danced. They were terrible, and beautiful, in the
streaming, flooding light of the looming, primitive moons of perilous Gor.
I could hear their cries of rage and need, hear their heels striking in the
earth, their hands slapping at their thighs. I saw the teeth of some,
white, bared, at the moons, their eyes blazing. The hair of all was
unbound. Several had already, oblivious of the presence of the men of
Tyros, torn away their skins to the waist, others completely. On some I
could hear the movement of the necklaces of sleen teeth tied about their
necks, the shivering and ringing of slender golden bangles on their tanned
ankles. In their dance they danced among the staked-out bodies of the men
of Marlenus, and about the great Ubar himself. Their weapons leapt at the
bound men, but never did the blows fall...
The dance would soon strike its climax. It could continue little longer.
The women would go mad with their need to strike and rape.
Suddenly the drum stopped and Hura stopped, her body bent backward, her
head back, her long black hair falling to the back of her knees.
She was breathing deeply, very deeply. Her body was covered with a sheen of
sweat.
From #8. Hunters of Gor, pg. 197, by John Norman. The Tribe of Hura's Dance
of the Panther Girls
Pole
Then, suddenly, the two men with the kaiila quirts struck her across the
back and, before she could do more than cry out, she was, too, pulled to
her feet and forward, on the two tethers.
She then stood, held by the tethers, wildly, before the pole.
Cancega pointed to the pole.
She looked at him, bewildered.
Then the quirts, again, struck her, and she cried out in pain.
Cancega again pointed to the pole.
Winyela then put her head down and took the pole in her small hands, and
kissed it, humbly.
"Yes," said Cancega, encouraging her. "Yes."
Again Winyela kissed the pole.
"Yes," said Cancega.
Winyela then heard the rattles behind her, giving her her rhythm. These
rattles were then joined by the fifing of whistles, shrill and high, formed
from the wing bones of the taloned Herlit. A small drum, too, then began to
sound. Its more accented beats, approached subtly but predictable,
instructed the helpless, lovely dancer as to the placement and timing of
the more dramatic of her demonstrations and motions.
"It is the Kaiila," chanted the men.
Winyela danced. There was dust upon her hair and on her body. On her cheeks
were the three bars of greases that marked her as the property of the
Kailla. Grease, too, had been smeared liberally upon her body. No longer
was she a shining beauty. She was now only a filthy slave, an ignoble
animal, something of no account, something worthless, obviously, but
nonetheless permitted, in the kindness of the Kaiila, a woman of another
people, to attempt to please the pole.
I smiled.
Was this not suitable? Was this not appropriate for her, a slave?
Winyela, kissing the pole, and caressing it, and moving about it, and
rubbing her body against it, under the directions of Cancega, and guided
sometimes by the tethers on her neck, continued to dance.
I whistled softly to myself.
"Ah," said Cuwignaka.
"It is the Kaiila!" chanted the men.
"I think the pole will be pleased," I said.
"I think a rock would be pleased," said Cuwignaka.
"I agree," I said.
Winyela, by the neck tethers, was pulled against the pole. She seized it,
and writhed against it, and licked at it.
"It is the Kaiila!" chanted the men.
"It is the Kaiila!" shouted Cuwignaka.
A transformation seemed suddenly to come over Winyela. This was evinced in
her dance.
"She is aroused," said Cuwignaka.
"Yes," I said.
She began, then, helplessly, to dance her servitude, her submission, her
slavery. The dance, then, came helplessly from the depths of her. The
tethers pulled her back from the pole and she reached forth for it. She
struggled to reach it, writhing. Bit by bit she was permitted to near it,
and then she embraced it. She climbed, then, upon the pole. There her
dance, on her knees, her belly and back, squirming and clutching,
continued...
Winyela now knelt on the pole and bent backwards, until her hair fell about
the wood, and then she slipped her legs down about the pole and lay back on
it, her hands holding to the pole behind her head. She reared helplessly on
the pole, and writhed upon it, almost as though she might have been chained
to it, and then, she turned about and lay on the pole, on her stomach, her
thighs gripping it, her hands pushing her body up, and away from the pole,
and then, suddenly, moving down about the trunk, bringing her head and
shoulder down. Her red hair hung about the smooth, white wood. Her lips,
again and again, pressed down upon it, in helpless kisses....
Winyela, helplessly, piteously, danced her obeisance to the great pole,
and, in this, to her master, and to men...
In her dance, of course, Winyela was understood to be dancing not only her
personal slavery, which she surely was, but, from the point of view of the
Kaiila, in the symbolism of the dance, in the medicine of the dance, that
the women of enemies were fit to be no more than the slaves of the Kaiila.
I did not doubt but what the Fleer and the Yellow Knives, and other
peoples, too, might have similar ceremonies, in which, in one way or
another, a similar profession might take place, there being danced or
enacted also by a woman of another group, perhaps even, in those cases, by
a maiden of the Kaiila. I, myself, saw the symbolism of the dance, and, I
think, so, too, did Winyela, in a pattern far deeper than that of an
ethnocentric idiosyncrasy. I saw the symbolism as being in accord with what
is certainly one of the deepest and most pervasive themes of organic
nature, that of dominance and submission. In the dance, as I chose to
understand it, Winyela danced the glory of life and the natural order; in
it she danced her submission to the might of men and the fulfillment of her
own femaleness; in it she danced her desire to be owned, to feel passion,
to give of herself, unstintingly, to surrender herself, rejoicing, to
service and love.
"It is the Kaiila!" shouted the men.
"It is the Kaiila!" shouted Cuwignaka.
Winyela was dragged back, toward the bottom of the pole on its tripods.
There she was knelt down. The two men holding her neck tethers slipped the
rawhide, between their fist and the girl's neck, under their feet, the man
on her left under his right foot, and the man on her right under his left
foot. But already Winyela, of her own accord, breathing deeply from the
exertions of her dance, and trembling, had put her head to the dirt,
humbly, before the pole. Then the tension on the two tethers was increased,
the rawhide on her neck being drawn tight under the feet of her keepers. I
do not think Winyela desired to raise her head. But now, of course, she
could not have done so had she wished. It was held in place. I think this
is the way she would have wanted it. This is what she would have chosen, to
be owned, to serve, to be deprived of choice.
The men about slapped their thighs and grunted their approval. The music
stopped. The tethers were removed from Winyela's neck. She then,
tentatively, lifted her head. It seemed now she was forgotten.
From #19. Blood Brothers of Gor, pg. 39, by John Norman. Winyela's Pole
Dance
Sa eela
The Sa-eela is one of the most moving, deeply rhythmic and erotic of the
slaves dances of Gor. It belongs, generally to the genre of dances commonly
known as the Lure Dances of the Love-Starved Slave Girl. The common theme
of the genre, of course, is the attempt on the part of a neglected slave to
call herself to the attention of the master. The Sa-eela, usually performed
in the nude, as though by a low slave, and by a girl freed of all
impediments except her collar, is one of the most powerful of slave dances
of Gor. It is done rather differently in different cities but the
variations practiced in the river towns and, generally in the Vosk basin,
are in my opinion, among the finest. There is no standardization for better
or worse, in Gorean slave dance. Not only can the dances differ from city
to city, but even from tavern to tavern, and from girl to girl. This is
because each girl, in her own way, brings the nature of her own body, her
own dispositions, her own sensuality and needs, her own personality, to the
dance.. For the woman, slave dance is a uniquely personal and creative art
form. Too, it provides her with a wondrous modality for deeply intimate
self-expression..
The Sa-eela, of course is not the sort of dance which could be performed by
a free woman.
Peggy now danced upon her knees, at the end of the table using the table in
the dance, thrusting her belly against it, and touching it with her hands,
and her body and lips.
Peggy, then was back from the table, on the tiles, on her back, and sides,
and knees, and then prone, and again supine, and then writhing, as though
in frustration and loneliness. Stands before the Master, hands lifted,
their backs together above her head.
T observed the dancer, closely, the striking of her small, clinched fists
on the tiles, the scratching of her fingernails at their smooth surfaces,
the turning of a hip, the flattening of a thigh, the lifting of a knee, the
turning of her head, the piteous scarrering of her hair from side to side.
She lay on her back, and whimpering, struck down in misery, stinging the
palms of her hands, bruising her small heels. She might have been in a
cell, locked away from men.
She then rolled to her stomach, and rose to her hands and knees, and head
down remainded for a moment in that posture. It is at this moment that the
music enters a different melodic phase, one less physical and frenzied, one
almost lyrical in its poignance. She crawls some feet to her left and lifts
her head. She puts out her small hand. It seems that it there encounters
some barrier, some enclosing, confining wall. She then rises to her feet.
Swiftly she hurries about, in the graceful, frightened haste of the dancer,
her hands seeming to trace the location of the obdurate barriers, those
invisible walls which seem to contain her. She then stood and faced us, and
put her head in her hands, bent over and straightened her body, her head
and hair thrown back. "I?" she seemed to ask, looking out, as though some
rude jailer might have come to the gate of her pen. But there is of couse,
no one there, and in the performance of the dance, that is clearly
understood. Then, in poignant fantasy, within the pen, she prepares herself
for the Master, seeming to thoughtfully select silks and jewelry, seeming
to apply perfume and cosmetics, seeming to be bedecked in shimmering
diaphanous slave splendor. She then crosses her wrists, and moves them, as
though they have been bound. She then extends them before her as though the
strap on them had been drawn taut. It then seems that she, head high, a
bound slave is being led on her tether, from the pen. But, at the gate, of
course, her wrists separate, and her small palms and fingers indicate for
us clearly, that she is still confined. She retreats to the center of the
pen, falls to her knees, covers her head with her hands, and weeps.
The next phase of the music begins at this point.
She looks up. There is a sound in the corridor, beyond the gate. She leaps
up, and backs against the wall of her pen. This time, it seems, truly,
there are men there, that they have come for her. She puts her head up; She
turns away; she feigns disdane. Then it seems as she, startled, looks
about, on the floor of the pen, calling to them, lifting her head, holding
out her hand piteously to them. She pleads to be considered.
It then seems, as she shrinks back, lifting herself to the plams of her
hands, frightened, that the gate to her pen has been opened. She kneels
swiftly in the position of the pleasure slave. Obviously she fears her rude
jailers. Twice it seems she is struck with a whip. Then she again assumes
the postion of a pleasure slave. She nods her head. She understands well
what is expected of her. She is to perform well on the tiles of the
feasting hall. "Yes Masters!" it seems she says. But how little do her
jailers, perhaps only common and boorish fellows, understand that this is
precisely what she too, deeply and desperately desires to do. How long she
has waited, in cruel frustration, unfulfilled and lonely, in her cell for
just such a moment, that precious opportunity in which she a mere slave,
may be permitted to display and present herself for consideration of her
master. How can they understand the poignance, and significance of this
moment for her? She is to have an opportunity to present herself before the
master! Who knows if she in such a large house, one with such cells and
jailers, may ever again be given such an opportunity.
It then seems that she is hauled to her feet and that her wrists, tightly
and cruelly, are bound behind her back. Her body and head are then bent far
over. Her head twists. It seems a man's hand is in her hair. Not as a high
slave, clothed in jewelries and shimmering silks, tastefully bound, is she
to be conducted to the site of her performance, some aristocratic banquet;
rather, cruelly bound and nude, she is to be thrown before masters at a
drunken feast. She then with small, hurried steps, bent over, described a
wide circle on the tiles. Then, it seemed, she was thrown to her knees, and
then her side, before us. Her hands were still held as though tightly bound
behind her. She looked at us. We were of course, the "masters," before whom
she was to perform. She rose to her feet. She twisted as though her hands
were being untied. She then flexed her legs and lifted her hands over her
head, as she hand in the beginning, back to back.
The final phases of the Sa-eela then begin.
In these phases the girl, in all her unshielded beauty, and naked except
for the collar of slavery, attempts to arouse the interest of her master.
Peggy's body gleamed with sweat. She had small feet, and lovely high
arches. Her body was superb.
She had now entered into the display phase of the Sa-eela. In this portion
of the dance the girl calls attention to the various aspects of her beauty,
from the swirling sheen of her cascading hair, to her ankles, from her
small feet to her tiny, fine fingers.
The music now, pounding and throbbing, mounted headily tword the climax of
the Sa-eela.
In these, the final portions of the Sa-eela, the slave in effect, puts
herself at the mercy of the master. She has already presented before him,
almost in a delectable enumeration, many of the more external and rhythmic
aspects of her beauty. She has displayed herself hitherto before him rather
as an object in which, hopefully, he might take an interest. A woman may do
this, of course from many motives; such as fear or her desire to be
purchased by an affluent master, only one of which might be her authentic,
poignant desire to be found pleasing by him. for her own sake. In such
displays there can be, though there often is not, a subtle psychological
distinction, detectable in the behavior, between the merchandise, so to
speak, and the girl who is displaying herself as merchandise. In the first
case, where no true distinction exists, which is the authentic case, the
girl in effect says, "I am for sale. Buy me, and love me!" In the second
case, the girl in effect says, "Here is a fine slave. Are you not
interested in her?" In the second case of couse, the Gorean is interested,
though the girl may not understand this clearly, in not only the
merchandise but the girl who is displaying the merchandise. She might truly
be terrified if she understood that it was herself he intended to own, and
in fact, was going to own, she the exhibitor of the merchandise as well as
she, the merchandise exhibited. Goreans, as I have mentioned, are
interested in owning the whole woman, in all her sweetness, depth,
complexity and individualism.
The girl now, in all her helplessness, in all her desperation in all her
sensual splendor, was dancing not aspects or attributes of her beauty
before her master, but was dancing her own passions, her own needs and
desires, her own piteous needful, beautiful, intimate and personal self
before him. There were no restraints, no reservations, no compromises, no
divisions or distinctions. Her needs were as exposed as her collared body.
She danced herself before her master.
The music swirled to its climax and Peggy, turning, flung herself to her
back on the tiles. As the music struck its last, rousing note, she arched
her back, and flexed her legs, and looked back at him, her right arm
extended piteously back toward him.
From #16. Guardman of Gor, pg. 260, by John Norman. Peggy's dance of the
Sa-eela.
Seduction
At a languid gesture from Ibn Saran, Alyena lifted herself from the scarlet
tiles, gracefully turning from her side to her knees, and then, head back,
hair to the floor, slowly, inch by melodic protesting inch, arms before her
body, lifted herself to a kneeling position, erect, the last bit of her to
rise being her head, with a swirl of her blond, loose hair. Then, looking
to Ibn Saran, suddenly she bent forward, as though impulsively, as though
she could not help herself, and, hands on the tiles, head down, kissed the
tiles at his feet, before his slippers. She looked up at him. I gathered
she wanted to be bought by him. He was her "rich man." He lifted his finger
for her to rise. Her right leg thrust forth, brazenly, and then, from her
kneeling position, slowly, hands above her head, moving, high, she rose
swaying to her feet.
"May I strip your slave?" inquired Ibn Saran.
"Of course," I said.
He nodded to the girl. To the music she unhooked her slave halter of yellow
silk and, as though contemptuously, discarded it. I saw she was excited to
see his interest in her. Only too obviously was she interested in him
making a purchase of her. The churning of milk and the pounding of grain
were not for lovely Alyena. That was for ugly girls and free women. She was
too desirable, too beautiful, to be set to such labors...
Alyena, now, slowly, disengaged the dancing silk from her hips, yet held
it, moving it on and about her body, by her hands, taunting the reclining,
languid, heavy-lidded Ibn Saran, to whom she knew, at his slightest
gesture, she must bare herself.
He regarded her veil work; she was skillful; he was a connoisseur of slave
girls...
At a signal from Ibn Saran, Alyena drew the veil about her body, and around
it, and, with one small hand, threw it aside. She stood boldly before him,
arms lifted, head to the side, right leg flexed. The veil, floating, wafted
away, a dozen feet from her, and gently, ever so gently, settled to the
tiles. Then, to the new melodic line, she danced...
Alyena now to a swirl of music spun before us, swept helpless with it,
bangles clashing, to its climax.
Then she stopped, marvelously, motionlessly, as the music was silent, her
head back, her arms high, her body covered with sweat, and then, to the
last swirl of the barbaric melody, fell to the floor at the feet of Ibn
Saran. I noted the light hair on her forearms. She gasped for breath.
From #10. Tribesmen of Gor, pg. 104, by John Norman. Alyena's Dance of
Seduction
Slave
At a languid gesture from Ibn Saran, Alyena lifted herself from the scarlet
tiles, gracefully turning from her side to her knees, and then, head back,
hair to the floor, slowly, inch by melodic protesting inch, arms before her
body, lifted herself to a kneeling position, erect, the last bit of her to
rise being her head, with a swirl of her blond, loose hair. Then, looking
to Ibn Saran, suddenly she bent forward, as though impulsively, as though
she could not help herself, and, hands on the tiles, head down, kissed the
tiles at his feet, before his slippers. She looked up at him. I gathered
she wanted to be bought by him. He was her "rich man." He lifted his finger
for her to rise. Her right leg thrust forth, brazenly, and then, from her
kneeling position, slowly, hands above her head, moving, high, she rose
swaying to her feet. "May I strip your slave?" inquired Ibn Saran. "Of
course," I said. He nodded to the girl. To the music she unhooked her slave
halter of yellow silk and, as though contemptuously, discarded it. I saw
she was excited to see his interest in her. Only too obviously was she
interested in him making a purchase of her. The churning of milk and the
pounding of grain were not for lovely Alyena. That was for ugly girls and
free women. She was too desirable, too beautiful, to be set to such
labors...
Alyena, now, slowly, disengaged the dancing silk from her hips, yet held
it, moving it on and about her body, by her hands, taunting the reclining,
languid, heavy-lidded Ibn Saran, to whom she knew, at his slightest
gesture, she must bare herself. He regarded her veil work; she was
skillful; he was a connoisseur of slave girls... At a signal from Ibn
Saran, Alyena drew the veil about her body, and around it, and, with one
small hand, threw it aside. She stood boldly before him, arms lifted, head
to the side, right leg flexed. The veil, floating, wafted away, a dozen
feet from her, and gently, ever so gently, settled to the tiles. Then, to
the new melodic line, she danced...
Alyena now to a swirl of music spun before us, swept helpless with it,
bangles clashing, to its climax. Then she stopped, marvelously,
motionlessly, as the music was silent, her head back, her arms high, her
body covered with sweat, and then, to the last swirl of the barbaric
melody, fell to the floor at the feet of Ibn Saran. I noted the light hair
on her forearms. She gasped for breath.
The same dance, performed on IRC, might look more like this:
The Slave with her head held high and her eyes downcast moves gracefuly
into the open space. A rush of exhiliration comes over her as she prepares
to dance for Master.
The Slave begins in a slow and very seductive manner running her tongue
across her moist lips, as she releases her beautiful red silks from her
shoulders and they fall easily below her. She then stands before him
showing him all she has to offer.
The Slave then begins to dance as she runs her soft hands over her large
rounded breasts teasingly uplifting them, then twirls away. She raises her
arms high above her head, hands turning at the wrist. Her hips grind as she
thrusts her large breasts at him. The Slave begins to twirl faster and
faster like the wind to the unknown music as she sees the Master getting
very excited. She looks into his eyes as he gazes into hers until he knows
her need to please him.
The Slave feels the warmth and wetness between her thighs, as she twirls
even faster, her hips grinding, her breasts bouncing with every move she
makes as the music begins to slowly fade. The Slave drops slowly at her
Master's feet, kissing them lovingly hoping that both the slave before him
and her dance has pleased him.
Tribesmen of Gor (page 104).
Tether
I jerked the tether on her throat.
"This is a tether," I said, "It is to be well incorporated in your dance.
You are a tethered slave. Do not forget it. You may fight the tether, you
may love it. It may confine your body, you may use it to caress your body,
an invitation to your master, a surrogate symbol of his domination of you.
You need not dance always on your feet. A woman can dance beautifully on
her knees, moving as little as a hand, or on her back, or belly or side. In
all things do not forget that you are a slave."
"Are you now commanding me to dance before you?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, "you dance now as a commanded slave. And if I am not well
pleased have no fear but what you will be well beaten, if not slain."
"Yes, Master," she said.
I then struck my hands together, and, terrified, the girl danced.
She had not been taught the tether dance, one of the most beautiful of the
slave dances of Gor, but she improvised well. Indeed, it was hard to
believe that she had not had training. I am inclined to believe that the
need dances and display dances of the human female may be, at least in
their rudiments, instinctual. I suspect there is a genetic disposition in
the woman toward this type of behavior and that certain of the movements,
closely associated with luring behavior and love movements, may also be
genetically based. One reason for supposing this to be the case is that a
girl's growth in certain forms of dance skills does not follow a normal
learning curve. It is rather like the human being's ability to acquire
speech, which also does not follow a normal learning curve. It seems
reasonably likely that facility in acquiring speech, which would have
enormous survival value, has been selected for. Similarly, a woman's
marvelous adaptability to erotic dance may possibly have been selected for.
At any rate, whatever the truth may be in these matters, feminine women,
perhaps to the horror of their more masculine sisters, seem to take
naturally to the beauties of erotic dance. At the very least, perhaps
inexplicably, they are marvelously good at it. These genetic dispositions,
of course, if they exist, can be culturally suppressed.
I watched the girl dance. She was quite good...
"Now you are becoming a woman," I told her. She knelt on one knee, her
right; her left leg was flexed; the tether was taken, in a turn, about her
left thigh; her hands, too, were on her left thigh; her head was down, but
turned toward me; her lip trembled. "Continue to dance, Slave," I told her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I watched her, and marveled. It is interesting to note that such movements,
those of slave dances, despite the inhibitions of rigid cultures, may occur
in a girl's sleep, and may even occur, almost spontaneously, when she,
nude, alone, passes before a mirror in her bedroom. How shocked she may be
to suddenly see her body move as that of a slave. Could it have been she
who so moved? Later, perhaps to her surprise, she finds herself standing
before the mirror. She is naked, and alone. Then, perhaps scarcely
understanding what is occurring within her, she sees the girl in the mirror
has begun to dance. The movements are not dissimilar perhaps to those of
women who, thousands of years ago, danced in firelit caves before their
masters. Then, knowing well that it is she herself who is the dancer, she
dances brazenly, boldly, before the mirror. Well does she present her bared
beauty before it in the movements, the attitudes and postures of the female
slave. Then perhaps she falls to the rug, scratching at it, pressing her
belly to it. "I want a Master," she whispers.
I now stood up. My arms were folded.
The girl now was upon her knees at my feet, the tether on her neck slung
back behind her to the slave stake. Still in her dance, she began to lick
and kiss at my body.
I then took her by the upper arms and held her, half lifted from her knees,
before me.
"Please do not whip me," she begged.
I then, by the upper arms, dragged her to the side of the slave stake. I
put her on her knees there. She looked up at me. "You danced well as a
slave," I said.
From #13. Explorers of Gor, pg. 360, by John Norman. Janice's Tether Dance
Tile
"I hear from the chain master," said Samos, "that you have learned the tile dance creditably."
The tiny cups and glasses shook on the tray. "I am pleased," she said, "if Krobus should think
so."
The tile dance is commonly performed on red tiles, usually beneath the slave ring of the master's
couch. The girl performs the dance on her back, her stomach and sides. Usually her neck is
chained to the slave ring. The dance signifies the restlessness, the misery, of a love-starved slave
girl. It is a premise of the dance that the girl moves and twists, and squirms, in her need, as if she
is completely alone, as if her need is known only to herself; then, supposedly, the master
surprises her, and she attempts to suppress the helplessness and torment of her needs; then,
failing this, surrendering her pride in its final shred, she writhes openly, piteously, before him,
begging him to deign to touch her. Needless to say, the entire dance is observed by the master,
and this, in fact, of course, is known to both the dancer and her audience, the master. The tile
dance, for simple psychological and behavioral reasons, having to do with the submission context
and the motions of the body, can piteously arouse even a captured, cold free woman; in the case
of a slave, of course, it can make her scream and sob with need.
From #13. Explorers of Gor, pg. 13, by John Norman. Information regarding the Tile Dance