Exotic Flower of Gor

(based on the Gor fiction by John Norman)

*

From within the confines of the large tent issued forth the slave girl's husky moan.

The tent's interior was lit by several brass oil-lamps, their Terran Moorish origins obvious. The mellow light spread evenly within the sail-canvas walls, highlighting the exotic girl of copper and her master, a dark brown skinned Inlander, of the Rainforest. The master, Mwindu, stood in the center of the tent with his large hands cupping the kajira's slim rounded buttocks. Her dancer legs, equipped with anklet-bells, were wrapped around his waist, her taper-fingered hands over his shoulders for leverage, as his long and fulsome phallus ground completely into her, until her stretched cuntlips hugged down around the root of the cock that impaled her. The slave had her head down so that the inky black silken-stranded mane hid her face, falling down slim shoulders and her back, obscuring Mwindu's hands on her ass.

She breathed another moan.

For his part, Mwindu limited his vocalizations to grunting, rasped profanities, as he fucked up into the petite slut. He'd never used a girl with anywhere near the skills and talents of the exotic. Her walls developed bands of muscle massaged his big pole in a controlled ripple. And, of course, she was very tight, being so diminutive a kijakazi. It still amazed him that she was able to take all of him.

She shuddered around him. Moaning out, "Maulana." Master, in the Inland Speech.

"Eeh, yangu haba. Maulana," he confirmed, in his native tongue.

Because the kajira was so expert a rider, he ceased to thrust up, allowing her to toss and rotate her cunt around his pole, the wide blunt wedge of his angered cockhead was actually compressed by her clenching walls. She was an erotic fever-dream made manifest. He could feel her searing oils spilling out around her widened pussy mouth, coating his swinging balls sac. Being inside her was to be inside a seething, rippling cauldron.

"Kijakazi," he groaned. Calling her slave girl.

They'd been at it for more than an ahn, both profusely sweating. It was no wonder, the girl was a passion kajira, bred to be infinitely pleasing. And her performance had rousted Mwindu's dominant instincts to full force. He was determined to fully, utterly possess the ferocious kijakazi. And so they'd been wild animals, slamming against one another, he snarling, she whimpering. His groans and her moans had filled the small clearing in which two tents were pegged. The other tent belonged to the Askaris mu Mfalme, the Ubar's Guard.

"Maulana," the girl whimpered again. "Mai kuhitaji wachilia. Tafadhali, Maulana." The girl begged permission to release, as she'd been taught.

He could feel the fierce grip her cunt had on his cock, nearly numbing the great black meat packing her full. It was not the first time that night she had begged so. But this time he thought to show mercy, mostly because his considerable will-power was commencing to crumble. He was losing to the constantly increasing pressure of his own impending climax.

Through gritted teeth, he said, "Ndio." Yes.

And the girl gushed. She came screaming and scalding around the sheathed spear of his cock. She began to twist and shake in his embrace, her cunt feisty in its contractions. Mwindu gave a shout and came as well. His hot seed hurtled into the girl, under extreme pressure, boiling and frothing against her clenching walls. Feeling the gift of her Master's seed, the slave gushed again, untamed in his arms, a wild thing.

He let her jerk and shudder in the grip of the intense orgasm, allowing her to slowly calm as the climax eventually faded. She hung, semi-conscious in her Maulana's embrace, panting, an overheated and exhausted she-larl. :.

He had obtained her at the Summer Sardar Fair. Not bought, obtained.

With all preparations for the Mji Bobmoko Re-settlement Expedition ready to commence up the Ua River, the culmination of a generation of concentrated planning and effort, for the first time in years there was nothing for Mwindu to do. However, with so few other Scribes among the Ancient City of Ruins settlers, he knew he'd need a slave who could serve as his secretary and archivist. Never having been to one of the major fairs, he decided to kill two varts with one stone and get his slave at the Sardar Summer Fair.

Although an Inlander, born, bred, and proud of it, because of his classical Scribe education in Anango and Bazi, in addition to helping to manage a tea plantation in the latter district, Mwindu was very much acculturated to the Gorean way of life. When among the Northerners he was known as Rhapsodes, a verbal pun on his caste. He was a well-traveled man and knew his way around, as the saying goes. The Great Emperor Ubar Bila Huruma granted Mwindu request to visit the Sardar Fair before the expedition set up the mighty Ua, but he insisted his appointed King of the Ancient City take three askaris with him as escort. Mwindu agreed.

And they were on their way. First downriver to the great cosmopolitan city of Schendi, then by Thassa north along the west coast of Gor's tremendous supercontinent. Then the overland journey to the vast fairgrounds of the Sardar. Exchanging his sandals and loincloth for a blue tunic and boots, Mwindu walked among the vast crowds of the fair, his Inlander features attracting no more notice than a stout pale Northman, or the deeply bronzed Red Savage tribeswoman. The exotic was commonplace at the Sardar fairgrounds, not even Mwindu's Askaris, still in their pelt loincloths and golden armlets, feather-headresses, mamba-tooth necklaces, and carrying their short stabbing spears garnered more than a passing glimpse.

Still, as wondrous and exciting as it was to be at the Summer Fair, Mwindu spent a fruitless week and a half looking for a slave to satisfy his requirements. It was on his tenth day at the fair that he found her.

Mai, the bred passion-exotic, was far too tasty a morsel to be paraded before the public rabble. The Slaver who owned her had reserved the passion girl's charms to be viewed only by invitation from within the billowing satin walls of a purple tent. Such tents were traditonal Slaver housing for their finer wares, used as brothels, auction houses, or intimate alcove, depending on its size or configuration. Mwindu had passed the tents many times during his daily visits to the fair, but hadn't looked in, reasoning that the kijakazi he required wouldn't be a dancing passion girl. Then, the day came when he did look in.

At first, the Slaver was reluctant to admit him. Scribes, as a caste, were not known for their wealth. He saw by Mwindu's hieght, long-limbed dark-skinned body and tribal tattoos that he was a Southern Barbarian to boot. The Scribe smiled, as if reading the Slaver's mind.

"I have coin," he said, patting his belt wallet. "Gold tarns." He didn't bother to say that where he hailed from he was a king, a Ubar, and could buy the big bellied Slaver hundreds of thousands of times over.

Immediately a smile brightened the pink round face of the portly Slaver and he bowed the tall Inlander into the lamp-lit tent.

The Slaver had posed her on a black-lacquered pedestal, dressed in red and transparent silk, the better to display her considerable and awesome charms. She stood with one leg behind the other, back arched and breasts jutting up and out, arms above her head and crossed at the wrist. Her skin was a burnished iridescent copper under the lamp light. Her hair a silky black cape reaching down to the double-curve of her ass. Her petite form was supported by the smoothly developed legs of a dancer. Her breasts were on the smallest side for a kajira, but they were proportional and ample for her small frame. Her nipples were dark and pronounced. She stood with the passion-girl's contradictory attitude of averted eyes and humble submission combined with total sexual self-confidence. On a lesser girl the assured manner would seem arrogant, but with the exotic it was but one trait in a carefully balanced mixture. The expression on her impossibly beautiful face was one of serenity.

Mwindu, no stranger to slaveflesh, found the passion-falarina stunning. Standing a bare hand's length in front of the girl of copper, he determined then and there that he would have her, whatever the cost.

"What is the name you're allowed?"

"Mai, Master. If it pleases you."

"It does," he grinned. It was a easy expression, full of charm. "Dance," he commanded her.

"Yes, Master," she responded immediately. He voice was whisper soft, husky. "Does the Master have a preference?"

"Wait an ihn. Just an ihn now," the Slaver protested, having overheard the exchange and rushing over. "This viewing is for inspection, appraisal only."

"She wears bells," Mwindu pointed out, ever the logical Scribe. "Which advertises her as a dancer. I wish to see a sample of her dance, that I might assess it, appraise it, as you say."

The Slaver pursed his thin lips, hesistating. Clearly, he was not anxious for the girl to dance. Mwindu turned to the assembly and asked, "What say you all? Is there a reason the slut shouldn't show us that she indeed earns the privilege of wearing bells?"

"Let her dance." Someone said. And it was seconded by several others. Mwindu turned back to the clearly disgruntled Slaver. "Very well," the man conceded, "let her dance and have done with it."

One of the patrons ducked out of the tent and snagged a couple of passing musicians, a piper and a drummer. They were brought in and the potential bidders all threw bits into the piper's proffered hat. The musicians were then bid play a slave-dance, which they did.

Mwindu looked deep into the girl's unequivocally black eyes with his own eyes so dark brown they seemed black themselves. "Dance," he said, as a Master orders a slave.

"Yes, Master," the exotic said.

"Maulana. In my language, Master is pronounced Maulana."

"Yes, Maulana. Mai will remember." He noted that she spoke as if he already owned her. And that very much pleased him.

Boom. The drum. Then an ihn later the flute trilled in. The slave began to move.

Another tap on the drumhead and the girl's hips ground and thrust to the right. Boom. The sweet hips swiveled to the left. Boom, and she thrust her pelvis forward, breasts swaying. The passion-kajira put one foot in front of the other, stepping from the platform and setting her bells to chiming. As the pipes trilled the air, she moved in erotic motion around the pedestal, her winding arms entwining above her head, permitting her pendulous breasts to bounce and jiggle beneath the silks, unobstructed as copper-toned dancer legs propelled her with seamless fluidity across the tent's dirt floor. The percussion of the drum an open, public heartbeat in sync with the girl's aggressive hips thrusts and rolls beneath the revealing pleasure silks, the fan of her black hair moving over her shoulders and back like a black silk cape, displaying, then hiding her features as she tossed her head with a sexual assurance no collarless woman could ever know, much less match.

As the ehns moved on, the exertion of the dance agitated her heat and the girl began to glow with a sheen of beaded sweat, her smell released, broadcasted on the air, a full intoxicating musk advertising her arousal and extraordinary high heat. The reddish tan of her skin now flushed and shaded darker than when she first began the dance. Her movements now wilder and less choreographed, but never awkward or strained by near-overbalance. She never had even a hint of stumble or uncertainty. The girl moved now with the commanding beat of her slave's heart.

She danced as the wind blows through the leaves, as the water chuckles over smooth rock in a streambed, natural, free, unstudied. She danced as the stars wheel in the night Sky, as embers are consumed by fire. For the girl too was consumed, the sensuous and come hither gyrations of her faultless form, a siren's whimpering and promising plea. She moved as the panther moves, sleek and unfettered, bold and seductive.

Her hands descended, going under her swaying breasts, cupping the succulent melons, offering them to the assembled masters, but her smile taunting. And she laughed, a sound born of pure exuberance, and one hand fell to her left shoulder, to the knot of the brief silks, which she snatched from her body, as if her roaring heat made even that scant bit of clothing too much to bear against her overheated and dewy skin.

Her ass was revealed in its full glory, copper cheeks jiggling, shuddering, gelatinous. The other hand left her breast and slid down her sweat shining belly, to the manicured black thatch of her mons. A finger almost slid into her glistening slit, before she exhaled another laugh and smoothed the hand down her thigh instead, teasingly. Taunting, challenging. Knowing how this aroused the turgid onlookers.

Then boom. The drum stopped.

And so did the gyrating, leaping girl. All of a moment, she stopped, in complete control of her superb form. On the beat.

Her breasts heaved up and down as she caught her wind, her black on black gaze once more encompassing the circle of onlookers with an haughty glare. Then, she collapsed into a flowing nadu, knees pulled wide, the oils of her sex glistening on the short hairs, glimpsed an ihn before her sable mane swept over her shoulders, obscuring and shadowing her face and body in a silky tent.

The masters applauded, hands slapping their shoulders, some hooting out approval.

She remained in the pose as she accepted her applause, then once more rose and stood upon the pedestal. Now naked but for her sweat, bells, brands, and shipping collar.

Mwindu had never seen anything like it. She'd been acrobatic. The performance of the exotic had aroused him not only as a man, but also as a scientist. Her balance had been supernatural. While the other bidders rushed forward and began bombarding the Slaver with offers, the Inlander opened his satchel and retrieved his kit of measuring instruments.

He brought out a precisely calibrated pair of calipers and began to measure the slave's features. If Mai was startled by this unexpected behavior she displayed no sign of it. Once more adopting her original pose, yet now without her silks, the slave was again serene.

The Slaver, momentarily distracted by the ever-mounting bids on the girl, finally turned and saw Mwindu measuring the girl's ears.

"'Ere now, what's the meaning of this, Master Scribe?" He waded through the excited bidders until he was at the Inlander's side.

Mwindu, unperturbed, kept measuring. He was at her nose now.

"What are you doing?" The Slaver nearly shouted into the Scribe's ear.

"There's nothing wrong with my hearing, Slaver. You may lower your voice. Obviously, I'm taking measurements of the girl."

The Slaver's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why?"

"Why not? A perspective buyer has a right to examine the goods, not so?"

"In the traditional way, sir, if you please."

"What pleases, me, sir, is my way. This girl is symmetrical. This instrument can measure down to the hundredth of a hort. Her eyes perfectly match, ears also, as well as her nostrils, perfectly the same length, as far as I can tell."

"Yes. She is an exotic."

"Hmm. A difficult to bred one, no doubt. How did you come by her?" He reached in his bag and brought out a flexible metal measuring tape, and began to measure the girl's legs, the depth of the dimples in her knees.

"Hold on now," the Slaver said, clearly agitated. He grabbed Mwindu by the shoulder of his tunic.

The Scribe's voice held a decidedly unscholarly edge to it as he growled, "You will release your hand from my clothes or I will grow angry." The shorter, fatter Slaver let go his grip.

Mwindu's dark eyes were cold as he looked at the others in the tent. "If any of you have a wish not to deal with the magistrates, I suggest you leave now. This man has been trying to auction a stolen slave."

The announcement caused an instant reaction. The Slaver flushed red under his normally pasty and mottled skin, as he shouted his denials of the accusation. The bidders began to exit the tent. Even if they had no need to avoid the authorities, no one wanted the bother of buying a slave of which ownership might be in dispute. The fair had entire lots of slaves who, if less beautiful and accomplished at the dance than the exotic, they were much cheaper and with clear title.

Within half an ehn the tent was empty but for Mwindu, the Slaver, and the slave girl. "She is not stolen," the Slaver hissed. "Why would you say such a scandalous thing?"

"You have papers on her then," Mwindu asked, with a skeptical rise of his brow.

"Of course, of course," sputtered the Slaver, angry but wanting to quickly settle the matter. He reached inside his tunic and pulled out a folded document. "See."

"I can't read through folded papers," Mwindu confessed.

Begrudgingly, the Slaver handed the Scribe the papers. After a fast perusal Mwindu declared, "These papers are falsified. A forgery."

"What?" The Slaver was a deep red now. "I'll be cursed if these papers aren't genuine."

"Then you are cursed, Slaver, for these papers are false."

"Give them back," he said, reaching with his stubby fingered hand.

Mwindu moved them beyond the man's reach. "Not quite yet."

The Slaver moved his right hand to his sword hilt and Mwindu moved his left hand to the handle of his panga, the curved blade bush knife, favored in the Rainforest as both tool and weapon. "As you know, the fair is a ground of enforced peace. But if attacked, I have the right to defend myself."

The Slaver glowered, but he didn't pull his weapon. "Give me back the papers."

"I find it curious that a girl answering to the description of the one who stands here before me is reported to've been stolen from a Ubar of one of the northern isles. Part of that girl's particulars is perfect balance as well as perfect symmetry."

"A coincidence," the Slaver snarled, moving his hand from the handle of his sword.

"Perhaps. I'm sure the fair magistrates will be happy to settle the matter. Both, of rightful ownership of the slave and of the authenticity of these papers."

"What do you want," asked the Slaver, cornered and knowing it.

"The girl. Gratis."

"No. I'll give you a gold tarn to go away and for the return of the papers and your silence."

"The girl. And I keep the papers as insurance. I'm sure you understand. So, its the girl. Or the authorities. Or we cross steel. Which is it to be Slaver?" :.

They came in the night.

Perhaps the Slavers' logic was that a night attack might inspire more terror than one launched during the day. Catch their victims by surprise. A logical enough assumption.

A bird sang out in the night.

Mwindu came awake on the pelt, the girl's body warm beside him in the darkness. The warning chirp had brought him fully and instantly alert. Too many times in the past had the hatari whistle saved his life by voicing warning of approaching danger. He was up and on his feet, reaching for his panga before the girl surfaced from sleep.

"Maulana?"

"Go back to sleep, girl."

"Yes, Maulana."

Mwindu fastened his loincloth about his hips as he left the tent. One of his trio of askari stood at the outside of the entrance. "Report."

"Only what the call says, Mfalme. Strangers approaching from the east."

Mwindu nodded. "Find them, follow them, but don't kill unless you have to, until I say so, whistle word to the others. Go."

"Eeh, Mfalme." And the Inlander Warrior trotted quietly toward the trees to the east of the camp clearing, while Mwindu re-entered his tent.

The Slaver had followed the Southern Barbarians for three days. He wanted to be far enough away from the Sardar that his activities not be observed and bandied about at the fair grounds. He and six of his caste-brothers in his blue and yellow wagon had followed the wagon of the Inlanders toward the coast, staying far enough back not to be seen. The Slaver had waited until the Inlanders had entered the vicinity of the forest, the better to sneak up on them, and was greatly anticipating the coming attack.