The New Dancing Slave

"Soon, slave, I will make you dance in that circle," her Master had said, his eyes making a pass over her body as she poured him his wine. 'I would do it better,' she'd wanted to answer when his look strayed back to the girl performing, but wisely she had held her tongue.

Now she's less certain. Her teeth bite into her lip, her fingers anxiously tracing the still angrily red outline of the freshly branded flower on her hip. She looks out over the empty kennel as she stands in the practice dance pit.

Nervously, she takes a step, then another, notes from the Gorean music playing in her head. Small indentations are left in the sand from the balls of her feet with each shift in her stance, with each twirl. She feels the grinding sensation of the grains under her toes, sandy friction against her skin.

Muscles flex. She lets the music guide her where it will, her body taking over, its limber movements channeling her thoughts. Once more she reaches that zone, like so many times before in the dance studios on Earth. Before she was abducted to this strange planet.

An image forms in her mind, and she expresses it through her dance. She's in the jungle, running from... something. The branches and leaves whip against her face, her flitting skips from side to side during her mad dash only barely making the beast behind her miss her on its pounces. And then, with no warning, she's cornered. She freezes, air rushing in and out of her mouth with her rapid panting, chest rising and falling, her deer-like eyes wide as saucers as they meet her pursuer. Her eyes lock with his, she moving backwards, and she whimpers, pressing herself against the imagined rough stone face behind her, her body held back by the outline of the dancing ring. No escape.

She shakes her head, long curls of golden tresses whipping behind her. No, she decides, she's on the beach at night, wind from the sea blowing in her hair, pulling it away from her face. She's looking out over the whipped waves of the dark water, running into the wind of the approaching storm. The strengthening gale tears at her silks, pulling her top away from her, the wispy garment flowing in the air, thrown towards where audience would sit behind her. She pays no regard to the lost clothing. The dinghy from the ship is coming in, the wonderful, majestic ship that will take her to her freedom. Exhilarated, she runs into the water.

Then the music in her head changes its tone, a mischievous grin coming to her lips. Steps become confident, toes curling and playfully teasing at the soft surface as she steps forwards, foot placed in front of foot, hips rolling. Each shift in balance is perfectly measured, slow, graceful like a cat's. She's a Panther in her camp, perfectly in control of her body, using it to tease her capture, purring, driving him to a frenzy before she has her way with him, animal instincts to the fore as she pleases herself on his cooperation.

She mewls out in need, hands teasing from her heat and up the curves of her body, drawing wicked glistening lines on the canvas of her skin with her own excitement as she pants from the exertion. She can see dancing for her Master like this, pleasing herself on stage with nimble fingers, teasing him until she has him ready, then offering her hand to him, winking to the audience before leading him off towards a bed and showing him how an Earth girl does it.

As she continues her heated tease, practicing moves meant only to drive him crazy, she starts to look forward to this performance...

--

"Dance!" her Master calls. She gasps, passing her carafe to another girl, her hands suddenly sweaty. Despite so many days of practice, she's nervous as she runs up to the circle, halting just outside it to catch her breath.

She focuses. This is it.

It's like flicking a switch. Confidently, she steps into the circle, secure in her preparations, eager to perform. Her look challenges her Master. She will show him.

The Master chuckles, seeing the attitude in her eyes. His amused grin is disarming, fully hiding his thoughts to the young dancer.

She takes and holds her starting pose, on the surface obedient, waiting for his signal for her to start. Anticipation rises in the room, the crowd's noises yielding to an elated buzz, then whispers. She breathes, the orange light from the fires playing on her smooth skin, over the disciplined lines of her defined dancer's body. She pulls a lock of hair away from her eyes, her look steadily meeting his.

Suddenly, his whip lashes out, the end curling around her ankle. She's completely unprepared, and the lightest of pulls from him fells her to the ground. The wince as she hits the soft surface is hidden by a small sand cloud, the air forced out of her mouth from the oomph of landing on her belly blowing the dust away from her face.

Helplessly she's dragged from the circle by the pull of her ankle, the small woman's face burning, humiliated in front of the audience. But she's forced to obey the pull—the half-crawling, half-sliding, feet-first towards the furs not quite displaying the elegance expected from a dancer.

After all that practice, she didn't get to dance even a single step.

The crowd just laughs, and the next girl steps into the circle. The submissive cries they hear forced from the little dancer in the furs as she's made to perform in another way, does not really sound like dismay.

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