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.
Tribesmen of Gor, pg. 104
