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Gorean Commands and Positions
Gorean Love Bow
Under the torchlight Phyllis Robertson was now on her knees, the
Warrior at her side, holding her behind the small of the back. Her head went
farther back, as her hands moved on the arms of the Warrior, as though once to
press him away, and then again to draw him closer, and her head then touched the
furs, her body a cruel, helpless bow in his hands, and then, her head down, it
seemed she struggled and her body straightened itself until she lay, save for
her head and heels, on his hands clasped behind her back, her arms extended over
her head to the fur behind her. At this point, with a clash of cymbals, both
dancers remained immobile. Then, after this instant of silence under the
torches, the music struck the final note, with a might and jarring clash of
cymbals, and the Warrior had lowered her to the furs and her lips, arms about
his neck, sought his with eagerness. Then, both dancers broke and the male
stepped back, and Phyllis now stood, alone on the furs, sweating, breathing
deeply, head down. ASSASSIN OF GOR; 5; Pages 187-188 “Lie
before me, on your back,” he said, “and cross your wrists and ankles.”
Terribly afraid of falling, I did so.
He bent across my body and I felt my crossed wrists lashed to a saddle ring.
He then bent to the other side and, in moments, I felt my crossed ankles
lashed to another ring.
I lay there on my back before him, my body a bow, bound helplessly across
his saddle.
He slapped my belly twice.
He then laughed another great laugh, that great raw laugh, that of a
tarnsman, who has his prize bound helpless before him. CAPTIVE OF GOR;
7; Pages 252-253 Ivar Forkbeard, followed by Tarl Red Hair and
Wulfstan of Torvaldsland, heeled by the bond-maid, Hilda, picked his way
toward the burned, looted tents of Thorgard of Scagnar. In the valley there
burned, still, a thousand fires. Here and there, mounted on stakes, were the
heads of Kurii. W stepped over broken axes, shattered poles, torn leather,
from the lodges of the Kurii. We passed a dozen men emptying kegs of ale. It
had become cloudy. We heard a ship’s song from two hundred yards to our
right. We passed a group of men who had captured a Kur. A heavy block of
wood had been thrust into its jaws and, with leather, bound there. It was
bleeding at the left side of its face. Its paws had been tied together at
its belly and its legs tied in leather ankle shackles. They were beating it
back and forth between them with the butts of spears. “Down! Roll over!”
commanded one of the men. It was beaten to its knees and then belly. Prodded
by spears it rolled over. A girl fled past us, a sleen, brown and black,
padding at her heels. I slipped once. The dirt, in many places, was soft,
from the blood. We picked our way among bodies, mostly those of Kurii, for
the surprise, the fury, had been ours. We passed five men, about a fire,
roasting a haunch of Kur. The smell was heavy, and sweet, like blood. In the
distance, visible, was the height the Torvaldsberg. I saw Hrolf, from the
East, the bearded giant who had joined our forces, asking only to fight with
us, leaning on his spear, soberly, surveying the field. In a other place we
saw a framework of poles set on the field. From the crossbar, hung by their
ankles, were the bodies five Kurii. Two were being dressed for the spit;
two, as yet had been untouched; blood was being drained into a helmet from
the neck of the fifth.
“Ivar Forkbeard!” cried the man holding the helmet. He lifted the helmet to
Ivar. Over the helmet Ivar doubled and held his fist, making the sign of
Thor. Then he drank, a handed to me the helmet. I poured a drop from the
helmet, to the reddish, muddied earth. “Ta-Sardar-Gor,” said I, “to the
Priest-Kings of Gor.” I looked into the blood. I saw nothing. Only the blood
of a Kur. Then I drank. “May the ferocity of the Kur be in you!” cried the
man. Then, taking the helmet back, and throwing his head back, he drained
it, blood running at the side of his mouth, trickling to the fur at the
collar of his jacket. Men about cheered. “Come,” said Ivar to us. “Look,”
said a man nearby. He was cutting, with a ship’s knife, a ring of reddish
alloy from the arm of a fallen Kur. The knife could not cut the ring. He
lifted it, obdurate and bloody. It was the only ornament the beast wore. “A
high officer,” said Ivar. “Yes,” said the man. Behind him stood a blond
slave girl, naked, her hair falling to her waist. I gathered she belonged to
him. “We are victorious!” said the man to her, brandishing the ring. Over
her iron collar she wore a heavy leather Kur collar, high, heavily sewn,
with its large ring. He thrust her two wrists, before her body, into the
ring he had cut from the Kur. He then tied them inside, and to, the ring. He
then, from his belt, took a long length of binding fiber and, doubling it,
looped it, securing it at its center to the ring, leaving two long ends. He
then threw her, on her back, over the body, head down, of the fallen Kur. He
took the two loose ends of the binding fiber and, taking them under the body
of the fallen Kur, dragged her wrists, elbows bent, over and above her head;
he then, bending her knees, tied one of the loose ends about her left ankle,
and the other about her right. It was the Gorean love bow. He then,
regarding her, cut the Kur collar from her throat with the ship’s knife. He
threw it aside. She now wore only one collar, his. She closed her eyes. She
moved, lying across it, on the body of the Kur. It was still warm. “It is we
who are victorious,” said he. She opened her eyes. “It is you who are
victorious, Master,” she said. Already her hips were moving. “I am only a
slave girl,” she wept. With a roaring laugh he fell upon her.
MARAUDERS OF GOR; 9; Pages 260-261 I felt his hand in my hair,
not cruelly, but casually and firmly, as one might fasten one's hand in the
mane of a horse. Then I felt my head drawn up and back, and back, until, his
right hand on my knee, his left hand in my hair, I knelt bent backward, my
head on the ground, my back bent painfully, my eyes looking up, frightened,
at the sky. He then examined the bow of my beauty. I am quite vain of my
beauty. Then he threw me on my side and stretched me out, to examine its
linear aspect. I lay. on my right side. SLAVE GIRL OF GOR; 11; Page 26
I put my hand in her hair, and turned her head, from side to side. Then I
stopped.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“A slave girl, at the feet of her master,” she said, “his hand in her hair,
commanding her, making her do what he wishes.”
I then, with my hand in her hair, turned her to the side and bent back her
body, exposing, as she knelt there, helpless, the lovely slave bow of her
beauty.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“A displayed slave,” she said. I did not release her. Suddenly she said,
“No! Oh, no!”
I waited for a full moment, holding her helplessly there, letting her see
well whatever it might be that she saw. And then I released her. She knelt
there, terrified, shuddering, before the mirror.
“What did you see?” I asked.
“It is hard to explain,” she said, shuddering. “Suddenly, for a fearful
moment, I saw myself as incredibly beautiful, as beautiful as I might
someday be, but the beauty was not the cool and formal beauty of a free
woman, something I can understand, but the hot, sensuous, helpless beauty of
an owned slave, and I was the slave! And, too, for a moment I thought I
understood how such a woman might look to a man. It was so frightening! How
we must fear that they might simply seize us and tear us to pieces in their
lust! Then suddenly I understood the brand and collar, the whip, the chain!
Of course they would brand us, marking us as their own. Of course they would
put us in steel collars, which we could not remove! Of course they could
chain us to their walls and slave rings! Of course they would use the whip
unhesitantly upon us if we were in the least displeasing!” EXPLORERS
OF GOR; 13; Pages 199-200 “A cold, prissy, little Earth slut,”
called the auctioneer, “and yet one not without interest as you can see.” He
bent her back, his hand in her hair, exposing the bow of her beauty to the
men. There was a sound of pleasure from the crowd.
“She is already branded,” said the auctioneer, “but has served primarily as
a display slave, and not a use slave.” He then turned her, still keeping his
hand in her hair so that those on his left might better see her.
“Accordingly,” he said, “she is not yet fully broken to the collar.” There
was laugher from the crowd. He then turned her so that those on his right
might better see her. “In my opinion,” said he, “it is now time for this
girl to learn the various uses to which a slave can be put.” Yes!” shouted
more than one fellow. He then, as she gasped, bent her back a bit more,
turning her again toward her left, so that she was presented exquisitely to
the men. “Does she not appear ready for taming and heating?” inquired the
auctioneer. ROGUE OF GOR; 15; Pages 81-82
Kudos to you, Mr. Norman for writing the Gorean series!
A rich, yet utterly simple saga; a world, a time, a people;
those of the Counter-Earth .. the planet .. Gor.
Thank you!
The material presented herein was researched and compiled by me,
naia{Saul}.
The material referenced comes from John Norman's Gor Series, The
Counter-Earth Saga.
This is a work in process.
Please, do not take, copy, duplicate, or use this work as your own.
If you find it valuable enough to share, please .. share the link to this
page.
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