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Paga Taverns in the city of Ar
The Pleasure Silk The Jeweled Ankle Ring The Perfumed Rope The Silver Cage The Belled Collar (SEE The Belled Collar paga tavern) "Forty copper tarsks," I heard call from the floor, "from the Tavern of Two Chains." "The Pleasure Silk bids fifty tarsks," I heard. I had been tricked. The auctioneer had caught me by surprise. Without warning I had been forced to reveal myself as a true slave girl, openly, inadvertently, spontaneously, in-controvertibly, helplessly. "The Jeweled Ankle Ring bids seventy," I heard. He had handled his work well. He had exacted from the crowd the highest possible price in the given market before he revealed, unexpectedly and to her dismay, the delicious richness and vulnerability of the girl’s exploitable latencies, they as much a part of her as her block measurements, and as much for sale. My responsiveness, like my intelligence, my service and my skills, such as they were, came with my price. The Gorean is satisfied only with the whole girl; it is the whole girl that he buys. "The Perfumed Rope bids eighty copper tarsks," I heard. I could not believe the bids. "She is Paga hot," laughed a man. "True," said another. "I wish I had her in my collar." On the block I sobbed, kneeling. I could not help that I had responded as I had to the touch of the whip. I could not help it! "The Silver Cage bids eighty-five," I heard. I wept, shuddering. I had been exhibited naked. I was being sold to the highest bidder. And I knew that I was not being sold merely as a beautiful girl, for such a girl might have gone for twenty-one tarsks, but as something more, as a beautiful slave girl. "I have heard from the agent of the Silver Cage," called the auctioneer, "a bid of eighty-five copper tarsks. Is there another bid?" "The Belled Collar," I heard, "bids one silver tarsk." There was silence in the hall. Slave Girl The Green Tarn (SEE The Green Tarn paga tavern) "I know a good tavern," said he, "which favors the Greens. Many of the faction eat and drink there after the races." "Good," I said. "I am hungry and would drink. Take me to this place." The tavern, like the Capacian Baths, was within fair walking distance of the stadium. It was called, appropriately enough, the Green Tarn, and the proprietor was a genial fellow, bald and red-nosed, called Kliimus. Assassin gorean_librarian@yahoo.com 
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