The Painted Lady by Panner McDonnell, Poet of Gor

   This Gorean Fan Fiction was written by Panner the Poet of Port Olni. 

Please note that the Gorean Saga is a fictional series, and its world, 

customs, and values may not align with modern societal standards or moral principles.

Gor is Copyrighted by John Norman 

                            The Painted Lady

Her gloves were never removed from her hands.

Most thought her a haughty high caste.

Whispered rumors said she owned foreign lands,

With wealth illegally amassed.

Her hair coiled high like a beekeeper's dream,

Six veils well secured in their place.

In dulcet voice she would whisper and scheme.

Folks said no man had seen her face.

A body guard always walked by her side,

And kept the odd gawkers at bay.

What they did not know was each night she cried,

For a love that had flown away.

After her merchant affairs were all done,

She would sit in her private room.

There, she mulled over her faults, one by one,

In a boudoir more like a tomb.

She'd stare at her reflection for a time,

Then pull off a white satin glove,

And search her hand like the scene of a crime.

At an image of long lost love.

The image?  A tattoo, there in her palm,

Of a talendar in full bloom.

She spoke to the glass, in tone dark but calm,

"My robes, my life, a mere costume."

She held her hand up to the silvered glass,

And stared at its reflection there.

"There will never be enough time to pass,

To counteract my earned despair.

"No one will love me when they see my hand.

Look!  It is stained for ever more.

Once I was a slave in a far off land,

And my master I did adore!

"He was a merchant, who taught me a lot:

Customs and rules, and how to trade.

Supply routes, fees, what should be sold and bought,

He taught me how money was made.

"There, in his garden, I had a good life,

Free from physical want or fear.

He kept me away from many a harsh strife,

And I would keep him in good cheer."

"He sold sold soap and lotion, formed in his shop,

Made from the talendar's flower.

One day, when on a walk, we made a stop,

Where he showed his caste and power."

He took her to where they inked fine tattoos.

The owner would smile and cower,

As he asked, "Which design would you like to choose?"

"Give her a talendar flower.

"Place it right there in the palm of her hand,

So she will never lose its bloom."

His needle made the design just as planned,

As her master paced 'round the room.

"When he finished my hand was sore and red,

The pain brought a tear to my eye.

The man gently washed where my hand had bled,

And said, "This bloom will never die!"

"The talendar had made my master's wealth,

The coin allowed him to buy me,

My silks, my furs, and food for my health -

Chains that kept me from being free."

The tattoo had an opposite effect;

He wanted love, but it bred hate.

She looked in the mirror.  Again, she checked,

The tattoo that had sealed her fate.

She took advantage of her position,

Being the First Girl on his chain.

In her hubris it became her mission,

To perform only for her gain.

"I vowed to escape, and run far away,

And there, assume a Merchant's role.

I wore a coin box at lunch every day,

And hid my coin in a small hole.

"I pretended my mistress had sent me,

To buy her a plain yellow robe.

How far has that yellow robe taken me?

A thousand pasangs down the road?

"A veil deftly pilfered from a small shop,

The robe quickly placed over me.

A small bag held some of my master's soap.

Through the main gate, and I was free!

"I sold and traded, just like I was taught,

In towns too small to care or see,

My soap low caste Free Women gladly bought,

I traded for food and for tea.

"One day I went searching for more supplies,

For profit on soap was quite high.

Just past some bushes, there to my surprise,

Flowers raised their blooms to the sky.

"A field of talendars!  I sat and cried,

I made soap, and pondered my loss.

Yes, I was free, but now trapped by my pride.

On my own - was it worth the cost?"

Each night the mirror told her the answer:

Freedom demands its own high price.

It spread through her like both love and cancer.

It warmed her, and scoured like ice.

But one other question had haunted her.

Why had he not come to find me?

One night, as she wiggled under her fur,

The reason stared back, plain to see.

A merchant understood good and bad debt.

It hit like a consumptive cough.

Her eyes welled with tears, she began to sweat -

Her master had written her off!

To him she was no longer worth the cost,

Of bringing her back to the fold.

She was free, and yet eternally lost.

In freedom her purpose was sold.

"I am a bad debt!  My ledger is red!"

She cried out into the dark room.

Her purpose was shattered, her soul was dead,

And her talendar?  Still in bloom.

- Panner McDonnell