"Nyte Wine and Whispers, " A Poem of Var-Kor Nyte Wine

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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

🍷 Nyte Wine and Whispers

In the Eighth Month of the Year 10,175 Contasta Ar

by Arealius of Port Olni

Beneath the stars of Var-Kor’s dome,
Where lanterns flicker and travelers roam,
Two scribes arrived, their scrolls at rest,
To taste the city’s wine and jest.

The air was crisp, the sky aglow,
With constellations set in snow.
A wine shop beckoned, warm and wide,
Where warriors drank and secrets hide.

They entered soft, the man all gray,
With eyes like steel and beard of clay.
The woman veiled, with gaze demure,
Yet lips that hinted at allure.

A kajira came with hips that swayed,
Her tray a feast, her smile well-played.
She knelt with grace, her voice a song,
And offered wine both deep and strong.

“Nyte Wine, Masters, rich and bold—
And cookies warm, not yet cold.”
She winked, and placed the platter down,
Her tunic short, her hair unbound.

The scribes indulged, their tongues grew light,
The wine uncorked the edge of night.
The lady scribe, once still and prim,
Now laughed with cheeks both flushed and dim.

The kajira leaned with teasing grin,
And let the “girl talk” now begin.
“You wear your veil like warriors fight—
But it slips, Mistress, in this light.”

The scribe giggled, her voice a trill,
“You wear your tunic with more skill.”
The kajira laughed, her eyes aglow,
“I wear it so my Master knows.”

They whispered low of men and dreams,
Of kisses stolen in moonbeams.
Of collars worn and secrets kept,
Of nights where even scribes have wept.

“I know,” the kajira said with pride,
“How even veiled hearts ache inside.
You dream of being kissed like me—
Of being wanted, wild, and free.”

The scribe leaned close, her veil askew,
Her eyes alight with something new.
“You are bold,” she breathed, “and sweet as sin.”
“And you,” the girl said, “are soft within.”

Their laughter rose, a lilting sound,
That made the warrior turn around.
He stood and smiled, his kajira’s grace
Reflected in his weathered face.

“My girl can bake, and tease, and serve—
But eat more, friends, you’ve got the nerve.”
The scribe man laughed, then rose with cheer,
And swept the woman near and dear.

He tossed her upon his shoulder, she squealed with glee,
Her veil now almost lost to revelry.
They waved farewell, the inn their goal,
Two hearts unburdened, one made whole.

The kajira knelt, her tray now bare,
The warrior’s hand upon her hair.
And Var-Kor’s stars above them shone,
On laughter shared and veils almost undone.