Panther Taming: Part 1

This Gorean Fan Fiction was generated using Chat GPT alongside the RP logs. 

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 smell of bosk stew drifted through the slave house, fighting a losing battle against the stench of the cages. Tempest, a wild-haired panther girl, sat curled on a cushion inside one of them, ribs jutting sharply beneath her skin. She watched silently as a man approached with a cup and a steaming bowl.

“Might be hungry,” he said, sliding the cup between the bars. “Not sure when the house plans to deal with you, but this’ll fill your belly in the meantime.”

Tempest eyed him suspiciously.
“The one running this place said no food or drink till I break,” she muttered—but she snatched the cup anyway and downed it in one gulp. “I’ll take it though. Cheers.”

He chuckled. “I’m not the one in charge. Eat.”

She tore into the stew, finishing it almost before she tasted it. As she shoved the empty bowl back, the slaver entered the room—stern, watchful—and one of his collared women knelt gracefully at his side.

The slaver’s nose wrinkled. “Enjoying dinner, girl? And who decided you should eat?”

Tempest jerked her chin toward the man who had fed her. “Him. I’ve been here forever hungry, so I took it. And if you think I’m breaking anytime soon, you’re dreaming.”

The kneeling woman smiled politely at her through the bars. Tempest sneered back.

“Look at you,” she taunted, “kneeling all pretty for your little man.”

The woman only lifted her chin with pride. “I take pleasure in serving.”

The slaver’s hand hovered near the whip at his belt. “Big words for a caged girl.” He gestured toward the stripes across his woman’s breasts. “Perhaps I should give you matching ones.”

He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “Or perhaps I let you sit in your filth with no food or water. The alternative is simple: kneel with your back to the bars, hands behind you. I bind you, collar you, and take you to the fountain to be washed.”

Tempest laughed harshly. “A collar’s just metal. Any blacksmith can take it off. I’ve escaped more cages than you’ve seen slaves.”

One of the other free women, offended by Tempest’s mockery, protested that even she would survive better in the forest than the panther girl claimed. Tempest only scoffed, calling her a perfect little doll.

The slaver, though tempted, eventually decided against opening the cage. Instead he hung a sign on it—NO FEEDING—and placed Tempest’s food and water just out of reach. His collared woman arranged the dishes so the scents drifted temptingly through the bars: honey-glazed meat, fresh herbs, baked suls.

Tempest licked her lips despite herself but pretended not to care. She stretched out on the cushions and began humming tribal melodies from her homeland.

Later, more people drifted into the house. A merchant warned the room that Tempest was dangerous—that the feather braided into her hair was a weapon, and that she’d once slit the throat of a full-grown bosk. Tempest held the feather up with a grin. No one had bothered checking her hair; the pins woven into her braids remained untouched.

A richly dressed free woman came too close to the bars and in a flash Tempest lunged, claws scraping the metal. She snatched a scrap of fabric from the woman’s dress, sniffed it, licked it, and tucked it under a pillow.

“Pretty chocolate-colored lady,” she taunted. “Got anything sweet for me?”

The woman backed away quickly. Someone called the panther girl poison. Another suggested they muzzle her.

Tempest bared her teeth at them all.

One of the slaves—nervous, trembling—had been ordered to ensure she received no food. Tempest mocked her relentlessly. But the girl held firm until a visiting free man pointed out the flaw in her position.

“If a free man feeds the captive, you can’t stop him without disobeying him,” he said. “But if you let him, you disobey your master. A command you can’t win.”

Tempest grinned. “Smart man. So go on—feed me.”

The slave refused, clinging to her orders.

By nightfall Tempest had grown tired of the arguments. She ignored the free woman who tried to order her to kneel and curled back onto the cushions. Her humming returned—soft, haunting forest notes—until her eyes slid closed.

Eventually, the onlookers drifted away.

Tempest slept curled like a predator at rest, already calculating her next escape.