“Observe,” once had said Elizabeth to me, to my amusement, in the secrecy of our compartment

“Observe,” once had said Elizabeth to me, to my amusement, in the secrecy of our compartment, “the twelfth way to enter a room.”
I had observed. It was not bad. But I think I preferred the tenth, that with the girl’s back against the side of the door, the palms of her hands on the jamb, her head up, lips slightly parted, eyes to the right, smoldering at just the right temperature.
“How many ways are there,” I asked, sitting cross-legged in the center of the compartment, on the stone couch, “to enter a room?”
“It depends on the city,” said Elizabeth. “In Ar we are the best; we have the most ways to enter a room. One hundred and four.”
I whistled.
“What about,” I asked, “just walking straight through?”
She looked at me. “Ah,” said she, “one hundred and five!”
A good deal of the training of the slave girl, surprisingly, to my naive mind, was in relatively domestic matters.

For example, the Pleasure Slave, if she is trained by a good house, must also be the master of those duties commonly assigned to Tower Slaves. Accordingly, they must know how to cut and sew cloth, to wash garments and clean various types of materials and surfaces, and to cook an extensive variety of foods, from the rough fare of Warriors to concoctions which are exotic almost to the point of being inedible.

Assassin of Gor, p. 283

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