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Yet was this not something, that bespoken in her scarcely audible words, the slave of her, her slaveness, that she was a slave, which I, on one level or another, had long sensed in the beauteous Miss Henderson, even on Earth. - (Guardsman of Gor, Chapter 17, Sentence #140)

What shrill responses from the unnatural and ugly, the entrenched and intolerant, the fanatical and close-minded, would have greeted such an admission. What sorry costs might attend such words! I wondered if truth was really so terrible. In any event, it must be rare, being so seldom found; and it must be perilous, so few dare to utter it. Yet was this not something, that bespoken in her scarcely audible words, the slave of her, her slaveness, that she was a slave, which I, on one level or another, had long sensed in the beauteous Miss Henderson, even on Earth. And it had surely been made manifest to me incontrovertibly in the holding of Policrates, when she had thought me to be the courier of Ragnar Voskjard. And perhaps it was this, above all, this sensing of the ready slave in her, which had drawn me so irresistibly toward her, which had called out to the master in my blood. Does not the slave in woman call piteously for its master? But, too, does not the master seek his slave? There is no fulfillment for the slave without the master, nor for the master without the slave. - (Guardsman of Gor)