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Was she now to be whipped? The decision, of course, was mine. - (Guardsman of Gor, Chapter 18, Sentence #256)

She was then before me, on all fours, the lovely, obedient slave, the former Miss Henderson, before the curule chair on which I reclined. She lifted her head, and, extending her slender, closely collared neck, delicately tendered the whip into my grasp. I took the whip from her, and she looked at me, frightened. Was she now to be whipped? The decision, of course, was mine. I folded the blades of the whip back against the staff, and held out the staff and blades to her. Suddenly, gratefully, tears in her eyes, sobbing, and half gasping and choking with relief, kneeling before me, grasping my calves, her head over my thighs, she covered the whip, that symbol of masculinity, and of the authority of men over her, and specifically of my own authority over her, with kisses. "I kiss your whip, my Master," she said, gratefully, continuing to kiss the brutal, uncompromising blades and staff. - (Guardsman of Gor)