Results Details

How every bit of her seemed alive with challenge! Her eyes, her stance, the sound of her voice! I saw the tiny nose ring, barbaric, glinting in the light of the fire bowl. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter 25, Sentence #617)

"Do not count your slaves until you have won them," I cautioned. "Is it a wager?" she asked. I gazed on her. How every bit of her seemed alive with challenge! Her eyes, her stance, the sound of her voice! I saw the tiny nose ring, barbaric, glinting in the light of the fire bowl. I saw the place on her thigh where not many days before the fiery iron had been so cruelly pressed, leaving behind it, smoking for the instant, deep and clean, the tiny mark of the four bosk horns. I saw on her lovely throat the harsh ring of Turian steel, gleaming and locked, so contrasting with, so barbarically accentuating the incredible softness of her beauty, the tormenting vulnerability of it. The collar, I knew, bore my name, proclaiming her, should I wish, my slave. - (Nomads of Gor)