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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. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter 25, Sentence #618)

"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. And yet this beautiful, soft, proud thing stood there, though ringed and branded, though collared, bold and brazen flinging at me, eyes bright, her challenge, the eternal challenge of the unconquered female, that of the untamed woman, daring the male to touch her, to try, she resisting, to reduce her to yielding prize, to force from her the unconditional surrender, the total and utter submission of the woman who has no choice but to acknowledge herself his, the helpless, capitulated slave of him in whose arms she finds herself prisoner. - (Nomads of Gor)