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Should I fight him, as I could? What would it matter, in the end? And might I not be beaten for the slightest show of resistance, unless, in its futility, he found it amusing. - (Witness of Gor, Chapter 13, Sentence #893)

That is for free women. Rather, on our backs, if our masters desire, our subtlest nuances of expression, our helplessness, our fear, our joy, our yielding, our vulnerability, what we hope for, what we beg for, may be read! They may with their triumphant gaze ravish our helplessly bared features, surveying the myriad subtleties of our flushed countenances, taking account of our tremblings, our raptures and terrors, scrutinizing us in our misery, our ecstasy and helplessness, delighting in our tumult, we face-stripped, unveiled, before them, imprisoned in their arms, their slaves. He made a low, growling, bestial noise. Should I fight him, as I could? What would it matter, in the end? And might I not be beaten for the slightest show of resistance, unless, in its futility, he found it amusing. I whimpered. Could he read in me my signs of growing helplessness? I was refined, I was delicate, I was sensitive! How could this be being done to me? But then I recalled that I was a slave. I uttered a small, helpless cry, one of weakness, but one, too, in its way, of petition. - (Witness of Gor)