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Tears sprang into the eyes of the well-restrained slave. - (Prize of Gor, Chapter 27, Sentence #2575)

The bootlike sandal of the final soldier to make use of her, in its spurning blow, at her left, had not marked her. It had been little more than a reminder that she was a slave. "You look well, hobbled, slave," he said, irritably. Tears sprang into the eyes of the well-restrained slave. His eyes examined the curves of her, her bosom beneath the tunic, the narrow waist, the flare of the hips, the thighs, the calves, all of which he owned. He had seen her yield to others, those not her master, and with the yieldings of a slave. She could not reach him easily, for he was some seven or eight feet from her, but she went to her belly, and, as nearly as she could manage, to the common second position of obeisance, and lifted her head, and looked up at him, piteously, her small wrists braceleted behind her. - (Prize of Gor)