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The steel, the links, the ring, the post, such things, were not designed to concede the least possibility of escape to their selected prisoners. - (Kur of Gor, Chapter 77, Sentence #285)

"How long can you run, little thing? Do you call that little stick you carry an ax? You cannot even reach me with it! You are human! I am Kur! Close with me! Close with me! Hold still! Stand! Fight!" Cabot circled, as he could, to the left, looking for an opening, but now Flavion held the ax more closely, was more guarded in his movements, in his strokes, even poked at Cabot, trying to force him backward, to fall, or to pin him against the palings. The slave, braceleted at the post, jerked and jerked at the snug steel on her wrists. The links of the chain joining the bracelets scraped again and again at the iron ring, and pulled futilely against it, but her frenzied efforts were not in the least availing. The steel, the links, the ring, the post, such things, were not designed to concede the least possibility of escape to their selected prisoners. They are designed to hold them, and do hold them, with perfection. She sobbed, and screamed, and jerked at the bracelets, and was helpless, a slave, fastened in place, as masters would have her. Cabot lifted his ax above his head, such a comparatively tiny, frail thing, to hold back the haft of Flavion's pressing ax, and Cabot was forced down, to one knee, miserably, and then he rolled to the side, and Flavion's struck at him sidewise and a great shower of dirt leapt from the ground, scattering even to the post where the slave was fastened. - (Kur of Gor)