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It seemed every muscle and nerve in my body cried out to me to kneel, to place myself in a posture of submission. - (Conspirators of Gor, Chapter 7, Sentence #147)

How alive, I thought, must be the body of a slave! How alive to small things, a breath of air, a scent, subtle, scarcely noticed, the texture of a bit of cloth on her body, the feeling of a carpet or tiles beneath her bared feet, a rustle of chain in an outer room, are they coming for her, the weight of a manacle on her small wrist, the solid, cold feeling of bars clutched in fear. And what, if she were bound and blindfolded, the touch of a master? I wanted to throw myself to my knees and put my head down to the stones. I felt a desperate desire to prostrate myself before the unseen others, if they were there. It seemed every muscle and nerve in my body cried out to me to kneel, to place myself in a posture of submission. It seemed to me that I belonged in such a posture. "It is what you are," something seemed to say to me. "Be what you are! Do not fight what you are! Do you not know, Miss Allison Ashton-Baker, for all your pretensions, you are a slave. - (Conspirators of Gor)