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She had permission to speak, to cheer for her master's favorite! I felt like pulling her to the ground by her hair, but I would not dare to do so. - (Conspirators of Gor, Chapter 17, Sentence #30)

This was in deference, supposedly, to the feelings of free women, whose sensibilities might be offended by the presence, in their vicinity, of the half-clad, shapely beasts of masters. One sort of slave, however, is likely to be more visible in a stadium, a certain sort of stadium, a "stadium of blades," a more vulgar, violent milieu, the sort helplessly chained naked to a post, a sack of gold tied about her neck, she and it prizes to be awarded to a successful fighter. "Hurry on, red!" cried another slave, two rows below me. She had permission to speak, to cheer for her master's favorite! I felt like pulling her to the ground by her hair, but I would not dare to do so. I knew it would be I who would soon be weeping, and pleading for mercy! It would not be another, but I, I knew, who would soon be the cringing, beaten slave. This was clear to me, even from my former world. I had sensed this ever since the party on my former world, when I had been disgracefully camisked and forced to serve, in a locked leather collar, and had found myself tearfully, stung again and again, helplessly groveling under the switch of the imperious Nora. - (Conspirators of Gor)