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Was it not better to be a free woman of ice, refined and composed, at ease with her body, untroubled, inert, and serene? What is it about the collar, and finding oneself owned, as a beast is owned, which so transforms us, which puts us so piteously and helplessly at the feet of masters? From the school I could remember the moans and cries, the scratchings and beggings, of slaves. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter 11, Sentence #183)

What slave does not long for her master? And what man does not long for his slave? I had begun to sense, frequently now, stirrings in my belly, discomforts which I feared might grow intolerable and insupportable. How fearful, I suspected, are the needs of a female slave, and how helpless she is in their grasp. Surely I must resist the growing of slave fires within me! How merciless are the men to us! And how amused they are at what they have done to us. Was it not better to be a free woman of ice, refined and composed, at ease with her body, untroubled, inert, and serene? What is it about the collar, and finding oneself owned, as a beast is owned, which so transforms us, which puts us so piteously and helplessly at the feet of masters? From the school I could remember the moans and cries, the scratchings and beggings, of slaves. I must never let myself suffer so, must never permit myself to become no more than the negligible, pleading toy of an imperious brute. But, resist it as I could, and dread it as I might, I feared it could be done with me, and would be done with me. I was kajira! But, I wondered, are tree women, really, so different? How many, I wondered, in their loneliness, sob and twist within their coverlets, moan, and pummel their silken, tear-dampened pillows with frustration? It was late. - (Smugglers of Gor)