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And seared into my left thigh, just beneath the hip, was a small, lovely mark, a kef, which, to any who might gaze upon it, would show me kajira. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter 46, Sentence #50)

Suppose I managed to cross the river, and make my way south, what then? Had I then escaped, truly? Could I escape? I was even a barbarian, who might still be betrayed by her accent, and doubtless, indefinitely, by her ignorance of any number of things, such as customs, sayings, legends, stories, histories, festivals, and heroes. I touched the disrobing loop at my left shoulder, all that kept the tiny garment on me. I touched my collar, which I could not remove. And seared into my left thigh, just beneath the hip, was a small, lovely mark, a kef, which, to any who might gaze upon it, would show me kajira. It is said that there is no escape for the Gorean slave girl. She is marked, collared, and distinctively garbed. There is no refuge for her, no safe haven, nowhere for her to run. - (Smugglers of Gor)