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Was I not a slave? Was this not what could be done with me? Too, I had the terrifying sense that if he had been a little patient, taken his time, caressed me a little, put his teeth to me, spoke his mastery, I might have cried out, grateful, yielding. - (Plunder of Gor, Chapter 7, Sentence #399)

My body shook. Two strange, conflicting emotions warred within me. One was a violent rage at what had been done to me, a rage rife with shame, degradation, humiliation, frustration, and an acute sense of a lack of recourse, a sense of an utter helplessness, and the other, even stronger, was a sense of its fittingness. Was I not a slave? Was this not what could be done with me? Too, I had the terrifying sense that if he had been a little patient, taken his time, caressed me a little, put his teeth to me, spoke his mastery, I might have cried out, grateful, yielding. I had received the sense of what might be done with me, and what I might become. How horrifying if I might find myself a yielding, begging slave in the arms of her master! How could I think of myself then as other than a moaning, worthless, subdued, conquered, pleading kajira? I trusted he had no sense of this torment within me. I lay at his feet, naked, on his chain. - (Plunder of Gor)