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What a worthless, miserable slave, I must be, I sometimes thought. - (Plunder of Gor, Chapter 13, Sentence #84)

If a master tired of me, or needed a stronger girl for heavier labors, for I served commonly as a work slave, why should he not simply hood me and take me to some convenient local market, to be disposed of there? Why did he always solicit a traveling slaver, a passing dealer, the master of a caravan on the brink of departure? The prices I brought, for the most part, were typical, and realistic, and once, thrilling me, most of a silver tarsk, but then, many times, afterward, often to my chagrin or confusion, I would be sold for a pittance, sometimes for little more than being given away. Why must I be so cheaply discarded? Surely masters would not welcome taking a loss on their buy. Indeed, some were merchants, and Goreans, generally, are careful with their coins, often jealously, extremely so. What a worthless, miserable slave, I must be, I sometimes thought. And then I would be purchased for a decent price. Why, I wondered, am I not longer kept, more wanted, for certainly my flanks, as I tried to remain still, standing or lying, had been stroked more than once with interest, in one venue or another. Surely I had noted desire in the eyes of more than one master. - (Plunder of Gor)