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There was his breath, his tongue, his touch. - (Plunder of Gor, Chapter 30, Sentence #364)

On Gor, Ahn may be spent in making love, mornings, nights, evenings, and afternoons. Many are the arts of love, harsh and gentle, fierce and tender, commanding and solicitous, and love's artists are patient and talented. Kurik of Victoria knew well the handling of helpless slaves, their caressing and owning, their grasping and stroking, their conquest and fulfillment. There was his breath, his tongue, his touch. He could play the body of a slave, producing a rapture of sensations, much as the master of the czehar or kalika can play his lovely instrument, drawing forth its laughter and tears, its moans and cries, its pensive contemplations, its incitements and ardors, its valleys and mountains, its depths and its ecstasies. Never was I off a chain, though commonly it was only a shackle on my left ankle. Did he fear I would attempt to escape him? It would have required chains to draw me from his side. - (Plunder of Gor)