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Rask of Treve was struggling with himself, castigating himself, denouncing himself, I think, fighting not to care for me, a mere slave. - (Captive of Gor, Chapter 17, Sentence #87)

Sometimes he would hold me in his arms, and gaze into my eyes, with such intentness and tenderness, with so soft a light in his eyes, that I, my head lifted, would be overjoyed, my love flooding forth to him, but then, frightened, I would put my head down, against his shoulder, in my collar. In what tumult, how troubled, were my feelings! I wanted him to care for me, more than anything, but I was afraid that he might begin to do so. Often I could read his expressions and see there, in his eyes, in the sternness of a visage, the curl of a lip, that he would fight within himself so despicable a weakness. Rask of Treve was struggling with himself, castigating himself, denouncing himself, I think, fighting not to care for me, a mere slave. But I fear, despite himself, he had begun to care, and perhaps more than care, for his El-in-or. But I was, of course, only his slave. Oh, when his need was upon him he would sometimes use me as the meaningless slave girl I was, just another wench from his chain, use me with harsh authority, sometimes even making me suffer under his domination, that is true. - (Captive of Gor)