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The interior whip master looked up from the beautiful penitent slave at his feet, as though suddenly coming to his senses. - (Prize of Gor, Chapter 24, Sentence #399)

"Such a high number! To be sure, she is so beautiful! What would she have done wrong? Perhaps she had been overconfident. Perhaps she had thought herself too good to be danced in this place, before such men. Perhaps she had not given her best performance? Perhaps she had held something back?" The men were shouting angrily outside. The interior whip master looked up from the beautiful penitent slave at his feet, as though suddenly coming to his senses. "117!" he cried. "Out, little fool, onto the sand!" With one last look at the beaten slave, and with terror and a sinking heart, and a jangle of slave bells, Ellen, clutching her veil about her silks, rushed abjectly through the curtain and half stumbled to the sand outside. There was a sound of interest, and laughter, from the men, and then they were expectant, quiet. - (Prize of Gor)