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Let the free woman twist and squirm in bed, and drench her pillow with tears. The slave prostrates herself before the master, her hair about his sandals, hoping he will be merciful, that he will take pity on her. Does the free woman sometimes wonder what it would be to be a slave, to be utterly rightless and vulnerable, to have to serve and please? Does she wonder sometimes what it might be to find her beauty, perhaps stripped and collared, looked upon with interest and satisfaction, with approval and anticipation, to find it thusly, helplessly, within the regard of a man who owns it, whose property it is, her master? Never before has she been so looked upon. Let her now understand, perhaps for the first time, that she is beautiful, that she is delicious and well-curved, that she is tormentingly desirable, that she is a fit meat for masters. Surely she now understands why she has been collared. Does she sense what it would be then to have his hands reaching for her, what it would be to be taken within his arms? Perhaps. One does not know. - (Prize of Gor)