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I, and certain others, had been kept in that basement, or dungeon, at the foot of the stairs, with the damp, soiled straw, and the dim light, filtering in from above, in its narrow, dust-sprinkled shaft of illumination, for days. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter 7, Sentence #1)

On what ship, I wondered, would I take passage? Certainly I had lingered about the docks frequently enough, in the early morning, watching, not really knowing why. Observing, waiting, for what? I recalled her lot number had been 119, not that it mattered. She was a slave. I, and certain others, had been kept in that basement, or dungeon, at the foot of the stairs, with the damp, soiled straw, and the dim light, filtering in from above, in its narrow, dust-sprinkled shaft of illumination, for days. After four days I had been removed from the sirik. I could then freely move my hands and feet, and the linkage was not on my neck. How helpless we are in the sirik, and perhaps beautiful. - (Smugglers of Gor)