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I then, a bit later, opened my mouth, widely, and a handful of slave gruel, or moist mush, was thrust in my mouth. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter 11, Sentence #33)

"Kneel to be watered, and fed, pretty beasts," we heard, this time closer. We of the rope coffle struggled to our knees, wearily, put our heads back, and each grasped her left wrist behind her back with her right hand. In my turn the stem of the bota was thrust between my teeth, and I drew in, eagerly, gratefully, my ration of water. I then, a bit later, opened my mouth, widely, and a handful of slave gruel, or moist mush, was thrust in my mouth. One swallows it a tiny bit at a time, that one not choke. It is bland, and largely tasteless, but filling, for what one gets of it, and apparently nutritious. It was a far cry from the provenders I had been taught to prepare in the house, ranging from roasted, seasoned bosk and tarsk, and fresh plate breads, with honeys and butters, to frosted pastries and decadent, creamed sauces which, in some cities, were outlawed by sumptuary laws. - (Smugglers of Gor)