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I recalled her doing her best to comply with their directives, to fulfill their implacable pathological stereotypes, in dress, in expression and carriage, in attitude and thought. And in this she was surely not other than thousands of other frightened, confused, unhappy women, ordered to deny themselves, to betray their sexuality, women fearing to question propounded absurdities, struggling to be thoughtlessly, uncritically obedient to the dictates of fanatics. But even so her femininity, for all her efforts, had been insufficiently concealed. She was not a surrogate male, a pretend man. She was, willing or no, a beautiful, feminine young woman. How unfortunate for her, I supposed, in such a place and time! And how beautiful she had been in the restaurant, in the off-the-shoulder, white, satin-sheath dress, she somehow then daring to appear so. I now suspected that that courage had had to do with a change in her, one consequent on her disturbing interlude with a heavy, large-handed, balding, virile man encountered in a Manhattan apartment, an interlude in which she had first found herself put as a female under a man's will, an experience which had shocked her into the understanding that she was quite other than a male, something wondrously and preciously different—and wondrously and preciously beautiful, and wondrously and preciously desirable. - (Rogue of Gor, Chapter )