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To be sure, the arousal of a Gorean slave is seldom far below the surface. As the saying is, slave fires have been lit in their bellies. Predictably, periodically, these fires burst into open flame. One of the strongest chains binding a slave, even to a hated master, is her need for sexual relief; she is, after all, a slave; frequently, and perhaps even to her misery, if the master is hated, she begins to sense her growing restlessness, her uneasiness and discomfort; she may fight it, but it is beginning, and she knows, perhaps to her fury, that it will have its way; it is inexorable, like the tides, like the circuits of planets, the risings and settings of the sun, Sol, or Tor-tu-Gor, Light-Upon-the-Home-Stone; and soon she is in the throes of its grasp; she is now its helpless victim, the victim of an acute and desperate need for sexual relief, for some mitigation, however brief, of her intensifying, perhaps even wholly unwelcome, fervor and ardor, some surcease, however temporary, of the tumult, torment and vehemence of her passions. She then bellies, helpless, even to a hated master, kissing and licking his feet, petitioning his caress. He regards her, perhaps with contempt, or bemusement. Will he satisfy her or not? It is up to him, as he is her master. - (Players of Gor, Chapter )