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"I love you," she said suddenly, "I love you—Tarl Cabot, Master". She put her arms about my neck and kissed me. I kept her long in my arms, savoring the warmth of her lips, the delicacy of her tongue on mine. "Your slave," she whispered, "Master—forever your slave". It was hard for me to believe that this marvelous, collared beauty in my arms was once a simple girl of Earth, that this astounding wench, Tuchuk and Gorean, was the same as Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, the young secretary who so long before had found herself inexplicably thrust into intrigues and circumstances beyond her comprehension on the plains of Gor. Whatever she might have been before, a clock number, a set of records in a personnel file, an unimportant employee, with her salary and benefits, under the obligation to please and impress other employees, scarcely more important than herself, she was now alive, and free in her emotions though her flesh might be subject to chains; she was now vital, passionate, loving, mine; I wondered if there were other girls of Earth in whom such a transformation might be wrought, others who might, not fully understanding, long for a man and a world—a world in which they must find and be themselves, for no other choice would be theirs—a world in which they might run and breathe and laugh and be swift and loving and prized and in their hearts at last open and free—though paradoxically perhaps, for a time, or until the man should choose otherwise, wearing the collar of a slave girl. But I dismissed such thoughts as foolish. - (Nomads of Gor, Chapter )