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"Hear that," she laughed, "hear that!" But neither Hiza nor Emerald was laughing. Tula, Mila, and I stood near our burdens, frightened, mere women, feminine women, so unlike the mighty Panther women, so unlike that we could be to them as naught but despised slaves, women of the sort which men immediately think of in terms of a brand and tunic, women of the sort which men think little of enslaving, and seek for their chains, their cords, their ropes, and straps, their collars. We dared not meet the eyes of the mistresses. I had thought that Darla, who was large and strong, was the fiercest, the mightiest, the most formidable of women, the bold and daring leader of a dangerous band of Panther women, women to look up to, women before whom other women might kneel in fear, women not unlike the masters themselves, women not unlike men, but here was mighty Darla, naked, on her knees, chained and shackled, her ankles bound together with her own talmit, begging to be sold. Darla, I then realized, was a woman, and perhaps not so different from other women. Who knew what her thoughts had been, and her dreams? Perhaps she did have something in her of the woman, the blood, the instincts, the hopes, the needs, the fears, the desires, the longings, of the woman, the secret understanding, however hysterically denied, of her true place in nature, out of which she could not be herself. It was as though some image, some proud, contrived, clay encasement of a reality had finally broken apart, separating, revealing, hitherto hidden within, something quite unlike the image, or encasement, something not hard but soft, not artificial but real, not false but true, and needful. - (Smugglers of Gor, Chapter )