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I was no longer ashamed of my body, but even vain, I fear, where it was concerned. I realized it had value, and had been so desirable and attractive that it had been collared. The brand and collar, of course, are indisputable marks of quality, as might be the stampings on plates and vessels, the tags sewn into the rugs of Tor, and the labels fixed on the cloaks of Turia. How many free women, I wondered, could match the slave in beauty? How many would dare to walk and stand, and move, as a slave, with such casual, unconscious ease, such assurance and womanly grace, the grace of a woman who knows herself so special and prized that she is collared and owned? Did they so, would they be remanded to guardsmen for the collar? Is it a slave's fault that she is a woman, and must now reveal her woman's beauty, and her womanly needs? Is it a slave's fault that men have, whether she wished it or not, put slave fire in her belly? Is it a slave's fault that she now accepts herself as a vital, needful sexual creature, who cannot help her responsiveness to masters, nor wishes to do so, and lives for their touch? It is no wonder that we are sometimes switched gratuitously in the streets, and that the backs of our thighs, and our arms and shoulders, may bear the marks of a free woman's displeasure. Do they envy us the freedom of our collars, the joys of our owned womanhood? And so we stood before our masters. Tears were in my eyes. "Paula," said Drusus Andronicus, "brought a golden tarsk". - (Plunder of Gor, Chapter )