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That was who the girl belonged to. Tight leather bound her wrists; her tether led to my saddle. The garment she wore was incredibly brief, a rag; it was of brown rep-cloth, stained with grease and dirt; I had found it in the kitchens of Ibn Saran; it had been used in the cleaning of pans; I had ripped it at the neck; I had torn it, lengthily, on the left side, to reveal the marvelous curve from her left breast to her left hip; let men look upon her beauty; it would be as public as I cared to make it, for she was my slave. After she had falsely testified against me at Nine Wells, she had smiled, slyly, in triumph, pleased with her work, pleased that I would be sent to the brine pits of Klima; I had escaped from Nine Wells, but, recaptured, was enchained, destined for Klima; I well recalled her elation, her contempt, her scorn, as she had looked down upon me, helpless in the chain; she had flung me a token, something by which to remember her, a bit of slave silk, redolent with slave perfume; she had blown me a kiss, smiling, before being ordered back to her barred alcove by the slave master who at that time was supervising her. I would not forget pretty Vella. Now I owned her. She had begged me to forgive her, as though a word from me would make all things right. - (Tribesmen of Gor, Chapter )