“Please!” she cried. “Have mercy!”

“Please!” she cried. “Have mercy!”
“69—70,” I said.
She hastened toward me, terrified, with quick, small steps.
“75—76,” I said. “Obeisance.”
She cried out with misery, performing obeisance.
“77,” I said. “78—79.”
Then the porridge, with the seasonings and condiments, was on the table.
“80,” I said.
She leaned back. I feared she might faint. Then she again performed obeisance, and shrank back.
“Do not leave,” I told her. “You do not have permission to withdraw. Back on your heels.”
She knelt back on her heels, frightened.

Renegades of Gor, p. 103

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