"Do you not recall," asked Kamchak, "the banquet of Saphrar?"

"Of course." she said, warily.

"Do you not recall," asked Kamchak, "the affair of the tiny bottles
of perfume and the smell of bosk dung -- how nobly you attempted to
rid the banquet hall of that most unpleasant and distasteful odor?"

"Yes," said the girl, very slowly.

"Do you not recall," asked Kamchak, "What I then said to you -- 
what I said at that time?"

"No!" cried the girl leaping up, but Kamchak had jumped toward her,
scooped her up and threw her over his shoulder. She squirmed and 
struggled on his shoulder, kicking and pounding on his back. "Sleen!"
she cried. "Sleen! Sleen! Sleen!"

I followed Kamchak down the steps of the wagon and, blinking and 
still sensible of the effects of the Paga, gravely held open the 
large dung sack near the rear left wheel of the wagon.

"No, Master!" the girl wept. "You call no man Master," Kamchak was
reminding her. And then I saw the lovely Aphris of Turia pitched
head first into the large, leather sack, screaming and sputtering,
thrashing about.
 
"Master!" she cried. "Master! Master!" Sleepily I could see the 
sides of the sack bulging out wildly here and there as she squirmed
about. Kamchak then tied shut the end of the leather sack and wearily
stood up. "I am tired," he said. " I have had a difficult and
exhausting day." I followed him into the wagon where, in a short time,
we had both fallen asleep.

-- from "Nomads of Gor" by John Norman