T
The Fallen Angel
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Good grief!!....Must plead guilty to this pic. It's from 2014. Quickly theseus, get this thread back on track.
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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
- Start date
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Your wish is my command!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Collar
A collar seems such an insignificant thing.
A simple strip of leather or steel, or in some cases a choker of silver or gold filigree; the wearing of a collar changes a person’s life. The collar denotes servitude, ownership, submission, an abrogation of will.
Helen’s collar was of gleaming stainless steel. Simple, elegant, apart from the large ring set into the front. The lock was invisible, seamless. It could be opened only by the holder of a complex electronic key. Always visible, it denoted her status as a slave.
Helen’s descent into slavery had been gradual, inevitable. The spoilt only daughter of indulgent parents, she had lived a life of luxury and leisure. Her beauty had opened all doors to her, men had competed for the privilege of escorting her, treating her, spoiling her. Occasionally, very occasionally, they would be rewarded by a night in her bed. She was the ultimate princess. She maxed out her credit cards, knowing that daddy would pay. Her clothes and jewellery were the finest possible, her car a limited edition sports car.
Then daddy stopped paying!
He father had warned her on a number of occasions, but she pooh-poohed the idea that he would carry out his threats. Letters of demand arrived! Final demands! Summonses! Her car was repossessed, clothing and jewellery sold. Her debts were still massive!
Hugh was one of her major creditors, a jeweller, a handsome man in his fifties. She had spurned his romantic approaches with disdain. After all, he was a mere artisan. He quietly bought up all her debt, a small fortune!
“You have thirty days to settle your debts! In full! If not…”
The threat was there. She went to her father, her mother, her uncle. All of them gave her the same answer. “You got yourself into this, now you can get yourself out of it.”
On the thirtieth day she went to him, to beg for more time. He was implacable. His desk was clear, a gleaming acreage of polished wood, marred by only three items. A sheaf of papers, headed CONTRACT OF SERVITUDE, a gold fountain pen, and a gleaming steel collar.
“Your choice is very simple. You can pay your debts, in full, now! If not, you will be arrested on charges of drug use, fraud and theft. The minimum sentence will be twenty five years in prison.”
She went pale, gasping. “I can’t pay, you know that! The drugs were just for fun, recreation! Everyone uses! I can’t go to jail! I would die!”
“There is one other option.” He pushed the contract toward her. “You can sign this contract and become my slave for life. You will become my property, for me to use in whatever way I wish. For the rest of your life, or until you become worthless.”
She took several deep breaths, then leafed through the document. “This is ridiculous! Obscene! You can’t do this!”
He nodded, silently. He pressed the button on his desk. “Miss Dawson, ask the police to come in please?”
“No! Wait! I can’t go to jail! Please, can we negotiate?”
“The police are waiting.”
She gave a shuddering sob. Her hand shook as she picked up the pen, scrawled her signature.
He pushed back his chair. “Come here! Kneel here!” He pointed to the floor between his feet.
She obeyed, her short skirt riding up to reveal her thighs. Her eyes were streaming tears. He picked up the collar, fitting it around her neck. It was snug, comfortable. There was a soft click and a buzz as he joined the ends.
She sobbed bitterly. He lifted her chin.
“Considering that you are already in the correct position, you might as well commence with your duties.”
Slowly he unbuckled his belt.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Cold!
It was so cold!
The pain of freezing hands and feet almost eclipsed the pain of cold iron grating against the shattered bones in her wrists and feet as she danced the endless, agonising dance of the cross. Even the agonising pain of cramped muscles paled against the cold.
She had been on her cross for an eternity! In reality no more than six hours. Six eternal hours.
Quintus, the guard keeping the spectators away from her, shivered under his cloak. He looked with contempt at the people who had come to gawk at the girl’s suffering. How could people be so heartless? They came to watch a young woman die in agony. He watched as she inched up the stipes, muscles straining to lift her, to straighten her legs so that she could breathe. He could see her shivering as the snow settled on her shoulders, her hair, even the tops of her lovely breasts.
He was grateful that she could no longer scream. When they had put her up her screams had echoed between the buildings of the square! The old Optio in charge of their squad had almost had to shout to be heard over her screams as she took her entire weight on the nails for the first time. “This one is strong! She’ll last two, maybe three days! Especially as that bastard of an owner of hers had refused to have her flogged before we nailed her!”
Quintus shuddered as the girl screamed weakly, her throat so raw from screaming that it came out as a croak. Her left thigh had cramped, the muscle iron hard! He knew what cramp was like, couldn’t imagine what it must feel like when you could do nothing to stretch the cramping muscle. Her right leg collapsed, leaving her hanging with almost all of her weight on her left wrist. He reached for the sponge on a stick, the kind used to clean oneself in the latrine. It was all he had. He dipped it in a puddle of meltwater and held it to her mouth. She sucked thirstily, her eyes begging for more. He gave her as much as he dared.
She wished she could die! She wished her body would allow her to die! Her body, so strong, so beautiful, so desirable, held stubbornly onto life. No matter the pain, the humiliation, the agony, it fought to continue to exist! Her dance of agony would continue!
The snow fell softly. She was cold! So very, very cold! Her stubborn body wanted to breathe! The broken bones in her feet grated as she pushed herself up, dragging herself by the nails through her wrists. She wanted to die! She wanted to be warm! Her body clung to life!
It was only the first day!
The artwork is by Damian. There is more available on his site: https://www.patreon.com/DamianArt
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T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Glad to see this thread is up and running again.
George Cookson
Assistant executioner
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Perils of Deceit
It had seemed like a good idea at the time!
When the slavers struck Maria thought it would be a good idea to cut off her hair and disguise herself as a boy. She almost got away with it! The women were rounded up and the choicest items bound and taken away, headed for the slave markets of Constantinople.
Maria was sneaking off into an alley when one of the slavers spotted her. He eyed her boyish figure and pretty face. “Abdul, look at that one! Just the kind of pretty boy the Emir dotes on. Might as well take it along as a gift for him. It never does any harm to curry favour with the old pervert.” He raised his voice. “You! Boy! Stand still!”
She knew that running would be fruitless, so stopped and tried to bluff it out. She failed miserably!
It was difficult to maintain her disguise locked in the hold with half a dozen other boys destined for the slave market, but she managed to do it. After several days at sea the slave ship docked. She was separated from the other slaves, her face given a wash and led off by Salim and Abdul.
The Emir was certainly pleased by the pretty boy offered as a gift. His hands trembled as he stripped the clothing off him. Salim and Abdul watched expectantly, anticipating a handsome reward. Anticipation turned to horror as the Emir uncovered a pair of small but perfect breasts! With a single jerk he ripped the trousers from the quaking slave, revealing a blonde-furred mound and a tight vagina.
“Guards! Take those two and whip them bloody! Then send them off to the galleys. They can row for the rest of their miserable lives!”
Maria tried to flee, naked as she now was. A guard grabbed hold of an arm, capturing the struggling girl. The Emir was not immune to the sight of rounded buttocks and a slim, beautiful back. He stroked his beard. Perhaps he could live with her breasts. “Hussein! Take this one outside. Mount her on a wooden horse. Let her amuse the people with her screams and struggles. After evening prayers take her to Abbas the leather worker. I want that thing,” pointing to the slit of her sex, “sewn closed! Permanently!”
Out in the street, exposed to the crowd, Maria writhed in agony as the sharp wooden edge ground into her virgin sex. The rising sun burned into her unprotected skin. Perhaps being a harem slave was a better option after all?
Hussein enjoyed her moans. It was a long time to sunset. Bound as she was he had a perfect view of her tight rosebud. He wondered how long it would be before the Emir tired of his new toy? A month? Two? After that he, Hussein, would inherit the slave.
It would be a well-used orifice, but would still provide him with endless pleasure.
Smiling, he went off to negotiate a price for Abbas’ services.
The artwork is by Damian. There is more available on his site: https://www.patreon.com/DamianArt
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The artwork is by Damian. There is more available on his site: https://www.patreon.com/DamianArt
I guess slavers stripping their prey serves a practical purpose as well. Helps catch these things early on.
George Cookson
Assistant executioner
I wish l was her
George Cookson
Assistant executioner
I wish I was her she should be branded
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
A camp follower’s fate.
She had followed her man, an archer, for many years. A camp follower’s life was not an easy one. She marched with the baggage, cooked, foraged for food, firewood, water. She froze in winter and sweated in summer. Often, she walked barefoot, her shoes worn out. She cleaned his clothes and dressed his wounds. She shared his bed, if they had one. More often they huddled under his cloak in some field, sharing the heat of their bodies. She gave him her body willingly, taking pleasure from his hardness and strength.
He had left her before dawn. She listened fearfully to the sound of battle, the screams, the clash of steel, the hum of hundreds of arrows, the neighing of horses. What was happening? Who was winning?
The men of the levy rushed into the camp! Strangers! The enemy! These were not soldiers, these were peasants, required to serve, to carry a spear, or a scythe, or a club. They were mad with the fear of death, crazed by the sight of friends dying! The camp provided booty, loot, and the means to sate their bloodlust!
Her clothes were ripped from her! Hard hands gripped her naked body, forcing her over a log, holding her brutally for the use of their comrades, careless of the pain they caused her. They used her brutally, her screams joined by the screams of the other camp woman similarly abused! Their penetration was indiscriminate! Whatever orifice they found, they penetrated. She screamed, wordlessly, she knew there was no point in begging. One after another!
The battle was lost.
She was a camp follower.
This was her fate!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Anticipation!
“Two hours!” The Master had said. “Go and wait at the horse until I am ready for you to mount!”
Two hours! Claire waited in terror! Two hours! The last time he had mounted her on the horse it had been for ten minutes. Ten minutes…Ten eternities!
Making her wait added to the cruelty. She couldn’t take her eyes off that cruel, sharp steel edge. That cruel steel that would dig into her most sensitive tissues! Crushing! Bruising! Destroying!
Two hours! She would die!
What had she done to deserve this? Nothing! She had merely shuddered involuntarily when he told her that her was lending her to his friend, Master Steve. Master Steve was a monster! He spent his time devising ingenious ways to inflict pain, suffering and humiliation on slaves. A week in his dungeon was like a week in hell! Just that little shudder had earned her this.
She looked again at the steel edge. Why did she have to stand here, waiting? Please! Please just put me on that thing! Let the suffering start! Please! Let it start so that it can be over!
She couldn’t stop the tears rolling down her cheeks.
Two hours!
The anticipation made it worse!
Two hours! One hundred and twenty eternities of agony!
Please, please, let it begin!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Choice.
Guests at Paradise pay a very large amount for the privilege of staying at this prime, anything goes, resort.
The management of Paradise go to great lengths to ensure that every whim is catered for, in the finest detail.
The Earl of …… is well known for his taste in toys. He likes them tanned, well rounded and trained to meet his exacting standards of beauty, skill, enthusiasm and perversion. His preference for anal sex is well known.
The entertainment manager personally selected these three items for the Earl’s entertainment. They are presented to optimally display their assets. They all know the consequences of displeasing him. The next week will be a test of their skill, stamina and ingenuity.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Fresh Meat.
Some couples join The Society without fully considering the responsibilities of membership. Susan and Angela joined mainly for the opportunity to attend parties where there was free sex available, together with other kinky fun. Their husbands happily went along with the idea, drawn by the variety of sexual partners available. None of them bothered to read the extensive “Terms and Conditions.”
When Susan and Angela were informed that that their names had been drawn for service at the Chateau the were both surprised and baffled.
“What’s that? Susan asked.
The Grand Master of the Society raised his impressive eyebrows. “Ah! You didn’t read the Terms and Conditions, did you? Typical!” He steepled his fingers. “Article 47a clearly states that female members may be balloted to serve for periods of three to six months at the Chateau. There is no option for anyone to refuse this service. You have been selected to serve the full six months.” He glanced at Paul and Andrew, their husbands, who looked both puzzled and annoyed. “You gentleman will be compensated for the loss of your marital comforts. You will each be allocated two novices from the Nymphaeum to cater for your needs in the absence of your wives.” Paul looked blank, but Andrew, who had heard of the Nymphaeum, gave a broad smile and sat back in his chair.
Angela, who was always on a short fuse, exploded. “What the fuck is this Chateau?”
The eyebrows shot up. “May I remind you, madam, of the penalties for using rude or obscene language directed at the person of the Grand Master. Article 7biii.” He paused. “Punishment for that will be administered at the Chateau. Your husband will be invited to attend the punishment.” Andrew’s smile was even broader.
The Chateau is the venue for our senior members’ pleasure. It caters to all tastes, and is well known for the variety and ingenuity of the perversions offered there. Nothing, I repeat nothing, is too unusual or outrageous for the Chateau.” He rose to his feet. “Now, ladies, if you would be so kind as to disrobe, we can prepare you for your journey to the Chateau.”
He rang a silver bell. “Jacques! Please bind these ladies’ hands. They are to be caged for their journey to the Chateau. Mrs Parker may be put in the spiked cage. She is to be punished at the Chateau. Please see that Mr Parker receives an invitation to the event.
Minutes later the two women were kneeling on the floor, hands bound behind them. Ahead lay six months of education. The Grand Master turned to their husbands. “Do not be concerned, gentlemen, your wives will be returned to you in good condition. Their skills will be greatly enhanced. In the meantime, I wish you joy of the novices. They have much to learn, but are very eager.
The last thing Andrew heard was his wife’s scream as the spiked cage closed on her. He was going to enjoy the next six months.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
I want your mouth!
It was her first day at The Farm. She had arrived late the previous afternoon. She had been processed, marked and chained. Moving in the chains was difficult, and the shackles hurt her delicate wrists and ankles. She had hardly slept. The wooden floor of the slave barracks was hard, the cold wind blew through the cracks in the walls and the girl she shared a blanket with hogged it for herself. Breakfast was a cold, tasteless mush.
Her bare feet hurt as she was marched out to the fields with the other field slaves. She had managed to avoid the casual whips of the overseers, so far. It was barely mid-morning and her muscles ached from the unaccustomed work. She could feel the sting of sunburn on her back.
She looked surreptitiously at the overseer striding toward her. The long whip he carried flicked out casually and the redhead who had rested on her shovel for just a moment collapsed to the ground, screaming and clutching at her whip-stung clitoris. The man fascinated her. His bare torso gleamed with sweat, the muscles of his belly rippling, his shoulders slabs of muscle. Her eyes dropped to his tight trousers, to the snake-like bulge running down the left leg. Surely it couldn’t be real?
She dug industriously, ignoring her sore hands. She didn’t want to attract his attention, didn’t want to feel the bite of the whip he carried so casually.
“I want your mouth, slave!”
She looked up, fearfully. He towered over her, his teeth gleaming white against the blackness of his face. “I want your mouth, slave!” She didn’t know what to do.
“Suck his cock, stupid.” A voice hissed from behind her.
His hand hardly seemed to move, yet the tip of the whip licked out. There was a crack and a scream from behind her. She dropped to her knees, hands reaching for his belt. Trembling fingers undid it, opened his fly. Her eyes widened in shock! Surely that couldn’t be real?
“Take your time, slave. I got all day.”
Her jaw cracked as she stretched her mouth. He was hot, and tasted vaguely salty. She would never get it in! impossible. “All the way, slave.” She gagged.
His hand pushed firmly on the back of her head. She choked.
It was her first day at The Farm!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The House
Elana thought she was prepared for this. She had been counselled before she left home, by the man who introduced her to the dealer. She had had a number of lengthy interviews with the dealer, where she had explained in detail what she was committing herself to, and what would be expected of her.
She had gone away to consider what she was about to do and to put her affairs in order. She sold all her possessions, even her clothes, keeping just one dress, a pair of shoes and a pair of panties. The money would go into the trust fund the dealer would set up for her. The main component of that trust fund would be her share of the money that would be paid for ownership of her body.
The signing of the sale documents had been very formal. The Dealer and a lawyer had been present. They had explained every clause of the document to her. Her heart was racing as she signed her freedom away.
She was taken to the House. Here she would be given medical examinations and here she would receive the training, physical and mental, that would equip her for her new life. Her mentor was an ex slave, one who had been released because she was no longer attractive enough to justify her keep. She was firm, but kind and understanding.
“You can take your clothes off now,” she said softly, “you won’t be needing them again. From now on you will wear only what your owner allows, if he allows you to wear anything at all.” For the first time she felt the cold embrace of the handcuffs around her wrists.
The woman led her down the corridor to the bare little room that would be her home until she was sold. A bed, a chair, a wash basin. A small, barred window.
She sat on the edge of the bed and sobbed. She had done this of her own free will, but…
Elana was a thing of the past. She would not even be allowed her name. Her owner would decide what she would be called. She took a deep breath!
Her new life of slavery started now!
A camp follower’s fate.
She had followed her man, an archer, for many years. A camp follower’s life was not an easy one. She marched with the baggage, cooked, foraged for food, firewood, water. She froze in winter and sweated in summer. Often, she walked barefoot, her shoes worn out. She cleaned his clothes and dressed his wounds. She shared his bed, if they had one. More often they huddled under his cloak in some field, sharing the heat of their bodies. She gave him her body willingly, taking pleasure from his hardness and strength.
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In this order it would be better for my book production, @theseus .
She had followed her man, an archer, for many years. A camp follower’s life was not an easy one. She marched with the baggage, cooked, foraged for food, firewood, water. She froze in winter and sweated in summer. Often, she walked barefoot, her shoes worn out. She cleaned his clothes and dressed his wounds. She shared his bed, if they had one. More often they huddled under his cloak in some field, sharing the heat of their bodies. She gave him her body willingly, taking pleasure from his hardness and strength.
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In this order it would be better for my book production, @theseus .