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Vignettes from the slave pits

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theseus

Governor
Stress Relief.


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Another day! Another long, stressful board meeting! Genevieve wanted to strangle somebody! She wanted to shriek, to scream invective at the fools who would not, could not, understand that the business world was changing, and that a failure to change with it would mean bankruptcy.

She had a pounding headache. She desperately needed to get home and have a drink, simply to relieve the stress, but there was still so much to do. Being CEO of a company that was going downhill was turning her into an old, bitchy hag. An old, bitchy hag who was drinking too much, eating badly, aging rapidly!

Her doctor made no attempt to soften the blow. “You are severely, dangerously, stressed. You need to take six months off! Get away from your phone, your laptop. Forget about this company before it kills you!” She and her doctor had been best friends at school, there was no politeness here. “Look at yourself, Gen, look at yourself! You work fourteen hours a day, seven days a week! When did you last take a holiday?”

Genevieve thought for a while. “There was that weekend in Acapulco, what, two years ago?”

“I remember that one.” Shirley said grimly. “It was between two long conferences. You spent the weekend in your room, drank a couple of bottles of Scotch, and called me because you felt shit! Some holiday!” Shirley put an arm around her friend and patient. “Seriously, Gen, this job is going to kill you. It’s a lost cause! Bail out. Now!” Genevieve was silent, numb. Shirley smiled, “I bet you can’t even remember when last you got laid!”

“Come, let’s go for a walk. You need the exercise.” Genevieve followed her friend out into the street. On the walk to the park she realised how unfit she was. “I can hear you panting, when last did you walk further than your car, or from your office to the boardroom?”

The park was quiet, shady, almost deserted. They found a bench among the trees and for a while sat silent, watching a pair of squirrels chasing each other through the trees. “No doubt what’s on their minds,” Shirley grinned. Her voice became serious. “Remember those fantasies we had back at school? When we used to cuddle together in my bed?”

Genevieve smiled, sadly. “We used to fool around, and talk about boys, and invent fantasies about being slaves in a Sultan’s harem, or on a plantation.” She sighed, “those were such fun, innocent days.”

Shirley fished in her handbag, came out with a card. “You need to live that fantasy. Take six months away from this world. Become a slave. Work hard, physically.” She smiled, taking Genevieve’s hand, “get fucked, regularly and often! Especially that!” She handed Genevieve the card. “I spent two months at this place last summer.” She smiled, sweetly. “I am going back there this summer, although I can only take six weeks off this time.” Her smile widened, “There is one of the overseers,” She moved her hands about a foot apart, “not to mention his dog.” Her voice became brisk. “Go home! Right now. Have a stiff drink. Just one! Get onto your laptop and contact them. Take the ‘No Limits’ option. Six months. Then write to your Chairman and resign!”

Two weeks later Genevieve parked her car in the parking area in the forest, got undressed, left her keys and clothes in the car, and nude and barefoot, started the painful walk up the rocky trail to The Farm.

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Two days later Genevieve screamed into her gag as the clamps bit into the tender flesh of her nipples.

“Oh, fuck! That hurts! Fuck!” It all came out as a gurgle around the ballgag. She wanted to take those clamps off, to do something to ease the pain. She struggled against the handcuffs securing her hands behind her back. Helpless to do anything about this new sensation.

The last two days had been full of new sensations. The total exposure of constant nudity. The first burning sting of the whip. The experience of being chained, of being treated as an object. She didn’t have to make any decisions; she didn’t have to think. All she had to do was obey.

She met the overseers. Met? Well perhaps that was not the right word. The chief overseer, a massively built black man named Leroy, had run his hands, hard, strong, calloused hands, over her body. “Six months, no limits. You’re brave, no mistake.” His voice was a deep, melodious drawl. He opened the flies of his jeans. “Open your mouth, slut!” Her eyes crossing as she looked at the length and girth of the black cock in front of her face her thought was, “No way I’ll even get the head of that into my mouth.”

Two gagging, choking minutes later her lips were clamped tight around the base of the cock, the rest of it deep in her throat!

Still gasping, her throat raw, the taste of cum filling her mouth, she staggered to her feet, helped by the hand grasping her hair. “We’ll turn you into a good cocksucker, slut. Maclean!” The man who came jogging along was smaller that the black man, but no less well built.

“This slave has signed up for six months, no limits. She needs a lot of cocksucking practice. She needs a good fucking, and I’ve had a busy day. Cunt and Ass! Make it good!”

Maclean came to attention. “Sah!” He bellowed.

Gripping a nipple between thumb and forefinger, he led her to a rail fence. He bent her over it and quickly, efficiently, cuffed her hands to her ankles. She was bent over, ass in the air. Totally exposed to the eyes of anybody passing by. A coffle of young slave girls, connected by chains attached to their clit rings, passed by. One of them, a petite redhead, giggled. “She’s got Maclean! Oh, are you going to stretch, girl, are you going to stretch!” She gasped as a whip cracked, laying a fiery line across tight buttocks. “Save your breath for the cart, Vixen.”

Between her legs Genevieve saw the legs of the overseer, now naked, approach. “OH, MY GOD!” Her scream tore the air as something that felt like a fence post drove forcefully into her vagina. “Oh, my God!” She was being torn in half, split! This was impossible! In the distance she heard a laughing young voice. “Titan just drove home! Stretch, girl!”

It seemed to go on forever. He was like a machine, pistoning into her, tirelessly! Finally, there was a hot stream in the depths of her body, the sudden feeling of empty abandonment as he left her. She slumped over the rail, gasping with relief, and, amazingly, pleasure. “Cunt fucked, Sah!” The man seemed to be incapable of saying anything in less than a bellow.

She heard him hawk, then a splat of spittle land on her exposed anus. “No!” Her mind screamed. She was an anal virgin. She realised that was about to change. “Is your arse virgin, girl?”

“Yes,” she croaked.

“I’ll be gentle, then.” She screamed as she felt the blunt head touch her virgin anus. The scream changed to something unearthly as the pressure increased and the sphincter surrendered to the inevitable.

She didn’t sleep much that night. Her body was sore, the stretched orifices aching and burning, her bowels cramping from the loads of semen deposited there. Her throat was raw. She felt better than she had for months! The young man who shared the narrow bed and the small, thin blanket with her sobbed softly. He was slim, beautifully built. His balls were swollen, held by the tight steel ring that secured the tiny cage containing his swollen cock. He had cried into the valley between her breasts. “They made me…” he sobbed, “they made me…suck…suck their… Three of them! And then…it hurts! It hurst! They said it would be easier, but…it hurts!”

She cradled him in her arms, rocking him gently, trying to console him. He had come here voluntarily, for a month. He thought he would be fucking slave girls. He had never, for a moment, dreamed that his cock would be locked in a steel cage, and the he would be buggered. As she stroked his back to comfort him, her hands wandered over his buttocks. She smiled as she understood the attraction of those firm globes.

Her own burning passage sympathised with his tears.

Now she was on the way to the work camp. They were building a new road, that would be hard, brutal work, but first she had to walk there.
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With every movement the clamps tugged at her nipples, every movement generating its own little flash of pain. Her hands were cuffed behind her back.

She had acquired a new name. Genevieve was no more, at least not for the next six months. She was now slave Fuckwit! Her collar, made of links with sharp spikes, dug into her throat. Those accursed clamps bit into her nipples, so sensitive, such instruments of pleasure! And pain!

She looked down at her smooth, now permanently smooth, sex. At least, unlike those girls she saw on the first day, it was not pierced. Yet! She wondered what that would feel like? What would it be like to be connected to another person by a chain, connected to her clitoris? To that sensitive little nub, that source of immense pleasure. She shuddered at the thought. But…perhaps…?

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The overseer locked her arms into a yoke attached to a collar. Her arms were now uncomfortably held wide apart, at shoulder level. Soon, her shoulders ached. She couldn’t allow them to relax. If she did, the spikes in the collar dug into her neck.

“Get on with it, Fuckwit! Six miles to the building site. Get going!” The whip laid a fiery streak of pain across her back. The road was covered in sharp stones. Her poor feet! The whip cracked again! Fiery pain! She trotted!
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It seemed like an eternity. They had to be almost there, surely?

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” He said. “You look very comfortable. Too comfortable.” He attached two little buckets to the clamps. The extra weight made them tighter, as well as pulling her nipples down. He dropped four pebbles in each bucket. “I guess you kind of lost track of how far we’ve come. So, to help you I’ll drop in a pebble every quarter of a mile.”

She screamed through her gag! Four pebbles! One every quarter of a mile! He must have miscounted. It couldn’t be that they had only come a mile? Surely not!

The whip cracked across her butt! “Come on! I don’t have all day! I’m looking forward to a nice cold beer when we get there.”

She stumbled forward. She had been dribbling ever since they strapped that gag into her mouth. She was parched! She had visions of that beer, condensation forming on the glass. CRAACK! The whip interrupted her thoughts. One painful, bruised cut foot in front of the other.
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CRAACK!

She walked. Every eternity he added a pebble. Every eternity the clamps tightened; her nipples stretched a bit more. Every eternity she was thirstier, her feet hurt more. Every eternity the whip cracked more often.

Fuckwit walked on, in the heat of the desert, every part of her body aching, sore. She now had twenty pebbles in each bucket. Almost there! Then the hard labour would start. And the hard fucking, she hoped!

Genevieve had never felt so alive! This was her dream, her fantasy. This was what she wanted? Fuck the Chairman, fuck the board of directors, fuck the company! This was what she was meant to be! A naked slave.

Her mind turned into scheming mode. Now, how to assigned to be Maclean’s personal fuckslave?

This story was written at the suggestion of Sultry Fiefdom, who also supplied the pictures.
 

theseus

Governor
The Freedom of Maturity.

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Gail was free for the first time in decades. While most of her friends dreaded turning forty, she couldn’t wait! Forty had come and gone, three years previously. Now the great moment had arrived. Their youngest child had started university in another city.

At last, for the first time in twenty years, they were free!

They had had a good first year of marriage, before she became pregnant. They partied, sometimes wildly, sometimes not particularly wisely. They had explored each other’s bodies, likes, dislikes and fantasies. Babies had changed all that.

For the first few years A.C., after children, they had been too tired to really have fun. They had coupled hurriedly between nappy changes and feeds, more eager to sleep than to fuck. Then had come the period of tiny feet coming into the bedroom at the moment critique. “Mommy, I’m scared.” Just as she was about to come. The time their daughter had come catapulting into their bed after a nightmare, freezing everything in mid-flight, leaving her comforting the frightened girl while she still had John’s cock buried deep in her arse.

Almost the last straw was when they decided to introduce the children to nudism. The kids had loved the beach, running around naked with other kids their own age. It was a time of glorious innocence. Until there was a visit from a prune-faced social worker, who sat them down and explained the irreparable mental and emotional harm they were exposing their children to. “Children should not have to know that their parents are sexual. They should retain their innocence until they are grown.” The lecture had ended with a thinly veiled threat to have them charged with child abuse, or worse.

Two things had happened yesterday. Claire, their youngest, had driven off in her new car, heading for university, and John had presented Gail with two air tickets, and a reservation for a nudist resort notorious for allowing free sexual behaviour.

Gail hadn’t worn clothes since. There didn’t seem much point. John was like a teenager, always up and ready. This was the beginning of their new life! A life of adventure, exploration, and, she hoped, perversion.

God! It was good to be mature!
 
Oarslave

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Paradise Island is a large atoll in the tropical ocean. It consists of dozens of islands. A consortium of rich entrepreneurs bought the atoll from a corrupt state. By agreement the atoll was not subject to any laws except those made by the owners. The government of the state turned a blind eye to all activities on the island.

Paradise was marketed as a perfect getaway place for sexual adventure. Most people stayed on Vanilla Island, the largest and most developed of the islands. It was a perfect fun in the sun resort, with sex as the main attraction.

Melanie had had a quarrel with her boyfriend. In a fit of pique she signed up for a month on Slave Island, signed up without reading any of the documents. She found herself chained to an oar on one of the galleys that transported visitors between islands. She remembered being amazed at the scantily clad oarsmen, and women, of the galley that took her and Dave to Vanilla Island.

On this galley she was not scantily clad, she was naked. She was chained to her oar and whenever she showed the slightest hesitation the whip cracked across her helpless body. Food was minimal, water more so. Her main diet was cum from the overseers and the passengers. The only time she was released from her oar was when someone wanted to fuck her. Fortunately this was quite often, because it was the only respite from the oar and the whip.

As they waited for a new group of passengers to board, headed for Gay Island, she looked out over the calm water. Her mouth was still filled with the salty creamy taste of cum. This was only the morning of day 2! How many days in this month? Was it 30, or 31?

The cox’n barked an order. Tired muscles protested as she grasped her oar. She heard the whistle of the whip, flinched instinctively. The crack and the scream were almost simultaneous. Not her back this time. The old woman, the one with short grey hair, she must be nearly 60. The whip cracked again. Gay Island was far away. She pulled at her oar.

Was it 30 days? Or 31?
I wish I was her I see she is not branded
 

theseus

Governor
African Meat Market.

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The world is full of misconceptions.

Many people think that the slave trade is long past, or that only Africans and Asians, refugees from poor, third world countries, are traded by human traffickers. Certainly, that was what these three spoilt, rich European girls thought when the decided to take a working holiday as “Aid Workers’ in Africa. They would be able to show off their designer safari gear, get great pics of them doing good deeds, and get a couple of university credits.

At least, that was the plan!

It didn’t quite work out like that. Their car was stopped in the middle of nowhere by AK-47 wielding shenzis. There were certainly great pics taken, when one of the shenzis discovered how to use Jane’s camera. He got great pics of her wide-open legs as Ali took his turn between them.

Ellen was the blowjob queen. His close-ups of her with both Ali and Abdullah’s cocks in her mouth were amazing. It had taken some persuasion with a hippo hide whip to convince her to co-operate, but those videos were also good. Juma was very happy. He could sell those to a porn site. The girls would be famous.

Now the girls are in an old, abandoned factory. There were about twenty men, all bidding for their bodies. They were allowed no modesty. They were meat! White meat! If they had been going back to university, they could have written a wonderful paper on the psychology of the slave on display, but it was unlikely that they would write anything ever again. The buyers were not interested in their intellect. They were attracted by the tight cunts nestling between long, slim, white thighs. By hot mouths and accommodating throats. By firm buttocks with paradise in the cleft between them. Intelligence was not required.

Their parents and friends mourned when they received the news, more than a year after the girls went missing, that their car had been found in a deep gorge. There were some fragments of bone in the area, well chewed by scavengers.

Cathy would have been proud of the wonderful eulogy delivered at her memorial service. The vicar might have been less fulsome in his praise of her virtue if he could have seen her biting the edge of the filthy mattress as her tenth customer of the day drove his cock deep into her, by now very accommodating, anus. Jane, kneeling behind him was avidly tonguing his anus, encouraged by strokes of a hippo hide kiboko applied forcefully to her cunt. Ellen, in a different brothel, lay, exhausted, cum leaking from every possible orifice, catching her breath before the next onslaught.

The girls had achieved one of their aims. They were certainly giving aid and succour to the poor Africans! Just not quite in the patronising way they had imagined.

Thanks to Julie and Melissa for the pic.
 

theseus

Governor
The Water Carrier.


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“Well.” Britta thought as she staggered under the weight of the buckets of water, “I suppose this is better than being one of the working slaves in this brothel. I can’t imagine what it must be like, spreading your legs for dozens of customers a day.”

Just a few weeks before she had been the daughter of a prosperous merchant, living in considerable comfort. Then, if she wanted hot water for a bath, she would have snapped her fingers, ordering her own slaves to bring it. The attack on the town had ended all that. The guards on the walls were chatting, gambling, doing anything but keeping a lookout. The gates were open, the gate wards merely casting a casual eye on the traffic coming in. The two large hay wagons passed through without notice, until suddenly armed men erupted from the hay. The guards were cut down, and the town began to die!

The orgy of killing, rape and plunder destroyed the town. No woman was spared the wave of rape. Britta’s entire family, from her aged grandmother to her sister, were raped multiple times before being taken away to be enslaved. Even her brother was not spared! In those few weeks she had descended to this, a water carrier for a cheap brothel, dressed in rags.

Fortunately, the customers at the brothel liked their whores plump and well rounded, with full breasts and solid thighs. Britta’s slender body had been spurned. So, she carried water, day after day. Only the few male workers at the brothel used her, after all, she was free. The one, the big bouncer, was quite nice, despite his bulk and brutish appearance. She smiled, sadly. He called her “ma’am” and always apologised if she cried out while was using her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I try to be gentle, but I’m so big, and you’re such a delicate young lady.”

Young lady! She had been a young lady, once, an eternity ago, before she became a water carrier in a brothel. A slave!

Art by Tamasser https://www.deviantart.com/tamasser

Writing by Theseus https://vignettesfromtheslavemarket.bdsmlr.com
 

theseus

Governor
Despair.
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She was so tired!

She had been presented to five different buyers. Each time she had been brought in; her gown had slid to her feet as she stood under the spotlight. The dealer had described her attributes and talents in fine detail. Each prospective buyer had examined her, hands weighing breasts, testing the firmness of her buttocks. Fingers had probed her, deeply, insultingly. She had stood there, an object on show. She had crawled on all fours; she had spread her legs wide as she fingered herself.

Five times she had repeated this ordeal. Each time, after the examination, the buyers had left. The dealer left her alone after the last viewing. She returned some time later. “No takers. You know what this means, don’t you?”

Lorna collapsed on the viewing stage. “No! Please, Ma’am, please don’t let them do this to me! Please don’t let them export me!”

The dealer shook her head, sadly. “Your owner’s instructions are very clear. If you don’t sell for the reserve price, you are to be exported.”

“No! Please, Ma’am! No!”

The dealer stroked Lorna’s naked back. “I have a buyer in Ouagadougou who wants a white slave. He is a politician with lots of stolen money. He wants a status symbol, a white slave at his feet.” She stroked the back of the sobbing slave. “I’m afraid her some very…peculiar tastes.”

“Waga…what?” Lorna sobbed.

“It is the capital of Burkina Faso. In Central Africa.” The dealer’s voice was sympathetic, but implacable. “Come! I have a cage waiting for you. You are to be shipped as you are now, naked, in a cage. Apparently, there will be a large crowd to greet you on arrival.”

There was no choice. She was a slave. Property. She was to be a white slave in Africa.

Art by Photoport

Writing by Theseus https://vignettesfromtheslavemarket.bdsmlr.com
 

theseus

Governor
Living life to the full

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Linda still has a few years of attraction left, and she is determined to use them to the full! Her children are grown up and married, her husband has long since lost interest in her in favour of the sports channel.

The Farm was the perfect solution. After much research she signed up. Not for her the three week vacation package, or even the three month summer package. She signed up for five years. Five years, no limits. She had done the counselling sessions, understood perfectly what she was letting herself in for. There would be no limits to her use. She would be used sexually in every way possible. She would be punished, cruelly. She would be worked until she dropped from exhaustion.

She had just completed the mile long walk from the parking area, where her husband had dropped her. She had successfully completed the medical, and the final paperwork. There was no going back now!

She was free for a few moments. The next step was tattooing the barcode on her mound, then she would be chained. Collar, wrist and ankle cuffs. Finally, she would be branded, a red-hot iron burning the Farm brand permanently into her flesh.

She was dripping with anticipation. Soon, very, very soon she would be a sex slave.
 

theseus

Governor
Auction in the brothel.

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“Take your hands off me, you evil old bitch!” Julia thought as the patrician woman fondled her butt. Never would she dare to vocalise such a thought! She would end up on a cross before she could blink!

It was the end of the day ‘All Nighter’ auction. Solon, her owner and the owner of the brothel where she had spent the two months since becoming a slave, had thought up the auction as a way of maximising turnover. Instead of his stock of slave whores having a few hours off to sleep, without someone sticking something into them, they could spend the rest of the night in bed with a customer, before starting the next day’s work.

Not that Solon was a bad owner. He could be quite considerate, allowing the girls to wash between customers, and even allowing them a few minutes to have meals. The woman’s hand slid down her butt and between her legs. “Go away!” She thought.

Anya was being sold. It looked like old Marius would get her again. Poor girl!

Julia had long since lost count of the number of clients who had spent themselves in her. No more than two months ago she had been the spoilt daughter of a not too honest merchant. When the inevitable happened, he had been let off easily. They had strangled him, slowly. Still, in less that fifteen minutes it was all over. For his wife and daughters, the punishment would last much, much longer.

The woman’s fingers were inside her. The old harridan had no shame! The wife of a prominent, if ancient, senator, she derived her pleasure from hurting and humiliating girls younger and more attractive than she had ever been. Being a woman, she knew exactly how to hurt without leaving marks. A whore’s feelings counted for naught.

In the crowd she spotted Scipio. The huge, black freedman had used her often. Despite his size he was surprisingly gentle. She tried to catch his eye. Much better to be stretched by his impressive tool, than by the merciless gadgets the old bag used.

Anya was sold, to the gladiator known as the Painmaster. She would spend the next few hours screaming! The new girl was next. She had only been in the brothel for two days, still had a trace of modesty. Then it would be Julia.

She looked back at the old woman. “Please, please, let it be anyone but this old bitch and her pets. Please!”

Artwork by Julie and Melissa.
 

Paul1969

Spectator
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Devotion

"She would do it! Her husband wanted it, and she loved him more than anything else. She would have to put her career on hold. It would be difficult not to see her parents for six months, and possibly they might never want to speak to her or see her again once they found out what she was going to do. But her husband wanted it! And she loved him."

She waited for the sound of the key in the door. He had told her to be naked. Packing was not a problem, she would need nothing where she was going. Nothing, not even her glasses. For the next six months the world would be in soft focus. The Farm! How could it even exist? It broke every law, every rule. Yet it existed. Perhaps because it gave free membership to senior political figures, judges and senators, the chief of police.

The Farm, were there were no rules. Where slaves were used and abused, subjected to the most unthinkable practices. The place she would spend the next six months. Where her husband would use her as he would many others. Where she would be used, by him and many others. used in the most perverted ways.

She heard the car in the driveway, the rattle of his keys. She looked at the handcuffs on the bedside table. She took a deep breath.

Removing her glasses she picked up the handcuffs, awkwardly locking her wrists behind her.

The door opened.

"I'm ready, darling. Shall we go?"
The Farm broke her down much more in a psychological sense then she ever dreamed. Her husband had lied to her. It would not be him and his friends abusing her, she would be sold at auction to cover his massive gambling debts to underworld figures!
She had never felt comfortable nude, yet she was very good looking. Reddish, brown hair, soft milky skin and very generous breasts with large areoles. About 5’9 and athletic(She loved jogging, and light weight lifting) She had not even wanted to go to the nude beach in the south of France!
Now, she found herself completely naked on a small, raised wooden platform. Lights from behind the seated audience highlighted her attributes to the seated buyers, largely obscured in the dark in front of her. She could smell rum soaked cigars, elegant crystal glasses clinking in the crowd. The auctioneer was a large, bald, Black man with a fine
French tailored suit and expensive Faragomo shoes. He held a short camel crop that she had seen in Egypt on vacation. Into the microphone, as she was presented on stage, he briefly talked about her physical traits, age, the languages she spoke.
Bidding started at 100k, as the price rises, he told her to assume different positions on the block, raise her hands behind her head, do not slouch!! She was very humiliated when he forced her to turn around, bend over over so the crowd could see her
ass and delicate pink lips. Offers were over 1.5 million US.
After about twenty five minutes, the auction closed. She was pulled off the block, sweat glistening and thoroughly humiliated. Her feet and hands were re shackled. The buyer, a wealthy woman in a dark hijab with fiery, intense brown eyes
looked her up and down.
 

theseus

Governor
Fetters.

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Tessa fought the ropes!

They cut into her wrists and ankles, yet she strained and twisted, desperately trying to free herself. She had screamed into the gag! Curses, pleas for release, and, finally, screams of outrage.

Her holiday had gone horribly wrong. She had taken a wrong turning from her hotel, trying to find the museum. Instead, she had found a narrow alley, and three young thugs. Now she was in a tiny room, bare but for a mattress on the floor, and a bucket. A foul smelling, none too clean bucket.

She was naked! They had laughed at her struggles as they stripped the clothing from her, remarking on the quality and the price the items would fetch in the second hand market. The ropes had been removed, only to be replaced by these cold, unforgiving steel fetters. A steel collar! All of them connected by chains. This was beyond a joke!

One of the thugs had informed her, gleefully, that she would be packed into a container with several others and flown to Mali. Mali? Where the fuck was Mali? “They have a nice brothel there,” he chortled, “staffed by people like you. Rich, arrogant white women.”

She tugged at the fetters. The steel so hard! So cold! So unforgiving! And yet…so right! The cold, hard steel seemed the perfect complement to her soft, warm, naked flesh.

Mali? Where was Mali?

Why was she so excited?

Why was she so wet?
 

theseus

Governor
Ladies’ training session.

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Back in the 60’s and 70’s Tupperware parties were all the rage. Ladies would get together to chat, drink tea and buy kitchenware. Later came make-up parties and lingerie parties. The new fashion, with the move to more liberated sexual habits, is blow-job parties.

So here they were, six suburban housewives, waiting for their turn to be assessed by one of the instructors. By the end of the evening they would have improved their cocksucking skills beyond anything they dreamed of. Of course, their husbands would have been horrified had they known what their loving wives were up to!

However, when they were on the receiving end of their wives’ new skills, they would be too absorbed to question the provenance of those skills.
 

theseus

Governor
The Law

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The cell stank, as all cells in this prison did. The girl looked up at me from where she was huddled in the straw. Her eyes were big with fear.

“It’s time, little one.” The light from the lantern the guard carried was warm in the pre-dawn darkness, not that much light ever penetrated into these cells. They were, after all, merely a way station on the way to execution. The girl struggled to her feet, the fetters too big and heavy for her slender form.

I felt sorry for the girl. She had done nothing wrong, apart from being a slave in the household of a senator who had been murdered. In terms of the law, all slaves in such a household were crucified.

I had pleaded with the heir, an arrogant young sprig of the nobility, to spare the younger slaves. He had insisted on his rights. “I want to watch them die! All of them! Make it slow!”

The girl was on her feet now. “The shift. It belongs to the heir.” She nodded, lifting her shackled and chained hands to undo the tapes that secured the flimsy garment at her shoulders. The thin fabric pooled around her ankles.

Her body was pale, slender, but with the strength of someone who had worked hard all her short life. Her long legs were shapely, her body beautifully proportioned, hips just starting to fill. She was still boyish, but with the promise of great beauty, a promise that would never be fulfilled.

“Did your master fuck you?” The question had to be asked. It was illegal to execute a virgin. If she were one, one of the guards would have to relieve her of her virginity, so that she could die in accordance with the law.

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “His son did, the heir. From when I was very young.” Most of her life, I thought. Years of being fucked by that pompous little prick. Yet he wouldn’t lift a finger to save her.

She walked ahead of me, her back straight, her head up. Somehow, she managed to move gracefully despite the chains. Her back was beautiful, the long muscles fusing perfectly into high, tight buttocks. It would not be beautiful for long.

Dawn was just breaking as we entered the square. There was already a small crowd of spectators. The household contained a number of attractive young slaves, ensuring that there would be a crowd to watch their flogging and crucifixion. The first slave to be flogged was already tied to the whipping post, a frail old man who had been the butler. The two floggers stood by. One right-handed, one left-handed, so that the strokes would be symmetrical. If he was lucky the flogging would kill him.

The old man was lucky! Not so the other slaves in the household. One by one their backs were flayed. I could feel the girl shivering next to me, tears running down her cheeks. A girl in her teens was lashed to the post, her breasts seemed too heavy for her slender torso. “She was the master’s favourite,” the girl said softly. The crowd murmured in satisfaction at the sight. By the third blow she was screaming. The weighted thongs wrapping around her torso to smash into the sides of her breasts. I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was next.

The whipped slaves, all except the dead old man, were kneeling in the square, the heavy crossbars of their crosses across their raw shoulders, arms tied firmly to the timber. The busty girl was cut down from the post, collapsing in the bloody mud. A bucket of brine revived her, screaming! The screaming continued as the crossbar was tied across her bloody shoulders!

I led the girl forward. A guard unlocked her shackles, tying her to the post, her arms stretched high above her head, pulling her body taught as she stood on her toes. The heir, her former ‘lover’, spoke to the floggers. “Strip her back, but don’t weaken her too much. I want to see her dance for a long time.”

She gave me a last, pleading look as the first stroke knocked the breath from her body.

Ten minutes later she was cut down. She managed to stay on her feet, staggering to where the last crossbar lay. Her back was no longer a thing of beauty, now a bloody mess of raw flesh and scraps of skin.

She whimpered as the rough baulk of timber was tied across those raw shoulders, her legs buckling under the weight. The other slaves were whipped to their feet to start the long walk to the city gate, the last walk any of them would take.

The crowd followed, as did the heir, his skin shielded from the morning sun by a parasol borne by an almost naked slave girl who was barely older than the girl now walking to her death.

It took some time, and much encouragement with the whips before the procession reached the gate. The slaves were relieved of the weight on their shoulders, taking advantage of the last chance to stretch their shoulders they would ever have. Then the screams started as, one by one, they were nailed to their crossbars.

The girl was last. She looked at me pleadingly as the executioner took her shoulder and led her to the crossbar. He held four square cut spikes, the heads over-large to prevent them tearing out of the flesh. Her eyes stayed focused on mine as she was laid down with her raw back in the dirt, her arms stretched along the crossbar. I wished she would look away, but I couldn’t break eye contact. For some strange reason I felt I owed her the comfort it gave her.

I saw her eyes widen a moment before the sound of the hammer hitting the spike reached me. Her back arched and she struggled against the men holding her down. Then she screamed! Her head turned toward her hand, her eyes looking in disbelief at the spike that now penetrated her wrist, shattering bone as it went through into the wood below! Two more blows drove the spike all the way home.

She had stopped screaming, sobbing bitterly through the pain. Her back arched again as the other wrist was nailed, her heels hammering against the ground. Two men started dragging the crossbar, with her attached, to where the upright stood. As they prepared to pull her up to the top of the upright the heir shouted, “Wait!”

For a moment her eyes showed hope through the pain, then she realised he was lifting his tunic. She gave a despairing moan as he kicked her legs apart, knelt between then and drove himself into her body.

He was mercifully quick. Wiping himself on her hair, he nodded to the executioner. “Proceed!”

Her screams drowned out the moans and cries of the already crucified slaves as she was dragged up the upright, all her weight hanging from her mutilated wrists, her flayed back scraping against the rough timber. The crossbar was bolted fast. The executioner grabbed her flailing right leg, bending the knee and placing the foot along the side of the upright. An assistant held the foot as he drove the spike through the gap between the Achilles tendon and the anklebone. The other foot was soon nailed.

Her legs spread wide, semen dripping slowly from her, she hung on the cross, screaming her agony,

The girl was strong, the will to live was strong. She would live for a long time! Two, perhaps three days.

I could watch no more. Duty done, I trudged into the city.



Image by Mahashiva.
 

Baracus

Rectidolor
The Law

View attachment 901255

The cell stank, as all cells in this prison did. The girl looked up at me from where she was huddled in the straw. Her eyes were big with fear.

“It’s time, little one.” The light from the lantern the guard carried was warm in the pre-dawn darkness, not that much light ever penetrated into these cells. They were, after all, merely a way station on the way to execution. The girl struggled to her feet, the fetters too big and heavy for her slender form.

I felt sorry for the girl. She had done nothing wrong, apart from being a slave in the household of a senator who had been murdered. In terms of the law, all slaves in such a household were crucified.

I had pleaded with the heir, an arrogant young sprig of the nobility, to spare the younger slaves. He had insisted on his rights. “I want to watch them die! All of them! Make it slow!”

The girl was on her feet now. “The shift. It belongs to the heir.” She nodded, lifting her shackled and chained hands to undo the tapes that secured the flimsy garment at her shoulders. The thin fabric pooled around her ankles.

Her body was pale, slender, but with the strength of someone who had worked hard all her short life. Her long legs were shapely, her body beautifully proportioned, hips just starting to fill. She was still boyish, but with the promise of great beauty, a promise that would never be fulfilled.

“Did your master fuck you?” The question had to be asked. It was illegal to execute a virgin. If she were one, one of the guards would have to relieve her of her virginity, so that she could die in accordance with the law.

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “His son did, the heir. From when I was very young.” Most of her life, I thought. Years of being fucked by that pompous little prick. Yet he wouldn’t lift a finger to save her.

She walked ahead of me, her back straight, her head up. Somehow, she managed to move gracefully despite the chains. Her back was beautiful, the long muscles fusing perfectly into high, tight buttocks. It would not be beautiful for long.

Dawn was just breaking as we entered the square. There was already a small crowd of spectators. The household contained a number of attractive young slaves, ensuring that there would be a crowd to watch their flogging and crucifixion. The first slave to be flogged was already tied to the whipping post, a frail old man who had been the butler. The two floggers stood by. One right-handed, one left-handed, so that the strokes would be symmetrical. If he was lucky the flogging would kill him.

The old man was lucky! Not so the other slaves in the household. One by one their backs were flayed. I could feel the girl shivering next to me, tears running down her cheeks. A girl in her teens was lashed to the post, her breasts seemed too heavy for her slender torso. “She was the master’s favourite,” the girl said softly. The crowd murmured in satisfaction at the sight. By the third blow she was screaming. The weighted thongs wrapping around her torso to smash into the sides of her breasts. I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was next.

The whipped slaves, all except the dead old man, were kneeling in the square, the heavy crossbars of their crosses across their raw shoulders, arms tied firmly to the timber. The busty girl was cut down from the post, collapsing in the bloody mud. A bucket of brine revived her, screaming! The screaming continued as the crossbar was tied across her bloody shoulders!

I led the girl forward. A guard unlocked her shackles, tying her to the post, her arms stretched high above her head, pulling her body taught as she stood on her toes. The heir, her former ‘lover’, spoke to the floggers. “Strip her back, but don’t weaken her too much. I want to see her dance for a long time.”

She gave me a last, pleading look as the first stroke knocked the breath from her body.

Ten minutes later she was cut down. She managed to stay on her feet, staggering to where the last crossbar lay. Her back was no longer a thing of beauty, now a bloody mess of raw flesh and scraps of skin.

She whimpered as the rough baulk of timber was tied across those raw shoulders, her legs buckling under the weight. The other slaves were whipped to their feet to start the long walk to the city gate, the last walk any of them would take.

The crowd followed, as did the heir, his skin shielded from the morning sun by a parasol borne by an almost naked slave girl who was barely older than the girl now walking to her death.

It took some time, and much encouragement with the whips before the procession reached the gate. The slaves were relieved of the weight on their shoulders, taking advantage of the last chance to stretch their shoulders they would ever have. Then the screams started as, one by one, they were nailed to their crossbars.

The girl was last. She looked at me pleadingly as the executioner took her shoulder and led her to the crossbar. He held four square cut spikes, the heads over-large to prevent them tearing out of the flesh. Her eyes stayed focused on mine as she was laid down with her raw back in the dirt, her arms stretched along the crossbar. I wished she would look away, but I couldn’t break eye contact. For some strange reason I felt I owed her the comfort it gave her.

I saw her eyes widen a moment before the sound of the hammer hitting the spike reached me. Her back arched and she struggled against the men holding her down. Then she screamed! Her head turned toward her hand, her eyes looking in disbelief at the spike that now penetrated her wrist, shattering bone as it went through into the wood below! Two more blows drove the spike all the way home.

She had stopped screaming, sobbing bitterly through the pain. Her back arched again as the other wrist was nailed, her heels hammering against the ground. Two men started dragging the crossbar, with her attached, to where the upright stood. As they prepared to pull her up to the top of the upright the heir shouted, “Wait!”

For a moment her eyes showed hope through the pain, then she realised he was lifting his tunic. She gave a despairing moan as he kicked her legs apart, knelt between then and drove himself into her body.

He was mercifully quick. Wiping himself on her hair, he nodded to the executioner. “Proceed!”

Her screams drowned out the moans and cries of the already crucified slaves as she was dragged up the upright, all her weight hanging from her mutilated wrists, her flayed back scraping against the rough timber. The crossbar was bolted fast. The executioner grabbed her flailing right leg, bending the knee and placing the foot along the side of the upright. An assistant held the foot as he drove the spike through the gap between the Achilles tendon and the anklebone. The other foot was soon nailed.

Her legs spread wide, semen dripping slowly from her, she hung on the cross, screaming her agony,

The girl was strong, the will to live was strong. She would live for a long time! Two, perhaps three days.

I could watch no more. Duty done, I trudged into the city.



Image by Mahashiva.
Excellent narrative. :thumbup:
 

theseus

Governor
The fall of the aristocracy.

old cocksucker tumblr_n0mul4iGNL1sar6zgo1_1280.jpg

He had taken her by surprise! The fool had cum almost immediately. Now she knelt there, with the tell-tale dribble of his seed running, wasted, down her chin. She had spilt the sacred seed of the Working Class. The consequences would be painful!

Lady Isobel Parker-Hale, dowager Countess of Chislehurst, watched as her client dropped a red reprimand token into the box next to her. She could already hear the whistle of the whip, feel the burning bite of the braided leather as it slices into her flesh. In front of her, her tenth client of the day dropped his trousers.

The revolution had come so suddenly! A squad of policemen had descended on the estate. Her son, the Earl, and all the male members of her family, had been shackled, taken away to spend the rest of their lives labouring in a quarry. Lady Isobel, her daughter in law Genevieve, and her granddaughter Christal, who had chosen the wrong weekend to come home from university, had been stripped and brought to this horrible place.

Her day had started, as had the previous 40, when the guards had opened her cage at dawn. The cage was too small to stretch out in, the floor was cold, bare concrete. She had crawled out, collected her cleaning materials and, still on her hands and knees, had cleaned her mess out of the corner of the cage. She had hungrily lapped up the vile gruel that was her only meal of the day, prohibited from using her hands, licking the bowl clean.

Finally allowed to stand, she had waited patiently to be shackled to her chain mates. There were five of them in the string. Lady Agatha, more than seventy years old; Lady Anne, who just more than a month ago had been a society bride, then Isobel herself, Genevieve and Christal. They were joined ankle to ankle.

The coffle of naked aristocrats stumbled painfully after their guard, to the main square, where they received their daily scrub. There was always an audience of idlers who made rude remarks as the naked noblewomen were scrubbed with rough brushes, washing the previous day’s cum and filth from their bodies.

Shivering from the icy water, they were marched off to the brothel to start their sixteen hour shift. There was already a small crowd waiting. After all, it cost just two coppers to fuck the face of a noblewoman, one copper for either of the other holes. Sweet revenge indeed.

Lady Isobel’s next client was one who had only a distant relationship with soap and water. She shuddered, gagging at the odour, opening her mouth. Next to her, her daughter in law gave a resigned sigh as she turned over on her belly, her hands spreading once plump buttocks wide. On the other side, old Lady Agatha choked and retched at the load she had just received. A red token was dropped into her tin. She, too, would have an appointment with the whip at the end of the day.

“How are the mighty fallen!” Isobel thought, as the rancid cock found the back of her throat.
 

theseus

Governor
The Party.

old slut bdsmlr-33348-oWUpHud3KH.jpg

The blindfold was the most exciting, the most terrifying, the most erotic thing about the whole adventure.

Emma knelt, as she was commanded. She heard the sound of a zipper, her nose detecting the smell of aroused cock. This one would be her fifth, she thought. She had lost track of time, lost in her dark world. She was starting to lose track of the number of people who had made use of her body. She tried to do a count as she waited for the man to present his cock for her attention.

“She’s in pretty good shape for an old girl. A granny, you say? Never fucked a granny before.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

This was the fifth blowjob. Four had used her vagina. Two had penetrated her tighter, and hardly used anus. She had been doubled once, vagina and anus, an excruciating pleasure! She had licked three or four vaginas. She wondered how long she had been here? They had arrived at the party at 7p.m. on Friday, and were due to leave at noon on Sunday. She would be blindfolded and handcuffed for the entire time.

The penis prodded her lips. It tasted of sex, of sperm and vaginal juices. Hers? Or some other woman’s? She took it hungrily, relishing the thick hardness. Her stomach growled. She was hungry. She had been given water, and a few sips of wine, one or two canapes. Mainly, she had swallowed cum. Fingers tweaked her nipples. Twisting them painfully. Delicious! His fingers? Someone else?

She wondered where her husband was? Had he found somebody? A girl, perhaps? Young enough to be his daughter? The cock in her throat pulsed. She swallowed, hungrily! It vanished from between her lips.

A hand pushed her forward, her head on the floor. A cock, slick and wet, the same she had just sucked? touched her anus. She moaned as it pushed its way inside her.

Why? Why, had she waited so long for this?

Emma was the average suburban wife. Her husband had a good job and good investments, which meant that they were quite comfortable financially and could look forward to a good retirement. Yet, they were both restless. They wanted adventure, something new, exciting, something shocking!

It had started one Sunday morning, lying in bed after a very pleasurable session of lovemaking. “Remember those days back in Greece, when we were backpacking? The six of us in that little guest house by the beach? On Ios?”

John gently bit her nipple. “That ex-marine you so fancied. Dennis. All 6’4” of him, and a cock to match!” Emma chuckled throatily. “Mmmm. Pity I was so bashful in those days. I only sucked him that once, when we were all high, and decided to do that oral round robin.” He bit her again, not so gently. “Ouch! Even the two lesbian ladies joined in. What were their names? Sue and Tessa?” He nodded. “You and Di spent an awful long time in a 69.” Not that I was complaining. Dennis had a very skilled tongue.”

Hands roamed for a while, mouths busy. John sighed, “pity we can’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

Emme sat up! “Why not? We might be grandparents, but there is nothing that says we can’t have fun!”

They had heard of this group, the Community, it called itself. The members were, on the surface, ordinary people, just like they were. A bit of research led them to a website. A few online chats, a quiet dinner with another couple, leading members of the Community, and here she was, naked and blindfolded, about to suck her fifth cock of the evening!

The party would last from Friday evening until late Sunday morning. This was the first party they had attended. “All or nothing!” Emma declared when they discussed it. “All or nothing!”

They had driven out to the venue, a large house set in spacious grounds on the outskirts of town. John was dressed, quite formally, in a dinner jacket. Emma was naked under her coat. John stopped the car just inside the gate, the house barely visible through an avenue of trees. “Are you sure about this?” he said quietly. She took a deep breath. “God! Yes!”

She got out of the car and removed her coat, kicking off her shoes. She was totally naked, pussy freshly waxed. All she wore was her wedding ring. John examined her in the half light. “Shit,” he thought, “she is fifty-eight years old and still delicious.” The handcuffs rattled in his hand. The keys were at home. “You’re sure about this?” She turned around, her hands behind her. Once the cuffs were locked, they would stay that way until they got home on Sunday. The cuffs clicked shut! Her hands were useless for the next thirty-six hours!

“Blindfold, please.” The blindfold was the key! She wanted the unknown. She wanted to be blind to who enjoyed her. That was the excitement! She would never know! She would never know whether the man she saw in the street, the woman she passed in the supermarket aisle, or a casual passer-by had used her sexually. Every time she met a man socially, she would wonder whether she had sucked his cock, whether he had penetrated one, or more, of her orifices?

That was the excitement! That was the challenge!
 

theseus

Governor
Sentenced

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“You are to be taken from this court to a special prison where you will be held at hard labour for the rest of your natural lives.”

Gwen and her husband were horrified. They had expected a few months, perhaps a year, in prison. After all, possession of a few grams of a recreational drug was not such a serious crime. Life! What kind if ‘special prison’?

She hardly heard the judge’s next words. “Strip them and chain them!”

They struggled in vain as the bailiffs literally tore the clothes from their bodies before locking heavy manacles on wrist and ankle. She tried in vain to hide her breasts, her sex. A guard solved that problem instantly, shoving his nightstick though her elbows behind her back, trapping her hands and leaving her totally exposed.

They were led through the street to a holding cell. It was crowded, all the occupants naked and shackled as she was. She tried to ignore the naked black man crushed against her. “What you two done? Must be real bad, you look like you never been inside before.” She shook her head. “We all bad guys, sista. Repeat offenders. Rapists, murderers, thieves. What you in for?” She shuddered. “We had a few grams of coke at home.”

He shook his head. “You here for a few grams of coke? Shit, lady, you got enemies! The camp is the worsest place to be. Nobody comes out. You gonna get fucked every which way, lady.”

The tightly packed naked bodies were thrown together as the truck moved off. Gwen and her husband stared, terrified, at their companions. Their companions for life!
 
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