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Vignettes from the slave pits

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theseus

Governor
Reality Check

Collar is permanent bdsmlr-655410-eaqfogDqdY.jpg

“Daddy, can you unlock my collar, please?”

“Now why would I want to that?” I asked, looking up from the morning newspaper. Katie was all dressed up, ready for her first day at university.

“I have to go and register, dad. I can’t go around campus wearing a collar. What would people think?”

“I suppose it depends on the people,” I said slowly. “Some might be puzzled, I suppose. Many might think it was some kind of new fashion, after all, students are always starting these things. Those in the know, members of our Community, will know what you are and accept you as one of us. But to answer your question. Unlock it? No! Absolutely not! Have you ever seen your mother without her collar?”

Katie shook her head. “No, of course not. It’s just…”

Brenda spoke up. “Katie, when you came of age you were given the choice of becoming one of us. There was no coercion, and there was no penalty if you decided against it. You decided to become one of us, and your father collared you, just as my father, your grandfather, collared me. Your collar shows who and what you are. Do not be ashamed of it!”

“I am proud of it, mom. It shows that I am a member of a loving family.” She smiled, her whole face lighting up. “It will be nice to meet others like us, I mean, I know a few, mainly cousins, but These would be outside our own family. Do the same rules apply? With other families?”

“Your collar denotes that you are held in common by the Community. We are all brothers and sisters. It’s time you spread your wings. After all, you’re a big girl now.”

My wife and I watched her as she collected her things, the walked out, her head held high! Brenda knelt next to me, her head against my knee. My fingers played absentmindedly with her collar, as they had for so many years, since her father ceded her to me at our wedding.

“She has such a wonderful life ahead of her,” Brenda said softly. “So many wonderful adventures. I hope she finds a good Master/Husband, as I did.” She looked up at me, smiling. "Perhaps, just perhaps, you should have told her that there is no key. The collar is hers for life."
 

montycrusto

Slave Trader
Reality Check

View attachment 1001324

“Daddy, can you unlock my collar, please?”

“Now why would I want to that?” I asked, looking up from the morning newspaper. Katie was all dressed up, ready for her first day at university.

“I have to go and register, dad. I can’t go around campus wearing a collar. What would people think?”

“I suppose it depends on the people,” I said slowly. “Some might be puzzled, I suppose. Many might think it was some kind of new fashion, after all, students are always starting these things. Those in the know, members of our Community, will know what you are and accept you as one of us. But to answer your question. Unlock it? No! Absolutely not! Have you ever seen your mother without her collar?”

Katie shook her head. “No, of course not. It’s just…”

Brenda spoke up. “Katie, when you came of age you were given the choice of becoming one of us. There was no coercion, and there was no penalty if you decided against it. You decided to become one of us, and your father collared you, just as my father, your grandfather, collared me. Your collar shows who and what you are. Do not be ashamed of it!”

“I am proud of it, mom. It shows that I am a member of a loving family.” She smiled, her whole face lighting up. “It will be nice to meet others like us, I mean, I know a few, mainly cousins, but These would be outside our own family. Do the same rules apply? With other families?”

“Your collar denotes that you are held in common by the Community. We are all brothers and sisters. It’s time you spread your wings. After all, you’re a big girl now.”

My wife and I watched her as she collected her things, the walked out, her head held high! Brenda knelt next to me, her head against my knee. My fingers played absentmindedly with her collar, as they had for so many years, since her father ceded her to me at our wedding.

“She has such a wonderful life ahead of her,” Brenda said softly. “So many wonderful adventures. I hope she finds a good Master/Husband, as I did.” She looked up at me, smiling. "Perhaps, just perhaps, you should have told her that there is no key. The collar is hers for life."
Great picture and story!
 

theseus

Governor
Bloody Wogs!

melissa 07YWSxQ.jpg

“Bloody Wogs!” Alice thought as the chain tugged painfully at the ring the blacksmith had just attached to the ring that pierced her most private parts. She was a bit lightheaded after the drink he had given her.

“I make pain less.” He had said, not unkindly. She seemed to be drifting on a cloud, indignant, but somehow, accepting.

Accepting of the fact that she was sitting, naked as the day she was born, on an anvil, in a blacksmith’s shop in a smelly North African town. Accepting that her legs were spread wide, to avoid touching the ring that so cruelly pierced that sensitive morsel of flesh. “Bloody wogs,” she thought gain, not sure whether she was thinking it or saying it, “this is 1888! The British Empire is the most powerful force on the planet! Yet these silly buggers took our ship, told us we were their slaves. Slaves! Don’t they know that slavery has been abolished? Did they not know who her father was? That she, Alice, had recently been presented to the Queen Empress? That she had actually spoken to her? How could she possibly be a slave?”

Her brain was fuzzy, she was not quite sure what was real. Her father, Sir Iain Featherstone-Smythe, Baronet, Minister of the Crown, had hired the ship in Alexandria. He was on an important diplomatic mission to the Sultan of Zanzibar. There were just three passengers; Her father, his secretary and Alice, his only child. There were servants, of course. Her father’s steward, his valet, and Bessie, Alice’s maid and confidante. She had last seen the men, pale, soft, her father pot-bellied, driven off in chains to join a work gang. Bessie had stayed with her, but unlike Alice, she had flaunted herself at the guards and the gawkers in the slave market.

“I dunno if being a slave is going to be much worse than being a maid in your household, Miss Alice. Work from dawn till late at night. Low pay and bad food. Get treated like shit and rogered by the Master and his mates. Dunno if these heathen like buggery as much as the master, but they can’t hardly be worse! Not much change in my life at all.”

Alice was appalled. She had always thought that Bessie was happy in her job and that she was well treated, spoilt, even. “My father, he had…carnal relations with you?” Alice couldn’t believe that of her father. Bessie squeaked as a punter pinched her nipple. “Saucy bugger!” She continued their conversation. “If them ‘carnal relations’ is the same as fucking, he been doing it since I was a ‘tweenstairs maid. Well, buggering came first, ‘cause I looked more like a stableboy then, and he buggered them all, but he soon fucked me dizzy. That’s why he made me your maid. Closer to home, so to speak.”

Bessie was sold first. Annoyingly, she seemed to fetch a higher price than Alice did, if the number of coins that changed hands were anything to go by. She was led off by a handsome young man dressed in fine robes and with a jewelled dagger at his waist. Alice wondered whether she would ever see her maid again. Her own buyer was a hard faced, hard handed ruffian with a scarred face. He tied a rope around her neck and almost dragged her here, where the blacksmith had painfully pierced her most tender parts, attached a ring, and was now locking a length of heavy chain to the ring.

The fuzziness induced by the drink she had been given was wearing off. Her private parts, what had Bessie called it, her cunnie, were hurting badly now. What would it be like when the weight of the chain was dragging on it? Where was she going? What would she be used for?

Her owner jerked at the chain! She screamed, leaping off the anvil onto her feet, following him. She stumbled along behind him, through narrow, smelly alleys. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of the imposing Royal palace, the House of Wonders. She had been expecting to be received there, with all the pomp and ceremony the daughter of an Imperial emissary was entitled to expect. After all, her father’s mission was to deliver a personal letter to the Sultan, from no less than the Queen Empress herself, thanking him for his invaluable aid in ending the slave trade in the Indian Ocean once and for all!

“Bloody wogs!”



Artwork by Julie & Melissa
 

theseus

Governor
The Sweetener

welcoming smile bdsmlr-739037-mW0fLeaAvz.png

At first, Michelle had been horrified!

Sean had been distinctly embarrassed when he broke the news. “Mich, I don’t know how to say this.” He was quiet for a long time, unable to look at her. “You know, that big contract from Sheffield’s, well…It is make or break for us. If we get it, we’re made. No more financial worries, ever! If not, well, we’ll lose everything! The business, the house, everything.”

Michelle was puzzled. She knew how important the contract was, but why was Sean so embarrassed? “What can I do?” She asked. “You know I don’t have the technical expertise to help you. All I can do is be here for you.”

Sean fiddled with his drink. “There is something you can do, but…”

“You know I’ll do anything I can, just tell me.”

He took a deep, shuddering breath. “When he was at my office, he saw the picture of you on my desk, the one I took of you when we were in Tahiti. In that bikini?” He stuttered to a halt. Michelle smiled at him. “You have that pic on your desk? That bikini, well it was hardly there. It only just covered my nipples and my… Did he approve?”

“That’s the problem,” Sean stuttered, “he more than approved! He loved it! He, well, he wants you, as, oh shit, there’s no nice way to say this. He wants you as a sweetener for the deal.”

“I don’t quite understand,” she said softly. “How can I be the sweetener?”

“He wants in, to be specific, your body, for a month. He wants you as his sex slave, for a month, to do whatever he pleases with. Anything! No exceptions!” He looked at her for the first time. “I turned him down. We can start again, from scratch. It will be hard, but we’ve done it once, we can do it again.”

There was a long silence. Finally, Michelle broke the silence. “If I do this, we get the contract? Guaranteed?” He nodded. “Would you have me back? Afterwards? After he had…”

He shuddered. “Of course, I would! I love you! But…It won’t happen. I can’t do this to you! Never! Not for anything!”

“But I could do this for you, for us. It would make our lives better, give our children, when we have them, a better life. It would only be for a month.” Sean shook his head. “I couldn’t. Mich, he is not a nice man. I’ve heard stories, of what he does to women, weird, unnatural things. I couldn’t.”

A week later, Michelle lay on the bed in the penthouse suite of a very, very expensive hotel. The contract was signed, notarised, watertight. Now she had to play her part. She heard the door lock buzz, turn electronically. She opened her legs, smiled invitingly. “It’s only for a month,” she thought, “it can’t be that bad, can it? I can endure, for a month.”
 

Marcia

Assistant executioner
Bloody Wogs!

View attachment 1001675

“Bloody Wogs!” Alice thought as the chain tugged painfully at the ring the blacksmith had just attached to the ring that pierced her most private parts. She was a bit lightheaded after the drink he had given her.

“I make pain less.” He had said, not unkindly. She seemed to be drifting on a cloud, indignant, but somehow, accepting.

Accepting of the fact that she was sitting, naked as the day she was born, on an anvil, in a blacksmith’s shop in a smelly North African town. Accepting that her legs were spread wide, to avoid touching the ring that so cruelly pierced that sensitive morsel of flesh. “Bloody wogs,” she thought gain, not sure whether she was thinking it or saying it, “this is 1888! The British Empire is the most powerful force on the planet! Yet these silly buggers took our ship, told us we were their slaves. Slaves! Don’t they know that slavery has been abolished? Did they not know who her father was? That she, Alice, had recently been presented to the Queen Empress? That she had actually spoken to her? How could she possibly be a slave?”

Her brain was fuzzy, she was not quite sure what was real. Her father, Sir Iain Featherstone-Smythe, Baronet, Minister of the Crown, had hired the ship in Alexandria. He was on an important diplomatic mission to the Sultan of Zanzibar. There were just three passengers; Her father, his secretary and Alice, his only child. There were servants, of course. Her father’s steward, his valet, and Bessie, Alice’s maid and confidante. She had last seen the men, pale, soft, her father pot-bellied, driven off in chains to join a work gang. Bessie had stayed with her, but unlike Alice, she had flaunted herself at the guards and the gawkers in the slave market.

“I dunno if being a slave is going to be much worse than being a maid in your household, Miss Alice. Work from dawn till late at night. Low pay and bad food. Get treated like shit and rogered by the Master and his mates. Dunno if these heathen like buggery as much as the master, but they can’t hardly be worse! Not much change in my life at all.”

Alice was appalled. She had always thought that Bessie was happy in her job and that she was well treated, spoilt, even. “My father, he had…carnal relations with you?” Alice couldn’t believe that of her father. Bessie squeaked as a punter pinched her nipple. “Saucy bugger!” She continued their conversation. “If them ‘carnal relations’ is the same as fucking, he been doing it since I was a ‘tweenstairs maid. Well, buggering came first, ‘cause I looked more like a stableboy then, and he buggered them all, but he soon fucked me dizzy. That’s why he made me your maid. Closer to home, so to speak.”

Bessie was sold first. Annoyingly, she seemed to fetch a higher price than Alice did, if the number of coins that changed hands were anything to go by. She was led off by a handsome young man dressed in fine robes and with a jewelled dagger at his waist. Alice wondered whether she would ever see her maid again. Her own buyer was a hard faced, hard handed ruffian with a scarred face. He tied a rope around her neck and almost dragged her here, where the blacksmith had painfully pierced her most tender parts, attached a ring, and was now locking a length of heavy chain to the ring.

The fuzziness induced by the drink she had been given was wearing off. Her private parts, what had Bessie called it, her cunnie, were hurting badly now. What would it be like when the weight of the chain was dragging on it? Where was she going? What would she be used for?

Her owner jerked at the chain! She screamed, leaping off the anvil onto her feet, following him. She stumbled along behind him, through narrow, smelly alleys. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of the imposing Royal palace, the House of Wonders. She had been expecting to be received there, with all the pomp and ceremony the daughter of an Imperial emissary was entitled to expect. After all, her father’s mission was to deliver a personal letter to the Sultan, from no less than the Queen Empress herself, thanking him for his invaluable aid in ending the slave trade in the Indian Ocean once and for all!

“Bloody wogs!”



Artwork by Julie & Melissa
You have very good the feelings of this slave girl described. Thank you.
 

theseus

Governor
Fit for Slavery

toned slave bdsmlr-167230-R14dy9tV9d.jpg

Bella had worked hard during the last year. Yoga, running, Pilates, many, many hours in the gym with a personal training. She had changed her diet, cut out junk food, sugar, alcohol. She thought she was ready. Her body had been lasered so that there was not an excess hair, anywhere. She was ready.

“How do I look?” She asked.

Her lover studied her. Not that it was necessary. He knew every curve and hollow of her body, every muscle, every soft, yielding hollow. He knew that she was as near perfect as she could be.

For the past year he had been watching her body develop. He had enjoyed the process, enjoyed her body, enjoyed playing his part in making her fit for purpose. At the same time, he felt the regret that soon, very soon, he would lose her.

“You are perfect. As perfect as can be. Are you still determined to go ahead with this?” Bella smiled at him. She liked him. He was gentle, kind, and a very good, very adventurous and inventive lover. He had taken pleasure in training her for her new life. She would miss him. In particular she would miss his cock. Satisfyingly long, thick, tasty, and always, it seemed, ready to rise to the occasion.

“I am. I’m ready, thanks to you, to your support, your encouragement, and above all, to your understanding. I’m going to miss you.” She meant every word. She would miss him. A lot! “I go to the dealer for my final training tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, except, well, that one part. I don’t know why it is necessary, but I guess they know best. I’ll just have to accept that I am to made into a bitch.” She bent forward and kissed the head of his cock. “Tonight is our last night. We don’t need to sleep much, do we?”

He lay back as her lips and tongue worked their magic. Relishing her attentions for the last time. Bella gave her all! After all, soon, tomorrow, she would no longer be able to give her body to anyone. It would no longer be her body. Her body, her flesh, would belong to someone else. She would be property, a chattel, an object. She would own nothing, not even her body.

They slept little, that night. It was bitter-sweet. It was a long farewell.

In the morning she showered and then went to the spare room. On the bed were a shapeless shift, and a pair of handcuffs, all she would take away from here. The shift came to mid-thigh, the slits in the sides showing the sides of her breasts. She walked through to bedroom where he was dressing, the handcuffs dangling from her hand. “Please.” Her voice was husky as she turned around, holding her hands behind her.

She shivered as the cold steel encircled her wrists. “I’ll miss you,” he said softly, kissing the back of her neck. She looked back over her shoulder. “You could always buy me at the auction,” she smiled.

He shook his head. “You are far too valuable, way out of my budget.” He put something in her hand. Her toothbrush. “You might need that. Come, I must put you out for collection. You’re a slave now.”

Bella was fit. Fit for purpose. Fit to be a slave!
 

Paul1969

Executioner
Fit for Slavery

View attachment 1004480

Bella had worked hard during the last year. Yoga, running, Pilates, many, many hours in the gym with a personal training. She had changed her diet, cut out junk food, sugar, alcohol. She thought she was ready. Her body had been lasered so that there was not an excess hair, anywhere. She was ready.

“How do I look?” She asked.

Her lover studied her. Not that it was necessary. He knew every curve and hollow of her body, every muscle, every soft, yielding hollow. He knew that she was as near perfect as she could be.

For the past year he had been watching her body develop. He had enjoyed the process, enjoyed her body, enjoyed playing his part in making her fit for purpose. At the same time, he felt the regret that soon, very soon, he would lose her.

“You are perfect. As perfect as can be. Are you still determined to go ahead with this?” Bella smiled at him. She liked him. He was gentle, kind, and a very good, very adventurous and inventive lover. He had taken pleasure in training her for her new life. She would miss him. In particular she would miss his cock. Satisfyingly long, thick, tasty, and always, it seemed, ready to rise to the occasion.

“I am. I’m ready, thanks to you, to your support, your encouragement, and above all, to your understanding. I’m going to miss you.” She meant every word. She would miss him. A lot! “I go to the dealer for my final training tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, except, well, that one part. I don’t know why it is necessary, but I guess they know best. I’ll just have to accept that I am to made into a bitch.” She bent forward and kissed the head of his cock. “Tonight is our last night. We don’t need to sleep much, do we?”

He lay back as her lips and tongue worked their magic. Relishing her attentions for the last time. Bella gave her all! After all, soon, tomorrow, she would no longer be able to give her body to anyone. It would no longer be her body. Her body, her flesh, would belong to someone else. She would be property, a chattel, an object. She would own nothing, not even her body.

They slept little, that night. It was bitter-sweet. It was a long farewell.

In the morning she showered and then went to the spare room. On the bed were a shapeless shift, and a pair of handcuffs, all she would take away from here. The shift came to mid-thigh, the slits in the sides showing the sides of her breasts. She walked through to bedroom where he was dressing, the handcuffs dangling from her hand. “Please.” Her voice was husky as she turned around, holding her hands behind her.

She shivered as the cold steel encircled her wrists. “I’ll miss you,” he said softly, kissing the back of her neck. She looked back over her shoulder. “You could always buy me at the auction,” she smiled.

He shook his head. “You are far too valuable, way out of my budget.” He put something in her hand. Her toothbrush. “You might need that. Come, I must put you out for collection. You’re a slave now.”

Bella was fit. Fit for purpose. Fit to be a slave!
Enjoyed the story, please continue at your leisure and write a story concerning her auction!
 

theseus

Governor
Buggery

victorian slave bdsmlr-329661-rAzJ5qTXOz.jpg

Part of me, admittedly a small part of me, felt sorry for the girl. After all, the Plague wasn’t her fault. She was just one of the hundreds of millions of people whose lives had been changed dramatically by the onset of the Plague.

Her eyes were pleading as the dress slid down her body. I could almost hear her voice. “Not there, please, Master. It hurts, and it’s so degrading. I have a wonderful, tight, almost virgin pussy. Why not there?”

Claire looked at her Master as the dress, the flimsy scrap of fabric that only enhanced her vulnerability, slid seductively to the ground. “He’s going to bugger me again,” she thought, “and that other girl is here, kneeling by the door. She’ll be watching. Why?”

I knew what she was thinking. I knew she hated being buggered. Well, that was her problem. Nobody liked being buggered at first. It hurt! Some grew to like it, others accepted it, and some hated it. All that was immaterial, really. I had paid for her, she had been processed, “dehumanised” as the Department of Population called it. She was no longer a person, there was no record of her birth, nor any other record of her existence as a person. All that had been deleted. She was an object. My property, to use as I wished.

A year ago, Claire had been a carefree schoolgirl, about to graduate with straight A’s. She was going to university to become a chemical engineer, firmly committed in her mind to helping her father turn his small but successful craft brewery into a significant enterprise. Her family were comfortably off, not rich, but with sufficient to send her to the best university. She had enjoyed the first weeks of university life. The academic side, and especially the social side. She met a boy, a water polo player, as she was. They dated, they kissed, she allowed him to fondle her breasts. She had always been rather self-conscious about her small breasts, perfectly shaped though they were. She thought, perhaps, in few months’ time, she might allow his hands, and tongue, to explore further. Perhaps.

Then came the Plague. The whole country was locked down, no-one allowed out except to buy food. No socialising. Alcohol was banned. The lockdown was expected to last three weeks. Six months later their savings ran out. Their house was sold, the proceeds going to pay off debt. They moved into a tiny two bedroomed flat, but even then, they ran out of money. Her father made the shocking announcement. “I haven’t paid the rent for two months. I just don’t have the money. We will be evicted next week. I am looking for a spot on the streets where we can be relatively safe and sheltered. I found a spot under an unused bridge. It should be quite dry. I’m sorry.” He stumbled to his feet and went out into the rainy night.

Later, in their narrow little bed she shared with her younger sister Amy, huddled together for warmth, Amy brought up the approach she had had at school. “Claire, this guy approached me. He said I could sell myself, not as a whore, but as a slave. Apparently, there is a legal way of becoming a sex slave. A new thing the government has brought in.” Claire was silent for a moment. “Amy, don’t be ridiculous! You’re too young! Three years younger than I am, and I am barely legal. Would you do it? Be a sex slave? Why?”

Amy sighed. “I would do anything to prevent mom and dad having to live under a bridge. Winter is coming. They will die.” There was a long silence. “Amy, tell me more about how this would work?” They talked for many hours. Claire slowly making up her mind. “Give me that phone number, I’ll call him in the morning.”

A few days later Claire told her family what she had done. “I won’t say I am dead keen for this, I’m not! But I am told that I will sell for enough to keep you in some comfort for several years, and perhaps even allow you to start up the brewery again, dad, if and when they unban alcohol. Amy was prepared to do it, but she is too young.” There were tears around the table.

I bought her a week later. There were ten buyers at the auction. She was brave, but the tears flowed as we examined her, ascertaining that the claim of virginity was genuine. The tears slid down her oiled body as she knelt, thighs spread wide, her hands behind her head, as the auctioneer started his patter. Minutes later, she was mine. The formalities took a few hours. I led her, clad in a slave shift, to the offices of the Department of the Interior. There she was fingerprinted, microchipped and examined. “You have a collar, sir? It must be stripped and collared in my presence. I assume you will want it branded?” I saw her head jerk up at the ‘it’. I produced the collar, made of satin finished steel, engraved with my coat of arms. I also handed over a branding iron.

She whimpered softly as the white-hot iron was returned to me. “Left buttock,” I said softly. She was held down, the left buttock presented to me. She took a deep, shuddering breath, then screamed as I pressed the iron against the firm flesh of her buttock. The official handed me the deed of possession. “This chattel is now yours, to use as you please. It is no longer human. All trace of its existence as a human, as a sentient being, has been erased. It never existed as anything other than a chattel.” I paid the fee, and left, leading her by a leash attached to her collar.

Claire let the dress slide to the floor. She knew that the high heels made her legs and butt look especially good. Her butt! She had always been proud of the tight, shapely little globes; now she hated them. Why did her Master have to bugger her so often? Why couldn’t he just fuck her like a woman? She sighed, softly, afraid he would whip her. Slavery wasn’t too bad, she thought. The money her Master had paid for her would keep her family for several years, and perhaps save her little sister from slavery. She even found some pleasure in being fucked, and in sucking his cock. She hated being watched, and even more she hated being lent to his friends, but even that was bearable. It was just…why did he have to fuck her in her ass?

The other girl, Jo was her name, placed the bolster on the bed. Claire took a deep breath. She kicked off her shoes and walked over to the bed, her back straight, her head high, a forced smile on her face. She flashed a glance at her Master, at Jo’s head bobbing as she prepared him. She lay down on her belly, the bolster beneath her hips, her pert buttocks presented attractively. Her legs were only slightly apart, the way he liked them. The sounds of fellatio stopped. The bed moved under his weight. She relaxed as much as she could, knowing it would hurt less that way. He filled and stretched her. She moaned softly.

She wondered if Amy was warm in the bed they had shared? She wondered whether her father had been able to use some of the money paid for her body to re-establish some kind of business? She wondered how her mother was coping?

The invasion of her body continued.

“At least,” she said to herself, “at least it’s not Amy.”
 

melissa

Administrator
Staff member
Bloody Wogs!

View attachment 1001675

“Bloody Wogs!” Alice thought as the chain tugged painfully at the ring the blacksmith had just attached to the ring that pierced her most private parts. She was a bit lightheaded after the drink he had given her.

“I make pain less.” He had said, not unkindly. She seemed to be drifting on a cloud, indignant, but somehow, accepting.

Accepting of the fact that she was sitting, naked as the day she was born, on an anvil, in a blacksmith’s shop in a smelly North African town. Accepting that her legs were spread wide, to avoid touching the ring that so cruelly pierced that sensitive morsel of flesh. “Bloody wogs,” she thought gain, not sure whether she was thinking it or saying it, “this is 1888! The British Empire is the most powerful force on the planet! Yet these silly buggers took our ship, told us we were their slaves. Slaves! Don’t they know that slavery has been abolished? Did they not know who her father was? That she, Alice, had recently been presented to the Queen Empress? That she had actually spoken to her? How could she possibly be a slave?”

Her brain was fuzzy, she was not quite sure what was real. Her father, Sir Iain Featherstone-Smythe, Baronet, Minister of the Crown, had hired the ship in Alexandria. He was on an important diplomatic mission to the Sultan of Zanzibar. There were just three passengers; Her father, his secretary and Alice, his only child. There were servants, of course. Her father’s steward, his valet, and Bessie, Alice’s maid and confidante. She had last seen the men, pale, soft, her father pot-bellied, driven off in chains to join a work gang. Bessie had stayed with her, but unlike Alice, she had flaunted herself at the guards and the gawkers in the slave market.

“I dunno if being a slave is going to be much worse than being a maid in your household, Miss Alice. Work from dawn till late at night. Low pay and bad food. Get treated like shit and rogered by the Master and his mates. Dunno if these heathen like buggery as much as the master, but they can’t hardly be worse! Not much change in my life at all.”

Alice was appalled. She had always thought that Bessie was happy in her job and that she was well treated, spoilt, even. “My father, he had…carnal relations with you?” Alice couldn’t believe that of her father. Bessie squeaked as a punter pinched her nipple. “Saucy bugger!” She continued their conversation. “If them ‘carnal relations’ is the same as fucking, he been doing it since I was a ‘tweenstairs maid. Well, buggering came first, ‘cause I looked more like a stableboy then, and he buggered them all, but he soon fucked me dizzy. That’s why he made me your maid. Closer to home, so to speak.”

Bessie was sold first. Annoyingly, she seemed to fetch a higher price than Alice did, if the number of coins that changed hands were anything to go by. She was led off by a handsome young man dressed in fine robes and with a jewelled dagger at his waist. Alice wondered whether she would ever see her maid again. Her own buyer was a hard faced, hard handed ruffian with a scarred face. He tied a rope around her neck and almost dragged her here, where the blacksmith had painfully pierced her most tender parts, attached a ring, and was now locking a length of heavy chain to the ring.

The fuzziness induced by the drink she had been given was wearing off. Her private parts, what had Bessie called it, her cunnie, were hurting badly now. What would it be like when the weight of the chain was dragging on it? Where was she going? What would she be used for?

Her owner jerked at the chain! She screamed, leaping off the anvil onto her feet, following him. She stumbled along behind him, through narrow, smelly alleys. Sometimes she caught a glimpse of the imposing Royal palace, the House of Wonders. She had been expecting to be received there, with all the pomp and ceremony the daughter of an Imperial emissary was entitled to expect. After all, her father’s mission was to deliver a personal letter to the Sultan, from no less than the Queen Empress herself, thanking him for his invaluable aid in ending the slave trade in the Indian Ocean once and for all!

“Bloody wogs!”



Artwork by Julie & Melissa
Great story! But what a way for poor Alice to spend her birthday!
 
Thanks @theseus - Another beautiful piece. I feel your storytelling gets better and better. You continue to be one of my favourite authors here because you understand the importance of character development, backstory, and plot development in crafting your work. I’d love to see a longer piece from you one day. But if you prefer to only do shorter works, I’m not complaining at all!

Thank you!
 

theseus

Governor
Futile!

tender meat bdsmlr-20873-geV1kjOm8I.jpg

How far can a naked girl run? How can she survive in the forest? Pursued by Roman legionaries and their tracker dogs? Not to mention the creatures of the forest. As the autumn weather became colder, the wolves howled closer and closer to the villages.

Sigurdshold was a small holding, Sigurd a minor lord. The villagers had fled inside the palisade for safety when the Romans approached. The wooden walls had been of little use against the disciplined soldiers. The suicidal bravery of the warriors had been equally futile. The women and children were rounded up, stripped, and methodically fitted with iron thrall rings around their throats and iron fetters to wrists and ankles. The smell of roasting flesh filled the air as white-hot irons burned slave brands into human flesh.

The soldier holding Frigga had eased his grip for a moment, possibly because he was fondling her breasts. She wriggled out of his grip and ran! Ran like the wind! Ran blindly into the forest. She could hear the crashing of armoured men blundering through the forest after her as she slipped through the undergrowth, aided by her slight form and nudity. It was easy for a naked girl to elude an armed, armoured man, encumbered by spear and shield, in the thick German forest.

She heard the dogs behind her, hunting for her scent. Running in the bog was difficult, exhausting, but it did allow her to lose the dogs. Lost in the bog, she paused, exhausted, in the growing dusk. She had nowhere to go, nowhere to shelter. Already the chill of the coming night was making her teeth chatter. The forest was silent, save for the rustling of animals in the undergrowth. Soon, she knew, the wolves would start to hunt.

She can already imagine the wolves finding her, surrounding her. Watching her, tongues lolling, saliva dripping from hungry jaws. She can imagine the fear, imagine the pain and terror as sharp fangs tear into her flesh. Her eyes dart around the darkening forest.

Being torn apart by wolves is a terrible way to die. She is young, her life is ahead of her. Or, more accurately, was. Given the choice of a life of slavery, and a quick death in the jaws of the wolves, Frigga knows there is no choice.

She listens for the sound of the wolves. Her destiny! Her route to freedom!
 

theseus

Governor
Thanks @theseus - Another beautiful piece. I feel your storytelling gets better and better. You continue to be one of my favourite authors here because you understand the importance of character development, backstory, and plot development in crafting your work. I’d love to see a longer piece from you one day. But if you prefer to only do shorter works, I’m not complaining at all!

Thank you!
There are two longer stories available here as pdf files. Have a look in the archives.
 

theseus

Governor
Such a waste!

Flay her back 1olehiXrteU - Alex Krivtsov, 2020.jpg

“She has such a beautiful back, sir.”

Lady Eleonore held up her hands to be bound. I had to admire her courage, as much as I admired her beautiful back. There was no doubt that she deserved to be punished, but destroying such a back seemed to me to be a terrible waste. Why not sentence her to serve in a brothel? That way that superb body would be used for the purpose it was designed for.

The judge was implacable. “You know your duty! Thirty dozen lashes, laid on well. There are four of you. I expect each stroke to be delivered with your full strength!”

I had laid on hundreds of dozens of lashes onto hundreds of backs. I knew exactly what the cat would do. After the first dozen her back would be a bloody mess of raw flesh. It was unlikely that she would ever walk again. By five dozen the ivory gleam of her ribs would be showing through the blood and shreds of flesh. Her dress would long ago have slid down her hips, leaving her naked and exposed in her pain.

Her screams would subside into ragged sobs. She would faint many times. Each time she would be revived with a bucket of brine, starting her screaming all over again. Each time she would be given time to recover, to harvest her strength, to endure more pain. Inevitably, the lashes would curl around under her arms, ripping her fine, proud breasts to bloody shreds.

We would change every dozen strokes. Micah and I were right-handed, Abner and Jacob left-handed. We would alternate, gridding her back, shredding both breasts. All four of us were massively muscled, capable of delivering the strokes with all our strength. It was such a waste.

Her hands were tied now, her body taut, so that she was on tiptoe. She looked back at me, over her shoulder. “Begin!” The judge ordered! I shook out the lashes of the cat. The braided rope tails were heavy, stiff from the brine they had been soaked in. My full strength and body weight were behind that first stroke! The tails whistled, then impacted on her back with a crack and a thud. She grunted as the impact drove the breath from her. There was a moment of silence, then, “Oh! Oh my God!”

“One!” The tallyman called out, making a mark on his slate. The judge nodded. I combed my fingers through the strands. Habit. Soon I would be clearing them of blood and gobbets of flesh. Whistle! Thud! “Oh God! No! No more!” Her feet trampled in the dirt. Such delicate, pretty feet. The dress slipped lower down her hips. Soon, she would not even have that scrap of dignity. Already she was bagging. Already! With three hundred and fifty eight lashes still to go. Despite myself, I felt sorry for her.

The fifth lash drew blood. It was also the first one to wrap around her and impact on the soft underside of a firm, full breast. She was trampling desperately in the dirt, screaming, begging and praying. By the end of the first dozen her back was a sheet of blood. The surgeon stepped forward, as he would after each dozen, to inspect the prisoner and certify that she was fit for punishment to continue. He would stop the punishment if he thought it would kill her. In that case she would be given seven days for the wounds to heal and to regain her strength. Then I and my colleagues would rip the new, partially healed skin and scabs from her back and complete her ladyship’s destruction.

As Abner took over, a fresh cat in his left hand, ready to cross my strokes with his, ripping the flesh apart, I looked at the judge. His face was impassive, his eyes glittering. “Proceed!” His voice was clear, unemotional. Whistle! Thud! Her screams took on a new tone, her pleas for mercy became more desperate. By the time Abner finished his dozen, her once beautiful back was a mess of raw meat. Her feet trampled in bloody mud. The surgeon nodded, “Carry on.”

Micah stepped forward. I could detect reluctance in his manner. Adultery was a serious offence. Adultery with a serving maid was unthinkable. Two women, together! Unnatural! Obscene! The judge’s face was expressionless, apart from a slight tic in one eye.

“Proceed!” His voice was harsh! Micah swung his cat back, to continue the destruction of this faithless woman. The judge watched, his face unreadable, as his wife was reduced to dogmeat.

How soon love turns to hate!
 
Nice twist at the end, @theseus didn’t see it coming. I might have been distracted by the 3,240 individual thong strikes she was set to receive.

I feel 30 dozen lashes delivered full force with the cat given in a single session might even kill a strong healthy man. Let alone a dainty wife.

However I do know a bit about horrendous sentences given to convicts down here during white settlement. 300 lashes was not unheard of. I recall a story of a Convict, William Silk, who arrived on the Britannia in 1797 sentenced to transportation for horse stealing.

In 1800 he was sentenced to 1,000 lashes and exiled to Norfolk Island for his part in the Bobbie Rebellion, for which he made pikes. I’m unsure if the stories that he spent his entire exile in chains and naked are true but tales of Norfolk Island convict life are pretty horrific, so it seems possible.

I understood his lashing took over a month (unconfirmed). But he survived, permitted to return to Sydney Cove in 1810 (so 10 years naked in chains on Norfolk Is) . By 1824 he was granted his ticket of leave- settling in the Prospect area, now a western suburb of greater Sydney. He died in 1835, aged around 72-75....


 
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theseus

Governor
Nice twist at the end, @sifax , didn’t see it coming. I might have been distracted by the 3,240 individual thong strikes she was set to receive.

I feel 30 dozen lashes delivered full force with the cat given in a single session might even kill a strong healthy man. Let alone a dainty wife.

However I do know a bit about horrendous sentences given to convicts down here during white settlement. 300 lashes was not unheard of. I recall a story of a Convict, William Silk, who arrived on the Britannia in 1797 sentenced to transportation for horse stealing.

In 1800 he was sentenced to 1,000 lashes and exiled to Norfolk Island for his part in the Bobbie Rebellion, for which he made pikes. I’m unsure if the stories that he spent his entire exile in chains and naked are true but tales of Norfolk Island convict life are pretty horrific, so it seems possible.

I understood his lashing took over a month (unconfirmed). But he survived, permitted to return to Sydney Cove in 1810 (so 10 years naked in chains on Norfolk Is) . By 1824 he was granted his ticket of leave- settling in the Prospect area, now a western suburb of greater Sydney. He died in 1835, aged around 72-75....


They made them tough in those days.
 

Marcia

Assistant executioner
Fit for Slavery

View attachment 1004480

Bella had worked hard during the last year. Yoga, running, Pilates, many, many hours in the gym with a personal training. She had changed her diet, cut out junk food, sugar, alcohol. She thought she was ready. Her body had been lasered so that there was not an excess hair, anywhere. She was ready.

“How do I look?” She asked.

Her lover studied her. Not that it was necessary. He knew every curve and hollow of her body, every muscle, every soft, yielding hollow. He knew that she was as near perfect as she could be.

For the past year he had been watching her body develop. He had enjoyed the process, enjoyed her body, enjoyed playing his part in making her fit for purpose. At the same time, he felt the regret that soon, very soon, he would lose her.

“You are perfect. As perfect as can be. Are you still determined to go ahead with this?” Bella smiled at him. She liked him. He was gentle, kind, and a very good, very adventurous and inventive lover. He had taken pleasure in training her for her new life. She would miss him. In particular she would miss his cock. Satisfyingly long, thick, tasty, and always, it seemed, ready to rise to the occasion.

“I am. I’m ready, thanks to you, to your support, your encouragement, and above all, to your understanding. I’m going to miss you.” She meant every word. She would miss him. A lot! “I go to the dealer for my final training tomorrow. I’m looking forward to it, except, well, that one part. I don’t know why it is necessary, but I guess they know best. I’ll just have to accept that I am to made into a bitch.” She bent forward and kissed the head of his cock. “Tonight is our last night. We don’t need to sleep much, do we?”

He lay back as her lips and tongue worked their magic. Relishing her attentions for the last time. Bella gave her all! After all, soon, tomorrow, she would no longer be able to give her body to anyone. It would no longer be her body. Her body, her flesh, would belong to someone else. She would be property, a chattel, an object. She would own nothing, not even her body.

They slept little, that night. It was bitter-sweet. It was a long farewell.

In the morning she showered and then went to the spare room. On the bed were a shapeless shift, and a pair of handcuffs, all she would take away from here. The shift came to mid-thigh, the slits in the sides showing the sides of her breasts. She walked through to bedroom where he was dressing, the handcuffs dangling from her hand. “Please.” Her voice was husky as she turned around, holding her hands behind her.

She shivered as the cold steel encircled her wrists. “I’ll miss you,” he said softly, kissing the back of her neck. She looked back over her shoulder. “You could always buy me at the auction,” she smiled.

He shook his head. “You are far too valuable, way out of my budget.” He put something in her hand. Her toothbrush. “You might need that. Come, I must put you out for collection. You’re a slave now.”

Bella was fit. Fit for purpose. Fit to be a slave!
Exciting short story about a young girl and her way to be a slave. Interesting especially her thoughts, that she’ll soon be property. Thank you for this story.
 

theseus

Governor
The Nose Ring

nose ring bdsmlr-14394-klIORs3JoM.jpg

As if being stripped, displayed, pawed and auctioned wasn’t bad enough! She had been sold, collared with an uncomfortable steel collar, microchipped, and then branded like an animal, with a red-hot branding iron.

He had fucked her, fucked his property. In her pussy, her mouth, her tight virgin asshole. Not just once, either. She was miserable, her humanity taken from her, realising that she was no more than a fucktoy, to be used as he wished, when he wished, by whom he wished. She thought she could sink no lower.

Then came the piercing! The thick, heated needle thrust through the septum in her nose. The searing pain, blinding her, worse even than that of the branding. The thick, steel ring inserted through the hole, the ends welded together. Tears streamed down her face. Tears of pain, tears of anger, tears of humiliation.

Her nose was so sensitive. The slightest touch of the ring sent shards of pain into her brain. Then he buggered her again!

She lay on the floor, weeping, shivering with cold and reaction. Another girl entered the room, her black skin gleamed with oil, her breasts firm, beautiful cones. She kissed her master, passionately, deeply. She looked contemptuously at the girl lying on the cold floor, sobbing quietly in her pain and humiliation. The black girl’s lip curled in a sneer. She stalked from the room, moving as gracefully as a black panther, proud and arrogant in her beauty.

A few moment later she returned, carrying a short length of chain and two padlocks. She knelt next to the new girl. The girl could smell the scent of the black girl’s arousal, musky, sensual. The chain was locked to a ring low on the wall. The free end was brought close to her face. The black girl took a handful of hair, pulling the new girl closer to the wall. A shock of pain seared through her head as the end of the chain was locked to the ring in her nose.

“Bitch!” The black girl snarled.

Helpless, the tiniest movement tugging painfully at the chain, the girl lay there, listening to the sounds of sex, the sounds of passion, the soft moans, the soft slap of flesh against flesh. The sounds of sleep. She lay there, cold, sore, humiliated, on the hard floor.

The nose ring and the chain were the final humiliation. She was nothing, a slave, less than an animal. She cried softly. This was slavery.
 

theseus

Governor
You’re next!

Next 10 9.jpg

The hill was noisy.

The air was filled with screams, groans, pleading voices and the thud of hammers hitting iron nails. Gemina knelt in the dust, trying to look inconspicuous, trying to shut out the sounds of her friends’ slow death, trying to ignore the fact that soon, very soon, she would be screaming in agony like the others.

She already hurt all over. Her bound hands clutched at her breasts where the guards had amused themselves sticking burning slivers of wood into tender flesh. Breasts that had been crushed in a giant vice. She hurt from multiple rapes, she hurt from the torture they used to wring confessions from the slaves, and she hurt from the flogging she had been given prior to the agonising walk up the hill, dragging her cross. So much pain, and all for something they were all innocent of.

“You’re next!” His hands were stained with blood, in his hand was the heavy hammer that would drive the spikes through her flesh. She recognised him. He had raped her at least three times last night. Brutally! Intending to hurt her. “Please! I’ve been hurt so much. I didn’t do it, none of us did. It was the young master. He poisoned his father.” His boot swung, brutally impacting on her anus. “On your feet! I haven’t got all day! There’s another seven of you bitches to nail up before I can get some breakfast. Move!!”

She struggled to her feet, hampered by the rope connecting her ankles. Behind her, Anna screamed again! She had just been raised, and the shock was wearing off, the pain taking full effect. “Take me down! Oh gods! Take me down! I can’t take it! It hurts! I can’t take it! I’ll die!” The guard chuckled. “That’s the point, bitch! Remember! That’s why you’re here. To die! Slowly! Painfully! You’re here to die!”

Gemina stumbled behind the guard, Anna’s cries and pleas for mercy ringing in her ears. Her arms and wrists were so thin. How could she hang from them, for hours, days. Her wrists nailed to the wood of the cross, the spikes grating against the bones. Impossible!

He stopped to pick up four long, rusty spikes. She looked at them with horror. Those were for her. Those spikes were going to be hammered through her flesh, through her bones, Attaching her to the rough wood of the cross, for the rest of her life! Her bladder betrayed her, the warm liquid running down her thighs. She stumbled after him, numb with horror and fear!

Freya’s cross was just being raised. Gemina watched, petrified, as the cross became more vertical. Her friend’s slight body slid down the rough wood, the girl moaning as the wood scraped against her raw back. Her feet were neatly crossed, nailed by one spike. As her weight came onto the spikes through her wrists she started screaming! A high, unearthly keening of utter, indescribable agony. The screaming was cut off, briefly, as the cross was dropped into the hole prepared for it. The brutal jerk silenced the girl for a moment, just a moment, before she screeched out her new, unbearable agony! An agony she would have to bear, for many, many hours! For the rest of her life, in fact.

There were four men waiting at the empty cross. Big, strong, brutal men. “Lie down on the upright. Spread your arms along the patibulum.” The carnifex’s voice was soft, almost kindly. She did as she was told, whimpering softly as the rough wood scraped against her raw back. “Up a bit.” His boot against her bum shoved her a touch higher, painfully. “That’ll do. Hold her!”

Strong hands held her arms in place, others took her ankles, spreading them wide apart. “Nice cunt,” one of them said. “Do we get to fuck her?” The carnifex was kneeling next to her right hand, the point of the spike feeling for the right spot in her wrist. “Yep!” he grunted. “I’m going to nail her feet to the sides of the stipes, so her legs will be spread nice and wide to welcome us.” Gemina listened to this casual conversation with disbelief. These were the men who were going to kill her, yet it seemed that it was all a casual day’s work for them.

Her attention was caught by a soft cry and the squawk of a raven. She looked up to where a man and a woman were crucified together, on a double cross, her left wrist and his right wrist nailed with the same spike. The tituli told the story. Adultura and Adulterer. Illicit lovers who had been caught in the act. The woman was shaking her head, weakly, in an attempt to frighten the raven. For a moment her eye met Gemina’s, exchanging a look of sympathy and pity. Just her left eye! Where the right eye should be was a bloody socket, where the raven had succeeded in his quest for a juicy morsel. Her lover was beyond caring. He had clearly been dead for some time. The ravens had been busy there. The carnifex caught the direction of her gaze. “Tough old bitch, that one. Nailed her up six days ago. She won’t see tonight’s sunset, that’s for sure. Her other eye will be gone soon.” He grunted with satisfaction as the tip of the spike found just the right spot. “Ready, boys?”

Gemina watched as the hammer moved, incredibly slowly, from its position above his shoulder. It seemed to take forever to make the journey to the broad head of the spike his left hand held against her wrist. She watched, fascinated, as if from a different place, as the heavy hammer struck the spike. She heard the metallic sound as though from a long distance. She watched as the tip of the iron spike disappeared into her slim wrist. It all seemed unreal, some kind of a dream.

PAIN!!!!!

Unbelievable, unbearable, shocking pain! Her scream echoed against the hills! Her body arched, legs thrashing wildly! One of the men holding a leg lost his grip! Her leg thrashed, he reeled back as her heel smashed into his face, blood spurting from his broken nose. The man who had been holding her left wrist grabbed wildly for the flailing leg. There was no need to hold that wrist, it was already firmly attached to the patibulum, the spike driven through the flesh and bone, deep into the wood.

“Idiot! Can’t you do anything right? I hope your fucking nose hurts!” The carnifex was not impressed. The hammer struck the spike twice more, gentle taps, driving it home so that the broad head rested neatly against her wrist. He was a perfectionist. He watched his helpers as they struggled to hold the girl. Slim she might be, but she was strong! She would last for days, perhaps as long as the one-eyed adulteress watching from her cross. “If you ladies have quite finished messing around, I would like to nail the right wrist,” he snarled. “If it’s not too much trouble, that is.” He knew that his spike had found exactly the right spot, crushing the median nerve against the bone, causing incredible pain. Her fingers turned into claws.

Gemina looked at her hand in disbelief. The pain was incredible, shooting up her arm into her shoulder. The slightest movement intensified it tenfold! What would it be like when she was hanging by her wrists? She couldn’t bear it!

The carnifex moved to her right wrist, the tip of the spike feeling for the sweet spot. She watched the intent expression on his face as he sought the spot. “Please?” She whimpered. “Please? No more. I can’t bear it. I’ll die.” He smiled at her, a kind, almost fatherly smile. “Of course you’ll die, girl. That’s the whole idea. But you won’t die for a long time. Three, four, maybe five days. Who knows, you might even last as long as that faithless bitch up there. You’ll be praying for death for a long time! Got it!” He smiled as he felt the spot he wanted for the spike. “Now, for fuck’s sake, hold on to her, you dozy bastards!”

This time the hammer seemed to move like lightning, the pain shooting up har arm, her world turning red with agony! Two more taps, and he was satisfied. “Now for her feet, then we can fuck her.”

They spread her knees wide, drawing up her feet until they were flat against the side of the stipes, her legs bent almost double. She could hear and feel the bones in her feet crunch and break under the onslaught of the spikes. Somewhere in her brain, there was the realisation that unbearable pain could become even worse, even more unbearable, and that despite the pain she was still alive, feeling every detail of her pain, hearing the echoes of her shrieks. All the while she was aware of the pitying gaze of the one-eyed woman on the cross.

She had no choice about being used. She was spread wide for them. Every touch, every thrust, sent new waves of pain through her, yet, somehow, there was also pleasure. She was swamped in sensation!

The one-eyed woman shook her head, the raven squawked, and flew off, a gobbet of her cheek in its bill. Her eye watched Gemina’s humiliation. She knew that it was only a matter of time before she would no longer see, before the raven gained its juicy titbit, before she would suffer in darkness. Soon, she knew, Gemina would be hanging opposite her, doing her slow dance, wanting to die, trying desperately to live.

“Right, you dozy bastards! Tuck your cocks away. Let’s get this one up. There are six more to do before we can go home!” They lifted the head of the cross. Gemina screamed shrilly as her weight shifted on the rough wood, her raw, scourged back scraping against the wood, her weight being borne by her mangled wrists. She had thought the pain unbearable before, now it was ten times worse, and getting even worse as the cross approached the vertical. Then the base of the cross dropped into the hole dug for it, dropped with a solid thud! White hot agony flooded her body at the sudden jerk! Her shrieks were wild, she danced helplessly on her cross. There was no escape! No way to ease the pain!

It was so difficult to breathe. She would suffocate. Her brain welcomed it; she would die soon. Her body had other ideas. Life! Life was precious! It would do anything to live! She gasped desperately, futilely.

The one-eyed woman looked at her, pityingly. “You have to stand up. Straighten your legs, take the strain off your shoulders and chest.” Gemina tried. She could feel the broken bones in her feet grating against the spikes. Her pain had a new centre. Her legs were strong, slowly, they straightened. She took deep gasps of air. “That is our dance! The dance of the dead.” The woman half smiled, in her own world of agony. “No!” She screamed. The raven squawked triumphantly, flying off, the juicy titbit in its beak.

The woman turned her empty eye sockets toward Gemina. “This is our life. Welcome to hell!”



I don't know whose artwork this is. Could someone please tell me, so that I can give him/her credit.
 
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