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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
- Start date
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Property
The enormity of being sold was just starting to dawn on Michelle. Up to now, being a slave had been an adventure. Of course, the training had been hard, sometimes monotonous, sometimes boring, sometimes disgusting, but always an adventure.
The sale had been horribly stressful, but, in many ways, very exciting! After the first embarrassment, she had enjoyed the ‘showing’. She had enjoyed standing there, naked, while strangers examined her, discussed her, while hands had squeezed her breasts, felt her bum, discussed the pleasures to be had between her thighs, between her buttocks, in the depths of her throat. The bidding had been exciting! She found herself flirting with the buyers, trying to push up the price for her body. After all, her family needed the money, needed it desperately.
Now she was sold. She was no longer Michelle. She was property, a chattel, an object, owned by a man she knew only as Master. A man who could use, or abuse, her body as he wished. No, not her body, his body. She no longer had ownership of her body. He owned her, as He owned his car, His golf clubs, His coffee cup. She was no longer human! She was property, lower than an animal. Nothing!
She didn’t even have a name! Michelle had ceased to exist in the sale room. He could call her whatever He wished. So far, He had referred to her only as Ginger Puss. Was that what she would become? One of the older slaves at the sale was named Honeycunt. Would she become Ginger Puss for the rest of her life? The rest of her life? She was owned now, owned until she became old and ugly, no longer wanted in the bed of a Master. How many Masters would she have, before that day came? How many times would she stand on the auction block?
Honeycunt, as they shared the narrow little bed in the slave kennels, had told her about her fear of that day arriving, of being cast out into the street, free; free to starve, free to be homeless, free to die.
She walked over to the sundial in the garden. Almost time for her to be collared. The overseer, herself a slave, had allowed her some time to explore the gardens. But now she had to return to the Master’s study, where the steel collar would be locked around her neck, permanently locked, not to be removed until that fateful day when an old slave woman would be put out on the street, like a broken chair, property no longer fit for purpose. Would He want to brand her? Many of the slaves at the sale had been branded, some more than once. Did the Master brand his slaves? Did He use a white-hot branding iron to indelibly make His mark on the breast, the buttock, the mound of a screaming, sobbing slave girl? Did He mark his property that way? Would she scream in agony, as the smell of her burning flesh filled her nostrils?
The unnamed slave, once known as Michelle, straightened her back, pulled back her shoulders, and walked determinedly to the house, to be collared. There was no point in worrying about these things, they were not her concern.
She was property!
The enormity of being sold was just starting to dawn on Michelle. Up to now, being a slave had been an adventure. Of course, the training had been hard, sometimes monotonous, sometimes boring, sometimes disgusting, but always an adventure.
The sale had been horribly stressful, but, in many ways, very exciting! After the first embarrassment, she had enjoyed the ‘showing’. She had enjoyed standing there, naked, while strangers examined her, discussed her, while hands had squeezed her breasts, felt her bum, discussed the pleasures to be had between her thighs, between her buttocks, in the depths of her throat. The bidding had been exciting! She found herself flirting with the buyers, trying to push up the price for her body. After all, her family needed the money, needed it desperately.
Now she was sold. She was no longer Michelle. She was property, a chattel, an object, owned by a man she knew only as Master. A man who could use, or abuse, her body as he wished. No, not her body, his body. She no longer had ownership of her body. He owned her, as He owned his car, His golf clubs, His coffee cup. She was no longer human! She was property, lower than an animal. Nothing!
She didn’t even have a name! Michelle had ceased to exist in the sale room. He could call her whatever He wished. So far, He had referred to her only as Ginger Puss. Was that what she would become? One of the older slaves at the sale was named Honeycunt. Would she become Ginger Puss for the rest of her life? The rest of her life? She was owned now, owned until she became old and ugly, no longer wanted in the bed of a Master. How many Masters would she have, before that day came? How many times would she stand on the auction block?
Honeycunt, as they shared the narrow little bed in the slave kennels, had told her about her fear of that day arriving, of being cast out into the street, free; free to starve, free to be homeless, free to die.
She walked over to the sundial in the garden. Almost time for her to be collared. The overseer, herself a slave, had allowed her some time to explore the gardens. But now she had to return to the Master’s study, where the steel collar would be locked around her neck, permanently locked, not to be removed until that fateful day when an old slave woman would be put out on the street, like a broken chair, property no longer fit for purpose. Would He want to brand her? Many of the slaves at the sale had been branded, some more than once. Did the Master brand his slaves? Did He use a white-hot branding iron to indelibly make His mark on the breast, the buttock, the mound of a screaming, sobbing slave girl? Did He mark his property that way? Would she scream in agony, as the smell of her burning flesh filled her nostrils?
The unnamed slave, once known as Michelle, straightened her back, pulled back her shoulders, and walked determinedly to the house, to be collared. There was no point in worrying about these things, they were not her concern.
She was property!
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Three lengths of cotton.
“Three lengths of cotton,” I laid the three pieces of cheap cotton, each two yards long by one yard wide, on the crude table in front of the village chief. For a moment the girl’s eyes flashed defiance, and she took a deep breath as if she was about to protest. “A sailor’s knife,” I laid the folding knife on top of the cotton, “and, as a token of my respect, please accept this as a gift.” The chief almost snatched the small bottle of rough Spanish brandy from my hand.
The defiance was gone. The girl’s face had resumed its look of blank resignation, her eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing, her magnificent breasts rising and falling with each deep breath.
Her mother had spent the morning preparing her. As she washed her daughter, prepared her hair, applied the special ointment that dissolved the hair at groin and armpits to make the girl smooth as the WaHindi and the Mzungu liked them, she had sung, in a sad, low voice, the song the women sang as they prepared a body for burial. As she lovingly oiled her daughter’s body, she entrusted her soul to the ancestors. For her, and for the rest of her family, Tombi was already dead.
The girl let out a low moan as Abdullah appeared, his arms full of chains. Her eyes flashed, and she inhaled sharply as he tore the small antelope skin apron from around her waist, leaving her completely naked. Her breathing became more ragged, her eyes wide with terror and despair as he locked the rough iron collar around her throat, his hands sliding over her breasts as he cuffed first one wrist, then the other. She straightened her back to compensate for the weight of the chains connected to collar and cuffs as he knelt to attach the cuffs to her ankles. A soft, stifled sob escaped her lips as she realized that she would have to walk, chained like this, for many, many days before the slave caravan reached the big water, where she and the other slaves would be taken in big canoes to the unknown. Nobody knew what happened there. Nobody had ever returned.
She stumbled over her chains, not for the last time, as Abdullah tugged at her neck chain, leading her next to the rest of the slave caravan. Men, women and children, all chained as she was. All naked. The walking dead.
Behind her, her mother led the sombre dirge for the dead. Leading the mourning for her dead daughter. The chief selected a length of cotton, giving it to one of his attendants, who presented it to the mourning woman, together with the apron her daughter had worn. The chief busied himself, using his new knife to dig the cork from the bottle of brandy.
The living dead moved off, in a rattle of chains, in a cloud of dust, misery and despair, to the next village, on the way to the coast.
Photo by Jon Barry for Domai
“Three lengths of cotton,” I laid the three pieces of cheap cotton, each two yards long by one yard wide, on the crude table in front of the village chief. For a moment the girl’s eyes flashed defiance, and she took a deep breath as if she was about to protest. “A sailor’s knife,” I laid the folding knife on top of the cotton, “and, as a token of my respect, please accept this as a gift.” The chief almost snatched the small bottle of rough Spanish brandy from my hand.
The defiance was gone. The girl’s face had resumed its look of blank resignation, her eyes staring straight ahead, unseeing, her magnificent breasts rising and falling with each deep breath.
Her mother had spent the morning preparing her. As she washed her daughter, prepared her hair, applied the special ointment that dissolved the hair at groin and armpits to make the girl smooth as the WaHindi and the Mzungu liked them, she had sung, in a sad, low voice, the song the women sang as they prepared a body for burial. As she lovingly oiled her daughter’s body, she entrusted her soul to the ancestors. For her, and for the rest of her family, Tombi was already dead.
The girl let out a low moan as Abdullah appeared, his arms full of chains. Her eyes flashed, and she inhaled sharply as he tore the small antelope skin apron from around her waist, leaving her completely naked. Her breathing became more ragged, her eyes wide with terror and despair as he locked the rough iron collar around her throat, his hands sliding over her breasts as he cuffed first one wrist, then the other. She straightened her back to compensate for the weight of the chains connected to collar and cuffs as he knelt to attach the cuffs to her ankles. A soft, stifled sob escaped her lips as she realized that she would have to walk, chained like this, for many, many days before the slave caravan reached the big water, where she and the other slaves would be taken in big canoes to the unknown. Nobody knew what happened there. Nobody had ever returned.
She stumbled over her chains, not for the last time, as Abdullah tugged at her neck chain, leading her next to the rest of the slave caravan. Men, women and children, all chained as she was. All naked. The walking dead.
Behind her, her mother led the sombre dirge for the dead. Leading the mourning for her dead daughter. The chief selected a length of cotton, giving it to one of his attendants, who presented it to the mourning woman, together with the apron her daughter had worn. The chief busied himself, using his new knife to dig the cork from the bottle of brandy.
The living dead moved off, in a rattle of chains, in a cloud of dust, misery and despair, to the next village, on the way to the coast.
Photo by Jon Barry for Domai
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
To the auction block.
“It’s only a party, and it’s only for a week. If it really doesn’t work, I can always just leave! It’s just a game!”
Sonya recited this little mantra to herself as her husband led her to the auction block. She knew most of the people at the party, and, of course, she was not the only wife who would be sold that evening. It was just a fun thing, a long-term wife swapping event. Still, she was naked, being led to the block by a rope around her neck.
She and James had watched the first two sales. First had been Mia, a pretty twenty-year-old who had been married for only six months. She had been sold to one of the long-term members, known as the Whipmaster. Sonya had no doubt that the girl would soon find out why he was called that.
Liz was next. She was five months pregnant, glowing, proud of her bump. She flirted with the bidders, her husband watching, proudly, as she sold for four hundred and sixty dollars.
That was why this was more than simply a wife swapping game. She, and the others, were being sold as slaves. As such they were subject to punishment, and to use beyond casual fucking. They had all agreed to that. Husbands and wives had signed contracts committing the slaves, mostly wives, although there were two husbands for sale, to a week of service with very few limits as to what could be expected of them. She had enjoyed the evening so far. The viewing had lasted for an hour. She had loved every minute of it. Just the thought of standing there, naked, on display to everybody, her body available to be touched, stroked, probed by prospective buyers, not to mention casual voyeurs, had her wet and panting. Yet, now, as she was led to the auction block, to be sold, she was getting cold feet.
She was starting to realise what it must have felt like to be a slave, a real slave. To be helpless. To be totally at the mercy of fate. She gave the auctioneer a weak smile. She knew Ted well, had fucked him a few times. “Ladies and gentlemen! Lot three is an item well known to many of us. Sonya, twenty-nine years old, experienced, skilled. I can attest to the excellence of her blowjobs. She has a tight cunt, the product of daily exercises, and a delicious arse. Now, for the first time, you have the opportunity to own this delightful object. You have the opportunity to use it in any way you like. What am I bid?”
Part of her was appalled at the crudity of his presentation, another part was flattered by it. The bids came in, he continued his patter. She smiled at bidders. Geoff was leading the charge. She liked Geoff, and his wife Amy, who seemed to be encouraging him. A threesome with them would be a lot of fun. She relaxed, started showing off, flirting. “Four hundred! Any advance on four hundred? Four ten for this deliciously fuckable object? Four ten I have, any advance on four ten? Going once! Going twice! Sold to the gentleman in the grey suit!”
Sonya looked around. “Grey suit? Geoff was wearing a leather jacket. Who had a grey suit?” Her eyes frantically scanned the bidders. Saw a man in a grey suit coming forward. A total stranger! She gave James a despairing look. He smiled. “This is what you wanted. Enjoy!”
Sonya felt suddenly frightened. James collected his money from the stranger, handed him the rope that was tied around her neck. “Enjoy!”
The man returned the smile. “I shall. And so, I am sure, will the pack.” He led her off, to an unknown fate.
“For a week, just for a week.” The mantra went around and around in her head. “Just for a week. I can take anything for a week, can’t I”
“It’s only a party, and it’s only for a week. If it really doesn’t work, I can always just leave! It’s just a game!”
Sonya recited this little mantra to herself as her husband led her to the auction block. She knew most of the people at the party, and, of course, she was not the only wife who would be sold that evening. It was just a fun thing, a long-term wife swapping event. Still, she was naked, being led to the block by a rope around her neck.
She and James had watched the first two sales. First had been Mia, a pretty twenty-year-old who had been married for only six months. She had been sold to one of the long-term members, known as the Whipmaster. Sonya had no doubt that the girl would soon find out why he was called that.
Liz was next. She was five months pregnant, glowing, proud of her bump. She flirted with the bidders, her husband watching, proudly, as she sold for four hundred and sixty dollars.
That was why this was more than simply a wife swapping game. She, and the others, were being sold as slaves. As such they were subject to punishment, and to use beyond casual fucking. They had all agreed to that. Husbands and wives had signed contracts committing the slaves, mostly wives, although there were two husbands for sale, to a week of service with very few limits as to what could be expected of them. She had enjoyed the evening so far. The viewing had lasted for an hour. She had loved every minute of it. Just the thought of standing there, naked, on display to everybody, her body available to be touched, stroked, probed by prospective buyers, not to mention casual voyeurs, had her wet and panting. Yet, now, as she was led to the auction block, to be sold, she was getting cold feet.
She was starting to realise what it must have felt like to be a slave, a real slave. To be helpless. To be totally at the mercy of fate. She gave the auctioneer a weak smile. She knew Ted well, had fucked him a few times. “Ladies and gentlemen! Lot three is an item well known to many of us. Sonya, twenty-nine years old, experienced, skilled. I can attest to the excellence of her blowjobs. She has a tight cunt, the product of daily exercises, and a delicious arse. Now, for the first time, you have the opportunity to own this delightful object. You have the opportunity to use it in any way you like. What am I bid?”
Part of her was appalled at the crudity of his presentation, another part was flattered by it. The bids came in, he continued his patter. She smiled at bidders. Geoff was leading the charge. She liked Geoff, and his wife Amy, who seemed to be encouraging him. A threesome with them would be a lot of fun. She relaxed, started showing off, flirting. “Four hundred! Any advance on four hundred? Four ten for this deliciously fuckable object? Four ten I have, any advance on four ten? Going once! Going twice! Sold to the gentleman in the grey suit!”
Sonya looked around. “Grey suit? Geoff was wearing a leather jacket. Who had a grey suit?” Her eyes frantically scanned the bidders. Saw a man in a grey suit coming forward. A total stranger! She gave James a despairing look. He smiled. “This is what you wanted. Enjoy!”
Sonya felt suddenly frightened. James collected his money from the stranger, handed him the rope that was tied around her neck. “Enjoy!”
The man returned the smile. “I shall. And so, I am sure, will the pack.” He led her off, to an unknown fate.
“For a week, just for a week.” The mantra went around and around in her head. “Just for a week. I can take anything for a week, can’t I”
M
montycrusto
Guest
Great story. I’m glad I wore my grey suit! Sonya balked at getting into the trunk of my car, I had to use the electric goad a couple of times. She didn’t like the fat ball-gag I stuffed into her mouth either, and protested when I buckled it tightly behind her neck. But she’ll learn! There’s so much worse to come.
twonines
LIMERICUS
The sooner she learns that complaint and protest bring inevitably painful consequences, the better. Hopefully, she is a quicker learner than a certain Rebel Leader!Great story. I’m glad I wore my grey suit! Sonya balked at getting into the trunk of my car, I had to use the electric goad a couple of times. She didn’t like the fat ball-gag I stuffed into her mouth either, and protested when I buckled it tightly behind her neck. But she’ll learn! There’s so much worse to come.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Used
Slaves have no rights. They are objects; property to be used by their owners, in any way and at any time.
Emma had been forced into slavery by debt, by her love for fine clothes and expensive accessories. Finally, it had all caught up with her, the myriad credit cards, the juggling of funds to temporarily placate creditors. Inevitably, goods were repossessed, or sold to repay debts, but the proceeds were sadly insufficient. Eventually, only one asset remained. Her tight young body.
Emma’s owner was not a kind man. She no longer had any concerns about fine clothing. Clothes, of any kind, were but a distant memory. She, and the four other slaves in his collection, were permanently naked. His slaves were kept in chains, permanently. Never for a moment was there freedom of movement. They worked long, long hours; hard, physical, menial work. Work that, together with a sparse diet, kept their bodies, his property, hard and fit, the way he liked it. Above all, that property existed to assuage his lust, no matter where, or what the object was doing at the time.
Emma was bent over, cleaning rust off an assortment of little fittings. It was painstaking work, requiring many hours bent over the bucket of cleaning fluid, always on her feet, always bent over. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was allowed to interrupt her work. Quality control was strict, the slightest speck of rust on a fitting resulted in punishment. Painful, humiliating punishment. The whip and the cane were the least of the punishments, her owner was inventive, devising many interesting and painful ways to discipline his property.
A hand grabbed a handful of her hair! His hand! She dared not pause in her work, not even for this. She was, after all, merely an object he was using to relieve his need. She continued cleaning rust off the bolt in her hand. Her muscles contracted, instinctively, as she felt the pressure. “Not there again!” She thought. “Not there! It is so sore still!”
He forced his way through the resistance of the ring of muscle, deep into her. Whimpering softly with pain and shame, she carried on working. She would do anything to avoid more punishment. He seemed to take forever, grunting as he conquered her. Eventually there was the hot spurt, deep inside her, the emptiness of his withdrawal. She turned her head slightly, her mouth open, accepting him for cleaning. She tasted him, tasted herself, completed that task without interrupting her work.
She carried on with her task, aware of the warm trickle of his juices leaking from her, running down her thigh. She carried on working. She was an object.
She was an object that was fit for purpose, an object that had been used for that purpose.
Until next time.
Slaves have no rights. They are objects; property to be used by their owners, in any way and at any time.
Emma had been forced into slavery by debt, by her love for fine clothes and expensive accessories. Finally, it had all caught up with her, the myriad credit cards, the juggling of funds to temporarily placate creditors. Inevitably, goods were repossessed, or sold to repay debts, but the proceeds were sadly insufficient. Eventually, only one asset remained. Her tight young body.
Emma’s owner was not a kind man. She no longer had any concerns about fine clothing. Clothes, of any kind, were but a distant memory. She, and the four other slaves in his collection, were permanently naked. His slaves were kept in chains, permanently. Never for a moment was there freedom of movement. They worked long, long hours; hard, physical, menial work. Work that, together with a sparse diet, kept their bodies, his property, hard and fit, the way he liked it. Above all, that property existed to assuage his lust, no matter where, or what the object was doing at the time.
Emma was bent over, cleaning rust off an assortment of little fittings. It was painstaking work, requiring many hours bent over the bucket of cleaning fluid, always on her feet, always bent over. Nothing, absolutely nothing, was allowed to interrupt her work. Quality control was strict, the slightest speck of rust on a fitting resulted in punishment. Painful, humiliating punishment. The whip and the cane were the least of the punishments, her owner was inventive, devising many interesting and painful ways to discipline his property.
A hand grabbed a handful of her hair! His hand! She dared not pause in her work, not even for this. She was, after all, merely an object he was using to relieve his need. She continued cleaning rust off the bolt in her hand. Her muscles contracted, instinctively, as she felt the pressure. “Not there again!” She thought. “Not there! It is so sore still!”
He forced his way through the resistance of the ring of muscle, deep into her. Whimpering softly with pain and shame, she carried on working. She would do anything to avoid more punishment. He seemed to take forever, grunting as he conquered her. Eventually there was the hot spurt, deep inside her, the emptiness of his withdrawal. She turned her head slightly, her mouth open, accepting him for cleaning. She tasted him, tasted herself, completed that task without interrupting her work.
She carried on with her task, aware of the warm trickle of his juices leaking from her, running down her thigh. She carried on working. She was an object.
She was an object that was fit for purpose, an object that had been used for that purpose.
Until next time.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Private Sale
Simone concentrated on keeping her features impassive, on imagining that this was happening to someone else, that Simone was comfortably cuddled in the narrow little bed in the kennels that had been hers ever since she could remember. She walked slowly, sensuously, into the sitting room, her nostrils filled with the scent of the perfumed oil that made her body gleam like a precious object.
There were more than a dozen people in the room, all formally dressed, sipping drinks and chatting. Her mother was there, one of several slaves serving drinks and canapés, still elegant and beautiful despite her age; dressed in the normal maid’s uniform, a diaphanous tunic that left the right breast bare, and high heels. Moira flashed her a quick look of love and sympathy.
Simone knew what she had to do. Circulate among the guests, giving them ample opportunity to admire and examine, as intimately as they wished, the body they were vying to purchase. She knew many of them; men and women who had enjoyed the use of her body. She smiled at an elderly gentleman, remembering his touch, the trouble he had gone to in order to ensure that she, too, enjoyed their encounters. She bowed her head when the Master came up to her, his hand sliding possessively down her back and cupping a buttock.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I have invited you here this evening to bid for this superb property. Born and raised in this house, she has graced my collection and brought pleasure to many,” he smiled, “some of whom are present this evening. Sale will be by auction, with immediate transfer of the property. Please feel free to examine the goods prior to the sale, which will take place in one hour. Thank you.” He squeezed her buttock. “You look quite magnificent,” he said softly, “go and circulate.” She bobbed her head in acknowledgement.
“Why are you selling me?” She wanted to ask. “What have I done to deserve this? To be taken away from everything I know, the home I grew up in, my mother, my friends,” she glanced at him, “the man I love!” Soft elegant hands stroked her breast. Lady Simmonds, who had more than once whipped her until she fainted. “You watched me grow, waited patiently until I was ready. You took my virginities. Gently, lovingly; teaching me that even a slave could rise to the heights of pleasure. Yet, now you are selling me, as is your right. After all, I am but flesh, a decorative toy.”
“You look absolutely lovely this evening.” She liked the old gentleman. He was polite and kind, even to slaves. Many times, he had taken her to heights of rapture, And to the depths of agony! His artistry with a cane was legendary, an artistry he enjoyed exhibiting on a fine canvas. Her buttocks clenched involuntarily at the thought. Others touched her, stroked her. Fingers penetrated her. Soft red lips closed around her nipple, white teeth nibbling at the nub, sending waves of pleasure through her body. The little redhead’s eyes, green as a mountain pool, looked into hers. She knew the petite, creamy gymnast’s body only too well, to their mutual pleasure. “Papa told me I could have whatever I wanted for my birthday,” the girl whispered, “guess what I asked for?”
Simpkins, the butler, auctioneer for the evening, stepped onto the low platform by the bay window. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen!” Simone took a deep breath, blinked back her tears, and glided gracefully to the platform, standing demurely next to the butler. I present to you this fine property, to be sold this evening. “Yes, I am property, prime flesh, a chattel. Do you still remember the little girl you read bedtime stories? Christopher Robin was my favourite. Will you miss me? Or am I really no more than property to you.” Across the room, her mother smiled encouragingly.
“What am I bid, my lords, ladies and gentlemen? Shall we start at ten thousand?”
Simone concentrated on keeping her features impassive, on imagining that this was happening to someone else, that Simone was comfortably cuddled in the narrow little bed in the kennels that had been hers ever since she could remember. She walked slowly, sensuously, into the sitting room, her nostrils filled with the scent of the perfumed oil that made her body gleam like a precious object.
There were more than a dozen people in the room, all formally dressed, sipping drinks and chatting. Her mother was there, one of several slaves serving drinks and canapés, still elegant and beautiful despite her age; dressed in the normal maid’s uniform, a diaphanous tunic that left the right breast bare, and high heels. Moira flashed her a quick look of love and sympathy.
Simone knew what she had to do. Circulate among the guests, giving them ample opportunity to admire and examine, as intimately as they wished, the body they were vying to purchase. She knew many of them; men and women who had enjoyed the use of her body. She smiled at an elderly gentleman, remembering his touch, the trouble he had gone to in order to ensure that she, too, enjoyed their encounters. She bowed her head when the Master came up to her, his hand sliding possessively down her back and cupping a buttock.
“My lords, ladies and gentlemen. I have invited you here this evening to bid for this superb property. Born and raised in this house, she has graced my collection and brought pleasure to many,” he smiled, “some of whom are present this evening. Sale will be by auction, with immediate transfer of the property. Please feel free to examine the goods prior to the sale, which will take place in one hour. Thank you.” He squeezed her buttock. “You look quite magnificent,” he said softly, “go and circulate.” She bobbed her head in acknowledgement.
“Why are you selling me?” She wanted to ask. “What have I done to deserve this? To be taken away from everything I know, the home I grew up in, my mother, my friends,” she glanced at him, “the man I love!” Soft elegant hands stroked her breast. Lady Simmonds, who had more than once whipped her until she fainted. “You watched me grow, waited patiently until I was ready. You took my virginities. Gently, lovingly; teaching me that even a slave could rise to the heights of pleasure. Yet, now you are selling me, as is your right. After all, I am but flesh, a decorative toy.”
“You look absolutely lovely this evening.” She liked the old gentleman. He was polite and kind, even to slaves. Many times, he had taken her to heights of rapture, And to the depths of agony! His artistry with a cane was legendary, an artistry he enjoyed exhibiting on a fine canvas. Her buttocks clenched involuntarily at the thought. Others touched her, stroked her. Fingers penetrated her. Soft red lips closed around her nipple, white teeth nibbling at the nub, sending waves of pleasure through her body. The little redhead’s eyes, green as a mountain pool, looked into hers. She knew the petite, creamy gymnast’s body only too well, to their mutual pleasure. “Papa told me I could have whatever I wanted for my birthday,” the girl whispered, “guess what I asked for?”
Simpkins, the butler, auctioneer for the evening, stepped onto the low platform by the bay window. “My lords, ladies and gentlemen!” Simone took a deep breath, blinked back her tears, and glided gracefully to the platform, standing demurely next to the butler. I present to you this fine property, to be sold this evening. “Yes, I am property, prime flesh, a chattel. Do you still remember the little girl you read bedtime stories? Christopher Robin was my favourite. Will you miss me? Or am I really no more than property to you.” Across the room, her mother smiled encouragingly.
“What am I bid, my lords, ladies and gentlemen? Shall we start at ten thousand?”
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Fear and Expectation
“Go into the study, assume the position, and wait. You can contemplate your punishment and reflect on the consequences of your behaviour.”
Heidi walked slowly, anxiously to the study. She removed her shift, put her hair up in two small buns as required for punishment, and arranged the chairs. She knelt on the chair, her hands on the other. She fixed her eyes on the knot in the floorboards, as the Master required. She was very aware that anybody walking past the study would have an unobstructed view of her vagina and anus. She was even more aware of her breasts hanging free, totally vulnerable.
Time passed slowly. In reality she had no way of knowing how long she had been kneeling there, but it seemed like hours. “Please, Master, please just come, hurt me, and get it over with. Please!” Her thoughts echoed inside her head, bouncing around. “I mean, it wasn’t such a terrible offence. Okay, so I dropped the glass of port into the guest’s lap, but he startled me, shoving his fingers up my pussy as I handed him the glass. Anybody would have dropped it!” The muscles in her buttocks started jumping involuntarily, perhaps in memory of previous punishments, of excruciating canings, the slicing of thin rawhide whips, of electrical cord, of heavy paddles that bruised wide and deep. “Please don’t let him whip my tits again! Please, not that!” A dozen strokes of a thin cane to her breasts had reduced her to incoherent screams and sobs. The pain had lasted for weeks. “If only he wasn’t so inventive!”
Time dragged on. Her imagination tortured her, conjuring up ever more painful punishments.
She heard his footsteps, whimpered involuntarily in anticipation of the pain to come. She desperately wanted to look, to see what implement of torture he was carrying. She felt his breath on her back; closed her eyes in fearful anticipation. The kiss, gently applied to the back of her neck, startled her! She screamed! She dared not move. That, she knew, would only aggravate the punishment. His lips marched down her spine, feather light. “Get on with it! Hurt me! Get it over with!” His lips reached the valley between her buttocks, explored it. Found the little rosebud. She whimpered at the touch, almost screamed at the touch of his tongue, at its insistent probing. Prodding! Licking! “Get on with it, for God’s sake!”
The caresses stopped! She steeled herself for the pain. His beard tickled her ear. “I think we need to go to bed, don’t you?” His whisper was husky. “Come!” He raised her from the chair. Holding her hand, as if he were her lover, he led her to his bed.
Her buttocks twitched in anticipation; not, now, of pain to come, rather in pleasurable anticipation of a long, slow, loving buggering.
“Go into the study, assume the position, and wait. You can contemplate your punishment and reflect on the consequences of your behaviour.”
Heidi walked slowly, anxiously to the study. She removed her shift, put her hair up in two small buns as required for punishment, and arranged the chairs. She knelt on the chair, her hands on the other. She fixed her eyes on the knot in the floorboards, as the Master required. She was very aware that anybody walking past the study would have an unobstructed view of her vagina and anus. She was even more aware of her breasts hanging free, totally vulnerable.
Time passed slowly. In reality she had no way of knowing how long she had been kneeling there, but it seemed like hours. “Please, Master, please just come, hurt me, and get it over with. Please!” Her thoughts echoed inside her head, bouncing around. “I mean, it wasn’t such a terrible offence. Okay, so I dropped the glass of port into the guest’s lap, but he startled me, shoving his fingers up my pussy as I handed him the glass. Anybody would have dropped it!” The muscles in her buttocks started jumping involuntarily, perhaps in memory of previous punishments, of excruciating canings, the slicing of thin rawhide whips, of electrical cord, of heavy paddles that bruised wide and deep. “Please don’t let him whip my tits again! Please, not that!” A dozen strokes of a thin cane to her breasts had reduced her to incoherent screams and sobs. The pain had lasted for weeks. “If only he wasn’t so inventive!”
Time dragged on. Her imagination tortured her, conjuring up ever more painful punishments.
She heard his footsteps, whimpered involuntarily in anticipation of the pain to come. She desperately wanted to look, to see what implement of torture he was carrying. She felt his breath on her back; closed her eyes in fearful anticipation. The kiss, gently applied to the back of her neck, startled her! She screamed! She dared not move. That, she knew, would only aggravate the punishment. His lips marched down her spine, feather light. “Get on with it! Hurt me! Get it over with!” His lips reached the valley between her buttocks, explored it. Found the little rosebud. She whimpered at the touch, almost screamed at the touch of his tongue, at its insistent probing. Prodding! Licking! “Get on with it, for God’s sake!”
The caresses stopped! She steeled herself for the pain. His beard tickled her ear. “I think we need to go to bed, don’t you?” His whisper was husky. “Come!” He raised her from the chair. Holding her hand, as if he were her lover, he led her to his bed.
Her buttocks twitched in anticipation; not, now, of pain to come, rather in pleasurable anticipation of a long, slow, loving buggering.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Tropical heat!
Laura and Jane walked along the beach, splashing through the shallows, Laura talking twenty to the dozen. The tropical water was warm, silky. Her body was still supersensitive, her skin tingling after multiple orgasms. She was babbling enthusiastically. This was such a wonderful, liberating place!
Jane listened to her new friend’s account. She was still a bit shy, still clung to a symbolic garment, albeit just a headband. She, too, had a story to tell. Of an elderly gentleman, and he was a gentleman, who had approached her at the bar last night. Both of them had been formally dressed, by the standards of Paradise; she in a filmy silk sarong low on her hips, he in a heavier cotton kikoi. She liked the look of him. He was not young, at least seventy, if not more, still quite well built, handsome in a distinguished way. “I know we have not been introduced, but this is Paradise, after all. That slight gap between your top teeth fascinates me, I can’t take my eyes off it. It arouses all kinds of fantasies.” His voice was warm, deep, cultured. He glanced down at the growing tent in his kikoi.
Jane blushed! His meaning was clear. Could she? She had come to Paradise fully aware of the local customs, yet, did he want her here? Now? Her eyes flicked around the room. People chatting, laughing, a normal club bar scene. Well almost. Two women, naked, in a passionate embrace. A man sucking at a woman’s nipple, two couples sitting on a couch, chatting, one of the women sitting on her partner’s lap, his penis deeply socketed in her anus. Her eyes dropped to the tented kikoi; “Here? Now?”
He smiled. “If you wish. Only if you feel comfortable.” The blush spread to the tops of her breasts; she was on fire! “Hell, no! I don’t feel comfortable, giving a blowjob to a total stranger with more than fifty people around us. Do I wish to? Fuck! Yes!” She sank to her knees, twitched the kikoi from around his waist. Her tongue went out, licking the drop of salty, clear fluid from the tip. She was lost!
Laura was babbling on. “Three of them! Young enough to be my sons. Such enthusiasm, such energy, such stamina! Such inventiveness! Right there! On the beach! People came to watch!” She laughed, shaking her mop of auburn hair. “Well, I wasn’t exactly quiet! They could hear me miles away! I do not cum quietly!” Laura was clearly still on an orgasmic high. Jane smiled, still half lost in her own thoughts. “You know,” Laura’s voice had changed, gone suddenly husky, “Jane, that gap between your teeth, it…it…Have you ever, ever thought about, oh fuck, I’m stuttering like a little girl! Have you ever thought about a sixty-nine? With another woman? Like me? Now? There’s that nice smooth rock over there. In the shade. Please?”
Jane took her hand, turning up the beach. “I’ll go on top. First one to cum buys the drinks tonight.”
Paradise!
Laura and Jane walked along the beach, splashing through the shallows, Laura talking twenty to the dozen. The tropical water was warm, silky. Her body was still supersensitive, her skin tingling after multiple orgasms. She was babbling enthusiastically. This was such a wonderful, liberating place!
Jane listened to her new friend’s account. She was still a bit shy, still clung to a symbolic garment, albeit just a headband. She, too, had a story to tell. Of an elderly gentleman, and he was a gentleman, who had approached her at the bar last night. Both of them had been formally dressed, by the standards of Paradise; she in a filmy silk sarong low on her hips, he in a heavier cotton kikoi. She liked the look of him. He was not young, at least seventy, if not more, still quite well built, handsome in a distinguished way. “I know we have not been introduced, but this is Paradise, after all. That slight gap between your top teeth fascinates me, I can’t take my eyes off it. It arouses all kinds of fantasies.” His voice was warm, deep, cultured. He glanced down at the growing tent in his kikoi.
Jane blushed! His meaning was clear. Could she? She had come to Paradise fully aware of the local customs, yet, did he want her here? Now? Her eyes flicked around the room. People chatting, laughing, a normal club bar scene. Well almost. Two women, naked, in a passionate embrace. A man sucking at a woman’s nipple, two couples sitting on a couch, chatting, one of the women sitting on her partner’s lap, his penis deeply socketed in her anus. Her eyes dropped to the tented kikoi; “Here? Now?”
He smiled. “If you wish. Only if you feel comfortable.” The blush spread to the tops of her breasts; she was on fire! “Hell, no! I don’t feel comfortable, giving a blowjob to a total stranger with more than fifty people around us. Do I wish to? Fuck! Yes!” She sank to her knees, twitched the kikoi from around his waist. Her tongue went out, licking the drop of salty, clear fluid from the tip. She was lost!
Laura was babbling on. “Three of them! Young enough to be my sons. Such enthusiasm, such energy, such stamina! Such inventiveness! Right there! On the beach! People came to watch!” She laughed, shaking her mop of auburn hair. “Well, I wasn’t exactly quiet! They could hear me miles away! I do not cum quietly!” Laura was clearly still on an orgasmic high. Jane smiled, still half lost in her own thoughts. “You know,” Laura’s voice had changed, gone suddenly husky, “Jane, that gap between your teeth, it…it…Have you ever, ever thought about, oh fuck, I’m stuttering like a little girl! Have you ever thought about a sixty-nine? With another woman? Like me? Now? There’s that nice smooth rock over there. In the shade. Please?”
Jane took her hand, turning up the beach. “I’ll go on top. First one to cum buys the drinks tonight.”
Paradise!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Anal in Paradise
It was Sandy’s first day in Paradise. It had taken her many months to finally make the booking, but here she was! Paradise was not cheap; in fact, it was damned expensive. And then there was the bold, underlined phrase in the Terms and Conditions. “By making this reservation you acknowledge that ‘No’ is not part of the lexicon in Paradise.”
Paradise certainly lived up to its reputation. She and the other arrivals were ferried from the flying boat by a large oared barge. The oarsmen (People? Persons?), there were eight of them, four men and four women, were tanned, strong, and completely naked. She stared openly at the play of muscles as they laboured against the breeze, while their passengers sipped their welcome champagne. They were welcomed by scantily clad young men and women; registration formalities were brief and they were shown to their chalets. Sandy’s luggage, such as it was, a few sarongs, toiletries and a couple of books, was carried by a young man pretty enough to be a girl. Certainly, walking behind him, taking in his slim back and beautiful legs, it was difficult to tell the difference.
Her chalet was simple, but very comfortable. She was greeted by a young couple, both wearing no more than a string of beads around their waists. “Good morning, madame,” the boy said, his voice light and friendly. “I am Andreas, and this is Ariadne, my sister. We are your personal servants. We are here to fulfil your slightest wish.” Sandy’s eyes dropped, involuntarily, to their waists, below their waists, both were smooth, Andreas was as neat down there as his sister, whose pert little breasts seemed to beg for a kiss. She blushed, deeply, as the thought ran through her head. “My slightest wish? Dare I? Both of them? I’ve never been with a girl, but…”
Ariadne took her bag, leading her to the bedroom. The bed was huge, easily big enough for three, or more. “Would madame wish to change into something more comfortable? Madame must be hot with all that clothing.” ‘All that clothing’ consisted of a short sundress, thong panties and sandals, but, Sandy supposed, compared to what the girl was wearing she was decidedly overdressed.
Showered, assisted by her two personal attendants, Sandy headed down to the beach. She had decided to fit in with the local vibe, so she was nude, carrying only a small towel for the beach. She lay down in a semi-secluded spot, watching the people on the beach. In some ways it was like a normal nudist beach, until she caught sight of a young man, on his knees, his mouth full of an older man’s cock. A young woman was watching intently, her fingers busy, pleasuring herself. Earlier she had seen the two young people walking, hand in hand, talking and laughing, surveying, as she herself was, the scene on the beach.
Her attention was attracted by a man coming out of the water. She had seen him, swimming back and forth along the beach, for almost an hour. Now he was striding out of the water, like a young Poseidon, an animated classical Greek statue. Except that unlike a Greek statue, he was magnificently endowed. Her stomach twisted as she realised that he was looking straight at her. He altered his course up the beach, coming ever closer. Her eyes focused on his groin, drawn to it like a magnet. She swallowed several times. Was he…?
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.” His voice was deep, with a slight, attractive accent. “I have not noticed you here before. May I ask whether you are new to Paradise?” She turned half on her side, smiling at him, very aware of the penis dangling there. “I arrived this morning, sir.” He smiled; his teeth very white. “Ah. I would have noticed you before had you been here. Your derriere, magnifique!” He seemed concerned. “You are aware of the custom here in Paradise?” She nodded. “I think so. If I am totally naked, as I am, it indicates that I am available.” She swallowed, a mite nervously. “Completely available.”
His smile broadened appreciably. “Merci! I shall prepare.” He walked purposefully to a dispenser on a stand. She had noticed them, scattered about everywhere, and had idly wandered what they were for. Hand sanitiser, perhaps? He squeezed out some substance, stroked his penis to full erection using it. Her eyes widened! He squeezed another blob into his hand. “May I?” He asked, returning to her side. She nodded, unsure of what he was about to do, but aware that ‘No’ was not an acceptable word. “Oh!” She exclaimed as he spread the gel onto her anus. “Oh! I am a virgin…back there. Are you…?” A finger gently, very gently, opened the tight pucker, lubricating the entrance. “Oh!” She said softly. “Please, be gentle.” After all, this was why she had come here. Casual sex. Although she had not expected exactly this. His finger penetrated further. She gasped at the violation, then relaxed. He was gentle. He rose to his feet, fetched more lubricant, his finger probing deeper this time, lubricating further. She looked back over her shoulder, saw his penis lift slightly with each heartbeat.
He straddled her. “May I?” He asked once more. She nodded, blushing. He was going to bugger her, here, on the beach, with people watching, walking past! “Yes, please.”
He was gentle, slowly stretching her. It hurt, but not unbearably, and slowly the pain turned into a form of pleasure. He was gentle, and was clearly very experienced. She felt so full! So full as he slowly probed the depths of her bowels. She submitted totally to his strength and mastery.
She became aware of feet next to her, two pairs of feet. She looked up, into the eyes of the young couple she had seen earlier, the young man who had been… The girl smiled. “That looks so good. The expression on your face is so… And he is magnificent!” Sandy grunted as he bottomed, deep inside her, slid almost all the way out, then slowly back inside her. “It is so amazing.” Sandy’s voice was ragged.
This was surreal! She was having a conversation with two strangers, discussing her buggering by another stranger, as his cock slid, with slowly increasing ease, in and out of her anus. “It’s wonderful! So, so full! So powerful!” Sandy was ascending to another plane. The girl knelt, watching from a distance of a few inches as the penis slid in and out of Sandy’s body. “I want that, bro, I want that. Do you think he will do the same to us? Both of us? Together?” The young man nodded. “God! Yes!” She turned to Sandy. “Would your lover be prepared to… both of us? Do you think?”
Sandy’s breath was coming in ragged gasps now, as her ‘lover’ speeded his pace, sweat dripping from his body in the tropical sun. He was like a steam hammer, tireless. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh god!” Sandy cried out as hot semen spurted deep, deep inside her. The man collapsed on her back, gasping, still deep inside her.
They lay like that for long minutes. He kissed Sandy’s neck, her shoulders, her back as he gently left her, kissing down her spine until the last kiss landed on her still stretched and leaking rosebud. He turned to the young couple. “Oui, but I need some minutes. Perhaps you, or your brother, your mouth. To hasten…” He said no more, as the girl knelt, her mouth open.
Sandy rolled onto her back, her breathing slowing down, as she watched the bobbing head of the girl. This was indeed Paradise! She had two whole weeks here! How would she ever be able to leave?
Paradise!
It was Sandy’s first day in Paradise. It had taken her many months to finally make the booking, but here she was! Paradise was not cheap; in fact, it was damned expensive. And then there was the bold, underlined phrase in the Terms and Conditions. “By making this reservation you acknowledge that ‘No’ is not part of the lexicon in Paradise.”
Paradise certainly lived up to its reputation. She and the other arrivals were ferried from the flying boat by a large oared barge. The oarsmen (People? Persons?), there were eight of them, four men and four women, were tanned, strong, and completely naked. She stared openly at the play of muscles as they laboured against the breeze, while their passengers sipped their welcome champagne. They were welcomed by scantily clad young men and women; registration formalities were brief and they were shown to their chalets. Sandy’s luggage, such as it was, a few sarongs, toiletries and a couple of books, was carried by a young man pretty enough to be a girl. Certainly, walking behind him, taking in his slim back and beautiful legs, it was difficult to tell the difference.
Her chalet was simple, but very comfortable. She was greeted by a young couple, both wearing no more than a string of beads around their waists. “Good morning, madame,” the boy said, his voice light and friendly. “I am Andreas, and this is Ariadne, my sister. We are your personal servants. We are here to fulfil your slightest wish.” Sandy’s eyes dropped, involuntarily, to their waists, below their waists, both were smooth, Andreas was as neat down there as his sister, whose pert little breasts seemed to beg for a kiss. She blushed, deeply, as the thought ran through her head. “My slightest wish? Dare I? Both of them? I’ve never been with a girl, but…”
Ariadne took her bag, leading her to the bedroom. The bed was huge, easily big enough for three, or more. “Would madame wish to change into something more comfortable? Madame must be hot with all that clothing.” ‘All that clothing’ consisted of a short sundress, thong panties and sandals, but, Sandy supposed, compared to what the girl was wearing she was decidedly overdressed.
Showered, assisted by her two personal attendants, Sandy headed down to the beach. She had decided to fit in with the local vibe, so she was nude, carrying only a small towel for the beach. She lay down in a semi-secluded spot, watching the people on the beach. In some ways it was like a normal nudist beach, until she caught sight of a young man, on his knees, his mouth full of an older man’s cock. A young woman was watching intently, her fingers busy, pleasuring herself. Earlier she had seen the two young people walking, hand in hand, talking and laughing, surveying, as she herself was, the scene on the beach.
Her attention was attracted by a man coming out of the water. She had seen him, swimming back and forth along the beach, for almost an hour. Now he was striding out of the water, like a young Poseidon, an animated classical Greek statue. Except that unlike a Greek statue, he was magnificently endowed. Her stomach twisted as she realised that he was looking straight at her. He altered his course up the beach, coming ever closer. Her eyes focused on his groin, drawn to it like a magnet. She swallowed several times. Was he…?
“Good afternoon, mademoiselle.” His voice was deep, with a slight, attractive accent. “I have not noticed you here before. May I ask whether you are new to Paradise?” She turned half on her side, smiling at him, very aware of the penis dangling there. “I arrived this morning, sir.” He smiled; his teeth very white. “Ah. I would have noticed you before had you been here. Your derriere, magnifique!” He seemed concerned. “You are aware of the custom here in Paradise?” She nodded. “I think so. If I am totally naked, as I am, it indicates that I am available.” She swallowed, a mite nervously. “Completely available.”
His smile broadened appreciably. “Merci! I shall prepare.” He walked purposefully to a dispenser on a stand. She had noticed them, scattered about everywhere, and had idly wandered what they were for. Hand sanitiser, perhaps? He squeezed out some substance, stroked his penis to full erection using it. Her eyes widened! He squeezed another blob into his hand. “May I?” He asked, returning to her side. She nodded, unsure of what he was about to do, but aware that ‘No’ was not an acceptable word. “Oh!” She exclaimed as he spread the gel onto her anus. “Oh! I am a virgin…back there. Are you…?” A finger gently, very gently, opened the tight pucker, lubricating the entrance. “Oh!” She said softly. “Please, be gentle.” After all, this was why she had come here. Casual sex. Although she had not expected exactly this. His finger penetrated further. She gasped at the violation, then relaxed. He was gentle. He rose to his feet, fetched more lubricant, his finger probing deeper this time, lubricating further. She looked back over her shoulder, saw his penis lift slightly with each heartbeat.
He straddled her. “May I?” He asked once more. She nodded, blushing. He was going to bugger her, here, on the beach, with people watching, walking past! “Yes, please.”
He was gentle, slowly stretching her. It hurt, but not unbearably, and slowly the pain turned into a form of pleasure. He was gentle, and was clearly very experienced. She felt so full! So full as he slowly probed the depths of her bowels. She submitted totally to his strength and mastery.
She became aware of feet next to her, two pairs of feet. She looked up, into the eyes of the young couple she had seen earlier, the young man who had been… The girl smiled. “That looks so good. The expression on your face is so… And he is magnificent!” Sandy grunted as he bottomed, deep inside her, slid almost all the way out, then slowly back inside her. “It is so amazing.” Sandy’s voice was ragged.
This was surreal! She was having a conversation with two strangers, discussing her buggering by another stranger, as his cock slid, with slowly increasing ease, in and out of her anus. “It’s wonderful! So, so full! So powerful!” Sandy was ascending to another plane. The girl knelt, watching from a distance of a few inches as the penis slid in and out of Sandy’s body. “I want that, bro, I want that. Do you think he will do the same to us? Both of us? Together?” The young man nodded. “God! Yes!” She turned to Sandy. “Would your lover be prepared to… both of us? Do you think?”
Sandy’s breath was coming in ragged gasps now, as her ‘lover’ speeded his pace, sweat dripping from his body in the tropical sun. He was like a steam hammer, tireless. “Oh! Oh! Oh! Oh god!” Sandy cried out as hot semen spurted deep, deep inside her. The man collapsed on her back, gasping, still deep inside her.
They lay like that for long minutes. He kissed Sandy’s neck, her shoulders, her back as he gently left her, kissing down her spine until the last kiss landed on her still stretched and leaking rosebud. He turned to the young couple. “Oui, but I need some minutes. Perhaps you, or your brother, your mouth. To hasten…” He said no more, as the girl knelt, her mouth open.
Sandy rolled onto her back, her breathing slowing down, as she watched the bobbing head of the girl. This was indeed Paradise! She had two whole weeks here! How would she ever be able to leave?
Paradise!
Well, at least she tried.
Nice to see she's going up in the world. Hope the realities of slavery don't run into her too soon.
Who says they can't live long and fulfilling lives, hmm? Propaganda!
Warpstone
Spectator
I like this. Could you continue the story?
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
I generally leave it to the reader's own imagination to decide what happens next. However....
Vladimir_Vladislav
Executioner
The Happiest Slave on The Planet of One Billion Shackled Souls
Nusquam, the cold, unwelcoming, hostile and savage world sitting at the edge of the galaxy. Was I born here or I was brought here by the slavers? I have no chance of possibly remembering. For what I know, I’ve been a slave on this forsaken world for ages. However, I came to realize that I could pride myself with the fact that I might be the happiest or one of the happiest slaves on this planet that shackled and sealed the fate of one billion souls.
My name is Domitilla and I am a slave of The Ternion, the greatest and fiercest empire known to man. Well, at least to the people of this planet. Many of us never really had the chance to explore the stars. Rarely, we would catch a glimpse of visitors. Most of them came here to stay. Others just stumbled upon our world. I fear that one day, even greater empires will reveal themselves from the depths of space and reign terror upon this planet, condemning us to an even worse fate.
For every man on Nusquam, there are about fifteen women. I’ve heard stories that on any other worlds, the number of men and women is about the same. Are we the exception? Are they the exception? Men seem to spend more time looking for partners than women. At least from what I’ve seen, I can’t conclude for sure. So it should make sense for nature to offer the universe more women. Or does it? I don’t know. Probably another question I’ll never get an answer to, for I busy myself with the most beautiful and delicate chore that a slave could do.
I play the harp for my mistresses and their guests. Day and night, I pluck the strings with my delicate fingers, and play beautiful songs to delight those around me. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter who is around me. My mistresses, their guards, some guests, other slaves. I even play the harp for the pets of my mistresses. Some songs I was taught by another slave. Some others, I’ve composed myself. And there are some that I have found in old, ancient scriptures.
The melodies are soothing and the notes play from the heart, although I must admit, sometimes, this harp is my burden. Its strings form the prison that surrounds me and its heavy, metallic bow is the iron heel that stomps over me. I must play perfectly and delight my mistresses. They get easily bored of old songs and they always want to hear new ones. And they are very strict. For every wrong note, they will flog my bare back once. For every long pause, they will flog my bare chest. And for playing a displeasing song, they will torture me an entire night. Luckily, after years of servitude, I have gained a finer grasp of this instrument and a better understanding of the tastes of every mistress in the palace. The harp is my only friend, and my greatest foe. I love her and I hate her.
I did love a fellow human soul once. A beautiful woman. I cannot even remember her name, since she never received one. She had just a number. I would often play her a song or two, to ease her pain and we loved our few, intimate moments, together. Sadly, she passed away, a few years ago. Although, as one of the older slaves told me, when the love of a musician passes away, her soul will be stored in the musician’s instrument. So I play the harp every time I can, so I can remind my one and only love that I’m still here for her. That I still care.
Although, sometimes I play the harp so I can cover the horrifying noises that come from below the palace. The sounds of women screaming in terror and in pain. The sounds of whips cracking against naked bodies. The sounds of metallic carts rolling down the rails, being pushed by enslaved women. The sounds of pickaxes hitting walls and of women moaning in pain. I play louder and louder, so I cannot hear them, but the louder I play, the more my mind struggles to hear them better. Oh, my love… why did you have to disobey your mistress. You could’ve sat by my side, for the rest of our days. But you had to end up in the mines, where you were worked and flogged to death. For the few years we’ve been together, you’ve made me the happiest slave on the planet that held one billion souls in shackles.
According to Ero Curves, the charming lady in these images is Helen Bergstrom.
Nusquam, the cold, unwelcoming, hostile and savage world sitting at the edge of the galaxy. Was I born here or I was brought here by the slavers? I have no chance of possibly remembering. For what I know, I’ve been a slave on this forsaken world for ages. However, I came to realize that I could pride myself with the fact that I might be the happiest or one of the happiest slaves on this planet that shackled and sealed the fate of one billion souls.
My name is Domitilla and I am a slave of The Ternion, the greatest and fiercest empire known to man. Well, at least to the people of this planet. Many of us never really had the chance to explore the stars. Rarely, we would catch a glimpse of visitors. Most of them came here to stay. Others just stumbled upon our world. I fear that one day, even greater empires will reveal themselves from the depths of space and reign terror upon this planet, condemning us to an even worse fate.
For every man on Nusquam, there are about fifteen women. I’ve heard stories that on any other worlds, the number of men and women is about the same. Are we the exception? Are they the exception? Men seem to spend more time looking for partners than women. At least from what I’ve seen, I can’t conclude for sure. So it should make sense for nature to offer the universe more women. Or does it? I don’t know. Probably another question I’ll never get an answer to, for I busy myself with the most beautiful and delicate chore that a slave could do.
I play the harp for my mistresses and their guests. Day and night, I pluck the strings with my delicate fingers, and play beautiful songs to delight those around me. Sometimes, it doesn’t matter who is around me. My mistresses, their guards, some guests, other slaves. I even play the harp for the pets of my mistresses. Some songs I was taught by another slave. Some others, I’ve composed myself. And there are some that I have found in old, ancient scriptures.
The melodies are soothing and the notes play from the heart, although I must admit, sometimes, this harp is my burden. Its strings form the prison that surrounds me and its heavy, metallic bow is the iron heel that stomps over me. I must play perfectly and delight my mistresses. They get easily bored of old songs and they always want to hear new ones. And they are very strict. For every wrong note, they will flog my bare back once. For every long pause, they will flog my bare chest. And for playing a displeasing song, they will torture me an entire night. Luckily, after years of servitude, I have gained a finer grasp of this instrument and a better understanding of the tastes of every mistress in the palace. The harp is my only friend, and my greatest foe. I love her and I hate her.
I did love a fellow human soul once. A beautiful woman. I cannot even remember her name, since she never received one. She had just a number. I would often play her a song or two, to ease her pain and we loved our few, intimate moments, together. Sadly, she passed away, a few years ago. Although, as one of the older slaves told me, when the love of a musician passes away, her soul will be stored in the musician’s instrument. So I play the harp every time I can, so I can remind my one and only love that I’m still here for her. That I still care.
Although, sometimes I play the harp so I can cover the horrifying noises that come from below the palace. The sounds of women screaming in terror and in pain. The sounds of whips cracking against naked bodies. The sounds of metallic carts rolling down the rails, being pushed by enslaved women. The sounds of pickaxes hitting walls and of women moaning in pain. I play louder and louder, so I cannot hear them, but the louder I play, the more my mind struggles to hear them better. Oh, my love… why did you have to disobey your mistress. You could’ve sat by my side, for the rest of our days. But you had to end up in the mines, where you were worked and flogged to death. For the few years we’ve been together, you’ve made me the happiest slave on the planet that held one billion souls in shackles.
According to Ero Curves, the charming lady in these images is Helen Bergstrom.
Attachments
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
Vladimir_Vladislav
Executioner
Thank you. I might write a sequel or prequel to it one day.
I'm working on a bigger universe of stories set on planet Nusquam, and these vignettes can serve as a teaser-trailer.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Sold!
“Sold!” The auctioneer’s hammer fell.
Karen smiled happily at the man who had just sold her. “I’ve done it!” She thought, ecstatic! “I’ve done it! There’s no going back now. They all thought I wouldn’t go through with it. I’ve done it!”
Ever since she was a little girl Karen had wanted to be a slave. In her own private world, she saw herself as that. As she grew older, the dream had remained, and become more focused. Not just a slave, but a sex slave. A girl in a harem, existing solely for the pleasure of her master.
When she finished school, she decided that the time had come to let her parents into her dreams. They were at dinner, her mother talking happily about universities and sororities, and reminiscing about her own student days. Her dad was more restrained, she was sure he was thinking about university fees and other expenses.
“Mom, Dad, I don’t want to go to university.” Two pairs of eyebrows shot skywards! Her mother stopped in mid word. “Whyever not?” Her father, as always, spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice low. “You are a straight A student. You have acceptances from three top universities. Why?”
Karen paused, collecting her thoughts. This had to be done right. She took a deep breath. “Because slaves, especially sex slaves, do not need a university education. We need other skills.”
Her mother gasped! “Slave? You want to be a slave? Don’t you know slavery was abolished centuries ago? In any case, you’re white!” Her dad gave his wife an annoyed, surprised look. Karen smiled. There were times when her mother seemed incredibly stupid. “Carry on,” her father said, softly.
“I know lots of people think that the slave trade is long gone, except perhaps for the odd refugee from some benighted Third World country, and then they call it trafficking, but I have done my research. Slavery, especially sex slavery, is alive and well. I’ve been in touch with several dealers,” she smiled at her father, “yes dad, that course in market research you made me do was very useful.” Her father gave her a grim smile, her mother just sobbed. “I have found a good dealer. She says that I am ‘prime flesh’. I sent her photographs. She said that she could easily arrange a private sale, to what she calls a ‘collector’. I don’t want that. I want to be sold at an auction, where there are other slaves, where I will be put on show, inspected, then sold to the highest bidder.”
Her mother buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Her father was calmer. “Okay, let us accept that you are going to go this route, but to be frank, you’re not exactly a sex bomb. What happens if nobody buys you?” His eyes were hard, belying his slightly amused tone. Karen said nothing, smiling. “I mean,” her dad was getting flustered, “you’re quite skinny, and well, I’ve seen boys with bigger boobs. These buyers would want somebody more like a centrespread, surely?”
Keren slowly unbuttoned her shirt, she was bra-less, as usual, a bra being somewhat superfluous. Her parents’ eyes were focused on her chest as she casually exposed herself. “Chris thinks they’re perfect, and so does the dealer. She says there is great demand for girls with boyish figures, especially in Arab countries where they often prefer to use us as boys.” Her father spluttered in indignation, although his eyes remained rivetted on her perfect little a-cups. “How does a man use a girl as a boy?” Her mother’s voice was puzzled. Karen took her mother’s hand, stroking it. “They fuck us in the ass, mom.”
Karen had enjoyed the training. There were four other girls, one of whom, like her, could be described as boyish, and a young man who was decidedly girlish. They spent a lot of time in the gym, toning and shaping their bodies, doing yoga to increase strength and flexibility. They were taught how to serve at table, how to mix and serve drinks and many other things she had not thought would be included in the duties of a sex slave. As none of them were virgins, they spent time on practical sessions, honing their sexual skills. Some of the training was not so pleasant. Discipline was strict, and all of them tasted the whip, and the cane, at some stage of their training. Karen hated the cane! It just hurt! But the whips, the singletail, the floggers, the tawse. Somehow, with those, the pain morphed into a strange, perverse pleasure, leaving her in tears, writhing with pain, but strangely, at the same time wishing for more.
Four of them were selected for the auction in Cyprus. Karen, Helen, the other boyish girl, Christine, who was anything but boyish, and James, the androgynous boy. They flew business class, were whisked through immigration and taken to a secluded, comfortable estate in the countryside. There they were stripped, examined meticulously by the dealer for any blemishes or stray hairs. Subtle makeup was applied, and their bodies were oiled so that they gleamed. Each was given a steel collar with the lot number engraved on it. Karen was wet, dripping by this time. It was going to happen! Soon!
“Hands behind your back!” The handcuffs were cold, hard, unyielding. A frisson of fear ran through her, replaced almost instantly by intense, almost orgasmic excitement as she and others were out into the bright sunshine to the viewing area. There were a couple of dozen other naked figures, each with their hands cuffed behind their backs and each secured to a low plinth by a chain attached to their collars. On each plinth was a neatly printed notice outlining the vital statistics of the slave advertised there. LOT 23. FEMALE, 18. FIRST SALE. The notice went on to specify her height, weight and her skills. EXPERT COCKSUCKER TRAINED TO SERVE BOTH MEN AND WOMEN. ANAL READY. Her name didn’t feature. It was irrelevant. They had been taught that the owner decided on a name for a slave. Karen had ceased to exist.
The viewing was everything Karen, lot 23, had dreamed about. Hands roamed freely over and inside her body. Male hands, female hands. She had only recently learned the joys of girl-on-girl sex, and had developed a taste for it. She was discussed, spoken about as if she couldn’t hear, or understand. Some of the languages used were unintelligible to her, but English and French weren’t. Some of the uses discussed were strange to her, some were tempting, and other were unimaginably obscene. She could feel the moisture leaking out of her at the realisation that nothing was prohibited, that she had absolutely no say in how she was used, or what she was used for. She desperately wanted to touch herself, to pleasure herself, and found herself grinding against the examining hands, desperate for release.
The sales started. The auction was conducted in English. She was astonished at the prices some of the slaves fetched. Huge amounts! How rich were these people? These buyers of flesh? Suddenly it was her turn!
The auctioneer described her, her attributes, her skills, her uses. The price rose quickly! She tried to keep track of the bidders. There seemed to be four main ones. The young couple, who had discussed having her clitoris removed. An enormously fat African, constantly mopping sweat from his face. A hard-faced woman, who had pinched her nipples until the tears came. The last was an elegant Arab, dressed in an immaculate grey suit, his head swathed in a checked headcloth. He had a hawklike face and a neat, grey flecked beard. His eyes were hard, merciless, but she detected little flashes of humour there. He had penetrated her deeply, with three fingers, then offered the fingers to her to lick clean, while causally describing to her the obscenities he would subject her to.
The young couple dropped out. The price rose! She could hardly believe the numbers. Her parents would receive 75% of her selling price. The woman shook her head, she was out. The African mopped his brow. A boy dressed like an old-time page seemed to have an endless supply of fresh white handkerchiefs. The thought of his gross body horrified Karen, but the perversions described to her by the Arab were equally horrifying. Yet? Yet? They were also terribly exciting!
She found herself rooting for the Arab.
“Going once!” It was almost over. She had lost track of the bids, knew only that they were well into six figures. “Going twice!” Her stomach muscles tightened, her vagina, her cunt, she had been told, slaves had cunts, gushed. “And you thought nobody would want to buy me, dad?” She thought. “Oh shit, she had lost track of the bids! Who was the winner?” She looked frantically at the crowd. The Arab’s face was impassive. The African was mopping his face. “Sold! The auctioneer cried!
“Oh shit! Which one is it?” Suddenly she was terrified! “Sold to Sheikh Abdulla ibn Ali ben Salim.” The Arab strode through the crowd to collect his new acquisition. He traced a finger down her spine, his spine now, she thought, his hand stroking the firm curves of her buttocks. “Viens, ma petite chienne. Nous vous régalerons.”
She followed him willingly. Happily! She had achieved her dream! She was a slave, bought and paid for!
“Sold!” The auctioneer’s hammer fell.
Karen smiled happily at the man who had just sold her. “I’ve done it!” She thought, ecstatic! “I’ve done it! There’s no going back now. They all thought I wouldn’t go through with it. I’ve done it!”
Ever since she was a little girl Karen had wanted to be a slave. In her own private world, she saw herself as that. As she grew older, the dream had remained, and become more focused. Not just a slave, but a sex slave. A girl in a harem, existing solely for the pleasure of her master.
When she finished school, she decided that the time had come to let her parents into her dreams. They were at dinner, her mother talking happily about universities and sororities, and reminiscing about her own student days. Her dad was more restrained, she was sure he was thinking about university fees and other expenses.
“Mom, Dad, I don’t want to go to university.” Two pairs of eyebrows shot skywards! Her mother stopped in mid word. “Whyever not?” Her father, as always, spoke slowly, deliberately, his voice low. “You are a straight A student. You have acceptances from three top universities. Why?”
Karen paused, collecting her thoughts. This had to be done right. She took a deep breath. “Because slaves, especially sex slaves, do not need a university education. We need other skills.”
Her mother gasped! “Slave? You want to be a slave? Don’t you know slavery was abolished centuries ago? In any case, you’re white!” Her dad gave his wife an annoyed, surprised look. Karen smiled. There were times when her mother seemed incredibly stupid. “Carry on,” her father said, softly.
“I know lots of people think that the slave trade is long gone, except perhaps for the odd refugee from some benighted Third World country, and then they call it trafficking, but I have done my research. Slavery, especially sex slavery, is alive and well. I’ve been in touch with several dealers,” she smiled at her father, “yes dad, that course in market research you made me do was very useful.” Her father gave her a grim smile, her mother just sobbed. “I have found a good dealer. She says that I am ‘prime flesh’. I sent her photographs. She said that she could easily arrange a private sale, to what she calls a ‘collector’. I don’t want that. I want to be sold at an auction, where there are other slaves, where I will be put on show, inspected, then sold to the highest bidder.”
Her mother buried her face in her hands, her shoulders heaving as she sobbed. Her father was calmer. “Okay, let us accept that you are going to go this route, but to be frank, you’re not exactly a sex bomb. What happens if nobody buys you?” His eyes were hard, belying his slightly amused tone. Karen said nothing, smiling. “I mean,” her dad was getting flustered, “you’re quite skinny, and well, I’ve seen boys with bigger boobs. These buyers would want somebody more like a centrespread, surely?”
Keren slowly unbuttoned her shirt, she was bra-less, as usual, a bra being somewhat superfluous. Her parents’ eyes were focused on her chest as she casually exposed herself. “Chris thinks they’re perfect, and so does the dealer. She says there is great demand for girls with boyish figures, especially in Arab countries where they often prefer to use us as boys.” Her father spluttered in indignation, although his eyes remained rivetted on her perfect little a-cups. “How does a man use a girl as a boy?” Her mother’s voice was puzzled. Karen took her mother’s hand, stroking it. “They fuck us in the ass, mom.”
Karen had enjoyed the training. There were four other girls, one of whom, like her, could be described as boyish, and a young man who was decidedly girlish. They spent a lot of time in the gym, toning and shaping their bodies, doing yoga to increase strength and flexibility. They were taught how to serve at table, how to mix and serve drinks and many other things she had not thought would be included in the duties of a sex slave. As none of them were virgins, they spent time on practical sessions, honing their sexual skills. Some of the training was not so pleasant. Discipline was strict, and all of them tasted the whip, and the cane, at some stage of their training. Karen hated the cane! It just hurt! But the whips, the singletail, the floggers, the tawse. Somehow, with those, the pain morphed into a strange, perverse pleasure, leaving her in tears, writhing with pain, but strangely, at the same time wishing for more.
Four of them were selected for the auction in Cyprus. Karen, Helen, the other boyish girl, Christine, who was anything but boyish, and James, the androgynous boy. They flew business class, were whisked through immigration and taken to a secluded, comfortable estate in the countryside. There they were stripped, examined meticulously by the dealer for any blemishes or stray hairs. Subtle makeup was applied, and their bodies were oiled so that they gleamed. Each was given a steel collar with the lot number engraved on it. Karen was wet, dripping by this time. It was going to happen! Soon!
“Hands behind your back!” The handcuffs were cold, hard, unyielding. A frisson of fear ran through her, replaced almost instantly by intense, almost orgasmic excitement as she and others were out into the bright sunshine to the viewing area. There were a couple of dozen other naked figures, each with their hands cuffed behind their backs and each secured to a low plinth by a chain attached to their collars. On each plinth was a neatly printed notice outlining the vital statistics of the slave advertised there. LOT 23. FEMALE, 18. FIRST SALE. The notice went on to specify her height, weight and her skills. EXPERT COCKSUCKER TRAINED TO SERVE BOTH MEN AND WOMEN. ANAL READY. Her name didn’t feature. It was irrelevant. They had been taught that the owner decided on a name for a slave. Karen had ceased to exist.
The viewing was everything Karen, lot 23, had dreamed about. Hands roamed freely over and inside her body. Male hands, female hands. She had only recently learned the joys of girl-on-girl sex, and had developed a taste for it. She was discussed, spoken about as if she couldn’t hear, or understand. Some of the languages used were unintelligible to her, but English and French weren’t. Some of the uses discussed were strange to her, some were tempting, and other were unimaginably obscene. She could feel the moisture leaking out of her at the realisation that nothing was prohibited, that she had absolutely no say in how she was used, or what she was used for. She desperately wanted to touch herself, to pleasure herself, and found herself grinding against the examining hands, desperate for release.
The sales started. The auction was conducted in English. She was astonished at the prices some of the slaves fetched. Huge amounts! How rich were these people? These buyers of flesh? Suddenly it was her turn!
The auctioneer described her, her attributes, her skills, her uses. The price rose quickly! She tried to keep track of the bidders. There seemed to be four main ones. The young couple, who had discussed having her clitoris removed. An enormously fat African, constantly mopping sweat from his face. A hard-faced woman, who had pinched her nipples until the tears came. The last was an elegant Arab, dressed in an immaculate grey suit, his head swathed in a checked headcloth. He had a hawklike face and a neat, grey flecked beard. His eyes were hard, merciless, but she detected little flashes of humour there. He had penetrated her deeply, with three fingers, then offered the fingers to her to lick clean, while causally describing to her the obscenities he would subject her to.
The young couple dropped out. The price rose! She could hardly believe the numbers. Her parents would receive 75% of her selling price. The woman shook her head, she was out. The African mopped his brow. A boy dressed like an old-time page seemed to have an endless supply of fresh white handkerchiefs. The thought of his gross body horrified Karen, but the perversions described to her by the Arab were equally horrifying. Yet? Yet? They were also terribly exciting!
She found herself rooting for the Arab.
“Going once!” It was almost over. She had lost track of the bids, knew only that they were well into six figures. “Going twice!” Her stomach muscles tightened, her vagina, her cunt, she had been told, slaves had cunts, gushed. “And you thought nobody would want to buy me, dad?” She thought. “Oh shit, she had lost track of the bids! Who was the winner?” She looked frantically at the crowd. The Arab’s face was impassive. The African was mopping his face. “Sold! The auctioneer cried!
“Oh shit! Which one is it?” Suddenly she was terrified! “Sold to Sheikh Abdulla ibn Ali ben Salim.” The Arab strode through the crowd to collect his new acquisition. He traced a finger down her spine, his spine now, she thought, his hand stroking the firm curves of her buttocks. “Viens, ma petite chienne. Nous vous régalerons.”
She followed him willingly. Happily! She had achieved her dream! She was a slave, bought and paid for!
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
I wish I’d had this conversation with my parents when deciding which university to attend! Lucky Karen/anonymous slave…