Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
I guess that’s a kindness but swapping all that opportunity for a mere $40 grand, we know who’s getting a bargain!
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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
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montycrusto
Guest
Typical subbie, it’s all “me, me, me!”
twonines
LIMERICUS
"Topping from the bottom."Typical subbie, it’s all “me, me, me!”
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
How would you feel?
“You! Yes you! The rich woman smirking at us. You with the slave boy carrying your shopping. What is so funny? Do you think we like being here? Standing here naked? Knowing that we are here to be sold to stuck up bitches like you? Would you still think it was amusing if your pretty daughter, the one teasing Brian’s cock to erection, was standing here in my place? If it was her tight pussy being fingered by strangers?”
Anna screamed in her mind, emitting not a sound as she met the eyes of the rich woman. She wished she could shout out the challenge, but she knew that any such gesture would see her screaming out the rest of her life nailed to a cross. Beside her, Brian moaned softly as the girl’s soft fingers coaxed him closer to an unwanted, humiliating but now unavoidable ejaculation.
Their whole village had been enslaved because they could not afford to pay the massive taxes levied by the Emperor. They had tried! They had scraped together everything they had, every scrap of surplus food, keeping barely enough to save them from starvation through the winter. The soldiers had taken everyone! The old, the young, the healthy and the sick. Even old Hildegard, who was so old that nobody knew her real age. There was talk that she could remember, when she could remember anything, a time before the emperors. She too had been stripped naked, chained to a post, although barely able to stand unsupported, her rheumy eyes darting around in terror, her toothless mouth muttering a prayer. A soldier had bought her. He bore the rank of a senior centurion, his armour covered in decorations for valour. His face darkened at the sight of her wrinkled, emaciated body. He dropped a single small coin at the feet of the dealer, waited impatiently as her chains were unlocked before wrapping her in his cloak and carrying her away in his arms.
“Please, my lady, don’t make me do this.” Brian pleaded softly with the aristocratic girl. She smiled at him, a mocking, superior smile. “What are you going to do to stop me, slave?” Brian moaned, trying desperately to control himself. How could this girl do this? Did she have no decency? Yes, he was a slave, but he was still human. He had feelings. He felt pain, humiliation, shame. Her fingers were so soft, so insistent. She was so pretty, so virginal, so cruel! “No, no, no!!!” His mind screamed as his body acted, hot jets of semen spurting past her face to be wasted in the dust of the market. The girl smiled. She reached out a finger, collecting a drop of the creamy liquid from the tip of his penis, smiled at him, and lifted the finger slowly to her lips, her pink tongue licking it clean.
“Octavia!” Her mother’s voice bubbled with laughter. “Do you like him? I’ll buy him for you if you wish. You can have him as a toy. After we’ve had him gelded, of course.”
Brian’s legs buckled. “No!” His mind screamed. “No! Being a slave is bad enough. Being a gelded slave would be unbearable! Please, please say no.”
The girl flounced back to her mother. “I would rather have a puppy, mater. It would be much more fun, and easier to train.”
Anna’s face remained impassive, but her eyes blazed hatred and contempt. “Yes, you spoilt brat. Get a dog! That would suit a bitch like you!”
The two patrician women strolled off, the slave boy at their heels. Anna inhaled sharply, struggling to remain impassive as two fingers penetrated her.
Slaves have no right to dignity.
Artwork by Vanneheim
“You! Yes you! The rich woman smirking at us. You with the slave boy carrying your shopping. What is so funny? Do you think we like being here? Standing here naked? Knowing that we are here to be sold to stuck up bitches like you? Would you still think it was amusing if your pretty daughter, the one teasing Brian’s cock to erection, was standing here in my place? If it was her tight pussy being fingered by strangers?”
Anna screamed in her mind, emitting not a sound as she met the eyes of the rich woman. She wished she could shout out the challenge, but she knew that any such gesture would see her screaming out the rest of her life nailed to a cross. Beside her, Brian moaned softly as the girl’s soft fingers coaxed him closer to an unwanted, humiliating but now unavoidable ejaculation.
Their whole village had been enslaved because they could not afford to pay the massive taxes levied by the Emperor. They had tried! They had scraped together everything they had, every scrap of surplus food, keeping barely enough to save them from starvation through the winter. The soldiers had taken everyone! The old, the young, the healthy and the sick. Even old Hildegard, who was so old that nobody knew her real age. There was talk that she could remember, when she could remember anything, a time before the emperors. She too had been stripped naked, chained to a post, although barely able to stand unsupported, her rheumy eyes darting around in terror, her toothless mouth muttering a prayer. A soldier had bought her. He bore the rank of a senior centurion, his armour covered in decorations for valour. His face darkened at the sight of her wrinkled, emaciated body. He dropped a single small coin at the feet of the dealer, waited impatiently as her chains were unlocked before wrapping her in his cloak and carrying her away in his arms.
“Please, my lady, don’t make me do this.” Brian pleaded softly with the aristocratic girl. She smiled at him, a mocking, superior smile. “What are you going to do to stop me, slave?” Brian moaned, trying desperately to control himself. How could this girl do this? Did she have no decency? Yes, he was a slave, but he was still human. He had feelings. He felt pain, humiliation, shame. Her fingers were so soft, so insistent. She was so pretty, so virginal, so cruel! “No, no, no!!!” His mind screamed as his body acted, hot jets of semen spurting past her face to be wasted in the dust of the market. The girl smiled. She reached out a finger, collecting a drop of the creamy liquid from the tip of his penis, smiled at him, and lifted the finger slowly to her lips, her pink tongue licking it clean.
“Octavia!” Her mother’s voice bubbled with laughter. “Do you like him? I’ll buy him for you if you wish. You can have him as a toy. After we’ve had him gelded, of course.”
Brian’s legs buckled. “No!” His mind screamed. “No! Being a slave is bad enough. Being a gelded slave would be unbearable! Please, please say no.”
The girl flounced back to her mother. “I would rather have a puppy, mater. It would be much more fun, and easier to train.”
Anna’s face remained impassive, but her eyes blazed hatred and contempt. “Yes, you spoilt brat. Get a dog! That would suit a bitch like you!”
The two patrician women strolled off, the slave boy at their heels. Anna inhaled sharply, struggling to remain impassive as two fingers penetrated her.
Slaves have no right to dignity.
Artwork by Vanneheim
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Collaring the new thralls
It had been a very successful raid! Even better than we had hoped. The weather was in our favour, the wind driving us forward to the land of the worshippers of the White Christ.
We ran the ships ashore in the darkness before dawn. We could hear the bells of the monastery tolling, calling the monks and nuns to the morning prayer. The gate to the monastery was opened to allow the villagers to attend the prayers. Timing was perfect!
The fight was short, peasants and priests putting up futile resistance. The plunder was rich! Very, very rich! The church was crammed with gold and silver. Almost as rich was the haul of slaves. There were many young priests and monks, as well as the peasants. Strong men who would work for us. Even better were the women! Women who had dedicated themselves to the White Christ. Some, inevitably, were old and ugly, but there were a large number of young ones, novices, the old crone who had been in charge called them. They had dedicated themselves to the church. Brides of Christ, they were called. And all virgin!
The novice who was allocated to me was bundled in a shapeless robe, seeming too big for her. I pulled back the cowl, revealing a pretty face, her hair cropped short. She fell to her knees, gabbling away in her own language. I understood enough to understand that she was praying to her god. Her hands were bound behind her, making it difficult to remove her robe. The sharp blade of my seax solved that. Prayers turned to begging as I stripped her.
Ulf had got the forge going. He had a pile of the thrall rings we had brought with us, and was heating rivets. I led my slave to the anvil, forcing her to her knees, taking the opportunity to fondle her breasts, and liking what I felt. She whimpered as the steel was placed around her neck, the red-hot rivet permanently locking it there.
She begged for clothes as I led her away. “Why do you want clothes, slave? It is summer, warm. I enjoy looking at you like that; it allows me to anticipate the pleasure I will take from your body.” I knew I would have to wait until we got home, a day or two with the favourable wind. Much better to wait than to take her on the deck of our ship, or in the dust of the village. She could stay naked. After all, a naked woman with her hands bound will not get far if she is stupid enough to run.
I feasted my eyes on her as I pulled at my oar. A good raid indeed!
Artwork by Tamasser
It had been a very successful raid! Even better than we had hoped. The weather was in our favour, the wind driving us forward to the land of the worshippers of the White Christ.
We ran the ships ashore in the darkness before dawn. We could hear the bells of the monastery tolling, calling the monks and nuns to the morning prayer. The gate to the monastery was opened to allow the villagers to attend the prayers. Timing was perfect!
The fight was short, peasants and priests putting up futile resistance. The plunder was rich! Very, very rich! The church was crammed with gold and silver. Almost as rich was the haul of slaves. There were many young priests and monks, as well as the peasants. Strong men who would work for us. Even better were the women! Women who had dedicated themselves to the White Christ. Some, inevitably, were old and ugly, but there were a large number of young ones, novices, the old crone who had been in charge called them. They had dedicated themselves to the church. Brides of Christ, they were called. And all virgin!
The novice who was allocated to me was bundled in a shapeless robe, seeming too big for her. I pulled back the cowl, revealing a pretty face, her hair cropped short. She fell to her knees, gabbling away in her own language. I understood enough to understand that she was praying to her god. Her hands were bound behind her, making it difficult to remove her robe. The sharp blade of my seax solved that. Prayers turned to begging as I stripped her.
Ulf had got the forge going. He had a pile of the thrall rings we had brought with us, and was heating rivets. I led my slave to the anvil, forcing her to her knees, taking the opportunity to fondle her breasts, and liking what I felt. She whimpered as the steel was placed around her neck, the red-hot rivet permanently locking it there.
She begged for clothes as I led her away. “Why do you want clothes, slave? It is summer, warm. I enjoy looking at you like that; it allows me to anticipate the pleasure I will take from your body.” I knew I would have to wait until we got home, a day or two with the favourable wind. Much better to wait than to take her on the deck of our ship, or in the dust of the village. She could stay naked. After all, a naked woman with her hands bound will not get far if she is stupid enough to run.
I feasted my eyes on her as I pulled at my oar. A good raid indeed!
Artwork by Tamasser
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Do you think they’ll sell us together?
“Do you think they’ll sell us together, mom?”
Karen tried to console her mother, knowing that there really were no grounds for consolation. Her father had tried to cheat the syndicate! He had already paid the price for his stupidity. He was hogtied on the floor, moaning and screaming in his pain and humiliation, the bloody bandages on his groin stark evidence of the price of his offence.
“I can’t believe this is happening! How can they think of selling us? As sex slaves? How are they going to get us to this place? Waga-something? In Africa? And dad? They…they…they just cut them off, everything. Look at him, he’s in agony!”
Karen didn’t want to think of it. The sight was burned into her brain. Her father, begging! The flash of a knife! One single cut! Just one cut that changed father from a man into…what?
“Ouagadougou, mom. It’s the capital of some godforsaken African country. We will be slaves. In 2022! Slaves! All because of dad.
The Enforcer had laughed as he stripped her, his hands roaming at will. On the floor, her sobbing mother was discovering the dubious joys of sodomy. Karen knew that she was next. “Them African politicians, man, do they love white pussy, especially blonde white pussy. You two gonna fetch top dollar, especially if’n we sell you as mom and daughter. Turns them on, it does. Don’t it turn you on? Watching Leroy’s fat, black cock reaming out your mom’s virgin white ass? No? well, you two gonna be able to compare notes, ‘cause soon as I finish fuckin’ yours, me and Leroy, we’re gonna swop.”
The flight had been long and uncomfortable, the bars of the cage digging into them. The only relief, if relief it could be called, came when someone ordered them to present either their mouths or their asses through the bars to be fucked. “Do these guys never fuck a pussy?” Karen thought, as she choked on hard, black meat.
The heat and humidity were unbearable as the three naked slaves were led through the streets, through jeering crowds, the hot roadway burning bare feet. Her father collapsed several times, sobbing, begging for mercy. Each time there was great hilarity as a cattle prod was shoved up his ass and triggered, jerking him, screaming, to his feet.
They had been separated at the prison. The two women taken to be cleaned up, ready for sale. Her father taken off to a fate that was certainly worse than death.
She wondered who would buy them? How bad would their lives be?
She shuddered. “Very, very bad.” She muttered to herself.
Slaves! In the twenty-first century!
“Do you think they’ll sell us together, mom?”
Karen tried to console her mother, knowing that there really were no grounds for consolation. Her father had tried to cheat the syndicate! He had already paid the price for his stupidity. He was hogtied on the floor, moaning and screaming in his pain and humiliation, the bloody bandages on his groin stark evidence of the price of his offence.
“I can’t believe this is happening! How can they think of selling us? As sex slaves? How are they going to get us to this place? Waga-something? In Africa? And dad? They…they…they just cut them off, everything. Look at him, he’s in agony!”
Karen didn’t want to think of it. The sight was burned into her brain. Her father, begging! The flash of a knife! One single cut! Just one cut that changed father from a man into…what?
“Ouagadougou, mom. It’s the capital of some godforsaken African country. We will be slaves. In 2022! Slaves! All because of dad.
The Enforcer had laughed as he stripped her, his hands roaming at will. On the floor, her sobbing mother was discovering the dubious joys of sodomy. Karen knew that she was next. “Them African politicians, man, do they love white pussy, especially blonde white pussy. You two gonna fetch top dollar, especially if’n we sell you as mom and daughter. Turns them on, it does. Don’t it turn you on? Watching Leroy’s fat, black cock reaming out your mom’s virgin white ass? No? well, you two gonna be able to compare notes, ‘cause soon as I finish fuckin’ yours, me and Leroy, we’re gonna swop.”
The flight had been long and uncomfortable, the bars of the cage digging into them. The only relief, if relief it could be called, came when someone ordered them to present either their mouths or their asses through the bars to be fucked. “Do these guys never fuck a pussy?” Karen thought, as she choked on hard, black meat.
The heat and humidity were unbearable as the three naked slaves were led through the streets, through jeering crowds, the hot roadway burning bare feet. Her father collapsed several times, sobbing, begging for mercy. Each time there was great hilarity as a cattle prod was shoved up his ass and triggered, jerking him, screaming, to his feet.
They had been separated at the prison. The two women taken to be cleaned up, ready for sale. Her father taken off to a fate that was certainly worse than death.
She wondered who would buy them? How bad would their lives be?
She shuddered. “Very, very bad.” She muttered to herself.
Slaves! In the twenty-first century!
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Ouagadougou is of course the capital of Burkino Faso. I remember one of the students at St Melania's not knowing the answer and getting spanked..serves her right!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Perhaps I am insane?
“Perhaps I am insane. Maybe I should take papa’s advice and have myself committed, allow the shrinks to reprogramme me. Allow them to try and change me into the little upper-class Miss he thinks I should be.”
Claire looked out as the sun set, in golden splendour, over Albert Park. This evening was decision time. In just a few hours she would have to commit herself to her dreams. Either that, or she would have to inform Madame Suzanne that she had changed her mind, and wanted to go back to the pointless life of privilege she so hated.
“Am I really brave enough to do it? To give up everything, cars, clothes, luxuries, wealth, in order to pursue a dream that I have had ever since I can remember. All I have to do is ring the bell, ask for some clothes, and tell madame Suzanne that I have changed my mind. She will understand. That is why she has allowed me to spend the last few days here as her guest, in this lovely room, instead of being up in the kennels with the ‘flesh’.”
Claire’s dream had divided her family. Her father thought she was insane, and had hired an expensive psychiatrist to identify the source of her mental illness. Her mother, interestingly, had been much more sympathetic. “I know it sounds insane, my dear,” she had patiently explained to her husband at the heated family meeting. “And I know that many of our friends and relatives will be deeply shocked, but then, our family does have a history of, shall we say, adventurous behaviour. After all, my great-great-great grandfather, perhaps a few more greats, was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood, and a founder of the Hellfire Club. Not to mention your ancestor who was a notorious rake and a confidante of Prinny and his set! This is the twenty-first century, and if Claire wants to follow an alternative, if somewhat unusual lifestyle, that is her choice.” Claire’s brothers had been silent, although George, the younger, had given her a surreptitious wink.
Later, as they walked through the gardens together, her mother had suggested a compromise. “You needn’t go the whole hog. Don’t ever tell your father, but I have several friends who are members of a community that shares your fantasy. They have regular parties, and many of the women play at being slaves, sometimes for a weekend, or even longer. I tried to get your father involved, but, well, you know how conservative he is.” Claire’s eyes widened. This was a facet of her mother she had never expected. “Mom! You mean you would have played along? Been a slave? Okay, part time, but?” Her mother nodded. “I would have, but your father…can you imagine?” They walked in silence for a while. “Claire! Is this really what you want? It’s not just some teenage whim?”
“Mom, ever since I was little, I’ve wanted nothing else.” Her mother nodded. “I have a friend. We were at school together, well,” she smiled at Claire, “we had a bit of a schoolgirl fling, perhaps more than a fling. We’ve kept in touch. She is… she is a dealer. She trades in people like you want to be. She calls them ‘Flesh’. If you wish, if you really want to do this, I can introduce you.”
Claire looked out over the park. A couple were walking, hand in hand, their heads close together. They stopped, kissed, a long, passionate kiss, his hands roaming down her back, cupping her buttocks, their bodies moulded together as one. “That could be me,” Claire thought, “with some good man. But it’s not what I want! I want to be his property, flesh, bought and paid for. Owned!” She watched them for a while. “If I do this,” she mused, I’ll be a slave until I’m forty, perhaps fifty. Two, perhaps three decades of slavery.” She thought back to the previous evening’s dinner. Madame Suzanne had invited several friends, and Claire, who was considered to be a guest, even though she was a candidate to be a slave. All were formally dressed, the ladies in beautiful gowns, the gentlemen in dinner jackets, or in the case of two of them, in uniform. Claire wore a beautifully made gown of sheer silk, it fitted her perfectly, and hid absolutely nothing.
Madame Suzanne explained her presence to the other guests. “Claire is here to see the life of a slave at first hand. She has indicated that she wishes to sell herself as property.” The guests, male and female, examined her, their eyes stripping away the silk, estimating her worth, and her potential as a sex slave. “She has to make her decision by dinner tomorrow. If she decides, as I think she will, in favour of slavery, she will immediately commence her two-month training programme, prior to being sold.” Claire’s neighbour at the table, a handsome, obviously wealthy man in his fifties, took his time examining Claire’s beautifully displayed charms. “I hope that her training will follow the standard pattern, and that I shall have the pleasure of broadening her experience at ‘The Hunt’.” He turned to Claire, “I remember your mother expressing an interest, many years ago, when I was at school with your father, and my father was Master of the Hunt.” Madame Suzanne smiled, “We were very adventurous then, weren’t we? Sadly, she was not brave enough to follow her desires. I enjoyed my time at The Hunt, although many did not. I send all my trainees there. It is a good way to impress upon them that their status in life has changed, irrevocably.” She touched Claire’s hand, “I am sure you will agree with me after your stay there.”
“Freedom, or slavery?” Claire mused.
“Freedom to be a privileged young woman, to enjoy my life, to find a man, get married, have children. Freedom to do almost anything I wish. Almost! Freedom to be whatever I want to be, except what I really want to be. An object, a chattel, a sex toy, a slave!” She started removing the flimsy silk garment. “Slavery! Freedom from choice! Freedom from responsibility! Freedom from guilt! Freedom to be myself! Free only to serve, to obey, to be owned!”
Naked, she stood, looked at herself in the mirror. “Flesh! Prime flesh!” She smiled at her reflection. “I wonder if mom will be jealous when she hears that I have been to The Hunt, that I have done what she wanted to do, but wasn’t free to do.” She smiled at the naked slave in the mirror. “Perhaps she will find the freedom now. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, took a last look at the comfortable room, and walked determinedly to Madame Suzanne’s study. She had made her decision. She would be sleeping in the kennels tonight, sharing the narrow, uncomfortable bed with another slave.
Free to be a slave!
“Perhaps I am insane. Maybe I should take papa’s advice and have myself committed, allow the shrinks to reprogramme me. Allow them to try and change me into the little upper-class Miss he thinks I should be.”
Claire looked out as the sun set, in golden splendour, over Albert Park. This evening was decision time. In just a few hours she would have to commit herself to her dreams. Either that, or she would have to inform Madame Suzanne that she had changed her mind, and wanted to go back to the pointless life of privilege she so hated.
“Am I really brave enough to do it? To give up everything, cars, clothes, luxuries, wealth, in order to pursue a dream that I have had ever since I can remember. All I have to do is ring the bell, ask for some clothes, and tell madame Suzanne that I have changed my mind. She will understand. That is why she has allowed me to spend the last few days here as her guest, in this lovely room, instead of being up in the kennels with the ‘flesh’.”
Claire’s dream had divided her family. Her father thought she was insane, and had hired an expensive psychiatrist to identify the source of her mental illness. Her mother, interestingly, had been much more sympathetic. “I know it sounds insane, my dear,” she had patiently explained to her husband at the heated family meeting. “And I know that many of our friends and relatives will be deeply shocked, but then, our family does have a history of, shall we say, adventurous behaviour. After all, my great-great-great grandfather, perhaps a few more greats, was a close friend of Sir Francis Dashwood, and a founder of the Hellfire Club. Not to mention your ancestor who was a notorious rake and a confidante of Prinny and his set! This is the twenty-first century, and if Claire wants to follow an alternative, if somewhat unusual lifestyle, that is her choice.” Claire’s brothers had been silent, although George, the younger, had given her a surreptitious wink.
Later, as they walked through the gardens together, her mother had suggested a compromise. “You needn’t go the whole hog. Don’t ever tell your father, but I have several friends who are members of a community that shares your fantasy. They have regular parties, and many of the women play at being slaves, sometimes for a weekend, or even longer. I tried to get your father involved, but, well, you know how conservative he is.” Claire’s eyes widened. This was a facet of her mother she had never expected. “Mom! You mean you would have played along? Been a slave? Okay, part time, but?” Her mother nodded. “I would have, but your father…can you imagine?” They walked in silence for a while. “Claire! Is this really what you want? It’s not just some teenage whim?”
“Mom, ever since I was little, I’ve wanted nothing else.” Her mother nodded. “I have a friend. We were at school together, well,” she smiled at Claire, “we had a bit of a schoolgirl fling, perhaps more than a fling. We’ve kept in touch. She is… she is a dealer. She trades in people like you want to be. She calls them ‘Flesh’. If you wish, if you really want to do this, I can introduce you.”
Claire looked out over the park. A couple were walking, hand in hand, their heads close together. They stopped, kissed, a long, passionate kiss, his hands roaming down her back, cupping her buttocks, their bodies moulded together as one. “That could be me,” Claire thought, “with some good man. But it’s not what I want! I want to be his property, flesh, bought and paid for. Owned!” She watched them for a while. “If I do this,” she mused, I’ll be a slave until I’m forty, perhaps fifty. Two, perhaps three decades of slavery.” She thought back to the previous evening’s dinner. Madame Suzanne had invited several friends, and Claire, who was considered to be a guest, even though she was a candidate to be a slave. All were formally dressed, the ladies in beautiful gowns, the gentlemen in dinner jackets, or in the case of two of them, in uniform. Claire wore a beautifully made gown of sheer silk, it fitted her perfectly, and hid absolutely nothing.
Madame Suzanne explained her presence to the other guests. “Claire is here to see the life of a slave at first hand. She has indicated that she wishes to sell herself as property.” The guests, male and female, examined her, their eyes stripping away the silk, estimating her worth, and her potential as a sex slave. “She has to make her decision by dinner tomorrow. If she decides, as I think she will, in favour of slavery, she will immediately commence her two-month training programme, prior to being sold.” Claire’s neighbour at the table, a handsome, obviously wealthy man in his fifties, took his time examining Claire’s beautifully displayed charms. “I hope that her training will follow the standard pattern, and that I shall have the pleasure of broadening her experience at ‘The Hunt’.” He turned to Claire, “I remember your mother expressing an interest, many years ago, when I was at school with your father, and my father was Master of the Hunt.” Madame Suzanne smiled, “We were very adventurous then, weren’t we? Sadly, she was not brave enough to follow her desires. I enjoyed my time at The Hunt, although many did not. I send all my trainees there. It is a good way to impress upon them that their status in life has changed, irrevocably.” She touched Claire’s hand, “I am sure you will agree with me after your stay there.”
“Freedom, or slavery?” Claire mused.
“Freedom to be a privileged young woman, to enjoy my life, to find a man, get married, have children. Freedom to do almost anything I wish. Almost! Freedom to be whatever I want to be, except what I really want to be. An object, a chattel, a sex toy, a slave!” She started removing the flimsy silk garment. “Slavery! Freedom from choice! Freedom from responsibility! Freedom from guilt! Freedom to be myself! Free only to serve, to obey, to be owned!”
Naked, she stood, looked at herself in the mirror. “Flesh! Prime flesh!” She smiled at her reflection. “I wonder if mom will be jealous when she hears that I have been to The Hunt, that I have done what she wanted to do, but wasn’t free to do.” She smiled at the naked slave in the mirror. “Perhaps she will find the freedom now. Wouldn’t that be fun?”
She opened the door, stepped into the corridor, took a last look at the comfortable room, and walked determinedly to Madame Suzanne’s study. She had made her decision. She would be sleeping in the kennels tonight, sharing the narrow, uncomfortable bed with another slave.
Free to be a slave!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Exhaustion
“Do what you like! I don’t care anymore. I’m tired, I’m sore, I’m hungry. Most of all I’m tired of living in this hellhole! Fifteen years I’ve been here! Fifteen years! Fifteen years of being abused! Being whipped! Being worked to exhaustion, and beyond! Fifteen years of being fucked, buggered! Fifteen years of sucking your foul, smelly cocks. Fuck you!”
Ludmilla stared back at the overseer, sneered as he brandished his whip. He would use that whip on her, of course he would. He was an overseer, chosen mainly because of his sadism, because of the pleasure her derived from abusing the convicts. “Fifteen years!”
There was not much left of the idealistic young revolutionary who had been arrested for distributing pamphlets revealing the corruption in the governing party. Her trial had lasted bare minutes, her guilt was assumed. “Thirty years’ hard labour, under the harshest regime. No parole!” The judge had smiled evilly as he pronounced the sentence. He had smiled even more widely as he watched her being stripped naked and the collar and ankle cuffs being welded onto her. He had puffed and panted as he had been the first, but certainly not the last, to rape her. Fifteen years! How many had raped her since then? Coldly, brutally, used her as they wished.
“Get up, bitch!” The overseer roared, cracking his whip. “What do you thing this is? A fucking holiday camp?” She stared back at him, contempt in every line of her face. “Yes, you bastard! I am a bitch! You and your friends made me one, as you have made all of us here bitches. You laughed as we screamed, and begged, and promised the impossible, desperate to avoid that humiliation. You stood around, drinking beer, betting on how long we would remain knotted, as your disgusting animals eliminated the last vestiges of our humanity.” She spat at his feet.
“Get up!!!!” He was furious now, his face puce with rage. How dare this convict bitch just sit there? How dare she defy him? “Get up!!!!!”
She spoke for the first time. “What are you going to do, Mr Overseer? Are you going to whip me? You and your friends have done that before! Many, many times!” Her voice was low, bitter, full of bile. “Whip away! I’m used to it! I just don’t care anymore!” She inhaled sharply as his whip carved a groove on her breast, instantly drawing blood. “That’s right! Do you feel better now? Whip me some more! Whip me to death! Fucking pervert!” She sat, unmoving, silent except for the sharp intake of breath each time his whip found a tender spot. Her nipple, the inside of her thigh, her much abused cunt. “Fuck you!” Her voice was level, conversational, toneless. “Fuck you! What does it matter whether you whip me to death, or starve me to death! Whether you work me to death or fuck me to death! Death will be a mercy, a release from this hellhole! Fuck you!”
She took a deep, shuddering breath as the tip of his whip cracked unerringly against her clitoris. “Go on! Do your worst! I will never get out of this place! I have another fifteen years! Fuck you, you sick fucker!”
The whip rose and fell. She struggled, successfully, to stay still, to stay silent, to ignore the agony. “Fucking bitch!” He screamed, in impotent rage, as he slashed the whip across her breasts for the last time, before storming off!
Ludmilla sat motionless until he had disappeared from sight. Then she rolled into a ball, hugging her abused breasts, sobbing softly. “I thought I had done it, this time. I thought I had driven him over the edge. What do I have to do to end this? This living hell!”
Slowly, painfully, she staggered to her feet. Her chains rattled as she walked slowly back to the sewer she had been clearing, as always, with her bare hands.
“Fifteen more years!”
“Do what you like! I don’t care anymore. I’m tired, I’m sore, I’m hungry. Most of all I’m tired of living in this hellhole! Fifteen years I’ve been here! Fifteen years! Fifteen years of being abused! Being whipped! Being worked to exhaustion, and beyond! Fifteen years of being fucked, buggered! Fifteen years of sucking your foul, smelly cocks. Fuck you!”
Ludmilla stared back at the overseer, sneered as he brandished his whip. He would use that whip on her, of course he would. He was an overseer, chosen mainly because of his sadism, because of the pleasure her derived from abusing the convicts. “Fifteen years!”
There was not much left of the idealistic young revolutionary who had been arrested for distributing pamphlets revealing the corruption in the governing party. Her trial had lasted bare minutes, her guilt was assumed. “Thirty years’ hard labour, under the harshest regime. No parole!” The judge had smiled evilly as he pronounced the sentence. He had smiled even more widely as he watched her being stripped naked and the collar and ankle cuffs being welded onto her. He had puffed and panted as he had been the first, but certainly not the last, to rape her. Fifteen years! How many had raped her since then? Coldly, brutally, used her as they wished.
“Get up, bitch!” The overseer roared, cracking his whip. “What do you thing this is? A fucking holiday camp?” She stared back at him, contempt in every line of her face. “Yes, you bastard! I am a bitch! You and your friends made me one, as you have made all of us here bitches. You laughed as we screamed, and begged, and promised the impossible, desperate to avoid that humiliation. You stood around, drinking beer, betting on how long we would remain knotted, as your disgusting animals eliminated the last vestiges of our humanity.” She spat at his feet.
“Get up!!!!” He was furious now, his face puce with rage. How dare this convict bitch just sit there? How dare she defy him? “Get up!!!!!”
She spoke for the first time. “What are you going to do, Mr Overseer? Are you going to whip me? You and your friends have done that before! Many, many times!” Her voice was low, bitter, full of bile. “Whip away! I’m used to it! I just don’t care anymore!” She inhaled sharply as his whip carved a groove on her breast, instantly drawing blood. “That’s right! Do you feel better now? Whip me some more! Whip me to death! Fucking pervert!” She sat, unmoving, silent except for the sharp intake of breath each time his whip found a tender spot. Her nipple, the inside of her thigh, her much abused cunt. “Fuck you!” Her voice was level, conversational, toneless. “Fuck you! What does it matter whether you whip me to death, or starve me to death! Whether you work me to death or fuck me to death! Death will be a mercy, a release from this hellhole! Fuck you!”
She took a deep, shuddering breath as the tip of his whip cracked unerringly against her clitoris. “Go on! Do your worst! I will never get out of this place! I have another fifteen years! Fuck you, you sick fucker!”
The whip rose and fell. She struggled, successfully, to stay still, to stay silent, to ignore the agony. “Fucking bitch!” He screamed, in impotent rage, as he slashed the whip across her breasts for the last time, before storming off!
Ludmilla sat motionless until he had disappeared from sight. Then she rolled into a ball, hugging her abused breasts, sobbing softly. “I thought I had done it, this time. I thought I had driven him over the edge. What do I have to do to end this? This living hell!”
Slowly, painfully, she staggered to her feet. Her chains rattled as she walked slowly back to the sewer she had been clearing, as always, with her bare hands.
“Fifteen more years!”
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Caveat Emptor
As the ropes binding her fell away Zara had the wild urge to run, to escape, to get away from this horrible place! One glance at the crowded market square, the hordes of people buying vegetables, and goats, and chickens, and amphorae of wine made her realise that any such attempt would be totally futile. For a moment, she actually found the bustling scene fascinating. She had never been to such a market. Women of her status would never dream of rubbing shoulders with the masses in thus way. That was what slaves were for, to go into these raucous, smelly, dirty places and haggle over the price of merchandise. Noble ladies would never stoop so low.
The moment passed. Reality, hard, merciless reality, returned. Women of her status? What status? She was no longer a noble lady, an aristocrat! Aristocratic ladies did not stand, naked, in the marketplace, waiting for some peasant to make an offer for her body. That was the fate of slaves, no matter what the slaves might have been in a former life. She looked around her again. There were many little groups of naked slaves being sold. She and her companions in servitude had not been noticed yet, but soon, too soon, someone would notice the new stock being displayed. Someone would come over and examine her, and her fellows, in the same careless, impassionate way that redheaded girl was being examined over there.
The Romans were good at conquest! Very good! Too good! And then, when they had conquered, they enslaved! Men, women, children! Peasants, merchants, artisans, aristocrats! All became equal in the caravans of misery as slaves were marched to the markets of Rome. Zara, like so many others, was stripped, stripped of clothing, stripped of status, stripped of dignity. Her beautiful clothes, her silks, her jewellery, were now part of their booty. Each slave was given a piece of coarse sacking to cover its nakedness on the long march to the market. Now, even that miserable vestige of decency was gone. She stood, naked as the day she was born, exposed to the eyes of hundreds, an object for sale on the market. Around her, as prospective buyers arrived to inspect the goods, she was aware of weeping, women sobbing at the shame of being prodded, squeezed, entered, defiled. Men trying to be stoic as they, too were subjected to groping hands. She understood their feelings, but she was an aristocrat! The Roman conquerors may have taken her freedom, her clothing, her dignity, her very humanity. She had only one thing remaining. Her pride!
She stood straight, haughty, looking down at the masses. Clothed in her pride, she stood, impassive, as hands explored her body, ignoring them as if they did not exist. She didn’t notice the well-dressed man, his tunic bearing the narrow red stripe of the equestrian class, haggling with the dealer. Such things were below her. She didn’t notice the single silver coin change hands.
Severus smiled as he watched her. The woman had pride, no doubt about that. Pride, and class. Her body was still good, excellent for a woman of her age. Not that the clients at his waterfront brothel were great connoisseurs. A tight cunt, an accommodating arse and a hot mouth, with a good pair of tits to squeeze was as much as they needed.
Zara looked out over the crowd, ignoring the dealer as he gathered five rusty iron collars, connected by equally rusty chain. She maintained her disinterested look as one of the collars was locked around her throat, connecting her to four other women.
“You may have bought my body,” she thought, “but you can’t buy my pride.”
It was as if Severus could read her mind. He spoke softly, just loud enough for her to hear. “I hope you maintain your pride as you spread your proud, aristocratic thighs for my customers tonight. It is quiet today, so you won’t have to serve more than a dozen or so.”
Her heart sank, but she managed to keep up her façade.
“You can own my body, but not my mind!”
For how long?
As the ropes binding her fell away Zara had the wild urge to run, to escape, to get away from this horrible place! One glance at the crowded market square, the hordes of people buying vegetables, and goats, and chickens, and amphorae of wine made her realise that any such attempt would be totally futile. For a moment, she actually found the bustling scene fascinating. She had never been to such a market. Women of her status would never dream of rubbing shoulders with the masses in thus way. That was what slaves were for, to go into these raucous, smelly, dirty places and haggle over the price of merchandise. Noble ladies would never stoop so low.
The moment passed. Reality, hard, merciless reality, returned. Women of her status? What status? She was no longer a noble lady, an aristocrat! Aristocratic ladies did not stand, naked, in the marketplace, waiting for some peasant to make an offer for her body. That was the fate of slaves, no matter what the slaves might have been in a former life. She looked around her again. There were many little groups of naked slaves being sold. She and her companions in servitude had not been noticed yet, but soon, too soon, someone would notice the new stock being displayed. Someone would come over and examine her, and her fellows, in the same careless, impassionate way that redheaded girl was being examined over there.
The Romans were good at conquest! Very good! Too good! And then, when they had conquered, they enslaved! Men, women, children! Peasants, merchants, artisans, aristocrats! All became equal in the caravans of misery as slaves were marched to the markets of Rome. Zara, like so many others, was stripped, stripped of clothing, stripped of status, stripped of dignity. Her beautiful clothes, her silks, her jewellery, were now part of their booty. Each slave was given a piece of coarse sacking to cover its nakedness on the long march to the market. Now, even that miserable vestige of decency was gone. She stood, naked as the day she was born, exposed to the eyes of hundreds, an object for sale on the market. Around her, as prospective buyers arrived to inspect the goods, she was aware of weeping, women sobbing at the shame of being prodded, squeezed, entered, defiled. Men trying to be stoic as they, too were subjected to groping hands. She understood their feelings, but she was an aristocrat! The Roman conquerors may have taken her freedom, her clothing, her dignity, her very humanity. She had only one thing remaining. Her pride!
She stood straight, haughty, looking down at the masses. Clothed in her pride, she stood, impassive, as hands explored her body, ignoring them as if they did not exist. She didn’t notice the well-dressed man, his tunic bearing the narrow red stripe of the equestrian class, haggling with the dealer. Such things were below her. She didn’t notice the single silver coin change hands.
Severus smiled as he watched her. The woman had pride, no doubt about that. Pride, and class. Her body was still good, excellent for a woman of her age. Not that the clients at his waterfront brothel were great connoisseurs. A tight cunt, an accommodating arse and a hot mouth, with a good pair of tits to squeeze was as much as they needed.
Zara looked out over the crowd, ignoring the dealer as he gathered five rusty iron collars, connected by equally rusty chain. She maintained her disinterested look as one of the collars was locked around her throat, connecting her to four other women.
“You may have bought my body,” she thought, “but you can’t buy my pride.”
It was as if Severus could read her mind. He spoke softly, just loud enough for her to hear. “I hope you maintain your pride as you spread your proud, aristocratic thighs for my customers tonight. It is quiet today, so you won’t have to serve more than a dozen or so.”
Her heart sank, but she managed to keep up her façade.
“You can own my body, but not my mind!”
For how long?
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Too Good to be True
“Ooww! For fuck’s sake! This fucking desert! I nearly pulled my clit off!” Sally had stumbled in the loose sand, jerking on the chain connecting her clit to Gina’s. Gina kept her face impassive. Her own clit was connected to Sally’s and to Maeve in front of her. The jerk on her clit had hurt, but for Gina all it meant was another stab of masochistic pleasure. She liked having her clit tugged back and forth! She liked having it hurt!
Maeve growled from up ahead. “Stop complaining, bitch! You’re always complaining! I’m tired of it! You might as well rip it off, anyway. According to Old Clammy Hands there they’re going to cut our clits off before we’re sold! Now, shut the fuck up and walk!”
“I should have listened to my mother,” Sally thought as she struggled through the hot, soft sand. “She said that if something looked too good to be true, it probably was! But the ad was so good, and I’ve never been out of the country. It sounded so good.” She stumbled again. “Fuck! It fucking hurts!” Her shout woke Abdul, Old Clammy Hands, who had been dozing on the back of his camel. He casually flicked the tip of his whip across her butt, causing her to jump, and tug painfully at her clit once more. “Ooowww!” Gina moaned softly. “Oh, do be quiet, Sally, and stop jumping around like that. Remember that your clit is attached to mine!”
Walking with soft, bare feet in boiling hot sand, with her hands tied behind her and a smelly Arab whipping her on whim wasn’t easy. Sally had a very sensitive clit, and the weight of six feet of chain hanging from her fresh clit piercing hurt!
There had been ten girls who had bought into the ‘Once in a lifetime holiday. Get the true Sahel experience!’ scam. Walking across the desert, naked, chained together by their clits, headed for a slave market somewhere in the middle of nowhere, certainly was a once in a lifetime experience. Not exactly the kind of experience they had thought they would be having.
It had started off well. Their accommodation was like a movie set of a harem. The ten girls were waited on and pampered by a staff of very attractive, and scantily clad, male and female servants. The dinner that first evening had been a feast! Amazing food, and subtly intoxicating drinks.
The next morning reality struck! They woke up naked, their hands bound, lying on a not so clean stone floor in what could only be a dungeon. Their screams and calls for help brought no more than a visit from Abdul, Old Clammy Hands himself, and his sidekick Zahir. Zahir it was who took great pleasure in piercing their clits and inserting the rings to which their chains would be attached. Then had come the long walk!
Sally stumbled again, volubly and loudly complaining about the chain attached to her clit. Gina smiled her secret smile at the rush of pain, and the feeling that accompanied it. She was rather looking forward to being a slave. She had enjoyed the rape last night, although it wasn’t really rape, as she was fully eager and willing. Judging by the screams and protests of the others, they didn’t share her views.
“I hope I get a really horny, really strict Master, one who is virile and uses the whip. Often!” She deliberately took a few quick steps forward, jerking the chain tight, relishing the pain and the sensation! “OOOOW! Fuck! What are you doing!” Sally was nothing if not vocal.
Gina smiled her secret little smile. The quiet ones are often the most interesting.
Artwork by Julie & Melissa
“Ooww! For fuck’s sake! This fucking desert! I nearly pulled my clit off!” Sally had stumbled in the loose sand, jerking on the chain connecting her clit to Gina’s. Gina kept her face impassive. Her own clit was connected to Sally’s and to Maeve in front of her. The jerk on her clit had hurt, but for Gina all it meant was another stab of masochistic pleasure. She liked having her clit tugged back and forth! She liked having it hurt!
Maeve growled from up ahead. “Stop complaining, bitch! You’re always complaining! I’m tired of it! You might as well rip it off, anyway. According to Old Clammy Hands there they’re going to cut our clits off before we’re sold! Now, shut the fuck up and walk!”
“I should have listened to my mother,” Sally thought as she struggled through the hot, soft sand. “She said that if something looked too good to be true, it probably was! But the ad was so good, and I’ve never been out of the country. It sounded so good.” She stumbled again. “Fuck! It fucking hurts!” Her shout woke Abdul, Old Clammy Hands, who had been dozing on the back of his camel. He casually flicked the tip of his whip across her butt, causing her to jump, and tug painfully at her clit once more. “Ooowww!” Gina moaned softly. “Oh, do be quiet, Sally, and stop jumping around like that. Remember that your clit is attached to mine!”
Walking with soft, bare feet in boiling hot sand, with her hands tied behind her and a smelly Arab whipping her on whim wasn’t easy. Sally had a very sensitive clit, and the weight of six feet of chain hanging from her fresh clit piercing hurt!
There had been ten girls who had bought into the ‘Once in a lifetime holiday. Get the true Sahel experience!’ scam. Walking across the desert, naked, chained together by their clits, headed for a slave market somewhere in the middle of nowhere, certainly was a once in a lifetime experience. Not exactly the kind of experience they had thought they would be having.
It had started off well. Their accommodation was like a movie set of a harem. The ten girls were waited on and pampered by a staff of very attractive, and scantily clad, male and female servants. The dinner that first evening had been a feast! Amazing food, and subtly intoxicating drinks.
The next morning reality struck! They woke up naked, their hands bound, lying on a not so clean stone floor in what could only be a dungeon. Their screams and calls for help brought no more than a visit from Abdul, Old Clammy Hands himself, and his sidekick Zahir. Zahir it was who took great pleasure in piercing their clits and inserting the rings to which their chains would be attached. Then had come the long walk!
Sally stumbled again, volubly and loudly complaining about the chain attached to her clit. Gina smiled her secret smile at the rush of pain, and the feeling that accompanied it. She was rather looking forward to being a slave. She had enjoyed the rape last night, although it wasn’t really rape, as she was fully eager and willing. Judging by the screams and protests of the others, they didn’t share her views.
“I hope I get a really horny, really strict Master, one who is virile and uses the whip. Often!” She deliberately took a few quick steps forward, jerking the chain tight, relishing the pain and the sensation! “OOOOW! Fuck! What are you doing!” Sally was nothing if not vocal.
Gina smiled her secret little smile. The quiet ones are often the most interesting.
Artwork by Julie & Melissa
Warpstone
Spectator
The cost of disrespect
(CRACK!) The whip tore another gash on its already scar covered back. It used to be a house bred pleasure slave, trained from birth to sing, dance, please and pleasure nobles and their courts. But she’d made a mistake, and now it was branded like cattle and made to spend the rest of its life working in a salt mine. Gone were the silk sheats, fresh fruit, and passionate caresses of the noble houses. Instead, all it knew was the burning sun, the searing salt and the hard, cruel, slave whip of the taskmaster. (CRACK!) The whip fell again,a strong leather cord tipped with a savage, jagged blade made from dark metal tore into it . When left out in the sun for a day the metal stays hot enough to cauterize wounds it makes.
“It wouldn’t do for a punished slave to bleed to death, no their death had to be slow and cruel, to the point where even the crux looks merciful by comparison.” The slave thought to itself bitterly. “On the crux it takes days to die, here in the salt mines, it can take decades” (CRACK!) The burning whip snapped at its back, cutting off its introspection. “I thought he was just a random freeman, that I’d be allowed to joke around.” It’d seem to have forgotten that by “joking around” she threatened to have the freeman beheaded, if that wasn’t enough, the “freeman” was actually the visiting Emperor of a distant kingdom. In response to the slave’s disrespect to a visiting royal, it’d been sent to that distant kingdom in a slave galley, once it arrived it was then marched naked from the port to the salt mine where it would haul heavy loads in the burning sun. since its arrival, it’d not truly slept since it arrived. When night fell it’d be hung by its wrists from a small crane, so the night watchmen had entertainment. By dawn, it’d have dozens of new scars and burns, but still it’d be put to work the instant the sun crossed the horizon.
The salt seared its nose and lungs, the sun boiled its back and the whip…
(CRACK!)(CRACK!)(CRACK!)
It stumbled, frantically it tried to stay upright but it still fell face first into the salty earth. Its eyes burned, it couldn’t stop itself from screaming. Its screams drew the eye and the ire of the Taskmaster. “SLAVE! WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING? IF ARE SO TIRED OF STANDING, I WILL BRING YOU TO THE WHIPPING POST!” The slave tried to apologize, to beg for mercy or forgiveness, but the dry, salty air had robbed it of its voice. It could do nothing as the Taskmaster gripped its chains and dragged it to the Whipping Post. As it was tied there, and as the whip tore smoldering chunks from its ruined back, it thought back to that foreign Emperor, of what it would do if he stood before it. It pictured itself when it was she, she was prostrate before the Dark King, fervently licking his boots in between begging for forgiveness and for mercy, to promising her mind, her body, her heart, her soul, her entire being to him utterly, pledging to give him all the pleasure, and to except all the pain and humiliation he desires, worshiping him as something beyond a mere god.
It was weeping now, not solely from the pain, but from all it lost, all it could have had.
But it didn’t matter, it was not she, she was dead, it was only it now, and all it could do was work and suffer until the last of its life was snuffed out.
Warpstone
Spectator
Forgot to thank @Bellisima for unwittingly giving me the inspiration for my vignette.
Loinclothslave
slave to the whip
It was an enjoyable read, I’ll read it again, thank you.
Warpstone
Spectator
You can be more thankful than that, isn't that right Slave?
Dauphin
Assistant executioner
What a great story. The little wench is hungry, but her master only is interested in the money she made. A hungry slave is a better slave. For sure she will do everything to make her clients satisfied. She will beg them to feed her with their semen.
I really like the idea that a young slavegirl is chained on a public place and is available for customers. We know that in the ancient Rome it was common to chain slaves on their working place. Why not prostitutes as well?
Even in the 19th century we know that in brothels the black prostitutes sometimes was chained to their bed and offered to the guests. Free to use for everybody.
Idomeneus
Assistant executioner
The Lonely Slave
It was her second week in the kennels, and SG-649, formerly Jennifer Rockwell, was getting desperate.
The kennels had never been designed with long-term containment in mind. Slaves were brought in for processing, given a few painfully instructive lessons in obedience, service, and etiquette, then were either auctioned off or shipped out to farther places around the world. SG-649 had already been through all of that, but she never got to be auctioned and if anyone was going to ship her anywhere, she was certain they have done it by now.
So there was nothing for her to do but get extremely familiar with her tiny cage. Except for the hours in which she was exercised and allowed to relieve herself outside, and naturally perform menial labour in incredibly well-measured, exact lengths of chains that allowed her to do whatever she was charged with (barely) and nothing else at all around the facility.
Other than that she stayed put within the roughly 4x4 parameter of her cage. She was also very well-restrained. Not because she could have somehow broken out of her cage (the mere thought of that made her smile, which turned quickly into a pained grimace).
It wasn’t that she didn’t lack for company – lots of other girls were in similar cages stacked three to five high as far as she could see in the huge warehouse that was her current home – but the facility believed in accustoming slaves to strict bondage, so she, as well as every other girl as far as she could tell, were muzzle-gagged unless they were being fed or orally servicing the staff, so idle chitchat was not really an option.
By now she almost gotten used to the conditions, though. They certainly bothered her far less than the awful question occupying her mind: what happens to slaves that don’t get picked up? As far as she knew none of the merchandise had stayed in the facility for over three weeks, a month at the outside. She didn’t know what happened to those girls who apparently weren’t in demand – a rather irksome side effect of enslavement was that people didn’t bother telling you anything about what was going to happen to you – which left her imagination free to run wild with awful ideas and scenarios. It got so bad that she almost didn’t care what they had in store for her anymore, so long as the torment of waiting was finally over.
She must have been napping. Back when she was first collared and branded, she’d never have believed sleeping in a tiny cage while being chained and gagged was even possible, but a relentless regimen of exercise, hard work, and simple adaptation worked their magic faster than she’d ever have credited.
All she knew at the moment, though, was that a jetstream of freezing water slammed her back against the bars of the cage, clearing the fuzziness from her mind like cobwebs. She’d already been hosed down today, so that would mean that the Masters wanted her awake for some reas-
A slave prod found its way through the bars and touched her naked, wet body. The shock made her scream, which of course came out as a muffled “MMMMMMpphhhh!”
“Yes,” said a man’s voice. “I rather think she’d do nicely.”
Jennifer – that is, SG-649 (if any of the Masters knew she still thought of herself by her free name, she’d be lashed within an inch of her life), shook her head, trying to clear her vision and the cold water from her hair and face. By the time she was done, the cage was already open, and she was being pulled out by her leash.
“On your knees, slave,” ordered her handler. “Present position.”
As usual his voice was cool, even soft, but knowing what he could do to her always sent shivers down the young slave’s spine. She obeyed instantly, the command almost bypassing her conscious mind, her muscles hurrying to comply.
Legs spread, breasts thrust out, eyes down, hands behind her head. As the silence stretched her heart started hammering.
Ohgodohgodohgod, is this it? Am I being disposed of? What’s going to happen to me? Oh pleasepleaseplease….
“Eyes up, girl.” That was the new voice, the one from before. She didn’t recognize it. She raised her head hesitantly and looked up at the unfamiliar man’s face.
Jennifer had been slapped before. Quite a few times, actually. The staff considered face-slapping a quick and easy way to correct a slave and remind them of their status. So when she made eye-contact with the man, she knew exactly what it felt like.
She felt like swooning, and had to use every bit of willpower just to hold herself steady and not shame herself and the entire facility.
The man gave a slight smile. Jennifer’s heart melted. At that moment she knew that, even if she had a choice in the matter, she’d live and die for this man. It was what she was created for, she knew, and that feeling was so intense, at that moment she was grateful she’d never again have any say in how the rest of her life would be conducted.
Her Master – Jennifer couldn’t help but think of him this way already, though she had no idea if he currently owned her or not – looked at her handler with a satisfied expression.
“Thank you for keeping her for me this long,” he said. “I have to hand it to you: this one is everything you promised and more. It would be a pleasure to take her home and give her the training she deserves.”
And just like that, tears started running down Jennifer’s muzzled face. She was no stranger to tears – a slave that didn’t have reason to cry was a spoiled slave, said her instructors – but this time, maybe for the only time in her life, her tears were of pure joy.
It was her second week in the kennels, and SG-649, formerly Jennifer Rockwell, was getting desperate.
The kennels had never been designed with long-term containment in mind. Slaves were brought in for processing, given a few painfully instructive lessons in obedience, service, and etiquette, then were either auctioned off or shipped out to farther places around the world. SG-649 had already been through all of that, but she never got to be auctioned and if anyone was going to ship her anywhere, she was certain they have done it by now.
So there was nothing for her to do but get extremely familiar with her tiny cage. Except for the hours in which she was exercised and allowed to relieve herself outside, and naturally perform menial labour in incredibly well-measured, exact lengths of chains that allowed her to do whatever she was charged with (barely) and nothing else at all around the facility.
Other than that she stayed put within the roughly 4x4 parameter of her cage. She was also very well-restrained. Not because she could have somehow broken out of her cage (the mere thought of that made her smile, which turned quickly into a pained grimace).
It wasn’t that she didn’t lack for company – lots of other girls were in similar cages stacked three to five high as far as she could see in the huge warehouse that was her current home – but the facility believed in accustoming slaves to strict bondage, so she, as well as every other girl as far as she could tell, were muzzle-gagged unless they were being fed or orally servicing the staff, so idle chitchat was not really an option.
By now she almost gotten used to the conditions, though. They certainly bothered her far less than the awful question occupying her mind: what happens to slaves that don’t get picked up? As far as she knew none of the merchandise had stayed in the facility for over three weeks, a month at the outside. She didn’t know what happened to those girls who apparently weren’t in demand – a rather irksome side effect of enslavement was that people didn’t bother telling you anything about what was going to happen to you – which left her imagination free to run wild with awful ideas and scenarios. It got so bad that she almost didn’t care what they had in store for her anymore, so long as the torment of waiting was finally over.
She must have been napping. Back when she was first collared and branded, she’d never have believed sleeping in a tiny cage while being chained and gagged was even possible, but a relentless regimen of exercise, hard work, and simple adaptation worked their magic faster than she’d ever have credited.
All she knew at the moment, though, was that a jetstream of freezing water slammed her back against the bars of the cage, clearing the fuzziness from her mind like cobwebs. She’d already been hosed down today, so that would mean that the Masters wanted her awake for some reas-
A slave prod found its way through the bars and touched her naked, wet body. The shock made her scream, which of course came out as a muffled “MMMMMMpphhhh!”
“Yes,” said a man’s voice. “I rather think she’d do nicely.”
Jennifer – that is, SG-649 (if any of the Masters knew she still thought of herself by her free name, she’d be lashed within an inch of her life), shook her head, trying to clear her vision and the cold water from her hair and face. By the time she was done, the cage was already open, and she was being pulled out by her leash.
“On your knees, slave,” ordered her handler. “Present position.”
As usual his voice was cool, even soft, but knowing what he could do to her always sent shivers down the young slave’s spine. She obeyed instantly, the command almost bypassing her conscious mind, her muscles hurrying to comply.
Legs spread, breasts thrust out, eyes down, hands behind her head. As the silence stretched her heart started hammering.
Ohgodohgodohgod, is this it? Am I being disposed of? What’s going to happen to me? Oh pleasepleaseplease….
“Eyes up, girl.” That was the new voice, the one from before. She didn’t recognize it. She raised her head hesitantly and looked up at the unfamiliar man’s face.
Jennifer had been slapped before. Quite a few times, actually. The staff considered face-slapping a quick and easy way to correct a slave and remind them of their status. So when she made eye-contact with the man, she knew exactly what it felt like.
She felt like swooning, and had to use every bit of willpower just to hold herself steady and not shame herself and the entire facility.
The man gave a slight smile. Jennifer’s heart melted. At that moment she knew that, even if she had a choice in the matter, she’d live and die for this man. It was what she was created for, she knew, and that feeling was so intense, at that moment she was grateful she’d never again have any say in how the rest of her life would be conducted.
Her Master – Jennifer couldn’t help but think of him this way already, though she had no idea if he currently owned her or not – looked at her handler with a satisfied expression.
“Thank you for keeping her for me this long,” he said. “I have to hand it to you: this one is everything you promised and more. It would be a pleasure to take her home and give her the training she deserves.”
And just like that, tears started running down Jennifer’s muzzled face. She was no stranger to tears – a slave that didn’t have reason to cry was a spoiled slave, said her instructors – but this time, maybe for the only time in her life, her tears were of pure joy.
M
montycrusto
Guest
Beautiful! The submissive Sublime, eloquently captured
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
I’ve changed my mind
“I’ve changed my mind! Get me out of these things! I want to go home!” Sarah’s voice was soft, pleading. “I know I agreed to this. I thought it would be fun…but…I don’t want to do this! Please!”
“It’s too late for that, love. You wanted this. Now you’re naked, and cuffed, and all you need to do is walk up the track to start your adventure.” Pete’s voice was jolly, amused. He liked seeing his wife in chains. At home she was often chained, and naked, as she was now. What made this so exciting was the fact that they were in the parking lot in the forest, and that she would be a sex slave on The Farm for the next three months. “Besides, I don’t have the keys, they are at The Farm, and I’ve already put the money into the bank. And the girl they’ve given me in part exchange for you is really, really cute.” Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. “I’m frightened, Pete. ‘No Limits’ the contract says. That frightens me. You can keep the girl, I don’t mind sharing, please, just let’s go home.”
Pete shook his head. “There is nothing in the contract about cancellation, or changing your mind, or being scared. Go on! Start walking! You have a deadline. If you’re late you’ll receive your first whipping.” The tears were flowing freely now. “Exactly!” She sobbed. “Exactly! They can whip me! Hurt me! Fuck me!” She gave a little smile through the tears. “I’m not objecting to that. I like being fucked, and some of those overseers we saw the pictures of, well, they would certainly fill a girl!” She sobbed again, “But there are other things. Disgusting things. I’m afraid that I might enjoy those, too. What will that make me?”
Pete smiled. “A fuckslut, and a bitch, and a whore. Most of all, a total slave, which is what you have wanted for years.” She laughed! “And while I am living in those horrible slave pits, or even worse, well, perhaps not so bad, the kennels, this new little piece will be sleeping in my bed. With you!” Her husband laughed. “Sometimes! Mostly she will be sleeping in your cage. She will learn to wear your favourite buttplug, and I will ensure that she appreciates the kiss of your favourite whip.”
“Mmmm! Yummy. Perhaps she can stay a while after I get back.” Sarah straightened up as much as her chains would allow. She took a few steps up the path. She stopped, turned around. “Could I have a last facefuck before I go? After all, a girl needs energy to walk up that path.”
Pete undid his trousers. After all, she was his wife, and this was her birthday gift. She could have a little extra gift to start her off.
Some time later he watched as she walked up the path, her feet obviously hurting, her face and her butt cheeks glistening with his final gift. She was about to realise her dream!
“I’ve changed my mind! Get me out of these things! I want to go home!” Sarah’s voice was soft, pleading. “I know I agreed to this. I thought it would be fun…but…I don’t want to do this! Please!”
“It’s too late for that, love. You wanted this. Now you’re naked, and cuffed, and all you need to do is walk up the track to start your adventure.” Pete’s voice was jolly, amused. He liked seeing his wife in chains. At home she was often chained, and naked, as she was now. What made this so exciting was the fact that they were in the parking lot in the forest, and that she would be a sex slave on The Farm for the next three months. “Besides, I don’t have the keys, they are at The Farm, and I’ve already put the money into the bank. And the girl they’ve given me in part exchange for you is really, really cute.” Tears rolled slowly down her cheeks. “I’m frightened, Pete. ‘No Limits’ the contract says. That frightens me. You can keep the girl, I don’t mind sharing, please, just let’s go home.”
Pete shook his head. “There is nothing in the contract about cancellation, or changing your mind, or being scared. Go on! Start walking! You have a deadline. If you’re late you’ll receive your first whipping.” The tears were flowing freely now. “Exactly!” She sobbed. “Exactly! They can whip me! Hurt me! Fuck me!” She gave a little smile through the tears. “I’m not objecting to that. I like being fucked, and some of those overseers we saw the pictures of, well, they would certainly fill a girl!” She sobbed again, “But there are other things. Disgusting things. I’m afraid that I might enjoy those, too. What will that make me?”
Pete smiled. “A fuckslut, and a bitch, and a whore. Most of all, a total slave, which is what you have wanted for years.” She laughed! “And while I am living in those horrible slave pits, or even worse, well, perhaps not so bad, the kennels, this new little piece will be sleeping in my bed. With you!” Her husband laughed. “Sometimes! Mostly she will be sleeping in your cage. She will learn to wear your favourite buttplug, and I will ensure that she appreciates the kiss of your favourite whip.”
“Mmmm! Yummy. Perhaps she can stay a while after I get back.” Sarah straightened up as much as her chains would allow. She took a few steps up the path. She stopped, turned around. “Could I have a last facefuck before I go? After all, a girl needs energy to walk up that path.”
Pete undid his trousers. After all, she was his wife, and this was her birthday gift. She could have a little extra gift to start her off.
Some time later he watched as she walked up the path, her feet obviously hurting, her face and her butt cheeks glistening with his final gift. She was about to realise her dream!