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Horae Diurnae – The Training and Daily Life of a Modern Slave Girl
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
A direct comparison to how we would treat animals today really does bring the story into perspective. For instance, would/could there also be a "Slave's Trust" (as opposed to Dog's Trust) where unwanted or confiscated, mistreated slaves could be housed until a new Master claims them? Who would be the governing body? Or would/could a slave's life become hell on earth with no right to any proper protection at all ... very interesting for sure ...That line certainly puts things in proper perspective
If we can submit to fully owned slavery, without a safe word or a term of contract, will not some of us also be permitted to explore the deeply depraved darkness of our kink? Is it cruelty if I have committed to complete slavery under brutal torture? Is it possible to consent to brutal torture and be held accountable even as I scream and beg for mercy? Part of me deeply hopes so!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Actually, that already exists, operated by the chapters of the cMs Community and funded by a portion of slave sales and contributions of caring members. No slave will ever be neglected (at least until the end of the thirty-year term - more on that later)
Here in the States, I believe such organizations are commonly known as “humane societies”. I’m not sure they have any statuary authority though. They function as animal shelters for the mistreated or abandoned.
old slave
FELIS RESPICIENS
In the UK, the Royal Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals has some powers, so there is a precedent:
What powers does the RSPCA have? The RSPCA has the legal right to investigate suspected animal cruelty including, for example, visiting your home following anonymous 'tip offs'. It also has the power to privately prosecute people under laws such as the Animal Welfare Act 2006.
Slaves may not have (m)any rights, but they are animal, so I guess the same laws would apply.
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter Two - The Seasoned Slave
In the ongoing life of a slave, Vigilia is when she is the most on her own. She rises early, cleans herself, exercises, meditates, does all her personal chores, and prepares for her Master. The rest of the day, there will be only fleeting moments when she can attend to herself.
10. My Rising
My life as a voluntary slavegirl is ruled by the hours – hours in the old, Roman sense, equal subdivisions of the night and the day, varying in actual length according to the season. The hours of the night – 'vigils' – where I am they are long in winter, short in summer. It will seem strange to most outwith our special reserve, our world within yet not in the world, to believe that I love those night hours, the quietest, most meditative, though physically and mentally demanding, part of my daily routine.
I wake well before dawn, as early as 3.00 a.m. in summer, 5.00 even in the depth of winter, quickly get up from my sleeping bag, toilet, wash, take a quick drop of water – all 'we're allowed – and wrap my nakedness in the big towel that's my one 'luxury,' but a necessity too.
Fortunately, my Master's house is not far from the cMs community slave hall, a gaunt, functional building block in a dark corner of the town. Despite its lack of ornamentation, in a sense, it's the power-house of our slave-lives. It is here that novice slavegirls spend much of their season of increasingly harsh and rigorous preparation. It is during this time that they make the final decision if it's the life they were truly born to live. When she does, as most do, given the difficult process to even get here, she submits irrevocably – as this girl did, years ago. Yet those years seem to have passed so quickly now, and never with any regrets.
And for each night's vigil, I return to this place to prepare myself in body and mind for my day. I make my way swiftly through the dark streets and alleyways, keeping – as a slavegirl must, even when there's no Free person about – to the gutter between the roadway and the raised sidewalk. It can often be running with foul water in winter, even icy, but my legs are well used to that. Other girls are arriving as I reach the door, each wrapped like me in her towel. We keep our eyes lowered, again as we know we must, maybe a glance, a nod, a shy smile, but not a word may we pass between us.
In the ongoing life of a slave, Vigilia is when she is the most on her own. She rises early, cleans herself, exercises, meditates, does all her personal chores, and prepares for her Master. The rest of the day, there will be only fleeting moments when she can attend to herself.
10. My Rising
My life as a voluntary slavegirl is ruled by the hours – hours in the old, Roman sense, equal subdivisions of the night and the day, varying in actual length according to the season. The hours of the night – 'vigils' – where I am they are long in winter, short in summer. It will seem strange to most outwith our special reserve, our world within yet not in the world, to believe that I love those night hours, the quietest, most meditative, though physically and mentally demanding, part of my daily routine.
I wake well before dawn, as early as 3.00 a.m. in summer, 5.00 even in the depth of winter, quickly get up from my sleeping bag, toilet, wash, take a quick drop of water – all 'we're allowed – and wrap my nakedness in the big towel that's my one 'luxury,' but a necessity too.
Fortunately, my Master's house is not far from the cMs community slave hall, a gaunt, functional building block in a dark corner of the town. Despite its lack of ornamentation, in a sense, it's the power-house of our slave-lives. It is here that novice slavegirls spend much of their season of increasingly harsh and rigorous preparation. It is during this time that they make the final decision if it's the life they were truly born to live. When she does, as most do, given the difficult process to even get here, she submits irrevocably – as this girl did, years ago. Yet those years seem to have passed so quickly now, and never with any regrets.
And for each night's vigil, I return to this place to prepare myself in body and mind for my day. I make my way swiftly through the dark streets and alleyways, keeping – as a slavegirl must, even when there's no Free person about – to the gutter between the roadway and the raised sidewalk. It can often be running with foul water in winter, even icy, but my legs are well used to that. Other girls are arriving as I reach the door, each wrapped like me in her towel. We keep our eyes lowered, again as we know we must, maybe a glance, a nod, a shy smile, but not a word may we pass between us.
As usual I am late to the party!
Love it. LOVE it, the idea of a small error having a subtle but enormously important impact on society and accepted practice. The idea of the monastic rule adapted so smoothly to the needs of a different kind of community. There is so much potential here.
In the case of a novice’s initiation, the Vigilia is the eve of her surrendering her freedom. It is her time to meditate on her choice and to accept the finality of the decision. Her time to recall the past and then bury it as she starts her new life. Many seasoned slaves describe their entire life before cMs as their Vigilia.
I'm sensing Eul's hand here.
As for the good or bad treatment of these cMs, remember St Benedict:
He should know that whoever undertakes the government of souls must prepare himself to account for them
Imagine, a monastic community of souls whose one purpose is to find fulfilment in their submission to another, whatever that requires. It is not so far removed from the traditional religious orders, in a way, and at times in history they could also be places of dark cruelty, as well as enlightenment and joy. Perhaps those few words of transformed Greek were not so far from the original spirit of the text after all?
Love it. LOVE it, the idea of a small error having a subtle but enormously important impact on society and accepted practice. The idea of the monastic rule adapted so smoothly to the needs of a different kind of community. There is so much potential here.
In the case of a novice’s initiation, the Vigilia is the eve of her surrendering her freedom. It is her time to meditate on her choice and to accept the finality of the decision. Her time to recall the past and then bury it as she starts her new life. Many seasoned slaves describe their entire life before cMs as their Vigilia.
I'm sensing Eul's hand here.
As for the good or bad treatment of these cMs, remember St Benedict:
He should know that whoever undertakes the government of souls must prepare himself to account for them
Imagine, a monastic community of souls whose one purpose is to find fulfilment in their submission to another, whatever that requires. It is not so far removed from the traditional religious orders, in a way, and at times in history they could also be places of dark cruelty, as well as enlightenment and joy. Perhaps those few words of transformed Greek were not so far from the original spirit of the text after all?
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
She uses 'I' a lot. Does this girl really have that kind of status. At what point does she have to earn reference to herself as a subjective person?
Excellent narrative guys, really enjoying the granular intensity of the micro-scenes from her life...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
That might be a matter for discipline later when she reports to her Master.
Even when no one is around? No exceptions? That’s discipline!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
You'd better! She wrote that. No way I could get that much into the mind of a slave, much less that of a girl!
Yep. That was quite obvious
A good point, this slave kneels naked to apologise.
In truth, we decided using phrases such as 'this slave' in passages where the creature is describing her own experiences, thoughts and feelings would make for a rather clunky narrative.
But if/ when she addresses her Master, or any Free person - or even any male (naturally even the lowest male slave is superior to any female one) - she will certainly not use any first-personal pronoun, or any words that imply she still possesses any part of her former self - body, soul, mind or will - except where appropriate 'her' followed by 'Master' (though of course she is 'His' possession)
And even in writing of her own inner life, she must only use the lower case 'i'.
A slavegirl does not make excuses, she simply confesses her thoughts and secret sins,
and accepts whatever punishment is due ...
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
This slave does love good protocol! Never uses personal pronouns in conversation with it’s OWNER… one does get used to the flow, and doesn’t sound so clunky after practice. Writing in such a way consistently remains challenging…
11. Daily Training
We line up to enter the hall in order of seniority – how long we've been enslaved, the newest at the front. i've now moved up to almost the middle of the column – my experience is showing. As we enter, two at a time, we each kneel low in obeisance to the Supervisor, even though she's a slave. She stands at the far end holding her rod of office, and then we march briskly to our known positions around the expansive space, place our towels, neatly folded, alongside the edge of the wood floor, and stand – legs wide, hands behind heads, breasts lifted, eyes lowered, lips parted, at the ready.
We're blinking in bright lights. It's a hall of mirrors. We can see ourselves vanishing away into infinity on every side as we begin our regular exercises. Not a word is needed, just a tap of the Supervisor's rod. As we move, slowly, gracefully, through the movements and postures that have become programmed into our bodies, she strolls around, swishing the cane, flicking from time to time the thigh or butt of any girl who's not keeping time, not getting the figures perfectly correct. Sometimes there's an involuntary squeal, but that only earns a second, sharper stroke for breaking the silence.
The movements have something of the discipline and demands of classical ballet schools. They stretch and contract, turn and twist every muscle like advanced training for oriental martial arts. Most meaningful of all for us slavegirls, each sequence of movement culminates in one of the many postures we're required to adopt in our daily lives of service. There are service postures such as prostration and low kneeling in obeisance, serving our Masters and Mistresses and their guests with food and wine, anticipating their needs, responding to their wishes. The submission postures present our wrists and ankles to be shackled, our bodies to be branded or chastised, or for all kinds of sexual usage. Others are for simply waiting, quiet, humble but alert, kneeling or standing, for whatever commands we may be given.
Again and again, we repeat these routines until the Supervisor signals she's satisfied – it's hard to say how long any vigil lasts. Still, we typically perform the complete sequence two or three times, which takes at least one long hour in winter and a couple of shorter ones in summer.
After that, we leave in the order we came in, kneeling in obeisance, carrying out our towels. We run through a shower corridor, just warm in winter, cold in summer, drying our bodies quickly with our towels. Then we scamper to the refectory where designated slavegirls serve a light breakfast – a little fruit, maybe some nuts, some plain but tasty fresh-baked bread, and a mug of water.
We sit on the floor and eat in silence. One girl is appointed to read to us from the Rule, and some suitable passage is chosen to guide us on how we should follow the Rule in our lives. That reader role is one i'm quite often given, usually for ten days at a time. It's an honour, i know i must thank the Supervisor when i'm chosen, kneeling with my forehead to the floor, glad that she feels i'm suited to the task, but anxiously aware of my fallibility and hoping i shall avoid any errors or poor speech.
We line up to enter the hall in order of seniority – how long we've been enslaved, the newest at the front. i've now moved up to almost the middle of the column – my experience is showing. As we enter, two at a time, we each kneel low in obeisance to the Supervisor, even though she's a slave. She stands at the far end holding her rod of office, and then we march briskly to our known positions around the expansive space, place our towels, neatly folded, alongside the edge of the wood floor, and stand – legs wide, hands behind heads, breasts lifted, eyes lowered, lips parted, at the ready.
We're blinking in bright lights. It's a hall of mirrors. We can see ourselves vanishing away into infinity on every side as we begin our regular exercises. Not a word is needed, just a tap of the Supervisor's rod. As we move, slowly, gracefully, through the movements and postures that have become programmed into our bodies, she strolls around, swishing the cane, flicking from time to time the thigh or butt of any girl who's not keeping time, not getting the figures perfectly correct. Sometimes there's an involuntary squeal, but that only earns a second, sharper stroke for breaking the silence.
The movements have something of the discipline and demands of classical ballet schools. They stretch and contract, turn and twist every muscle like advanced training for oriental martial arts. Most meaningful of all for us slavegirls, each sequence of movement culminates in one of the many postures we're required to adopt in our daily lives of service. There are service postures such as prostration and low kneeling in obeisance, serving our Masters and Mistresses and their guests with food and wine, anticipating their needs, responding to their wishes. The submission postures present our wrists and ankles to be shackled, our bodies to be branded or chastised, or for all kinds of sexual usage. Others are for simply waiting, quiet, humble but alert, kneeling or standing, for whatever commands we may be given.
Again and again, we repeat these routines until the Supervisor signals she's satisfied – it's hard to say how long any vigil lasts. Still, we typically perform the complete sequence two or three times, which takes at least one long hour in winter and a couple of shorter ones in summer.
After that, we leave in the order we came in, kneeling in obeisance, carrying out our towels. We run through a shower corridor, just warm in winter, cold in summer, drying our bodies quickly with our towels. Then we scamper to the refectory where designated slavegirls serve a light breakfast – a little fruit, maybe some nuts, some plain but tasty fresh-baked bread, and a mug of water.
We sit on the floor and eat in silence. One girl is appointed to read to us from the Rule, and some suitable passage is chosen to guide us on how we should follow the Rule in our lives. That reader role is one i'm quite often given, usually for ten days at a time. It's an honour, i know i must thank the Supervisor when i'm chosen, kneeling with my forehead to the floor, glad that she feels i'm suited to the task, but anxiously aware of my fallibility and hoping i shall avoid any errors or poor speech.
I was particularly struck this morning by this line and the image it conjured in my mind as I lay in bed, watching the first glimmers of morning light appear between the slatted blinds in my bedroom windows. Together, Eulalia’s imagery and the light on the blinds, set me off ….
Loving this story so much
Loving this story so much
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
The sights those walls must have seen by now! The tales they could tell! The image of reflections passing away into infinity recalls the countless generations of slave girls who have gone before - naked slave girls, terrible punishments, joyful submission! All pulsing to the ordered hours of the unending succession of days and weeks and months and years! The beautiful oxymoron of soft flesh submitting to the hard stones, the hard whips, and the hard rules.
Sounds perfect - this slave’s soft flesh is made to contrast hard stones and whips while it’s submissive nature leads naturally to obedience to hard rules with no control and complete surrender