Tavy
Executioner
A shame he's got a tractor, so probably no need to set girls to pulling the plough.
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Slaves at work
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Arkansas Correctional Work Farm for recalcitrant Blue-state mail order brides #37.
Pictured here, Assistant Special Warden Silas A “whip-em” Tree demonstrates how best to get the most production out of those lazy Yankee bitches.
twonines
LIMERICUS
"You`re wasting your time with that lazy, insolent Minnesotan slut, Silas. We`ll have her up at the post before supper and give her fifty with the heavy strap."
Hadrianus127
Tribune
Work on the construction of a canal to supply water to a city somewhere in Egypt is in full swing. It employs about 450 female slaves brought from South and Central American countries, who serve 7 days a week from sunrise to sunset, regardless of the temperature and weather (and it is usually very hot). They are the ones who dig 2-meter-deep and 0.75-meter-wide ditches, they are the ones who transport sand in baskets to the cement production site, they are the ones who remove mud, etc. They are only naked, with their breasts and private parts exposed, and they are dirty. Supervisors with whips make sure that the female slaves meet the appropriate production standards.
Morticia
Magistrate
Sapphic domination scene, courtesy of Miss Michelle, Miss Toni and slave Gabi, very nice indeed.
Morticia
Magistrate
Perhaps if this 'incentive' to row faster was introduced to female Olympic rowing, it might be a more watchable sporting event, in fact i would sign up to compete.
Alexander1187
Magistrate
Slave like the bra
Attachments
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Alexander1187
Magistrate
no-right-to-shoes
Executioner
It's tough to remember when Charlotte's fantasies started. All she knew is, she'd never been the kind of lady that fantasised about handsome wealthy princes that lusted after her. Maybe that's what did it for other women, but not for Charlotte.
No, what Charlotte realized was that she craved the opposite. Instead of being pampered and waited on, she wanted to be degraded and humiliated, forced to serve other people. Instead of pretty gowns, she was curious what it was like to wear some of those old dirty dresses that her servant girls wore, scrubbing floors on their knees. Not exactly something that a wealthy landowner would ever admit to.
And that's how she found herself in this situation. It was nighttime, but instead of changing into her nightgown, Charlotte stood in her room, naked, her hands trembling. She picked up an old blouse, once white, now covered in grime and holes, and put it on, shuddering as the coarse fabric rubbed across her nipples.
It was a lucky find. She couldn't just walk into some shop in the city and ask for some torn peasant clothes. She found the blouse and a discarded dress behind the stables, in a pile of filthy rags, now used for God knows what. A discrete wash in the nearby stream and now her costume was ready.
Charlotte put on the dress, tied another rag around her head to cover her luscious hair, and looked at herself in the mirror. The hem of the dress was torn off and frayed, exposing her knees. She blushed as she realized that one of her nipples was poking through a hole in her blouse and tried to adjust it. She felt the familiar butterflies in her stomach, but now ten times more intense. It was one thing to fantasize about it, but actually seeing herself like that, in torn clothing, looking nothing like the Charlotte that owned this mansion, was an entirely different experience.
But that wasn't all. Ordinarily, she woudn't have considered it, but her arousal was now driving her. She quietly opened the door of her room and peeked outside. There was nobody around. Now or never. Charlotte looked at her slippers. No. That decision sent another wave of arousal through her. She'd be barefoot. All servants working in the mansion wore shoes but she remembered seeing a few peasant girls on her estate that'd run around barefoot. That felt appropriate.
Charlotte crossed the hallway and walked down the stairs, and then exited the mansion, heading for the well, wincing as the tiny pebbles hurt her sensitive feet. She grabbed a bucket and filled it with water, carrying it back to her room. Nobody spotted her. That would have been difficult to explain.
The woman was getting really turned on now. Yet another thing. In a chest in the corner, she had stashed something special. She found it in the basement, in a room that served as a makeshift prison during the Civil War: a set of neck, wrist and leg shackles, all connected by a chain. She had never dared use them. Until now.
She carefully put the shackles on. First, the collar which she locked on her neck, already feeling burdened down by heavy iron. Then, the ankles. And finally, the wrists. It maybe took a couple minutes for her to lock herself up but felt like an eternity.
Charlotte looked at herself in the mirror again. She was definitely no longer a landowner. In fact, she was the one that was owned. Property. Shackled hand, foot and neck, she could barely stand up straight. Maybe she wasn't supposed to.
"On your knees, slave!" she said quietly to her reflection. The words felt like a jolt of electricity to her as she fell on her knees with a thud, the chains jingling. That was better.
"Now, clean this room! And quickly, otherwise it's another whipping for you". Charlotte crawled to the bucket, grabbed a rag and started scrubbing the floor. It was tough. The chains weren't letting her move around at all. "Filthy slave girl. Work faster, cunt!" she muttered to herself. The feeling of being restrained and exposed like this was divine.
In her excitement, she didn't hear footsteps in the hallway until they were right outside her door. She had a habit of falling asleep without extinguishing the candles and Ella, her chambermaid, would always come around this time to take care of the lights. She didn't realize it was that time already.
Her heart sank. "Ella, wait, I'm chang---" she yelled out, but it was too late.
The door opened.
Slaves at work in a park
johnbratten
Magistrate
“What are you doing in here, slave? Back to the corral you go, slut, and I’ll see the Overseer knows to give you a good lashing so you know your pathetic place. The likes of you are NEVER to enter the manor, not even the grounds, only the slave corral and the quarry mine for your type. Now scatter, recalcitrant slave!”
Charlotte suddenly feels compelled to obey her own chambermaid and scurries as quickly as possible out of the room, manor, and grounds! She is absolutely soaking but also confused “we don’t have a slave corral or quarry?”
As she confusedly enters the fields where the peasants are, a bell sounds from the manor. In mere moments rough male hands seize her!
He grabs a chain from his belt, attaching it to Charlotte’s collar and a hoop in the post next to the back manor gate obviously it’s intended purpose that she’d never before realised. He leaves her there “don’t move, slave!” and goes through the gate towards the chambermaid.
He returns a few minutes later with a pinch of bread he chews, and removes the coiled bullwhip from his belt
“How did you escape to the manor? Well never mind, now crawl to the corral as I give you a dose of the whip, slave! Once you get there I shall punish you properly!”
Charlotte has never been so aroused or ashamed of herself all her life, and is utterly lost for words. Her lack of protest will inexorably seal her fate. So she sobs and whimpers as she feels the brutal lash for the first time of her life. And no school girl caning was this, but harsh slave punishment with blood and tears.
But as the hours give way to days and weeks. Even as the whip marks bleed. Even as she faces the branding iron. Even in the endless toil of the mine. She cannot deny, this was the fate she was born for! Her submissive erotic pleasure now knew no bounds, indeed it was true that for her there is freedom to be found in chains under the lash…
Office slaves at work
no-right-to-shoes
Executioner
Thank you, I love it! These kinds of mistaken identity stories are my favourite to write and to read
