Vignettes from the slave pits

[theseus]

The Water Carrier.




“Well.” Britta thought as she staggered under the weight of the buckets of water, “I suppose this is better than being one of the working slaves in this brothel. I can’t imagine what it must be like, spreading your legs for dozens of customers a day.”

Just a few weeks before she had been the daughter of a prosperous merchant, living in considerable comfort. Then, if she wanted hot water for a bath, she would have snapped her fingers, ordering her own slaves to bring it. The attack on the town had ended all that. The guards on the walls were chatting, gambling, doing anything but keeping a lookout. The gates were open, the gate wards merely casting a casual eye on the traffic coming in. The two large hay wagons passed through without notice, until suddenly armed men erupted from the hay. The guards were cut down, and the town began to die!

The orgy of killing, rape and plunder destroyed the town. No woman was spared the wave of rape. Britta’s entire family, from her aged grandmother to her sister, were raped multiple times before being taken away to be enslaved. Even her brother was not spared! In those few weeks she had descended to this, a water carrier for a cheap brothel, dressed in rags.

Fortunately, the customers at the brothel liked their whores plump and well rounded, with full breasts and solid thighs. Britta’s slender body had been spurned. So, she carried water, day after day. Only the few male workers at the brothel used her, after all, she was free. The one, the big bouncer, was quite nice, despite his bulk and brutish appearance. She smiled, sadly. He called her “ma’am” and always apologised if she cried out while was using her. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I try to be gentle, but I’m so big, and you’re such a delicate young lady.”

Young lady! She had been a young lady, once, an eternity ago, before she became a water carrier in a brothel. A slave!

Art by Tamasser https://www.deviantart.com/tamasser

Writing by Theseus https://vignettesfromtheslavemarket.bdsmlr.com

 

[theseus]

Despair.


She was so tired!

She had been presented to five different buyers. Each time she had been brought in; her gown had slid to her feet as she stood under the spotlight. The dealer had described her attributes and talents in fine detail. Each prospective buyer had examined her, hands weighing breasts, testing the firmness of her buttocks. Fingers had probed her, deeply, insultingly. She had stood there, an object on show. She had crawled on all fours; she had spread her legs wide as she fingered herself.

Five times she had repeated this ordeal. Each time, after the examination, the buyers had left. The dealer left her alone after the last viewing. She returned some time later. “No takers. You know what this means, don’t you?”

Lorna collapsed on the viewing stage. “No! Please, Ma’am, please don’t let them do this to me! Please don’t let them export me!”

The dealer shook her head, sadly. “Your owner’s instructions are very clear. If you don’t sell for the reserve price, you are to be exported.”

“No! Please, Ma’am! No!”

The dealer stroked Lorna’s naked back. “I have a buyer in Ouagadougou who wants a white slave. He is a politician with lots of stolen money. He wants a status symbol, a white slave at his feet.” She stroked the back of the sobbing slave. “I’m afraid her some very…peculiar tastes.”

“Waga…what?” Lorna sobbed.

“It is the capital of Burkina Faso. In Central Africa.” The dealer’s voice was sympathetic, but implacable. “Come! I have a cage waiting for you. You are to be shipped as you are now, naked, in a cage. Apparently, there will be a large crowd to greet you on arrival.”

There was no choice. She was a slave. Property. She was to be a white slave in Africa.

Art by Photoport

Writing by Theseus https://vignettesfromtheslavemarket.bdsmlr.com

 

[theseus]

Living life to the full



Linda still has a few years of attraction left, and she is determined to use them to the full! Her children are grown up and married, her husband has long since lost interest in her in favour of the sports channel.

The Farm was the perfect solution. After much research she signed up. Not for her the three week vacation package, or even the three month summer package. She signed up for five years. Five years, no limits. She had done the counselling sessions, understood perfectly what she was letting herself in for. There would be no limits to her use. She would be used sexually in every way possible. She would be punished, cruelly. She would be worked until she dropped from exhaustion.

She had just completed the mile long walk from the parking area, where her husband had dropped her. She had successfully completed the medical, and the final paperwork. There was no going back now!

She was free for a few moments. The next step was tattooing the barcode on her mound, then she would be chained. Collar, wrist and ankle cuffs. Finally, she would be branded, a red-hot iron burning the Farm brand permanently into her flesh.

She was dripping with anticipation. Soon, very, very soon she would be a sex slave.

 

[theseus]

Auction in the brothel.



“Take your hands off me, you evil old bitch!” Julia thought as the patrician woman fondled her butt. Never would she dare to vocalise such a thought! She would end up on a cross before she could blink!

It was the end of the day ‘All Nighter’ auction. Solon, her owner and the owner of the brothel where she had spent the two months since becoming a slave, had thought up the auction as a way of maximising turnover. Instead of his stock of slave whores having a few hours off to sleep, without someone sticking something into them, they could spend the rest of the night in bed with a customer, before starting the next day’s work.

Not that Solon was a bad owner. He could be quite considerate, allowing the girls to wash between customers, and even allowing them a few minutes to have meals. The woman’s hand slid down her butt and between her legs. “Go away!” She thought.

Anya was being sold. It looked like old Marius would get her again. Poor girl!

Julia had long since lost count of the number of clients who had spent themselves in her. No more than two months ago she had been the spoilt daughter of a not too honest merchant. When the inevitable happened, he had been let off easily. They had strangled him, slowly. Still, in less that fifteen minutes it was all over. For his wife and daughters, the punishment would last much, much longer.

The woman’s fingers were inside her. The old harridan had no shame! The wife of a prominent, if ancient, senator, she derived her pleasure from hurting and humiliating girls younger and more attractive than she had ever been. Being a woman, she knew exactly how to hurt without leaving marks. A whore’s feelings counted for naught.

In the crowd she spotted Scipio. The huge, black freedman had used her often. Despite his size he was surprisingly gentle. She tried to catch his eye. Much better to be stretched by his impressive tool, than by the merciless gadgets the old bag used.

Anya was sold, to the gladiator known as the Painmaster. She would spend the next few hours screaming! The new girl was next. She had only been in the brothel for two days, still had a trace of modesty. Then it would be Julia.

She looked back at the old woman. “Please, please, let it be anyone but this old bitch and her pets. Please!”

Artwork by Julie and Melissa.

 

[Paul1969]

View attachment 757114

Devotion

"She would do it! Her husband wanted it, and she loved him more than anything else. She would have to put her career on hold. It would be difficult not to see her parents for six months, and possibly they might never want to speak to her or see her again once they found out what she was going to do. But her husband wanted it! And she loved him."

She waited for the sound of the key in the door. He had told her to be naked. Packing was not a problem, she would need nothing where she was going. Nothing, not even her glasses. For the next six months the world would be in soft focus. The Farm! How could it even exist? It broke every law, every rule. Yet it existed. Perhaps because it gave free membership to senior political figures, judges and senators, the chief of police.

The Farm, were there were no rules. Where slaves were used and abused, subjected to the most unthinkable practices. The place she would spend the next six months. Where her husband would use her as he would many others. Where she would be used, by him and many others. used in the most perverted ways.

She heard the car in the driveway, the rattle of his keys. She looked at the handcuffs on the bedside table. She took a deep breath.

Removing her glasses she picked up the handcuffs, awkwardly locking her wrists behind her.

The door opened.

"I'm ready, darling. Shall we go?"

The Farm broke her down much more in a psychological sense then she ever dreamed. Her husband had lied to her. It would not be him and his friends abusing her, she would be sold at auction to cover his massive gambling debts to underworld figures!
She had never felt comfortable nude, yet she was very good looking. Reddish, brown hair, soft milky skin and very generous breasts with large areoles. About 5’9 and athletic(She loved jogging, and light weight lifting) She had not even wanted to go to the nude beach in the south of France!
Now, she found herself completely naked on a small, raised wooden platform. Lights from behind the seated audience highlighted her attributes to the seated buyers, largely obscured in the dark in front of her. She could smell rum soaked cigars, elegant crystal glasses clinking in the crowd. The auctioneer was a large, bald, Black man with a fine
French tailored suit and expensive Faragomo shoes. He held a short camel crop that she had seen in Egypt on vacation. Into the microphone, as she was presented on stage, he briefly talked about her physical traits, age, the languages she spoke.
Bidding started at 100k, as the price rises, he told her to assume different positions on the block, raise her hands behind her head, do not slouch!! She was very humiliated when he forced her to turn around, bend over over so the crowd could see her
ass and delicate pink lips. Offers were over 1.5 million US.
After about twenty five minutes, the auction closed. She was pulled off the block, sweat glistening and thoroughly humiliated. Her feet and hands were re shackled. The buyer, a wealthy woman in a dark hijab with fiery, intense brown eyes
looked her up and down.

 

[theseus]

Fetters.



Tessa fought the ropes!

They cut into her wrists and ankles, yet she strained and twisted, desperately trying to free herself. She had screamed into the gag! Curses, pleas for release, and, finally, screams of outrage.

Her holiday had gone horribly wrong. She had taken a wrong turning from her hotel, trying to find the museum. Instead, she had found a narrow alley, and three young thugs. Now she was in a tiny room, bare but for a mattress on the floor, and a bucket. A foul smelling, none too clean bucket.

She was naked! They had laughed at her struggles as they stripped the clothing from her, remarking on the quality and the price the items would fetch in the second hand market. The ropes had been removed, only to be replaced by these cold, unforgiving steel fetters. A steel collar! All of them connected by chains. This was beyond a joke!

One of the thugs had informed her, gleefully, that she would be packed into a container with several others and flown to Mali. Mali? Where the fuck was Mali? “They have a nice brothel there,” he chortled, “staffed by people like you. Rich, arrogant white women.”

She tugged at the fetters. The steel so hard! So cold! So unforgiving! And yet…so right! The cold, hard steel seemed the perfect complement to her soft, warm, naked flesh.

Mali? Where was Mali?

Why was she so excited?

Why was she so wet?

 

[theseus]

Ladies’ training session.



Back in the 60’s and 70’s Tupperware parties were all the rage. Ladies would get together to chat, drink tea and buy kitchenware. Later came make-up parties and lingerie parties. The new fashion, with the move to more liberated sexual habits, is blow-job parties.

So here they were, six suburban housewives, waiting for their turn to be assessed by one of the instructors. By the end of the evening they would have improved their cocksucking skills beyond anything they dreamed of. Of course, their husbands would have been horrified had they known what their loving wives were up to!

However, when they were on the receiving end of their wives’ new skills, they would be too absorbed to question the provenance of those skills.

 

[theseus]

The Law



The cell stank, as all cells in this prison did. The girl looked up at me from where she was huddled in the straw. Her eyes were big with fear.

“It’s time, little one.” The light from the lantern the guard carried was warm in the pre-dawn darkness, not that much light ever penetrated into these cells. They were, after all, merely a way station on the way to execution. The girl struggled to her feet, the fetters too big and heavy for her slender form.

I felt sorry for the girl. She had done nothing wrong, apart from being a slave in the household of a senator who had been murdered. In terms of the law, all slaves in such a household were crucified.

I had pleaded with the heir, an arrogant young sprig of the nobility, to spare the younger slaves. He had insisted on his rights. “I want to watch them die! All of them! Make it slow!”

The girl was on her feet now. “The shift. It belongs to the heir.” She nodded, lifting her shackled and chained hands to undo the tapes that secured the flimsy garment at her shoulders. The thin fabric pooled around her ankles.

Her body was pale, slender, but with the strength of someone who had worked hard all her short life. Her long legs were shapely, her body beautifully proportioned, hips just starting to fill. She was still boyish, but with the promise of great beauty, a promise that would never be fulfilled.

“Did your master fuck you?” The question had to be asked. It was illegal to execute a virgin. If she were one, one of the guards would have to relieve her of her virginity, so that she could die in accordance with the law.

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “His son did, the heir. From when I was very young.” Most of her life, I thought. Years of being fucked by that pompous little prick. Yet he wouldn’t lift a finger to save her.

She walked ahead of me, her back straight, her head up. Somehow, she managed to move gracefully despite the chains. Her back was beautiful, the long muscles fusing perfectly into high, tight buttocks. It would not be beautiful for long.

Dawn was just breaking as we entered the square. There was already a small crowd of spectators. The household contained a number of attractive young slaves, ensuring that there would be a crowd to watch their flogging and crucifixion. The first slave to be flogged was already tied to the whipping post, a frail old man who had been the butler. The two floggers stood by. One right-handed, one left-handed, so that the strokes would be symmetrical. If he was lucky the flogging would kill him.

The old man was lucky! Not so the other slaves in the household. One by one their backs were flayed. I could feel the girl shivering next to me, tears running down her cheeks. A girl in her teens was lashed to the post, her breasts seemed too heavy for her slender torso. “She was the master’s favourite,” the girl said softly. The crowd murmured in satisfaction at the sight. By the third blow she was screaming. The weighted thongs wrapping around her torso to smash into the sides of her breasts. I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was next.

The whipped slaves, all except the dead old man, were kneeling in the square, the heavy crossbars of their crosses across their raw shoulders, arms tied firmly to the timber. The busty girl was cut down from the post, collapsing in the bloody mud. A bucket of brine revived her, screaming! The screaming continued as the crossbar was tied across her bloody shoulders!

I led the girl forward. A guard unlocked her shackles, tying her to the post, her arms stretched high above her head, pulling her body taught as she stood on her toes. The heir, her former ‘lover’, spoke to the floggers. “Strip her back, but don’t weaken her too much. I want to see her dance for a long time.”

She gave me a last, pleading look as the first stroke knocked the breath from her body.

Ten minutes later she was cut down. She managed to stay on her feet, staggering to where the last crossbar lay. Her back was no longer a thing of beauty, now a bloody mess of raw flesh and scraps of skin.

She whimpered as the rough baulk of timber was tied across those raw shoulders, her legs buckling under the weight. The other slaves were whipped to their feet to start the long walk to the city gate, the last walk any of them would take.

The crowd followed, as did the heir, his skin shielded from the morning sun by a parasol borne by an almost naked slave girl who was barely older than the girl now walking to her death.

It took some time, and much encouragement with the whips before the procession reached the gate. The slaves were relieved of the weight on their shoulders, taking advantage of the last chance to stretch their shoulders they would ever have. Then the screams started as, one by one, they were nailed to their crossbars.

The girl was last. She looked at me pleadingly as the executioner took her shoulder and led her to the crossbar. He held four square cut spikes, the heads over-large to prevent them tearing out of the flesh. Her eyes stayed focused on mine as she was laid down with her raw back in the dirt, her arms stretched along the crossbar. I wished she would look away, but I couldn’t break eye contact. For some strange reason I felt I owed her the comfort it gave her.

I saw her eyes widen a moment before the sound of the hammer hitting the spike reached me. Her back arched and she struggled against the men holding her down. Then she screamed! Her head turned toward her hand, her eyes looking in disbelief at the spike that now penetrated her wrist, shattering bone as it went through into the wood below! Two more blows drove the spike all the way home.

She had stopped screaming, sobbing bitterly through the pain. Her back arched again as the other wrist was nailed, her heels hammering against the ground. Two men started dragging the crossbar, with her attached, to where the upright stood. As they prepared to pull her up to the top of the upright the heir shouted, “Wait!”

For a moment her eyes showed hope through the pain, then she realised he was lifting his tunic. She gave a despairing moan as he kicked her legs apart, knelt between then and drove himself into her body.

He was mercifully quick. Wiping himself on her hair, he nodded to the executioner. “Proceed!”

Her screams drowned out the moans and cries of the already crucified slaves as she was dragged up the upright, all her weight hanging from her mutilated wrists, her flayed back scraping against the rough timber. The crossbar was bolted fast. The executioner grabbed her flailing right leg, bending the knee and placing the foot along the side of the upright. An assistant held the foot as he drove the spike through the gap between the Achilles tendon and the anklebone. The other foot was soon nailed.

Her legs spread wide, semen dripping slowly from her, she hung on the cross, screaming her agony,

The girl was strong, the will to live was strong. She would live for a long time! Two, perhaps three days.

I could watch no more. Duty done, I trudged into the city.



Image by Mahashiva.

 

[Crux-Emperor Baracus X]

The Law

View attachment 901255

The cell stank, as all cells in this prison did. The girl looked up at me from where she was huddled in the straw. Her eyes were big with fear.

“It’s time, little one.” The light from the lantern the guard carried was warm in the pre-dawn darkness, not that much light ever penetrated into these cells. They were, after all, merely a way station on the way to execution. The girl struggled to her feet, the fetters too big and heavy for her slender form.

I felt sorry for the girl. She had done nothing wrong, apart from being a slave in the household of a senator who had been murdered. In terms of the law, all slaves in such a household were crucified.

I had pleaded with the heir, an arrogant young sprig of the nobility, to spare the younger slaves. He had insisted on his rights. “I want to watch them die! All of them! Make it slow!”

The girl was on her feet now. “The shift. It belongs to the heir.” She nodded, lifting her shackled and chained hands to undo the tapes that secured the flimsy garment at her shoulders. The thin fabric pooled around her ankles.

Her body was pale, slender, but with the strength of someone who had worked hard all her short life. Her long legs were shapely, her body beautifully proportioned, hips just starting to fill. She was still boyish, but with the promise of great beauty, a promise that would never be fulfilled.

“Did your master fuck you?” The question had to be asked. It was illegal to execute a virgin. If she were one, one of the guards would have to relieve her of her virginity, so that she could die in accordance with the law.

She shook her head. “No,” she said softly. “His son did, the heir. From when I was very young.” Most of her life, I thought. Years of being fucked by that pompous little prick. Yet he wouldn’t lift a finger to save her.

She walked ahead of me, her back straight, her head up. Somehow, she managed to move gracefully despite the chains. Her back was beautiful, the long muscles fusing perfectly into high, tight buttocks. It would not be beautiful for long.

Dawn was just breaking as we entered the square. There was already a small crowd of spectators. The household contained a number of attractive young slaves, ensuring that there would be a crowd to watch their flogging and crucifixion. The first slave to be flogged was already tied to the whipping post, a frail old man who had been the butler. The two floggers stood by. One right-handed, one left-handed, so that the strokes would be symmetrical. If he was lucky the flogging would kill him.

The old man was lucky! Not so the other slaves in the household. One by one their backs were flayed. I could feel the girl shivering next to me, tears running down her cheeks. A girl in her teens was lashed to the post, her breasts seemed too heavy for her slender torso. “She was the master’s favourite,” the girl said softly. The crowd murmured in satisfaction at the sight. By the third blow she was screaming. The weighted thongs wrapping around her torso to smash into the sides of her breasts. I put my hand on the girl’s shoulder. She was next.

The whipped slaves, all except the dead old man, were kneeling in the square, the heavy crossbars of their crosses across their raw shoulders, arms tied firmly to the timber. The busty girl was cut down from the post, collapsing in the bloody mud. A bucket of brine revived her, screaming! The screaming continued as the crossbar was tied across her bloody shoulders!

I led the girl forward. A guard unlocked her shackles, tying her to the post, her arms stretched high above her head, pulling her body taught as she stood on her toes. The heir, her former ‘lover’, spoke to the floggers. “Strip her back, but don’t weaken her too much. I want to see her dance for a long time.”

She gave me a last, pleading look as the first stroke knocked the breath from her body.

Ten minutes later she was cut down. She managed to stay on her feet, staggering to where the last crossbar lay. Her back was no longer a thing of beauty, now a bloody mess of raw flesh and scraps of skin.

She whimpered as the rough baulk of timber was tied across those raw shoulders, her legs buckling under the weight. The other slaves were whipped to their feet to start the long walk to the city gate, the last walk any of them would take.

The crowd followed, as did the heir, his skin shielded from the morning sun by a parasol borne by an almost naked slave girl who was barely older than the girl now walking to her death.

It took some time, and much encouragement with the whips before the procession reached the gate. The slaves were relieved of the weight on their shoulders, taking advantage of the last chance to stretch their shoulders they would ever have. Then the screams started as, one by one, they were nailed to their crossbars.

The girl was last. She looked at me pleadingly as the executioner took her shoulder and led her to the crossbar. He held four square cut spikes, the heads over-large to prevent them tearing out of the flesh. Her eyes stayed focused on mine as she was laid down with her raw back in the dirt, her arms stretched along the crossbar. I wished she would look away, but I couldn’t break eye contact. For some strange reason I felt I owed her the comfort it gave her.

I saw her eyes widen a moment before the sound of the hammer hitting the spike reached me. Her back arched and she struggled against the men holding her down. Then she screamed! Her head turned toward her hand, her eyes looking in disbelief at the spike that now penetrated her wrist, shattering bone as it went through into the wood below! Two more blows drove the spike all the way home.

She had stopped screaming, sobbing bitterly through the pain. Her back arched again as the other wrist was nailed, her heels hammering against the ground. Two men started dragging the crossbar, with her attached, to where the upright stood. As they prepared to pull her up to the top of the upright the heir shouted, “Wait!”

For a moment her eyes showed hope through the pain, then she realised he was lifting his tunic. She gave a despairing moan as he kicked her legs apart, knelt between then and drove himself into her body.

He was mercifully quick. Wiping himself on her hair, he nodded to the executioner. “Proceed!”

Her screams drowned out the moans and cries of the already crucified slaves as she was dragged up the upright, all her weight hanging from her mutilated wrists, her flayed back scraping against the rough timber. The crossbar was bolted fast. The executioner grabbed her flailing right leg, bending the knee and placing the foot along the side of the upright. An assistant held the foot as he drove the spike through the gap between the Achilles tendon and the anklebone. The other foot was soon nailed.

Her legs spread wide, semen dripping slowly from her, she hung on the cross, screaming her agony,

The girl was strong, the will to live was strong. She would live for a long time! Two, perhaps three days.

I could watch no more. Duty done, I trudged into the city.



Image by Mahashiva.

Excellent narrative.

 

[theseus]

The fall of the aristocracy.



He had taken her by surprise! The fool had cum almost immediately. Now she knelt there, with the tell-tale dribble of his seed running, wasted, down her chin. She had spilt the sacred seed of the Working Class. The consequences would be painful!

Lady Isobel Parker-Hale, dowager Countess of Chislehurst, watched as her client dropped a red reprimand token into the box next to her. She could already hear the whistle of the whip, feel the burning bite of the braided leather as it slices into her flesh. In front of her, her tenth client of the day dropped his trousers.

The revolution had come so suddenly! A squad of policemen had descended on the estate. Her son, the Earl, and all the male members of her family, had been shackled, taken away to spend the rest of their lives labouring in a quarry. Lady Isobel, her daughter in law Genevieve, and her granddaughter Christal, who had chosen the wrong weekend to come home from university, had been stripped and brought to this horrible place.

Her day had started, as had the previous 40, when the guards had opened her cage at dawn. The cage was too small to stretch out in, the floor was cold, bare concrete. She had crawled out, collected her cleaning materials and, still on her hands and knees, had cleaned her mess out of the corner of the cage. She had hungrily lapped up the vile gruel that was her only meal of the day, prohibited from using her hands, licking the bowl clean.

Finally allowed to stand, she had waited patiently to be shackled to her chain mates. There were five of them in the string. Lady Agatha, more than seventy years old; Lady Anne, who just more than a month ago had been a society bride, then Isobel herself, Genevieve and Christal. They were joined ankle to ankle.

The coffle of naked aristocrats stumbled painfully after their guard, to the main square, where they received their daily scrub. There was always an audience of idlers who made rude remarks as the naked noblewomen were scrubbed with rough brushes, washing the previous day’s cum and filth from their bodies.

Shivering from the icy water, they were marched off to the brothel to start their sixteen hour shift. There was already a small crowd waiting. After all, it cost just two coppers to fuck the face of a noblewoman, one copper for either of the other holes. Sweet revenge indeed.

Lady Isobel’s next client was one who had only a distant relationship with soap and water. She shuddered, gagging at the odour, opening her mouth. Next to her, her daughter in law gave a resigned sigh as she turned over on her belly, her hands spreading once plump buttocks wide. On the other side, old Lady Agatha choked and retched at the load she had just received. A red token was dropped into her tin. She, too, would have an appointment with the whip at the end of the day.

“How are the mighty fallen!” Isobel thought, as the rancid cock found the back of her throat.

 

[theseus]

The Party.



The blindfold was the most exciting, the most terrifying, the most erotic thing about the whole adventure.

Emma knelt, as she was commanded. She heard the sound of a zipper, her nose detecting the smell of aroused cock. This one would be her fifth, she thought. She had lost track of time, lost in her dark world. She was starting to lose track of the number of people who had made use of her body. She tried to do a count as she waited for the man to present his cock for her attention.

“She’s in pretty good shape for an old girl. A granny, you say? Never fucked a granny before.” The voice sounded vaguely familiar.

This was the fifth blowjob. Four had used her vagina. Two had penetrated her tighter, and hardly used anus. She had been doubled once, vagina and anus, an excruciating pleasure! She had licked three or four vaginas. She wondered how long she had been here? They had arrived at the party at 7p.m. on Friday, and were due to leave at noon on Sunday. She would be blindfolded and handcuffed for the entire time.

The penis prodded her lips. It tasted of sex, of sperm and vaginal juices. Hers? Or some other woman’s? She took it hungrily, relishing the thick hardness. Her stomach growled. She was hungry. She had been given water, and a few sips of wine, one or two canapes. Mainly, she had swallowed cum. Fingers tweaked her nipples. Twisting them painfully. Delicious! His fingers? Someone else?

She wondered where her husband was? Had he found somebody? A girl, perhaps? Young enough to be his daughter? The cock in her throat pulsed. She swallowed, hungrily! It vanished from between her lips.

A hand pushed her forward, her head on the floor. A cock, slick and wet, the same she had just sucked? touched her anus. She moaned as it pushed its way inside her.

Why? Why, had she waited so long for this?

Emma was the average suburban wife. Her husband had a good job and good investments, which meant that they were quite comfortable financially and could look forward to a good retirement. Yet, they were both restless. They wanted adventure, something new, exciting, something shocking!

It had started one Sunday morning, lying in bed after a very pleasurable session of lovemaking. “Remember those days back in Greece, when we were backpacking? The six of us in that little guest house by the beach? On Ios?”

John gently bit her nipple. “That ex-marine you so fancied. Dennis. All 6’4” of him, and a cock to match!” Emma chuckled throatily. “Mmmm. Pity I was so bashful in those days. I only sucked him that once, when we were all high, and decided to do that oral round robin.” He bit her again, not so gently. “Ouch! Even the two lesbian ladies joined in. What were their names? Sue and Tessa?” He nodded. “You and Di spent an awful long time in a 69.” Not that I was complaining. Dennis had a very skilled tongue.”

Hands roamed for a while, mouths busy. John sighed, “pity we can’t do that kind of thing anymore.”

Emme sat up! “Why not? We might be grandparents, but there is nothing that says we can’t have fun!”

They had heard of this group, the Community, it called itself. The members were, on the surface, ordinary people, just like they were. A bit of research led them to a website. A few online chats, a quiet dinner with another couple, leading members of the Community, and here she was, naked and blindfolded, about to suck her fifth cock of the evening!

The party would last from Friday evening until late Sunday morning. This was the first party they had attended. “All or nothing!” Emma declared when they discussed it. “All or nothing!”

They had driven out to the venue, a large house set in spacious grounds on the outskirts of town. John was dressed, quite formally, in a dinner jacket. Emma was naked under her coat. John stopped the car just inside the gate, the house barely visible through an avenue of trees. “Are you sure about this?” he said quietly. She took a deep breath. “God! Yes!”

She got out of the car and removed her coat, kicking off her shoes. She was totally naked, pussy freshly waxed. All she wore was her wedding ring. John examined her in the half light. “Shit,” he thought, “she is fifty-eight years old and still delicious.” The handcuffs rattled in his hand. The keys were at home. “You’re sure about this?” She turned around, her hands behind her. Once the cuffs were locked, they would stay that way until they got home on Sunday. The cuffs clicked shut! Her hands were useless for the next thirty-six hours!

“Blindfold, please.” The blindfold was the key! She wanted the unknown. She wanted to be blind to who enjoyed her. That was the excitement! She would never know! She would never know whether the man she saw in the street, the woman she passed in the supermarket aisle, or a casual passer-by had used her sexually. Every time she met a man socially, she would wonder whether she had sucked his cock, whether he had penetrated one, or more, of her orifices?

That was the excitement! That was the challenge!

 

[theseus]

Sentenced



“You are to be taken from this court to a special prison where you will be held at hard labour for the rest of your natural lives.”

Gwen and her husband were horrified. They had expected a few months, perhaps a year, in prison. After all, possession of a few grams of a recreational drug was not such a serious crime. Life! What kind if ‘special prison’?

She hardly heard the judge’s next words. “Strip them and chain them!”

They struggled in vain as the bailiffs literally tore the clothes from their bodies before locking heavy manacles on wrist and ankle. She tried in vain to hide her breasts, her sex. A guard solved that problem instantly, shoving his nightstick though her elbows behind her back, trapping her hands and leaving her totally exposed.

They were led through the street to a holding cell. It was crowded, all the occupants naked and shackled as she was. She tried to ignore the naked black man crushed against her. “What you two done? Must be real bad, you look like you never been inside before.” She shook her head. “We all bad guys, sista. Repeat offenders. Rapists, murderers, thieves. What you in for?” She shuddered. “We had a few grams of coke at home.”

He shook his head. “You here for a few grams of coke? Shit, lady, you got enemies! The camp is the worsest place to be. Nobody comes out. You gonna get fucked every which way, lady.”

The tightly packed naked bodies were thrown together as the truck moved off. Gwen and her husband stared, terrified, at their companions. Their companions for life!

 

[fallenmystic]

I didn't intend to write a story at first when I exchanged our fancies related to school with another member via PM. But my post somehow grew into one before I realised. So, I'm posting it here after I get permission from her:

A Schoolgirl's Dream

The only education allowed for a coloured girl - or a "chink" as they call us - like me is a slave training course which includes learning various submissive positions or how to pleasure my white masters and mistresses sexually.

However, it is in school that now I'm spending most of the days. In fact, I'm rarely allowed outside this private school since I was purchased by the schoolmaster to perform all the menial duties that the students and teachers find to be below their status.

I regard myself fortunate to be a school slave, though. I'm not pretty enough to be a house pet of some affluent Master anyway. And I'm even allowed to wear some loosely fitting rag over my naked body here - a privilege not many slave girl enjoys.

Of course, it has nothing to do with any merit I may have or even with my modesty. It's necessary a measure to prevent the students from acquiring a "degenerate taste" of using such an ugly, low-grade work slave for unintended use. I only hope it was as effective as the teachers think it is, though.

So, I usually go around the classrooms or toilets in my bare feet to mop the floor or clean the urinals most of the time when I'm not chained in the basement for the night. Even though I'm expected to stand aside and keep my head low whenever I come across students or teachers on a corridor, I can't help stealing a glance at them especially when it's a female student of my age. I envy how merrily she laughs, what clean clothes she wears, and how good she smells when I pass by her, even though I'm usually greeted with a look of disgust and contempt.

I have more problematic relations with the boys, however, as they often drag me outside to a shady recess where they grope me or even made me give them an oral service. Of course, I'm well past the stage when I feel too ashamed of being used like this. But the problem is, when they get caught by a teacher, it's always me who receive a whipping, not them.

I lost count of how many times they had tied me up to the big pine tree standing in the schoolyard, while the boys are at most sent to the detention room, watching from the window how I dance and wail naked under the ruthless leather.

But not all male students are bad as there is one particular boy who has saved me from the hands of his more sadistic and unscrupulous friends several times already. I think he is pretty handsome too and I even fancy he may have taken a liking to me.

Of course, I'm not stupid enough to believe a chink girl like me could be anything more than a sex toy for such a white boy from a wealthy family like him. And as a work-grade slave, I'm not even good for that.

But it's not unheard of that a man with a strange taste sometimes buys a low-grade chink that matches his unusual fetish to make her serve him as his house pet. I fancy of being owned by him and serving him as his favourite slave in his household. I blush at the thought of what services I might be asked to perform for him in his bed-chamber at nights.

I know his name is Richard, even though I'd never be allowed to call him by that name even if I could become his favourite slave. Still, it didn't prevent me from fancying how I'd call him "My Richard" as he fondly caresses my naked body in his bed. It was this kind of thoughts which has kept me enduring the hardships of slavery while making me wet when I sleep on the cold concrete floor in the basement, leashed to a nearby water pipe.

At the very least, my fortune would be incomparably better if I can be purchased by his family, compared to be owned by one of those cruel bastards who wager how many pebble stones they can shove into my holes, for example.

But it didn't take long before my fancy was shattered completely. When I was ordered to come in by Mr Anderson as I was walking past his classroom. I thought it odd because I was never allowed in when there was a class before today. He is a middle-aged man with receding hairlines whom I occasionally met during my cleaning duties. But I don't know him well beyond that because teachers don't usually touch a low-grade slave like me, unlike some boys do. Nowadays, everyone owns a chink girl or two at home, and if I looked as beautiful as those girls, I wouldn't be mopping the toilet floor here.

After leaving my floor mop and the water bucket outside, I timidly stepped inside with my head demurely down. Still, I managed to learn that it was a biology class from the crude sketch of what I believed to be the cross-section of a female body on the whiteboard, even though I couldn't understand any of the letters written there. But I didn't have enough time to think about it further because Mr Anderson ordered me to strip, in front of all those eyes!

I got appalled and hesitated before feeling a vicious slap on my cheek. The few gasps from the girls immediately got drowned by the roar of jeers and laughter from the boys. Realizing that I have no other choice, I turned my back to the students and pulled down the rag, which has been covering my humble Asian features from the scrutinizing eyes.

I put my hands upon my breasts and furs as I stood naked while waiting for the next order. But my pitiful attempt at keeping my modesty proved futile when the teacher grabbed my hair and roughly spun me to face the students again, ordering me to climb up the table.

As soon as I complied the command, he grabbed each of my ankles to position them at the farthest corners. It splayed my legs as widely as possible to reveal my womanhood to the full view. The boys get wild at this point, some whistling and some even throwing paper ball to hit my fully exposed folds. Mr Anderson had to spend considerable time to calm them down, and I bit down my lips to suppress tears and turned my face away from the crowd.

It was the position that I had to keep for the next 30 minutes while the teacher explained various features of a female reproductive system. As his pointing stick pokes around my sensitive skin, I had to stretch my labia or pull back the fold to expose my clit with my own fingers because he didn't want to touch my unwashed vagina with his hand.

He once commented how my vulva has such a darker, and "dirtier" colour compared with the ordinary - which means 'white' - girls of my age because it's one of the traits of the inferior race to which I belong. At one point, he made me pull my hole as wide as I can with my fingers then he thrust his pointing stick inside me. I jolted and squirmed my hip as I felt the polished wood glides upon my wrinkled recess.

My reaction reanimated the boys once more, especially when I yelped quite loudly as the teacher patted on the head of his stick to make sure it reached at the end of my cave. He pulled the glistening shaft to show the students how deep a female vaginal tract is, although he didn't forget to mention that relative shortness of the length which he attributed to my race again. He joked about the small size of their vaginal opening to be one of the few redeeming qualities that those female species from that ugly but naturally servile race have. It drew a knowing smile from some of the boys while making a few girls who understood the implication blush with embarrassment.

Satisfied with his own joke, Mr Anderson thrust the wet end of the stick under my nose, and I knew what I'm supposed to do. It's a regular routine a slave girl is expected to perform after serving a male owner. While trying not to smell my own female juice, I demurely opened my mouth to receive his pointing stick and began to clean it.

As I felt funny taste upon my tongue, I could hear many gasps and cries of disgust from the students. They should be well aware of how slave girls like me routinely serve our owners (or anyone they lend us to) to provide sexual pleasure. Still, they probably have never witnessed what degrading rituals we usually perform in our duties before. I tried not to make my motion too vulgar for them, but that was when I found a familiar face among the crowd. It was Richard... my Richard!

Then I recognized the utter contempt in his face, which was contorted with the shock and disgust he must be feeling of me. I closed my eyes as I felt warm tears rolling down my cheeks while cold breeze brushing my still wet and exposed sex.

Suddenly the stick withdrew from my mouth, and I heard a loud slap upon my left breast for failing to follow the next step immediately.

"Please forgive this stupid chink, Sir!" I felt even more ashamed at how quickly I was able to utter those words like an automaton, even before I began to feel the burning pain on my reddened breast. Nevertheless, I managed to grab the end of my greasy and dishevelled hair to mop the surface of the stick clean of my saliva.

"Thank you, Sir," I said meekly and kissed the tip of his pointing stick when I was done drying it with my hair. Probably I shouldn't have done that, however, because it made Mr Anderson raise his eyebrows and scold me, saying "This is a classroom, not a whore house, you stupid animal!" He planted another savage slap on my cheek before continuing his class, possibly being angry at himself for uttering an inappropriate word in front of the students.

The class lasted for another 10 minutes, and I kept my position on the table while dripping the shameful evidence of my involuntary arousal upon the plastic surface. The students drew a sketch of my vagina in their notebook, annotating its individual part with the names they just learned. Richard had to raise his head several times to check the details of my female anatomy, but he's refusing to meet my eyes now.

I wanted to die.

(Image source: www.tanie-auta.eu)

 

[theseus]

The Turning Point

It is such a simple, everyday act. Unclip the bra, take it off, put it in the wash basket. Hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties, slide them over your hips, down over your pubic mound, all the way down your thighs. Step out of them, smile as you kick them over to follow the bra. It is something you do every day of your life, something you don’t even think of, unless you are stripping for a lover, and the movements are sensuous and full of promise.

For Cindy this was no ordinary day. As she slid her panties down, exposing her most private parts, she was aware that she would never do this again. She smiled bravely at the watchers, men and women, elegantly dressed, drinks in hand, who watched her closely as she removed the last fragment of her freedom. The last vestige of her humanity.

She was no longer Cindy; Cindy the student, Cindy the dancer, Cindy the gymnast. As that scrap of fabric slid to the ground, she became…flesh! She was an object, a chattel, a fuck slave. She was no longer human. A slave.

She smiled bravely at them, because one, or perhaps more, of them would become her owner. He, or she, would pay money, large amounts of money, to own the body now revealed. The body that would be theirs to use however they pleased.

She glanced down at the discarded scrap of fabric on the floor. Slaves owned nothing, not even their bodies. Slaves were naked, unless it pleased their owners to allow them to wear a scrap of clothing, clothing that revealed and enhanced, rather than concealed. Underwear was a thing of the past, never to be worn again.

She managed to keep her smile as the first hands touched her, examining her, gauging her value. She was terrified!

She had wanted this all her life. This was her desire, her dream.

To be a slave!

 

[theseus]

The Turning Point.


It is such a simple, everyday act. Unclip the bra, take it off, put it in the wash basket. Hook your fingers into the waistband of your panties, slide them over your hips, down over your pubic mound, all the way down your thighs. Step out of them, smile as you kick them over to follow the bra. It is something you do every day of your life, something you don’t even think of, unless you are stripping for a lover, and the movements are sensuous and full of promise.

For Cindy this was no ordinary day. As she slid her panties down, exposing her most private parts, she was aware that she would never do this again. She smiled bravely at the watchers, men and women, elegantly dressed, drinks in hand, who watched her closely as she removed the last fragment of her freedom. The last vestige of her humanity.

She was no longer Cindy; Cindy the student, Cindy the dancer, Cindy the gymnast. As that scrap of fabric slid to the ground, she became…flesh! She was an object, a chattel, a fuck slave. She was no longer human. A slave.

She smiled bravely at them, because one, or perhaps more, of them would become her owner. He, or she, would pay money, large amounts of money, to own the body now revealed. The body that would be theirs to use however they pleased.

She glanced down at the discarded scrap of fabric on the floor. Slaves owned nothing, not even their bodies. Slaves were naked, unless it pleased their owners to allow them to wear a scrap of clothing, clothing that revealed and enhanced, rather than concealed. Underwear was a thing of the past, never to be worn again.

She managed to keep her smile as the first hands touched her, examining her, gauging her value. She was terrified!

She had wanted this all her life. This was her desire, her dream.

To be a slave!

The option of inserting thumbnail seems to have disappeared. Am I missing something?

 

[The Fallen Angel]

The option of inserting thumbnail seems to have disappeared. Am I missing something?

Not sure what's going on. Will look into it today.
Update. I'm using an Android tablet. Tried to upload a 1.2 Mb jpg....did not work but a 256Kb jpg did work. I'll resize your pic then edit and try reinsert.
Update. Your pic was 1.2 Mb.
Update. Just downloaded a nice Image Resizer from Playstore and resized your pic to aprrox 500kb which is plenty and it works. If you don't have a pic resizer there's plenty of online sites.

 

[theseus]

Not sure what's going on. Will look into it today.
Update. I'm using an Android tablet. Tried to upload a 1.2 Mb jpg....did not work but a 256Kb jpg did work. I'll resize your pic then edit and try reinsert.
Update. Your pic was 1.2 Mb.
Update. Just downloaded a nice Image Resizer from Playstore and resized your pic to aprrox 500kb which is plenty and it works. If you don't have a pic resizer there's plenty of online sites.

Thanks for that. I hadn't realised it was so big, and had no idea size was a factor. (Yes! I know! Size matters!)

 

[theseus]

A dream come true.


Heidi waited patiently in the bare little room overlooking the roofs of the city. It had been years since she first had this dream, this fantasy. Now the dream was coming true.

She was becoming a slave!

It was strange being naked all the time, being locked up in this bare little room. It was strange, uncomfortable and thrilling to be touched by strangers, touched intimately, as if she was no more than an object. It was strange no longer to be Heidi. She was flesh, fresh meat, property. Her owner would give her a name, whatever he or she wished to call her. Now she was only a number, nine digits.

561 082 794.

That number would soon be tattooed on the inside of her butt crack, next to her anus. Even that no longer had a name. It was one of her three fuckholes, a fuckholes to be stretched in order to be made more easily usable. She was acutely aware of the heavy steel plug, a bigger one each day, that filled that fuckhole, opening it.

She heard the footsteps stop outside her door, the key turning in the lock. She glanced down at the fiery bush covering her mound. Not for much longer. The laser would take care of that. Soon she would be as smooth as she was all those years ago, when she first dreamed about being a slave.

She wondered when she would be sold. The final step! Someone would buy her body, place a collar around her neck, perhaps brand her with His, or Her, mark, burning it deep into her flesh with a red-hot branding iron. The thought was terrifying, yet she wanted it more than anything else, that indelible mark of ownership.

The overseer entered the room. Heidi, 561 082 794, Turned around, her hands behind her, waiting for the cold, unforgiving steel of the handcuffs. The next stage of the adventure was beginning. Another step in her ascent into slavery.

Her dream come true!


Picture by Shakhabalov @ Domai.com

Writing by Theseus

 

[Madiosi]

The 2020 edition now in libary:

Crux-forums E-book Library

No: 311 Cruxer's Digest 2020 - Part I Unfortunately, the .mobi-file is to large. What's in the contents, please? :)

www.cruxforums.com

and archive:

https://www.cruxforums.com/xf/resources/vignettes-from-the-slave-pits-2020-by-theseus.810/

 

[theseus]

Aurore



“Mom! You’re not serious, are you?”

Aurore, fresh from her shower, looked down at her naked body. Her mother was applying make-up to her face, trying to hide the bruises from her last beating.

“Oh my God! You are serious! You really think I should do it!”

Hope sighed. The john had done a real job on her. She knew from experience that fresh bruises simply invited another beating. She knew she had to work. Rent was due, and they had no food in the house.

“It is simply the best thing for you. What alternative is there? Become a hooker, like me?”

“Mom, I can get a job! I’m smart!”

Hope sighed. “I know. I wish there was a better way. Think of the job interview. High School dropout, because I can’t afford to keep you there any longer. Father? Unknown! One of a couple of dozen guys I fucked that week. Mother’s occupation? Street corner whore! Best job you could get would be as a waitress in some cheap dive, doing tricks on the side.”

Aurore knew that her mother was right. But… a slave? Sold. Somebody’s property. Somebody’s fucktoy? “How is being a slave better than being a hooker, mom?”

Hope ticked the points off on her fingers. “Slaves are valuable. They get treated pretty well. Good food. Clean rooms. Medical care. Nice clothes,” she smiled, “if they’re allowed to wear any. And when you’re freed, you have a nest egg to live on. They put away most of what you sell for in a trust fund, invest it for you. When you’re freed, perhaps in your forties, you’ll have a chunk of money to live on.”

“But mom! I’d be a slave for…maybe thirty years!”

“Yes, but you’ll live good for those years, not like this!” Hope waved her hand at the tiny room they shared.

“I’d still get fucked!”

“Yes, you’d still get fucked, but by a better class of man than the guys who cruise past my corner. You’d be fucked by rich guys, clean guys, guys who don’t have crabs, and gonorrhoea, and god knows what else.”

Aurore sighed. “When, mom?”

Hope smiled, wanly. “Tomorrow, we have a meeting with the agent. He’ll explain everything. You’ve got to be trained. Look he reckons you’ll fetch maybe a hundred grand! Maybe more! Look at yourself! You’re pretty, smart, fresh! Not exactly a virgin, not after that john followed me here and raped you, but…”

Aurore sighed. There really was no choice. She hugged her mother. “Come, let’s get those bruises covered.”

As she applied the make-up, she reflected.

Perhaps being a slave wouldn’t be so bad after all.