A powerful story of an unfortunate girl. I admit, I do hope Richard or someone "rescues" her - but I suppose there are advantages to the school of having such a teaching tool at hand. Still, they're cheap enough to replace...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)
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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
- Start date
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Holy Brotherhood of the Cross.
Prudence moaned softly as she forced her legs to straighten, pulling up on her arms. Her whipped back scraping painfully against the rough wood of the cross. She had to breathe! Legs straight, the spikes through her feet grating on broken bones, she took great, heaving gasps of air. The sun still shone into her eyes, as it had for the hours since she was put up here just before dawn. Sweat ran down her body, feeding the flies and other biting insects that came to feast on the salty bonanza. The muscles in her thighs were jumping, exhausted! Slowly, she slid down the cross, more pain from her back, more pain as her weight was transferred to the spikes attaching her arms to the crossbar, as her twisted, tortured shoulders took up the weight of her body.
This was her life. Pain!
At least the Somali girl had stopped screaming! She had started screaming, shrilly, continuously, as soon as the first spike was driven through her slender wrist. The screaming had reached a crescendo as her cross was raised, her entire weight now supported on the three cruel spikes. One through each wrist, the third driven through both slender feet. Her throat could no longer scream, she was reduced to sobbing moans as she, too, struggled to stand, to breathe. Prudence was sure she could hear the bones in the girl’s feet scraping against the spike that had broken them in its path to the wood. The girl knew that she was fated to die on the cross, yet her body fought desperately for life. Despite the pain, despite the despair.
Prudence looked up at her own hands. The cruel steel spikes protruded from her forearms, just below the wrist. She was supposed to be tied, not nailed! The horrible truth had dawned on her as four of the big, burly monks held her down on the cross. The wizened little Chinaman had prodded at her arm with a finger, finding the right spot, pointing to it as a monk pressed the sharp tip of a spike on the spot.
“No! Not me! The Somali! Not me!” She saw her owner, the slaver Said, watching. “Master, Please? They are making a mistake!” He merely shrugged his shoulders, tossing a heavy little purse from hand to hand. “You will live. Be grateful!” The hammer smashed down in the spike!
Prudence moaned softly as she pulled herself up the cross to take another precious breath. The spikes grated against the bones of her forearm sending shards of raw agony up her arms. She pushed up with her legs, her weight on the spikes driven through the space between her Achilles tendon and the ankle bones. She gasped for breath in a world of agony, determined to live!
Life was precious!
Yasmina slid slowly down the cross. Her beautiful black skin gleamed with sweat. She moaned softly as the thick wooden spike once more invaded her anus. The minor support it gave her was welcome, the humiliation of constantly buggering herself less so.
How much longer would they hang here? The sun was almost overhead. Despite the sips of water she had been given, she had a raging thirst. She was exhausted, her back was on fire, whipped raw by the so-called monks. How much longer? Until the Somali died?
The Somali wanted to die. With every move she made shards of pain lanced through her body. She could feel unyielding iron grate against the broken bones in wrists and feet. She wanted this to be over! Yet her body fought on. Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that death was inevitable, her body fought for life.
Dry sobs wracked her body as it fought for breath, as she stood once more on broken, nailed feet, pulling herself up by her cruelly nailed wrists, until she could take a few lifesaving gasps of breath! Before the pain became too much, and her mutilated back slid down the cross, only the repeat the agony in a few minutes.
She was suffering this agony, this humiliation, this torture, for the pleasure of the Holy Brotherhood of the Cross. Their leader sat sprawled in a chair, a cool drink in his hand. The naked bottom of a slave girl protruded from the bottom of his cassock, her head, hidden beneath the coarse cloth, bobbing busily.
Once more her lungs demanded air! Once more the bones in her feet grated against the metal of the spike fixing them to the cross. Once more broken wrists dragged her body upward. Just a few more breaths!
Life is so precious!
Prudence’s scream echoed over the bay! Her thighs and calves were cramped rock hard! The paid was excruciating! As she struggled to find a way to ease the cramp, her buttock cramped. Muscle fought muscle. Her screams were shrill, desperate. The Somali, standing on her spike, gave her a look of deep sympathy.
The sun passed its zenith, started sinking slowly into the west. The three victims danced on their crosses. The Somali weakened, until eventually she danced no more.
Picture by Julie and Melissa.
Prudence moaned softly as she forced her legs to straighten, pulling up on her arms. Her whipped back scraping painfully against the rough wood of the cross. She had to breathe! Legs straight, the spikes through her feet grating on broken bones, she took great, heaving gasps of air. The sun still shone into her eyes, as it had for the hours since she was put up here just before dawn. Sweat ran down her body, feeding the flies and other biting insects that came to feast on the salty bonanza. The muscles in her thighs were jumping, exhausted! Slowly, she slid down the cross, more pain from her back, more pain as her weight was transferred to the spikes attaching her arms to the crossbar, as her twisted, tortured shoulders took up the weight of her body.
This was her life. Pain!
At least the Somali girl had stopped screaming! She had started screaming, shrilly, continuously, as soon as the first spike was driven through her slender wrist. The screaming had reached a crescendo as her cross was raised, her entire weight now supported on the three cruel spikes. One through each wrist, the third driven through both slender feet. Her throat could no longer scream, she was reduced to sobbing moans as she, too, struggled to stand, to breathe. Prudence was sure she could hear the bones in the girl’s feet scraping against the spike that had broken them in its path to the wood. The girl knew that she was fated to die on the cross, yet her body fought desperately for life. Despite the pain, despite the despair.
Prudence looked up at her own hands. The cruel steel spikes protruded from her forearms, just below the wrist. She was supposed to be tied, not nailed! The horrible truth had dawned on her as four of the big, burly monks held her down on the cross. The wizened little Chinaman had prodded at her arm with a finger, finding the right spot, pointing to it as a monk pressed the sharp tip of a spike on the spot.
“No! Not me! The Somali! Not me!” She saw her owner, the slaver Said, watching. “Master, Please? They are making a mistake!” He merely shrugged his shoulders, tossing a heavy little purse from hand to hand. “You will live. Be grateful!” The hammer smashed down in the spike!
Prudence moaned softly as she pulled herself up the cross to take another precious breath. The spikes grated against the bones of her forearm sending shards of raw agony up her arms. She pushed up with her legs, her weight on the spikes driven through the space between her Achilles tendon and the ankle bones. She gasped for breath in a world of agony, determined to live!
Life was precious!
Yasmina slid slowly down the cross. Her beautiful black skin gleamed with sweat. She moaned softly as the thick wooden spike once more invaded her anus. The minor support it gave her was welcome, the humiliation of constantly buggering herself less so.
How much longer would they hang here? The sun was almost overhead. Despite the sips of water she had been given, she had a raging thirst. She was exhausted, her back was on fire, whipped raw by the so-called monks. How much longer? Until the Somali died?
The Somali wanted to die. With every move she made shards of pain lanced through her body. She could feel unyielding iron grate against the broken bones in wrists and feet. She wanted this to be over! Yet her body fought on. Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that death was inevitable, her body fought for life.
Dry sobs wracked her body as it fought for breath, as she stood once more on broken, nailed feet, pulling herself up by her cruelly nailed wrists, until she could take a few lifesaving gasps of breath! Before the pain became too much, and her mutilated back slid down the cross, only the repeat the agony in a few minutes.
She was suffering this agony, this humiliation, this torture, for the pleasure of the Holy Brotherhood of the Cross. Their leader sat sprawled in a chair, a cool drink in his hand. The naked bottom of a slave girl protruded from the bottom of his cassock, her head, hidden beneath the coarse cloth, bobbing busily.
Once more her lungs demanded air! Once more the bones in her feet grated against the metal of the spike fixing them to the cross. Once more broken wrists dragged her body upward. Just a few more breaths!
Life is so precious!
Prudence’s scream echoed over the bay! Her thighs and calves were cramped rock hard! The paid was excruciating! As she struggled to find a way to ease the cramp, her buttock cramped. Muscle fought muscle. Her screams were shrill, desperate. The Somali, standing on her spike, gave her a look of deep sympathy.
The sun passed its zenith, started sinking slowly into the west. The three victims danced on their crosses. The Somali weakened, until eventually she danced no more.
Picture by Julie and Melissa.
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Another excellent Vignette. I never did trust burly monks. I like the pic as well
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Escape!
Thandi was exhausted!
She had been running for hours. Running in the water as she had been was even harder, the water dragging at her legs, unseen rocks and branches tripping her up. Juba had said that the hounds couldn’t follow a scent in the water, but despite this the baying of the pack of hounds was slowly, inexorably, getting closer.
She had to escape! If they caught her…! She was as good as dead already. She stumbled again, her legs weakening.
She had escaped as they were about to tie her to the whipping post. One thousand lashes! No woman had survived more than three hundred. She would die, hanging by her wrists, at that whipping post. She would die as the leather strands of the whip slowly stripped away her skin, her flesh, exposing bone, ripping her apart. She would die, slowly and very painfully!
What had she done wrong? Her jaw, stretched as wide as it would go to accommodate the two massive cocks invading her mouth, had spasmed. A tooth had grazed master George’s cock. For that, she was to be whipped to death.
The overseer loosened his grip for just a moment as he was about to tie her hands. She ran! Naked, driven by fear and desperation. She could hear the dogs as she reached the swamp, plunging into the scummy water. Still they came!
She ran! Driven by desperation. She knew what would happen if they caught her. The dogs would have her! She would be tied over a convenient log, and the handlers would line up with their leashed hounds. One after another, they would have her. Then she would be taken back, taken back to be nailed to the wall of the slave barracks. She remembered watching when she was a girl. The buck had been strong, writhing against the wall for days, slowly dying of thirst and exposure.
The hounds bayed! The slave ran!
There was no alternative!
Thandi was exhausted!
She had been running for hours. Running in the water as she had been was even harder, the water dragging at her legs, unseen rocks and branches tripping her up. Juba had said that the hounds couldn’t follow a scent in the water, but despite this the baying of the pack of hounds was slowly, inexorably, getting closer.
She had to escape! If they caught her…! She was as good as dead already. She stumbled again, her legs weakening.
She had escaped as they were about to tie her to the whipping post. One thousand lashes! No woman had survived more than three hundred. She would die, hanging by her wrists, at that whipping post. She would die as the leather strands of the whip slowly stripped away her skin, her flesh, exposing bone, ripping her apart. She would die, slowly and very painfully!
What had she done wrong? Her jaw, stretched as wide as it would go to accommodate the two massive cocks invading her mouth, had spasmed. A tooth had grazed master George’s cock. For that, she was to be whipped to death.
The overseer loosened his grip for just a moment as he was about to tie her hands. She ran! Naked, driven by fear and desperation. She could hear the dogs as she reached the swamp, plunging into the scummy water. Still they came!
She ran! Driven by desperation. She knew what would happen if they caught her. The dogs would have her! She would be tied over a convenient log, and the handlers would line up with their leashed hounds. One after another, they would have her. Then she would be taken back, taken back to be nailed to the wall of the slave barracks. She remembered watching when she was a girl. The buck had been strong, writhing against the wall for days, slowly dying of thirst and exposure.
The hounds bayed! The slave ran!
There was no alternative!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
I am the duty novice, Master.
Candice had taken a long time to make the final decision. All through her final year at university she had pondered the future, what to do after she graduated. There were many options. She was bright, hardworking, a straight A student. She was confident that she would graduate Cum Laude, and have her name on the Dean’s Honours List.
During the Christmas break she had summoned up the courage to discuss it with her mother. To say that her mother was shocked would be a gross understatement! “Mom, I’ve been thinking long and hard about what I want to do when I graduate.” At this point her mother was smiling, probably having visions of her daughter as a lawyer, an academic, a daughter she could boast about to her friends. Candice took a deep breath. “Mom, I want to become a sex slave!” Her mother recoiled in shock and horror. Finally, she managed to calm herself and listen to Candice’s explanation.
A week later she sat down with her daughter and offered a compromise. “I have found a place that trains people like you. You sign up for one year. During that year you will receive training to equip you to be a valuable sex slave. The only difference between that and real slavery is that, after that year, you can opt out and return to normal society. Sending you there is not cheap, but I think it is worth it to ensure that this is really what you want. If you decide to remain a slave, I will recoup my investment from your sale price.” Her mother smiled as she said that. “If you want freedom, it will be worth the investment.”
“Mom, to me slavery is freedom, but I understand that you have doubts. Thank you!”
A week after her graduation Candice reported to The Farm. Her mother dropped her off at the parking area, carefully folded her clothes, and handcuffed her. She sobbed softly as she hugged her naked daughter. “I hope this is what you want. Give it your all! Remember, I will always love you, no matter what.”
That had been two days ago. Today was her first day of duty in the big house. Astrid, the overseer, had inspected her. “Now, you are a novice, you have so much to learn. You will serve the guests, whatever they want. Now off you go, into the study. Remember to introduce yourself.”
Her knees trembling, her stomach in a knot, her newly shaved pussy dripping, Candice walked gracefully to the door leading to the study. There was only one guest present. He was sitting in a comfortable armchair, a drink at his elbow, reading the newspaper.
“Master, I am the duty novice. I am here to serve you.” Her voice quavered at the end.
He looked her up and down, insolently. Pretty, smiling uncertainly, lovely mouth. Firm, shapely breasts, not too big Shapely belly, neat cunt, with just a little glisten of moisture. Strong, firm thighs.” He nodded.
Ignoring her, he turned a page of his newspaper, took a long draw on his cigar. He looked at her again. He eased himself in his chair, sprawling slightly.
“I’ll start with your mouth. Long, slow and deep. I have all the time in the world.”
Trembling, she knelt between his spread knees. As her lips touched him, he turned another page of his newspaper. “Waiter! Another cognac, please!”
He touched the back of her head. “Slow, and deep, very deep!”
Candice had started her life as a slave.
Candice had taken a long time to make the final decision. All through her final year at university she had pondered the future, what to do after she graduated. There were many options. She was bright, hardworking, a straight A student. She was confident that she would graduate Cum Laude, and have her name on the Dean’s Honours List.
During the Christmas break she had summoned up the courage to discuss it with her mother. To say that her mother was shocked would be a gross understatement! “Mom, I’ve been thinking long and hard about what I want to do when I graduate.” At this point her mother was smiling, probably having visions of her daughter as a lawyer, an academic, a daughter she could boast about to her friends. Candice took a deep breath. “Mom, I want to become a sex slave!” Her mother recoiled in shock and horror. Finally, she managed to calm herself and listen to Candice’s explanation.
A week later she sat down with her daughter and offered a compromise. “I have found a place that trains people like you. You sign up for one year. During that year you will receive training to equip you to be a valuable sex slave. The only difference between that and real slavery is that, after that year, you can opt out and return to normal society. Sending you there is not cheap, but I think it is worth it to ensure that this is really what you want. If you decide to remain a slave, I will recoup my investment from your sale price.” Her mother smiled as she said that. “If you want freedom, it will be worth the investment.”
“Mom, to me slavery is freedom, but I understand that you have doubts. Thank you!”
A week after her graduation Candice reported to The Farm. Her mother dropped her off at the parking area, carefully folded her clothes, and handcuffed her. She sobbed softly as she hugged her naked daughter. “I hope this is what you want. Give it your all! Remember, I will always love you, no matter what.”
That had been two days ago. Today was her first day of duty in the big house. Astrid, the overseer, had inspected her. “Now, you are a novice, you have so much to learn. You will serve the guests, whatever they want. Now off you go, into the study. Remember to introduce yourself.”
Her knees trembling, her stomach in a knot, her newly shaved pussy dripping, Candice walked gracefully to the door leading to the study. There was only one guest present. He was sitting in a comfortable armchair, a drink at his elbow, reading the newspaper.
“Master, I am the duty novice. I am here to serve you.” Her voice quavered at the end.
He looked her up and down, insolently. Pretty, smiling uncertainly, lovely mouth. Firm, shapely breasts, not too big Shapely belly, neat cunt, with just a little glisten of moisture. Strong, firm thighs.” He nodded.
Ignoring her, he turned a page of his newspaper, took a long draw on his cigar. He looked at her again. He eased himself in his chair, sprawling slightly.
“I’ll start with your mouth. Long, slow and deep. I have all the time in the world.”
Trembling, she knelt between his spread knees. As her lips touched him, he turned another page of his newspaper. “Waiter! Another cognac, please!”
He touched the back of her head. “Slow, and deep, very deep!”
Candice had started her life as a slave.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Heidi hunted.
Heidi was relaxed and confident as she waited for the signal to start running. She was fit and quick, and was confident that she would be able to elude the pack for the two hours allowed for the hunt. In any case, she didn’t really believe that the pack would be allowed to have her, even if they did catch her.
It was Heidi’s first week at the special Summer School her father had sent her to during her university holidays. It was a school were people were trained to be slaves. Heidi had always wanted to be a slave, and she was excited to be here. So far, it had been fun!
She watched as the hounds milled around, their leashes held by their handlers. The hunters, dressed in traditional red coats were laughing and drinking stirrup cups.
Miss Waterfield came over to her. “Ready for your run, Heidi? Give them a good run! No girl has ever outrun the hounds, although your mother came close when she received here training here. Like you, she was smart and a good runner. Remember, when they catch you, do not try to fight! You could get badly hurt! The best is to get down on your hands and knees and enjoy it.” The headmistress smiled. “Now off you go! Run!”
Long legs flashing, Heidi ran. She was determined to be the first to beat the pack. If not…
Well, like her mother, she would submit and enjoy it!
The picture was found on BDSMLR.
Heidi was relaxed and confident as she waited for the signal to start running. She was fit and quick, and was confident that she would be able to elude the pack for the two hours allowed for the hunt. In any case, she didn’t really believe that the pack would be allowed to have her, even if they did catch her.
It was Heidi’s first week at the special Summer School her father had sent her to during her university holidays. It was a school were people were trained to be slaves. Heidi had always wanted to be a slave, and she was excited to be here. So far, it had been fun!
She watched as the hounds milled around, their leashes held by their handlers. The hunters, dressed in traditional red coats were laughing and drinking stirrup cups.
Miss Waterfield came over to her. “Ready for your run, Heidi? Give them a good run! No girl has ever outrun the hounds, although your mother came close when she received here training here. Like you, she was smart and a good runner. Remember, when they catch you, do not try to fight! You could get badly hurt! The best is to get down on your hands and knees and enjoy it.” The headmistress smiled. “Now off you go! Run!”
Long legs flashing, Heidi ran. She was determined to be the first to beat the pack. If not…
Well, like her mother, she would submit and enjoy it!
The picture was found on BDSMLR.
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
I thought the Cross Country runs at St Melanias were tough!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
You have to keep the livestock fit and healthy.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Delivery.
The triplets had always been very close, understandably. They were so close that they had even had a triple wedding. That had been ten years ago.
For their tenth wedding anniversary their husbands promised them a month on Paradise Island. The sisters were wildly excited. Paradise was one of the most exclusive resorts in the world! Not only was it very luxurious, but the advertising hinted at hidden perhaps forbidden, pleasures. “Anything your heart, or body, desires.” The brochure said. “Realise your wildest dreams!”
There had been furious shopping, including daring swimsuits that they would never dare to wear anywhere else. On departure day they were wild with excitement.
They flew first class to the island where they would meet the ship that would take them to Paradise. The girls were looking forward to the two-day cruise, and wondering why their husbands looked so smug. Perhaps it was because the reception desk in the port was manned, or perhaps womanned, by very attractive, somewhat scantily dressed girls?
The girl checked their tickets, looked appraisingly at the sisters. “All good, sir. You have adjoining staterooms, as requested, with all the amenities.” She pointed at a side door. “You can take your livestock through there for processing. Enjoy your holiday!”
The men took their wives’ hands and led them to the door. Anne looked questioningly at Matt, her husband. “Livestock, we don’t have any livestock?” He merely smiled as he opened the door.
Inside were teams of men and women in white overalls. There were also a number of men and women, either half clothed or naked. They were of all ages, and were in the process of having collars fitted around their throats. “Okay, ladies, let’s get those clothes off. Everything! That includes jewellery, and” he paused, “your wedding rings.”
Lisa, always the leader turned to her husband, “What the fuck is going on?”
He smiled at his wife, “We, the guys, that is, are realising our wildest dreams. We dream of having you as slaves. Now get those clothes off, honey. I’ve got a beautiful slave collar for you.” She looked at him in utter disbelief! “You’re not serious?”
His smile faded. “Get those fucking clothes of, slave, before I rip them off you!” She looked at him in disbelief, tears welling in her eyes. With a little sob she pulled her sundress over her head, standing there in bra and panties. “C’mon, sis,” Anne laughed, already naked and struggling to remove her wedding ring, “it will be fun! Who knows? Perhaps slaves get shared?” She looked hopefully at her husband, who smiled broadly, and winked at her. Soon the sisters were naked, their clothes and jewellery in marked bags. Their husbands locked leather collars around their throats, each collar bearing the name of the slave it adorned. Anne was giggling like a girl, Lisa was sobbing, trying to cover herself with her hands until one of the attendants neatly trapped her hands and cuffed them behind her. Anne held her hands behind her to be cuffed. Alex, the third sister, stood stiff backed, with a face like thunder, as she was collared and cuffed.
Matt stroked the neatly trimmed bush at his wife’s groin. “This will, of course, be removed?” he asked the attendant. “Of course, sir. All body hair is automatically removed. Do you also want her head shaved? And eyebrows removed?” Matt looked at his brothers in law, eyebrow cocked questioningly. Dave, Lisa’s husband, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “No. Let them keep their hair, but you can cut it short, so that they all have identical hairstyles.”
“Dave! No!” Lisa screamed, “No! Please!”
Geoff, the third brother-in-law, spoke for the first time. “Put them all in the same cage.”
The attendant looked doubtful. “The cages are very small, sir. It will be very, intimate, with three.”
Dave smiled, “It won’t bother them. After all, they have shared a very confined space before.”
The three men enjoyed a wonderful two days, enjoying every luxury. They were pampered by the amenities in their staterooms, which included very attractive Russian and Filipino stewardesses who provided any and every service they desired. Their wives were not as comfortable, although they, too spent their time in intimate contact with human flesh. Their hands cuffed to the bars of their cage, they were constantly rubbing breasts, groins and thighs together as the ship moved in the sea. At least one of them was intensely, almost unbearably aroused!
Forty-eight hours later their cage was craned out of the hold, swung over the ocean and deposited in a barge which took it, together with several other slave cages, ashore. For the sisters, their holiday was about to become even more interesting and unusual.
Picture by 3DPerversion.com
The triplets had always been very close, understandably. They were so close that they had even had a triple wedding. That had been ten years ago.
For their tenth wedding anniversary their husbands promised them a month on Paradise Island. The sisters were wildly excited. Paradise was one of the most exclusive resorts in the world! Not only was it very luxurious, but the advertising hinted at hidden perhaps forbidden, pleasures. “Anything your heart, or body, desires.” The brochure said. “Realise your wildest dreams!”
There had been furious shopping, including daring swimsuits that they would never dare to wear anywhere else. On departure day they were wild with excitement.
They flew first class to the island where they would meet the ship that would take them to Paradise. The girls were looking forward to the two-day cruise, and wondering why their husbands looked so smug. Perhaps it was because the reception desk in the port was manned, or perhaps womanned, by very attractive, somewhat scantily dressed girls?
The girl checked their tickets, looked appraisingly at the sisters. “All good, sir. You have adjoining staterooms, as requested, with all the amenities.” She pointed at a side door. “You can take your livestock through there for processing. Enjoy your holiday!”
The men took their wives’ hands and led them to the door. Anne looked questioningly at Matt, her husband. “Livestock, we don’t have any livestock?” He merely smiled as he opened the door.
Inside were teams of men and women in white overalls. There were also a number of men and women, either half clothed or naked. They were of all ages, and were in the process of having collars fitted around their throats. “Okay, ladies, let’s get those clothes off. Everything! That includes jewellery, and” he paused, “your wedding rings.”
Lisa, always the leader turned to her husband, “What the fuck is going on?”
He smiled at his wife, “We, the guys, that is, are realising our wildest dreams. We dream of having you as slaves. Now get those clothes off, honey. I’ve got a beautiful slave collar for you.” She looked at him in utter disbelief! “You’re not serious?”
His smile faded. “Get those fucking clothes of, slave, before I rip them off you!” She looked at him in disbelief, tears welling in her eyes. With a little sob she pulled her sundress over her head, standing there in bra and panties. “C’mon, sis,” Anne laughed, already naked and struggling to remove her wedding ring, “it will be fun! Who knows? Perhaps slaves get shared?” She looked hopefully at her husband, who smiled broadly, and winked at her. Soon the sisters were naked, their clothes and jewellery in marked bags. Their husbands locked leather collars around their throats, each collar bearing the name of the slave it adorned. Anne was giggling like a girl, Lisa was sobbing, trying to cover herself with her hands until one of the attendants neatly trapped her hands and cuffed them behind her. Anne held her hands behind her to be cuffed. Alex, the third sister, stood stiff backed, with a face like thunder, as she was collared and cuffed.
Matt stroked the neatly trimmed bush at his wife’s groin. “This will, of course, be removed?” he asked the attendant. “Of course, sir. All body hair is automatically removed. Do you also want her head shaved? And eyebrows removed?” Matt looked at his brothers in law, eyebrow cocked questioningly. Dave, Lisa’s husband, stroked his beard thoughtfully. “No. Let them keep their hair, but you can cut it short, so that they all have identical hairstyles.”
“Dave! No!” Lisa screamed, “No! Please!”
Geoff, the third brother-in-law, spoke for the first time. “Put them all in the same cage.”
The attendant looked doubtful. “The cages are very small, sir. It will be very, intimate, with three.”
Dave smiled, “It won’t bother them. After all, they have shared a very confined space before.”
The three men enjoyed a wonderful two days, enjoying every luxury. They were pampered by the amenities in their staterooms, which included very attractive Russian and Filipino stewardesses who provided any and every service they desired. Their wives were not as comfortable, although they, too spent their time in intimate contact with human flesh. Their hands cuffed to the bars of their cage, they were constantly rubbing breasts, groins and thighs together as the ship moved in the sea. At least one of them was intensely, almost unbearably aroused!
Forty-eight hours later their cage was craned out of the hold, swung over the ocean and deposited in a barge which took it, together with several other slave cages, ashore. For the sisters, their holiday was about to become even more interesting and unusual.
Picture by 3DPerversion.com
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
I leave that up to your imagination. The sequel could have turned into a novel.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Sacrifice.
The smell from the sacred cave was terrifying! Revolting! An acrid, feral odour. A mixture of rotting flesh, urine, and the musty smell of a captive animal. What was in there? What was this strange barbarian god they were being offered to?
“I need to pee!” Adriana whispered to her younger sister. “Don’t you dare! We are princesses. We do not show weakness. Think of mother, naked, her head held high.” Briseus, always the stronger of the two, hissed back.
The sack of a city is always hardest on the women and children. The warriors had fought hard, heroically against the barbarian invaders. They had died bravely, died to a man, defending their city and their families. In the royal palace the slaves, untrained in weapons as they were, had defended to queen and her family to the last. The final stand had been in the doorway of the royal chamber. Sven and Lars, the two slaves who had been saved from a wrecked ship, had filled the doorway, each armed with an axe. Many of the barbarians had died, bloodily, trying to get to the royal family. The slaves fought with reckless courage to save the people who had enslaved them, but men dressed only in loincloths, no matter how brave, could not succeed against armoured warriors armed with spears. Briseis had picked up one of the axes, slashed wildly at a bearded barbarian, burying the head of the axe in his chest, but then the conquerors swarmed in and it was over!
In the city the sack commenced. The old, the weak, the very young died; a mercy, perhaps. For the rest, the orgy of rape and plunder began! The barbarians burst into the royal chamber. Briseis spun across the room as a warrior backhanded her! Her mother screamed shrilly as another ripped her dress from her body. Adriana scratched wildly at a man’s eyes, ripping one out before she was felled and stripped. Arno, her brother, and now, for a moment, king, flew at the invaders, was sent reeling by a punch. The one-eyed man, oblivious to his mutilation, ripped off Adriana’s clothes, forcing her onto her back, kicking her legs wide!
A strong hand gripped his hair, jerking him backwards. The rescuer’s armour was expensive, beautifully decorated under the blood and gore spattered over it. “Are you one of the princesses?” He barked!
“Yes…sir,” Adriana sobbed.
“Virgin?”
Sobbing, she nodded.
His fingers were thick, strong, and covered in gore. He wiped his hand on the remains of Adriana’s dress, then, without warning, inserted his finger into her. He grunted in satisfaction as he met resistance. He looked at Briseis. “You are the other one? Virgin?” She nodded, there was no point in resistance. Gritting her teeth, she parted her legs, suppressing a gasp as his finger entered her. He nodded, satisfied. “These two belong to the god!” he commanded. “Enjoy the queen and the prince.”
The third soldier was already kneeling between the queen’s widespread thighs. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” then drove himself into the gaping orifice. Arno screamed shrilly as his already violated anus was penetrated yet again. “Come!” Ordered the officer. Numbly, the two princesses followed their conqueror.
The march to the conquerors’ city was long and hard. The slaves were chained neck to neck. What sparse scraps of clothing they had at the start was soon removed by guards. The younger men, those who survived the initial shock of the loss of their manhood, marched despite the fevers that inevitably followed such a mutilation. At the end of the day there was little rest for the slaves. The soldiers’ lusts had to be satisfied.
Adriana and Briseis were fortunate. They were attached to each other by a short length of chain, left wrist to right wrist. Both were naked. Adriana’s dress had been ripped off her when the palace was taken, Briseis had lost hers to a drunken soldier on the third day of the march. He had ignored, or in his drunken state, forgotten that they were dedicated to the god. His screams could be heard for many miles as they marched. The stake was thick, and it took many hours before it penetrated his body deeply enough to silence his screams. Briseis was unconcerned by her nakedness. After all, the unmarried women danced naked at the festivals in honour of the Mother Goddess, and at the games in honour of the Virgin Huntress they competed naked in the running, jumping, swimming and wrestling contests. The sisters were well fed, spared the nightly rapes, and slept in the Priest-General’s tent.
The Priest-General explained their fate to them. “You are to be a sacrifice to The God, an offering of thanks for our victory over your city. You are princesses, royal and virgin. The sacrifice will please The God. Your mother and brother will serve in other ways. They will atone for the harm done by your city with their bodies. They will serve our people, the price of their bodies the smallest copper coin. Their penance will last many long years.”
The princesses were treated with great care. They remained chained together, naked, but they were fed the finest foods, bathed, perfumed, pampered. The ceremony in the temple was long. From their position at the high altar, they could see over the main square of the city. On raised platforms stood the two royal prisoners. Their mother, her back straight, her head held high, her expression disdainful, despite her exposure. Her stance was regal, although her breasts sagged and her waist had thickened with age and childbirth. She managed to maintain her haughty expression as a beggar dropped a small coin in a jar, motioned her to her hands and knees, and mounted her from behind. On the adjoining platform Arno blinked back tears as he knelt, his mouth filled with the thick, smelly organ of a common labourer.
Briseis looked around the temple. Strangely, there was no image of The God. The walls were covered with murals of mythical beasts. Gryphons, Centaurs, Yales and Satyrs. The predominant motif was a monster that was half bull and half man, a Minotaur. The ceremony ended with a strange, exciting dance. Seven girls and seven boys, naked, lithe and supple entered. A bull was led in. A huge creature, long horns curving forward. The boys and girls started to sing, a mournful tune that seemed to mesmerise the bull. Then, one after another they ran forward, gripping the bull by the horns. He tossed his head, throwing each dancer high in the air, where he, or she, did a neat half somersault, landing on the bull’s back, then bouncing off with another somersault to the ground.
Led by the garlanded bull and the still naked dancers, the procession moved toward the steep mountain in the centre of the city. Here was another, smaller temple. The Priest-General took Briseus’ hand and led her into the temple. The procession started singing a mournful hymn. At the back of the temple was a cave, the entrance closed by a heavily barred steel gate. Priests opened the gate looking fearfully into the gloom. The Priest-General gently pushed the girls in through the gate, which was rapidly slammed shut behind them.
“I need to pee,” Adriana whispered. Briseis was frightened, terrified. The cave had the musty, acrid smell of an animal’s lair. She thought of her mother, maintaining her haughty dignity as she served as a whore to the barbarians. Her back straightened, stiffened. She strode into the gloom, dragging her sister with her. Somewhere in the back of the cave there was a movement, a heavy snuffling sound. Adriana moaned softly. “I’m frightened, there is something in there.” Briseis gave her a warning look! “We will die here, but we will die proudly!”
In the gloom she could see a shape. It was huge, half again as tall as a tall man, much broader in the shoulders. The head moved, a broad head with a blunt snout, crowned by wide horns. The Minotaur! Small, red eyes stared at them. The Minotaur, The God, gave a low rumble. Briseis wanted to turn, to run, to scream! Adrianna tugged at the cuff connecting their wrists. “He’s huge! Is he…is he going…to eat us?”
Briseis looked at the monster, the tendril of saliva hanging from his mouth, the small, piggy eyes, the… “Oh dear Virgin, protect us,” …the massive organ slowly becoming erect as she watched.
She stood straight, proud! Adriana, resigned to their fate, copied her.
Briseis took a deep breath. “We are princesses, virgins, priestesses of the Virgin Huntress. We greet you, oh God of the barbarians. We are the sacrifice! We are Royal!”
They stood, proud, as the monster God advanced on them!
Picture by Julie and Melissa
The smell from the sacred cave was terrifying! Revolting! An acrid, feral odour. A mixture of rotting flesh, urine, and the musty smell of a captive animal. What was in there? What was this strange barbarian god they were being offered to?
“I need to pee!” Adriana whispered to her younger sister. “Don’t you dare! We are princesses. We do not show weakness. Think of mother, naked, her head held high.” Briseus, always the stronger of the two, hissed back.
The sack of a city is always hardest on the women and children. The warriors had fought hard, heroically against the barbarian invaders. They had died bravely, died to a man, defending their city and their families. In the royal palace the slaves, untrained in weapons as they were, had defended to queen and her family to the last. The final stand had been in the doorway of the royal chamber. Sven and Lars, the two slaves who had been saved from a wrecked ship, had filled the doorway, each armed with an axe. Many of the barbarians had died, bloodily, trying to get to the royal family. The slaves fought with reckless courage to save the people who had enslaved them, but men dressed only in loincloths, no matter how brave, could not succeed against armoured warriors armed with spears. Briseis had picked up one of the axes, slashed wildly at a bearded barbarian, burying the head of the axe in his chest, but then the conquerors swarmed in and it was over!
In the city the sack commenced. The old, the weak, the very young died; a mercy, perhaps. For the rest, the orgy of rape and plunder began! The barbarians burst into the royal chamber. Briseis spun across the room as a warrior backhanded her! Her mother screamed shrilly as another ripped her dress from her body. Adriana scratched wildly at a man’s eyes, ripping one out before she was felled and stripped. Arno, her brother, and now, for a moment, king, flew at the invaders, was sent reeling by a punch. The one-eyed man, oblivious to his mutilation, ripped off Adriana’s clothes, forcing her onto her back, kicking her legs wide!
A strong hand gripped his hair, jerking him backwards. The rescuer’s armour was expensive, beautifully decorated under the blood and gore spattered over it. “Are you one of the princesses?” He barked!
“Yes…sir,” Adriana sobbed.
“Virgin?”
Sobbing, she nodded.
His fingers were thick, strong, and covered in gore. He wiped his hand on the remains of Adriana’s dress, then, without warning, inserted his finger into her. He grunted in satisfaction as he met resistance. He looked at Briseis. “You are the other one? Virgin?” She nodded, there was no point in resistance. Gritting her teeth, she parted her legs, suppressing a gasp as his finger entered her. He nodded, satisfied. “These two belong to the god!” he commanded. “Enjoy the queen and the prince.”
The third soldier was already kneeling between the queen’s widespread thighs. He mumbled, “Yes, sir,” then drove himself into the gaping orifice. Arno screamed shrilly as his already violated anus was penetrated yet again. “Come!” Ordered the officer. Numbly, the two princesses followed their conqueror.
The march to the conquerors’ city was long and hard. The slaves were chained neck to neck. What sparse scraps of clothing they had at the start was soon removed by guards. The younger men, those who survived the initial shock of the loss of their manhood, marched despite the fevers that inevitably followed such a mutilation. At the end of the day there was little rest for the slaves. The soldiers’ lusts had to be satisfied.
Adriana and Briseis were fortunate. They were attached to each other by a short length of chain, left wrist to right wrist. Both were naked. Adriana’s dress had been ripped off her when the palace was taken, Briseis had lost hers to a drunken soldier on the third day of the march. He had ignored, or in his drunken state, forgotten that they were dedicated to the god. His screams could be heard for many miles as they marched. The stake was thick, and it took many hours before it penetrated his body deeply enough to silence his screams. Briseis was unconcerned by her nakedness. After all, the unmarried women danced naked at the festivals in honour of the Mother Goddess, and at the games in honour of the Virgin Huntress they competed naked in the running, jumping, swimming and wrestling contests. The sisters were well fed, spared the nightly rapes, and slept in the Priest-General’s tent.
The Priest-General explained their fate to them. “You are to be a sacrifice to The God, an offering of thanks for our victory over your city. You are princesses, royal and virgin. The sacrifice will please The God. Your mother and brother will serve in other ways. They will atone for the harm done by your city with their bodies. They will serve our people, the price of their bodies the smallest copper coin. Their penance will last many long years.”
The princesses were treated with great care. They remained chained together, naked, but they were fed the finest foods, bathed, perfumed, pampered. The ceremony in the temple was long. From their position at the high altar, they could see over the main square of the city. On raised platforms stood the two royal prisoners. Their mother, her back straight, her head held high, her expression disdainful, despite her exposure. Her stance was regal, although her breasts sagged and her waist had thickened with age and childbirth. She managed to maintain her haughty expression as a beggar dropped a small coin in a jar, motioned her to her hands and knees, and mounted her from behind. On the adjoining platform Arno blinked back tears as he knelt, his mouth filled with the thick, smelly organ of a common labourer.
Briseis looked around the temple. Strangely, there was no image of The God. The walls were covered with murals of mythical beasts. Gryphons, Centaurs, Yales and Satyrs. The predominant motif was a monster that was half bull and half man, a Minotaur. The ceremony ended with a strange, exciting dance. Seven girls and seven boys, naked, lithe and supple entered. A bull was led in. A huge creature, long horns curving forward. The boys and girls started to sing, a mournful tune that seemed to mesmerise the bull. Then, one after another they ran forward, gripping the bull by the horns. He tossed his head, throwing each dancer high in the air, where he, or she, did a neat half somersault, landing on the bull’s back, then bouncing off with another somersault to the ground.
Led by the garlanded bull and the still naked dancers, the procession moved toward the steep mountain in the centre of the city. Here was another, smaller temple. The Priest-General took Briseus’ hand and led her into the temple. The procession started singing a mournful hymn. At the back of the temple was a cave, the entrance closed by a heavily barred steel gate. Priests opened the gate looking fearfully into the gloom. The Priest-General gently pushed the girls in through the gate, which was rapidly slammed shut behind them.
“I need to pee,” Adriana whispered. Briseis was frightened, terrified. The cave had the musty, acrid smell of an animal’s lair. She thought of her mother, maintaining her haughty dignity as she served as a whore to the barbarians. Her back straightened, stiffened. She strode into the gloom, dragging her sister with her. Somewhere in the back of the cave there was a movement, a heavy snuffling sound. Adriana moaned softly. “I’m frightened, there is something in there.” Briseis gave her a warning look! “We will die here, but we will die proudly!”
In the gloom she could see a shape. It was huge, half again as tall as a tall man, much broader in the shoulders. The head moved, a broad head with a blunt snout, crowned by wide horns. The Minotaur! Small, red eyes stared at them. The Minotaur, The God, gave a low rumble. Briseis wanted to turn, to run, to scream! Adrianna tugged at the cuff connecting their wrists. “He’s huge! Is he…is he going…to eat us?”
Briseis looked at the monster, the tendril of saliva hanging from his mouth, the small, piggy eyes, the… “Oh dear Virgin, protect us,” …the massive organ slowly becoming erect as she watched.
She stood straight, proud! Adriana, resigned to their fate, copied her.
Briseis took a deep breath. “We are princesses, virgins, priestesses of the Virgin Huntress. We greet you, oh God of the barbarians. We are the sacrifice! We are Royal!”
They stood, proud, as the monster God advanced on them!
Picture by Julie and Melissa
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Great story and a nice pic 
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Wife for Sale.
“She looks in very good condition.” The stranger’s voice was low, cultured, the accent upper class. “How old did you say she is?”
“Thirty-three,” her husband replied.
“Good body, well looked after. Nice breasts. Not too large, but very shapely, and they look firm. They are real, of course?”
They were discussing her! How dare they? Margaret wanted shout at them, to scream! Yet she knelt there, passive, perfectly made up, perfectly groomed. They were discussing her as if she was an inanimate object.
It had been such a silly slip. The pool party was fun, he was very good looking, and she was just a little bit high. Nothing had actually happened, but her husband had found her in his arms, her bikini top discarded.
He had given her a choice. Divorce, a messy, public one, and her arrest on drugs charges. He had all the evidence. If she was lucky, she would get 15 to 25 years. The other alternative was to be sold as a sex slave. For life!
The stranger’s hand cupped her breast, squeezed gently, testing the weight and firmness. He nodded. “Is she a good fuck?”
Her husband nodded. “Isn’t she just! She goes absolutely wild with a cock in her! She is tight, too. Sucks like a week-old calf! She a fucking animal! Insatiable!”
How could he? She wished she could disappear into the carpet. How could he talk about her like that? Did he have no shame?
“Anal?” The dealer asked.
“We tried it a couple of times. She doesn’t like it. She is waaaay tight.”
She had hated it! It was dirty, painful, disgusting. It was sick! Why would anyone want to do something like that?
“She will get used to it. She doesn’t have to like it; nobody cares what a slave likes. In fact, I might give her the initial training myself.”
“How much do you think she will go for?” Her husband asked.
“She’s a bit old, but in good shape. Sixty? Seventy K? Perhaps more if we can show that she has some more, shall we say, unusual, skills.”
Her husband nodded. “Deal! Shall I tell her to get dressed?”
“I wouldn’t bother,” the dealer smiled. “She will become used to nudity, and being exposed.” He opened his briefcase, extracting a pair of handcuffs, a leather dog collar, and a leash. “Hands behind your back!”
She looked at him in disbelief. Took a breath to protest, then expelled it with a sigh. She put her hands behind her, wincing as the cold steel encircled her wrists. His touch on her neck was strangely intimate as he buckled the collar, securing it with a small padlock. He clipped on the leash.
“Come with me.” She came awkwardly to her feet, off balance with her hands behind her. He tugged gently at her leash. “Come.”
She looked at her husband, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” Her voice barely audible.
She bit back a sob. There was another gentle tug at the leash. She straightened her back, lifted her head, and followed the dealer into slavery.
“She looks in very good condition.” The stranger’s voice was low, cultured, the accent upper class. “How old did you say she is?”
“Thirty-three,” her husband replied.
“Good body, well looked after. Nice breasts. Not too large, but very shapely, and they look firm. They are real, of course?”
They were discussing her! How dare they? Margaret wanted shout at them, to scream! Yet she knelt there, passive, perfectly made up, perfectly groomed. They were discussing her as if she was an inanimate object.
It had been such a silly slip. The pool party was fun, he was very good looking, and she was just a little bit high. Nothing had actually happened, but her husband had found her in his arms, her bikini top discarded.
He had given her a choice. Divorce, a messy, public one, and her arrest on drugs charges. He had all the evidence. If she was lucky, she would get 15 to 25 years. The other alternative was to be sold as a sex slave. For life!
The stranger’s hand cupped her breast, squeezed gently, testing the weight and firmness. He nodded. “Is she a good fuck?”
Her husband nodded. “Isn’t she just! She goes absolutely wild with a cock in her! She is tight, too. Sucks like a week-old calf! She a fucking animal! Insatiable!”
How could he? She wished she could disappear into the carpet. How could he talk about her like that? Did he have no shame?
“Anal?” The dealer asked.
“We tried it a couple of times. She doesn’t like it. She is waaaay tight.”
She had hated it! It was dirty, painful, disgusting. It was sick! Why would anyone want to do something like that?
“She will get used to it. She doesn’t have to like it; nobody cares what a slave likes. In fact, I might give her the initial training myself.”
“How much do you think she will go for?” Her husband asked.
“She’s a bit old, but in good shape. Sixty? Seventy K? Perhaps more if we can show that she has some more, shall we say, unusual, skills.”
Her husband nodded. “Deal! Shall I tell her to get dressed?”
“I wouldn’t bother,” the dealer smiled. “She will become used to nudity, and being exposed.” He opened his briefcase, extracting a pair of handcuffs, a leather dog collar, and a leash. “Hands behind your back!”
She looked at him in disbelief. Took a breath to protest, then expelled it with a sigh. She put her hands behind her, wincing as the cold steel encircled her wrists. His touch on her neck was strangely intimate as he buckled the collar, securing it with a small padlock. He clipped on the leash.
“Come with me.” She came awkwardly to her feet, off balance with her hands behind her. He tugged gently at her leash. “Come.”
She looked at her husband, tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.” Her voice barely audible.
She bit back a sob. There was another gentle tug at the leash. She straightened her back, lifted her head, and followed the dealer into slavery.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Refugee.
For Aysha the sale was a relief. She was a long way from home, a home she would never see again. Her family were lost, lost in the chaos as the leaky boat they had paid to cross the narrow stretch of water between Turkey and Lesbos had suddenly flooded and capsized. The sea had been full of panicked people, all trying to find something to keep them afloat.
Aysha had managed to swim ashore, dragging herself, exhausted up above the waterline. There were people there, refugees, wet, cold frightened, and rescuers. Two men had helped her up, guided her to dry land. There, among the olive trees, she had been raped for the first time.
The refugee camp was terrible! Overcrowded, filthy, with little food. She heard through the grapevine that there was an illegal boat leaving for Rhodes. She had no money, just a pair of ragged shorts and a t-shirt. She did have a mouth. The crew agreed to take her along in exchange for regular blowjobs.
Rhodes was crowded. Every morning the cruise ships disgorged thousands of tourists. Aysha and two other refugees, brother and sister, sat on a corner begging change. The tourists seemed blind to their presence. Hunger gnawed at them. At night, when the last ships had left, they huddled together in and ancient stone doorway, trying to sleep. After three days of misery and starvation, Aysha sold the only asset she had. Five Euros for a blowjob in a dark doorway, ten Euros for a fuck in the same doorway. If she was lucky, the tourist had a hotel room, and she could revel in the luxury of a bed and perhaps even a shower. Twice, just twice, she had an all nighter, twenty five Euros. Even better was the breakfast in bed. After she had woken him with her mouth, received the wake-up fuck, and cleaned him, once again with her mouth, he had ordered a huge breakfast. He had watched with amusement as she wolfed down every scrap! Two days later the same man had appeared on the street corner. She had gone with him, happily, cherishing visions of a shower and breakfast. As she was eating, he told her about slavery.
He would arrange for her to be sold as a slave. The buyer would be a rich man, or perhaps a woman. That shocked her, she wasn’t, well, one of those. He glossed over it, telling her that she would probably live in a nice house, be fed regularly, be clean, receive medical attention. She would not be a whore, although she would be expected to entertain her owner’s guests and friends. She would be treated well, although she would be punished if she was disobedient or gave poor service. It all sounded wonderful, compared to her present life.
He gave her a nice dress and walked with her to the street corner. She had asked him to give the twenty five Euros to her friends. While they said farewell, he sized up the siblings. Not a prize such as Aysha was, but quality stock nevertheless.
Three weeks later Aysha was being sold. It was humiliating, the way the men, and a few women, examined her, discussed her. She was referred to as “flesh.” She realised that she would really be a slave, a possession, for the rest of her life. But then, compared to a cold stone doorway in Rhodes, hunger, giving quick blowjobs to passers-by, the slave kennels were paradise. She wondered who would buy her? The Arab sheikh, resplendent in his robes? She hoped not. She could understand what he was saying, and belonging to him would not be pleasant. The short, fat little man who smelled of garlic and body odour? The cold-eyed woman, beautifully dressed? Would it be the tanned Englishman, impeccably dressed in an elegant suit, who had paid such close attention to the shape and firmness of her buttocks?
She did not understand the bidding, but there was a flurry of activity, soft, polite applause. One of the dealer’s assistants, a beautiful girl about her age, took her gently by the hand and led her away. “You are so lucky!” She said softly, as she placed a steel collar around Aysha’s neck. The click of the invisible lock sounded like thunder in her ears. “You are so lucky! He is a wonderful master. Of course, with your face, and your body, you were always going to be lucky.” Her hand stroked down Aysha’s spine, tracing the curve of her buttocks. “He is a connoisseur.”
She draped a cloak around Aysha’s shoulders, covering her nakedness. Attaching a leash to the collar, she gave Aysha a flashing smile. “I wish it was me he had bought. Come, let me take you to your owner.”
For Aysha the sale was a relief. She was a long way from home, a home she would never see again. Her family were lost, lost in the chaos as the leaky boat they had paid to cross the narrow stretch of water between Turkey and Lesbos had suddenly flooded and capsized. The sea had been full of panicked people, all trying to find something to keep them afloat.
Aysha had managed to swim ashore, dragging herself, exhausted up above the waterline. There were people there, refugees, wet, cold frightened, and rescuers. Two men had helped her up, guided her to dry land. There, among the olive trees, she had been raped for the first time.
The refugee camp was terrible! Overcrowded, filthy, with little food. She heard through the grapevine that there was an illegal boat leaving for Rhodes. She had no money, just a pair of ragged shorts and a t-shirt. She did have a mouth. The crew agreed to take her along in exchange for regular blowjobs.
Rhodes was crowded. Every morning the cruise ships disgorged thousands of tourists. Aysha and two other refugees, brother and sister, sat on a corner begging change. The tourists seemed blind to their presence. Hunger gnawed at them. At night, when the last ships had left, they huddled together in and ancient stone doorway, trying to sleep. After three days of misery and starvation, Aysha sold the only asset she had. Five Euros for a blowjob in a dark doorway, ten Euros for a fuck in the same doorway. If she was lucky, the tourist had a hotel room, and she could revel in the luxury of a bed and perhaps even a shower. Twice, just twice, she had an all nighter, twenty five Euros. Even better was the breakfast in bed. After she had woken him with her mouth, received the wake-up fuck, and cleaned him, once again with her mouth, he had ordered a huge breakfast. He had watched with amusement as she wolfed down every scrap! Two days later the same man had appeared on the street corner. She had gone with him, happily, cherishing visions of a shower and breakfast. As she was eating, he told her about slavery.
He would arrange for her to be sold as a slave. The buyer would be a rich man, or perhaps a woman. That shocked her, she wasn’t, well, one of those. He glossed over it, telling her that she would probably live in a nice house, be fed regularly, be clean, receive medical attention. She would not be a whore, although she would be expected to entertain her owner’s guests and friends. She would be treated well, although she would be punished if she was disobedient or gave poor service. It all sounded wonderful, compared to her present life.
He gave her a nice dress and walked with her to the street corner. She had asked him to give the twenty five Euros to her friends. While they said farewell, he sized up the siblings. Not a prize such as Aysha was, but quality stock nevertheless.
Three weeks later Aysha was being sold. It was humiliating, the way the men, and a few women, examined her, discussed her. She was referred to as “flesh.” She realised that she would really be a slave, a possession, for the rest of her life. But then, compared to a cold stone doorway in Rhodes, hunger, giving quick blowjobs to passers-by, the slave kennels were paradise. She wondered who would buy her? The Arab sheikh, resplendent in his robes? She hoped not. She could understand what he was saying, and belonging to him would not be pleasant. The short, fat little man who smelled of garlic and body odour? The cold-eyed woman, beautifully dressed? Would it be the tanned Englishman, impeccably dressed in an elegant suit, who had paid such close attention to the shape and firmness of her buttocks?
She did not understand the bidding, but there was a flurry of activity, soft, polite applause. One of the dealer’s assistants, a beautiful girl about her age, took her gently by the hand and led her away. “You are so lucky!” She said softly, as she placed a steel collar around Aysha’s neck. The click of the invisible lock sounded like thunder in her ears. “You are so lucky! He is a wonderful master. Of course, with your face, and your body, you were always going to be lucky.” Her hand stroked down Aysha’s spine, tracing the curve of her buttocks. “He is a connoisseur.”
She draped a cloak around Aysha’s shoulders, covering her nakedness. Attaching a leash to the collar, she gave Aysha a flashing smile. “I wish it was me he had bought. Come, let me take you to your owner.”
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Seventy K!!? Good grief. You can get three for that price in Khabadami.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
London prices!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Happy.
Surely there had to a better way, a kinder, more humane way, to sell her?
Happy accepted that she was a slave. It had been a difficult thing to accept, but the trainer had used very effective methods to encourage the new merchandise to accept their new status in life. She accepted that she had to be sold, and that the dealer had to obtain the best price for her flesh, but…”
Inside that beautifully shaped flesh, that gleaming dark skin, was a girl! A girl who was quite shy, who was sensitive, who blushed easily. Why did she not even mention that girl? Why was it that the most important thing about this piece of flesh was its arse? Nobody even mentioned her lovely face, her beautiful eyes. Her mouth got a mention, as a perfect tool for sucking cock! Why did she have to be displayed like this? Why did the dealer extol the delicate shade of pink inside her tight vagina, her cunt? How she hated that word! Why was there so much emphasis on the perfect shape of her anus, on how tight it was? How flexible? How accommodating to a cock or a plug? Did they know how much it hurt? How humiliating it was?
She hoped this viewer would be the last. The last to touch her, to pinch her nipples, to trace the shape of her buttocks, explore the beautiful pinkness with his fingers. Please! Let it be over! Sell me!
It was so hard, being sold!
Surely there had to a better way, a kinder, more humane way, to sell her?
Happy accepted that she was a slave. It had been a difficult thing to accept, but the trainer had used very effective methods to encourage the new merchandise to accept their new status in life. She accepted that she had to be sold, and that the dealer had to obtain the best price for her flesh, but…”
Inside that beautifully shaped flesh, that gleaming dark skin, was a girl! A girl who was quite shy, who was sensitive, who blushed easily. Why did she not even mention that girl? Why was it that the most important thing about this piece of flesh was its arse? Nobody even mentioned her lovely face, her beautiful eyes. Her mouth got a mention, as a perfect tool for sucking cock! Why did she have to be displayed like this? Why did the dealer extol the delicate shade of pink inside her tight vagina, her cunt? How she hated that word! Why was there so much emphasis on the perfect shape of her anus, on how tight it was? How flexible? How accommodating to a cock or a plug? Did they know how much it hurt? How humiliating it was?
She hoped this viewer would be the last. The last to touch her, to pinch her nipples, to trace the shape of her buttocks, explore the beautiful pinkness with his fingers. Please! Let it be over! Sell me!
It was so hard, being sold!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Please! Not my breasts!
“Please Master! Not my breasts!”
Lisa’s Master was a kind man. His four slaves liked him, and he was gentle and kind to them. He was also strict, and rules where there to be obeyed, without exception.
“I tried, Master, I tried really hard, but he is so long, and so thick. It just would not go all the way in. Please, Master. I really tried!”
Her eyes flicked down, to the evil singletail whip in his hand. She couldn’t take it! She would die!
“What is the penalty for an unsatisfactory blowjob?” His voice was soft, gentle, implacable.
She knew the rules by heart. “Thirty lashes with an implement to be selected by the Master, delivered on the part of the body nominated by the Master.” She almost sobbed. “Please Master. Please. Not my breasts, not with the singletail. They are so small. They’ll be destroyed.” She had tried so hard, but she just couldn’t get her lips to be buried in his pubic hair, as the rules required. He was so big! Nine inches, perhaps more, and so thick!
She twisted, trying to take the strain off her shoulders, her toes barely touching the ground, her body taught as a bow, her little breasts thrust out. Her Master shook out the whip, making a frightening little hiss. “Do you have something to say to me, Lisa?”
Lisa took a deep, sobbing breath. “Master, I have been a bad slave. Please give me the punishment I deserve.” He braced himself, then the whip hissed, the thin leather lash striking herd, unerringly, exactly where she had expected it to strike. Like a snake, it sliced across both nipples, the tip whistling around to flick at even greater speed and force against the side of her left breast. “Oh my God!” She screamed, then remembered herself. “One! Master! Thank you for punishing this worthless slave, Master!” Her master moved to her left side, she steeled herself for the next lash. One of the disadvantages of having an ambidextrous Master. “Please, Master. Punish me as I deserve.” She whispered.
His wrist flicked, the lash flashed out, striking her breasts just above the nipples. God! He was so damned accurate! Again, the searing streak of pain. She screamed! Her three fellow slaves watched. Punishment was not a common occurrence; he was a kind master. Rita, the petite redhead, had one hand stuffed into her mouth, the other covering her own little breasts, as if they were the target. Her green eyes were wide and filled with tears. The giant black man, their visitor, watched, a concerned look on his face. He was the reason she was being punished. He hadn’t meant to complain, merely mentioned, in passing, that she had not been able to take all of him. The other two slaves watched, impassively.
“Two!” She screamed. “Thank you, Master! Please…oh God…please punish me as I deserve! Please, Master, be gentle. It hurts so much!”
Stroke after stroke, the leather lash bit into tender breasts. Lisa danced. She twisted. She cried. She sobbed. She begged. Yet after each agonising stroke, she counted, thanked her Master, and begged him to punish her.
“Twenty!” She gasped.
He put down the whip. “Jutta! I need a drink. Highland Park!” The tall, athletic Swedish slave hurried off to comply. The guest, Mustafa, was comforting a sobbing Rita, her head buried against his chest. He, and she, were both very aware of his erection, pushing against her belly.
Lisa hung from the ropes binding her wrists, sobbing and moaning. Her whole universe consisted of pain. “It hurts badly, doesn’t it, my little one?” She screamed as he, very gently, touched her nipple with a fingertip. Even his breath on her breasts hurt. “We are almost done. Only ten left to go. You can take another ten, can’t you?” She sobbed quietly for a few seconds. “Yes, Master. I failed. I deserve to be punished.” He nodded. “You know what you have to do as soon as we are done?” She nodded. She would have to go to the guest and beg to finish what she had started. This time she would take all of him, no matter what! The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
Her Master took a sip of the fine whiskey. He offered her the glass. “Have some, it will help.” She coughed and spluttered as the neat spirit bit into her throat, raw from screaming. “You will sleep with me tonight.” She nodded, numbly. Being allowed to spend a whole night in the Master’s bed was an honour, but like all such things, there was a price to pay. The Master had chosen the two of them, herself, a ballerina, and Rita, a gymnast, for their petite, boyish figures, and he used them as if they were boys. She would be face down in his bed, her tortured breasts pressed against the silk sheets, as he buggered her. “Thank you, Master. Please, may I have the rest of my punishment?”
Ten more times the merciless lash sliced into tender breasts! Ten more times she screamed! Then it was over.
He released her hands, caught her as she collapsed. Unable to stand, she crawled over to the guest. “May I, sir? May I serve you as you deserve?”
Rita shuddered as she saw, for the first time, the size of him. It was her duty to entertain him that night, and she knew what lay in store for her. Lisa stretched her lips, ensuring no tooth touched the sacred organ. Try as she might, she could not get her lips to touch his pubic hair, trimmed short as it was. She was panicking, choking! A firm, gentle hand pushed the back of her head, the last inch entered her throat, she felt the coarse hair on her lips, then swallowed furiously as he ejaculated.
Mustafa smiled at Rita. “Sometimes a girl just needs a little helping hand.”
“Please Master! Not my breasts!”
Lisa’s Master was a kind man. His four slaves liked him, and he was gentle and kind to them. He was also strict, and rules where there to be obeyed, without exception.
“I tried, Master, I tried really hard, but he is so long, and so thick. It just would not go all the way in. Please, Master. I really tried!”
Her eyes flicked down, to the evil singletail whip in his hand. She couldn’t take it! She would die!
“What is the penalty for an unsatisfactory blowjob?” His voice was soft, gentle, implacable.
She knew the rules by heart. “Thirty lashes with an implement to be selected by the Master, delivered on the part of the body nominated by the Master.” She almost sobbed. “Please Master. Please. Not my breasts, not with the singletail. They are so small. They’ll be destroyed.” She had tried so hard, but she just couldn’t get her lips to be buried in his pubic hair, as the rules required. He was so big! Nine inches, perhaps more, and so thick!
She twisted, trying to take the strain off her shoulders, her toes barely touching the ground, her body taught as a bow, her little breasts thrust out. Her Master shook out the whip, making a frightening little hiss. “Do you have something to say to me, Lisa?”
Lisa took a deep, sobbing breath. “Master, I have been a bad slave. Please give me the punishment I deserve.” He braced himself, then the whip hissed, the thin leather lash striking herd, unerringly, exactly where she had expected it to strike. Like a snake, it sliced across both nipples, the tip whistling around to flick at even greater speed and force against the side of her left breast. “Oh my God!” She screamed, then remembered herself. “One! Master! Thank you for punishing this worthless slave, Master!” Her master moved to her left side, she steeled herself for the next lash. One of the disadvantages of having an ambidextrous Master. “Please, Master. Punish me as I deserve.” She whispered.
His wrist flicked, the lash flashed out, striking her breasts just above the nipples. God! He was so damned accurate! Again, the searing streak of pain. She screamed! Her three fellow slaves watched. Punishment was not a common occurrence; he was a kind master. Rita, the petite redhead, had one hand stuffed into her mouth, the other covering her own little breasts, as if they were the target. Her green eyes were wide and filled with tears. The giant black man, their visitor, watched, a concerned look on his face. He was the reason she was being punished. He hadn’t meant to complain, merely mentioned, in passing, that she had not been able to take all of him. The other two slaves watched, impassively.
“Two!” She screamed. “Thank you, Master! Please…oh God…please punish me as I deserve! Please, Master, be gentle. It hurts so much!”
Stroke after stroke, the leather lash bit into tender breasts. Lisa danced. She twisted. She cried. She sobbed. She begged. Yet after each agonising stroke, she counted, thanked her Master, and begged him to punish her.
“Twenty!” She gasped.
He put down the whip. “Jutta! I need a drink. Highland Park!” The tall, athletic Swedish slave hurried off to comply. The guest, Mustafa, was comforting a sobbing Rita, her head buried against his chest. He, and she, were both very aware of his erection, pushing against her belly.
Lisa hung from the ropes binding her wrists, sobbing and moaning. Her whole universe consisted of pain. “It hurts badly, doesn’t it, my little one?” She screamed as he, very gently, touched her nipple with a fingertip. Even his breath on her breasts hurt. “We are almost done. Only ten left to go. You can take another ten, can’t you?” She sobbed quietly for a few seconds. “Yes, Master. I failed. I deserve to be punished.” He nodded. “You know what you have to do as soon as we are done?” She nodded. She would have to go to the guest and beg to finish what she had started. This time she would take all of him, no matter what! The alternative was too horrible to contemplate.
Her Master took a sip of the fine whiskey. He offered her the glass. “Have some, it will help.” She coughed and spluttered as the neat spirit bit into her throat, raw from screaming. “You will sleep with me tonight.” She nodded, numbly. Being allowed to spend a whole night in the Master’s bed was an honour, but like all such things, there was a price to pay. The Master had chosen the two of them, herself, a ballerina, and Rita, a gymnast, for their petite, boyish figures, and he used them as if they were boys. She would be face down in his bed, her tortured breasts pressed against the silk sheets, as he buggered her. “Thank you, Master. Please, may I have the rest of my punishment?”
Ten more times the merciless lash sliced into tender breasts! Ten more times she screamed! Then it was over.
He released her hands, caught her as she collapsed. Unable to stand, she crawled over to the guest. “May I, sir? May I serve you as you deserve?”
Rita shuddered as she saw, for the first time, the size of him. It was her duty to entertain him that night, and she knew what lay in store for her. Lisa stretched her lips, ensuring no tooth touched the sacred organ. Try as she might, she could not get her lips to touch his pubic hair, trimmed short as it was. She was panicking, choking! A firm, gentle hand pushed the back of her head, the last inch entered her throat, she felt the coarse hair on her lips, then swallowed furiously as he ejaculated.
Mustafa smiled at Rita. “Sometimes a girl just needs a little helping hand.”
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Granny’s farewell.
“I’m sorry, gran, but, well, you know how tough things have been.”
“Why does it have to be like this?” She asked, her voice cracking. “Am I not allowed even a scrap of dignity?”
“It’s the rules, granny. You know you always told us that rules are there to be obeyed? Well, the rules say that slaves are to be put out in the street with the garbage, naked, and chained as per the rules.”
Edith could not argue. She knew that times were hard and that she had been stubborn in refusing to go to the State care home. The place was no better than a prison, she could never survive there. Anything would be better than that, or so she had thought.
“But why like this. Do you know how much these things on my nipples hurt? And why did I have to be shaved, down there? It’s disgusting, obscene.”
It’s the rules, granny! How often must I tell you!” His voice was angry now. “Look! You’re in pretty good shape for your age. The agent says we’ll get a grand for you, perhaps even two. That means a hell of a lot to us, and to the kids. You’ll have a place to stay, food, medical treatment. You’ll have to work, of course. That’s what slaves do!”
He turned away, too embarrassed to face her. The agent had told him that there was a brothel that catered for ‘special tastes’, that they might buy her. They would pay a better price, too. He loved the old girl, but the kids came first.
“Come! I have to put you out. They said to have you out by seven. It’s stopped snowing.”
Edith hobbled out of the door. It was freezing out there, in the cold, early light of dawn. She shuffled along, hobbled by the chain connecting her ankles, stooped over to lessen the tug on her painfully clamped nipples. Her grandson led her into the street, down the road to where the garbage cans stood, ready for collection. People were walking past, muffled against the cold. Friends, neighbours, people she had known for years. Now they looked away, ignored her. The wind cut like a knife.
He hugged her, hugged her naked body. “I’m sorry, granny. I wish we could have kept you, but…” He turned away, abruptly. She thought she saw the glint of tears in his eyes, but perhaps it was just the wind.
The wind, the icy wind!
She hoped the slave collector would come soon.
“I’m sorry, gran, but, well, you know how tough things have been.”
“Why does it have to be like this?” She asked, her voice cracking. “Am I not allowed even a scrap of dignity?”
“It’s the rules, granny. You know you always told us that rules are there to be obeyed? Well, the rules say that slaves are to be put out in the street with the garbage, naked, and chained as per the rules.”
Edith could not argue. She knew that times were hard and that she had been stubborn in refusing to go to the State care home. The place was no better than a prison, she could never survive there. Anything would be better than that, or so she had thought.
“But why like this. Do you know how much these things on my nipples hurt? And why did I have to be shaved, down there? It’s disgusting, obscene.”
It’s the rules, granny! How often must I tell you!” His voice was angry now. “Look! You’re in pretty good shape for your age. The agent says we’ll get a grand for you, perhaps even two. That means a hell of a lot to us, and to the kids. You’ll have a place to stay, food, medical treatment. You’ll have to work, of course. That’s what slaves do!”
He turned away, too embarrassed to face her. The agent had told him that there was a brothel that catered for ‘special tastes’, that they might buy her. They would pay a better price, too. He loved the old girl, but the kids came first.
“Come! I have to put you out. They said to have you out by seven. It’s stopped snowing.”
Edith hobbled out of the door. It was freezing out there, in the cold, early light of dawn. She shuffled along, hobbled by the chain connecting her ankles, stooped over to lessen the tug on her painfully clamped nipples. Her grandson led her into the street, down the road to where the garbage cans stood, ready for collection. People were walking past, muffled against the cold. Friends, neighbours, people she had known for years. Now they looked away, ignored her. The wind cut like a knife.
He hugged her, hugged her naked body. “I’m sorry, granny. I wish we could have kept you, but…” He turned away, abruptly. She thought she saw the glint of tears in his eyes, but perhaps it was just the wind.
The wind, the icy wind!
She hoped the slave collector would come soon.