Vignettes from the slave pits

[The Fallen Angel]

Please! Not my breasts!

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“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.”

Another little masterpiece!

 

[theseus]

Day Two.



Kathy had never been much of an outdoor person. Now she was outdoors all the time! Naked!

It was her second day at The Farm. She had walked in quite early the previous day, already sunburnt and footsore from the long, naked walk from the parking area. Her first day had been exciting. She had been through the initial checks, been assigned a narrow pallet in the slave quarters, a narrow pallet she would share with another woman, A plump, jolly woman in her fifties. She had been sent out to shovel a huge pile of horse dung. Her pale looks had instantly attracted the attention of one of the guards, a muscular black man, who proceeded to take her anal virginity on the pile of dung she was supposed to be shovelling. Three more men had taken her before she collapsed, sunburnt, exhausted and totally elated, onto the narrow, lumpy bed.

This was the morning of the second day. She was to be chained today. She would wear those chains for the rest of her stay, two whole months. She and her bedmate, whose tongue had so effectively soothed her sore anus, had been assigned to ploughing duty. She didn’t know what that was, but hoped it would be inside somewhere, out of the sun. It was only when they emerged from the woods and saw the partially ploughed field, the old-fashioned plough, and the pile of harness that she realised what her day would entail.

The ploughman was waiting, idly flicking at flower heads with his long stockwhip, but first he needed his morning treat, from both of them. As she swallowed the salty liquid, she was happy. The Farm was everything she had dreamed of. She wondered if she could extend her stay?

 

[theseus]

Duty!



She spent many days like this. Naked, but for fishnet stockings and heels, sometimes chained, sometimes bound like this, her hands useless. Always, the front door was unlocked. It was part of the agreement that saved her from divorce after he had found out about her relationship with a girl she had been at school with.

Today was different. Today there was a plumber and his assistant coming to do some work in the house. She had tried, desperately, to avoid them, to hide, difficult as it was with her hands so tightly bound. The men had come, looked at her appreciatively and started work. Whenever they passed her, they made comments about her. Her body, her face, her uses. “Lovely tight ass you got, lady. I guess you husband fucks it often. Must be nice and tight.” The plumber clutched the front of his jeans. “Nice mouth. I bet you suck cock like a champion.”

There was no escape. She wept tears of humiliation. She had chores to do. Sweeping the floor, scrubbing the kitchen, cleaning the bathrooms, especially the toilets. Her hands were useless! She was used to sweeping the floor, but never with strangers present. Her husband said it was good exercise for her cunt muscles, kept them nice and strong. Her face flamed as She did her job, the plumbers watching appreciatively. Scrubbing the toilets was, if anything, worse. The brush held between her teeth, her head deep inside the bowl, her ass waggling attractively.

She heard the plumber’s phone ring, heard his side of the conversation. “Yes sir! As many times as we like, sir? That is very kind of you, sir. Thank you, sir.”

The two men were grinning broadly as they approached her. “Your husband just called. Said he forgot to leave you lunch. Says you’re on a high protein diet, and asked if we would help out.” He unzipped the fly of his jeans. “Ready for the first course, lady?”

He grabbed a handful of hair. She sobbed as she looked along the length of cock presented to her mouth. She looked at him, pleading. “Don’t argue with me, lady, I’m just doing what your husband said. Now get going, I don’t have all day!”

Resigned, she opened her mouth and leaned forward.

 

[theseus]

Weekend Slave.



“How do I look?” Margaret asked her husband, parading by the side of the pool.

Brian leaned back in his chair, took another sip of wine, and studied her for a moment. “Perfect! Totally delicious, and eminently fuckable.” He smiled broadly. “Nervous?”

“Like you can’t believe! And excited! And frightened! And horny as hell! Look at me! I’m dripping!” She held up a pair of handcuffs. “Cuff me, please. Then fuck me like a slave should be fucked! I want them to buy me with your sperm leaking out of my holes.” She turned around, holding her hands behind her to be cuffed.

It had all started almost a year ago. Their son had graduated from university, their daughter had started her first year at the same university, the chicks had flown the nest, and they were on their own for the first time in eighteen years. Margaret was in her early forties, Brian a few years short of fifty. They were fit, healthy, prosperous, and determined to enjoy life. A friend had given them “Fifty Shades of Grey” as a joke. “It might give you some ideas on what to do on long, lonely evenings when there is nothing to watch on TV.”

They read the book, found it quite boring, but it did ignite a spark. They dived into the internet, found sites that intrigued them, joined some, and then decided they needed some ‘toys.’ The visit to the sex shop was a laugh! They were like two teenagers, sneaking out to do something illicit. Margaret was fully prepared for a sleazy little hole-in-the-wall, with shifty men in overcoats browsing dirty movies. Instead, they found a brightly lit shop with attractive displays of very, very risqué lingerie. After wandering around, a bit lost, for a while, she approached one of the girls in the shop. “We’re looking for,” she lowered her voice, “a flogger.” The girl gave her a dazzling smile. “Of course, madam. Floggers and other BDSM gear are on the first floor, and if you’re looking for toys for the gentleman, cock cages, buttplugs and the like, they are in the basement.” By this time Margaret was blushing furiously. “Oh, and we have a special display of tails over there.” She walked off, looking over her shoulder for Margaret and Brian to follow. “Here we are,” she said brightly, holding up a long, thick glossy black pony tail. It comes with four different sizes of buttplugs, all in stainless steel. I must say I prefer stainless steel myself.” She bent over and flipped up her short dress, revealing that she wore no underwear, and had a jewelled buttplug nestled in her anus. “Oh,” Margaret gasped. “I never thought of that. Shall we get one, dear?” Brian was fighting his erection, brought on by the thought of his wife wearing that tail. “I think so,” he said, huskily. They shopped happily, leaving the shop laden with parcels. At home they laid out all their purchases on the bed in the guest room. It was quite an array. The pony tail, nipple clamps, some with little bells attached, an assortment of cuffs. His and hers collars, rope, a heavy suede flogger and a nasty looking singletail whip. For Brian, there was a steel cock cage. “That looks very small,” Margaret said. “I’m sure that girl was wrong when she said you would fit inside it, although she did make a very careful examination of your cock!” She smiled at his embarrassment. “Now! I want to try this tail! Where is the lube?”

The next few weeks were a journey of discovery. They tried everything, and their sex life took on a new intensity. Margaret was in love with her tail. Within two weeks she had graduated to the second largest plug, while Brian revelled in his discovery of the joys of anal sex. Margaret learned to love the thudding, stinging impact of the flogger, although she was less sure about the searing bite of the singletail. They giggled like teenagers trying to lock Brian into his cock cage. His furiously erect member defied all attempts to force it into confinement, until several blowjobs had reduced its ardour sufficiently to lock it in. “Well,” she said, “now that we have him trapped, we might as well leave him there for a day or two, so that he can get used to it.”

There was one problem. The children, although they were not really children now, were due to come home for the summer holidays. Should they suspend their activities while they were at home, or should they tell them of their parents’ new way of life? After all, how do you tell your children that you enjoy being bent over the kitchen table, your breasts impaled on dozens of thumb tacks, while their father buggers you?

In the end, the problem solved itself. Margaret was in the garden, on her hands and knees, weeding. As so often these days, she was naked. She was wearing her tail, now attached to the biggest and thickest of the buttplugs, and had attached silver belled nipple clamps to her nipples. They were at the burny-itchy stage! She longed to remove them, but she had promised herself that she would wear them all day, allowing Brian to remove them that evening, if he wished.

“Okaaay?” The voice behind her made her leap to her feet, bells tinkling merrily, nipples shooting out staps of delicious pain! “Abby!” she cried in surprise! “You’re not meant to be here for another week!” Her daughter was standing there, a surprised, amused look on her face. “Nice tail, mom.” She walked up to kiss her mother. “Don’t those hurt?” her finger touched a bell. Margaret was dumbstruck!

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting down, drinking tea, while Margaret explained. Suddenly, Abby stood up! Margaret’s heart sank. “Here it comes”, she thought.

“Mom! I feel really uncomfortable, sitting here like this while you are naked.”

“This is it,” Margaret thought, “Here goes my relationship with my daughter.”



“Do you mind if I get undressed too?”

Without waiting for a reply, she stood up, pulling her top off over her head. “Dad won’t mind, will he?”

“I’m sure he won’t mind,” Margaret thought. “Luckily he is locked in his cage today. I might have to hide the key.”

“John will hate this,” a now naked Abby laughed. “He has become such a City man, with his three-piece suits. I’m surprised he doesn’t wear a bowler hat! And what a prude! Makes the Queen-Empress seem like a wanton libertine!”

They had been to a few parties arranged by the
Community. At first she had found the public nudity and open sex disturbing, but had soon become accustomed to it, and even, twice, gone as far as giving men, strangers to her, blowjobs, with Brian watching approvingly, even proudly.

And now she was ready. Ready to be handcuffed, then fucked, comprehensively by her husband, before being taken to a party at which she would be auctioned as a sex slave, to be used without limits for four days. Brian would be buying himself a plaything for the weekend. She had more than a sneaking suspicion that she would resemble Abby.

Brian helped her into the car. She was wearing an enveloping cloak. She could feel his seed oozing out of her, she knew her inner thighs were slick with their combined juices. She was so excited, yet at the same time she was terrified. As they drove, she tried to imagine what the three-hour viewing period would be like? How would she feel, exposed to the eyes and the touching, stroking, probing hands of the partygoers? Could she bear listening to the auctioneer describing her, suggesting ways in which this slave could be used? Who would buy her? What if it was a woman? She hadn’t thought of that possibility, until now.

The handcuffs hurt her wrists. Brian helped her out of the car, then took off the cloak, leaving her naked. “Ready?” he asked. She nodded, steeling herself. “Ow,” she moaned softly as the clamp attached to the leash bit into her clit.

“Follow me,” he said softly as he tugged gently on the leash, leading her to be sold.

A slave for the weekend.

 

[theseus]

The Turning Point.



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

To be a slave!

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Why did she wait that long? All she had to do was fly to Khabadami and go topless on the beach. She'd have been rounded up by the Muslim Mafia and sold into slavery in no time.

 

[theseus]

The fall of the aristocracy



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

[theseus]

The slave brothel.



Aristides leaned against the wall of the brothel. I was quiet at this time of the day, and he fervently hoped it stayed that way. He was sore and exhausted. His jaw ached, his throat was raw, his arse, well, what else could he expect? He had been a whore for four days!

Ten days ago, he was a free man, a young noble looking forward to his first battle. It would be easy, there was no way the ill disciplined enemy could stand against the well disciplined, well trained phalanx made up of heavily armed and armoured nobles.

He and his father had joked as they were armed. His mother adjusted her husband’s armour with the care of long practice, while his sisters giggled happily as they struggled with the straps of his breast and backplate.

The battle was hot, dusty, and confusing. He could see little of what was happening around him, his field of view limited by the eye slits of his helmet. He had fought in the front rank, as was fitting for the son of the general. The enemy swirled in front of the phalanx like a cloud of insects. There was a loud clang, an immense blow to his helmet, and all went dark!

He came to his senses slowly, his head hammering like a blacksmith’s forge, bright flashes of light hurting his eyes. He tried to lift his hands to feel his head, but they were tied behind his back. The sun burned his bare skin. Where was his armour? Rolling in the dust, he realised he was naked.

His eyes focused slowly. He was surrounded by naked, bound men, men he recognised as his fellow nobles. He could smell smoke, hear the crackling of flames, the screaming of women, the roar of a victorious army as it sacked a defeated city. His mother! His sisters! Had they managed to escape? Or were they adding their voices to the screams of raped, violated women? He tried to get to his feet, but the world whirled around him and went dark. Again!

For days, he and the other slaves walked in the dust behind the victorious army. He caught glimpses of the female slaves, naked as he was, but never close enough to recognise any of them. Was his mother among them, his sisters? Was Arte there, the slave he often took to his bed?

The slaves were paraded through the victorious city, pelted with rubbish and filth, insults hurled at them. The men were sold at one end of the agora, the women at the other. Aristides gritted his teeth as he was prodded, poked, pawed by prospective buyers. He was glad his father had died in the battle, a glorious death. Were his mother and sisters being subjected to the same humiliation? The man examining him was stroking his cock, causing it, despite his reluctance to come unwillingly erect. He nodded, fondled his buttocks, then started haggling with the dealer. Minutes later Aristides was having a steel collar rivetted in place around his neck. He had been sold.

This was his fourth day in the brothel. He had already lost count of how many times he had been penetrated, how many times his mouth had been invaded, how many times his anus had been stretched and filled. He knew the humiliation of having to serve a new client while the previous client’s seed was still drying on his face. He had seen the contempt on the faces of the slave girls who cleaned the rooms and served food to the clients at what he had become. A catamite whore!

As he waited for the inevitable customers, men, strangers, who would use his body, he thought back to Arte. They had decided to call her Artemis, because her real name was unpronounceable and she came from a barbarian tribe where the women fought as horse archers. He had enjoyed her slim, lithe body, and had taken pleasure in lending her to his friends. On one occasion, when three of them had decided to fuck her simultaneously, his best friend, Demetrius, had expressed qualms about their treatment of the girl. “It seems cruel. It was great, the three of us fucking her in all her holes at the same time, especially with those other slave girls watching, but she must surely have felt ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated? Wouldn’t you?” Aristides laughed, “She’s a slave. Slaves aren’t like people. They don’t feel things the way we do. They are our property, after all.” Demetrius shook his head, still disturbed. “She wasn’t always a slave. She was a warrior once, free, brave. We will be warriors soon, what if it happens to us?”

They had mocked him. “We are nobles, we will be hoplites, heavily armoured. Our phalanx is invincible!” He had walked past Demetrius naked body as the slaves were marched from the battlefield, his body stripped of everything. Armour, weapons, jewels, life! He was the lucky one.

Two men entered the brothel. They were talking to the owner, their eyes looking in his direction. He shivered, his poor, abused sphincter contracting involuntarily. He took a deep breath as the owner beckoned him.

Minutes later he was in one of the pleasure rooms. On his knees, his eyes focused on the penis he was about to pleasure. Behind him, the other man had found the oil jar, and was both lubricating himself and stroking himself to erection. As he gagged on the fullness in his mouth, and his sphincter was stretched by the oiled invader, he wondered again what had happened to Artemis. He wished he could apologise to her. He wished he could tell her that he had been wrong. That slaves did have feelings. That slaves did feel pain. That they felt humiliated. That they could feel ashamed at what they were required to do.

He now knew what it was like, being a slave.



Image by Vittorio Carvelli.

 

[theseus]

Spoils of War.



Life can change so quickly!

Less than half a moon ago she had been a carefree young woman, giggling as she and her sister struggled to fasten all the right straps on her brother’s armour, her mother offering advice as she expertly armed her husband, their father. “You two had better get some practice. Soon you will both be married, and it is a wife’s duty to arm her husband for war.”

Briseis was looking forward to being married. The man her parents had chosen for her was a handsome, mature man, a wealthy noble with a proven record in war. She had caught him stealing appreciative glances at her, and she was eager to be in his bed. She looked at her brother, Aristides, so handsome in his armour. Men had it so much easier. Nobody frowned on him when he took the slave girls to his bed, in fact, his parents were proud of him. A girl had to wait so long before she could experience that pleasure!

The women had watched as the phalanx formed, as the barbarian horsemen had swirled around it like the sea around a rock. Artemis, Aristides’ favourite slave girl, gave a running commentary. She had been captured in war, had been a warrior herself, once, a horse archer, albeit of a different tribe from these barbarians. “The phalanx is too slow, too unwieldy, like a bull attacked by a pack of mastiffs.” Her tone was contemptuous, a dangerous attitude for a slave. “Look! It is breaking! On the left! They have started to run! The Master, the Strategos, is down! Oh gods! We must run! Hide! But where?”

Some of the male house slaves had made a brave attempt at defending the mansion, but it was in vain, and soon the blood-crazed barbarians were in the house. Artemis fought bravely, to no avail, and was among the first to be raped. Briseis, her mother and sister were spared at first, until a stocky, bearded warrior walked up to her mother and ripped the dress from her body. For a moment she watched in horror as her mother was forced to the ground, her long, pale legs spread wide by two warriors as a third knelt between them, lifting his kilt, before a horny hand spun her around, and her clothes were torn from her. “You can’t! I’m a virgin!” She screamed! In moments that claim was false!

They walked for many days, most of them totally naked, until they reached the barbarian city. There they were paraded and exposed to the population, slave dealers bartering for their bodies. Artemis had given them advice. “Forget that you were nobles. Forget that you were free. A slave obeys. Defiance is futile, you just get hurt!” She turned her back so that Briseis could see the faint scars where Aristides had had her whipped for protesting at having to perform a particularly obscene sexual act. Her mother and sister had been sold to a man who proudly proclaimed to the crowd that they would be able to fuck these fine, aristocratic slaves at his exclusive brothel. He had sneered at Briseis’ small breasts, “Perhaps one of the boy brothels will buy you. It is difficult to tell the difference.”

She had been bought by a finely dressed man, possibly a leader of this tribe, his hair streaked with grey. He had examined her closely, embarrassingly so. He was clearly making the best of the supply of slaves from the city, because he was already leading a naked youth, someone’s page, perhaps? He also had another girl, small breasted and slim like Briseis. Irrationally, Briseis was enraged when he paid for her. Four small copper coins! Was that all she was worth? An aristocrat? A member of one of the leading families of…of a pile of ash and tumbled stones.

Her Master was a gentleman, by his own standards. He was not wantonly cruel, although he treated his slaves as he would his other possessions. After just a few hours she was only too aware that her status, and that of the other slaves, was considerably lower than that of his horses and hunting dogs. She was terrified when he took her to his bed. All she knew of sex was the terror of multiple rape!

He was gentle, and surprisingly understanding. He gentled her he would a nervous filly, stroking and murmuring unintelligible words as he took her. He used her as a girl, then, as foretold by the brothel keeper who now owned her mother and sister, he had used her as a boy. He had also taught her the strange custom of his people, showing her how to take his phallus in her mouth, slowly training her to take it all into her throat. She had been disgusted! Horrified! He had whipped her! Whipped her until she begged him to let her try again. Strangely, as she practiced, she began to enjoy the feeling of his hard flesh in her mouth. Her mouth, her vagina, her anus. She realised that for him, those were the most important parts of her body.

Her master had summoned her again. As she stood in the doorway of his bedroom, she saw that she would not be his only bedmate. The black slave, with his strange satiny ebony skin, was pleasuring their owner with his mouth. The Master beckoned her to enter, pointed at the slave’s erect member. Kneeling, she took it into her mouth. She smiled around the black shaft. It was going to be an active night. There were so many things a slave had to learn. She wondered what she would learn on this night.

Artemis had been right. As long as she was obedient, and attentive to her master’s needs, life as a slave could be good.

 

[Crux-Emperor Baracus X]

The slave brothel.

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Aristides leaned against the wall of the brothel. I was quiet at this time of the day, and he fervently hoped it stayed that way. He was sore and exhausted. His jaw ached, his throat was raw, his arse, well, what else could he expect? He had been a whore for four days!

Ten days ago, he was a free man, a young noble looking forward to his first battle. It would be easy, there was no way the ill disciplined enemy could stand against the well disciplined, well trained phalanx made up of heavily armed and armoured nobles.

He and his father had joked as they were armed. His mother adjusted her husband’s armour with the care of long practice, while his sisters giggled happily as they struggled with the straps of his breast and backplate.

The battle was hot, dusty, and confusing. He could see little of what was happening around him, his field of view limited by the eye slits of his helmet. He had fought in the front rank, as was fitting for the son of the general. The enemy swirled in front of the phalanx like a cloud of insects. There was a loud clang, an immense blow to his helmet, and all went dark!

He came to his senses slowly, his head hammering like a blacksmith’s forge, bright flashes of light hurting his eyes. He tried to lift his hands to feel his head, but they were tied behind his back. The sun burned his bare skin. Where was his armour? Rolling in the dust, he realised he was naked.

His eyes focused slowly. He was surrounded by naked, bound men, men he recognised as his fellow nobles. He could smell smoke, hear the crackling of flames, the screaming of women, the roar of a victorious army as it sacked a defeated city. His mother! His sisters! Had they managed to escape? Or were they adding their voices to the screams of raped, violated women? He tried to get to his feet, but the world whirled around him and went dark. Again!

For days, he and the other slaves walked in the dust behind the victorious army. He caught glimpses of the female slaves, naked as he was, but never close enough to recognise any of them. Was his mother among them, his sisters? Was Arte there, the slave he often took to his bed?

The slaves were paraded through the victorious city, pelted with rubbish and filth, insults hurled at them. The men were sold at one end of the agora, the women at the other. Aristides gritted his teeth as he was prodded, poked, pawed by prospective buyers. He was glad his father had died in the battle, a glorious death. Were his mother and sisters being subjected to the same humiliation? The man examining him was stroking his cock, causing it, despite his reluctance to come unwillingly erect. He nodded, fondled his buttocks, then started haggling with the dealer. Minutes later Aristides was having a steel collar rivetted in place around his neck. He had been sold.

This was his fourth day in the brothel. He had already lost count of how many times he had been penetrated, how many times his mouth had been invaded, how many times his anus had been stretched and filled. He knew the humiliation of having to serve a new client while the previous client’s seed was still drying on his face. He had seen the contempt on the faces of the slave girls who cleaned the rooms and served food to the clients at what he had become. A catamite whore!

As he waited for the inevitable customers, men, strangers, who would use his body, he thought back to Arte. They had decided to call her Artemis, because her real name was unpronounceable and she came from a barbarian tribe where the women fought as horse archers. He had enjoyed her slim, lithe body, and had taken pleasure in lending her to his friends. On one occasion, when three of them had decided to fuck her simultaneously, his best friend, Demetrius, had expressed qualms about their treatment of the girl. “It seems cruel. It was great, the three of us fucking her in all her holes at the same time, especially with those other slave girls watching, but she must surely have felt ashamed, embarrassed, humiliated? Wouldn’t you?” Aristides laughed, “She’s a slave. Slaves aren’t like people. They don’t feel things the way we do. They are our property, after all.” Demetrius shook his head, still disturbed. “She wasn’t always a slave. She was a warrior once, free, brave. We will be warriors soon, what if it happens to us?”

They had mocked him. “We are nobles, we will be hoplites, heavily armoured. Our phalanx is invincible!” He had walked past Demetrius naked body as the slaves were marched from the battlefield, his body stripped of everything. Armour, weapons, jewels, life! He was the lucky one.

Two men entered the brothel. They were talking to the owner, their eyes looking in his direction. He shivered, his poor, abused sphincter contracting involuntarily. He took a deep breath as the owner beckoned him.

Minutes later he was in one of the pleasure rooms. On his knees, his eyes focused on the penis he was about to pleasure. Behind him, the other man had found the oil jar, and was both lubricating himself and stroking himself to erection. As he gagged on the fullness in his mouth, and his sphincter was stretched by the oiled invader, he wondered again what had happened to Artemis. He wished he could apologise to her. He wished he could tell her that he had been wrong. That slaves did have feelings. That slaves did feel pain. That they felt humiliated. That they could feel ashamed at what they were required to do.

He now knew what it was like, being a slave.



Image by Vittorio Carvelli.

Good to see it,from a bloke's perspective.....

 

[theseus]

Alice in trouble!



The notice on the door of the balcony of her hired apartment was very clear.

“Nudity is prohibited in Zanzibar! Penalties are severe! First offence: 100 lashes of a rhino hide whip, administered in public in the square outside the Grand Mosque, plus six months of hard labour in the salt mines. There has never been a second offence.”

Alice, like so many tourists, considered it a joke. So much so, in fact, that she took a nude selfie and posted it on Cruxforums, together with a report on her holiday in Zanzibar.

She was dozing on the balcony, dreaming happily about the night she had spent with the muscular beach boy she had met, when the door burst open and she was surrounded by men in white robes. They were all shouting at once, and although she couldn’t understand the language, she knew she was in trouble!

“Please, let me put some clothes on!” She begged as they dragged her down the stairs. “Why, whore of an unbeliever?” The man in the red headdress shouted in her face. “You want to flaunt your godless body! You can flaunt it in the square as the whip flays your skin, and you can flaunt it for the next half a year in the salt mines. Perhaps at the end of that time you will have learned some modesty!”

As they hustled her out into the street, she managed to break away. She ran! The coral paving cut into her feet, she could hear the men close behind her, panting, but desperation lent wings to her feet. The narrow alleys twisted and turned, she had lost all sense of direction, she ran, desperately!

Suddenly the alley opened into a large square. She could see the sea. She ducked around a huge fig tree, then skidded to a halt! Ahead of her was large, gold domed building. A crowd of white robed men waited in front of it. Many others, men and women, stood around the edges. In the centre of the square was a tall pole. Next to it, a superbly muscled man, stripped to the waist, stood, smiling broadly. Coiled in his hand was an evil looking whip.

Sobbing, panting, Alice stopped. There was no escape!


Renders by Julie and Melissa.

 

[theseus]

Alice in the Grand Bazaar.



“For once, just for fucking once, the fucking guide books didn’t exaggerate!”

Alice had looked forward to her stay in Istanbul. The history, the romance, the architecture, all had appealed to her. She had explored the historic monuments, Hagia Sofia, the Blue Mosque, so many of them. She had walked the streets and the alleys, wondering at the architecture, the bustle of this huge, incredibly ancient city that straddled two continents. She had particularly enjoyed the Grand Bazaar, that centuries old emporium that attracted almost a hundred million people a year.

“The Grand Bazaar was started in the 1460’s as a cloth market. It has grown ever since, until it is now possible to buy almost anything there. A wonderful place for the visitor to explore. A place that will transport them to fantasy land of clothing, handicrafts and almost anything the heart could desire.”

“Fucking guidebook,” Alice thought, as she sat on the hard floor, her legs spread wide, the taste of a stranger’s cum filling her mouth. “And now it’s me that is for sale! Me! Anything the fucking heart desires, indeed!”

TRY BEFORE YOU BUY! The sign above her head said in half a dozen different languages.

“How much is it for a blowjob?” She heard an American voice ask the woman who ran the stall. “One hundred lira, sir, twenty US Dollar,” the old bitch replied.

“You’re being ripped off,” Alice said to herself. She had always been good at numbers. “It’s more like thirteen or fourteen.” She thought.

“Can I come on her face, lady?”

“Of course.”

Alice heard the rustle of money. There was no point in resisting. She opened her mouth and looked into this hick tourist’s eyes, hoping to shame him. No such luck!

At least he was quick! Quick but very productive. Her face, her hair, her eyes were covered in thick, gooey cum. She lifted her hands to wipe her face. “Hayir!” The old woman’s voice was sharp. With a sigh Alice dropped her hands, blinked eyes free of the slimy stuff. She knew what that meant. “No!”

How could she have been so stupid? It had all seemed so innocent, a simple, ancient game, played by the Byzantines. The shopkeeper had offered to show her how to play. “We bet, play money, just to make it interesting.” Only after she had lost telephone numbers did he demand payment, in real money! Arguing was useless, there were suddenly ten male witnesses to support the shopkeeper. The police had come, attracted by her shouts, only to confirm that she was legally in debt to the tune of tens of millions of lira. The shopkeeper ‘grudgingly’ accepted that he would have to settle for whatever assets she had. Some clothes, a nice camera, and her tight little body.

So here she was, chained to a stall in the Grand Bazaar, giving cheap blowjobs, cheap fucks, and waiting for somebody to offer and acceptable amount for the ownership of her body.

“Fucking Istanbul! Fucking guidebooks!” She thought. “All in all, I’m fucked!”



Renders by Julie and Melissa.

 

[montycrusto]

Your vignettes are bloody awesome @theseus

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Poor Alice! She just can't keep out of trouble. At least she escaped St Melanias!

 

[theseus]

Your vignettes are bloody awesome @theseus

Thank you. (Blush)

 

[theseus]

Family Crucified.



The hill of death was full. All around him were suffering people, screaming people, moaning people, people begging to die. Marcus struggled to stand, to breathe. Broken bones grated against iron spikes; muscles strained in unnatural positions. The sun burned down, sucking moisture from his body. His sister, Claudia, slid down, unable to bear the pain of the spikes through her heels, spreading her thighs obscenely wide’ her recently virgin vagina, now dripping semen, gaping obscenely. His mother, also pushing herself up to breathe, sobbed brokenly. “I am sorry, so sorry. I should never have joined the plot. I told them you were innocent! They wouldn’t listen! I’m sorry!” The kites, circling above, called shrilly, impatient for the bodies dancing on the crosses below to be still. They were hungry!

Marcus gasped a lungful of air, his eyes focused on his sister, so obscenely displayed. “No!” He screamed, as his body betrayed him, yet again. “I can’t help it, sis, I can’t!” His rebellious cock, rampant as it had never been before, spurted again, shooting a jet of his seed at his sister. Why did this happen? Why was his tortured body so aroused by the sight of his mother and his sister suffering the agonies of the cross?

It had started the previous evening, in the filthy cell where they waited for their execution. Julia, his mother, had been sobbing softly. “I told them you are innocent! I told them! I was the only one involved! I told them! They wouldn’t listen!” Marcus looked up as the key turned in the lock, and the door swung open. He started for the door, only to be brought up short by his chains. The officer laughed at him. “Trying to escape lad? He chortled. He stood in front of Julia, gripping a still firm breast in his horny hand. “The law says we can’t crucify virgins. Any virgins in here?”

A look of hope and relief spread over Julia’s face, replacing the pain of her abused breast. “My children, both my children are virgins. Does that mean you won’t crucify them? Oh! Thank you! Thank you!” She kissed the feet of the officer. “Thank you!”

The officer smiled. “We won’t crucify them, not while they are virgins.” Her face lit up in a smile. “Thank you!” She cried again. “Yep,” he said, smiling broadly, “can’t nail a virgin to a cross. It’s the law!” He raised his voice. “Come on in, boys! We’ve got two virgins here. Can’t have that! Not if we’re going to nail them up in the morning. We’ll have to do something about it!” A dozen men swarmed into the cell!

They took Julia first. Claudia and Marcus watched in horror as three men at a time raped their mother. It took no more than a few minutes for the officer to notice Marcus’ reaction. “Hey, boys, look at this! The pup has got a raging hard-on watching you bugger his mother. Shall we give him a taste of the real thing?” In a moment Marcus was bent over the slop bucket. His mother, her mouth unoccupied for a moment, begged for mercy. “No, please, sirs, don’t do that to him! He is innoce…!” Her cry was stifled as her mouth was filled once more, and Marcus’ scream echoed around the cell! “No! No! That’s disgusting! No please…please…oh gods…please! It hurts!” Claudia’s virginity lasted a moment longer. Her screams joined her brother’s.

Marcus was horrified at what was happening to him. The gross invasion of his body, the unspeakable pain and degradation. Yet… at the same time he was incredibly excited at what was happening to his mother and sister. For a short time, he forgot what was to happen, that in a few short hours he, and his family would join other helpless, screaming victims as they were nailed to crosses, to die slowly, painfully and terribly.

Claudia hung by her arms, trying to relieve the pain shooting through her shattered heels. Her chest heaved, she couldn’t breathe properly, she needed air! Desperation drove her to, once more, straighten her legs, despite the shocks of pain in her broken heels, pull up on her arms, despite the agony of steel grating against broken bones, and take huge, desperate gasps of air. She met her brother’s eyes, saw the pain in them, saw the humiliation as his rampant member twitched and squirted yet another stream of his seed at her. She saw her mother rise, standing on her shattered feet. She, too, gasped for breath. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for you to get hurt. I love you!” She gasped as she sank down again, her thighs wide, the seed of her rapists still leaking from her.

The agonising dance continued. At regular eternities, the soldiers thrust wat sponges at them, allowing them to drink life saving water. Water to slake the terrible thirst, water to prolong their lives, and their agony. A few crosses away, Demetrius croaked a curse. “Fuck the Emperor, fuck the Senate, fuck Rome.” He was blind now; the crows had taken his eyes. They had watched his crucifixion, three days before their own. Yet he still lived. Danced the desperate dance to breathe, sucked at the wet sponges, desperately hanging on to life.

Claudia’s life had been so short. There was so much to live for. She moaned as she stood yet again, as her broken heels grated on the cruel spikes yet again. Life was so precious! She didn’t want to die! She wanted to live! If only life wasn’t so painful!


Image by Jastrow.

 

[theseus]

Another day in Paradise.



“Do you want me right here? Now? Or shall I come to your unit later, sir?”

Two weeks ago, Lucy would never have thought it possible that she would ask such a question of a total stranger, especially as his question to her had been a very straightforward “Do you do anal?”

Her friend Amy had told her about a vacation job at the Paradise Resort. “I worked there last summer. It was a whole load of fun, and I made enough to fund my entire degree, and have a nice amount for living expenses. Those guys, and girls, tip really well if you please them. I’m going back again this year. I want that convertible, and I want to move to a better apartment. Come on! It’ll be fun!”

Lucy was already concerned about the debt she was building up. Student loans were expensive, and she was having to live on the cheap, in a cruddy apartment with five other girls. “But, Amy, you said, to earn those tips, I would have to have sex with the guests?”

Amy smiled, “That’s the best part!”

Lucy was dubious. “I’m not like you. I mean, I’ve only really had the one boyfriend, and…”

“So, you’re going to get a job packing shelves at minimum wage, and then when you get home, he might take you out for pizza and expect to spend the night. Right!” Amy was nothing if not direct.

“Well…” Lucy blushed, “Oh, Amy, you make it sound so clinical.”

“Stand in front of the mirror! Take your clothes off! Now!” Amy’s voice had the hard sound of authority. Lucy hesitated. “Now!” Lucy peeled off her t-shirt, then slid her shorts and panties down her thighs. Her body was good, even better with the all over tan acquired at the nude beach Amy had introduced her to. “Look at yourself!” Amy said. “Nice firm tits, great legs, Beautiful tight pussy. And your ass! You’ll spend most of the time on that toned tummy of yours, getting buggered. The tips are great for that.” She ran a finger along Lucy’s butt crack, pausing just for a moment at her tight little rosebud. “That’s worth a couple of years’ tuition, right there,” she smiled.

“So!” She concluded, “are you going to spend the summer getting fucked for minimum wage and pizza? Or are you going to trade that tight bod for some real money? I know what I’m doing.”

The first few times had been difficult, very difficult. She had felt dirty, used. Her first anal was painful and humiliating, until she saw the credit to her tip account. Somehow that made it easier.

The guest pondered for a moment. He looked around the pool area, noting that there were a number of people watching. That would make it all more exciting. “I’ll take you here,” he said, “in your tight little arse.”

As Lucy bent over the sun lounger, she caught the eye of a female guest, watching intently. She smiled at Lucy, and raised an eyebrow. Lucy nodded, almost imperceptibly.

It was going to be another busy day in Paradise.

 

[theseus]

The Price of Protest.


Taking part in a protest against the Junta’s anti female policies seemed to be such a grown-up thing to do.

Lucy was, had been, in her first year at university. It was all so exciting. Living away from home, meeting so many new people from all walks of life. She had even found a boyfriend. He was a very nice, quiet young man. They read poetry to each other by candlelight, sipping small quantities of wine. She had even allowed him to cuddle her, to touch her ‘there’, through her shorts, had thrilled at his touch, at the thought of how daring they were. She had been thinking of letting him touch her breasts, under her shirt. But that was perhaps too daring.

There were hundreds of students at the protest. Like all the girls, Lucy was bra-less under her t-shirt. It felt strange, and very naughty, to be out in public like that, especially as her nipples hardened when the shirt rubbed against them. The protest had been peaceful. They waved placards, and the girls shook their bra-less breasts at the impassive ranks of riot police. The police stood in serried ranks, looking ominous in their black uniform and body armour. Their shields rested on the ground. They tapped their batons and short, braided leather whips against their legs. It was all so exciting!

Then someone threw a paper cup at the police. It was the trigger they had been waiting for! They charged! Batons and whips slashed at the students! They tried to run, but the crush behind them was too much. Lucy watched, helpless, as a huge policeman came straight at her. His whip lashed out, the braided leather slicing through the thin fabric of her t-shirt, scoring a deep wheal in the soft skin of her breast. She fell to her knees, clutching her abused breast, sobbing! A hand grabbed her hair, pulling to her feet, more hands wrenched her arms behind her! She felt the cold, unyielding grip of the handcuffs around her wrists. “No!” She screamed! “I didn’t do anything!” She was hustled away, into a truck already full of handcuffed students. Many of the girls had had their shirts ripped open, all bore the marks of whip or baton.

The trial was quick. The students were tried in batches of five, still handcuffed, still, in some cases half naked. The judge seemed bored. Lucy thought they would be allowed a lawyer. Silly girl! He looked at the five young women in the dock. “Were these women present at the riot?” He asked the sole witness. “Yes, Your Honour,” he replied. The judge nodded. “Two years penal servitude, to be served in State Brothel number one! Next!”

Lucy lost her virginity to the rough fingers of a prison guard. “Cavity search,” he said, grinning evilly, “Got to make sure there are no concealed weapons.” Stripped naked, a coffle of twenty naked female students were marched through the streets to State Brothel #1. They arrived just in time to witness punishment. She watched, breathless with horror, as a prisoner, a whore, was strapped to the punishment frame. Watched as the ubiquitous braided whip stripped the skin off her back, buttocks and thighs, whimpered as the screaming girl was turned over, her bloody back scraping against the rough wood, as her breasts and belly were whipped raw. Cold, heavily salted water washed the blood from her body. “Double shifts for you, for the next week, whore!” The warder said savagely. One of the watchers whispered, for the enlightenment of the newbies. “A shift is eight hours, about thirty or forty tricks. She will do double that, for a whole week!”

It was Lucy’s first shift, her first customer. There were no preliminaries. He chose her from the group of scantily clad whores in the receiving room, paid his money for a fifteen minute ‘short time’, and led her into a cubicle. She lay watching him as he undressed hastily. She shuddered at the sight of the flabby paunch, the skinny thighs, the ‘thing’ between them. This would be her first time, ever! She had imagined it very differently. Soft music, flowers, candles, kisses, cuddles. Not this! Not this cold, business like fuck, not being the mere receptacle for a stranger’s lust. Two years! Thirty to forty a day, seven hundred and thirty days, at least twenty-two thousand men would empty themselves into her body before her sentence was over!

A very high price to pay for a protest!

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Another day in Paradise.

View attachment 954949

“Do you want me right here? Now? Or shall I come to your unit later, sir?”

Two weeks ago, Lucy would never have thought it possible that she would ask such a question of a total stranger, especially as his question to her had been a very straightforward “Do you do anal?”

Her friend Amy had told her about a vacation job at the Paradise Resort. “I worked there last summer. It was a whole load of fun, and I made enough to fund my entire degree, and have a nice amount for living expenses. Those guys, and girls, tip really well if you please them. I’m going back again this year. I want that convertible, and I want to move to a better apartment. Come on! It’ll be fun!”

Lucy was already concerned about the debt she was building up. Student loans were expensive, and she was having to live on the cheap, in a cruddy apartment with five other girls. “But, Amy, you said, to earn those tips, I would have to have sex with the guests?”

Amy smiled, “That’s the best part!”

Lucy was dubious. “I’m not like you. I mean, I’ve only really had the one boyfriend, and…”

“So, you’re going to get a job packing shelves at minimum wage, and then when you get home, he might take you out for pizza and expect to spend the night. Right!” Amy was nothing if not direct.

“Well…” Lucy blushed, “Oh, Amy, you make it sound so clinical.”

“Stand in front of the mirror! Take your clothes off! Now!” Amy’s voice had the hard sound of authority. Lucy hesitated. “Now!” Lucy peeled off her t-shirt, then slid her shorts and panties down her thighs. Her body was good, even better with the all over tan acquired at the nude beach Amy had introduced her to. “Look at yourself!” Amy said. “Nice firm tits, great legs, Beautiful tight pussy. And your ass! You’ll spend most of the time on that toned tummy of yours, getting buggered. The tips are great for that.” She ran a finger along Lucy’s butt crack, pausing just for a moment at her tight little rosebud. “That’s worth a couple of years’ tuition, right there,” she smiled.

“So!” She concluded, “are you going to spend the summer getting fucked for minimum wage and pizza? Or are you going to trade that tight bod for some real money? I know what I’m doing.”

The first few times had been difficult, very difficult. She had felt dirty, used. Her first anal was painful and humiliating, until she saw the credit to her tip account. Somehow that made it easier.

The guest pondered for a moment. He looked around the pool area, noting that there were a number of people watching. That would make it all more exciting. “I’ll take you here,” he said, “in your tight little arse.”

As Lucy bent over the sun lounger, she caught the eye of a female guest, watching intently. She smiled at Lucy, and raised an eyebrow. Lucy nodded, almost imperceptibly.

It was going to be another busy day in Paradise.

I'll bet those redcoats at Butlins never earned as much as Lucy.

 

[theseus]

The Practical Evaluation.



Jeannie knew exactly why she was at Miss Waterfield’s College for Girls. She knew what her future was likely to be. She wanted all that.

Aspirant Courtesans, Miss Waterfield called her students. The truth was more down to earth. She, and her fellow students, were being trained to be call girls, whores, sex slaves. That was Jeannie’s deep desire.

Why did it have to be so difficult?

This was her first practical evaluation. It was important, because she really wanted to advance to the next form. To get one step closer to her ambition. To be a…whore.

She had dressed carefully; in ‘working dress’ as it was called at the College. Knee high stockings and high heels. Just that!

The spotlights had dazzled her. She was aware of the audience, but couldn’t see them outside the pool of light surrounding her. Mistress Burton introduced her to the crowd. “This is Jeannie. She is in the first form, and this is her first practical evaluation. Upon this evaluation will depend her advancement to the next form. It will be her first time with a paying client. You have all seen the rules for first formers, and I expect you to abide by those rules. Please be thorough and honest in your evaluation of her. She will undergo three practical evaluations this week end. Please be aware that an ‘unsatisfactory’ evaluation will result in punishment, which will be publicly administered on the last day. Do not disclose your intended evaluation to the student.”

There had been a round of bidding, before Mistress Burton clapped her hands. Jeannie was led away, to be taken directly to this comfortable bedroom. She stood by the window, still in her working dress, waiting for the client. She looked nervously around the room. The bed, where she would probably entertain the client. The big, comfortable chairs for an audience of three, if the client wanted one. The bedside table with the accessories. The nipple clamps, dildoes, spreader bars, and the selection of whips neatly hanging from pegs on the wall.

Who would the client be? Male? Female? Two of either sex? A couple? The rules allowed any such combination. How would they use her? Would they hurt her first? Which hole, or holes, would they use? She had lubed well. She was a good cocksucker, or at least a good dildo sucker. Why did this have to be so cold, so commercial, so clinical? Why couldn’t she have met the client first? Exchanged just a few words?

The door opened. He was big, middle-aged, bearded. He looked fit and strong. Her eyes dropped to his belt, to below the belt, to that which would enter her body. She shivered with fear and eager anticipation.

Should she kneel in front of him, offer to take him in her mouth? Should she wait for him to approach her? The door opened again. An elegant, middle aged woman entered, smiled at her, and sat down in one of the big chairs.

Jeannie waited, uncertain, frightened, embarrassed, shy.

The man came to her, lifted her chin, and kissed her. His hands slid down her body, cupping a breast, tracing the line of her tummy until it found the wet slit.

Jeannie relaxed. She had dreamed of this for so long.

Surely her father would give her a good grade?