Vignettes from the slave pits

[theseus]

Paradise



“This is so exciting! I feel so…wanton; naked on the beach, especially with my pussy shaved and smooth. There are so many beautiful people here!” Tammy was breathless! It was their first day at the Paradise resort, the place “where anything goes, and ‘no’ is not in the lexicon.”

Her husband patted her ample, shapely bottom. “You are one of those beautiful people, my love. As desirable as any of them.” Tammy tended to be self-conscious about her body. This week in Paradise was a big adventure for both of them, but especially for her.

“Oh! Wow!” She gasped softly. “Look at him! The guy coming out of the water. Isn’t he magnificent?”

Chris shot glance in the direction of her stare. The man was magnificent! He felt himself stiffen, involuntarily. He was tall, well over six foot, built like a Greek god. Broad shoulders, narrow hips, perfectly proportioned muscles, not overdeveloped. Except, Chris felt inadequate. Even flaccid he was thick, heavy, circumcised. He shot a look at Tammy. She was flushed, her mouth slightly open. She turned to him, her eyes almost pleading. “What would I do, if…?”

His wife was visibly excited; so, to be honest, was he. It would be a magnificent sight, this stranger, this magnificent male, and his shy wife. He stroked her back, always a calming touch. “Do you want him to?” Her eyes were wide, moist, pleading. “No…Yes… I don’t know! Am I a slut?” He shook his head, his fingers running down her belly, lower, feeling the moisture. “No,” he said, softly, “you’re not a slut. You’re a sexy, desirable woman.” He licked his fingers. “Your brain might not know what it wants, but your body does.” He glanced over to the man, who was watching them. Their eyes met. The man nodded, imperceptibly.

“Chris! He’s looking at us! He’s coming over! Do you think…” The man’s walk was slow, confident, assured. He took her hand, “Madame,” a quick glance at her left hand, “madame, May I have the honour, the pleasure?” His lips brushed her fingers. She was speechless. She shot a quick, desperate look at her husband. He was smiling. He nodded.

“We’re in Paradise, my love.”

 

[theseus]

Is this what you want?



“Is this what you want?”

Marguerite was not impressed! In fact, she was furious! However, she was also desperate to save her marriage.

Her husband, James, had come home in the early hours of the morning, reeking of sweat, and the unmistakable smell of sex. The ensuing row had been spectacular! Exhausted by her anger and hurt, she had flounced out and slept in the spare room.

Slept was not really the right word. Her mind had raced. This was not the first time. He had tried to tell her of his fantasies, of a life where wives were slaves, where they were always naked at home. Where they delivered sex on demand. Where wives could be shared with others, at the whim of the husband. Outrageous, impossible fantasies. But then, perhaps not too outrageous, because it seemed he was a member of a group where people, ‘normal’ people, including mutual friends, lived out exactly that kind of fantasy.

She tossed and turned all night. Something had to be done, something had to give! Divorce? She loved him, they were friends, they got on well together, apart from times like last night. She was up before dawn, pacing, naked. Perhaps he had a point. Perhaps their sex life had become boring, routine, habit. She had a good body, she knew that. She noticed, and enjoyed, the looks she got from some of their friends. Was there so much wrong with being naked at home? She shrugged, why not? She stood in front of the mirror. He would expect her to be naked when they had visitors. Her smile was grim, then lightened up, they would certainly get an eyeful! Would he share her? Perhaps? She suddenly realised that she hoped he would. She looked intently at her body. Not bad for a fifty-year-old, apart from that wild bush. A few months ago, in another argument, he had raved on about the smooth pussy of the bank manager’s wife, how nice it was to eat out a woman without getting a mouthful of hair.

Half an hour of careful shaving later, she had a fairly smooth pussy, apart from a landing strip and some stray hairs she couldn’t quite reach. She smiled, grimly, at the woman in the mirror. If he liked it, she could get it all lasered away.

She took a deep breath, and walked to their bedroom. The bed was rumpled, empty. She went downstairs, silent on bare feet. He was in the kitchen. He looked a mess! Grey, unshaven, miserable. His hands wrapped around a mug of coffee. Clearly, he hadn’t slept either. Clearly, his thoughts had run parallel to her own. That this was a turning point.

“Margie! I’m sorry…”

They spoke simultaneously.

“Is this what you want?” Her mouth was a hard, grim line.

Then she smiled. He looked so miserable, so contrite. “Do you want to fuck me now? Here? On the kitchen table?” She giggled.

“Your, your… you shaved it? For me?” He took a deep breath, swallowed. “Oh, shit, I fucked up, didn’t I?”

She nodded. “You did, but you made me think. Do you still want a naked wife? One you can fuck on demand? One you can share with your friends?”

He gaped, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish. Speechless! She dropped to her knees, shuffling to him. She twitched aside the towel he had wrapped around his waist. The scent of the other woman filled her nostrils. “Was she good? As good as I am?”

He was still stuttering, trying to find the words that would mend things, when she bowed her head, filling her mouth with him.

He looked down at the back of her bobbing head. “Thank you, my love. Thank you!”

Marguerite smiled around her meaty gag. “No, thank you!” She thought. “I think I’m going to enjoy this!”

 

[theseus]

Reality



“It’s my body…Isn’t it?”

There was a little quaver in her voice. I felt a fleeting pang of sympathy for her. Fleeting! After all, it was her fault that she was here. She had enjoyed spending the money, with no thought of how she was going to repay it. Eventually, there was only one asset that was valuable enough to repay her debt.

“No, it isn’t. Not anymore. For the present, that body belongs to the Syndicate. Once you have finished your training, you will be sold, and that body will belong to the person who pays for you. That person, whoever that may be, will have total rights to that body. No, it is no longer your body. In fact, you are no longer you. You are an item on my inventory, 22/19. The twenty second object to be sent to me for training and sale in 2022.”

The body was good; not perfect, but good. She was carrying a bit of extra weight on her thighs, and her butt could be firmer and better shaped, but the rest was of excellent quality. Those little flaws would be remedied by a regimen of diet, exercise and yoga. Her pale skin was flawless, and those lovely little mounds on her chest just begged to be kissed, or whipped. I had three months to get her into shape, to get that body as near perfection as possible, to train her to be the perfect slave.

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” She shook her head, blushing. I saw the glint of tears in her eyes. “Good! I know there is a premium on virgins, especially where you are going, but it does impede proper training.” The tears were trickling down her cheeks. “Your ass?” She looked at me, confused.

“What…what about my ass…sir?”

“Have you been fucked in the ass?”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m not that kind of girl. I…”

“You are not a girl,” I said, grimly, “not a girl of any kind. You are a fuckslave in training. You are a slave who will be trained to be a skilled, versatile, inventive fuckslave, one who will sell for enough money to pay off your debts, pay my fee, the seller’s commission, and any other costs incurred for your training and sale.” Her eyes were brimming. Tough! Life is about consequences.

“You will join the other two for the morning run. Don’t even think about making a break for it. The dogs will track you down. When you get back, and of course the last one back gets whipped, you will be barcoded and microchipped. Then it is yoga and deportment. At lunchtime you will start your training as a service slave. Then, after lunch, we will attend to your ass. Understood?”

She nodded, numbly. “Where do I get clothes, sir, and shoes?”

“Clothes? Shoes? Whatever do you need those for?” Her eyes darted a glance out of the window, where the gardener and his assistants were at work. I smiled. “The gardeners have very good fringe benefits. You will never wear clothes, or shoes, unless you are to wear a costume for some particular reason. Now go!”

She scurried out of the room. I had three months to get her trained. Three months before her cage was loaded into a private jet, destined to the slave market on the edge of the Sahara. Pale redheads were a very desirable status symbol for the new generation of African leaders and oligarchs.

 

[Domodonno]

• Aug 8, 2018
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• #7

Another fragment from a different, incomplete story.

• Today at 10:26 PM

• New
• Add bookmark
• #544

Reality

The reluctant slave

This reminds me very much of something similar going on in reality in
Hungaria these days, very closely that way. I guess you know the plot ...

 

[theseus]

The Christmas Card



“This is going to be hilarious! I wish I could see their faces when they open our Christmas card.” Christie was in hysterics, laughing her head off!

It had all started very seriously, well, sort of. “I think it’s about time we let our friends and family know about our new lifestyle, and about your new status.” Shaun was very serious. “After all, it has been a couple of weeks. Nobody has seen you, and we’ve had no visitors. It’s about time our lives returned to normal, the new normal. People are going to see you as you are. For what you are. We’ll send out our Christmas card a few weeks early, with you as the picture, rather than some reindeer.”

Their new lifestyle had been largely her idea, but Shaun had soon warmed to the idea of having a permanently naked sex slave, especially as she had made it very clear that three was not a crowd, that, in fact four would be better, and that they should find a young female playmate.

“How about a picture of me and Shamus?” She suggested, “that will make them sit up and take notice!” He shook his head. “I think that might be a bridge too far, at least for now. Perhaps just a nice pic of you, as you are now.” The cuffs around her wrists were attached to a chain around her waist, severely restricting her movements. Her breasts and her newly smooth pussy would be on display, and her status would be confirmed. Unfortunately, her custom made steel collar had not fitted properly, and had to go back for modification.

He fetched his camera. “The light is good there, over against the wall.” She posed, giggling. “Perhaps that is too vanilla, she laughed, just my tits and pussy showing. Perhaps you should cum all over my face!” The camera clicked, capturing her laughing face. “Not this time! It is a Christmas card, after all, not a porn shoot.” He showed her the pics on the back of the camera, his finger sliding through her wetness at the same time. He fed her the damp finger. “That one, I think,” showing her the one of her laughing happily. She sucked the finger, appreciatively, then nodded. “I like it! Shows my tits, my pussy, and it shows that I’m happy! Very happy.” She giggled, a mischievous look on her face. “My dad will love it!” Another, sideways look, “We did agree, didn’t we? Any male? Or female, for that matter. Didn’t we?”

Shaun nodded, undoing his belt. “Yummy!” She smiled. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

 

[theseus]

The Ancient Slave



Working in the kitchens was a menial task for a slave who had once been the favourite of three generations of Masters. It was hard work, often boring work, as she was usually put in charge of preparing the slave slop, not an opportunity to use her culinary skills. However, being the lowest of the kitchen drudges was infinitely better than the alternative!

Freedom!

Rose could barely remember a time when she had not been a slave. She had a vague recollection of a tiny, tumbledown shack, a swarm of children, dressed in rags, never enough to eat. She had another name, then, one she could no longer remember. She had been taken away by the landlord, in retrospect, she thought, in lieu of rent.

The Old Master had bought her, trained her, taken her to his bed, allowed her to sleep on the carpet at the foot of his bed, even when she was not in use. He treated her, almost, like a daughter, telling her stories, cuddling her.

When he died, he willed her to his son, the Master, with a provision in his will that she was not to be sold. The Master used her hard, used her well, she learned so much, enjoyed almost all of it, even some of the things the others shuddered at. He used her for many tears, but eventually the sessions in his bed became fewer, further apart. She had borne him children, three of them, all now members of his collection. She envied the new girls who were favoured with his use.

The Young Master was growing up, he was imposing himself upon the Master’s stock of flesh, without permission, and without concern for their feelings. The Master had decided that this was a perfect job for Rose. She was still maturely attractive, and had the experience to guide and instruct the Young Master into the pleasures of manhood, and the responsibilities of ownership.

That time, too, was long past. Her presence here was an act of kindness. She was spared chains, no longer even collared. Two slim bracelets and a thin silver chain served to show her servile status. As she stirred the pot of tasteless, yet nutritious slave slop, her eyes darted around the kitchen, she was alone. In the compost bucket was a pile of herbs, no longer fresh enough to flavour the Young Master’s food, yet still maintaining its taste. If she was caught, she would be whipped. She smiled. She had been whipped so often, both for her transgressions and, much more often, because a Master enjoyed the sight of her body twisting and dancing under the lash. That sight no longer had any attraction!

She dumped the double handful of leaves into the slop, stirred it in. After a few minutes she tasted it. Not Cordon Bleu, but infinitely better than it had been. There would be licked lips in the kennels tonight! Her thin, wrinkled face broke into a smile.

Even old slaves had their uses!

 

[theseus]

Perfection



“Please just get this done! It is so embarrassing standing here! Having to allow people to stroke me, prod me, squeeze my breasts, penetrate me! Having to listen to them discuss me, no, not me, my body. Its uses, its attributes! Don’t they realise that I can hear them, that I can understand every word, every humiliating, hurtful word!”

Charlotte had come to terms with being a slave. Her parents had been slaves, and had won their freedom. They had told her all about slavery, and of the far-off days in Africa when they were young and free, before the warriors had come, and taken them to the coast to be sold in exchange for guns and cloth.

Charlotte had been working for a trader in the port. He had been amazed to find a black girl, a free born black girl, who could read and write, and who had a head for numbers. Walking home from the store one evening, she had a sack pulled over her head, and was carried away, kicking and screaming. “Escapee,” she heard her captors telling a passer-by. “On her way to a good whipping.”

They took her to a filthy, tumbledown shack. The removal of the sack revealed two unkempt, bearded tramps. She recoiled from their smelly bodies, their foul breath. They forced some kind of liquid down her throat. The world spun and went dark.

She woke slowly, her mouth feeling furry and with a foul headache. An ache of a different kind told her that she had lost her virginity while unconscious. As her brain cleared, she realised that she was naked, that heavy fetters circled wrists and ankles, that she was in a ship, a ship rolling in heavy seas, the motion causing her to constantly come into contact with the other naked bodies that shared the blackness of the hold.

The nightmare continued when they were released from the hold, shambling ashore in their chains, graded, sorted and put up for sale. Twice more her body had been used, casually, by strangers. The old woman who prepared her for sale had chortled happily as she washed, plucked, oiled and groomed the shocked, silent girl. Her protests about being born free had fallen on deaf ears. She was a naked slave, an attractive, naked slave. No more than that. “You headed for massa’s bed, you lucky girl. No cane fields for you girl. You gonna work on your back.”

A hand cupped her breast, squeezing her nipple at the same time. A small, smooth, soft hand, a woman’s hand. She opened her eyes in shock, meeting, for a moment, the bright blue eyes of the demure looking, finely dressed woman. “I think this one will be perfect, husband,” she said, addressing the much older, uniformed man next to her, “she will please both of us, I am sure.” Charlotte shuddered.

“Please, please, just get this over with! Sell me! Get me out of this place!”

 

[Domodonno]

The Christmas Card

View attachment 1177375

“This is going to be hilarious! I wish I could see their faces when they open our Christmas card.” Christie was in hysterics, laughing her head off!

It had all started very seriously, well, sort of. “I think it’s about time we let our friends and family know about our new lifestyle, and about your new status.” Shaun was very serious. “After all, it has been a couple of weeks. Nobody has seen you, and we’ve had no visitors. It’s about time our lives returned to normal, the new normal. People are going to see you as you are. For what you are. We’ll send out our Christmas card a few weeks early, with you as the picture, rather than some reindeer.”

Their new lifestyle had been largely her idea, but Shaun had soon warmed to the idea of having a permanently naked sex slave, especially as she had made it very clear that three was not a crowd, that, in fact four would be better, and that they should find a young female playmate.

“How about a picture of me and Shamus?” She suggested, “that will make them sit up and take notice!” He shook his head. “I think that might be a bridge too far, at least for now. Perhaps just a nice pic of you, as you are now.” The cuffs around her wrists were attached to a chain around her waist, severely restricting her movements. Her breasts and her newly smooth pussy would be on display, and her status would be confirmed. Unfortunately, her custom made steel collar had not fitted properly, and had to go back for modification.

He fetched his camera. “The light is good there, over against the wall.” She posed, giggling. “Perhaps that is too vanilla, she laughed, just my tits and pussy showing. Perhaps you should cum all over my face!” The camera clicked, capturing her laughing face. “Not this time! It is a Christmas card, after all, not a porn shoot.” He showed her the pics on the back of the camera, his finger sliding through her wetness at the same time. He fed her the damp finger. “That one, I think,” showing her the one of her laughing happily. She sucked the finger, appreciatively, then nodded. “I like it! Shows my tits, my pussy, and it shows that I’m happy! Very happy.” She giggled, a mischievous look on her face. “My dad will love it!” Another, sideways look, “We did agree, didn’t we? Any male? Or female, for that matter. Didn’t we?”

Shaun nodded, undoing his belt. “Yummy!” She smiled. “This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

Really, you shouldn't ridicule Christmas and draw it into the dirt ...
Even if you are not Christian, clearly, and you don't understand what Christmas
means for Millions of people.
If you'd do this with the Koran I'm sure some or other Muslims would show up
at your's and those would be the last you'd ever see 'cause with a cut throat or
a head chopped off you can't see much anymore!

DOM

 

[theseus]

Really, you shouldn't ridicule Christmas and draw it into the dirt ...
Even if you are not Christian, clearly, and you don't understand what Christmas
means for Millions of people.
If you'd do this with the Koran I'm sure some or other Muslims would show up
at your's and those would be the last you'd ever see 'cause with a cut throat or
a head chopped off you can't see much anymore!

DOM

Christmas cards have nothing to do with Christianity. Like Easter, it is an old pagan festival that the church co-opted.

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Really, you shouldn't ridicule Christmas and draw it into the dirt ...
Even if you are not Christian, clearly, and you don't understand what Christmas
means for Millions of people.
If you'd do this with the Koran I'm sure some or other Muslims would show up
at your's and those would be the last you'd ever see 'cause with a cut throat or
a head chopped off you can't see much anymore!

DOM

If theseus did have his head chopped off then it's true that he wouldn't be able to see any more and also he would have great difficulty in writing his short stories which many of us enjoy. So, please stop picking on him.

 

[montycrusto]

If theseus did have his head chopped off then it's true that he wouldn't be able to see any more and also he would have great difficulty in writing his short stories which many of us enjoy. So, please stop picking on him.

I assumed @Domodonno was joking.. after all the whole site is dedicated to eroticising crucifixion; any Christian who wanted to take offence would probably start there?

 

[Crux-Emperor Baracus X]

I assumed @Domodonno was joking.. after all the whole site is dedicated to eroticising crucifixion; any Christian who wanted to take offence would probably start there?

Well,I hope,he was..... it's hard to tell,actually.

 

[Loinclothslave]

Perfection

View attachment 1177589

“Please just get this done! It is so embarrassing standing here! Having to allow people to stroke me, prod me, squeeze my breasts, penetrate me! Having to listen to them discuss me, no, not me, my body. Its uses, its attributes! Don’t they realise that I can hear them, that I can understand every word, every humiliating, hurtful word!”

Charlotte had come to terms with being a slave. Her parents had been slaves, and had won their freedom. They had told her all about slavery, and of the far-off days in Africa when they were young and free, before the warriors had come, and taken them to the coast to be sold in exchange for guns and cloth.

Charlotte had been working for a trader in the port. He had been amazed to find a black girl, a free born black girl, who could read and write, and who had a head for numbers. Walking home from the store one evening, she had a sack pulled over her head, and was carried away, kicking and screaming. “Escapee,” she heard her captors telling a passer-by. “On her way to a good whipping.”

They took her to a filthy, tumbledown shack. The removal of the sack revealed two unkempt, bearded tramps. She recoiled from their smelly bodies, their foul breath. They forced some kind of liquid down her throat. The world spun and went dark.

She woke slowly, her mouth feeling furry and with a foul headache. An ache of a different kind told her that she had lost her virginity while unconscious. As her brain cleared, she realised that she was naked, that heavy fetters circled wrists and ankles, that she was in a ship, a ship rolling in heavy seas, the motion causing her to constantly come into contact with the other naked bodies that shared the blackness of the hold.

The nightmare continued when they were released from the hold, shambling ashore in their chains, graded, sorted and put up for sale. Twice more her body had been used, casually, by strangers. The old woman who prepared her for sale had chortled happily as she washed, plucked, oiled and groomed the shocked, silent girl. Her protests about being born free had fallen on deaf ears. She was a naked slave, an attractive, naked slave. No more than that. “You headed for massa’s bed, you lucky girl. No cane fields for you girl. You gonna work on your back.”

A hand cupped her breast, squeezing her nipple at the same time. A small, smooth, soft hand, a woman’s hand. She opened her eyes in shock, meeting, for a moment, the bright blue eyes of the demure looking, finely dressed woman. “I think this one will be perfect, husband,” she said, addressing the much older, uniformed man next to her, “she will please both of us, I am sure.” Charlotte shuddered.

“Please, please, just get this over with! Sell me! Get me out of this place!”

Awesome vignette, humiliated to the point that she begs to be sold… mmmm

 

[Domodonno]

If theseus did have his head chopped off then it's true that he wouldn't be able to see any more and also he would have great difficulty in writing his short stories which many of us enjoy. So, please stop picking on him.

Ok, Melissa

I obey your rules, gee.
Only my thoughts are - and they stay that way:
Christmas has nothing .. or vise versa: this threat has nothing to do with Christmas,
which for many many more people than crux people is considered holly, no matter
what T notes about it's origin.
But you sure just go ahead and delete this and any other of my postings as you wish
I will agree with you Madame, you set the rules.
Sorry for making your emotion boil, I will try and I improve if I get a second chance.
As I often say: Don't think twice - it's alright (BD)

With compliments
Dom

(I hope this turns out the thumbnail)

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Ok, Melissa

I obey your rules, gee.
Only my thoughts are - and they stay that way:
Christmas has nothing .. or vise versa: this threat has nothing to do with Christmas,
which for many many more people than crux people is considered holly, no matter
what T notes about it's origin.
But you sure just go ahead and delete this and any other of my postings as you wish
I will agree with you Madame, you set the rules.
Sorry for making your emotion boil, I will try and I improve if I get a second chance.
As I often say: Don't think twice - it's alright (BD)

With compliments
Dom

Hi. When you participate in threads on this site it is an unwritten rule that you cast aside any beliefs, prejudices etc and accept the Forum for what it is. It is a place of fantasy with walls in our minds that keep the real world away. The rules aren't mine, they are agreed by the moderators and the site owner. I'm not annoyed in the slightest, just carrying out my duties.

 

[Loinclothslave]

this threat has nothing to do with Christmas,

Spot on, mate. That lovely cute vignette NEVER had anything to do with Christmas, the card is simply an easily relatable reference.

Back to the slave pits for me…

 

[Domodonno]

Dear Melissa,

to quote you:
>It is a place of fantasy with walls in our minds that keep the real world away. <
Why then was Theseus so hot on getting me to tell him where and what about
that real-world place where I noted they really do what he was posting? If there
are walls supposed to keep it within?
As I say, I accept the rules, only the rules should accept there are people on this
planet to whom certain things are holly and one should not drag this in here.
So, in my view, the first offender was Theseus who also asked me to break the
rule of keeping it inside the head and tell him of the real action place.
Again, sorry if this means more work to you and I sincerely hope we can end
this here-with.

With compliments
Domodonno

 

[The Fallen Angel]

Dear Melissa,

to quote you:
>It is a place of fantasy with walls in our minds that keep the real world away. <
Why then was Theseus so hot on getting me to tell him where and what about
that real-world place where I noted they really do what he was posting? If there
are walls supposed to keep it within?
As I say, I accept the rules, only the rules should accept there are people on this
planet to whom certain things are holly and one should not drag this in here.
So, in my view, the first offender was Theseus who also asked me to break the
rule of keeping it inside the head and tell him of the real action place.
Again, sorry if this means more work to you and I sincerely hope we can end
this here-with.

With compliments
Domodonno

Theseus is a long standing and well respected member of this community who makes many posts for our enjoyment. You appear to be a troublemaker. You have received your first warning point. The next will result in you being banned from this site. No need to be sorry about the extra work involved.

 

[theseus]

No Reprieve



In the latter half of the 19th Century Europeans controlled much of Africa. They sent junior officials as “advisors” or ambassadors to effectively rule over large kingdoms, they expected always to be treated with deference and respect. Not everybody agreed with this attitude.

Veronica, together with her mother and their maids had been travelling to join her father, a minor diplomat sent to rule over an African Kingdom. Their ship had been becalmed when the dhows found them. The traders, instantly turned into part time pirates, had swarmed aboard. The crew got short shrift. Their mother became the plaything of the dhow captains, passed from ship to ship as each captain was sated. Veronica and the maids were kept well secured, unmolested, for the moment. Her spirits lifted when they sailed into Stone Town, and she saw the Union Flag flying proudly above the High Commission.

That brief hope was dashed when they had the clothes ripped from their bodies, were joined neck to neck with rope, and forced into the surf at the beach. Naked, trying desperately to preserve their modesty, the girls were led out of the water, up the beach, and right past the High Commission. She saw a bearded face at the window, screamed desperately for help, only to see the man smile and turn away. Rough coral streets hurt bare feet, the sun burned down on bare skin, as they were led through the town. They could only imagine, and blush at, the comments from the many spectators.

Now she stood on the steps, looking at the sea of dark faces as the dealer described the goods he was selling. She wanted to die, anything to escape the humiliation of the lustful eyes feasting on her pale nakedness. In response to cries from the crowd she had been turned around, bent over, the spectators laughing loudly at some comment as he spread her bottom cheeks. His horny fingers had penetrated her, finding something he announced with glee, sparking a new round of bidding. Behind her, the maids cowered. Their turn would come!

There was a pale, bearded face in the crowd, the one she had seen at the High Commission. Her hopes of rescue had risen, until she realised that he was lifting a finger, as if bidding. Perhaps he was buying her freedom? How would she ever be able to face a man, to thank him, when he had seen her like this? After she had been penetrated, the bids increased in volume. He shook his head, smiled at her, turned and walked away.

The bidding stopped, with a final triumphant shout from the dealer! A bearded man, with a great hooked beak of a nose, walked forward, dropped a few coins into the dealer’s hand, took her by the arm, and led her off the step. Her stomach knotted. She looked up at the Union Flag. So near! She wanted to be sick. She had been sold. This man owned her.

She was his slave!



Art by 3DFranco

 

[theseus]

Indentured



“Please, Your Honour, with respect, Your Honour, I am not a vagrant. I am the daughter of Shamus the Black, a farmer, Your Honour.”

Colonel Ogilvie regarded the tasty morsel before him. Stripped of her ragged clothing, washed, she was a feast for the eye, and no longer an offence to the nostrils. “You were taken by my men creeping around the village, slut. Clearly a vagrant trull, wishing to practice your vile profession in this pious parish.” The naked girl, just for a moment, flushed with anger at the insult. “With respect, Your Honour, I was on my way to old Maggie the wise woman, to buy medicine for my mother, Your Honour. She has the flux, Your Honour. I had two pennies, Your Honour. A whole penny and four farthings.”

Ogilvie suspected that the girl might actually be telling the truth, but that would make no difference. The Lord Lieutenant had received orders from the Lord Protector, passed on to his local officials, that he was to deliver “1000 young Irish females to be shipped as indentured servants to the Sugar Islands”, there to be sold to save the local planters “from demeaning themselves by slaking their carnal lusts with heathen slave women from Africa.” Not that the truth of her story mattered, of course. Her days of freedom were over.

He reached for a sheet of newly printed paper. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Bridie, Your Honour, daughter of Shamus O’Mara.” She could not read, but knew that written papers had immense power. Ogilvie wrote her name on the document, right under the heading. CONTRACT OF INDENTURE He smiled at the wording, wording she would never read, “I, Bridget, a vagrant, daughter of Shamus O’Mara, hereby bind myself to a period of indenture, spanning thirty years, in exchange for a passage to the Sugar Island of Barbados, there to be given the opportunity to learn a skill and improve myself.” There was a further half page of legalese and conditions. “Make your mark here, girl!” Holding the pen in both hands, her tongue between her teeth in concentration, she scratched a wavy X. “Do I get my dress back now, Your Honour? And my two pennies?”

She struggled briefly as the heavy iron shackles were secured to her wrists and her ankles. Pleading at first, then spitting defiance and hatred at Ogilvie and all Englishmen and Protestant heathens!

“Take her to my quarters! Secure her there. I will start her training when I have done here!” He carefully placed the signed contract in a folder.

“Bring in the next one!”

He leaned back in his chair. Filling his quota of ‘volunteers’ was going to be easy, and a pleasure.