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montycrusto
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Classic Theseus - good to have you back!
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Vignettes from the slave pits
- Thread starter theseus
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twonines
LIMERICUS
Hear. Hear.Classic Theseus - good to have you back!
T
The Fallen Angel
Guest
Back on top form! Good to see you back.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Lost in the forest.
Ally was lost! Totally lost in the forest. Somewhere was the Farm, but she was totally disorientated. She felt like she had been walking for hours, and now it was getting dark, and it was getting cold.
Ally was frightened. Up here in the mountains the night-time temperatures often dropped below zero. She was lost, naked, hungry and frightened. Would she die here? Frozen to death?
Her best friend Gwen had dropped her at the parking area. “Al? Are you sure this is the right thing to do? What kind of a place is this you are going to? Where you have to arrive totally naked, wearing those silly chains? You can’t even stand up properly with them on. How are you going to walk more than a mile in this bush bent over almost double?”
That was her fault. She hadn’t read the instructions properly. She had given them measurements in inches. When the chains arrived, the chains were all way too short. She wrote to complain, but was told that the instructions were clear, ‘chain length to be provided in centimetres.’ As a result, the length of chain between her ankles was no more than eight inches, and her hands could not be lifted above her knees. “I guess we have to live with our mistakes,” were her parting words to Gwen, who shook her head sadly as her best friend’s pale, slender body shuffled uncomfortably into the forest.
Now she was frightened, really frightened! She had wanted to go to a place where her shyness, her inhibitions, would be irrelevant. A place where she could live those secret, dark desires she had harboured and hidden for so long. She shivered; the temperature was dropping fast. Would she die here?
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. She pricked up her ears. Perhaps she would be rescued. The dog barked again, seeming closer, answered by another. She shivered, from cold and fear. Dogs frightened her, despite her secret desires. No, not frightened, they terrified her! “Oh my god!” She screamed as the dog burst from the underbrush! A big, tawny hound, tongue flapping, tail wagging. He, unmistakeably he, sniffed at her as the other dog loped up, adding his nose, and tongue, to the inspection. She whimpered with fear and relief. The dogs wore collars. Surely there would be an owner somewhere?
A husky young man stepped out of the bush, an amused smile on his face. “Well, well, well. You have got yourself into a pickle.” She struggled to her feet, in a half crouching position forced by her chains. “No! Go away!” She shouted at the dog taking a deep sniff at her vagina. “Go away!” The young man turned, still smiling. “No! Not you, sir, please don’t go. It’s this dog. He’s…” He laughed, a happy, booming sound. “He’s sniffing at his new bitch, wondering if she’s ready for him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you?” Her blush coloured her all the way to the tops of her breasts. “Well, I can’t wait around while you shuffle along. I assume you are fresh meat. Rather lost fresh meat. No barcode. Welcome to the Farm. The boys will be happy to escort you. You will get used to them, and by them, in time. Goodbye.”
Ally stumbled along in the wake of the dogs, her mind a whirl. For years this had been the stuff of guilty dreams. Could those dreams come true? The Farm was going to be more interesting than she ever thought it would be.
Ally was lost! Totally lost in the forest. Somewhere was the Farm, but she was totally disorientated. She felt like she had been walking for hours, and now it was getting dark, and it was getting cold.
Ally was frightened. Up here in the mountains the night-time temperatures often dropped below zero. She was lost, naked, hungry and frightened. Would she die here? Frozen to death?
Her best friend Gwen had dropped her at the parking area. “Al? Are you sure this is the right thing to do? What kind of a place is this you are going to? Where you have to arrive totally naked, wearing those silly chains? You can’t even stand up properly with them on. How are you going to walk more than a mile in this bush bent over almost double?”
That was her fault. She hadn’t read the instructions properly. She had given them measurements in inches. When the chains arrived, the chains were all way too short. She wrote to complain, but was told that the instructions were clear, ‘chain length to be provided in centimetres.’ As a result, the length of chain between her ankles was no more than eight inches, and her hands could not be lifted above her knees. “I guess we have to live with our mistakes,” were her parting words to Gwen, who shook her head sadly as her best friend’s pale, slender body shuffled uncomfortably into the forest.
Now she was frightened, really frightened! She had wanted to go to a place where her shyness, her inhibitions, would be irrelevant. A place where she could live those secret, dark desires she had harboured and hidden for so long. She shivered; the temperature was dropping fast. Would she die here?
Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. She pricked up her ears. Perhaps she would be rescued. The dog barked again, seeming closer, answered by another. She shivered, from cold and fear. Dogs frightened her, despite her secret desires. No, not frightened, they terrified her! “Oh my god!” She screamed as the dog burst from the underbrush! A big, tawny hound, tongue flapping, tail wagging. He, unmistakeably he, sniffed at her as the other dog loped up, adding his nose, and tongue, to the inspection. She whimpered with fear and relief. The dogs wore collars. Surely there would be an owner somewhere?
A husky young man stepped out of the bush, an amused smile on his face. “Well, well, well. You have got yourself into a pickle.” She struggled to her feet, in a half crouching position forced by her chains. “No! Go away!” She shouted at the dog taking a deep sniff at her vagina. “Go away!” The young man turned, still smiling. “No! Not you, sir, please don’t go. It’s this dog. He’s…” He laughed, a happy, booming sound. “He’s sniffing at his new bitch, wondering if she’s ready for him?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Are you?” Her blush coloured her all the way to the tops of her breasts. “Well, I can’t wait around while you shuffle along. I assume you are fresh meat. Rather lost fresh meat. No barcode. Welcome to the Farm. The boys will be happy to escort you. You will get used to them, and by them, in time. Goodbye.”
Ally stumbled along in the wake of the dogs, her mind a whirl. For years this had been the stuff of guilty dreams. Could those dreams come true? The Farm was going to be more interesting than she ever thought it would be.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The assignment
It all started with a phone call, a phone call from an almost total stranger. “Hello, James, this is Lisa, the editor of Kink magazine. We met a few weeks ago, at a party. You may remember me,” I could hear a smile in the voice, “You used a singletail on me, very skilfully, and very effectively. The aftercare was…spectacular!”
I did remember her; how could I forget? Beautiful back! Her begging, her pleading, her wild promises if only I would stop the pain. The spectacular way she had fulfilled those promises.
The brief was simple. She wanted me to do a series of articles about “The Farm”, an interesting development where people paid to be able to live out their sexual fantasies, in particular their fantasies about slavery. The fee she offered was good, and I would have two weeks of platinum guest membership at The Farm. She wanted frank interviews with the “inmates” of the farm, people who had paid substantial amounts for the opportunity to be treated as slaves, to be used sexually without limits, to be abused and humiliated. People who in some cases came back again and again, wanting more.
On the appointed day I drove up into the mountains. I had been told that the last part of the road to The Farm was not suitable for a normal road vehicle, and that I would be picked up at the parking area. I arrived slightly early, but my wait was not boring, as this was also the place where the inmates parked before starting the long walk to The Farm. As I arrived, a young couple were stripping off their clothes. They were an attractive pair, athletic, beautiful people. The girl looked at me, seeing my interest, then half turned her back as she removed the last of her clothing. Her partner, husband(?), lover(?), knelt as he locked cuffs, joined by a short length of chain, around her ankles, then repeated the process on himself. “Turn around love,” he said softly, “no need to be shy, he’s not the last stranger who will see you naked.” She turned around, to reveal small breasts, a toned belly and a smooth sex. She blushed at my interested examination. I made a mental note to find her later, and to enjoy her firm body. He cuffed her hands behind her back, then, with some difficulty, his own hands. Together they walked, slowly and clearly painfully; the rough, stony path hard on bare feet, up the mile long trail to The Farm.
A minivan disgorged a group off people, clearly an extended family. It was clear who was in charge, a wrinkled but still attractive matriarch, well into her sixties. Her skin was weathered and tanned, but her body was fit and still shapely, despite the inevitable sags of age. A steel collar circled her throat. Her sex was smooth, her mound decorated with a barcode. Three dog paw tattoos decorated her groin. There were two couples, in their late thirties or early forties, equally tanned, equally smooth, all bearing similar tattoos and wearing collars. The men wore steel cock cages, the penis cage no more than an inch long, flesh bulging through the gaps. The other three were younger, in their late teens, clearly the next generation. Two girls and a boy. They, too were tanned and collared, but free of tattoos. The old woman went around cuffing ankles and wrists. In addition, she attached a length of chain to a ring in the front of each collar, leading it between the legs of the wearer, to be attached to the collar of the one behind. She took the lead, after attaching her chain to the collar of the leading man, then finally, with the ease of long practice, cuffing her hands behind her. She looked around at the coffle behind her. “Let’s go, gang!” There was no doubt as to who was in charge there!
The sound of running feet and tinkling bells broke into the birdsong. A light cart, pulled by eight naked people, came into view down the road leading to The Farm. The driver was an attractive brunette, dressed in a very brief tunic, and very expertly wielding a whip. The cart drew to a halt next to me. “Mr James White?” The girl’s voice was light and friendly. She was very pretty and her tunic hid very little. I nodded. “That’s me.” I was studying the people drawing the cart. A mixture of male and female, all were strong and fit looking, totally naked apart from their harnesses. The men’s penises were enclosed in small, tight steel cages, the rings holding them pushing forward swollen balls. The women had bells attached to their clitorises by evil looking clamps. Their mouths were filled by leather bits. Sweat streamed from their bodies. Each had bells attached to their nipples. Thick, heavy horsetails, matching their hair colour, jutted from between muscular buttocks. All were well marked by the whip.
“Hop on,” the girl said, “my name is Jenny. I’m doing guest welcomes this week, but like all of us here, I am available to satisfy your every whim.” Her smile lit up her face. “And I do mean anything.” The whip cracked across the buttocks of the two dark haired women nearest the cart. “Come on, you lazy slugs! Let’s go! Knees up! No slacking!” The team moved forward at a fast trot, their pace perfectly synchronised, knees lifted high at each step. The road soon became steeper. At the slightest sign of the pace slackening jenny employed the whip. Sweat streamed off the straining ‘ponies’, grunts of pain and effort interrupting the panting of the human draught animals.
I was fascinated by the play of muscles as we trotted along, at the rhythmic swinging of the horsetails that brushed the backs of the ponies’ knees, horsetails that were clearly attached to buttplugs. Jenny seemed to be paying unusual attention to the two rearmost ponies, the whip cracking regularly against their straining backs and buttocks. “Why are these two getting so much attention?” I asked as the whip cracked once more against the older woman’s straining buttocks. Jenny laughed! “They’re my mom and my sister. Dad, the Grand Master, said their asses were getting fat and flabby from too much office work, so they are working as ponies for a couple of weeks.” I studied the firm globes. They looked neither fat nor flabby from where I sat! “Dad and grandpa started this place. Granny, mom, aunty Laura, Amy, Carrie,” she flicked the whip against the butt of the younger woman, “Candy and I were the first slaves here. Amy and Carrie are my sisters.” I stayed silent, watching the play of muscles in the ponies.
I was checked in very efficiently, and the rules of The Farm were explained to me. There were very few if you were a platinum member. All slaves were available for my use, at any time and for any purpose. The only real limit was that I was not allowed to cause lasting damage. I was told that slaves had no choice of sexual orientation, or of how or when they were used. My cottage would be staffed by a housekeeper and two slaves.
My housekeeper was a pleasant looking woman in her forties. She was, naturally, naked. “Good afternoon, Master. I am Hungrycunt, your housekeeper. I am here to serve you at all times and in all ways. I am afraid that your two houseslaves are still being processed. They are new to The Farm, and I expect they will need training and discipline.” She smiled, almost shyly. “May I show you the house, and the equipment. In particular, the tools to be used for our discipline.”
The house was indeed well equipped, with very interesting accessories. I would enjoy using those. As I finished my tour the rattle of chains, the crack of leather against flesh, and loud yelp of pain announced the arrival of the rest of my staff. I was more than pleased when I saw that they were the young couple I had admired on my arrival. Both now sported fresh tattoos, barcodes with the word “whore” above. He was wearing one of the cages that seemed de rigeur for male slaves. Both wore wedding rings.
Better and better! Using her in front of her husband would be a pleasure. Using him in front of her would be even better! “Thank you, Lisa!” I thought. This could be the best assignment I would ever have.
It all started with a phone call, a phone call from an almost total stranger. “Hello, James, this is Lisa, the editor of Kink magazine. We met a few weeks ago, at a party. You may remember me,” I could hear a smile in the voice, “You used a singletail on me, very skilfully, and very effectively. The aftercare was…spectacular!”
I did remember her; how could I forget? Beautiful back! Her begging, her pleading, her wild promises if only I would stop the pain. The spectacular way she had fulfilled those promises.
The brief was simple. She wanted me to do a series of articles about “The Farm”, an interesting development where people paid to be able to live out their sexual fantasies, in particular their fantasies about slavery. The fee she offered was good, and I would have two weeks of platinum guest membership at The Farm. She wanted frank interviews with the “inmates” of the farm, people who had paid substantial amounts for the opportunity to be treated as slaves, to be used sexually without limits, to be abused and humiliated. People who in some cases came back again and again, wanting more.
On the appointed day I drove up into the mountains. I had been told that the last part of the road to The Farm was not suitable for a normal road vehicle, and that I would be picked up at the parking area. I arrived slightly early, but my wait was not boring, as this was also the place where the inmates parked before starting the long walk to The Farm. As I arrived, a young couple were stripping off their clothes. They were an attractive pair, athletic, beautiful people. The girl looked at me, seeing my interest, then half turned her back as she removed the last of her clothing. Her partner, husband(?), lover(?), knelt as he locked cuffs, joined by a short length of chain, around her ankles, then repeated the process on himself. “Turn around love,” he said softly, “no need to be shy, he’s not the last stranger who will see you naked.” She turned around, to reveal small breasts, a toned belly and a smooth sex. She blushed at my interested examination. I made a mental note to find her later, and to enjoy her firm body. He cuffed her hands behind her back, then, with some difficulty, his own hands. Together they walked, slowly and clearly painfully; the rough, stony path hard on bare feet, up the mile long trail to The Farm.
A minivan disgorged a group off people, clearly an extended family. It was clear who was in charge, a wrinkled but still attractive matriarch, well into her sixties. Her skin was weathered and tanned, but her body was fit and still shapely, despite the inevitable sags of age. A steel collar circled her throat. Her sex was smooth, her mound decorated with a barcode. Three dog paw tattoos decorated her groin. There were two couples, in their late thirties or early forties, equally tanned, equally smooth, all bearing similar tattoos and wearing collars. The men wore steel cock cages, the penis cage no more than an inch long, flesh bulging through the gaps. The other three were younger, in their late teens, clearly the next generation. Two girls and a boy. They, too were tanned and collared, but free of tattoos. The old woman went around cuffing ankles and wrists. In addition, she attached a length of chain to a ring in the front of each collar, leading it between the legs of the wearer, to be attached to the collar of the one behind. She took the lead, after attaching her chain to the collar of the leading man, then finally, with the ease of long practice, cuffing her hands behind her. She looked around at the coffle behind her. “Let’s go, gang!” There was no doubt as to who was in charge there!
The sound of running feet and tinkling bells broke into the birdsong. A light cart, pulled by eight naked people, came into view down the road leading to The Farm. The driver was an attractive brunette, dressed in a very brief tunic, and very expertly wielding a whip. The cart drew to a halt next to me. “Mr James White?” The girl’s voice was light and friendly. She was very pretty and her tunic hid very little. I nodded. “That’s me.” I was studying the people drawing the cart. A mixture of male and female, all were strong and fit looking, totally naked apart from their harnesses. The men’s penises were enclosed in small, tight steel cages, the rings holding them pushing forward swollen balls. The women had bells attached to their clitorises by evil looking clamps. Their mouths were filled by leather bits. Sweat streamed from their bodies. Each had bells attached to their nipples. Thick, heavy horsetails, matching their hair colour, jutted from between muscular buttocks. All were well marked by the whip.
“Hop on,” the girl said, “my name is Jenny. I’m doing guest welcomes this week, but like all of us here, I am available to satisfy your every whim.” Her smile lit up her face. “And I do mean anything.” The whip cracked across the buttocks of the two dark haired women nearest the cart. “Come on, you lazy slugs! Let’s go! Knees up! No slacking!” The team moved forward at a fast trot, their pace perfectly synchronised, knees lifted high at each step. The road soon became steeper. At the slightest sign of the pace slackening jenny employed the whip. Sweat streamed off the straining ‘ponies’, grunts of pain and effort interrupting the panting of the human draught animals.
I was fascinated by the play of muscles as we trotted along, at the rhythmic swinging of the horsetails that brushed the backs of the ponies’ knees, horsetails that were clearly attached to buttplugs. Jenny seemed to be paying unusual attention to the two rearmost ponies, the whip cracking regularly against their straining backs and buttocks. “Why are these two getting so much attention?” I asked as the whip cracked once more against the older woman’s straining buttocks. Jenny laughed! “They’re my mom and my sister. Dad, the Grand Master, said their asses were getting fat and flabby from too much office work, so they are working as ponies for a couple of weeks.” I studied the firm globes. They looked neither fat nor flabby from where I sat! “Dad and grandpa started this place. Granny, mom, aunty Laura, Amy, Carrie,” she flicked the whip against the butt of the younger woman, “Candy and I were the first slaves here. Amy and Carrie are my sisters.” I stayed silent, watching the play of muscles in the ponies.
I was checked in very efficiently, and the rules of The Farm were explained to me. There were very few if you were a platinum member. All slaves were available for my use, at any time and for any purpose. The only real limit was that I was not allowed to cause lasting damage. I was told that slaves had no choice of sexual orientation, or of how or when they were used. My cottage would be staffed by a housekeeper and two slaves.
My housekeeper was a pleasant looking woman in her forties. She was, naturally, naked. “Good afternoon, Master. I am Hungrycunt, your housekeeper. I am here to serve you at all times and in all ways. I am afraid that your two houseslaves are still being processed. They are new to The Farm, and I expect they will need training and discipline.” She smiled, almost shyly. “May I show you the house, and the equipment. In particular, the tools to be used for our discipline.”
The house was indeed well equipped, with very interesting accessories. I would enjoy using those. As I finished my tour the rattle of chains, the crack of leather against flesh, and loud yelp of pain announced the arrival of the rest of my staff. I was more than pleased when I saw that they were the young couple I had admired on my arrival. Both now sported fresh tattoos, barcodes with the word “whore” above. He was wearing one of the cages that seemed de rigeur for male slaves. Both wore wedding rings.
Better and better! Using her in front of her husband would be a pleasure. Using him in front of her would be even better! “Thank you, Lisa!” I thought. This could be the best assignment I would ever have.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Assignment – Innocence
“Are you going to fuck me, sir? I mean, Master? Sorry, Master, I’m new here.”
I almost laughed at the girl. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable, her body still pale and untouched by the sun, clearly a newbie at The Farm. It was the morning of my first full day on the assignment for Fetish magazine.
The day had started well, with a wake-up blowjob from my housekeeper, Honeycunt. Then had come the pleasant task of training my two house slaves. They were also new, a married couple. They lay face down on my bed, holding hands. I was faced by two sleek, muscular backs, firm butts, strong thighs. I wondered whether they had thought things through before signing up for The Farm? I was deciding which one to bugger first. Not that it mattered, being right there when your spouse was being used would be a daunting experience for both, especially as they were both anal virgins. Honeycunt saw my dilemma, and pointed to Geoff. “Him first,” she mouthed. She had previously lubed both of them, knowing what had to be done. She spread his legs, giving his caged cock a playful kiss. “Ready, big boy?” Anna, his wife and fellow slave, suddenly realised what was about to happen. “No, you can’t! He’s not like that! No!” Honeycunt shook her head, sadly. “You’ve just earned yourself a whipping, girl. No slave, ever, uses the N-word!” Anna held her husband’s hand, murmuring words of comfort, as he discovered that slaves were there to be used. He had the opportunity to do the same for her, both with her first buggering, and then as she had her first, painful assignation with the whip!
The girl was pretty, attractive, but not a stunner. Just an ordinary girl next door, naked but for her glasses. She blushed at my frank examination. “My glasses? The overseer, the Scottish one, with the huge…Oh my God, so thick, I thought he was going to tear me in half…the one who always barks at you. He said they would confiscate them. I can’t see very much without them, everything is just a blur, except very close up. He said that as long as I could see the cock that I was sucking it didn’t matter that everything was in soft focus. Are you going to fuck me?”
I burst out laughing! She was so nervous. “Do you want me to fuck you?” She nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s why I came here. My granny said I would like it here. Being fucked without guilt. But…Well…It does feel strange, being fucked by total strangers, when I don’t even know their names. With people watching, making comments. When the overseer, Mac-something, fucked my ass there were people laying bets. That he wouldn’t be able to get in. He is so big!” She blushed. “It hurt! He is so big! It hurt terribly! Granny said it would, but that I would get used to it, even like it. She does! She loves being buggered.”
Granny sounded like someone I would like to meet!
“Are you going to fuck me, sir? I mean, Master? Sorry, Master, I’m new here.”
I almost laughed at the girl. She looked so innocent, so vulnerable, her body still pale and untouched by the sun, clearly a newbie at The Farm. It was the morning of my first full day on the assignment for Fetish magazine.
The day had started well, with a wake-up blowjob from my housekeeper, Honeycunt. Then had come the pleasant task of training my two house slaves. They were also new, a married couple. They lay face down on my bed, holding hands. I was faced by two sleek, muscular backs, firm butts, strong thighs. I wondered whether they had thought things through before signing up for The Farm? I was deciding which one to bugger first. Not that it mattered, being right there when your spouse was being used would be a daunting experience for both, especially as they were both anal virgins. Honeycunt saw my dilemma, and pointed to Geoff. “Him first,” she mouthed. She had previously lubed both of them, knowing what had to be done. She spread his legs, giving his caged cock a playful kiss. “Ready, big boy?” Anna, his wife and fellow slave, suddenly realised what was about to happen. “No, you can’t! He’s not like that! No!” Honeycunt shook her head, sadly. “You’ve just earned yourself a whipping, girl. No slave, ever, uses the N-word!” Anna held her husband’s hand, murmuring words of comfort, as he discovered that slaves were there to be used. He had the opportunity to do the same for her, both with her first buggering, and then as she had her first, painful assignation with the whip!
The girl was pretty, attractive, but not a stunner. Just an ordinary girl next door, naked but for her glasses. She blushed at my frank examination. “My glasses? The overseer, the Scottish one, with the huge…Oh my God, so thick, I thought he was going to tear me in half…the one who always barks at you. He said they would confiscate them. I can’t see very much without them, everything is just a blur, except very close up. He said that as long as I could see the cock that I was sucking it didn’t matter that everything was in soft focus. Are you going to fuck me?”
I burst out laughing! She was so nervous. “Do you want me to fuck you?” She nodded, then shook her head. “I don’t know. That’s why I came here. My granny said I would like it here. Being fucked without guilt. But…Well…It does feel strange, being fucked by total strangers, when I don’t even know their names. With people watching, making comments. When the overseer, Mac-something, fucked my ass there were people laying bets. That he wouldn’t be able to get in. He is so big!” She blushed. “It hurt! He is so big! It hurt terribly! Granny said it would, but that I would get used to it, even like it. She does! She loves being buggered.”
Granny sounded like someone I would like to meet!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
The Assignment: The Granny
It was the end of a busy day. My column in KINK magazine was becoming very successful. Lisa, my editor was ecstatic, sales were booming, advertising rates were soaring. It was hard work, not simply writing, but selecting my subjects and enjoying their use.
I was sprawled in an armchair, a drink at my elbow, my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of lips, tongue and throat as they slowly, rhythmically, slid up and down the full length of my cock. I opened my eyes, smiling at the sight of Honeycunt, my housekeeper, lying comfortably across the arm of the couch, my female houseslave’s tongue deep, but obviously not deep enough, in her equally hungry arse. “Get your tongue inside, slave inside all the way.” Yvette, the girl, gave a shudder as she drove her tongue deeper into the dark passage. The jewel topping the thick steel buttplug stretching her own, recently virgin ass glittered in the late afternoon sun.
“You’re doing well, boy,” I encouraged her husband as he bottomed out on my cock once more. “Slowly, boy, slowly. I don’t want to cum yet, not for a long time. Slow, steady and deep.” He was learning well. Forty-eight hours ago, he had informed me that he was not gay, that cocksucking and being buggered was not what he had come to The Farm for. He was a quick learner!
I took a sip of Highland Park, and closed my eyes again. I was writing my next piece in my head. The subject was a trans girl with whom I had spent the afternoon. I half heard a light tap on the door, open, as always. I opened my eyes as a husky, amused voice sounded. “What a delightful domestic scene. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just had to meet the paragon my granddaughter has been raving about all day. If Prissy is to be believed, you are a cross between Apollo and Priapus. Difficult to tell about the latter, it being buried so deep in this young man’s throat.”
I opened my eyes, focused on the speaker. My cock jumped, my cocksucker gagged, almost choking as it swelled even more, twitching and almost ejaculating. The woman standing in the doorway was possibly the sexiest woman I had ever seen! Her laughter filled the room. “May I come in? Please? Master?”
She was old. Sixty would have been a distant memory, seventy was not impossible. Her skin was tanned and leathery, her body fit and toned, strong. Her face was lined, framed by grey hair. Her lips were voluptuous. Her breasts sagged. She was eminently desirable! “You buggered her yesterday. Blonde, almost virgin, glasses. Innocent. She hasn’t stopped talking about you all day. We were ploughing, and the ploughman was happy for us to chatter as long as we didn’t slack off. I don’t suppose you even knew her name, why would you? She is just a new fuckslave.” My eyes devoured her. I wanted her!
I nodded an invitation. I was about to move the boy’s head from my cock. “Leave him, he seems to be doing well. I think he needs a bigger buttplug, though.” She knelt beside me. I studied her, carefully. She was amazing! No collar, in a place where everybody naked was collared. Smooth cunt, with a complex tattoo decorating her mound. She cupped the slave’s balls. He moaned softly around my cock. “Let him carry on. He’s doing well. I have all night, if you want me to stay. Prissy will have to sleep alone. Priscilla, her parents christened her.”
Her scent wafted to me. Hot, sweaty woman. Woman who had laboured all day in the sun, pulling a plough, a draught animal. Aroused woman, the scent of her arousing. Too arousing! The boy choked, coughing as I pumped semen directly into his throat. Some of it gushing from his nose. Honeycunt rose, taking hold of his wife’s collar, then his, leading them out of the room.
The old woman smiled. “She’s well named. One of the sweetest cunts I’ve ever eaten. I’m Bess.” She held out her hand. I kissed it the back of her hand, as if she were an aristocratic lady, instead of a naked draught animal. Honeycunt brought wine. Bess sipped, nodded, “She hasn’t forgotten my tastes.” She smiled, “I haven’t forgotten the taste of her, either.” We chatted over the wine. She told me about the early days of The Farm, how she and her husband had been friends of the original owners. They had watched Susan and Laura grow up, together with their own children. They had celebrated when Susan and her husband had returned to their lifestyle, and had helped turn the old, decrepit farm into The Farm. “Larry died five years ago. It was slow, and not pleasant. I decided that I would enjoy life to the full, live as I wanted to live, to be free of guilt and inhibition. So, I moved here permanently, not as a slave, I’m not collared, but as a slut! I wanted to fuck! And be fucked. To live, fully, until I die.” She stood up, did a slow pirouette. “Would you like to fuck me? Prissy said she told you about me. Told you that I loved being sodomised. Want to try me?” The answer was as plain as a pikestaff. Indeed, it stood as rigid as a pikestaff, although more blunt-headed.
I woke shortly after dawn the next morning, my erection almost painful. My bed was empty, although there was a warm hollow where she had been. We had explored every avenue, every orifice, hers and mine. Seldom had I known such passion, such fulfilment. I could still taste her, still feel the touch of her leathery skin, the ripple of the muscles in her cunt as she milked me dry for the n’th time, the silky, velvety grasp of her anus, the warmth of her mouth. I wanted her again!
Yvette and Claude were curled up on the mat beside the bed. Her hand cupped the cage imprisoning his manhood. “Yvette!” She woke instantly, aware that any delay would mean a taste of the whip. “Mouth!” She grimaced slightly at the scent of a woman more than three times her age as she bent over my erection. Her tongue tasted the older woman’s juices. I lay back, enjoying her mouth, her throat. Claude was making coffee. They were starting to learn their duties, learning the meaning of their collars. She swallowed, convulsively.
I had work to do. Stories to write. Slaves to use. I would find her again, enjoy her again.
The Granny!
It was the end of a busy day. My column in KINK magazine was becoming very successful. Lisa, my editor was ecstatic, sales were booming, advertising rates were soaring. It was hard work, not simply writing, but selecting my subjects and enjoying their use.
I was sprawled in an armchair, a drink at my elbow, my eyes closed, enjoying the feel of lips, tongue and throat as they slowly, rhythmically, slid up and down the full length of my cock. I opened my eyes, smiling at the sight of Honeycunt, my housekeeper, lying comfortably across the arm of the couch, my female houseslave’s tongue deep, but obviously not deep enough, in her equally hungry arse. “Get your tongue inside, slave inside all the way.” Yvette, the girl, gave a shudder as she drove her tongue deeper into the dark passage. The jewel topping the thick steel buttplug stretching her own, recently virgin ass glittered in the late afternoon sun.
“You’re doing well, boy,” I encouraged her husband as he bottomed out on my cock once more. “Slowly, boy, slowly. I don’t want to cum yet, not for a long time. Slow, steady and deep.” He was learning well. Forty-eight hours ago, he had informed me that he was not gay, that cocksucking and being buggered was not what he had come to The Farm for. He was a quick learner!
I took a sip of Highland Park, and closed my eyes again. I was writing my next piece in my head. The subject was a trans girl with whom I had spent the afternoon. I half heard a light tap on the door, open, as always. I opened my eyes as a husky, amused voice sounded. “What a delightful domestic scene. I don’t mean to interrupt, but I just had to meet the paragon my granddaughter has been raving about all day. If Prissy is to be believed, you are a cross between Apollo and Priapus. Difficult to tell about the latter, it being buried so deep in this young man’s throat.”
I opened my eyes, focused on the speaker. My cock jumped, my cocksucker gagged, almost choking as it swelled even more, twitching and almost ejaculating. The woman standing in the doorway was possibly the sexiest woman I had ever seen! Her laughter filled the room. “May I come in? Please? Master?”
She was old. Sixty would have been a distant memory, seventy was not impossible. Her skin was tanned and leathery, her body fit and toned, strong. Her face was lined, framed by grey hair. Her lips were voluptuous. Her breasts sagged. She was eminently desirable! “You buggered her yesterday. Blonde, almost virgin, glasses. Innocent. She hasn’t stopped talking about you all day. We were ploughing, and the ploughman was happy for us to chatter as long as we didn’t slack off. I don’t suppose you even knew her name, why would you? She is just a new fuckslave.” My eyes devoured her. I wanted her!
I nodded an invitation. I was about to move the boy’s head from my cock. “Leave him, he seems to be doing well. I think he needs a bigger buttplug, though.” She knelt beside me. I studied her, carefully. She was amazing! No collar, in a place where everybody naked was collared. Smooth cunt, with a complex tattoo decorating her mound. She cupped the slave’s balls. He moaned softly around my cock. “Let him carry on. He’s doing well. I have all night, if you want me to stay. Prissy will have to sleep alone. Priscilla, her parents christened her.”
Her scent wafted to me. Hot, sweaty woman. Woman who had laboured all day in the sun, pulling a plough, a draught animal. Aroused woman, the scent of her arousing. Too arousing! The boy choked, coughing as I pumped semen directly into his throat. Some of it gushing from his nose. Honeycunt rose, taking hold of his wife’s collar, then his, leading them out of the room.
The old woman smiled. “She’s well named. One of the sweetest cunts I’ve ever eaten. I’m Bess.” She held out her hand. I kissed it the back of her hand, as if she were an aristocratic lady, instead of a naked draught animal. Honeycunt brought wine. Bess sipped, nodded, “She hasn’t forgotten my tastes.” She smiled, “I haven’t forgotten the taste of her, either.” We chatted over the wine. She told me about the early days of The Farm, how she and her husband had been friends of the original owners. They had watched Susan and Laura grow up, together with their own children. They had celebrated when Susan and her husband had returned to their lifestyle, and had helped turn the old, decrepit farm into The Farm. “Larry died five years ago. It was slow, and not pleasant. I decided that I would enjoy life to the full, live as I wanted to live, to be free of guilt and inhibition. So, I moved here permanently, not as a slave, I’m not collared, but as a slut! I wanted to fuck! And be fucked. To live, fully, until I die.” She stood up, did a slow pirouette. “Would you like to fuck me? Prissy said she told you about me. Told you that I loved being sodomised. Want to try me?” The answer was as plain as a pikestaff. Indeed, it stood as rigid as a pikestaff, although more blunt-headed.
I woke shortly after dawn the next morning, my erection almost painful. My bed was empty, although there was a warm hollow where she had been. We had explored every avenue, every orifice, hers and mine. Seldom had I known such passion, such fulfilment. I could still taste her, still feel the touch of her leathery skin, the ripple of the muscles in her cunt as she milked me dry for the n’th time, the silky, velvety grasp of her anus, the warmth of her mouth. I wanted her again!
Yvette and Claude were curled up on the mat beside the bed. Her hand cupped the cage imprisoning his manhood. “Yvette!” She woke instantly, aware that any delay would mean a taste of the whip. “Mouth!” She grimaced slightly at the scent of a woman more than three times her age as she bent over my erection. Her tongue tasted the older woman’s juices. I lay back, enjoying her mouth, her throat. Claude was making coffee. They were starting to learn their duties, learning the meaning of their collars. She swallowed, convulsively.
I had work to do. Stories to write. Slaves to use. I would find her again, enjoy her again.
The Granny!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Friends
Tanya and Frieda were settling in well. A week ago, they were on show at the slave market in Cyprus, frightened, shy, embarrassed by their nudity. They stood, eyes downcast, as the potential buyers examined the stock to be sold that day. They were mostly girls, but there were a few pretty boys, and one very impressive stud. They came from all over the world, some willingly, most of them more or less unwillingly. They were almost exclusively the product of war, poverty and natural disaster.
I had decided to rotate most of my collection, keeping only old Bess, who had belonged to my father and had introduced me to the pleasures of sex, and Susan, who I had become very fond of. I was looking for fresh flesh, three or four young bodies to warm my bed.
I smiled as the girls kissed, their naked bodies fitting perfectly. At first, when I ordered them to make love to each other they had protested, each in their own language, that they were not that way inclined. A few licks of the whip had overcome their objections, and I spent a happy half hour watching them, while at the same time exploring another of my new chattels. Days of service, always naked, always together; days of watching, always at close range, as one or the other was used by me or one of my friends, nights spent sleeping together on their narrow cot, their bodies perforce in close and continuous contact, had removed their inhibitions.
The lack of a common language became irrelevant. Tanya was a victim of war, captured by mercenaries and sold to a slave dealer in Teheran. Frieda, the spoilt daughter of a wealthy Swiss banker, had maxed her credit card once too often. Her parents threw her out with only the clothes on her back. A week of roadside prostitution led to her kidnapping and sale to a Syrian dealer. Now they were mine.
Frieda broke the kiss, looking at me, her eyes sparkling. “You like?”
I did indeed! “Come!” I smiled at them. “Time for your new training!”
Tanya’s face showed concern. Frieda laughed. “Woof, woof! We shall be bitches.”
They were learning fast!
Tanya and Frieda were settling in well. A week ago, they were on show at the slave market in Cyprus, frightened, shy, embarrassed by their nudity. They stood, eyes downcast, as the potential buyers examined the stock to be sold that day. They were mostly girls, but there were a few pretty boys, and one very impressive stud. They came from all over the world, some willingly, most of them more or less unwillingly. They were almost exclusively the product of war, poverty and natural disaster.
I had decided to rotate most of my collection, keeping only old Bess, who had belonged to my father and had introduced me to the pleasures of sex, and Susan, who I had become very fond of. I was looking for fresh flesh, three or four young bodies to warm my bed.
I smiled as the girls kissed, their naked bodies fitting perfectly. At first, when I ordered them to make love to each other they had protested, each in their own language, that they were not that way inclined. A few licks of the whip had overcome their objections, and I spent a happy half hour watching them, while at the same time exploring another of my new chattels. Days of service, always naked, always together; days of watching, always at close range, as one or the other was used by me or one of my friends, nights spent sleeping together on their narrow cot, their bodies perforce in close and continuous contact, had removed their inhibitions.
The lack of a common language became irrelevant. Tanya was a victim of war, captured by mercenaries and sold to a slave dealer in Teheran. Frieda, the spoilt daughter of a wealthy Swiss banker, had maxed her credit card once too often. Her parents threw her out with only the clothes on her back. A week of roadside prostitution led to her kidnapping and sale to a Syrian dealer. Now they were mine.
Frieda broke the kiss, looking at me, her eyes sparkling. “You like?”
I did indeed! “Come!” I smiled at them. “Time for your new training!”
Tanya’s face showed concern. Frieda laughed. “Woof, woof! We shall be bitches.”
They were learning fast!
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Better than a boy!
“Better than a boy, Effendi! Look! Firm, soft, beautifully shaped. And between these beautiful cheeks! A virgin, Effendi! Imagine that! A virgin!”
Prudence did not understand the words, the heathen gabble of these unbelievers who now owned her. She understood perfectly what was being discussed. She had watched, unable to avoid the sight, others being subjected to this abomination.
“Abomination!” Pastor Davies often thundered from the pulpit. “Abomination! The sin of Sodom! We all know what happened to that den of iniquity! Hell! Anyone indulging in this abomination will burn in all eternity!”
Pastor Davies had prayed for those who defiled him, even as they defiled him, taking turns at penetrating him, before chaining him, naked in his shame, to the oar of the galley that brought them from their quiet Cornish village to this burning, desert hell. Brought them as slaves, slaves in this year of Our Lord 1712! She thought she would die of shame as she was stripped of her clothing, subjected to the lascivious eyes of these heathen raiders.
“Three piastres, Effendi? Surely you jest? A virgin, Effendi! Certified by the Qadi himself. Perhaps you mean thirty?” His fingers parted her cheeks, causing the air to reach that most private place, the one being discussed. Prudence cried, softly. Would she go to hell? To burn for eternity? Surely God would understand? “Twenty-five, Effendi?”
The haggling continued. “Look at her breasts, Effendi. Perfect! Firm. Just a handful. More would be a waste. Five? An insult, Effendi. The girl would be offended to be sold for such a meagre amount.”
Abdul Salim kept his face impassive. He would buy this girl, she was, as the trader said, considerably more desirable than a boy, but the bargaining was part of the pleasure. It was just a pity that she could not understand how she was being haggled over. His eyes roamed her boyish, yet superbly feminine, figure. He lifted two more fingers. The trader rolled his eyes, bent to pick up the discarded rag that had partially covered her nakedness. “Perhaps twenty?”
Abdul Salim stroked her back, his hand sliding over firm muscle, until he found the firm mounds of her buttocks. He felt her tremble, like a highly strung filly. He detected a muffled sob. He showed ten fingers.
The trader’s shoulders dropped. “Twelve, Effendi?”
Abdul Salim nodded. He smiled inwardly. He had been prepared to go as high as fifteen. The trader started wrapping her in the rag. “No! Keep that. Just a rope around her neck, and tie her hands behind her so that she can’t hide herself.”
Tears streamed down Prudence’s face as she followed her new owner through the busy streets. The Sin of Sodom! The words echoed through her mind. She was doomed!
The sun beat down on her naked body, a body soon to be defiled. Cornwall was a distant memory.
“The Sin of Sodom.”
Image by 3DFranco
“Better than a boy, Effendi! Look! Firm, soft, beautifully shaped. And between these beautiful cheeks! A virgin, Effendi! Imagine that! A virgin!”
Prudence did not understand the words, the heathen gabble of these unbelievers who now owned her. She understood perfectly what was being discussed. She had watched, unable to avoid the sight, others being subjected to this abomination.
“Abomination!” Pastor Davies often thundered from the pulpit. “Abomination! The sin of Sodom! We all know what happened to that den of iniquity! Hell! Anyone indulging in this abomination will burn in all eternity!”
Pastor Davies had prayed for those who defiled him, even as they defiled him, taking turns at penetrating him, before chaining him, naked in his shame, to the oar of the galley that brought them from their quiet Cornish village to this burning, desert hell. Brought them as slaves, slaves in this year of Our Lord 1712! She thought she would die of shame as she was stripped of her clothing, subjected to the lascivious eyes of these heathen raiders.
“Three piastres, Effendi? Surely you jest? A virgin, Effendi! Certified by the Qadi himself. Perhaps you mean thirty?” His fingers parted her cheeks, causing the air to reach that most private place, the one being discussed. Prudence cried, softly. Would she go to hell? To burn for eternity? Surely God would understand? “Twenty-five, Effendi?”
The haggling continued. “Look at her breasts, Effendi. Perfect! Firm. Just a handful. More would be a waste. Five? An insult, Effendi. The girl would be offended to be sold for such a meagre amount.”
Abdul Salim kept his face impassive. He would buy this girl, she was, as the trader said, considerably more desirable than a boy, but the bargaining was part of the pleasure. It was just a pity that she could not understand how she was being haggled over. His eyes roamed her boyish, yet superbly feminine, figure. He lifted two more fingers. The trader rolled his eyes, bent to pick up the discarded rag that had partially covered her nakedness. “Perhaps twenty?”
Abdul Salim stroked her back, his hand sliding over firm muscle, until he found the firm mounds of her buttocks. He felt her tremble, like a highly strung filly. He detected a muffled sob. He showed ten fingers.
The trader’s shoulders dropped. “Twelve, Effendi?”
Abdul Salim nodded. He smiled inwardly. He had been prepared to go as high as fifteen. The trader started wrapping her in the rag. “No! Keep that. Just a rope around her neck, and tie her hands behind her so that she can’t hide herself.”
Tears streamed down Prudence’s face as she followed her new owner through the busy streets. The Sin of Sodom! The words echoed through her mind. She was doomed!
The sun beat down on her naked body, a body soon to be defiled. Cornwall was a distant memory.
“The Sin of Sodom.”
Image by 3DFranco
Good one, Theseus! Not that all your vignettes aren’t good, but this one I thought was especially so.
Vladimir_Vladislav
Executioner
Since our numbers have reached trillions, we could put the idea of an unreplaceable individual behind ourselves. Take, for example, the cloning facility on the third moon of Servus. An industrial powerhouse that engulfed the entire celestial body, covering its natural scenery almost entirely. Everyday, tens of thousands of new slaves were created and other tens of thousands were leaving the moon, being sent to their new masters. The individual in the image below was one of the clones of a powerful and rich duchess that died three centuries ago, her DNA being collected and recycled for our cloning operations. We labeled them as part of the “Voluptas” batch. Many of them are trained to perform a single, specific form of sexual slavery and to perfect their performance in this task. Some of them are trained for oral stimulation, others are trained for being anally penetrated, and so on. It is inefficient, costly and inhumane, but our customers’ demand dictates our production. Some of our customers have enough wealth to afford buying such slaves as mere toys that they will only use for a few events. The average servitude as a sexual slave for such clone usually lasts for only eight to ten months, before being thrown into the slave mines, where they perish in approximately five to ten years. However, this particular member of the Voluptas batch was designed for an unexpected and bizarre customer. An independent Artificial Intelligence that gained self-determination decided to observe all possible human behaviors, in order to predict and fully understand our species. Therefore, it requires its subjects to perform repetitive actions again and again, observing their brain processes as they go along. This clone will be designed to simulate oral sex for the rest of its existence, as our mechanized customer will observe her. Should the artificial intelligence decide that the subject outlived her usefulness, it will likely dissect her, preserving her brain for further analysis, while also harvesting her organs and selling them on the markets of underdeveloped planets that cannot produce organs through genetic engineering. Perhaps, one day, this AI will be competitive enough to also use her DNA in order to create its own clones, submitting them to other necessary task. One thing is certain. This particular clone will never have the chance to get a proper understanding of reality. The only thing she will know will be the training room, the observation chamber of her AI master and the harvesting chamber, where, in the last minutes of her existence, she will watch in terror, not understanding the sinister world in which she was brought.
Attachments
Idomeneus
Assistant executioner
A bit of a departure both from the usual theme and from my own style, but, hey, it's still slavery so...
He had been working her over for years now. Her gorgeous body was gradually being covered from head to toe in intricate tattoos and piercings mounted deep within her flesh, enhancing her softness with harsh, gleaming metal.
She has long since become addicted to her Master's needle. She craved the sweet pain of it, the small pools of her warm blood. Her body ached and blossomed beneath his dedicated ministrations, becoming less and less that of the girl she remembered and more and more into a living, breathing work of art, frequently bound in place and gagged as well so her Master and an occasional invited guest could study her form and skin in peace.
She didn't mind. Nobody knew but him, her, and whoever he decided should be in the know.
When outside, she wandered the streets of the city fully veiled, covered from head to toe. Whether she was sitting in the bus. chatting with her friends, or going out for walks and dates with her own personal God, she was used to getting stared at for what she was wearing instead of what she was living.
If only they knew...
He had been working her over for years now. Her gorgeous body was gradually being covered from head to toe in intricate tattoos and piercings mounted deep within her flesh, enhancing her softness with harsh, gleaming metal.
She has long since become addicted to her Master's needle. She craved the sweet pain of it, the small pools of her warm blood. Her body ached and blossomed beneath his dedicated ministrations, becoming less and less that of the girl she remembered and more and more into a living, breathing work of art, frequently bound in place and gagged as well so her Master and an occasional invited guest could study her form and skin in peace.
She didn't mind. Nobody knew but him, her, and whoever he decided should be in the know.
When outside, she wandered the streets of the city fully veiled, covered from head to toe. Whether she was sitting in the bus. chatting with her friends, or going out for walks and dates with her own personal God, she was used to getting stared at for what she was wearing instead of what she was living.
If only they knew...
twonines
LIMERICUS
Brings to mind Maud Adams in the film Tattoo.
Idomeneus
Assistant executioner
Never even heard about it until now. Thanks for the recommendation.
mp5stab
Hair and Nails
A very specific kink. Not one that I share. But I love the veiling detail!
Idomeneus
Assistant executioner
It was less about the kink and more about the power.
Vladimir_Vladislav
Executioner
Following the collapse of the old civilization and the rise of the New World, the Reformed Roman Empire rebuilt Venice in a new image, after the old city of Venice was swallowed by the rising tide. The gondolas were brought back, although they were repurposed to better fit this new world.
Each gondola was occupied by two slave girls. They were brought from the recently conquered territories and transformed into slaves of the state. They would serve the visitors of New Venice, for free. There was an expensive entrance tax for those interested in visiting New Venice, as it became a playground for the richest citizens. However, once inside, you could hop in a slave boat, and you could pick one of the girls. You'd be allowed to use one of them for sexual pleasure, while the other one rowed hard, offering you a tour of the beautiful city, so you could display your virility across the channels.
Sidonia and Brunhilda were two slaves brought from distant lands. Sidonia was once a Greek "goddess". Her village considered her to be a divinity and built her an altar and a beautiful home, venerating her, feeding her and worshipping her, as long as she gave them protection and fertility. The Empire proved them that their Sidonia was merely a false idol. The other woman, Brunhilda, was once a scavenger in the ruins of Frankfurt. Desperate and starved, she chose to surrender herself to her Roman captors.
The two of them adapted surprisingly well to their new lives. Brunhilda was happy to be fed and to live in a warm climate, after she spent most of her life scavenging for food in the harsh and snowy climates of Northern Germany. Sidonia felt tired of the monotony of a careless life as a false goddess of a Greek village. Besides, she could now become a goddess of the entire city of New Venice. She kept rowing and making love, hoping to one day impress a rich and powerful patrician, that would give her the chance to become a goddess of the whole Roman Empire.
Each gondola was occupied by two slave girls. They were brought from the recently conquered territories and transformed into slaves of the state. They would serve the visitors of New Venice, for free. There was an expensive entrance tax for those interested in visiting New Venice, as it became a playground for the richest citizens. However, once inside, you could hop in a slave boat, and you could pick one of the girls. You'd be allowed to use one of them for sexual pleasure, while the other one rowed hard, offering you a tour of the beautiful city, so you could display your virility across the channels.
Sidonia and Brunhilda were two slaves brought from distant lands. Sidonia was once a Greek "goddess". Her village considered her to be a divinity and built her an altar and a beautiful home, venerating her, feeding her and worshipping her, as long as she gave them protection and fertility. The Empire proved them that their Sidonia was merely a false idol. The other woman, Brunhilda, was once a scavenger in the ruins of Frankfurt. Desperate and starved, she chose to surrender herself to her Roman captors.
The two of them adapted surprisingly well to their new lives. Brunhilda was happy to be fed and to live in a warm climate, after she spent most of her life scavenging for food in the harsh and snowy climates of Northern Germany. Sidonia felt tired of the monotony of a careless life as a false goddess of a Greek village. Besides, she could now become a goddess of the entire city of New Venice. She kept rowing and making love, hoping to one day impress a rich and powerful patrician, that would give her the chance to become a goddess of the whole Roman Empire.
Attachments
Anklebiter
Magistrate
I wish we would hear the tale of how she was prepared for cruxing by the penis of her guard, and the nailing of her pretty feet, all under the gaze of granny.
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Reality!
“This is it, girl. Sale time!”
Jennifer shuddered. She thought she was ready, that she had come to terms with what was about to happen. After all, she had brought this upon herself, with her spendthrift ways, her stupidity. Borrowing money from loan sharks in order to pay what she owed to other loan sharks was not smart. It was a one-way route to trouble; deep, deep, trouble!
The trainer had done his best to prepare her for this, physically and mentally. He was gentle, kind, understanding. Many times, during her training, he had held her as she sobbed bitterly. Sobbed from physical hurt. Sobbed from mental anguish. Sobbed from disgust. Sobbed from fear.
His hands had been gentle, almost tentative, when he touched her. It was the others who had hurt her, who had invaded her body, who had made her do unthinkable things. He had listened, patiently to her story. Her sad history of financial mismanagement, of deeper and deeper debt, until eventually she was driven to this, to selling herself as a slave, for life! In turn she heard his story, how such a kind, gentle man had become a slaver, a trader in flesh.
“I was a teacher, a good one. I loved teaching, loved seeing my students develop into well balanced adults. Naturally, there were some I developed an affection for, although I never did anything improper. That didn’t stop the accusation! I was never charged, never arrested, never given the chance to defend myself. Dirt sticks! I was hounded out of my profession, labelled as an abuser. I couldn’t find work, of any kind. I was down and out when the Dealer found me, offered me this job. Coaching people, male and female, to become slaves. Teaching them submission, obedience, subservience. Life is not fair, is it?”
“I’m scared, sir.” Tears oozed down her cheeks. “Who will buy me? What will he do to me? Do with me?”
“I can’t offer you any comfort, girl. Who knows what will happen in the next few minutes? If you’re lucky, you will go to a private collector, one who will treat you reasonably well, one who will keep you for a year or two before selling you on. If not, you might be bought by a pervert, one who will treat you badly, abuse you. Alternatively, you could be sold to a brothel. Let’s be realistic. You are a nice-looking girl, but not a raving beauty. Average. You have responded well to your training. You have the skills to please both men and women. With luck, you will go to a good owner. If not…” He shrugged, “Life in a brothel is not all unpleasant. The other whores will, mostly, become your friends, and most of the clients will want nothing more than a good, honest fuck.” Jennifer let out a low moan, stifling a cry. “Look, lass, that ‘rabbit in the headlights’ look you have might just swing a sympathetic collector. Don’t lose hope.”
Beyond the curtain the sound of bidding stopped, the bang of the gavel sounded loud. “Sold! To Sir Ian. I wish you much pleasure of him, sir!” The usher came in briefly. “Bring her in, Summers! She’s next!” Jennifer heard the auctioneer’s voice as the trainer took her arm and guided her forward. “Our next, and last lot is a first sale. Nineteen years old, well trained and talented, but little used.”
“Good luck, lass.” The trainer whispered as he guided her onto the little platform under the spotlights.
The lights blinded her as she stepped onto it, only vaguely able to see the bidders. She stared blankly into the distance as the auctioneer described, in excruciating detail, her physical attributes and the uses of her body. The bidding swiftly rose, until it turned into a duel between two bidders, a man and a woman.
“Sold!” The gavel banged down. “To Mistress Hunter, owner of the newly established Hunt Club. I hope this will be a good addition to your stock of vixens.”
A tall, handsome woman came up to collect her new acquisition. Jennifer remembered her from the viewing. She was the one who had pinched her nipples, then inserted two fingers deep into her vagina, cunt, she must remember, cunt! Free women had vaginas, slaves had cunts, or fuckholes. The woman had felt the wetness there, sniffed at her fingers, approvingly, then presented them to Jennifer to be licked clean, allowing her to taste her own arousal.
Jennifer was led out into the icy darkness of winter, shivering as the snow settled on her naked body. She was loaded into an open truck, joining five other girls and two young men, all naked as she was. A husky man, well wrapped up, chained her to the rail in the centre of the truck. A blonde girl, her teeth chattering, smiled at her. “Welcome to the bitch pack. I hope you’re a good runner.”
“This is it, girl. Sale time!”
Jennifer shuddered. She thought she was ready, that she had come to terms with what was about to happen. After all, she had brought this upon herself, with her spendthrift ways, her stupidity. Borrowing money from loan sharks in order to pay what she owed to other loan sharks was not smart. It was a one-way route to trouble; deep, deep, trouble!
The trainer had done his best to prepare her for this, physically and mentally. He was gentle, kind, understanding. Many times, during her training, he had held her as she sobbed bitterly. Sobbed from physical hurt. Sobbed from mental anguish. Sobbed from disgust. Sobbed from fear.
His hands had been gentle, almost tentative, when he touched her. It was the others who had hurt her, who had invaded her body, who had made her do unthinkable things. He had listened, patiently to her story. Her sad history of financial mismanagement, of deeper and deeper debt, until eventually she was driven to this, to selling herself as a slave, for life! In turn she heard his story, how such a kind, gentle man had become a slaver, a trader in flesh.
“I was a teacher, a good one. I loved teaching, loved seeing my students develop into well balanced adults. Naturally, there were some I developed an affection for, although I never did anything improper. That didn’t stop the accusation! I was never charged, never arrested, never given the chance to defend myself. Dirt sticks! I was hounded out of my profession, labelled as an abuser. I couldn’t find work, of any kind. I was down and out when the Dealer found me, offered me this job. Coaching people, male and female, to become slaves. Teaching them submission, obedience, subservience. Life is not fair, is it?”
“I’m scared, sir.” Tears oozed down her cheeks. “Who will buy me? What will he do to me? Do with me?”
“I can’t offer you any comfort, girl. Who knows what will happen in the next few minutes? If you’re lucky, you will go to a private collector, one who will treat you reasonably well, one who will keep you for a year or two before selling you on. If not, you might be bought by a pervert, one who will treat you badly, abuse you. Alternatively, you could be sold to a brothel. Let’s be realistic. You are a nice-looking girl, but not a raving beauty. Average. You have responded well to your training. You have the skills to please both men and women. With luck, you will go to a good owner. If not…” He shrugged, “Life in a brothel is not all unpleasant. The other whores will, mostly, become your friends, and most of the clients will want nothing more than a good, honest fuck.” Jennifer let out a low moan, stifling a cry. “Look, lass, that ‘rabbit in the headlights’ look you have might just swing a sympathetic collector. Don’t lose hope.”
Beyond the curtain the sound of bidding stopped, the bang of the gavel sounded loud. “Sold! To Sir Ian. I wish you much pleasure of him, sir!” The usher came in briefly. “Bring her in, Summers! She’s next!” Jennifer heard the auctioneer’s voice as the trainer took her arm and guided her forward. “Our next, and last lot is a first sale. Nineteen years old, well trained and talented, but little used.”
“Good luck, lass.” The trainer whispered as he guided her onto the little platform under the spotlights.
The lights blinded her as she stepped onto it, only vaguely able to see the bidders. She stared blankly into the distance as the auctioneer described, in excruciating detail, her physical attributes and the uses of her body. The bidding swiftly rose, until it turned into a duel between two bidders, a man and a woman.
“Sold!” The gavel banged down. “To Mistress Hunter, owner of the newly established Hunt Club. I hope this will be a good addition to your stock of vixens.”
A tall, handsome woman came up to collect her new acquisition. Jennifer remembered her from the viewing. She was the one who had pinched her nipples, then inserted two fingers deep into her vagina, cunt, she must remember, cunt! Free women had vaginas, slaves had cunts, or fuckholes. The woman had felt the wetness there, sniffed at her fingers, approvingly, then presented them to Jennifer to be licked clean, allowing her to taste her own arousal.
Jennifer was led out into the icy darkness of winter, shivering as the snow settled on her naked body. She was loaded into an open truck, joining five other girls and two young men, all naked as she was. A husky man, well wrapped up, chained her to the rail in the centre of the truck. A blonde girl, her teeth chattering, smiled at her. “Welcome to the bitch pack. I hope you’re a good runner.”
theseus
SERVILIS CURATOR
Servitude
Jean knelt on the little platform in the showroom. She was still numb; the previous 48 hours had ripped her life apart.
It had all started two nights before. She had driven home with the sunroof open. It was a beautiful summer’s day and she had left work a bit early. She stopped to pick up her daughters from their carer and headed home. The two girls were excited. They were all going to have a picnic at the beach. At this time of year, the sun set after 9 p.m. and they would be allowed to stay up after their normal bedtime.
She let them into the house, then went to check the mail. She opened the mailbox and froze! Her stomach knotted! She wanted to be sick! Her legs seemed unable to support her!
Inside the box was a small parcel in a buff-coloured wrapper. There were no stamps, no address, merely a printed logo.
ON GOVERNMENT SERVICE
She stared at the parcel in disbelief, afraid to touch it.
No! Not this! This couldn’t be happening to her! She was happily married, had two lovely daughters, was halfway through her Ph.D.!
The parcel lay there, so harmless looking, yet so destructive. Geoff arrived from work as she stood there, staring at the parcel. He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter next to the parcel. He froze! “No. Please no. They can’t. No.” His voice was broken; he was on the verge of tears. They both knew what the parcel contained. A short official notice commanding that female 1986072918593 had been selected by the ballot in terms of the Female Servitude Act of 2014. Said female, now known as Slave 103257 was to be presented for collection at 0600 on the morning after receipt of the notice. The parcel would also contain a collar with the slave number engraved on it and a pair of handcuffs.
The Female Servitude Act had been promulgated two years previously by the new all male right-wing government. Previous to that, women had been deprived of the vote and had lost many of their civil rights. The Act applied to all females between the ages of puberty and 75. On promulgation all women had been assigned a number. Since then, all girls were automatically registered as soon as they showed the first signs of puberty. Her slave number indicated that more than 100 000 women had so far been enslaved by this act.
Their lovemaking that night was bittersweet. Both of them shed copious tears. Jean was up at 5 a.m., showering, washing her hair. She didn’t bother to dress, but wandered around the house, saying goodbye to her life. She stood for a long time looking at her sleeping daughters, the tears streaming down her face. They would wake up motherless.
Geoff hugged her, kissed her. The parcel was on the counter. The contents laid out ready for use. The collar was made of a space age material. It was a flexible strip of metal. Once wrapped around her throat with the ends joined it would activate, fuse and harden. There was no way of removing it without a special laser cutter. Geoff’s hands were shaking as he put it around her neck. He kissed her again. Tears blurred his vision as he drew her hands gently behind her back and cuffed them. At exactly 6 a.m. he led her out, naked, collared, cuffed, onto the sidewalk to wait for collection.
There was a chill in the air, enough to make her nipples crinkle and stand out. The sun was about to rise. Jean stood on the pavement next to the post-box, totally exposed, unable to do anything to cover her nudity. This was so different to showing off her body in a bikini. Then she had been a desirable woman, now she was an object, a piece of merchandise. She was no longer considered human. Even animals had more rights than she did. In the new nomenclature she was property, merely property.
The morning had gone by in a blur. She was graded, microchipped and her slave number was tattooed onto the inner fold of her buttock. There was no consideration of her humanity, no consideration that she was a woman who had just lost everything; Husband, children, career, dignity. She was mere flesh, a commodity to be sold. She would never see Geoff again; her daughters were lost to her. Illogically, she realised that she hadn’t backed up her Ph.D. She smiled wryly; the degree was gone. She had no need of the data.
A hand stroked her butt, parting the cheeks and probing the tight pucker in between them. 103257 jumped, almost falling off the platform as the chain around her ankle snapped tight and tripped her. The man who had probed her arse caught her. With a start she recognised him, an Associate Professor at the university whose classes she had attended.
“Jean!” he exclaimed! “What are you doing here?” He smiled ruefully. “Stupid question. I’m sorry, this shouldn’t happen to someone like you.” His smile broadened, “on the other hand, you have a very nice ass. I’ve always admired it. I wonder if I could afford you?” He shook his head. “Unlikely. You are prime property, way too expensive for a man on a professor’s salary.”
Her comment was stifled by an agonised scream coming from the area where the crowd was gathered. “What was that?”
“That is the sound of a slave being branded.” His voice was sombre. “The criminals are branded. Even the ones enslaved for only a few months for a parking ticket. There are a few of those, and a stupid family who tried to hide a balloted slave! How stupid can you get!
“I must go and find a slave I can afford,” the professor said, “good luck, Jean. I hope you are sold to someone kind.” He walked away. Jean, 103257, felt the tears spring up behind her eyes, then run down her cheeks. She was totally miserable.
Hands roamed over her body. She tried to ignore them, to pretend that this wasn’t happening. The Female Servitude Act made all this possible. By a simple process of a machine spitting out a random number she had, in just a few hours, been transformed from an independent person to property, to be sold and used as its owner wished. A woman convicted of even the most minor crime was enslaved for a period ranging from three months to life. 103257 winced as two fingers were thrust brutally into her vagina.
A woman was placed on the platform next to her. A young woman, sobbing bitterly, her head freshly shaved, the fresh brand on her breast raw and angry. A convicted criminal. “It was only five minutes. Five minutes. How can they do this to me for overstaying my parking by five minutes.”
A snappily dressed man was getting up onto a small stage, clearing his throat and testing his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, today’s sale will start in fifteen minutes. Please lodge your deposits and collect your bidding numbers from the cashiers.”
Jean, now slave #103257, looked around the room. One of these people, people just like her, until 24 hours ago, would buy her, own her. She sobbed, silently, as she waited for her turn on the auction block.
Thank you to Anklebiter for suggesting the scenario.
Jean knelt on the little platform in the showroom. She was still numb; the previous 48 hours had ripped her life apart.
It had all started two nights before. She had driven home with the sunroof open. It was a beautiful summer’s day and she had left work a bit early. She stopped to pick up her daughters from their carer and headed home. The two girls were excited. They were all going to have a picnic at the beach. At this time of year, the sun set after 9 p.m. and they would be allowed to stay up after their normal bedtime.
She let them into the house, then went to check the mail. She opened the mailbox and froze! Her stomach knotted! She wanted to be sick! Her legs seemed unable to support her!
Inside the box was a small parcel in a buff-coloured wrapper. There were no stamps, no address, merely a printed logo.
ON GOVERNMENT SERVICE
She stared at the parcel in disbelief, afraid to touch it.
No! Not this! This couldn’t be happening to her! She was happily married, had two lovely daughters, was halfway through her Ph.D.!
The parcel lay there, so harmless looking, yet so destructive. Geoff arrived from work as she stood there, staring at the parcel. He dropped his keys on the kitchen counter next to the parcel. He froze! “No. Please no. They can’t. No.” His voice was broken; he was on the verge of tears. They both knew what the parcel contained. A short official notice commanding that female 1986072918593 had been selected by the ballot in terms of the Female Servitude Act of 2014. Said female, now known as Slave 103257 was to be presented for collection at 0600 on the morning after receipt of the notice. The parcel would also contain a collar with the slave number engraved on it and a pair of handcuffs.
The Female Servitude Act had been promulgated two years previously by the new all male right-wing government. Previous to that, women had been deprived of the vote and had lost many of their civil rights. The Act applied to all females between the ages of puberty and 75. On promulgation all women had been assigned a number. Since then, all girls were automatically registered as soon as they showed the first signs of puberty. Her slave number indicated that more than 100 000 women had so far been enslaved by this act.
Their lovemaking that night was bittersweet. Both of them shed copious tears. Jean was up at 5 a.m., showering, washing her hair. She didn’t bother to dress, but wandered around the house, saying goodbye to her life. She stood for a long time looking at her sleeping daughters, the tears streaming down her face. They would wake up motherless.
Geoff hugged her, kissed her. The parcel was on the counter. The contents laid out ready for use. The collar was made of a space age material. It was a flexible strip of metal. Once wrapped around her throat with the ends joined it would activate, fuse and harden. There was no way of removing it without a special laser cutter. Geoff’s hands were shaking as he put it around her neck. He kissed her again. Tears blurred his vision as he drew her hands gently behind her back and cuffed them. At exactly 6 a.m. he led her out, naked, collared, cuffed, onto the sidewalk to wait for collection.
There was a chill in the air, enough to make her nipples crinkle and stand out. The sun was about to rise. Jean stood on the pavement next to the post-box, totally exposed, unable to do anything to cover her nudity. This was so different to showing off her body in a bikini. Then she had been a desirable woman, now she was an object, a piece of merchandise. She was no longer considered human. Even animals had more rights than she did. In the new nomenclature she was property, merely property.
The morning had gone by in a blur. She was graded, microchipped and her slave number was tattooed onto the inner fold of her buttock. There was no consideration of her humanity, no consideration that she was a woman who had just lost everything; Husband, children, career, dignity. She was mere flesh, a commodity to be sold. She would never see Geoff again; her daughters were lost to her. Illogically, she realised that she hadn’t backed up her Ph.D. She smiled wryly; the degree was gone. She had no need of the data.
A hand stroked her butt, parting the cheeks and probing the tight pucker in between them. 103257 jumped, almost falling off the platform as the chain around her ankle snapped tight and tripped her. The man who had probed her arse caught her. With a start she recognised him, an Associate Professor at the university whose classes she had attended.
“Jean!” he exclaimed! “What are you doing here?” He smiled ruefully. “Stupid question. I’m sorry, this shouldn’t happen to someone like you.” His smile broadened, “on the other hand, you have a very nice ass. I’ve always admired it. I wonder if I could afford you?” He shook his head. “Unlikely. You are prime property, way too expensive for a man on a professor’s salary.”
Her comment was stifled by an agonised scream coming from the area where the crowd was gathered. “What was that?”
“That is the sound of a slave being branded.” His voice was sombre. “The criminals are branded. Even the ones enslaved for only a few months for a parking ticket. There are a few of those, and a stupid family who tried to hide a balloted slave! How stupid can you get!
“I must go and find a slave I can afford,” the professor said, “good luck, Jean. I hope you are sold to someone kind.” He walked away. Jean, 103257, felt the tears spring up behind her eyes, then run down her cheeks. She was totally miserable.
Hands roamed over her body. She tried to ignore them, to pretend that this wasn’t happening. The Female Servitude Act made all this possible. By a simple process of a machine spitting out a random number she had, in just a few hours, been transformed from an independent person to property, to be sold and used as its owner wished. A woman convicted of even the most minor crime was enslaved for a period ranging from three months to life. 103257 winced as two fingers were thrust brutally into her vagina.
A woman was placed on the platform next to her. A young woman, sobbing bitterly, her head freshly shaved, the fresh brand on her breast raw and angry. A convicted criminal. “It was only five minutes. Five minutes. How can they do this to me for overstaying my parking by five minutes.”
A snappily dressed man was getting up onto a small stage, clearing his throat and testing his microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen, today’s sale will start in fifteen minutes. Please lodge your deposits and collect your bidding numbers from the cashiers.”
Jean, now slave #103257, looked around the room. One of these people, people just like her, until 24 hours ago, would buy her, own her. She sobbed, silently, as she waited for her turn on the auction block.
Thank you to Anklebiter for suggesting the scenario.