These originally appeared in a tumblr blog
The Slave
“Yes, that’s right. S…slave. Sex slave. I … I belong to him.”
“All of me; everything.”
“No. no, it’s not a job. I … I gave myself to him, seven months ago.”
“I’m supposed to offer myself for sex at all times — unless you want me to stop?”
“It really doesn’t matter what makes me happy. That … all that … stopped when … when I gave myself over. All that matters is making you happy.”
“Sorry, I’m a little uncomfortable, talking so much. He … he’s not usually interested in hearing us speak.”
“Oh yes, two other girls here. And four I think in Russia.”
“We’re all slaves, I think. I’m not sure. Asking questions about him is … not encouraged. I try to focus on being useful. Offering myself for sex, or… or any other sort of entertainment.”
“Oh no! I don’t sing or anything!”. Giggles, then blushes, smile vanishing; “‘Other entertainment’ mostly … um … mostly means … um … hurting me.”
More blushes, looking down. Really, Harrison lets his girls have far too much license. She simply doesn’t look frightened enough.
“No! No! I don’t mind you asking — please! My feelings … my thoughts are meaningless — only you matter.”
“I was blushing because … because you’re … nice … and … and because a girl who … who lets herself be whipped, who is … is offering herself to a stranger so that he can hurt her — do … anything to her, that’s … that’s not a … normal … thing…”
Small, breathy voice, hot red patches at her cheekbones; her breasts are flushed too, he notices, nipples stiff. She has opened her thighs a little more. Maybe she is as Harrison suggests — a natural. The way her body moves is certainly very stimulating.
“Yes … of course … anything. Please! Please, Sir, hurt me; hurt me … any … any way you’d like.”
Perhaps she is beginning to realise now, that he has been leading her on, acting the innocent, playing games with her. Her chest is rising and falling more rapidly, she looks to be trembling; it is clear that she is pushing her sex, her breasts out, licking her lips with a darting tongue — perhaps hoping to distract him from punishing her, perhaps sexually aroused by the situation, even perhaps by the prospect of being treated cruelly — perhaps all three.
He smiles openly at her, letting her know how much he is in control, how exposed she is.
“My … my least favourite?”
“Of course, of course Sir — of course I heard you. Sorry, sorry, Sir.”
“I … I … My least … favourite … punishment is…”
There are tears in her eyes now; one tracks slowly down her cheek as she smoothly moves to her knees on the floor in front of him, displaying herself beautifully. Perhaps those tits will need to be enlarged — it should be done before she is pierced — small asymmetries can creep in, and he hates asymmetry…
“Please Sir, he … he once used three green hazel switches, bound together, between my legs. That was … it was … terrible, Sir.”
The tears are flowing softly now, but she keeps her face straight, he notes with approval.
“Yes, Yes I understand sir. The gardener, the hazel switches, twenty, sir, hard, between … on my c…cunt, and, and twenty across my … breasts … tits. He … he can f-fuck me any way he likes, with the other ground staff, but I’m needed at four, washed and in evening outfit, pale blue, to attend you in the drawing room. Thank you Sir.”
Interestingly, the tears have stopped — she has regained control of herself. A strong one, he thinks — she will need regular harsh evidence of her own vulnerability, her essential meaninglessness, to continually undermine that strength.
It is, after all, the reason he buys from Harrison — for the pleasure and exercise of fine-tuning the little sluts. Strange that Harrison should choose (and procure) so well, but train so sloppily. Each to his own, he muses.
“I’ll be discussing the terms of your purchase with your owner — assuming you don’t let yourself down in the meantime. If we reach agreement, I’ll have you transported tonight. You’ll be crated up after you’ve been branded.”
His cock is like iron as he sees the impact of this wash over and through her — first pale, then almost collapsing; then hysteria building in her breathing, in her face, the desperate, hopeless, despairing attempt to control it; the failure, as she turns hot pink, begins to cry for real, sobbing openly, distraught, like a little girl — totally undone, lost. He appreciates this sight like a work of art. No evidence of resistance, though — a good sign.
He rings the bell. He’s determined not to touch her until he has her home — his methods are highly effective, but require discipline on his part, as well as hers.
“Jenkins, send the redhead in, with a riding crop or something similar, and take this thing out to the gardener — it has its instructions. Quickly, man — drag it by the hair if it won’t walk!”
The Colonel
Halfway through the meal on the terrace, the Colonel leaned over and spoke to Cameron, softly.
She was used to people having sotto voce conversations with Cameron. Without anyone having said anything — least of all to her — she had figured out that he was running some high level illegal business, almost certainly smuggling, and probably drugs.
But by the time she’d realised she was sure of this, they were already in Colombia, at his lovely house, and she’d simply decided not to know — and certainly not to ask any questions. There was nothing she could do about it anyway, was there?
And after all, she had bought and used plenty of cocaine in the last year or so, along with all her friends, hadn’t she? So she couldn’t exactly disapprove now, could she? Anyway, it sort of made her feel cool, and sexy, and a little bit excited, to have a boyfriend who was a rich drug smuggler (although she felt a tad brave, calling him her boyfriend. She hadn’t actually used the word out loud, yet).
Cameron was sweet to her, mostly, and he was very handsome, and very, very rich, and really very generous, too — particularly with pretty clothes, make-up, shoes, perfume.
He’d been less helpful when she’d started to talk about the money she owed her landlord, and she’d decided to shut up and change the subject, before he got irritated. Mostly, he was sweet, but if he got irritated it got quite frightening very quickly, so she had got the hang of stopping dead when he got that bored look, and either saying nothing at all, or, if they were alone and it seemed right, she’d lift her skirts for him, showing him her newly trimmed pubes — done just the way he liked them by the beauty salon in Barranquilla.
They’d known exactly how he’d like her hair and make-up too — they’d been very helpful, although she’d got the creeps about it, just a little. How many other girls? She squared her shoulders and set her jaw. Well of course, he’d had lots of girls. She … she’d just have to show him that he wouldn’t need them any more. Not now he had her.
He liked her to do this — to show him that she’d taken seriously his throwaway line that he’d like it best if he knew she was always naked under her skirts (he didn’t like her in trousers — short skirts only) — that her pussy was there for him.
And, truthfully, she rather liked it, too — felt as if they really shared something private. After all, it had been her who had flashed her panties at him in the nightclub in Tijuana, hadn’t it? Not a real flash, of course, just an ‘accident on purpose’ as she danced in front of him (she’d spent ten minutes working her way through the crowd to be there). So lifting her skirt was reminding them both of how they’d met. It was sort of sweet. And sort of sexy, too.
Because sex with Cameron was great. He was so — unrestrained. He just did whatever he felt like. He’d told her about it — his philosophy. It was a bit weird, and she’d stopped really listening after a bit, but it was something like he didn’t really know if anyone but him was real, and so the only sensible thing for him to do was to maximise his pleasure, his happiness — because he knew he was real.
She guessed that was why he was totally shameless about saying things like; ‘Lick my asshole. Get your tongue real wet and lick it, all soft an’ loving”. She went pink just thinking about him saying that — how could he have said it to her — really a very good girl (until this last year, anyway) — only a day after they had met? She went even pinker at the knowledge that she had done it. That she had done it and got a dirty thrill from it.
God, but he was dirty. And strong, too. Spent at least a couple of hours a day in the gym. She’d watched him a few times, and got quite hot and bothered.
She got even more hot and bothered when he used his strength on her in bed. She’d never had a boyfriend (that word again — it made a little hollow feeling in her belly; she …she really, really hoped he was her boyfriend; but she still wasn’t quite sure) who would just force her into the position he wanted her in, and … simply drive right into her … slow and powerful and relentless and… god but she liked it. Even when it hurt, it turned her on sooo goddamn much, made her wriggle and quiver and give out these sexy little cries — like no sound she’d ever made before.
She’d sort of got lost in these thoughts, and felt her cheeks a little hot as she shook herself and looked at Cameron. He’s said something to her, but she hadn’t really …
Oh. Oh. He was looking irritated. He’d turned away again, was saying something to the Colonel — maybe she’d embarrassed him in front of the older man — who she knew was someone Cameron wanted to impress.
He’d been very fussy about what she wore this morning, and stopped at the beauty salon for them to do her makeup, shave her pubes again, do her hair. They’d applied some sort of henna to her nipples and labia as well, turning them a darker red. She liked the look — very sexy, but was glad of the pretty little shawl he’d let her wear over the low-cut blouse — it was almost see-through! She’d protested, laughing, and he’d thrown her the pretty scrap — without it the darkened nipples showed through very strongly.
She’d flashed them at Cameron in the back of the limo, laughing as he grasped her breasts and, refusing to kiss him, wanting to keep her make-up neat, she’d had to let him kiss and then bite her breasts, her nipples. He liked to do it hard enough to leave pink marks of his strong, even teeth, and this time he really hurt her. She’d squealed and jerked, but he’d held her tight and carried on for a second or two, biting harder — enforcing his pleasure. Reminding her that that was all that mattered to him. She’d had to force herself to laugh at this, but she knew he saw the pain in her eyes, and she saw that he was interested in it — and not in the least sorry, or abashed. She’d wrapped the shawl around herself then, and looked out of the window.
He was turning back to her now, his smile a little false, and she scrabbled to replay the vague noises she had registered, not wanting him to have to repeat himself, not wanting to irritate him further, smiling as prettily as she could, both at Cameron and at the Colonel, who seemed to be looking at her (although with those heavy dark sunglasses, who could tell?) and perhaps smiling a little, showing his nasty snaggle teeth. What an ugly old man. She didn’t like anything at all about him — well except for this huge villa.
And then she realised what Cameron had said;
“The Colonel would like to see you without the shawl; he wants to see if he’d like to keep you tonight.”
Cameron’s eyes were hard and glittering; he was tense — frightened, even. But also, she saw, there was the same interested look he’d had when he’d hurt her breast.
She could feel herself beginning to hyperventilate, and automatically tried to control her breathing — she had suffered from panic attacks in her teens, and, no matter what happened, she knew it would be worse if she was out of control.
But she was certainly not in control, as the Colonel nodded, and someone very strong her took her arms by the elbows and held them behind her back, and Cameron — who she suddenly realised had never been her boyfriend; not even close — softly, steadily tugged the shawl from her shoulders.
She had a vision, clear as day, of what was going to happen to her now, and couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t bear the knowledge that dawns on her, that she is not going to be brave enough to fight; that in a minute, as soon as she can control this panic, she’s going to do her best to smile, and then do whatever it takes to keep this Colonel from doing whatever the man who is not her boyfriend is so frightened of; which will probably mean that she will be kept here — and will have to do more…
Turning her face away, she fought to suppress the panic, breathing heavily through parted lips.
Her breasts shook with suppressed emotion, the darkened nipples jiggling — enticing against the sheer white fabric of the blouse.
The Colonel’s smile became an ugly, greedy grin.
The Last Vestige
Pride.
Pride she was all she had left.
But pride in what? Pride in having no pride; that’s all she had.
Pride in displaying herself so carefully, so perfectly, for this stranger, because the man her lover gave her to, more than a year ago now, has asked her to; ordered her to. Comes to the same thing — another part of her ridiculous, pathetic version of pride is that she takes his slightest request as a personal duty.
He says he’s selling her. To this stranger, or another, if this one doesn’t want her, or won’t pay enough.
Last night, it occurred to her, for the first time in a while, she realises, that she could walk away.
Just walk away. That the conditions of his ownership of her are, essentially, meaningless.
Meaningless without her pride. Her pride that she has never failed to honour her lover. Even though, as it turns out, he didn’t love her. But she had given herself to him, after long consideration and, in the end, with total willingness, even knowing, as she did, that he would abuse her.
She had born the abuse; had, as far as she could, learned to accept abuse as something that validated her, even while she knew that this was a dark path she was letting him lead her down, she had embraced that path. Again with pride.
Pride which has sustained her for a year with this man, the man whom her lover sold her to, the man she chose to accept as her owner, whom she honours as her owner, with her body, and, as far as she can, with her mind, but whom she does not love, or even like, with whom every orgasm she has is corrosive, degrading, shameful. Who has seen this in her, and has her masturbate for him, and for his friends, to see it in her eyes.
And last night, she had finally seen that her pride was not true pride, not any more, at least.
It was not pride, but simply a cover for fear.
She was now more frightened of having to be her own person, of having to take responsibility for her place in the world, for the consequences of her own decisions, than she was of becoming the plaything of a stranger, about whom she knows nothing except that he can conceive of owning a young woman as a slave, who feels the need to own a young woman in order to fulfil his sexual urges.
And she had cried then, softly, helplessly, cried for her old self, cried at her new reality. The reality that denied her all pride, the reality that she would always be a slave; that there was nothing for her in the real world anymore; because she was too full of fear to face it. And she cried herself to sleep.
But now, here, presenting herself so precisely, after hours spent preparing her body, she suddenly knows that she can let go of pride, that she can let it be the fear she feels that makes sense of things; she can let it be fear of the world that gives her the need to present herself as enticingly as possible, within the narrow range permitted her. And with this truth, she loses her regret, and accepts. Accepts everything; her lover’s betrayal, her owner’s hardness, this stranger’s blunt, invasive fingers in her mouth, at her breasts, in her sex, in her ass.
Because, she realises, she is grateful; profoundly grateful that these men are happy to control her, to take the decisions, to save her from the fear. All that fake pride, she realises, was stopping her from understanding, and she is flooded with soft, eager gratitude.
And she trembles.
The change in her is noticeable. She is somehow prettier, her perfect posing seems natural, somehow, rather than strained. Her submission is sexier.
The man who considers that he owns her laughs inwardly, a little bitter. The bitch was never this enticing for him — she must really want to move on! He reacts;
“I want you to see how she takes punishment” — and his crop lashes into her breasts.
Up until this point, he’d avoided punishing her in front of the buyer — thrashing her has never been fully satisfying; there’s a stiffness about her that has never seemed right, although he could never explain it to himself. He didn’t want the buyer to see this stiffness, and had avoided formal punishments; but now his anger gets the better of him.
Except that in this, too, she has changed. Again, nothing he could put into words, but the softness in her little cry of pain, the pretty way she restrains herself from flinching, the quivering of her hands, held limp at her knees, the way her eyelashes flutter, jewelled with tears — all are perfect, His cock hardens, and he lashes her again. And again.
The buyer, too is impressed. Last night, this one had lacked quality, lacked character somehow. But this morning she is a different girl. He too is suddenly hard.
“Enough! I want to use her mouth.”
This too is a revelation to her. She has had pride in her skill with her mouth, her willingness to suffer to take men deep, but her new found weakness, her final submission to her fear, her gratitude at being so utterly possessed helps her, at last, to fully give herself over to the thrusting cock and to his controlling hands, hers expressively passive, behind her back, carefully limp. It occurs to her that death is no longer to be feared, really — it would be freedom from fear, and her usual panic about being able to breathe subsides, so that even as her throat automatically convulses, she is using her tongue and lips to serve the invader’s pleasure, leaning into him a little, adding her own pressure to the force of his hands, happily, sweetly, giving herself to him, this stranger, this man who considers her as a nothing more than a body, collection of fuckholes to be bought and sold.
He pulls back, jerking his seed into her mouth, forcing it through her nose, so that she snorts and gags helplessly, tears streaming, adding to the mascara trails on her cheeks. But there is no hesitation when he pushes his sticky cock at her; she licks and kisses him clean with all apparent tenderness, even though her shoulders are shaking and the tears keep falling.
Inflamed, her owner roughly tips her forward and forces his engorged cock, first into her sopping sex, then, forcefully, into her rear passage. Again, her posture is perfect, face on the floor, ass high, knees splayed, hands palm upward, flat on the floor as he drives into her, moaning softly; her weakness, her submission, her helplessness, striking him more deeply than ever before, so that he too has a powerful orgasm, deep in her belly, shouting wordlessly.
Her attention to the cleaning of his member is even more prettily servile and thorough than her attentions to the stranger; she is conscious of having failed to give this man what he deserves, what she owed him, for all their time together. She has never, not once, been grateful for his ownership, not until now, and she does what is permitted to express this in her attentions, not forgetting to open her thighs so that the stranger’s view is properly served.
When the negotiations open, the stranger intervenes. He has a policy of never discussing terms in front of the goods, he says. She should be placed in her travelling case. That way, whichever way it went, she’d be ready to be loaded. He points out that this method has the added factor that the slave won’t know until the case is opened again what her fate is.
With a bitter laugh, her owner accepts.
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