Replaced and upgraded most of the pictures here— and added a new one. Original pictures remain— all wrapped up in discreet drop-downs. Plus some text refinements and additions.
The holiday
Original picture: Chloe Dainty, helpless sex slave
Somehow it had all just happened. Each step along the way had made sense at the time, even though the end result was so far beyond madness that it was almost unbearable to think about.
It was so much better, now, though; now that she had made the breakthrough.
The breakthrough which meant her life was over. That Chloe Dainty’s life was, truly over. The breakthrough which had allowed herself to become, truly, completely, a sex-slave. A body for use. A body that wanted to be used, that offered itself to all-comers, offered itself for abuse, with pleasure, seeking the catharsis of unbridled violent sexual usage.
Eight months ago, she had been a student hoping to have fun at a weekend music festival.
She’d met a cool guy, who had been fun, had known people, and had money. He was some sort of drug dealer, maybe. But he was still cool. She was impressed, and her friends were jealous.
AI picture: At the Festival
Original picture: At the Festival
He’d invited her to go on holiday with him; sort of a business trip, actually, but it’ll be cool.
“But I’ve got my exams!”
“You can take exams anytime, You’ll never get to have a holiday where I’m taking you, unless you cme with me, now.”
And she’d laughed, and he’d got a tame doctor to write her a letter to send to the college, and they were away; first class flights, good hotels, her own amex card to buy clothes.
He liked to fondle her in public, liked her to dress in skimpy clothes. She was always fending him off, giggling. But the sex was good, and she was having a great time.
The resort was incredible, everything laid on, right on the most beautiful white sand beach, lovely music, gorgeous food, boat trips, swimming, other cool guys.
Original picture: The cabana
She’d asked him why there were so few older women— most of the women she saw were young girls, like herself, permanently in bikinis, sometimes topless, occasionally naked.
Original picture: Bikini babe sex slaves
“Yeah, yeah”, he’d said; “The older women, they’re narco bosses— not many women in that category; the bosses wives don’t come here. The younger ones are mainly sex slaves.”
“What? Slaves!”
He’d had the grace to look a little embarrassed.
“Yeah; I mean … the narcos … these American girls get in trouble, or their boyfriends do, and … well, it just works that way. They don’t look too unhappy, do they?”
And in fact they didn’t, mostly. Although she saw some shocking scenes, and heard evidence of more, the girls always reappeared, smiling, laughing.
She had to ask;
“You’ve been here before, right?”
He can see it coming, but he is grinning at her, cool as ever; “Yeah. A few times, like I said.”
“You didn’t bring a girl then?”
“Like I said, no; you’re the first. The only one I’ve ever brought here. Never met a girl as cool as you before. I told you.”
It was hard to make herself say it without sounding stressy, but she did her best;
“So, you, single, here; all these gorgeous sex slaves … you fucked them right? You fucked girls who are kept as slaves? Girls who have no right to say ‘no’?”
Again, he was honest with her, let her see that he was ashamed, at least a little…
“Well … yeah. Yes. Yes I have fucked a girl who … who had no right to say no. More … more than one.”
“And … ” she was finding it hard, now, but she had to go through with this— and she believed that he wanted her to, that he wanted to get it off his chest— and it helped her continue, because … because she liked him, wanted to carry on liking him; and so she pushed; “… and did any of them say no to you? Did you … have … have you … raped … have you raped a girl— a young, innocent girl, kept as a sex-slave— who really, really didn’t want you to fuck her? Have you?”
He was really blushing now; his cool gone, and it took him a while to answer— which meant, of course, that she knew he was going to say it;
“Yes. Yes, I have. I … I had no choice. It … it’s sort of a test— to come here. If … if you won’t rape a girl— one who is really hating it, fighting you off— then … then they don’t trust you. And that … well … that would be bad; very bad. Because they don’t turn guys like me into sex slaves.”
He tries for a cool grin, but ends up looking a bit sick;
“They just put a couple of bullets up through your chin and into the old brainbox.”
“So … so you’ve done that?”
“Yes.”
Her breathing is ragged, now, but she cannot stop, has to take it through, for her own sake, because, sick as it is, she already knows that if he will be honest, she’s going to do something sick herself; she’s going to make herself forgive him. So that she can stay here. Which will make her complicit, too.
But at least there is a test that she can tell herself means something good about him. so that she doesn’t have to go home.
Or worse, find out that she will not be allowed to go home. She doesn’t even let that thought get any oxygen; she can’t think it.
“And … and did … Did you like it? Raping a poor girl whose only crime was that her boyfriend was an idiot? A criminal idiot? Raping her while these narco types watched, I’m guessing? did you enjoy that? Did you come? Was it a good one?”
He is resolute, now; the worst is past for him it seems;
“Yes. Yes, I did enjoy it. I enjoyed knocking her down, pushing her face down in the sand and doing it. And I did come. Yes. Fast and hard.”
“Am I proud of it? No. No I’m not. But that’s the best I can tell you. That’s me, babe. I’m a rapist and a drug-dealer. That’s who I am. That’s this island. That’s how come we get this lush cabana, the free food, the free drinks, incredible beaches. That’s how this works. What can I say?”
She’s weird and quiet with him for the rest of the day, and sleeps on the couch that night. But she wakes up early, and goes to stand on the balcony, feeling it happening inside her; acceptance. She wanted this. This equalled that. And so she had to accept that. There was a little, odd feeling, too. He— her cool boyfriend, was a hard man. A bastard. Capable of rape, to prove a point. He would look after her. She liked that, too.
And, like that, feeling uncomfortable, but making herself ignore it, she accepted it.
So that she could stay and have fun and be rich. She wasn’t going back to college. Not now.
I’m a narco’s girlfriend. I like being his girlfriend. So, this is how it has to be.
AI picture: Chloe in the Cabana
Original picture: Chloe in the Cabana
She went into the bedroom, then, where he was still asleep, and crawled under the bedclothes, and gently, so very gently, took his cock into her mouth; all the way in, suckling it as it stiffened, making herself go further with a blowjob than she had ever imagined doing. Competing, she realised, with a quiver in her belly— competing with sex-slaves.
And that was it; they were tighter than ever, after that, and she learned not to think about the bikini, girls except as silly airhead fools, who deserved their fate…
And then, a few weeks later, men crash into their cabana early in the morning and shoot him twice in the head. It’s over in seconds, then weirdly quiet. Blood everywhere.
Death is a choice
She’s naked; frozen, for what seems like the longest time, then, all of a sudden, she’s screaming. Screaming like a mad-woman; screaming as loud and as piercingly as she can, thrashing her body around, violently. There is no logic, no thinking, no plan; just a screaming thing.
One of the men slaps her until she shuts up, puts a hand in her hair and yanks her upright, seemingly without effort, appraising her. She’s hyperventilating, but thinking now.
Thinking about being alive. About staying alive.
They drag her to their beach car and drive off. She’s still naked. One of them bites her breast, hard, laughing, forces a hand between her legs, rough. She’s working hard not to become completely hysterical— not to lose her self-control. She doesn’t want to die.
She is dragged into a large office, with famous art on the walls, draped on her back over a table, her arms and legs splayed apart, head dangling over the edge. She’s told;
“Don’mov.”
And then nothing happens for ten minutes. After a while she gives up trying to keep her head up— her neck muscles scream. She lets it fall back, trying not to remember rough blow-job scenes from pornos.
I’m going to be raped, she tells herself, knowing that she has to accept rape, strangers pushing their cocks into her pussy, enjoying hurting her; that she has to not piss her rapists off if she is not to be killed out-of-hand; trying to accustom herself to the impossible reality that she is going to be raped, that her man has just been executed in her bed, right next to her. That, far from protecting her, he had done something stupid, so that he was gone and she was here, about to be raped, or possibly killed. That death is a half-second away. That death is a choice. She can piss them off and get killed, if she would prefer that to being raped.
I want to live. I’m going to be raped.
Someone comes in; rapid Spanish, perhaps angry? She can’t tell.
She is yanked upright by her wrist and dragged to another room, where a tiny old lady, bored but smiling, gives her a skimpy white cheese-cloth beach dress and some high-heeled espadrilles a size too small.
She is taken back to the office. This time she is respectfully offered a chair in front of the big desk and a glass of water, terribly welcome.
She remembers the man who walks in and settles himself— she’s had lunch with him and— she winces— her dead boyfriend— a few times.
He’s 40-ish, handsome in a brutal way; thickset. His english is excellent, spoken with absolute conviction in a slow and steady gravel voice. She listens as carefully as she can. She’s in shock, she remembers telling herself.
AI picture: The narco boss
“Miss Dainty.”
He’s waving a passport— presumably hers; why he knows her name. He has her passport!
“My apologies for your treatment before— my men. And after your distressing awakening, as well. It was required, but no doubt frightening.”
“I have no wish to cause a lovely young girl like yourself any unnecessary anxiety, but you will see that we have a difficult situation here. It will be hard for you, I am afraid to say.”
“Simply— directly; I am a direct man— you have a choice. You can become my sex-slave— my possession— or die like your silly boyfriend. The reason for this choice is this. If you are dead, I cannot try you as a sex slave; if I try you as a sex slave, and you are unsatisfactory, I can always kill you if I choose. In any case, this— “ he waves the passport— “is over. You have died with your boyfriend in the fire at a cabana on the other side of the island. A tragedy. You understand?”
It all makes perfect sense to her. A steel trap; impersonal, almost. Just a rational outcome.
She realises, in a moment of clarity, that ever since she had learned the other girls were slaves, she had known, somewhere inside her, that this would be her fate, too. That this has been inevitable since she chose to stay. Just that she had never allowed herself to confront the thought. The reality.
He is waiting. He expects her to choose.
Choose life as a sex-slave or death.
Now. An impossible choice, which must be made, immediately. Or there will be an end to choices; her skull smashed out at the back like the one in her bed, just minutes ago, the brain leaking out.
She is almost calm. That’s a lie— she is quivering with fear. But she manages to seem calm as she does the hardest thing she has ever done in her life. Actually, she realises, the only real thing she has ever done in her little life. The only thing she has ever really done, is to end her life. In order to live.
All these crazy philosophical thoughts, racing in her mind, in the few seconds she dares before answering;
AI picture: Facing reality
Original picture: Facing reality
“I … I’d like to live, please.”
“Very well. Perhaps you will remove your clothes, now. You will be whipped and raped by many men, of course, for a week or two. You must be broken. But you were at university, no? You can use a computer?“
“Yes, yes, I can.”
“Good, then I will try you myself once your training is done. I need clever slaves.”
A hard bargain, but a bargain,
The training had been hard; terribly hard. But somehow, she had understood it. Somehow it made sense, in a crazy way. She had hooked up with a drug dealer, he had done something stupid. Her life was forfeit— all of these things were obvious; in every newspaper report, TV documentary, book about narcos, every TV series, every film, this sort of story was told. she had herself accepted that her boyfriend had raped a girl— a girl like her— just to prove himself. She had told herself that was good for her, that he had done that. Stupid girl.
To have the chance to live was wonderful. It could not be a surprise that there was a price to pay.
She understood, now, how those bikini girls could manage to be sex slaves and at the same time be happy. They were alive, weren’t they? And, like her, they had already made some sort of deal that traded willing sex with a greedy man for a life without responsibility.
And this was how it had ended.
Chloe, coming to terms
She had to open her legs— immediately, and with a sweet smile, when a man wanted her; had to open her mouth too— and her ass, it turned out, on the same basis.
This was hard, yes, shaming, yes, degrading, yes, but it was a fair price, and she paid it willingly— and was considered a great success by the crude, brutal men whose job it was to break girls like her in. She paid attention, asked them what they wanted, until she learned— the hard way— that it was better to get good at guessing what they wanted— and that once she had guessed, she had simply to give it to them— give it to them the way they liked it, whatever it was, however degrading, or painful, or frightening. If she guessed wrong, she would suffer terribly.
Original picture: Chloe, in training
Again, it was quickly clear that to be good at guessing just how each of them liked her to take it in each of her holes was worth learning. So, eager to stay alive, to avoid the worst of the whip, she had applied herself to learning, how to offer the hole they wanted, saving her sorrow, her crying, her shame, her despair for the nights, since she had seen how angry and violent they got with weepy, moaning girls.
She did her absolute best to please them, to take their cocks, take their invading hands, tongues, beer bottles, gun barrels, whatever— two roman candle fireworks, one time, one in her pussy and one in her asshole, on her back, legs over her shoulders, three other girls the same (a birthday party treat for a big boss)— she had to allow herself to be fucked, any way they liked. Take the whip, too, when she had to, and do her best to move under it in such a way that they might be reminded how tight her asshole was, how cleverly she wriggled when she was fucked there, how soft and exciting were her little cries of pain and shame.
New AI picture: Chloe, whip training
The fact that she found it easy to rationalise and thus accept their use of her as their right— the price of her life— made all this possible.
And so, hard as it was, she came through it both as a highly rated slave whore, and at the same time relatively unscarred— mentally or physically.
New picture: Chloe the slave, giving head
She became good at guessing, and good at giving herself, too. She survived.
And so, now she, Chloe Dainty, is a favoured slave of a feared drug baron. She spends a few hours each day working on spreadsheets she doesn’t understand. But mostly, she is a naked whore.
As a favoured slave, she does not get to lie around the pool in a bikini all day, gossiping and giggling with the other girls. She is always available, close to him.
AI picture: slave Chloe
Original picture: slave Chloe
Over time, her initial acceptance has translated into a change in her, so that her reaction to the cruel requirements of slavery has been to become sweetness itself. Somehow, whenever she is permitted to have the slightest initiative, she finds it natural simply to offer herself totally to the service of whatever is demanded of her, whether it is taking big cocks into her throat, offering herself to multiple cocks, holding herself as prettily as can be expected to take the whip. It is how life is, now, and she wants to please.
It’s not that she has become wanton— she is indeed ridiculously shy, for a girl who is almost always naked and surrounded by rough men. She is often blushing, sometimes weeping as she is violated, terrified of the whip. But this never turns into resistance— her thighs are always spread; if a hand invades her sex, she opens herself for its wanderings without hesitation.
Original picture: Deep throat on her knees
Consequently she is much in demand, and her owner often lends her out— either to his men, or to other men he has dealings with.
The end of Chloe Dainty
Today, on her knees, chained, serving the cock of some American in front of his appreciative crew, she notices something new.
A feeling of rightness. Complete acceptance. It’s been building inside her, but she had never given it a name.
But now, right now, faced with the prospect of these six men violating her for the next hour or two, she suddenly realises that she can’t think of anything else she wants.
Its no longer a case of this being the price she has paid to be allowed to live, but has instead become her reason for existing.
She is here because her owner wants her to be, offering herself as prettily as she can for these men who will hurt her. What else could there be for her?
Original picture: Serving the American
Even the question has ceased to make sense. She can’t answer it; can’t imagine an alternative now, except death.
Nothing else in her life has ever been as real, as intense, as engaging as this. As being used like this, every day, forever. If she is anything, if she has ever had any purpose, it is to be this … thing.
This eager, helpless, vulnerable, despairing thing.
Upgraded original picture: Chloe, fucked
She melts inside.
That day, for the first time, she orgasms willingly. This resistance to her own pleasure has been her only resistance to date, her only attempt at control.
Of course, orgasms have been forced from her— it is a principal entertainment for some types of men— but it has always been hard work for all concerned. Her willingness in other areas has diverted them.
But from this moment onwards, two things change; first, most noticeably, she begins to orgasm.
Often, helplessly, devastatingly, shaking, moaning, wailing, begging. Each climax is accompanied by tears, obvious distress, occasionally despair, pathetic expressions of gratitude.
Because each is a public acknowledgement of the totality of her submission— of the impossibility of her ever having any life other than this, of her even being able to imagine any other life than this, ever.
The second may seem a small thing, perhaps— although it is enormous to her— she begins to smile.
Just small, soft, sad smiles, reserved for the men who look into her eyes, who want to see what is in the eyes of a girl who is such a sweet, compliant slave. And so she smiles for them— lets them see just how it is to be so lost, so helplessly captured, so radically open to abuse, so willing to open herself to cruelty.
And of course such smiles invite just that type of knowing cruelty that most affects her.
It is one of these men who suggests to her owner that he should have her barcoded, and also fitted with an rfid tag as the cattle are, to make her status permanent, obvious and verifiable.
AI picture: slave Chloe on the table
Original picture upgraded: slave Chloe on the table
She is in the room at the time, naked, collared and leashed, on hands and knees on the large table, his fingers idly between her sex lips.
Her master grunts, thoughtfully, approvingly.
There is a little silence— everyone in the room knows that this is now an inevitability.
Picture upgrade: Chloe, barcode tattoo
Tears come to her eyes, glisten in her lashes, as she smiles brokenly and leans forward a little, opening herself to his probing fingers, offering her breasts to the guest, silently mouthing ‘thank you’, her langorous tongue promising more substantial offerings - as she knows a perfect slave-girl would do at this point, even as a tear hangs on her cheek.
She has understood for some time that there is no bottom, no happy end; but she has resolved to do all she can to make the journey towards the horror that surely awaits her as sweet as possible, which means not resisting, but rather leaning in, with a smile, to each further step down into degradation.
