Somehow…

Somehow

Somehow it had all just happened. Each step along the way made sense at the time.

Six months ago, she had been a student having 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. 

He’d invited her on holiday.

“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.

She’d asked him why there were few older women— mostly young girls, like herself, permanently in bikinis, sometimes topless, occasionally naked.

“Yeah, yeah”, he’d said; “The older women, they’re narco bosses, or narco bosses’ wives. The young 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 decides she likes this life.

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.

She’s naked, suddenly screaming.

One of the men slaps her until she shuts up, puts a hand in her hair and lifts her up, appraising her. She’s hyperventilating.

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 rememberrough blow-job scenes from pornos.

Someone comes in; rapid Spanish, perhaps angry? She can’t tell. 

She is lifted and taken to another room, where a tiny old lady, bored but smiling, gives her a skimpy white cotton 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, 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.

“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 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 for three weeks or so. Just that she had never allowed herself to confront the thought. The reality.

She is almost calm. That’s a lie— she is quivering with fear. But she manages to seem calm as she says;

“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.”

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, these sorts of stories were told. So the chance to live was wonderful. And of course, it was not 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.

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.

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, 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, gun barrels, whatever, and allow herself to be fucked. 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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 instead it has 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 which was more appropriate for her?

Even the question has ceased to make sense.

Nothing else in her life has ever been as real, as intense, as engaging as this. If she is anything, if she has ever had any purpose, it is to be this … thing. 

This eager, helpless, vulnerable, despairing thing.

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.

She is in the room at the time, naked, hands cuffed high behind her back, on elbows and knees on the large desk, 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. 

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.