The original of this appeared in a tumblr blog — it has been revised and extended several times.
Tell Them: a tale from the Clubhouse lounge
Without raising her eyes above the level of his knees, the girl turned her head toward our host. She was obviously twitchy.
“Tell them — tell them how you became a sex slave. Tell them how it was for you. Look up.”
She shuddered, as if an electrical shock had passed through her.
Naked, on her knees, she slowly raised her head, blushing a little. Her lips trembled a little, she opened her mouth, but no sound came out.
At last, after clearing her throat, she spoke, breathy, nervous, but clear enough.
“Ah hahmm… I … I’m sorry. I … I haven’t been permitted to speak for three weeks. Aah…”
“Stop! “
He pressed a button on a remote.
“I think this may go on a little — we’ll get a drink. But first, it seems as if she could do with a livening up. Ah, Jenkins”
To the man-servant;
“Give Miss Farthing here six or so on the rear — just over a chair or something. Hard mind! Then you and she can serve drinks.”
The girl blinked and went a little pale, but she maintained her position — save that her head had dropped.
She allowed Jenkins to lead her to the sofa, and leant down, hands on the back, up on tip-toes, legs apart, moving elegantly, prettily, obviously wanting to have us think about fucking her, yet without the slightest hint of stripper brazenness. She was breathing a little heavily, but counted out the strokes in a clear, if agonised voice, emitting only soft, sad cries as each blow landed. Her small breasts shook.
When the manservant indicated that he had finished, she took his offered hand and allowed him to help her stand and turn her, lean her forward so that her master could see her bottom, quickly reddening.
When he put his hand to her, not gently, but grabbing her buttock, moulding it roughly, she flinched and gasped a little, but at the same time bent herself over further, arching her back, moved her feet apart a little to invite and allow what came next, as he grasped her sex, obviously pushing a couple or more fingers into her, pushed his thumb against her tight little rosebud, and jerked at her, rather roughly. She jiggled and mewled softly, but held her position, her cheeks and the tips of her nipples flushing a deep red, shamed little gasps coming from her as he worked her until she moaned, sounding desperate and humiliated, at which point he laughed, satisfied, and waved the man-servant on.
Then, in nothing but her collar, cuffs, her high heels and pretty little corselette, firm little breasts jiggling, tear stains on her cheeks, she demurely served us drinks, obviously deeply affected by having been punished so casually and manipulated so thoroughly in front of strangers, but still carefully displaying her body to advantage. I became more intrigued as this went on — she was clearly fully enmeshed in the idea of herself as a service girl — had drunk deeply of the kool-aid, as the saying goes.
When she was again kneeling on the low table, he indicated that she should begin, and by this time she was more composed.
“I … I came here as a guest. M-Master was … “
She was nervous, her eyes flickering; her voice dropped;
“…was my boyfriend’s father. Our mothers were friends. T-Taylor’s mother is divorced … she … she doesn’t like Master. She told me … lots of things about the girls he keeps. She and my mother were — are — very against all that sort of thing. And … and so was I.”
“So when Taylor suggested I come to stay, I said no at first, but then I said yes. I … I wanted to see for myself, and I thought I might … “
Her voice became a whisper;
“I thought I might tell Master he was wrong.”
She ended with a frightened little giggle — frightened at what she had just said, incredulous at the memory.
“One evening, Taylor was off somewhere. I … I started an argument with … with Master. Told him that I thought it was immoral to keep slaves, and … and disgusting to keep girls for sex.”
She was breathing deeply, her chest rising and falling — her voice full of emotion. Clearly, reliving this was traumatic for her. It was certainly entertaining for us.
“I had thought he would shout, but he was polite — more polite than I deserved, really, and he seemed interested — asked me to explain, give him more detail. I … I had very little, I realised — just lots of lines from my mother and her friends.”
“He told me lots of history — of slavery, of sexual social practices. Agreed with me. Told me that his girls weren’t slaves, but live-in whores. Explained the indenture system. Reminded me that I was one of the Elite — that I had never known poverty or lack of access to anything. Called one of the girls in, had her explain how she had come to be here.”†
“He told me I could think what I liked, but that he rejected my judgement of him or the girls, as I simply knew nothing about the situation.”
“I … I was feeling very silly, very out of my depth, and … and I shocked myself by becoming strongly aroused. I know now that Master saw this, but I told myself he couldn’t at the time.”
“I … I tried to cover up by getting loud. I shouted, told him he was wrong and bad, and then he said it. He said he would pay a lot of money to some women’s shelter for abused girls that I had been shouting about if I would sign a week’s indenture. Be his for a week. On some much reduced set of duties — I could say which.”
“It stopped me in my tracks. It was nothing I expected to hear. And … and the first thing that came into my head was that I wanted to have sex with him. Have him fuck me. That he wouldn’t take me as a slave girl if he didn’t want to fuck me, would he? I wanted him to want me as a slave girl. I was going crazy.”
“I couldn’t handle it. I screamed and walked out.”
“That night Taylor didn’t come back. He called to tell me and I realised he was with another girl from college. I screamed some more, and cried and cried. After an hour I suddenly stopped, spent another hour making myself look pretty, walked into Master’s study and said yes.”
“He smiled at me, very calm, and gave me a copy of his standard contract. I had better read it first, he said. I should write down what I wouldn’t do, what he couldn’t do to me. He was so calm, as if he didn’t care — as if he thought I wouldn’t go through with it, and wasn’t interested either way.”
“At that point, I nearly backed out. I knew I should have. I knew it was stupid. But I had decided I would have sex with Master, just to show Taylor. So I wrote lots — no physical punishment, no public anything, no telling anyone, no tattoos or anything, I would use a pseudonym in the contract — all sorts. Most importantly, he couldn’t sell me.”
“So he explained to me that it had to be a legal contract, that it had to be my real name — that it had to be publicly registered — for my protection — specifically to stop slavery for real, he said. He agreed to everything else — added some more restrictions even.”
“He … Master … was … charming. So … so kind; understanding about Taylor; calm and making little jokes. All the time I was getting more and more … hot. Wanting sex, sex with him.”
“And so … … I … I signed.”
“Then he said it needed a witness. Staff wouldn’t do. We would have to go to a friend’s house. I squawked — no! It had to be someone who wouldn’t know me.”
“In the end we got in the car and went to a drive-in restaurant. He got one of the waitresses to sign my contract. She looked at me really weirdly, and I nearly died of shame.”
“Now … now I was a slave girl. I … I was quivering with sexual tension. I was sure I was about to have the best sex of my life, or possibly be spanked; instead I was sent to bed.”
“The next week was … so strange. It drove me crazy. Basically, I was on a tight regime; woken, made to dress in really sexy tiny outfits, taken to see Master or Jenkin, made to strip, tied down, then licked by two girls for over an hour, until I was crazy to come, but never allowed to, then dressed, taken for food, showered, short sleep, then the same again. A repeat of that for seven days. My hands were always locked if I was on my own — no chance to bring myself off.”
“By the end I was begging Master to fuck me. Begging.”
“He didn’t though — no-one did. Or hurt me, either. And then the week was over. He wrote the check to the shelter. I tried to be normal. Taylor was back, but I wasn’t speaking to him. I wore normal clothes, m … masturbated myself to a standstill, went for long walks. But I didn’t leave. My mother was asking me to come home, but I couldn’t.”
“Two days later, at dinner, I stood up halfway through, stripped off and went to kneel at Master’s side, put my head on his lap. I signed that night — for a whole year’s full indenture. I … I asked for the bit about not selling me to be included, and no plastic surgery, and he accepted that, but … most things were — are — in. His friend who came over to be a witness had me first; that was — hard. Then … then he gave me to Taylor for a week.”
She smiled a strange, desperate little smile for a second — evidently her week as a slave girl to her former boyfriend had been hard for her; but then her smile became bigger, brighter, and she looked almost smug;
“Then, Taylor was gone and Master started using me. And … and now I’m happy!”
There were tears in her eyes, but her smile was real. She risked a flicker of her eyes at her Master’s face - clearly so desperate to know that she had his approval that she was willing to risk punishment - Sir John was strict about the ‘no eye contact’ rule, he had told me.
“Sir John, may I ask some further questions?” I said.
“Please do,” he replied.
“Miss Farthing, tell me — are you often whipped? Are you treated with cruelty?”
She went pink, and her lips trembled before she answered;
“I … I am whipped quite often. M … mostly for Master’s pleasure. I’m quite … well behaved … so I don’t get punished much. Master … is … cruel, sometimes; yes. I … I am happy to suffer for his pleasure.”
“And by ‘well behaved’, do I understand that to mean that you are compliant with the sexual demands made of you in ways which please those who use you?”
She blushes at this, but nods;
“Yes, sir.” Not much more than a whisper.
”And are you ‘well behaved’ because you fear the whip, pretty, or because you are a born whore, or out of devotion to your Master?”
A silence, more blushes, a silly, breathy little giggle; sideways eyes at her Master, perhaps hoping that he might laugh the question off, let her off the hook. No comfort for her there, though — his face stayed straight, expecting her to answer, which she did at last, with another weak little giggle;
“All … all those are … probably — definitely … true. But … but as well, I … I’m desperate to perform well, because I want to be kept here — not sold on.”
“Sold-on? But I understood that your indenture doesn’t allow that?”
She smiled a little, sad smile;
“I … I’m not a lawyer. It … it seems that there are … many … ways to pass a girl on for money, without selling her. I could be sub-let, or rented, or contracted out, perfectly legally. But … for … for me, they would be the same as being sold.”
I took this picture of her then. Her expression was so soft, so sad, so sweet. I considered asking if I could take her to my room and use her, right then, but told myself I would have her as much as I pleased later, and continued.
“I see. Can you tell me why this fear of being sold on has such a powerful effect on you?”
“Because here, I may only be a slave girl, but I am Master’s girl. Sometimes 2nd, sometimes 3rd favourite, but still .. still His. If .. if I’m s-sold, I become just .. just another … another body with … with soft holes.”
She was trembling. I reached out to caress her nipples; smoothly, she lifted her shoulders and offered herself to me, softly, sweetly, leaning forwards a little to place her stiffening nipples fully into my grasp, without flinching, but letting me see at the same time how much she wished she did not have to. I pinched them anyway — hard; then even harder; twisted them savagely. Showing excellent sense, she looked up so that I could see the hurt I was causing her, submissively averting her eyes from mine. She held herself well, even as her body shook with the pain.
I let her go, and again, she held her posture well, not flinching away, making it clear that she was ready to be hurt again. Sir John’s reputation as an exemplary trainer is well deserved.
“So this fear of being sold hangs over your head every day, and motivates you to be the most satisfactory pussy you can be?”
“Yes. Yes Sir.”
“Even if visitors are tempted to use you very roughly, hurt you, you offer yourself without reserve, open yourself for the fucking like an eager slut? You’d let yourself be taken to orgasm if they should desire to see that?”
She knew, of course, that I was talking about myself, about how I planned to use her, later that evening, that I would be cruel, demanding; that I would want to humiliate her, demean her.
She smiled a small, brave, confirmatory smile, and carefully, helplessly let me see her sincerity, her weakness;
“Yes, sir, Thank you Sir. If … if Sir permits me, then … then of course, of course, Sir.”
“Good girl!”
“I have one other question, and it’s this — what do you look forward to — what do you want from the rest of your life?”
“My Master’s pleasure is all I can hope for.”
It was the conventional response, but then, interestingly, there was more;
“… and … and bigger breasts!”
“Didn’t you say earlier that you had asked for a no plastic surgery clause in your indenture?”
She smiled, sunny suddenly; eager;
“Yes, but even a slave can change her mind. There … there are three months left on my year, and … and I’m hoping Master will take me again and do my breasts exactly as he likes them.”
I had her that night, and again the next day, and found her delightfully responsive — to pleasure, cruelty and humiliation all three. She remained sweet throughout, and I complimented Sir John on her training and his skill in landing her.
Eight months later, I saw her on an auction website. Not only had he had her breasts ‘done’, but she had been multiply pierced and tattooed. According to the blurb, her achilles tendons had been shortened, fitted with titanium grommets and D rings, her thumbs had been removed, her labia artfully re-shaped and fitted with lacing rings and her jaw altered so that she could not fully close her mouth.
She had been barcoded and chipped, too, the codes placed in the public register. Her smile, in the photograph, was enticingly desperate, her eyes haunted. In one photo, her tongue had been linked to her lower lip by a short chain connecting the rings piercing each, so that she could not draw it back into her mouth.
There was a video, too, which showed her smoothly taking into her throat an enormous black rubber dildo, fully 12” long, her hands flippering weakly at her sides; she held herself onto it for fully a minute, despite the convulsions that racked her petite body, her nipples moving in taut little orbits, and then pulled off as smoothly as she had gone down. Her face tearstained, her mouth streaming with drool, she nevertheless managed a cute smile — a broken memory of the sweet one she had given me as I had said good-bye to her on the last morning at Sir John’s with a vigorous ass-fucking, she bent double, her face upturned as I ravaged her, knees beside her ears, panting with the pain but still moving cleverly for me, asking me in her soft voice; ‘Hurt me good, sir, please .. Please hurt me..’; her lips quivering, tears in her eyes, but still, smiling sweetly.
On the website, the owners’ log-book made it clear that she had signed a five year extensible indenture. Within a month, he’d sent her to Brazil for the modifications and deep training, kept her for only a couple of weeks after she’d been delivered back to him, then sold her on.
In the section marked for ‘use name’, it said; ‘Lush-body-with-soft-holes-83’.
I considered bidding — I still remembered those nights of feverish intensity with a thrill — something had been unleashed within me by her, and Sir John had encouraged me not to hold back — ‘Not in the slightest, dear boy — do as you will with her; to be perfectly honest I need to slim the stable down a bit — Taylor has brought me two more since this one, and I find it hard to resist them; they’re so fresh and innocent, these elite college girls, not to mention how terribly cute it is to see how surprised they are to discover that they’ve ended up as helpless, eager, frightened little slave-cunt — that their lives are over, their stupid little dreams ripped away from them. So if you should go too far and ruin the filly, it wouldn’t be the end of the world.‘
But in truth, I, too, had more on my hands than I could manage by then — still starting out in life, I had paid well beyond what I could truly afford on a stunner of a half-trained succubus whore redhead who was so gorgeous, and so clever, so sweet and so willing that at one point it seemed as if it might be she who was taming me.
Even after I had finally, deeply broken her (and that’s another story), I was still obsessed — it took using her terribly hard for six months, looking her in the eye all the time (I disagree with sir John on this point - always make my girls open up their souls to me, let me see just what is going on with them — on command of course), reminding her of how her pride had been humbled, making her do all sorts of silly, sad, demeaning little things to rub in just exactly how far down I had taken her, before I finally broke free of her lovely spell.
I sold her on, after that; she sobbed and cried and begged and told me she had fallen in love with me, that she would sign a twenty year peppercorn contract if only I would keep her with me; the video of that and the thrashing I gave her tits afterwards got a great deal of interest on the auction site, and she sold for an excellent price.
I thought of Miss Farthing then, and did some searches, wondering if I might try her again, but she had disappeared.
† The observant reader will have noticed that, despite the explanation given to Miss Farthing by Sir John at the outset that slavery is illegal, both girls and men use the term ‘slave’ freely throughout.
‘Indenture’ is a long and cumbersome word, and everyone knew that, to all intents and purposes, indentured girls were in reality, slaves.
Miss Farthing, despite having giving herself over voluntarily, knowing full well exactly what it meant, was — as a daughter of the elites — being allowed by Sir John to pretend to herself that she was not — quite — a debased sex slave, but simply working out her contract with him.
Allowing this silly self-deception made the experience all the more entertaining for Sir John when, immediately after she had signed again for five years, he had announced that he was going to subject her to ‘the full works’ as he called it, before selling her at auction.
She’d signed without restrictions — he’d insisted on this, and she had put up a token resistance only, sitting naked on his lap in the law ofice, his fingers deep in her sex, her legs spread wide, technically free but having just crawled back across the oak office floor after having taken the lawyer’s cock into her throat for a slow, sensuous blowjob — ‘My first as a free woman’, she’d joked, on her knees, his come dripping onto her tits, although there were also tears glistening in her eyes.
When Sir John had spoken softly into her ear and told her, very calmly, that she would either sign without restrictions immediately, or he’d simply leave her there, free, but naked, at the lawyer’s office, she had blenched and immediately caved.
Her reaction when he had told her what was going to be done to her had been priceless. She had quickly become hysterical, and he and the lawyer had spit-roasted her then and there. Doing it to a thrashing, hysterical girl having a full-on fit was a first even for him — it had taken a while to get the jaw spreader onto her, and one of the lawyer’s assistants had been bitten rather badly on the hand, but feeling her screaming and convulsing around his cock, completely out of control as the last shreds of her elite entitlement, that sense of herself as somehow special, in spite of everything, were casually and finally stripped away, had been a deeply satisfying experience.
