‘As respectable members of a free society we are used to expressing ourselves to a large extent through what we wear.  Clothing enhances our individuality, reinforces our outer persona, and creates a mask we can hide behind.  If we tire of a certain style, we can change it.  We can reveal as much or as little about ourselves as we choose.  In situations of a sexual nature we can use clothing to entice, or if we are unsure of the encounter – as armour to be shed at our discretion.

But a slave’s entire body is exposed.  Nothing concealed from their owners but their innermost thoughts.  Every curve, every movement of the flesh on show at all times.  They have no right to the privacy we enjoy.  And when it comes to the mating game, no preliminary undressing is required.  They are already stripped to mount or be mounted, like animals …’

Major Bellamy, THE SLAVE GUIDE





Ryedale heard the first crack of the whip in the corridor outside his office, followed by the gruff voice of the chief slave warder raised in harsh command.

“Keep moving!” she barked.  And then: “Stop there!”

He looked up from his desk as the door was given a sharp knock.  “Enter,” he said.

The door opened and the slave warder stepped in.  She was a bullish thickset woman in her fifties, with her hair drawn back in a ponytail and the buttons gleaming on her uniform.  Below the dark skirt her legs were like tree trunks.  Her cold blue eyes glanced briefly at the clipboard in her hand.

Slavewhore Number 532 newly arrived, sir,” she announced in her powerful voice.

“Thank you, Mrs. Stevens,” responded Ryedale.  “You can send her in.”

Mrs. Stevens nodded and turned abruptly so that the light flashed off the chain of cage keys looped at the pocket of her tunic.  She beckoned to a subordinate out in the corridor who cracked the whip again and snapped: “Walk!”

Into the room stepped the slavewhore in question, straight, obedient, with the hoop on her ankle shackle jingling.  She stood before the desk, stark naked, in the basic condition of a slave, every curve of her voluptuous body completely exposed before these strangers.

Ryedale put down his pen, rose from his chair and came slowly round from behind the desk to inspect her.  She was tall but plump.  Below the gleaming steel slave collar her breasts were massive, the biggest naturals he had ever seen in his life, with large aureoles and stubby nipples.  The huge slopes of them rested above a slightly rounded belly sporting a deep navel.  Between her wide hips the hair grew luxuriantly over her pronounced pubic mound.

Ryedale’s gaze rose from her shapely calves and bare feet to her face.  She was staring straight ahead in the proper slave fashion while being inspected.

Stepping behind her, he regarded the broad rounded cheeks of her big bare bum, her strong thighs and the dimples on the backs of her knees.

He then returned to stand behind the desk and his gaze once again settled on her face.  Her glorious wealth of natural light brown curls grew in a rounded mass, coiling above the pretty arch of her brows, past her wide healthy cheeks and down around her neck to just past shoulder-length.

Her dark lashed hazel brown eyes seemed to convey an almost innocent frankness of spirit paradoxically combined with a wanton carnality, as she stood there with the patient obedience of a well-trained animal.  Her nose was small and slightly snubbed, the mouth with its full and generous lips parted to expose her lovely white teeth.  A dark beauty spot on her right cheek added a somewhat baroque touch to her appearance.

Ryedale remembered his original inspection of this slave as she stood chained to a line of other naked bondwhores up on the stage at the government stock show.  There had been something intriguing about her then, and coupled with her all too obvious physical assets, it had made her stand out from the crowd.  He had also seen her in action under her stud, and although Ryedale found public copulation a little too raw for his taste, he could not fail to be impressed by the enthusiasm of her performance that had so impressed the judges she was awarded a gold slave collar and chain.  She had also made a great deal of money for her owner, Amanda Bennett, sweating on the fuck platforms of the latter’s prestige night club and starring in several super selling sex slave film productions.

There was no denying the earthy power of this naked bondwhore, whose life of caged captivity and frequent punishment had not marred her enduring spirit.  Her exposed body exuded a primal sensuality, along with the familiar stale sweat and pussy musk of a chain slut.

“You know why you’re here?” he inquired coldly. Strictly, as a slave, it wasn’t her business to know why, so long as she obeyed commands.  But her mistress, Amanda Bennett, had told her she was to appear in a government information film on the proper training and ownership of a slavewhore.  And Ryedale, who had read in her file that she had a high degree of intelligence, felt a curious urge to communicate with her.

The slavewhore seemed momentarily startled to be addressed directly.  She was not used to being consulted regarding the plans others made for her.  A bondwoman’s function after all was to serve without question.

It was an instant’s hesitation, but it was an instant too long. The leather strap of the chief slave warder struck her across the rump with a report like a gunshot, followed by the command: “Answer Mr. Ryedale!”

“Yes, sir,” the slavewhore responded, her broad fleshy bum stinging hotly.

Ryedale glanced at the slave warder with some irritation before returning his attention to the bondwoman.  “Your owner, Amanda Bennett, has placed you in government service.  You are to appear in a film about the proper conduct of a stock whore.  I notice,” he said, picking up her file and leafing through it, “that you have an outstanding record for obedience, but your mistress has highlighted one serious offence, when you incited your stallion to attack your keeper.”

Ryedale looked for a reaction of guilt, but a brief trace of frustration appeared on the bondwhore’s brow before her features once again became impassive.  Perhaps there was more to this story than just Amanda Bennett’s version, but the slave would not get to tell her side of it.  The word of an owner was always taken, whether it was right or whether it was wrong.

Mrs. Stevens’ cold blue eyes focused angrily on the naked whore at the mention of the alleged misdemeanour.  Inciting a slave stallion to attack a keeper was deserving of the very worst punishments in her book

“Your mistress has addressed you by name in the past,” Ryedale observed from the file.  “Moira,” he said, looking up at the slave woman.

“Yes, sir,” Moira replied.  Her voice, like everything else about her, had a deeply sensual quality.

It occurred to Ryedale, with a sardonic thought, that she seemed genuinely eager to please.

“You will be known here by your number,” he informed her.  “Say it.”

Slavewhore number 532,” she replied.

“Good,” said Ryedale.  With his dispassionate gaze he once again regarded her mountainous breasts.  More out of curiosity than desire.  He preferred his women slender and smelling of expensive scent, not stale sweat and vaginal musk.

“Transgressions of any kind will not be permitted here,” he said, looking up.  “You will obey your keepers without question.”

The slavewhore’s frank eyes met his.  “Yes, sir.  Most respectfully, sir.  I will obey my keepers.”

Ryedale nodded and turned to Mrs. Stevens.  “Take her downstairs and give her backside ten strokes of the cat as a warning for her to keep in line.”

The hulking slave warder nodded with relish and looked at Moira as she stood awaiting command.  “Out!” she snapped, giving the bondwhore’s naked bottom another smack with the strap.

Ryedale watched Moira’s quivering bum flesh, marked redly by the leather, as she stepped out of the room.  And then he said, “Mrs. Stevens.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t overdo it with the discipline.  I want her in a fit condition to appear on camera.”

The slave warder’s bullish face broke into a brief scowl.  “Yes, sir,” she replied, angrily, following the naked woman out into the corridor.

As the door closed behind her, Ryedale leafed through Moira’s file again before tossing it on the desk.  He had learned something of the slavewhore’s history not contained within its pages.

And a strange history it was.  Having performed as a very successful stripper while still a free woman, she had been sentenced to slavery for exposing herself in a public precinct.  She had been arrested drunk and stark naked among the crowds of shoppers.  There was a rumour that she had fallen foul of an old judge, who having witnessed her stripping, had propositioned her, only to be turned down.  At her trial she claimed to have been dragged into a car by some strange men, forcibly inebriated and pushed out into the busy street naked.

A rather implausible story on the face of it, Ryedale thought.  Except that the judge who sentenced her had apparently been the very same one whose advances she had rejected.  With the trial out of the way, he had been heard talking rather freely after one too many brandies in a certain gentlemen’s club, an establishment much frequented by distinguished members of the bar and many a government minister.  He had spoken of arranging for some heavies to abduct the bitch, as he called her, to get her drunk and cast her stark naked out in the street.  No one had believed her story, her futile protestations of innocence.  And by the time it became common knowledge in legal quarters that he had framed her, it was too late.  The trial was over.  He himself had sentenced her to the state slave farm and no one was prepared to champion the cause of an ex stripper who was now a bare bummed bondwoman, however unjust her fate.

She was bought at private auction by Amanda Bennett, a successful businesswoman (who also ironically had once been the slave’s closest friend).  The two of them were like loving sisters for years until the Bennett woman accused the other of seducing her fiancé.  This led to an acrimonious split that resulted in Amanda Bennett losing both her best friend and her man.  She nursed an anger that simmered away bitterly for years, and then by some strange twist of fate the day came when she saw the woman named Moira on the auction block and purchased her for twenty thousand pounds.

Amanda Bennett promptly had her old friend collared and trained as a slavewhore.  Still firmly holding to the belief that Moira had stolen her fiancé, she frequently subjected her new bondwoman to cruel and arbitrary punishments, brutal floggings, degradation and psychological torture.  Moira performed public sex at her owner’s nightclub and in front of the camera, earning fame as an outstanding slavewhore and a considerable amount of money for her mistress.

Now she was here to be the model slave in a government information film, although considering the very serious offence mentioned in her file (true or not), Mrs. Stevens was unlikely to see her as anything other than a rebel.  It may have been unwise to raise the subject of the misdemeanour in the presence of the chief slave warder, but Mrs. Stevens would have checked the bondwoman’s file online anyway as a matter of course.  He would have to ensure that she didn’t go overboard when it came to disciplining the newcomer.  As a model of obedience on screen, Slavewhore Number 532 would hardly convey the proper message sporting savage whip marks on her backside. 




Mrs. Stevens watched the slavewhore walking along the corridor before her with hostile eyes.  She felt deeply angered that this shackle slut should be given any leniency if she had indeed incited her stallion to attack her keeper.  Such an act of rebellion could not be tolerated.  As a keeper herself with authority over other keepers, she above all valued discipline and fear for maintaining order not only among the slaves, but also among her subordinates.  Any threat to that order she considered a personal affront deserving of the severest punishment.

The bondwhore walking before her had incited rebellion in a slave stud and Mr. Ryedale was instructing her to be lenient with the filthy harlot.

To Mrs. Stevens leniency was nothing less than weakness.  Slaves were kept in line with generous applications of the whip and strap in her view, and that view wasn’t about to change.

Fuming, she stared at the slave’s mop of luxuriant curls, the shapely shoulders and arms, the naturally sensual waggle of her broad bum, and these things only served to stir up the chief warder’s fury all the more.

It didn’t help matters that this slave had a voluptuously beautiful body and a reputation as an outstanding sexual performer on stage, on the coupling block and in front of the camera. 

Hulking and brutal by comparison, Mrs. Stevens resented the better looking slavewhores, who were put to handsome, well endowed studs and were widely desired, sometimes even earning fame and honours like this one padding barefoot in front of her.

No man had ever looked on Mrs. Stevens with such desire, and she had a lifetime of deep-seated anger and frustration in her as a result.  It had driven her to succeed in a profession that involved the discipline and punishment of the very slave women she envied so deeply.  She had become renowned for it.  And now Mr. Ryedale, the government’s chief slave inspector, had instructed her to be lenient with a rebel, simply because she was to appear in some stupid film.  It was ridiculous.

The hard heels of the chief slave warder and of her subordinate, walking beside Moira, resounded along the corridor.  The hoop on the bondwhore’s ankle shackle clinked with each stride as her bare feet quietly slapped the cold floor.

Anyone not familiar with the slave-owning world would surely have considered it a bizarre sight, this stark naked woman in steel collar and ankle shackle in the custody of two uniformed female warders, one of whom held a whip.  All three walking down a corridor together as if it were the most natural thing imaginable.

But this was the slave-owning world and Moira was a captive for life, all the normal human rights people took for granted denied her.  She had no rights at all.  She was owned livestock, whose sole function was to serve and perform like an animal in public, and to be chained and caged when not in use.

Descending two flights of steps, they passed through one security door, and then another.  They then entered a further passage lined with cages on both sides, harshly lit from overhead by industrial lights banded with steel. 

Moira met the eyes of several other bondwhores through the bars as she passed.  They stared at her with sullen interest or frank hostility.  One of the warders had let it be known that a famous slavewhore would be arriving that day, and many of the bondwomen were keen to see what she looked like, and to give her a special reception.

The scent of stale sweat and pussy musk was strong throughout this dungeon area.  It was a scent Moira was used to, as it was also her own.  It merged with the stink of urine in the steel buckets and the cold smell of the steel bars.  The odour of brutal naked captivity.

She had never seen so many cages in one place.  They lined both sides of the entire corridor, each with a small rectangular plate displaying the occupant’s number.  It was stock holding on a large scale, but better organized than on the state slave farm, where bonded men and women were chained in wooden stalls.

Here every slave had a cage and each cage was relatively new, eight foot square, with inch thick bars.  And they seemed to go on forever.  Their naked occupants watched her from either side.  Behind her the hard heels of the warders’ shoes echoed loudly.  She felt the smooth stone floor under her bare feet, heard the rhythmic clink of her own ankle shackle with each stride.  Up ahead someone started babbling and laughing in a deranged voice until another warder with pale blonde hair in a ponytail whacked the bars of the offender’s cage with a baton.  The clang of struck steel resounded harshly.

“Stop here!” commanded Mrs. Stevens.

Moira halted.  They had come to a punishment wall between the cages.  The wall was of massive squared stones grimly lit by a single bulb under a suspended steel shade.  Above and beyond that the wall disappeared in gloom.  The lurid light shone on a pair of long heavy-linked chains descending from that gloom, and on the thick iron shackles attached to them.

Mrs. Stevens struck Moira’s bare behind with the leather strap.  “Step over to the wall!” she barked.

Moira obeyed without question.  The warder carrying the whip and the one who had swung the baton raised her arms and snapped the shackles over her wrists.

One of the women gave her a short sharp kick on the ankle.  “Legs apart!” she directed.

Moira shifted her bare feet shoulder width and felt her ankles being shackled to each end of an iron spacer bar.  The women then stepped back and she stood naked in the glare of the overhead light, arms chained above her head, awaiting punishment.

Mrs. Stevens turned to the blond warder with the baton.

“What’s it to be?” cynically inquired the latter.

“The cat,” Mrs. Stevens replied coldly.  “Ten lashes.”

She stepped aside for a better view as the warder slipped the baton through her belt and drew a heavy leather cat-o’-nine-tails.

There was a moment’s silence.  Then Moira heard the whistle of the flogger and braced herself for the first stroke.  The tails of the cat smacked the broad cheeks of her bottom, already stinging from the strap of the chief slave warder.  She felt the flush of heat on her hindquarters, the rush of adrenalin combined with the sweat of fear.

Submissive masochism was a major part of Moira’s sexuality and she often derived a certain pleasure from a whipping if it was not too severe, but although she felt the stirrings of a moist excitement between her loins, she knew that this flogging was not going to be enjoyable.  Mr. Ryedale may have instructed the chief slave warder to restrain her punishment, but the blows were delivered with the full force of a strong arm.

As the second and third strokes fell she endured them bravely enough, but by the time it came to the fifth and sixth her bum cheeks were criss-crossed with angry red wheals and squirming under a slick coating of sweat.  The heavy iron chains rattled and grew taut as her shackled hands tightened into fists.  She stared at the bleak grey punishment wall and gasped as an especially vicious stroke caught the underside of her exposed bottom.  The one that followed landed in the same place, causing her to cry out loud as she arched her back and gazed in torment up into the gloom.

To make Moira’s ordeal worse she heard the other slavewhores around her jeering and laughing savagely at her plight.  A startled glance behind her revealed Mrs. Stevens watching her punishment with a grim smile.  She made no move to silence the slaves.

Again the tails of the cat whistled through the air and again Moira cried out, closing her eyes and pressing her head against the wall as the fiery pain of the leather strips on her flesh caused her to writhe helplessly on the end of the creaking chains.

The tears rolled down her cheeks and she gritted her teeth while the mocking laughter seemed to come at her from all sides.  And in the midst of it boomed the powerful voice of Mrs. Stevens:

So you will obey your keepers, will you?”

“Yes!” Moira cried.

“Yes, what!” the chief slave warder exploded.

“Yes, madam!” sobbed Moira.

CRACK! Went the cat, and then again with the tenth stroke. Her burning bum cheeks writhed as she whimpered.

Eyes closed in pain and head pressed against the wall, Moira became aware of the sudden silence as the bondwomen ceased shouting.  And Mrs. Stevens close beside her, a menacing hulk.

“We know how to treat rebels like you here!” hissed the chief slave warder in a tone of vindictive hatred.  And then she added chillingly:  You’ll learn to fear me, whore!”

Moira snivelled and her massive breasts shuddered in terror.  The woman’s presence was unnerving.

She had it in mind that Moira was a troublemaker, that she had incited her stallion to attack her keeper.  But Moira had merely told her stud about the cruel beating she’d received on arrival at her mistress’s house on the day of her purchase.  It had been done in an innocent way, not with the aim to incite.  But Rud, her stallion, reputed for his wild nature, had to her surprise indeed attacked the keeper, and they had both been severely whipped for it as a result.

Moira bitterly remembered being hung upside down like a side of meat and brutally scourged by the terrible slave disciplinarian Barrington, a memory that still filled her with dread.  She felt that same fear now in the shadowy presence of Mrs. Stevens, and worried about the days and nights to come.

Her shackles were unlatched and she was ordered to turn around and face her tormentors.  Mrs. Stevens gave her a ringing clout on the side of the head that made her stagger.

“Down on the floor!” she heard the hulking slave warder snarl.  “On all fours, you fucking animal!”

Stunned with pain and shock, Moira nevertheless obeyed and Mrs. Stevens gave her broad whip lashed bum a vicious kick.

“Move!” she shouted.  “Into that cage!”

The bondwhores started jeering again as Moira crawled forward on her hands and knees, the big tits swinging massively between her arms.  She looked up and saw the blonde warder who had whipped her holding open the barred door of an unoccupied cage.  A second kick from Mrs. Stevens sent her scrambling forward into its confines.

Moira looked up through the bars like a naked animal on all fours, her sweat-sheened body bearing the marks of her punishment, and saw the callous sneer of the blonde warder as she turned her key in the lock.