‘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.