Amanda could not quite believe it at first. She stared at the stark naked woman standing before her in the quiet, wood-panelled study. Moira, her one time best friend. Moira, her slave, who had just been offered freedom and renounced it.
The silver plated collar, which Moira had just placed around her own neck, gleamed against her bare skin in the morning light streaming through the window. Below it, the big naked teats rose and fell, quivering with anxious excitement. Fear? Regret? Had it dawned on her, the enormity of what she just did? Or had she already fully known when she snapped the slave collar into place, that she had chosen, for whatever reason, to consign herself to permanent slavery? No going back, no chance of reprieve.
Moira's lovely hazel eyes stared widely at her mistress across the antique desk that separated them. In their frank expressiveness Amanda read the impulsive abandonment to the sensual and depraved so characteristic of her old friend. But also sympathy and compassion over her mistress's recent dejection at the prospect of losing her. Amanda was amazed and deeply touched that Moira could still feel this compassion when she had treated her so badly. But at the same time the wicked side of Amanda flared up in resentment that a woman she had made her slave should presume to pity her. Such impertinence, however innocent, deserved a whipping.
Amanda could see that Moira was reading her eyes too and she detected in her slave's wide, steady gaze the numbing concern that she had indeed made the wrong choice. That she should have accepted her mistress's offer of freedom without hesitation and walked away from Amanda's depraved world forever, rather than give in to the dictates of her heart and her body's wild, wanton urges.
Amanda, tortured by guilt over her often cruel treatment of the woman she had once loved like an older sister, had come to the point where she could no longer bear to hold Moira against her will. So she had decided to give Moira this choice. Wear the new silver plated collar as a symbol of her continued slavery, or leave and return to society as a free woman.
She had felt certain that Moira would choose the latter, despite her addiction to the sensual pleasures of her life as a performing slavewhore. Amanda had tried to prepare herself for that sacrifice, never daring to dream that Moira would choose to stay in chains.
But how much of a choice was it? Amanda had already considered Moira's attraction to debasement and obscene exhibitionism, which she herself was addicted to witnessing. Yet how far had Moira's training and life as a performing zoo animal removed her from conventional society? Caged and chained in a state of constant nakedness, whipped and spanked and degraded, performing public sex under the direction of her mistress and trainers, Amanda's sinister little manservant Petrov and the Amazon-like domina, Therese, could well have instilled her with a fear of returning to normal society in the belief that she would no longer be able to function fully as a free member of it.
Once a slave, always a slave. Moira had been conditioned repeatedly to obey the lash. The ever ready whip or leather strap was always in the hands of her overseers. The crack of that whip or strap on her bare bottom signaled when she should walk and when she should stop. It dictated the pace of her thrusts during her many sexual performances with her human stallion Rud, before an audience at Amanda's club or on the film set. The sting of the lash was a constant and intimate companion in the depraved world in which she had been immersed. How could she live without it now?
Amanda wasted little time speculating on how much Moira might fear the freedom she had been unexpectedly offered. She knew that she should have encouraged her slavewhore to mull over the prospect gradually, rather than pressure her into making a quick, and consequently rash, decision. At the back of Amanda's mind the question also remained, if Moira had accepted her offer of freedom, would she really have let her slavewhore go?
All that mattered to her was that Moira had put the slave collar on with her own hands and was once again wholly in her power.
"Petrov!" she shouted with a gleam in her eye.
The door behind Moira opened and Amanda's grim little manservant stepped in.
Amanda's excitement brought a tremor to her voice.
"Take her back to her cage!" she commanded.
Moira's misgivings regarding her decision intensified when Amanda's pathetic, little-girl-lost depression at the prospect of losing her was suddenly replaced by this obscene triumph. Moira had perhaps expected tears of joy and relief, an embrace of gratitude. Not this.
But it was too late now. The heavy steel lead chain was fastened to the ring of her new collar and Petrov's whip was already striking her bare backside with a resounding crack as his order to "Walk!" penetrated her stunned consciousness.
Obediently she responded at once to the sting of the whip as she'd been trained and padded before Petrov out of the study, back down to the dungeon and her cage.
She had been offered her freedom and refused it, for any or all of the above reasons. She would never get the opportunity again and Amanda could feel past and future actions on her part justified now that Moira had opted for continued slavery.
As the cage door clanged shut and Petrov's footfalls receded back upstairs, Moira cried bitterly, realizing what a fool she had been to throw her chance of freedom away. She had allowed her lustful attachment to her life as a slavewhore and pity for Amanda to sway her judgement. But that was only part of it. As Amanda suspected, Moira found the prospect of returning to the everyday world a daunting one. She seriously doubted her ability to ever function as a free woman again. Now, however, because of her decision, that ability would not be put to the test.
And, she wondered, if she had opted for freedom, would her mistress really have released her? Amanda had taken an almighty gamble and must have felt sure that Moira would jump at the chance of restored liberty, hence her almost complete dejection as the offer was laid before her slavewhore.
It dawned on Moira just how important she was to her mistress. There was the financial aspect, of course. Moira had made a lot of money for Amanda. But the emotional and psychological bonds were far greater. Moira provided an outlet and active purpose for her mistress's dark fantasies, her cruel need to enslave and control a woman who was like a sister to her. And at the thought of losing Moira, Amanda had become vulnerable, had reverted to the little girl inside, craving comfort and protection. This had always struck a responsive chord within Moira, whose immediate instinct was to soothe the younger woman's fears. And she soothed them all right, by playing exactly into her hands. Now this little girl controlled her fate once again.
Yet she could not delude herself. She needed Amanda just as much, for her old friend provided her with the means to realize her own dark dreams of degradation. She had to admit that she had come to love being a sex slave, performing in full view of everyone. She also enjoyed the whip and strap, as long as they were not applied too severely. The more unpleasant aspects of her captivity, when she became the victim of her unpredictable owner's spiteful cruelty, she had learned to put up with.
But was her love for this existence of sweaty, chained lust so great that she could give her life over to another completely in this way, never again to have the luxury of free will, to wear her favourite clothes, pursue a career, go shopping, sleep in a bed, do all the things that other people took for granted?
Could the dissolute, wanton feelings she experienced in this life of carnal servitude not be duplicated? As a free woman she had often indulged in fantasy and bondage, submitting to chains and the lash for that extra kick, that taste of danger in her sex life. But she had never experienced the intensity of feeling that real slavery brought her - the despair at being in bondage to another human being, coupled with a paradoxical excitement and wicked pleasure over that very same captivity. The heightened sex drive, the degradation of being humiliated in public, treated like an animal, the intense shuddering orgasms ... No, these feelings could not be matched in a state of freedom. Maybe for others. But not for her.
The part of Moira that still yearned to escape from this life might weep over her lost chance, but the lubricious harlot in her could not bear to make do with a pale shadow of her deliciously wanton slavery.
Her confused emotions were like chains pulling her in two directions at once, while her whorish body was lashed by avid animal urges, writhing in desperate need and torment and damned to filth and ecstasy.
Nevertheless, when Petrov descended to the dungeon a half hour later Moira felt moved to make a request, although she had never actually spoken to the little trainer in all the time she had been in chained service to Amanda. She found the dark diminutive manservant disturbing and was frightened by his apparent lack of human feeling. There had never been any reason or desire on her part to speak to him and he strictly did not encourage communication from a slave under his charge. But she wanted to see Amanda right away and unless he had been sent to take her back upstairs, she would have to ask him for an audience with her mistress.
Petrov did not normally come down to the dungeon unless he had somewhere to take her. Moira was allowed to use one of the upstairs bathrooms, but that was usually after breakfast, which had not been served yet. And it was too early for her slavewhore duties. Yet he made no move to open the cage, merely stood with his arms folded, staring coldly at her naked form crouched animal-like on the steel floor. She realized he had probably heard her crying earlier and, having conveyed the fact to Amanda, had been sent back down to check on her.
Automatically Moira rose to present herself, as she was accustomed to doing whenever her trainer or mistress visited her place of confinement. However, instead of standing still with her arms by her sides, she stepped forward, bare breasts bouncing, and gripped the bars.
"Trainer Petrov," she said. "I wish to speak to my mistress."
The gaunt little manservant was surprised to be addressed by this naked chain slut. His normally impassive features momentarily betrayed confusion, as the very notion of a slavewhore speaking at all did not sit well with him. He expected them simply to obey commands and be silent, apart from moaning and crying out during their sexual labours, or under the whip, of course. But this one, as usual, had to be different. It irritated him.
"You are a slave," he replied contemptuously. "What you wish is irrelevant."
A pang of despair pierced Moira's heart and her big breasts rose and fell anxiously behind the bars. Her wide eyes implored him, the long, thick lashes still wet with her tears.
"Please, Trainer Petrov!" she pleaded with moving intensity. "I've been a good slave."
Petrov frowned. Something important had passed between the slavewhore and his mistress this morning, but he did not know what, nor was it his business to know. The slave wore a new silver plated collar, surely a symbol of her mistress's approval. Yet the slut had burst into bitter tears when returned to her cage. And now she wished to see her owner. Petrov was aware of the close bond between the two women, who had once been best friends. There was something in the slavewhore's eyes, in the desperate tone of her voice, that made him wonder if Amanda would want to hear what she had to say. Amanda had after all sent him down to check on her.
Suddenly deciding, he said, "I will take you upstairs and tell your mistress that you want to see her. But if she gets angry, you will be brought back down here and whipped."
Moira nodded, grateful for the chance to speak to her owner.
The key turned in the lock and the cage door swung open. "Step out," said Petrov.
Moira obeyed and stood still while the little trainer secured the lead chain to the ring of her collar. His short whip smacked her rear. "Walk!" he snapped.
She padded before him up the steps with her naked bum swaying from side to side. Petrov halted her outside Amanda's study and knocked on the door.
"Come in," called Amanda.
Petrov entered the room while Moira waited on the end of her chain.
"Madame," he said tentatively. "The slavewhore wishes to see you."
Amanda looked at him with some surprise. "Bring her in," she said.
At the crack of the trainer's lash on her backside, Moira stepped into her mistress's presence.
"That will be all, Petrov," said Amanda, staring at her slave.
Petrov nodded, removed Moira's lead chain and left, closing the door behind him.
Amanda's cool blue eyes surveyed her human property from behind the antique desk. They regarded Moira's magnificent body with pride of ownership before once again settling on her face.
"Petrov told me you'd been crying," she remarked coldly. "Just as I did last night at the thought of losing you. I felt sure that when I offered you freedom this morning you would take it. But you didn't. And now I know why you want to see me. You regret your decision."
"Amanda," Moira said, forgetting in her anxiety to address the other as mistress. "You didn't give me time to consider."
Amanda clasped her beautifully manicured hands before her on the desk and raised a delicate eyebrow.
"Are you saying that you want your freedom now?" she inquired.
"Yes," said Moira. Then, "No ... I don't know. I'm all confused."
"So what are you saying?" Amanda's tone was impatient, arrogantly mocking. She saw the agitation in Moira's eyes as she tried to compose her thoughts, but she was putting her bondwoman deliberately under pressure again because she did not want to deal with the freedom issue a second time. She had felt astonishment and relief when Moira had put the new slave collar on of her own volition, but knew her old friend too well. Knew that there was a part of Moira that would continue to yearn for the freedom now lost to her forever.
The guilt raised its ugly head in Amanda again and she felt angry at Moira for forcing her to confront something she hoped was laid to rest. But the grave was shallow and the remorse had come back to haunt her. Amanda liked her world to be ordered, with nothing to inconvenience her. When it was, she could be a blithe and happy young woman, full of dotty charm. When it wasn't, she reverted to the spoiled and petulant child, disconsolate and afraid, spiteful and vindictive.
Why couldn't Moira embrace the slavery she had chosen wholeheartedly? Why did she have to have misgivings? Now Amanda's happiness was marred because Moira's doubts were making her feel bad. The truth was, they were both equally confused. She wanted to let Moira go and she wanted to keep her. Moira wanted to be free and to remain a slave. An impossible situation. But Amanda knew that her darker desire to permanently own Moira was the stronger. She had been fair. She had offered freedom and it had been refused. And now Moira was trying to back off from her decision. Or was she? Well, if Moira couldn't make up her mind Amanda would make it up for her. She was her mistress after all. Amanda would resist the guilt that plagued her and keep Moira enslaved whether she liked it or not.
"You chose to be a chain harlot over the freedom I offered you," she told the naked woman before her.
"Yes," said Moira, muddled. "I like it, but -"
"There are no buts, Moira!" snapped Amanda, rising from her chair and stepping round the desk to confront her slavewhore. At that moment, as Moira's heart sank, Amanda seemed not only superior but all powerful. A ruthless and successful businesswoman, she stood there in her dark suit and skirt and elegant Italian shoes, with her expensive perfume and tasteful gold jewellery, the ornate silver clasp at the base of her slender neck holding her perfect blond hair in a neat pony tail. Her pretty face with its delicate features was cold and set and determined.
In the plush surroundings of the study Moira stood before her, completely naked and splendidly voluptuous and several inches taller. In stark contrast to that of her mistress, the slavewhore's body scent was of stale sweat and the dried sperm of her stud's recent attentions, as she had not yet been taken to the shower. Although breathtaking and beautiful in her nudity, at that moment, next to her mistress, she felt slatternly and sullied.
A sudden wicked smile crossed Amanda's face and made her look distinctly unattractive. She decided it was an appropriate time for an inspection.
"Slave, present yourself!" she snapped.
Moira automatically stood on display as she had done hundreds of times before, an early part of her training under vocal command and whip, and now an act that had become almost natural to her.
"Do you see how quickly you responded to that command?" her mistress said. "Automatically, without thinking. Slavery is ingrained in your body's reactions. Do you seriously imagine you could survive as a free woman now?"
Moira did not reply, as the order had not been given to answer and in any case she remained confused. As she stood like a museum exhibit with her eyes straight ahead, Amanda took hold of her huge naked breasts and hefted them.
"I own you," she told her slavewhore. "These champion breasts. Your bum. Your wet cunt and anus. All are mine to do with as I please. You continue to be my property," she said, stepping around behind Moira. "My livestock. My big piece of fuck meat." And she smacked the shapely flesh of her slave's bare ass.
"You can't imagine the pleasure it gives me to watch you with your stallion," she murmured seductively. "To see you serviced by his big hard cock. And you like it too, don't you?" She spanked Moira's naked bum again. "Answer," she said.
"Yes, mistress," Moira responded.
The familiar wetness was seeping through the folds of her exposed sex at the image conjured up by her owner's words. Amanda stepped around and dabbled her slender fingers in her bondwoman's sex. She smeared the juices on a distended nipple and flicked it with her thumb. Moira's breathing became heavy and her massive breasts rose and fell, quivering with her usual barely controlled lust. She closed her eyes and felt Amanda stepping behind her once more.
"You enjoy it, don't you?" her owner said, smacking her slave's bottom so that the flesh jiggled. "Answer!"
Moira gasped excitedly. "Yes, mistress," she said. "I enjoy it."
Of course she enjoyed it. She was the natural slut, the Sacred Harlot of ancient times, worshipped with orgiastic rites and outpourings of sperm. But also chained to her own altar, in bondage to her devotees. What other road was open to her?
"And yet you've been such an ungrateful slave," said Amanda viciously, reaching up to grip her bondwoman by the collar. She gave it a sudden tug. "Haven't you!"
"Yes, mistress," Moira responded, her heavy lashes flickering as her eyes half opened, glazed with longing. "I've been an ungrateful slave."
"And you must be punished," said Amanda. "Like a filthy performing animal!"
"Yes," Moira groaned. She opened her eyes fully as her mistress once again stood before her, looking up into her flushed face.
"That's all you are now," Amanda continued, taunting her. "Livestock. A stall animal who can think, who speaks when permitted, who waits always in her chains to carry out even the slightest action at my command. Filled with shame and lust, but also pride in her naked thraldom. A body churning with animal urges that only I can allow to be satisfied. A bondwoman, whipped if I choose, fucked if I choose."
She glanced at the door. "Petrov!" she snapped.
The little manservant entered with Moira's lead chain clinking in his hands.
"Return her to the dungeon," Amanda said contemptuously. "And give her backside ten strokes of the strap for disturbing me unnecessarily."
"Yes, Madame," said Petrov, attaching the lead chain.
Amanda addressed her slave again before she was led from the room.
"Remember what you are," she said, inches from Moira's face. "Livestock. You'll wear my collar on your neck and my shackle ring on your ankle. Always. Now get back to your cage!"
The extent of Moira's stern training was made evident as she stood humbled before her owner. It swamped all other feelings, including her urge for freedom, which now seemed an absurd fantasy that she had no right to entertain even for a second. Her eyes were wide with the realization that as a slave she had overstepped the mark and must be punished for it.
"Yes, mistress," she said, as Petrov's short whip clipped her rump.
"Walk!" he barked.
She stepped before him down to the dungeon, where he at once proceeded to chain her to her own cage door, and laid the strap ten times across her quivering rear.