Chapter 1
The day she became a slave started like any other for Nicola. She was woken by her
alarm at the usual time, showered, and washed and brushed her long, dark hair before
dressing for school and joining her father for breakfast.
He looked tired, as he had for some days. Nicola was aware that he had suffered some
difficulties with his business, and was under financial strain. But he told her not to
worry, that everything would be fine, and of course she believed him.
He was reading the financial pages of the paper when she sat down. “Morning,
sweetheart,” he said.
“Morning, Daddy,” she answered. Jessica, their slave, emerged from the kitchen to
serve. She was a woman in her mid thirties; the family had owned her since shortly after
Nicola’s mother had died almost 15 years previously. She wore a long, simple robe.
Nicola noticed her father’s face lighten briefly as the slave passed him, and looked away.
She knew, of course, that Jessica was obliged to service him sexually, but had never been
completely comfortable with the idea of the woman who had raised her since her childhood
being used for such purposes.
“Can I get you anything else, Mistress?” Jessica asked. “No thank you,” Nicola answered
primly. The woman returned to the kitchen; Nicola noticed that she squeezed her father’s
arm affectionately as she passed him.
“Anything special at school today?” her father asked. “Not really,” she shrugged.
Having recently turned 18, Nicola had only months of school left. Then, she supposed, she
would have to give serious consideration to marriage. In recent years, her father had
assured her of serious interest in a match from a number of suitors, to whom she would be
introduced on completion of her studies. He had not mentioned them for some time, she
noted, but read nothing into this.
Soon afterwards, as she prepared to leave for school, something made Nicola stop and
look back to her father. “Everything will be OK, won’t it, Daddy?” she asked.
Or a moment, he hesitated. Then he smiled, a little sadly. “Yes, of course. I have a
meeting today. That will sort everything out.”
Nicola smiled; even though her father had tried to keep his difficulties from her, the
news that they were coming to an end was a tremendous weight off her mind. She dashed
forward and hugged her father fiercely. “I love you, Daddy,” she assured him.
“I love you too, baby,” he said, and kissed her on the cheek. For a moment, she thought
he was about to say something else, but then he let go and said, “Go on, now. You’ll be
late for school.”
With a final wave, Nicola left their house. It was to be the last time she was to see
either her father, or her home.
The walk to her exclusive girls’ school took just under half an hour, and took her
through the outskirts of the town centre and some of the more expensive residential areas.
Some shops were already open, and a number of customers were abroad – mostly slaves
running errands for their masters and mistresses. The slaves were easy to tell apart from
the free persons, thanks to the collars – all of which featured a chip containing full
details of their identity and present owner – locked about their necks. The younger
female slaves in particular were also distinctively dressed, usually miniskirted, with
their tops clinging and low-cut. Their outfits guaranteed they would attract the
attention of any men passing by, earning them cat calls and wolf whistles from adult men
and schoolboys alike.
Nicola, naturally, ignored such girls. She was aware that when men own a beautiful girl
they tend to dress her to show off her charms, and to display their property. They were,
however, simply part of the fabric of life, and had nothing to do with her: they were
beneath her concern. To her resentment, however, she sometimes found herself the subject
of similar attention from men. Her uniform was of a standard design for such
establishments, consisting of a white blouse, striped tie, smart blazer and a short,
pleated grey skirt that left most of her legs bare, as much as some of the owned girls.
She had never understood why this was necessary for a school uniform. She had failed to
connect it to the obvious fact that her school was run entirely by men.
At any rate, Nicola was often aware of men watching her as she walked by, some
surreptitiously, others openly admiring her. Occasionally, one would call out something,
asking to meet her later, or for a phone number. Once or twice she caught a remark such
as, “Looks like a slave girl,” which left her boiling with rage. How dare they! How dare
they equate her with those mere items of property, those little sluts who could be bought
from a street corner market! And yet, she would sometimes find herself watching those
same slaves, noting their figures, mentally comparing herself with them. Sometimes she
felt reasonably confident that she was more attractive than they; on other occasions she
would spot a girl, possibly one specially bred for beauty, whose looks left her almost
breathless with awe.
Like most young women in her society, Nicola had wondered how it might feel to be a girl
like that; a slave, owned by a man (or woman, though she pictured this less often) who
might treat her as they pleased. She and her friends had discussed the slaves owned by
their families, friends and relatives. Each girl, when describing how the slaves were
treated and controlled – how, for example, one might have seen a girl stripped and whipped
by her mistress in a rage, or how a girl might be glimpsed through a part-closed bedroom
door, kneeling to suck a teenage boy at his command – had mentally considered what it
might be like to be in that position, forced to accept whatever treatment her master or
mistress might dole out. Not that any one of them would have admitted to such thoughts,
of course. No self-respecting girl would ever acknowledge feelings of empathy for a mere
slave.
Such thoughts occupied Nicola as she reached the school gates and joined some of her
friends, chatting as girls will before lessons began.
Most of the day passed like any other, until the final lesson of the day; history, with
Mr Mortimus. Nicola always sat at the front of the class for this subject; she knew
Mortimus enjoyed looking at her legs. He had once broached the subject of private
tuition, stating that Nicola was a bright pupil and he wanted to help her fulfil her
potential. It was an open secret in the school that such extra tuition was a coded
reference to a sexual relationship. Many of the teachers in the school were sleeping with
one, or sometimes more, of the students. When a girl’s marks in a given subject suddenly
rose, it was a sure sign that she had agreed to share her tutor’s bed. But so long as
such relationships were conducted discretely, the school board preferred not to notice.
After all, it was not as if the girls had been forced, and so long as their parents
continued to pay their fees, no harm was done.
Nicola, however, had no intention of entering such an arrangement. Although Mr Mortimus
was not unattractive, as old people went (he was in his late thirties) she received good
marks in her lessons and had no need to increase them in such a way. She preferred to
retain her virginity for her future husband. But she enjoyed the fact that Mortimus
wanted her, and would sometimes stretch her legs beneath the desk, crossing and uncrossing
them to draw his attention, and would smile her prettiest when he looked her way. Nicola
was aware that she was being something of a tease, but was excited by the fact that he
desired, but could not have her.
It pleased her particularly because she knew it frustrated Katrina. Katrina was
something of a rival to Nicola, both academically and personally. The girls were closely
matched intellectually, but history was one of the few subjects where one – Nicola, in
this case – consistently did better. Katrina, Nicola suspected, would have been more than
willing to give herself to Mr Mortimus if it meant beating her rival, but despite her
shower of golden hair, blue eyes, pouting lips and long slim legs, he seemed only to have
eyes for the dark haired girl. Katrina, who like most beautiful and wealthy girls was
accustomed to getting everything she wanted, found this intolerable.
Mr Mortimus was lecturing on the failure of the last concerted attempt to abolish
slavery, in the early 19th century. He was explaining how the slave trade had allowed
Great Britain to build and maintain an Empire, with much of the world subject to the King.
He further digressed on the probably consequences of abolition: the rise of poverty, and
the likelihood of other nations clamouring for independence, resulting in a catastrophic
reduction of Britannia’s power. The lesson was no more than half way through when
something happened that would change Nicola’s life forever. A knock on the door announced
the entry of the Headmaster, accompanied by two uniformed policemen.
“Mr Mortimus, please forgive the interruption,” said the Head. “We have a matter of
some urgency to attend to. Is Nicola here?” Mortimus gestured to where the girl sat
before him.
“Stand up, please, miss,” said one of the policemen. Nicola looked up at him nervously,
his cool, impassive gaze meeting hers. “Why?” she asked, annoyed to hear a slight quaver
in her voice. “What’s this about? Is it my father?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The policeman held out a clipboard that held a number of
official documents. The top sheet bore the legend ‘order of enslavement’: below it was
her own name. Nicola looked at it uncomprehendingly.
“Would someone mind telling me what is going on?” Mortimus enquired, a little testily.
He didn’t like having his lessons disturbed.
The Head coughed, a little nervously. “It appears, Mr Mortimus, that Nicola’s father has
been declared bankrupt. His property and other assets have therefore been seized to
defray his debts.”
Understanding, and something a little less savoury, dawned in the teacher’s eyes as he
looked from the Head to Nicola. “I see. And as she is under the age of 21, Nicola counts
as one of those assets.”
Aghast at this shocking news, Nicola had shrunk back in her seat. “What’s going to
happen to me?” she stammered.
The second policeman spoke up. “You’ll be taken to the Smith and Wessell House for
processing – they have the contract for debtors. Your sale will help defray the costs of
your father’s creditors. Now, stand up.”
“But – I’m not a slave!” Nicola gasped. “You can’t take me there!”
“Young lady, you have been a slave since 10.58pm this morning, when this document was
signed,” the man snapped. “Your father volunteered himself to the police this morning for
arrest. I guess he didn’t have the balls to tell you himself what had happened.”
“Let’s get her out of here,” the second cop said. The two stepped about Nicola’s desk,
looming over the shocked girl; they were both over six feet tall. She instinctively
raised her arms to ward them off; they, of course, simply seized them and hauled her to
her feet. Numb with shock at this turn of events, Nicola could offer no resistance as
they forced her wrists behind her and locked them in handcuffs. “Come on, love,” said the
first officer. His hand tight on her arm, he began to move her forcibly toward the door.
Nicola tried to hold back as she was frogmarched from the room, her blazer left hanging
over the back of the chair, her school bag under the desk. Panic stricken, she looked at
the faces of her friends – most gazing back at her, some in shock, some in pity. There
were also a few – Katrina and her little coterie – who looked at her with barely disguised
delight. Clearly, the idea that her rival was to be sold into bondage amused her greatly,
and the triumph in her eyes chilled Nicola to the core.
“Should she be allowed to say goodbye?” the Head asked one of the policemen.
“Best not, Sir,” he replied, amiably enough. “Only drags out the upset all round.
Quick and clean, that’s how we like to do it.” And with that, Nicola was bundled out of
the room.
“Alright,” Nicola heard Mr Mortimus say as they left the classroom behind.
“Excitement’s over, back to work.”
Nicola’s mind was still a whirl as she was escorted through the school. She had walked
these corridors many times, but never with her hands cuffed behind her, and with her arms
held in the grip of two strong men. She could hardly begin to process the way her life
had changed in the past few minutes. She knew, of course, that a sentence of slavery
could be passed by the courts on debtors, or their dependents – but that only happened to
the poor and feckless, not to girls like her, girls from wealthy backgrounds with loving
parents! It’s all a big mistake, she told herself wildly. Even now, her Daddy would be
arranging the refinancing of his business – then he would sort out her release and
everything would be back to normal.
The police car was parked outside the school. One man got behind the wheel; the second
opened the rear door. Placing his hand on the back of her neck, he pushed their prisoner
in. Rather to Nicola’s surprise, he then got into the car and sat beside her.
He sat, looking her over as the car moved away from the kerb and began to pick up speed.
His frank gaze made her uncomfortable. “So, just turned 18,” he said. “Got a boyfriend?
Has your marriage been arranged?”
Nicola shook her head, too frightened to speak. The man nodded thoughtfully. “Most
likely still a virgin, then,” he mused to himself. Nicola blushed at his speculation.
She pulled a bit at the handcuffs, but they held her securely. She was uncomfortably
aware that her school skirt had ridden higher up her thighs – something the man beside her
had also noted.
Grinning, he reached out and placed a hand on Nicola’s knee. “Don’t!” she cried out,
squirming away from him until she was pressed against the car door. He chuckled, and
pulled a phone from his pocket. He held it up, pointing the camera at Nicola. “Come on,
big smile,” he encouraged, mockingly. Nicola closed her eyes as she heard the phone
camera click. “Nice,” he muttered. “The lads back at base will be sorry they missed
meeting you.” Nicola dared to look round at him again, and saw to her horror that he was
putting the phone in his pocket and sliding across the seat toward her. Once again, he
put his hand on her knee, firmly. “Better get used to this,” he told her. He moved his
hand up the girl’s leg, to the hem of her skirt, squeezing and stroking. “Please stop!”
Nicola cried out, her voice sounding small and weak, even to her. He grinned. “Oh sure,
like that’s going to happen.”
He slipped his fingers forcibly between the teenager’s thighs, which she had clamped
tightly together, and leaned in close. “Come on, sweet stuff. Give us a kiss.”
Nicola squealed in horror at the man’s unwelcome advances, turning her face away as he
pressed his lips to her face. But suddenly, he took his hands off her as the car came to
a stop. “Shit,” he muttered. “Here already.”
Frantic, Nicola looked out of the car window. The car had pulled up at a pair of
wrought iron gates set in a high brick wall. She knew them well; the Smith & Wessell
House, its identity marked by an unostentatious brass plaque by the gate, was a familiar
local landmark. The policeman driving leaned out of the window and pressed a buzzer on
the intercom. After a brief exchange, to which Nicola was too distressed to pay
attention, the gates swung open. They drove up to the building beyond, a massive Georgian
mansion, and parked by a side door. The two cops got out and hauled Nicola from the car.
“End of the line, baby,” chuckled the one who had molested her in the car.
The door was opened by a short, squat, balding man in his forties. “This the new meat?”
he asked, rhetorically. “Bring her in.”
The two policemen frogmarched the reluctant girl toward the girl. “Please don’t take me
in there,” she pleaded. She looked desperately from one man to the other, still assuming
she was entitled to the protection of the law. “Please, I want to go home!”
“Yeah? What’s it worth, cutie?”
“For God’s sake, stop wasting time,” grumbled the other cop. With that, Nicola found
herself hauled forward, almost lifted from her feet, and heard the door of the slave house
slam shut behind her.
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