CHAPTER 1
"Look at these my friend! They are good specimens I assure you, especially the two
females!" boomed the now horribly familiar rich deep voice from behind Clarisse, making
her shudder in dread, her flesh shrinking, twitching, her face growing hot with shame. She
briefly closed her eyes, hoping against hope that this was an awful nightmare from which
she would awake - but of course it wasn’t.
That voice - and others – had, for Clarisse, come to represent humiliation, pain and
suffering such as she could never have previously envisaged. It belonged to the person
who now owned and controlled her and her family. In this strange and horrifying new
existence in which they found themselves, she was no longer a free woman, simply a cowed
slave. That person whom she had to obey totally could inflict previously unimagined
suffering at a whim. It made her obedient, too frightened of the consequences not to be.
It felt terrible for her to be so utterly helpless in the hands of such a person.
Although approaching her mid thirties, she was, she knew from the compliments she often
received, a vibrant and beautiful woman, a free spirit, independent, self-willed. Now
she, her daughter, son and husband stood naked awaiting the pawing of yet another brute;
someone who could literally buy and own them.
"Hmm, I don't know if we really need any new slaves right now," came another voice with
a South African twang.
"They are whites," the first voice elaborated, "and I know your preferences there."
"Well, yes, I'm naturally happy to take a look then," the second voice replied and two
sets of footsteps echoed across the marble hall towards them. Clarisse’s belly and bowels
tightened with fear.
She couldn't help but glance at her husband, Mike, and son, Adam, to one side and her
daughter, Laura, to the other. She knew it was forbidden to move, but she got away with
it by sliding her eyes sideways. It brought fresh tears. Her children were twins of
eighteen, both extremely good looking and confident, with the world and suitors at their
feet. Her daughter had dark, shoulder length hair, the same colour as Mike’s, whilst Adam
had her blonde locks, which were almost as long as hers. Now they stood stiffly tense,
like her, chewing their lips, faces hot with shame at what was to come. She knew that her
children already had … experience; neither were virgins, but to be forced to stand on view
to horrible strangers… She looked at her husband, seeing on his face the same look of
despair as her own. Maybe it was even worse for him, she speculated. He, their provider
and protector, had to stand by whilst his wife and children were made to suffer and
humiliated in every way alongside him.
When the footsteps approached, Clarisse lowered her eyes to the floor as was required;
slaves were forbidden to make eye contact without permission or unless speaking to their
Master. How easily, she thought, did the previously unthinkable terms 'slave' and
'master' come to her mind. She knew that they had to; she had to accept them as realities
now. How desperately she wanted to run away, hide, or even fight back. But her bondage
and, of course, her constant fear of the consequences to her and her family made either
course impossible.
"Look up, open your eyes wide, roll them around show them off for my friend. He is your
possible new owner, Mr Voorcan," came the order.
Cringing, Clarisse gingerly lifted her head with her Master's large, podgy black hand
cupping her chin. Somehow she contained her gasp of revulsion at the sight not only of
her obese Negro Master, Mr Katan, staring at her but also the other man who might buy
them.
He was even less of an oil painting than the Negro if that were possible. The newcomer,
Mr Voorcan, seemed to exceed her Master for rolls of podgy fat and his ugly tanned face
was also greasy and badly pockmarked around a pencil thin moustache to lend him a
sinister, piratical appearance. He looked and sounded like a white South African - with
maybe traces of Negro in his ancestry. And of course, he was totally at ease with
examining a terrified nude English woman. However she had to forget her feelings; they
would be irrelevant now to anything. Instead, she obeyed the order to roll her eyes
around up and down, from side to side, feeling as if she was auditioning for the part of a
mad-woman as he peered at her pupils and the whites of her eyes, pulling them around.
"Hmm, the blonde bitch seems basically healthy," he conceded, smacking her bare bottom
with a hard hand to make it sting painfully – yet she knew that would be the least of her
worries. And to think that she used to object to Mike ‘demeaning’ her when he used to
occasionally give her pert backside a light pat in public when she wore a figure-hugging
outfit, she thought.
"They've all past the initial medical - you know my high standards," her Master
continued as if she was a used car.
"Open!" Voorcan commanded, touching her quivering, full red lips.
Shivering in shame, Clarisse obeyed, allowing his thick fingers to examine her teeth as
if she were a horse. He pulled back her lips to peer at her gums, his sharp and dirty
nails fingers tapping each of her teeth. His probing deep into her mouth nearly made her
sick. She gasped as her nostrils were pulled up and examined. Then, inevitably, came
worse as the hands slid down to her breasts, which were already heaving with anguish. The
hands cupped, fondled and poked, her nipples treacherously rising to two pink cones under
his disgusting touch. She had never felt so demeaned. Now he was behind her.
“Look at those lovely English buttocks, two perfect hemispheres.” She cringed in shame
at her Master’s pronouncement and then again as the hands began touching her flinching
bottom cheeks. “You see how lovely and smooth it is, firm too,” the voice she hated
continued. “Imagine, if you will, gripping such wonderful globes, succulent meat as she
rides you to heaven. What a fuck she will make. And between them too, you’ll find the
little jewel of her little rosebud - a virgin there to all intents, tight and hot, waiting
for you.”
“Haah,” she winced as the hands stroked between her cheeks, which pinched up in a
useless defence against the ghastly assault, to penetrate the tight bud of her anus,
filling her so unnaturally, so horribly.
“Stop wriggling, girl!” Voorcan slapped her bottom again, even harder. It made it sting
intolerably, tears pricking her large eyes. But worse was the sheer humiliation of being
treated so, fingers sticking inside her, probing her intimately and publicly.
"Ughh," she was unable to contain her gasping grunt as, without ceremony he thrust a
stiff finger straight up into her dry vagina, making her wriggle in discomfort and pain as
he filled her, her eyes screwing shut. However, it was as if he was merely examining a
piece of poultry in a butcher’s shop. The act of handling a beautiful English blonde had
seemingly no effect on him whatsoever.
“I always say you can judge a slave woman by her kiss,” the awful man next announced, as
he peered into her shining face. “Respond to me with your mouth, tongue and body, girl if
you know what’s good for you and your family,” he hissed in a threatening whisper as he
kissed the nape of her soft neck. “Understand?”
“Y-Yes Sir,” she managed through a dry mouth, her eyes wide and bleak but remembering
the respect required from a slave.
“So come on to me, girl, and make it fucking good so I can judge you. Make me feel that
I am the man you have been waiting for all of your life and that you want to fuck me. If
you are not sufficiently convincing, you’ll suffer the pain of the damned.” he threatened
in a menacing tone.
An outsider would have seen the nude woman, although with her arms confined above her by
her bondage, respond to the fat, ugly brute before her. As his arms went around her in
what could almost have been a tender embrace, she turned to him, straining up onto tiptoe,
pressing her breasts against him. His arms engulfed her, drawing their bodies together as
she raised her open mouth up to his to be kissed.
With one arm around the smoothness of her shoulders, his other paw casually slid down
the enticing arch of her spine to rest on her bottom as she moved her tongue with his,
pushing herself closer to his grossness in seeming abandon.
Only Clarisse knew her mental and physical torment as the creep’s awful, thick tongue
invaded her mouth and she had to pretend that she enjoyed it. With her eyes closed she
tried, with little success, to pretend that it was Mike. She tried to pretend that his
hands were moving obscenely on her trembling body to grip her flexing bottom, that the
brute mauling her breasts was the most wonderful experience.
She felt sick at the touch and at what her husband and children would think of her
reaction as she ground her hips against him. Yet she knew she had to play their hideous
games. She had to be a sufficiently good actress to convince him that she wanted him or
suffer the torment of the damned and inflict the same on her family.
“Ok. I suppose. I’ve had better. She’s a bit of a slut maybe; I don’t want too much of
her.” He mentally slapped her down with his crushing and humiliating asides, deliberately
wiping his mouth. Then, without further comment, he walked over to her daughter, the
lovely Laura, whose face soon crumpled whilst she had to meekly let the brute grope her.
It was worse seeing her daughter and then her son being handled like lumps of meat.
Filthy hands weighed Laura's small breasts, making the youngster unable to suppress tears.
Clarisse felt physically sick as she watched from the corner of her eyes while the hands
mauled her daughter’s small bottom, disgusting fingers probing into the cleft to make the
teenager squirm and gasp.
“Nice tight cunt, not a virgin, though. Aah, but she is here...”
“Uughh!” Clarisse bit her lip as she heard the vile words and her daughter’s pitiful
grunt, imagining, knowing, what indignities they were inflicting on her.
Then she had to shut her ears and mind to the comments as they handled the fear-shrunken
penis of first her husband and then her son.
"Hey, these aren't too big down below!" exclaimed the buyer, holding first Mike and then
Adam's manhood, each resting in the palm of his brown podgy hand like two small, pale
sausages protruding from dark pastry, their faces tense with strain.
"Oh I think I know a way," the Negro smirked, his fingers delving into the cleft of each
pair of shrinking buttocks, probing, sparking their enthusiasm, no matter how reluctant.
"They like men, maybe?" Voorcan raised his eyebrows at the erections now displayed for
him.
"Who knows?" Katan smiled an array of half golden gleaming teeth. "But more likely it’s
their instinctive reaction to touching a nerve down there." He smiled proudly at the two
jutting erections he had produced. "They will be OK for breeding. Let's put them through
their paces for you," he smiled to the buyer. “They are chained up ready as you can see.”
It was terrible bondage to which Clarisse and her family had each been subjected for
this examination, designed to constrain them yet allow a prospective purchaser freedom to
assess them and their stamina.
Their arms were stretched apart and secured above their heads with their wrists being
fastened to cuffs. These in turn were attached to a heavy solid metal sphere suspended
above each of them from the ceiling by chains. When those chains were slackened the
sphere would lower slightly so that the slave below had to hold its substantial weight on
straining arms above their heads. This enabled buyers to assess their strength and
quivering muscles. And even if the sphere wasn’t fully lowered, with their wrists still
cuffed to it, their arms were still effectively fastened above their heads within an arc
of only a few inches. This prevented them defending themselves against probing hands –
assuming they had even dared to do so.
They each stood with legs apart in the obligatory fashion in this hell-place on wide,
but short, treadmills with their ankles chained to its side-rails at shin height. This
would allow them to move their feet apart sufficient for them to run pounding along on the
rubber belt but not enough to allow them to escape or kick out at any antagonists – again,
assuming they dared. A large card slotted into the front of each treadmill provided their
personal details, including various intimate coloured photographs of them to support the
similar shots already sent out to potentially interested buyers.
Now the belt began to move and consequently Clarisse had to start jogging on the spot,
hair, breasts and bottom bouncing before the appreciative audience.
"Lower," their Master nodded to an assistant, a Negress who controlled their constraints
from a remote console across the room.
"Hah," Clarisse gasped as she took the whole weight of the ball above her head. It was
heavy, but she knew that if her arms lowered more than a couple of inches, a circuit in
the sphere would activate to give her a painful electric shock through the cuffs. Those
spheres were fiendish and capable of other 'tricks' and they all had a healthy respect for
them. The treadmills were connected to them so if they failed to keep pace with it, they
wouldn't just stumble, the circuits in the sphere would again activate more electric
shocks.
"Open!"
Panting for breath, struggling to hold the ball aloft and also trot, Clarisse opened her
mouth. This allowed the smiling creep to listen to her gasping breathing. Again he
obscenely held and weighed her bouncing breasts, his fat, sweating pockmarked face inches
from her own distraught features.
To take her mind off this present hell she tried to blank her mind, to let it rove back,
travelling over the chain of events, which had put them all here.
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