Chapter 1
My transformation to slave was as instantaneous as it was unreal—unearthly would be a
better description.
I was going about my normal duties as a junior in the Fine Foods department at
Harrods when he came over, stopping right in front of me where I was assisting the manager
to create a new display of exotic glazed tongues.
“Dara Hewton, you are now my slave,” he said.
My boss and I stared at him in astonishment. “Slave?” we said, in just about one
voice. He was tall and lean and his face was ultra-handsome but his clothes were out of
the 19th Century. He had on a soft velvet hat that flopped down over one side of his head
and a cape done up at the throat that covered almost all the rest of his body. It, like
his hat, was jet black, as were the trousers that poked out from under the cape and the
highly polished shoes that were all of the rest of the clothing we could see.
“Slave,” he said firmly. “And for a slave, you are decidedly overdressed. Remove
your clothing, Now!”
I did. It was as if an irresistible force had taken hold of me and while my boss
and the customers around us looked on in utter amazement (but apparently powerless to
intervene) I removed my white blouse, black skirt, stockings and shoes and then my
underwear, to stand stark naked in front of him — and them.
He, still watched by our small audience in a sort of dazed awe, then proceeded to
examine me, quite unperturbed by the shock on their faces. His examination was both
thorough and very, very intrusive. Oh he ran his hands over my skin, checking out its
smoothness, then squeezed my muscles … but then he went further, much further, now delving
into my mouth (which I opened apparently quite willingly at his behest), my anus (which I
also exposed for his delving fingers despite the pain of the intrusion there) and lastly
of course my vagina.
Here, I should say I was not a virgin. Hell, who is these days? But I certainly
hadn’t been in the habit of putting it out for every boy that came along. In fact, there
had only been the one. Aidan Nelson was my boyfriend and training partner in the
gymnastics we both loved. Yes, I know male and female gymnastics are very different but
we still trained at the same time. I think it was my athletic body that appealed to him,
actually. Mine and Aidan’s both, as it happened.
One thing he didn’t like about it though: my pubic hair. Like most girls these
days, I kept it trimmed but he didn’t like any hair on his slaves’ bodies and he took
immediate steps to remove it.
“Hands up above your head, slave, and legs wide apart!” he ordered quietly but
firmly.
I obeyed. I don’t know why. It wasn’t as if I felt an overwhelming force pushing
me. It was more that there just didn’t seem to be any reason not to comply. Weird? Yes,
I know and it was quite out of character for me for I am normally a very private person
when it comes to my body, always changing as quickly as I could in the gym and never ever
flaunting my flesh, even to my fellow female gymnasts.
Anyway, he simply gestured with his hands at my body. I felt a sort of tickling
sensation at my armpits, legs and around my groin, places where hair normally grew on my
body. Of course I kept my underarms and legs shaved but not my pubic mound. I felt it
was rather lewd to shave it entirely although with the sort of costumes we wore, it was of
course necessary to keep it trimmed.
Now though, quite before my eyes, the hairs there just disappeared! Truly. They
sort-of melted away and now my vulva and the mound around it was openly exposed to my eyes
— and those of the small crowd that had now gathered around us.
I couldn’t look at my boss. I was blushing furiously at my humiliation, even though
I had apparently brought it on myself. I hadn’t resisted him or his orders at any stage
and had seemingly stripped myself quite willingly before their eyes. The funny thing
though was that while their eyes and faces showed their shock at what was happening, none
protested or made a move to help me.
“Hands up behind your head, slave,” he said now, “and keep them there, no matter
what.”
“Yes, master,” I said and then caught a hold my myself. Who was I calling ‘master’?
It had sort of slipped out, I supposed, but then, as I tried to think of him as something
else, I couldn’t. He was my master! Somehow I knew that as an unmistakable fact.
My name is Dara Hewton. I am eighteen years old (as is Aidan) and I come from Kent. I
am five feet, eight inches tall and I am blonde with blue eyes and an athletic body. My
father works as a clerk for the local council and we live in a small house in a quiet
street. Aidan’s circumstances are very similar. My life, apart from my love for
gymnastics, is quiet and unremarkable. I suppose if he hadn’t come into our lives we
would have drifted into marriage and the usual humdrum life of a suburban couple.
Our slavery changed all that, for yes, Aidan too was enslaved by him.
The next thing that happened was even more bizarre. While the small crowd around us
grew and now encircled us completely, a stool appeared (as if by magic) and he sat down in
front of me. Remember, I now stood with my feet apart and my hands clasped up behind my
head. He now pointed a finger at my vagina and instantly I felt a wondrous tingle down in
my loins.
He wasn’t touching it. His finger was a good six inches away from it but I was soon
as excited as I had ever been with Aidan touching me there and to my unutterable shame, my
clit now emerged from my nether lips and reddened visibly. So did my face, its already
pink hue now a deep crimson as the audience watched him raise my libido.
Then there was this sudden pain. A horrible pain! It was as if he had thrust a
red-hot needle through my clit. I looked down and was astonished to see a gleaming
stainless steel ring now dangling from the organ.
He stood up then and the stool just disappeared as miraculously as it had arrived
and gestured towards my neck. A collar, made of the same material as the ring now
appeared around it. But this was no simple two-inched hinged collar. It was shaped to
fit my whole neck and prevented me from raising or lowering my head or turning it from
side to side.
The last part of the ensemble was a chain. It was light, like a dog’s chain and it
now appeared, already clipped to my clitoral ring, the other end in his hand.
Who was he? I don’t know, not for sure. I believe he came from another planet —
another star system probably for our scientists have established I think that other life,
at least intelligent life, doesn’t exist in our solar system.
He was human in form but then being an ardent fan of science fiction I am aware of
‘shape-shifters’ who can transform themselves into any form they choose. He never smiled.
Indeed, he never showed any emotion at all. He was the epitome of the proverbial
inscrutable Asian. Not that he was Asian in appearance. He wasn’t really like any
particular racial group. His skin was white, almost milk-white although it was
alabaster-smooth and clear, and his physique, while lean, was quite perfect in shape and
tone. His eyes were black. Absolutely black and the whites quite pure. His hair was
also white—quite colourless but it was fine and gleamed with good health.
He called himself Andros and that was all I ever found out about him.
He commanded enormous resources and absolute obedience from everyone with whom he
came into contact, as has already been described. He had weird powers, as has also been
told. And I was now his slave.
What did I feel? Shame and humiliation, yes. I was stark naked out on the shop
floor, my pubic hairs wiped away by magic and now wearing a clitoral ring and chain and a
slave collar around my neck. But I was also compliant to his demands. Why, I had no
idea. It wasn’t even as if there was a conflict going on in my brain: one part of me
trying to resist against some all-powerful outside force. It wasn’t like that at all. I
just knew I had to do as he ordered. It was as simple as that.
And then he just led me out of the department, down the escalators and out into the
street while the little crowd watched in mute shock, as did those we passed on the way
out.
My blush stayed a deep crimson that had now descended down my neck to my shoulders
and chest but I was powerless to resist him or even to protest, even when we emerged out
onto the busy street. It was late morning and Brompton Road was at its busiest. As might
be expected, just as they had done in the store, everyone stopped to stare at the sight of
the strangely-dressed tall man leading a naked girl by a chain attached to a ring through
her naked clitoris, but again, not a single one of them protested, much less intervened.
It wasn’t even as if the males among them were lecherous as they stared at my nakedness.
To a man, all of them were just agog at the brazenness of my daring to walk as a slave
among them in a public street in one of the most fashionable parts of London.
It was without doubt the most shameful thing that had ever happened to me but I
never once forgot the order to keep my hands clasped up behind my head. I could have
lowered them to cover my so naked breasts and vulva but I didn’t. I can’t explain why
except to say it was exactly the same force that had made me undress in the first place.
A compulsion I can’t explain no matter how much I try to fathom it out.
We walked about a hundred yards or so along the street and then a current model
Rolls-Royce glided up beside us and we got in, both of us into the back compartment but
then while he sat in the plush rear seat, he directed me to sit on one of the two little
dickey-seats that folded down from the driver’s and front passenger seats.
“Keep your hands up where they are, slave, and spread your legs as wide as they will
go. Wider! Wider still. Really strain to get them parallel with each other…”
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