Introduction

 

Tori didn't feel the whiplash on her bare skin.

She had not felt anything for the last few hours. It was the hideous scream that jolted her out of her stupor. Still in a daze, she thought it was someone else until the pain registered in her brain. It stopped her in mid-step, jerking back those in the coffle to her front. The girl behind, in her own mindless stupor, stumbled and both she and Tori fell to the side of the dirt road. Tori continued to scream, flailing her legs wildly to shake off the fire on her ass, when the next whip stroke landed.

Suddenly, she stopped screaming and flailing. She couldn't feel anything but rage anymore. Nothing else mattered; all she wanted to do now was to hurt the people who were hurting her.

She had always had a temper, always been in trouble in school for fighting. Her parents and teachers had warned her over and over to let things pass, to accept unfairness and abuse, but she never could and never did. There was something wild in her, her teacher had screamed at her one day, an instinct for violence that compelled her to respond the way she did.

That teacher was right. What no one knew was that Tori had inherited what is commonly referred to as the warrior gene from her father's line. They had all found in one American war or another since the Revolution.

"You stupid fucking bitch," the patrolman screamed whipping her naked body with a fury.

His name was Patrolman Duanne Handy-an American traitor who had joined the Georgia Patrol because he enjoyed the power it gave him. In fact, Duanne had been a bully and a coward Long before he joined the Patrol. Against a determined and well-matched opponent, he invariably backed off. The only time he ever risked a fight was when he faced a disadvantaged or helpless foe like Tori.

And despite her rage, she was helpless. Coffle chains at the front and back of her slave collar kept her attached to the slaves ahead and behind; and a Thorian neckcuff held her arms solidly behind her back. Despite these restraints, she tried to fight back, kicking out with her bare legs as Duanne continued his whipping.

"I'll teach you how to march in a slave coffle, bitch. I will teach you if it's..."

The incident would have gone unnoticed-just one of hundreds of horrors perpetrated by the Patrol brigade that day-if the whip's pain had cowed her into submission. If she had simply cried and begged for mercy like any normal girl would during a whipping, it would have ended then and there. But Victoria (Tori) McCormack wasn't a normal girl. It wasn't in her to cower and accept her well-deserved punishment. What was in her was to strike back, which she did by catching the side of his knee with her heel and causing him to fall over on his side,

"What the fuck...," he screamed in surprise, allowing the entire coffle to hear the fear in his voice. "I'LL KILL YOU!"

In the moment of silence that followed, everyone knew he was a coward, a coward who had been pushed to his limit. They all knew that violence was unavoidable, and they were all terrified...all except Tori. She knew exactly how to hurt him and did not hesitate for a second.

"You won't do that, Private." she said calmly but loudly enough so the entire coffle could hear, "You won't do that because you are afraid. I can hear it in your voice. We all can."

She said it with such assurance and courage that everyone just assumed it was true. It confirmed what they were all thinking at that moment. Her words stopped him cold, and the look on his face told them that she was right.

It was a frighteningly dangerous moment given her helplessness. He lay there frozen for a moment then with a crazed look he drew a knife from his belt as he stood. With practiced ease, he flipped it in the air and grip it pointing down...for gutting.

Tori responded like any threatened animal would, twisting her body around to position her feet-the only part of her that was free-for defense. Duanne dropped his whip and lunged. Suddenly, a black shadow passed between them, and Duanne was on the ground. The sergeant of the coffle guard, a taciturn backwoodsman named Max Miner, had crashed into him before he could use his knife.

"Are you fucking stupid, Duanne?" he shouted, standing over him. "You goin' to cut this bitch...for real?" He paused to catch his breath. "Let me rephase that, Private Handy. How fucking stupid are you to cut one of these bitches?"

Duanne picked himself up off the ground and turned to him, his eyes on the ground. He was red-faced and shaking, angry beyond words, but cautious now...beginning to realize what he had almost done in his anger.

"She, ah, the bitch...she insulted me, Sarge. She defied me when I ordered her to get in step. I had to do somethin'."

"And you though gutting her like a fucking stag was a good idea?"

"She...she's...she's a bad one," he screamed in a high-pitched voice. "We should hang her. I'm right. You know it. She ain't goin' to be nothin' but trouble to us...we should just put her in the trees and be done with it. You know I'm right!"

The sergeant stared at him with contempt.

It was true. After the harvest raid on LaGrange, after they had branded the girls and men they wanted as pleasure slaves, two new slaves had turned comatose. It was not uncommon for a few to react to the hot iron this way. They just lay motionless on the ground and no amount of prodding or whipping could get an acceptable response.

Sergeant Miner had responded by the book. He had ordered their wrists behind their backs and then had them lifted into a suspended position from a nearby oak tree. Their terrible pain served as an object lesson to those now formed into the coffles. It was the kind of response the Patrol used to scare slaves into compliance.

The situation facing the sergeant now was completely different.

"What...what she said was rebellious, Sarge. She's going to cause trouble if we don't hang her now like we did with them other bitches."

Miner ignored him and turned away to help Tori and the other slave girl to their feet. Duanne was shaking his head in protest. Most newly acquired slaves were terrified of them; they might struggle some during their branding, but they didn't ever display the murderous intent Tori had, especially after they were neckcuffed. Locking the hands behind the back and exposing their tits and cunts had an amazing effect, it pacified even the most aggressive captive.

"You need to learn some respect, bitch," Duanne hissed over the sergeant's shoulder.

"...I'm not going to learn respect from a coward," Tori spit back.

Miner gut-punched her, and she doubled over in pain but didn't fall.

"That's it," he said firmly. "I don't want to hear another word from either of you."

He turned sharply towards Duanne.

"Listen to me, Private," he said menacingly. "These bitches and the men we took are now the property of the Southern Region under the care of the State of Geogia. They are branded and registered, and because of that, every one of them needs to be accounted for by me during their transport to the capital in Flo-da. Do you have any idea of how much trouble it is, how much paperwork I need to complete if one of them is marked or damaged?"

Duanne was silent.

"ANSWER ME, DAMN YOU...!"

Duanne's mouth moved by nothing came out.

"Well then. let me s'plain it to you in simple fucking terms. It's more than I want to do, understand? These bitches are now branded and registered pleasure slaves. Like you seen, they were culled out of the crowd of the thousands that we took at LaGrange for their beauty.

"How beautiful is this one going to be if you gut her with your knife or scar her with your fucking whip? Who's going to want to fuck her then, eh? Are you going to explain why she looks so bad to the Persian bosses in Newlanta?"

Duanne shook his head. He was still red-faced and breathing hard, still intermittently glaring at Tori, and looking at the sergeant. He was also moving, shifting his weight from one foot to the others.

"She...she insulted me, Sergeant! Just because they're worth a lot does that mean they can insult a member of the Georgia Patrol, does it?"

Flecks of spittle had formed at the corners of his mouth. Tori had smiled at him and called him a coward-it was an assault to his manhood. She was still smiling at him despite her stomach pain whenever the sergeant wasn't looking.

"Look at her, Sarge, just look at her, she's mockin' us...mockin' us, I'm tellin' you."

The sergeant didn't turn around to look. He just continued to stare at his man.

"Get control of yourself, Private, right now!"

He waited until Duanne was calm then he spoke slowly and clearly.

"The correct reaction to a fresh mouth on a slave is to gag her, Private, then to report her behavior-in this case her offensive language-to me. You don't use your fucking whip to punish them...ever, you hear me? You don't go near them with a knife. If you had killed her, I would have been forced to hang you, Duanne, for theft of property. These bitches belong to the state now and like I said, I need to answer for them, for all of them."

Duanne was still angry but calmer now. The threat of execution, the idea that he could be stripped naked and hung from the end of a rope by his dislocated arms was sobering, and for him, terrifying. He made one more comment in a low voice.

"I'm tellin' you, Sarge, this one is trouble. We should put her in a tree. She's a fuckin' menace. Did you see the way she tried to attack me? If she wasn't chained in a coffle, I would have needed to kill her...to...to save my own life."

"You're not listening to me, Private Handy. I just told you the policy. Are you too fucking stupid to understand that these bitches are a lot more valuable than you are?"

Duanne blinked then nodded, finally understanding that his sergeant was the real danger to him not the girl.

"I, ah...I'm sorry, Sarge. I just lost it for a minute when she come at me like that...never happened before, you know? Course you're right...they're valuable."

The sergeant didn't say anything; he just continued to stare. After a few seconds, he pulled a ball gag off his belt, turned, and pushed it deep into Tori's mouth."

"Problem solved. You see, Private? No damage...no explanations...no need for me to do any paperwork. You get it now?"

He spoke with a terribly calm voice. Duanne just continued to stare, still scared and in shock.

"You need to answer me, Private. Do...you...get...it?"

"Yes, Sergeant. I get it."

"Then take your position at the rear of the coffle, and don't ever let me see you threatening one of these bitches again."

It was more than an order; it was a warning. Duanne stared for a moment, picked up his whip, and walked to the rear of the coffle. The sergeant turned slowly to Tori and spoke quietly in her ear.

"All actions have consequences, bitch," he said. "The private was right about one thing-I will not have a fucking bitch-slave disrespectin' one of my men, no matter how stupid he is, or how valuable she is, no matter how many fucking forms I need to fill out. Do you understand?

She nodded. His calm voice was more terrifying than the private's rage. He spoke up so the entire coffle could hear.

"You will be punished tonight for your disrespect. I'll do it myself."

He lowered his voice and once again spoke only to her.

"If you cannot accept this, if you continue to resist, continue to defy us, I will have you hung by your arms like we did to them others. As I explained to Private Duanne, I won't like doin' it-it's a lot of trouble for me now that you are registered-but I will if I must."

She stared at him with her bedroom eyes over the ball gag, but she didn't nod. It wasn't necessary.

"If you want to live though this day, you will need to keep in step with the others, you hear me. Just watch the feet of the bitch in front of you and match your step to hers."

He slapped the bare thigh of the girl to her front to emphasize the point. Tori continued to look at him directly, her nostrils flaring occasionally. She wasn't afraid to die, but she was afraid of the pain he promised while killing her.

"Do you want to live, girl?" he asked again softly. "Will you obey us? If not, tell me now and save both of us a lot of trouble."

She continued to stare at him stubbornly refusing to nod. She wanted to live, at least she didn't want to die the way the other girls had died. Their pitiful writhing and mindless screams had affected everyone.

"Tell me now, girl, if that's what you want. Your death will be painful; it needs to be to discourage others from making the same insane choice, but at least your slavery will be over. Is this what you want?"

She knew this was the last time he would ask. Slowly, she shook her head.

"That's good. I would hate to destroy a beauty like you. Remember what I said though-watch the feet of the bitch to your front and concentrate. If you fuck up again, you are dead. Understand?"

She glanced into his eyes and nodded, confirming her understanding. He shouted something to the patrolman at the coffle's front, and they began to walk. Tori followed, stepping carefully, intensely focused on the girl's flashing legs. It wasn't hard to match her step now that she had shed her stupor, but like the sergeant had said, it did require concentration. She knew she would get better at marching in a coffle. Many of the other girls were already moving in perfect synchronization as if they were parts of a giant centipede. It was as if they had become one with the coffle.

Cattle, she thought scornfully then she remembered that she was one of them.

Hadn't she just agreed to obey? She should have chosen death if she wanted to hold herself above the others, but that was too hard a choice. Private fucking Duanne's hideously painful whip was a mild discomfort compared to the strappado death the sergeant promised. Controlling her temper and fitting in was literally a matter of life and death now; her survival depended on her compliance...on her submission.

Survival...

Did she really care that much about surviving? She looked up at the bare ass of the girl to her front, at her narrow waist, and at the womanly curve in her back. She was a naked whore now, a pleasure slave like the rest of them in the coffle. They knew all about the Persians and their pleasure slaves in LaGrange. She would be fucked, chained, caged, neckcuffed, and punished for the slightest offense...or for no reason at all.

Pleasure slaves had been a favorite topic of conversation among the girls at LaGrange. It was kind of thrilling to talk about it. Like a scary movie, it was fun in a way to think about the life that a pleasure slave endured. She sometimes went home from those conversations and masturbated, imagining herself naked, chained in a slave coffle.

No need to speculate anymore, she thought miserably.

They had even talked about who would be taken for pleasure during a harvest, and who would be taken for work. Those selected for pleasure were always branded and coffled, while those selected for work were herded into a bruising horse-cart journey to a far-off farm or mine.

The Patrol-Georgia's version of the homeguard, only selected the most attractive girls and young men as pleasure slaves. She was always viewed as too prickly to be chosen. It was a weird ego-boosting to have the girls agree that you would be selected and branded.

Branded...!

She glanced back and down. The raw line of letters and numbers of her brand still burned with a fierce ache on her ass. Now they were accompanied by the whip stripes Duanne had put there. They had talked about the branding as well, but she had never really believed it. She just could not accept that other Georgians would strip, hogtie, and press a red-hot iron into her flesh. It was too barbaric she thought, too inhuman. People, even the traitors who signed up for the Patrol, would never sink that low,

She had been wrong.

In LaGrange she had been Victoria McCormack, now she was "R843-G796," "796," or just "96." The guards only needed to refer to them by a label that differentiated one from the other. They didn't need to bother to learn their given names. It was easier for them to think of them as animals if they had numbers rather than names, she guessed, or maybe it didn't matter to them. In any case, she was now "96."

The attack on the town and the selection had happened so quickly that she had not had time to think, which was probably why she was still alive, she thought miserably. If she had realized that she might be selected, she would have tried harder to get away. A dozen young men and the two of girls from the coffles had paid a terrible price for their resistance. Their strappado hangings were horrible, but they were also a powerful lesson for everyone, a gruesome reminder that non-compliance meant a painful death.

A painful death...!

She never would have guessed it, but this was why a thousand patrolmen had enslaved a town of 30,000 with swords and knifes. No one wanted the kind of death the Patrol administered to those who resisted. As the sergeant had implied, dying might be preferable to living as a slave, but to get there she would need to endure the strappado hanging.

Not that her life as a pleasure slave would be any better. The Persians and the senior American traitors who worked for them did what they wanted with their pleasure slaves. Even though they were considered valuable property, the rumors of atrocious abuse that had filtered back to LaGrange were terrifying. Their branding was a good example of this. They were considered too valuable to go unregistered, but the pain and humiliation of carrying a brand was irrelevant. They were still property now, chattel, and their brand confirmed it.

Chattel...!

The fancy word flashed in her mind as she walked reminding her of her shame. She should have opted to die when she had the chance. That was what a truly courageous person, a patriot, would have done. By refusing an honorable death, she had confirmed that she was a coward, like the private who whipped her, that she had the heart and soul of a slave...a fucking slave!

She snorted with sudden regret, unable to take in enough air through her mouth with the gag in place.

Was this true? Was she really a coward? Wasn't it always better to live and fight another day than to die? Death, even an honorable death, was so final, and it just benefited the oppressor. It was possible that she could still fight back. That she could use her looks to gain some advantage as a pleasure slave and use that advantage to fight back...somehow.

Her looks...

It was all she had. Every girl in the coffle was incredibly beautiful. Out of the 30,000 people in LaGrange, they had only selected 25 for the coffles-20 girls and five boys. The others, those poor people who were destined for the farms or the mines were now a commodity, a slave-one no different than the other. The pleasure slaves, on the other hand, were like individual works of art...they all had their own registration number.

She might be able to use this one day to her advantage.

She had never doubted or denied that she was beautiful in LaGrange like some of the other girls in town did. They seemed embarrassed by their good looks. She wasn't. Her beauty was self-evident and impossible to hide. She had a haunting face, a lean athletic body with long shapely legs, and a great mane of long dirty-blond hair that reached down almost to her ass. Whatever the conventional definition of beauty was, she had it.

She did...

The reason she knew she did was because the first reaction of any man she ever met was always to fuck her. She could see it clearly in their eyes, in the way their muscles tightened, the way their breathing increased. Even the hard-bitten homeguard officer with the sharp eye for pleasure slaves who had picked her out of the crowd in LaGrange had wanted to fuck her.

This, this "fuck appeal" was why he had picked her; this was why he had picked all of them. The harvest and the selection of pleasure slaves from the LaGrange masses was no beauty contest, there was no panel of judges referencing some abstract and socially acceptable definition of what constituted "beauty." The man had picked the girls and the young men who aroused his sexual passion; they were the ones he, and in his experience most men, wanted to fuck. He had passed over several incredible Southern beauties as, in her opinion, they were too delicate, more like fine art than desirable sex objects.

Was she imagining this? Was he just selecting those who he thought could survive the intensity of being a pleasure slave?

She closed her eyes and shook off her slave thoughts. She couldn't, she just couldn't fall into the trap of accepting this as her lot in life. She needed to find a way to fight back. Everyone in town had known that a slave raid was possible-this was just what the Persians did when they needed more manual labor to deliver the Thorians their tribute. They had all known, but no one really expected it to happen. Everyone just assumed that LaGrange was too remote and too small for the Persians to bother with. Tragically, they had been wrong, and no one had escaped except those few who had been killed.

Maybe they were lucky ones, she thought again. From now on it might not be so easy to choose oblivion.