Introduction

 

Rowena Dulciat, the daughter of Darthganton, the lord of 22nd century Prussia, rebelled against her lineage and sold herself into sexual slavery as a statement of independence. Then, the sex trades-legalized since the dawn of the century- were prone to flagrant abuses. Women trafficking in sex were rarely there by choice. Their profession was reviled, yet tolerated since it served its purpose keeping angry and impatient men civil. For a woman to make slavery an occupation of choice had been unheard of; though at the time Rowena made her capricious decision, sexual slavery was becoming fashionable for the really daring. And for the political woman, the sex trades were a legitimate and lucrative means of support.

Selling her body was never intended to be anything other than a playful lark for the lusty young temptress. She never desired to make money, or even make a statement for the rights of slaves and women. Her impulsive choice was in defiance of the tyranny of her father pure and simple. And yet, in the end, the rebellious daughter spawned a revolution.

Rowena was the sexual icon of her times. With her body she paraded carnal lust before the eyes of a world that would have preferred to look the other way. And with her potent pen and inspired prose she made predictions about the political fortunes of the powerful that had an uncanny way of coming true.

Hers was a unique mission that had no purpose at all in its inception; though she instilled in the mass consciousness of the race an understanding of sexual power that could not easily be dismissed. However, in the end it was not the sex she flaunted, but her psychic power that brought her demise. Sought after by warring tribal lords, she was kidnapped by the most ruthless and smuggled into the mountains of Prussia on the eve of the year 2120. She resurfaced only briefly when her last writings and her journal were published. And while she wrote about her abductor in glowing reports, the real truth about her abduction has never been confirmed. The nature of her mysterious disappearance was the source of speculation by romantics and historians into the new millennium.

Rowena lived for anarchy, chaos and sex. Her bold life influenced the behavior, thoughts and governments of her century, reverberating throughout civilized society. But by the dawn of the 23rd century, a backlash ensued. Those countries most effected by her outrageous life, those in the southern and eastern climates of Europe, instituted strict policies on sexual activity, regulating sexual slavery with complicated legal contracts and even requiring covenants between personal partnerships, almost a return to the long ceased ritual of marriage. The effect of these agreements was to divide society into those who practiced sex as libertines, and those who had sex for little more than procreation. Displays of sexuality were forbidden in public; and slavery with all its accompanying behaviors remained behind the doors of bordellos and private homes, within the law, but beyond the obvious eye.

This outcome was Rowena's legacy. But one she never would have desired. Her journal was banned for decades. Much later the scarce volumes that survived became priceless finds for collectors. But while she was reviled by the institutions she challenged, and her name was written out of most histories, another legacy remains. The power of her sexual prowess has become legendary, and the story of her escapades still haunts the collective consciousness with its dark imprint.

Perhaps the power of that second legacy will let her speak again. Perhaps Rowena Dulciat's revolution is not doomed, perhaps the seeds of it still exist somewhere in the archives of a Paris antique shop where her words can still be found amidst the pages of her once outlawed journal. C.D.

Chapter One

 

Along a row of dusty books in the archives of Gatov's shop, I found the slim volume between a 21st century historical treatise and a book of poetry-Yeats the poet's name on the spine of the yellowed piece. Pulling out the journal I wanted, the pages of Yeats fell like dry leaves to the bare oak floor. I stooped nervously to pick them up and shove them back into their cloth cover. Replacing the poetry, I tucked the journal under my arm and ambled into the depths of the store, keeping a furtive eye out for anyone who might have followed me. Though that prospect was unlikely, I was still wise to keep my activity a secret. I'd seen this journal once before, that time only capturing a single glance at Rowena's illicit prose when the book had been waved in front of my curious eyes, denounced as one stepping stone on society's pathway to hell. To have found another copy of her journal in my brief lifetime made it seem as if I was predestined to hear her message regardless of the judgment heaped upon it. It's as though Rowena calls to me from the past, from my grandmother's generation. I often imagine that she speaks to me alone.

With fingers trembling, I opened the frayed pages afraid that they might turn to dust before I could read the printed words. There in the dark corner of Gatov's shop I began to read. Sinking down in a corner window seat, where just a shard of sun struck the opening page, I read with exhilarating expectation her first words.

. . . As the 22nd century dawned, I was hawked as "good, used wares" in a Prussian storefront. Flaxen hair, unblemished skin, breasts to pour over for hours, and an ass that will take whatever abuse a master chooses to heap on it both inside and out, so the advertisement for me read.

Boheme bought me for silver, the second time I was sold as a sexual slave. Though perhaps it's wise to recount when I was first purchased, for it might shed some light on my frame of mind as I enter into this new arrangement . . .

At that time I was bought by Charlie Hustle, when the Agreements were first allowed, when there were still protest marches against slavery, but when slaves like me were beginning to find personal liberty through the collars and chains we'd chosen to wear.

Charlie was loose with me. I was educated at the cocks of thieves and murderers, who would have murdered me if I hadn't been such a willing slave. There were still so many women on the slave market that had been coerced, blackmailed and quite literally forced into servitude, usually for economic reasons. I suppose I was initially no different than my sister slaves. My benefactor, Ryne, picked me up in a bar, knowing I was ripe for the marketplace, a runaway with easy standards and a fresh though not virgin body. Ryne had no idea where I came from, or that he could be jailed in a heartbeat if the wrong person discovered whose daughter he'd brought into the trade. He didn't ask questions and I didn't give him any answers.

Ryne bought me the black dress and the string of pearls I wore when he thrust me on the stage at the auction. The only explanation he gave me was I was on my way out of poverty. "Use yourself well, you'll be sitting on gold if you're any good." I knew I wasn't poor and I didn't care about gold. My needs for this life have a much deeper meaning, even if the meaning is still unfolding day to day.

That day, I remember how the lights blinded my eyes, a dozen fixed on me and four other women who walked along the runway, while men beyond the lights decided whether they'd make a purchase, or wait for the next auction and better flesh. I don't know the fate of the other women since I was led to a private booth where Charlie Hustle waited to inspect me. He asked me to take off the dress. A size too small I had to struggle with the zipper on the side. There were beads of sweat running down my back, like the pearls that hung between my breasts in front. The room was hot, and Charlie's eyes only added to that heat. I stood before him in nothing save that fake strand of beads and black ankle boots.

"You've had more than one man?" he asked, feeling my crotch-I assume to see if I was still a virgin, which, of course, I was not.

"Yes," I answered, feeling embarrassed by this exploration, but not ungrateful for the rousing massage.

"Several?"

"Three," I replied.

"Lovers or just fucks?" he asked.

"One was a lover, the others were not."

He pressed his fingers to my bum hole. Turning me to the side he pushed me down so I was bent over. He pawed me like meat, shoving several fingers inside my tight rear channel.

"Taken here?" he asked.

"No."

"That can be handled. How about your mouth, you suck cock?"

"Once," I admitted.

"You'll get used to it. How about trussed?"

"Excuse me?"

"Tied, bound, manacled?"

"No, never."

"Whipped?

"Not for sex."

"How would you feel about that?" he asked me.

"I don't know."

"You like pain?" Seizing a nipple between two fingers he squeezed it, then twisted it until I cried. "You'll get used to that, too."

I thought he'd use my ass that afternoon the way he kept probing me there. The sensation was unlike anything I'd ever experienced. I realized then the personal reward that anal sex would bring, though the opening was dry, untested and seriously tight.