by Ian Smith
“Talking of our house guests,” Joanne Mason said, “where are Philip and Edward?”
Elizabeth giggled. “Edward had Slave Cassandra yesterday evening, and I think he kept her there most of the night. Did she make it back to the slave dormitory at all, Rosie?”
“No, Miss,” Rosie confirmed.
“I do hope the bed springs will stand up to the strain,” Elizabeth said brightly.
“That’s what the slaves are for,” Tyler Mason said. “Who is Edward, anyway? I seem to be running a hotel at the moment.”
Elizabeth pouted. “Your friend Philip spends loads of time here. Anyway, Edward is one of Steven’s medical staff. He’s only recently arrived in Xanxta and you know how expensive hotel bills are around here. His flat will be ready by Friday, so I said he could stay here a few days. Steven says he shows great promise.”
“Well, it’s only Tuesday today, so I hope he doesn’t book Cassandra all week,” Freddie grunted.
“I’m sure he won’t,” Elizabeth soothed. “After all, we’ve got Rosie and Charlotte to offer him as well. You men all like your variety.” She talked as if Rosie wasn’t present and with no regard to the few tattered remnants of the brunette’s modesty.
“Whereas one muscular young buck slave like Ashley is enough for you and Joanne, eh?” Freddie asked.
“Oh, do be quiet, Freddie,” said Joanne irritably.
“And I’m an engaged person now,” Elizabeth said lightly. “No more Ashley for me for a little while, at least. Oh, good morning, Edward,” she went on as a bespectacled little man came into the room. “How was Cassandra?”
Edward Harris was around thirty years old, but looked and acted nearly double that. “Oh, er, yes, very nice thank you,” he said, in that style that reminded Rosie of a fussy, timid old lady.
“Tell you what, Eddie,” said Freddie, “why don’t you sample Rosie’s hot little body tonight? She hasn’t quite got Cassandra’s style, but she’s nice and fresh and innocent. Show him your tits, girl,” he ordered Rosie.
Trying not to blush too much, Rosie turned to face Edward, pulling her shoulders back and keeping her arms out of the way so that her breasts could be clearly seen protruding through the twin circular holes in her uniform. It was at times like this when she just wanted the earth to swallow her up.
“And she’s quite willing, aren’t you, girl?” Freddie prompted.
“It’s an honour to serve, Master,” Rosie managed to reply.
“Well, er, yes, that’s very good of you, she’s very pretty,” Edward said to Freddie, as if Rosie herself wasn’t there. “I’m just grateful for the accommodation for the week, you really don’t have to provide slave girls for me as well.”
“Our pleasure,” rumbled Tyler, who liked to show off his slaves. “And you haven’t forgotten it’s your turn to spend an hour in the haunted room tonight?”
“No, Sir,” said Edward, “I’m quite looking forward to it.”
“Hmm. After an hour alone in the total dark, you may change your mind. And you might be the one to spring the trap.”
“To be honest, Sir, I don’t believe in the legend. A massive hidden diamond guarded by a fatal booby trap? Not likely, I feel.”
“Others do: your employer, for one. And people have died there in mysterious circumstances.”
“Well, we’ll all be just outside making ghost noises,” said Freddie. “Meanwhile, come and have some breakfast.”
“Er, no thank you, Sir, not today,” Edward replied politely.
“But you usually have such a good appetite and there’s some nice things here this morning,” Elizabeth said. “No? Oh, well. Anyway, Freddie, you won’t be there tonight. Don’t forget Steven got those theatre tickets for you and Philip.”
“Oh yeah,” said Freddie, somewhat unenthusiastically.
“You are going, aren’t you, after he went to the trouble of getting them for you?”
“Yeah, sure, whatever,” said Freddie and returned to his breakfast in silence. Conversation died. Rosie, stood ready, could only wait for the occasional snap of fingers and demands for replenishments.
When the last of the family and guests had left the dining room, Rosie cleared up and collected everything onto a trolley to return to the kitchen. She was on breakfast duty this week, whilst Charlotte had to do the room tidying and bed making. That was the easier chore, unless you happened to encounter a late riser who fancied ‘a quick one’ before starting their day - a day which was already several hours old for the slaves. Even a quick one might be preferable to the humiliation that Rosie had endured in the dining room.
On her way back to the kitchen, Rosie met Cassandra. She was a stunning blonde, with curvy golden hair splaying over her bare shoulders, glamorous looks and a superb hour-glass figure. That her figure was superb was clearly evident at the moment, because she was stark naked. Below her flat tummy, her soft blonde pubic hair had been largely shaven, leaving just four straight lines of hair making the letter M. Rosie hated being reminded that her own pubis was similarly shaven, as was Charlotte’s, proclaiming them all to be Mason’s girls. At least Rosie’s uniform kept that particular shame hidden at the moment, although she was always conscious that the lack of panties kept her vulnerable to exposure and worse.
“Hi, Cass,” she said with as much brightness as she could muster. “Were you serving Master Edward all night?” The blonde nodded. “How was he?”
Cassandra had the knack, which Rosie was gradually learning herself, of being aware if a free person was in earshot. It was an essential survival skill for a slave: being overheard saying anything even remotely critical of a Master would lead to a flogging at the very least. “He was a bit hesitant at first, but a handful once he’d got his confidence,” she said ruefully. She turned her bare back to Rosie. “Have I got a bite mark on my bum?” she asked.
There were indeed teeth marks on her exquisite skin. “You sure have,” said Rosie.
“On my boob, too,” said Cassandra, turning back. “And the sod confiscated my uniform. I’ll have to get another one from Cora.” Cora was the cook and general matron. She was also a slave, though much older than the three girls, around late forties, so she was permitted a proper uniform - or perhaps more to the point the Masters didn’t want to see her middle-aged body.
“I’ve got him tonight,” said Rosie, her mind going back to the subject of Master Edward with a little embarrassment.
“You’ll be O.K.,” said Cassandra; “I’ve had worse.”
That was doubtless true, because Cassandra was a much more experienced slave than Rosie, with over a year of service behind her. She was unstinting in her advice and support to Rosie and Charlotte something Rosie found a huge help in getting through each day. It was a very hard life.
A little while later, Rosie had just finished washing up the breakfast things with the always taciturn Cora, when Bassett came in. Everybody called him Bassett: if he had a first name, nobody seemed to even know what it was. He was the butler: a servant, not a slave, around sixty years old, lean and stiff-backed but with receding grey hair betraying his age and totally devoted to Tyler Mason. He had whip rights over the girls, but although he worked them hard he was tough but fair with them, using the whip and worse only when they fell short of his rigorous standards, although when he did get it out he did not spare it. He was allowed full sex rights over Cora, who he took to his bed a couple of times a week. She kept her opinion of this situation to herself, but Rosie’s impression was that she would have preferred not to have to comply. But of course, like all the slaves, she had no say in the matter.
Bassett looked at Rosie, apparently ignoring her exposed boobs. “It’s your weekly appointment at the hairdressers at eleven, isn’t it?” he asked her.
“Yes, Sir,” replied Rosie. Bassett was to be addressed as ‘sir’, reflecting
his halfway status as below the Masters but above the slaves. Rosie had found that in this awful land everybody was above the slaves: she and her sister-kind were the lowest of the low.
“Off you go then,” Bassett dismissed her.
Rosie dried her hands and went to the front door of the mansion. There she hesitated, working up her courage. She was about to go out in public in her uniform, with her breasts and bottom fully exposed on the streets and she hated it. But, like everything else, it had to be done. A minute or two later, she found herself walking down the road, her boobs jutting out in front of her. There were a few people around, not too many but enough to be acutely embarrassing to Rosie. Nobody seemed surprised by her revealing outfit something that she always noticed with wonder: in most countries she would be arrested for walking around like this. As it was, the male pedestrians all had a good, appraising looked as she passed by. There were a few fully dressed women, who ignored her; also one or two largely undressed girls, obviously slaves, who looked as uncomfortable as Rosie did and she saw one poor girl completely naked, hurrying fearfully along. The laws and conventions in this vile oasis town, as Rosie understood them, allowed free men to interfere with unaccompanied slaves as they passed, but the degree of interference considered acceptable depended on the extent to which the slave girl was dressed. A fully naked girl like this one could be stopped, pulled into the nearest quiet alleyway and raped - or could even be taken in the street in full view of everyone. A couple of weeks ago Master Freddie, as a cruel way of ‘celebrating’ Charlotte’s eighteenth birthday, had sent the redhead out fully naked and with her hands tied behind her back, as clear an invitation as it was possible to make and with instructions to Charlotte to deliver a message to someone on the other side of town, something he could have done in seconds by telephone. What would normally be an hour’s walk had taken Charlotte five hours and she had returned dishevelled and distressed, with cum still dripping down her inner thighs and from her mouth and with a bright red bottom. She later confided tearfully to Rosie that she had been fucked five times, made to suck two more and been spanked hard by another four, as well as by two of the men who had been intimate with her. That had been her eighteenth birthday present from their sadistic owners. Rosie had been relieved that her own eighteenth birthday had come a few weeks before this nightmare all started and she was not looking forwards to her nineteenth. Meanwhile, in her current state of dress, she could expect the occasional squeeze of her boobs or bum and, if she was unlucky, a spanking. The law did thankfully specifically prohibit the use of instruments such as canes, belts, whips and floggers on a slave without the owner’s specific consent; thank God for small mercies, Rosie thought bitterly.
I am eighteen, she reflected, feeling the very warm sun on her breasts and with the slight breeze wafting around her bottom and crotch reminding her of her knickerless state as she walked along; I should be a month into my college course in accountancy, assuming my A level results were all right - I don’t even know what they were. I should be out at hockey training twice a week, plus Fridays and Saturdays at parties and a Saturday job at Tescos. Instead, I’m a sex slave in an oasis town in the hot desert, somewhere in the Gulf of Arabia - I don’t even know where. It was still very difficult sometimes to believe or accept.
Rosie arrived at the hairdressers. The Mason family was prepared to lavish money on the girls’ looks: ironically, Rosie would have struggled to afford a weekly appointment with someone of this quality back home and she had to admit that Sammy did a wonderful job with her hair. He was also a nice guy, at least by comparison with most in this evil town: although free, he talked to her as an equal, and kept confidences, although she was still careful what she said here.
He had nobody in the chair, so she was straight in. It was a relief as he draped the protective sheet over her, covering her tits. She could almost feel normal now, just for a little while. “How are we today, Rosie?” he asked conversationally. He didn’t need to ask her what she wanted done: the instructions came from Tyler, via Bassett.
Rosie hadn’t been stopped or groped on the way here and the memory of breakfast was easing slightly, so her day was getting a little better. “Not too bad, thanks, Sammy,” she replied. On her first visit here she had of course addressed him as ‘master’, as she had been taught to do to all free men, but he had told her to use his name instead. Such little things made a difference to an oppressed girl.
Sammy checked his desk diary. “No new instructions,” he reported. “Just the usual trim and tidy up.” Rosie was relieved: she liked her hair the way it was. “So how are you getting on?” he asked as he began his work.
“I’m getting there,” Rosie said. She had found confiding in him easy and comforting. “It’s still difficult. I suppose it always will be.”
“Did you think about what we said last week?”
“About me just trying to become the best slave that I can be? It’s not easy.” She chewed her lip. “I’m trying to learn to be obedient,” she hedged. “I’m trying to accept that whatever they order me to do, I have to do it.” She brightened a little bit. “I haven’t been caned this week.”
“Not once?”
“Not once. I’ve had the paddle and lots of other vile things done to me, but none of that was for real misbehaviour. Most of it was just for some ... for someone’s fun.”
“How did you feel about all that?”
“You want me to say they had every right to have fun by whacking me, don’t you? I can’t, at least not yet. But I did submit each time without protesting and I’m learning to hold position for it.”
“Good. Sounds like you’re making progress.”
“It hurts, Sammy.”
“Nobody ever said that being a slave was easy.”
Rosie angrily shook her head, so much so that Sammy had to gently stop her head from moving before he could continue with his trimming. “That’s the sort of meaningless nothing comment that people use to justify what goes on around here,” she snapped. “Can’t anybody see that kidnapping young girls and torturing them - us - and abusing us is just plain wrong?”
“Morality is irrelevant,” Sammy replied gently. “The simple fact is, it happens and it’s happened to you. Saying its wrong isn’t going to stop it.” His eyes met hers via the mirror in front of them. “You know that you’re stuck with it, don’t you? That you can’t escape from here, that nobody from outside can find you or rescue you and that the authorities are not going to let you go? You’re a slave and you’re going to stay a slave, aren’t you?”
She lowered her eyes. “Yes,” she said very quietly, almost in a sob.
“So it doesn’t really matter if it’s right or wrong: the point is that it’s happening and you’ve got to deal with it. And you need to stop giving in to outbursts like that one.”
“Sorry.”
“Forget it. Just keep your chin up, your boobs out and your legs apart.” Before she could reply, he went on, “there, how’s that,” holding a mirror so that Rosie could see both front and back of her dark hair. It was just a politeness, of course, because she was not authorised to change anything he did.
However, she wouldn’t have wanted to. “It’s really nice,” Rosie replied truthfully, but a new tension had crept into her voice, because she knew what would come next. Sammy beamed at the compliment and removed the drape, putting Rosie’s breasts on display once more, but she knew that much worse was to come. Already he was jacking the chair up, until her bare knees were level with his waist. He pulled up a chair and sat in front of her, holding a cordless electric shaver in his hand. Reluctantly, Rosie pulled the flap of her skirt aside to reveal her delta. The letter M stood out very clearly: two vertical lines of pubic hair, one on either side of her slit, then two sloping lines leading from the top of those vertical lines, joining in the middle just above the top of her entrance, almost pointing the way inside, but mor
eover proclaiming her most private region to be the clearly marked property of Tyler Mason.
Sammy ran his fingers over the shaved part of her pudenda. Rosie suppressed a shiver of shame. “You’re getting a bit stubbly there,” he observed.
“I know,” she said defensively. The stubble itched a bit, too, but she didn’t feel like volunteering that information right now.
Sammy got to work with the electric razor. Rosie did her best to suppress the shudders as he ran it over her intimate, ultra-sensitive skin. If Sammy noticed, which he probably did, he gave no sign, instead trying to ease her with his usual bonhomie. “Soon have you as smooth as a baby’s skin again,” he said, which only added to her embarrassment. “Anyway, it could be worse: they got me to pluck your mate Charlotte.”
Rosie’s ears pricked up - and besides, this took her mind off what he was doing. “Plucked her?” she echoed. She had noticed recently, come to think of it, that when she had seen Charlotte nude, her fellow slave always looked very smooth down there, but she had put it down to the cherry redhead’s more downy hair being less visible than her own slightly thicker black hair. Certainly Charlotte had said nothing about this to Rosie, but the girls were sometimes too embarrassed to tell each other everything, which was where Sammy and other sources were useful.
“Uh-huh,” he confirmed as he went about his task. “It’s effective for a lot longer, but oh boy, does it hurt when those hairs are pulled out by the roots. Charlotte had to really grit her teeth, I can tell you. At one point I considered having her tied down.”
“They haven’t ... given similar instructions about me?”
“Nope; not yet, anyway.”
Rosie fretted. Why do that to one girl, but not to another more inherently prone to visible stubble, and naturally more hairy down there as well, she wondered. “Do you think ...” she had to stop talking for a few moments and focus just on holding herself still: Sammy was working on the tip of the V part of the letter M, which was right on the upper edge of her entrance, right next to her clitoris. The point of the V went right to it, almost like an arrow. As he mercifully finished there and moved on, she voiced the new and unpleasant thought that had occurred to her. “Do you think he might be planning to sell me?”