Condemned to Slavery

by Bruce McLachlan

  “Oh yessss, that’s it slave, now ride it into me, fuck me with your tongue,” she ordered, bestowing small pulls to the leash to encourage the girl and to stimulate her own loins with the passage of the chill links of steel against her.

  The slave girl looked up and saw the bliss she was granting the dominatrix, and it melted her resentment a little more, for she could see how much pleasure she was bestowing, how well another was responding to her efforts. The sense of selfless generosity gathered in her heart and she started to allow herself to find hesitant joy in her cunnilingus.

  “Now, use the flat of your tongue. Pour it against my clit, slave,” murmured the dominant, running her fingers though the girl’s hair, soothing her as she complied.

  “That’s it. Oh God yes. Keep going, don’t you dare stop, slave!” she warned with a wide smile of rapture.

  Devouring the sex of the girl, the slave shuddered with glee, the image of the shivering dominatrix filling her vision, a sense of covert power coursing through her, for was she not in charge of the woman’s bliss? The approach of orgasm hung solely on the efforts of her tongue, giving her a hint of authority.

  “Suck at me a little, slave,” petitioned the girl, rotating her fist to work the face around her crotch. “Mmm, that’s good, keep going, oh I’m soooo close. Don’t stop, slave,” she murmured, her words issuing on speeding pants.

  The slave continued her homage, her eyes fixating on the heaving chest of the girl as she rasped and sobbed with rhapsody, her body quaking the closer she drew to climax.

  “Oh yes! Here we go! Oh! Slave! Go! Work that tongue!” She cried, and after a few more laps she flashed to straining attention, her body quivering and jolting in fits as she yelled onto the air, riven with ecstasy.

  The nubile dominatrix feasted on the pleasure until she could take no more and had to push the slave back, her legs trembling beneath her. His daughter enveloped herself in her own arms, hugging herself as she melted into the embrace and murmured with fulfillment.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all, slave,” she acknowledged softly.

  “You see, slave,” he advised. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You pleasured one of your owners. You should be proud. You did well.”

  The girl looked to him and gave a flicker of a smile.

  “So are you ready to undergo your treatment?” he asked, melting the warmth in the girl’s smile. Her head now hung low and she sighed with resignation.

  “Yes, Master.”

  Having gained at least a token acceptance of her need for discipline, he turned and drew a large box from the corner. Flipping the latches, he opened the chest and started to remove the interior as his daughter refastened her clothing.

  A latex top was drawn onto the girl, her arms sliding down the sleeves into firm mittens. The molded breast cups had straps at the base that when tightened made the assets swell and bulge into a spheres of discomfort. Metal sockets at each tip covered her entire aureole and bore fittings for as yet unknown additions.

  The buckles at the hem were fastened, the waist bands drawing in at her hips as others were attached to her back, bending her arms up her spine and locking the mittens to the dense rubber collar that forced her head up and to attention.

  She whimpered and grimaced as she was slowly enveloped, whole portions of her body been stripped from her as the two tyrants locked her in the required configuration. Already she could see that she was being prepared for something other than the fate of the other women, and the mystery both excited and frightened her.

  Her expression was lost as a latex hood was drawn down over her head. The barren dome was comprised of two dense layers. One clutched her face while the other remained loose upon it. A wide pipe fed into her mouth to grant her breath, and the neck attached to her collar to prevent any hope of getting rid of the sheath.

  Lost in oblivion, she became more docile with so many of her senses removed. Stockings were pulled onto her legs, the buckled tops tightening them onto her skin, perching her atop the incorporated ballet boots, their absurd heel making her shiver with pangs of cramp as her foot was stretched out.

  Proceeding to a panel in the floor he lifted it out to expose a subdued section beneath, the shallow indentation place right before the door. The new area of ground was fitted with row upon row of illuminated plastic discs all placed close together. Each was of a size where her toe and heel could fit within one, and flicking a switch he brought motion to both floor and ceiling, setting covert mechanisms in motion as the discs glowed more brightly.

  From the middle of the panel arose a sizable phallus. The bulbous slick tip started to rise up, the ridged length giving way to two coils of slender cord that hung loose from the long metal pole supporting it. Simultaneously, from a covert hole in the ceiling came a metal-segmented pipe with two wires hanging along it, all three ending in a locking seal.

  As the shaft was still rising, his daughter drew the girl to her feet and supported her fledgling steps as she was brought to the pole, her stance in the boots being highly unstable. Steered into position, the rounded head grazed her loins and she bucked with concern. Before she could escape, the phallus speared her womb, shuffling into her, making her jolt and writhe, fighting the latex bondage as she tried to get free, the width of the slimy dildo hauling her open far wider than she could accept in comfort.

  The cords were quickly tied about her thighs, stopping her from achieving the unlikely ability of leaping free of the trespassing scepter that now plundered her very depths. The rod only stopped once it was pressed as deep as it could go without causing damage.

  Tottering on her heels, shaking with distress, a series of whinnying cries seeped through the helmet as her plight continued to worsen.

  The large pipe was locked to a fixture at the crown of her hood and the two wires were drawn out and mated with the devices on her nipples.

  Stepping back, the pair of them admired their handiwork as the mechanism engaged and began to reveal the truth of her containment.

  The hood rustled and started to swell, the pipe pumping it up swiftly so that it squeezed her head in a tight clinch.

  The discs on the floor started to flicker as she trod on them, the panels sending their programmed response into her form. Each activated either the voltage nip to her nipples, to her womb, or added to the inflation of her hood. Some of them decreased the inflation, or switched to a more pleasurable series of pulses into her speared sex.

  It was up to her to discern where and how to place her feet to acquire a relent in the gathering pressure on her head, or the snap of electrical bites to her womb and teats.

  Every ten minutes they would automatically reset themselves, changing to a new pattern so that she would have to start again in discovering the new locations, and by a process of elimination and experimentation she would endure the more despicable settings of the mechanism to find those that were less harsh.

  Squealing and prancing on the shaft she stepped from disc to disc, desperately seeking assistance in her plight. Even when she found one, she was so torn by her panic that she often moved on and had to struggle to reverse and find it again.

  Both of them watched with heated passion as she started to slowly acclimatize to the position, falling into the demanded rota of constant searching, lines of wetness running down the shaft as she bounced and slid upon it.

  Sufficiently pleased that she would recall this experience for a very long time, they turned and departed the room, leaving the thirteen women to their private tuition.

  “I think we need some more slaves,” he commented. “We have several important personages due this year and I want some exceptional specimens ready for them. I’m growing tired of the same old faces and this girl was the first new specimen in a few months. She’s definitely convinced me we need some new blood to refresh our little harem. Where did she come from, by the way?”

  “Folter’s prison. She was caught smuggling heroin. She claimed she was framed, was found guilty, and gi
ven life. Folter had her sent to her dungeon for training and then she was sent here,” reported the girl.

  “Ah, Folter and her dominatrix are a wonderful team. They’ve given us some stunning results,” he mused.

  “Indeed, father. Any particular recruitment method?” she wondered.

  “Abduct some and ship them here via the usual methods, see what we have in the prisons, and recruit from any local sources. I wish I could afford something from Volodia’s sources, but that will have to wait for a few more years, despite the fringe benefits of such ownership,” he considered with disappointment, for even his vast wealth was currently insufficient to afford such a creature. But once he had established his new rule, then he could start saving the inordinate sums required.

  “As you wish, father,” replied the girl, and turned into a separate branch, leaving the ruler to brood and dream, wondering what sort of recruits he would find in his care and how they would react to their training and the heady dark delights of his palace.

  Chapter One

  “This is your captain speaking. Due a minor problem in the cargo compartment, we will be making an unscheduled stop at the Guenerros airport. Passengers are advised not to leave the airport grounds as we hope to be underway again within the hour.”

  After focusing her attention on the announcement, Lydia rolled her head aside to regard the view from the window. The fractured pane of white clouds opened to offer wispy glances of the land below. It was a sea of uneven lush green, the surface rising and falling drastically with the great peaks and valleys, but no matter how savagely the ground bucked it never succeeded in sloughing off the tropical forests riding upon its back.

  With a premature landing imminent, she decided to assess and repair her appearance, her vanity overcoming the desire to simply lay back in her soft seat and watch the land drift by beneath her languid gaze.

  Hauling the articulated door aside, she slipped into the cramped interior, the anemic light flickering into life with her entry. Checking herself in the mirror Lydia straightened her wreath of neck length black hair so that it fell neatly around her angular features. Flicking her fringe into a tidier row, she straightened the line it formed across her eyebrows, the plucked slender threads flicking up towards the end to grant her features the constant wicked glint that had so often been remarked upon. Her body was slender and shapely, her devotion to exercise granting her an athletically curvaceous form that many had found captivating, but which she maintained for her own self esteem as opposed to a desire to pander to anyone else’s vision of beauty.

  Emerging from the toilet, she started to walk back down the aisle, only to have a stewardess emerge before her, the woman beaming with a permanent broad grin hat had been firmly in place since she boarded the flight.

  “Miss, if you would take your seat and fasten your seatbelt,” she asked sweetly, indicating the vacant spot with both hands as though she were conducting a display of safety procedure.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Lydia, settling in with a shuffle and accepting the belt as it was handed to her.

  “An animal that was being shipped has gotten loose in the cargo hold and they want to land to secure it. After all, we wouldn’t want the little fellow nibbling through any hydraulics now would we, miss?” Said the woman, and walked off, leaving Lydia considerably less reassured.

  Easing back into her seat, she turned her gaze once more back to the lofty vision. The scene seemed so tranquil and it was hard to envisage the bitter war that had raged there, though according to the news reports it was now reduced to little more than a few random skirmishes and isolated fire fights.

  The flaring of yet another small war had gained the fleeting interest of the press who had meticulously studied the machinations within before their flitting enthusiasm for mayhem found a fresh middle east squabble to concentrate upon lest they risk boring their viewers by exceeding a whole fortnight of coverage. In a few weeks people would have forgotten about the topic and just assume it was all resolved.

  The political feud between communist and capitalist had been infecting the entire region since the last world war, and was responsible for prompting the delivery of vast arsenals of weapons and the creating of whole armies of paranoid fanatics via propaganda. The men and women of this scheme were ready to kill and die for the causes their shadowy superpower paymasters had indoctrinated them into following. But when the economies of these mighty backers began to falter and domestic problems took precedence over foreign support, the idle warriors had to find new sources of animosity to quell their thirst for battle. In a repeating echo of so many other instances, a civil conflict broke out, fueled with the refuse of the Cold War. The fighting was fierce and relentless, as it always was when such sanguinary troops were guiding the beast of war. With no-one willing to dirty their hands or empty their pockets with intervention, and because the country had no valuable resources to attract the greedy eye of the mightier nations, the death toll was left to inflate as the world watched with insipid interest from its couches, bars, and office desks.

  Two weeks ago the country of Guenerros had been born amidst fire and blood, gouging out its territory from the flesh of a larger and negligent parent. The foe were driven out and hunted down, the droves of unoccupied soldiers turned to policing duties, and to bear the cost of this massive military the citizenry were squeezed for everything they had.

  The new regime was exceptionally cruel and paranoid, reporters and aid workers had been killed or imprisoned on trumped up charges, few of them ever being released because most met with ‘regrettable accidents’ while in the care of the police. No one knew the identity of the ruler of the country, or even if there was one. The generals were passing their orders to their troops as though it were they who were responsible for issuing them. The borders were closed and fortified, and all traffic vigorously scoured, while torture and execution were used to create the cloud of fear that helped keep such tyrants in power. The entire situation seemed no different to the other examples of such revolution, but there was something else to the story of Guenerros, a secret that hovered just out of the limelight. It could be sensed, lurking behind the stories, the reporters aware that a great secret existed, but it was one they were unable to locate or unearth.

  The plane bathed briefly in the layer of curling clouds and broke through. The lights calling for the fastening of seat belts pulsed again and the intrigued chatter of the passengers was accompanied by soft peals of compliant metallic clicks. Slipping elegantly down towards the soil, the city began to whizz past as they cleared its perimeter. The houses zipped past underneath and were suddenly replaced with the wide expanse of the runway. With a soft jolt the jet brushed its wheels to the tarmac, sending a shudder through the interior as they slowed and started to maneuver along the wide roads towards the main building.

  The airport was small and dilapidated, the runways encompassed by a tall mesh fence with barbed wire rolls laid atop it and watch towers rising up along the entire length. The troops manning them glared with a paranoid intensity at the streets beyond, their heavy machine guns following their stare.

  Disturbing clusters of holes pockmarked the exhaust-tainted walls of the main building and small nests of sandbags cradled uniformed figures and tripod mounted machine guns or anti-aircraft batteries. There were few persons in the main structure, the quantity of troops easily outnumbering both staff and customers put together.

  At a lethargic pace the massive jet wheeled and slotted itself amidst a selection of antique planes and grimy attendants with cigarettes drooping in their lips, flaunting the existence of the fuel trucks nearby. The sour faced lackeys brought forth flights of rust-flecked steps to permit exit, slamming them carelessly to the side of the plane and wandering off.

  The hatches hissed and yawned, granting the passengers opportunity to stretch their legs as the sealed and carefully regulated environment was compromised. Instantly a wash of oppressively humid air rolled throughout the cool interior of t
he cabin. The tropical heat devoured the comfortable temperature and kindled a sudden sweat across every passenger. It was an ardent heat, the kind that could be detected with each inhale of air, which demanded complete inactivity and plenty of iced drinks in the shade.

  Several guides awaited outside to escort the flow of unexpected visitors to the airport lounge and gift shop where they could be parted from their money for some worthless indigenous trinkets, the tensed fake smiles of the escorts worn like customary masks.

  Donning her sunglasses, Lydia removed her jacket and braved the glaring eye of the day, quickly trotting across the open zone and into the welcome shade of the proffered hall. Parking herself directly beneath one of the overhead fans, she regarded her surroundings, intending to recall every detail so that when she returned home she could boast I was in Guenerros, a place currently regarded as a truly pernicious locale.

  Customs officials waited at the gates leading on into the country itself, the will of the pedantic guardians being enforced by the armed soldiers arrayed randomly about the scene.

  A little more accustomed to the heat, she wandered back outside, intending to gain a few pictures to back up her boasts of braving this nightmarish war-torn country, the images conjured by sensationalist headlines strong in her mind and quite contrary when placed against the tensed serenity about her.

  Peeking down the lens she filled the rectangular frame with a watchtower and captured the vision. Inspired to regarding herself as some sort of courageous photojournalist she continued taking in the military sights, snapping off shots until her entire roll of film was exhausted.

  With such evidence to back her claims she could gain attention and awe from those about her at work, and perhaps it would allow her to slot herself more easily into one of the social circles. Her feeble ability at conversation and interaction had left her fairly isolated throughout most of her life, and condemned her to craving attention and importance from afar. She didn’t mind being on her own, in fact she liked that sense of independence, but it would be nice to have people to talk to. Since changing jobs she had been an outsider at her new firm, ignored and spurned because of her timid quietness. These pictures would change all that, they would give her the opening she needed, to simply tell her story and show the shots, let people get to know her a little.