Condemned to Slavery

by Bruce McLachlan

  The Warden stood by the window, looking out over the compound and into the jungle. Tall and exquisite of frame, her slender body was held within the tight clinch of a halter neck Lycra top, the black shimmering garment dropping into gray jodhpurs and tall black boots. Her short blonde hair was held beneath a peaked military cap, the braids upon it signifying rank, the black design and badge confirming her as Secret Police.

  “Guards, deposit the file on my desk and prepare her before you leave,” she growled, her accent distinctly west coast American.

  Without word they forced her down onto her knees and snapped cuffs to her ankles, threading the chain over her wrist restraints to hog-tie her in this supplicant upright pose. Setting down the folder upon the desk they turned and departed, closing the door behind them.

  After a few moments of silence the Warden addressed her while still gazing upon the green canopy.

  “My name is Warden Folter. For whatever crime you have committed you have been sentenced to imprisonment at my facility. Conditions are harsh, and rightly so, for the criminals here are here to atone for their felonies and only through suffering and hardship can this be achieved. However, submission to the will of my guards and the rules of this prison will make your time more tolerable. Resist or disobey and you will be punished severely. As a reminder, I will now give you an example of the most minor form of correction you will come to expect,” she explained blandly.

  The woman removed a long and slender crop from a drawer and approached Lydia, prompting her to start shouting for help, clawing at her metal bonds in fright, the energetic wriggling toppling her balance so that she landed heavily on her front. A booted toe dug under her chest and flipped her onto her back, trapping her limbs beneath her torso, leaving her arched upward and eager to accept the bite of the poised weapon.

  Lydia’s words rose to a defiant cry as the crop lifted high into the air and paused to bring dread before descending with a whistling hiss, turning the cry into a wail of pain as a searing line was laid upon her thigh. The blow had Lydia jerk and squirm upon the floor, hauling at the defiant cuffs.

  Another hack ate into her inner thigh, the sensitive skin bringing an even sterner wash of suffering, the mordant stripe it laid making her shriek and buck, trying to flip over and shield the delicate regions currently under attack. Her plan was foiled as the Warden’s gleaming boot stepped onto her stomach, the weight resting upon it forcing her to the floor. Her arms and legs were squeezed between floor and foot, her joints starting to churn with internal mayhem as the pressure was increased, the Warden leaning over and letting her body pin down the prisoner before her.

  With her victim secured she commenced the beating with added speed and strength, lashing into Lydia’s cleavage and thighs, laying down a plexus of flushed purple welts that throbbed with a residual pulse for many minutes after their birth. Contused lines were continually drawn across her by the sanguinary frenzy that ruled her persecutor. The Warden was goaded into increased ferocity at the sight of Lydia squirming beneath her boot, her flesh rippling as the looped tip of the crop slammed to it or skimmed briefly across the tip of a striped breast. The sound of her imploring desperate yowls gave the woman malevolent pleasure, the Warden delighting in her work.

  Gasping for air as she screamed in response to the crop, Lydia could only strain against her shackles, her mind thumping with her racing heartbeat and the animal panic that called only for her to evade the blows. Suddenly the deluge abruptly ended and the Warden addressed her while steadying her panting breath.

  “You are no longer a person. You are a piece of property owned by Guenerros. You no longer have a name. You have a code number. You will know this number. It will be used to refer to you, call to you, you will answer to it, and you will forget your name. If you use your name, you will be severely reprimanded. Do you understand?”

  Lydia said nothing, still lost in her daze of pain, twitching in continual fits. The crop flashed down and restored her will to shriek.

  “Say, yes, Warden Folter, if you understand?” she growled, and once more applied her switch with equal verve.

  “Yes, Warden Folter, I understand!” Lydia howled, the pain bestowing ample volume.

  “What is your name?” the woman asked.

  “Ly—” she started and then paused suddenly, realizing the slip of her tongue. Before she could apologize or correct her error, the crop was once more streaking through the air and applying half a dozen fierce strokes across her thighs, crisscrossing the previous marks and restoring their old intensity. The beating stopped and the Warden leant more heavily onto her squirming captive.

  “What is your name?” the Warden repeated.

  “I have no name, I am property, Warden Folter,” Lydia wheezed, tears spilling from the corners of her eyes to trickle into her hair.

  “What is your designated code number?” she hissed.

  “I…I…don’t know, they said it in another language,” Lydia whimpered.

  “Hmmph,” vented the Warden, stepping away and throwing an underarm flick into Lydia’s lewdly presented pussy. The heinous stroke made her arch up and yowl, her body thrashing madly as the woman deserted her to recovery from the swat.

  Turning the folder round to face her with the hooped tip of the crop, the woman ran the end of the weapon down the cover.

  “You are six one nine two,” she declared, and began to saunter back to her grizzling student.

  The boot once more dropped onto Lydia, squashing her again.

  “What is your name?” asked the woman, lifting the crop in warning.

  “Six one nine two, Warden Folter,” blurted Lydia.

  “Say it again. Quicker this time,” demanded the woman, skimming the tip of the crop across her assets to make her breasts quiver and her mouth drop open and air a cry.

  “Six one nine two,” she rambled with speed.

  “Keep saying it,” growled the woman.

  Lydia started to chant the number again and again, and each time she did, the dull thwack of the thin weapon was sung against her body, the Warden applying a merciless stroke each time she declared her new identity, the pain burning the digits into her very soul. Soon she was choking the words, fighting to get them out, her level of endurance left far behind, her fright of disobeying this grand sadist the only encouragement to keep her going.

  “Say it backwards!” the Warden ordered, changing the nature of the lesson.

  Lydia paused, trying to concoct the reconfigured litany, receiving several ghastly stripes into her sex for her failing, the Warden increasing the metronome precision of her drum roll, using the added suffering to stall Lydia’s efforts until finally she yelled out at the top of her lungs.

  “Two nine one six!”

  The assault ceased suddenly, cutting off without warning, leaving her an enfeebled husk, her body rolling within a fog bank of tortured befuddlement.

  The boot slipped aside, lodged under her hip and turned her onto her front where she let out a gurgling croak when she was laid down onto her bruised breasts and thighs, the revitalized welts singing aloud under the slight weight of her frame. Scowling, she clenched her teeth and endured the added woe, her body damp with fevered perspiration, her face stained with trails of tears, saliva and sweat.

  “In gratitude for this lesson you may kiss my boots, six one nine two,” smiled the woman, presenting a polished toe to Lydia’s face.

  Without delay she nuzzled forward and adored the footwear, wondering to herself why she was giving in so easily and licking the leather rather than just kissing it. Lydia told herself that she was just trying to overcompensate in her task to avoid any more chastisement, but there was something else. The severity of the whipping, the harsh treatment that had been so meticulously and thoroughly meted out to destroy her identity had left her strangely aroused. Fawning on the leather, she ran her tongue back and forth.

  “That’s very industrious of you, six one nine two,” stated the Warden, taking the boot back
and presenting the second one.

  Lydia craned her head forward and started to lap at the second boot, shivering slightly as her loins started to become damp. What was happening to her? Why was such subjugation kindling her libido?

  “Seeing as you have such an affinity for boot cleaning, you may handle the soles as well,” she ordered, turning one of the chairs around.

  Grabbing Lydia’s shoulders she pulled her back up onto her knees and sat back into the chair. Crossing her legs, she lifted the bottom of a boot to Lydia’s face, staring into her eyes with a lustful grin.

  Lydia closed her eyes and moved forward, putting her mouth to the tread, her tongue spilling along it, her sense of excitement raging through her form.

  “Open those eyes, six one nine two. Look at me,” warned the officer.

  With hesitation she complied, meeting the libidinous stare of the Warden as she studied Lydia’s submission.

  “Good girl,” beamed the Warden, watching intensely as Lydia completed her task.

  Before offering her the other boot, she lifted herself up and peered down at Lydia’s crotch. The untouched boot moved in and nudged her knees.

  “Spread yourself for me,” she ordered, making Lydia stiffen with a snort of surprise.

  “Do it,” slurred the Warden with grave tones.

  With a slow shift of her thighs she moved her legs apart, the kneeling pose offering her naked loins to attention. The boot instantly moved in and nuzzled into the cleft, rubbing against her whipped pussy, making her stiffen with discomfort and a flash of pleasure, the tickling of her sex by the leather rousing her appetite.

  The Warden moved the boot back and regarded the lines of new moisture upon the fabric.

  “Lick it off and then do the sole you wanton little bitch,” decreed the Warden with a smile and shake of her head, amused by Lydia’s reaction.

  Dropping her head forward, she tasted her own arousal and lapped it free before being offered the sole of the boot. Again she diligently attended her duty, her eyes fixed to the stern icy glare of the Warden, the exchange melting her into her task. The feelings were alien within her, set lose since her capture, as though the ordeal had dislodged some secret nugget of her psyche that she herself had not even known was there.

  “That will do, six one nine two,” she stated, standing up and moving back around the desk, leaving Lydia kneeling, her heart racing, the taste of leather and feminine fluid controlling her palate.

  Addressing the intercom, the Warden called for the guards to return and having been patiently waiting outside, they entered instantly.

  “Remove it,” she said with disinterest, slipping the crop back into the drawer. Sitting down behind her desk to study Lydia’s file, she decided to examine the details of the individual she had just so viciously abused and coerced into an act of debasement that had left her sparkling with bizarre concupiscence.

  Chapter Four

  The guards removed her fetters and grabbed a bicep each before hauling up, dragging her forward as her legs flopped vainly, the beating and delightful derogation having stripped her of energy. In the uncomfortable grasp of the villains she was drawn out of the area and back down the stairs, her giddy ears still ringing with her own screams while she listened to the guards laughing and conversing in their own language, keeping their words out of her understanding.

  Continuing deeper into the prison the surfaces became laden with flaking tongues of paint, the sheets spewing out ragged tears as the walls shed the layer in untidy strips. The ceiling was a shifting mass of such blistered neglect, the stone floor being flecked with small discharged segments. The pipes that ran along the corridors were old and rusted, leaking their cargo of water in places, the seepage spilling down the mildewed wall and filling the section of passage about them with a pool of stagnant water. The molds that thrived about such ruptures added the only color to the palette of gray and mottled whites that formed the dreary penitentiary, the sporadic lights overhead being weak and dirty, their grimy rays only making the prison seem all the more unsanitary and ramshackle.

  The last stretch of corridor was sealed by two barred gates, the short safety zone between them housing an open door through which could be spied a number of guards lounging in comfort to drink, eat, and distract themselves with irreverent chat and diversions. Two morose and whip marked prisoners acted as servants and saw to their needs, their wild eyes and hidden masks of subdued terror testifying to the fear of irking their jailers But it was not the sight of these prisoners being demeaned by their use as waitresses, nor the hands that often strayed to their bare skin to grope and molest freely, it was that a fair portion of the guards were men. The realization that some of her oppressors would be licentious males, with all the terrible possibilities of usage by them that such a discovery presented, caused her to find a sudden and consuming dread of her captivity.

  “Vesson! Come and join the game, we have an extra seat,” shouted one of the guards from his position at a card table.

  “Maybe later,” replied the escort who had been so ready to brutalize Lydia for even the slightest misdeed.

  “Ah, so you’re scared I’ll rob you of your week’s wages are you? Afraid to face the great card shark?” he grinned, tossing another chip onto the poker pot.

  “Scared? Of your inept talents? Luck is the only thing on your side, and from the size of those winnings, you can’t have that much left,” she laughed, indicating his sizable reserve.

  “Oh, a challenge.”

  “First I’ll put this wretch away, and then I’ll destroy you. By this evening I’ll own you,” she snorted.

  “You wouldn’t know what to do with a real man even if you had one,” retorted the man, grabbing his own crotch in a crass display.

  “You? A real man? You aren’t fit to kiss my boots,” derided the guard.

  “In your dreams, Vesson, in your dreams. I’ll leave you to your unattainable fantasies, so you might as well take the new prisoner below,” he dismissed with a casual wave.

  “I don’t see any need to rush, she’ll not last five minutes. You know how feeble these foreigners are,” the woman mumbled, wandering onwards as the interior gate was opened.

  The last gate was opened and the guards dragged her into a towering hall. The expanse of the circular chamber rose up to the height of the building, the five stories rimmed with a wide balcony and sealed in by a sturdy fence that ran from each floor to the next. Through the tiny gaps she could see barred doors, the cells whirling around to pack every level. A spiral staircase rose at a low gradient to access each story, the steps fenced in and devoid of handrail. The skylight directly above was choked by a metal mesh, the sunlight that managed to pierce the dirty, filth-encrusted pane being stained and dissipated, barely augmenting the paltry lights that rolled along outside the fence, placing them beyond the reach of the prisoner’s within the caged balconies.

  The smell of compressed bodies was cloying, the hot stink of sweat and pressed flesh, the aroma mixed with the pungent reek of mold and rot, of stagnant air and filth. To be confined in such appalling conditions, with nothing save the sadistic guards to sustain her life was a ghastly concept. How had she come to this foul end?

  There were no telephone cables entering this complex, so she had no means to contact anyone. She was here until the Secret Police drew her out. Would they even remember her? If she slipped through the gaps of their chaotic bureaucracy, she might end up spending her life sealed amidst this decaying squalor.

  Having regained some lost vitality she managed to stumble up the steps rather than be dragged, and after ascending to the third floor a nearby cell door was unlocked and she was freed of shackles before being cast rudely in, the portal slamming back into secure place in her wake.

  Hauling her weary form upright, she found herself in a small cell, the space almost entirely taken up by a bunk bed that lacked a mattress, leaving only a hard wooden slat and a coarse blanket. There was no window, and the only added furnishin
gs were a slop bucket and a pale of water below a rust flecked tap. But there was an error here, for two women already occupied the cell - laid upon their bunks, naked save for their collars. Both originated from this country or at least one near to it, their tanned skin and sable hair clearly identifying their nationality.

  One was perhaps in her mid- twenties, her short locks hanging about a slender face and wiry body, while the second was slightly older and more powerful in build, her hair cropped short, her face rigid and sour in expression.

  The women stirred from their rest and looked up, regarding her without interest. She was lost for a response. What could she say? Did they even speak English? As she stammered her first words, trying to fumble for something to say and start conversation, the slender female interrupted her.

  “No espera tu que dormiras en una cama, extranjera.”

  “Wh…what?” Lydia frowned, her fingers tracing her collar.

  The woman rolled her eyes and sighed at Lydia’s inability to understand her native language.

  “I said don’t think you’re getting a bed. You can sleep on the floor like the filth you are,” she hissed, her heavy accent making the words difficult to comprehend.

  Outraged, Lydia readied to revile this slander, but as the first syllables left her lips the woman again cut her off with a petulant snap.

  “Just shut up and sit in the corner before we start hurting you.”

  Taken aback by the demand, Lydia stood frozen, her lips starting to mouth a response but failing to air it. In the pause of her disbelief the other female unfolded her burly frame from the bunk and approached her, causing Lydia to shy back, a sudden intuitive sense of imminent danger filling her.