The pummeling ended, leaving her lethargic under her human cargo, barely able to respire as she hung in shocked and concussed apathy.
“What do you call me?”
A dozen responses more apt and suitable arose in her mind, but instead she voiced the desired one, befouling her tongue with its very utterance.
“Divine Supreme Goddess.”
“At last,” she announced and added a final arbitrary lick of the plank across her empurpled buttocks before putting the slat back where it had come from.
The oppressive onus upon her torso lifted and moved away, leaving her to be brusquely brushed aside to collapse onto the floor and be ignored while the women laid back down, leaving Lydia bound and almost unconscious.
The sweltering heat of the day continued to trail by and Lydia simply remained in her tangled pile, too weak to move. Deep sleep held her tight as her fatigued body and mind both hid in the darkest depths of awareness, clinging to this sanctuary for as long as possible.
A wail rent the air, followed by shouts and sounds of a struggle. The din of a frenzied battle drew her from her sleep and attracted her cellmates to the bars. When they stared out through the metal grille Lydia chose to lay motionless, listening to the bone gnawing terror in the woman’s voice. She was screaming in absolute mortal calamity, a high-pitched infantile squeal that pained her ears and numbed her thoughts at the prospect of what hideous fate could be prompting such a ghastly signal.
“Sounds like another one has been assigned to la Sima,” dolefully attested the slender female.
“That’s the fifth this year. What do you think happens to them down there?”
“Whatever it is, once they go down there, they don’t come out.”
“Never?”
“Not even a body. Either they are imprisoned down there for good, or there’s a lot of dead inmates in that hole.”
“What gets them picked?”
“Big offenders mostly. Traitors and stuff.”
The last words froze Lydia’s heart, for they announced her to be an eligible and likely candidate for this mysterious doom.
The sounds of woe increased and rose to a deafening pitch until the woman responsible was dragged past, a guard on each limb, holding her as she howled and fought with inhuman severity to escape their bonds. The sounds began to fade as she was taken down to the ground level, her cries degenerating into grizzling solicitation, her sobbing drifting slowly into silence as she vanished beneath the surface and into whatever belated depths were arrayed beneath this Stigean prison. The incarcerated populous left this eerie quiet unbroken, each of them reduced to a mournful quiet, not in respect for the condemned, but in pity for themselves for having been reminded of what could happen to them.
In the wake of this funereal atmosphere came a soft tickling smell of food, the glorious scent caressing her nose and animating her frame. Lifting up, she moved towards the bars, beguiled by the odors as they soaked the air, her stomach growling loudly in anticipation, calling for the meal in gurgling tones.
The soft squeak and metallic clatters of the dispersal of food started to draw close, and Lydia’s mouth flooded with saliva at the prospect of finally eating, and only then did she realize she was still bound. Wriggling against the ribbons, she found them too strict in their hold, negating any movement of her arms. Closing her eyes and pausing for strength she readied to importune the removal of the bonds.
Turning, she lowered to her knees and looked up at the young woman who so methodically made her life more miserable than it should have been, for the guards were criminal enough in their behavior, the addition of the prisoner’s spite was something she could well do without.
“Please, Divine Supreme Goddess, can you untie me so I may eat,” she uttered with polite earnest, her face burning with shame, but her starvation was ruling her senses and she needed food more than anything else and was willing to commit any befouling act to gain sustenance.
“No,” came the blunt response, the denial momentarily leaving Lydia agape. “I shall see to your feeding,” she attested, and suddenly her obedient partner snatched her from behind, dragging her back and down onto the floor, fixing her bonds to the far end of the bunk so she was held in a sitting position. Lydia began to stammer her protests, but was hushed by the gloating female.
“Now sit still and be quiet or there’s nothing for you,” promised the tyrant, and moved to the cell door to collect the imminent meals.
How could this be happening to her? What was motivating such unjust persecution? She would have to sit here and suffer the indignity of being fed at their leisure like some domesticated pet. Swallowing her fury, she clenched her jaw and strove to keep silent, unwilling to provoke them and give them cause to deny.
The trolley ground to a halt before them and the pair moved to the door. The overseeing guard opened the portal and handed out the plates before letting the trustee ladle out the thick sludge and add some bread.
The cell door was slammed shut and they moved on, the two of them devouring their portions with swift gusto. Lydia could only watch with frustrated rancor as they neglected her, the portion prepared for her set aside and forsaken as they attended their own needs first.
Once they finished their plates, soaking up every drip with the bread before stuffing it in, they walked over to her with her dinner.
“Close your eyes and open your mouth,” smiled the vixen that was bearing her fare, and willing to brave the foul consequences such trust could cause, she complied with hesitant speed.
Instead of the thick porridge, the dry coarseness of a blanket was crammed into her proffered maw, causing her eyes to jolt open and bulge as it was forced deeper, filling her mouth and puffing out her cheeks, stretching her jaw unbearably while she choked and squirmed.
The gag was tied off and the two women sat back out of the reach of her legs and began to laugh and devour her dinner as she squealed and vented her rage. Shuddering and slamming herself against her bonds, her patience snapped, her choler unleashed but constrained by her bonds.
Tears fell from her imploring eyes when she watched this precious currency vanishing down the gullets of the two monstrous inmates, and only when it had almost all vanished did they stop.
“I suppose we had best give her some, it’s only fair,” chuckled one of them and set down the near expended dinner.
Taking hold of her legs they dragged back so that she was on her knees, her arms still locked to the bed, her mouth still full of cloth.
The slender persecutor rose and set down the dish far from Lydia and then with a satisfied smirk, stepped into the remains, trudging upon the thick lumps until her feet were coated in them.
Sitting down, she lifted her feet and shuffled forward, presenting the extremities to Lydia as the blanket was removed.
“There you go. Enjoy,” mocked the woman, her voice dripping with fulfillment at Lydia’s subjugation.
With her soul aflame and raging in a tempestuous storm, Lydia slapped back the tide of seething resentment and leaned in to begin lapping at the presented feet, removing her food from the woman’s skin with desperate speed. With eyes closed she tried to forget the manner in which her food was being served, relishing only the taste and feel of the frugal amount slipping down into her vacant belly, an added salty tang imparted to it by human sweat.
The brawny prisoner drew her partners attention as the last came away and proceeded to sit in the remainder, shuffling her rear upon the dish before turning onto her hands and knees and reversing until her rear was within Lydia’s reach. This presented meal took a few moments to accept, her hunger taking longer to overcome her revulsion and contempt for their crimes. But heedless of her appearance and actions she moved in with eyes tightly shut and began to remove the dregs that decorated the woman’s skin, the pair happily ridiculing her.
With the few pitiful leftovers consumed, her teased stomach roared for more and as the pair left her in her misery, she lowered to the floor and pra
yed for salvation, unable to take anymore of this ignoble evil.
Vitiated, she remained a mere bound ornament in the cell, unable to move or respond as the day slipped into night and the prisoners bedded down once more.
Chapter Ten
The cell door cranked open with a soft squeal of dry wheels, revealing the tall guard who had stolen away the hated prisoner an eternity of debasement ago.
The woman stirred and lifted up, readying to get off the bunk and follow her guide, only to gain a harsh slap to the face that threw her back onto the wood with a jarring knock.
“You presume too much, nine two four three, I’m not here for you. I want this European whore tonight.”
Strolling over, she untied Lydia and lifted her up to her feet. Leading her like a hound, the guard towed her out and into the corridor, shutting the cell and wandering off to a small wooden door further along the same story. After the guard unlocked the portal, Lydia was shown into a short passage, the cramped length leading to a set of stairs and then up to two doors.
Beyond one of them lay a tiny box room, empty save for a few vacant crates with canvas over them and a thin veneer of dust that permeated the air and tickled her nostrils. The weak overhead bulb created a soiled amber light that presented the scene in sepia shades. There was also a strange smell, a succulent, intangible hint of roasted meat that played with her craving and made her notice that she was so hungry and desperate for food that she was conjuring scents to appease her needs.
The guard pushed Lydia in and closed the door behind them. After examining the meager contents, she looked back to the guard who was already removing her weaponry and unbuttoning her tunic.
Shocked, Lydia moved back until her spine bumped the wall, her sudden knowledge of why she had been singled out fully dawning on her.
The woman assessed her reluctance and extended the bribe that gained her the compliance she sought.
“Do what I want and this is yours,” she uttered absently, as though the offer could not be refused when she flung back a sheet of tarpaulin to reveal a spread of meats and fruits across one of the crates.
Lydia’s mouth dropped open, the fee for her acceptance exceeding anything she would have expected, her notions of refusing any payment for such prostitution vaporizing the instant she saw the luscious food.
The last of her uniform came away and the guard was presented outside of her stark garments in a facet that could not have been more different.
Her curvaceous form was elegantly sealed in a lace and satin Basque, the luxurious materials a pristine angelic white. A matching thong and stockings flowed about her smooth shaven legs, the sheen of the fine denier hose catching the light with every ripple of her muscles beneath the delicate, gossamer thin garments. It was a provocative ensemble contrasted only by the guards brooding expression and short mane of sternly swept back hair, the jet black and lascivious fire in her eyes contrasting totally with the innocent white of her apparel.
Reaching into a crate she drew out a padded blanket and cast it down across the floor before slipping her feet into white court shoes, perching herself atop lofty heels.
“Now put these on,” she commanded, and indicated her shed uniform before removing the gun and keys from her utility belt and moving across the room to sit down upon a crate for a better view.
The ambivalence pertaining to this scenario made her giddy and uncertain. Lydia did not want to involve herself in this grim little fantasy setting, but this was her best chance to get access to decent food, and perhaps, if she performed well, a steady supply of favors from this satisfied guard. A shot at escape was also a tantalizing notion once she had lulled the jailer into a comfortable routine where she could let her defenses drop with her compliant prisoner and partner.
With her mind set upon her higher goal, justifying any means with the eventual destination of freedom, Lydia fought off her tiredness and went to the clothing.
Taking up the leggings, she hauled up the snug sheaths and then slotted her feet into the jackboots. The shirt was a little big, but the firm embrace of the jacket reduced the ill fit and her collar helped meet the demands of the starched neck. Dragging her hair back, she set the cap straight and then pulled on the leather gloves. The last part of the ensemble was the belt, which she buckled on and ran her fingers around, feeling the shock prod, the baton, the handcuffs and pouches, armaments she could so easily use on the woman if she succumbed to a submissive role.
The clothes felt so strange, and the wearing of such things seemed an almost distant daydream, a vague memory that she could only recall through similarity to the current sensation of being clothed.
The door opened and another guard entered, this one shorter and less blessed with voluptuous curves.
“Soy tarde, lo siento,” she mumbled, and moved over to Lydia, pacing around her in scrutiny. “Bueno, esta es la extranjera? Muy bren!” she muttered with approval before making for the far wall to slouch down and lean back, removing a small video camera from behind the wooden box.
“Ha explicadala lo que ella tiene hacer?”
“Todavia no,” replied the lingerie clad female before the guard turned to Lydia and addressed her in accented English.
“Well it’s quite simply - do what I say without pause or hesitation, and you’ll be rewarded. Understand?”
Lydia nodded.
“In the crate next to you are the tools you will be using.”
The guard lifted up the camera and began to record as her comrade sank down onto her knees and crawled over to where Lydia stood in the alien garb. With slavering devotion she began to lick the boots, acting willingly in the manner Lydia had been forced to, and stunning her with the degree of revelry she displayed in this cowering role.
The guard continued to adore the footwear with lingering attention until the camerawoman spoke, her voice whispering with glee.
“Handcuff her,” she demanded.
Reaching back, Lydia tugged free the shackles and stepped behind the kneeling woman, taking a wrist and bringing it back with a gentleness that vexed the observer.
“Be rough with her! She is a whore, not a nun!”
Grabbing the other hand, Lydia succumbed more readily to her role and yanked the other arm firmly back, making the woman gasp as she had her wrists sealed within the steel jaws.
“Now spank her,” came the crooning call for action.
Obediently lowering, Lydia placed a knee to the servile’s back and raised her palm in readiness. She paused for a moment, looking over the squirming body before her, lost in rapture from her subservience.
With a strong sweep her gloved hand clapped to the proffered rear, sending a joyous shudder through the flesh beneath her and wringing a hiss of satisfied lust from the voyeur.
“More. Harder and faster, keep going,” spluttered the woman from behind her peering lens.
Lydia commenced her attack with increasing satisfaction, relishing even this mild chance to punish in response to all the times she had been so horrendously misused.
Her hand rose and fell as a smudge of speed, coating the quaking rump with a rosy glow while she smacked harder and harder, trying to get a response other than licentious enjoyment, because she wanted to cause suffering, not find joy. Lydia wanted to make someone endure as she had been forced to, yet this woman simply grew more wanton the sterner her attack grew.
“Now roll her over, make her lie on her back.”
With a frustrated shove Lydia tumbled the woman and let her spread herself upon the blanket, her arms trapped beneath her torso.
“Rip her underwear off and gag her with it. There’s a belt in that crate,” stated the guard, indicating which box she meant with a nod of her head.
Strolling over, Lydia fished amongst the various sex toys and implements of corporal punishment, restraint and chastisement, to drag out a short belt before returning to the prone form. Dropping a foot onto the lace front of the basque, she closed her fist around the soft material of t
he thong and yanked with all her might. The woman gave a grunt of pleasure as her hips left the ground and then fell back as the flimsy garment was torn from her. Without care Lydia forced it over her lips and deep into her mouth before applying the belt to her rictus with a similar lack of tenderness.
“Excellent, just excellent. Now pleasure her with the big dildo,” muttered the woman with excitement.
Leaning over, she snatched the vastly bloated dimensions of the replica phallus and held it like a weapon. Stepping over the woman, Lydia disdainfully kicked apart the loose legs and sank down between the splayed limbs.
Taking the lengthy rod in both hands, she drew aim and shoved, cramming the wide intruder deep into the submissive sex, the sudden violent entry wringing a shriek from her mouth as her abdomen arched up. Instantly the woman writhed like an eel upon the swollen phallus, her thighs clamping to Lydia’s sides. Trying to deny this woman any hint of pleasure, Lydia jerked the replica with harsh movements, forcing it to the limits of her tracts and seeking to continue while pivoting and turning the device with cruel motions, seeking to hurt her. Yet all the subject did was gasp and moan, wriggling in bliss while she was brutally violated.
Inspired to cause havoc, Lydia drew her baton and presented the bulbous tip to the woman’s lips and keeping the dildo sheathed with a pressing knee she hauled out the gag and flung the moist garment aside.
“Suck it,” she demanded, the woman’s eyes glistening with enthralled delight at this unexpected turn of events.
“I said suck it, you bitch,” Lydia hissed impatiently, and rammed the dildo deeper with a jab from her knee, making the woman’s mouth drop open and accept the wooden tip. Her tongue flowed across the polished material, the mock fellatio coating the weapon with saliva before it was dragged away and transferred to a new orifice. A rude jerk forced it into her rear, impaling her on the cold rod, the spit serving as the lubricant for an easy entry, Lydia plagiarizing the incident from her earlier ordeals.
Condemned to Slavery Page 12