I think a lot about being sold now, preparing myself for the inevitable.
It’s a night when Broc is away, doing whatever despicable things he has a passion for doing. As bad as the slave trading is, I’m sure the rest of his job is even worse. I don’t want to know what he does, so I never ask. I doubt he’d reveal anything anyway. Some nights like this I lie awake, thinking, trying very hard to remember everything I try hard to forget during the day—like the woman I was and the life I now only faintly recall. This is probably a waste of effort, probably damaging to my sanity, but sometimes I want to hope and believe again. I have to remember. I know when I’m sold that more pieces of my soul will dwindle and die, which makes everything I remember now precious.
As I begin to drift, I begin to dream, waking myself with the memory of the Orient Express the night the soldiers came. That is one nightmare I don’t want to remember. I finally settle, forcing my brain on my old apartment. I’m sure it’s been sold, and what was left of Michelle Monroe was scattered like ashes on the sea—my mother with her momentos, Jordan with his, and the rest in Salvation Army bins or sold at auction to people I never knew. I remember the sun shining brightly the day I moved into the rooms on the third floor, and how that receding sun left the silhouettes of window panes and the vine on the fire escape shivering in shades of grey on the plain white walls.
I float again, feeling as though I’m changing consciousness.
Someone has me so tightly by my shoulder that I feel the pain of fingernails sinking into the skin. I shake it off without results. This is not a dream.
A collar and cuffs are fitted appropriately around my neck, wrists and ankles; then I’m led on a leash into the pitch-black night. I’m hustled into a van along with a half-dozen other slaves including Cream and Red. Inside, ballgags are forced in our mouths to keep us silent. This reminds me of the train, though it’s better—and worse. Better because we have a clue where we are going and the danger we face. Worse, for the same reason. This is fate calling us out of our complacency. It’s not how I imagined the auction proceeding, but that won’t change a thing.
We jostle inside the uncomfortable van for at least an hour. And just when I’m sure the trip won’t end, the vehicle suddenly stops with a screech. It’s so dark outside when the doors open that we might as well be wearing blindfolds.
I see only the shadows of a building in front of me, several buildings. Perhaps we’re in a small town—though it is a silent one this time of night. We’re pushed from behind with the butt of a gun until we stumble through a doorway into a large and empty warehouse. Left in a row with our wrists hooked to bolts above us, we wait for the next step, which turns into another long hour of comfortless misery.
I twist like a specter in the wind, looking at other specters of women floating beside me. We can’t look each other in the eye because we know the tears will start.
One by one, we’re taken down and into an adjoining room. The procession continues at a regular pace until I am next in line. When it’s my turn, I gaze back at Red who has been next to me all this time. She seems calmer than the rest of us, quite unlike the days after our capture when she was the one to rebel. I wonder if she’ll be staying with Captain Tahli, though this seems unlikely—our captors are mercenaries, fighting some unknown war. They have spirit and determination, but not a lot of cash to spend. No, I’m sure Red will be sold like the rest of us and I’ll not see her again. Ours has been a friendship of circumstances and not much of one at that.
Behind the door, the ceremony is simple. The ballgag is removed, then I shower swiftly on orders from the man attending me. I’m left with my blonde hair, darkened by water, slicked back and clinging to my head like a bathing cap. My cheeks are then rouged and a little lipstick is applied to my lips. I have no idea how I look since all of this is done to me and there are no mirrors in sight.
It shouldn’t surprise me seeing a white silk dress and a pair of silk shoes waiting for me. Ah! The shoes. I remember them now from the days on the train. Somewhere in my captive year they disappeared. These are not the same sandals, but pumps with four inch heels.
The dress—like a familiar old robe, gives me comfort. And when I see Broc standing at the door, motioning me forward, my heart leaps excitedly. If he were my lover I would be crying. It’s unlikely I’ll ever see him again once the sale is complete. But I’m not his lover, just his whore.
Entering the auction room, my eyes are instantly blinded by a bank of lights—including a strobe light that makes me look away.
“Face forward,” Broc tells me.
I try, but the miserable light makes my head pound and my eyes water. A few seconds later, the brilliance dims and I can adjust.
Broc fixes my wrists above me, stretching them wide, and repeats the bondage with my feet spread just a foot apart so that the white clinging dress still undulates like a sail around my hips and thighs. He then stands back with his whip and starts a slowly moving journey around my body. When it strikes, it does no damage—this is not for punishment or even arousal, but for show. As he moves along, I hear some rustling behind the lights, and a battery of questions aimed his way.
He tells the curious how I was trained, my strengths and my weaknesses.
“She needs to be punished rarely, but with a heavy hand should she start to think too much. Her worst fault is her intellect. However, if you can tap her innate intelligence she can be enjoyed for more than her beautiful body.” He stares at me as he says this.
More questions explode from the unseen gallery. Broc winds the whip around my neck, then lets it go so the handle end falls between my breasts. He waits for more questions.
“She takes the whip easily, paddles with less grace, but she naturally loves punishment once she gets beyond the initial blows. She is a pain-whore.” The questions continue. “Yes, she takes it anally. I’d say she can’t live without her ass reamed well.”
I would dispute this, but I have no input on these answers.
“Can you bring her off right there?”
“Yes, of course,” Broc answers. He nods to an attendant soldier who appears out of the darkness and removes the whip from around my neck. The soldier pulls the white dress over my hips and torso, and holds the material behind me while Broc assaults my pussy with his hand. He does so, staring me in the eye with a look of immovable resolve. I know his fingers too well—their skill in finding the edge of my arousal is unsurpassed by any other lover, and he knows this. Despite all my trepidation, my sex is locked on him—for the last time perhaps. I’ll make this last forever, if that’s so. My sweaty body gyrates on his fingers, which, like daggers, cut ribbons of sexual heat through my crotch and extend the arousal. He slaps my pussy, kneads my ass as one hand goes around me, then pinches my clitoris until a long line of sweet agony floods me there. We stop short of kissing, though we are eye to eye in an erotic battle of hate and love and desperate longing. The longing is mine—though for a moment I see an inkling of regret in his expression. Perhaps he longs for me as well.
He doesn’t have to sell me, but he will.
I focus and unfocus several times until one jarring, painful orgasmic burst rushes through my body. My head falls back, my voice exclaims the truth in whimpers, and then my eyes return to Broc as his hand withdraws and he steps away.
In the inspection round, I’m blindfolded, my arms are set free and the dress is removed. Interested buyers come forward to poke and probe my privates. Nothing is sacred, not my mouth, my pussy, or my ass. When some steel probe spears my rectum, I scream. The thing’s like ice inside the channel. Another, smaller spear reaches in beyond the first—as though the first one has a hole in the end so the buyer can examine me deeper.
After enduring that indignity, another man tugs on my inner labia so hard that I think he’ll tear the flesh away.
“Sheesh!” I try shaking him off and have my face slapped.
It’s Broc’s hand and Broc’s voice saying, “We’ve never had t
o lash a whore at her auction, but if it becomes necessary, we will.”
I straighten up as they proceed with their filthy investigation. Half of the time, I have to bite my tongue between my teeth to keep from spouting some rude remark. Thankfully, the physical tension eases as they finish. When the men withdraw, I feel their exit and the pleasant empty air around me. To my right, Broc’s presence still emerges, obvious to me even in my blinded state. But he, too, disappears in the minutes that follow. I’m utterly alone on stage as the shouting begins.
The auction moves along swiftly—just a minute or two of bids and counter bids—until I’m led off the stage to a separate room where I’ll meet the man who’s purchased me. Chapter Ten
A year and several months later…
“Ah! White Silk, come meet my friends.”
“Yes, sir,” I patter to his side with a smile on my face.
“She was American,” Sir tells them. “And a real peach.”
“Lovely, Jorri,” a finely dressed woman exclaims. The man at her side is equally impressed by me. “And you’ve owned her how long?”
“A year and five months.” He’s very proud of me, showing me off like a trophy.
My master is an elegant man and very civil. I don’t know where we live, or how, or the reason for his distinctive features. I suspect he’s from India, perhaps of mixed race with some Caucasian in his bloodline. His hair is very dark, neatly combed and his eyes are dark as well. He is as meticulous with his slaves as he is with himself. He thrives on form, inserting his will into everything he does. Though he appears to be the consummate gentleman, he harbors underneath that civility a degree of viciousness should anyone cross him. I quickly learned to obey. (It was never explained what happened to Khahim. I suspect, however, that he was outbid. My master’s resources are so vast that I can hardly comprehend his wealth.)
Sir’s guests today are obviously wealthy and American. She wears a winter-white lightweight wool suit, gold earrings studded with emeralds, and a rock of diamond on her slender hand. Her dark hair is pulled back into a silk bow. The effect accentuates her high cheekbones and regal nose. Though I bet she’s a snotty bitch on a good day, she’s damned pleasant because she’s intrigued with me, and what I represent. Her husband is less ostentatious, but nonetheless a handsome man with a hearty Mediterranean tan, great firm features and an obvious passion for life.
“I’m surprised you could pull this off for so long,” he tells Sir.
“It’s not hard at all when you live the way I do. I have fences and gates surrounding the house, a warning sign to neighbors. And, anyone I allow inside is going to accept my arrangement without making trouble. Besides, White Silk does not protest.”
“Never?”
“Never was a long time ago,” Sir remarks with twisted glee, eyes lighting cunningly.
“Then she was rebellious?”
“I don’t allow my slaves the luxury of rebellion.” He stares me down as though he needs to assure himself that I’ve been subdued.
“But she was taken against her will. Does that not spark rebellion?”
“Of course,” he nods obsequiously. “Certainly, it was not Silk’s choice to be captured and sold into slavery. If it were possible for her to leave, I’m sure she would. But, she does understand the value of accommodation, and does that well. She knows that living in this elegance with me gives her a great deal of latitude. She could have done far worse.”
We sit together in my master’s luxurious living room. His friends sit on white damask couches while I sit at his feet on a bright green pillow. I do enjoy this room. It gives me peace regardless of the unsettling circumstances. It is furnished in white, with a few green accents and several enormous ferns to soften what might otherwise be a stark environment. I always feel clean inside this room.
“So, Jorri, how does one bring an owned human into their home?” the man asks. He pauses, taking a sip of tea from his delicate bone-china teacup. “I find this exceedingly fascinating.”
“The slave trade is an ancient one. Humans have been property since one society first exerted power over another. I believe that it is built into the framework of our consciousness to garner control over others. In the present day, with the laws against us in so many places, slavery can still be practiced, though it is, of course, sequestered and shrouded in secrets.” He chuckles to himself and says as an aside, “I think that actually lends to its joys. Even my most recalcitrant slaves use the mystery to heighten the experience.”
“Even rebellious slaves?”
He thinks a minute. “Yes. I think so—once they have become acclimatized. In my experience there are two kinds of slaves, those who submit naturally, and those who fight.”
“And which is White Silk?”
“Can you guess?”
The man gazes at me with imperious intent. “I’d say she fought you tooth and nail.” I feel his emotions rise as though I’ve become a challenge for him.
“Yes, quite so,” Sir responds as he deferentially strokes my hair—like I’m his pet. I look up into his shining black eyes, finding these third person comments about me have stirred my sex.
“So what is the cure for rebellion?”
“That depends on the slave. Most these days come through an organization of slave traders who take some time—in Silk’s case a year—to train them for slavery. Unfortunately, the organization at its best is erratic with its results. There is little formal plan in their purpose. They commonly turn them into sex sluts first, making certain that they have the will and desire to fuck—and I mean that in the crudest way. Frankly, I’d rather they dispense with the sex and spend more time teaching them obedience, law and general submission. Women naturally know how to fuck.
“There might be a bit of formal obedience training, but long before they are ready for service, the organization needs to turn them into cash. So, as soon as they seem reasonably compliant they are auctioned. Silk came from an underground terrorist organization that is particularly brutal with most of their slaves. They are also very inventive. Their slaves’ lives are extensively videotaped so future owners can see the women perform. They tend to focus on the sexual acts, but they are also filmed in other venues, even being punished. Would you like to see?”
“Punished,” the silent woman opposite me finally speaks. I sense some urgency in her voice as she says the word.
“Yes, punishment is part of a slave’s life.”
Sir reaches for a remote control that operates a wall of paneled white cabinets, which open to a large television screen. He’s already loaded the tape. As it begins to play, I live my life in flashbacks with a dozen scenes of myself appearing before my eyes. Broc. It’s been forever since I’ve seen him—not since I was sold. I see the punishment first, the times he swathed my back with dozens of blows and the skin turned raw and red. Then other times when we made love, and even the conversations afterwards. Tears well in my eyes though I don’t know why. They burn as I try to hold them back. It’s been so long, his craggy handsome face seems unfamiliar, but curiously welcome. The blue eyes, though, I remember perfectly after all these months. How they changed—soft to angry to intent and then soft again.
He said our times together in his quarters were not taped. Apparently, he lied.
The woman across from me stirs. She runs her hands down her thighs as her body swells with sexual heat.
“Will we get to play with your slave?” the man asks.
“Of course. She is yours for whatever you wish.”
The man flashes me a devious grin then turns back to Sir. “Tell me about your methods,” he asks.
The woman squirms more urgently, distressed and agitated as the scenes of me turn dark and Sir’s theatre dims. I think she wants to fuck right now. But her husband wants more information.
“Slaves are sent to me after purchase, crated like dogs.”
Yes. I remember stepping into that rough crate, and the cramped squat I was forced to endure for nea
rly two days.
“I find this sets the mood immediately. Once they arrive, they are treated like animals, raw material only. They are scrubbed, examined, deloused, if necessary, and then imprisoned in my cellar where I have several dozen cells. They are taught discipline, taught to listen, not to speak. They eat with their hands tied; their faces pushed into platters of gruel. They pee into drains in the center of each cell and are given daily enemas for elimination. I refuse to bother with any slave for at least three months, while this initial training takes place. This is the sort of thing the slave traders should do; though it rarely happens. The are all too anxious to use them.
“Once I’m reasonably sure that they will be compliant, they can begin the second stage of training.”
Sir’s training months drove me to the bottom of myself, where I could be almost thoughtless. My mind quit going in circles. I quit thinking of escape. Any fantasy dreams I might have imagined disappeared, even the ones with Broc.
“How do you punish your slaves?” the woman asks. Her fascination won’t quit.
Sir smiles at her as though he’d like to have her ass for a session. “Silk, to your feet and off with your dress.”
The command startles me and I hesitate for a second while the order reaches the pertinent brain cells and telegraphs my need to move. Then, realizing my imprudent hesitation, I scramble quickly to my feet and doff the white dress over my head. I’m so used to being naked now that it hardly fazes me when the eyes in the room are staring my way. My face flushes excitedly, even if it’s just punishment awaiting me. Sir hasn’t punished me in nearly a month because I’m such a perfect slave. Because this is just a demonstration, I don’t expect it to be harsh.
“At the wall,” he orders with his voice assuming a strident tone of command that has my pussy beginning to seep. I move to the sculpted alcove where a thick metal ring has been embedded in the plaster, where I can hold on as the exhibition proceeds. I wonder what implement he will choose, and so try my best to peek as I watch him rummage through his collection of devices. Unfortunately, he glances in my direction just as he’s about to pull out his choice. I receive a reproving nod.
White Silk & I Belong to You Page 11