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SLAVES OF THE
COPPER COAST 2.
© Morris Kenyon
* On her eighteenth birthday, Rebecca daCastro's father buys her a very special present – a slave-girl. Her very own slave-girl who will attend to her every need. Even better, it is one of her ex-school friends who has fallen on hard times. But will the two girls get on?
This story is set just after my earlier story, 'Slaves of the Copper Coast' and includes some of the same characters. However, it is a stand-alone story and you do not need to have read 'Slaves of the Copper Coast' to enjoy it.
* WARNING! This book contains scenes of a sexual nature, graphic violence against women and strong language, It is not intended for the easily offended or persons under eighteen years. You have been warned, so if you read on, don't blame me.
* The names, characters, places and events in this book are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organisations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
* License Notes: Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be scanned, reproduced, copied or distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy where they can also discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support.
SLAVES OF THE COPPER COAST 2.
'It is a truth universally acknowledged that a young person in possession of sufficient funds must be in want of a slave-girl.'
Rebecca daCastro walked up from Kresto Abrikoto, or Apricot Ridge's, suburban train station running through the text of 'Pride and Punishment' in her head. She looked on as the little green train pulled away with a puff of steam as it headed to the next station down the line. The two rear carriages, little more than cattle trucks with canvas awnings slung over them, were still full of slaves.
She watched the slaves chatter under the hot tropical sun until the train vanished into a cutting.
Rebecca hurried to catch up with her friend, Alicia Bartro, who was walking up the hill closely followed by her slave-girl, Kyli. Their shadows were just starting to lengthen as the hot day shaded towards late afternoon.
At a glance, the two girls ahead were alike. Both were blonde and willowy. Their heads were close together as they talked almost as friends; owner and slave. For a moment, Rebecca was jealous of her friend. She'd love a slave-girl of her own rather than having to make do with one of her family's household slaves.
She carried on watching them until she caught up to the two young women. Closer, you could see the differences between them. Alicia had her hair in fashionable chignon whilst Kyli wore hers in a simple pony tail. Also, Alicia Bartro wore the smart grey uniform of the private school both she and Rebecca attended together with a straw hat. Despite the tropical heat, the uniform skirt came all the way down to Alicia's ankles. A most respectable length.
However, Kyli wore only a simple sleeveless shift dress that stopped at her knees, showing the girl's well-turned calves. Most immodest, thought Rebecca, but then slaves have no need or understanding of modesty unlike free people.
Another difference was that it was Kyli who carried a parasol shading her mistress from the sun's hot rays together with her mistress's heavy book bag and gym kit. But that's another thing, thought Rebecca. Slaves are no more than beasts of burden. It's not like they have the same feelings as free people. They like to be useful.
And it had been scientifically proved by Doctor Humboldt last year that slaves don't feel pain the same as free people. That's why you have to whip them so often. They'd covered that at school this morning. No wonder mother had ordered Cook to thrash her chamber maid, Luci, for the second time this week.
Rebecca caught up to her friend. With a sigh of relief, she swung her book bag down from her shoulder and handed it to Kyli for the slave-girl to carry as well. Rebecca was glad to be free of its dead weight bearing down on her shoulder. The breeze cooled her perspiration.
"What do you say?" Alicia said to Kyli.
"Sorry, miss. Thank you, miss," Kyli said quietly to Rebecca.
"I shouldn't have to keep reminding you," Alicia told her slave.
"No, miss."
But then Rebecca and Alicia fell to talking leaving Kyli to bring up the rear. And there was a lot to talk about. It was Rebecca's eighteenth birthday today and her parents were holding a party that evening for their family and friends. Rebecca was looking forward to it. Today she was an adult.
Soon, Alicia Bartro and Kyli turned off at their mansio. Alicia's family were easily the richest in Kresto Abrikoto and Alicia had owned a slave-girl for many years. With a little curtsey, Kyli returned Rebecca's book bag. Not for the first time, Rebecca wished she owned her very own slave-girl so she didn't have to carry the heavy bag in this sticky heat.
Rebecca walked on to her villa. Lush tropical flowers covered the building. She stepped up past the portico and into the cooler, wood panelled entrance hall. Rebecca paused with surprise as she saw her parents waiting for her.
“Happy birthday, Rebecca. Your eighteenth birthday present is waiting for you in the next room.”
Rebecca was so excited. Her parents were wealthy and loved their only daughter so she expected something generous. “Oh, Daddy. What is it? Is it that ruby and diamond necklace I saw in de Graaf’s jewellers? Or my own pony and buggy?”
Rebecca’s father shook her head. He laughed. “A pony and buggy wouldn’t fit inside the villa, would it? No, when I saw it, I knew you’d want it. Why don’t we go in and see what’s waiting for you.”
Rebecca clapped her hands with excitement. Her mother and father looked at each other and smiled. After years of effort, Rebecca's father had recently been elected to the rank of Konsilanto or Councillor. He was now on the city council of Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo's capital. He'd worked so hard for this and now he wanted to celebrate his elevation - together with the increase in his earnings. Behind her parents, the family’s slaves stood in a group and watched. They were all in on the secret. The only one who wasn’t was Rebecca herself.
Their majordomo bowed. He was a dignified older male slave wearing a short-sleeved white shirt and grey shorts as well as his thin steel collar. He'd been with the family for years – before Rebecca was even born. He opened the double doors to the daCastro’s dining room. Rebecca ran in, her long skirts swishing as she passed. She couldn't wait to find out what her parents had bought her. Dim light filtered in through shuttered windows together with scents from their garden. She paused and looked about her.
On their large table laid for twenty dinner guests stood a display of fresh fruits. Wine glasses and silverware sparkled. It took up much of the room. A dresser took up most of one wall. Salvers and vases stood on its top. Paintings covered the walls. Landscapes of Old Iberia, her family’s ancestral homeland, mixed with portraits of various ancestors. A baroque marble fireplace dominated another wall. At this time of year its grate was filled with cut flowers. Their fragrance scented the room.
Rebecca turned round and looked at her father.
“I can’t see anything, Daddy,” she said. Disappointment in her voice.
“Look by the fireplace,” her mother called.
Rebecca walked around the table. No, she still couldn’t see anything.
She pulled up short. Surprised and confused now. Kneeling by the fireplace was one of her school friends. The girl was wearing a simple sleeve-less dress.
“Amanda? What are you doing down there? Have you been invited to dinner?” She was surprised. Although Amanda went to her private school, their families didn’t mix socially. Amanda’s family was nowhere near as wealthy as the daCastros; the girl’s father managed a department store in Haveno Ananaso or something.
Although thinking about it, she hadn’t seen Amanda at school recently. There’d been a rumour that the girl's family had lost a lot of money when the Kupro Marbordo stock exchange took a nosedive over artificial fertilisers.
Rebecca didn’t understand that sort of thing at all. She knew her father didn’t gamble and he regarded stocks and shares with as much suspicion. He tended to invest in safer funds rather than higher risk ones. However, from gossip around the school, some of the other students' parents had lost money in the crash.
Rebecca held out her hands and drew up her school friend. Then she got the shock of her evening. A thin steel collar encircled her neck. Rebecca looked over her shoulder at her father. The man was trying hard not to laugh but he couldn’t hold it back. He hooted with laughter like it was the best joke ever. Eventually, he calmed down enough to speak.
“Now you’re eighteen, Becca, it’s time you had your own personal slave-girl. The responsibility will do you good.” He laughed again.
“Yes, it’ll be your duty to train and discipline your very own slave-girl. She’ll look after you, but it’ll do you good to be in charge of another human being.”
“But why Amanda, Daddy? She goes to school with me,” said Rebecca.
“Not any more, Becca. Her father had to sell her to pay off his debts and when he approached me privately I knew she’d be perfect for you. Do you like her? Did I choose well?”
“Oh, Daddy, she’s perfect. Thank you, thank you.” With that, Rebecca dropped Amanda’s hands, raced round the dining table and flew into her father’s arms. She kissed him several times before breaking away.
“I hope she behaves herself and gets on all right here,” Senhor daCastro said. “Of course, she’s had some initial training at the Domo de Korekto but she will still need to be finished off and taught our ways. I thought you might like to do that.”
He paused. “Oh, by the way she’s not called ‘Amanda’ any more. Her slave name is ‘Amna’.”
Rebecca glanced over her shoulder at her father’s words. At the mention of the Domo de Korekto, the House of Correction, she saw Amanda, or Amna as she should call her now, shudder. The Domo de Korekto was the house where slaves received their initial training. Rebecca had heard it was very painful and few slaves were willing to talk about it.
“Why don’t you take your new slave-girl up to your room? She can help you prepare for your birthday banquet tonight, darling,” said Senhora daCastro, her mother.
With that, Rebecca beckoned to Amna who followed her new mistress out of the dining room, into the vaulted hall then up the sweeping staircase to her bedroom. Once inside the privacy of her bedroom, Rebecca turned to Amna.
“What happened?”
There were tears in Amna’s eyes now.
“Oh, Becca, it’s like your father said. My Dad thought he could make a lot of money too quickly and as everyone was investing in those chlorate stocks, those horrible artificial fertilisers, but he didn’t know the stock market that well and he lost all his money so he had to sell me to pay off some of his debts and now he’s working as a humble clerk back at the department store and it’s just horrible, Becca...” the words tumbled from the slave-girl’s mouth.
“Stop. What did you just call me?” asked Rebecca.
Amna thought for a moment. “Oh, sorry. I should’ve said mistress. Sorry.”
Rebecca grinned. “I’ll let you off this once. But don’t let it happen again.”
“No miss, sorry miss,” said Amna returning her grin.
“You can lay out my clothes for the banquet now, if you want,” Rebecca said. “I’ll wear that white dress.” She pointed it out. It had been bought specially for her birthday.
Rebecca watched her new slave-girl lay out her clothes on her bed. Amna had a good body and had been much admired by the boys at school. Yet, as far as Rebecca knew, Amanda, as she was then, never encouraged their attentions. She'd never heard a whisper of scandal against Amanda.
The slave-girl stood one metre seventy in her bare feet. She was slim, only weighing about fifty five kilos, as far as Rebecca could tell. She had light honey-brown hair; pale arms and legs now as if she hadn’t seen much sunshine for several weeks. Probably not if she'd just come from the Domo de Korekto.
Rebecca thought for a moment. This was her slave-girl. She owned her. Like she owned her handbag or hairbrush. She could do anything she wanted. She felt powerful yet also worried about her responsibilities. As Amna bustled about the bedroom, she decided to try out some of her authority over the young woman.
She’d seen most of their house slaves naked, of course. And she’d seen Amanda, as was, naked in the communal showers at their private school. But she’d not seen Amna as a naked slave.
“Amna, take off your dress. I want to have a look at my birthday present,” she ordered.
Amna stopped laying out her mistress’s clothes.
“Bec..., miss?” she said.
“You heard. Take off your clothes. I want to inspect you,” she repeated.
Amna’s mouth turned down. She hesitated.
“Hurry up, girl,” Rebecca ordered. She took the same tone her mother used with her personal slave-girl, Luci. She intended to start off on the right footing with her slave-girl.
Slowly, Amna lifted up her sleeve-less dress over her head and dropped it to the floor next to her. She reached behind her and unhooked her breast band then dropped it onto her dress. She lowered her arms and stood with them by her sides. She looked at her new mistress with watering eyes, but with a hint of defiance in their grey depths.
Amna’s breasts were small but pert with delightful well defined pink nipples. They stood proud from her areola.
“Put your hands on your head,” Rebecca ordered. The slave-girl's breasts rose on her chest as the young woman did so.
She looked down at the girl’s smooth belly focussing on the dark hollow of her belly button. Then even further down at the girl’s freshly shaved mound. Totally hairless. Rebecca knew that slaves weren’t allowed pubic hair. Most owners thought it was unsightly and unhygienic on their slaves. From what Rebecca saw, Amna seemed to have a neat, tight sex. The girl’s legs were long and lean with firm muscles. Rebecca had glimpsed the girl naked before at school, but had never studied her body like this. She was pleased with what she saw.
“Turn around, Amna,” she ordered.
The girl did as ordered. She had a strong, lean back. Standing as she was with her hands on her head, Rebecca saw the girl’s ribs and backbone. She had a small, pert bottom that complemented her breasts perfectly. A slave-girl of this quality must have cost her father a lot of piastres.
Rebecca decided to use some more of her authority.
“Bend over and spread your buttocks, Amna. I want to inspect you more closely,” she said.
The girl whimpered but obeyed. Her hands spread her cheeks to her mistress’s gaze.
“Stand with your legs apart,” Rebecca further ordered. She stepped closer and crouched down. First, she looked at Amna’s puckered rosebud anus. It had also been shaved and looked perfectly clean. The girl’s buttocks trembled as she felt her mistress’s breath on them.
Looking slightly down, Rebecca studied Amna’s tight, reddish labia. She caught a whiff of the girl’s natural scent. Amna trembled.
“Keep still,” Rebecca ordered. She reached out with one hand and separated the girl’s vaginal lips.
“I said; keep still. I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just checking out my property.”
Amna sobbed with embarrassment. Another girl of her own age with her hand in her privates. It was horrible.
There was enough light coming in through the window to allow Rebecca to make a full inspection. She touched the girl’s vaginal opening with her fingertip. Amna hissed; a sharp little sound. She expected to feel her mistress’s finger penetrate her. But that never happened.
“Are you a virgin?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes, miss,” whispered Amna.
“Good girl.”
Rebecca lowered her hand. With one finger, she touched the other girl’s clitoris. That most sensitive little button. She flicked Amna’s clit. Slowly at first, then a little faster. The girl tried to keep quiet and still but couldn’t quite manage it. Rebecca watched the little pink mound of flesh redden and enlarge underneath its hood.
“Do you masturbate, Amna?” Rebecca asked.
“Yes, miss. Sometimes I do,” Amna confessed.
Rebecca took her hand away, leaving the girl trembling on the edge. She remembered something she’d overheard her mother say to Luci.
“In future, you will always ask my permission before touching yourself down there. Do you understand?”
“Yes, miss,” Amna sobbed with a catch in her voice.
“Now stand up and finish off laying out my clothes,” she said, turning away. She watched her naked slave-girl lay out the rest of her clothes. She watched the play of light and shadow cross the girl’s lithe body. From her top drawer, the girl took out the lacy underwear Rebecca was going to wear tonight.
Rebecca made a decision. “I’m going to have a shower-bath now. You can undress me and wash me.”
“Yes, miss,” whispered Amna. Rebecca showed Amna her en-suite bathroom and how to operate the shower's controls. She turned around and waited for her slave-girl to undress her.
Amna unhooked Rebecca’s lightweight linen dress then slipped it off over her shoulders and down over her arms and torso. It rested on Rebecca’s hips but then with a wriggle it slid down to her ankles. Rebecca stepped out of her dress. She stood naked except for her lacy white brassiere and panties.
“Come on, girl,” she said. With fumbling fingers, Amna unclipped Rebecca’s brassiere and helped her shrug it off. Then she knelt behind her owner, slipped her fingers into the panties’ waistband and lowered them down. The two girls were now naked together. Except that Amna still had her thin, steel slave collar around her neck.
They stepped under the spray. Amna picked up a sponge, lathered it and proceeded to wash her mistress, starting with Rebecca’s face.
“Gently, girl. You’re not scrubbing a floor, you know.”
“Sorry, Bec... miss,” Amna gently washed her mistress’s hair and body.
Rebecca was as tall as Amna, but she had a slightly darker, tanned complexion. She had dark brown hair which flowed over her shoulders in loose curls. Now it was plastered to her back and neck with the shower spray. Working down, Amna saw she the other girl had larger, yet still firm, breasts and broader hips with more rounded buttocks.
Amna knelt, soaped the sponge and washed down Rebecca’s legs. As she knelt, spray bounced off her back. Eventually, Amna stood.
“You’ve missed a bit, girl,” Rebecca said.
“Miss?” Amna thought she’d cleaned all her mistress’s body.
Rebecca spread her legs. Amna looked up into her mistress’s dark brown eyes. She blinked as the water hit her face.
“Use your hands,” Rebecca told her.
“Yes, miss,” Amna whispered, her voice barely audible above the water. Amna soaped her hand then slipped it between Rebecca’s legs. Unlike Amna, Rebecca had pubic hair. It was only considered unhygienic among slaves. Amna rubbed Rebecca’s genitals, her slippery, soapy hand washing and cleaning her mistress as ordered. Amna glanced up as she washed. She saw Rebecca close her eyes and arch her back with pleasure.
Amna put more soap on her hand then using one finger only concentrated on Rebecca’s clit. She felt heat between Rebecca’s legs. She gently stroked that little piece of tender, sensitive flesh.
Rebecca looked down. She was not embarrassed about being washed by another woman. In fact she was used to it as she sometimes borrowed Luci or one of the other female house slaves to do this for her. But it felt so much better now having her very own personal slave do this service. Especially as it was a girl she used to know at school. It added an extra layer to her pleasure.
The water started to run cooler. Rebecca shivered. She pushed away Amna’s hand.
“You did very well. For a novice,” she said.
“Thank you, miss,” said Amna.
“You may now dry me and dress me. Before you clean the shower-bath,” Rebecca said.
Carefully and gently, Amna dried her mistress with a towel, brushed her hair then helped her dress. She held out the brief lacy panties for her mistress to step into before drawing them up her legs. She adjusted the other girl’s breasts in the skimpy bra. Despite herself, she liked the feel of Rebecca’s large breasts. They felt so different from her own. Sexy too, in a way. She looked at Rebecca’s dark nipples still showing through the lace.
“Stop staring, girl and get me dressed.”
Next, she helped Rebecca on with her white party dress. It was off the shoulder, sleeveless, low cut and made the most of Rebecca’s full breasts and curvy body. The white silk showed off Rebecca’s tanned skin to perfection.
Finally, she found the shoes, knelt before Rebecca and placed them onto her mistress’s feet. Amna remembered what she had been taught at the Domo de Korekto. She instinctively knew Rebecca would like this. Still naked, she prostrated herself before her mistress and kissed her feet. A gesture of total submission.
Rebecca let her slave-girl kiss her feet for a moment. It felt good, especially as she hadn’t had to order her to do it. She thought Amna would make an excellent slave-girl after some training. She stooped down and helped Amna up.
“You’re a good girl. I think we’ll get on very well, don’t you?”
“Yes, Bec... miss.”
“You can dress now and follow me down after cleaning up here,” Rebecca told her.
The banquet was a great success. The daCastros lived in a large villa on Kresto Abrikoto, an affluent suburb of Haveno Ananaso, the capital city of Kupro Marbordo. Most of the local gentry had been invited. Among them was the extremely wealthy and powerful Bartro family. They only attended because their daughter, Alicia, was one of Rebecca’s closest friends.
All the same, Rebecca used to be jealous of Alicia as the other girl had Kyli, her own personal slave-girl for years now. But now Rebecca had caught up. She now owned her very own slave-girl, too. She couldn’t wait to show off Amna to Alicia.
Rebecca stood in their hallway next to her mother and father and greeted their guests as they arrived. The hall had been filled with cut flowers and smelled gorgeous. As soon as the Bartros arrived, only fashionably late, Rebecca dragged Alicia to one side.
As she did so, Rebecca fought down a wave of jealousy. She knew she looked beautiful tonight. But Alicia looked stunning. She was tall and blonde with her hair dressed in the latest style. Her flawless skin was exquisitely made up. The other girl's green watered silk dress shimmered in the candlelight. Alicia was almost a year older than Rebecca and used that to pretend she was far more worldly-wise than Rebecca.
“You’ll never guess,” Rebecca whispered to Alicia. “Daddy bought me my very own slave-girl. Just like your Kyli. Isn’t that wonderful.”
Alicia turned to her friend and kissed her. “Yes that’s great. I hear the price of slaves has really come down now after that dreadful stock market crash. Almost anyone can afford a slave now. My Daddy’s thinking of buying me a companion for Kyli. I hope he buys me a male slave this time.”
Rebecca frowned. “I don’t think Senhor Bartro will do that,” she sniffed.
“Oh, I don’t know,” trilled Alicia. “It would be fun to breed from Kyli. Have some little slave-babies.”
Their majordomo rang the gong and all their guests filed into the dining room. As befitted their status, the Bartro family took pride of place. Rebecca found herself sitting between Senhor James Baxter, a wealthy young broker from the northern United Zones who had moved to Kupro Marbordo recently.
On her other hand sat Fernando, Senhor Bartro’s younger son who was on leave from the army. During dinner the young man told her exciting stories about campaigning against bandits infesting the distant Montoj de Pino, the Pine Mountains on the edge of Kupro Marbordo beyond the cattle ranches.
It was obvious what her mother was after. She thought if she put her daughter between two handsome young men, who both happened to be wealthy and single, then sparks should fly. Unfortunately, her daughter was too taken up with enjoying the banquet and thinking about her new slave-girl to pay too much attention to the young men.
Despite its numerous courses, the feast passed too quickly. A gourmet mixture of tastes and mouth watering textures. Afterwards, as was customary, the ladies retired to the drawing room whilst the men remained in the dining room and drank port and smoked cigars. Senhora Bartro played a gentle tune on the piano. After a while, the men joined them.
“I hear you’ve been bought a slave-girl for your eighteenth,” said Senhor Baxter. “Can we see her?”
“Oh yes,” squealed Alicia. “Let’s.”
“Although he's only new to Kupro Marbordo, Senhor Baxter is quite the connoisseur of slave-girls,” smiled Senhor Bartro. “How many do you own now?”
“Only the four,” he replied with a grin. “But I keep them all busy.”
Therefore the majordomo rang the gong and summoned Amna into the drawing room. The girl entered nervously. She dipped into a low curtsey, her eyes on the floor.
“Nice,” whistled Senhor Baxter. “Must have cost a few piastres, Konsilanto.”
Rebecca's father nodded. "She did. But I think Amna will be worth the investment. She comes from a good, respectable family and I didn't want my only daughter corrupted by some slutty slave-girl's lack of morals."
"I can understand that," Senhor Bartro added.
“Take off your clothes, Amna. Let our guests inspect you,” Rebecca ordered.
“Please no, miss.”
“Just do it,” Rebecca said, mercilessly.
Once again, Amna stripped off her dress and breast band. She blushed, her glow obvious on her pale skin as the men and women looked her over as if she was a prize horse.
Some of the men stroked her sides, squeezed her breasts, tweaked her nipples, and looked in her mouth and eyes. Then came the ultimate humiliation.
“Let them see between your legs,” Rebecca commanded.
Amna moaned. But she was a slave-girl. There was nothing she could do. She bent over with her legs apart.
“Wider, girl,” ordered Senhor Baxter. “We can’t see anything like that.”
Reluctantly, Amna did as ordered. Senhor Baxter placed his hand between her shoulder blades, forcing Amna still lower. Gently, he spread her hairless, moist labia and scrutinised her tight vaginal opening.
“She's a virgin?” he said with astonishment.
“She is according to her papers from the Domo de Korekto,” confirmed Konsilanto daCastro. “That’s one of the reasons I bought her for Rebecca. Like I say, she comes from a good family and I didn’t want a slave-girl with the morals of an alley-cat attending my daughter.”
“Very wise,” said Baxter. “May I?” he asked Rebecca, his eyebrow raised in question.
She nodded assent, even though she didn’t know what Senhor Baxter intended. He spat on his fingertip then plunged it deep into Amna’s anus. The poor slave-girl gasped and her body bucked at this violation but he held her in place. Baxter pushed his finger all the way in up to his third knuckle joint. He twisted his finger as he explored her tight bum hole. Amna whimpered with distress. Eventually, he pulled his finger out.
“I’d say she’s an anal virgin, too. You got a good deal there, Konsilanto.”
Senhor Baxter patted Amna’s rump.
“You may stand now, girl.” He held out his soiled finger. “You can clean me off now.” He popped his finger into Amna’s mouth. Gagging at the taste, at what she had to do, Amna licked and sucked the man’s finger clean.
As she did so, Amna noticed Rebecca and her friend, Alicia Bartro whispering together. They kept glancing over at her. She couldn’t hear their conversation except for Rebecca saying, “Shall we?” and Alicia nodding. Amna didn’t like the two girls’ expressions.
Eventually, Rebecca turned her gaze over to her naked slave-girl. “You can leave now, Amna. Wait for me in my bedroom.”
Amna scooped up her clothes, curtseyed then fled from the scene of her humiliation. Laughter followed her exit.
Much later, Amna heard Rebecca come up the stairs. Immediately, she knelt on the floor to await her mistress. Rebecca yawned widely. “I’m tired. You can get me ready for bed then go to the female dormitory by the kitchen. I want to make an early start tomorrow so you can bring me my breakfast in bed tomorrow at eight. Understand?”
“Yes, miss,” said Amna.
She helped her mistress undress, hung up her fine clothes, and then brushed Rebecca's hair until it shone.
“Well done, girl. You can go now but remember; wake me at eight sharp.”
* * *
Amna lay in her allocated bunk in the female slaves’ dormitory. Around her, she heard deep breathing with the occasional snore as the other women slept. She tossed and turned but sleep wouldn't come. Despite what her new mistress had commanded, Amna slipped a finger between her legs and fingered herself until she came with a little shudder. That usually relaxed her but tonight sleep still wouldn't come.
She lay back. Although she had tried to put it out of her mind, Amna thought about the chain of circumstances that had brought her to be a humble slave-girl of the daCastros. Only a few months ago, she had been as happy and free as Rebecca.
Her father was a manager at Haveno Ananaso's largest department store. He was a good, hard working man who only wanted the best for his family. He'd been poor as a young man, himself a child of a copper miner, but he'd studied hard, worked even harder and made a success of his life. He desperately wanted his only daughter, as well as his sons, to have all the advantages of the best education money could buy. So the family had scrimped and saved to send Amanda, as she was then, to a top private school.
And then her father had seen an opportunity to make a lot of money very quickly. He hoped to make enough in order to send Amanda to a Holly League university up in the United Zones. Everyone was investing in chlorates, a new sort of artificial fertiliser that would greatly improve agriculture in Kupro Marbordo. Her father had invested all the family's money.
And the stock of chlorates was still going up. All the newspapers said the stock could only rise. So her father had taken out a big loan, intending to cash in his shares later and still have a large profit even after paying off his loan. Hopefully enough to pay for Amanda's university fees.
But then, one terrible day, the stock market crashed and shares in chlorates became worthless overnight. Her family was facing ruin. Her mother even had to go out and look for work as a typist.
Amna remembered the day her father knocked on the door of her room and stood before her. The usually strong man was crying, tears were pouring down his face.
"Oh, Amanda, I'm so, so sorry. I never expected this to happen," he sobbed.
Amanda stood and ran to her father. "Don't worry, Daddy. It doesn't matter, we'll get through this as a family. It doesn't matter if I have to leave school. I can find work as a secretary or a governess or something and help to support us until things get better." She kissed her father. He hugged her but then said those words that changed Amanda's life for ever.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Amanda, but I didn't tell you everything. You recall that loan I took out from the bank?"
Amanda nodded. She hadn't taken much notice at the time as she was so busy revising for her exams.
"I had to use you as collateral for the loan. I never thought it would go bad - I thought I could pay the loan back and you'd never know."
"What do you mean, Daddy?" Amanda didn't understand what her father was saying. Amanda looked up into her father's face. He was racked with sobs and it took him a while before he could speak again.
"I really wish I'd never taken out that loan. I used you as security so the bank would advance me the loan. We rent our house so I couldn't use that. But now as I can't pay back the debt, what that means is that now the bank owns you. You're to be a slave, Amanda."
A sudden chill gripped Amanda's heart. Her hand flew to her heart.
"A slave?"
Her family didn't own any slaves, but of course Amanda had seen them out on the streets. They all wore thin steel collars about their necks and simple, hard wearing clothes and sandals. They had to obey every order.
Although some slaves looked happy and cheerful, especially if they had a kind owner; others looked the picture of misery. Amanda knew that all slaves were subject to corporal punishment and she knew some owners could be cruel to their slaves and would severely punish them for real or imagined transgressions.
On special occasions, such as her older brother's graduation, her father had hired a few publicly owned slaves to help out. Amanda and her mother had always been kind and friendly to them and never beat the poor creatures.
"Yes. I'm so sorry." He gripped his daughter's forearms. "However, although you'll have to go to the Domo de Korekto for initial slave training, you won't be sold by public auction at the slave market. I've arranged with the father of one of your friends, Rebecca daCastro, to buy you privately."
In the depths of his misery, her father was glad about that. It would save his daughter from the anguish and humiliation of being stripped naked and exposed to public view as she was auctioned off to the highest bidder. He'd saved her from that indignity at least.
"The daCastros are a fine, well respected family. Her father has recently been elected as a Konsilanto for Haveno Ananaso. He was looking for a chaste, respectable girl to become his daughter's personal slave-girl. I spoke to him and he agreed to buy you."
Tears fell onto his cravat and black broadcloth jacket.
"But Daddy, I don't want to be a slave! Please, don't do this," Amanda screamed. She flung herself on her bed and cried and cried.
Her father knelt by her side and tried to provide what comfort he could.
"Konsilanto daCastro said if I ever raised enough money, I could buy you back at any time. I'm going to work all the overtime I can and look for a second job as well."
But, because of his debts, her father was demoted at the store and now worked as a humble shop clerk. There was no way he could ever afford to buy her back now.
That afternoon, a large Dom from the Domo de Korekto arrived. Amanda was too weak to resist as the man escorted her to the Domo for registration and to start her initial training.
And then followed two months or more of such horror that Amanda would never forget. Her mind skirted over that terrible time. As soon as the Doms had brought her to the Domo de Korekto, she'd been stripped naked. Nude in front of everyone, men and women. Some had laughed at her small breasts.
She'd been scrubbed clean and then shaved. All her pubic hair was shaved off. They said it was more hygienic but that didn't apply to free women. She'd been weighed and measured, prodded and poked and a thin steel slave collar had been riveted around her neck. The irremovable symbol of slavery.
Then she was flogged. The agony as the lash beat her back and buttocks. And then she'd had very basic slave training. As usual at the Domo, she was kept completely nude for her entire period of training to make her accustomed to her body and to remove any artificial inhibitions and modesty. Her training was such as to teach her obedience and subservience to whoever owned her.
Amna, as she was to call herself now, shuddered at the memories. However, towards the end of the night she fell into a thin uneasy sleep.
* * *
Rebecca yawned and stretched out in bed. She had a slight headache from the wine she’d drunk last night. She'd had a few glasses more than usual. But she was eighteen now, an adult, so why not? She cast her mind back to last night. She’d really enjoyed the banquet in her honour and how marvellous of her father to buy her a slave-girl of her very own. And all the gifts of money from other relatives and guests. Sunlight shone in bars through the shutters and the day was already warm.
Rebecca glanced at her alarm clock on the side table. Its dial showed ten past eight. Ten past eight! Where was that silly girl? Another few minutes passed before her bedroom door pushed open. Amna entered with a breakfast tray. Rebecca pushed back the mosquito curtains, swung her legs out of bed and sat up.
“Where have you been, Amna? I said eight o’clock and now it’s quarter past.”
“I’m sorry, Bec... miss. The delivery of fruit was late and then Cook said...”
Rebecca cut her off. “I’m not interested in your excuses. Put that tray down and come here.”
Amna looked worried. She placed the tray down on the side table then approached her mistress. Rebecca grabbed her arm and pulled Amna down over her lap. She leaned over and pulled up Amna’s slave dress, exposing her bare bottom.
“What are you doing, miss?” Amna cried.
In reply, Rebecca lifted her hand in the air. Slap! She brought her hand down hard across Amna’s bottom. The slave-girl cried out and jerked forward. A hand print showed red on Amna’s pale bottom. Rebecca pressed down on Amna’s back with her left arm, holding her in place. Slap! Smack! Slap! Rebecca gave her tardy slave-girl an over the knee, bare bottom hand spanking. Amna cried out and then sobbed as the blows rained down on her defenceless bottom.
Rebecca swapped from one cheek to another. Slap! Smack! Crack! The sound filled the bedroom. Her hand prints merged as Amna’s bottom turned red. Rebecca brought her hand down again and again over Amna’s anus and her sit spot. Her slave-girl screamed and her legs kicked the air behind her as she was desperate to escape.
“Be quiet, girl. Anyone would think I was killing you,” scolded Rebecca. The slave-girl's cries were making her headache worse.
Eventually, after a few extra hard blows, Rebecca stopped. She rested her hand on her slave-girl’s reddened bottom, enjoying the heat coming from it. She waited as Amna’s sobs quietened and the slave-girl calmed down.
“Let that be a reminder. When I say eight o’clock; I mean eight o’clock,” Rebecca told her. “Now you can serve breakfast. Later on we’ll all go out into town.”
Amna stood. Her skirt dropped back down, covering her shame. “Yes, miss,” she said with a hitch in her voice as she fetched the breakfast tray.
Later that morning, the four girls waited for the little suburban train at Kresto Abrikoto station. It arrived in a cloud of steam. Rebecca and Alicia took the luxurious first class carriage whilst Kyli and Amna climbed into one of the two crowded open wagons. Their only protection from the tropical sun was a gaily patterned awning overhead.
Their wagon was filled with both poor free people and slaves. Many of them were on their way to market and baskets cluttered up the wagon. The slaves chatted amongst themselves. It was one of their few opportunities to talk freely away from their owners' ears.
After stopping at every station on the way, the little train pulled into Haveno Ananaso’s main station of Urbocentro. Haveno Ananaso was a small but bustling city. The breeze blew the smell of the sea their way. The four girls met up at the train station and then walked through the hustle and bustle of the central plaza outside.
“This isn’t the way to the shops, misses,” called out Kyli.
“That’s right,” said Rebecca. “We’ve got a couple of things to do before we go shopping.”
Before too long, the girls stood outside the Domo de Korekto, a heavy grey stone building with narrow windows. In the distance, they heard the sound of a whip crack then a man’s howl of agony. Amna shuddered. It hadn’t been so long ago that she had received her painful initial slave training at the Domo de Korekto.
Rebecca knocked on the door.
“What are you doing, miss?” Amna said, concern and fear in her voice.
The heavy, studded door opened. The four girls walked into the grim entrance hall; Amna and Kyli clinging together for support.
A strong looking woman in her late forties stood before them. She had short cropped black hair.
Rebecca pointed out Amna. “Could you lock this slave-girl for me, please? She’s a virgin and I want to keep her that way.”
Kyli gasped in shock. She’d been locked herself and she hated it. Amna flung herself to her knees on the hard stone floor before her mistress.
“No, miss, please don’t do this to me! Please, miss, I’m begging you. No, miss, no!”
Rebecca turned to her slave-girl.
“It’s for your own good, Amna. This way I can decide for you when you lose your virginity. It’s better this way rather than having you taken advantage of by any male slave that takes your fancy.”
“I’ve had my Kyli locked for ages. She got over it quickly and likes it now, don’t you,” Alicia piped up.
“Yes, miss,” said Kyli, looking at the floor.
Tears poured from Amna as she lay before her mistress and begged. However, Rebecca paid over the thirty piastres fee from her birthday cash and the large female Dom hauled Amna to her feet then led her away deeper into the Domo.
“Don’t worry,” the woman told her as she shut Amna in a cell with several other women. “Locking’s getting to be fashionable amongst slave owners now.” As if that would console the sobbing girl.
The women huddled together in the dark cell. Some whispered together whilst others cried. One by one they were taken out.
Eventually, the cell door swung open. The Dom stood there.
“Amna. Let’s get you locked. C’mon, girl, let’s have no trouble.”
Her legs shaking with fear, Amna let the Dom hold her arm and lead her down a stone corridor and into a room at the far end. The room smelled strongly of disinfectant. It was brightly lit by numerous gas mantles, their light reflecting from the white tiled walls. In the centre of the room stood a marble topped table. Shackles hung from the table.
“Right,” said the woman in a no nonsense voice. “Take your clothes off and lie down on the table.”
“Please no,” moaned Amna, more to herself than the woman. She knew there would be no mercy. Amna slipped off her dress and breast band then lay down on the table. The marble was so cold against her skin. She shuddered with fear and anticipation of the pain that was to come.
“Well done. Now spread your legs,” she was told.
The Dom went around the table, shackling Amna to its hard unyielding surface. Her legs were pulled apart then spread wide, her arms shackled to the sides of the operating table and a thick strap went over her hips. Finally, the woman stood by Amna’s head.
“Open your mouth,” she said. As soon as Amna did so, a ball gag was forced in between her jaws.
“Mmmnngh,” moaned Amna. Lastly, the woman covered Amna’s eyes with a blindfold, plunging her into darkness. She lay bound helpless to the table, unable to prevent what was about to happen to her.
The door opened and Amna heard another woman entered the operating theatre.
“Shave her,” the Dom ordered.
Amna heard a cupboard open then a basin filled with water. A woman crouched over her legs and covered her genitals with shaving foam. It tickled but there was nothing she could do about it. Then, although she was still smooth down there, she was shaved again. The razor sliding over her sensitive skin made a scratching sound. The woman slipped a couple of fingers into Amna’s vulva, stretching her skin and making it easier to shave her.
Then Amna smelled the cold tang of rubbing alcohol. It stung on her freshly shaved skin as the woman rubbed her genitals with the alcohol, cleansing and disinfecting her. She hissed with the shock.
“She’s ready now, ma’am,” Amna heard the woman say as she stepped away from the table. Amna tried to brace herself against the agony to come but it was far worse than she expected. The Dom took one of her sensitive labial lips, pinched it and pulled it away from her body.
Suddenly, she felt an incredible stabbing pain through her labia and a stench of burned flesh. The Dom had pierced her with a thick red hot needle. Through her gag, Amna screamed. It came out muffled but Amna screamed and screamed as the intense pain coursed through her body. Her body tried to buck and escape from the pain but the straps held firm.
The Dom waited a moment for Amna to subside a little. Then she moved her fingers a little way down her labia. And pierced her again only a centimetre or so away from the first. Again, Amna screamed with pure animal pain. Her mind was filled with agony. And then the woman pierced her a third time.
The woman released the damaged, pierced labia. Then she took hold of the opposite love flap and pulled it away from Amna’s body. Then she drilled through it another three times with that red hot needle, the heat cauterising the wounds. The agony got no easier and poor Amna screamed out her suffering through her gag. The stink of burned flesh was worse.
“There, there. Don’t make such a fuss. We’re almost done now,” she said. But Amna wasn’t capable of taking it in. She lay covered with perspiration on the cold marble table.
“Just fitting the rings now,” the Dom said. Through each of the six holes drilled through Amna’s damaged flesh the Dom fitted a small stainless steel ring. They felt alien and unwanted on her body. Finally, Amna felt the woman draw her sore labia together. Three little clicks followed as the opposite rings were locked together with three little padlocks. She felt their weight pulling on her hurting labia.
She had been locked.
Amna was allowed to rest for a few minutes. She heard cupboards being opened and closed as equipment was put away. Then her blindfold was removed. Light flooded her watering eyes, making her blink. She closed them, not wishing to see what had been done to her. The ball gag was unstrapped and pulled out of her mouth. She flexed her jaws, trying to work some feeling into them.
The two women unstrapped her from the table and helped her sit up. Amna was very careful not to let her damaged genitals touch the unyielding marble. The Dom handed her a small mirror. Amna slipped it between her legs. She cried again looking at those three hideous padlocks closing off her vagina. It hurt and it wasn’t right. How could her mistress do such a horrible thing to her?
Carefully, Amna stepped down from the operating table. The Dom handed back her dress, then escorted Amna back to the holding cell. There was no way Amna could sit so she stood in a corner and cried.
“Esme?” the Dom called out. A tall, dark skinned woman stood up. In the gloom of the cell, the whites of her eyes showed her fear.
“Your new master wants you to have a designer vagina. Let’s get those floppy flaps of yours tidied up, shall we?”
“No,” screamed the woman. But she had no choice but to leave and follow the Dom down the corridor to the operating theatre.
Towards evening, the Dom took Amna back to reception. Rebecca and Alicia Bartro were both excited to see Amna’s piercings. When her owner wasn't looking, Kyli flashed Amna a sympathetic glance.
“It’s for your own good,” Rebecca said again. She turned to the Dom. “Have you got a nice paddle I can use on her? We’ve got loads at home of course but I’d like my own paddle to use on her.” She saw Amna’s tearful face.
“It's only for if you’re naughty,” she smiled. Rebecca chose a smooth paddle maybe thirty centimetres long with holes drilled through it. She slashed it through the air, testing its action.
“Would you like to try it out on one of our slaves?” asked the Dom.
Rebecca thought. “We haven’t got time but it looks the job.”
She paid a few piastres for it then handed it to Amna to carry back to Urbocentro station. Amna held the paddle like it might bite her. She knew, just knew, that paddle would be walloping her bottom before too long.
The little train pulled into Kresto Abrikoto’s suburban station and the four young women walked home. Birds sang in the orchards, but Amna couldn’t appreciate their music. Instead Amna felt those padlocks pull on her sore labia with every step.
“I won’t need you until bedtime,” Rebecca told her. “See, I’m good to you by giving you the evening off.”
“Thank you, miss,” Amna managed to say.
Amna let herself into the kitchen. Cook was preparing dinner for the slaves. Unlike them, Cook was free. She was in her forties, a tall woman with short hair, now running to fat but still strong underneath.
“Please, may I stand for dinner tonight?” Amna asked. There was no-one else in the kitchen. Amna hoisted up her skirts and showed Cook her sore, tender, pierced sex. Cook hugged her close and kissed her.
“You poor girl. Of course you can stand until you’re healed.”
Amna thanked her then went to the slaves’ outhouse. She lifted her skirt and squatted. She hadn’t used the toilet since her locking but she could last out no longer. She pissed; her urine stinging her piercings. But worse, it didn’t flow easily. Her pee dribbled out around those hateful padlocks then trickled down her thighs.
She held her head in her hands and cried. Was this going to be her future? Unable to pee properly, her urine trickling out and then not being able to keep herself clean? It wasn’t right. She washed her hands and returned to the kitchen.
A few minutes later, the daCastro family’s other slaves entered the warmth of the kitchen. Unlike Amna, they were laughing and joking after their day’s work. Cook served their meal. As usual in Kupro Marbordo it was slave-porridge. Nutritious but bland. However, Cook added leftovers from the daCastro’s meals together with garden herbs to make it far more palatable.
“Why’s Amna standing?” asked Simon. He was one of the grooms based in the stables. Although not tall, he was muscular with broad shoulders. He had a shock of black hair and hazel eyes. “Has she had her sweet tushy paddled?” Senhora daCastro’s maid, Luci, laughed.
“No she hasn’t,” snapped Cook.
Suddenly, without warning, Simon darted his hand up between Amna’s legs. “She’s been locked,” he laughed. “Miss Rebecca’s had her slutty little slave locked.” There was laughter from around the table, especially from Luci and her friends.
Again, Amna burst into tears. His hand hurt her but the shame and embarrassment were far worse. Now everyone knew. How could Becca do this to her old school friend?
Cook slammed her spoon onto the table. “That will do. It’s not Amna’s fault she’s been locked. It’s her mistress’s decision and we have to respect that but I won’t have anyone making fun of Amna in my kitchen.” Cook looked so fierce all the slaves fell silent.
After dinner the slaves pushed back their chairs. It was one of the few times of the day they had a chance to relax.
Cook opened a cupboard and took out a paddle. It was larger and heavier than the one Rebecca had bought earlier being sixty centimetres long. It also had holes drilled through it. Cook pointed to the end of the table with it.
“Simon. Take off your clothes and bend over,” she ordered.
“Why, what’ve I done?”
“You’ve upset Amna and it’s not the first time I’ve spoken to you about your attitude,” Cook said.
Simon glanced around. He shrugged. Then he pulled off his t-shirt before dropping his denim shorts. His tanned muscular body looked good. Like the females, the male slaves were kept shaved as well. He tried to hide his cock and balls with his hands. He bent over with his legs together. All the slaves watched. It was rare for Cook to beat one of their number.
“Now it’s your sweet tushy that’s going to be paddled,” Cook told him.
She took up position to his left. His trim buttocks clenched in anticipation of the pain. Cook rolled up her sleeve then CRACK! The paddle smashed onto his bottom. He jerked forward and his back arched. He gritted his teeth and made only a grunting noise.
He lowered his body. CRACK! The sound whip cracked around the kitchen. Several slaves winced. Cook drew back her arm. CRACK! This time Simon cried out in pain. His bum was now a mass of red where the paddle had hit him. CRACK! CRACK! Two blows close together broke the young man’s resolve. He screamed out, his shrieks echoing around the kitchen. Cook smashed a last blow onto his tenderised buttocks. Simon howled again.
He lay still for a moment then stood. Cook pushed him back down. He whimpered.
“Amna’s going to give you three now. You hurt her so she’s going to hurt you.” Cook handed Amna the paddle. Amna held it away from her body like it might turn on her. Cook guided Amna over. She saw the tender-hearted girl didn’t want to hit Simon.
Slap. Amna did little more than pat Simon’s bottom with the paddle. But falling on his bruised flesh it still hurt and he cried out a little. Smack. A little harder. His buttocks flexed and tensed with the pain.
“Remember how he hurt you,” said Cook.
Slap! Not as hard as Cook but enough to make Simon genuinely cry out with pain. He rubbed his red and purple striped bottom. Some of the other slaves laughed at Simon. Cook took the paddle off Amna. Then she grabbed Simon’s ear and yanked him upright. She dragged him over to the wall.
“Stand there with your nose touching the wall and think about how you’ve upset Amna,” snapped Cook. “And you can be quiet, Luci, unless you want a taste of the paddle.”
Luci and the others instantly fell silent.
Things improved between Rebecca and Amna over the next couple of weeks. Amna’s piercings went from a flaming agony fading down to a dull ache then to a bad memory. It became easier to pee as she got used to being locked. Her mistress was at school during the week so Amna had plenty of time to herself. She soon made friends with some of the other slaves around Kresto Abrikoto.
To her surprise, when she had time, Amna found herself hanging around the daCastro’s stables and talking to Simon. He apologised for upsetting her and he was so contrite that she forgave him. She liked watching his toned body as he oiled and polished the bridles and saddles. His muscles sliding beneath his skin as he worked bare chested in the stables and coach house.
* * *
Then one morning, Amna stood before her mistress. She blushed and twisted her dress before her.
“Please, miss, could you unlock me?”
“Why, Amna? Do you need to masturbate?”
Amna turned bright red. “No, miss. Please, miss, my period's started.”
Rebecca laughed. “Of course. Lie on the bed and spread your legs and I'll unlock you.”
She felt Rebecca's hands fumble with her labia then Amna heard three little clicks as Rebecca unlocked those hateful padlocks. She stood. It felt much lighter down there without the weight of the metalwork pulling on her love flaps.
“Thank you, miss,” she said.
“You may use the toilet. But be quick and don't masturbate, understand?”
“Yes, miss.”
Amna ran downstairs and outside to the slaves' outhouse. She inserted a tampon. She thought for a second. There was no way her mistress would ever know. Amna pushed a finger in between her legs, into her slick slit and found her most sensitive little button then gently stroked it. Slowly at first then faster and faster. She gasped and arched her back as the pleasure of her orgasm rippled through her body.
It had been simply ages since she'd last frigged herself so she came quickly as the feeling powered through her body. She leaned forward with blessed relief. It felt so good. Just for a moment she'd been free but now she had to go back to her duties. Amna washed her hands then returned to her mistress's bedroom.
“Let's get you relocked,” Rebecca said.
Dutifully, Amna lay on the bed with her legs apart, her shaven sex fully exposed to view. Rebecca approached with the padlocks.
“You've been masturbating, haven't you?” she accused.
“No, miss,” Amna lied.
In response, Rebecca pinched Amna's still engorged clit. “Ow!” squeaked Amna.
“How dare you, girl? I expressly forbade you to touch yourself but you disobeyed my instructions ...”
“I'm sorry, miss, I... I couldn't help it. Please forgive me, it won't happen again,” Amna pleaded for mercy, ashamed at having been caught out in her needs.
“Don't interrupt, girl. It looks like I've been too lax with you over the last couple of weeks. You disobeyed me and now I'm going to punish you with a good hard hand spanking.”
“Oh, no miss. Please no. I'll be a good girl, miss.”
“Take off your dress and bend over my knee.”
Sobbing, Amna dropped her dress then knelt at her mistress's feet. She knew that Rebecca's hand would soon be tanning her arse but still she kissed Rebecca's feet begging for mercy. She glanced up. But there was no mercy to be found in Rebecca's implacable face.
Rebecca grabbed a handful of Amna's light brown hair and hauled her to her feet. She then threw her naked slave-girl's body over her lap. She pushed Amna forward until her bottom was in position then lifted up her hand. Amna's toes touched the floor on one side her hands on the other, her pert bottom well presented for its beating.
“Please, miss!” Amna cried for the last time. Then with a loud slap, her mistress's hand struck Amna's quivering buns. She shrieked with pain. More blows followed until her bottom was a mass of red hand prints blurring into one red mess. Amna cried out, screamed out but there was no mercy until Rebecca's arm grew tired. The blows covered all of Amna's posterior, from the small of her back down to her upper thighs.
Amna's bum was on fire. Her cries of pain rang out through the bedroom and landing. Eventually, Rebecca dropped her hand and laid it down on her slave-girl's well beaten bottom. Amna hung over knees, barely aware that her spanking had stopped. Rebecca separated Amna's bum cheeks and looked deep into her cleft, at the girl's rosy little anus.
“What do you say, slutty little slave-girl?”
“Thank you, miss. Thank you for correcting my mistakes,” Amna sobbed. “It won't happen again, miss.”
“It had better not; otherwise I'll really have to punish you.”
“Yes miss, thank you miss,” said Amna through her tears.
Rebecca removed her hand and let her slave-girl stand. She smiled. “All forgiven now. Give me a kiss and then you can get me dressed ready for school.”
“Yes miss,” Amna rubbed her bare bottom and then flung her arms around her mistress and kissed her on the lips.
Later that morning, Amna showed Cook her battered sore, red bottom. But if she expected sympathy she didn't get it.
“You deserved that spanking, Amna. You were told not to touch yourself but you're only sorry you got caught out. Actually, you got off lightly. I know many owners who would've punished you far more severely than with just a hand spanking.”
“Yes, Cook.”
But Amna hated what had happened. How was it right that another girl of her own age should be able to decide whether or not she could masturbate? She had urges and needs just as much as Rebecca. And then for her mistress to beat her for giving in to her needs. It was horrible being controlled and all because her father had got into debt. It wasn't fair. Especially if it had been the other way round, Amna would have treated Rebecca kindly.
* * *
Things settled down between the two young women. Amna made sure she was polite, respectful and deferential and Rebecca started to think she'd got the perfect slave-girl. She even allowed her to masturbate more frequently.
But Amna hated it when she had to masturbate in front of an audience. Sometimes she had to play with her clit in front of Rebecca, Alicia Bartro and Kyli. The embarrassment and humiliation overwhelmed her and spoiled her pleasure.
“We're going to see Steven Jago, Amna,” Rebecca said that Saturday morning. Amna looked up from folding away her mistress's clothes. “You remember him from school, Amna. He's studying history and he's got some notes I want to copy off him.”
Amna curtseyed. “Yes, miss,” she said. Like a lot of girls in their school, Amna had a secret crush on Steven Jago. But that had been when she was free. Now she was just a slave-girl. And a locked slave-girl at that. Jago was tall, dark and handsome. He was talked up as a potential pro football player. He was also a great horseman.
When Rebecca was ready, the two girls caught the train to the next suburban station down the line, Turo Horlogo or Clock Tower. Stephen Jago was swinging on a hammock on his verandah. He swung down and stood when he saw the two girls walk up his parent's driveway. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and linen trousers.
“Rebecca daCastro, lovely to see you. Make yourself at home,” he said with a big smile on his face. He paused and a look of confusion crossed his face. He looked at Rebecca's slave-girl following behind her mistress at a respectful distance.
“Is that you, Amanda?” he asked. “What happened?”
“It's Amna, now,” Rebecca told him. “My father bought her for me as my eighteenth birthday present.”
“I'm sorry, I didn't know,” he said. “The last time I saw you, Amanda... I mean Amna... you were at school.”
“Well, she's not at school now. She's just a slave-girl. Amna's only desire is to serve me now, isn't it?” Rebecca said, turning to her slave-girl.
“Yes, miss,” said Amna, submissively.
They made their way out of the tropical sun into the cool shade of Steven Jago's veranda. He offered Rebecca a seat. She sank into its cushioned comfort with a sigh. It was good to be out of the heat. Steven Jago offered a glass of lemonade to Rebecca but nothing to the equally thirsty slave-girl.
“Footstool,” Rebecca ordered, pointing to the wooden floor before her.
“Please no, miss,” whimpered poor Amna.
“Footstool,” Rebecca said again, less gently than before.
With a little moan, Amna stripped off her tunic-dress, her breast-band and then crouched before her mistress. She was so aware of Steven Jago watching her naked body as she knelt and crouched. She covered her boobs and was glad she was hidden away as she crouched. Until he casually strolled around behind her. And then her bottom and shaved genitals were fully exposed to his view.
“You've locked Amanda... Amna,” he said, a note of approval in his tone.
“I had to,” said Rebecca. Rebecca swung her feet up onto Amna's back. Always before, she'd taken off her shoes when using Amna as a footstool. But this time, Rebecca's heels dug into Amna's flesh. Amna squirmed and tried to find a more comfortable posture.
“Be still, girl,” Rebecca ordered. She patted Amna on the head with her new paddle. Amna stopped moving but the pain soon became almost too much to bear. Her eyes watered with hurt and humiliation.
Steven Jago drew up a chair and sat next to Rebecca.
“Yes, I had her locked. She's mostly a good slave but she's quite immature,” Rebecca continued. “So I thought it was for the best.”
Despite the pain of Rebecca's heels, Amna listened to their conversation.
“Immature?” queried Steven. “I thought she was one of the best in the girls' class.”
“I'm not saying she wasn't clever. But she's remarkably juvenile at times.”
“In what way?”
Rebecca pushed her chest out. Drawing attention to her larger boobs. “Well, look at her tiny little titties for a start. They're not even half grown. And also, for instance, she still has her maidenhead. Would you like to see it?”
Before Steven Jago could say anything, Rebecca swung her legs off Amna's back giving her slave-girl a brief relief from the heels digging into her back. Rebecca opened her bag, took out a key and unlocked those three hateful padlocks.
“Stand up, girl, and let master have a look at your hymen.”
“Please no, miss,” Amna begged.
“See what I mean, Steven? Disobedient and immature. Do you want another beating, Amna?”
Poor Amna had no choice. She stood, bent over and then spread her labia. Her fingers touched those horrible locking rings.
“Wider,” Rebecca commanded.
With a little shudder, Amna did so. She flushed red as the young man, only her own age, leaned forward and studied her deep pink vaginal opening. She felt his breath on her opening. How could her mistress allow this to happen?
“I can't see anything,” he said. There was a pause as Steven carried on looking. His finger touched her vagina. “Oh, I see it now, it's just a little tiny piece of skin.”
“You can stand up now,” Rebecca told Amna.
“Well, it's not like she's immature. It only shows she's a virgin.”
“It's not just that,” said Rebecca. She sounded a little annoyed. “Her periods are still irregular and she's always wanting to masturbate herself.”
“I see,” Steven said.
Amna felt so embarrassed as her mistress told Steven Jago these intimate revelations about herself. The two free people sat and talked for a while about the slave-girl's failings. Steven Jago was of the view that Rebecca was being far to lenient with her new slave. Then Amna felt a jolt of horror.
“How will you repay me for borrowing my essay notes, Rebecca?” Steven asked.
“Why, what do you mean?” Amna's owner replied.
“Maybe I could use your slave-girl whilst you work on your essay?”
Amna wanted to speak up, to protest, but knew she had to remain silent. Unless she wanted a whipping. She felt a quick burst of relief for a moment at her mistress's next words.
“No, Steven. I'm keeping her a virgin for a while yet. Like I say, she's so immature. She's not ready to lose her purity just yet.”
“I understand. No I don't mean that but maybe anally? It's not as important and perhaps doing it that way will help her grow up a little? Give her an idea of what to expect when you think she's ready to lose her virginity?”
“I don't think so, Steven. I....”
“Maybe those notes of mine aren't as necessary for your essay then,” said Steven with a sigh. "But they are good. I spent hours in the city library researching them."
Rebecca thought for a moment. She sipped her lemonade.
“All right then. You can take her up the bum if you must,” she said.
Amna gasped with horror. No, this couldn't be happening. It wasn't right.
“Miss, please no,” she whimpered. She earned herself a slap on the head with the paddle for that. She fell quiet, stunned for a moment.
“You're right, Steven. Maybe it would do her good,” said Rebecca.
Steven Jago rang a bell. A petite, dark skinned slave-girl stepped out of the house. The woman dipped into a low curtsey.
“Vani. Fetch some ropes, olive oil and a paddle,” Steven told the slave-girl.
“Yes master,” she murmured before returning into the house.
A few minutes later, Vani returned with the items. She curtseyed then placed them on a side table.
“My notes are in the library, Rebecca. You know where it is?”
“You don't need me?” she said.
“No. I don't want an audience and it'll be easier on Amna with just the two of us, too. Vani will show you to the library and fetch you anything you need.”
Rebecca swung her feet down from Amna's back.
“I'd better re-lock Amna then. I don't want you getting carried away, Steven.” Rebecca turned to her slave-girl. “Bend over, Amna.” Amna did as instructed and a moment later felt her labia drawn together and those padlocks closing her vagina off again. Her mistress then followed Vani into the cool, dimly lit house.
Meanwhile, Amna crouched on the wooden verandah floor, trying to make herself as small as possible. How could Steven Jago, a boy she'd really fancied at school, do this to her? She sniffed and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“Stand up and bend over that chair,” Steven said.
Instead, Amna wriggled around on the floor and kissed his feet.
“Please, please, no please, don't do this to me, please Ste... master, I don't want to do this, no,” Amna sobbed between kisses.
Steven Jago stooped and lifted Amna to her feet. He was very strong and Amna stood before him, still naked except for the thin steel slave-collar.
“When we were at school, when you were called Amanda you took little notice of me or my friends. You hung about with your little clique laughing up your sleeve at us boys...”
“I wasn't like that...”
“Don't interrupt. I used to dream about making love to you. Now I've got the chance.”
“This isn't making love. It's rape,” said Amna with a show of defiance. She turned her tear streaked face up to his.
Stephen slapped her face. She stumbled sideways with the blow. “Don't be so stupid, girl. Your mistress has given permission so it's not rape.”
Amna put her hand to her cheek. “I haven't given permission and I don't want you taking me up my bum,”
Steven slapped her other cheek. “I see what your mistress means. You are very immature. Don't you know yet that a slave has to serve her owner's demands? That's what you're for. You stupid girl.” He dragged Amna over to a chair and threw her over the back of it.
“Stay there,” he commanded.
Amna knew she'd be beaten if she moved away so she stayed put as Steven Jago fetched the ropes off the side table. He crouched then tied her ankles to the chair legs, keeping her legs bound apart. He walked round to Amna's front and tied her wrists to the chair's front legs. She was immobile, totally helpless now. Her honey-blonde hair hung over her face hiding her shame.
Steven Jago grinned. This was more like it. He brushed away Amna's hair and kissed her. Reluctantly, she kissed him back.
“Please, master, be gentle with me,” she said.
In response, Steven grabbed her breasts and brushed them, stroking rubbing and fondling her small, pert boobs. He pinched her pink nipples, rubbing them until they became stiff. Amna gasped with shock as the tingling sensations filled her mind.
But then Steven left her breasts. He walked round behind Amna. Then she felt his hand stroke and caress her bum cheeks. His hand strayed all over her firm buttocks until eventually, his hand felt down the cleft between her cheeks. It felt good but Amna dreaded what would soon follow.
“Shame I can't take you up the cunt,” he told Amna. “I'd rather do it that way but I don't think your mistress would ever forgive me.”
He crossed to the side table. Amna struggled with her bonds to see what he was doing but couldn't. She heard a swish through the air then felt a blast of pain. CRACK! The paddle crashed across her arse. She hadn't expected that pain and she cried out with shock and anguish. Her shriek rang around the Jago's garden. A male slave crossed the lawn towards them but Steven waved the man away.
“Don't forget, Amna, there's plenty more where that came from. But be a good girl and satisfy my needs and I won't have to beat you, will I?”
“No, master,” she sobbed.
Steven laid the paddle back down. He'd made his point. He unstopped the jar of olive oil and poured the pale yellow oil directly onto Amna's anus. Some trickled down onto her smooth genitals making them glisten in the verandah’s shade. Amna shuddered as the cool oil flowed over her skin. She didn't want to be taken this way but knew she had no choice in the matter. She slumped forward, resigned to her fate. She so wished her Dad hadn't lost all his money dealing on Kupro Marbordo's stock exchange.
Steven pushed a finger into her anus. Her body resisted at first but was no match for Steven's brute strength and determination. His finger pushed in, all the way to his third knuckle.
“Nice and tight. Definitely an anal virgin,” Steven said to himself. Then his finger was joined by another. And then a third. The pressure mixed with a little pain was too much to bear. She cried out. Amna felt her sphincter stretching as his fingers worked inside her bottom. She hated it but all too soon, Steven withdrew his fingers.
She heard him unbutton his fly and approach closer.
“Brace yourself, girl,” her told her.
Then, with one huge push, his cock was up inside her tight chute. Amna cried out with the force of the invasion. It hurt. Steven rammed deeper and deeper inside her. Amna felt her body forced forwards over the back of the chair with the energy of his thrusts. She braced herself. Steven grabbed hold of Amna's hips. He slammed in and out with the force of a steam train's pistons. Amna looked up. A butterfly was fluttering over a nearby hibiscus bush. She watched it, trying to concentrate on its beauty rather than the painful ass-rape she was enduring. But it was no good. She cried out again and again.
Steven mistook the slave-girl's cries of pain for cries of ecstasy. It sent him over the edge. With one last deep thrust, he shot his cum deep into her, his seed jetting up her back passage. His knees trembled with the force of his lust.
Amna felt his load shoot up inside her rectum. It felt like red-hot lava. She cried out with mingled pain, humiliation and hurt at his assault on her defenceless bottom.
Steven rested before pulling his cock out. Amna clenched her sphincter against the loose feeling inside her. It felt like she was about to follow through after his withdrawal and she instinctively knew she'd be beaten or at least laughed at if she did.
“That's right, Amna. Hold it all in,” Steven said with a grin as he looked at the poor girl's puckered bum hole. A little of his seed spilled out. He slapped her bottom. Just the once.
“Did you like that, Amna? Did you enjoy losing your anal cherry?”
Amna was about to say no; that it was horrible, that it was agony; but she knew better.
“Yes, master. Thank you, master,” she said quietly. She clenched her bottom even harder, keeping her hole closed.
Steven walked around to face Amna. He looked down at the slumped over young woman. Then he grabbed a handful of her hair and jerked her head up to face him. Amna's grey eyes looked up.
“You can clean me off, now,” Steven told her.
“What?” Amna gasped.
“Do you want me to punish you? It's 'what, master' and I shouldn't need to explain the perfectly obvious. My cock's been up your dirty slave-arse and now I need you to clean me. Are you going to do it?”
“Yes, master,” Amna wept.
Steven stepped forward and Amna took his half-swollen cock in her mouth. Her tongue licked and lapped and she sucked him. Although she felt like gagging at the taste of her wastes in her mouth, she knew that she couldn't do that.
Amna felt Steven's cock grow hard and rigid again in her mouth. It felt like a steel rod in her mouth. She felt him tremble on the edge of orgasm. Abruptly, Steven pulled his cock out before he could cum in her mouth. She looked up. Steven hurried round and stood behind her.
“Oh no, not again,” moaned Amna.
Suddenly, with no preparation, Steven rammed his rock hard cock right up her back passage. This time, it felt worse. It should have been easier this second time but it wasn't. Her poor, widened, sore anus stretched again as she took his girth. Amna supported her body with her arms as she felt Steven banging away behind her. His balls slapped against her bottom as he roughly took her.
Fortunately, he couldn't last as long a second time but more red hot spunk shot up inside her to join his earlier deposit. He moaned with the pleasure of his orgasm. This time Steven waited until her anus expelled his manhood. More of his seed dribbled out afterwards, trickling down her perineum onto her vulva.
“Thought I told you to hold it all in, girl,” he snapped.
“Please, master, there's just too much,” Amna pleaded.
It was the best thing Amna could say. That response pleased him. “As you were a virgin, I'll let you off this time. But next time, I'll expect you to do as you're told.”
“Yes master; thank you, master,” Amna replied. Hopefully, that was the end of it. She didn't want a next time.
Steven untied Amna. She stood, rubbing her wrists. She looked down, unable to meet his gaze. Although she'd done nothing wrong, she felt so ashamed of what had happened. The young man sat in an easy chair and poured himself a glass of lemonade. He didn't offer one to the slave-girl.
“Your mistress is taking her time. Whilst we wait, you can be my footstool.”
Amna crouched before him, her back took the weight of his legs. Steven picked up a copy of the Haveno Ananaso Times newspaper and read the sports pages. Amna knelt, her poor, sore, sticky bottom exposed to the cooling breeze. She cried. But she was careful that the young man couldn't hear her sobs.
Steven rang a bell and when Vani, the Jago's slave-girl showed up, the young man ordered more refreshments whilst he waited. Eventually, Rebecca came back out onto the verandah. She carried a folder of Steven's essay notes.
“Was she any good?” Rebecca asked.
“Not bad, considering it was her first time. But you're right. She's very foolish and immature,” Steven said. “She could do with more training.”
“She hasn't been a slave for very long. But I'm sure she'll grow into it,” Rebecca said.
The two talked some more, made arrangements to meet for a game of tennis later in the week and then Rebecca and Amna caught the little steam train back home to Kresto Abrikoto. Amna winced with pain with every step she took.
* * *
Back home, Amna followed Rebecca up to her room. Rebecca dropped her notes onto her dresser before turning to face her slave-girl.
“Now you've lost your anal cherry, maybe you'll grow up a bit, girl.”
“Yes, miss,” said Amna, her voice little more than a whisper.
“Now, take off your dress and let me have a look at your bottom.”
Rebecca sat on the end of her bed and patted her knees. Amna stripped off her dress and then lay across her mistress's lap.
“You naughty girl. I see Stephen had to paddle you.”
“Yes, miss. But I didn't do anything wrong, miss,” said Amna.
A moment later, Amna felt her bum cheeks drawn apart. Then her mistress's hand spread her anus.
“It still looks the same. No-one will know just by looking that you're not still an anal virgin, Amna.”
“No, miss,” Amna whispered.
Then Rebecca pushed her middle finger deep into Amna's bum hole. She fingered her slave-girl's bottom for a long minute before taking it out. She wiped her finger clean on Amna's bum cheek before popping it into Amna's mouth for her to suck.
“Still nice and tight. That's good. Now, go and see Cook and ask her to give you an enema,” Rebecca told her slave-girl.
Amna was shocked. “Why, miss?” she blurted out.
“You're always asking questions, aren't you? You can't accept that I've got your best interests at heart. Obviously, an enema will clean your bottom out and freshen you up.”
“Yes, miss,” said Amna. Thinking she was dismissed, she tried to push herself up from her mistress's lap. But Rebecca pressed down on the small of Amna's back.
“I haven't finished with you yet,” Rebecca said. She stretched over and picked up the little paddle from the top of her dresser. “You need to stop querying me and accept that I know what's best for you. And that includes giving you a spanking when you need one.”
Rebecca lifted her arm. SLAP! The little paddle smacked down onto Amna's bottom, directly over where Stephen had hit her with his paddle earlier. Amna cried out and jerked forwards. Rebecca pressed down on Amna's back, holding her slave-girl in place.
SLAP! SMACK! SLAP! Many more blows crashed down onto Amna's reddened and bruised bottom. Her flesh rippled under the force of her mistress's blows. Amna burst into tears and her legs flailed uselessly in the air as she endured her punishment.
Eventually, Rebecca finished. She dropped her little paddle.
“You can get up now, girl,” Rebecca said.
“Yes, miss. Thank you, miss,” sobbed Amna. She stood and curtseyed to her mistress. She rubbed her bottom, trying to massage away some of the pain.
“Now, hurry down and see Cook and ask for that enema. You've still got time before getting me dressed for dinner.”
Amna slipped on her dress then made her way downstairs to the kitchen. Did she think her mistress had Amna's best interests at heart? No. It seemed to the slave-girl that Rebecca enjoyed torturing and humiliating her.
Amna let herself into the kitchen. It had a warm scent of baking. A pan of stewed fruit was bubbling away on the range oven. Cook was talking to one of Senhor Baxter's visiting slave-girls; a young woman called Beth who was about thirty years of age with a full figure and dark hair and eyes. Amna knew Beth was a good friend of Cook's. Amna waited until the two women stopped talking.
“Don't just stand there. Come in. What do you want to eat?” asked Cook. She had a smile on her face. However, she saw by Amna's face that the young woman was deeply upset. Cook drew Amna towards them and gave her a hug. Beth fetched a glass of water.
“Excuse me, Cook. Miss Rebecca says you're to give me an enema.” As Amna explained what had happened to her earlier both Cook and Beth looked saddened and horrified. Both women held the sobbing slave-girl, trying to comfort her.
"The first time should always be special, even for us slave-girls. Not like that," Beth said to Cook.
Eventually, when Amna's shoulders stopped shaking with the force of her cries, Cook turned to Beth.
“I'm rather busy at the moment, Beth. Would you do me a favour and give Amna her enema?”
Beth took Amna by the hand and led her over to a store room off the kitchen to give her a little privacy. A table stood in the middle of the room. Beth cleared off some pots and pans which cluttered its surface. She helped Amna up onto the table.
“Slip your dress off and lie down on your left hand side,” said Beth. As Amna did so, Beth returned to the kitchen. Amna heard muffled conversation and the kettle boiling. A few minutes later both Amna and Cook entered the store room. They sucked in their breath when they saw the state of Amna's paddled posterior.
Beth then stood on a chair and hung a bag of warm water from a hook on the ceiling beam. She then climbed down. Cook passed her a tube which Beth lubricated.
“Are you ready, Amna?” asked Beth.
Amna nodded. Beth lifted and spread Amna's bottom. She looked at Amna's anus. Then once again, Amna's poor, sore bottom was penetrated this time with the tube's nozzle. Amna gasped even though Beth was as gentle as possible.
Warm soapy water flowed up into her rectum. Beth massaged Amna's stomach as the water flooded her guts. Amna gasped at the huge violation and the unfamiliar sensation filling her up. Gradually, over several stages, Amna let the enema's bag empty into Amna. The poor slave-girl watched as her stomach swelled.
Beth pulled out the nozzle. Then Cook pushed a butt-plug into Amna's anus. Amna cried out with the pain of it.
“That will hold the enema in and give it time to work properly,” Cook told her.
Amna nodded. She was distressed and unhappy but she knew that both Cook and Beth genuinely had her best interests at heart. Unlike her mistress who seemed to be only interested in hurting and humiliating her.
Amna lay on the table for several minutes. The overfull feeling in her guts got worse and worse.
“Can I get up now?” she asked.
“Give it a few more minutes,” Beth advised her. Amna rocked from side to side. More and more desperate now.
Eventually, both Cook and Beth helped Amna down. She glanced for permission and then, still naked, she made her way as quickly as possible through the kitchen and to the slaves' outhouse. There was no way the girl could run with the amount of dirty water sloshing about her insides. Luci and her friends giggled as Amna passed them, clutching her stomach.
“She's going to fill a toilet-bucket,” sniggered Luci.
And Amna did.
However, the big news throughout the affluent suburb of Kresto Abrikoto was that Senhor Bartro had been elevated by the Presidente of Kupro Marbordo himself to the rank of Sinjoro, or Knight. To celebrate, he was hosting a grand gala in the wide grounds of his mansio. Everyone, free and slave, was invited.
All of Senhor daCastro's slaves were looking forward to the gala and it was about the only topic of conversation in their kitchen. That evening, Cook lined up all the slaves and checked that they were freshly shaved and clean. Satisfied, she let them take the short walk to Senhor, sorry Sinjoro Bartro's mansio. The slaves chatted happily as they walked.
As they entered the grounds, Amna and Simon were taken to one side and told to sit on a row of benches. Disappointed not to be with their friends Amna and Simon did as told. The benches were by the side of a stage set up in the grounds. On the stage was a screen. They watched the other slaves enjoying themselves in the evening sunshine.
Other slaves were led to the benches. There were about six or seven males and fourteen or fifteen slave-girls. They chatted together, wondering what was happening. The smell of a barbecue wafted over, making them hungry.
Cook crossed over to them. She threw her arms around Amna. “Oh, be brave, girl. You'll get through it.” Amna wondered what Cook meant but she didn't have time to ask what was happening before Cook was called over by Senhora daCastro.
Amna sat next to one of Senhor Baxter's slave-girls, a well-spoken young woman called Pati. She was a tall, athletic woman a few years older than Amna. Like Amna she had honey-blonde hair and grey eyes. They talked as they waited but Pati had no idea what they had been separated from the others for. Pati told Amna that she used to be free. That she'd had a good job working alongside Senhor Baxter at a stockbroker's house. However, she'd got into debt with Senhor Baxter during the chlorates crash and so he'd enslaved her to pay off her debts. Now she worked for Senhor Baxter at his brokers but all her salary and bonuses went to Senhor Baxter instead. It didn't sound fair to Amna.
A gong sounded with a deep boom and the crowd fell silent and gathered around the stage. Then, to cheers and applause, Sinjoro Bartro himself took the stage. He was tall, nearly one point nine metres. Aged about sixty years old with a neat van Dyke beard, yet he had the physique of a much younger man. He was slim and active. He wore a smart grey suit teamed with the gold cravat restricted to those of his rank.
Sinjoro Bartro bowed to the crowd. Then he spoke. And his words filled Amna and the other slaves sitting on the benches with terror.
“Welcome to my gala,” more cheers from the crowd.
“As you know, due to recent financial difficulties throughout Kupro Marbordo, we have more slaves now than we used in Kresto Abrikoto. Therefore, as part of our evening's festivities, many of us owners have decided to combine our slaves' initial beatings and punishment beatings as part of the entertainment.
“Therefore, we have hired a couple of Dom's from the Domo de Korekto to show us amateurs how to administer a proper whipping.”
Several of the slaves jumped up in horror and one girl looked like she was about to run away. But there was nowhere for her to run. Amna and Simon looked at each other. Amna saw her fear reflected in his face.
“Please give a big hand to our Doms,” Sinjoro Bartro continued.
The screen was pulled back revealing a wooden A frame whipping post. Next to it was a rack containing a selection of whips, cat o' nine tails, paddles and canes. In front of the A frame stood the Doms. A huge male Angolan, stripped to the waist. His oiled black skin caught and reflected the evening sun's rays. He flexed his muscles. He was bald, broad chested with well muscled arms. The other Dom was a woman. She wore black leather criss crossing her strong, athletic body. She flicked back her auburn pony tail. They bowed to whistles and cheers of admiration from the audience. The two Doms bowed again.
Amna knew those two Doms from her initial training at the Domo. Knew them and feared them. She tried to catch her mistress's eye but Rebecca was talking to Alicia Bartro at the far side of the crowd. There must be some mistake. Surely her mistress didn't intend to have her flogged in front of everyone, did she? That couldn't happen. Simon put his arm around her. She felt the warmth of his body as he tried to comfort her.
Amna became aware that Sinjoro Bartro was still talking.
“We will call out the slaves for their beatings in random order.” He took a scrap of paper from a hat offered up by one of his slave-girls. He opened the scrap of paper.
“Senhor Baxter's slave, Pati. Pati works under Senhor Baxter at his brokers house. However, despite repeated warnings, she failed to achieve this quarter's bonus. This failure cost Senhor Baxter a lot of money.”
Pati jumped up from the bench and screamed. Two burly male slaves, probably gardeners, took her arms and escorted her up onto the stage. She looked around wildly but there was no help for her.
“Take off your dress, Pati,” ordered Sinjoro Bartro. Pati looked around, her eyes wild with fear. She slipped off her dress. Her nude body looked great in the evening light. The sun shone in her hair, lightening it. Her breasts were large but firm. Her nipples stiffened to attention. Her legs were toned with well defined thighs and calves.
The male Dom led Pati over to the whipping post then trussed her up with her arms above her head and her ankles tied with her legs apart at the base of the A frame. Pati craned her neck, looking around behind her. Her mouth was moving, hoping for mercy even at this stage.
The giant Angolan crossed to the rack and chose a whip. It was a metre and a half long, just one long lash. Amna saw it was flat without any knots. It would cause intense agony and bruising but without cutting her skin or damaging the slave-girl.
Sinjoro Bartro stepped away to give the Dom plenty of room. The Angolan cracked the whip once, twice testing its action. Pati screamed even though the whip had not yet touched her. There was some harsh laughter from the watchers below.
Then CRACK! The whip slashed across poor Pati's back. A red welt crossed her shoulders. Pati screamed out. Far louder than before. Amna watched in horror as CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The whip smashed into the girl's back. Pati's neck stretched, her tendons taut as she screamed her agony to the skies. More red welts crossed her back. CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! The lash worked down Pati's back and then slashed into her buttocks. Pati shrieked again and again.
Amna buried her face against Simon's strong chest. She closed her eyes. How could owners be so cruel to their slaves? It wasn't right. But she still heard the crack of the whip followed by Pati's screams as the flogging continued.
And fear filled her mind. At some point she would be stripped and flogged in front of everyone. Unless her mistress was just trying to scare her? The whip-cracks stopped, the screams died away to desperate sobbing.
Amna peeped out from Simon's arms. She watched as Pati was untied and two male slaves half-supported, half-dragged the poor woman from the stage. There was applause for the Dom's skills.
“There's a girl who will do anything to earn next quarter's bonus for Senhor Baxter,” laughed Sinjoro Bartro. He took another slip of paper from the hat.
“Senhor Virgil Jago's slave, Jonno. Up you come,” Sinjoro Bartro called.
A young man stepped up onto the stage. He looked around defiantly then took off his t-shirt and slid down his shorts. He walked to the A frame and assumed the position. The female Dom tied him to the posts.
Sinjoro Bartro explained that he was being punished for rudeness.
The female pulled a paddle from out of the rack. It was at least ninety centimetres long. She swished it through the air. Amna couldn't bear to watch. Again she buried herself against Simon's body. She felt his heart beating in his chest.
She heard the crack as the paddle crashed against the young man's bottom. A few more cracks followed without a sound from Jonno. But all too soon he was crying out and howling as the female Dom expertly beat his bottom until it was a mass of purple-edged red bruises.
Amna sensed someone standing next to her. She looked up just as Jonno was being untied and led away to cheers of support from his friends. Amna looked up into Senhor daCastro's eyes. He placed his hand on her shoulders.
“I thought I'd see how you were bearing up,” he said.
Amna looked at him, her eyes betraying her fear, her body trembling and shaking.
She licked her dry lips. “Please, Konsilanto, please no,” she moaned. “Please ask Senhorita Rebecca.”
Senhor daCastro glanced away. “It's her decision, Amna. I thought I'd check up on you. But try to remember it's for your own good. After an initial beating a slave is usually so desperate to avoid any further beatings that their owner doesn't have to beat them as often.”
“I'm a good girl, please don't do this,” she begged.
He repeated that phrase Amna so hated. “It's for your own good.” Senhor daCastro patted her shoulder again then rejoined his friends.
Meanwhile, Sinjoro Bartro had pulled another name from his hat. He read out that she was due for her initial beating. A slave-girl Amna didn't know was shackled to the A frame. The girl looked oriental, maybe a Filipinho. She forced herself to watch as the big Angolan took a birch from the rack then proceeded to thrash the poor girl's buttocks mercilessly. The girl screamed and writhed as the birch twigs smashed into her bottom leaving scores of thin red lines. It must really hurt the poor girl, Amna thought.
After thirty or more strokes, the girl was released and helped off the stage. Next, an older woman was called up. Like the Filipinho girl, this woman also was up for her initial beating. She was maybe forty years old and was very dark skinned with black, curly hair. When she stripped off her dress, Amna saw that the woman had large breasts, sagging now, and broad hips.
She looked around desperately as the chains were fastened around her wrists and ankles. Amna saw the woman was crying pitifully. The Angolan picked up the large paddle that had battered the young man's arse and swung it through the air. He stepped forward, the dying sunshine of the short tropical evening gleaming redly on his black skin. He patted the woman's wide bottom once with his paddle. She squeaked with anticipation of the pain to come. He patted her a second and third time. She slumped forward, waiting for the crack of the paddle on her bottom.
Then she was released. The woman stood on the stage looking confused.
“That was your initial beating. Just three little taps. What a kind mistress you have,” said Sinjoro Bartro with a smile.
The woman shook her head then ran and jumped off the stage. Her breasts and buttocks wobbled as she ran up to her young owner. Amna watched as the woman threw herself to the ground before her mistress and kissed her feet. In between kisses the slave-girl said, “thank you, thank you mistress. You're the best mistress in the world, thank you.”
The crowd laughed, but not unkindly, as the slave-girl abased herself before her mistress.
As the laughter died down, Sinjoro Bartro pulled another name from his hat.
“Senhorita Rebecca daCastro's slave-girl, Amna. Up for her initial beating.”
Amna couldn't take it in. “No, no, no,” she moaned. “Be brave,” Simon whispered squeezing her arm. Simon gave her a last cuddle as the two male slaves came for her and led her up the steps onto the stage.
“Be brave,” Simon called out again.
Amna looked about in terror, everyone was gazing up at her. Slowly, she slipped off her dress, dropping it to the wooden floor. Her naked body was exposed to everyone's view. She tried to hide her breasts and sex but Sinjoro Bartro grabbed her wrist and led her to the front of the stage. Amna was so embarrassed.
“Open your legs and let everyone see your piercings, girl,” he told Amna.
Slowly, reluctantly, she did so. The metalwork reflected red in the last rays of the evening sun. There were a few catcalls from the audience. “The slutty little slave-girl's been locked,” she heard followed by laughter.
“Senhorita Rebecca tells me that Amna is mostly a good girl. However, she can be disobedient. For example she masturbates without permission.”
There was more laughter. Amna blushed and cried. How could her mistress tell the whole of Kresto Abrikoto’s society about that? She searched the audience for her mistress, desperately trying to appeal to the young woman's better nature. Amna saw her chatting to Senhor Baxter over by the barbecue. But Rebecca wasn't looking her way.
Amna felt herself being led over to the A frame. She tried to struggle but the Dom was far too strong. The big Angolan wrenched her arms above her head and manacled them to the point of the A. Her legs were spread and then her ankles were shackled to the base of the A frame. Amna's belly and stomach pressed against the crossbars. Her back and bottom were completely exposed and defenceless.
Amna twisted her neck around trying to see what was happening behind her. To her horror she saw the female Dom choose a cat o'nine tails from the rack. She drew the whip through her hands, separating the thongs. Then the woman swished the cat through the air. It made a hissing sound through the air. The crowd fell silent.
Amna's mind chased itself in circles. Fear and terror mixed with hope. Terror at the prospect of being flogged; hoping that her mistress wanted only to frighten her as had happened with the older woman earlier. Surely Rebecca, her ex-classmate, wouldn't have her flogged in front of everyone?
The Dom stepped forward.
“Eyes front,” the woman snapped.
Then Amna felt the cat o' nine tail's lashes across her back as the Dom gently draped the lash over her. Her muscles tensed and flinched as the tails touched and tickled her skin. Then the lash was taken away. There was a pause. The watchers fell silent. The hush was broken only by frogs croaking in the undergrowth.
Then CRACK! Amna's body exploded with pure pain. The cat lashed down across her shoulders. Amna shrieked. The pain shot through her body and her brain flamed with red agony. CRACK! Another blow lashed down. Slightly lower but overlapping with the first blow. The pain was magnified far more than before. Amna howled with agony. She screamed. The pain was intense, far more than she could bear.
CRACK! CRACK! Two blows slashed down across her back. Amna shrieked and shrieked again. Desperately, she tried to pull her wrists out of the manacles but there was no way she could free herself. She wriggled and twisted. CRACK! The cat's nine lashes smashed into her poor helpless body. Amna tilted back her neck and screamed up into the darkening sky.
There was no mercy for Amna. CRACK! SLASH! CRACK! More agonising blows beat down across her back. Amna screamed again and again. All she was now was a mass of red raw agony. The Dom drew the cat o' nine tails down Amna's back, tormenting her beaten flesh.
Through her agony, Amna heard laughter. She cried, her tears pouring down her cheeks. Then her mind broke apart in waves of absolute tortured agony. CRACK! SMACK! CRACK! SMASH! The lash flogged down onto her back. There was no way she could take any more of this torment.
“No! Please! No!” she cried out. Her neck strained to its fullest extent as she screamed the words out. But there was no mercy for Amna. Not tonight. SLASH! CRACK! THUD! The Dom smashed the cat o’ nine tails into Amna’s buttocks. Her bottom reddened, her muscles tensed then let go. Amna tried to press herself into the hard, unyielding frame of the whipping post but there was nowhere for her to go. Several more blows smacked into her bottom. Pain on pain; agony on agony; torment on torment.
The hurt was too intense for the poor, beaten slave-girl. Her bladder let go, her urine trickled out from between those hateful padlocks, down her thigh and puddled onto the stage. Even in her injured world of unremitting pain, Amna heard more laughter and catcalls.
She gave up and hung limp in her chains. Dimly she was aware she wasn’t being beaten any more. She sensed that the Dom had stepped back, away from her. She was grateful for that. Then a sudden cold shock. Amna felt a bucket of icy cold water thrown over her. The shock of the cold water jolted her awake. For a brief moment, the pain of her flogging vanished. She struggled to stand up. Maybe it was over? Maybe they’d finished flogging her? A second bucket was thrown over her. The water not so much of a surprise this time. Her piss sluiced away from beneath her.
She sobbed as she heard a word spoken behind her.
“Continue, please,” said Sinjoro Bartro. Amna heard a click as from heels as the Dom stepped forward.
“No! No!” Amna screamed. But there was no mercy.
SMACK! CRASH! SLASH! CRACK! More blows rained down across her naked buttocks. After her brief respite the pain was unendurable as the cat flogged her buttocks red raw, each strand of the lash its own individual torment merged into one. She screamed and screamed. There couldn’t be so much pain in the whole world. But there was and it was all concentrated on her body.
SLASH! LASH! SMACK! LASH! More blows. Gradually, Amna’s shrieks and screams died down until she did little more than whimper and moan under the repeated blows. Again, her legs lost strength and gave way and she hung in her chains. The only movement was from the lash brutally flogging her naked, defenceless back and buttocks. Amna’s head slumped forward and she only dimly felt the blows.
One last CRACK! and then no more. Her wrists took the weight of her body as she hung there. Her mind couldn’t take any more. Had it finished? She didn’t know. She was beyond pain. The two male slaves unchained her. She collapsed in a heap in the puddle at the foot of the A frame whipping post. There was no way Amna could move. The two men lifted her up and carried her off the stage, then round the back of Sinjoro Bartro’s mansio and into a marquee gently lit by shaded lamps. They laid her face down on an army camp bed.
One of Senhor Baxter’s slave-girls, the brown-eyed brunette woman Amna knew as Beth, hurried up. Beth gasped with horror when she saw the state of Amna’s back and bottom. She held a beaker to Amna’s lips.
“Drink this,” Beth said. Beth supported Amna’s head as she drank. It must have contained a sedative as the pain ebbed away.
Beth knelt by Amna’s side and rubbed a soothing balm into her skin. As the slave-girl massaged in the ointment, she made soothing ‘shushing’ sounds. The sedative and Beth’s gentle touch helped calm Amna. Despite what had happened to her, her mind closed down and she slept.
The following day, a mule cart arrived to carry away those slaves unable to walk home. Amna was loaded on but as the cart bounced over the uneven, pot-holed road, Amna’s agony re-awoke. The pain went deep into her muscles. Beth and a couple of other slave-girls did what they could to smooth the journey for the damaged slaves on the cart.
Amna was helped off the cart, and then was half carried, half walked to Senhor daCastro’s female dormitory. She lay face down on her own familiar bed. She heard Beth speak to Cook then she was left in peace. She closed her eyes and let the pain throb through her battered and bruised body.
Cook rubbed more balm into Amna’s back which helped ease the pain.
“You poor girl. You poor, poor girl,” Cook said.
During the day, duties permitting, the other slave-girls called in on Amna. All looked shocked and several, surprisingly including Luci, cried. Towards the evening, Simon visited Amna. Males weren't usually allowed into the female dormitory but on this occasion he was escorted by Cook. Gently, he drew Amna’s hair away from her face and kissed her. Through her tears, Amna smiled up at him. Simon tried to speak. He was overcome with emotion. His mouth worked but nothing came out. The young man turned and ran from the dormitory.
Amna turned her head and licked her lips. “Has mistress been to see me?” she asked.
“Not yet,” Cook glanced around, wondering if she should say more. “I think she’s ashamed by what she’s had done,” Cook whispered.
That night, the other slave-girls were unusually quiet when they went to bed. All looked at Amna’s bruised back.
“It’s not right,” whispered Luci to some of the others. “Amna’s always been a good girl and no way did she deserve to be beaten like that. Miss Rebecca’s really cruel to do that.”
Some of the other girls shushed her. “You’ll get us all in trouble,” said one.
* * *
The following day, Amna was able to sit up but her back and bottom still hurt. Her bruises were purpling now and looked worse now than just after she was beaten. Her mistress, Senhorita Rebecca came down to the dormitory with her mother.
“Lie down, Amna,” Rebecca commanded.
Rebecca drew down the sheet, exposing Amna’s body to view.
“I didn’t think the Dom would beat her so hard. She’s going to be useless for ages,” moaned Rebecca.
“Well, you should have known when you ordered that initial beating with the cat, dear,” said Senhora daCastro.
“Didn’t think it would be that bad. Can I borrow Luci until Amna recovers?”
“Of course, dear,” said her mother.
Senhora daCastro patted Amna’s shoulder making the slave-girl flinch.
“I know it hurts now. But if you think about it, it’s for your own good. You’ll be a good girl now and do anything to avoid another beating like that, won’t you?”
Amna nodded, dully. She couldn’t believe that being flogged senseless would do her good.
“There’s a good girl. As soon as you’re up and about, you can carry on serving your mistress. I know Miss Rebecca’s looking forward to having you up and about.”
The two women left. Amna lay back. She cried. Tears of fear, frustration and pain. How could anyone do this to another human being – and then have the nerve to tell them it was for their own good?
Cook came in shortly after. The older woman rubbed in more balm which eased the physical pain but nothing she could say helped Amna’s mental conflict.
Until one afternoon when Cook and her friend Beth were in the female dormitory. Cook was checking the room making sure that the slave-girls were keeping it clean and tidy. Meanwhile, Beth was rubbing salve into Amna's back. Amna lay there. She felt so unhappy she wished she was dead. So she just lay there, pretending to be asleep. She must have fooled Beth though.
"I know I can say this to you, Beth. But don't you dare say this to anyone else," Amna heard Cook say from across the room.
Beth looked up from spreading on ointment.
"What's that?" Beth asked, a note of concern in her voice. "It's not about this poor girl, is it?"
"No. Not as such," admitted Cook. "You're lucky, Beth, as you have a good master. One who lets his girls have a fair amount of freedom and doesn't beat you too often."
Beth didn't say anything. She remembered how Senhor Baxter had had his slave-girl, Pati, flogged for failing to earn him last quarter's bonus. Like Amna, poor Pati was still off work. Which made it more likely she'd miss next quarter's bonus, too, unless she was lucky. And Beth shuddered to think what that could mean for Pati.
"I shouldn't tell you this, you being a slave and all but there's been some more runaways recently," Cook continued.
"Really?" asked Beth.
Amna lay still and pretended that she was still fast asleep. But the young woman was hanging on every word.
"Sadly so. One of the Jago's gardeners has gone missing as has Doctor dos Rezta's assistant. And they found a stash of food hidden under the Granero's verandah. I think those public floggings at Sinjoro Bartro's was too much for some of the slaves."
"I wouldn't try to run away myself," said Beth, "but where do these runaways hope to get to?"
Cook clucked. "Don't be silly, Beth. Haveno Ananaso's a port city isn't it? All they have do to is sneak on board a ship out of here, preferably one for the United Zones, and they'll be free as soon as the ship clears territorial waters. Most foreign captains are very sympathetic to runaway slaves."
"But how do they get on board? Whenever I've walked past the docks they're all walled or fenced off," Beth asked.
Cook laughed. "You don't know much, Beth. There's gates to let goods in and out. If you watch closely, I'm sure you'd find one that wasn't too well guarded and you could slip past the sentry in the dark."
"It's very dangerous though," said Beth. "If they get caught, a severe flogging's the least they can expect." She lowered her voice. "I heard of one owner who chained up their slave in the dark for months on end after they ran away. And a girl who got the cane every day for six months." Beth winced at the thought.
"Well, some poor slaves think it's worth taking those risks for freedom," said Cook. "I hope you don't, Beth, as I'd miss you."
"Don't worry about me, Cook. I'm not going anywhere. But sadly I suppose some poor slave-girls might be tempted," said Beth. "But they'd need to be well prepared."
But Amna started to wonder about the possibilities of escape. Later, she wondered if Cook and Beth were aware that she wasn't asleep. That she was listening to their conversation.
However, a few days later Amna was up and about. Her bruises looked terrible but she was able to walk. It hurt but the pain was bearable. With a wince, Amna slipped on her dress and carried her mistress’s breakfast tray up to her room. She knocked on the door and waited for permission to enter. Rebecca looked up from her bed.
“Oh, Amna, I’m so glad you’ve recovered. That lazy Luci is nowhere near as good as you. It’s great you’re back. You can lay out my breakfast now and then lay out my clothes.”
Amna did as ordered. She tried to anticipate her mistress’s wishes, desperate to draw as little attention to herself as possible.
Rebecca swung her legs out of bed then yawned and stretched. She stood up.
“Take your dress off, Amna,” she ordered.
A shudder of horror racked Amna’s body. No. She hadn’t done anything wrong; she couldn’t face another beating. But her hands went to her throat and with twinges of pain she slipped out of her dress.
“It’s all right, you silly girl,” Rebecca said with a little laugh. “I only want to have a look.”
Rebecca ran her hands over Amna’s back, feeling all her bruises and contusions. Rebecca’s hands moved lower, onto Amna’s hips and buttocks. Rebecca spread Amna’s bottom cheeks and checked her anus. The area up there had escaped the lash’s thongs. Rebecca turned her slave-girl around and inspected her genitals and piercings. The Dom had flogged Amna expertly and the girl’s genitals were also smooth and unmarked. Rebecca checked the three padlocks.
“Would you like to masturbate?” asked Rebecca. “It’s been a while...”
But Amna shook her head. “No thank you, miss. I don’t feel like it now.”
“That’s all right, Amna. I won’t make you.”
“Thank you, miss.”
That night, when all the other slave-girls in the dormitory were asleep, Amna stood up. Quietly, so as not to disturb the others, Amna let herself out of the room. She found Cook’s key ring hanging from its hook. She gripped the keys to stop their jangling. She tiptoed across the kitchen and unlocked the larder. Looking for food that wouldn’t be missed, she chose a piece of hard cheese, some apples, a cup of oats.
Unlocking the kitchen door, Amna stepped out into the night garden. A bat flitted past, startling her. She almost dropped her stolen food. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible, she sneaked down the paths to the far end of the garden. There was a derelict potting shed against the far wall. She hid her food under a sack on one of the sagging shelves. Then she hurried back to the daCastro’s house; relocked the kitchen door, hung up the key ring and returned to her bed.
Over the next week or more, Amna’s body gradually recovered. But her mind was slower to regain its former strength. But almost every night, whenever she was sure the other girls were all asleep, she stole more food and squirrelled it away in the abandoned potting shed.
* * *
One evening, Rebecca’s friend, Alicia Bartro, visited bringing her slave-girl, Kyli, with her. The two friends settled down to their homework. They sat side by side on the couch as they compared notes. Not so long ago, Amna would have been studying the same texts but now she was just a slave-girl with no need for any further education. She stood next to Kyli against the wall. Both girls kept still not wishing to distract their owners.
Alicia wriggled on the couch. “I just can’t get comfortable,” she complained. She stretched out her legs. “Kyli, be my footstool.”
Instantly, it being a position Kyli had taken many times, the blonde slave-girl stripped off her dress then knelt in front of her mistress. With a sigh of relief, Alicia rested her feet on Kyli’s back.
“That’s much better,” she said.
Rebecca looked at her slave-girl standing by the wall with her head bowed. She clicked her fingers.
“Footstool,” she said.
Poor Amna also stripped off her slave dress then knelt before her mistress so that Rebecca could put her feet up on her back. The pressure of her mistress's feet awoke the pain in her still bruised back. It hurt.
Kyli was kneeling behind her. Crouched as she was before her mistress, Amna became aware of Kyli’s hot breath upon her bare legs and genitals. Amna squirmed, trying to wiggle her bottom out of the way. Instantly, Rebecca tapped her head with the paddle.
“Keep still, girl,” she snapped.
“Yes, miss,” the only response Amna could make.
Alicia Bartro lowered her eyes to Amna’s fully exposed sex.
“I think your Amna’s getting all hot and sexy down there,” she laughed.
Rebecca put down her text book. She twisted her body and also inspected Amna’s genitals. The two slave owners whispered together then giggled. Rebecca swung her legs down from Amna’s back then click, click, click. Amna felt hands touching her sensitive labia. She trembled but tried to keep still. Her padlocks opened and were taken away.
Then Alicia spoke. “Kyli, you naughty girl. You’ve got Amna all hot and bothered. Eat Amna’s pussy out.”
“Yes, miss; thank you, miss,” murmured the blonde slave-girl. Kyli shuffled forward a few centimetres then stretched her neck.
Amna gasped as she felt Kyli’s tongue lick her labia. Kyli's well trained tongue licked and lapped, working deeper and deeper then in between her slit. She felt Kyli lick and probe her vagina, the slave-girl's tongue pushing deeper into her love tunnel. Amna gasped.
“Kyli's very good,” Amna heard Alicia comment.
That wicked tongue worked deeper and deeper. Amna felt her love juices flowing, making it easier for Kyli's tongue to do its work. The other girl broke away and gently kissed all six of Amna’s locking rings piercing her labia. The friction as they rubbed her tender flesh felt so sexy in a way.
Kyli's tongue worked its way further down, lapped over Amna's tiny urethra then still further down reaching Amna's clitoris. Kyli's tongue circled Amna's most sensitive nubbin. Amna felt it swell, engorge.
She gasped out and wriggled her bottom, presenting it more fully to Kyli's probing tongue. She didn’t want to, she felt embarrassed but her needs overrode her shame. She pushed her bottom further back making it easier for Kyli’s tongue to reach all her sensitive intimate folds.
The two slave owners giggled, watching Amna respond to Kyli.
Kyli worked her tongue all around Amna’s clitoris. She licked and sucked the little fleshy button. Amna couldn’t take much more. Then Kyli gently nibbled it. The blend of pleasure and pain was too much to take. Amna came, her love juices overflowing. Kyli licked them up, making furtive slurping sounds as she did so.
Amna cried out with ecstasy. She hadn’t masturbated for weeks and the sensation flooded all her senses. She reached an arm beneath her body, between her legs and fingered her own clit in awe.
The two mistresses laughed and laughed.
“Underneath her prim, immature surface, that’s one dirty little bitch you’ve got there,” Alicia laughed. “With a bit of training she’ll be as good as Kyli!”
“We’ll see,” said Rebecca. “Let’s swap places.”
The two young women stood and changed places on the couch. “You two girls swap as well.” Hurriedly the two nude slave-girls got to their feet, curtseyed before their owners and then knelt before them again. Now Amna had Kyli’s thighs and bottom almost in her face. She glanced up and looked at Kyli’s swollen, damp passion lips. Like herself, Kyli had been unlocked but those six stainless steel rings still pierced the other girl’s labia. Amna knew what would be asked of her.
Except she didn’t.
“Clean out Kyli’s ass hole,” Rebecca ordered. Alicia giggled.
“Miss?” Amna couldn’t believe her ears.
“You heard. Lick her clean.”
Amna shook her head. That was disgusting. “Please no, miss,” she begged.
In response, Rebecca picked up her paddle and tapped Amna’s bent over posterior with it. Her bum was still sore and bruised from her initial beating. Amna squealed.
“If your initial beating wasn’t enough for you, I could beat you again if you want,” said Rebecca.
“No, miss,” cried Amna.
"Obviously that initial beating wasn't enough. It might be worth having her flogged again soon," Rebecca commented to Alicia, who nodded in agreement.
She wriggled forward and stretched her neck. Kindly, Kyli lowered her bottom to make it easier to reach. Kyli stretched her arms behind her and spread her cheeks. Fortunately Kyli’s pink, rosy anus looked clean. Amna put out her tongue then rimmed round the puckered skin of the other girl’s anus. Apart from a slight, musky smell it wasn’t too bad but it was the thought of licking the place Kyli’s shit came out of. It disgusted Amna. However, she had no choice but to continue. Amna’s tongue worked round the wrinkled skin.
“Put your tongue in, girl. As far as it will go. Give Kyli a good tongue washing,” Rebecca demanded. With a little moan Amna pushed her tongue into Kyli’s back passage. After initial resistance Amna’s tongue delved deep. She pushed her tongue in as many centimetres as it would reach.
She willed herself not to gag at the thought of what she was forced to do. Amna worked her tongue in and out. She was desperate not to be beaten again so she concentrated on her task. To make it easier, Amna closed her eyes. Kyli moaned a little groan of pleasure. The other girl’s bottom shook.
“That’s enough,” snapped Rebecca. Gratefully, Amna withdrew her tongue. She wanted to spit but didn’t dare. She nearly retched as she tasted the taint of Kyli’s waste on her tongue.
“You’re right, Alicia. My Amna is a right dirty bitch,” laughed Rebecca. The two girls giggled together for a while then returned to their books. But there was no relief for their slave-girls. They had to keep position as footstools.
Eventually, Alicia Bartro and Kyli returned home. Amna got her mistress ready for bed then curtseyed before returning to the female dormitory. She pinched herself to stay awake. Amna hated what she’d had to do earlier that evening. No way did she want to go through that again. Even worse, as soon as she'd fully recovered from her flogging, she knew Rebecca would have her beaten again and again until she was satisfied.
As soon as the rest of the slave-girls were asleep, Amna sat up. No response from the others. Amna slipped on her dress and sandals. She let herself into the kitchen then stole as much food from the larder as she could carry. She paused in horror as footsteps approached the kitchen door. She froze, her heart-beat sounding as loud as a clock in the still kitchen. The footsteps drew closer and then faded away. Only the daCastro's elderly majordomo doing his last checks before going to bed. Amna wiped a sheen of sweat from her forehead. She had to get out now before her nerve failed her completely. Tiptoeing across the flagged floor Amna unlocked the back door and let herself out into the dark garden.
Keeping to the shadows, Amna crept down the path to the abandoned shed. She stuffed all her pilfered food into a sack. She nearly screamed when she felt a hand on her shoulder. She spun round, her little fist raised in a hopeless gesture of defence. A man’s shape loomed before her in the dark. If it was one of the daCastros there would be no forgiveness for a runaway slave out in their garden at this hour. She’d be flogged and flogged again without mercy. And then close chained for months on end.
“You going over the wall?” a voice said.
Amna’s heartbeat slowed. It was Simon.
She nodded. “I can’t take any more here,” whispered Amna. “I hate them.”
Simon took her in his arms. He held her tight. His body felt warm and strong against hers.
“Where are you going?” he asked quietly.
“I’m going to Haveno Ananaso’s docks and I’ll stow away on board a ship. One going anywhere out of this horrible country.”
“You know what’ll happen if they catch you?”
“Yes,” Amna cried, “but I’ll jump overboard first before they take me back.”
“Good luck, then. You’ll need it,” Simon said. He passed her a thin file.
“I stole this from the workshop. Use it to file off your collar and those nasty padlocks,” he said. Simon kissed Amna, kissed her deeply on her upturned lips.
They broke apart. “Good luck,” he said again. "I know it sounds bad but I hope I don't see you again."
"Don't say that! If I make it to the United Zones, I'll work hard and save up enough money to buy you from the daCastros and then set you free so you can leave this horrible place, too," Amna said. She meant it, too.
Simon made a stirrup with his hands then boosted Amna up to the top of the stone wall. He stooped then threw her food bag over the wall. It made a dull thud as it landed on the other side. Simon blew her a kiss then Amna dropped down into the darkened side street. She picked up her bag then made her way down hill to Haveno Ananaso's docks.
THE END.
If you enjoyed this story and my style of writing, you might enjoy my longer crime novels. Hard-edged, fast paced, violent and sexy featuring Romanian gangster Nico Caramarin.
* 200 Steps Down
* Lookin' For Trouble
Thank you,
Morris Kenyon.
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