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Part 6
I had used my mouth to please men before. I could remember the athlete in Paris and my old coach in
London. The difference then was that I got some modicum of satisfaction from them during the
activity. Moving my head backward and forward, while sucking the rough white skin of Simon’s large
erection, created stirrings in my own loins, as if he or indeed I should be pleasuring myself. There
seemed little chance of that, even had I been able to overcome the humiliation that I felt, as a naked
chained and whipped galley slave. I glanced up at him, my mouth filled with his cock, gagging as it
struck the back of my throat, his rough thrusting motion threatening to choke me. He tensed, moving
uncontrollably as he began to reach climax. I gripped the thick oar, unable to move my chained hands
very far, sitting awkwardly on the bench in an attempt to give my head enough room to move. I could
sense the movement of my breasts in time with the fluid motion as he pushed faster and faster, griping
my bald head as he forced himself to cum. I could sense the stares of the two rowers above and behind
me, watching as I offered my mouth to the overseer.
I gagged as he pulled his member away, gripping it and grunting as he masturbated, the hot liquid
erupting into my face and breasts as he gasped in relief. I closed my eyes, and pulled back, my mouth
numb from the exertion, as I was covered with the spray of his seed. I bowed my head as he continued
to pump the last of it out. I winced as the droplets landed on my head. I turned slowly, gripping the oar
as the liquid slowly dripped from my nipple into the bilge. The desperate nature of my situation hit
home once more. I was but a naked slave, destined to row amidst the stink and filth, while my wrists
and ankles were chained and my mouth was used merely to sate the lusts of the overseers.
“Here, you deserve it,” he said, putting his cock away, back in his trousers.
He threw the hard biscuit that we fed on into my sweating lap. With difficulty, I moved my body and
legs amidst the rattle of heavy chains, so that I might grasp the food.
“That will be the first of many. Do you understand?”
I nodded slowly, tearing away at the food, as crumbs spilled onto the translucent fluid dripping down
me. He moved to the side, lifting a deep steel ladle from the water trough that emerged during each
break and offered it to me. I drank deeply, wanting to use some of the water to wash the filth from my
body, but guessing that the overseer would frown upon such actions.
Instinctively, I tried to move my hands to support the ladle, as the chains rattled and I remembered how
cruelly I had been tethered to the heavy oar. I grimaced. The inability to move freely, to remain bonded
so closely to the oar, with my feet chained above the disgusting bilge, became maddening after a while
and I longed for release, from the wrist chains at least.
***
As the days passed, I learned to become one with the rhythm of the oar and ignore the filth and stench
of the captivity and slavery I was forced to endure. My subconscious mind became fixated on one
single objective, that of removing the vile rusted chains that held me to the oar. Simon had used my
mouth every few shifts for the first four days, even waking me from my fitful slumber across the bench
at night, so much so that I developed a painful swollen sore on one side of my mouth. This, it appeared,
made him choose another – a new prisoner further down the deck, and after the first week of toil, I had
become little more than another galley slave to him. He had used the whip cruelly and often, as he
correctly interpreted that I was pulling too fast for the rhythm in an attempt to impress him.
I welcomed the rest periods now as relief from the work, as drenched in sweat I fell across the oar. The
days of constant toil, with the wrist chains continuing their tortuous brush against my tagged nipple,
had desperately inflamed the area and despite the generous coverage of congealed sweat and dirt, I
could see that my breast was sore and reddened. Indeed, the pain with each pull grew every day.
“No. WAIT! NO!”
I turned my head slightly, having been fed during the rest period. The movement caused me a muscular
pain in my back, the result I guessed of being unable to properly stretch or warm down between shifts
of rowing. One of the Europeans, who I had passed so many days ago in the upper tier, was having her
ankle chain pulled through the rings on her fetters, even as Jareth, the cruel overseer who had formerly
been in my area, begin to pull her from the wooden bench. The two women that sat behind me merely
stared downward, both exhausted -locals who were obviously prisoners, probably wondering why
these pale skinned women would ever volunteer for this hell.
“Please…not the horse!”
I gasped, staring back now as they pushed her up the deck, her filthy feet, trying to stop the momentum
of the movement as their strength overwhelmed her meagre resistance. I reasoned that this might have
been the first time she had walked in months. Her auburn red hair was growing back, but like the
others, was matted and dirty. She was tall, lithe and thin, with long legs. Had she been clean and well
dressed, I might have guessed that she was a muscular model, or perhaps a fellow athlete. She was
terrified as she stared at the terrible contraption that lay ahead of her.
I didn’t see the lash snake out until it was too late.
“Eyes FRONT slave!”
The whip curled around my upper body, lashing me cruelly, right across my tagged nipple. I screeched,
writhing terribly, instinctively pulling at my wrist chains in an attempt to touch it, cover it. I cried out
again, staring at my breast. The whip had caught the tag and drawn blood. I fell across the oar in agony.
They yoked her first, placing her wrists and neck in heavy wood which weighed against her collarbone.
Tears had formed in my eyes from the lash, and I cried, as they lifted her, screaming, into place, as they
placed her legs across the apex. It didn’t seem to hurt at first, but the fear in her eyes, as she realised
how it would feel with the passing hours, was reason enough to pity her plight. Sweat and dirt covered
her flesh, further graced by the criss-cross decorations of old and new lash marks across her thighs and
belly and breasts. Her tag jiggled with each movement of her muscled body.
I watched as they tied the thick string of the heavy wooden bucket to her big toes, hearing her grunt as
they let it dangle, as she moved her feet to try and pull at the weight that dragged her down onto the
apex. She said nothing, as if she was resigned to her fate, as if she knew that whatever she did or said
now mattered little and would indeed only make matters worse. She made no sound until they dropped
the first piece of brick into the bucket. She yelped in agony as more and more hunks loose masonry
were dropped from the overseer’s grasp. I blinked as each piece banged in place, seeming to drag her
bodily, forcibly, further against the wooden horse, splitting her pussy wide. By the fifth drop, she
screeched, eyes wide as her long legs quivered with the weight, her shrill cry sounding throughout the
dismal deck.
I looked away, down at my legs and feet, covered in the mire of the galley and my own sweat. They
would keep her there for at least three hours -as she treid to balance as the galley plied relentlessly
through the waves, as the apex bit into her, every minute adding to the pain as her own bodyweight,
albeit reduced by the toil of the oar, weighed her down onto the agony of the horse. I tried not to watch
her, but could only feel sorry for her as we began to row again, as my body creaked into motion, as my
eyes shut with the snap and slash nearby of the whip on some poor woman’s back or legs.
***
One of the local women behind me had collapsed during the shift. This misfortune had however helped
the poor wretch on the horse, who, only halfway through her punishement, had been given a reprieve
and been chained above and behind me. Despite the mistreatment she had suffered, a few lashes across
her back were all it took to have her rowing again, even though I could hear her weeping as she pulled,
undoubtedly due to the ordeal that she had undergone.
Simon had been watching me since I had offered my mouth. The sore on my face, that I could feel with
my tongue seemed to have put him off, though I noted that he seemed to use the lash on me less and
less as the shifts passed. I could see myself that I was fitter than most of the prisoners at least. Indeed,
the only lashes that I had suffered in recent days, were to inform me that I was rowing ‘ahead’ of the
rhythm.
I rowed on, finding the rhythm easy now, stretching my sweating body with the pull, easing into the
lifting of the oar and moving forward, always aware of how close the lash might be. I had learned that
having my rear end hanging over the narrow bench was a godsend, allowing me to urinate or defecate
into the bilge as I rowed, while trying to keep my feet away from the woman doing the same not far in
front of me. There was no way to avoid the spray or solid matter from above in many cases as I knew
that objecting to it would simply earn me bloody stripes across my body, or worse.
Simon watched closely as I eased into the rhythm during the first hour of the next shift, as I tried to
ignore the cries and moans of those who suffered the lash. I shuddered during the pull, as he closed,
unfurling the whip.
“You were an athlete slave?”
“Y..Uhhhh..Yes Overseer,” I grunted, pushing down with the movement of the oar.
“I can see that you were. Your body has accustomed well to the labour. Your problem will be your feet
and hands. They are unused to hard work and will blister in the coming days.”
I nodded, afraid that such an eventuality would earn me the lash.
“Deal with that, and keep them as clean as possible. If you fail because of blistered soles, I’ll have you
stand on the spikes for two shifts.”
He knelt beside me, breathing in the scent of my sweat.
“And if blistered hands mean that you let go of that oar. I’ll see you perched on that horse bitch. You
understand?”
I gasped in terror as he rose, pulling back the whip and slashing it across my belly.
As I screeched, trying to hold the rhythm, he bellowed again.
“I said, understand?”
“Yes…UGHhhhh…Yes Overseer…”
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