Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 1: The Early Years I am a slave. Sex slave, property, serving girl; even bitch, cunt and slut, they're all the same to me. Just labels, to be used, changed or removed as a Master or Mistress deems fit. Sure, some slaves have specialized training or a particular area of expertise, but a slave - any slave - is really whatever his or her Owner decides. A fully trained sex slave might be used as a breeder or a farm hand, and a serving girl could be used as a rape slave. Simply put, it is up to that slave's Master or Mistress. I understand that many females never have the opportunity to experience true slavery, and I do pity them. True slavery is not like playing some bedroom game, where it's over once everyone cums. It's a way of life, a reason for being. My life has always had a purpose, and I have always had a personal goal. That purpose has been to provide service to others, and whether that service is of a sexual nature, or something more mundane like washing dishes, ironing clothes. or taking care of a child. My goal was, is and always has been do to my Owner's bidding perfectly, and with absolute obedience. I can't imagine any other life for myself, and do pity most of the free women I see. A few seem to have direction and purpose in their lives, but most seem lost, with neither to guide them. What I wish most fervently for these women is they somehow, someday, are able to find the total bliss and satisfaction of complete submission to the will of another. I was born a slave girl, and I shall die as one. Now that I have been semi-retired, Master has tasked with recording my recollections of my life over the past 70 years. If my story seems disjointed, I apologize in advance. These are, after all, memories, and tend to come to me in little spurts...more like fragments of faded pictures, than anything else. I also am not an accomplished writer, having not learned any significant literary skills until I was in my fifties. I've learned to write by using those things I've read as examples...primarily history, because it helps me understand the things that were going on in my life. Unless you count cookbooks: "Take one slave girl, spank firmly until bright red..." No, I guess not. I apologize if my humor isn't that funny...I suppose you have to have been there. Oh, well. This is also not meant to be a stroke story, but if you happen to feel the need, please, by all means, go ahead. I receive my greatest satisfaction in knowing I've provided someone with a service. Drop me a note, too, if you have any questions or would like more details about a specific part of my life. On with my story... I was born in a log cabin deep in the Illinois woods...no wait...I think the spirit of Abraham Lincoln is trying to channel through me. Oh... never mind...nearly the whole bottle of wine gone. Sorry about that, but I still don't always know how to handle all this freedom I've been given. I never could handle my alcohol...not that I really had any, until recently. Okay, time to stop being silly. Actually, I was born on a farm on the plains of Kansas, in the early spring of 1921. I don't remember being born, of course, but that's what my papers say. Note that I didn't say "Birth Certificate." Slaves \have Ownership Papers, not Birth Certificates.. My first actual memories are of a place called "the kennel." It was where we slave girls lived, where we stayed when we weren't be used for some purpose or other. The number of slave girls varied throughout the years, but the one constant was Mother. Sisters came and went. She was actually my real mother, but the other girls may or may not have been sisters in the biological sense. It was just a simple was of referring to us. Father's main income, besides the crops he sold, were from buying and selling slaves. Mostly female, but I remember that he kept a few males out in the barn, either for heavy labor or stud service. Those of us who were Mother's actual birth children were most fortunate, as there seemed an unwritten rule that we'd not be sold until we at least reached puberty, and then usually only to private parties, not slave brothels and the like. I remember seeing some of my sisters (not the biological ones) being dragged off to serve as rape slaves or as breeding stock. Although the four of us shared the same womb, the it was very obvious that the sperm which created us came from different men. We looked very little alike - there was blonde with bright green eyes and a pale complexion; a large-titted redhead with freckles; one who's sperm obviously came from a Negro, who the nighttime whispering said was the result of being given the use of Mother as a reward; and then there was0 me. She never talked about any of it. I suppose I wasn't much to look at then, but I did eventually grow up. Brown hair and eyes, sort of a medium complexion that tanned well but seldom burned. At my physical best, which was probably in my late teens, I was 5'8" tall and a fairly muscular (mostly in my thighs) 130 pounds, with measurements of 36C-24-32. With a little help from a corset, my waist could be further reduced another few inches, but it was impossible for me to stay like that for more than an hour or so before I passed out. I had large, erect nipples as a young woman, and my areolae are still dark brown circles. Of course, age and gravity have taken their toll, and things aren't nearly as perky as they were when I was a teen. I actually weigh a tad less now than I did then, though, probably owing to heredity. I seem to take after Mother, and she was a slender bit of a thing. For those who might be interested, my body does bear a number of marks and modifications. My registration number - from back in the days before microchip implants - is still clearly readable on the top of my left foot, just above the toes. It's a good thing I can't remember getting it, because a branding iron was used. Back in those days, people didn't care about a slave's comfort, or even her health, like they do today. It took them a while to figure out that an abused slave girl was likely to be good for nothing but more abuse, and that's a waste of money. Our Owners invest a lot into their slaves. Even when I was born, good breeding stock sold for thousands of dollars, and even a worn-out old street whore is worth a few hundred. Like all slaves of my era, I have no pubic hair. I remember it having removed, very painfully, with electrical current. As each hair sprouted, the follicle was individually killed. I understand that this practice has changed, and that slaves are now put under anesthesia and denuded by less a painful and more modern form of electrolysis. I've recently seen some slave girls sporting full bushes and hairy legs. I asked about it, and was told that this is a growing trend among some slave owners. Yuck! I can't imagine what it must feel like, or how difficult it must be to keep clean. I wonder if the semen even dribbles down their thighs after they're raped, with all that hair in the way? That was always one of my favorite sensations, and just the thought of it is getting me all wet. But...who wants to hear a 70-plus year old talk about her wrinkled pussy? I'll bet half of you just stopped reading to go wretch. Let's see...oh, yeah...I no longer have any nipple rings, though I did when I was in my 30's. I actually got labia rings ten years earlier, but I'll get to that story in a bit. Same thing with a nose ring. My septum is still pierced - as a matter of fact, it has a stainless steel grommet in it - but the nose ring is long gone. They used to be pretty popular, but fads do change. Thankfully. Scars, marks, tattoos? Which ones do you want to hear about? The whip scars on my back? The suture marks where one of my labium had to be surgically reattached after a particularly brutal punishment session? Or maybe the series of brands and tattoos on my right thigh, symbolizing all my changes of ownership? One thing I'm thankful for is that I was never made permanently bald. Sure, my head was shaved at times, but I knew so many slaves who permanently lost their beautiful tresses. I know pride isn't a trait a slave is not supposed to have, but I've always been proud of my hair, particularly when I was younger. Now, of course, the silky brown locks have turned a wispy white and I keep it cut in a short, style more appropriate for a mature female. I mean, can you just imagine a wrinkled old grandmother with a bald head, pony tail, braids, or even spiked hair? I'm just thankful I have a choice. You know, that has been the hardest thing about this retirement stuff. Having choices, that is. For the first time in my life, I have the freedom to pretty much do as I want. Sure, I still have to work, if you call it that. I'm used as a counselor of sorts at one of the slave training facilities. I reassure new slaves and give them advice when they need it...and sometimes a soft shoulder to cry on. This is particularly true of girls who are freepersons one day, looking forward to their futures one day, and for whatever reasons, finding themselves nothing but owned slave meat the next. Even some of the voluntary submissions have troubles adjusting, so that's where I come in. Even the Owners (they're not all males like when I was younger; ladies own slaves, too), Trainers and Masters come to me with questions and concerns about how to deal with a recalcitrant slave, or what specialized training one might do best at. I seem to have a knack for spotting diamonds among the coal, and quickly identifying flaws in the match between trainer and student. Some new slaves need a heavy hand, and only respond to the whip. Fear of pain seems to be their motivation. Some have fear of humiliation, the threat of that also works. Of course, many actually crave humiliation, and so they intentionally disobey just so they can get what they want. These girls are pretty easy to identify, and changing the humiliation from a punishment to a reward for obedience and appropriate behavior usually works with them. These girls seem to mostly be voluntary submissions, not involuntaries or natural slaves. Others, particularly the involuntaries, need reassurance to overcome their natural fear of their new lives. They are scared...terrified...of what the future holds for them, and it's up to me to explain it to them, to calm their fears, to help them understand that they no longer have any control over their lives or their bodies. Whatever she did when she was free is irrelevant. The former business executive might become a farm hand, and the auto mechanic a sex slave. It's up to her Owner, not her. It doesn't matter whether she's afraid of dogs or not, if her Master decides to breed her with a Doberman, it will happen with or without her willing cooperation. Failing to obey will only result in further punishment. I've learned to see who needs what, and both Master and slave usually take what I have to say to heart. Having all this freedom is strange for me. I can sleep whenever I get tired, and do so in a bed that I don't share with anyone, with my own pillows and clean linen; I generally wake up when I feel like it; eat whatever I want, whenever I want, and where I want, not just leftover scraps tossed my way, or whatever someone decides to put in my dish on the floor. I don't have to ask anyone's permission to us the toilet. I can even have orgasms whenever I feel the urge. I do have to admit, though, that I am still unable to cum without hearing (or at least pretending to hear) someone commanding me to. I guess it's sort of a Pavlovian reflex, after all the years of having my sexuality controlled that way. Yeah, I know...the mental image of a 72-year-old splayed out naked, playing with herself isn't exactly an arousing thought for most of you. Sorry if I scared you off. I promise you, I am wearing clothes as I write this. Unless you'd rather envision me without anything on...like I said earlier, whatever gives you enjoyment. But, maybe it's time to get back to "the olden days." Like I said my first memories are of "the kennel." It wasn't very big, only about eight feet on each side. The floor, walls and ceiling were all constructed of concrete, but there were small, glass-covered viewing ports in all the walls. The ceiling was only 24" high, so we entered and exited by crawling on our hands and knees through a tiny hatch in one wall, locked from the outside. It wasn't really even a hatch, just a hole in the wall that was covered with a heavy wooden panel that slid into place and was locked from the There was no ventilation, and the stench was often overpowering. The only time the kennel had fresh air was when the hatch was opened to let us in or our, and once a month on sanitation day. One of the many rules governing our lives was that we had to crawl in head-first, and crawl out feet-first. In other words the last thing in and the first thing out was our asses. I guess that was so the Men could have greater access to our bodies. I only know that I often had a hand slap my ass or shoved roughly between my legs as I was entering or leaving the kennel. In later years, I'd sometimes be stopped halfway through, my upper torso inside the kennel, as I was taken roughly from behind. The cement floor was covered with a thick layer of straw. In the winter, we were each usually given a single wool horse blanket for warmth (they really had been the horses' blankets too...they got new ones every year, and we got their hand-me-downs). Several years, though, we had too few blankets and had to share. Mother, because of her status, had a nice tick mattress of her own, and as many blankets as she wanted. Slave or not, she had a mother's instincts, though, and often went without so the younger or pregnant girls could stay warm. Mother wasn't born a slave, but submitted herself to Father after they were married. I know this because of her registration number is listed on my registration papers, which also show that she voluntarily submitted herself into slavery. She never explained why, but I overheard the men saying she just got tired of making decisions one day, and signed the papers. Their divorce was automatic, because on that day she became his property, and was no longer his wife. Because I was born after my mother became a slave, I wad a slave. But, I'm getting off-track again. The side walls of the kennel had holes through which chains were fed. Whenever we were inside the kennel, we were required to take pull a length of chain from the wall and feed it through our collar ring. We'd then slide the loose end of the chain back into the hole, where it would be grabbed by a gear-driven mechanism, locking each of us in place until someone saw fit to release us. Each night, we'd crawl in and go to our designated slots, run the chain through our collar rings, and wait on our knees until we were locked in place. In the morning, or whenever anyone wanted one of us, the chain would unlock. Either all the chains or any specific ones could be unlocked; the mechanism wasn't all that different than used in prisons, to lock and unlock rows of cells. The one major rule that applied to us when we were locked in the kennel was no masturbating. Of course, having orgasms at all was very restricted, and specifically prohibited without permission, but the kennel was where we had the greatest opportunity. It was fairly easy to cover yourself with straw, but the rule was that if anyone got caught having an unauthorized orgasm in the kennel, we all got punished. If one of our sisters was jilling off, we were expected to report it. Orgasms were reserved for those infrequent occasions when a Master permitted it, and only a selfish, disobedient slave girl puts her own desires and sexual needs above those of her Master. An unauthorized orgasm meant a beating, at a minimum, followed by even more severe punishment, and anyone who knew about an unauthorized orgasm but didn't report it got matching treatment. One girl, who was sold to Father as a teen, and had been a freeperson up to that point in her life, ended up having her clitoris burned off and her hole sewed up for consistently violating this rule. At least she had the sense that last time to do it while she was cleaning the toilet, and didn't involve any of us. If any of us had known, she'd have suffered the same fate. She ended up being sold to a rape brothel, as a pain slave. There was no official rule about defecating or urinating in the kennel, but that didn't mean we did it unless we had to. Nobody liked living with the stench - the smell ten or fifteen naked females, who were permitted to bathe just once a week, was often bad enough, particularly right after some had been raped. The straw, though, was only replaced weekly, and the kennel sanitized just monthly. Whenever one of us got sick, particularly with diarrhea, it was particularly awful for the rest of us. Any healthy girl who couldn't hold her bladder or bowels overnight often found her own bedding area filled with feces. Since we were all assigned specific spots to sleep, she would have no choice but to lay in it until the straw was changed. Cleaning the kennel was actually my first job. I started being straw girl when I was four years of age, barely out of diapers at night. Every seven days, I would push the straw to the hatch, then carry it out to a slash pile, where an older sister would usually burn it. Sometimes, though, our used straw was given to the Male slaves to use as bedding. Maybe they liked it, permeated with the odor of female slaves as it was. Maybe not. Once each month, I would be given a bucket of harsh disinfectant and a scrub brush, and after removing every trace of straw, would thoroughly wash down the walls and floor. Because of the chemicals, I was always given protective clothing back then made of rubber - so as to not damage my skin. Once the disinfectant had been spread, I let it soak in for a few minutes, then began rinsing it all off. Once, though, I didn't rinse well enough, and caused three of the girls to suffer chemical burns. As punishment, I found myself stark naked, my wrists bound behind my back, and a brush gag in my mouth, scrubbing the kennel. I really believe the solution was stronger than usual that day, but if it was, I deserved it. The skin on my entire body was burned that day. I wasn't totally healed for over two months, and my knees were permanently marked. I was seven yeas old. We had a lot of other rules, too. Some of them seemed pretty stupid, while others were downright cruel. The rule about orgasms is a perfect example. First they keep a girl sexually aroused for days - sometimes weeks - and when someone finally does fuck her, she cums and ends up getting punished...usually by having her kept aroused until she cums without permission again...which results in another punishment..in essence, a vicious circle of abuse. It was simply a fact of life as a slave, but that didn't make it any less cruel. Or the rule that said you had to keep your eyes open when in the presence of a male. Try keeping your eyes open when someone is pissing on your face. Sounds stupid, but I was beaten for that very offense. The same thing if someone decided we'd used too little or too much makeup, or if our legs weren't spread far enough while we were kneeling. Or the time I got beaten because the table wasn't set on time. How am I supposed to get my chores done if I keep getting called for mouth duty? These rules were just excuses, though. The only reason anyone needs to punish a slave girl is the fact that they're free and she's not. Breaking even the smallest rule always meant punishment. For a minor offense, it was usually a relatively minor punishment. For the younger girls, it might mean a spanking or not being allowed to eat for a day or two. It could mean a reward, like ice cream or a bit of chocolate, for everyone but the errant. For teen girls, whippings, being allowed to drink only pee for a time, or cleaning the other girls during their periods - with their mouths - were typical. The oldest girls were usually gang-raped and tortured, though that was more of a regular activity than punishment. I heard some of them whisper to each other, late at night when we were locked up in the kennel, that they actually planned to be disobedient, just so they would be whipped or raped. More serious offenses merited more serious punishments, like mine. I wasn't aware of much of the world, but about the time I turned nine, the Males were talking about "the crash." I later understood they were discussing the 1929 stock market crash. which signaled the beginning of the Great Depression. The only thing I knew was that Father was receiving more girls, mostly teens and older pre-teens. A lot of them came in crying, and I heard some say they didn't want to be slave girls; that their families sold them because they needed the money. I guess some people still had money, though, because sales - particularly of the pretty girls - were brisk. It seemed to me that they were often gone before they were half trained. Father had a steady stream of buyers coming in, and girls often left before I even learned what their names had been. Names. Slaves don't have names, just their registration numbers. Names are simply labels, that an Owner uses to identify his or her slave with. Father used our numbers. My first name was "slut," and I didn't get that until I was sixteen. But back to the impact of the depression on my life. At one point, there were over 30 of us, so many that we were literally ass to elbow in the kennel at night, but there was no additional room nor any additional food. Over twice as many slaves, but the same amount of food to share between us. Of course, the workload was split, too, so more time was spent on training the new girls. I guess that's where I learned my knack for counseling. Though I was younger than most of the new arrivals, I was more experienced at being a slave, and would often talk to one until the wee hours helping her make the transition from her former life to her future one. One of the slave girls Father acquired during this time was younger than me, so she took over my duties as straw girl. I was now working as a household slave, doing whatever needed to be done, usually cleaning. It was a better job for me. I had developed an reaction to the chemical used to disinfectant the kennel, so I used to get a terrible rash from just being around the stuff. The rash would clear up in four or five days...just soon enough for another dose. Of course, that was my own fault. If I hadn't been so lazy and stupid to do my job so poorly two years earlier, I'd never have had the level of exposure...and therefore, probably never would have become allergic. Whereas before, I was pretty isolated from what went on outside the kennel, now I was suddenly thrust into the daily activities throughout the house. I would hear the men talking, and picked up snippets of information, most of which made little sense to me. It was about the same time that I was first used sexually. It was a boy about my age, maybe a year younger. He'd seen his elders using slave girls orally, and apparently wanted to show them he was ready. He had a typical prepubescent dick, maybe two inches long when it got hard, and he just shoved into my mouth. I guess at that age, Males don't produce semen, or maybe he didn't know he was supposed to cum, because he just ended up peeing in my mouth. It surprised me so much that I gagged, sputtered, and pulled away, spewing urine all over the linoleum floor. Unfortunately for me, one of the men was watching, and I was punished. I didn't understand at the time that I was expected to gratefully receive whatever a Master deposits in or on my body, whether that substance is urine, semen, spit, snot, shit, vomit, food or anything else. The first thing I was forced to do was lick the entire floor clean. Not just the few small puddles, but the whole 12'x20' formal dining room. I objected. I knew better, but I believed it was unfair for them to make me clean up more than I was responsible for, especially since I wasn't aware anything was going to being going in my mouth like that. I guess I was getting a rebellious streak in me. Well, my objection earned more punishment, and the rebellion was quickly beaten out of me. I learned quickly that "fairness" is not relevant with regard to slaves. After my beating, which was administered to my ass with a bamboo rod, I was informed that I would be given nothing to eat or drink for the next three days, but instead would serve as a toilet for the male field slaves. In addition, I would receive a beating consisting of 50 strokes each evening. The beating would vary only on the device used - a whip one day, a belt on the second, and a wooden paddle on the third. Thankfully, these beatings were also limited to my ass. Being a toilet slave was worse than the beatings, though. It was harvest time, so in addition to the field slaves Father kept around, there were a number others who he rented to help bring in the crops. Tied to a wooden frame, I served as the personal toilet for twelve Male slaves. My total caloric intake during that period consisted of nothing but urine and semen...the first semen I'd ever taken. Fortunately for me, they all found the idea of shitting in my mouth disgusting, but that didn't mean my face, lips and tongue weren't used as toilet paper. They'd shit on the ground, next to my head, instead of in my mouth. I tasted plenty of human shit that week, all of it from hairy, sweat-covered, unwashed slave asses. By the time I'd finished my second day, I was determined to be obedient, submissive and compliant always. Thankfully, I was given a day to rest after my ordeal. Mother and my sisters carefully nourished me back to a semblance of health by feeding me a nutritious broth laced heavily with antibiotics, but it was still several weeks before I was fully recovered. Shortly after I turned ten, my duties once again changed. Now I was being trained as a serving slave, and taught how to properly set a formal table and serve meals. I was also now introduced to footwear, having been barefoot before this time. To acclimate me to heels, I was made to wear the at all times for three months, never being permitted to remove them. They were nothing like what a typical ten year old would wear, either. Platform soles three inches high, with spiked heels that raised my heels an additional six inches. More like sandals, really they strapped on at the ankle and left my toes and the sides of my feet uncovered. My feet and legs were constantly sore from wearing them, but I discovered on the day that they were finally removed that it hurt even worse to stand flat-footed. So, I begged to be permitted to wear them again. As payment for the privilege, I had to serve as a toilet slave for another day, only this time it was to the other slave girls. That was the first time I'd had my mouth on another female's cunt. Other than my shoes, I was still usually kept naked. Whenever I was helping prepare meals, I was allowed a white linen apron, and when serving, I wore a cute little lace one around my waist, but that was really it. Even when I helped in the fields, I was kept naked. But, mostly, I was a serving slave for the men, and would go around the table, filling glasses and cups, and fetching whatever they wanted. It was nice finally having a specific job to do...something to practice and learn well, rather than just being a kitchen scut, but there were disadvantages as well. Foremost among these was that I was constantly being molested by the Masters. Have you ever tried to pour coffee while someone is tweaking your ass or twisting your nipple? How about trying to light a candle, only to have someone stick their finger up your hold? Every time something like that happened, it seemed like I stumbled or spilled, and ended up getting punished. I had this job for about a year, and then, on the morning of my eleventh birthday, I was informed that I'd no longer be working above the table, but under it. It was a job I was looking towards with a great deal of apprehension because what I received to eat depended on how well I performed. From now on, my job would be to crawl under the table during meals and offer my mouth to anyone who wanted it. One of the Masters - the same one who peed in my mouth a few years earlier - told me the reason I was assigned this job was because I was so ugly that all the Masters were losing their appetites from looking at me. Keeping me under the table, at least they didn't have to look at my face, and they could fantasize it was somebody else sucking on them. Even knowing that His statement wasn't true, I was still humiliated by it. So, I spent my time crawling from Master to Master, kneeling silently under the table until one of them tapped the inside of his thigh, indicating he wanted my mouth on his cock. Some were satisfied to let me lick and suck, while others preferred to face-fuck me rather forcefully. I learned to enjoy it both ways, though it wasn't like I really had a choice. The only good part about it was that I became quite an accomplished fellatrix, and was given some of the choicest scraps from their plates. Once in a while, I would be ordered to crawl up on someone's lap or to sit on the table with my legs spread so a Master could fondle me. I was too young to really get much real pleasure out of it, but I'd seen my sisters and Mother fingered enough to know what was expected of me. I always moaned and rocked my head back like I was in the throes of pleasure while anyone was stroking my little slit. The men all laughed at that, knowing I was trying very poorly to put on an act for them, in the hope that I'd avoid punishment. I guess the fact that I didn't get wet from their ministrations gave it away. I lost my virginity just as I was starting to reach puberty...hadn't even had my first period yet, no tits to speak of, and just a couple of tiny hairs on my little pussy. All my other sisters...the real sisters, who shared a mother with me...got to wait until they were in their teens...but not me. I heard some of the Masters talking about money, and I guess Father needed some rather quickly, so sold my virginity a few years early. Looking back, I suppose it didn't really make any difference; I was going to have my cherry popped eventually, probably by someone who paid for the privilege, but at the time, it meant a great deal to me. If I'd been born free, I'd have probably lost my virginity to some clumsy, inexperienced boy, probably in a haystack or a smelly barn stall somewhere. I can tell you that the way I lost mine was memorable, and something I'll never forget. I was terrified. It happened one morning, right after we were awakened. I was separated from the rest of the slave girls, taken into the bathroom, and told to take a shower. This was very strange, since I'd always bathed outside, with cold water from the garden hose. I was allowed to use hot water, and was even given scented soap, and shampoo to use. Usually, I was expected to make do with the harsh homemade lye soap, or just water. I was even allowed to use a towel to dry off with, and then Mother came in to fix my hair and face. She was crying silently, tears running down her cheeks, but I didn't understand why at the time. I also was dressed in the first clothes I'd ever worn...if you could call them clothes. A pink lace garter belt, pink fishnet stockings and a pair of matching spiked heel shoes, with a little pink lace babydoll outfit, sans the panties. Not something anyone...even a slave girl...would be seen wearing in public. My face was made up, too. I saw it in the mirror, and while I remember thinking how beautiful I looked, I realize now I was an obscene caricature of a whore. Even my lipstick and toenails were painted the same shade of pink. When Mother was finished, she took me into a room I'd never been before, chained me to the bed She placed my back against the headboard and locked my wrists to restraints on the bedposts, so my body was in sort of a T shape. Leaving my legs unbound, she gently kissed my forehead and whispered that everything would be all right. I think she was trying to convince herself of that, though. Then she took a small tube and squirted a greasy substance inside my hole, taking one last look over her shoulder before she left, closing the door behind her. This was the first time I'd been allowed to touch a bed, except when making it or changing the sheets, so I thought I was in heaven. It was so soft and comfortable, I fell asleep almost immediately, even bound the way I was. I woke up to the motion of someone plopping down on the bed, and looked up to see a beast of a man sitting there, staring at me. He looked like a beast, too...black, curly hair all over his arms, legs and chest; a thick beard and long black hair; bushy eyebrows...a monobrow, almost...and a hard, dark uncircumcised dick sticking out from behind a curly mess of hair. He was grinning, almost drooling at me. I knew then what was going to happen...this naked beast was going to fuck me! I cringed, trying to hide in the corner of the bed to avoid him., but I was too tightly bound. I could only lay there helplessly while he explored my body with his fingers. "Spread out so I can see what I bought," he gruffly commanded. My legs shot apart, as widely spread as I could force them, my mind praying that he hadn't actually bought ME, but rather, the use of my body. Thankfully, I found out later that my wishes were true. He grabbed me and positioned me the way he wanted...flat on my back, legs spread with my feet pushed up as close to my ass as he could get them, forcing my knees into the air. He reached between my splayed thighs and rubbed His palm roughly against my mound, eventually sliding a single finger up and down my slit. "Shit," he said, finding me dry. I was scared, and I was young...my body hadn't yet learned to start producing lubricant when it was supposed to, and he apparently wasn't satisfied with what Mother had provided. "Get it wet," he commanded, forcing His finger into my mouth. "It's going in that sweet hole of yours, so the wetter you get it, the easier it'll be on you." I didn't need any second urging. I slobbered all over His finger, covering it in my spit. He soon pulled it out of my mouth and resumed diddling my tiny slit. The first time he touched my clitoris, I felt like he was giving me little electrical shocks. I didn't know why, but I liked it. I pushed my crotch into his hand, making him smile cruelly. "The little slut likes that, does she?" he asked. In response, I could only blush while he continued manipulating my little button. I could feel myself growing wetter. "How about THIS then!" he nearly shouted, shoving two fingers directly up my abused hole. I knew from watching the other slave girls being used that I wasn't supposed to shout or pull away, so I only flinched a bit, hoping he didn't notice. Silent tears filled my eyes as his fingers penetrated me. "Git them legs spread," he gruffly commanded. "Yer daddy said you was cherry, I'm payin' fer cherry, and I'm a-gonna make sure that's exactly what I get!" I spread myself as far as I could, his fingers continuing their assault, until I could feel him pressing against something. He pulled his fingers out, inspecting the blood on his fingertip. "Well, missy, looks like yer old man was telling me the truth. Good thing fer both a' ya. "Now, let's see if you know anything about how to use that sweet lil mouth o' yours. " With that, he dragged his dark, turgid cock over my face, forcing it between my lips. I'd sucked cock before, plenty of times, but this was different. I'd never been chained up like a animal while it was being done, and certainly never had I taken a dick in this manner. My abuser was holding me by the hair, mashing my face into his hairy groin, forcing the head of his cock into my esophagus. The rancid odor of his unwashed, sweaty body was so overpowering that I probably would have puked from it, if I hadn't already struggling to keep from choking. Thankfully, he stopped after a few minutes. I don't think I would have survived much longer. I didn't yet have control over my gag reflex - something I would need to learn if I expected to survive. I was nearly unconscious when he finally pulled out of my mouth, giving me a hard fist to the stomach to start my breathing again. "Damned little slut, ya don't know nothing yet, do ya? Shit, cain't even take a little throat-fuck. Yer lucky I ain't yer ol' man. Jesus, I still remember back in the Great War, when he throat-fucked that Hun bitch to death. Shit, I can even remember what it felt like. I came in her ass just when she croaked, ya know. Damn, that was the best piece I've ever had." I laid there, sobbing in pain and gasping to catch my breath while he reminisced. "Okay, Missy, time to become a real whore," he pronounced suddenly. Git up on yer hands 'n knees, with yer ass in the air," he ordered. "All you bitches ought to learn it this way. Laying on yer back is fer wives. Bitches get boned from behind, just like dogs and pigs." He positioned the head if his cock just inside the entrance to my hole, causing me to squirm uncontrollably. I could feel him rocking back and forth, until he'd worked the head just inside me. "Say goodbye to your cherry, BITCH!" He yelled the last word, ramming himself deep inside me. My entire universe was a white flash of pain as he pierced me, ripping through my hymen like...well, some have described it as a hot knife through butter, but not so for me. More like a butter knife through a stringy piece of beef. There wasn't anything easy or smooth about it, and I felt the tissue continue to rip as he sawed in and out of me. "Fuck me back, you little whore," he screamed, raining blows down on my back. It was all I could do to stay up on my knees, but I was able to concentrate long enough to push against his groin several times, feeling his balls bounce against my ass. It didn't really take long for him to shoot off inside me, but at the time, it seemed like his pummeling would never end He did finally cum, however, pulling out almost immediately and positioning himself in front of me. "See that?" he asked, waving his blood-streaked cock, dripping cum, in front of my face "You know what yer gonna do now, right"" "No, Sir," I sobbed, believing I knew, but hoping I was wrong. "Jesus H. Christ, you really are stupid, aren't you? You really expect me to go home with a dirty cock? You really think I'm gonna fuck my wife with a dirty dick? Now get that slut mouth of yours to work, before I decide to try out that puckered little virgin asshole of yours." I tentatively reached forward and began licking then sucking at his rapidly shrinking cock. He got hard again, and he started mouth-fucking m once more. This time he wasn't nearly as violent, giving me instructions to lick the shaft or just suck the head, waiting until just before his orgasm to shove his cock down my throat. When my abuser was finished with me, he pushed me into a sitting position, with my back against the headboard and my legs spread. Tying into that position, he got dressed and left without a word, leaving me to sit in the puddle of blood-infused cum leaking out of my hole. That day marked another major milestone in my life. No longer was I not a virgin, but my body was now fair game for anyone who wanted to use it. I was twelve years old. Well, like I said at the beginning, I apologize for the poor manner in which this first part flowed. I tried to proof-read and correct it, but I'm afraid it's as good as I can make it. I promise I'll try to do better as I continue the story, and will try to maintain a better feeling for the chronology of events.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 2: Sold I don't remember anything particularly noteworthy in my life during the years immediately following the loss of my virginity. The memories are mostly a montage of working and being used by the men. The number of girls had stabilized at about two dozen, and like the rest of the economy, the bottom had dropped out of the slave market. Unable to sell many of us easily, and without the funds to rent labor slaves, Father began using the females, formerly relegated to household and sexual duties, as field hands. Fortunately, the soil was still fertile, and even when the rains didn't come, we had sufficient water from the lake and stream for irrigation. It was heavy, back-breaking work, but Il enjoyed it. Being outdoors in the fresh air was wonderful. I even enjoyed being hitched to the plow and furrowing the soil, though that was undoubtedly the most physical labor any of us performed. I just loved the way my thigh muscles would begin to burn after the first acre or so...much better than the backache from stooping to pick beans or dig potatoes up. In times of drought, I would usually either haul water in buckets from the stream, or help dig irrigation ditches to channel the water to the fields. I believe the exceptional endurance and leg strength I've had all my life were a direct result of this period. But undoubtedly the best part of being a field slave was the was the stream running through the property, where we were all permitted to bathe in the cool, clean water at the end of our day's labor. I guess Father figured we deserved a reward, and I don't really think anyone minded that we came back clean, rather than covered in sweat, dirt and grime. Sometimes he even pemitted us to wade into the lake, but because none of us could swim, he always had us tethered to a rope in case we stepped into water over our heads. Father understood that since we were working so hard, we needed to be fed well. Lots of fresh vegetables when they were in season; potatoes, beans, corn and whatever had been canned when they weren't. Meat, lots of meat - pork and chicken, mostly, since that's what was raised in our area. Catfish or bass, once in a while, if one of the men happened to have a good day down at the lake. And these weren't leftover scraps, mind you. Ribs and chops, whole roasted chickens and slabs of bacon. Just the memory of how good it all tasted is making my mouth water! Overall, I'd say the ages of thirteen to sixteen were the happiest and healthiest of my life, though I'm sure all that pork was playing havoc with my cholesterol level! It was a good time for me, because I was eating well, getting exercise ad fresh air, and was able to clean myself almost every day. For me, life was pretty good during the depression, but I was about to undergo the first major change of my life. At age 16, I was finally sold, to a young couple expecting their first baby. They were seeking a slave who could be a wet nurse, and though my breasts weren't quite as large as they'd hoped, testing had shown that I would be a prolific milker. I'm sure Father gave them a good price, since they were able to pay cash. Master was 26, a handsome blond man with a muscular, nearly hairless chest. I nearly swooned when I saw Him the first time. If I'd been permitted to wear panties, they would have been soaked in an instant. He was an attorney at first, but ended up working as the western region manager for some government agency. He kept talking about "twelve disciples" and somebody named "Wild Bill," who apparently ran the agency, but it never made much sense to me. Not that he talked much about his work anyway. Master was pretty secretive about whatever it was that he did. Mistress was only 22, but she seemed so worldly to me. She was, after all, the first female I'd met who wasn't a slave, but gone to school, and even went to college for two years. She could read and write, knew about all sorts of different things, and even spoke to men without receiving permission first...things I couldn't even imagine doing. She, too, was a blonde, but very, very thin and not muscular appearing at all. She seemed very beautiful to me, though, especially when she and Master got dressed up for special occasions. She wore diamonds and pearls, and always a white gown with long white gloves, which contrasted nicely against Master's tux. I found out later that she'd been an Olympic gymnast as a teenager. Of course, I didn't understand what the Olympics were until a couple of years ago. I watched the last Olympics, and was absolutely amazed at the athletic prowess of young people today...not to mention that some of those men were real hunks! But I still can't believe those gymnasts. I have to wonder whether those were really girls, and if so, where they hide their tits! After both looked me over carefully, my new Master counted out the purchase money and handed it to Father. In return, Father handed him my Ownership Record and a Bill of Sale. I had been sold, and was officially the legal property of this man and woman. Mother stood by, silently begging with her eyes permission to embrace her daughter, to kiss me one last time. That was not to be, though, as Master led me away with a tug on my leash. That was the last time I saw any of them - Father, Mother or my sisters. I always hoped they had good, happy lives. I like to believe they did. Master loaded me into the back of a panel van, then locked me in transport restraints...leather bands around my ankles and thighs to keep my knees together, handcuffs behind my back, with a short chain running from my wrists to my ankles.. The ankle restraints were then secured to a bolt in the floor. My leash was threaded through fitting in the roof, forcing my body to remain upright. I would remain in this position throughout the trip, except when I was allowed to lay down at night, during my feeding periods, and the infrequent times I'd be allowed to urinate or deficate. At least Master had placed a pillow under my knees. I don't think I could have survived the trip otherwise. The ride was a long one, but it was the first time I'd ever been inside a motorized vehicle. Neither vehicle suspensions nor roads were nearly as good as they are now, and I was bounced around pretty painfully,All the while, Master and Mistress talked about me like I wasn't there...discussing my body, and what they planned to do with me. We did make one quick stop that first day. Master pulled into a gas station, and while he got a couple of Cokes for Himself and His wife, Mistress allowed me a moment outside to stretch my muscles. She asked me if I had to pee. I nodded my head. "Well, you stupid slut? What are you waiting for? Squat and piss!" she commanded. I did as ordered, lowering myself as close to the ground as possible to keep my urine from splashing on her, emptying my full bladder onto the dirt. Once I was done, she pushed me back into the van and locked me back in place. "I'll bet you can't wait to get my husband's dick up that horny cunt of yours, can you?" she asked, squeezing my chin in her hand. "Well, you can get that idea completely out of your mind. The only thing you're getting up that whore's hole of yours is what I decide to put in it." She let my face go, causing my head to fall and drop against the metal floor. Master returned a moment later, and we resumed our trip. It took us four days to reach our destination. Each night, Master would stop at a hotel, and get a room for them. After the first day, I was allowed to lay down during the drive; though I was still bound in a kneeling position, I was able to lay on my side. At night, I was left chained and gagged in the back of the windowless van, to shiver through the cool nights, my only protection from the elements that which the van provided. Each day I was fed twice - a bowl of cold oatmeal, and because of the way in which I was bound, I could only shove my face into the bowl and slurp. Each morning and evening I was given a few minutes to squat and empty my bladder and bowels, and to exercise my extremities. It was dark when we finally arrived at our destination. Apparently not wanting to bother with me that night, Mistress chained me to the back porch railing, dropped a dirty, smelly blanket on the ground next to me, and went back inside, locking the door behind her. I quickly fell into a disturbed, dream-filled sleep. The next morning I was awakened with a swift kick to my ribs, administered by my Mistress. "Get up, you stupid slut, and get our breakfast!" she ordered, telling me that this morning, they only wanted coffee and toast while they read the newspaper at the table. For myself, I was told to prepare a small bowl of oatmeal. I ate it directly from the bowl, like a dog would, kneeling naked on the back porch. This would become my regular fare, unless Master or Mistress decided to feed me some scraps from their own plates. During my first years as their property, I seldom received more than two meals a day, and often enough, not even that. Always oatmeal, usually served cold. I still can't stand oatmeal. Once breakfast was over and my Owners were satisfied with my efforts at cleaning up, they trundled me off to a doctor's office for my medical exam. I was bound to a gynecological examination table, where I was subjected to the most thorough and humiliating "examination" I think anyone has ever had. My vagina and rectum were both opened widely, and kept that way for over an hour by the speculum in each. Every few minutes, the doctor would adjust the speculum a little wider, until both my holes looked like vacant caverns. I could clearly see what was being done, thanks to the mirrors strategically placed on ceiling and the wall at my feet. He reached deeply inside me with his fingers, though I don't know what he was feeling for. My clitoris was subjected to tiny electrical shocks, as were my nipples, supposedly to check my responsiveness. Personally, I believe it was for no other reason than to cause pain. Just like when the doctor inserted the catheter through my urethra into my bladder in order to obtain a urine sample...he could have gotten the same thing by giving me a specimen cup, but I think he just wanted to hurt me. The last thing the doctor did, right after declaring me fit to serve as a wet nurse, was to inject my body with hormones...one injection in each breast, and one in my ass cheek...to cause my breasts to enlarge and induce milk production. Then it became time for me to pay the doctor's bill...and the nurse's bill...and the receptionist's bill...and...well, you get the idea. I don't remember how many of them took me, but I was strapped to the table for close to six hours following the end of my examination. When I was finally released, I was literally dripping cum from each of my holes. Mistress took a strip of duct tape and ran it between my legs, from the top of my ass crack to my navel, to keep me from leaking in the van. When we got home, I was once again chained to the back porch. I would remain there, completely ignored for two days and nights. At least it was summer, and the nights weren't cold at all. Master finally brought me in and ordered me to make myself a bowl of oatmeal. As a treat, he even allowed me to put milk and sugar on it, saying he needed to make sure I stayed healthy. I was afraid to ask for water, but when he saw the way I was looking at his glass, he got me a bowl of that, too. I don't think Mistress was around at all that day. He took the time, though there was no real need, to explain to me that he didn't particularly care for the idea of owning another person, but Mistress insisted. She was pregnant, and expected her child to be breast-fed, but didn't want her own breasts damaged or deformed. Master told me that he could allow me extra privileges when Mistress wasn't around, but when I said I wouldn't be able to lie if she asked me, he just scowled and walked away. I think he was angry with my answer. He took me out back and left me chained to the porch again, but brought me in later that evening, to his bed. That was the first time he raped me. He had a nice cock, and I got to sleep indoors for the first time in my new home. It was exactly a week later that Little Master was born. I was kneeling outside the delivery room, and was called in moments later. Master informed me that he and Mistress had decided that I would be given to their son on his thirteenth birthday, and to show my submissiveness to my future Master, I would take the baby's tiny cock into my mouth and swallow his piss. Master said Little Master would always know that his first piss was in his slave girl's mouth, and that she swallowed it obediently. I knew all this was Mistress's idea, because of the way he said it. That didn't matter to me, because I was owned equally by both of them. I had no option but to obey. Little Master was then given his Mother's nipple to suckle, but that was the first and last time his mouth went to her breast. From then on until he was weaned, he would be attached to one of my tits whenever he got hungry. Nowadays, one seldom sees a slave girl used in this manner, as a wet nurse. If anything, the slave is milked, and then baby bottle-fed by his mother, in order to foster a strong bond between them. It was discovered decades ago that when a baby is regularly nursed by a slave girl, the baby becomes more attached to the slave than to his or her mother. But that was still far into the future, and the common practice in that day was to have the infant suck on the slave's tits. There was no real reason for a wet nurse, other than the fact that Mistress didn't want her beautiful breasts damaged by her son suckling at them. She often teased me about how I'd have saggy bags drooping down to my knees, while her breasts would stay smooth and firm. She would rub her palms sensuously over her breasts, then grab my nipples and pull them downward with all her strength. She said she couldn't wait until her son was teething; she planned on having him breast fed until he decided it was time to stop. I would cry myself to sleep, thinking of how my tits would end up looking, like those in the pictures of other slave girls that Mistress took particular pleasure in showing me. Most of my next eight or nine years were spent taking care of my future Master and his parents. The one good thing was that I no longer slept on the back porch. My bed was on the floor in Little Master's room, so I could more readily take care of his needs. Other than that, my condition did not appreciably improve. I was still eating virtually nothing but oatmeal, once or twice a day, except when Master would toss me a scrap from his plate. Once in a while I'd be given some vegetable scraps...usually carrot peelings, the tops of tomatoes, or leftover salad...which I savored. Whenever chicken was served, I used to get the bones, and sometimes a wing, complete with skin, but it was nothing like what I ate when I was serving as a farm hand for Father. I used to have dreams of those days...especially the smell of barbecued ribs. I was seldom invited into the bedroom that Master and Mistress shared, except when Mistress was gone on a business trip, which was about once a month. It was then that I was used, well and good. One thing Mistress thought extremely distasteful was anal sex, so Master used me that way whenever he could. She was curious about it, so one night she dragged me by the hair into their bedroom and watched while Mater buggered me. Then she make me lick him clean. Of course, I would have done that anyway, but she didn't know. Mistress's business trips. I forgot to explain that. This was an era when women normally didn't work outside the home, but because Master was an important government official, Mistress worked for something called the American Red Cross, and another thing called United Servicemen's Organization. She used to travel around to different places, getting money for charity. I figured she was in sales, because she sold a lot of charity. Or, at least that's what I thought at the time. Today, of course, I know better. Sex for me wasn't always pleasant, but was always something I enjoyed. Around Mistress, the only way I was allowed to cum was by masturbating, and I had to ask her in advance. She only allowed me two orgasms a month. She liked to schedule my masturbation sessions for her frequent house parties, when she'd have her friends over. Because they were all "proper ladies," I seldom got used by any of them. They did stand around and watch me diddle myself, though, and I could tell that more than a few of them were getting wet knickers from it. There were a couple of times when one of the ladies would stay late, after the rest had left, and have me use my mouth on her. That was always in private, though. When Mistress was out of town, things were different. Master was much kinder, and made constant use of me. He never forbade me from having orgasms, and seemed to enjoy making me cum. I often had two or three to his one, though I did feel guilty about that. Not guilty enough to keep from having them, though! I loved these sessions, found it particularly exciting be made to cook dinner right after he'd taken me up the ass, feeling his semen dribble out of me as I prepared his meal. There were a few times when Mistress was gone for up to a week, when Master never let me wash up or bathe after using me. Once, after several of his friends took me, he didn't let me clean myself for six days. It wouldn't have been so bad if they hadn't cum all over my face and hair or pissed on me after they were done. He didn't like using me when I was dirty like that, so I remained in need that entire week. When he did ordered me to shower, though, I was always used well and good. I knew I'd be sore for a week afterwards. Sometimes he'd host parties, with me the center of attraction. Most of the other people in Master's circle of friends didn't own their own slave girls, so I was a novelty to them. Neither the men nor the women present had much experience in dealing with someone who was totally obedient and compliant with their desires, and they great fun in trying to see who could come up with the most disgusting act for me to perform. Usually, it was pretty tame...scooping cum out of my ass with my fingers, then licking my hand clean, or reaming one of the men, or drinking piss. The guys always wanted to see me go down on one of the women, but the ladies usually objected. One time they brought in a prostitute, though, and had me clean her up after they fucked her. I didn't get much pleasure out of those things, but that wasn't my purpose. My purpose, was to serve their needs and desires, and if they enjoyed watching me clean someone's dirty asshole, that was fine. It didn't even really matter to me (or them) whether I enjoyed it or not, because I was simply doing what I was ordered to do, as I'd been trained. Most of the time, though, I really did like it. The only thing I really didn't like was when they'd have me service their dogs. This happened once every couple of months. I didn't having my back scratched up with their paws, or how the larger breeds would get stuck inside me when their knots swelled up. I usually preferred to taking them in my mouth. Not only was it easier on my back, but I could open my mouth to expell the doggie dick right away, and get started on another one. That way it didn't take as long. The worst, though, was when a dog would mark me as his by lifting his leg and peeing on me. That was even more disgusting than having to fuck or suck them, because once one dog did that, every other dog would do the same. Even then, though, there was seldom any real damage done to my body. The only time it really got out of hand was when a couple of the women watched me fuck a dog, and decided I was a disgrace to womanhood. They both went after me with bullwhips, and I needed medical treatment afterwards. Parts of my body still carry the scars of that session. Pretty soon, the parties started becoming less frequent. Again, I overheard snippets of information, something about a war "over there," involving "Japs" and "Krauts," I knew big things were brewing, but didn't understand what. Master was working longer hours now, and seemed very harried and under a lot of stress. I did what I could to relieve some of that stress, so with Mistress's permission, I began a ritual of taking off his shoes as soon as he sat in his recliner, and then offering the use of my mouth. He could have used my mouth whether I wanted or not, but my intent was to help him relax. Sometimes he let me suck his dick, other nights I just massaged his feet. There were quite a few nights when he fell asleep while I was sucking him. I hope it was because he was so tired. I know he never complained about my abilities in that area. Mistress didn't like the taste of cum, so he didn't mind if I sucked him off, unless she wanted to make love to him later that night. There were a couple of times that Master came home angry, to the point that he would throw things t the walls. Once he broke the window with his fist when it jammed while he was trying to open it. I begged him to take his anger out on me, to beat me, to kick me instead of breaking his valuable belongings, but he just looked at me strangely and then ran into his bedroom. I think he was crying, but still don't understand why. Maybe one of the things he broke has sentimental value. It was about that time that he stopped using me regularly. He didn't even want his stress relieved most days, either waving me away with his hand or pushing me back with his foot. I was worried that I'd done something to make him not want me. This went on for nearly a year, where he never even touched me with his dick. Master would still bring friends over to use me, thankfully, Most showed up wearing uniforms, and I would be given to them for the night as sort of a going away present. Most of them seemed preoccupied with whatever was going on, though I figured I was doing my part for our boys in uniform. At least, that's the phrase Master used when handing my leash over to them. This wasn't a very good time in my life. Most of the people Master gave me to simply poked themselves into one of my holes, came inside me, and left me unfulfilled. Mistress stopped having parties, and almost never gave me permission to cum more than once every couple of months. I still did have an occasional secret orgasm, but the guilt was always too much, and I always admitted them to her, begging to be punished. The punishments were usually harsh, but the sexual relief was worth it...usually. One day, while Master was at work, I told Mistress I'd masturbated myself to sleep the night before. She'd been drinking, and was enraged that I'd be such a disobedient little slut (that's exactly what she called me). She took me out into the garage, and hanging me from the rafters, began beating me with everything she could get her hands on. She used her fists, an electrical cord, a belt, even a stick to batter my body with. When Master came home, I was barely alive. I had six broke ribs, fractured toes and fingers, a broken nose, a concussion and four missing teeth. My breasts were charred from being repeatedly burned with cigarette and matches. She'd taken pliers to my labia, virtually ripping one out altogether; it hung by a small strip of skin. My scalp was a bloody mess from where Mistress had pulled my hair out by the roots, and my body was covered with welts and cuts from where she hit me. I went to the hospital, and Mistress went into rehab. I'm happy to say that we both made full recoveries, though I still show some of the scars. Mistress did not drink another drop of alcohol after that day. She probably doesn't know how proud of her I am about that, or how thankful that I had an opportunity to play a small role. The pain I experienced was for a reason...to help Mistress overcome her drinking problem...so I provided a service to my Owner, which is what being a slave is all about. The day Mistress came home - her rehab took longer than mine - Master said she was going to apologize to me. I begged him to not have her do that. It was simply not appropriate for an Owner to apologize to his or her property for any reason. I understood that she was angry and drunk when she hurt me, but as their property, she has that right. If anyone was to apologize, it should be me, for being disobedient and allowing myself to be unable to serve for the time it took for me to recover from my punishment. When Mistress came into the room, she had tears running down her cheeks. The pain on her face as her eyes wandered over my naked body, taking in the ravages she'd inflicted on it, hurt me more than the physical pain she'd caused. My Mistress was upset, and it hurt me to see her so. I needed to comfort her. I crawled across the room and nuzzled her feet with my face, begging to be permitted to continue serving her. She lifted me gently into her arms and hugged me as we both cried. While she was always my Owner, our relationship somehow changed that day. I was somehow more than just a slave now to her, and she was more than just my Owner. It wasn't friendship...we could never act like friends and chat the day away over coffee and cake...it was but more like a fierce loyalty. I would serve her faithfully, and she would take care of me, protect me and ensure I was as well-treated as any slave girl in that era. My life improved somewhat from that point. Mistress accepted the fact that I was a female slave, and as such, had specific needs that she could help me meet. Most of the restrictions on orgasms were removed. Though I still had to ask for permission, it could be at any time and not only from her. If I was being raped, I could simply beg my user for permission, rather than asking her first. I couldn't spend time pleasuring myself unless all my chores were done, and I still wasn't allowed to cum unsupervised, but that was about it. She also invited me to her bedroom more often, sometimes just to pleasure her, but she always allowed me my own release. Other things changed, too. A mattress was provided for me at the base of Little Master's bed, and I was allowed to sleep on it. A small table was set up in the kitchen, where I was now permitted to take my meals, even allowed to use utensils instead of my fingers. I now ate whatever they were having, rather than cold oatmeal or scraps from the floor. I was even given some say in the foods I prepared, though the menu was always approved by Mistress first. She even took the time to show me some of her special recipes. I was no longer kept constantly in chains, though I still wore my collar and wrist and ankle bands so that I could be easily bound. My punishments changed, too, and now usually consisted of a simple bare-assed spanking with a paddle for minor transgressions. The whip was used very seldom, and major mistakes on my part were usually corrected by withholding my food for a day, or not permitting me an orgasm for a short period of time. I think Mistress knew that I sometimes intentionally made mistakes, just so I could get spanked. She would often smile at me knowingly as I bent over the stool in preparation for my spanking, but she never did actually let on. Whenever she'd withhold my cums, she'd say so with a gleam in her eyes. I knew that whenever she released me from that restriction, I'd be "forced" to bring myself to multiple orgasms. The one physical change that occurred about that time was my first labia piercings. Master knew Mistress had really been angry at him when she took it out on me, so they started talking a lot more. It turned out that Mistress was jealous, because Master was fucking me so regularly. She said she now understood he saw a difference between love and sex, but she still felt a little hurt whenever he used me instead f her. It was his idea to give control of my cunt to Mistress, so that she could decide if he should make love to her, or just use me to meet his sexual needs. The result was that my outer labia were pierced, five holes on each side. One set of openings, larger than the rest, were actually made with surgical steel grommets. There were two similar holes punched in my inner lips. A thin steel cable was threaded through the piercings and both ends were attached to a padlock which was then hung through the grommet. With the wire pulled taut, it was as though my pussy was sutured closed. Mistress maintained the key, but would give it to Master whenever he asked, or if she was going out of town for more than a couple of days. She didn't mind him using my mouth or asshole, and told him he could take me that way whenever he felt the urge - but to never, ever come to bed with his dick smelling like my ass! Life was good. I was 26 years old.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 3: A New Master (1950 - 29 Years of Age) As promised, my ownership was transferred to Little Master on his thirteenth birthday. He was so excited, and proud...he was the first boy in his neighborhood to have his very own slave girl! In the beginning he took every opportunity to show me off, inviting his friends over to watch while he paraded me back and forth on a leash, ordering me to perform stupid trick, like playing fetch the stick or rolling over. The change of ownership meant that he was no longer "Little Master," but "Master," while his parents were now simply "Sir" and "Ma'am." It also meant that I was at his complete disposal and subject to his every whim. He immediately took advantage of this fact, and the only time I was allowed to leave his room for those first three days was to fetch him some water or food, or to use the bathroom myself. He wasn't sexually experienced, and had a beautiful, perfectly formed (if somewhat average sized) penis. And, being young, his recovery time was phenomenal. Sometimes he could cum as many as six or seven times a day, often twice within the same hour. Master went through a number of phases in how he treated me and the manner in which I was used. For the first several weeks, he spent every spare moment exploring my body and sampling my sexual abilities. He used me in every way imaginable, and some that I still wonder about. I know he had nothing to grade me against, but I believe he was pleased with my efforts. He certainly pleased me! He didn't forbid from having my own pleasure, so I tried to cum at least once every time he used me - and usually succeeded. Then he went through a phase when he treated me like a bitch dog. I remained on all fours, and was permitted to only whine or bark, not speak. He had me wear a butt plug with a furry dog tail, much to the amusement of his friends. And, of course I ate dog food - sometimes canned, but usually the dry kind - from a bowl on the kitchen floor. He also designated a place in the backyard for me to do my business, as he called it, warning that if I peed or crapped anywhere else, he'd rub my nose in it, like a bad puppy. If he was feeling particularly abusive, he'd make me drink water constantly throughout the day, not allowing me relief, until I finally did pee on the floor. After having my face rubbed in it, he'd make me lick it up. That wasn't so bad on the tile floors, but have you ever tried to suck urine out of a carpet? After that came what I call his ass phase. That's the only place he'd use me. I'd be given enemas, then have my ass plugged, sometimes for hours, before he allowed me to release. Sometimes he'd take me out that way. Once, he took me up to a dirt trail in the woods and made me run, naked and barefoot, for two miles. The enema sloshed around in my intestines caused belly to cramp up horribly, but all he did when I finally got sick to my stomach was make me roll around in my own vomit. I was so horny from the abuse and humiliation, but he just let me shit on the side of the trail, then took me home without so much as a quick poke. Another time, he made me give 20 men orgasms before removing the plug. He took me to a hobo camp down by the train tracks to find the men. It was probably that session that took him to his next phase, which was offering me to his friends. I doubt anyone ever had as many friends as Master did during that phase. I'm sure some of them didn't even know he existed before they found out he was loaning out his slave girl, and making all of her holes available to them. Sometimes I was servicing three, four, five boys at once...one in my mouth, one in my ass, one in my cunt, and one in each hand. There were a couple of times some of the boys talked about both putting their dicks in my pussy at the same time, but one said that sounded "homo," so it was several more years before I experienced that particular form of sex. These mini-orgies spawned his next phase, which was using me to earn money. Master started whoring me out to anyone with a few dollars spend, though his friends - his real friends - could use me for free whenever I wasn't occupied with a paying customer. I would often be taken to a street corner, to ply my wares on anyone who wanted to dally with me. Other times I would just be sent out, and told to be back by a certain time with a certain amount of money. If I didn't meet the goal he'd established, I'd be punished. The problem was that I wasn't allowed to set a price and had to tell my clients that they should pay me what they I was worth, so it wasn't very often that I was able to average more than five dollars a customer. There were also a couple of times he had me prowl bars or hotel lobbies, looking for business. It was during the period when I was being whored out that he started experimenting with body modifications. Bartering a weekend of my use for the price, he had my nipples and clitoris pierced with gold-colored rings. At least I think they were only colored, no real gold. He had an ornate tattoo of the word "slut" placed above my bare mound, and had my nipples dyed bright red. The small holes in my labia he had filled with little faux pearl post earrings. He had my septum pierced and a ring inserted, and would often lead me around my nose ring, or just chain it to the headboard. He or his friends often bound me by just my nose and clit ring when they fucked me, fucking me doggy-style, knowing that I'd remain motionless for fear of ripping them out. One of his favorite things to do about that time was to actually chain my clit and nose rings together with a short piece of chain, and either leave me that way or fuck me silly. Finally, things started to settle down. The novelty of owning a slave girl wore off after a year or two, and returned to being just an object, a thing to be used when needed, and forgotten about at all other times. So it was back to cleaning and other chores for me, with an occasional porking by either Master, a friend or a customer. Mostly, though, I was just property, to be used when the desire was there, and to be left kneeling at the foot of his bed when it wasn't. So I was relegated to cleaning his room, washing his clothes, and taking care of his other needs. I ran his bath every evening, and washed his body for him. I always woke him up gently, with my head nuzzling his groin and my mouth over his morning hard-on. He liked not having to get up for his morning pee, though I can't say I ever acquired a taste for urine. He still liked playing with me, finding things to do to excite me sexually, and then either using me or leaving to literally stew in my own juices. Sometimes he'd have me carry my butt plug like a pacifier, on a string around my neck, alternately putting it in my ass and then my mouth. Other times I'd carry a vibrator up my ass, or fishing weights from my rings while I did my chores. His parents didn't interfere at all, though Ma'am often sneaked me treats...especially chocolate...and she and Sir still used me on occasion. In his junior year, the very exclusive, private school Master attended began allowing slaves on campus. The original thought was that we'd be an unnecessary distraction, but the board finally relented and began allowing the upper classmen to bring their slaves. It was really an incentive program, because anyone with a GPA of less than 3.7 had to leave their slaves at home, and if you lost that privilege, you had to wait until the end of the following semester to get it back. Master's cumulative GPA was 3.87, so he started taking me along to carry his books and take care of whatever needs he might have...which usually included him putting his dick in me at least once a day. The school was still concerned about unnecessary distractions, so they instituted a few rules to reduce that risk. We weren't, for instance, actually allowed into any of the buildings, except the locker rooms. We weren't allowed to be naked, either, so the school issued a uniform to each of us. Our attire consisted of a knee-length thin cotton shift and a pair of plastic panties. The panties were designed to prevent what Master called "snail tracks" or "slave slime" from being left wherever one of us sat. I didn't mind the clothing, have to admit that not having the sensation of air blowing directly over my bare sex was a bit disconcerting at first. The reason we were allowed in the locker rooms was to help our Masters dress out for gym, and then shower and get dressed afterwards. It was also the one place we were required to be naked, and although many of the Masters forced their slaves to keep their eyes focused on the ground, my Master didn't restrict me. I was permitted to look around at all the naked young men and their slaves, and this always made me horny. I was proud to belong to Master, because he was one of the most handsome, virile young men I saw. I was less pleased when comparing myself to the other slaves, because I was ancient by comparison. Most of them were less than half my age, and next to them, I must have looked used and worn out. It didn't seem to bother Master, though, who often had to make use of my mouth before he put his pants back on. While Master was in class, I, like the rest of the slaves, spent my time chained to the wall outside the classroom. During this time, the other slaves and I - assuming their own Masters hadn't prohibited it - would quietly chat in order to pass the time. We'd compare notes, talk about our lives and how we served our Owners. Most of us were female, but there were always a few male slaves as well. Most of them were sissified, though, and not at all sexually arousing to me. I suppose I should explain about sissy slaves. Male slaves, particularly those who were sold into slavery as the result of debts - often as the result of failed business deals - were often beaten down and made docile by treating them as females. They wore frilly lace panties, garter belts, stockings and high heels; had their bodies shaved; wore makeup and had their nails painted (usually a cute pink); and wore their hair in a variety of female styles. Those with short or no hair wore wigs. Some were castrated, most were not. Those who still had functional dicks were placed in chastity cages, which caused extreme pain every time they got hard. Some of the slave girls liked to tease them, just to see if they could cause the sissies to get it up. Sissies were required to speak in soft, high-pitched voices, and in general, act like little girls. They were used as females, too. Their mouths and assholes were used as fuckholes, their dicks ignored except as places to inflict torture. The only time a sissy was allowed to cum was when two of them were coupled together, first to fuck each other in the ass, and then to finish themselves off in a 69, their shit-covered dicks in each others mouth. A sissy who had an orgasm any other way could expect anything from torture to castration as her punishment. This movement still exists today in some places, though technology and medicine have taken it a step further, with hormone therapy. sexual reassignment surgery and vocal cord manipulation making it almost impossible to tell a sissy from a true female slave. I've seen several sissy slaves who, even naked, were among the most beautiful women I've known. Many Owners now, in order to more thoroughly humiliate the sissies, leave some of their body hair intact, usually on the face and chest. Big tits, cunt lips, and a five o'clock shadow...a clear-cut sissy. Anyway, we slaves would chat quietly while our Masters and Mistresses absorbed whatever it was they were learning. I learned that I was being treated better than most of the other females, and much better than any of the sissies. Several of the girls related how they slept outdoors, year round, with only the roof of a doghouse protecting them from the elements, and how many of them received a single meager meal each day. These girls were easy to spot, looking like malnourished scarecrows as they did. Some talked of nightly gang rapes, and while this was something I enjoyed I doubt I would have felt the same if they had been inflicted on me nightly. They talked of repeated beatings for the most minor of things, and of having their orgasms withheld for months at a time. I knew better than to tell them how my life was, because I knew I was among the fortunate few. One young girl who looked especially mistreated turned out to be owned by her very own sixteen year old brother. She'd belonged to him since she was eight, four years earlier. One day she pulled her dress up to show us how she'd been abused. Her entire body was a mass of scars, welts and bruises. He beat and raped her every day. Her little breasts were already marked with dots where he'd poked needles in them, and her cunt lips hung obscenely low, from the weighted clamps she wore on them. Her nether lips hadn't yet been pierced, but her Master had used a hot poker to burn her clitoris off, denying her the pleasure he took for himself several times each day. I didn't feel sorry for her, really, just thankful that my Master wasn't like hers. I was 32 years old, and my life, when compared to some other slave girls, was wonderful.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 4: A Slave Girl Goes to College Master graduated from high school right after he turned 18. He was worried about something called "the draft," though I didn't understand why a little wind would get him so upset. I should probably read more about that time, because I'm sure it wasn't the weather that was bothering him. That was the spring Sir and Ma'am had the new house in the back yard built. Literally IN the yard. A construction crew came in and dug a huge hole, then lowered this prefabricated metal and concrete box into it. Sir hired a couple of other men to build interior rooms, and Ma'am and I decorated and stocked it. When it was all done, it looked just like a little house inside, though it didn't have any windows, and instead of a front porch, you had to crank open a little metal door and climb down a ladder to get inside. I'm not sure what it was for, but maybe they were going to buy some more slaves. I don't think that was the purpose, because there were lots of books down there, and slaves don't usually know how to read. Between the books and amount of food, I knew whatever it was for did not include frequent trips to the grocery. Sir got a new job about the time the underground house was finished, so we moved to a place called Virginia. I enjoyed it very much. The new house wasn't very big, which meant I didn't have as much cleaning to do, but it was on a large piece of land, almost like living on a farm again. There was a huge field, and Master would let me spend hours out there, walking around or just sitting in the grass, relaxing. I used to look up at the clouds and pretend they were boats or people. There was a high fence around the property, and lots of trees, too. Sir bought horses so the three of them could ride on the weekends. Sometimes, Master let me ride, too, but only if he tied me belly-down over the saddle in front of him, so he could spank me or finger my slit. Usually, though, he just tied my lead to his saddle pommel and had me trot behind them. Anyway, Master was extremely excited when he got a letter saying he'd been accepted to a rather exclusive college. I guess it wasn't going to be windy there, because his mother said this meant his worries about the draft were over. Most colleges didn't approve of slavery, and if someone took their slave girl to one of those places, she had to pretend she was a freeperson except in private. I was fortunate, because Master's college was one which not only accepted slavery as a fact of life, but catered to the slave owner. I was going to college! Slaves weren't allowed on public transportation yet, except as cargo, so Master had to ship me. How slaves were shipped had changed over the years. I was prepared for shipping by being thoroughly cleaned, inside and out. Starting two days before shipment, I was placed on a liquid diet, followed by regular enemas. My pre-departure meal, though, was a half pound of cheddar cheese. I always liked cheese, but knew I wasn't being fed for my pleasure; it was to bind up my bowels, and create a temporary blockage so I wouldn't shit on the trip. Just before the shippers arrived, I was placed in a diaper, just in case, and my wrists were secured behind my back with comfortable leather restraints. My mouth was filled with a rather small penis gag, which actually served two purposes: it kept me quiet, but also provided me with something to drink, through a tube attacked to a small water supply. Master told me the water was spiked with a drug that would help keep my anxiety under control; he knew of my intense phobia about enclosed spaces. My shipping crate was a padded wooden box, large enough for me to lay down and move around a bit in. I was placed in the box, which was then nailed shut. The cotton batting lining the walls provided my body with protection from the bumps inherent with shipping, and was actually quite comfortable. Then it was off to the train station, where I was loaded with Master's other property into baggage car. It was a two day trip, so Master came back to visit me once, pleased to find my diaper wet but not soiled. He removed the gag and allowed me to exercise my jaws, relieved himself in my mouth, and then treated me to a small bit of chocolate before closing my box again. My diaper was not changed, but that was my fault. I should have had better control of myself. Upon arrival at our destination, Master released me from my bonds and had me prepare his dorm room. It was rather small, but functional. A bed, closet and desk with a chair were all it contained, and barely enough room for that. I laid out the carpet he'd brought, then began putting his things away. When I was done, he took me to MY quarters. Slaves weren't allowed to stay in the student dorms, except on weekends and holidays. Instead, we lived in a place known as "The Stables," which really resembled a dog kennel, not a horse stable. About the only similarity to a stable was the large oval arena, encircled with individual cages, each just large enough to hold a single slave. Each group of six cages was semi-protected by what resembled a lean-to style shed, side and back walls, with a roof. The front of the shed was open to the elements, but I found out later that a canvas sheet was dropped over the front during inclement weather. Once placed inside our cages, we were chained into position. It was our choice whether he'd be chained on our belly or our back, but once a slave made up her mind, that was it. At lights out, our ankles would be chained apart to the top corners of the cage, in whichever position we selected. It was impossible to roll over, and having our hands cuffed to our collars made most surreptitious masturbation difficult, if not impossible. I say most, because it really wasn't that difficult to lay on your belly and rub your pussy against the rough wool blanket they gave us, though there was a beating the next morning if staff found dried cunt juice on your thighs or the blanket. A lot of the girls would pee themselves after cumming, hoping to cover up the evidence, but the trainers figured that out quickly. Anyone who peed would receive a beating and get no food that day. Slaves weren't allowed outside the stables on school days, being deemed a distraction to the students. However, an Owner could come sign out his or her slave (we had a few female Owners, and a couple of male slaves as well) after noon on Friday, and keep us out until 9:00 pm on Sunday night. Master usually did that, and between laundry, cleaning his room, and taking care of his sexual needs, I never got much sleep. I often returned to my cage exhausted, bruised, and with my lips - both upper and lower - chaffed and swollen. But, I loved it. The arena which the cages bordered was used for the second most favorite activity of the slave owners - pony races. Each day, trainers would take us out for exercise. This consisted of being harnessed to a variety of weight-bearing devices...sometimes carts, other times just pallets stacked with rocks...and pulling them around the arena as fast and as many times as we could. Whoever finished first, or went the farthest, was usually rewarded with a treat of some kind...often a bit of chocolate, but sometimes an order to make herself cum. Sometimes we'd just go out and run in the yard, without being harnessed. We'd learn different ways of lifting our feet, like gallop, which meant to run as fast as you can, or canter, which meant we would prance around and raise our knees up as high as they could go. The trainers always stood by, observing, and used their whips to encourage the slaves who they believed weren't trying hard enough. This was all training for the spring races, during which we were harnessed to two-wheeled carts in which our Masters were riding, and would race a variety of distances against each other. A couple of the small girls had very large, heavy Masters, and I always felt sorry for them when they came in last. Last place meant no reward, and often a punishment. I finished first once (my reward was a whole chocolate bar!), and came in third place another time. I wasn't really that good as a racing pony, but I never finished last, either. Master never punished me for doing poorly, but I knew in my heart that I should have won every race for him. I think he knew I was beating myself up, emotionally, for my failures. Weekdays at the stables were pretty boring and monotonous. Other than the couple of hours for exercise and meals, we were kept locked in our cages. Our ankles weren't chained during the day, but there was always a trainer around to make sure nobody was playing with themselves. The only real break in the monotony would be if a slave's Owner permitted the trainers to use her. Each of the ten or so trainers could select a slave each day to serve them, but I was seldom picked. I was twice the age of most of other slave girls, and my body showed it. Meals at the stables. We were fed twice a day. After our morning walk, and again after our evening exercise session, we were hosed down and then herded to the feeding trough. It was a long, narrow metal gutter...about twice the width of what you'd have on a house...down which our food traveled. We'd be lined up, kneeling with our wrists cuffed to our collars, as the food was poured into one end of the trough. Master told me it was nutritious, but it didn't taste very good. He told me it had all sorts of good things in it, like pureed liver, asparagus, carrot peelings and other fresh vegetables and extra vitamins. Once in a while, one of us would fish something solid out, like a piece of bread or a bone with a bit of meat on it. Master said these were leftovers from the student dining room, which were added to our meal the following day. Whenever we heard the students had steak, we took special effort to dig around in the slop for a piece of fat or gristle. There were other things in the food, too, which weren't so good. Sometimes if the trainers were displeased, they'd make us watch while they urinated into food buckets before they dumped it in the trough. It didn't matter, because we were expected to eat whatever was served. I didn't really mind, because you could hardly taste the pee. Some of the other girls, though, refused to eat when they saw the trainers pissing in their food. It still didn't matter, and they always ended up eating more than anyone else - after their beating, and a promise that they'd get nothing but urine for the next week if they didn't slurp it up. Most of the time, though, life in the kennels was just plain boring. When we weren't exercising or eating, there was nothing to do. We weren't allowed to talk to each other...though we did, all the time. I discovered that my two neighbors were both born free. One was sold at age four, when her father's business went bankrupt. She didn't really remember much about being free, except the faint memory of sleeping in a warm, soft bed, and of never being hungry. The other voluntarily submitted herself to her boyfriend when she was eighteen. He told her the only way he would make love to her was as his slave. I couldn't believe she was that naive; slaves don't "make love," they are fucked and raped. The boyfriend didn't even have the courtesy to take her cherry, either, immediately reselling her to her own little brother, whom she detested. Too bad for her, particularly since he hated her just as much, and after repeatedly raping her, sold her to a slave brothel. One of her customers became enamored with her oversized tits and bought her as a gift for his own son, who was now a student here. He was a harsh Master, she said, but not nearly as cruel to her as her brother was. Oh, well, it was her own choice to become a slave. Like they say, you can pick your nose, and you can pick your ass, but you can't pick your Owner. Sorry, very old slave humor there. Weekends were often wonderful, but sometimes not. If a girl's Master didn't come to get her, she just remained in her cage until Monday morning. You couldn't even change position, because nobody came to release your ankles. There were no meals on the weekend, no exercise periods, and if you had to go, you soiled yourself and stayed that way until Monday morning. That happened to me twice, when Master went away with a free female for the weekend. There wasn't even anyone around to call if there was an emergency; one of the slaves died when she accidently cut herself. At least we think it was accidental. She seemed a happy enough slave, but you never know. Her Master only came to get her about once a month, so maybe she finally broke from the lack of use. My typical weekend, though, was pretty good. Master would pick me up as soon as his last class was over, and take me back to his room. He'd moved at mid-semester to a larger, nicer room which he shared with a young man who didn't have a slave of his own. Master was quite generous, and often allowed him full use of my body. This other boy, who I was instructed to refer to as "Boss," was a bit more well-endowed than Master, but not nearly as imaginative or skilled. Perhaps he deferred to Master because I was not his property, but I think he was just happy to have a slut with three willing holes to fulfill his needs. Between the two of them, I was used well and often...at least on the weekends. Master took vacation each summer, sending me to visit Sir and Ma'am while he toured South America, Europe or Asia. It was nice going back home again, because it meant I was temporarily their property. I even got to call them Master and Mistress again, and serve them as I had before. They had a new slave girl now, and I didn't like her very much. She was disobedient and untruthful, lying about the food she'd stolen and the orgasms she'd give herself at night. She hated me, I think, because every time she did something wrong, I reported it. Mistress used to beat her unmercifully for that. She was only twenty, and had been involuntarily submitted because of a crime she'd committed. Master bought her at auction as a gift to Mistress, though neither of them was quite pleased with her, and were considering disposing of her. Master told me that it was like buying a new pet when your old one had died...they never made suitable replacements. For some reason, that comment gave me a warm feeling. I was 38 years old, and my life was comfortable. However, things were about to change.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 5: Little Girl's Plaything (1959 - Age 38) Just before Master graduated from college, he started dating a nice young lady he met in one of his classes. They had a whirlwind romance, and the day after graduation, were married. I was so happy for him, but it would mean a major change in my life. Master's wife was from an abolitionist family, and she didn't believe it was right for one person to own another. Master offered to free me, but I knew I wouldn't be able to survive in the world on my own. A slave's life is the only thing I knew. Master refused to consign me to an auction house, saying he wouldn't allow me to be sold to some unknown who might abuse me. Instead, he advertised my availability through a network of slave owners. There must have been quite a few interested parties, because he spent a considerable amount of time interviewing prospective buyers. He wanted to ensure I didn't end up in the hands of a sadist. After several weeks, he finally made up his mind. My new Owners were a professional couple, seeking a slave to look after their home and ten year old daughter. They seemed nice enough, to the point of inviting Master to their home any time he wished. Master seemed pleased with his selection of my new Owners, and even telling them that he'd received higher offers, but wanted to make sure I was given to a family worthy of my services. I could sense, just from meeting them, that this was going to be a good time for me. My new Owners seemed truly concerned about my comfort and well-being. I was given a dress to wear, and got to sit in the back seat of the car - I actually sat on the seat, not kneel on the floor. They asked me if I was hungry (I wasn't) or comfortable (I was). The family chattered incessantly, happily, of all the nice things I'd find at my new home. Although I already missed my old Master...after all, I'd known and served him for over 20 years...I knew I was going to like my new life, and I'd learn to love my new Owners. The illusion lasted as far as the city limits. The car pulled in to the first rest stop, and the child - my new Mistress - sneered at me. "What the fuck is a piece of shit like you doing, sitting in this fucking car, wearing fucking clothes, you stupid cunt? Get those fucking clothes off and your stupid ass out on the ground, on your fucking knees before I decide your worthless body isn't good enough to be used as a shitter, bitch!" she screamed, using her foot to slam my body into the door. I don't know whether it was the sudden change in demeanor or the fact that I'd never heard such words from a child that shocked me more. I must have hit the door latch when she kicked me, because the door flew open. As I fell from the still-moving car, she grabbed at my dress, ripping to off my body. I knelt there, naked in the dirt, while my new Mistress and her parents beat me unmercifully with fists, feet, belts and whips. When my bladder let loose from the unexpected turn of events - I hadn't been treated like this in many years - Mistress pushed my face forcefully into the pissy mud, screaming at me to clean it up, all the while my back being beaten to a bloody pulp. When they were finally finished - for the moment, anyway - I was trussed up with my arms behind my back, elbows touching. A spreader bar between my knees spread my legs painfully, and was pulled up behind my back and connected to my collar. I was then dumped unceremoniously into the trunk, to spend the rest of the ride home sobbing in pain, accompanied in the darkness by only the rancid odor of old sweat, urine, dried feces and blood lining my compartment. I knew I wasn't the first slave to be transported in there. I don't know how long I was in that trunk, but it was morning when we left my former Master's home, and well after dark when we arrived at my new one. My life was to become a living nightmare. Mistress was a psychotic, sadistic little bitch. Her parents, as cruel as they were, were angels by comparison. I was Mistress's third slave in the past eighteen months, the other two having died from her mistreatment of them. My daily duties seemed to change on a weekly, if not daily, basis. Initially, I was their toilet. If Mistress's father needed to take a piss, I was required to pull his cock out and take him in my mouth. When her mother had to crap, I not only swallowed her shit, but licked her asshole clean afterwards. When one of them got sick, I cleaned up the vomit with my mouth. Quite often, their shit and piss was the closest thing to nourishment I received. I'd certainly tasted urine and feces before, but not to this extent. The foul, revolting taste in my mouth constantly reminded me of the hell I was living in. Each night, and whenever I wasn't being abused in some form or another, I was chained out in the back yard. It didn't matter if it was raining, hailing or scorching hot out, I was left unprotected and vulnerable to the elements. Mistress took great pleasure in inflicting constant physical and mental abuse on me. When I was permitted food, it was once a day, sometimes once every two days, usually in the form of rotten vegetables, stale scraps of bread, or dog food. My drinking water came from the toilet. I was allowed to drink like an animal from it, but only before it was flushed after someone used it. This, of course, assumed that I wasn't the toilet. Mistress often refused to permit me to drink until several people had shit in it first. My own body wastes were recycled; every time I pissed or shit, I was forced to slurp it back up. The same when I got sick...if I was unable to eat, they'd simply keep my vomit in a bowl for when I was better. After a while, I graduated to being a garbage receptacle. I think I would have preferred remaining a toilet. Whenever Mistress's mother would prepare meals, I would kneel by her side and she'd stuff my mouth with whatever she needed to throw away. Food wrappers, onion peels, the fat trimmed off of meat, whatever it was, I was expected to eagerly and obediently chew and swallow. Undoubtedly the worst was when she would empty expired containers of milk, or other rotten food into her human garbage disposal. Sunday became refrigerator cleaning day, something which I learned to dread. This often made me sick, but it made no difference to my Owners; I was still expected to perform my duties, regardless, and if I puked, I was punished. I was virtually never permitted to take care of any of my hygiene needs, even during my menstrual cycle, which was now becoming very erratic. My thighs were almost always caked with dried vaginal blood, and the stench that followed me around turned my stomach. I began looking forward to the infrequent evening thunder showers, using the rain to wash my soiled body, even though it meant I would spend the night shivering in the cold air. Even though I was filthy, I was still used sexually. Mistress's parents both took great pleasure in raping my ass; Master with his average-sized dick, Mistress with a monster strap-on dildo that made me feel like I was dying whenever she rammed it into me. Once in a while, I would be forced to service Mistress or her mother with my mouth, while Mistress's father assaulted one of my other two holes. It was Mistress's young friends who were the worst, though. I would be subjected to weekend-long rape sessions, where I'd be fucked into unconsciousness. Mistress's male friends would use me as a target, having me lay with my legs splayed and my hole opened with my fingers so they could have contests to see who could most accurately piss into my cunt, or to see who could make me cum by spraying directly on my clit. The girls took a similar vein, squatting over my face and trying to shit directly into my mouth or cunt. Mistress took great pleasure in finding new, painful degradations for me. At the parties she regularly hosted, I always served as a portable toilet, crawling from guest to guest, offering the use of my mouth. On more than a few occasions, she had me do this with a lit candle in my ass, dripping hot wax down my unprotected slit, or while holding a gallon enema by sheer force of will; when she did this, she never plugged me afterwards. Not being to hold it, I would eventually expel my bowel contents on the floor, to be forced to clean my mess up with my mouth. The games played at her parties were painful as well. Like when I was used as a pinata, with bags of candy filling my cunt, having her blindfolded friends trying to knock them out of me by striking my unprotected belly with a baseball bat. I know my ribs were broken more than once from that. Or "Stuff the Dildo in the Cunt," where, once again, blindfolded girls wearing strap-ons would swarm around while I'd try to escape them by crawling on my hands and knees. The winner - the first one to get her dildo fully imbedded in my ass - would receive full use of me for the night. The worst, though, were "Whose Cock Is That?" and "Bone, Bone, Who Has My Bone?" In "Whose Cock is That," I'd be blindfolded and bent over a footstool. Each boy would take me in the ass, and after they were done, I'd have to identify them while I was sucking them clean, by saying whether the one in my mouth was first, second, etc. It wasn't all that hard to figure out after a while...I could tell a little by size, but also by taste. If I'd been given an enema first, the one that tasted like soap (or whatever was squirted up my ass) was always the first. If his cock has an excess of semen around the shaft, he was probably among the last. It was those middle ones I had problems with, and wrong answers always resulted in some perverse, sadistic punishment. To play "Bone, Bone, Who Has My Bone," one of the girls would hide a doggie biscuit inside her cunt, which I would try to find by sniffing at their crotches, then begin eating out whoever I thought was hiding my bone. This also wasn't that difficult, after I figured it out. Just find a girl having her period, and that's probably where my bone was. It didn't really matter, though, because I would still end up sucking everyone to orgasm, and then get punished anyway. The problem was when I guessed wrong, which happened every time. In that case, each person there would select a punishment. They were all either painful, unhealthy or both. I was made to burn my own nipples, eat dog shit, mark myself with a branding iron, punch a hole in my own labia, fuck a baseball bat, a tree branch and a goat...the list goes on, and there was no end to the degenerate acts they'd think up. There were times they'd play other games, as well. For a while, darts was a favorite - with my nipples and clitoris as the "ten rings." Not only did I serve as the target, but I was expected to do my best to ensure all the darts hit in the target. When the darts were thrown, I couldn't just stand there and wait for them to hit; I had to move so they'd hit as close to the target as possible. Anything outside the ten ring and I'd receive a punishment. Mistress routinely allowed others to use me, but when she caught her boyfriend raping me, she responded by sewing my hole closed with a needle and carpet thread. She could have done the job more effectively by using the existing holes in my labia, but she just wanted to inflect pain. From that day on, I was allowed to take dicks only in my ass, but that hole was made available to anyone without restrictions. My mouth, she said, was reserved for piss and shit. I wasn't even permitted to suck a cock. No restrictions on my asshole included dog dicks. Mistress had a Rottweiler named Roscoe that she trained to take me up the ass. She even had a "wedding ceremony" for us, officially labeling me Roscoe's personal bitch and property. I was given a new collar, marked "Roscoe's Bitch," and from then on I slept in Roscoe's bed, shared the food he left for me, and allowed him full access to my body whenever he wanted it. I was allowed to move only on all fours, with my "husband" holding the other end of my leash in his mouth, leading me around wherever he went. All of this, though, wasn't the worst of it. That was reserved for the daily abuse, neglect and beatings. Because of my treatment, I lost nearly half my body weight. I didn't look much different than the photos of those Nazi concentration camp victims you see in the history books. My eyesight soon began to blur, and I could feel my teeth coming loose. I was more than just sore, I was in constant agony. My joints hurt, and I could barely move at times. My bowels stopped working properly, and sometimes I could hardly breathe. I knew in my heart that I was dying. I was 39 years old, and I lived in Hell. I still thank God that this lasted less than a year, because I'm sure couldn't have lasted much longer.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 6: Forced to Breed Nine months into my personal Hell, I became so catatonic from my treatment that Mistress's parents decided to dispose of me. I suppose I was fortunate, because they could have just taken me to the incinerator, but they wanted at least a piece of their investment back, so I was sold to a discount slave broker. As a replacement, the family from hell bought their daughter a young teen couple, brother and sister, twins. They arrived as I was leaving, and I could hear their screams before I was bundled off into the transport van. I was in extremely poor shape, so spent the next 18 months in rehabilitation center where I was brought back to a semblance of health with nutritious food, good hygiene, and retraining. Some minor surgery was done as well, mostly cosmetic, to cover many of the scars left from my recent abuse. At the Center, I was fed initially fed four meals a day, very small ones, slowly graduating to regular food. It was high protein, low fat and high fiber, in order to assist in the healing process. Daily showers were mandatory, as were regular douches and weekly medical checkups. The best part, though, was that I was allowed to sleep in a real bed for the first time in over a year. It wasn't much of a bed, just a mattress on the floor, but the room was heated, the sheets were changed every two days, and the blankets were soft. In order to help support the Center, all of us slaves - about 70 of us at any given time - were required to provide services to the facility, staff and guests. At first, my physical condition was such that I was more of a burden than anything else, unable to do much of anything. Other slaves were assigned to cleanse and bathe me, assist in my feeding, and help me exercise. Once I was finally able to take care of myself, I was given my own chores. Light ones at first, like folding laundry, but eventually more demanding tasks. Another way in which the Center was supported was through rental fees. Each of us was available for rent at any time, though the slaves who were in bad shape - like I initially was - were quarantined and not open for use. The Center had a number of regular clients, all of whom understood that most of us couldn't handle severe abuse. Most came in just for a quick fuck or suck. A few parents brought their sons in, for their first introduction to sex, as well as to show them the advantages that a good education might have as far as being able to afford a slave girl of their own some day. During my time at the Center, nine handsome young teenage men lost their virginity inside my womb. The other way the Center supported itself was through the sale of rehabilitated slaves. As soon as I was deemed fit for sale, it was off to the auction block again. Although I was nearing forty, a medical exam showed I was still fertile and had an extraordinarily large number of eggs left. I was, it was decided, to become the property of a breeding stable.. Being a brood slave was good and bad. I was fed well, and my medical condition was constantly monitored. My diet consisted of fresh fruit and vegetables, and just enough meat (usually fish) to keep my protein level within the normal range. Once in a while I'd get a sweet, usually a small bit of chocolate. Treats like that were a reward, often given out after a successful delivery. It wasn't until many years later that I found out that women, whether slave or free, often crave chocolate. For me, chocolate was something I would do anything for. The breeding center was comfortable and climate controlled, but the process of breeding was very clinical. It was done very mechanically. Our bodies were monitored until the Breeders were certain we were ovulating, and then we were strapped to a contraption we called the knock-up frame. It forced us to remain motionless, bent forward at the waist, with our legs spread widely. Depending on the method of insemination, either a number of male slaves would line up behind and deposit their seed, or a large syringe would be used to infuse semen directly into the vagina. There was nothing even remotely sexual or pleasurable about the process, and we were even prohibited from giving ourselves orgasms. I eventually found out that the injected semen came from a variety of sources...milked from Male slaves, donations from adolescent Males, even from a few Masters who wanted to own their own children. Whichever process was used, we were bred four times each day until we tested pregnant. Once impregnated, we were permitted to do little more than lay on our beds. Other than four short exercise periods each day, using the toilet, taking the mandatory daily shower and walking to and from the communal dining room, we were forbidden to even stand. No sexual use, and no masturbation. Any slave caught masturbating while pregnant would be bound to a frame, unable to move at all, until she went into labor. No drugs were given during childbirth, and no training or preparation like slaves get now. Many children were stillborn, and when that happened, the slave was beaten for not giving a healthy slave baby. We never saw the baby after birth. It was always a painful experience, especially in the following weeks, as the milk in our breasts hardened. Eventually, a new theory on slave breeding took hold. The thinking was that if a slave girl were treated well, she'd give more babies, and those babies would be healthier, thereby ensuring more income for the Breeder. There were other changes, as well. Thanks to new scientific discoveries - more often than not made through experimentation on slave girls - the Breeders no longer found it necessary to wait until a slave girl was fertile before impregnating her. The new process involved implanting inseminated eggs directly into the womb...usually, three or four at a time, in order to increase "yield," as they called it. I understand they do this now with free women who are unable to have their own children. Many of us actually had our ovaries removed in order to completely eliminate the birthing timetable. Now, within a few days of delivering, the slave girl was taken into the impregnation center and implanted with new babies to grow inside her. It turned us into perpetual baby-making machines, and through DNA type-matching, the Breeders were able to ensure that we pumped out nothing but baby female slaves. In this manner, a healthy slave could provide three full-term litters every two years. Many times, labor was induced as soon as the babies were viable, again, to increase the yield. Through this method, the yield could be increased by one-fourth, to nearly two litters a year. It was important that we produced as many female babies as possible, because they were sold at a premium. The demand for natural born slave girls has always been high. Much higher than for involuntary or even voluntary submissions. Males, on the other hand, usually entered slavery at adulthood, or very near it, as the result of criminal convictions. The other change that occurred, at about the same time, was that we were milked daily. Before, our milk had been allowed to curdle and harden inside our swollen breasts, but now we were being attached to mechanical milking machines, much like you see in bovine dairies. There were two very simple, logical reasons for this: One, science had shown that infants develop more quickly and healthier if they are fed breast milk, and two, it taught the baby early dependence on Males. You see, we still never saw the babies we delivered, except for that few minutes after delivery. They were immediately taken and placed in a communal setting, where Male slaves took care of their every need. They bottle-fed the baby slaves our breast milk, changed them, cuddled and nurtured them. The Males were always naked, so as to acclimate the slave girl to understand that she was totally dependent upon those with appendages between their legs. But the real impact of this philosophical change on the slaves was our treatment. We were treated as valuable commodities, as this is exactly what we were. Given the fact that a healthy slave baby could command as much as $10,000, and a fully trained teen well over $50,000 - twice that if she were a virgin - a single breeding slave could earn her Owners many thousands of dollars each year. If the Breeder was willing to invest the time and money to raise and train the babies, that single slave could bring ten million dollars to her owners. Few Breeders looked at their slaves as a long-term investment, though, so slave babies were usually sold to Trainers while they were still in diapers. It took the mainstream Breeders a few years to catch on, but, thankfully, I'd been sold to one of the smaller, more exclusive houses where quality was more important than quantity. Admittedly, I was an experiment, as they'd never had a brood slave as old as me. Once the new philosophy started taking hold, I was treated very well, with good, healthy food and regular exercise. I lived in a well-ventilated, heated dorm with seven other breeding slaves, and we each had our own bed. We were permitted to use the adjoining bathroom whenever we needed, and were required to shower daily. Regular medical exams, daily vitamins and plenty of time outdoor in the sun helped maintain our health. We were even allowed to have one orgasm a week, though this was strictly controlled. As with all slave girls, we were prohibited from cumming until a Master gave us permission. Orgasms were now permitted, but always as a reward to the newly impregnated brood slave. Sometimes, though quite uncommon, we were even penetrated by the Masters...always while pregnant, and always from behind, while on our hands and knees. Again, the belief was that this would indoctrinate the slave baby to her life even before she was born. I was owned by this particular Breeder for ten years, and had given birth to 61 slave girls (I miscarried once, when I was implanted with sextuplets and lost them all). As the company which owned me was a very exclusive, selective and expensive Breeder, I was finally determined too old to be guaranteed to produce healthy slave babies. Once again, I was sent to auction. I was 52 years old.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 7: Frat Girl and an Extreme Makeover (1972 - Age 51) As you might imagine, after ten years of pumping out slave babies, I wasn't much to look at. Even with the decent care I'd received, stretch marks covered my belly and varicose veins were visible on my legs. My now-floppy tits sagged from the nearly constant milking of the past several years. I was still able to produce, but my Owners noticed that the weight and health of my most recent litters was decreasing. I was deemed too much of a risk. A lot of money was invested in each breeding, and they felt the potential for financial loss was too great. It was time for me to be sold once again. As the oldest among a chain of young teens and 20-somethings, I knew I probably wouldn't be much sought after. I tried my best to look appealing, submissive and absolutely obedient, but I knew going in that the chances were I'd soon be performing my last service as either fertilizer or animal food. That, of course, didn't happen. I was bought by a group of college fraternity brothers for fifty dollars. I really wasn't worth even that much. I doubt that I was really what a group of young, virile men was looking for, but fifty bucks was probably all they could afford. So, a new leash was snapped to my collar, and I was led off to begin another phase in my life. It was your typical frat house, a large, two story Victorian. There were nine bedrooms, each shared by two of the fraternity brothers. They were fairly identical, differing only in the location of the closets and the layout of the furniture. The bedroom floors were covered in a thick, plush carpet. I would soon learn to enjoy the luxury of being able to sleep on the floors of these rooms. I was going to describe the rest of the house in detail, but realize you probably aren't all that interested. Suffice it to say that the residence, built just before the Civil War, was a combination of modern and antique, and maintained immaculately. I knew, because if as much as a speck of dust was found, it was my ass that paid for it. My room was up in the unfinished, uninsulated attic. A bare wood floor, exposed rafters with a single 60 watt bulb hanging from a wire, and an old, stained mattress on the floor. A bucket in case I needed it. The single window was boarded over; leaving the vents under the eaves at each end of the house as the only ventilation. The door locked from the outside, but not the inside. I could be secured in my quarters, but as usual, had no assurance of privacy. The attic was freezing cold in the winter and stifling hot in the summer. Fortunately, I would actually spend very little time in it. Even as old as I was, one or another of the boys bedded me almost every night. My duties were about what you'd expect...I cooked, served meals, cleaned the house, straightened their rooms, made their beds, washed their dirty laundry, and, of course, provided for their sexual relief whenever they couldn't find some young, nubile coed to take care of them. Dates didn't happen too often with this group; they weren't exactly the well-built, athletic, popular types. Today you'd call them geeks and nerds. Most of them were chemistry, biology, math or computer science majors. I doubt any of them had ever visited a gym or seriously participated in any form of sports in their lives. Whenever I was in one of my Master's rooms or my attic hovel, I was required to be naked. However, while performing my chores, serving meals or as a maid at their infrequent social events, they did give me a uniform to wear. It consisted of my collar, fishnet stockings, platform shoes with spiked heels, and a pressed, starched waist apron that just covered my bare sex. I thought it looked pretty silly; after all, I was probably old enough to be their grandmother, but they apparently like fantasizing that I was some nubile young thing. I doubt that was all that easy, considering my wrinkled, saggy boobs were always uncovered. Even when cooking, they remained bare. I particularly disliked cooking bacon, as I could never figure out how to fry it without being burned with the grease. The only time I was permitted to wear anything different was when they played dress-up with me, or when I was sent to do the weekly grocery shopping. For my trips outside in public, the collar was removed, and I was allowed to wear a simple knee-length cotton floral print dress, sandals, a butt plug, and my leather chastity belt. It didn't matter what time of the year it was, even when the temperature was below freezing, with a foot of snow on the ground, I walked the nine blocks in the same dress, wearing the same sandals. Even though I bore no outward signs that I was a slave, it was undoubtedly quite obvious to everyone. Who else would wear the same frayed dress and cheap sandals. day in and day out, in good weather and bad? Only a slave. As I said, I belonged to a group of geeks. That's both good and bad. Geeks don't often have dates, except with other geeks or real porkers who can't do any better. With my owners, it was more the former than the latter, so I did spend a lot of my time on my knees and back. Each of them generally used me once a day, usually before or just after school. I usually enjoyed that, even when I wasn't able to cum. It wasn't that they'd forbidden me, but that some of them were neither well-endowed nor particularly talented in the sexual arts. I was pretty frustrated at times. After dinner and my chores, I'd be told to clean up and report to one room or another for the rest of the night. Sometimes I'd get sleep, others I wouldn't. Usually, though, I would be able to get a few hours. Most often curled up on the floor with cum leaking out of my holes, but sometimes nuzzled up to one of my Masters or huddled down under the covers, my mouth gently sucking his dick all night long. The best thing about geeks is that they are the people with brains, who end up creating new ideas and inventions, and who invariably end up with money. A whole lot of money. As this fraternity, which catered to the techno-science types, had been around for over a hundred years, there were a lot of very wealthy alumni, and they tended to pump some of that money back into their old fraternity. Hence, when some of them showed up for the spring Homecoming, they were surprised to find that their younger brothers were being forced to make do with an old hag as their frat cunt. After I was well and thoroughly used by everyone who wanted me, the more affluent of the graduates huddled together to discuss, what I later found out, was my future. Thought was given to just replacing me with another slave, but my Masters were adamant. I had served them well and faithfully, and even at my old age, they said they thoroughly enjoyed using me sexually. The alumni agreed on this point, that I was quite a pleasure to fuck. So, after a short discussion, they announced that certain temporary changes would occur within the fraternity...and with me. I was going to finish out the school term as frat slut, and then would be gone for the summer and fall term, possibly longer. When I returned, the frat brothers were assured, I'd be prettier, tighter, smarter and an overall more visually appealing slave, with all of my natural submissiveness and docility still intact. Since the graduates couldn't see leaving the fraternity without the services of a frat slut, they were going to provide temporary replacements. Each Friday afternoon, the graduates would send in a different slave who would stay for ten days. This way, there would always be one slave girl available during the week and two on weekends during my absence. I finished out the semester, and at the end of the term, the fraternity held a huge party to celebrate the coming summer break. It was a traditional reunion time for the graduates, so they all showed up as well, each with one or two slave girls in tow. Because of the number of cute young sexpots available, I wasn't used for anything but serving drinks and fetching napkins. I was disappointed, but watching all those young girls get their asses fucked off by my Owners sure got my motor running. Someone surely saw how wet I was becoming, because I was allowed to spread myself out on the back porch and pleasure myself with a huge vibrator, much to the amusement of the frat brothers and slave girls who were watching. Little did I know when I screamed to announce my orgasm that it would be the last time I would cum for nearly a year. The next day, I was packaged for transport, as cargo on a Fed Ex flight. I was granted the opportunity to use the toilet, then was given an enema in order to clean me out for the trip. A shower followed, and then I was bound, gagged and diapered, and placed in a padded shipping crate for the trip. The way Fed Ex routes their shipments, it wouldn't be anything near a direct flight. First we'd go to a local hub, then to a national hub, to another local hub nearer to my destination, then onto a truck for final delivery. The method for transporting slaves hadn't changed much over the years, even to the same sort of penis gag water supply that I'd used on my train trip to college so long ago. . My destination, as it turned out, was a small, privately owned island off the South American coast. The owner of the island was a research physician who had established an experimental facility where slave girls - willing and unwilling - underwent a variety of highly unorthodox, often dangerous, physical and psychological treatments. Some free persons had these surgeries, too, but only after they'd been proven safe by being performed on slaves. The doctor was a fraternity brother, though he'd never been to any of the reunions which I served. I stayed in the medical treatment section of The Center, as it was called, for almost six months. During that time, my treatment varied, sometimes daily, from that of a pampered patient to something lower than dog shit. I later understood that the pampering was necessary for my recovery from the numerous surgeries; the the harsh treatment afterwards was to ensure I remembered that I was nothing but a slave. Some of the surgeries performed on other patients were pretty hideous. I remember one girl, she seemed compliant, but I could tell she wasn't totally willing. Her body had been modified so as to look more like a caricature than a woman...she was about 5'10" tall, but I doubt she weighed more than 90 pounds. That wouldn't have been so bad, but her tits....God, they were huge, like oversized basketballs hanging on this thin body. You could see her ribs clearly, and she reminded of pictures of Nazi concentration camp victims. Her feet had been modified somehow, or maybe it was her legs...she couldn't move her knees to within a foot of each other, and she had to walk on her tiptoes constantly. Completely bald, I was told that every hair follicle on her body had been destroyed. It was also whispered that she'd not been allowed a single orgasm since she'd been here, nearly a year, yet she was raped several times a day. Her Owner was a woman who visited her a couple of times, and seemed exceptionally cruel. I gave thanks that I wasn't owned by Her! Other slaves underwent different surgeries. One, whose well-hung Master had a penchant for ass-fucking, had her sphincter muscles immobilized and her anal passage widened to accommodate him. She had to constantly wear a butt plug to prevent leakage, as she no longer had any control over her bowels. Another had huge rings, the size of antique door knockers, implanted deep in her breasts. I saw her hung by them, her feet pulled off the ground as she screamed in agony. The rings never gave, though. I saw a male slave whose penis was increased to eighteen inches long with four inch diameter. I doubted if any woman would get pleasure being fucked by him, though I later found out that he was going to be used to punish disobedient slave girls who didn't perform adequately during rape. These were the more dramatic modifications that I saw during my stay. More common, though, were breast, labia and facial modifications, sterilizations, and the occasional castration. My modifications weren't nearly as drastic as most, though they did cause dramatic changes. I was sterilized, but the most significant change was probably just my overall appearance. With a few nips and tucks, the wrinkles were gone and my skin was as taut as when I was 16. Botox. Collagen injections in my lips...yes, both sets...caused them to swell up and give me a much more appealing look. My clitoral hood was removed...it was still intact, even after all the years of abuse, the result being that even the sensation caused by the simple act of walking would stimulate me. Chemical baths softened my skin, making it more pliable, and another chemical gave me a permanent, all-over tan. My breasts were enlarged somewhat, from a flabby, saggy 36C to a solid and firm 42D, but not by means of traditional implants. Instead, the doctor extracted fat cells from my thighs, and allowing them to reproduce in the lab, injected them directly into my breasts. Further injections of hormones ensured I'd grow a nice, large, firm set of knockers like so many Masters enjoy. Lastly, many of the marks and holes that had been put in my body were eliminated. With the exceptions of the steel grommets, my labia were returned to their pre-pierced state, and my vaginal and anal openings were surgically tightened. All of this took nearly a half year to accomplish, and then I was sent to another part of the island for "retraining." The training wasn't all that bad, except I soon found out what poor physical condition I was in. We spent upwards of six hours each day doing some sort of physical exercise, whether it was running on the beach, calisthenics, or working out in the gym. Sex was also part of the training regimen, though I learned there wasn't much they taught that I wasn't already familiar with. Most of what I didn't know pertained to the why, not the how. Personally, I never felt it was all that necessary for a slave girl to know why her Master enjoyed something; just knowing he did, and acting on that knowledge, was enough. I also discovered how stupid I was, at least as far as my literacy skills. I was pretty bright for a slave girl, but until a few years ago, it had never been deemed important to have a slave girl who could read, write or do mathematical calculations. Slave girls were simply there to cook, clean, and provide for their Master's sexual needs. A knowledge of current events wasn't exactly considered a critical skill. Things, however, have changed over the years. Today, slave girls are being used in a variety of areas. In the household, they do the shopping, take care of the finances, and create gourmet meals from recipes they download from the internet. Of course, the internet didn't really exist yet, except as an ARPA project, but even in the 1970's, we were expected to read recipes and instructions. In business today, they serve as secretaries, laborers, janitors and maids, all of which require some degree of literacy to be successfully performed. Sometimes they actually manage and supervise mail rooms and such, but that was well into the future. I was put into an education program lasting another six months. Combined with the physical training, my days were often 18 and 20 hours long, with little time for rest and no relaxation. Our time was filled with note-taking, reading, writing, test taking and exercise. The topics ran the gamut from literacy and basic math to hygiene and nutrition. There were nearly daily exams, and anything less than a near-perfect score resulted in punishment. Those with perfect marks were permitted to masturbate to orgasm. Those with poor scores were punished. I was never perfect, but usually avoided the punishment. No matter what, though, we were all constantly exhausted. At the end of the day, we would all silently eat our meal and collapse on our mattresses, the only sounds in our dorm those of snoring or moans as sore muscles tightened up during the night. I was actually at the Clinic for a little over 13 months before I was deemed fit to return to the Fraternity. By then, I could read a newspaper, balance a checkbook, and cook a gourmet meal from a recipe. My skin was tight and wrinkle-free. I could cross my ankles behind my neck again, something I'd not been able to do since my teens. I had shiny new rings in my nipples, my holes were tight, and I'd even learned to take that abnormally modified slave boy all the way down my throat without gagging. Well, not much gagging, anyway. I was 52 years old, looked 30, and was in the best condition of my life for whatever tasks my Masters might give me.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 8: Pain Slave It took another twelve years, four generations of students running through the fraternity, before they finally tired of me. I was old and worn out, and looked it. Even the physician from the Clinic, who came to visit at reunion that final year, said there wasn't much he could do for me. The years of abuse had taken their toll, and the boys (I always thought of them as my boys) just couldn't see the use in keeping me around. Contrary to popular belief, maintaining a slave girl is not cheap. A younger girl could do everything I could, and would be much more enjoyable to fuck. So with some help from their "big brothers," they purchased a cute little blonde teenage slave to be their new fraternity slut. I was no longer of any use, so was led off to the sales lot once again. As you might expect, there really wasn't much demand for a 70 year old slave. My Owner tried every trick he could think of, including showing of my culinary skills. Not even homemade cookies of my own recipe worked, though and after several months, he finally had to pretty much give me away. Even then, he had to discount the lot I was sold with. I overheard the conversation between my current and future Owners. The buyer was even willing to pay more without me, but the seller insisted I be included, or there would be no deal at all. His parting comment as he handed over the sales documents was that maybe my new Owner would find a client who fantasized over boning his own grandmother. I was being sold to a brothel. My new Owner was not at all happy about my inclusion in the deal, which I feared would not bode well for my treatment. Besides me, the lot consisting of eight young teens, two of whom were actually virgins. Six were purchased in China from their parents, while the other two were Salvadorans caught trying to cross into the U.S. A new federal law made slavery the only punishment for that offense. Since these illegals allegedly wanted to work, the thought was, we'll make them work. The virgins were Chinese, fourteen year old twins. We were all bussed off to a brothel out in the desert, in Arizona, I believe. It wasn't a bad life for me, at first. All the other slaves were considerably younger than me, so I was relegated housekeeping chores. Work for me was just that...work; hard and sweaty work Because I wasn't being used as a sex slave, I was allowed no makeup, no clothes and one shower per week. There was no real reason for me to look like anything than an old, used-up, worn out old slave, and no need to spend any unnecessary money on making me look presentable. None of the customers ever saw me. My duties primarily involved ensuring each bed had a fresh set of linen on it for each customer, quite a task when you figure we had seventy rooms, 200 girls and up to 500 customers each night. After hours (which was late morning), when there were no customers, I would dust and vacuum the lobby and rooms, so at best, I had no more than five hours of rest each day. There had been times when I'd made do with less, but I was a lot older now, and was definitely feeling the lack of sleep. The one thing that really made life bad for me was that the other slaves started treating me like I was their slave, too...ordering me around, having me fetch makeup for them between customers, calling me to warm up the shower for them so they could get cleaned up, etc. That was important to them, getting as many customers as you could each night, because those who earned the most, got the best treatment. Preferential rooms, nicer beds, better food. You'd think that they'd at least tip me with a nice bit of chocolate or piece of hot chicken breast once in a while for serving them as well as I did, but that never happened. I mostly got cold, leftover scraps...and oatmeal. I really hate oatmeal. My life became a bit better once the Owners discovered I was a trained chef and put me to work in the kitchen. I guess they'd read in my papers that I was a pretty good cook; too bad they missed the part about oatmeal. Or maybe they didn't. Anyway, preparing 600 buffet-style meals a day was quite an ordeal, not to mention hors d'oeuvres for the paying customers, snacks for the slaves, and filling orders from the staff dining room. Everything cooked from scratch, served hot and fresh. The Owners and staff ordered from a menu that changed daily. Nothing but the best...grilled to order steak, salmon, game hens. Wild rice pilaf, freshly made pies and expensive wines, served on china place settings, real silverware and linen napkins. I started work at 3:00 a.m. now, and wasn't finished until the last of the clean dishes were put away and everything was staged for the next morning. But at least I was out of the laundry business, and was allowed the luxury of a cotton chef's apron to cover my body...and I was no longer being forced to submit to the whims of the other slave girls. I was actually pretty much ignored, like any other fixture in the establishment. I was a tool, an item, something with a single purpose, like a light bulb or a towel; something that was just there, but otherwise ignored. One night, though, my life took a drastic change for the worse. A group of drunk young men came in looking for a pain slave. This establishment didn't really cater to that side of things, but the Owner wasn't about to tell these boys, who obviously had money, to go elsewhere. Figuring he wouldn't lose anything of real value if I was damaged or killed, he rented me to them for the night. It was the beginning of my descent into Hell. That night, I was tortured like I had never before been in my life. My eyelids were sealed shut with hot wax from a burning candle, and my ears received the same treatment. My nostrils were clamped shut, and my mouth filled with urine. I tried to swallow, but it came too fast, and when it spilled out, they rolled me over and beat me terribly. Spreading my legs, they used the same candle to drip wax in my asshole. Not on it. They actually spread me open and directed the molten liquid directly into my bowels. I passed out from the pain. When I awoke, they were in the process of shaving my head bald. I was soon hairless, not even with eyebrows. My eyelashes were torn out, too, when they ripped the wax from my eyelids. There was not a hair on my body when they were through. My abusers spat in my face and in my mouth. They forced me to my hands and knees, one savagely raping my ass while another choked me with his cock down my throat. My nostrils were still shut, and I couldn't breath, but every time I passed out from lack of oxygen, I awakened to another beating. They shit on my belly and forced me to pack my cunt with it. They made me suck their blood and shit covered cocks clean. I was forced to clean their dirty assholes, and to bathe their bodies with my tongue. The night went on and on, one anguishing torment after another, until they finally left me, bleeding and half-conscious on the cold, concrete floor. I could see my pathetic figure in the mirrored walls. I couldn't understand how I'd lived through it. I was incapacitated for an entire week after my ordeal, but my life had changed. From that day on, I was the resident pain slave. I was in demand now, and used around the clock. The degradations and agony I endured was second to nothing on this earth. A two gallon ice water enema that caused an intestinal rupture. Holes in my body from where someone decided to try out a new leather punch...my labia, my ears, the web of my thumbs, my cheek and lips. Torn labia, ripped earlobes, nipple rings getting torn out. Being ass-fisted and foot-fucked. My tongue and tits being nailed to the walls and floor time and again. Being repeatedly raped while crucified...really crucified, with my hands nailed to an X-frame. Being tortured with electricity...having shocks applied to my nipples and clitoris until they were numb. Being beaten and cut in so many ways I can't count them. Being covered in dried shit, cum and my own blood for days upon end. Being constantly dirty, starved and in excruciating pain, my only relief being found in the few minutes of sleep I'd get between tortures and the short recovery time I'd be granted when my Owners deemed I was too beaten to continue. I was 71 years old, and I was wrong those thirty years ago. I wasn't in Hell then. THIS was Hell.
Memoirs of a Slave Girl Part 9: A New Beginning My life as a pain slut was hell. I can't count the number of times I tried to kill myself, either by reopening wounds inflicted on me, intentionally inflicting injuries or most often, simply trying to piss the customers off in the hopes they'd beat me to death. Nothing worked, and I remained alive for more and more cruel torture. Finally, though, I wasn't even fit for that kind of abuse. It only took a few weeks, thankfully. People stopped renting me, probably because I no longer screamed or cried. I wasn't physically able to even do the simple chores I'd first been assigned, so I was sold to a disposal facility At that point, I didn't really care. I was ready for the suffering to end, and readily accepted my predestined fate as either fertilizer or animal feed. This was how slaves who were not longer fit for an productive use ended up. It was simply a fact of life that I was ready to eagerly embrace. My prayers weren't answered in the way I'd hoped, though. Rather than being destroyed, I was taken away by a charitable group dedicated to the humane treatment of slaves. Their philosophy was that slaves, unless they have a chronic, terminal condition that caused them extreme pain, should be allowed to live out their lives naturally and not be turned into fertilizer until they died naturally. So, my ownership was again transferred, and I was off to begin another new life. The rehabilitation center I was sent to this time operated solely on donations, so there wasn't a lot of money for "unnecessary" things. My treatment consisted primarily of massive doses of antibiotics, healthy food, and rest. My wounds were allowed to heal by themselves, the scars they left unimportant. Broken bones that hadn't been set properly were not repaired by surgery, but illness and infection were attacked vigorously. My teeth had mostly fallen out, so the last few were pulled, and I was given a set of second-hand dentures to wear. They neither fit well nor looked particularly good on me, but at least I could chew my food somewhat. Normally, the charity group would have kept me at the rehab center to assist in nursing other slaves back to health, but unfortunately for me, they were at a crossroads in their funding. Donations were down drastically, due to an economic downturn and many of their major contributors being unable to assist as they had in the past. So, several of us - those most likely to be long-term burdens on the organization, like me - were sent to a discount broker. I was in reasonably good health, but look exactly like what I was - and old, worn out slave. So there I was, on the morning of my 72nd birthday, naked and chained by the ankle to the discount rack at the Slaver's Emporium, feeling completely worthless. I'd been there for over a month already, and not even a single inquiry about the sign hung around my neck, reading, "FOR SALE CHEAP - or will take almost anything in trade." Not a single person took any interest in me, and I knew that if something didn't happen soon, I'd end up as a bag of fertilizer. While I was standing there feeling sorry for myself, I noticed a rather well-dressed, distinguished gentleman with salt-and-pepper hair walk past. The only reason I noticed him was because he looked so lonely, so sad. He must have sensed me watching him, because he suddenly stopped and peered at me over his glasses. I immediately lowered my gaze, hoping to avoid the punishment that resulted from looking directly at a customer without being told to do so. My peripheral vision caught him bending down to look at the fading ownership tattoos on my thigh. "May I please see her papers?" he asked the kiosk attendant, waiting patiently wile the salesman riffled through the sheaf of documents. Finally located, my Ownership Record was handed over. He quickly flipped to the back page, where my earliest records would be. "I thought so," he said excitedly. "How much do you want for her?" The salesman, sensing the man's intense desire to own me, quoted a price four times what I knew he expected. Without blinking, the stranger pulled out his wallet and asked if cash was okay. Money exchanged hands, two signatures were affixed to a new page on my title, and once again, I had a new Master. "You don't know who I am, do you?" he asked. "You are my Master," I responded automatically. "No, I mean you don't remember me, do you? Look at my face, my mouth, into my eyes. Think, think way back...I was just a child, a baby, when we met." I did as commanded, and suddenly was dumbstruck. "Little Master?" I exclaimed, hoping he wouldn't be angry with my use of that old moniker. He used to beat me for accidently referring to him that way, but this time he bellowed out a loud belly laugh. "I haven't thought of that name in years! I used to get soooo angry when you called me that, even when I was little!" He smiled, and I smiled back. I suddenly felt better than I had in years. "Are you hungry?" he asked, unsnapping my leash and placing it in his pocket. "Could you get her a tunic, please?" he asked the attendant, not waiting for my answer. A plain cotton pullover, probably made from the remnants of a rice sack, was handed to me. It didn't fit well, but it did cover my body. "Come on," my new, old Master commanded even before I had it completely pulled on. "I'm in the mood for a nice big burger and fries. How about you?" He led me into the mall's food court. Walking up to one of the concessions, he placed his order. "What would you like? " he asked me, his eyes gleaming as the cashier stood there with a shocked look on her face. Ask a slave what she would like to eat??? Slave gruel, of course! How absurd...this guy must not understand how things are, or else he's mental case. I could see the wheels turning in the cashier's mind. I mumbled something unintelligible. "Okay, make that two of your supers, chili cheese fries, Coke and a milkshake for the lady. Chocolate," he ordered. "You still like chocolate, don't you?" Now the cashier KNEW he had a nut case on his hands...and I was beginning to have my doubts as well. "The lady?" Since when did ANYONE refer to a slave girl a "a lady?" Girl, maybe. Slut, bitch or cunt most certainly, but lady? Unthinkable!. The shock only grew greater when Master led me to a table and told me to sit in the chair. Master told me to eat my meal right there at the table, instead of kneeling from the floor like I should have. That's when the cashier called Security. I was savoring the first real, hot, fresh hamburger I'd ever eaten, when two security cops arrived. "Pardon us, sir," the larger of the two commented, "but you ARE aware that your slave isn't supposed to be sitting at the table, don't you?" "Actually, young man, my slave will sit wherever I wish her to sit I own this mall, you moron, and will do as I see fit. Now, unless you want to find yourself begging for scraps on the street, or maybe being on the auction block yourselves, I suggest you both go stand at opposite ends of the food court and prevent others from bothering my slave and I while we eat. Is that clear?" my Master angrily spat. "Uhh...yes...yes, sir," they both mumbled in apology before scampering off. "Master, that was the first time I've ever seen a free male humiliated in front of a slave," I giggled. I knew I was speaking without permission. I hoped he wouldn't be angry, but I didn't think so. "They're morons. My photo is on the wall of every office in this damnable building, and I sign their paychecks each week, but those idiots don't bother to pay attention. I really think I'm going to have to do something about that moron of a manager who hired them. Maybe put him to work cleaning out urinals." Master was angry, but I knew instinctively he wouldn't take it out on me. I had to ask the question that was burning in my brain. "You really own the whole mall, Master?" I inquired. "I really own the whole mall, slave...and several others as well." "Wow." It was all I could say. "Wow," he agreed. "So, tell me about your life. What have you been doing since we last saw each other?" "Gee, sir...let's see...first, I got this great job as a slave girl..." We both laughed. It was nice being around him again. It was nice just talking to someone again. So I told him briefly about my life, providing more detail when he seemed interested, glossing over the bad times. Then it was my turn to ask questions. "Your parents, Master, are they...?" "Both gone. Several years now. A problem with the heater in their home - the same one we lived in, you know. They never moved. Carbon monoxide, in their sleep. At least they went peacefully, not like..." He suddenly became very somber, like a black cloud appeared over his head. "Master? Are you all right?" Then it hit me. I'd forgotten about the young abolitionist he'd married. "Your wife?" I asked softly, taking his hand in mine and caressing it. "September 11th. She had a meeting at Cantor Fitzgerald. It had been cancelled, but nobody told her." I looked at him with blank look on my face. "You don't know, do you? About September 11th. Nine eleven?" "No, Master, I don't." So we sat there for over an hour, while he explained it all in its gory detail. I sat there, enraptured by the story, horrified and feeling very ill as he told me about it all - the firefighters, the heroes who died in Pennsylvania, at the Pentagon. How it had unified the country. About his personal loss. "Oh, my God," I said. No wonder you looked so sad when I saw you walk by me. I'm so sorry, sir," I said, taking his hand in mine. I was crying. The pain he must have felt...I'd have gladly suffered anything to keep him from that. The discomfort I'd been subjected to was insignificant by comparison. "They said she saved a lot of people that morning." Tears were now streaming uncontrollably down his cheeks. "She helped guide people to the stairs, kept several from jumping out of the windows. They say she was still urging people on when the building collapsed. People saw her on the eighth floor landing at one point, but as best as anyone can tell, she was somewhere above 30 when she died. They found her body in with a bunch of rubble from that floor. At least 20 people credit her for saving their lives." "Master, your wife was a caring person, and she died helping others. I knew what kind of person she was when I overheard you two talking about me." Then a thought occurred to me. "Master, she was concerned about what would become of me when I was sold, wasn't she?" "Yes, she was," he replied. "It was she who insisted on the family we sold you to. She knew they'd be kind, and that you'd serve them well. Was she right?" This wasn't the time to tell him about the cruelty they inflicted on me, so I just nodded my head. I had been trained to never lie to my Owners, but this was not the time for truth. "She really wasn't against slavery as much as she was for humane treatment of slaves. She understood how important slavery is to our economy and our way of life. You know, she was the author of the Humane Treatment of Slaves Act. She did a lot of hard work to get it passed." "I don't understand, Master. Humane treatment?" "She spent six terms in the House of Representatives...you don't know that what that means either, do you?" "No, Master, I'm sorry, I don't." So he gave me an abridged, sixth grade civics class over the next fifteen minutes. "She introduced a bill that was passed into law. It gives slaves the same protection as pets, and even authorizes the Humane Society to have jurisdictional oversight. Slaves can't be subjected to severe cruelty, like prolonged malnutrition. If they're injured, they have to be treated by a medical practitioner. They can't be branded anymore, and any alterations, like tattooing and body modifications, have to be done under sedation. Slaves have the right to at least two nutritious meals a day, unless they're being punished, and even then their food can't be withheld for more than three consecutive days. They have to be exercised, and have the right to be outside, exercising in the fresh air for at least one hour each day You mean you didn't know about this? Nobody told you?" "No, Master. Remember where I was at the time...it's not like I exactly had an opportunity to stay abreast of the news, you know?" He laughed again, causing me to smile. "That's something we're going to have to change. I'm going to set you up with internet access - unrestricted - so you can learn about what's been going on in the world." He chuckled at the expression on my face. "You have no idea in Hell as to what I'm talking about, do you? Don't worry about it. I'll explain it all to you." "Say, you know what," he suddenly asked with a start, leaning over to wipe a dribble of hamburger juice from my mouth, "I never did know your real name." "Thirty-one," I told him. Thirty-one is the last two digits of my registration number. That was my birth name, how Father named all his slaves. "Not much of a name," he shrugged, "but I suppose if it's all you've got..." "Do you remember what you named me when you were thirteen, sir?" I interrupted, a gleam in my eye. "Of course," he laughed. "I called you 'Juicy' because you were always so wet. Wherever you sat, you left a wet trail. We used to call them pussy tracks, or snail slime." "I still do, Master," I replied coyly. "Leave a slime trail, I mean. Right now, as a matter of fact. I'm going to need to clean this seat before I leave." "Never mind that. The mall has plenty of janitorial staff. Maybe I'll just have one of those idiot guards lick the seat off when you're finished. Which one, you think...fatso or blondie?" "Master! You are so bad," I grinned. "Okay, back to names. I think we're both a little too old for ‘Juicy,' don't you?" "Eva," I interrupted. "I've always liked the sound of the name Eva," I said, looking deeply into my Master's eyes. Once again, they began to fill with tears. "Eva was my mother's name," he said softly. "I know, Sir, but she was the first free woman to treat me as though I were something other than...well, other than a thing. Yes, she beat me badly, almost killed me that time, but that was the alcohol. She really was a caring, thoughtful Mistress, once she stopped drinking. I know she was sorry for what she did, and she eventually became the closest thing to a friend I ever had. Your mother was a good woman, and I can think of no greater way for me to honor her than to ask you if I may please be given her name." "Well, then, Eva...I think it's time for us to go home, don't you?" He assisted me to my feet, not bothering to use the leash. Before departing the mall, though, he took me into a clothing store and asked me what I would like to have. I'd never before been given an option as to my attire, and told him quietly that I didn't deserve any of these nice things. He bought me complete outfit to wear home...a nice dress, even a bra and panties - the first I'd ever owned., then led me out to the parking lot, to his car. He let me sit in the front seat beside him, showed me how to adjust the climate control and radio station. Even though it was a warm day, I turned the heater on high and let the hot air blow over me. I hadn't been warm in a long time, and it felt so good. I could tell Master was uncomfortable, so I turned it off. It wasn't a very long drive, anyway. Master took me to his house, though "house" didn't adequately describe it. More like a mansion. No, an estate, with acres and acres of manicured lawn, two swimming pools, a hot tub, sauna, televisions, books...all of which I had complete, unrestricted access to. I had no specific responsibilities; there were slaves as well as paid servants to take care of his needs, and mine as well. I had my first real massage, and it was wonderful. Hot meals, bubble baths, and clothes for the first time in my life. Real clothes - not just garter belts and spiked heel shoes, but dresses and jeans, panties, bras and cotton socks. Nightclothes meant for comfort, not just designed to appeal to someone's eye. And I could wear whatever I wanted. It was all so strange to me, and the most difficult adjustment I'd made in my life. Never before had I been permitted to wear what I wished. Food, whatever I desired (which was usually something chocolate!), whenever I wanted it. It was so intensely overwhelming. I still don't understand how free women can handle it. It must be so hard to make all these decisions...I know I had problems, and often went to Master for advice. It was never much help, though. He always told me to do whatever I wanted. Computers. This internet thing...how wonderfully strange. So much information available. News, history...I love reading history. The ability to interact with complete strangers, in a way that I'd never been able to do before. Support groups for everything imaginable. I even became sort of a moderator on a slave chat...girls and men who were interested in the life of a slave, a few slaves, too. Some of it was sexual, of course, but most was not. The vast majority of the non-slaves who visited the site were truly interested in the psychological makeup of slaves, and I tried very hard to explain my own feelings, desires and needs. Master read the transcripts...after all, I was still a slave, and had no expectation of privacy...and said he was very proud of me. That's when he got the idea of having me write this memoir, to help people understand what being a slave is all about. I know that a lot of people, a lot of girls in particular, think of giving themselves to someone that way, and a lot of men believe they'd like to possess their very own, absolutely obedient fuck toy, but I feel it is my job to explain that slavery isn't about sex. Sure, that's part of it, but what it's really about is total obedience and service to others, about helping, about taking the pressure and pain away from those in need. I have online slave friends who do this on a daily basis, who work in jobs that you wouldn't think a slave would be suited for. Emergency Room nurses, firefighters and paramedics. Yes, they all are often required to be aggressive and demanding in order to do their jobs, but that's simply the best way to serve others. Off the job, they are just as obedient and submissive to their Owners as any well-trained slave could be. I think, in my own way, I served as well. A few months after I began my new life, Master said he had a surprise for me.; we were going on a trip. He took me back to Kansas, to the very spot where I was born. The farm was gone, but a state-of-the-art slave training facility stood in its place. He took me around back, where the barn used to be, and showed me something. My parents were buried, side by side. James Howard Williamson. My father's name...I never knew it. Elizabeth Ann Williamson. Again, a name I'd never heard. My mother had been buried as a free woman, not merely disposed of as a slave would be. It turned out that Father and Mother were instrumental in starting the movement that ultimately changed the way slaves were treated. Father saw how so many trainers were taking intelligent girls and turning them into mindless automatons with no will and no reason to obey except fear. Father wasn't like that...he used the fear of punishment, but also reward, to encourage acceptable behavior in his slaves. He was no psychologist, but he understood the slave mind, probably thanks to Mother. She was his slave, but she was also his companion for over fifty years. The biography on the wall in the lobby explained that she was his confidant, his partner and advisor. I knew in my heart that this was true. Father and Master's wife were actually quite good friends, I discovered, and the three of them (Mother included) collaborated on developing the laws that changed the lives of so many slaves for the better. The entire institution was dedicated to the memory of my parents, and was even named after them: The James and Betty Ann Williamson Center for Slave Education. Everything a slave needed to learn, from initial submission to reintegration into freedom - yes, that was one of the provisions of the Humane Treatment of Slave Acts - slaves could now be freed - could be provided here. It was then that Master asked me the question that I'd never in my life expected to hear, and was totally unprepared for. "Eva, would you like to be free?" I dropped to my knees, whether from the sudden light-headedness or something else, I don't know. I looked up at my Master, tears in my eyes. I'd always known he cared about me, but until then, I didn't truly realize how much. He wanted to do what was best for me, what I desired, but I think we both knew that freedom wasn't possible. "Master," I said, "If it would please you, Master's slave begs to remain your property. But may it remain here? As its Master's slave, but in the service of those here who might need it, and to honor the memory of its parents?" I spoke in the most submissive manner I knew, placing my head on his highly-polished shoes while I awaited his response. It took him a few seconds to answer. "Of course, my love," he answered, his eyes welling with tears. Nobody had ever called me "my love" before. He gently lifted me to my feet and embraced me with fondness, both of us crying openly now. It was the first time I could truly say I loved my Master, but it is something I remind myself of every day. It is a mantra I repeat several times each morning when I arise, and before I go to sleep at night: "I love my Master. Oh, God, how I love my Master." Until that moment, I never really understood the concept of "love." It is so much more than devotion, or duty, or obedience, as I was taught from such a young age. I still don't have the words to describe it, but I hope you understand. So, now I reside in my own private, climate controlled room, with a real bed of my own, a television, a computer, a telephone, and a view of the open fields outside. I can listen to music, read books, draw, or do whatever else I want. I even dabbled in painting, but never could get the hang of it. Most of my work would remind you of a two year old's "art" hanging on grandma's refrigerator. If I don't feel like leaving my room, a phone call gets my meals delivered, or anything else. If I want wine, it's delivered, no hesitation and no questions asked. It's nice being treated like this, but sometimes I still wish I could serve Master like I did so many years ago. I still do, once in a while, but he never takes me like his slave, for his own pleasure anymore. It's still nice, and the concept of "making love" to the one I so dearly care for is much, much more emotional for me than simply being used as an object for his sexual relief. Not that I wouldn't mind a hot and heavy romp once in a while, mind you, but the body just isn't up to it anymore. Besides, I've discovered the memories get stronger and more vivid with time. At least the nice ones do. I feel more needed, that I'm providing a greater service, than I ever have in my life. I'm a good listener, and that's often what people...slaves and everyone else...need most. I've read a lot of books in the past two years, history and psychology, mostly, and I've found that many of the emotional and mental issues that are written about, I've experienced. The history books helped me understand some of the things I was on the periphery of...the little snippets of conversations I overheard, the times people were seemingly under a lot of stress. The psychology texts are rather difficult to comprehend, but I've come to understand that even if I'd been born free, I'd have longed to be a slave anyway. My greatest desire, my innermost need, has always been to serve others, and I will continue to do so until my death. I'm always available for anyone who needs me, whether to answer a question or just talk about anything at all. Trainers and the Owners who have sent their property here for training regularly consult with me, and the girls - particularly those new to slavery - often inundate me with questions, concerns, and their fears. So many of these young girls enter slavery completely naive, even those who do so voluntarily, and have so many insecurities and emotional issues. It's important for their well-being that they have someone they can talk to, a friend. They know that I never talk to staff about anything they tell me, unless I believe they are in danger of harming themselves. All slaves go through rough times, and for the young ones - the teens and twenty-somethings in particular - the roughest seems to be when they realize that they can no longer expect those things they took for granted - the right to wear clothes, to say ‘no,' to be free from hunger and discomfort, to do whatever they want. When the reality hits that they are nothing but property, to be used and disposed of as their Owners deem fit, that's when they need me. Thankfully, there is now a process for evaluating prospective slave girls, so the mentally deficient or emotionally damaged seldom end up as voluntary submissions. I believe it's better this way, because the best slaves are emotionally strong. We have to be, to survive with our sanity intact. To do otherwise would be a disservice to those who own us. The involuntaries are a different story, but I don't usually spend much time with them, anyway. They're not usually suitable for training, anyway, so spend their time in labor facilities where they tend fields, build roads, and the like. Those we do get are given to the victims of their crimes, and are often treated very harshly. Sometimes, though, I find one who is one of those "diamonds in the rough," who is truly suited for slavery. Sometimes, after talking to them and gaining their trust, I even discover they committed their crimes intentionally in order to become the slave of the person to whom they were given. These girls I try to provide particular guidance to, but with the majority of the involuntaries, my attitude is, "You're a slave now. Deal with it." Master comes back to visit me every few months. He's a pretty imaginative lover, and I'm pleased to report that he still seems to enjoy the services I can provide in that area. We don't spend much time being intimate in that way, though. We often just walk and talk. I showed him where the field was that I plowed, the creek where I used to bathe, the room where I was first raped. I took him to the kennel, which is now a museum exhibit. Nobody lives there now; the "slaves" inside are just plastic mannequins. I still go inside and change the straw when it needs it though. It feels good, but I can get melancholy when I think about those days. Sometimes I just sit outside and stare at nothing, but whenever anyone needs an ear to listen or a shoulder to cry on, I'm there for them. That's the most important thing for me right now, to be useful to others, to help others, to serve. I truly believe that today I am providing a greater service, being of more value to more people, than at any time in my life. I am 73 years old, and my life...my reason for being...has been fulfilled. Thank you for listening to my story.
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