Chapter 4
All that day, I could not shake the images of that dream out of my head.
Sitting at my desk, I needed only close my eyes and those vivid images of
capture and humiliation flowed back into my consciousness. I tried to place
myself back in that unfamiliar bedroom, held in place by two strong men, as my
clothes were ripped from my body, those dark eyes raking up and down my flesh,
mocking my nakedness. I put my hand to my neck, expecting to feel the harsh
strands of rope that rubbed against my soft neck. I willed the dream to move
forward in my head, wondering where they had been taking me, and what
indignities they might visit on me when we arrived there, but each time my
imagination failed me.
By lunchtime, I could stand it no longer. Announcing that I had a lunch date
downtown, I rushed to the subway to catch the train down to the Lower East Side,
the address I had found on the Internet fixed in my mind.
I pushed the door open. Inside, it was clean, well-lit, and friendly. I paused
as I scanned the shelves and racks, admiring the arrays of specialized equipment
available for sale. My eyes passed quickly over the books and videos, lingered
curiously on the whips and crops, and finally settled on the collars, handcuffs,
manacles, shackles, and other devices hanging on the far wall. Imagining every
pair of eyes in the store following me, I walked quickly to the wall, my eyes
fixed directly ahead of me.
I was looking at the metal collars, trying to guess what size might fit my neck
and wishing I had measured it that morning, when I heard a voice from directly
behind me. "Can I help you find anything?" I turned.
It was a young woman, college age, unquestionably pretty, with short, black hair
and a small diamond stud in her nose. "Do you need help with anything?" she
repeated.
"No, thanks," I said hurriedly. Then, before she could turn, I added,
"Actually, maybe you could help me pick one of these ..." I couldn't get the
word "collar" out of my mouth, certainly not in public like this.
"The collars?" she answered. "The leather collars are more comfortable, but the
steel ones do have that feeling of ... of irreversibility."
"The steel ones," I whispered.
"Is it for you?" she asked innocently, as if we were looking at silk scarves or
leather handbags.
I nodded and looked about the room quickly, hoping no one else was noticing.
"Well, this should be about your size," she said, picking one of the smaller
collars. She held it out to me. I touched it hesitantly. Its surface was of
gleaming steel, unbroken except for the hinge where it opened and the lock where
it closed, and the small ring attached to it. "The inside is beveled, for
comfort. And here's the key," she added, demonstrating how it opened and
closed. "Do you want to try it on?" she asked casually.
"No, that's OK," I stammered. "I was wondering ..." I trailed off, looking at
the wall.
She noticed where I was looking. "One of these chains will do nicely as a
leash," she offered. I nodded.
Ten minutes later I was out on the street, my purchases stuffed into my handbag.
In addition to the collar and chain leash, I had bought two pairs of metal
shackles, joined by adjustable lengths of chain. They should fit my ankles and
wrists quite nicely, the salesperson had said. I closed my eyes, imagining what
the cool steel would feel like locked about my slender wrists and ankles, or
about the tender flesh of my throat. I wondered what I would look like in the
mirror. I opened my eyes and steadied myself. Then I headed back to the subway
station to head back to midtown.
Back in the gallery, I slipped into the bathroom with my new toys. I cradled
the shackles lovingly in my hands, feeling their weight and smoothness. I even
locked one of them around my left wrist, holding the key tightly in my right
hand, before quickly unlocking it again. I didn't want to run the risk of being
embarrassed at work like this. I could wait until I got home.
Robert was busy that night, so I knew I would be undisturbed. Once I got home,
I rushed around the apartment, closing the blinds on all the windows and
securing all the locks on the door. Then I sat on my bed and spread out my new
accessories on the comforter. I looked up at the painting, admiring the
gleaming gold of that slave girl's collar, leash, and shackles. Steel would
have to do for me.
Standing before the mirror, I removed all my clothes, forcing myself to strip
slowly, as if commanded by a master. I rubbed my hands slowly up and down my
naked body, caressing the curves of my belly and hips, once again feeling the
rough inspection by my captors in the previous night's dream. Then I picked up
the steel collar and knelt down on the floor, watching the girl in the mirror as
she lifted the collar to her lips and shamelessly caressed it with her tongue.
I tested the key in the lock twice, lifted the collar to my neck, and closed it.
It was narrow enough that I could feel its inside surface on my throat, but not
uncomfortable. I put my hand to the collar and slid it around my neck. Without
the key, I had no way of removing it, of course. I was imprisoned by it as
helplessly as that girl in the painting.
I repeated the ritual with the shackles for my wrists and ankles, each time
kissing the chains submissively before I locked my fair limbs within them. I
left myself about nine inches of slack between my ankles and six inches between
my wrists so that I would be able to get around the apartment and take care of
myself. Then I placed all three keys on a key ring and trusted it to the top
drawer of my nightstand.
On a whim, I lowered myself to all fours and began crawling across the floor,
toward the mirror. I saw my naked breasts swaying beneath me as my shoulders
rocked back and forth, my brown hair falling in a thin curtain before my face.
I knelt back on my heels and spread my thighs widely before the mirror, blushing
as I exposed myself brazenly to view. I wondered if the captors in my dream
might have ordered their slave to present herself to them so elegantly and
vulnerably. I moaned softly, closing my eyes. I hoped that sleep would return
me to their feet to serve their pleasure.
It was too early to go to bed, so I got up from the floor, still naked and
bound, and made my way with small steps to the kitchen to make dinner. I
accustomed myself to the limitations of my new world, the challenges of chopping
vegetables with only six inches of freedom to separate your wrists, the need to
take small, delicate steps when walking in ankle shackles. I watched some TV,
kneeling on the floor in front of the couch, and talked to my boyfriend, holding
the receiver to my head with both hands, wondering what he would think if he
could see his girlfriend then, a perfect picture of captive submission.
I kissed him good night over the phone and crawled back to the bedroom. I
dimmed the light so I could still make out the painting on the wall. Sitting on
the edge of the bed, I unlocked my right wrist, shortened the shackles to a
single link of chain, and placed the key ring carefully on top of my nightstand.
Then I reached my hands behind my back, fumbled with the right bracelet with my
left hand, and finally managed to close it about my wrist. I looked up at the
painting. I was bound as helplessly and vulnerably as that other slave girl, my
hands held behind my back, powerless to defend myself, my breasts thrust forward
by the awkward position. My neck was locked in a steel collar. My ankles were
shackled, preventing me from escaping, but still allowing my thighs to be thrust
apart, either lying on my back or bent forward on my knees, to be used for a
man's pleasure.
I slid partway under the covers, as best as I could. I looked up at the
painting in the dim light. Still, I wondered, what was that girl feeling, as
she was put to her master's pleasure? Was it resignation, or despair, or
excitement? For myself, I felt only anticipation, as I lay my head back and
tried to will myself to sleep, rolling to my side to relieve the pressure on my
bound wrists, hearing the crack of an unseen whip as darkness invaded my
consciousness.
***
Afternoon sunbeams were slanting into the courtyard, lined with marble columns.
I recognized it as the courtyard of our royal palace, which I had visited on
ceremonial occasions, along with other citizens of the city. But now I was
kneeling in the dirt along one edge of the courtyard, completely naked, my neck
even free of the rope whose abrasions I could still feel on my soft skin.
I stole a glance to each side. I was in the middle of a line of about twenty
young women, some partially clothed, some not at all, all kneeling in the dirt,
heads bowed in submission. I felt the heavy footsteps of guards behind me,
heard their voices speaking the threatening intonations of their foreign tongue,
no doubt discussing the merits of the prizes before them. I wished I had
something to wear, to hide my nudity from their gaze.
A whip cracked in the still, warm air. I lifted my eyes, trying to keep my head
lowered. A black-haired woman with sensuous, olive skin stood about fifteen
feet in front of us, brandishing a long, evil-looking leather whip. She was
dressed in a flowing, multicolored gown.
"Sluts!" she shouted at us, in our language. I heard whimpers of protest. "You
are all cheap, worthless sluts," she repeated, her eyes sweeping across us.
"Kneel straighter!" she commanded. "Spread your knees! Hands behind your
head!" She cracked the whip for effect as we all struggled to obey her
commands. I could see that no one wanted to find out the consequences of
disobedience.
"I am Raisa, the slave trainer of General Halimar, the conqueror of your city,"
she said. "As citizens of a defeated city, your lives are his to do with as he
pleases. He can have you tortured or killed, and no one will lift a finger to
protect you." We kept our position, motionless. We knew enough about affairs
of state to know that what she said was true.
"But you are fortunate," she continued with a smile. "You have been found of
interest - perhaps of sufficient interest to be a slave." I felt a shudder pass
through my body as her words sunk into me. I had only a faint idea of what
slavery might be like, but it was enough to fill me with dread. "If you are
accepted as a slave, you will be permitted to attempt to please your masters,
and in exchange for being pleasing, you might be allowed to live." She paused.
"That is the future that is open to you."
I could feel my breast rising and falling with fear. No longer was I worried
that strangers could look on my naked body with impunity; now I could only think
of what it might be to be a slave, to have to serve masters unquestioningly and
absolutely, to exist only for their pleasure.
"So ... who among you wants to be a slave?" she asked. There was silence, as
girls wrestled with their fates, perhaps fearing to be the first to beg for her
slavery. Still no one spoke. "Very well. A worthless lot," she concluded.
Turning to the soldiers to one side, she said, "Take them away and kill them."
I looked from side to side in terror as the men advanced. Then a trembling
voice dared, "No, please, please don't kill me, let me be a slave instead."
Then other voices took up the same plea, and in them I heard my own, begging
piteously to be taken as a slave.
"Silence!" Raisa shouted, and immediately the hubbub of voices died out. She
pointed with her whip to the first girl on the line, a young, blond-haired girl
wearing the scraps of a gown. "If you want to be a slave, strip yourself, crawl
to my feet, and beg."
I watched as the girl, tears in her eyes, tore the clothes off her body, baring
herself to the chuckling men, and lowered herself to hands and knees to crawl to
her tormentor, bowing her head to kiss her sandaled feet as she begged to be
kept as a slave. Raisa motioned her back to her knees and signaled to a
soldier, who brought a burlap bag and placed it beside her. From the bag she
removed a gleaming, gold-collared band of metal and held it before the trembling
girl, pressing it to her lips for her to kiss. Then she swiftly closed the
collar around her neck, sealing her fate as a slave. "Return to your place and
kneel as you were," she ordered. The girl rose to her feet and turned, but
before she could take a step she was thrown back on her belly by the force of
Raisa's whip. "Slaves do not rise from their knees unless commanded to do so,"
she said coldly, striking the girl again for emphasis. Sobbing, the girl
crawled back to her place and took up her position, only now her neck locked in
the cool metal of a slave collar.
Raisa pointed her whip at the next girl in the line. "Beg," she said. Sobbing,
the girl stripped herself, and crawled across the dirt of the courtyard on her
hands and knees. A minute later she was crawling back to her place, her neck
now adorned with a collar symbolizing her new status.
Too soon, it was my turn. I unlaced my hands from behind my head and bent
forward, pressing my small hands to the dirt. My brown hair fell in a curtain
before my face as I crawled toward this imposing woman, my breasts swaying
beneath me. I slid my hands forward across the ground and lowered my head to
the ground, pressing my lips to her foot. I was determined to please her, no
matter what the cost to my dignity. I raised my head a few inches and lowered
it again to her other foot, parting my lips slightly this time and hesitantly
tracing the tip of my tongue across her skin. My head still bowed, my hair
falling about her feet, I pleaded, "I beg to be a slave." I pressed my lips to
her feet again. "Please, let me be a slave. I'll do anything you ask. I'll be
completely obedient and pleasing." I knew I was begging for my life, but at the
same time, I felt a strange exhilaration as I brushed my lips submissively
across this strange woman's feet, offering myself completely as a slave.
I felt the handle of the whip pushing me up to my knees. "This is a hot one,"
she said, smiling. I felt the whip pressed against my mouth and parted my lips
in response, closing my eyes as I licked the rough leather. I felt warmth
building between my legs, but kept my knees widely spread as I had been ordered.
Then the whip was withdrawn and replaced with a collar, and I opened my mouth
wide, brazenly extending my tongue to lick its smooth metal surface. Shocked at
my own behavior, I told myself I was simply doing this to survive, that it was
my only possible course of action. But something in me relished the taste of
the metal on my tongue, and thrilled in anticipation of feeling it locked on me.
I did not have long to wait before the collar closed solidly around my neck,
sealing my fate as a slave girl. "Thank you," I whispered.
I felt her hand patting my head. "We'll get acquainted later," she said as she
dismissed me back to the line.
Kneeling in place, my hands once again clasped behind my head, I could feel the
sidelong glances of the other girls in the chain, eyeing me suspiciously. I
kept my eyes on the ground, humiliated. What had come over me? I told myself
again that I was only playing a part, trying to placate this woman in order to
save my life. But I could not deny the way I had felt as I licked her whip and
the collar that I now wore.
Kneeling in that exposed, vulnerable, and humiliating position, I watched the
remainder of the captured girls go through the same ritual, returning to their
places as slaves, spoils of war. Finally we were all naked, collared, and
submitted, awaiting our commands.
"You are slaves," Raisa began, walking menacingly along the line of girls,
occasionally pausing to kick a girl's knees further apart. "You exist to give
pleasure to masters, in any way that they desire. If you fail to be pleasing,
you will be beaten. If you continue to be displeasing, you will be killed."
She stopped before the first girl, the blonde, trembling slightly as she knelt.
"What are you?" she asked, tilting her chin up with the whip.
"A slave," the girl answered.
"Why do you exist?"
"To please men."
Raisa pointed to one of the soldiers. "There is a man. Crawl to his feet and
beg to please him."
The girl hesitated only a moment before the raised whip spurred her to movement.
I watched as she made her way on hands and knees to the leering man, as she
pressed her lips to her boots. "I beg to please you, master" she said, her
voice breaking. "Please let me please you," she sobbed.
There were multiple gasps as the man reached down, turned her by the shoulders,
and bent her over, still kneeling, before him. Then he opened his trousers and
plunged into her from behind, raping her casually, brutally, impervious to her
moans of shock and humiliation. When he had finished with her, she collapsed to
her belly in the dirt, crying.
Raisa towered over her, the whip in her hand. "Well, slut?" she said,
tauntingly. "Aren't you grateful? You begged to be used, and he used you.
Aren't you going to thank him?"
I could hear the other soldiers laughing as the girl rose to her knees before
her rapist. "Thank you, master," she whispered. The man patted her on the
head, like a dog, and walked away.
As the girl crawled back to her place, I tried to digest what I had just seen.
A young woman, only this morning a free citizen of the city, had just been
publicly raped on her knees in the dirt. Then she had been commanded to thank
the man who had visited this degradation on her. While I felt shock and horror,
I also felt a curious sense of excitement and even, though I tried to shut it
out of my mind, arousal. I imagined what those forceful thrusts would have felt
like in my body, and resisted the urge to press my thighs together. I expected
I would not have long to wait for my turn.
Raisa was standing before us again. "You will obey immediately,
unquestioningly, and absolutely," she said. "You will offer any part of your
body that a man is interested in, for any use he might think of. Anything less
is grounds for punishment." She paused. "Do you understand?" We nodded our
heads, not daring to speak, not wanting to be singled out to be raped.
Fortunately for us, she seemed satisfied. "Take them away and prepare them for
the feast," she said."
One of the guards motioned for us to stand. "Hands behind head," he ordered.
"Follow!" He led us into the main palace gate.
As I walked, one of the soldiers pulled me out of the line. I could feel my
body becoming wet, preparing itself to be used. But he did not order me to my
knees, or throw me to my back. As I kept my position, exposing myself so
vulnerably to him, he ran his hands over my body, across my breasts and sides
and hips. I could feel the rough, calloused skin of his hands as he explored me
with a casualness and possessiveness I had never imagined, let alone
experienced. I could feel my heart pounding and my breathing accelerating as
his hands roved over my thighs, hips, and belly, my body involuntarily pressing
itself back against his unwanted touch. I could hear him chuckling as I closed
my eyes and began rolling my hips. A moan worked its way up from my belly into
my throat ...
