slavery – Not A Real Doctor

Up on the auction stage it’s all glamor and clever lighting, the audience in their finest formalwear and masks, the occasional gasp when two or three of them get into a bidding war over a particularly enticing new slave. The girl in question is pinned down by a spotlight, slowly turned and displayed as the auctioneer murmurs “seventy… eight… one hundred thousand to the gentleman… one ten to the lady in green…”

Down below it’s more utilitarian. These are the house trainers’ last remaining moments with the girls they’ve spent weeks breaking, and there is no particular incentive to treat them kindly, or like anything but chattel. They want you tired and obedient for your new owner. They want you to tremble appealingly as you’re packaged up and trucked away.

These four won’t ever get to see the world upstairs; they’re being sold as part of a bulk lot of five, probably to a competitor’s house that thinks they can be assessed and tracked into specialty training. One girl from the lot is on stage now, representing them; these four will simply be slid farther down along the track when the purchase is made, strapped into their new owner’s transport, and shuttled off to a similar dingy storage area in their new home.

The girl on the left was a promising young tennis player; the one next to her was her coach. The others were a PR intern, a camgirl and an au pair. They would never have had much in common except that the house decided that this was how they’d bring in the most value. Now their fates are temporarily bound together, as they wait, squirming and helpless, to find out if they’ll be given to a relatively gentle life of domestic slavery or–more likely–something considerably crueler.

“One forty,” says the auctioneer. “One forty going once… going twice…”

yourbadgrrl:

Is this how you imagine me, Sir? Stripped, then bound tightly to the horse, every hole vulnerable to your abuse, your caress. Dripping and aching for your touch, subject to your whim, your need, your demons…

There are a dozen identical benches in the long, dim corridor, all currently occupied with a taut, arched girlslave. It’s almost always full, here; this is the holding pen, where acquisitions who have had basic testing and conditioning are placed for a few weeks, between the dark cattle-cages below and the bright, sterile niche-training units above.

If it sounds a bit like a purgatory, it is one. The days there certainly blend together into an endless blur, with feedings, cleanings and lubrication staggered to keep any of them from guessing how much time has passed. It is a place intended to break girls. It is utterly, brutally effective.

They are edged, of course, by a bored higher-class slave on her turn in the chore rotation. They can hear her clacking down the aisle in her heels, heavy vibrator swinging in one hand, picking a victim at random and grinding its bulbous head against her clit for exactly the length of time scrawled on her lower belly. (Basic testing, you see.)

They’re also used. As you can see above, any trainer who needs a quick break can hop in, find a hole to his liking, give it a quick test for wetness (rarely failed) and fuck away until he’s satisfied.

The girl in the picture was once named Alice. She will someday be renamed Slip, for the ease with which her cunt takes penetration, but for now she is only Station 8. At this point, her initial captivity in the cages is a hazy blur, and her life before that a dreamlike memory. She clenches the moment she feels a finger push into any orifice, and she is almost incapable of orgasm without command.

It’ll be another month before they unstrap her and carry her squirming, dripping vessel of a body upstairs.