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.
