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.
