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.
