The Training of Slave Girl Shana

The Training of Slave Girl Shana, Chapter 1

 

In the decades that followed the global energy and food shortages, and the subsequent collapse of various economies, the old polities disintegrated into city states and feudalism. The rich were excessively so, and exploited the poor for their own private gain.     

 

Inside the complex on the far side of the mountain, near the ruins of the Oratory, the auditions were over, and a slave girl was “hired” for the Master’s personal indulgences. Her name was Shana, and upon her arrival, she had been made to shower, shave her legs, and do her own hair and makeup, as per specific instructions from the Understudy, who had hired her. His commanding voice was still ringing in her head as she stripped off her street clothes. 

 

“Two rules to always remember, above all.  First, obey everyone in this building.  Everyone.  There is no one lower here than you.  Two, no matter what, you will make no protest.  No matter what.” 

 

The shower room was just off the change room, and had the appeal of a surgical suite with green ceramic tiles, a plastic shower curtain, and the copper drain obscenely pulling the curves of the floor towards it.  A small makeup counter with a hair dryer and cosmetics mediated the small space between the shower room and the change room.  The change room had just a Roman couch and a full-length mirror. A doorway in the opposite wall led into the large, airy studio beyond.

 

When she had emerged from the shower, she found all her street clothes were gone. A selection of clothing had been laid out for her, and only one selection of footwear, plus an ankle bracelet.   The Understudy had mentioned the ankle bracelet, had stated flatly that the bracelet was a mark of her new status, and was never to come off, ever.  Dainty, black, heeled sandals, with straps and buckles over the toe, and no straps at the back were placed by the couch.  She had only two odd and disconcerting choices to go with the shoes.  The first was a black, long sleeved leotard with sheer arms and a wide, scooped neck.  The second was a white, tight, ribbed short-sleeve top, cut like a leotard but only coming to her navel.  It was paired with a short, wraparound denim miniskirt.  Finding the leotard odd, Shana had slipped on the white top and then reached for the skirt.  It was then she realized no panties were offered.  No bra. 

 

She had looked around the dressing room, only seeing the couch and the full length mirror. When she put the skirt on, she shuddered.  It was so uncomfortably short and exposed.  The wrap barely made it around her thighs, and a slit opened threateningly, where she had tied it closed, every time she moved the wrong way.  She checked herself in the mirror and shuddered again.  So much of her bare legs and thighs were showing.  She turned around and looked over her shoulder and leaned forward.  The skirt’s hem hadn’t shifted upwards a centimetre before the bottoms of her bare cheeks showed.  That had been too much for her, and she’d taken off the skirt and top and slipped on the leotard.  Again, she looked in the mirror with dismay.  The legs were cut so high in the front, her pelvic bone was visible.  And when she walked, she could feel the back of the leotard begin to creep up over the cheeks of her tush.  It would have to do. It was better than the little skirt with no underwear.                         

So now she stood before the Understudy, her bare legs on display, wearing only heeled sandals and a tight leotard that rode up her backside with every movement.  She was very uncomfortable. Mirrors lined every wall and the ceiling, reflecting her image to infinity. The optical effect was disorienting.

 

“What’s your name?” asked the Understudy.

 

“Shana,” replied the girl.

 

“You will be called Slave Shana. Are you uncomfortable, Slave Shana?”           

 

“Yes.”                         

 

“Is it because of what you’re wearing?”

                                               

Shana looked down at herself and hesitated. “Yes.”

 

“Good. Now, first lessons first,” the Understudy began.  “The Master likes you to pose for him. When before the Master, you must always sit unless asked otherwise, and you must adopt the right pose.  If he does not request a specific pose, than you shall always adopt Pose Number Two.  Do you understand this?”

 

“Yes,” said Shana quietly.

 

“Good. Now take off your shoes.”

 

Shana looked down, hesitated, and the slipped off the tiny shoes into her bare feet.

 

“This is the first step of Pose One,” the Understudy continued. “The second step is to kneel down.”  Shana did as she was told.  “That is Pose One.” Shana looked at the Understudy dubiously, her hands in her lap, her bare feet tucked under her rear, with her toes emerging at the back.

 

“Now, tuck your legs to one side.”  Shana shifted her weight onto her left hip, rested the weight on her arms, palms on the floor, and tucked her legs back to the side.  “Now pull one knee forward a little - stagger your legs a bit while they are tucked to the side.” Shana checked herself in the mirror and let one knee come forward a bit.  “Good.  The last step is to point your toes.”  Feeling very uncertain, she let her bare feet arch. “Harder. Point them prominently.”  Shana arched her bare toes like a gymnast’s. It was a strange exercise to be asked to perform, and Shana suddenly felt wierded out and self-conscious.

 

The Understudy paced around her, making small adjustments to her arms, her legs, firming up the pose, making it as feminine as possible.  “Very good,” said the Understudy. “You will always remember this as Pose Two.  Relax.”

 

Shana let her toes relax and shifted to a more comfortable position.  Looking ahead in the mirror, she could see a disconcerting expanse of bare thigh, and felt behind her how the bodysuit had ridden far enough up her backside so as to expose most of her tush. With nothing on under the leotard, Shana feared what might show.  Instinctively, she reached behind, hooked her thumbs under the lining and pulled the suit back down over her cheeks. The Understudy didn’t miss a movement.

 

“I’ll warn you now,’ said the Understudy, “that modesty only has its place when the Master is not looking at you.  He is never to see you do anything of that sort.”   A wave of doubt coursed through her.  With strange instructions like these, would any amount of salary be worth this?  Just how sexually eccentric, just how sexually mad was the Master?  “For the time that I am training you, I will be treated as would the Master. Understand?” Shana nodded her understanding.                                             

 

“Good. Now, then, Pose Three.”  The Understudy paced back in front and stood over Shana.  Shana looked up meekly.  “Poses flow from one to the other, like Tai Chi.  This will help you to remember which pose is which. Soon, it will become all unconscious for you, and you will be able to glide from one movement to the next, like a dance, you see?”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

“Good. First, adopt Pose Two.”

 

Shana posed her legs, pointed her toes and then looked up expectantly.

 

“Now, keeping your legs in the same position, move your upper body down and recline on your side.”  Shana reclined on her side, the legs tucked and allowing her hips to undulate gracefully into the curve of her midsection.  She felt the pull on the back of her bodysuit as it slid up her cheeks.  She fought the urge to reach behind her.  The Understudy paced leisurely around her.  “Look in the mirror in front of you.  Now you see how the line of your pointed feet, your legs, your hips, your torso and your breasts all flow in one line. They work togther, yes?”  Shana nodded.  She had never considered the graceful shapes her body could make in such an obsessive manner.  She looked over her shoulder at the mirror behind her, saw the wrinkled soles of her arched feet and then the firm, partially-naked cheeks of her tush.  She felt dizzy, and turned her head back.  Again the Understudy walked around her and corrected minor flaws, until she held the pose perfectly.

 

“Are your toes sore?” asked the Understudy.  Shana nodded.  “Later, on your own, you can exercise your feet by pointing your toes and holding them for several minutes until it becomes more comfortable, and that will allow you to point your toes perfectly and painlessly.”  Shana felt another wave of doubt.  The Master had an obsession with pointed toes? With ballerinas?  Or with gymnasts? She was reminded of the leotard she was wearing.  She suddenly had flashbacks of her family, and longed for home, instead of reclined on the floor in the twisted parody of a dance studio, wearing only a brief leotard with bare legs and feet while being made to feel like a lawn ornament.

The Understudy walked back in front again, and looked down.  “Pose Four.  From Pose Three, roll onto your stomach, legs out behind you, tops of your feet against the floor.”  Shana slid from the pose and onto her stomach, resting her head in her arms. “Head up!” the Understudy said sharply, “bring your chest up off the floor.  Now, bring your legs up behind you, cross them at the ankles and point your toes.”  Shana did as she was told, again looking up at him expectantly.

 

“This pose has some variation,” said the Understudy, “but the variation is all in the feet. Variation A is what you are doing now. Variation B is to uncross the ankles and have your feet evenly together, side by side, toes pointed.  Variation C is the same as Variation B, except that you do not keep your feet evenly together. Variation D will have you cycle between the first three variations, slowly, allowing your feet to brush together.  Do you understand this?”  Shana shook her head ‘no,’ mystified.

 

“Very well, let’s have you adopt each variation. First A, then B, then C.”  Shana crossed, uncrossed, then staggered her arched feet.  “Now cycle through it, as per Variation D.”  She did so, and as she did, the soft hissing of her bare feet rubbing against each other could be heard in the ensuing silence of the room.  “That is the sound I want to hear,” said the Understudy. “Do you see how it is a pleasing sound?”  Shana began to shake her head, thought better of it, and wordlessly nodded instead.

 

“Good. Then practice this on your own time, in your chambers, and let’s do Pose Five. This is the hardest of them.  It is best practised in the leotard to observe that the lines of your body are correct.”  Shana wondered to herself whether the skirt hadn’t been such a bad idea, as she felt the extent to which the leotard had worked its way up the backs of her cheeks, and wished the Understudy would look away long enough for her to adjust it.  The Understudy knelt beside her as she lay on her front, holding Pose Four.

 

“From this, let your legs back down to the floor and roll over onto your back, keeping your toes pointed and your arms out from your sides,” said the Understudy.  Shana relaxed her calves and silently rolled onto her back.  “The next movement is done as one fluid motion, but you will first break it into two movements before putting them together.  First, bring your knees up off the floor and cross your ankles at the same time. This is what the bottom half of your body does.”  Keeping her toes pointed, Shana crossed her ankles while drawing her knees up until the heels of her feet rested on the floor.  “Now, the top half.  Straighten your arms, brace your hands, palms out on the floor, and arch your back. Let your head drop back as far you can.  Do this slowly.”

 

Shana strained against gravity as her back arched and her arms quivered, working to hold her weight while she kept her legs and feet in the same position. “More, more arch,’ said the Understudy, “straighten the arms more and let the head drop right back, almost to the floor.”  Shana gritted her teeth and began to grunt in effort.  The Understudy was not deterred. “Let your mouth open. Don’t clench the jaw. Relax it.”

 

 “Oh God, this is hard on my back!” Shana moaned.  The Understudy stood up, hooked a foot around her left wrist, pulled firmly, and Shana landed flat on her back abruptly, hitting the base of her head on the floor.  Everything was suddenly silent.

“I did say it would be hard.  I didn’t say you should complain.”

 

The Understudy let the silence sink in, broken only by Shana’ panting.  Her face flushed red with exhaustion and embarrassment.  She lay on her back, arms out, her long hair spilling out behind her head, her breasts and nipples - prominently outlined by the tight fabric - heaving with each breath, her long legs - bare from high on her hips to her arched feet - still in the lower half of Pose Five.  The Understudy let her lay this way for a minute. Shana felt the cool wood of the studio floor against the cheeks of her ass.  She glanced up at the mirror on the ceiling, reflecting back her supine form from above, highlighted by the graceful, revealing lines of the black leotard.  The reflection above was a perfectly framed photo of herself - a young girl lying on a studio floor in a skimpy leotard - she felt the pressure behind her eyes and considered the tears she could let flow, but then the Understudy was speaking again.

 

“There is, of course, lots of physical exercise that will be part of your training. This will help you in poses such as Pose Five...” the Understudy paused before continuing,  “...and, of course, in other things too.  But in the meantime, you will give every effort, and you will give no complaint.  Is that understood?”

 

“Yes,” Shana whispered.

 

“Good. Do it again.”

 

Shana took a deep breath, arched her upper body and let her head fall back, chin pointing up, exposing the long line of her extended throat. Her lips parted.  She began to pant with exertion.

 

“Hold it. Keep holding it.” The voice of the Understudy seemed further away as the blood rushed to Shana’ head. “Now relax.”

 

Shana dropped to the floor and rolled onto her side, catching her breath.

 

“Very good, that was better than before,” said the Understudy calmly.  “And so you will find Pose Six much easier. Sit up, sit on the floor, legs out.”  Shana slowly rolled onto her back and sat up.  “Don’t quite hug your knees, merely place your hands naturally on them, and draw your legs up toward your chest. Turn to the mirror and try this.”

 

Shana faced the mirror, and drew her knees up to her chest. The Understudy paced behind her, looking at her reflection in the mirror.  “Arch your feet again, let only the tips of your toes touch the floor. If you are wearing shoes, make sure both the heel and the toe of the shoe are in contact with the floor. The higher the heel, the more you will have to draw your legs up to do this.”  Shana stared at her reflection, at her pointed toes, her legs, her knees, her thighs underneath, and the cheeks of her tush.  The outline of her pussy was clearly visible, almost exposed with the leotard pulled taut against it as it rode up her back. She blushed deeply at the sight and looked away.

 

“That is all for today.  I want you to practice these in your chambers.  You will remember them all, and I will see improvement tomorrow,” said the Understudy. “Take a shower for that sweat I see you’ve worked up.”  The Understudy left.  Shana was alone.  She looked around, got up and walked back over to where she had left the black heeled sandals.  She pulled the leotard back down over her hips and slipped the shoes on.  Once back in the change room, she gratefully pulled off the leotard, kicked off the shoes and stepped into the shower stall.

 

The warm water felt good on her body, and Shana leaned into the spray, heavily against the wall, bracing herself with her arms and resting her head.  The warmth began to relax her tense body, the relaxation gave way to a deep sigh, and the deep sigh gave way to sobs.  The loneliness and the homesickness welled up inside her, and for a minute, no money in the world seemed worth it.  Then she remembered her parents, that this was for her parents, and her sobs ebbed as she pulled herself together.  Surely there would be other slaves , she thought to herself, and surely then there would be some company.

 

She finally stepped out of the shower and towelled herself off.  Finding a small hair elastic had been left next to the hair dryer, she put her long hair in a ponytail, wrapped the towel around herself and peeked out into the change room.  Nobody was there, but gone were the leotard and shoes, and in their place, nothing but a light bundle of green fabric draped across the couch.  She picked up the bundle and held it up in front of her.  It seemed to be some sort of tunic, with a kind of uniform quality about it.  Again she checked around her and could see no other clothing offered.  She took a deep breath, removed the towel, and slipped the tunic on over her head and wriggled into it.

 

The fabric was surprisingly comfortable, like a soft cotton twill.  It had short sleeves and a high, even collar with a notch cut in the front, just like a priest’s.   It had a crisp, professional press to it, greatly flattering her upper body.  Again, however, its hemline was very, very short.  Shana felt almost desperate for something to wear under it as she turned first one way, and then another, looking at herself in the mirror.  She found she could bend a little further than when in the denim skirt, but it made little difference.  She had only an inch, it seemed, between her modesty and her betrayal.  And where were her shoes?  She walked around the room, looked under the couch, even checked in the shower area, but could find nothing.  A knock on the door made her jump and she rushed quickly over to open it.  It was the Usher, who tapped the wristwatch and motioned for her to follow. 

 

She went after the Usher into the passageway, walking gingerly in her bare feet on the cold, polished cement.  The Usher said nothing as she was led down the passageway in the opposite direction from the front gate.  As before, the interior of the building was clean, but industrial.  Portions of the corridor looked like they had been patched together from scrap material, and the lighting consisted of torches set in the walls at intervals with iron brackets.  It was in stark contrast to the polished, professional, well-lit studio she had been in.

 

At a junction in the corridor not far from where they’d come, the Usher turned left and ducked through a low-cut door.  She followed him through the door and immediately down a flight of steps that led into a narrow, claustrophobic passageway.  It was like being in the bowels of an old Trident nuclear submarine, with what looked like berths, holes, vents, ducts or other halls, all the way along the passage.  The passageway stopped at a dead end.  The Usher gestured at a metal ladder soldered haphazardly onto the wall on the right hand side.  It was a short ladder, about ten rungs, and it led to an opening in the wall just above head height. A dark blue, velvety curtain covered the opening.

 

“In there are your quarters, Slave Shana,” the Usher gestured upward.  “This wing is for the slaves.  Everything you need for your personal chambers are in there.  If someone such as myself or a steward of the house should bang on your door, immediately assume Pose One on the floor.  Do not expect privacy.  You may go inside, now.”  The Usher waited.  Shana took hold of the rungs of the ladder and paused.  The Usher did not move, but stared stoically back down the hall. Shana swallowed hard, and then placed a bare foot gingerly on the first rung, and pulled herself up.  As she climbed, she felt the Usher’s eyes on her.  Her face burned and she could not help but look around behind her as she reached the top of the ladder.  The Usher’s eyes were fixed steadily on her behind, looking intently, but impassively, up the back of her skirt.  The Usher’s eyes flicked to the bottoms of her bare feet and then up again under the short hem to her bare tush, vulva and the hint of her pussy.  Shana pulled the curtain aside and fled into the chamber, pulling the back of her tunic against her rear as soon as she got a free hand.

 

She found herself inside what seemed like a treehouse.  She could stand up inside the room, but there wasn’t much more than two inches of space between her head and the ceiling.  A phosphorous lamp warmly lit a chamber big enough to hold a twin futon, a net port, a small table with two chairs, a pearl-coloured pedestal sink, cupboard, a huge mirror against the far wall, and  a book case against the other.

 

A bookcase.  Shana stared in astonishment.  It actually held books.  Lots of them.  She had only ever seen perhaps three books in her life.  Most of her reading was from porting into the net.  She crossed the room - a matter of a few steps - and looked at the books. They  were utterly foreign to her, and musty. An eclectic, aimless, jumble of titles and names.  It was the largest collection of books she had ever seen - three shelves.  That was far greater than any library she had been in as a child, and the city no longer had libraries.

 

She tore her attention away from the sight long enough to see her bag had been left on the bed.  Quickly she went over and dumped everything out.  All that she had packed, including her photos and her stuffed bear, were still there, much to her relief.  Nothing of her old street clothes were inside.  She inspected her room more closely, and found nothing else to wear except a blue, satin robe under her pillow.  Curious, she took it and put it on over her tunic.  It tied with a sash and, unsurprisingly, was a short as her tunic.  She collapsed on the bed, tired, but without any idea what time it was.  Her watch had gone with her old clothes, and now she lay on her side, the first rest she’d had since arriving.  She gazed at herself in the big mirror, and realized it was probably for practising in front of.  She studied the green tunic, how it fit her body so well, how it had ridden up to expose her pussy as she lay there.  She reached down and gave it a half-hearted tug to cover herself, craving a pair of jeans.  Remembering the Understudy’s words, she stretched out her bare legs and flexed her toes while waiting for sleep to come.   She was in the middle of arching her feet when someone banged on the rungs of the ladder.

 

Shana leapt off her bed and quickly adopted Pose One in the middle of the floor.  She tugged the skirt down over the front of her thighs to cover her pussy.  As she did so, she felt it pull up in the back, and felt her bare seat against the soles of her bare feet as she knelt.  A hand jerked the curtain aside.  It was the Usher.

 

 

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