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Review This Story || Author: Clare Seven

Year of the Oar

Part 4

Part 4



My first sense was the smell. It got worse, even as my bare feet descended the creaking wooden boards

that led onto the rowing deck. I gagged, unable to cover my mouth, the cuffs still pinning my hands

behind my back. The wood of the deck was slimy underfoot, as if the filth that I could smell had

somehow made its way onto the dark timbers. The light was extremely poor, but I could discern shapes

as my eyes eventually adjusted. As I cleared the end of the stairwell, I gasped.



The light from outside illuminated that part of the deck. Added to this, the effect of the sun shining

through the oarports created points of light across the bodies of the assembled women. I had been

brought onto the bow of the vessel, not at the stern where the cabins that I had seen from the dock had

been. I could never have been prepared for the sight that greeted me as my eyes began to adjust to the

gloom.



The first thing that struck me were their backs. Most of them were darker skinned, locals I reasoned. A

few were pale white, but all were sweating and clotted with grime, then covered with red welts from

the whip. Many of the heads had been shaven, though all were bowed across the thick wooden oars,

which had been pulled in from the water.



There were two levels of rowers. Something which I should have noted from outside, but which had

not been immediately obvious. A catwalk divided port from starboard. As I slowly walked along it, the

horror of the conditions began to sink in. The women in the lower tier sat on a rough bench, maybe

half a meter wide with scarcely ten centimetres length for their buttocks, so that their rear ends hung off

the back of it. Judging by the condition of them, I guessed immediately that the rowers simply went to

the toilet where they sat. I grimaced, tried to hold back the bile building in my throat. A river of slurry

ran beneath the lower tier, with some of the rowers letting their heels dip in it. I noted too, that their

ankle fetters were fastened as I had suspected, a length of rusted chain running between each ankle and

under the catwalk. The heads of the women on the lower tier were at the height of my waist as I walked

slowly past them.



The women in the upper tier seemed to have a much better life, though they too had seen their share of

the whip. The bench here was longer, so that two women might sit and ply the oar, which was much

longer in their case. Their benches were staggered so that as I walked, I passed a lower tier, then higher

tier, then lower again. They pushed their feet against a horizontal timber, which was supported via an

upright at the deck, the rowers on the lower benches must have moved beneath this as they pulled,

looking up at the filthy legs and feet of the upper rowers. I noted with horror, that the women on the

upper tier had little option but to urinate, and worse, onto the legs and feet of the rowers below. A

white woman, on the upper benches, coughed and gurgled noisily as I walked past. Her body bore the

scars of the lash, her hair had perhaps once been shaved, but now was matted and longer. Welts

decorated her naked back, thighs and breasts. Her body was coated with the grime and slime of the

work, the back of the bench coated with waste. I wanted to be sick.



I hadn’t noticed the wooden spikes that coated part of the deck. The men guiding me barely felt them in

their shoes. I winced as I walked across them, ducking to avoid the large wooden contrivance which

was suspended from the ceiling. As I reached the end of the spike portion, they noticed my discomfort.

“We attach the yoke to rowers, make ‘em stand there for a few days. Makes them obey.”

“S..Stand on the spikes?”

“Yes,” the overseer whispered from behind me. “Row well, and you won’t have to find out what it’s

like.”

“Oh this one will be on the horse I dare say,” the rugged man who had chained me chuckled.



I continued to walk. Row upon row of rowers extended into the darkness, some wearing wrist manacles

that had been nailed to the oar. Many of the whiter…volunteers seemed to have these. I noted also that

few of the newer women seemed to be in the upper tiers. I judged that the lower benches must be some

kind of rite of passage, a method of breaking those that might fight back. I grimaced, noting the empty

bench ahead on the right, on the lower level. There was a grille on the floor nearby. I tried not to think

of what conditions might be like down there.



I stared forward, noting a large dark woman sitting at a drum, but my attention was quickly diverted to

the poor creature in agony behind her. She was a local, perhaps in her forties, her body lithe and





muscled from time at the oar. Despite her dark flesh, I could still see the marks that the whip had left

on her breasts and belly. She wore a thick wooden yoke, which held her wrists and neck in place above

the terrible wooden instrument which she sat astride. The dark wood sat on four sturdy legs and was

triangular in profile, so that her thighs were separated by it and her pussy was forced to straddle the

apex of the wood, which, far from being dulled or flattened, formed a perfect apex. I stopped, staring.



They pushed me on toward the empty bench. I gasped, noting now how her legs seemed bowed, as if

pulled downward. As I slowed down, closing with the bench, I noted how a wooden bucket had been

tied with thick cord to her big toes, its weight, and its contents, pulling her down onto the agony of the

wood. Her face was a picture of dull agony, as if the core of her being concentrated on making it

through the ordeal. I stared, as the men behind me laughed.

“So, you like the horse? She has the next shift to do. Another three hours. You’ll do your turn too.”

I turned sharply. “No, I don’t want to. I’ll row well ok?”

They laughed again.

“Get on the bench!”



I looked down. The narrow bench was slimy and covered in filth. Beneath it, the brown water of the

bilge, a rusted length of chain running from underneath the catwalk to the wall, still unfastened.

The end of the lash fell across the back of my knees.

I gasped and moved forward.

“Get on the bench…hurry up!”

I had no option but to comply. I moved slowly, carefully climbing down, knowing that I would have to

step into the foul bilge water. I did so, wincing at the feeling of the muddy liquid, dropping my other

foot into the water, turning as if to sit as they grasped my arms and unlocked the cuffs.

“Sit.”

I lowered myself down feeling the bench underneath me, lifting my feet from the vile liquid, noting the

wet stain on the back of the wood, left there by the previous rower. The overseer grabbed the chain, his

fingers dripping into the filthy bilge. Grasping my ankle he threaded it through one and then the other

fetter, locking the chain onto a bracket on the hull. I pushed my feet against the thick timber, watching

myself become one with the ship, my heart pounding. I hooked my toes about the wood, realising that

it would be impossible to row without my heels dipping in the filthy water. I stared forward as he

rubbed his filthy hands on my thighs, smiling.



The stink still assaulted my nostrils. I was naked, chained and isolated, seeing only a sea of whipped,

bloody backs in front of me, together with the woman at the drum and the woman in agony behind her.

I thought with horror, of how I might sit here for a year.



The oar sat in front of me, pulled toward the back of rower ahead so that I could sit down. Now, the

overseer in shorts pulled it toward me. dropping it into my lap. I grunted as the heavy timber, wet from

the salt water outside, and mired with grime, landed on my thighs. The heavy thump against my legs

forced my feet into the bilge water.

“Get used to the oar bitch, it’s yours for the next twelve months.”

As he spoke, I watched another man behind him, a thick set local, watching me intenly, the reaction in

his grubby jeans betraying his wish as he spoke excitedly in a foreign tongue. The two white men

replied, laughing as they did so.

“Looks like you’ll have to offer the mouth sooner than you think, right after the first shift at the oar.”

I shuddered.

“Do as the others do, row well and obey and get an easier time. Rebel or fight back, and you will be

punished. Understand?”

I looked up, in awe of the men standing over me, overwhelmed by events.

I heard the swish of the whip before it welted my back. I cried out,,wide eyed and twisting as the tip

curled around my belly.

“I said…UNDERSTAND!”

“Yes…YES…I understand,” I gasped, wincing, my back on fire.

“No, wait!” I said, watching as he raised the whip again, raising my hands as he brought it slashing

across my legs.

“YIAHHH!”

I pulled my legs together, watching the red welt rise on my muscled thighs.

“That’s yes OVERSEER!” he shouted.

I paused, groaning, part of me wanting to tell him to go to hell.





I didn’t see the local overseer bring his whip down across my lower back. I yelped loudly and arched

again, my mouth agape.

“Y..Yes Overseer!”

“Good,” he said quietly, moving the handle of the lash under my chin, holding my head high. I

shuddered instinctively as the leather dangled amidst my stung thighs.

“You’ll learn the discipline of the lash and row well, or else, you’ll be punished.”

Instinctively I looked at the poor wretch on the horse. He followed my gaze, before turning to me once

more.

“Obey, and you may avoid it.”

I nodded as he removed the whip handle.

“Yes Overseer,” I whispered, staring at him, a little defiance in my gaze.







Review This Story || Author: Clare Seven
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