This is my second story about the experiences of a girl who is forced into slavery. It's not terribly imaginative, but hopefully some of you will like it. If you liked "My Berlin Summer," it's probably worth your time to read this one.
Unlike "My Berlin Summer," this one is in only one part, because I find I have neither the time nor the creativity for longer efforts.
There were tears in my eyes. I was glad that I was not wearing makeup. Had my tears ruined my makeup, I was sure I would have been beaten. Girls such as I, I had learned, could be beaten for far less. On the other hand, perhaps the men preferred their girls to ascend the block in such a state of obvious distress. Perhaps the buyers found such innocence appealing.
I did not know. I knew only that I had to obey.
I had been captured only two weeks earlier, in the fall of my home city, where I had been born and had spent my nineteen years of life. The assault had been sudden and unexpected, the enemy soldiers suddenly pouring through the streets and knocking down doors. I had been quickly collared, my hands bound roughly behind my back, and thrown onto a waiting wagon to be transported to my fate. In the back of the wagon were fifteen or so other girls and young women. I knew several of them from school or other settings. Some were married; most, including me, were not. All were highly attractive, or so I thought, at least. We had been found worthy of being abducted and taken away. I flushed with a moment of pride, only to feel a chill as I thought of the obvious reasons why we might have been chosen. Some of the women had had their clothing torn and, their hands tied as mine, were unable to conceal their bodies. Thankfully, I had not been so abused.
The block was a broad wooden platform, about six feet high. We were outside, in bright daylight, in one of the principal plazas of the capital city of our conquerors. I was kneeling with the other girls in the dirt behind the platform. There was nowhere I could go. A chain connected the collar around my neck to the collars of the girls on my left and right. The guards stood to either side of us, their whips hanging by their sides. We no longer gave them any reason to use them.
I did not know how many people were on the other side of the block, watching the proceedings with idleinterest or with commercial intentions. We had been told very little about our fate. We had only been told that if we obeyed, we would survive. I had already seen girls beaten within an inch of their lives for failing to obey a single command. I had no wish to feel the leather on my soft, unprotected back and thighs again.
The last two weeks had been easily the worst of my life. Torn away from my home and family, I had been given a crash course in the demands of my new existence. I had learned to obey without question the commands of my captors, to eat from a bowl on the floor, to beg to lick and kiss their feet, to remove my clothes at the slightest gesture. As captives from an enemy city, we knew we had no recourse, no court to which we could appeal. Even were the fortunes of war to be reversed and our home armies to triumph one day, we could not hope to be returned to our previous stations; the transition to our new condition was a one-way trip. Once a girl has been taught to kneel at the feet of men, there is no other future available to her.
The girl on my left was released from the holding chain and drawn up to a standing position. A chain leash was attached to her collar and used to lead her to the steps mounting the back of the wooden platform. She, too, had been crying. For the last two weeks, she had been one of our captors' "favorites." I had heard them pull her from her kennel at any hour and use her in the corridor, her soft back or belly pressed against the cold tile flooring. I had heard her cries of pain and humiliation as they exerted their dominance over her, using her unilaterally for their brutal pleasure. She had not been the only one to be so abused. I, luckily, had been spared such intimate attentions, but I was only too aware of why: as a virgin, I was being "saved" for my eventual owner. It was he who would claim rights to my soft flesh.
I heard the crack of the whip as the woman before me walked back and forth on the block, displaying herself brazenly for the crowd. I saw the auctioneer fondling her body possessively and heard his voice booming out, but I could not focus enough to understand his words. I knew a little of the language of this state, my schoolbook learning supplemented by the commands I had been taught over the last two weeks, but in my current state of distress my vocabulary failed me.
A guard unclipped my collar from the chain and attached a chain leash in its place. He pulled me to a standing position by the leash. I kept my eyes down as I had been trained.
All morning we had been displayed along one side of the plaza, our wrists chained above our heads to rings set high in a stone wall. There was enough slack in the chains for us to turn about and display our bodies fully for the potential buyers. Of course, they were not limited to the use of their eyes, but were also permitted to explore our bodies fully with their hands. I blushed, remembering the humiliating caresses and examinations I had suffered, and even more at the way some of them had made my body respond. Surely my friends would have been shocked to see my body squirm in the chains as it had that morning. But the men were merciless, and I had had nothing with which to protect myself.
The woman before me was now descending the stairs on the side of the platform, her head in her hands, sobbing. It was my turn. The guard led me up the stairs, where he handed the end of my leash to the auctioneer.
I was naked, alone, and afraid. I was about to be sold.
The auctioneer reached around my body and rudely fondled my right breast as he spoke. I did not understand many the words, but I guessed he was reading them my basic description: 19 years of age, five foot six, dark brown hair, brown eyes, illiterate. Virgin.
Before two weeks ago, I had never been naked before a man. Now it had become a regular part of my condition. While we were sometimes permitted clothes - thin and revealing as they might be - it went without saying that we would be auctioned off completely nude, save for our collars. Men would pay for the use of our naked bodies, so it was only fair that they should be able to see what they were buying.
I dared not lift my head, but by lifting my eyes slightly I guessed that there were two hundred people in the crowd. Most were men, though some were women or children. Most looked on dispassionately, even distractedly. Didn't they care? I was going to be sold! But, I knew, I was nothing to them, just another naked girl to be had for a pittance.
"Sex slave," I heard the auctioneer call out as he cracked the whip, indicating that I would soon have to perform for the audience. There were two words I knew. But I had never heard them applied to me with such momentous finality as they were now, my naked, collared body in full view of the hundreds of people who might own me just a few minutes from now. Of course, I had known that I was a slave, and had been able to guess that I was the sort of slave whose primary purpose was to give long, uninhibited, unconditional pleasures to men, the kind of girl whose place was on her back before a man, her legs spread invitingly, or on her belly, her hips raised high in the air, or her widely-spread knees, her lips open and her eyes closed. Apparently men had considered my face, and breasts, and belly, and thighs, and determined that I was the sort of girl worth having, at least for a few minutes' casual rape, or for longer, more elaborate pleasures I had not yet been trained to give. But it still came as a shock to hear those words so casually applied to me, here, on the block, so vulnerably exposed, so helpless. It was as if everything about me, my entire existence, could be summed up in those two words, "sex slave." But now, of course, it could. That was all I was, or could hope to be.
The whip cracked again, this time across my back. I realized I had missed a command. The auctioneer repeated it: "Kneel!" I swiftly knelt on the wooden platform, my knees spread, my breasts lifted prominently, my head lowered submissively. "Crawl!" he ordered. I lowered myself to my hands and knees and crawled from one side of the block to the other, my back arched and my hips high as I had been trained, my head still down. I could hear numbers being called out from the crowd, but in my confusion I could not make any sense of them. I hoped that I would bring a good price, if for no other reason than to provide some validation to my miserable existence.
I am not a slave!, I thought to myself as I rolled on my side on the block in response to a command. I do not want to be at the beck and call of a man, subject to his every whim and desire, forced to lend him the pleasure of my body at his least command, nothing more than a vessel for his sexual urges. My tears flowed faster as I wept at my cruel fate. Yet here I was, displaying myself naked before a square full of bidders, now pursing and licking my lips like the cheapest of whores. The auctioneer placed the handle of his whip before my mouth, and I sucked on it greedily, mimicking the service that I had never performed but would no doubt come to know only too well. I knew the penalty for failing to perform, and had no wish to suffer it. As the crowd laughed at my attempts to satisfy the inanimate object, the auctioneer made a comment I partially understood - something about my being "eager" to have "the real thing" in my mouth.
.... There is more of this story ...