Chapter 3: The slave collar

“Now, are you ready to beg for mercy, whore?” sneers Drax, mistaking my gasps as signs of distress rather than an approaching orgasm. “Let your countrymen see the pathetic little trollop that you are. Debase yourself in front of your people and the pain will stop ... for now.”

Never. Never, I silently vow. I’m a prisoner, not a slave. But I know Drax will continue my torment until he is ordered to stop. Savouring each moment as he makes a spectacle of tormenting me for everyone to see. My body betrays me. I begin shaking. Not from pain or fear, but from mounting sexual pleasure. The sight of Drax’s bulging cock straining inside his pants isn’t helping. I’m no stranger to how the effects of an aphrodisiac, along with the skilful manipulation of the studs in the collar, can reduce me into a helpless puppet. My nightmares from my time in Quenier are still full of the humiliating acts I willingly performed for Drax during is frequent visits.

However, I’m sure Drax doesn’t know of my past experience with this form of torture while under the influence of an aphrodisiac. Drax thinks he is torturing me with pain, while someone among the Briniates knows that my submission is going to be gained from an excess of sexual pleasure. Why else would I have been given a powerful aphrodisiac earlier? I suppress a cry, and only hiss through my teeth as I push back an orgasm.

“Continue,” orders the general to Drax.

I keep my mouth shut. I refuse to give these bastards the pleasure of having me beg for mercy in front of my countrymen. Pleading for mercy would acknowledge my total subjugation to their control. It would be my admission of enslavement. Fortunately, I know that killing me isn’t part of their plan. Drax eases the stud in my collar and my breathing returns to near normal, and my pending orgasm subsides unfulfilled.

“Do you want to beg for mercy now, whore?” chortles Drax.

I silently refuse. I will never beg in front of these rutting bastards.

“Again, Drax,” orders the general. Drax happily complies.

Moments later, and to my horror, moisture runs down the inside of my pants. Despite my best efforts, the combined effect of the aphrodisiac and the torment has driven me into a powerful orgasm. It could be worse. Those unaccustomed to the effects of these slave collars can sometimes lose control of their bladder and bowels. But despite my loss of control, I know how to pace myself. How to yield to the torment. How to take it.

Drax is grumbling with frustration, but I still refuse to beg. The crowd in the square is becoming restless at the sight of my ongoing torment.

“General, sir,” murmurs one of the officers standing next to the general. “It might be prudent to postpone this until later.”

“She’s still conscious,” Drax snaps, obviously expecting his victim to be a blubbering heap of piss and shit on the floor by now.

The general considers his officer’s advice. “Enough. Get her ready for transport.”

The soldiers heave me upright. If it wasn’t for the rigid collar forcing my chin up, I would barely be able to lift my head. The powerful orgasm that has soaked my pants, and the restricted airflow into my lungs, sets my head spinning. Darkness swarms in. But I fight it; grit my teeth and silently push back at the darkness. The soldiers drag me towards the metal cage standing next to where the general waits.