Chapter 5

I awoke to the sound of my master’s knuckles rapping against the bars of my cage, a feeble light piercing through the shadows of the early morning. Despite the spiteful rest I had managed to snatch the night before, I felt a strange sense of gratitude for the relative comfort of the cage, compared to the cold, hard floors of the days prior. My body was still adorned with the instruments of their pleasure—a dildo lodged deep within me and a plug filling my anus, reminding me of my submission. I sluggishly dragged myself out of the cage, the metal cold and unforgiving against my skin.

“Good morning, slave,” my master greeted me casually, lounging at the table and sipping his morning coffee as if it were the most mundane of tasks. I searched the room with eager eyes, desperate to catch a glimpse of my mistress, but she was nowhere to be found.

“You may remove the plug and dildo, and get yourself cleaned” he instructed, his voice cold and detached as he flipped through the newspaper. I obeyed; my legs wobbly as I made my way to the washroom. The shower’s hot spray washed away the sticky residue of the night’s degradation, yet the humiliation remained, seared into my soul.

When I returned to the bedroom, I found no clothing laid out for me to don. Instead, I remained naked, standing by the side of the master’s bed, my head bowed in silent anticipation.

“Did I tell you to stand there, you, useless whore?” he barked, his eyes not once leaving the paper. I flinched, the fear coiling around me like a snake, tightening its grip.

“No, sir,” I murmured, dropping to my knees, my legs spread wide and my hands clamped behind my head, my breasts thrust out for his inspection.

“You’re as dumb as they come,” he sneered, his words cutting deeper than any whip ever could. “You didn’t even read the contract you signed last night, did you?”

I felt the blood rush to my cheeks, staining them with a deep crimson of shame. In my haste to please, in my desperate desire to belong, I had overlooked the very rules that now governed my existence.

“You’re a fucking disappointment,” he said, rising from his chair and stalking towards me. “Now, crawl to your cage and read those rules. I expect you to have them memorized by the time I return for breakfast.”

My heart sank as I realized the gravity of my mistake. The rules, displayed on the tablet inside the cage, were a list of humiliating commands that stripped away any semblance of dignity I had clung to. I was to be addressed as ‘the slave’ at all times, to serve and obey without question or hesitation. I would be a plaything for my black masters, a canvas for their desires, and an object for their amusement.

I took a deep breath, the words searing themselves into my mind as I read through the list. I was to crawl on all fours, never to stand unless permitted. I was to be perpetually ready to satisfy their carnal needs, and I would not be allowed the release of an orgasm unless they granted it.

An hour later, I crawled down the stairs, my knees bruised and raw, my stomach growling with hunger. The master sat at the head of the dining table; his breakfast laid out before him. He looked up from his mobile, his eyes lingering on my nakedness, a smug smile playing on his lips.

I approached him, my body trembling with a mix of fear and arousal. His bare feet were positioned before me, and as I took my place at his side, his big toe grazed my sensitive clit. The sensation was almost too much to bear, my body screaming for release.

“Recite the rules,” he ordered, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down my spine.

I began, my voice shaking as I recounted each degrading rule. His toes pushed deeper into my pussy, the intrusion both painful and exhilarating. I begged for mercy, for the sweet release of an orgasm, but he was unrelenting.

“Clean,” he said, his voice a harsh command that I knew I dare not disobey. My body trembling with need, I leaned forward and took his foot into my mouth, the taste of my own arousal mingling with the scent of his skin.

As I licked and sucked his toes clean, I felt the humiliation wash over me in a hot, sticky wave. Yet, beneath it all, a fierce hunger burned, a need to serve, to submit, to be owned by these cruel, beautiful people. And as I knelt before him, my mouth filled with his foot, I knew that I was exactly where I belonged—a slave to their whims, their desires, and their twisted games.

She began reading the document out loud, repeating every word. “Miss Samantha Ruth Prabhu, CEO of Saaki and a famous Indian actress, is bound by these basic rules,” it began. “In this agreement, she will be called ‘the slave’. She belongs to one black man and one black woman, who are known as ‘owners’, and any other black people are considered ‘superiors’.”

The Rules for the Slave 1. The slave must always obey, following every order from its owners, no matter how small. 2. The slave will call its owners ‘Master’ or ‘Mistress’ when they are alone, and ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’ in front of others. 3. The slave must address all superiors as ‘Sir’ or ‘Madam’. 4. The slave can wear what the owners say outside the home. 5. Inside the house, the slave must always be naked. 6. The slave has to move on her knees, hands, or elbows, not her feet. 7. The slave must do all the housework every day. 8. The slave must satisfy her owners’ sexual needs whenever they want. 9. The slave can only have an orgasm if the owners say it’s okay. 10. The slave needs permission to go to the bathroom. 11. The slave will eat what her owners give her from her special bowl, using her mouth only. 12. The slave must exercise for one hour each day to stay fit. 13. The slave’s body is for her owners to do with as they wish. 14. The slave has to play with herself and get very close to having an orgasm every three hours, but not go all the way unless the owners say so. 15. If the slave doesn’t follow orders, the owners can punish her. These are the basic rules, but the owners can add more if they want.” I finished reciting the rules, but I was losing control, “please sir” I begged, just as I was about to have an orgasm, he pulled his feet out of cunt, making my body tremble. “Clean” was the only word that he said and I reluctantly knelt forward and opened my mouth and sucked his feet clean from my own pussy juice.

My master’s words echoed in my mind as he placed the brimming bowl of breakfast before me, the rules he’d so meticulously crafted to ensure my complete and utter submission. “I hope all the rules are etched into your puny brain,” he said with a smirk, watching as I obediently dropped to all fours and began to lap up the food like the obedient animal, he’d turned me into. Each movement of my tongue was a silent affirmation of my place in his world—a creature existing solely to serve his whims and desires.

Once my degrading meal was finished, the day’s real work began. I was his personal servant, tasked with the menial chores of maintaining his pristine living environment. Cleaning the floors, dusting the furniture, and scrubbing the toilets were all part of my morning ritual. The laundry was next, folding his clothes with care, feeling the fabric that had been so recently pressed against his skin, carrying his scent, and reminding me of my purpose.

Lunchtime approached, and with it, a new form of torment. On my knees beside the elegantly set table, I awaited his command, my heart racing with a mix of fear and anticipation. He walked in, a dominating presence that made me quiver. “You will suck my cock,” he ordered, and I complied, my mouth wrapping around his erection as he began to devour his meal. His feet found my throbbing clit, and with every bite he took, his toes played a sinful tune that had me fighting to stifle my own cries of pleasure. The taste of his pre-cum coated my tongue, a delicious treat that I had been denied for hours.

As he neared climax, the tension grew unbearable. His eyes bore into me, demanding my attention. “Pull out my cock and aim it at your face,” he said, and with trembling hands, I did as I was told. The hot spurts of his release painted my cheeks, my forehead, and my eyelids, a sticky reminder of my servitude. I felt a pang of sadness that my body’s sweet nectar was wasted on my skin when I so desperately craved the feeling of him inside me.

“Sir, I’m on the edge,” I whispered, my voice shaking with need. “Can I come?” His gaze grew fiercer. “What’s wrong, slut? Can’t you control your urges?” “Please, sir, I’ll do anything,” I begged, desperation etched into every syllable. “You’ll get your release, but only when you have a thick, black cock buried deep inside you,” he said, a cruel smile playing on his lips.

My heart sank as he dismissed me. I crawled upstairs to our bedroom, the sticky mess on my face a constant reminder of his power over me. Following his instructions, I smeared his cum like a depraved makeup artist, coating my features in his essence. I chose an outfit that clung to my body, revealing my every curve—a brown skirt that barely covered my ass and a yellow tank top that accentuated my breasts.

In the living room, I knelt before him, purse in mouth, awaiting his next command. “I’ve arranged an appointment for you,” he said, his voice cold and detached. “You’re to meet your mistress at the mall. And remember, you’re to use public transport. Stand for the entire journey and make sure to bend over at least twice so everyone can see who you truly are.”

Panic flooded my veins as I ventured into the world, a walking billboard of my degradation. At the bus stop, I felt the eyes of strangers on me, judging my explicit attire and the smear of cum that was now drying on my face. The bus ride was a gauntlet of lewd stares and accidental—or perhaps not so accidental—touches. Twice, I bent over, displaying my ass and pussy to the lecherous eyes of the male passengers, their faces flushing with excitement at the sight of me.

As I exited the bus, the fear of the journey still clinging to me, I searched for my mistress. Relief washed over me when I spotted her, and I scurried over, my legs trembling from the effort of maintaining my composure.

The encounter with the persistent man had left me feeling violated, his hands brushing against my breasts and thighs as if I were nothing more than a piece of meat for his enjoyment. Yet, in a twisted way, the pain and humiliation brought me closer to the climax I’d been denied.

I reached my mistress, her eyes scanning my cum-smeared face with a knowing smile. “Good girl,” she said, her voice a caress that sent shivers down my spine. “You’re learning your place.”

Standing obediently beside my mistress, I murmured, “Thank you, mistress,” as she scrutinized me with a look that could melt steel. Her eyes narrowed as she issued her next command, a new addition to the ever-growing list of degrading requirements she had bestowed upon me.

“Always put your hair in a ponytail,” she ordered imperiously. Her words were cold steel, and I complied, feeling the familiar knot of dread coil in my stomach as I realized the implications of what was to come. The rules she had set for me were as numerous as the stars in the sky, and as unyielding. As I gathered my hair and secured it with trembling hands, she reached into her bag and pulled out a collar. It was a stark, black leather collar, designed to remind me of my servitude. My heart raced as she fastened it around my neck, the metal clasp clicking into place like a prison door slamming shut.

With the collar in place, she attached a leash to it, a vivid symbol of my enslavement. I was no longer a person in her eyes, but a mere object to be paraded and controlled. She tugged on the leash, leading me away from the bright lights of the mall and into a dimly lit side street that seemed to swallow us whole. Each step on my 7-inch white wedges was agonizing, the heels digging into the soft flesh of my feet. Yet, I followed without protest, knowing that the pain was a part of my penance.

As we approached a nondescript building, I squinted at the flickering neon sign that read, “J’s Tattoos and Piercings.” My mistress’s smile grew wider, a sadistic twinkle in her eye that sent shivers down my spine. She pushed open the door, and the leash grew taut as she led me into the dimly lit den of bodily artistry. The air was thick with the scent of ink and the faint metallic tang of blood.

All around, people were talking, their eyes drawn to the unusual sight of a woman in a ponytail and high heels being led around on a leash. The whispers grew louder as I walked in, and I could feel their stares boring into me. My cheeks burned with shame, and I instinctively dropped my gaze to the floor. My body was rigid with fear, but there was nowhere to run. The leash was a constant reminder of the power she wielded over me.

The receptionist looked up as we approached, and my mistress exchanged a few words with her. She nodded and handed the leash to a man who emerged from the back of the shop. He was bald and burly, with arms covered in a tapestry of ink and metal. His eyes raked over my body, and he smirked at the sight of my discomfort.

“Is this the slut you were talking about?” he asked, his voice gruff and amused.

“Yes, this is Samantha Ruth Prabhu,” my mistress said, her voice dripping with disdain as she enunciated my full name, adding a layer of humiliation to the encounter.

He took the leash with a chuckle, and she handed him a piece of paper. “It’s only tattoos for today,” he informed me, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.

I was led to a chair, and with surprising gentleness, he had me lie on my back. He instructed me not to move, a warning that sent a thrill of fear through me. What kind of art was he about to etch into my skin? Would it be a declaration of my mistress’s ownership, a brand that marked me as her property for all to, see?

He cleaned my left ankle with an antiseptic wipe, and the stencil he placed there was small, but the design was clear and intricate. “Now, don’t flinch,” he said, his voice low and soothing, a stark contrast to the pain that was about to come. The buzz of the tattoo gun filled the air, and I tensed as the needle pierced my flesh. It was agony, a dance of pain that was both terrifying and exhilarating.

The first tattoo was completed swiftly, and he covered it with a white cloth. He moved to my right upper arm, the stencil now a tiny, delicate design. The pain was intense, but I had been through this before, and I gritted my teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me wince.

Then, the tattoo on my wrist, a painful reminder of the chains that bound me to her. It was a simple line, but the pain was anything but, as he dug the needle into the sensitive skin, leaving a trail of fire in its wake.

“Now for the main one,” he said, a note of excitement in his voice that made my stomach churn. “This will be just below your shoulder line, in the middle of your chest. You’ll need to lower your top for me.”

My mouth went dry, and I felt the blood rush to my cheeks as I realized the implication of his words. With trembling hands, I pulled my shirt down, exposing my breasts to this stranger. He took his time, tracing the line of my collarbone with his finger, leaving a trail of coldness that made me shiver.