Sold

I was awakened by two slavegirls. They were dressed in their very short tunics, brazenly open in the side, showing too much of their flesh for my liking, for my inner calm.

They attended to me, but made no secret of my status, of what I was. They were attentive but cold, they showed me no affection. When we were done, they brought me through a long corridor to a room where I was greeted by the Slaver.

I had no reason to show him any respect but politeness made me bow my head in his presence. He smiled at me and bowed his head in mock courtesy. He looked me over, from head to toe. I was glad I was still in my robe.

All was lost, I knew that. My freedom gone, lost to some dreadful scheme, some plan I didn't even know about, a plan that would benefit someone other than me. I was a pawn, although a valuable pawn, but I had been sacrificed, sacrificed or utilised.

'It is time, my lady,' the Slaver said and bowed to me while making a gesture towards the door.

'Time for your triumph,' I replied, not wanting to give him the pleasure of seeing me humble myself, not before him, not yet.

I knew the time for him to triumph, for him to see me being degraded, was to come. There was no turning back, now, no way out, but I would keep my head as high as I could, for as long as I could.

He clapped his hands and, instead of the two slavegirls, two young men entered. They were dressed in tunics and sandals, but although they were servants those were the tunics of free men.

I was taken from the room, the two guards by my side and the Slaver in tow. We stopped at the foot of a stair. Sun was shining in through the doorway at the top and I could smell the day outside. It was a hot day.

I stood in the shadow awaiting my turn to climb those stairs. I heard the noise from the commotion outside, the people shouting, the growling and barking of angry men, eager men.

I heard my name being called. I heard a voice call 'the former...' before the roar drowned the announcer. I didn't know what title he had given me, but whichever one he had chosen, it was gone now, stolen from me, and could never be given back.

I climbed the stairs with my two young attendants. I was moving from the shade, into the sun, and it was as if this transition spelled my doom, signified my move from freedom to captivity.

The Slaver entered the stage with me and was greeted by the Auctioneer. He nodded at the Slaver and looked me over. Then he turned to the crowd.

We were standing on a platform that was built from stone, attached to the Slaver's house, his castle, where he kept his stock.

As I got used to the scorching sun, I saw the sea of heads below me. The square in front of the Slaver's castle was packed with people. Most of them were men, staring and smiling men. Some were women, but not many.

I had been at the square, myself, and I had been bidding on girls on this very platform. Never had I seen the place so crowded as now.

When I had been the buyer, I had looked at the girls, tried to assess their assets, tried to figure out if they were strong enough or lithe enough, what I could use them for. I had partly been a calm and collected buyer, but partly I had pitied them, thought they had looked miserable and scared as they stood in their nudity, being watched by the crowd.

'Strip,' the Auctioneer said, his voice authoritative but calm.

'No,' I replied.

He took a long and hard look at me. Then he turned to the crowd.

'The lady doesn't wish to show her assets to you. She prefers to keep her clothes on.'

The people laughed. He turned to me.

'But how will they know what they are buying, if you don't take your clothes off?'

'I will not take them off,' I replied.

'We are waiting.'

'No.'

'Strip,' he repeated, a lot more menace in his voice, this time.

'No.'

He made a gesture with his hand and I felt hands grip my arms. It was my two young attendants. I knew there was no point in resisting it. There was no way out.

I felt my robe being torn down from my shoulders, revealing my body. I felt the fabric of my dress slide over my skin, with a sense of disbelief.

I had never been naked in the presence of men. The only ones who had been allowed to see my body had been my mother and my maidens in waiting. It was unthinkable for a woman of my standing to reveal her body in public. Yet it was done to me.

The Auctioneer nodded again, and I felt my robe being pulled down from my hips and in an instant, I stood naked in front of the crowd.

My pride forbid me to try to cover up, although there was not much pride left for me. There is no pride allowed for a slave, there was none allowed for me. I had been stripped naked on the Slaver's platform. I was to be sold and the buyers had to be allowed to assess my assets.

The crowd went wild. They stared at me, leered at me, shouted and me and cheered. They cried out at the Auctioneer and I heard bids being given.

I wondered why they were so excited. Surely it couldn't be the sight of a naked woman, a naked me, that excited them. There were naked women on this platform, every day.

Was it because I was of noble birth, that I had lost my standing and now they could enjoy the sight of me being humiliated in public?

Another thought entered my mind. I heard the bids and knew I was selling for more than most slavegirls were sold for. I was valuable.

An unwelcome pride about being valuable struggled with the overwhelming shame of having to stand naked before the people, being auctioned off like an animal. I was valuable and it spoke to my vanity. Together with that sensation came the bitter pang of the knowledge that I had been stolen, that I would not gain from my sale. I was to be given nothing. It was the miserable and fat Slaver, who stood licking his lips, who would make a profit. I was the commodity.

When finally one bidder had outbid the rest, I went for a price at least ten times more than I had ever paid for a slave, even for a strong young man. I stood rooted to the spot, watching the proceedings as if they didn't concern me, as if it was someone else, not me, being sold.

When my buyer presented himself, I saw who he was. I knew him well. He was a man who had been a guest in our house, who had looked at me with lust in his eyes and a cruel smile on his lips, the man whom my father had rejected as my fiancé, who had undone my father's bid for power, and made it clear he would take his revenge. I knew, in my heart, that it was he who had planned my enslavement. I knew all to well that he had made this happen. And now he had bought me, now he owned me, and I was not even to be his wife, I was to be his slave, his property.

The Slaver

I know, when I talked about That Other Side you thought of something different than a silly story like this. See it as a gentle beginning.

Who said the life of a slaver would be easy? I didn't, I know better. Ah, when I was a boy I dreamt of being a slaver, thought of all the lovely merchandise I would come across. I know better now.

It is true that handling the goods is a pleasure but it isn't an easy life. So much to think about. Troubles and problems everywhere, all the time.

Well, I won't bother you with that, you will see. Where shall I start? Ah, my family. It always has to start with the family. What would I do without my lovely wives. I love them with all my heart, they are my joy and happiness. One is as beautiful as the other's tongue is sharp. She thinks she runs the household, that one. The other one? Oh, she is sweet, very beautiful and very nice. She often warms my bed. And she doesn't speak much. I like that.

I have two sons, a blessing and a curse. My oldest son, what a disappointment! He is a scoundrel and a drunk, not good for anything. He spends his time in the taverns by the port. He drinks and he plays with the dancers and waitresses. That is when he doesn't gets in his head to use my merchandise.

He is good with the whip, I will give him that, but otherwise, he is a useless bastard. He is good for nothing.

Oh, I remember once, when he made me happy. I had bought this redhaired little wildcat from the North. She was foulmouthed as a fishmonger and stubborn as a hungry monkey. She was pretty and if she had behaved she would have fetched me a good price. I tried everything, I kept her naked on a lead and had her whipped but she was as proud as a queen.

Then my eldest son wandered into the warehouse one night. I wasn't there, of course, but he got the key and went into the cages. I don't know what he did to the redhaired one but when I sold her the day after she was as gentle as a summer breeze. I am sure my bastard son made me a couple of gold coins that night.

My younger son, he is something different. He is hardworking and loyal. He is obedient and determined. He does what he is supposed to do and he is learning the trade. He is my pride. I think he will inherit my business when I am gone. Pity he is so dim.

I have two daughter, two lovely daughters. They are my pride and joy. Who wouldn't be delighted by having two such wonderful girls.

The oldest one, she has got her raven hair from her mother. She is beautiful as a queen and she is expensive. She has good taste, I have to admit that but it costs money. Does she thinks a poor slaver is made of money?

Some day, I hope, a very rich young man will decide that she will make a good wife. I am looking forward to it, although I pity him. She doesn't just look like a queen, she is haughty as one too. She is arrogant and proud and behaves as if she owned the world.

She would fetch a good price if I sold her though. In fact, I think a month or two naked in a slaver's cage and a closer acquaintance with a whip would be good for her.

My younger daughter is of another kind. She is not only cleverer than her sister, she is prettier too. She has blond hair, she got it from her mother. She is the sweetest child imaginable. She is gentle and obedient and walks with grace. There is not a grain of arrogance in her. A father has to be happy for such a daughter. She would make a lovely slave and I believe she would bring even a higher price than her sister.

A father shouldn't talk like that about his daughters. I would never sell them. Not even if I was offered twenty gold pieces for one of them. Although twenty gold pieces would allow me to replenish my stock and really get my business going...sigh.

Business has been bad, lately. There has been no major wars for three years and almost no raids to the northern lands. This makes slaves expensive. I can sell the ones I have for a higher price but I have to buy them for a higher price too. Business is slow.

I remember the Eastern Campaign. When was it? Seven years ago? Anyway, those were good times. The supply of girls was overflowing. And what beauties there were! Such lovely women that come from the East...sigh. Those were the days. Good supply and demand was still increasing. I made good money then.

Now my cages are half empty. I have even had to send my boys, not my sons, of course, the boys I have hired, I had to send my boys out in the night and look for girls in the streets. These are sad days, when a man has to revert to such methods to fill up his warehouses.

The problem with such slaves is that you can't sell them here, they may be recognised and that causes all sorts problems.

I have even considered stealing some of the daughters of the nobility. The upside is that they won't be recognised, they are often kept away from the public eye. The downside is that the actual acquiring of them is a bit tricky. Either you have to bribe their guards or you have to break into their houses, which can be quite dangerous at times.

When I was young, I used to love those things. We were reckless and thought that getting a nobleman's daughter was a great adventure. Those were the days. Made you feel strong. The girls didn't like it, protested and cried a lot but when you got the clothes off them and tied them up in the cage they came to their senses and some of them made very good slaves.

I prefer the legal ways of getting girls, I have to say that. They are less adventurous but safer and better for business.

A couple of years ago there were quite a lot of volunteers. There are always volunteers but they make no steady flow of goods. Some years ago it was different, we had a couple a week coming and asking to be enslaved.

Some of them had ridiculous demands, that I should give so and so many gold pieces to this temple or that person. You have to be hard, even if the woman was lovely and you knew you could get a good price for her, even make some profit. If it became known that you were too generous it would just make them increase their demands.

I had to turn away some really pretty ones but it paid off. Some of them didn't want anything but a prayer in the right temple and then you could have them. Strange thing, really. I don't understand why a girl would want to be a slave. The strangest thing of it all is that it is often the wealthy ones that want it most.

But as I said, you have to rely on the proper ways of getting your wares. War and plunder are the best ways of getting girls cheaply. There are some that fall in debt but they are often more expensive. It is nice, thought, with local girls.

Some girls you don't ask where they come from. I mean, if there is a gang of youngsters turning up at your doorstep with a girl, who look like a local farm girl, who is gagged and stripped and tied up and the young men want a quick sell and are happy with peanuts you knew she is stolen goods. Best to ship such a girl away from the city as quickly as possible.

I am boring you with details of my trade. I love my work but it is hard work and not easy to make a living from. Come back if you have something to sell, I give a good price. Or even better if you want to buy. Buy two and I'll give reduction...eh?

Sweet Fantasies

I do have a very romantic view of sex, immature I think it would be correct to call it. I am who I am and this is not the place to fret about that. I am a hopeless romantic and it is time to accept that.

I am, however, not going to talk about romantic fantasies about all consuming love. No, I will stick to my fantasies about submission and nudity and such things.

Sometimes when I am in the mood I like to transport myself to some fantasy land that is breathtakingly beautiful, full of untouched nature and cities like pearls on the green emerald lands that span the continents between deep blue seas full of mysteries and dangers.

And there I wouldn't mind being a slave, sitting on the marble benches of the terrace of some palace, overlooking the azure waters of the endless sea. Behind me there are mountains that stretch to the sky, with feet covered in lush jungles.

It is not bad being a slave in that palace, the personal property of some princess, perhaps, or a king. I am beautiful, of course, a slender girl with emerald eyes, my long flowing red hair caught by the wind.

I am a slave. My neck is encircled by an unyielding but still delicate iron collar, locked in place, impossible for me to remove. Maybe I am even manacled, new to the palace, still needing to be kept in place.

I sit naked on the marble bench, my sweet body full on display. But it doesn't matter, the wind is smooth and mild and the sun makes it pleasant to be unclad. A slave is kept naked, to show her who she is, so that she knows she is there to please, to be something to look upon, to delight her owners with her looks.

That fantasy is sweet. It is delightful to be that naked girl. The sensation is sensual rather than sexual. A sweet slave may delight with her body and she may have to serve, that is true but the pleasure of being her, is not that of the prospect of intense lovemaking or the passion of pain when whipped. No, this is a relaxed, calm sensation, a sense of being lovely and sweet and knowing that life is not so bad in the soft wind from the sea and below the warming sun in this delightful land.

There is a sense of being safe and secure in being that slave girl. I know my place, I know where I belong. I don't have to decide, don't have to be responsible for anything. I can enjoy being someone who may please, not only with her actions but with her presence, her mere existence.

You know me now, to some extent. There are always mixed feelings in my stories, pleasure and pain, joy and dread. This is not like that. This is all nice. I would like to be that girl and I think it would be sweet to be her. And I know she can only exist in a delightful fantasy like this.

The picture was made by someone who calls himself Grigbertz (yes, I know it is a he).

Scenes and Settings, part 2

Before I go into that I will have to tell you that I am moving flat and since moving a landline with associated broadband connection is something immensely complicated in UK I will be cut off from the Web for some time. How long I don't know.

Anyway, this is part 2 and part 1 was the post before this; Back to Basics. Anyway, I am going to be a little predictable and tell you about another favourite setting for fantasies and naughty thoughts. The one I am going to talk about is the slave market.

I know, you have all been there, either as onlookers, buyers or merchandise. My slave market is almost always set in a very hot country, vaguely Middle Eastern. There is a desert and a town with a bazaar and all that.

To this town I arrive in the company of some man (or men) in a burnous. All the details are not set but I may be wearing something similar or perhaps just a cloak swept around me. I walk on bare feet. That is one of those things that work in fantasies but is not so nice in the real world. Sand can be very hot. I have an iron collar around my neck. Of course, I am the merchandise.

It is a chilly morning but I know it will be a hot day. If you have ever been to a Mediterranean country you know what I am talking about. There is a certain smell in the air. You know it is going to be immensely hot but it is still a bit cold.

We are early and the square where the market is being held is almost empty. Not only slaves are sold here. Some early risers set up shop, some spread their wares on rugs on the ground while others have tables. The man and I are walking towards the part where slaves are displayed. Along one side of the square a set of sturdy poles are set in the ground. There you can bind your slave and display her to prospective buyers.

When we arrive I have to take the cloak off and, of course, I am naked underneath it. I shiver in the chilly morning but the man takes no notice. He doesn't have to tie me to the pole. Instead I have to stand beside it and display myself for the buyers.

The day becomes hotter and the square fills up with people. The market is underway. There is a lot of posing and having to stand in certain ways and even kneeling. And some of the buyers want to examine the merchandise. There is prodding and groping and squeezing and touching. Some of them can be quite intimate in their examinations.

There is a certain shame in that, being touched and groped by strangers who don't even have to buy you. I am only a naked slave and can do nothing but display myself.

Eventually someone comes along and buys me. But that is, really, another fantasy.

Then there is the classical slave auction. Here I find myself standing on a dais or similar and there is a many headed crowd of people in front of me, looking at me, bidding for me, or just looking. They are safe in the crowd, clad and free and can enjoy the spectacle. I am not. I am naked and exposed and seen by everyone.

But there is a certain pride in this, strangely enough. Of course I am very beautiful and of course the bids are high. I will sell for a high price. Not that it benefits me but I have the pride of being valuable.

This is part of the sense of being a slave and being sold, that you are not going to gain anything from it. Someone has taken you and will get the money. This is very unfair but such is life for a poor slave.

Iconic Images 5

Some days ago a friend send me the link to this image. I had not seen it before but it immediately struck a chord with me. I looked at it and was fascinated by it. I realised that it was an iconic image.

What do I really mean by an iconic image? You know, by now, how self centred I am so the meaning is about how I look upon images. I think, that it mean that it represent or illustrates a fantasy or some important part of a fantasy, an idea or a sensation. Most iconic images I have written about are old favourites but I realised it didn't have to be like that. So here is a very new iconic image. The painting is old, no doubt about that but it is new to me.

When you look at an image you are an observer, you don't necessary identify with the people in it. So I will start there. This is an image of a woman, a very white woman standing naked in front of two reclining men. There is a clad woman behind them, standing and a half naked to her side, sitting. This is a very simple description.

But it is so much more. Perhaps she is a slave that is new to the harem and she is assessed by the master of the house. Or maybe one of the men owns her and is trying to sell her to the other.

I don't know for certain but that doesn't matter. I think she is a slave or soon to be slave. She stands naked before the reclining men. She is property, a thing and she can be bought and sold like an animal. She is naked and they are clothed, they have the power she is helpless, they give nothing, she everything, even her body, her person. When she is sold, someone else gets the profit. She gets nothing. What could be more degrading? And why is it still exciting?

Depending on who you are you may identify with different people in the image. I identify with her. She is the main character so this is not strange, I think. What would it be like, standing there, naked and vulnerable like that? Being watched and scrutinised, being seen and not allowed to cover up. Everything is visible, the whole you is visible. Why is it so exciting?

There is something immensely sweet and delightful in it. Watching from the outside everyone can see she is beautiful. Who doesn't want to be beautiful? She is exposed and in this situation it seems appropriate that she is being looked at. There is no shame in ogling her, that is what she is there for. Could that be part of the appeal for those of you who identify with the men?

Isn't there also a sense that being this beautiful and deserving to be at the centre of attention is nice, being seen as something lovely and knowing that you are lovely, just the way you are? Being naked is about being uncovered, being seen as who you are, not what you do or perform but who you are. Being beautiful as you are.

Being naked is also being attractive, being sexual, the promise of arousal and pleasure. Being that slave is being beautiful, sexual and desirable. And, perhaps, being forced, being at someone's command makes you free of guilt and free of responsibility. Being forced to be something that is good and delightful and pleasant.

These are just thoughts about some of the mixed feelings involved, how something that undoubtedly must be degrading and shameful on one level is desirable and sweet on another. And the strangest thing of all, in this mix the shameful and degrading becomes something desirable and the analysis breaks down. An image is an image and everything is there at the same time.

Fantasies are powerful and images that feed those fantasies are blessings. I am glad I was shown this image.

Captured

Fantasies tend to move in certain directions and come back to certain favourite events and themes. At least mine do. So, here is another take on one of those favourite themes. This doesn't mean I have yet covered all my ideas and have to go back to the old one. Far from it. There are still strange imaginations left.

I dreamed a strange dream tonight, I dreamed I was a captive, that I was captured.

I woke up on a great, green, endless stretch of undulating low hills. The sky was blue, the air was mild and I was alone. Besides the sky and the green grass it was only me, still clad in my nightgown.

I rose to my feet and looked around. I was scared of being alone in this vast land. It was a beautiful land but I was lonely, miserable and lonely.

Then the man on the horse appeared. He suddenly appeared from behind a hill. He was dark, his clothes were dark and grey and his horse was black. His hair was dark and his eyes were dark. He carried a sword by his side. It was, indeed, a strange dream. And as he approached me I felt naked and helpless. I had no sword, I had no protection and my nightgown was my only cover.

He spoke to me and asked me questions and I replied truthfully. We spoke in a strange tongue, a language of the dreams. He nodded his head and looked at me. Then he shrugged his shoulders and turned to ride away.

Fear filled my heart, I had thought he would help me but he was to leave me alone among the hills. He was a stranger but he was alive and I didn't want to be alone. I knew I would perish if I was alone.

I ran after him and begged him to take me with him. He looked at me and sighed and said he was going to make camp anyway. I saw that the sun was sinking and the sky had already turned red.

We made camp in the shade of a big boulder and a dry bush gave us enough wood for a small fire. He cooked some beans and some strange leaves and gave to me.

I asked him what he would do in the morning and he told me he would ride on. I asked him to take me with him but he shook his head. He had no use for a girl like me. I couldn't come with him and my heart sank. I pleaded with him.

He sat in silence for a while and then he turned to me and said he had no use for me, I would be a hindrance. I couldn't come with him...unless...

'Unless what?' I asked ready to agree to any terms or conditions.

'Unless you become my captive,' he said.

'Your captive?'

'Yes,' he said and looked at me.

I sat in silence but I knew already that I had no choice. I had only to accept it. I turned to him and nodded.

'I am your captive.'

He told me then to take off my nightgown and trembling I did so. I slipped it over my head and sat there by the fire as naked as I was when I was born. He told me to throw it on the fire and I did. We sat in silence and watched my nightgown burn.

I knew then that I had accepted his terms, I had burned my freedom. He looked at me with his dark eyes.

He was not old, nor young. He had a face that was not bitter but had seen much, done much. His eyes had seen the world. He was stern but did not seem cruel. I wondered about those things as I sat there, naked, by the fire, his captive. I knew I would find out.

He tied me hand and foot and put a blanket over me and I fell asleep. It was strange to fall asleep in a dream but I thought nothing of it then.

We woke up and I was stiff and sore after having slept bound like that and the morning was chilly. He released me and told me to make our meagre breakfast. I did as I was told and he showed me how he wanted it. I shivered in the cold morning and I looked with envy at him as he pulled his coat around his shoulders. I was still naked and I was cold.

Thus began my captivity. We travelled far. He was always moving, riding somewhere. He was not a warrior and not a merchant. I think, perhaps, he was a magician. I followed him wherever we went, over plains, through thick and lush woods, over mountains with cold and biting wind. I walked naked by his horse, sweaty in the hot sun and freezing in the cold wind.

The first time he tied my hands behind my back and a rope around my neck and led me like an animal. He tied me hand and foot in the evening. He wasn't afraid of me running away. I think he wanted to show me I was his captive.

He was a hard man, a survivor, a man strong enough to cope with whatever fate throw in his wake. But he was also gentle and kind. He laughed with me and sang by the camp fire. He told me stories and taught me songs.

I never ever doubted I was his captive. He had a whip hanging by his saddle. He didn't hesitate to take that whip to my body when I displeased him. Many an evening did I sit and tended to that whip, keeping its strands smooth and clean. I shivered as I sat, naked by the fire and worked on the whip that was to be used on my body.

I did never forget I was naked and I became even more aware when we entered a village or a town and we where greeted by the towns people and the children ran beside us and cheered and laughed and pointed. Then I knew I was a captive.

We travelled far and although I saw many strange lands my world became smaller. The stern man, my captor, was the centre of my world and I grew accustomed to him. I was miserable when he was angry and my heart sang when he laughed. I was proud when I could please him and I felt worthless when I got it wrong. When I displeased him I longed for him to whip me, to get rid of the guilt. And when he smiled at me I felt as if the sun came out again.

Still I was his captive, I was not free. I knew in my heart that I was me and that he was a stranger. He had taken me and although I wanted to please him I was not free.

He did not use me as a man may use a woman. He looked at me sometimes as I emerged from the river having bathed in the clear water or when I stretched my body and yawned by the fire. Then he looked at me in a way that made me feel less like a servant and more like a woman.

He told me at times how pleasing it was to have a woman to look at and I blushed. I started to think, in my simple mind, why he did not touch me if he was pleased with me. I thought that a man would want to do something like that with a captive woman, especially a naked, captive woman.

One evening I realised he had only been biding his time. In the night, by the fire and under the full moon he called me to him. He commanded me to my knees and then he approached me from behind. My heart was racing because I knew, in my heart, I knew, what was going to happen.

He put his hands on my body and he entered me from behind. I was astonished how strange it was. How much I had longed for it and how much I had dreaded it. I had no choice, no say in this but still I had longed for it. I hated myself for my weakness but welcomed his intrusion.

His sex in my sex and I was lost. I knew then how much I had become his captive, how much I wanted to be his captive. His presence broke down my last defence and there and then I became his.

I woke up in my bed and sat up, startled. My heart was beating hard as I looked around and saw my bed, my room. I felt my body and felt my nightgown, the one I had burned so long time ago. I felt my body and there were no marks of the whip. It was a dream, just a dream.

I laid back on my pillow, heart still beating, gathering my senses. I knew I was back in reality but I feared I had lost my heart in that dream.

Slave Story, part 5

At last, the fifth instalment of the the Slave Story. If you have forgotten what this was about you may go back and read it here. Part of this text has been published on this blog earlier under the title Two Slaves. I hope you don't mind me reusing the text. This gives the bigger picture.

I woke up with my heart pounding. I knew that my nightmare may soon come true.

The guards came after a long while to get me. They were almost cheerful and tried to comfort me. That was unusual. It filled me with fear more than anything.

I was led into a room lit by candles and lamps hanging from the walls. It was a nice room with carpets on the floor and some cushions at one end around a low table. A slave girl was standing to one side carrying a tray with glasses and a tea pot. She was magnificent. She was clad only in a breech cloth that consisted of glimmering golden chain around her hips, way below her navel. From this chain hung a long thin red silken cloth at the front. It was fairly narrow and covered only her sex although I saw that it continued between her legs and hung down behind her as well. She had a golden arm ring and a thin necklace. Her hair was arranged with pearls and gold. She was blond and tall and extremely beautiful. She had round and proud breasts that were not heavy but far larger than mine. Her rosy nipples were erect and she stood as a statue.

I was placed on my knees in the middle of the room and although I spread my legs wide the guard was not satisfied until he had gently kicked them further apart. I was completely opened up as I sat and I envied the other slave her clothes.

I lowered my gaze as the guards left the room and when I was alone with the girl I dared look at her again. She ignored me but I could not stop admiring her. She was fantastic. I knew she was a slave but she looked so proud, so beautiful. Her body was perfect in every sense. Her proud breasts looked perfect on her slim and tall body.

At last two men came in. One was the old man that had received me the first day and the other was a fairly fat man that was far younger. He was 40, maybe 50, years old and had eaten too much good food. He wasn't enormous but still you could call him fat. He was dressed in a red and golden robe and had a kind of elaborate turban on his head. He looked like a merchant or a landlord of a wealthy tavern.

He placed his body on the cushions and the old man sat down cross legged by his side. The old man signalled for the slave girl to serve the tea. She obliged with very sensuous and graceful movements. She was the perfect girl in every sense and I couldn't understand what I was doing there. I was nothing compared to her, although, I knew I was the one they had come to discuss.

I lowered my gaze as I knew was expected of a slave girl. I knew very little about how slaves were to conduct themselves but I wanted to appear obedient knowing that I would most probably be punished if I was not. I didn't want to be punished. I had seen slave girls taste the whip.

The two men proceeded to talk in a friendly way as I sat there. They completely ignored me as they had their tea. They talked about politics and commerce and exchanged news. I heard and understood what they were talking about but the information seemed to mean nothing to me. Four weeks ago I would have been eager to listen and learn but now I belonged to another world. The things the men talked about was for free persons not for slaves.

Suddenly the old man addressed me. He called me 'slave' but something in his voice told me he meant me rather than the beautiful girl standing in the corner. I felt that if he had called for her he would have said something far more delicate and soft. I was an untrained girl and needed to be addressed in a stern voice.

I looked up and saw the old man wave me forward. I rose to my feet and hurried forward. He stopped me with his hand and I stood still. I wondered if I should kneel but he seemed pleased with having there me standing.

'So this is the slave?' the fat man said.

'Yes, she is the one,' the old man answered.

'She is very young.'

'She is seventeen years of age.'

'She looks younger.'

'I can assure you,' the old man said.

'No need, I believe you.'

'She is very small,' the fat man continued.

'Small but delicate,' the old man said and I blushed.

'She blushes, I like that.'

The old man looked pleased.

'She is not trained,' the fat man said.

'She is not trained.'

'What am I to say? You bring me a skinny young girl with no training. What am I to do with her?'

'She is a gift but if you do not like her we will try to sell her and you will get the money.'

I blushed at those words. I was enslaved and got nothing in return and if they sold me someone else would take the profit.

'No, no, I will take her.' The fat man waved his hand. 'She wouldn't bring much. I will have to train her myself.'

'Master Firul will be very happy that you accept his gift.'

'She is a virgin?'

'I can assure you,' the old man said.

I blushed again.

The old man pointed to the floor and I knelt trying to spread my legs as wide as the guard had shown me before. I felt embarrassed by this and thought I saw the fat man glancing at my sex.

I felt anger well up in me at this man looking so brazenly at me and not hiding his gaze. He took the liberty of looking at my body. I was not used to men looking at me like this. The men from the village would never do that.

I felt a pang of loss at the thought of the village and then I realised how futile my anger was. If I was given to the fat man he could look at my body and at my sex as much as he wanted because I was his property now and he could do what he wanted with me. I shivered at the thought of the fat man not only wanting to look at my sex but to touch it and do other things with it.

The men finished their tea and the fat man called forward a servant that bound my hands on my back and put a leash on my throat. I was led away, the property of the fat man.

I was led to his carriage and the servant helped me climb into the back of it. The fat man sat up beside the driver and we drove off. I sat in the dark of the back of the carriage among bundles of cloth and sealed pots filled with something I couldn't even guess what it was. I was placed there among the fat man's other possessions.

I heard the men talking in the front and the fat man chuckled as he told the driver about his gift.

'I really like the young ones with their perky breasts,' he said and burst out laughing. I was a bit bewildered by this since he had seemed to be so displeased with me earlier.

I leaned back and pondered on this and to my own shame I felt a tingling of pride that this fat man, my new owner, found me attractive.

The canvas around the carriage was tied shut so I couldn't peep through and see were I was going and being bound made it a bit scary to move around too much. I sat down among the fat man's possessions and tried to think about my destiny. I couldn't see the future as anything but blank. The days in the pens were awful, except for Miro, but I hadn't really dared to think about what would happen to me. When I realised that I was a slave it filled me with horror and dread so my mind tended to move away from that.

It was different now. I was on my way to a new place and a new life and I had no idea what it was. I didn't even know the name of the fat man or his profession. He seemed wealthy though. I didn't doubt that he would make me work for my keep and work hard but what kind of work?

He seemed to find me, at least, a little attractive and my heart beat faster as I thought about what he might do to me. I wept as I realised that he would most likely want to use me for his pleasures at some point or let someone else do it. I had seen how the guards used the girls in the pen and I didn't think I would be spared for too long.

Still the purpose of acquiring me might be to put me to work. He had been given me as a gift but he most probably had some business that needed labourers and I assumed he had slaves for that. Now I was one of his slaves.

He looked as if he might own a wealthy tavern or be a merchant or maybe he was the head of a circus or a travelling theatre. There was an air of flamboyance around him that seemed to go together with a profession in the public eye but that was only my strange speculations. He might be anyone and do anything.

I was happy getting out of the pens though. I would get to see the light of day and I would get to move around and not be confined to one spot all the time. I knew I wasn't free but a slave in work may move more freely than a slave in the pens.

And maybe I would get clothes. The though made me cheer up a bit. I had been naked for nearly a month and had never got used to it. Girls like Miro seemed to revel in being naked or didn't seem to care too much but I was constantly aware of the fact that I was nude and that anyone could see me. I was more used to it now but it was still an ordeal. It was far worse here out in real life than down in the pens but I still had the hope of getting clothes.

Slaves most often wore clothes although more revealing than free women. It is true that a slave girl may be stripped naked any time and quite often were even in public places but most often she got to wear clothes.

Our journey didn't last long so I assumed we were still in town. As I peeped out of the carriage I saw a courtyard and some buildings around it. A young man helped me out of the carriage lifting me in his strong arms and putting me on the ground. I stood shivering trying to take in as much as I could of the surroundings.

The wall around the courtyard was high but it was crowned with ivy or something similar. A big tree gave shade and flowerpots hung from chains at the wall of the big building. This was a far more welcoming courtyard than that of the pens. Still I was a slave and still I was naked and bound.

I was led into a building that looked like a stable or something similar. There were crude beds along one wall and straw mattresses along the other. Some plates were neatly piled in one corner. The small windows had bars.

There were no one there besides me and the young man who had led me there closed the door and locked me in without taking off the ropes around my arms. I was left alone in the quarters awaiting my new destiny.

The Girl

This is a story I wrote for a friend some time ago. The theme is not that unusual, come to think of it. Kind of romantic but a little kinkier than in the average romantic story. A fantasy that is a little brutal but sweet as a fantasy.

I am not prepared, just yet, to disclose the literary reference I used in the last post. No cleverness in this story, though. Just some brutality. I hope you like an exotic setting. I do.

Octavius had spotted her the moment she arrived at the farm. He had been standing in the courtyard, inspecting the new slaves as they arrived. He had spotted her from a distance. He didn't know why.

At first he had pitied her and thought her only a girl. Then he found she was not a girl, just very small. No, she was a woman, no doubt about that. He thought it was her blond hair that attracted him to her but he couldn't say. She was a barbarian and had nothing of the stature and beauty of the dark women of his homeland.

But it wasn't the blond hair, it was something else, something that drew him to her. She was so small, so vulnerable but that had never attracted him to anyone before. It was something else, something he could not put his finger on.

She had no name. She was simply the girl with no name so they called her Puella. She was from the North and knew just little of the language. She hated him.

He saw her defiance, the hate in her eyes. Still he was kind to her. He put her in the kitchen which meant far lighter duties than in the field. She still seemed miserable.

Octavius was a senator, a well known citizen of Rome. He was a man of the state but he preferred the life on the farm. He returned there, to his family and his lands whenever his duties allowed him.

Now he found that he longed not only for to see his family and his lands as he left the dusty and dirty streets of the City for his beloved farm. No, he often had the image of Puella, the nameless slave on his mind as he set off.

Octavius found that he was unusually kind to the tiny Puella. He often stood and watched her as she was working. He would order some slave to help her as she carried something that seemed too heavy for her small frame. He couldn't explain what it was with that barbarian girl that made him think of her all the time.

He was attracted to her. He knew that but that was nothing unusual. Octavius was a man of principles but he was no stranger to bringing a pretty slave girl to his bed when he found the urge to touch a young body.

Puella hated him. He saw it in her eyes. Had she been a dog she would have snapped at him, buried her fangs in him. That was the kind of passion he saw in her eyes. Was it hate or did she despise him? That question troubled him. Usually he could handle hate. He just didn't care. But this was different. And if she despised him?

One evening he brought her to his chamber. He was alone, just a boy to serve him wine. Two of his farmhands brought Puella to him. It looked silly with those two sturdy men bringing her to him. One of them could have taken her on his shoulder and just dropped her off.

She knelt on the floor, head hung low, dressed only in her brief garment, a dirty sleeveless and very short dress, with a a thin cord around her waist as a belt. He didn't see her eyes but he knew the hate in them. Perhaps was there fear in them now.

She must fear him. Even if she hated him she must fear him.

Octavius knelt by her side, put his hand on her head, stroked her hair. He wanted badly to touch her, to make her happy. He didn't understand this softness, this urge to caress and care. His hand touched her cheek. It was a soft and tender touch.

She moved as if he had hit her. She threw her body backwards, slumped on the floor, hid her face in her hands, cried out in agony. 'Kill me, you coward!' she screamed.

Octavius stared at her. He was stunned, couldn't think. His head was swirling. He couldn't comprehend her reaction. He had wanted to be kind to her but she had called him a coward. He was used to insolence but this was different.

Red rage took him over. He stood up. He grabbed the girl by her arms, held her in his strong arms. She was a rag doll, sobbing but did not protest or resist. It was easy for him to tie her hands with the rope and before he knew it he had pulled it tight making Puella hang in her tied wrists, facing the pillar.

He was still mad with a fury he did not understand as he ripped the clothes from her body. He stood back, held out his hand. The slave boy gave him his whip.

Puella's pathetic cries did not diminish his assault on her soft body. His whip hit her time and again, leaving red marks on her pale northern skin.

Octavius wept as he whipped the slave girl. He wept as he saw his whip hit home and saw her body move in pain, her tiny feet leave the floor.

Later they both lay on the floor. Octavius had untied the rope and Puella lay slumped in a sobbing heap at the pillar. Octavius had thrown away the whip with disgust and was reclining on some cushions.

His head was in turmoil. He stared out into nothing. He was so lost to the world that he did not notice the tiny movements in Puella's body. He did not hear how she crawled across the floor and now lay at his feet.

He heard her breath the moment before she touched his feet. Instead of moving he froze. He waited for the attack. This proud little woman would doubtlessly try to kill him for his cruelty, knowing that she would perish doing it.

He wasn't prepared for the kiss, the soft kiss she placed on his feet. He stared at her as she gently kissed him again. In amazement he regarded her naked body, marked by his whip slowly move as she placed one sweet kiss after another on his feet.

He looked at her and after an eternity she turned her red and wet face towards him. He stared at her as she looked at him. This time he didn't see the hate.

The Rug

This is, indeed, a grim tale. It is an old story that I haven't written down before but one that has been in my head for a long, long time. It is about a kind of humiliation that is not so often there in such stories...I think. But then again, I don't read that many stories. I have no idea why this story came out like this. And a goldstar by your name if you spot the literary reference in the story.

It was not so long ago it happened. Counting in days and hours, it was not long ago but it could have been a lifetime.

The holiday had been brilliant. The sun was hot and we were happy, Kathy and me. We visited the temples and the museums during the hottest part of the day and spent the afternoons and evenings in the bazaar, the tea houses and the restaurants. We truly enjoyed ourselves. We had two whole weeks together and we made the most of it.

We were an odd couple. Kathy was the one who caught the eyes. She was flamboyant, beautiful and very, very sexy. She wore long flimsy skirts, a broad leather belt low on her hips and sandals with quite high heels. She had to be modest in her dressing, so there was no cleavage, no revealing tops but she managed to look sexy in her sleeveless, tight fitting shirts. She even wore a hat to cover her flowing auburn hair but still managed somehow to look gorgeous.

I was a grey mouse by her side, had always been. I was half a head shorter and always with a ponytail, the good and boring girl. I never understood why she even liked me, if she did. I hated heels and wore ballerinas the first days but realised that sandals were better, allowing the sand to escape from my shoes. The sand was everywhere. I bought that kind of ancient looking sandals that consisted of a leather sole and some bindings that made me look like someone in a film about the Romans.

I was daring and had brought a sleeveless linen dress. It was dark green and the skirt was knee length. It was more cheerful than the ones I usually wore and I felt very special and smashing in it. Looking in the mirror I think I looked timeless, like someone from ancient history. Still I was nothing compared to the flamboyant and beautiful Kathy.

I loved the bazaar, the smells, the sounds the throng of people, being everywhere and going everywhere. We found a favourite tea house and spent hours there in the afternoons and then went shopping when the sun set.

This afternoon we didn't go to the tea house, instead Kathy dragged me across the town square to a dingy looking shop on a narrow side street. She told me she had something she wanted to show me. I thought that she must have found this shop last evening when we split up and went our separate ways. I had been scared and lonely all the time but Kathy had been very pleased when we met up.

Entering the shop was like travelling in time. It was like something from Arabian Nights but more real. It was a shop full of beautiful rugs and kelims. It was dark and cool and smelled of wool, tea and sandal wood. It was magic. I had never seen a place like that.

The shop keeper was like something from a horror film, toothless, age old and wrinkly. His skin had the same colour as the sand and his burnous was dark, dark blue and very dirty. When she greeted the old man I knew that Kathy had been there the day before.

She turned to me and pointed to a big rug lying on a pile of other rugs.

'Isn't it beautiful?' she exclaimed.

'It is gorgeous,' I said touching it.

It was red and covered in an intricate pattern of blue and black. It was like a dream, like a flying carpet. It would look fantastic in her flat, in front of her sofa. I told her so. She nodded and looked happy. I could have given anything to buy her the rug in that moment.

'How will you afford it?' I asked, knowing that these rugs were very expensive even in this part of the town. Or at least, so I was told.

'I will find a way,' she said, looking a little strange.

She was serious, I realised that when she said something to the shop keeper, in his language, which surprised me. I shouldn't have been surprised. Kathy had that ability to pick up useful phrases and use them without fear of embarrassing herself. I was far more cautious. I always thought that I would say something wrong and ask for a donkey instead of directions to a restaurant or something similar. People would laugh and I would blush with embarrassment.

What she said to the old man resulted in him inviting us to an inner room. I was a little apprehensive as we entered this inner sanctum. Kathy seemed at ease and I relaxed a little. The shop keeper invited us to sit down at a low table. He clapped his hands and a young man, almost a boy, entered. He looked like someone from a romantic dream. He was a very handsome contrast to the ugly old man.

I was beginning to feel uncomfortable as the old shop keeper kept ogling me. He stared at me as if I was an animal at the zoo, or if he wanted to have me. I didn't understand why he was looking at me while I was sitting by the gorgeous Kathy who was far, far more attractive than me.

The young man, whom I named Ali in my head served tea in small delicate glasses and we sat down to negotiate. They mixed the languages and since I didn't understand the local tongue and the shop keeper was not that brilliant using our language, I lost interest and looked around the room and tried to see what Ali was doing. He was indeed a very handsome young man.

Suddenly it appeared as the deal was done. The old man clapped his hands and the sweet young Ali came in and was given some orders. He returned with the rug in a neat roll and put it down besides Kathy. The old man looked happy. I was glad we could leave.

The shop keeper didn't seem to be too concerned with my friend. Instead he kept on staring at me and smiling a very ugly toothless smile.

We rose to our feet and the deal was sealed with a hand shake between the rug merchant and my friend. It was a little odd to see her do that, using a gesture that seemed so very manly.

Then things changed. In that moment, when I was about to turn and leave this ugly man and his lovely shop assistant, things changed. Suddenly he shouted for Ali, whose real name was Hosni, while he took hold of my arm. Before I could express my disgust he started pulling at me. I turned to Kathy and was surprised as she just stood there with a stern expression on her face.

Hosni came in and he grabbed my other arm. I was puzzled and confused. This was very strange and very unpleasant. I looked at the shop keeper who had his ugly face close to mine and he smiled his horrible smile. Even Hosni smiled. I turned to Kathy and she smiled too.

'Sorry,' she said, still smiling, 'I couldn't resist that lovely rug.'

Before I could scream Hosni put his hand over my mouth. I felt a cloth being pressed between my lips. I was being gagged. The cloth was pressed down my throat and I felt as if I was choking. I struggled for air, panicking as they tied the gag in place.

As I came around I felt how my dress was being unzipped and promptly was slipped from my shoulders. I squirmed and wriggled in their grip but I couldn't stop them from slipping my dress from me. My old life was brutally but without problem stripped from me and soon I was dressed only in knickers and my bra.

I cried in agony and fear as those last items of clothing unceremoniously was taken from me. My body shivered in anger and horror as my hands were tied behind my back. I was still on my feet as the old man knelt before me, removing my shoes as Hosni held me in his strong and young hands. I looked up and saw Kathy standing there. I stared at her and pleaded with her, although no words came out of my gagged mouth. She said nothing, just looked at me. I couldn't believe she had done this to me.

There I was, the shy girl, who had almost never been kissed, standing naked in the back of a dingy rug shop, bound and held by a shop assistant. I cried and I tried to scream but to no avail.

The old man gathered up my clothes and handed them over to Kathy. I screamed as I saw that. It seemed the ultimate humiliation, that she would get my clothes, my clothes that had been ripped from my body.

She took the clothes, smiled at me and left. I was alone with the two men, naked and bound and sold for a beautiful rug. Then it became worse. The two men stared at me, smiled at me and then they touched me. I felt their hands on my body, touching, probing, caressing. I felt the rough hands of those men sliding over my soft skin, kneading my breasts, touching me belly and sliding along my legs.

The old man stood in front of me and smiled a toothless smile as he put his hand on my belly, slid it down and in between my legs. I held my breath as his finger found their wriggling way and finally slid into me, entering me. Tears filled my eyes as I felt him touch me and penetrate me with his dry fingers.

He then withdrew his fingers, smelled them and laughed with his toothless, ugly face. He dismissed me with a gesture of his hand and Hosni led me through a back door, led me away to my new life as a captive.

It was only a week ago, counted in days but it could have been a lifetime. I am now a slave, although slavery is abolished, property although a woman cannot be owned.

I am changed. Maybe I was changed in that moment, in that shop. As I was led through that door I was overcome with the shameful memory of the shop keeper's fingers in my sex and the horror! The horror! I was aroused.