Rosie's Slave Life

by Ian Smith

  “It’s possible,” Sammy’s voice came from between her legs. He had finished the shaving and was now using the electric razor’s beard trimmer to sharpen the edges of the letter. “Of course, he’ll make quite a loss if he does, because your price will have dropped substantially when your virginity went.” Rosie went red with shame at the reminder of that. “On the other hand, he’s so loaded that it wouldn’t bother him. He could buy another dozen slave girls tomorrow just out of his petty cash. But Tyler Mason is the sort of man who likes a settled household. He’s kept Cora for years and years, right back to the days when she was a young sex slave just like you are now. He probably wouldn’t keep you that long, but usually he hangs on to his girls for two or three years or so at least.”

  The mention of her role in the Mason household was another humiliation for Rosie, not helped by his continuing ministrations around her delta. “I thought I might have upset him somehow,” she said, trying to keep the subject of conversation away from sex.

  Sammy smiled. “Slave girls who upset their owners find out about it pretty quickly. You wouldn’t be sitting on that chair without a lot of wincing and pain if you’d upset him.”

  “I suppose.” Rosie was a little surprised at how the thought of being sold on concerned her. There would be no more Master Freddie, no more outfits showing her boobs off, if she were sold. On the other hand, from what she had heard, most other owners were just as bad and sometimes worse. Better the devil you know, perhaps.

  “He also keeps his own family together,” Sammy went on. “His father left most of the family fortune to him and he makes Freddie and Elizabeth stay in the family home if they want access to the money. Only when he dies, according to their father’s will, does the estate get split fifty-fifty between the other two.” Sammy straightened up. “There, finished!”

  Rosie immediately readjusted the flap of her skirt. She didn’t even want to see the result of his work. Sammy took no offence. “Off you go now and keep your nose clean,” he said. “See you next week!”

  Rosie hurried back to the mansion. She was stopped once on the way, by a middle-aged man who had a good feel of her jugs while Rosie stood quietly and submissively, keeping the look of distaste off her face. It could have been worse: indeed, it often was. Back home she helped get lunch ready and served it with Charlotte. Thankfully Master Freddie didn’t want a repeat of the morning’s service.

  Rosie was fairly fortunate to avoid anything during the afternoon. Tyler Mason was busy with business deals, his wife had gone out shopping with Elizabeth, the three male guests were all out at work and the dreaded Freddie had vanished. Her luck inevitably ran out at teatime, when Phillip Saunders returned from his dentist’s surgery. He had given Rosie standing instructions that she was to bring him a cup of tea on his return. She knew what would come next.

  “Ready for our daily lesson?” he asked as he sipped his tea.

  Rosie was certainly not enthusiastic, but as usual she had no choice. “Of course, Master,” she said, masking her reluctance.

  “Excellent. Well, get yourself ready then.”

  In other words, strip. Rosie grabbed the hem of what was rather dubiously called her skirt and lifted the whole dress over her head. Her uniform was quite tight, fitting her slim body precisely and showing her young curves: she could always feel her breasts jutting out from it, reminding her of her exposure; but being naked was no better, especially because it revealed her freshly trimmed pubic hair which spelt out that humiliating letter M. But she just had to get on with it. There were two chairs placed back to back in the middle of the room: she knelt on one and leaned over until she could place her palms on the centre of the other. Her bare bottom now jutted out into the air and she knew only too well what a full display of herself she was giving.

  Saunders fussed around her, making her dip the small of her back and widen her legs slightly to give an even more graphic presentation of her vulva. If there was one word that summed up Phillip Saunders, it was ‘fussy’. He was a dapper little man in his late forties with neatly combed but invariably greasy hair that was suspiciously jet-black. Rosie strongly believed that it was dyed. He regarded himself as a highly able and professional dentist, but there were quiet rumours in circulation about his competence, although nobody dared mention those in the hearing of either himself or Tyler Mason.

  He had picked up his slipper. Rosie eyed it with trepidation. “Ready for your little maths lesson?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she replied stoically.

  “Good. You’ll need to be able to count if you ever go to university, you know.”

  Quite apart from the fact that Rosie could count perfectly well, there was the further potential objection to this that, as a slave, she was barred from attending any higher education establishment in this land. But of course, it was all just a charade. She steeled herself.

  Thwack!

  “One, thank you, Master.” Rosie’s breathy voice made the required acknowledgment. Oh, that had come sharp!

  Thwack!

  “Two, thank you, Master.” Already she could feel the sting in her bottom; and her ordeal had only just started.

  Thwack!

  “Three, thank you, Master.” He was laying it on hard!

  Thwack!

  “Four, thank you, Master.” If there was only some way she could avoid all this; but of course there wasn’t. And she would have to stay in position, acquiescing to it all. To do anything else would be folly: there were worse punishments than a spanking, which was not to say it was easy to take.

  Thwack!

  “Ooh! Five, thank you, Master.”

  On and on it went, seeming to take for ages. Rosie’s bottom throbbed terribly. Almost every day she had to put up with this; it was the awful regularity of it as much as the pain itself that made her want to cry.

  Thwack!

  “Twenty, thank you, Master.”

  She felt his hand stroking her hot bottom, the casual intimacy a further insult. “There, how was that?” he asked mildly.

  Painful, she wanted to say, but instead she said, “Master, thank you Master, I’m very grateful for your help.” The hand continued to probe, then slipped between her legs. Rosie held herself very still. She was quite defenceless and vulnerable. As a slave, it was something she just had to get used to.

  Flashback One

  Rosie could still remember the tangible atmosphere of fear as the unpadded van in which they were being transported lurched to a halt. Moments later, the roller door was pushed open. The girls all blinked at the fierce sun.

  “Out, all of you!” a harsh male voice snapped.

  With considerable difficulty, Rosie and the other fifteen girls and two older women scrambled out of the van. They were heavily chained together: they had awoken to find themselves that way. Each girl’s wrists were locked in front of her, connected to a chain around their waists and each waist chained to the next girl’s waist with just a foot or so between them. Each girl’s ankles were also chained with a short hobble chain. They had also been fitted with what they later came to know as ball gags whilst they had slept. Considerable struggling had failed to remove these gags, which were firmly secured. The two middle-aged female chaperones were chained separately to the rest of the girls. Of their male coaches and the coach driver, there was no sign.

  As they stumbled out, the two chaperones were immediately led away from the rest of the group. The young girls watched them being taken away with alarm, but there was nothing they could do. Rosie looked around. Their coach had been held up in Albania, but they were clearly not in Albania now. Central Europe had been pretty warm, it being summer, but it was much hotter here and her crumpled shorts and t-shirt were already damp with sweat. They were outside a large, imposing building and a group of eight men, some European and some Arabic, were already herding them inside. Ros
ie had a last despairing glimpse of the blue sky as they staggered inside. Almost immediately they were being taken down a ramp until they were clearly underground. The walls were hewn from the rock and it was much cooler here. They were taken to a large chamber. Rosie almost fainted when she saw the assorted torture devices mounted on the walls. The whole place looked like something out of the middle ages, but the devices did not look like unused antiques. Around her, she saw her friends looking equally frightened, eyes bulging, mouths forced wide open by the ball gags, nostrils flaring, perspiration on their brows.

  One by one, the girls were being detached from the group. Their wrist chains freed from the waist chains, which were removed, their wrist chains were then attached to chains which descended from the ceilings in a circle so that all sixteen of the girls were facing each other. Their ankle hobble chains were attached to heavy rings set in the stone floor. Then one of the men began to raise the chains connected to each girl’s wrists in turn until her arms were well above her head.

  A man came to stand in front of the first girl in the circle, a blonde called Sarah. “Turn your face away,” he ordered. Sarah, petrified, just stared at him. He unhooked a leather strap from his waist and lashed it around Sarah’s bare legs, just below her miniskirt. There was a muffled scream from behind Sarah’s ball gag and she writhed in pain, but her chains prevented her from moving much. “Turn your face away,” he repeated. This time she did as she was told, still wriggling in pain. He produced a spray can and sprayed a single vertical line of red paint down her sleeveless top, ruining it.

  Then he moved on to the second girl, a pretty brunette called Hannah. “Turn your face away.” Having seen what had happened to Sarah, the shaking brunette complied. The number two was sprayed on her top, and Rosie realised that the line on Sarah’s vest was the number one.

  Then the man went to each girl in turn and sprayed a number on their top. A couple of girls were slow to turn their faces away to avoid the spray and they got lashed for it. Rosie, near the end of the circle, hurriedly turned her face away and was sprayed with the number fourteen. She doubted that the stain would ever come out of her pastel blouse and somehow that seemed important. Then she became aware that all of the men had gone, closing a heavy door and leaving the terrified girls standing there, three of them moaning in pain from the lash and all of them making small noises like petrified animals.

  Chapter Two

  The evening was progressing as most evenings did in this mansion: that is to say, it was a social nightmare. Tyler Mason, in other ways an astute man, seemed oblivious of the perpetual tension. His wife and sister chatted quietly together, ignoring the men. Freddie Mason and Phillip Saunders, a star-crossed duo if ever there was one, had departed for the theatre, each reluctant to be in the other’s company and neither much interested in the play they were to see. Edward Harris sat rather uncomfortably, unsure of quite how to break the ice. Rosie, Charlotte and Cassandra stood to attention, tits all out, waiting for any orders. From experience, Rosie knew that they might wait for hours without being required. Those were the better nights. Her bottom was still very visibly red from Phillip Saunders’ earlier attention, whilst Charlotte’s bottom still showed the four cane marks.

  “Good evening Tyler, Edward, ladies,” said a lugubrious voice. Its owner, Doctor Steven Chase, lumbered into the room. A rotund man of around thirty-five, immaculately dressed in a three piece suit, he oozed pompous respectability. Elizabeth gave a squeal of delight and flung herself into his arms. What this very pretty girl saw in him Rosie could only guess. She forced the thought down: it was not a good idea for her to make judgements on her owners and their friends, in case any slight feeling might show at the wrong moment, particularly under stress.

  Tyler Mason waited until Elizabeth had finished kissing Dr. Chase before greeting him amiably. Polite and quite forgettable conversation ensued for a while and then Tyler glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight. “Well, Mr. Harris, time for your hour in the haunted room, if you’re still up for it,” he said.

  “Of course, Sir,” responded Edward.

  “Now don’t let them bully you into this, Edward,” Elizabeth chided him. “Why on earth anybody would want to spend an hour in total darkness in that hot stuffy room I just don’t know.”

  “It’s not hot and stuffy, Elizabeth, as you well know,” Tyler said pedantically. “As the room is a store for some very old and valuable antique furniture and pictures, it is kept at a precise temperature and humidity level and the air conditioning is very efficient. But it is, as you say, in total darkness once we shut the door, and that may frighten some people.”

  “It doesn’t bother me, Sir,” said Edward.

  “What about the legend of the poison trap?” Steven Chase asked.

  “I don’t believe that exists, Dr. Chase,” Edward said.

  “Well then, you should be fine,” Tyler said, unlocking a heavy wooden door to reveal a dark room. “There is a ventilation grille, should the air conditioning fail, not that it ever has done. In you go.” Edward Harris moved past him into the room and sat down in the armchair in the middle of it. “See you in an hour,” Tyler Mason said politely, and closed and locked the door.

  “I really think this is a stupid game,” Elizabeth Mason observed.

  “Each to his own, my dear,” her elder brother replied easily.

  “Perhaps when it is your turn, my beloved,” said Doctor Chase to his fiancée, “you could take that young buck slave to keep you amused. Does a slave count as a second person, Tyler?”

  “Ashley?” Elizabeth asked. “As if I’d touch him now I’m engaged to you.”

  “Now, beloved, we have talked about this,” Steven said to her. “I love you with all my heart and you love me, but venting your sexual requirements on a slave does not invalidate that love or even compromise it in the least. We do not live in a monogamous society. You should use Ashley to your heart’s content.”

  “Well ...” said Elizabeth uncertainly.

  “My darling, I insist. Tyler, could I make use of your slaves, please?”

  “Be my guest,” said the head of the household expansively. He was proud of his collection of slaves and loved to see his guests using them.

  Chase instructed Charlotte to fetch Slave Ashley and she slipped from the room, returning moments later with him. Rosie always felt conflicting emotions when she came into contact with Ashley. He was nineteen, very handsome and with a superbly muscled, tanned body which was well displayed in his uniform of singlet and shorts. She always felt a thrill run through her body when she saw him and she knew she had the hots for him. Before her enslavement, she would have enjoyed the feeling but done nothing about it; but now, her virginity long gone and with sexual intercourse a regular and invariably unpleasant occurrence for her, she longed to be had by him, or at least for some fierce foreplay with him. Unfortunately, unless her owner Tyler Mason gave his permission, she was not allowed. She had been brought down to the level that she could not even give her body to a man of her choice without her owner’s consent.

  On the other hand, when Ashley was present Rosie always felt even more acutely embarrassed by her exposed state. For whatever reason, she would have liked to have conducted the sort of slow, gradual seduction with him that she had just begun to experience before her abduction, but with her boobs jutting out of her regulation uniform and her bum fully on show whenever her back was to him, this just wasn’t possible. Also, she felt cheap, sluttish and obvious dressed this way, when she would have loved to be subtle and sophisticated and ladylike with him. Of course, he would be fully aware that she had no choice in the matter, but that didn’t make her feel any better. Rosie was irked that, although Ashley didn’t ogle her exposed charms, he didn’t look away either; but then, she reflected, his own situation couldn’t be much fun either. To have to ‘perform’ for Joanne Mason could not be easy although surely
Elizabeth Mason must be a much more pleasant task.

  “Strip and line up,” Dr. Chase ordered the three female slaves.

  Rosie mentally cursed him, but she did not dare disobey. Moments later she was stood alongside Charlotte and Cassandra, each of them fully naked. Again she noted with irritation as well as embarrassment that Ashley did not avert his eyes. Rosie wished that her boobs did not jut out so much from her body. They were quite large, not huge but round and full and very firm, so that they always thrust out in front of her. Charlotte’s body was rather more lithe, though her breasts were also firm and decent-sized, whilst Cassandra had an hourglass figure. Each of the three girls, of course, had her pubic hair shaved except for the letter M, Cassandra’s light hair made her letter barely visible, whilst Charlotte’s curly dark reddish hair seemed to almost bristle with vitality. Rosie’s hair, being the darkest, stood out most vividly, especially as her skin was naturally lighter than Charlotte’s.

  “Now then, my love,” Steven Chase said to his fiancé, “you choose a girl for me and you take the boy, and we’ll go upstairs and enjoy our toys together.”

  Joanne Mason rose. “Excuse me,” she said frostily and left the room, giving a clear impression of what she thought about all this. Steven Chase bowed politely to her, evidently trying to placate her. She ignored him as she swept out.

  Attention swung back to the three naked girls. Rosie had had a nasty feeling that something like this was coming. She sucked in her tummy and thrust her breasts out, her chin up, trying to make her figure as good as possible. To do anything less was to invite the wrath of her owner and to her side she could sense Charlotte and Cassie do the same. For Rosie it was a no-win situation: if she was picked, she was in for a horrible time, but if she was not it was humiliating to be passed over. She suspected that Charlotte wouldn’t mind being chosen too much: the redhead was certainly quite keen on sex, even if the other person was much older and rather overweight as the doctor was. Cassandra just seemed to accept it with the subservience of an experienced slave.