by Sean O'Kane
I was still getting an energetic thrashing as I squirmed forward and if I had had enough breath I would have screamed at Clair that I had had enough, but as it was I gathered what little strength I had left and wriggled forwards again. Once again the muck closed over me and my face shovelled slowly on until I thought my lungs would burst, but finally I felt grass under my cheek and realised that I had done it. Ben’s boots were beside my face and Clair was releasing my wrists. Thankfully I got up onto my forearms and looked back down my body. Every inch of my front was covered in slime and mud, and worse. My hanging boobs were chocolate coloured mounds and I had spread my knees so far apart to squirm forwards that even my crotch was dark brown. But at least the cold goo had soothed some of the pain in that region.
“Whip her while she licks my boots,” I heard Ben say dispassionately.
Immediately Clair set to work, once again wielding her crop across my buttocks and back, the cord and leather smacking wetly onto my body and carving brilliant lines of agony into my dazed mind. But at least I was near the end now and I stuck out my tongue and licked every trace of mud from his boots, even finding the first stirrings of arousal under the lashing as I abased myself utterly at Ben’s feet.
“Forgive me, sir,” I said at last when the boots were immaculately clean. “I’m sorry.” I dropped my forehead to the ground before him and waited. I was pretty sure what was coming and sure enough after a few seconds I felt the warm liquid splashing on my back and watched the gold droplets carve their way through the mud which caked me.
“It’s no longer of any importance to me,” Ben said when he had finished. “But if it helps you, then, yes. I have finished with you now.”
Then he turned and left me.
My master arrived shortly afterwards and Janet helped the bedraggled, filth-streaked slave into the plastic sheeted boot, and in the dark I smiled amidst my pains. All my debts were paid.
Postscript
It took nearly a fortnight for the swellings and abrasions between my legs and all over me to fully heal and subside. And it was Julia who nursed me - as it had been she who had sluiced down the wreckage which had arrived back from Ben’s, and which had rolled out onto the drive, completely limp and exhausted when the boot had been opened.
In the month which has followed from then, I have had nothing to do except to prepare this journal and that task is nearly done now so I can face up to my future. What that holds was explained to me when I was summoned to the library one evening. My heart was thumping as I followed Julia in; I dared to hope that I might be receiving my master’s attentions once again. He had not touched me since my return and although I slept with Julia nearly every night, kissing another girl’s welts is no substitute for the savage joy of taking the kiss of the leathers oneself.
But it was not to be. Julia and I knelt before him and he explained his plans. He had decided to reorganise his household; he would keep Julia as a slave for the time being and maybe purchase another in due course, but he would never again mix slave owning and business. I had got in behind his defences, he admitted ruefully - both emotionally and commercially - and he would not allow that to happen again, it was one reason why he had finally taken Julia - to demolish everything which had gone before. My heart sank as I realised how close I had come to obtaining everything I wanted, and had lost it.
I was going to be auctioned, he told me. He considered that kinder than setting me free and I have come to appreciate that fact. But on that evening I was devastated and even being allowed to watch Julia Dexter being soundly flogged in the playroom was small comfort. But when the whip was finally put aside and he buggered her while she was still bound on the trestle, I was allowed to lick him clean afterwards before licking his emission out of her. I knew it would be the last time I would taste him. And so it has proved.
The auction is now only two days away and tomorrow we travel up to London. In front of me as I write is the card which prospective purchasers will be given. The reserve price is flatteringly high! And the picture; a vidcap of me hung by the wrists in the playroom, is also very complimentary. All my vital statistics are listed, including my ankle and wrist cuff sizes, and then in a section labelled ‘General’ it reads.
‘The slave currently goes under the name of Emma, but should be given a slave name. She is obedient and very tough under the whip, as well as responsive to all forms of mistreatment. However she is intelligent and can be headstrong, she really requires continual discipline - of the harshest nature.”
And then under ‘Reason for Sale’
“Master has become over-fond.”
Several men have been to have a preview and I have been paraded in the library, naked and on a lead from my labial rings. I found it intensely exciting and am now really looking forward to a new life - how well my master judged me! Above everything else it seems - even him - I love slavery itself. I felt so wonderfully alive and feminine as male eyes devoured me, assessing me for the pleasure I could give them; speculating aloud with my master as to how many lashes I could endure on my back, buttocks, breasts etc. I loved the way their strong hands opened my sex and their fingers casually rummaged inside me and comments were passed about the speed and quantity of my lubrication, before it was wiped off on my stomach. All of them had me bend over while they explored my back entrance and my breasts and buttocks were closely examined and discussed for their contours, skin tone and ability to soak up everything from beatings to piercings. Best of all, once the examinations were over and drinks were being served, I was allowed to masturbate to orgasm in front of them; just to prove what a complete slut I have become.
And so the story of Emma comes to an end. I don’t know what name I will live under in the future, or where I will live or what adventures in slavery lie before me.
But I am very happy to be leaving Emma behind; once and for all.
January 23rd 2008. Leeds
I can’t help but smile at those final words! Mr O’Kane did a splendid job of putting together all my notes and jottings and I’m very grateful both to him and the editor of Silver Moon for having given Emma a life in print. But those final words are perhaps best attributed to exuberant artistic licence! I am still stubbornly proud of being Emma!
The editor has informed me that some readers have been kind enough as to enquire what happened to me after the period covered by my original journals and so I am delighted and thrilled to contribute these extra pages to a brand new edition of ‘Emma’.
The auction was held at a semi-derelict hotel, I was taken there hooded and trussed in the boot of the car so can’t really tell where it was, and I was only allowed out when it was time to be bid for. I regained daylight in a room that had about ten other naked slaves waiting with their current owners, they were mostly, like myself once I had undressed down to high heeled court shoes, on leashes attached to their collars. One or two had their hands fastened behind them and were clearly not at all happy at being sold. The rest of them though were either sullen, frightened or excited, as far as I could see. As for myself I was nervous but definitely excited – after all that I had been through I knew I had finally left behind everything that I had been, except my name and my nature. Master Gerald held my leash and chatted easily with the other owners until a man stuck his head round the door and asked us to follow him.
We emerged into a big room full of sofas and chairs covered in dust sheets and looking very eerie indeed. From there we walked down a corridor and through double doors into what must have been the bar area. All the tables were fully occupied by prospective buyers, mostly men but with a sprinkling of women as well, I returned their interested stares while my Master clipped my wrists together behind my back.
The man we were with looked down at a card.
“Lot Eight, ladies and gentlemen,” he called and Master Gerald pulled gently on my leash. It was the viewing and I was led past all the tabl
es and fondled and groped at each one.
I know that any ‘straight’ women reading this will be horrified at the humiliation and degradation of being led naked around a room full of strangers who have complete freedom to intrude into the most private parts of womanhood – and of woman. However, I know that most submissive women who read this will understand the thrill of being so utterly cast upon a master’s wishes that they can find the deepest pleasure in the most degrading experiences. I can only plead in my defence, against charges of betraying all right-thinking women, that my nature is to find my identity as a woman immeasurably heightened by the very degradation a master condemns me to.
The size and ‘pertness’ of my breasts were commented upon frequently – and not always in a positive way – but it didn’t matter to me. As long as carelessly arrogant hands were sliding over my skin and casual voices were assessing my capacity to provide pleasure, I was perfectly happy. I had no compunction in parting my legs to allow fingers to explore my genitals, in fact the more coarse the comments about the tightness of my vagina and its state of arousal, the more that arousal grew.
And despite everything, Master Gerald found it in him to pat me on the bottom occasionally when I had calmly undergone the most intimate inspection. And it became clear to me that serious money was going to change hands that day, because some of the inspections were very intimate indeed. For some prospective buyers, having the goods spread its legs and feeling carefully around it was not good enough. For some I had to really straddle my legs and allow hands to grasp and spread my labia while they crouched in front of me and discussed what they were looking at. All comments were, of course, directed at Master Gerald. They wanted to know what exercise routine I had to keep me tight, the skin of the labia looked smooth and of course they wanted to know if I had been subjected to needle play. Sometimes I had to turn and face away from them while Master Gerald pulled my buttocks apart so that they could inspect my anus. It was perfectly clear from a cursory glance and a quick probe that it was experienced at penetration but Master Gerald was plied with queries about what I had taken up that entrance. Fortunately he had clear recollections and even I was slightly surprised at some of the items he mentioned……..but then I had probably been otherwise engaged whilst they had been introduced!
And so it went on, sometimes hands would stroke my back as questions were asked about things like the greatest number of lashes I had taken at one time and had I been beaten with a singletail? A woman with a marked French accent spent some time feeling between my legs and stroking my thighs. Her fingers were cold and it seemed to me that she had hard eyes. As a result I was not as easily opened as I had been up till then.
She said something to the man with her that I couldn’t hear and then with no warning smacked my bottom. I jumped in shock and there was a ripple of amusement through the observers but then her fingers dived back between my legs and achieved entry with no trouble. She smiled up at me with a warmth that completely changed my perceptions of her.
“Ah! Cherie, I understand you now!” she said and removed her fingers, wiped them on the front of my thigh, then marked her card and ignored me. For another twenty minutes or so I was led around, poked and prodded and examined with such casualness that by the end I was quite breathless with arousal.
Late in the afternoon the auction got properly under way and eventually I was led back into the same room and the same man who had taken us there earlier read out the details off my card and the bidding began. To this day I have only the haziest recollection of what figures were bandied about.
And here I suspect that any ‘straight’ women reading this may consider that I got my comeuppance. All excitement and perverse arousal fled from me as the crushing reality of what was actually happening left me horrified; and suddenly terrified. Certainly I had been bartered before but this was so formal and remote somehow that it was really threatening, it really was true slavery.
I was not giving myself to a dominant. My consent was irrelevant. I was going to be owned; bought and paid for, purely for the pleasure my suffering would bring to others. Normally that thought would have seen me through pretty well anything, but not then. Not at the auction.
I stood trembling at the end of the chain that Master held while my fate was decided, I couldn’t look around me – I didn’t dare - and I stared at the patterns in the carpet instead while the auctioneer’s voice, calm and dispassionate, sorted through the bids until finally the impetus slowed and I allowed my ears to function. The bids had scaled heights which left me aghast. I suppose to some it might have been exciting to think that they were worth so much, and back at Master Gerald’s house I had, but now all I could think of was that anyone who paid that much for a slave was going to want to get their money’s worth out of her body.
At last the auctioneer banged his gavel and declared I had ‘Gone!’ With my heart thundering in my chest I looked over at Master Gerald who smiled at me and handed the leash to the French woman who had smacked me, shook hands with her husband, turned on his heel and walked out of my life. I was left shaking on jelly-like legs with these complete strangers who had God-alone-knew-what powers over me.
I returned to the changing room with my new owners who stroked me as they chatted in French and didn’t seem too terrible. I was allowed to dress in the simple sweater and skirt I had worn on the journey down. We then adjourned to an office and I realised that the terms of the auction were much more limited than Master Gerald had allowed me to believe. A farewell punishment and one of his most severe in my humble opinion. It turned out that I – and the other slaves – had been sold for a two year period and I was required to sign a contract. At the end of the term my owners and I could extend it, or I could be sold on, if I so chose. Or I could be set free. A portion of my purchase price was transferred into my bank account there and then.
Once this was explained to me, I felt a little less terrified and sank gratefully into the back seat of their car as we headed for the Eurostar.
Monsieur and Madame Laferge divided their time between a large farmhouse in Normandy and a flat in Paris. When we were resident in Normandy I was quartered in the barn. It was quite comfortable and warm, the wooden posts that held up what had been the hayloft made pretty decent whipping posts for those occasions when the Laferges had guests. Those were terrific days and nights! Sometimes there would be as many as fifteen slaves in residence and with thirty or so dominants all working on them simultaneously, the place echoed to the thud and smack of the lash and the groans of we poor souls.
Groans which I have to say were regularly punctuated by moans of pleasure. Our dominants were never prone to denying themselves the delights our bodies could provide and I attained a high degree of competence as a slave to a Mistress by dint of many exhausting sessions at the hands of Madame and her friends. Sometimes at these evenings the floor would be given over to one dominant who would provide a masterclass in one or other of the arts of sadomasochism. Thus I saw breath-taking displays of needle craft with slave girls’ entire backs intricately laced with ribbon stretched between the piercing points, breasts turned into exquisite pin cushions and labia pierced time and again while the slave moaned her way to the threshold of orgasm and was then held back by a single command from the dominant. Usually the procedure would conclude with nipple piercing and the whole gathering would watch avidly to see if the slave could hold out against her excitement. Inevitably, failure led to delicious punishments and I have to say that I frequently fell at that last hurdle when Madame showed me off under the lash or the needles. She never seemed to mind very much, but then she did sometimes make the punishments last for a couple of days.
I was privileged to serve alongside some very talented submissives and I learned a great deal. There was a standing joke between me and the Laferges that I could scream fluently in four languages after only a few months with them!
The apartment in Paris w
as superb, all wrought iron and mahogany, it could have come straight out of ‘O’! Indeed Monsieur did used to work from there and while Madame was out shopping, I spent hours standing under the chandelier in his office, naked and with my arms raised and tied waiting for him either to beat me or take me – or both. During those times I would gaze out over the Seine and watch the world go by, quite calm and patient, knowing that soon enough the whip and the Master’s cock would be my lot. At other times Madame would take me shopping or out for lunch, but usually that involved us meeting other dominants of her acquaintance and I would often end up being lent out while Madame took another slave home for the evening. That was something I always enjoyed as I felt so utterly used and objectified.
And there were the parties! Monsieur and Madame had a cosmopolitan circle of friends and we would be invited to secluded chalets by Swiss lakes, where we slaves could be whipped and taken in the open and yet be unobserved. There were idyllic days on superb yachts in the Med when I would lie between Madame’s legs on the sun baked decks and pleasure her until my tongue ached and then she would have me serviced by one of her domme friends’ slave boys.
I recall one week-long outing on a three masted yacht. The doms played out pirate fantasies using their slaves to act as helpless captives from one of their raids. For the week they all drew lots to own different slaves and I was drawn by a bull-necked Swedish master. Every evening he would tie me down to his bunk and ravish me when he eventually came to bed, smelling of schnapps. He was enormously endowed and I was the envy of most of the other girls, but he played the part of rampant pirate, starved of female company, a little too well and my poor vagina was greatly relieved at the week’s end! Two or three times every night with a monster like his was too much of a good thing. The daytimes however were heavenly. We were tied to the masts and whipped every day for any imagined infraction of whatever rules they dreamed up. I vividly remember being pulled up in ankle suspension, right up to the crow’s nest almost and screaming as the deck spun and lurched dizzyingly far below me. The Swede held me there until I was begging for the lash – anything other than be left hanging there! He brought me down as everyone applauded and left me just above the deck – so my fingers just couldn’t quite reach it! Then I got the lash I had abjectly begged for, and it was a beating to be proud of as four or five of the onlooking men asked for, and received, permission to take me where I lay when I was eventually let down in a sorry heap.
