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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 12/23/2014 8:16:37 PM   
Marc2b


Posts: 6660
Joined: 8/7/2006
Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Chapter Three: Fire and Leather

The Lord Caleb River of White Fawn Estate kept his slaves well, keeping them properly fed, permitting sufficient hours of sleep and protecting them from the elements when necessary. He was indeed a true believer in both the carrot and the stick. Slave girls who were consistently well behaved – which is defined as obedient, respectful, honest, attentive and hardworking - earned privileges like an extra blanket or a pillow at night, something other than bland slave gruel at meal time, or even some free time where they could gather at one of the Estate’s pleasant spots to gossip or take a pleasant nap in the sun. If such carrots were insufficient to inducing proper behavior there were plenty of sticks with which to do so.

Insulting a free person, be they noble or commoner, was unacceptable behavior under any circumstances. Sandra’s punishment for this breech of her status was twenty-five lashes, a stern reminder that she had lost all of her earned privileges while she tearfully kissed the whip, and then being ordered to spend the night in the box. The Guardsman tasked with carrying out the last didn't even bother to try and march the wobbly legged girl to the remainder of her fate but tossed her over his shoulder instead.

It was the word “box” that drew the former Lady Camille out of her fugue state. She was mesmerized by the flames, by what they meant, by the boundary they represented. Ink on a piece of paper was the legality. The flames, the branding iron that was getting hotter and hotter, they were the reality. She heard the whipping, heard the cries of the foolish girl but took no note of them. The flames alone held her attention. They would lick her thigh soon with their horrid pain, proclaiming her degraded status, eliminating even the pretense that she might yet salvage the situation. She wanted to run, oh she wanted to run so very much – but there was nowhere to run – except, perhaps . . . I must hide myself away inside myself! I must never let them see! He may own my body but he can’t own my mind! I am and always will be the Lady Camille! He can’t take that from me! None of them can!

Then she heard the word “box.” Something about this reminder that there was more than one way to punish a slave snapped her back. The small metal containers gave no room to their occupant to stretch out. A few hours were often enough to convince a slave to rethink their attitude. The thought of a night or a whole day or even longer could terrify slaves more than the whip. The full realization of her changed circumstances were crashing in on her. The whip! The box! Chains and cages, ropes and harnesses and clamps and crops and who knew what other horrors men could devise. That old part of her, now newly awakening, began intruding again with dangerous thoughts . . . dangerous desires that actually made her squirm a little. She felt the wetness between her legs. No! She forced it down, as deep into the recess of her mind as she could. I will never give him that!

“Feeling a little antsy, are we?” Matters with Sandra now concluded, the Lord River had turned his attention back to his newest acquisition in time to catch the little squirm. “I think it’s time to see what I purchased for my copper coin.” There was some laughter in the crowd that paused when Lord River looked deep in thought for a moment. Just a little too deep. An obvious act. “Mister Mosely?”

“Yes, my Lord?”

“I would like to make a donation to His Majesty’s Endowment for Loyal Wounded Soldiers of the Kingdom in the amount of ten gold coins. When the applause for this latest demonstration of his generosity died down he added, “I would like to make a second donation of one copper coin but would you please donate that in memory of The Lady Camille of House Aldridge.”

She who had been that Lady burned with humiliation but waited through the laughter. Laugh at me all you want. She was more determined now than ever to keep hold of herself, no matter how much she had to hide it. I will be the perfect obedient slave and you’ll think you own me but you won’t. You never will. She put forth a face that was a mask of calculated inscrutability, a mask that said, you can never know me.

“Stand up, said the Lord River. She did. She stood as tall as she could. Her owner walked a slow circle around her, once, twice, always looking directly at her face, he stopped on the third time, studying her. He leaned in. For her ears only, he whispered, “I’m going to let you get away with that little pretense for now because I know it will help you get through what’s coming next.” He paused for a second when a hitched breath signaled a crack in the mask. “Do not, however, think that I will permit it for long. Before the morning light, you will yield all to me. I promise you that.” He saw the anger flare in her eyes, it was they that silently spoke the word, Never! He ignored it as he started walking around her again. Once, twice. He motioned Daisy back up to the platform. “Get those things out of her hair,” he said “and the earrings too.” He pointed out the few hair pins that had went flying earlier when as he said it.

With an enthusiastic, “yes, Master,” that made some nearby chuckle, Daisy complied, bending rather gracefully despite the pain her backside must still be feeling to scoop of the wayward pearls before turning her attention to her former owner. She stood directly in front of the woman who had owned her for five years and put those years of experience to work in deftly removing the earrings and hair pins. For a moment the two women looked directly at each other. One was experienced in reading faces, (a necessary skill for any slave who would successfully navigate around the displeasure of their betters) – the other still astonished to discover this new found ability – and even more astonished at what she read on her former slave’s face.

Fuck it, thought the Lady Camille, I’m about to be branded and whipped and who knows what else! What more can he do to me? As her hair started to fall down in wisps, she asked, “Did you hate me the whole time?” Daisy’s countenance softened a little but she glanced at her new owner, who nodded his head ever so slightly. The man is not without his kindnesses, thought the Lady Camille, despite not wanting to.

“I never really hated you,” said Daisy, “except maybe that time I spilled the wine.” She sounded almost nostalgic. “It was just an accident,” she continued. She gave a wistful sigh. “No. I didn't hate you. You kept me well and I knew my situation could be much worse.”

A few more pins removed, a few more wisps of hair cascading down. The Lady Camille wanted to proceed to the obvious “but,” to follow when a movement by the blacksmith caught her eye. He took hold of the branding iron’s handle in his gloved hand, gave it a half turn, plunged it back into the red coals still being stoked by his slave girl operating the whooshing bellows. The sense of rising panic returned. Instead she blurted out a confession, “Daisy! I’m scared! I don’t know what to do!”

“Just obey. That’s what you do when you a slave.”

“I know that! I mean . . . I mean . . . “

“I know what you mean,” said Daisy sounding stern as she reached behind to the final few hair pins. “Let it go! You want some advice from me? Let it all go! That’s my advice. Nobody will allow you the pretense that you are anything special and believe me when I say nobody, I mean nobody. You have more to fear from the women here than the men. You put on any airs and they will slap you down hard.”

The Lady Camille was about to protest (as much to herself as to Daisy) that she wouldn't though she knew it would have been a lie but she was caught short when she noticed something about Daisy’ collar. It did not proclaim her the property of Lord River. It proclaimed her the property of Lord Mason. The Guard Captain? He wasn't a noble. What did it mean?

“What?” Daisy was perplexed about the confusion she saw on her former owner’s face but at that moment Lord River cleared his throat, signaling the end of the moment. Daisy stepped smartly over to who she thought was her owner but apparently was not and handed him the earrings and hair pins. With a motion he sent her back into the crowd. He spent a few seconds examining them in his cupped hand. He picked one up and looked it over closely.

“You know,” he said, “each one of these is worth about three month’s wages to my field hands.” He jiggled them a little and continued, “There is easily enough here to give everyone a bonus equal to two or three day’s wages.” There was an air of silence as he seemed to contemplate the matter. “Mister Bates,” he said as he handed them off to his accountant, I leave it to you to carry that out.”

He does know how to keep his people happy thought the Lady Camille as the Lord River’s men cheered him again. She wondered what he would do with the rest of her jewelry. It was her shoes that came off next. She tried to obey his command gracefully but it was difficult to find her shoes under the layers of fabric. Irritated, the Lord River motioned Daisy back onto the platform who performed the task quickly and efficiently. “Stay,” he told her as he tossed one shoe to the ink stained Notary. “That should compensate you for your misfortune,” he laughed.

He was quite grateful, and well he should be, thought the Lady Camille. The emeralds on the straps probably represent a year’s salary to the man. The second shoe went to one of the Guardsmen, Lord River’s second in command if she judged the insignia on his uniform correctly. A slight, confused murmur from the crowd gave credence to this. Why would he be so favorable to a subordinate in favor of the man in charge with the security of himself and his estate? If Mason felt any rebuke in this, it did not show except that it did show in that his face was completely immobile. A mask of feigned indifference. Yet according to Daisy’s collar he had been given her. Did he not know that? Or perhaps he felt short changed – one of those shoes could but a dozen Daisys.

She had no time to ponder these things. The man who owned her (a horrible thought intruded – will he give me away?) started to remove her clothing only to find himself frustrated again as he apparently predicted. He called Daisy over and the two had a strange whispered little conference. “Why won’t this move?”

“There are hooks underneath, Master but first you have to undo the ties at the side.”

“Ties? I don’t see any ties. “Where are the ties?”

“There underneath here, Master,” she said as she lifted the outermost layer of fabric.

“You know what,” he proclaimed loudly as he stepped back, “fuck it!” Daisy was once again sent back into the crowd as he instructed one of his guardsman to hand over his dagger which was promptly done. The Lord River tested its sharpness, founded it more than satisfactory and nodded his approval of the Guardsman in not being slack in the care of his weapon. “Hands behind your head,” he said to the wide eyed woman who none the less complied.

Remember who you really are, she told herself as he began cutting through one of the sleeves. She held her head high as he slashed and sawed, and occasionally ripped his way through each layer, tossing pieces of fabric large and small aside in frustrated movements that were half real, half acted for the laughing audience. He paused long enough to remove a pearl necklace and a red ruby bracelet. He tossed them to his accountant. “I’ll decide what to do with them later,” he said, dismissing them as he continued his labor, cutting through the ties that frustrated him earlier.

Finally he got a large chunk to come off all at once. Tossing it aside he played to the crowd as he tossed the mound of material aside. “Ta da!” The men cheered and clapped as her breasts were revealed with a large bounce. Only her panties, garters and stocking remained to her but for the moment the communal focus was on her breasts.

She had always been proud of her bosom. Her breasts were quite ample – enough to make most other women seem small by comparison – without being so large as to be ridiculous, as a couple of women she had known. She had been jokingly warned by some older women about ‘races toward the knees’ but with the natural arrogance of youth she had dismissed that far off future as irrelevant. She knew her bosom attracted the extra attention of men over other women. She knew they imagined what they would look like. She herself had imagined that only one man would ever get to look upon them, a properly rich and titled husband – a future she had imagined salvageable even an hour ago. She had never imagined over two hundred men hooting and clapping. She had never imagined eighty or so slave girls assessing her with hard eyes, most of whom, she was quite certain, had now found a new reason to hate her.

“So your proud of those, are you?” She was caught by surprise by the Lord River’s assessment of her feelings. She was afraid to answer the question. “Never mind,” he said, “but you might not be so proud of them later on. You might rather regret them. There are certain things you can do with large breasted women that you can’t with the smaller breasted ones.” Now it was the slave girls - the smaller breasted ones - who hooted and clapped. Their more ample sisters in bondage had looks ranging from wistful to frightened to almost sympathetic.

She felt another wave of heated fear pass through her that started in her head, swirled around to her extremities and then settled between her legs. She was surprised to discover that she was moist. That old new part tried to rise but she shot it down again with savage brutality while desperately hoping that no one would notice.

For the moment attention remained upstairs. The lord River performed the same jiggle test as he had with Daisy, again proclaiming himself impressed but then seemed to muse a little. “Perhaps a little too big,” he said. “Things like those might slow a slave down. You will be expected, after all, to move with dispatch in your work, to respond promptly if summoned. He continued to draw things out, taking a step or two, scratching at his beard with thumb and forefinger. “Run in place,” he suddenly snapped.

It was the glare in his eyes that made her break her hesitation. It was the glare of a master toward his slave. It was a glare that promised dire consequences if compliance was not obtained quickly. It was the first time she had ever experience it and she was stunned by the sheer force of will behind it. There was simply no questioning it. She complied, giving way to sobbing tears as she was assaulted by the laughter over her ponderously bouncing boobs. If her tears generated any sympathy she could not see it as everything was rendered in a watery distortion by them. It didn't sound like there was any sympathy. “Faster,” he demanded and again she complied to the point that it hurt. The laughter became raucous. If some merciful god or spirit were to strike her dead at that moment, they would have had her eternal gratitude. None showed her any such mercy, though.

“Stop,” he finally said. She did feel gratitude – towards him. She didn't want to but she did. She tried, with limited success to stifle her sobbing. She shook her head, managing to clear her vision a little. Now what? He was sniffing the air, again with that slightly exaggerated manner of playing to the crowd. “What is that I smell?” He took a step toward her. “I know that smell!” Another step, accompanied by laughter from the first few to catch on. “Oh yes, I’m very familiar with that smell.” More laughter. He bent over, staring directly at her still covered crotch. He loudly took in a deep long breath through his nose, held it for a second, and then let it out. He stood up. “Oh yeah, that’s the aroma of truth.”

It’s not true! It’s not true! It just cannot be true, she kept telling herself trying to ignore the grins and guffaws but with a few quick and deft flashes of the dagger still in his hand he flung away vestiges of her clothing. She stood now, hands still behind her head, fully exposed for all to see unable to reconcile the humiliation with the pride she felt over the obvious masculine approval over her complete form. When would this hell be over? But she was reminded that it was just getting started when the blacksmith gave another turn to the branding iron – the edges of the head starting to glow.

As he had with Daisy, the Lord River made a detailed examination of his new property. The fear that he may have already given her away flashed through her again. Unlike with Daisy, he took the time to comment on every feature. He ran his fingers through her hair, proclaimed it “lovely,” before musing that it would be a shame were it to be ever necessary to shorn her. She couldn't hide her alarm at the thought (the women laughed louder at this than the men). She knew that most, if not all, slave girls were terrified of the notion and would choose a whipping over being shorn if ever given the choice. She knew it from her new found instincts that she needed but didn't want. Remember who you are.

The man who had tricked her into delivering herself up was less impressed with her arms and hands. Oh, he found them to be lovely too, as well as “soft,” and that was the problem. Her legs received the same compliment and criticism. The Lady Camille had been as obsessive about her weight as any noble woman. She had never been fat. But now, more than ever, she saw the contrast between herself and the enslaved women – the toned muscles, still possessed of feminine smallness but obviously well used in lifting and scrubbing and all the other labors that formed their daily toil. Their hands all looked a little older than the women themselves, various degrees of roughness and callouses proclaimed their years of work. Spending much of their time during the warm months barefoot, their feet likewise showed a rougher exterior than her own. Despite these signs of a life not pampered, they did not detract from but were in fact an inherent part of their beauty. It was a beauty not of jewelry and clothing but of health and a sense of place and purpose. These women were alive in a way that she had never been and she hated them for it because she knew that she could never completely cross over the way they had. Daisy’s warning, followed quickly by Lord River’s promise shot through her head. Never! Remember who you are!

The mortification continued. He checked her teeth, gave a “hmm, mmm” of satisfaction. He had her turn around and bend over. He spread her butt cheeks wide. “Nice and clean. Very good. If there is one thing I like, it’s a clean sphincter.” She ignored the laughter and waited. Remember who you are. He turned her around again and made her stand with her legs apart and began his examination of that cleft that seems to draw men to it with a silent siren call. He seemed almost reverent as he gently traced a single finger down one crease, up the next, and again and again. He deliberately avoid the nexus where pleasure ruled and despite herself, she gave a little buck of frustration. Her own body was betraying her as her juices flowed a little more. He began his probe, seemed not the least bit surprised to find the impediment. “I haven’t seen this many cherries, guys, since I last had pie.”

In another life, he could have been a jester, she thought sarcastically to distract herself from the humiliation but the humiliation itself was a distraction from worse to come. Until now. “Almost there, my Lord, “intercut Mister Striker, the Blacksmith as he examined the branding iron – the business end of which was now a dull red. His slave girl began to work the bellows faster as he shoved it back into the coals.

“Very well, then,” he said as he nodded at two of his guardsmen.

She couldn’t help herself and emitted a final plaintive, “please!” as they grabbed her by the arms and legs. She saw in his face, in all their faces, that it would do no good. “Oh gods oh gods oh gods and spirits,” she kept mumbling to herself as they plopped her down on the branding rack. She continued her mantra as they strapped her in. Her arms were stretched above her head, leather cuffs securing her wrists and ropes cross-tied over to prevent flailing but mostly just to get them out of the way. Her head rested on a rather comfortable leather covered padding, the reason why became apparent when a thick, wide, leather strap went over her forehead and was buckled tightly – she would not be injuring head or neck during her thrashing. “Oh gods oh gods oh gods and spirits.” Her right leg received the same treatment as her arms, secured to keep it out of the way. Another leather strap secured her waist to the contraption.

It was her left leg, her upper left thigh in particular, that was the area of interest. The ankle was secured first, then leather straps secured her left knee above and below and they were very tight. One more strap – oh so damn tight! – on the thigh itself, just below where she knew the pain would be. “Oh gods oh gods oh gods and spirits.”

The blacksmith gave a final turn to the branding iron. With neither word nor motion he took over the bellows from his slave girl who proceeded to reach into her Master’s pocket and retrieve an object. They had apparently been a team long enough that they had this down to a routine. The tall, much more muscled than average slave woman approached the newest arrival to the sisterhood of bondage. She positioned herself just behind the secured, terrified looking woman who had to raise her eyes as much as she could to see the object that had been in the blacksmith’s pocket.

At first, the Lady Camille (remember who you are!) was puzzled by what she saw. It was a cylinder, a piece of wood, maybe two inches thick, and wrapped in soft leather. There was a strong looking loop of rawhide secured to each end of the cylinder with which the blacksmith’s slave held the object, one loop in each hand. There were some sort of markings on the leather, soft, barely noticeable, rectangular indentations. The blacksmith’s slave girl looked down at her with a look of expectation.

The Lady Camille’s eyes went wide with understanding. No! She kept her mouth firmly closed. The blacksmith’s slave let go of one loop just long enough to grab hold of panicky woman’s right nipple and twist without mercy. The instant that the scream started, the leather object was shoved into her mouth with a blur of motion and both hands were firmly holding it down. Anger made the soon to be branded woman already start biting down on it as she tasted the leather.
A few seconds ticked by. She looked up at the face of the woman bending over her, holding the bit in place. She did see some empathy, a sense of communion on that face. She after all had once been in the exact same position. But there was also a sternness there that said, this will happen and it is happening right now!

Now? Now! She noticed the lack of sound. The bellows had stopped! Lord River, it seemed would not be doing the honors himself but was leaving it to the professional in his employ who now had the branding iron in his gloved hand, it’s glowing head promising a life altering pain. He took three short steps. She closed her eyes. Gods and spirits, no! For the rest of her days, she who had been the Lady Camille would never be quite certain if the hissing sound she heard the split second before the pain was real or imagined.

The pain was real. For a few eternal seconds the pain was the only thing that was real and she was nothing except a clenched jaw and clenched eyes surrounded by pain. The pain had a color. The center was a sickly looking beige tinged with red that gradually became redder and brighter until turning to a sudden blackness that danced around the edges with probing tendrils. The pain had a sound. A low thrumming “uuuurrrrrrrmmmmm!” She knew was her own voice but still felt disconnected from it. The pain tasted like leather and tears, it smelt like hot iron and cooked meat. Me!

The pain had a message. It said there was no going back. A part of her mind still tried to rebel at the notion. Slaves were freed sometimes! For love! For years of faithful service! Lord River himself had elevated his own standing from slave all the way to noble! The pain mocked these feeble attempts at denial. Elderly slave women were sometimes freed as a reward from a family that had come to a fond acceptance of them as part of their lives. Younger slave women were, on rare occasions, freed for love – most men, it turned out, could love a woman just fine as a slave. Male slaves, the vast majority of who drudged in field and quarry were never freed but usually died in their chains. Lord River’s ascension was a wild exception, a confluence of personality, happenstance and history. None of these things would ever apply to her, the pain told her. They will not let you go. They say your crime is wiped clean but they will never let you have freedom again.

The Lady Camille is gone forever, the pain told her. All right then, damn it, she thought angrily as the pain finally (after what seemed a thousand years) lessened a little – a very little – before flaring up again. I am a slave! I will work! I will obey! I will suffer the pains and indignities because I am no longer a Lady! It was just a title anyway! I am still me! Call me what he will I am still Camille and I will not yield up all that he wants!

She began to feel her body again. Her jaw and her eyes began to relax. She was aware of her whole head again, her neck, her chest and breasts, her thigh – the pain flared again and she let loose another scream into the leather bit. She blinked her eyes open. They stung from the tears. All she saw was the wavy figure of the Blacksmith’s slave, still pressing down hard. She blinked a few more times, sunk her teeth into the leather one last time when another wave of burning agony passed through her thigh before the bit was finally removed. As it passed from her vision she caught a watery glimpse of her own teeth marks, fresh deep, precise. They would, she knew, shallow out with time, becoming just another set of old teeth marks to be viewed by some unfortunate woman in the future. She let out a howl, followed by gut busting sobs as she wept for all that might-have-beens if the god of chance’s dice had rolled just a little differently.

Another flair of pain! The Blacksmith’s slave was ever so gently applying a salve to the fresh brand. “Ahhh-oooh-ow!” she shouted between sobs as some white gauze was wrapped around her thigh. The Blacksmith himself then wrapped a deerskin around the burn and tied it tightly with three thongs. The two guards who had strapped her in now began reversing the process. There was a mixture of pain and relief as circulation returned. As soon as the last strap was thrown aside the Lord River strode over and grabbed her by the hair, pulling her off the branding rack, causing her to spill onto all fours. She continued to let out a something between a howl and a moan as he forced her to crawl over to the whipping rack.

“Kneel!” She was surprised at how quickly she complied though she cried out with the pain of it. There was a knowing laughter from the audience. She had not made Daisy’s mistake. That rising instinct had prompted her to spread her knees wide without even thinking about it. The Lord River grinned. “Hands in front,” he said, “cross your wrists.” Breathing heavily she did, watching, almost fascinated, as her hands were tied together. She had expected to then be immediately strung up like Daisy and Sandra before her but more rope was handed to Lord River when he reached his hand out for it. It was to her breasts that he turned his attention.

The first length of rope went around her chest underneath her fleshy mounds and then he started wrapping it around each one. He was quick and efficient, tucking the rope underneath itself here and there, pulling things tight. Again her expression generated laughter with her dawning comprehension. She recalled the Lord River’s words about things that could done to large breasted women. Oh no! Her breasts now looked like two bulbous pillows even now starting to turn red. The rope, digging into them, had made them so taunt that they felt like they would pop open. She feared that they would if he went through with what she suspected was next.

The Lord River grabbed her by the hair again, ignored her wailing plea, and position her underneath the ring in the U-frame whipping rack so recently constructed. He stood her up. Another piece of rope was used to tie her ankles together but they were not, as she had expected, tied to the ring in the platform. Instead some more rope was used to tie her wrists to the lower ring, leaving some slack. She didn’t understand. She didn’t have time to. Lord River took hold of the rope binding her breasts together. There was still plenty of length for it to be strung through the upper ring. She cried out again. “No please!” Again it was to no avail.

She could see his muscles working underneath his shirt as he pulled on the rope. She let out a louder shout as her toes left the ground. The rope connecting her tied wrists to the lower ring drew tight. Lord River tied off the rope pulling her upwards. Her emanations took on a weird squeak, as if uncertain if she should howl or moan or scream or what as she hung there by her boobs. She started to squirm, then stopped when she realized that made everything worse. She hung there, waiting, unable to decide what was worse, the feeling that her breasts were going to be ripped off or the still horrid pain on her thigh. She finally settled on a low keening as she waited, enduring – there was nothing else she could do.

The keening gave way to a loud, wailing, screech of pain when Lord river, whip in hand, delivered across her back the first ever lash of the new slave girl’s career in bondage. As she violently squirmed in response – adding to her pain – she knew that she would indeed do whatever was necessary not to repeat this experience. Even without the screaming agony of her thigh competing with the whip and her bound and stretched boobs, she knew that she would obey any command to prevent this from happening again. Oh Daisy! I had no idea!

She screeched again as the whip landed across her ass, felt something even more terrifying than the physical pain itself or even the nasty anticipation of the next blow – it was that new old part of her mind, rising again and it was actually exulting in the power that now ruled her life. She shoved it back down as she writhed from another slash of the leather. The pain from the branding helped. Though that very pain now proclaimed her an owned person, it was severe enough to negate the pleasure the new old part of her mind found in that. Though she already instinctively knew that to give in to those feelings would help her endure, she remained determined suffer the full misery of the moment if that was what it took to hold on to herself. She would obey, she would submit, but she would not negate herself. Her scream from the latest swish of the long whip seemed to refute that determination – to less attuned ears.

There was a pause in the whipping. Was it over? Oh dear gods and spirits, please let it be over! How many times had he beat her? Ten? But it wasn't over. Lord River merely took a couple of seconds to move from her back to her front. “No please!” Her plea went unheeded and the whip was swung smartly across her bound and bulging mammaries. Her vocalizations changed to a screech. Was he mad? A small detached part of her mind still possessed enough rationality to ask the question. She was certain that her breasts would split open. She also still possessed vain concerns about her appearance. I’ll be ruined! I’ll look like a scared up freak! Aside from their brand, she knew that men didn't care for ugly scars on their women. It will lower my value!

The new old part of her laughed at this. The whole of her screamed again as her breasts quivered once more under the lash. The purpose of the rope between her wrists and the lower ring became apparent when she instinctively tried to shield them from the assault, only to be thwarted by the rope’s unyielding strength. The rational part of her mind tried to assure her that the Lord River was experienced in punishing slave girls, he would know the limits. She didn't care. She had to try and end this. What if, in his anger toward her, he lost control? “Please, Master,” she cried out. “I’ll obey you! I’ll be a good slave! I swear it!” Her pleading went unheeded. There was nothing to do but wait it out. Like Daisy and Sandra before her, she gradually transitioned under the angry lashes from thrashing and screaming to hanging limply while moaning each lash and sobbing in between them. She began to comprehend that time had a new meaning for her. The past didn’t matter, the future didn’t matter. Only the NOW mattered. It would end when it ended.

It ended. Finally, it ended. He was untying her ankles and her hands. How many had it been? Twenty? Twenty-five? She had lost count early on. It was such a relief to her aching boobs when her feet touched the wooden floor again. Her knees were unable to hold her and she flopped down to her side, not unlike a fish out of water. She struggled to rise, she wanted to be prompt to kneel because she wanted to be pleasing enough to have her mounds released from their confinement. These thoughts flew so fast in her mind that she didn’t realize that she was already thinking like a slave. He grabbed her by the hair once again and hauled her up to her knees. Again she spread them wide without having to be told but she was still caught by surprise when he thrust the coiled whip to her lips. She seemed unsure of herself as she leaned forward to place her trembling lips upon it.

Despite all her pains, a part of her mind, that part of her that still refused to give up her whole self, managed to balk at such abasement. With the savage brutality she once used to suppress other dangerous thoughts, she pushed it away, hiding it deep down. She had to please Master! Pleasing Master was absolutely necessary because pleasing Master lessened the chance of getting whipped while hanging from your boobs. Pleasing Master meant getting those damned ropes removed. With that she followed Daisy’s and Sandra’s examples and kissed the leather that had so tormented her with the passion of the lover in all those romance stories she had once read. There were a few knowing ‘ahhs’ from the audience and even a few claps when she gave equal devotion to her Master’s boots. That hidden part of herself exalted. She was fooling them! The rest of her concentrated on her performance. Oh please be satisfied! Please take these ropes off! Yes!

She had started to get her sobbing under control but burst into new tears as the blood flowed back to her tender breasts. The only good thing about it was that all the attention on her boobs had distracted her from the fire on her thigh which now also reasserted herself. “Collar,” called out the Lord River and it was handed to him. He held the collar out in front of her. “Look at this,” he said, speaking loudly enough for all to hear. She hitched her breath a couple of times, flung some tears out of her eyes (hoping that didn’t count as breaking position) and did as she was told. “Read it,” he said, “out loud.”

One more intake of breath and then, “property of Earl Caleb River, Lord of White Fawn Estate.”

“Louder! I want everyone to her you say it!”

“PROPERTY OF EARL CALEB RIVER, LORD OF WHITE FAWN ESTATE!”

There was a spattering of laughter but also a sense of expectation. Everyone had noticed. It was common for a collar – at least of most female slaves - to proclaim the slave’s name. The lack of a name on this collar was starkly obvious. In some ways this hurt more than the iron and the leather.

“A name for a slave is a privilege,” Lord River explained, “and you have not yet earned that privilege. If and when you do earn a name it will be added to your collar. Until then you shall be simply called slave 83. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” she replied through her tears. She would just have to hide herself, hide Camille, as deep as she could. The Lord River opened the collar on its hinge and slave 83 again found herself acting correctly on instinct. She held her hair up and back with her hands while her Master closed it around her neck. The loud ‘clink’ it made as he shut it sent a shudder through her and she felt a new wave of pain pass through her brand. Brand and collar, she thought, still with some disbelief. The first proclaims me slave, the second proclaims whose slave. Lord River checked the fit with a couple of fingers. She grimaced a little when a few hairs that had gotten caught in the collar were yanked free. He seemed satisfied that it was neither too tight nor too loose. She wondered how they had known her neck size. Perhaps they had just guessed.

“I need a leash,” professed the Lord River. His desire was promptly fulfilled again and it took only a few seconds for him to use the bolt and hook to secure it to her collar. “Now crawl,” he commanded. He led her across the stage to laughter of the spectators, turned around and led her back. She had seen enough slaves heel to know what to do. “Not bad,” was the Lord River’s assessment. Until I tell you otherwise, you will stay on your hands and knees. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” she promptly returned.

“I think, he addressed the crowd, “that we should take this party down to the north bank.” There was a general cheer followed by a burst of activities. The free laborers began shuffling back from tables, making their way into the night, a few grabbing torches as they went. The slave girls began to clean up.

The women all seemed to know what to do as some cleared dishes, others folded up linen and still others teamed up to haul tables away. Daisy, she saw, looked uncertain of what to do but the older gray haired slave woman, the one who had placed a comforting hand on the recently whipped blond spoke to her and Daisy promptly joined those slaves clearing the tables. The gray haired woman then looked around, watching the other girls perform. Despite being as naked as every other woman present, despite being as gray below as above and possessing more than a few age lines on her face, she held herself with a pride worthy of her fit body. The other slaves all seemed to have eyes in the back of their heads as they all seemed to know when she was watching them and they would move a little more smartly. Finally her gaze then settled on the newest slave with a look that clearly said, sooner or later your ass is mine. Slave 83 understood. This was the Estate’s alpha slave, the one slave in charge of managing all the others. She may not have been without her kindnesses but she was clearly not to be trifled with. The name on her collar said, Emma.

Slave 83 jumped a little when her Master roughly grabbed her chin. “Look at me,” he said. She did although she already possessed an instinctive knowledge not to look a free person in the eyes she was more afraid of disobeying him. She felt herself wanting to pull back from that penetrating stare. What does he see in my eyes? He spent a moment, just staring at her, making her feel smaller and smaller. His voice, when it came, was soft and for her ears only. “You’ve made some progress but you’ve still a long way to go. You are still not fooling me in the slightest. Remember my promise.”

She remained perfectly still, not sure how to respond. She still felt that last vestige of unbending self she so desperately wanted to hang on to but she was afraid to show any open defiance. She gave no thought to trying to fake it – he would see right through it. It was unnerving how easily he could read her. He grinned as he let go of her chin. “The night is yet young,” he said. He looked around at the scurrying activity. The platform and its surrounds was quickly becoming abandoned.

“Come, this way,” said Lord River, tugging on the leash. He led her of the platform – she stumbled a little going down the steps – and onto the lawn. “I’m going to give you a gift,” said the Lord River to slave 83 as he grabbed a fluttering torch. She was caught enough by surprise that she hesitated a second and he had to tug on the leash to start her forward again. “Slaves don’t get gifts very often, particularly new slaves so I expect you to be very appreciative of this gift and to use it carefully.” Having moved away from the platform, they were bathed in darkness save for the small circle of light the torch provided. It was if they inhabited their own universe.

“Yes, Master,” she said, not certain if she was supposed to reply but too intrigued not to let him know her interest. The ground was gently sloping as they went.
“I am going to allow you to ask me three questions, any three questions you want, before sun-up and I’ll –“

“Would you have gone through with it?” No sooner than she had blurted it out than she realized her grievous error. He stopped and looked at her with the affronted look any free person would have when confronted with a slave who has forgotten her place. “Forgive me, Master,” she said with severe fright in her voice.

“The answer to your question is . . . yes.” He allowed her a few seconds to absorb the reality that she made the right choice if she wanted to keep breathing. “Now,” he continued, “as I was saying . . . you now have two questions you may ask me. I may choose to not answer a question but if that is the case it won’t cost you one of your questions. If I do answer a question, you may rest assured, upon my honor, that it will be the truth. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Good. You have until sun-up so put some thought into your questions, make them good ones. This is a gift not likely to be repeated in your lifetime.”

“Yes, Master. Thank you Master.”

With a tug on her leash they started forward again. “Good,” he said and then added, “never interrupt me or any free person ever again.” His tone made it clear that the consequences would be more severe than she likely could imagine. Another flare of pain shot out from her agonized thigh.

“Yes, Master,” she said. The grass was getting taller as they proceeded, tickling her in various places with her sore breasts being particularly sensitive. There was a light up ahead. A fire. A bonfire. They were emerging out of their private universe and back into the larger world. She heard the babble of running water and the babble of voices.

They entered a cleared area, next to the bank of one of the three creeks the estate had gotten its original name from. Wooden benches and chairs and a few small tables surrounded the pit where the fire blazed. A beer barrel had already been taped and pewter mugs were being filled and passed around. A few slave girls were already dancing around the fire to the enthusiastic appreciation of several male spectators. One of them was obviously trying to entice a particular man, his companions making mock protests as they slapped their fellow on the back.

More slave girls were arriving on the scene, having completed their tasks up the hill. The Lord River’s arrival was met with an enthusiastic cheer and a toast to his health. He handed off the torch to somebody and then took a mug of beer offered to him by a kneeling slave girl. Slave 83 recognized her as the same little redhead who had inquired as to the Lady Camille’s needs just a few short hours ago. The Lord River drank to his own health, downing the entire mug in one long draught, licking his lips and sighing in satisfaction afterwards. He declined a refill and instead seated himself on one of the chairs next to a table. “Kneel,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” replied slave 83.

< Message edited by Marc2b -- 12/23/2014 8:19:22 PM >

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/7/2015 3:35:57 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		PROGRESS REPORT:

Okay, I slacked off a little during the holidays but I'm back to my usual writing sessions in the morning. I'm about three pages into chapter four.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/24/2015 4:27:59 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Feeling a little guilty. Chapter four is coming (and has cumming), I promise. Life is just kind of getting in the way, a minor family crisis (resolved) and now a steam clean the carpets project (ironic how the "master" ends up doing the heavy lifting while the "slave" directs everything). I've still managed an hour of writing each morning and have just a page or two to go before I print off and attack with the red ink pen. I'm going to go out on a limb and promise its delivery within a week (sometimes I work better under pressure). I want to get going. Even the characters seem to be clamoring inside my head for resolution (for a slave girl, that Daisy sure is turning out to be a insistent little bitch).

Besides, We still haven't gotten to the fun room. That will be chapter five.


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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/25/2015 6:02:18 AM   
kallisto


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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/28/2015 11:13:40 AM   
DaddysAngel7


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Status: offline 		ok so I never make comments but have to say, I am thoroughly engrossed in this story.....keep coming back waiting for the next chapter....your characters are clamoring in my head as well....wondering what will happen next.......great story.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/28/2015 6:37:43 PM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Chapter Four: Losses and Gains.

Once again she found herself being instructed by what her senses reported. As with the ride through the estate, what she saw particularly fascinated her. The other senses made their reports. Touch was perhaps the loudest, informing of horrid pains from her back, from her breasts and worst of all from her thigh – a pain that every so often would flare up in intensity for a moment of agony before settling back down to mere anguish. New pains were being reported from the back of her knees and her shoulders from kneeling so long. Every so often she would squirm a little – as much as she thought she could get away with – in an attempt to relieve this new source of discomfort but only succeeded in making all her pains more pronounced.

Hearing reported a symphony of sounds both ordinary and exotic. The ordinary consisted of converse both serious and frivolous. Of stamping feet and clanking mugs and rushing creek and crackling fire. The exotic was the music. The same band that had entertained during the dinner was playing again but the music was vastly different. It was louder, faster and possessed of a thrumming bass that made it feel almost intoxicating. The grunting, sighing, exhumes of dance and contest and fleshly congress were not quite drowned out by it.

Taste was not being left out. Mostly it was still awash in the leather from the bit and a saltiness she knew came from her own tears which she had managed to abate for now. Still, new flavors were hinted at on her tongue. She knew she was tasting her surroundings the same way you could taste a delicious meal before actually partaking of the feast.

Smell. Her nose testified of a smorgasbord of aromas subtle and pungent. The night itself possessed its own perfume, a mixture of grass and trees and hay and apples and stone and water and mud that bespoke of the very essence of life. People had added their own scents with smoke from the fire and sweat from their bodies and even the beer sent heady vapors wafting through the expanse. There were other fragrances, subtle musks and delicate perfumes, barely detected yet powerful in their effects. She knew that she was as much a source of them as anyone else and this bothered her.

It was sight that both helped and hindered her efforts to distract herself from her changed lot. Her sheltered upbringing had not prepared her for the raw intensity of feeling on display. Just beyond the edge of the fire’s light were the dim shadow plays of carnal pleasures while closer in were the contests of wit and muscle. Around the fire itself, glowing in its bright assault against the night, were the dancers. At first it was just the women, some swirling in slow sensuality, others twirling in a feverish dervish. Many men watched in open admiration of female beauty but some soon joined in, a few even doffing their clothes to shake and stomp and strut about in unabashed masculine glory. She was not unfamiliar with male anatomy, many slaves, most especially field slaves, were routinely kept naked during the warm months, but a proper noble upbringing had kept her out of contact with the lowliest most of the time.

What did surprise her about their nudity was that some of the men bore the jagged scars of whip marks on their backs as well as nasty looking burn scars on their left thighs. These were the kind of markings she presumed covered Lord River, given his history but then her mind put the story together. These men had been slaves on this very estate. They probably took little note when one of their own was sold one day. The certainly would not have expected him to ride back into the estate ten years later, bearing noble title and proclaiming their manumission. Clearly they had emulated their liberator in removing the brand that had proclaimed them slave.

Slave 83 continued to watch the dancers with fascination, and a little jealousy. The thrumming music made her want to join in. Every so often some non-verbal cue, some flicker of eye or licking of lips, would trigger the ancient instincts and one of the women would find herself scooped up or tossed over shoulder or pulled by arm or hair to join the shadow pleasures. In a few cases it was the woman who playfully pulled on a man’s arm or shoved him despite his mock objections but Slave 83 was most stunned to see that not all of the pairings were male/female. Such contrarianism was whispered about in high society but never openly talked about and always – officially – sternly disapproved of. Here, though, people seemed to take little note.

Through all of this bacchanalia he sat and watched. He sat, casually holding her leash in one hand while nursing another mug of beer. He sat and exchanged sincere greeting and bawdy converse with passerby, accepting many thanks for the upcoming bonus. He was joined at times by other men and they would make idle chat about minor matters of the estate, repairs necessary and kitchen supplies needed and so forth. He made some small wagers on some arm wrestling contests, lost once, won thrice.

Occasionally she spotted Daisy who seemed to be regulated strictly to a role of fetching beer refills or clearing off tables, her virginity making her obviously off limits by a command that did not need to be spoken. She had the focused attention of a slave desperate to make a good impression and the meekness of a newbie who well understood her place. She understood that the liberties being permitted here did not apply to her. She had not earned them as the others must have. Slave 83 briefly wondered about Sandra, could she see through the small holes of her metal confinement to witness the party, could she hear the beat and hum of music and converse, or was she totally alone in the dark? Slave 83 shuddered at the thought.

A couple of times a combination of drink and heated blood led to an angry confrontation amongst some of the men - usually a dispute over who was entitled to the services of a particular slave girl first. There was, amongst the field hands, the usual self-imposed hierarchy of age and experience and, of course, physical strength. The younger and/or weaker males usually knew to wait their turn but the mischievous spirits that dwell in beer and wine breed foolishness and courage in equal measure.

Sober Guardsmen keeping silent watch often needed a little more than a look or a few words of rebuke to remind some would be brawlers to limit their excess. Those who couldn’t found themselves settling their differences in bouts of fists (more occasion for betting) that were equal measures of fun and serious contention. They tended to result only in a black eye or a bloodied nose and were often followed by back slaps and bear hugs of reconciliation once the matter of who got to fuck who first was settled. It amazed Slave 83 how she could sense a camaraderie amongst these people that was present even in dispute. Some of the slave girls also got into exchanges with each other and the end result was the pushing and shoving and hair pulling and slapping affair known as the Bitch Slap.

As with the male contests, each outbreak of female feistiness quickly drew a circle of spectators who cheered for one combatant or the other. The inevitable wagers were made (some men had already lost their recently announced bonus) and even Lord River stood to better view the proceedings. Still on her knees, the newest slave’s view was blocked by the mass of spectators but the third such skirmish to break out caused her to again forget her place and conduct a serious breach of discipline. It was because she had witnessed the whole thing. Several of the slave girls were amusing themselves at Daisy’s expense with not so sly jokes about her (soon, no doubt, to be departed) virginity and by trying to trip her up – literally – as she scurried to and fro. She had managed to deftly avoid the first several attempts but went crashing face first to the ground with several empty mugs when a dark haired woman with a wicked grin finally succeeded in catching her ankle.

Newbie though she might be, Daisy knew she could not let that slide. She had to let the others know that there were limits to what she would take or else forever suffer such indignities from her sisters in bondage. Daisy squiggled up to her knees, took a second to wipe her lips with her hand and see a spot of blood there. Amidst the laughter of several others, she quickly gathered up the empty mugs before leaping up. She took three steps, placed the empties on a table, turned and ran. Her tormentor’s eyes bugged in genuine surprise as Daisy barreled into her, knocking her over while shouting, “BITCH!” The other woman regained her feet quickly, though, and it was on.

Slave 83 also leapt up as the revelers instantly gathered around the latest entertainment. Part of the reason was honest outrage over the mistreatment of the only one present she felt any kinship with. She wanted to see Daisy smack that bitch a good one. Simple curiosity also played a role. She knew that bitch slaps, something she had zero experience in, lay in her own future. It was full five seconds before she realized what she had done. “I’m sorry, Master,” she blurted out as she started to kneel again but he caught her by the collar, pulling her back up to a standing position.

His eyes were hard as he said, “If you’re going to be that blatantly disobedient, you might as well profit from it. You should see this.” She was too excited by the spectacle to worry about any consequences. The men mostly just grinned their approval of the grappling, twisting mass of naked female flesh but the women present cheered heartily for Daisy’s opponent, Cora, by name. Slave 83 felt an impulse to cheer for Daisy but was immediately overcome by a fear of distancing herself even more from the women present, and so shamefully remained silent.

Daisy gave good account of herself, managing twice to get past Cora’s defenses to deliver some stinging slaps to her adversary but in the end the blond girl’s lack of experience and her smaller stature combined to prevent her from pinning her opponent to the ground – the necessary prelude to victory in this time honored method of settling disputes amongst enslaved females. Daisy ended up face down in the dirt again, this time with Cora straddling her. The dark haired woman used her advantage to grab the supine girl’s blond hair, pull her head back, and slap her with impunity. Daisy had no choice but to signal the acceptance of her defeat by crying out, “I yield! I yield!”

Cora took a second to whisper something in Daisy’s ear. Red in the face, teary-eyed but not crying, Daisy actually looked contemptuous of whatever threat Cora had made. The reason became rather apparent once both victor and vanquished got up and separated, one to accept the adulation of her friends, the other to quietly resume making herself useful in fetching refills. There was a vibe that Slave 83 could sense, a vibe of barely heard pinches of conversation and of body language. The jokes had stopped and there were no more tripping ankles. Even in defeat Daisy had scored a victory just by standing up for herself. Was that what her owner wanted her to see?

A tug on her leash told her to kneel again as Lord River resumed his own repose. Standing had brought some much needed relief to her aching muscles but it actually felt good to kneel again. She felt like she stood out and she didn’t want to stand out. This whole day had been a horror of standing out and she didn’t want the respite to end. It felt strangely comforting to just kneel next to him. Daisy scurried nearby, delivering some full mugs to some boisterous field hands who may have known that her pussy was currently untouchable but were forward enough to let their hands sample a curve or two. A couple of them complimented her on her good showing in the bitch slap. Though she remained focused on serving, she was clearly enjoying the attention she was receiving.
“Captain Mason,” Shouted Lord River suddenly.

“Here, my Lord,” came the Guard Captain’s reply from not too far away. Slave 83 had spied the dashing looking man with the red hair and beard more than once over the course of the party, quietly making sure that things didn’t get out of hand. He still had that slightly perplexed, slightly hurt look he was still trying too hard to hide. Lord River just grinned at him as he approached.

“Oh you look so morose. Take a seat and tell me what could possibly turn you into such a killjoy.” Before the man could respond, Lord River cut him off with, “after all we been through together, do you really think I would leave you out?” Captain Mason looked genuinely abashed and relieved at the same time, a look that good-naturedly asked that his doubts be forgiven. Lord River gave the man a friendly back slap as he sat down to let him know that he was. The Nobel then shouted again, “Daisy,” who presented herself quickly. “Fetch a beer for my friend here” was his command for the slave. Suddenly it all came together for Slave 83 and she knew what was to become of the place she had grown up in, the one and only home she had ever known. My home, she thought and it hit her like a punch in the gut but there was nothing she could do but watch it play out.

Daisy quickly returned with the mug which she presented to Captain Mason on spread knees. He took the mug. He did not notice. Daisy started to get up again when Lord River instructed her to “stay.” He then made an inquiry. “What think you of this one? Quite the beauty is she not?”

“She is indeed very enticing,” my Lord, replied the captain as he tipped mug to lips. Slave 83 couldn’t help but angrily think, look at her collar you oaf! He wants you to look at her collar! The realization that she had lost her home caused a few fresh tears and a couple of sniffles but no one paid her any attention. There was a sense of something’s up in the air and most nearby focused on Lord River, Captain Mason, and Daisy. Lord River looked slightly exasperated but was clearly having fun.

It was as he was bringing his mug back down that Mason finally froze for a second before locking his eyes on Daisy’s collar. For several seconds he just started at it, mouth slightly agape, Lord River broadly grinning the whole time. Slave 83 noticed that several of the nearby Guardsmen did as well – they were in on it.

“My Lord,” said Captain Mason finally, "there appears to be an error on this woman’s collar.”

“An error?” The Nobleman’s indignity was obviously acted. “Mister Striker!”

“My Lord?” The blacksmith approached the scene with his slave girl heeling him. She is taller than him, Slave 83 noticed, a least a full head. That voice in her own head, that new old place she wished would go away, reminded her that it was irrelevant. It would in no way change the fact that he was the master and she the slave.

“I am informed that you have made an error on Daisy’s collar.”

“What!” His indignity was as obviously feigned as Lord River's. “I protest!” Captain Mason, looking very confused, started to say that he meant no offence but stopped when the blacksmith grabbed Daisy by the collar with both hands. She gave a little yelp as he hauled her halfway up and looked at it for a hard second. “There are no mistakes my Lord, I inscribed it exactly as you requested." He let go of Daisy as he looked up. The slave girl resumed her proper stance, looking even more confused than Captain Mason.

Lord River’s Guard Captain was putting it all together but he wasn’t quite there to believing it just yet. There were a few seconds of dead silence until he finally said, “But who is Lord Mason?”

“Who indeed?” Lord River’s grin took on a sly undertone as he called out, “Mister Mosely!” The Notary of the King’s Exchequer was nearby but clearly had been enjoying himself as he was completely naked and possessed the look of being in the after flush of that most extreme of satisfactions. Despite everything that had happened to her, Slave 83, almost – almost – laughed out loud at the sight of the naked little man still holding his official satchel. It must be true then that they never leave them out of sight. She was very conscious of the fact that the document that had made her a slave was inside it. It still amazed Slave 83 the amount of respect the King’s protection gave to it. That document might as well already be in the vaults of the Royal Achieves. Not even Lord River himself would dare disturb that satchel to peek inside.

“Have we not provided you with fresh clothing, Mister Moseley?” Joked Lord River.

“I have been informed that clean clothing is ready for me but I found myself unready for it,” he replied, drawing chuckles from the crowd.

“I beg your pardon, Mister Moseley, for interrupting your revelries but I have need of your services again. I believe there is a certain document you have for me to read.”

“Always happy to be of service, My Lord,” he said as he rummage through his satchel and then pulled out a scroll sealed with wax and pressed with the image of the King’s seal. “I Harold Mosely,” said the Notary – rather loudly and official sounding – as he handed it over to Lord River, “do affirm that I was present upon the drafting and the sealing of this document and that all of its contents are true.”

Everybody listened intently, many with faces of surprise, as the Lord River read the document. In all the proper flowery language it declared that the King, in recognition of Captain Mason’s years of loyal service and with full confidence of his abilities to help properly manage the kingdom, did hereby invest him with the title of Earl, with all the duties and privileges thereof, and awarded him all the lands formerly held by House Aldridge. He also, after the usual taxes and “transaction fees” got the bulk of the money as well and the formal language managed to even make that sound poetic and patriotic and the same time.

There was a few seconds of silence when Lord River stopped reading. Captain – Lord! – Mason looked much the same way the once Lady Camille looked not to long ago – as if the world was unfamiliar and somehow upside down. The applause began, first a trickle, then an eruption. The cheers and shouts and whistles quickly followed. No one noticed the kneeling slave girl silently weeping. Lord Mason had several “Yeah, but . . .” kind of questions as he probed for a hole in this unbelievable story of good fortune. Lord River laughingly brushed each one aside.

The newly trained guardsmen, those who took control of the new estate had already been spoken too and had agreed to pledge loyalty to him, they awaited his arrival on the morrow. Lieutenant Crandor, his second in command was being promoted to take over for him here (there was a round of applause and cheers for Captain Crandor). “He has your full confidence, does he not?” Of course he did, nodded the new Earl. Everything was taken care of. He was even being given a two year tax abatement to give him time to get things up and running. “The bottom line,” concluded Lord Mason, “is that the Kingdom needs good and loyal nobles and the King knows you and has full confidence in ability and loyalty . . . as do I.”

There were handshakes and backslaps and a bear hug between the two old comrades who were now social equals. A fact that Lord River had to remind Lord Mason of when the latter kept calling the former “my Lord” instead of the proper ‘Lord River.’ It was strange that such social distinctions could hinge on so small a word as ‘my,’ but a lifetime of habit is hard to break.

“You’ll have to give me some time to get used to that he laughed,” hoisting another beer for a celebratory chug. He seemed giddy with happiness but when he slammed the mug on the table his eyes turned with a lusty seriousness upon Daisy who had appeared at turns to be bewildered, frightened and . . . delighted? Given her evening so far, it was not unexpected that the young woman was flushed and sweaty and somewhat disheveled but it was more than that. She was breathing heavily as quivering shudders shot through her, making her belly undulate and her loins themselves seemed to vibrate. She was so moist she was dripping and she returned her new master’s gaze with an equally lusty intensity. Gods and spirits, she’s a bitch in heat, though Slave 83.

“Yes,” said Lord River. She is yours as well. If you want to change her name, let me know and I'll have a new collar engraved."

"Her name is fine," said Lord Mason. He seemed to be only half paying attention to Lord River.

You never actually owned your own female, have you?”

“No, my Lord,” he said almost absentmindedly. The man appeared to be vibrating himself. And he had a slightly pained, uncomfortable look. “I never really had the need. There were always some available.”

“Well,” said Lord River, granting he old friend the time he needed to get used to their changed relationship, “there’s no feeling quite like it in the world and since you’re definitely not on duty anymore tonight. . . " The Lord Mason didn’t even hesitate. With quick motions weapons were handed off to underlings and boots and clothes were flung off revealing the well-defined musculature of a healthy male and the stiff, throbbing appendage of a yearning one.

“Use,” he snapped at the blond woman. Having been owned by a woman until now, Daisy was not well practiced in the position but she clearly was familiar with it. Looking both thrilled and frightened she got on knees and elbows, spreading her legs as far as she could, lifting her ass in the air. Her as yet unpenetrated pussy presented itself for the taking and Lord Mason wasted no time in taking it. With the sure aim of a marksman and the raw strength of a soldier, his savage thrust broke through the barrier without difficulty.

Daisy’s inarticulate exclamation was an expression of both pain and pleasure. The pained expression on Daisy’s face only lasted a second before the lustiness returned and she enthusiastically met each thrust with her own, accompanied by a breathy “yeah!” Each violent meeting of the two produced a squishy smacking sound – loud enough to overcome the guffaws and cheers and laughing applause – that was both obscene and thrilling to slave 83’s ears. It ended with an explosion of intermingling roars and snarls.

As the two lay on the ground, panting, they appeared almost melted together in the firelight. Gradually, people began to return to their own pursuits of pleasure in cup, contest or congress. The music was struck up again and the dancing resumed. Lord Mason, slowly disentangled himself from his slave. She knelt before him as he stood up and he commanded her to lick his loins clean. She was clearly inexperienced in this as well but learned quickly. Her own loins continued to drip with her own juices, now joined by her blood, her master’s spend and the sweat of both of them. Lord Mason dipped two of his fingers into her pussy, coating them with the mixture, and wiped it across her lips. Her eyes shone with new found knowledge as she licked her lips and then took his fingers into her mouth. A slight, sinuous bucking of her hips and a rattling moan from her throat gave testimony to another wave of pleasure shooting through her body.

After a moment, Lord Mason withdrew from her attentions. He put his clothes back on and sat down to join his fellow noble in converse but he allowed Daisy to kneel in front of him and rest her head upon his lap which she did with a look of sheer contentment. Slave 83, continued to kneel in next to her master, no longer weeping over the loss of her home (though it still felt like a knife in the belly), and intently wondering how long it would be before her own virginity was snatched away from her. She briefly felt a surge of jealousy. Daisy would be returning to the home she had known for the last five years while she who had once owned the place might well never see it again. She was also jealous of her former slave's current serenity. It baffled her how she could be so after so much had changed, after enduring a whipping and a fight, the point of which now seemed moot since she would not be staying. She could not, though, sustain this negative feeling toward the blond woman who had once slept at the foot of her bed because it occurred to her that living on separate estates they might never see each other again. With her changed status, she wanted Daisy as a friend more than ever.

The party seemed to flare up in an intensity of celebration for a while before starting to slowly wind down. Several individuals free and slave alike, had fallen asleep near the fire although some of the men were helped into dreamland by an excess of beer - and perhaps a few of the slave girls as well. The two Earls conversed for some time, Lord Mason the eager to learn rookie quizzing his former Lord on everything from crop rotation to the finer points of slave management. Lord River assured him that he already knew most of what he needed to know. “Trust your instincts,” was Lord River’s advice more than once. The matter of the freed male slaves came up. “If you do not want to hire them,” said the former slave, “I will be glad too,” but Lord Mason stated that it wasn’t necessary.

“People said you were crazy to hire all of your field hands. They said you’d never make a profit, but you proved them wrong. I will be happy to hire those men if they desire to enter my employ. In fact, since I owe so much of my good fortune to you, I pledge to you that, in your honor, I too will never own a male slave.” The two men clanked beer mugs over that and when the toast ended Lord Mason continued with, “You must come with me tomorrow. They will want to meet their liberator and thank him.”

Lord River declined. “You need and deserve some time to get things organized – you may not thank me when you see how much work is involved in running an estate – I’ll pay a visit in a week, but that reminds me. I am giving each of those men a gold coin, to help them get off to a good start in their free life. Mister Mosely will be going with you tomorrow. He’ll help you set up all the accounts you need for yourself, the estate and your workers.”

Slave 83 was terrified for a moment at the thought of being taken back to her old home. As much as she already missed it, she did not want to be a slave who had to serve the very men she once owned – and largely neglected the last few months. She relaxed a little when it occurred to her that there was no reason to expect that she’d be taken along. If her master wanted female companionship during his travels, he had eighty-two other slave girls to choose from. Unless, she thought, he wants to terrorize and humiliate me. She remembered with a shudder his anger at her. As her fear increased again (accompanied by another flare up from the fresh brand) she realized that she had to do everything in her power to abate his anger. She knew that the only things she had to accomplish this were her body and her obedience.

The party continued to wind down while the two men continued their converse (Lord River joking at one point that one of the down sides of being a noble is that you sometimes have to wear the most ridiculous looking clothing). Emma came around, shook the sleeping slave girls awake and set them to cleaning up which they did with a “yes, Emma,” and a yawn or two but no protests. Some of the still conscious men helped carry away those who weren’t. Finally the two noble lords stood and embraced a last time. As Lord Mason walked away, Daisy heeled him. The two women managed a last exchange of looks as they made their silent goodbyes, and wishes of good luck. Slave 83 watched them disappear into the darkness and felt afresh the pang of loss as she wondered if she would ever see Daisy again.

After a few parting goodnights with passerby Lord River ordered her to stand. She heeled him again, grateful that she was allowed to walk this time, as she followed him back up the gently sloping hill and through the darkness. He paused briefly so he could urinate and told her she could do the same. No sooner than he had granted her the leave did she realize how badly she had to go. She hadn’t noticed that one discomfort amongst so many others. She squatted and let loose the flow and felt another wave of humiliation when he shook off and turned to watch her. She knew she had no right to privacy anymore but it still made her feel even more exposed to be so witnessed. She wondered if she would ever get used to it as she reached for a washcloth out of habit. “Use the grass,” said Lord River to the perplexed looking woman. She hopped she did a good enough job when she rose to resume walking. She was still very wet for other reasons.

They passed through the darkness and back into the light of the manor. Through its marble hallways she followed as he strode with a sense of purpose, grabbing a fluttering torch along the way. A very young, obviously low ranking, guardsman stood vigil. He opened the door reveling a room of sumptuous masculine luxury. Furniture of dark woods, black leathers, red velvets with gold thread, and a huge bed spread with silken blankets. The first thing she noted were the chains and cuffs descending from the ceiling as well as several iron rings embedded into the sides and ends of the bed. There were no doubt many ways he could secure a slave to his bed, either on it or at its foot. She presumed she was about to experience some of them shortly and felt a flush of excitement but was surprised when they walked to the other side of the large room with a – this time unattended – door. Lord River pulled a key chain out of his pocked, fiddled through several keys looking for the right one. The door opened with a squeak, revealing utter darkness. She hesitated to follow but the pull on the leash compelled her. He closed the door behind them with a clang. Down a staircase they went, the light of the torch struggling against an absolute darkness, producing a few dim shadows, quavery and distorted, of . . . some . . . things . . . just out of discernible sight. “Kneel.” She obeyed, still instinctively keeping her knees spread wide. She felt him let go of her leash, heard him step away. He lit a torch in a wall bracket, then another. The room was gradually exposed. It was large. Nearly as large as his bed room but its walls were gray stone. It was furnished quite differently.

There was an upside-down-U rack, similar to the one on the stage but this one obviously permanent. There was an X-rack with many leather straps and buckles and a simple whipping post with iron rings up and down it length. There were different sets of stocks to hold neck and wrists and some to hold ankles as well and all looked adjustable. There were several chains descending from the ceiling, some ending in cuffs, other in hooks or nothing at all. The cranks that lowered or raised them were all on one wall. Another wall was all cages ranging from a rather large jail cell down to a tiny cage that would give the occupant no room to move whatsoever. There was a tall cage that would force its occupant to stand and an iron box not much bigger than the small cage. There were a few tiny holes in the iron box and slave 83 caught a glimpse of movement and realized with a start – Sandra! One whole wall was devoted to striking implements of every kind. Whips of every length, paddles of every size, and straps and canes. Some shelving along one wall had coils of rope and chain and weird looking wood and metal contraptions whose purpose she had no idea and which she dreaded finding out. The center of the room was dominated by a large wooden table with iron rings and leather straps and large wooden gears and leavers that could lift or lower or turn it a number of different ways.

In her stomach Slave 83 felt a cold churning fear. In her loins she felt a hot churning fear. “Welcome to my fun room,” said Lord River as he lit the final torch.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 1/28/2015 6:40:32 PM   
Marc2b


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quote:

ok so I never make comments but have to say, I am thoroughly engrossed in this story.....keep coming back waiting for the next chapter....your characters are clamoring in my head as well....wondering what will happen next.......great story.


Thanks.


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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 2/28/2015 6:15:43 PM   
MrJohnyourdom


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Status: offline 		Marc. this is a tremendous tale, well told, it will make a film one day. I have a friend who self published on amazon. you can do likewise. i am enjoying this a lot, thank you, and look forward to the completion.

The advantage of a pdf is that once you create it, the formatting. fonts etc all stay constant, no more changes caused by the aberrant Word.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/1/2015 9:57:40 AM   
MrJohnyourdom


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Status: offline 		I noticed just 2 typos, last was gears and leavers, levers, . "She hopped she did a good enough job ".

Possibly "and would you please", is better than " but would you please" There may be one more but I cant remember it.

If you dont want my editing, just say so. cheers

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/6/2015 4:13:50 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Thanks for both the encouragement and for pointing out the errors. It frustrates me when I find one that slipped by But I do want to know about them because I can still change them on the master copy.

I would be interested in you opinion on Roland and Allison, if you've the time for that tome.



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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/6/2015 4:15:00 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Progress Report:

I've got six pages written.

Plugging along . . .

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/6/2015 3:50:14 PM   
shiftyw


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Status: offline 		I got falsely excited seeing this from the main page! You tease!

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/6/2015 6:23:02 PM   
kallisto


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Status: offline 		:-( Me too!!!!


Waiting patiently ... well trying to wait patiently.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/16/2015 4:42:14 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		SORRY! SORRY! SORRY!

Just another progress report.

(so sorry)

Still plugging along. Eleven pages written (about equally divided between chapter five and the epilogue).

I'm still open to suggestions for the new slave's name.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/27/2015 5:47:00 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		Marathon writing session this morning, really got into the zone (but unfortunately I have to break off to go to work). Seventeen pages total and only a few more paragraphs to go before I print off and attack of the red ink pen. I am aiming for a Sunday morning (3/29) posting of chapter five and the epilogue. I am NOT going to promise that but that is what I am aiming for.

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/27/2015 5:44:52 PM   
shiftyw


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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/29/2015 6:21:31 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of Lady Camille.

Chapter Five: Options and Perspectives.

“Aren’t you a hypocrite?” She was stalling. It was the only way to hold off the dread she felt as she imagined the many horrors that could be afflicted upon her in this room. There was genuine outrage in the question too. A bit of the Lady Camille still shone through in the demand for satisfaction.

He looked at her for a second, his gaze penetrating but unreadable. He turned away from her, took a few steps toward the center of the room turned to face her again, leaned back against the torture table (for what else could such a contraption be called?). “Is this one of your two remaining questions?”

“Yes,” she blurted back out. She really did want to know why his objection to slavery only went one way.

“No.” he said. He let the silence be for a moment, then chuckled at her obvious expression of feeling ripped off. His response to that was a rueful, amused expression. “I will give you my reason why,” he said. “Simply put, I found no joys in my years of slavery, took no pleasure from the whip, and I know of no man who did. Misery was my constant and only companion. I have not noted the same to be true for women who are collared. They certainly suffer their pains and their drudgeries but when handled with the right mixture of care and discipline, of empathy and resolve they experience pleasures that dwarf that of the men who own them. Nature’s recompense, I guess.” He looked almost wistful for a second and then continued with, “I suppose there are contrarians, just as there are contrarians in attraction and of the hand, but I have never met them.” He stood straight again, took a few steps toward her. “That doesn’t really matter, though, does it?” He looked down at her. “You are not one of the exceptions, are you?”

She saw that he expected an answer and she was terrified to give it. Such an admission would be the crumbling of one of her few remaining defensive walls. It would be a step closer to losing that last little piece of herself that she wanted to hang on to. Her fear of that admission was outweighed by her fear of not answering, and truthfully at that. The conflict resolved itself in a silent ‘no’ by a vigorous head shake that was half answer but still half denial to herself. She felt another hot flush pass through her. Even half an admission was enough to churn her insides and send a pleasurable wave through her body. It made her more aware of her pains but more tolerant of them than before. The brand continued to lead the way with distracting flare-ups that still managed to negate – briefly – even the frustrating pleasure she felt. She squirmed and relaxed a little when he seemed satisfied with a mere head shake for an answer though she was certain he had read her perfectly. It was progress as far as he was concerned and he was patient.

“We have another matter to settle first,” he said, confirming her suspicions by not confirming them. “There are legalities and then there are realities.” He paced around a little and gestured as though her were a school teacher addressing a class. “Legally speaking, the Lady Camille no longer exists and the naked, nameless slave that kneels before me now is not charged with any of the crimes she committed . . . but the reality . . .” He saw the terror well-up inside her, not the normal slave fear of being displeasing that she was still getting aquatinted with but the sheer horror of remembering that she was in the power of someone who could legally do anything he wanted to her – including killing her. He placed a hand on her cheek, a calming gesture that had an immediate effect. “You weren’t a good enough enemy for me to hate that much.” He almost chuckled at the flash of pride he saw in her features. “Oh, I would have brought that axe down on your pretty little neck if it had come to that, the law is the law after all – but killing slave girls . . . ” he shook his head . . . a silly waste given that proven methods of correction exist. Still,” he continued, “there remains the fact that I am still very pissed at you. So,” he smiled “what are we going to do about this?”

She screamed in fear once then began her pleadings when he grabbed her, but he ignored them. He hauled her over to the evil looking table, tossing her, almost casually, onto it, then just as casually flipping her over so that she was face up. The desire to run hit her once again, and again only the knowledge of the uselessness of the attempt forestalled it. “Please, please,” she muttered as her arms and legs were stretched out and manacled. Her turned one crank, then another and her legs were raised up and splayed far apart. He stood at the end of the table, between those splayed legs, looking down at his property. His property.

The expression on his face made her hold her breath. She had never seen such a countenance upon a man’s face but the awakened instincts inside her recognized it immediately. It was a face that combined pure lust with an almost childlike delight and an equally childlike possessive meanness. It was the face of every man down through history who ever had the good fortune to look upon a naked woman, supine and helpless before him, knowing that she was his. And now she was one of those women – one in the multitude that came before her in history and one in that multitude yet to come.

Her mind flashed back to the ride through the estate, to that odd, untamed patch of land in the middle of it and in a moment of clarity she at last understood the mystery. The estate mirrored the man – a disciplined exterior that concealed a wild heart. She wondered if this reflection between man and land was planned or unconscious but she had no time to ponder this question. She found herself caught on a precipice, gripped between fear of that wildness and a desire to embrace it. He smiled. It was a smile of knowledge. She waited. Balancing.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” he said as he took up a long thin stick. “But first I want you to know what your options are. The stick was made of some kind of wood she had never seen before. It was very flexible and she tensed up listening to the swishing sound it made as he waved it through the air. This is option one.” With that he flexed the stringy piece of wood against the sole of her right foot.

As bad as she thought it was going to be, it was much, much worse. It was an intense, localized pain on an area she held never really felt pain before, her feet always having been delicately comforted throughout her life. She let out a loud shriek and immediately resumed her pleadings but they were interrupted by her left foot getting similar treatment and another loud yelp. The process repeated itself as he switched between feet. Swish. Pain. Yell. Start to plead. Swish. Each strike also sent a wave of feeling, emanating from that awful intensity, up her leg which seemed to settle on her clit before leaping into her head. Her eyes would clamp tightly shut with each strike against her tender soles but then she would force them open, hoping that if she could not plead with words, she could plead with her eyes. This too seemed to be of no avail but just as she was starting to despair, it stopped.

“Thank you, thank you Master,” she managed as he exchanged the deceptively innocent looking little stick for a leather strap, wide, thin, and quite flexible looking. Her eyes bugged out in wonder but she didn’t have to wonder for long. He brought the strap down hard – harder than he had swung the evil little stick – against her pussy. Her eyes bugged out even more during the half second between his swinging the strap and it making contact against the length of her nether lips. She let out a yowl that was equal parts pain and indignity – how dare he? Assaulting her most secret place! Her completely exposed secret place. Exposed by him. By his will. And me unable to do anything about it! She wasn’t sure if it was these thoughts alone, or the vibrations her quivering lips sent reverberating against her clit – or both! – but the result was unimpeachable.

That new old part of her - that shadow self whose imaginings she had long suppressed as best as she was able, brushed aside all objections and roared to the surface with a delicious wave of pleasure. She was owned! Not in the measly legal sense (a mere formality) but in a primal reality that could never be put into words. There was fear in the realization, yes, but it was not a fear for life and limb or of brand or whip (what paltry little fears! Things to be endured, nothing more!).

She heard another loud smack and felt both the pain and pleasure again, both in greater intensity. Her mind heard but ignored her throat as it let out a loud “yeeee-arrrrgh!”

It was not even a fear of losing her sense of self in her new identity as slave girl she now realized (rather silly actually). It was a fear of her own power. To be so fiercely desired! Were this power not constrained there would be no telling the amount of havoc it could wreck upon society! No wonder men seek to chain it down, whip it into submission and make it obey! They were smart to do so! And what sweet satisfaction it must be to triumph over such power!
Upon the third dreadful smack she let out a short barking laugh.

They would not be able to do so on their own! The gods had assisted them by imbuing her – and most of womankind it seemed – with a desire to submit to that authority, to offer up their power to any man able and willing to take it. Very wise of the gods, very wise of them indeed. Damn them. But the gods had their kindnesses. She could sense the depths of the pleasures that awaited her as her reward for that submission (she recalled his words – nature’s recompense). There was a fear in that, as well. A fear that there was no bottom to those depths but that just made it all the more appealing. Damn them.

She yelped again. He was hitting harder! It hurt so much more and it felt good – so much more.

She knew the moment of decision had come. There was no going back and there was nothing to be gained by resisting anymore. She managed to open her eyes and look directly at him for the second before he made the fifth swing. His face was a contradiction. Amused mouth, angry eyes. Some subtle manner of his stance, of the arc of his arm, told her this would be the hardest yet. The fear of that contact, and the delicious anticipation of it were equal. So be it then, she thought, tensing up, clenching her eyes shut.

As her pussy exploded with pain once again she let go of the last of her pride, acknowledge to herself that she wanted this, and allowed herself to be immersed in it. Perhaps she had yelled at the moment of contact, she wasn’t sure. The act of surrender itself kicked the pleasure up a notch.

It started with a soft “mmmm . . . mmmm . . .” that grew louder and more rapid. It was accompanied by several louder exclamations as she bucked her hips as best as she was able. She forced her eyes open. It felt as if her pussy were trying to reach out and grab him, draw him closer. As all of the fractious parts of her mind melded back into one unified whole she saw that he knew exactly what was happening but then the full force of it hit her.

She found herself clenched up again. As she had been on the branding rack it felt like she was nothing more than eyes and jaw again – but with one addition. Her pussy had joined the fray, adding wave after clenching wave of orgasmic delight. All the pains she had suffered so far became subsumed by it, actually becoming part of the pleasure.

As it overwhelmed her she felt all of the gut churning worries of her old life melt away. No more sleepless nights worrying about status, no more tedious concern over such trivialities as which pair of shoes to wear. And what a triviality her life had been so far! What a silly, stupid girl she had been! She had thought her life had meaning simply because of her high birth but she had been nothing more than a useless bauble – less than useless! People had suffered because of her incompetent self-centeredness.

That was the secret!

You didn’t let go of self!

You let go of being self-centered!

Another wave of pleasure (another reward?) swept through her as she realized that she would now be Master-centered. Now her life would have meaning because she would be serving something greater than herself. Something that deserved her obedient service. The fact that this would be enforced with leather and steal and the will to wield such just made it all the more delicious.

Just as she thought she had reached the peak of ecstasy, just when she thought it was too much pleasure to bear, a warm but firm pressure against her clit sent everything up several notches higher, a vigorous stroking, sent it up several notches more. What little remained of rational thought could conclude only one thing and she forced her eyes open, confirming what she knew. With a rictus grin of devilish delight (yet still with that undertone of anger . . . and . . . a hint of jealousy!) Master was enthusiastically stroking her clit, drawing every last ounce of feeling out of her. Having no choice but to endure, she abandoned herself to the timeless void.

At some point time reasserted itself. She was aware of the waves of pleasure still sweeping through her but it was the gentle lapping waves of a calm beach on a sunny day and not the thunderous monster waves of the mighty storm that had just passed. His hand no longer drew forth the orgasms from her. She hadn’t even noticed when he had stopped and walked around the table. He was looking at her again with that odd mixture of satisfaction and disappointment. It took a second for her to realize that he was wiping his hand off with her hair.

“Well,” he said, sounding bemused, “that occurred a bit sooner than I expected.” She couldn’t help but let out a laugh at that. She felt a giddiness welling up inside her, an overwhelming sense of relief that all the pretenses were finally over and she could be what she was meant to be. There was so much she wanted to tell him. It felt like a torrent at the back of her throat, wanting to rush out but held by the impenetrable wall of his will. She did not have permission to speak.

Still getting acquainted with how her new mind, body and instincts worked, she was only mildly surprised that he could read her so well. He gently placed a hand on one of her tear stained cheeks, stroked her hair with the other, and asked her if she wanted to speak. When she managed a squeaking affirmative, he granted her permission and the torrent broke free. It was a long, rambling, stream of words. There were words of contrition – for the utterly useless life she had led so far, for the criminal acts she had committed (she had been selfish and stupid, she confessed whole-heartedly), for every wrong she had every done. There were words of promise. Promises of obedience and industry and of a desire to be the best slave he ever had. He let her babble like a brook for half a minute or so and then hushed her with a finger over her lips.

“I believe you,” he said. The look of relief and gratitude on her face made him smile. He was genuinely happy for her, she could see but there was still that undertone of anger. “You still have a choice to make,” he reminded her. “Feet or pussy? You’ve received a taste of each. You got five strokes on each sole and five on your snatch.” He still sounded bemused that that was all it took. You’re about to receive twenty more. Ten on each foot or all twenty right here.” He patted her pussy which both hurt and felt so good. She let out a mewling little squeak.

Her mind was no longer a cacophony of shouts. She made her decision in a surprisingly disciplined process. On the feet will hurt so bad! Will I be able to walk afterwards? Yes! Of course! He wouldn’t take it that far. In her few short hours of exposure to him she had already gleaned that much of his nature. But it will hurt. On the pussy will hurt too . . . but . . . She felt another gush of juice, another wave of pleasure, at the thought. That decided it and none too soon as he was starting to look impatient. “Pussy!” She cried it out a couple of more times, then immediately began second guessing the decision – but there was nothing to be done.

The first strike made her yowl. He was hitting much harder than before! She yowled even louder upon the second strike. She began to wonder if she was wrong about his ability to control himself, if he wouldn’t go too far as he excised his anger – and her fear shot up several notches. She understood that the man beating her was not the disciplined military man or the reserved noble but the primal man who sought – and was taking – revenge upon the one who tried to kill his friend. There was still that weird blend of pleasure and pain but now it was the pain that predominated. She shook and yelped and cried with each blow. She wondered if her maidenhead would survive this assault. She began begging for mercy, at least she thought she was. Her words sounded like the high pitched squeals of a wounded animal. His face was a twisted snarl. Or, perhaps, her vision was being distorted by her tears again. She couldn’t tell.

She no longer questioned the odd duality of her feelings when she felt both elation and disappointment when it ended. Now that it had ended (she hoped, a slave can never be sure, can they?), now that the brutally stinging slaps had ceased, leaving their fire behind on her pussy lips, the pleasure began to reassert itself again. It came from deep inside her and she knew its source was simply that she was helpless – that she was a slave. His slave. She was slightly surprised to realize that she was climbing toward orgasm again.

She blinked her eyes rapidly a few times, clearing her vison a little. He was standing beside her face again, looking down at her. She was still crying, still emitting a pain-racked mewl, still shaking, tensing and un-tensing against her bonds. Having no pretenses left she just waited, letting him see the contrite (oh so very contrite) slave where once dwelt a foolish noble woman. The fact that she could read him equally well was also not questioned. It was as though she could almost read his very thoughts. He was thinking that she wasn’t really worth his anger. That she really was just another female who had found her way to where she so obviously belonged – to the collar – at last. He actually looked a little abashed for a second or two. She was just a slave and he wasn’t going to invest too much sympathy on her. Still, she breathed a sigh of relief as he started unlocking her from the torture table. She knew that she was forgiven. She knew that her life as a slave girl – as just another slave girl – was truly beginning now.

He commanded her to kneel and then, to her surprise, left. For several minutes she knelt in silence, the lack of distraction causing her to take notice of all her pains again – particularly the savage burning sensation on her thigh. She could still see that suggestion of a shadow of someone in the box, still caught a bare hint of the white on an eye in one of the tiny holes. Was it Sandra? It had to be but she had no way of finding out for sure at the moment. Neither of them spoke. Neither of them would speak. That was a given. She began to wonder about her sense of time.

After what was probably several minutes later a slave girl came in and set a tray, or something down on the torture table (now what?) but she wasn’t entirely sure because she was facing away and only heard it. Another (probably) several minutes went by.

When Master returned he was completely naked. She noticed two things that surprised her right away. The first was that his manhood – which was resting comfortably, seemingly uninterested in anything at the moment – was . . . average. She had been expecting a massive pole, a mighty scepter that proclaimed him not merely a man but a man amongst men – a pack leader for whom imposing his will upon others came naturally. But it was entirely average. Nothing to be ashamed of, certainly, but nothing (as far as she could see) to brag about, either. Just average. The second thing shouldn’t have surprised her but did because in her own distress she had all but forgotten his personal history. His scars.

There were the ragged scars of a back ravished by a brutal whip more than once. The jagged scar that had replace a slave brand on his left thigh (she felt a sudden flare up of her own fresh brand). Though she had a preview when watching the dancers earlier it still startled her to remember that he too had a previous life very different from his current one. In the flickering light of the torches is was easy to imagine him standing in a field, the bodies of those who had become complacent in their presumptions of superiority scattered around him. Him, standing next to a fire, holding the red hot sword . . . she could almost see it. How it must have hurt to even hold that sword, much less . . . She looked at his left hand. She had not noticed it before but his fingers did indeed bear the mark of having been burned. Not severely, but oh how it must have hurt – yet he had not let go until the deed was done. There were other scars as well, scars from battles she could scarce imagine, where enemies managed to slip past his defenses – a little. Those enemies were dead now she was quite certain, along many others. At first it all seemed contradictory. It was difficult to reconcile the myths of the man with the fit but worn and battered – and rather oridinary looking – body. But then she remembered the wild heart concealed within. Greatness was a matter not of flesh but of will – and his will was strong. She could see that in his eyes.

He was walking a slow circle around her, simply enjoying his right to view her sweaty nudity. His eyes consumed her greedily. He held a silver goblet in his hand and he sipped from it a few times, then he held it out to her. “Drink,” he said, holding it to her lips. Water. Cool and very refreshing. Again she was surprised to notice that a basic discomfort – thirst – had gone unnoticed. She started to gulp, afraid that he might object but unable to resist. He did not object. He allowed her three good gulps for which she thanked him sincerely as he set the goblet aside. He resumed his pace around her. A minute went by. Two minutes. His entirely average manhood began to rise. Average or not she found herself fascinated with it. She very much wanted to caress it, suck it, feel it inside her. Her thoughts were fueled by the knowledge that it was she herself, her body – and her submission - that was fueling its rise.

“I think it’s time you had your hole filled.” It was not a question so she did not reply. He waited a few seconds and then smiled. He was glad to see that the world’s newest slave remained focused despite the many and varied pains that were assaulting her at the moment. It was an important skill for slaves to master. “Would you like me to fill your hole?”

Her reply was an enthusiastic, “yes, Master!” She herself was caught a little off guard by her own eagerness. She did want her hole filled! She was tired of the label, “virgin” and the giggles and snickers that came with it. She was tired of it setting her apart (even Daisy had managed to lose her virginity before her – and that had definitely not been in the original plans!). She wanted the matter over with. But it was more than that. She wanted to feel him inside her. She wanted to be the receptacle of his pleasure. She wanted to offer herself up too him freely and without reservation. The fact that her hole was his to fill whenever and wherever he wanted just served to stir her juices even more. The keenness of her reaction could be seen in her face and in her squirm.

“Convince me. Beg me.”

“Please, Master, fill my hole,” she started out and continued with enthusiastic variations on that theme. She bowed her head down to his feet. It came so naturally that she didn’t even question it. It was the natural position of a supplicating slave. After a moment, when he made no response, she risked a quick glance up to assess his reaction. He seemed singularly unimpressed but she could also tell he was playacting again, forcing her to increase her efforts, which she did.

He let another moment go by and then a bored sounding, “I’m not convinced yet,” complete with an exaggerated yawn. She increased her volume, accompanied by an exasperated half moan, half chuckle at both her genuine need and the absurdity of the whole thing. Oh yes, the Lady Camille was truly gone.

She looked up at him again, the instinct this time to show him the sincerity on her face. “Please, Master, I want you to fill my hole! I need it!” Her exclamation was filled with both a frustrating aching need and a desperate plea for satisfaction – for mercy.

“Louder,” he said.

“Pleeeeeeeaaaasssseeee, Master, fill my hole!”

“Shout it!”

“PLEASE, MASTER FILL MY HOLE!” She sounded angry. A bit too angry even for a sexually frustrated slave. The realization that she might have gone a little too far flashed across her face. She quickly looked abashed – a natural reaction, not feigned in the slightest – and in a soft pleading tone said, “please.”

The Lord River chuckled. It was the self-satisfied chuckle of every man who knows he has mastered a woman. “Fours,” he suddenly snapped.

Yes! She assumed the position eagerly. If it wasn’t quite perfect yet, he made no criticism. Her pussy juice itself so hard that it felt like a flood. He was doing something behind her but she couldn’t see what, something by the tray that had been brought in moments earlier. As he came up behind her she caught a whiff of something. Honey? Yes, honey . . . but wh . . . She let out a startled “oh” when she felt the cool sensation against her sphincter. “Wait! What?”

“Quiet,” he said, as she felt his finger slide inside her. He certainly was the jokester. She even laughed a little, appreciating the joke but was quickly distracted by this new sensation. She found that she both desired and feared this the same way she desired and feared her new life. He withdrew his finger and used her hair as a cloth again (which sent a submissive shudder through her). She felt his hands on her hips. Without being told she lowered her head and raised her ass. She could feel a charge between her and her master, like the night air just before a thunderstorm. She felt it. Just the tip, lightly probing her sphincter, then pausing, then . . . slowly.

From her throat issued a sound that was a weird combination of ‘uh’ and ‘mmm’ which turned into “ahh’ as he pushed his way slowly but inexorably in. She was quite glad now that he didn’t possess a superhuman tower of flesh – average was more than sufficient. That desire/fear seemed to be melded into one feeling too. It hurt, but it felt good. It was humiliating but welcome. Her muscles wrapped around his shaft couldn’t seem to decide whether to tense up or relax. Her mewling continued as his motions began, slowly – oh so slowly – picking up the pace.

Although her attention was focused on the feeling between her ass cheeks, she was hyper-aware of every part of her body. She could no longer tell the difference between the pleasure and the pain and every part of her seemed to tingle with life. Her clit, ignored, almost felt like an absence. Although she knew she was halfway toward orgasm, she felt suspended in time, no longer approaching or falling away from that pinnacle of feeling. Mostly, she strangely felt exalted and degraded at the same time.

His motion was becoming alarmingly fast now. She did not need to be experienced in sex to know that her butt hole had a lower speed limit than her pussy. Or did it? Just as worry was beginning to overtake enjoyment she felt him tense up. He suddenly rammed into her all the way, pushing her face into the cold stone floor. She felt his hot seed splash inside her as he let out a loud barbaric yowl. She knew that the Lord River, Earl of White Fawn Estate did not exist at that moment. She was being impaled by an animal. A male animal that was exalting in its conquest of a female. With that, time rushed forward, her loins and her head both seemed to explode with heat and the female animal joined the male animal in its primal howls.

Slowly, oh so slowly, time seemed to return to normal. Breathing and heart rate decelerated. When he withdrew it was both a relief and a keenly felt absence. He actually had to tug a little as he had started losing his stiffness and her muscles had not wanted to let go. She lay on her side, still panting a little. Remembering that she was a slave, she forced herself into a kneeling position, facing him. As he stood up he made a gesturing indicating that her knees were not spread far enough. She corrected herself. She wondered if and when her pussy hole would be filled for the first time. Would it be now?

She hoped he would wash his rod first.

Perhaps that is why he left the room again. She looked again toward the person in the box. She felt no shame in having been witnessed. Already she felt that common connection amongst slave girls – they were slaves, what could they do? She could feel his spend leaking out of her. That did feel a little gross but compared to everything else she had felt this day, it was of no consequence.

A few minutes went by. She heard him return . . . except . . . it wasn’t him. It was the young guardsman who had stood sentry outside her Master’s chamber. He looked very excited, very eager, as he deposited his weapons, and then his clothing, on the torture table. “Stand,” he snapped at her. She complied. “Turn.” As she slowly displayed herself it was obvious that the young man (also rather average, she noted) liked what he saw. “Use.” Again she got down on all fours, presenting her posterior but he focused his attention for a few minutes on her breasts, squatting down to roughly fondle them.

He turned his attention to her backside, sniffing her pussy, then probing it with a finger, feeling her resistance. He took his time positioning himself. To the surprise of both, her resistance proved stronger than expected but after three increasingly savage thrusts he broke through, sending a sharp pain careening into her brain but just as quickly subsiding to join all the other pains as the pleasure produced by his continued thrusting overtook everything. She had not thought it possible but she felt herself heading toward that sweet nexus of feeling again. He concluded with his own primal yawp just before she felt herself subsumed by her own response. It was gentler this time, more like a mild after shock than the full blown earthquakes of before, but it was just as sweet.

She resumed an all fours stance as he separated himself from her. She started to kneel but was stopped by his hand in her pussy again. It was a tradition it seemed. She stared only a second at his coated fingers when they appeared in front of her eyes. His Spend. Her blood. Her juices. Her sweat. His sweat. Probably some of her Master’s sweat. She must have hesitated too long as he thrust his fingers into her mouth. The mixture was tangy and salty and a little coppery and more than anything it represented the final break between her old life and her new one and for that reason she sucked on his fingers eagerly while another hot wave of pleasure swept through her.

She resumed kneeling again while the young Guardsman dressed himself and took his leave. Had her Master intended this to be a lesson about her overall worth? If so, she had learned it well. Her virginity, something she had regarded as very valuable was nothing more than a trinket to be given to an underling as a reward. She yawned loudly. She was starting to feel very tired.

Her Master returned, looking refreshed and dressed in a black robe with gold trim. For a moment he just looked at her, yawned once himself. “You still have one question left,” he said, so ask it now because I’m ready to seek my bed. This caught her somewhat off guard. She had a million questions but most of them could be summed up easily.

“What happens now, Master,” she asked.

“Now,” he replied, I’m going to chain you to the wall for the night and then go to bed myself.” He could see that she was unsatisfied with this answer but she had transitioned enough to a slave mentality that she did not blurt out any objections.

He smiled, chuckled a little and continued. “Tomorrow morning, Emma, my Alpha Slave will be along to collect you. She likes to give new girls a good talking to. Be sure to listen to her very carefully. Slave 83 nodded her head in affirmation to assure him she would as he continued. “She will take you to the infirmary to get your dressing changed and give you your first dose of slave elixir.” This reminder of the fresh brand on her thigh caused yet another flare-up which she grimaced at but her mind focused on the slave elixir. Slave elixir! She had, of course, heard of the concoction (also known as Moon Spirits) of herbs that prevented a woman from watering a man’s seed but she had never sampled it before. It was said to be absolutely foul tasting. Now she would be drinking it on a regular basis. “After that,” her Master went on, “she will assign you to one of the work units. Number seven would be my guess.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said. There was so much more that she wanted to know but she did not press the issue. He must have heard the disappointment in her voice. He tucked a couple of fingers under her chin, lifted it so that she was looking right at him. “Your first week or so,” he said, “is going to be pure hell. Every slave girl is going to do her best to make sure you know that you are no different from them – just another slave girl and a newbie at that . . . and, despite the legality of your change, pretty much every man is going to want to sample the former Lady.” The thought of what was in store for her frightened her enough that a few fresh tears leaked out of her. “My advice to you is simply to wait it out. Once the novelty of your presence starts to wear off, then you’ll want to start asserting yourself to the other slave girls. I have no doubt that you will eventually fit in quite nicely around here. She smiled at his kind reassurance. He let go of her chin, walked a few steps toward the metal box with its quiet occupant.

“Perhaps I can help you mitigate that a little,” he said while turning back to regard his newest acquisition. “A small gesture I’ll allow you to make that might help you make your first friend a little bit faster. She waited in expectation, genuinely curious. He continued. “You’ve probably noticed Sandra here.” He knocked his fist against the container a couple of times. “She is still being punished, you’ll recall, for insulting a free woman, and a noble woman at that. Slave 83 actually smiled a little, appreciating the irony, as she answered in the affirmative. “I had planned,” Lord River continued, “to keep her thus confined until morning but I am willing to release her now if you volunteer to take her place.”

She almost blurted out a ‘Yes, Master!’ She surprised herself at how quickly she was willing to agree to it but she took a few seconds to review the matter. It looked awfully cramped in there. And just how much gratitude would this sacrifice buy? Sandra would, no doubt, see the move as an obvious attempt to curry favor and she doubted Sandra would go against the group and protest the torments sure to come her way. Then again, maybe (just maybe) she would be grateful enough so that when the time for making friends came ‘round, Sandra would be the first. And once you had made one friend, making the second became easier. “Yes, Master,” said Slave 83.

The key for the metal box was hanging nearby. When the door creaked open, Lord River gestured the other slave girl out. She complied but not without obvious pain and effort. Even the few short hours she had spent in there was enough to cramp her most unpleasantly. She knelt before her Master (our Master, thought Slave 83) and thanked him profusely. He reminded her that her previously earned privileges were revoked and had to be earned back and then he asked her if she would ever do anything so foolish again. She assured him she would not. He made her promise and then sternly informed her that should she ever break her promise her punishment would be much more severe and no leniency would be forthcoming. “Do not test me on this,” he warned her. Again, tearfully, she was profuse in her assurance of future obedience. “Return to your barracks,” he said, dismissing her. She gave a final thanks and then, despite her obvious discomfort, stood and scurried away. She made a quick glance at Slave 83 as she departed, her eyes showing a real but guarded appreciation.

It was none to easy, having to back in and while every part of her still screamed with pains that were starting to reassert themselves now that the afterglow of her orgasms was starting to dim a little. The clang of the door slamming shut reverberated through her and the ‘click’ of the lock made her hitch her breath. It was damned cramped. It was just big enough to tempt her in trying to move in one direction or another, and then stop her cold. The mental torture that even a few minutes in the thing must produce was enough to make her question her decision but she knew there would be no back tracking.

She looked through one of the small holes, watching, as best she could, as her Master began snuffing out the torches. He took hold of the final torch and started to leave. She knew it was risky but she couldn’t help herself. “Master,” she called out. He stopped and turned to regard her. “Thank you," she said, “for giving me a chance.”

“Master,” she called out a second time when he turned away from her again. Now he looked slightly perturbed. “May I have a name,” she asked. His countenance softened a little and he pondered the question for a few seconds. “When Emma arrives in the morning, inform her that I leave it to her to name you.”

“Yes, Master,” she replied.

“Now be quiet unless you want to start out tomorrow morning with thirty lashes.” She kept quiet. He left, taking light with him, leaving only darkness behind. She heard the door close behind him, heard it locked. Her world now reduced to a cramped space in the dark, she wondered that she didn’t feel more frightened but while uncomfortable, she actually felt quite safe. She allowed herself to cry one last time for that which was lost – her home, the comforts of a pampered life – even while pondering the challenges and pleasures to come. She did not cry long. It had been a very long, very busy day and sheer exhaustion dragged her into sleep soon enough.

_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

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RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/29/2015 6:23:13 AM   
Marc2b


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Status: offline 		The Reduction of the Lady Camille.


Epilogue: The Lotteries of Life.

She awoke as she usually did, rising to alertness rather rapidly, her dreams quickly shaken off. Usually she didn’t remember her dreams at all. She would remember having dreamt, but as she stood up to begin her morning routine she would lose her grasp on them – faint images, fading still, dancing away forever. She did not overly mind this. The waking world was a far more interesting place for her mind – but it was also a far more demanding place, always requiring her focus and attention.

All slave women of Work Unit Seven woke within moments of each other. If habit ever failed anyone the morning bells woke them in short order. It was dawn and the whole estate was now beginning another day. The slave barracks held thirteen women, same as all the other barracks and it held them quite comfortably. There was room for each to stretch out on a mattress just thick enough to counter the hardness of the floor, and a pillow – privileges that each one strove hard to keep because no one wanted to sleep on the bare floor. In the winter they were given blankets and there would be a fire blazing merrily in the wood burning stove but it was summer so such were not needed now.

Nor would they need their winter furs and so each woman was naked as she stood at attention. Until the return of the cold they would spend all their time thus simply because it pleased men to see them so.

Belinda, the First Girl – or “Het Girl” – of Work Unit Seven took a moment to look everyone over and make sure they were all up and alert. As Het Girl she was answerable to Emma and ultimately, of course, to the man who owned all of them, so Belinda did a quick head count though the thought that anyone would be missing without leave was absurd.

It was certainly possible that one of them could slip out in the middle of the night. They were never chained in the barracks and the door didn’t even have a lock. Their owner wanted his property to be able to safely get out in the event of a fire. If a slave girl was so insanely bold as to sneak out, the estate was walled and gated and there were always guards at station and on patrol. But the truly crazy thing about such a notion was that none of them wanted to escape their situation. They were slaves. They had no rights whatsoever. They knew all too well the many dreadful situations, the many terrible fates that could befall a slave. They were all grateful to be owned by a man who looked after their well being and saw to it that their needs – all their needs – were satisfied in one way or another.

She waited her turn to use the privy and give her face a refreshing splash from the washing basin. She was in the middle of the line, having taken her proper place automatically after Belinda nodded her satisfaction. Partially imposed by men, partially imposed by each other, a hierarchy was maintained amongst them that was strict but not unmovable. An appointment from higher up or a victory in a bitch slap or merely being intimidating enough – or easily intimidated – could cause a girl to rise or descend in the pecking order.

Her first few days, as predicted, had been pure hell. Every chance they got it seemed like every female on the estate was insulting her in the vilest terms while mockingly referring to her as ‘my lady.’ They tried to trip her up as she went about her chores (‘oh, pardon me, my lady’) or sabotage her in some other way. Once, a group of girls snatched her laundry basket from her spilled the freshly washed contents into the mud. She frantically rewashed the contents while the others laughed and hurried on their way. She had received ten lashes for not completing her chore on time. She had made no protest. She knew she had no recourse, no expectation of justice. Justice was for free people. They also taunted her with threats of painful bitch slaps which were then carried out during their lunch break and when the work day was done. It was doubtful they could actually be called bitch slaps since all she did was curl up as best she could and shout “I yield” while waiting out the blows.

On top of her near constant assault from the other women she was, as also predicted, the novelty that nearly every man on the estate had to have a go with. She got fucked in the pussy, fucked in the ass and fucked in the mouth. Sometimes she got fucked in two holes at once and on one memorable occasion fucked in all three holes at once – something she would not have thought to be anatomically possible but which, it turns out, is doable – after some strategic positioning. She got a crash course in giving blow jobs and hand jobs and every proper position a slave girl must know and every mistake was corrected with a slap of hand or leather or perhaps a pinch or twist of tender flesh.

Having earned no privileges she was fed only slave gruel and at night slept on the hard wooden floor. The other girls tauntingly chatted with each other about how much they had enjoyed the tasty dinner they’d had and how comfortable their mattresses pillows were. Belinda allowed this for a few moments before telling them to be quiet and go to sleep. They always promptly obeyed leaving only their breathing and the new slave’s soft sobbing as the only sounds in the barracks.

At the end of three days her still fresh brand, while still very painful, was no longer the worst pain on her body. Every part of her was hurting from one extent to another and all of them seemed to meld together into a single throbbing whole body ache that she was so used to that she hardly noticed it. By the end of the fifth day, the novelty had worn off and to the men she was becoming just another slave girl, preferred or not preferred according to their own tastes. The women were beginning to let up as well once it became clear that she knew her place. Tormenting someone becomes boring after a while if you can’t get a rise out of them and it was no longer worth the effort. It was then that she started fighting back in the bitch slaps. Although her first few wins were rather inelegant affairs of throwing her weight around they were still wins that couldn’t help but garner her some respect. She quickly gained experience and on her ninth day made it clear that her days of being the hazed newbie were over with a very satisfying smack down of Cora. She made sure that Cora knew that some of the painful smacks she was receiving were for her treatment of Daisy that first night.

Daisy! If there was a sadness in her life it was the fact that her fear she might never see Daisy again had so far been the case. Although the two noble friends sometimes visited each other’s estates or journeyed to the capital together – usually bringing a slave girl to attend them – neither had brought either her or Daisy with them. She missed Daisy terribly and would dearly love to have a few hours to talk to her as just one slave girl to another – and to apologize for a few things. Someday perhaps. Such things were out of her control. Word had it though that Daisy was doing well. Lord Mason emulated Lord River’s organizational scheme and Daisy was the Het Girl of one of the work units.

There was an odd sort of few days in which the other slave girls neither tormented her nor extended any friendly overtures but largely ignored her. It was Sandra who first talked to her with something other than hostility or indifference. Throughout the whole ordeal Sandra had not really participated in her torments but she had made no protests about it either. The newest slave understood. Still, it was gratifying to see her kindness toward the brown haired slave girl now paying off. Sandra’s actions broke the ice and, slowly at first and then a bit faster, the other slave girls came around and she began making friends.

And now here she was, three years later, walking out of the slave barracks along with twelve other naked women, to begin her morning exercise routine – starting with jumping jacks. As was usual, some of the field hands had gathered to lean upon a fence and enjoy the sight. Being one of Lord Rivers hired men came with certain bonuses and any one of those men could have availed himself upon any one of the women if he so chose though it was unlikely that they would do so now. It was an unwritten rule on the estate the slave girls, having much work to do, should be left unmolested until the work day was done. There would be time for such pleasures in the evening. Of course, sometimes a man was unable to wait and that is when the skills in blow jobs and hand jobs were useful. The goal was to get him off quickly (so a slave could get back to work) but not too quickly (lest he feel cheated). Upon this morning, however, the spectators seemed content to just watch the exercises which included push-ups, sit-ups, and their favorite – judging by their hoots and howls – squat thrusts. Running in place was also quite popular. Often they would call out to the slaves by name.

“Hey Penelope, I’m thinking about you tonight!” The copper-haired Penelope was quite popular among the men.

“Julie! Did your tongue get a good night’s sleep? ‘Cause I plan on giving it a good workout!” Julie was a tiny – almost scrawny – squeaky voiced little blond whose oral skills were renowned across the whole estate and even beyond. Visitors often requested her services in their guest room.

“Yolanda! Yolanda! How I ache for my sweet Yolanda,” cried out one in grinning ersatz romanticism. Yolanda was the red-head who had inquired after the Lady Camille’s needs that transforming night three years ago. Her own name, usually accompanied with a reference to her tits, was called out more than once. She gave her tits an extra bounce for the spectators. She was not the only one to flirt back a little but her focus had to remain on her exercises. Slacking off would earn a rebuke from Belinda, and that if she was lucky.

The timing of the estate ran like well-oiled gears and just as the morning exercises were ending two slave girls came along pulling a large cart. Breakfast time. All of the girls in work unit seven were on full privileges and so no one had to endure bland slave gruel. They each got a wooden bowl, cup, and spoon and lined up to be served. The cup was filled with creamy milk and today the bowl was filled with scrambled eggs with some diced up ham, half an apple, a roll and – joy of joys! – it even had a part of butter on it (their master was so kind). It was odd but she had come to enjoy her simple meals under slavery much more than she had ever enjoyed the fancy meals of her previous life. She knew the reason why. She had no right to such a pleasant and satisfying breakfast – sincere gratitude makes everything taste better.

The few moments they had to eat was also something to be savored. Sitting on the ground cross-legged (the grass tickling her underside pleasantly) she enjoyed the green of the trees, the blue of the sky and an agreeable breeze that caressed her skin, especially her nipples, in a way that was nicely sensual without really being sexual. The only sounds were the birds and the satisfied ‘mmmm’s of the slaves as they ate (the male gawkers had departed for their own breakfasts when the cart arrived).

With good warm food in her tummy, she returned her bowl and spoon to the cart and everyone again took their proper place in line. Belinda then led them to their morning work assignment. It was the Day of the Moon, the second day of the week and that meant they were on washing duty this morning. All the work units rotated their chores. The benefits of this were obvious. All the slave women were well rounded in their knowledge of domestic skills so any injury or illness could quickly be dealt with by temporarily assigning someone to another work unit or even switching whole schedules around.

From the slave’s point of view it meant that everyone had a turn at both the most unpleasant chores as well as the more enjoyable ones. The worst chore – hands down – was “pots.” Every day, every chamber pot on the estate, from small personal ones to the large ones used in the barracks (so large that it took four women with poles to carry one) had to be collected, carted down to the sludge pit, emptied, washed with soap and water and returned. Ugh. “Kitchen” wasn’t too much fun either. All that peeling and chopping and stirring large vats of stew or tending the ovens in that stifling heat (even in the winter it was too much), plus you had to get up an hour earlier than everyone else. Server wasn’t too bad but that too required an early rise.

The most pleasant chore – as far as most of them were concerned – was “fetcher.” While the field hands performed their sweaty labors in the fields, she would wait at the end of the rows with a water skein. When the call for water came from someone, whoever was nearest would rush forward to supply the life giving liquid. Sometimes it became a race between a couple of the slaves, which was always a delight to the men. This was also the time when a girl would be most likely be supplying blow jobs or hand jobs.

Their first stop was the storage shed where they gathered up their washtubs, washboards and soap which they carted down to creek. Then they fanned out amongst the free hand’s huts (each man had his own small but comfortable and nicely apportioned space) stripping the bed sheets and adding them to the laundry baskets which already held the soiled clothing from the previous day – or at least it was supposed to. It was smart to check under the bed and behind the dresser of each room. Men could be so lazy sometimes! Tossing their soiled garments aside when the laundry basket was right there! A slave does not complain about such things of course.

Back down by the creek she began soaking her load and searching the clothing, especially the shirts, for particular tough looking food and dirt stains. Sometimes there were blood stains but everybody knew that those could never be completely gotten out. No excuses would be accepted for the others so she gave them some extra soap and let them soak while she worked on the rest. For the first few minutes everyone concentrated on their work and no one talked to each other. Everyone wanted to finish their baskets (each would have several more baskets to do after this first one) as soon as they could. Every moment they finished early was an extra moment they could spend at the pleasant pond relaxing or playing games before lunch and the start of their afternoon work shift.

But they were women. Nature took its inevitable course and soon they were chatting merrily away. Some men might think that, given the circumscribed nature of their lives, they would have little to talk about. They would be wrong. The grapevine of gossip amongst enslaved females is one of the greatest information exchange systems ever devised, though to call it devised is something of a misnomer – it is more of a natural outgrowth of female nature. Still, it might well put the King’s own intelligence service to shame. As soon as anything of interest was known by one slave girl it was usually known by all within a day. News from outside of the estate came from overheard conversations and those slave girls who came along when their owners visited the estate. Far from having little to talk about, there were a great many topics for them to cover.

Today was the first day of the new month so the Monthly Lottery was naturally a topic. Who would get picked? Lord River’s discipline – his well-known use of both the carrot and the stick – was most effective. In truth, it was not often that one of the slave women had to be punished. This had somewhat bothered the nobleman as he believed that enslaved females needed a reminder of their place now and then. The monthly lottery was his solution. On the first day of each month most of the slave girls on the estate were gathered together. From a basket a token would be withdrawn and one unfortunate girl would receive twenty lashes while the others watched.

She had been the one chosen last month – her first time since her arrival. Although the odds were against it she might be chosen again and she couldn’t help but worry. The only way she could be excused from the monthly lottery would be if she was convalescing in the infirmary from some illness or injury and who’d want that? Even the slave girls not owned by Lord River who lived on the estate had to take part, their masters’ having decided that it would be salubrious to a proper mindset for their slaves. But whoever got picked, there was nothing any of them could do about it so the topic soon drifted.

One might not expect international politics to be a matter of concern to slaves but most of them were Palasian in ethnicity if not legally and so the Kings’s new policy of rapprochement with Kamara was a big topic. Could the kingdom really make friends with their hated enemies? With those who had humiliated them in arms not once but twice in history? After the famine? After the civil war? The very notion seemed surreal. There was an old saying that a warrior’s thoughts first turn to peace after looking into his new born child’s eyes for the first time so perhaps it was the birth of the King’s son that prompted this change in policy. Whatever the reason, there were some very heated arguments – among slave and free alike – over the idea. Those who couldn’t stomach the idea were finding themselves outnumbered, though. The Master’s opinions on the matter was well known. He had been heard to say that the Kamarans had shown themselves to be worthy enemies so why not make them worthy allies? Most of the women agreed that anything that insured peace was a good thing. Nobody ever wanted to see a repeat of those awful days.

She finished scrubbing those items that were easy to do and started in on the tougher looking stains. One stain in parrticular looked like it was going to be tough. It looked like mustard. Fuck. Mustard was always a bitch. She set it to soak some more and started on the easier looking stains.

The conversation inevitably turned to the topic of the White Fawn Estate for the last several days. The pending engagement announcement of their Lord and Master to the Lady Constance of Branson Estate. The potential changes in their lives this could bring about was much more immediate than the intercourse of nations. They would have to be more mindful of how they knelt (they were not accustomed to kneeling with their knees together). Would they still be kept naked during the warm months? Probably not. And the poor field hands – they would have to be more discrete about where they received their hand jobs. And what about bacchanalian parties Lord River permitted two or three times a year? Would they be a thing of the past? They were such fun, such a . . . release of pressure . . . she found it difficult to believe that Master would abandoned them.

She had much more personal reason to fear the arrival of the Lady Constance than any of them. Strangely, though, she did not worry on it overmuch. She had, briefly, hoped that the Lady Constance was being set up in the same manner a certain Lady Camille had been but the grapevine had confirmed that the Lord River and the Lady’s father had spent several days in negotiation before cheerily shaking hands. Whatever happened when that moment came, whether she would be the recipient of indifference, mocking humiliation or cruel torture, she was certain of one thing. She was a slave. She would obey. If anything, she was annoyed that something from her old life was intruding on her new life.

One concern amongst the estate’s females was how this change would affect the daily lottery. That’s what they called it. Every day the Master picked one slave girl to attend him and his chambers. Although he was noted for a slight preference for dark haired women he was eclectic in his tastes. There was no telling who would be picked on any given day. There was no telling what the evening would entail if one was picked.

He enjoyed activities in his fun room three or four times a week and there was a wide variety of fun to be had in that room from intricate bondage positions to hot wax on the pussy or maybe just an old fashioned spanking. Whatever struck Master’s fancy. Other nights might be spent kneeling upon the Master’s pleasure in his personal chamber (waiting patiently to refill a cup of wine or fetch a snack from the kitchens) while he went over his accounts, discusses business matters or simply enjoys a volume of poetry. Such evenings might end with sweet, gentle love-making or vigorous fucking or just a quick blow job. Sometimes he just wanted to talk or just sit in silent contemplation of thoughts entirely his own. Whatever struck the Master’s fancy. At night the chosen slave might end up sleeping in a cage in the fun room, or at the foot of the Master’s bed. On cold winter nights she would likely end up snuggling against him under the furs, adding her warmth to his. Mmmm.

Whatever the evening held, everyone wanted to be the one chosen. There was pride in being chosen, sure, a flattering affirmation that couldn’t help but stroke the ego (and churn some of their female juices) but in the end they wanted to be chosen because they were slaves and he was the Master. There were over two hundred men living on the estate (a number that temporarily tripled during the harvest) and she – like all the others – was required to submit to all of them. She did so, fully and exuberantly. But the Master was the Master. The man who actually owned them. The man who controlled their fates. That couldn’t help but churn their juices all the more. She had been chosen eleven times since her arrival and it had been over three months since she was last chosen. Perhaps today.

As luck would have it the first of the girls on pot duty began passing by, hauling their heavy, stinking loads. No words were needed. Just a few head tilts and eye glances told the washers that the Master had started his daily ride and that he was taking the “south first” route today. That meant it would not be long before he came by. Everyone became much more alert, much more industrious. It was a rare day that the Master didn’t tour his lands, inspecting the buzzing community under his command. It was usually during this exercise that the Master would inform the lucky girl that she should present herself in his chambers after dinner.

One of the estate’s carpenters passed by on some errand. He slowed a bit to enjoy the view of the naked women, then called out, “has he chosen yet?” It was Belinda who responded for the group, respectfully informing him that the Master had not come by yet. He nodded his head and continued on. The men of the estate would also be keen on knowing when the choice was made. Once they knew who was unavailable to them for that day, they would begin making their own selections. Even if she wasn’t selected by the Master this day it was assured that she would spend the waning hours of the day serving the needs of a group of men as they took their leisure for a few hours before seeking their beds. Being a pleasing and obedient slave, she was likely to have her own needs met before the final bells dictated her return to her barracks.

Shit. She was trying her luck at that bastard mustard stain again and it was beginning to look like it was going to be a serious problem. Some more girls on pot duty came along and their silent communications informed that the he was right behind him and sure enough, there he was. He was riding Calico, his favorite mare. Almost as one every slave present ceased her labors and knelt, facing him, as he went by. With legs spread wide, backs straight and hands clasped behind their heads, they presented themselves for inspection to their owner. Each of them could feel his eyes upon them as rode by but he did not slow and said nothing.

Damn.

The women returned to their labors. Oh well, she thought to herself, there’s always tomorrow. As for this day, it was still young and what would come, would come. But no good would come of this day if she didn’t finish her chores on time. With that, Frieda the slave girl returned her attention to the stubborn mustard stain.


_____________________________

Do you know what the most awesome thing about being an Atheist is? You're not required to hate anybody!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 38
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/29/2015 5:47:51 PM   
kallisto


Posts: 1185
Status: offline

Thank you!!!!! Worth the wait!

(in reply to Marc2b)
Profile   Post #: 39
RE: The Reduction of the Lady Camille. - 3/29/2015 8:36:32 PM   
shiftyw


Posts: 2837
Joined: 6/6/2013
From: The Shire
Status: offline 		Very very good!

Thank you!

(in reply to kallisto)
Profile   Post #: 40
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