Before being captured, I’d hoped for a rewarding career in the service of the Republic, travelling in a series of postings to liaise with the governments of pleasant, civilized, planets. I’d studied hard, learning about political theory; sociology, history; math.
None of these skills are useful in a sex slave. All that matters is the skills relating to pleasing men, and making myself as arousing as possible to them.
Under Trygg, sometimes literally under him, is a female – Alurri. She is a rare thing – a slave who resides permanently on Aghara-Penthay. Alurri’s responsibility is to teach us all the things which we need to understand for our new lives. In exhaustingly long days, we learn how a sex slave serves food and drink; how to walk and move; slave poses, and rituals for how to present ourselves; how to wash a male; how to dance – not the cultural movement forms like I learnt in girlhood, but obscenely erotic styles of choreography. We discover how a woman should act while in restraints.
Then there is the sex theory. I find out more information about the penis than I could have believed existed. There are also other pleasure spots on the male body, and I must memorize them all. I learn the places on a woman’s body – other than her obvious holes – where she can also bring a man to climax. By squeezing the penis between the breasts, for example.
Some men like to see woman with woman, or enjoy watching a woman in heat, so I am instructed by Alurri how to arouse myself, and other member of my own sex.
Most insidious are the lessons in slave psychology. I’d believed that the implant was all that was needed to break a captive, but no. For hours at a time on my knees, repeating mantras that men are superior to me; that sexual slavery is the only place for females; that I exist only to please men; that my body is all that matters about me. These are crude techniques, but it’s hard not to start to believe it when it’s hammered in so relentlessly.
When Trygg and two of his underlings first brought Alurri naked into our pen, I thought she was another unlucky captive being prepared for sale. For the three men came in armed with goads, and without explanation they goaded her, and goaded her and goaded her with those hateful batons that stimulate the body’s pain receptors. For a full five minutes, we were ordered to watch without looking away, and to listen to her screams, and to picture ourselves in her place.
When it finished, and Alurri was left gasping and weeping on the floor, we found out the reason for the demonstration. Alurri was to train us, Trygg said. She would shortly be given her own goad, to help motivate the females in our pen, and to help teach us to truly fear those in authority. Any time when our progress did not sufficiently please Trygg, or if Trygg considered that Alurri wasn’t brutalizing us enough, the goading we’d witnessed would be repeated on Alurri.
Sure enough, Alurri was handed one of those hateful weapons which had just been used on her own body, she was privileged with being handed a slave wrap, to emphasize her superior status over us, and she was left to begin. It quickly became clear that Alurri had no intention of enduring that torture a second time, and we have been paying the price ever since.
I hate Trygg above all beings in the universe, but the one I fear the most is Alurri.
I will do absolutely anything to please that female, and all my endeavors are focused on earning her brief nod of approval.
But my all is still not enough. She is not just imparting skills – she was ordered to teach us fear, and she does. Most of the punishment we receive results from a minor slip or transgression in the day’s exercise, but sometimes we’re goaded in order to teach us a slave can be goaded without a reason. Just because the one with power wishes it so. There are those out there who find it arousing to cause pain to others, and many like to see females suffering. One such is Trygg. Sometimes he orders a slave to be tortured merely for his pleasure, and we are made to watch along with him.
There is nothing I can do to escape this horror. We soon discover that the control of our implants over us is absolute. If one of the Slavers orders us to endure some fresh torment, we run to them, docile and inert, ready for it to begin. We are ordered not to flee, so we don’t. Besides, where is there to flee, anyway? Slave implants can be tracked. Anywhere across the galaxy, my owners will now be able to follow me. There is no escape, unless incredibly good fortune places me at one of the few sanctuaries, where implanted women rescued by the Republic are guarded from their own compulsions.
My implant is linked to a record they created of my personal and private information. Not just my name, species, history. All my sexual history and preferences are recorded there. In the most humiliating interview of my life, Trygg probed me for every detail, beginning from the earliest fumblings and experiments in my girlhood. I didn’t want to discuss such matters, but I found myself answering truthfully anyway as soon as he commanded me. They like to rape our minds, as well as our bodies. Trygg discovers I particularly dislike anal penetration, so those who wish to use me are made aware of this fact. Trygg learns that the Dystyr are conservative and shy, and I find it particularly humiliating to show my sexuality in front of others. Next day as a result, I am ordered to arouse myself in front of the group, and then I am raped, while under compulsion to climax during my own violation.
My presentation of the training up to now has sounded mostly theoretical, but there are most definitely practical elements too. With the exception of the few virgins, our captors may use us at will, and they do. Trygg especially so. Girlfriends in the Republic had told me that human males could only climax a few times a day, but that man’s appetite for women seems insatiable.
Always he hangs around the training room, watching lazily, or goading either one of us, or Alurri, seemingly at random, until he becomes sufficiently worked up to wish to sate his lust. Then a victim is chosen and raped, usually by means of her least favorite manner, either in front of the group, or after removal to his room. There are several underling males reporting to Trygg, even though they have no obvious roles from what I’ve seen, other than to intimidate then rape women. These brutes make equally free with us.
Those girls who admitted in their interviews to being virgins are spared the vaginal penetration, as virginity is going to add to a woman’s sale value to many cultures, and for slave traders it’s all about the credits. But apparently a woman can remain a virgin while taking it in the ass or the mouth, so I’m not sure if the virgins are to be envied or pitied compared to the rest of us.
Our pens have no windows, so we soon lose track of time in our world of perpetual artificial light. There is a period when these lights are extinguished and we are ordered to rest. Those hours we call ‘night’, but it could be any time outside on the planet’s surface. The relentless sexualization of us does not cease with the darkness. Most often we sleep in the pens, but sometimes we are summoned to share a man’s bed. Serving as an overnight companion is a duty commonly expected of a sex slave.
Even at night in the pens, our time is not our own. On the first day, each of us was paired with another female. My double is Tana – one of the virgins, at least she’s a virgin except for the cruel male who fingered her insides on the Hub.
With our companion, we must sleep intimately close – squashed naked together into a cage with proportions resembling a large coffin. Any attempts at privacy or dignity were soon surrendered during the exhaustion of the first night, and from then on, we’ve slept entwined in whatever position gives most comfort.
The Slavers force us to form an emotional bond with our companions, that our feelings might then be used to torment us. Firstly, every night we must finger our companion, taking pleasure from each other until we orgasm. The noises from our pens, in the first hours of darkness, are quite obscene. I naively hoped to act this role at first, but found that thanks to my implant, my body moved under command as though without my volition. I can hold back my climax as easily as I could hold back the tides on my homeworld.
Secondly, we must share in our successes and failures. Often when one of us is goaded, both of us are goaded. Or sometimes, when Tana performs below expectation I am punished, or vice versa. The mind games are as insidious as the mantras. When she’s in pain, I learn to hate it. She’s just another sex slave, but her wellbeing matters to me.
As our climaxes fade each night, we often end up weeping, kissing, doing anything we can to briefly sooth each other’s mutual misery.
As the days of training roll on, our progress is assessed by each slave being forced to spend a night in a coffin cage pleasing Alurri. When my turn comes, I believe I bring my instructor to climax quickly, but next day I learn I wasn’t sufficiently seductive when Tana is punished with a whipping in front of the group.
Coora is cold – that is what everyone in our group is told. Coora thinks she is better than human women. You must teach Coora that this is not the case. That is an order.
Just before we are caged for the night, the human women administer my lesson. With faces apologetic but implacable, I’m given the beating of my life – kicked and punched by every single woman, driven by her implant. Even Tana joins in.
I don’t need a lesson from the other women to make me hate myself. I already hate myself for failing. I hate myself for being a sex slave. I hate this life. I hate being female. I should have thrown myself from the landing platform when I had the chance, but my implant prevents even that final choice. I believe that I’m so pathetic that I deserve to be a slave to men.
In this place of endless misery, we forget all about the past, and do not think of the future. We only exist now, trying to deliver whatever task is currently required to a level of perfection which might just avoid punishment. I forget Trindii, Jurong, thirty-nine, my friends at the university, my friends and family back on the Dystyr homeworld. I forget that there are many places across the universe where women are free. I chant my mantras – it is correct that I am a sex slave.
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