I’m hoping we’ll be left alone at least until reaching the Slavers’ world, but as soon as we’re underway, our captors resume our torments. A man’s shouting becomes audible over the din of panicked captives.
“Women to the front of the hold. Men to the back!”
In the throng, I don’t know which way is which, but those nearer the edge can probably see him gesturing, so keeping a tight grip on Trindii’s arm I simply follow the rest of the herd.
I‘m aiming to try and keep in the center of the female group, where it’s safest, but in the direction we’re moving, Trindii and I end up near the back, and when we stop again, we find ourselves at the edge of a large circle of galactic womanhood. There must be hundreds of us here. Across from the females’ circle, I see the much smaller group of males. Briefly I note Jurong is not among them, but that’s all the thought I’m willing to give to him. Demanding my immediate attention are the men between our circles – Slavers with officer rank. The captain is quite the ugliest man I’ve ever seen – a short fellow with a black beard, morbidly obese with lank greasy hair.
“Prisoners – form into lines,” he commands. “An arm’s width apart. Spread yourselves out.”
With no sensible options but obey, we shuffle ourselves around according to his orders. Like any new recruits, the procedure is disorganized, and it takes some time. But eventually we find ourselves arranged in position. In front of me is a pretty blonde girl. I do not know her – she isn’t part of our course group. To my left is Trindii. To my right there is only open space, and then the men. I’m still on the edge of the female ranks.
I look down with broken heart at my precious dress. I know what must be coming, but it doesn’t make it any easier to bear.
“Now strip!” orders the captain. “Strip. Everything. No clothing. No jewelry. Put everything in a pile to your right.”
No! They can’t make me do this. Not in front of everyone.
A few women tentatively start pulling at jackets and footwear, but most, like me, look around uncertainly. Our guards seem to be expecting this. Before the officer has finished speaking, Slavers are already moving down the lines, activating shock collars on those who delay. My attacker unfortunately comes from behind me, and I’m on the floor before I know it, my body so rigid from the electric fire that I can’t even scream.
They only zap me for a moment – it’s a warning, not a punishment. The pain has gone and the guard has already moved past me and is torturing some other unfortunate. But it was enough. I scramble back to my feet. I’m not sure why, but my thighs have started aching.
I know it’s inevitable that I’ll finish up completely undressed in front of all these people, so it doesn’t really matter what goes first. But we all seem to instinctively remove the least intimate layers first. Reaching down, I pull my boots off my feet. The alloy floor of the hold feels cool, and hard on my soles. Barefoot, I drop my boots next to me, at my right, as I was ordered. My heart is pounding. Gods, this is unbearable. When will I next be lucky enough to have any covering on my feet?
At my left, Trindii is already down to her underwear. She looks around self-consciously, waiting for the others to catch up, but a guard notices her hesitation, and he activates her collar. The sight of my dear friend enduring such suffering wrenches my heart. Oh, Trindii – is that what I looked like when they tortured me? She convulses uncontrollably, and her face locks in a rictus of pain.
I start pulling at the fastenings for my dress. I’m aware I’ve got no panties on underneath – Jurong tore them from me – but there’s nothing I can do about that, and it’s not as though I’d have been allowed to keep them much longer anyway.
Next to me Trindii is unhooking her bra. Self-consciously, she lets it fall down her arms, baring her oversize breasts. Her nipples, a paler color than the rest of her java skin, are small in comparison to such fleshy balloons.
Meanwhile the last of my fastenings comes apart, and I can’t make the task of undoing my dress last any longer. Well, here goes. First, I ease it back off my shoulders exposing my cleavage, uplifted and presented even by my simple bra. Then my slim, flat belly is revealed, with the wide childbearing hips an advert of fertility in both the human world and the Dystyr one.
And then I do perhaps the bravest thing I’ve ever done, and I drop my dress to the floor. Gods, this is unbearable. I have to choke back the urge to cry. All I can think of is the way my bare ass and my core have just been exposed before a huge crowd. I cup my hand over the familiar folds of my sex organ. Dystyr are entirely hairless, and I don’t even have the protection of pubic hair afforded to the human females. I can feel my scorns touching my naked buttocks.
I make the mistake of glancing around. Most of the male captives are nude now. Some hide their genitals much as I’m doing. Some stand shameless. Many are watching the women strip. The majority of the men cling to their ingrained civility, and have the decency to glance only surreptitiously, but a few are leering blatantly. I look away. Around me almost all the women are naked. Trindii steps out her flimsy panties, and sorrowfully discards them on her pile. Then she begins to pull at her earrings. I wonder why she didn’t remove her jewelry first.
I try to unclip my bra with one hand so I can hide my groin, but it’s too difficult. Blushing with embarrassment I temporarily surrender the covering for my crotch, and I reach between my shoulder blades with both hands. I’m desperate to pause for a last second before yielding my final piece of clothing, but then I see a Slaver is watching and waiting with open enjoyment, the shock activator ready in his hand. His eyes flicker between my unprotected core and my chest. Scared almost to the point of panic, I slide the straps of my bra down my arms, and drop it quickly, that I might use one arm to conceal my chest and return my other to cup my groin.
I’m naked.
I’m naked, completely naked, in front of all of these people. Yes, my sex organ is concealed by my hand, and my nipples are hidden by pressing them into my arm, but my breasts are full, and for a woman with my proportions it’s impossible to conceal the swellings of my chest completely. No one would mistake me for a male for even a second. Hanging down my back are my scorns – another symbol of womanhood, which rest against my bare rump. Gods help me, I’m done for. I’m a naked female captive on a Slaver ship.
I look around me while continuing to concealing my privates as best as I can. The last of the prisoners are completing their process of undressing. No one offers our captors any more resistance, as though the removal of clothing took with it our spirits. The nude males are remaining stony-faced, but many of the women are crying. I wish they wouldn’t – it’s hard enough keeping my own emotions under control without the effect on me of their woes.
Trindii has her arms clamped over her body, much as I have. I hope my attempt at modesty does not look as futile as hers does.
And then I see my first slavegirl. My first live slavegirl, I think, although immediately I realize that isn’t true – all the women around me, including myself, are already slavegirls. But this one has on her face the mark of a woman processed on Aghara-Penthay – the Slaver’s equivalent of a symbol of quality. She has been marked because she has an implant injected into her brainstem – a fate feared by women across the galaxy.
I study her expression to try and see some sign of the abomination she carries – perhaps I’m expecting the glazed eyes of a zombie. But she looks perfectly normal, alert even, like any normal human female, except for the black swirling mark imprinted on the side of her head and her near-nudity in the Aghara-Penthay slave wrap.
The wraps are another defining symbol of Aghara-Penthay. A rectangular piece of silken fabric, the wrap fastens with a bow under the slave’s arm, so it can be easily removed even while the wearer is in any form of restraint. The garment is meant to excite the observer as much as conceal. It wraps around the wearer like a bath towel, but one which is too small.
Each is custom fitted to the slave so it hides just enough. With the nipples covered, the lower hem barely covers the pudenda, and the rump. At the side, there is deliberate design to provide not quite sufficient fabric to close, so it leaves a gaping swath of flesh exposed which hints at the shape of the wearer’s breasts. There is no lower fastening, so lean forward or back, and a woman exposes herself. Underwear is not permitted for slaves, so wearing a wrap, a slave is forced to constantly be aware of her body, and her slavery. Copied wraps sell in vast quantities across the galaxy. Husbands buy them for their wives to model in the bedroom. Women buy them to surprise their partners. A harmless erotic thrill for some, an everyday horror for too many.
The girl in the wrap moves along the line collecting our clothing and bundling it into a sack. There is no sorting to simplify returning items – this is collection only for disposal. I tremble as I understand I won’t ever be getting that beloved dress back. It was expensive. Underneath the covering of my arms, I can feel only my skin. I am naked. Me, and all these other naked women around me.
Other slaves move along other lines. There are too many captives for one servant to deal with all their property.
“Thank you,” I tell the one who takes my things. She does not reply.
Men move down our lines, then. Slaver men. I can see them visiting first the girls at the front of the rows, then advancing one by one along the ranks, so I have enough time to try and comprehend what’s coming. First, two men approach the captive. Then she puts her hands on her head, and parts her legs, so they get see everything. That is going to feel unbearable. The men consult each other. They write a number on her left thigh. And they move along. Five away from me. Four away. Three away. Each time it takes about thirty seconds to receive this… inspection?
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