Friday, November 18, 2016

A Successful Slave

One day a beautiful, elegant woman wearing a sensual black dress came to the kitchen and approached Stephanie. Because of her dress, Stephanie knew this woman must be one of the top women in the household. All women were slaves, but some were accorded status almost as high as men.

"Stephanie, I hear good things about you. My name is Bridget, and I am Mr. Jackson's third wife. We are having a party tomorrow, and I would like you to work preparing and serving in the guest area."

Stephanie's jaw dropped. This was an important opportunity for her. It was almost a promotion. To be allowed to serve the men, especially at an important party.

"Thank you, thank you Miss Bridget!" Stephanie exclaimed.

The third wife smiled, and touched Stephanie. "Just don't let me down. This is a big leap for you. If you do well, you will be promoted and have more responsibility in the household."

From talking with Elsa, Stephanie had learned that the highest ranking females in a large household were the 'wives'. While the highest ranking female slave was the 'first wife'. In a household as large as the Jackson's, the third wife was a very important person. She serviced the head male directly, both by managing slaves, the household, and and providing sexual service.

Stephanie was taken to the chief household slave, a woman named Magda that managed all important household duties.

"You will be assigned to prepare certain areas of the house for the party. We shall begin with cleaning the hallway and stairs."

Magda gave Stephanie a small brush and told her to clean the stair railing. Every nook and cranny of the stairs was to be cleaned.

Stephanie knelt and began scrubbing with the brush and small bowl of soapy cleaner she had been given. She was determined to do a good job. She was still wearing metal restrains marking her as a lower slave, and was, of course, naked. Only wives and women in business were allowed to wear clothes.

Stephanie kept working, hard, making sure the stairs shined as they never had before. When she was done, she took initiative (a dangerous thing for a woman in Malsi). She began cleaning the hardwood floors. She had nothing to clean then with, but she had the bowl of cleaner.

Licking up cleaner, she spit it onto the hardwood floor and began licking it up. Slowly, she made her way across the entry hall floor, making it shine as it never had before.

As she did this, Stephanie's naked body was crouched down on the floor, ass up in the air, head down. It was quite a provocative position, and when a male in the household saw her working, he stopped and admired her beauty.

"Where has Jackson been keeping you? You are certainly a cherry slave," the man said gruffly. Stephanie rose up to her submissive waiting position, but the man waved her on.

"Don't let me stop you from your duties. Continue."

Stephanie went back to washing the floor with her tongue, but the man took advantage of her position and unzipped. She could hear his pants and knew what was coming, and sure enough, moments later his cock was seeking her pussy.

Several months ago, Stephanie would have cried rape and fought back. Now, she simply spread her legs slightly wider, lowered her stomach a bit, all to provide a better angle of entry. She didn't stop cleaning. She kept licking as the stranger plunged into her cunt, fucked her, and came inside.

He pulled out, swatted her ass, zipped up, and left.

Stephanie never stopped working, and a little while later had finished with the floor.

Magda came to check on her and was impressed with the work she had done. "Good girl. Except... what is this?" She pointed to a glob of white goo on the floor.

Stephanie flushed with embarrassment. "I... Um... a male came by and took me while I was cleaning. I think some of his cum leaked out onto the floor... and, well, I missed it."

Magda was disappointed. "You know better than this. It is your responsibility to make sure all body fluids are cleaned after being used. Lick it up and go stand in the corner."

Stephanie was hugely relieved. Normally, an infraction such as this would result in a whipping or some other diabolic punishment, but Magda was apparently happy with the floor otherwise, so she simply licked up the cum and went and stood in the corner in a submissive storage posture until she was needed again.

She stayed there in corner storage for about an hour before Magda came back.

"You are to serve at the party. Go make sure your body is shaved and greased, and you are presentable and report to me in the kitchen in 20 minutes."

Stephanie leaped in excitement. She was to be allowed to serve at a major party! Only the best, youngest, most attractive, obedient slaves were chosen for this! She ran down to the slave dressing area, quickly refreshed her shaving of all private areas to make sure she was completely smooth. She then took slave oil (similar to baby oil) and applied it to her entire body. It gave her flesh a very subtle, sexy sheen.

She ran back up to the kitchen and reported with several other girls to Magda, who quickly began giving instructions. Guests were already arriving, and the priority was to serve drinks.

But, to provide some decor and flash to the rather elegant party, each of the serving slaves were fastened in some sort of bondage. One girl had her wrists shackled to a waist belt, preventing her from moving her hands either up or down her body.  Another cute girl with short blonde hair had her elbows strapped behind her back.

All the various forms of restraint made it harder for the girls to do their job, though it was still possible. They just had to struggle at it. The girl with elbows strapped behind her back was given a tray to carry, a cruel complication to her predicament.

Stephanie was restrained by an arm spreader. This was a device she had worn before while cleaning and serving in the house. A simple rod stretched about four feet apart, with a collar in the middle. The collar was secured around Stephanie's neck and locked in place.

Then, each of Stephanie's wrists were locked to the ends of the long bar, so they were stretched out as if she were suspended on a cross.

In this way, Stephanie could take two glasses and serve the guests. It was difficult not to spill, especially when handing off a drink. She had to kneel down to give it to the guest, or to put the glass on a table.

There were both men and women at this party. The women were slaves as well, of course, but they appeared to be very high class ones; favored and given privilege and position by their male owners. The more Stephanie saw these women the more she remembered that she had once been allowed to wear clothes. She had been able to come and go as she pleased.

Stephanie felt vulnerable and naked for the first time in a long time, because she served an entire room full of men and women who were all clothed.

Nevertheless she did her job.

During the cocktail hour, some of the girls were sidetracked from serving and used as amusement. Stephanie was lucky in that she was not, but she did watch as a girl named Sabrina was suddenly taken by two of the guests, a male and female, and made to bend over and expose her sex.

The male guest then watched as the female guest played with Sabrina, pushing objects into her cunt, making her grunt in pain, and then stimulating her clitoris, making her moan in pleasure. This went on for some time until Sabrina shuddered in an orgasm, and then screamed in pain when the vicious woman guest put out a cigarette on her labia.

She was then allowed to continue serving.

Stephanie also observed as another of the slaves was intercepted by a male guest who squeezed and pinched her nipples as hard as he could. The men around them laughed when the slave girl cried out and asked for mercy. In response, each male guest took turns squeezing and twisting the poor girl's nipples as hard as possible, during which she sobbed and moaned.

The male dominants seemed to think the slave girl looked better with tears streaking her cheeks.

These amusements continued during the early evening until all the slave servers were called back to the kitchen. It was going to be time for dinner soon.

For dinner, the slave girls were actually to put on some basic costumes. These were not clothing, but accessories designed to enhance the elegance of the venue.

Stephanie found it very strange to actually put on clothes, to wear any item of clothing at all, after being in Malsi and kept naked for so long. It had been months since she had been sold into slavery, and in that time she had been stripped and trained effectively. Clothes were alien to her.

Some of the girls were dressed only in stockings, held with garter belts.

Magda wore a traditional maid's outfit with an incredibly short skit.

Stephanie was given a corset to wear.

She had never worn a corset in her life, not in Malsi and not back at home. This one was put on her by Magda, who placed it around her body and pulled it tight, lacing the back slowly and carefully.

It felt strange at first, to be wearing something around her stomach. Then as Magda began to cinch the laces tighter and tighter, it began to hurt. It dug into her ribs, pressing flesh against bone and pressing the ribs inward.

The bottom edge pressed against her hips, though that didn't hurt as much as the pressure on her ribs.

Then Magda cinched the waist even tighter, pushing her foot against Stephanie's back, pulling with all her might to get Stephanie's waist compressed to the smallest it would go.

Stephanie would have gasped, but she couldn't. The corset was pressing so tightly she could hardly breath. Every breath was a struggle for her. She began to think of the corset as some sort of torture punishment, though she actually was honored to wear it while serving.

When the corset was finally on, Her hair was arranged and done, face cleaned and scrubbed to make her look pink and fresh, and finally was given a posture collar to wear. This high leather collar kept her neck elongated and her chin up. A small metal spike extended up from the front of the collar to dig into her chin, reminding her to always keep her face up, high and visible to the guests.

Stephanie went out into the party where the guests were sitting around an opulent table and began serving dinner.

For the first time since coming to Malsi, Stephanie actually felt sexy. Her entire experience until now had been as an object. Learning to obey without question, learning her needs were nothing, learning how to work and serve as a tool of the male. She was simply flesh to be used.

As she walked around the table and quietly served soup, sherbet to clear the palate, pheasant as the main course, and other exotic dishes, she realized she was the object of attention of many of the men.

Even some of the women took notice of her. She was gorgeous, and with her breasts protruding from the top of the corset, her thin waist and exposed pussy between her thin thighs... she was sexy.

Some of the men felt her pussy as she served. She made sure to spread her legs slightly to make it easy for them. The attention was delightful, and she reveled in it.

Stephanie even felt her posture collar, even though it dug painfully into her chin, helped make her more attractive and enjoyed wearing it.

Stephanie was incredibly happy for the first time since becoming a slave. She had made it. She was serving dinner wearing sexy clothing, attracting the best men, feeling them finger her cunt, at the best most elegant party of the year.

Her cunt grew wet as the men touched her, and one man, after pressing two fingers deep into her when she removed his soup bowl, raised his fingers to his nose and sniffed. He sighed, and Stephanie felt so proud.

The woman with this man looked unhappy and gave Stephanie a nasty look. Stephanie didn't care. She had finally truly achieved something and was successful as a slave in Malsi. If this pride made her wet and the man liked her smell, all the better.

At last the evening was over. Stephanie was released from her incredibly tight corset (she had been seeing spots before her eyes for lack of oxygen), and had the collar removed. She was about to return happily to her cupboard when a woman came into the kitchen.

"Mr. Franco wishes to have this one tonight," she said, pointing to Stephanie.

Stephanie didn't understand at first. When Magda pushed her and said, "Well, go then. Enjoy yourself, but return as soon as he is done with you," she suddenly realized. The man had requested her to service him in bed.

Stephanie walked naked through the corridors of the mansion that evening, later after all the guests had retired for the night. Walking around on her own, unfettered by ropes or chains, was an amazing, liberating feeling. She was on her way to service a man-- not tied and spread by force, but in his bed, to be taken and made love to.

When she arrived in the man's room, she knocked and upon hearing the word, "Enter", she went in. The man was there, in his bed. He lifted the sheets and said, "Stephanie. They tell me your name is Stephanie. I couldn't take my eyes off you this evening. Come..." He invited her under the covers.

What an honor! Stephanie had never been taken to bed by a man in Malsi before. Certainly, she had been fucked by countless men. All had taken her when she was bound and could not resist, or as a passing dalliance while she was working.

This man was making love to her.

Stephanie gave it her all. She remembered just how good it felt to engage with a man, to make him feel good, and to find pleasure in sharing bodies. Her own pleasure was secondary, but the fact this man was pleased with her was enough to bring Stephanie to orgasm after orgasm.

She even rode him. Never before had she been on top of a man in Malsi, she had always been below. Always in the submissive position. This time, she sat on his cock, felt it sink deep, then rose and felt it slip out. Up and down she went, riding him, feeling him plunge inside her body until finally she felt the cock pulse and contract in spasms and the warm semen spew into her once again.

She slept in the bed with this man that evening. She had not slept in a bed since she had been sold and it was the most decadent, luxurious thing she could think of, to lay in these sheets and feel the strong arms of the man around her.

She never asked his name. He never gave it. The next morning she returned to the kitchen and resumed her duties.

But at that point, Stephanie knew she was succeeding. She was a good slave. She was going to be a better slave, and reap the rewards of obedience and providing pleasure and service to her male masters. Life was getting better.

Friday, October 14, 2016

The CSJC: Whipping Machine

In time the Social Justice Movement came to mold and redefine the justice system. A new phenomena rose and was tried in some of the larger cities-- The Corporal Social Justice Center. In these centers the accused were tortured publicly, and in many cases the public was invited to participate in the punishment as part of the public shaming ritual of the social justice principles. As part of the Social Justice code, conviction of a crime was not required for punishment to be assigned; accusation was enough.

There were 87 students in the senior class at Never Offensive High School. This year, the administration decided they should tour the CSJC (Corporal Social Justice Center), for as adults they would be subject to the punishments that offensive or intolerant behavior carried. These teens were to be exposed to the consequences of breaking the extremely strict, though vague and ever changing social justice rules.

The result of this new social justice system was that everyone, no exceptions, would eventually end up at the CSJC, being punished for some offensive or intolerant act.

The CSJC was a five story modern concrete and class building in downtown Denver. It had two entrances; the front was for those coming to observe the punished and participate in doling out the punishment to the offenders. The back entrance, larger and more formal, was for those who came to serve their sentence. Offenders arrived there, frequently stripped and subject to running a gauntlet of taunting observers, and entered the building to receive their justice.

The class of NOHS filed through the front doors and gathered in the lobby.

"We are separating into three groups!" Called out Miss Cray, "Don't worry, each tour will be the same, there is plenty to see here and none of you will miss out on anything! OK, people with tickets numbered 1 through 30 please follow me!"

Miss Cray went through one of the doors exiting the lobby, followed by slouching, snarky high school students.

Moments later they were all standing in a narrow darkened room with several levels of floor, each with a railing. It was designed for viewing through a window on one side of the room. All the students turned and looked through the one way glass.

The room they were looking into was white, austere, almost like a doctor's office. There was little equipment in it, except for a table, a chair, and a strange machine on the table. The machine was a black metal box with a round wheel on the top.

The students all leaned forward on the railings eagerly, waiting their first official viewing of a social justice traitor, as the condemned we called. About five minutes later the punishment victim entered.

She was a woman of about 30. A pretty blond, she was completely naked. Some of the guys snickered and made comments about her breasts, nice ones that bobbled just a bit as she walked.  She was followed by a bored office worker who took the woman's wrists and quickly shackled them high above her head.

With a quick yank the shackles raised and the young woman was stretched upward, her arms extended straight above her, the ribs of her chest easily seen, her stomach going concave as her body stretched.  A speaker above the audience caught the sound of the victim's grunt as she felt her body being pulled up.

"Class! Class! Pay attention, now!" Miss Cray was talking at the front. "This social justice traitor was accused of offending another woman by criticizing her breast size. Now, as we know from class just last week, commenting on any aspect of a woman's body is illegal, though commenting on men's bodies is considering humorous and not punishable. This offender has been condemned to take 15 minutes of an automatic whipping, one of the lesser punishments as it is her first offense."

They watched as the bored bureaucrat fitted a long flexible stiff leather arm to the circular top of the machine on the table. She then sat in a chair, announced, "Punishment will begin."

She flipped a switch on the black box and the long leather strap began to rotate slowly. When it reached about halfway around a circle, it suddenly snapped forward, so fast it was a blur. The strap struck the woman across her back, making a loud snapping noise, followed by a yelp from the woman as she jumped in pain.

The leather strap continued rotating on the wheel. It took about 30 seconds to slowly rotate back into position and then suddenly shoot forward. "ThwwaaackkK!!!" the woman hanging by her wrists jerked and screamed "AAAAAAAAA!!"

The rotating wheel continued. 30 second later, it shot forward and struck the poor woman again. "WWHHAAACK!"

Again, she screamed, "AAAHGGHGGgggg!" Her entire body jerked and tried to move to get away, but suspended as she was she couldn't. She simply wriggled in an extremely erotic way. Her hips thrust forward and then back, her waist twisted, her boobs bobbled.

The students watching this punishment were fascinated. Most had never seen corporal punishment before, as it was no longer practiced in the home, under any circumstances. Spanking a child was abuse and could lead to long and severe sentences in the CSJC. Seeing a living young woman stripped naked and whipped was an overwhelming experience for some. For others, it was a shock. For a few, it was a secret delight.

15 minutes of strokes; one stroke every 30 seconds, this made for 30 strokes.  When they were done the woman was sobbing, tears running down her cheeks. Her body was criss-crossed with red stripes.

Two guards came in and unhooked the crying woman, helping her to limp out of the room.

Miss Cray stood up in front of the group. "All right, listen up. This is one of the most minor forms of punishment here at the CSJC, reserved for first time offenders and minor complaints and accusations. It is most likely that all of you will at some point be subject to discipline within the CSJC. I myself have been here three times..."  At this there was a murmur of surprise from the students.

"So we are offering you a very special opportunity. If any of you wish to feel what it is like to receive strokes here, at the CSJC, from the whipping machine, you may do so now. With the class watching."

A number of the students laughed. Who would actually volunteer for something like this?

Then one girl named Christy raised her hand. "How many strokes?" she asked.

"Five minutes, 10 strokes," said Miss Cray.

Christy nodded. "I will give it a try. I am curious."

Christy was a badass. She was known as a bit of a slut (though no one would say anything about that for fear of breaking the social justice rules). She had piercings and it was known she took a variety of drugs. That said, she had a knockout body and was really cute.

"Very well, come with me." Miss Cray took Christy out a side door.  The students all milled about, wondering why Christy would volunteer for something like this. A couple of the guys said they had heard Christy was in some sort of bondage or slave relationship with an older guy, that she was kinky, but that was only rumor.

After a few minutes a door into the white punishment room opened and Christy entered with the punishment operator. She had been stripped down to her panties which caused the guys in the room to drool. A few whistled or made comments (all completely against the social justice rules).

Christy was hung up from the chains above, her fine body pulled and stretched out before the watching class. There were a number of tattoos visible that no one had seen before because of their location on her naked body. She looked calm.

The whipping machine was turned on. The whip whirred around and then suddenly lashed out, striking Christy hard in the back. The end of the whip wrapped around her side and to the front just a little. The end flicked hard against her breast.

Christy said nothing, made no noise, just grimaced from the pain, until the third stroke when she yelped. By the fifth stroke she was crying silently, making very small grunting noises with each painful lash of the whip.

The class of seniors watched with amazement as their female classmate was whipped mercilessly by this mindless whipping machine, red stripes and finally nasty welts appearing on her fine, young flesh. Some of the girls had seen Christy naked in the locker room before, but none of the guys had. Well, except for two or three that had been lucky enough to fuck her.

She took the whipping well. When the 5 minutes were up she was standing proudly, marked with ten red, painfully swollen welts. When she was unhooked from the ceiling, she thanked the punishment operator and left.

Christy later joined the group, all dressed. They asked to see the welts, and she obligingly pulled up her top to show the red stripes across her back.

Everyone asked what it felt like. "Like a white hot knife slicing through your skin," she answered. "It actually hurt really bad, but it faded quickly, too. I am just sore now. I bet these marks will be gone in a couple of days."

The class remained while the next victim was brought in for punishment. A businesswoman in her 40s, strong and lean and attractive, she was stripped naked and placed in front of the whipping machine.

Miss Cray explained the procedure. "This woman was accused of snubbing an African American at a party. For this offense she is to be given a caning. Canings are much more painful than whippings, and the welts last longer. Let's watch."

The class watched breathlessly as the machine was fitted with a thin wooden stick.

There was a small wooden stand placed in front of the woman's hips, in order to keep her from moving forward to avoid the painful impact of the cane.  The machine pulled back, then let loose with a sudden loud slapping noise, striking her ass dead center. The woman screamed, and then sobbed, her breasts bouncing up and down. She struggled, trying to get her wrists free from the restraints above her head. She couldn't get free, but as she struggled the cane struck her again.

The woman screamed again, suddenly dropping down and hanging from her bound wrists. This meant the next strike hit her lower back, which caused a sobbing cry, and the woman stood again to try and make sure the cane hit her ass, not her back.

The pain from the relentless, mindless, merciless caning was obvious. The woman cried, sobbed, begged for mercy. Her ass and lower back were a mass of welts and in spite of the air conditioned room she was sweating profusely.

When it was finally over, the group of students moved on, and finally returned to school. They were subdued by what they had seen.

The experience at the Corporal Social Justice Center had a strong impact on the graduating class. Most went out into the world more carefully, watching their words and attempting to offend no one, for any reason.

They failed, and all ended up being sent to the CSJC for varying levels of punishment after their graduation.

Wednesday, July 6, 2016

Suicide Club: Elise

The Suicide Club had grown some in the last year. One suicide per month, but they had about 15 new members. That means it had actually grown by 3.

It wasn't easy getting into the club. In fact, it was virtually impossible. By invitation only, it was a very special group of people, despairing of life, wanting and seeking a way out, but unable to bring themselves to actually perform the act. Unable to go through with it.

Thus, the Suicide Club. Join the club, you commit yourself to die along with other members of the club. Each month the group gathered, a lottery was performed, and the person randomly selected would commit suicide. Technically, the group arranged their death; the selected person need do nothing but submit. Last month a young woman was hanged by the group.

The Suicide Club breathed new life into some members. The idea that really, their lives would be ending soon because it was just a matter of time before their number was up in the lottery, was a tremendous burden relieved. They actually lived better, more meaningful lives. Happier lives. All the way up until their number was selected, and they died.

Being a member of this select group, committing to the club, meant not backing out. Once you joined, you were dead. Eventually. Joining was a suicidal act.

And like fight club, there was one inviolate rule: don't talk about Suicide Club. Ever.

Elise had been a member of the club for three months. She was surprised at the atmosphere. The members were happy, positive people. For a bunch of suicidal depressives, they seemed to enjoy life and the proceedings quite a bit.

She was also surprised by the party-like, almost orgiastic nature of the gatherings. She had been told by one of the members that had been with the club for well over a year (and never had his number come up) that it hadn't always been that way. Slowly, with each group meeting, there had been increasing sexual activity, more pleasure seeking, more wanton debauchery.

At first it had been sort of a way of blowing off steam, of showing relief at not having been chosen that month, of sharing life. Not everyone had joined in, just a few who had felt the need to fuck after one of their members left this life for the next.

The last few months, the sexual aspect of the Suicide Club had become more and more salient. Sexual activity occurred before the lottery, and frequently went on during the execution itself.

Elise had hooked up with Omar, a tall, dark and handsome guy that had just been diagnosed with ALS that month, and was just showing creeping signs of muscular degeneration and difficulty coordinating movement. They had fucked on her first meeting, after the hanging of a young woman named Kristina, and it had helped her cope a bit. During the second execution, the drowning of a woman named Fay, she had been seated on Omar's lap, his cock embedded in her, riding him as the condemned Fay had been lowered struggling into the dark water.

The group's suicide method was usually either hanging or drowning. Elise had witnessed one woman hanged, one drowned, and a man hanged. Today's suicide was to be a drowning.

The large yacht easily accommodated the 23 members of the club. They were puttering out of the harbor slowly. There had been hoer's devours, Omar was there and looking handsome though his ALS was causing him some major problems. He was actually hoping to be selected that day, so rather than wait for The Ritual, Elise went below with Omar, stripped off their clothes, and he pushed her against the curved cabin wall as he pounded deep inside her.

When it was time for the ritual, Elise and Omar joined everyone on deck still naked. They weren't the only ones; several of the members were naked, having satisfied sexual lust in anticipation of their potential demise.

A random selection. First, cards were distributed to each person. Dice were then thrown to select which cards were to be selected for the first round. Out of 23 possibles, 10 were selected for the second round. Both Omar and Elise were selected.

It was a bit like Russian Roulette. Very exciting in a dangerous, deadly way.

Straws were then broken; four straws shorter than the others. Placed in a holder that presented an even chance, the remaining 10 selected a straw each. Four had short straws; Elise, Omar, a young woman named AnnaMarie, and an older guy named Henry that had only been in the club for one month.

At this point the ritual called for the binding. To prevent any potential issues with someone wanting to back out, or fight the inevitable process once they were chosen, they were secured during the last selection phase.

Elise was bound hand and foot and lay on the deck, unable to move. Omar, AnnaMarie and Henry were all tied securely and their bodies lay next to each other.

Elise's heart was pounding. Was it her turn? There was still only a 25% chance she would be selected. Fairly good odds, though she had never come this far in the lottery. Being tied, restrained, unable to move made the whole process very real. There was absolutely no backing out at this point.

The last selection was a giant wheel. The two men were considered odd, the two women considered evens. The wheel was spun and from the deck Elise watched it turn round and round.... slowing.. until it landed on the number 22. Even's had been selected.

The two men were released from their bondage. Elise and AnnaMarie were both laying on the deck, shaking. AnnaMarie was sobbing quietly. One of them would be executed. Odds had gone to 50%.

The wheel was spun.... Elise could not look. She had decided she didn't want to die this day. Her life was shit, but... the Suicide Club had actually made it bearable. She struggled, refused to look at the wheel as it clattered slower and slower and finally stopped.

A wave of noise went over the members of the club. "Ohhhh...."

AnnaMarie was suddenly hauled up from next to Elise. Elise was left laying on the deck.

She had been chosen.

Today was Elise's day to die.

She sobbed, crying, her face down against the fiberglass of the deck. They were out of the harbor now, but not in international waters as yet.

Several of the men grabbed Elise's body and strapped it up to a beam, so that she swung suspended half over the water. She screamed and begged for mercy, struggled against the ropes. She begged not to be killed. This was exactly why the Suicide Club was formed; members that wished to die, that had desperately wanted to end their life but could not bring themselves to go through with the final act. Here, the other members of the Suicide Club would enforce your own wishes, even if you chickened out at the end.

Elise was chickening out. She hung suspended out over the cold water, imagining being dumped in it, not being able to breathe, slowly descending into the cold water, leaving the warmth of comfort of the boat, of Omar, of life...

Finally, the ship slowed. It was time. Elise screamed and begged. Looking back on the boat, she saw Omar and a new girl named Ali. Ali was bent over at the railing, as naked as Omar. Omar was behind her, and she saw her breasts jiggle as he thrust into her. Both were looking at her hanging naked from the beam, about to be dropped.

A weight was added to her feet, tied securely.

She knew it was about to happen. She watched other members of the club engaged in various forms of sensual pleasure, watching her as she hung waiting for the final release that would plunge her---

And the rope was pulled; she felt herself suddenly drop the five feet or so to the surface and then the ice cold water splashed and covered her.

It was such a shock. The cold. She hadn't thought about just how cold the water would be. She tried to scream, but that simply brought water into her mouth and nose. Salt water. Another thing she hadn't realized; the thick, caustic saltiness of the sea seemed to actively eat at her sinuses and throat.

She lost control and breathed in. Instead of air, water flooded her lungs.

No one tells you how painful it is to drown. Not only does the body scream for air, absolute panic shooting through her entire naked body, but the water flooding her lungs felt like raw fire. She struggled against the rope to no avail.

The deeper she went, the darker it became. The light was leaving her, as her life escaped her body.

Slowly, slowly she sank down until the weights hit the sand at the bottom of the sea.

Elise continued to struggle for a little while, the pain and panic in her body putting her into convulsions. Soon though, her eyes rolled up into her head, and the lack of oxygen in her brain took consciousness from her. It was over for Elise.

Above, Omar had climax, spurting semen inside of Ali just at the moment they observed Elise splash into the cold ocean water. It had been timed perfectly. Some members rushed to the side of the boat to observe the last glimpses of Elise as she sank below the surface, slowly disappearing in the dense sea water.

Omar and Ali got up, cleaning themselves off.

"What's your name again? And your reason for suicide?" Ali asked.

"I'm Omar. I was just diagnosed with ALS a couple of weeks ago." He showed Ali his left hand, how it had a little trouble moving. The early signs.

Wednesday, May 25, 2016

Sold Into Slavery: Household Duties

Unpacked from her transport box, Stephanie cried out in pain when her limbs were allowed to move at last. Transport was always a nightmare, painful, claustrophobic, difficult.

She recognized the Jackson compound, and felt relief. It was surprising, but this place had become her home. It was the only place she knew as home, in spite of the fact she was a slave, tortured and punished here.

With her wrists tied behind her, she was guided into the main house by an older female slave. Stephanie went peacefully. Her days of fighting, struggling against the inevitability of her slavery, were over. This was her life now. To please her male masters, and their female surrogates. Her days as a corporate saleswoman were past, sliding out of her memory.

Mr. Jackson greeted her personally as she was brought into the house.

"Welcome back, Stephanie. You are looking well."

She stood quietly, knowing better than to answer. She lowered her head and looked at the ground.

"We've decided to give you a try at housekeeping again. Do your best, and I think you will find it is not that bad of a life."

He turned and left.

It turned out that housekeeping in any Malsi home was a basic chore assigned to the lowest of slaves. There were places around the house where she was kept, locked away, waiting for some bit of housework to do.

There was a woman that introduced herself as the head maid. She guided Stephanie to her first task and outlined what would happen.

"This is a set of rooms, a suite. Your duty is to keep it spotless. Dust it, polish the floors, polish the woodwork, clean the windows."

Stephanie was chained restrictively, which would make such work difficult, but she knew better than to complain.

"When you are not actively cleaning or straightening, you are to come here."

The woman showed Stephanie a sort of box like cupboard, barely big enough for her to fit into.

"Climb in."

Stephanie climbed in. It was cramped, rough, and dark. Rats had been inside at one time. A door closed on her and a pin slid into place, locking the door so she could not leave. The tiny cupboard was almost as bad as transport, though not quite. She could roll over, and lay in different positions. A tiny trough at one end of the space was designed to catch her body waste and channel it away.

Just when Stephanie thought she was to be left there permanently, the door was unlocked and opened and Stephanie tumbled out. The woman handed her some cleaning supplies.

"You may begin cleaning. If any male member of the household enters, you are to discretely leave and return to your cupboard."

Stephanie began cleaning.

It was soooo much better than being an art object. She could move about, decide more or less where to go. The work was hard and she was chained, but she had a job and worked hard at it.

When the suite of rooms was spotless, she returned to her cupboard and curled up in it. She heard men outside, using the rooms. Night came, and she slept.

The next morning she was out and cleaning once again, using a wood polish to finish the expensive wood furniture, when a young man entered the room. He was tall, handsome, and wore a business suit. As directed, Stephanie began to move discretely out of the room to hide in her cupboard, but the man stopped her.

He sat in a chair and beckoned her over.

"Come, stand by me. You are new here, are you not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what is your name, beautiful girl?"

"Stephanie, sir."

The man reached up and gently stroked Stephanie's breast. His hand then moved down her body to her crotch.

"Spread your legs," he commanded.

Stephanie complied, spreading her legs by moving her feet wide apart. The young man felt her cunt, playing with the soft folds of flesh.

"Turn around, and bend over."

Stephanie complied, bending over at the waist. Her legs were still spread and gave ready access to her sex organs.

"Move over there, to the table. Lean over the table."

Stephanie lay on the table, her breasts pressing down on the surface, ass sticking out, legs spread wide. It was obvious what the young man was going to do, and she now knew that this was a normal part of what was expected of her. Fighting it was simply a waste of time.

The young man unzipped and she felt his cock press against her cunt. She didn't move, and he pressed harder, pushing to get inside. He was large but his cock was very hard and he pushed tenaciously, slowly getting  inside her. Finally he penetrated deep with a sudden movement, and she gasped.

The young man then fucked her, hard. His cock slid in and out of her cunt, stretching her opening wide. It had been a long time since Stephanie had been fucked, and she was actually enjoying it, pushing her ass back against the young man as he rammed home, over and over again.

He came, spewing cum inside her. When his convulsions and grunts diminished to nothing, he withdrew and turned Stephanie around.

"Kneel, and clean me."

Stephanie took his cock in her mouth, sucking it clean of his cum and her juices. When it was clean, the man put it in his pants, zipped up and left, leaving Stephanie standing in the room by herself, the stranger's cum oozing out of her cunt.

Stephanie went back to work with the wood polish.

The man's cum slid down her leg, and she had to go back over the floor, cleaning up the body fluids that had dripped.

Over the next week, Stephanie learned her duties in that suite of rooms very well. She learned how to polish, clean the floors, keep windows spotless. She kept out of the way of the occupants of the home as much as possible. She was doing an admirable job of adapting to being a completely subjugated slave. It had taken weeks to break her, punishment and pain, agony and suffering, lessons repeated over and over, but she was finally broken.

Stephanie was stationed in that suite of rooms for several weeks. She spent much of her time in her tiny slave closet, hiding away. Whenever the rooms were unoccupied she came out and cleaned, polished, straightened and groomed the area. She was proud of the work she did.

The rooms included a set of restrooms, which Stephanie learned to clean thoroughly. Her training of hard discipline, pain and punishment for disobedience had finally made her focus on her service and tasks, and she worked harder than she had ever worked in her life, making porcelain shine, removing dust from the most hidden places.

She was naked all this time, and her nudity had become common for her now. She no longer felt embarrassed or humiliated by mere nudity.

Once more during her time in those rooms the same young man came to her. It seemed he knew she was there and desired her, catching her when she was out of her cupboard.

Without ceremony or request, he roughly bent her over a table, dropped his pants, and fucked her, hard. She obeyed without question, letting him fuck her hard as she grunted and moaned until he was satisfied and came inside her.

When he was done using her, the young man left her to return to her work. She simply continued cleaning and straightening as was her job. Being fucked at any time of the day or night by any man that desired her had become a part of her life.

One day while Stephanie was locked in her closet, the head maid  came to her again and took her out of the closet.  "We are moving you. You are to begin working in the kitchen assisting in cleaning and in cooking. You will be under the command of the head cook there, and will obey her every instruction."

"Yes, ma'am," Stephanie said. She was learning there was a pecking order to women in Malsi culture, and she was at the bottom.

That evening a strong looking man came and unchained her.  Instead, she was placed inside a small container of plastic. It was very small, and she had to bunch up her legs tightly to her chest in order to fit. She obeyed, even though the tiny space of the container made her panic a bit.

The man who had come for her lifted the container and carried it out; placing it on a cart. She could barely see, but Stephanie caught a glimpse of three other containers already stacked on the cart. Each contained another naked girl like her.

The cart was wheeled down the hall, into an elevator and up to the third floor. There they picked up a fifth girl locked away inside another plastic container barely big enough to hold a completely folded body. The stack of girls was then taken downstairs to a basement. There each of the plastic containers was scanned with a bar code scanner and the girl containers were lifted and put on carts for delivery to other locations. Stephanie's container was placed on a tiny cart and rolled upstairs. Stephanie had just been processed as a package, a piece of inter-office mail.

Her arms and legs were cramping quickly from the tiny space, and it was hard to breathe, so it was a tremendous relief when the lid was removed and she was told to get out.

The man that had transported her to the new location grabbed her collar. She was in a kitchen, a well equipped kitchen that she knew probably serviced the main dining room of the Jackson household.

Dragging Stephanie along, the man showed her the kitchen.

"This is your new work area. This counter is where bread is prepared. The sinks are made of stainless steel and must be scrubbed daily. We regrout once a month, and you will be taught how. The cupboards here are where we store the main pots and pans..." the man continued to point Stephanie to various elements of the kitchen.

"In the morning you will be released by the head cook. Obey her orders exactly, and you will do well. Fail, and you will be punished. I hear she's a bit of a bitch, so watch yourself."

He took her to a small closet, opened the door and pushed her in.

"This is where you will reside now. Return here whenever your duties are completed, ready to be called upon again."

The man shut the door and locked Stephanie in for the night.

While the cupboard was tall and did not allow Stephanie to lay down with her legs straight out, she was able to sit or lay down with her knees curled up. It was deep and had some advantages from her old box. There was a small hole for her to urinate and defecate in, and she could actually move around a bit.

In general, this was a step up from where she had been.

She heard someone moving on the other side of the wall; another girl was locked inside a cupboard next to hers. She knew better than to try and talk.

The next morning she was removed from the closet by a stern looking woman who wore clothes. As a low level slave Stephanie did not wear clothes, and she knew the amount and type of clothes a woman wore reflected her status in Malsi culture. This woman wore a cooks outfit, complete with shoes. This made her a supervisor, someone to be obeyed.

The cook supervisor put her to work cleaning floors. For this, she had two scrub brushed attached to her hands. They were wired in place; because the bottom of her hands rested on the back of the brushes she couldn't use her fingers to remove the brushes. The attachment would remain until someone removed them.

Stephanie set to work scrubbing on all fours, her ass high in the air, her hands on the floors. She moved up and down, back and forth. Sometimes she wet her brushes (and hands) dipping them in a soapy bucket of water, and then continued.

This continued the entire day until the floor of the kitchen and pantry next door had been scrubbed. The brushes were left wired to her hands when she was placed in her cupboard for the night.

Because her hands were not usable as anything but cleaning tools, she had to eat direct from her dog dish. She leaned over and buried her face in the food ration, and ate it. She then drank from the water dish, moving back and forth.

Food remained smeared on her face, and she did the best to clean it off but succeeded only in smearing it all over her arms.

This humiliating assignment continued for a week at least. Each day Stephanie would be released from her cupboard, use her scrub brush hands to scrub the floor starting from one side and moving slowly to the other side, then the pantry. She ate from the dog dish and water dish. She peed and defecated in the hole in her cupboard.

It all started again the next day. Stephanie never got up off her hands and knees. There was never any reason to.

Even though she spent her entire day with her exposed ass and cunt in the air, no one came to the kitchen to fuck her.

After two weeks of this monotony, Stephanie was told by the head cook she would clean dishes. At last! Stephanie almost broke down crying with gratitude; she would be able to stand and do some other form of work.

When she was released she went to the sink area and began scrubbing. It was hard work, harder than scrubbing the floor because food was baked on, very difficult to get off.

Stephanie did her very best, she tried, she really did. But some of the pots were not sparkling clean when she was done, and the next day the cook reported Stephanie. She was in trouble.

A man came.

"Follow me, slave. Your unnacceptable work in the kitchen requires some discipline and punishment."

Stephanie quaked in fear. Punishment in the Jackson household, in fact anywhere in Malsi, was tantamount to torture and could be agonizing. She had been punished before, she had no desire to be tortured again.

The man took Stephanie to a room down the hall; it was a dining room, used for larger dinners. The man tied Stephanie's arms behind her back and then gave her a scrub brush and bucket.

"Clean the floor. Spotless. Now."

With her arms tied behind her back there was only one way to do it. Tears streaming down her face she took the brush in her mouth, dipped it in the water and began scrubbing.

She worked hard, but the man watched her and was never satisfied.

"You missed a spot!"

He whipped her ass with a long leather whip. She cried out and went back to do the spot.

"You aren't going fast enough!"

The whip sliced across her back. Stephanie screamed from the pain, dropping the brush. This brought another stroke of the whip, and then another.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Stephanie made her way across the room, cleaning with the brush in her mouth. She sobbed, tears mingling with the soapy water. She did her best, but it wasn't enough. She was whipped mercilessly as she worked.

Finally the day was over. The room had been scrubbed.

"Return to the kitchen. Eat your dinner." The man instructed.

Stephanie walked to the kitchen, grateful for the break. Her dinner was still served in a dog dish, and bending over to eat it from the floor hurt, as her bruised and striped skin stretched.

She didn't know how she could do better. She had tried her best and it wasn't enough.

Life in Malsi was labor, submission, and suffering. Her ass stung, her back ached, and she was filthy from eating from a dog dish. She returned to her cupboard and cried, not caring that the other kitchen maids in the next cupboards would hear her.

Stephanie no longer remembered her life as a marketing and sale associate. To her, life was her cupboard, the work, the punishment, randomly being used as a fuck toy. This was what she was now.

When Stephanie returned to the kitchen she was put back on dish washing duty, this time with another slave girl named Elsa. This was the first time Stephanie had ever worked with another female slave, and it was delightful.

The two naked women worked together most of the day. Another poor girl, perhaps a young teenager, had brought in to do Stephanie's daily floor scrubbing, and Stephanie looked down on the girl with pity. She remembered the painful wires that attached the scrub brushes to the hands, and the monotony of the job.

At the same time, she knew not to ever speak to the slave girl on the floor.

Elsa showed Stephanie some tricks for getting the pots clean and sparkling. They talked together, but only when the cook was not present. Stephanie learned more of the rules of Malsi slavery, including some of the casts, or levels to which female slaves could aspire.

Elsa shared that she had been sterilized some time before; she was not considered a "breeder". Stephanie wondered about her own sterilization. Mr. Jackson had originally said she would be sterilized, but it had never happened. Was she to breed? What if she became pregnant? She had been used for vaginal intercourse twice in the last month or so, and it was a possibility but not likely. Still, she wondered.

Stephanie also noticed that Elsa was beautiful. She had kept her shape because she was never impregnated. Twice now, Elsa had been used by a passing male for sexual service. She didn't like it because it slowed her kitchen work down and got her in trouble, but there was no choice. She could say nothing about it.

Stephanie worked hard, concentrating on being a good slave and getting work done properly and on time. She had no desire for the agony of punishment and was doing all she could to avoid it.

The young man that had used her several weeks before found her one day, and disrupted her work for sex. She complied, of course, laying with her back flat on the kitchen counter, legs high in the air. She found him attractive and the experience was pleasant. She was wet when his cock pushed against her pussy and he slipped inside her quickly, and fucked her hard.

When it was over, she made to silently return to work, but the man spoke to her.

"What is your name?"

"Stephanie, sir."

"You are not from Malsi."

"No sir. I came here on business and was sold at the slave market."

"Mr. Jackson made a good buy," the man said and then left.

Stephanie's cheeks burned, blushing with pride. She had impressed a male, and received a compliment. She wanted him to return and fuck her again.

Saturday, February 6, 2016

Sold Into Slavery: Art

It took two days for Stephanie to recover from her punishment. She had light burns where the electrodes had eaten away the flesh during her long torture session, and was weak and exhausted.

During this time Stephanie lay in the cellar holding cell, chained and unable to move; though really she didn't want to move much. She managed to get to a waste bucket to relieve herself, and ate from the small dishes left for her with food and water, otherwise she just lay, numb and raw from the constant agony she had endured.

"Get up. Time to earn your living!" The voice was of a stern man, silhouetted by the light pouring from behind him as he stood in the door.

Stephanie struggled to her feet.  She had lost weight and was thin, though her body was strengthening and she had essentially recovered from the torture punishment.

A collar around her neck had a chain attached and she was led from the stone holding cell. From there she was taken down the basement corridor to a room where she obediently allowed herself to be tied down to a metal table, legs and arms spread slightly.

Stephanie found she had lost her will to fight. Her will was broken. Her mind had become mushy, and she only vaguely remembered her life before becoming a slave in Malsi. What reminded her of her new status as slave was her inexperience. Almost everything she encountered was new. There were new places, new masters, new forms of pain, new punishments, new tasks. She was still learning.

On the metal table she lay and allowed herself to be washed. A heavy, coarse brush was used to scrub her skin with soap. The coarseness of the brush seamed to scrape and rip her flesh and she cried from the pain, but did not protest or resist. Special treatment to her anus and vaginal area meant more scraping and rubbing on her most sensitive flesh.

She was rinsed off, and when done she glowed pink and fresh, clean and healthy in her nakedness.
Released from the table she was taken down the hall and climbed stairs to the main house where she was left in a finely furnished room. She felt out of place there; she was a dirty slave, and the room was for men, not women. She stood, afraid to sit down on the fine furniture.

Three men entered, Mr. Jackson and two other strangers. Mr. Jackson spoke.

"Here she is, gentlemen. Is she not all I said?"

"Yes, yes, Jackson. I do like this one." One of the men, a tall dark man with a trimmed beard, came over and examined Stephanie closely. He ran his hands over her body, between her legs. He forced her legs apart easily (she complied automatically). Her hair and teeth were examined.

"I think we can reach an agreement here. 2,000 per week, for the next month?"

"That is agreeable. With the stipulation that there are no permanent modifications or mental debilitation. She is worth a considerable amount."

Stephanie stood and listened. She was being... sold? No. Rented, perhaps. Or leased. Some agreement for her use had just been arrived at

"Please pack her up and send her to our studio in Jahsana, we will expect her tomorrow."

When the men left, Mr. Jackson stayed behind, looked Stephanie over happily, and finally addressed her.

"Well, my dear. I am finally going to being to recover some of the cash I expended in your purchase. It won't come anywhere near to compensating me, but it's a beginning. Do well at this. Don't disappoint."

"Please... sir." Stephanie asked timidly. "What will happen to me?"

"You are to be used for an art exhibit. Very little will be expected of you other than to obey and be still. To cooperate with the artistic senses of those gentleman. It is the simplest, most base task for a slave, and I certainly hope you can be successful."

Stephanie hung her head. She was embarrassed, frightened, and wanted only to find safety. Comfort was no longer a desire. She had almost forgotten what comfort was. She had forgotten what it meant to wear clothing. She only vaguely remembered freedom.

That evening Stephanie was packed away for shipment. She had been transported before in various ways, none of them pleasant. Being treated as cargo was never fun and could be quite painful. This time turned out to be the most claustrophobic of any transportation method.

She was laid naked in a coffin-like pine box on a layer of foam, and told to lay as still as possible. There she was cathetered, a tube running up into her bladder and out into a bag. A large plug was inserted into her anus. The process of having her genitals prodded and the tube inserted was humiliating, but she did nothing but lay still and allow it to happen.

A tank rather like a fire extinguisher was produced, with a flexible tube that extended out. As Stephanie lay in the box, the tube was activated and out flowed a foam that was like a thick liquid. It expanded quickly as it covered Stephanie's body.

Within seconds the foam began to dry and harden. Within one or two minutes the foam was solid, and while soft, did not yield to her at all. She was completely encased in the foam packing material, except for her face which looked out of the box and stared at those around her. The box lid was attached and she was enveloped in darkness, unable to move even a quarter of an inch.

Complete immobility. No part of Stephanie's body could move even a quarter of an inch. She was encased, immobile, packed away, and the crate containing her was quickly moved. She felt the thumping and bumping of movement and heard the hollow sounds of the back of a truck.

She wasn't handled as gently as prior shipments; apparently the foam packing material allowed workers to jostle and throw the crate around without risk of damaging her. Nevertheless it was extremely unpleasant and Stephanie became nauseous very quickly. The movement, bumping and crashing around made her sick. This frightened her, for she was gagged with a ball gag and she didn't know what would happen if she vomited.

At one point she was upside down, the crate lifted and rolled along with her head pointed toward the ground. Her cries were muffled by the packing, and could not be heard by the workmen that moved her crate.

The entire transport too about two days, during which Stephanie did not eat or drink, urinated into the catheter without control, and was unable to defecate. The shit in her bowels built up painfully, unable to be expelled.

At last the crate was still and she the lid removed. Fresh air wafted in and she breathed as deeply as the foam packing would allow. A worker took a knife and cut into the packing material, removing it in large chucks. When enough had been removed, Stephanie fell free onto the floor.

After a short time for recovery, a short, squat but strong man forced Stephanie to walk into a room where there were several other women very similar in size and look to herself, all being processed in some way. 

Her butt plug was removed and replaced by an enema tube. Water flowed into her bowels and she doubled over, crying out in pain as peristalsis cramps struck her. The bag was larger than any enema bag Stephanie had ever seen, and the liquid just kept pouring into her abdomen, distending her stomach, forcing its way up higher and higher into her intestines.

When the bag was finally empty, all the liquid sloshing around inside of Stephanie, the enema tube and nozzle were left inside as they removed the catheter from her urethra.

"Use the bucket," the man instructed. When the enema nozzle was removed, Stephanie sat on the bucket and let the streams of water and shit squirt out. It took her almost 15 minutes to clear her bowels completely. Another girl was expelling her enema into a bucket across the room at the same time.

The girls, all obviously selected for their similar looks, were then washed with a spray gun and heavy brush. When all were cleaned, they were given bottles of a thick, vanilla liquid to drink.

"This is nourishment. It is all you will need for the next two days. Drink it up."

Stephanie and the other girls all drank the entire bottle, filled to satisfaction.

A tiny catheter was inserted into Stephanie. It was enough to block all urination, but could not be seen. A plug was placed securely up her ass once again.

All the girls, six of them together, were marched down the hall across a lobby and into an exhibition area of a museum. There were already several exhibits that contains naked girls in various poses, forced into strange positions, or painted or incorporated into some sort of strange modern art background.

Stephanie's art exhibit was a wall with six frames. Each frame took one of the girls, tied securely in different ways. Each frame contained a girl in a different position; some with arms above her head, some with arms to the side, one facing the wall with her ass sticking out.

Stephanie was tied in place with her arms up, legs spread, facing outward. She was left there, along with the other girls. Looking at the other women in the exhibit, Stephanie was grateful she wasn't the girl at the end that had been tied upside down.

It was late evening, and once the girls were tied in place the lights were turned off and the museum emptied. The girls were left hanging from the wall; pieces of "art" waiting for museum patrons to appear the next day. It was better than the torture punishment that lingered at the front of Stephanie's mind, but it was still an unnatural and degrading thing to happen. She spent some of her time remembering her work as a marketing and sales executive, her home, car, and family. All gone, distant, replaced by the humiliation of hanging naked in public.

There was little conversation between the girls in the night. The girl at the end that was upside down complained of nausea, but then fell quiet. The girl next to Stephanie mentioned this was her third exhibit as a work of art, and was proud of her artistic contribution, though it was very uncomfortable.

The next morning the museum opened at 8:00 AM and patrons began to filter through, looking at the various works. The patrons were mostly men. Some women attended, high class slaves that accompanied their owners, laughed and commented on the artistic merits of various displays.

Stephanie's exhibit drew moderate attention, with many visitors observing the girls hanging in various poses. Being simply hung on the wall as an object of art was humiliating for Stephanie. It was painful, and her discomfort and reaction to the discomfort was being observed in a very detached manner by crowds of people who casually walked by. It wasn't easy to simply hang from the wall for long periods at a time, and cramping discomfort caused Stephanie and the other girls to struggle and shift their weight around as best they could. This movement was considered part of the art.

Throughout the day observers stopped and examined the exhibit, never touching but showing great interest in all aspects of the display. Stephanie found herself growing more and more uncomfortable as her muscles gave out, cramps became more and more painful, and her bladder and bowels filled.

The girl next to Stephanie began to cry, internal pain breaking her down. Once again, this was considered part of the art and the patrons observed the variations in the art piece as the day wore on. Tears, moans of pain, struggles and writhing in different positions were noted and enjoyed by the art patrons.

Finally, it was time for the museum to close. Guests were ushered out, lights dimmed, doors locked. Stephanie hung as if crucified, sagging down in misery.

An attendant came with a bucket and removed Stephanie's catheter. Urine sprang from her unplugged urethra, spraying with sudden force. The pleasure of evacuating her bladder after an entire day was incredible. She pushed every last drop out, and then the catheter was replaced.

Each of the girls was allowed to relieve herself into the bucket and then was re-cathetered. A while later another bucket was provided, butt plugs were removed and each girl was given the opportunity to defecate. Butt plugs were replaced when this process was complete.

The thick, nourishing liquid was provided once again, and Stephanie gulped it down.

The lights were turned off and the exhibit was once again in the dark, ready for patrons to view the next day.

After three days of this, the art exhibit was changed, and Stephanie was moved to a different hall in the same museum. Her new location was actually near an entryway, and she was the only girl in her area.

The two workers that moved her put heavy straps around her ankles and wrists, and then with a giant heave lifted her body up and upside down. Pushed against the plain white wall, her arms and legs were forced apart, spread wide.

Stephanie's body was oiled thoroughly as she hung head down. When her skin glistened with a semi-natural shine, she was left alone. She was to be the introductory art work, before the patrons entered the main hallway.

Hanging upside down was seriously disconcerting for Stephanie. Blood rushed to her head, and the pounding pressure gave her a headache. After a while, she drooled, but the drool dribbled down her face, into her eyes and flowed over her temples to her hair. Arm and leg muscles ached and she twisted in position to relieve the pain. Pulling on the straps allowed her to change position, lifting and shifting her position sideways, back and forth.

Art patrons watched as she struggled, appreciating the sight as her pain caused her to writhe.

Around noon, the artist that arranged for this exhibit observed Stephanie's struggles, and decided she was moving too much. He attached a collar to her neck, and then clipped a strap to the collar. The other end of the strap attached to a clip on the floor. The result was the Stephanie's neck was now held down, in place, greatly limiting her ability to move.

The inverted position made it impossible to properly digest the liquid food she had been given earlier, and eventually Stephanie vomited a small amount. The vomit flooded her nose, flowing over her eyes and forehead and soaked her hair before dripping onto the floor. The vomit was allowed to remain, drying slowly in the air conditioned atmosphere of the museum.

All in all it was a miserable and difficult day.

Stephanie remained upside down all night, while the museum was closed. She cried, tears trickling over her vomit encrusted face. She was in pain, and the pain was very slowly but surely becoming worse.

Early the next morning the exhibit artist came and with two men, unhooked Stephanie from the wall. She collapsed, the strain on her muscles making it impossible to move. They dragged her over to another room, switching her out with another girl who was to take her place in the entry hall that day. Instead, Stephanie had her wrists tightly tied and pulled above her so she stood with her body stretched out. Rope was added to her upper arms, which was in turn knotted in her mouth, forming a gag. Rope on her ankles jerked them wide apart, causing her weight to descend completely on her wrists and shoulders.

A whip was placed on the floor before her, and a sign indicated that this was an interactive piece of art, and the patrons could use the whip as they saw fit.

When the museum opened, Stephanie hung in place while patrons came, observed, and some of them took up the whip and lashed her body with it. The principle of the artwork was for patrons to add their own unique markings to Stephanie's body, creating their own contribution to the art. By the end of the day, her face was soaking wet from tears, her voice hoarse from screaming, and her body burned with the pain of repeated lashings. Each guest had added their own mark to her flesh, and each mark stung and burned like fire. The floor beneath her was wet with her body fluids; saliva drool, tears, sweat that trickled down her body, urine from lost bladder control.

This interactive exhibit had been many of the guests favorite. The hall was crowded, and many patrons, both men and women, came to observe and participate in marking Stephanie, in adding to the artwork that was her body, her pain, her suffering.

After the museum closed for the evening, Stephanie simply hung in place, exhausted, convinced she was dying. She no longer remembered her life before Malsi. Pain and suffering was all she knew now, and she was losing her will to endure it.

Stephanie hung in place for the night, sagging on her wrists, unable to move even as much as when she had been hung upside down on the wall. She was pulled too tightly. She managed to sleep a little, her exhaustion taking over.

The next morning she was taken down and another girl was brought in to replace her, arms stretched above her head, whip waiting at her feet. A new, fresh canvas waiting for marking by the art patrons.

Stephanie was taken to a back room in the museum, a small concrete cell with a drain in the center. She was no longer bound, and began moving her arms and legs to get feeling and function back into them. An attendant sprayed her off with a hose, washing her body. At one time this process would have been humiliating to Stephanie, but now it was a welcome relief. She was being cared for, washed, and was grateful for the luxury.

The attendant sprayed her down thoroughly, and Stephanie cooperated by spreading her legs, standing at different angles, and making sure the water spray cleaned everywhere. There was a brief moment of pleasure when the stream of water hit her pussy, and she thrust her hips forward shamelessly, spreading her legs to allow the pulsing water to caress her clit and pussy.

Just a few short weeks ago, Stephanie would never have conceived that she would do such a thing. Now she did it without a thought, and a simple feeling of gratitude.

She was dried off and taken down the hall and placed in a cage. The floor was covered with towels and was soft, and Stephanie lay down and slept, rested, and recovered from her ordeal as a work of art. She was fed twice during the day, and given a bucket to urinate and defecate in. These simple pleasures made her feel that she was on holiday.

When the evening came, an attendant came with the artist that had run the exhibition.

"You've been selected as decoration for the artists reception tonight. Serve well, and you will be returned to your household." The artist instructed Stephanie.

Stephanie simply nodded, agreeing that she would serve the best she could. She was learning now, adapting to being a woman in Malsi. Her position was the lowest, as mere decoration. Even so, she would do her best.

Several men took Stephanie to a ballroom that was lavishly decorated with mirrors, candles, wallpaper, cherry wood tables and chairs, white table cloths, silver and crystal prepared for the evening's dining.  Taking Stephanie to one end of the room the men lifted her up and placed her wrists into hard, tight metal shackles on the wall. Her ankles were similarly shackled. Used to hanging from the wall as artwork, Stephanie hung in place and didn't move.

One of the men then pulled Stephanie's waist, drawing her body away from the wall, extending and stretching her. She gasped and cried out as a metal bar was inserted behind her, against her back, so that her body curved away from the wall. The metal bar had a sharp edge on it, digging into her back uncomfortably. It hurt. It also stretched her body tight, and her shoulders hurt.

Another girl that looked almost exactly like Stephanie was placed in a similar position next to her. The two were a matching pair. They hung there, in considerable discomfort, their beautiful bodies on display as decorations for the grand dinner that night.

She did her very best. She did not struggle, did not cry out, did not complain. She simply adorned the wall in her distended position, not unlike a stuffed animal carcass in some hunting lodge.

The great dining reception went on for several hours. Few of the guests gave Stephanie more than a casual glance. She was simply part of the decor, the ambiance set up by the staff to decorate the room. More decorative artwork. Twice, however, one of the male guests came over and fingered Stephanie. Pushing their hands between her legs they shoved fingers up inside her cunt, and wriggled. Stephanie held her breath and didn't move, maintaining her position. She desperately wanted to make a good impression so her tenure as artwork could come to an end.

When the dinner was over, guests had finished deserts and headed off to another ballroom to have a good time dancing, Stephanie and the other girl remained hanging as staff cleaned up the remains of the dinner, busing tables, removing plates and table cloths, sweeping and cleaning. Stephanie allowed herself to moan and move a little, now that the guests had left. The other girl was crying, head hanging down, hair covering her face. How long would they be left there...?

Late that night, Stephanie was taken down. Her entire body ached and hurt, especially her back, from where the metal rod had shoved her out and away from the wall. She could hardly walk, but was dragged to the small cell where she had been washed.

Her wrists and ankles were crudely lashed, the wrists secured to a waist strap. Her mouth was gagged to prevent noise. Finally, she was forced to bend down and slide into a small plastic shipping container. Unlike other shipping containers, this one had clearly not been made for human slaves, and was an impromptu affair. She was curled up in a fetal position, cramping from the incredibly small space. There was no packing material, and she knew that with rough handling she would easily be injured.  A lid was strapped on and Stephanie lay in the tiny space, unable to move at all. She began to long for the freedom of being strapped to the wall as a piece of art.

This was worse than being buried alive.

After an hour or so, her box was lifted roughly. With the non-existent packing, she banged around the insides as she was rolled on a dolly to a truck. The box was tipped over and thrown down onto the truck bed.

Stephanie began the journey back to Mr. Jackson's compound, cramped into a tiny space barely big enough to hold her body, upside down.