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.