Memoirs of a Sex Slave Ch. 01

It had been, frankly, a rather wretched Friday. It started badly when Mr Jameson, the chief librarian, trapped me (again) in Maritime History (M to R) and practically wrestled me to the floor. When I told him for the umpteenth time that my interests lay in a different direction, he rather breezily replied that he was 'up for soixante neuf if that's what you mean'. Eventually I fought him off with a leather bound copy of 'A History of Nelson (Vol 2)'. Then, over lunch I had to listen to Maureen who spent an hour cataloguing (as only a qualified librarian can) every sex game that she and Mark, her current squeeze, had played over the last month. When she came to the incident involving the pool cue, the feathers and whipped cream I had to excuse myself and seek sanctuary in the Ladies. Finally, to cap it all, in the afternoon I received an email from my mother saying that she was planning to come and visit next week and could I ring her back that evening.

So it was little surprise that as I climbed off the bus and crawled along the High Street that night, I had little on my mind but a hot bath, a cold drink and an evening devoted to The Shopping Channel. If I had been more attentive I would have noticed the rather beguiling blonde girl, in the surplus Army teeshirt and combat pants, leaning against the wall of the bank. I would have certainly remembered having exchanged smiles with her a few days earlier as I queued at the check-out of Kwiksave clutching my bargain bottle of vodka and sad-looking stack of ready-cooked meals (portions for one). She had looked at me as if to say: 'You look a likely lass.' In fact, it had been so long since I'd had a date that I was not so much likely as a racing certainty.

Anyway, as I passed the bank doorway, the blonde suddenly grabbed my wrists and another, bigger, more formidable woman helped her bundle me down an alley. It was all done with such little fuss that, if performed in the library, it would have barely caused Mr Montague, our most regular patron, to stir from his afternoon nap. My God, I thought, this is Okehampton, not Moscow.

In the alley the two women bound my wrists tightly and force-marched me out of the town and towards deepest Dartmoor. I didn't mind the knotted wrists so much – with Clara that used to be a rather ordinary Friday night – but I was wearing sandals and my feet were soon bruised and blistered.

After about an hour we stopped and they untied me so that I could catch my breath and have a drink. I slipped off my sandals and spread out my toes.

'What's this all about?' I asked them pleadingly.

The bigger one, a rather ugly woman, probably in her late twenties, just stared back and spat at the ground.

'Don't mind Vixen,' said the other, prettier one. 'She don't talk much.' She passed me a bottle of water and I took a long swig. 'They call me Pussy Willow. We've had our eye on you for a while. We're taking you back to camp.'

'Why? What can you want with me?' I began to rack my brain: had I paid my final year's subscription to the Girl Guides? I had left under a bit of a cloud after that incident with Veronica Hardcastle. Perhaps these were the Provisional wing, exacting retribution. I felt so exhausted I began to cry.

Vixen laughed. 'You goin' to be our sex slave,' she hissed in a thick Liverpool accent.

'Really?' I said and began to perk up immediately. I slipped my sandals back on, helped Pussy Willow (such a delightful name) to her feet and held out my wrists for tying. 'Well, hadn't we better be getting on? The others will be wondering where we are.'

We reached camp just as the sun was disappearing into the hilltops. There were another three girls waiting for us. One appeared to be the leader. She looked a little like that girl in Lost: you know, the cute, olive-skinned one, but she had a patch over one eye and about a dozen tattoos that appeared to have been self-inflicted. The others called her Nell.

She undid my blouse and my braless boobs tipped out. 'Nice tits,' she said, squeezing them like oranges. 'You done well, girls. Have some beetle stew.'

'Lovely,' said Vixen. 'Has it got flies in it? I likes flies.'

Amongst this band of outlaws, the girls fulfilled all the roles required of such adventures. Vixen, Pussy assured me, was hard on the outside but a real sweetie when you got to know her. But do I want to get to know her, I thought to myself. Pussy Willow herself was the ditzy girl whom everyone else loved and wanted to help. There were two other girls. Grunt was German, Polish or possibly from Newcastle. She certainly gabbled in a foreign language, so that whenever she said something, the rest of us were required to look knowingly as if it had been of profound importance, whilst hoping that we would later discover that she did, in fact, speak English after all. The final member of the band was a Baroness who had fallen on hard times (something to do with a Stock Market crash). She was called Lady Shaver.

'Well, Nell,' I said, once the introductions were over. 'How do you want to play this? Shall we get down to business?' I kneeled before her and raised my face to be gagged and blindfolded.

'You must be tired and cold,' she replied. 'Get some sleep.' She helped me to my feet.

'No, I'm fine,' I insisted. 'I'd be going out clubbing round about now.'

But she wouldn't heed my protestations. 'Listen, Blue ....' she said.

'Blue?' I interrupted. 'Are you calling me that because my eyes are deeper than the deepest ocean?'

'No,' she said. 'It's because your tits look frozen.'

'Good point,' I said and went to bed.

The next morning they left me tied up whilst they went out to terrorise virgins in a nearby village. Pussy Willow came back early to release me so that I could prepare myself for their return. As you can imagine, I was very excited. I'd never been a sex slave before (if you discount the time I was playing hockey for Our Lady's Convent First XI and strayed into the wrong dressing room – the match had to be delayed by an hour).

The girls returned exhausted. I quickly lined them up (as you would expect) in strict alphabetical order. Then I dropped to my knees and knelt between Grunt's legs. Urgghh, the stench! Had they not heard of personal grooming?

'I'm not so much as dipping a gloved finger in there until you've had a bath, little lady,' I said. Then I frog marched them all down to the nearby lake and watched over them as they tended to their ablutions.

Afterwards we started again. They lay, thigh to thigh, along the bank of the lake like beached mermaids, their browned bodies glistening in the evening sun. Their pussies came in all different shades and sizes. Not a waxed one amongst them, of course. Nell's was a tawny thatch, Grunt's browner, Pussy Willow had a lovely blondish tint, and Vixen was a real Earth Mother. Lady Shaver, funnily enough, was the hairiest of them all. That's aristocracy for you, I thought to myself, as, like Stanley searching for Dr Livingstone, I attempted to penetrate her undergrowth. I diligently went along the line bringing each girl to a shuddering climax with fingers, thumb and lips before taking a brief swill and moving on to the next. I must confess that after the last girl, Vixen, had come with an ear-splitting intensity, I had a little weep.

Nell said: 'It's a hard life being a sex slave, Blue.'

'It's not that, Nell,' I said. I had rather enjoyed the tongue work – after all, at the convent I was chair of the debating society, two years running – 'But a girl does find it disheartening that after having to put up with all that 'Oh my God', 'I'm coming' and 'Lick me, slave', not one of you has had the decency to say 'Thank you'. After all, it's only two little words – thank ... you – and even sex slaves like a little appreciation.'

They all looked rather shame-faced, or at least as shame-faced as it's possible to look when basking in the glow of post-cunnilingual bliss. In turn they each muttered a 'Sorry' and a whispered 'Thank you' except, of course, for Lady Shaver who said that she'd never had to justify herself to 'staff' before and didn't see why she should do so to a slave (from now on it's slim rations for you m'lady, thought I).

'Right,' I said, feeling much better, 'now who's for seconds?'

Later, when the girls had retired, I crept over to Pussy's tent and pulled back the flap.

'Would you like some company, Pussy?' I whispered.

'I's awfully tired, Blue,' she murmured.

'Well, you just lie there and let Blue do all the work,' I replied as I unzipped her sleeping bag and parted her reluctant legs.

Soon the days settled into a routine of sorts. The girls would go off early for a day's huntin', shootin', fishin' and pillagin', leaving me in charge of the camp. I would brush out the tents, clean the sleeping bags (Pussy's always needed extra scrubbing!) and recover provisions from the wrecked plane (I forgot to mention the wrecked plane but, as you will have guessed, there's always one in stories like this). Thereafter I would sit down and whittle dildos from beech wood and prepare a fortifying nettle soup for when the girls returned with their tales of derring-do. In the evening I would do the rounds of the girls satisfying their physical needs – two sessions per girl without fail but sometimes three (if I asked nicely).

Occasionally we would play a game I had devised. The girls would cover my eyes and I would have to guess which was which from the taste of their pussies. Vixen was the easiest, of course – you can take the girl out of Liverpool, I always say, but you can't take Liverpool out of the girl. I'd pretend to get them wrong and then have to do it all over again. I had rather hoped that this might cause them to give me a good spanking but, after my earlier tantrum, they seemed reluctant to do so. Nevertheless, I was in Paradise and hadn't enjoyed so much fun since Veronica had tested her knots on me at Girl Guides' camp all those years ago.

It was all going so splendidly for me that when the end came it was a real shock.

Nell sidled over one day and sat down beside me. I carried on washing the girls' smalls (I don't know how they got into that state – pillagin', I suppose) whilst Nell carved a tattoo into her forearm with a rusty machete.

'Blue,' she said, wincing only slightly, 'me and the girls been talkin' ' – I glared at her and she started again. 'Sorry. The girls and I have been talking. We don't think this sex slave thing is working out.'

'How do you mean?' I asked indignantly.

'Have you seen them lately?' she countered. 'They're exhausted. Pussy's hardly slept for a week.' It was true that I had been paying her rather too much attention and she'd started to look peaky. 'Yesterday,' she continued, 'we was chasin' virgins in Princetown in order to deflower 'em and had to ask 'em to slow down. Lucky they was so obligin'.'

'Well it's no bed of roses for me either,' I answered. 'A sex slave has certain expectations, you know: namely sex and slavery. The sex I've had, I grant you, but the slavery! I haven't so much as seen a bondage collar, let alone worn one. I thought that you'd be bringing strangers back to camp for me to service by the camp fire while you all whooped and hollered, but not a one! The only time you beat me was when I overcooked the roast ferret and, let's face it, your heart wasn't really in it, was it? Afterwards Pussy could hardly find the birch mark.'

'Well, anyways,' replied Nell, fixing me with her good eye, 'we've decided to turn you loose. We're going to make do without a sex slave.'

I was flabbergasted. 'Do you know of any other bands of brigands who might have need of one?' I asked, with a hint of desperation. 'And could you possibly provide a reference?' I think Nell would have answered positively but at that point she fainted from blood loss.

I went to say goodbye to Pussy Willow but couldn't rouse her from her sleep. Even Vixen seemed reluctant to accept a kiss on the cheek and she'd been practically insatiable at the beginning. Lady Shaver treated me with all the disdain of true nobility. Only Grunt said anything: 'No problem,' in a German, Polish or possibly Newcastle accent.

It was ages before I made it back to Okehampton. So there you are, mother, that's the reason – and the only reason – that I didn't phone you back.