Stephanie's Slave Journal

"And one big tip. Don't piss them off. Don't fight back, don't talk back, don't even think back." She pointed to the huge black-and-blue patch over her eye. "You think that looks bad? Get a load of this."

She turned around and showed me her back. There were four or five old, ragged scars across it. They looked deep. Before I could ask the obvious, she answered for me. "Whip marks. If you don't think you'd like being handcuffed to an overhead pipe and beaten with baseball bats, cigarette-burned, or whipped for real, not with fake BDSM whips, just turn your brain right off and float along. Avoid conflict."

I didn't want to make her relive any more of her ordeal than I had to. It can't have been pleasant to talk about, and besides, everything she said made me more frightened. But she seemed chatty in an odd way. I was getting the impression that she hadn't had someone to talk to in a long time.

"Why do you think they might be trying to get out of this?"

"Well, all four of these cages used to be occupied. One woman just died. Stopped eating, basically starved herself to death. They were too lazy to force-feed her or anything, so they just let her waste away until she looked like a famine victim in an ad for an international charity. Then one morning she just didn't wake up.

"A couple of others just disappeared. One was fairly new. They hadn't had time to reduce her to a haggard old wreck, so maybe they got a good price for her on some kind of slave trading site or something. Another, Mary, had been around a lot longer, and didn't seem to be much of a prize, but I figure they sold her somewhere too. She was still putting out, still bringing in her twenty dollars every ten or fifteen minutes -- or five if the customer was the sort who came quickly -- so I have no idea how they might have gotten a better deal. Maybe some buyer saw potential if she was fattened up a bit and gotten back in shape. Just a feeling I've been getting. You're the first fresh meat in months or years."

I didn't like being referred to as "fresh meat," but I had to admit that, from the sound of things, it was appropriate.

We both started when we heard the door open. "Ah, dinner I think," said Anabelle. Artie came in holding two bowls. First, he took the cuffs off my wrists, then came into the cage and took the chains off my ankles. I was relieved to be able to sit up for the first time in hours. Then he set down a bowl with a spoon in it and a tall cup of water.

Anabelle started wolfing her dinner without looking at it, which in hindsight was probably a good idea. I was incredibly thirsty, so I glugged most of my water, then had a good look at the bowl. It was sort of a gruel made of rice and beans, but there were a few other bits in it, probably a combination of kitchen scraps and plate scrapings. I thought I identified some carrot peels and a small piece of beef that seemed mostly gristle. There was also a sodden something-or-other that might have been the heel of a stale loaf of bread.

"Hey, don't knock it," said Anabelle around spoonfuls. "The mystery bits are usually the parts with the most food value, and you can't be sure when'll be the next time you'll be fed. Eat every single bite and don't think about where any of it came from."

I took her advice and finished the bowl. I had to admit that, once I got started, I was really hungry. I stole another look at Anabelle's protruding ribs and shuddered.

**

Sure enough, a while after "dinner," Steve and Artie unlocked Anabelle's cage and walked with her out the door and down the hall. She didn't resist -- those old scars told me why. Then they came back for me.

I wasn't as stoic as Anabelle. They had me from either side in vice-like grips as they marched me naked down the hall, but I still struggled against them. Steve pointed to the bruise on the side of my head and said pointedly, "You want another of those? Or maybe two or three?" I settled down.

When I got to the trick room, I saw what Anabelle meant about the bed. It was actually just a mattress on the floor, but it was the most disgustingly filthy-looking thing I'd ever seen in my life. There was a low partition separating me from what I assumed was another trick pad, since I could hear male grunting from behind it. Anabelle, servicing the other half of the clientele.

I reared back, yelling, "There's no way I'm going to lie down on that!" It did me exactly as much good as you might expect -- Steve hooked a leg behind my knee and pulled forward so my leg crumpled and I fell back onto the bed. Then both of them clamped my wrists and ankles in chains so I was forced into a spread-eagle position with my pussy pulled wide. There were no pullies or anything to adjust the chains -- another cut-rate touch, I thought -- but slack or no slack, I definitely couldn't get out of that pose. I was still screaming that I wouldn't put up with this shit, so Artie shoved another cloth in my mouth and wrapped my head with a couple of turns of duct tape to hold it in. At least the cloth was more or leas clean, unlike the last one. I gave up futile struggling and screaming and waited for the next move on the enchanted chessboard I had fallen into.

**

Before long, more customers started filing in one at a time. Young ones, old ones, white ones, brown ones, the occasional black one, big cocks, little cocks ... everything you could imagine. Some came over to me and some disappeared behind the partition.

They all pulled their pants off, seldom bothering with their shirts, got a fresh condom out of the box, and went at me. Sometimes a little foreplay, strictly for their benefit, not mine -- some tit-groping, some pussy-probing, maybe reaching under me and sticking a finger in my asshole -- but it didn't take any of them long to get to the main course. I realized that being chained on my back had one advantage -- they couldn't get at my asshole with anything but a fingertip. I was learning to make the best of the smallest mercies.

Of course, none of them bothered with lube, so I was glad that Steve and Artie had sprung for lubricated condoms. I guess they realized that a raw and bleeding pussy is enough of a turnoff that it might cost them repeat business, so they made sure that even if I was really sore by the end of the night, at least I wouldn't be torn up.

As Anabelle predicted, the parade went on and on through what felt like most of the night. Eventually the throng petered out to one or two an hour -- insomniacs, maybe, or men who had just gotten off a night shift. Finally Artie came in, unchained me, and helped me limp back to my cage. I took a quick look at the giant box of condoms, and, just as Anabelle had predicted, there were only a dozen or two left. No wonder they bought no-name products in industrial-sized boxes.

Artie gave me another bowl of slop and clanged the door behind him. I was so exhausted I didn't feel like eating, but as soon as I tried a spoonful, I realized that I was famished and started wolfing the way I'd seen Anabelle do. When the bowl was licked clean, I curled up on the floor in a ball of misery and drifted off into a fitful sleep, one hand clutching my sore and aching pussy.

**

That's pretty much how my life proceeded for the next few months -- six months, I found out later. After a few days I quit crying myself to sleep every night, since there was clearly nothing that was likely to change for a while. These guys seemed like such inept slavers that they would slip up eventually and I'd be discovered and rescued, but I wasn't holding my breath. I just tried to heed Anabelle's advice, turn off my brain, and float along, not thinking about what was happening to my life on a daily basis, and above all, trying not to piss off Artie and Steve.

I mostly succeeded, but under the veneer of resignation an underlying rage kept trying to bubble up. How dare these assholes think they had a right to act like they owned my body, could use it as they wished, and rent it out so casually. For some reason, the $20 price tag really stuck in my throat too. It sounds totally ludicrous in hindsight, but I particularly resented being subjected to such a parade of indignities for such a paltry sum. I don't know whether I would have felt better if I had cost $200. Now that I cost $2000 a toss, I can't say that I feel a whole lot better about the arrangement. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Regardless, the anger still burned. It finally boiled over one day when Steve and Artie came into my cage and prepared to fuck me, as they often did before turning me over to customers for the rest of the night. I was on hands and knees, and Artie was forcing his cock up my ass. Steve grabbed me by the hair, forced my head way back, and started shoving his cock as far down my throat as he could get it. They had done this to me, and worse, dozens of times, but for some reason this time they pushed the button marked "I've had enough."

Without really thinking, I turned my head a little so Steve's cock was between my pointed canine teeth rather than my front incisors. I remembered a Wikipedia article I had once read for some reason or other on human canine teeth -- how they are vestigial fangs and that we still use them for holding and tearing meat. That's exactly what I intended to do -- hold and tear meat.

Without warning, I clamped my jaw as tight as I could about halfway along Steve's erect cock. I held on and started sawing my teeth back and forth, hoping that maybe I could saw it clean off. He let out a very satisfying blood-curdling shriek that sounded as though it combined both pain and terror -- he probably thought that he really was about to lose his favourite toy. He probably would have, too, if we had been alone. He started hitting me on the side of the head, but he didn't have either the angle or the mental composure to make it count for much. Then he tried grabbing my lower jaw and trying to pull my mouth open. That was totally useless as well.

Artie came to his rescue. He pulled his cock out of my asshole, pulled up his pants, and came around from the back end of me to the front. He pulled his leg back and planted a full-force kick on my head with his heavy boot. That did it. I struggled to hold my jaw clamped but I felt my grip weakening as I nearly passed out. One more kick and Steve was able to pull free.

While Steve staggered out of the cage clutching his damaged cock, Artie wound one hand into my hair, yanked my head roughly back, and growled, "You're going to pay for that, cunt." He dragged me out of the cage by my hair and stood me in the centre of the room. Passing through the ceiling was a heavy pipe, probably a water pipe, about two and a half metres above the floor. Among the various junk that was scattered around the room was a low stool, and Artie forced me to stand on it. He pulled handcuffs out of his pocket, clamped one bracelet to my right wrist, and yanked my arms up over my head. He fed the handcuffs over the pipe and clamped the other bracelet around my left wrist. Then he kicked away the stool.

I could still touch the floor, but only just. My wrists were pulled tightly and painfully over my head, and the handcuffs began sawing at them as they supported most of my weight.

I tried to stay still to minimize the sawing of the metal handcuffs. I saw Anabelle dragged out of her cage and marched off to her shift in the trick room -- even though she hadn't been responsible for what happened to Steve, Artie seemed to be taking out some of his frustration on her. He left me alone for the time being, the feeling gradually disappearing from my hands.

I have no idea how long I hung there, but eventually Anabelle came back and got shoved back into her cage with the usual dinner-time -- or was it breakfast-time -- bowl of slop. She didn't try to talk -- what could she have said, except of course "I told you so," which would have been about as inappropriate as it could have gotten. She just wolfed her meal and curled up in the usual exhausted sleep.

Later, the outer door to the cage room clanged open and Steve walked in. He seemed to be walking carefully and painfully, but I was able to suppress the urge to smile. This was definitely not the time to piss him off further.

He stood facing me for a while, evidently enjoying the sight of my raw wrists and my fingers that were gradually turning from white to black as the lack of blood supply caused more and more damage. He dropped his pants and showed me his cock. "See what you did to me, you fucking useless cunt!" There was a ring of angry bruises around it that looked like exact matches for my teeth. Keeping a neutral face was becoming harder and harder.

He had a long, thin cane with him. He swished it menacingly through the air a couple of times, then brought it down full force against my ass. I screamed with the sudden incredibly searing pain.

He and Artie had caned me before, for various real and imagined offenses, but I realized now that they always held back enough that they didn't break my skin and risk scarring. Now, Steve clearly didn't care how badly he messed me up. I thought about Anabelle's whip scars, and hoped that I wouldn't end up in the same state.

Steve laid a couple more good, hard ones across my ass. Then he walked around, pulled his arm back all the way, and brought the cane down full force across my breasts. This hurt ten times worse than the stripes on my ass, especially since I could see the bright red welt it left. He waited an excruciating ten seconds or so, then brought the cane down again. This time he got my nipples, which wrung a full-throated scream of pain from my raw throat.

Once the scream had faded, I couldn't support any weight on my legs any more. I just hung by my wrists, oblivious to the pain. I guess Stave decided that he had made his point, and more so. He walked out and left me hanging there.

I don't know how long it was. I pissed myself a couple of times, but other than that, the time just crawled along. Finally Asshole One and Asshole Two came in (I had stopped using their names by that time) and hauled Anabelle off for trick pad duty. Asshole Two returned, unlocked my handcuffs and threw me back in my cage.

I laid there, not moving much, through another shift change. They brought me water a couple of times, but no food. I wondered how long they would keep that up. I doubted that they would starve me to death, but who knew with these guys? I had already lost at least ten kilos since I had gotten here, and I didn't have much room to lose any more.

Eventually they decided that I needed to go back on duty. I guessed that maybe they had enough customers that they needed another slave on a trick bed. Asshole One dumped a big bucket of cold water on me to wash away the worst of the blood and piss and make me smell a little less like a hog farm on a hot day, and dragged me off for my usual chained-up fuck parade.

**

That's how my days went. Then one day, Anabelle disappeared. She got marched out of the cage room and never came back. I usually didn't trust myself to speak to the Asshole Brothers (I don't know if they were brothers, but it somehow seemed appropriate) for fear of saying what I really meant and earning some new stripes on my ass and tits, but I gathered my courage and said "What happened to Anabelle?"

"We sold her to a filthy rich Bedouin in Saudi Arabia," said Asshole Two offhandedly. "Got a damn good price for something so used up."

I didn't believe the Bedouin part for a second. It sounded like it was lifted straight from a trashy novel, and besides, filthy rich Bedouins who want sex slaves must have lots of sources in their own countries, or nearby. They could likely choose from oppressed religious and ethnic minorities, or buy them from impoverished parents desperate for money and with nothing left to sell but their daughters. They certainly wouldn't need to go to the trouble and expense of trying to get an unwilling slave across international boarders. The Asshole Brothers probably sold her much more locally. They could have taken her out and shot her, but I didn't think these idiots would have the means to dispose of a body so it couldn't be found. But the Bedouin made a good story and messed with my head, exactly the way I imagine they intended it to.

"We're shutting down this part of our business," he added. "Too much trouble, not enough cash flow. Some day you might be packed in a crate and shipped to Saudi too."

This was more words in a row than either of them had spoken to me since I had arrived. I very much doubted the details, but I suspected that he was right that they weren't making the easy money they had thought they would, with their business model of supplying cheap holes to stick dicks in. I didn't especially want to be packed in a crate and shipped to Saudi Arabia, but the idea that I might someday get out of here, even if it was only to more slavery, was a straw to cling to. I couldn't imagine my circumstances getting any worse.

**

So life crawled on. It was incredibly lonely without Anabelle to talk to, and I usually just spent the day huddled up in a miserable ball in the corner of my cage. I hoped Anabelle was somewhere even a little better, but I could never know, and that was incredibly frustrating. I learned to keep my mind more or less blank. Thinking was so painful that I had just about managed to quit doing it.

Then one day something happened to break the monotony. Asshole One walked into the cage room with another guy, white but a bit swarthy, with dark brown hair and neatly trimmed brown beard. He was big and looked powerful.

I barely looked at him at first. He was probably just another customer come to look over the merchandise. But something in his manner caught my attention. I unwound myself from my huddle and looked at him.

He looked back. I could feel him taking in my gaunt ribs, shrunken breasts, filthy, matted hair, and general resemblance to a bag of garbage. His jaw didn't actually drop, but he stared at me a long time, as if he was having trouble processing what he was seeing. Then he rounded on Asshole One.

"What the fuck are you trying to pull?" he yelled in the man's face. "You want $10,000 for that broken-down pile of shit? No wonder your trick pad isn't profitable if that's what you present to your customers. Don't you know how to keep a slave in good rentable condition?" He pointed at me. "Get her out of that fucking cage and get her something to eat. Now!"

You know the rest -- how he took me down the hall to a place where I could shower and try to clean up as best I could. I don't think I've ever enjoyed a shower more in my life. I spent a long, long time under the hot water, scrubbing every part of my body, especially the pussy that had been filled with so many dicks that I had long ago lost count.

Even though he was obviously going to buy me as a slave, Theo -- that turned out to be his name -- seemed genuinely interested in who I was, how I had ended up here, and how my body had gotten so messed up. He took an interest in my various old and new wounds, and inspected my body with what seemed to be a practiced but clinical gaze, evidently assessing how completely I was likely to heal, and how much time it would take. Then he handed me the first clean clothes -- or any sort of clothes -- I had worn since I got there. Men's shirt and pants, way too big, with no panties or bra, but clothes nonetheless.

Once he had sized me up, he explained what would happen to me after he had settled on a price -- a lot less than $10,000, considering my condition.

"Let me tell you a bit more about what's going to happen. I'll use your condition as a lever to beat them down on your price, but rest assured I won't leave you here with them. But understand that this is a transaction, not a rescue. You'll still be a sex slave, just in better circumstances.