Stephanie's Slave Journal

He couldn't do much with me in that position, with my ass hauled half into the air and my face pressed into the floor, so he pulled the other chain and let me down.

He rolled me over onto my back again, undid the frog tie -- for which my knees were thankful -- stretched out my legs, and cuffed them to the floor on a wide spread. Then he got himself another big dollop of lube and spread it around my pussy.

He shucked off all his clothes and piled them on the bed. His cock was already rock-hard from the exhilaration of yanking my chain, both literally and metaphorically, for the best part of an hour. Then he got the tip between my labia, found my vagina, and started to push.

He got in a centimetre or two, and then he ran into a snag. The spread butt-plug was making such a large bulge in my rectal walls that it was totally blocking my vagina. No matter how hard he pushed, he couldn't get in.

He sat back and started to laugh. I took that as permission to burst into a fit of giggles too, only partly stifled by the gag. We started setting each other off, and both laughed until tears were rolling down our cheeks. It was pretty macabre laughter on my part, but it released the tension that all the guy's head games had built up in me.

Then he gathered himself -- time for business. He fetched another key from the shelf, unlocked the padlock, and pulled the plunger back out. He didn't pull the plug right out, but I felt the bulge in my rectal walls disappear. With the plug reduced to a more normal-sized implement, he had no trouble sliding his cock the rest of the way up my vagina, and he started to thrust.

I was hoping that, with all the stimulation he must have given himself watching me struggle with the plug, he would cum right away, but he had stamina. He kept thrusting for a good five or six minutes, his breathing quickening as the orgasm built slowly up to a climax. Then he made one last, deep thrust, held it, and pumped cum into me.

He rolled over beside me exhausted. When he was able to pull himself together, he reached over and patted my pussy. "Thanks Sweetheart. We had fun together tonight, didn't we?" Even if I hadn't had a gag in my mouth, I would have resisted the urge to say, "It wasn't all that much fun from my perspective." I was just glad he was finally done with me and I'd be able to pull that damned plug all the way out.

The clock showed that his time was about up, so with one last nipple-squeeze for good luck, he stood up, put on his clothes, and walked out the door. In a few minutes, Jake came in and unchained me, and I could stand up, do a deep squat and start pulling out the plug. Even folded back in, it was a substantial plug, and, with all the abuse my asshole had suffered, it was hard to get it out. Jake said, "Let me help you with that," and intervened. I was grateful, because he could get a good angle to pull it straight out, which I was having trouble with from my angle of attack. Now that it was folded in, the plug could turn easily, and Jake turned it back and forth and wiggled it gently while keeping a steady pull. Finally it popped all the way out. My sphincter started to sigh shut, although it maintained a bit of a gape for a few minutes. It dripped some butt gel, and my cunt was leaking cum as well, so Jake gave me a couple of cloths, one wet and one dry, to clean up with.

"That was a new one," I said as Jake took the cloths and threw them in the "Wash and Disinfect" bin.

"I know. It made entertaining camera viewing on what was going to be a dull night. When he couldn't get his cock in past the plug, I burst into giggles myself. We can't complain that tonight was the same old shit, can we?"

Another one for my journal, I decided as I walked carefully back to quarters.

Part 3. December 12, 2018: Anabelle.

We were relaxing in the common room in that mid-afternoon dead space between morning workouts and evening being bound and raped by clients. Jess, Rasheed and I were watching news on television. We got news from Toronto, but since the Toronto stations covered most of south-central Ontario, it didn't narrow down our location much. When we got to the weather, we were informed that it was snowing outside and that as much as thirty centimetres might fall by morning. And it was minus ten degrees and dropping. We felt somewhat better about being permanently stuck inside.

Since the night of the unfolding butt-plug, Theo had brought his slave count up to fifteen. There was Mary-Beth, a smallish white woman with a luminous smile -- once she got used to her slave status -- and blond hair below her shoulders, Sereena, a tall and powerful-looking recent immigrant from Jamaica, with coal-black skin and hair in tight braids halfway down her back, and Rasheed, a medium-sized brown woman whose family was originally from Pakistan.

Once the news and weather were over, there wasn't much any of us wanted to watch, so we started a card game -- poker, with peanuts for chips. We had asked Theo for a set of real casino-style chips, and were pretty sure he would get them for us. Theo never objected to small expenditures to keep us happy, or marginally less unhappy. But they hadn't arrived yet, so we made do.

Mary-Beth joined us, and we passed her a pile of peanuts and dealt her in. While Rasheed was shuffling, we heard the outer door open, the one that leads from the underground garage into the slave area. Theo walked in, accompanied by a woman who looked vaguely familiar. She was naked, which isn't unusual for new arrivals, but otherwise unrestrained. She was white, medium tall, well built, with long, dark-brown hair that fell in a lush cascade below her shoulder blades. She didn't seem perturbed by being naked in a room full of clothed people. She just looked around with an intently interested stare, taking in what I'm sure Theo had told her was going to be her home from now on.

Suddenly the pieces fell into place. "Anabelle!"

She turned, looked at me for several seconds, then said "Stephanie?" Ignoring Theo, she sprinted over and threw her arms around me. I had stood up from the card table, but she almost knocked me down again. We hugged each other for a long time. Then she held me out at arms' length and inspected me more closely.

"Stephanie! I didn't recognize you at first. The last time I saw you, frankly, you looked like a scarecrow that had been dragged through a hog wallow." Then she added with a grin, "And this is the first time I've ever seen you wearing clothes."

"Same here. You look as though your standard of living has improved a lot since the Asshole Brothers. Although at the moment you're wearing the same work clothes." She still had the sallow never-see-the-sun skin that we both had at the slavers', but otherwise, she had filled out, cleaned up, and generally looked like a healthy human being.

Theo made an impatient noise and came over. "OK, ladies. Plenty of time to catch up on old times later. Right now, let me get Slave Sixteen sorted and get her something to wear. She'll be a couple of cubicles down from you. We'll be back by dinner time."

Anabelle walked off with Theo, leaving me with a million questions.

**

At dinner, I introduced her around and then monopolized her as we tried to catch up. When it was "show time," as we called it, she didn't have to go on display in the showroom; I guess Theo was giving her a day or two to get used to the routine around here, especially the rules and what happens if you break them. But after work -- I had been lucky and drawn a client who didn't seem to be too interested in exotic sexual tortures, so I was in good shape to talk -- we got in a corner by ourselves and unpacked the last few years of our lives.

In what follows, I'll use Anabelle's own words as closely as I can remember them. I've straightened out the narrative somewhat and edited out all the digressions and the interjections from me as I pumped her for more and more details, plus parts where I held forth on my life at Theo's, but in general I've tried to be as accurate as I can.

Anabelle's Story

Well, when the slavers told me that they are going to pack me in a crate sell me to a filthy rich Bedouin, they weren't entirely making it up. They didn't crate me up and ship me to Saudi Arabia -- Ali, as I found out he was called, is a permanent resident of Canada now, although he keeps to a lot of traditional ways when he's at home. He hails from Yemen, not Saudi Arabia, and he's not Bedouin -- probably the first tribe they thought of. And he's not even filthy rich, although he is, or was, rich enough to afford some expensive toys, such as white women.

I never found out how much he paid for me, but I'm willing to bet that it wasn't much more than Theo paid for you, since I was in even worse shape than you were. That was my first hint that Ali's fortune wasn't doing quite as well as it used to -- he had to settle for an econo-slave.

Mohammad, the go-between who bought me for Ali, brought a couple of toughs with him for security. No, they didn't wear turbans and carry big curved scimitars, although I could see faint bulges under their suit jackets that suggested they had more modern weaponry in case they needed it.

Once they had struck their deal, one of the toughs hauled me out of the cage, tied my wrists with rope -- none of the refinements you described Theo using -- and marched me out to a block-long black limo waiting in Theo's garage. They shoved a gag in my mouth, wound about ten metres of tape over it, tied my ankles for good measure, threw me in the trunk of the limo, then took off for Ali's mansion.

Some hours later, the trunk opened and they hauled me out like a giant sack of potatoes. They untied my ankles so I could walk with them, and we walked from Ali's garage to what turned out to be the slave quarters. I reflected that it didn't look much like the home of a rich Bedouin to me. My imagination on the subject was mostly shaped by Hollywood depictions, Aladdin and such, so I guess I was expecting lush carpets, tapestries, exotic vases in the corner, that sort of thing. Later, when I finally got to be upstairs. I found out that Ali's personal space was a lot more lush than the basement areas I was moving through, but it was still something of a hybrid between Middle Eastern and expensive Canadian decor -- no Ikea furniture anywhere. When my handler unlocked the heavy door to the slave quarters and motioned me inside, I could see that our accommodations were pretty basic, although nowhere near as basic as the ones I had just left. No cages, no piss-buckets, no trick beds with chains. Some plain furniture, including some beds that, while not exactly luxurious, looked a hundred times more comfortable than the floor of the cage I had spent four years in.

My handler shoved me roughly the last few steps inside, untied my wrists, and shut the door. I heard the click of a heavy lock, and I could see why the quarters weren't equipped with cages. Cage or no cage, no-one was leaving that room until the management wanted them to.

With my hands finally free, I started unwinding the tape that held the gag in my mouth. While I was prying it off, I took in my new surroundings.

There were three other women in the room. All were white, and all wearing clothes, unlike me. They looked a little more Arabian Nights than the furniture -- somewhat muted versions of Princess Jasmine attire, modified versions of harem pants and matching spangled halter tops that showed lots of midriff. I later learned that, even though Ali had a taste for white women -- perhaps he found us exotic compared to the women that he was used to back home -- he sometimes liked to fantasize that he was fucking a real old-time harem girl. None of them were gaunt, and none smelled bad. My life might be looking up, if only by a little bit.

One of the women got up off the couch and held out her hand. "Hi. You must me the new one Ali has been talking about. I'm Mary."

"Anabelle," I replied after I finally spit out the gag. "It seems I've just been bought from a couple of slavers that were clearing out their stock. I haven't seen much of this place, but so far it looks a lot better than what I left."

"I guessed that. Frankly, you look terrible, and smell worse. Those slavers obviously didn't treat their product very well. There's a bathroom over there, with a real, honest-to-goodness shower and lots of soaps and hair products. The red hairbrush and the red towels are for you. Go clean up, and afterwards I'll introduce the others and tell you a bit about Ali's little fantasy here. When you're done, there are some clean clothes for you on the bed."

She didn't have to ask me twice. I headed to the bathroom, trying not to think about how long it had been since I'd eaten -- some slaver slop "breakfast" that morning before I was turned over to Mohammad and his toughs. It had long since worn off, but I resisted the urge to ask, "When's dinner?" I could see my way to getting properly clean for once, and I let that be my priority for now.

While the water was warming up, I looked in the cabinet over the sink. Drinking cups, hairbrushes, toothbrushes, all colour coded in yellow, green, blue and red. Some toothpaste and mouthwash. Four razors. I could see that this might be bearable, although I wondered what price I'd have to pay for this relative luxury.

I climbed into the shower, soaped up a red loofah, and got to work getting four years' worth of grime off my body. I paid special attention to my pussy and asshole; I wasn't really any dirtier there than anywhere else, but I felt like the dick parade made them especially in need of soaping. Then I selected shampoo and conditioner from an array of several kinds, and got to work on my hair. It took me a long time to get the shampoo worked through all the knots and tangles, especially with my hair longer than it had ever been. Once I forced myself to turn off the water, dry off, and get to work with the hairbrush, it took even longer to brush out the rest of the tangles. I remembered that my fellow captives had well-groomed hair that must have had a recent trim. I'd have to ask Mary about that.

When I was finally finished, I left the bathroom and tried on the clothes that had been left on the bed. Pretty good fit, although they were loosely enough designed that getting them to fit wasn't difficult. Even panties and a bra, which I had almost forgotten existed in the world.

When I had my Princess Jasmine outfit adjusted to my satisfaction, I turned to Mary expectantly.
"Anna," she said, indicating one of the women, "And Tory. We were all bought from slavers at one point or other -- Ali doesn't like to do his own kidnapping."

The other women filled in their back stories as well. All had been kidnapped by slave gangs specifically to sell, so they hadn't had to endure my four years of working the Asshole Brothers' failing trick pad business.

I mentioned the next thing on my mind. "What's the food like?"

"Pretty basic, like most of the things around the slave quarters, but not bad, and enough of it. Not like you must be used to," she added. looking at my stick-like arms. "Dinner should be along any time."

"And what do we have to do to earn our keep?"

"Fuck Ali every so often. He's not a bad sort, really, even though he has a tremendous power fetish that leads him to keep slaves. With his money, he could easily find a woman who wanted a sugar daddy, but that's not his style. And he likes variety. I guess that's why he brought you on board -- more selection.

"And sometimes you'll get handed off for an evening to some business associate that Ali's trying to impress," added Tory. "They come in all sorts, and some can be pretty sadistic. Ali isn't like that, although he has a mild bondage fetish and isn't exactly a gentle lover."

We traded slavery anecdotes for a while. I filled in more of my recent past, to the horror of my audience, and they told me theirs. They could tell how many years some had been here -- although they didn't have access to radio or television, they had a newspaper and some magazines, so they knew what day it was and what was going on in the world. Mary had been here longest, at four years -- about the same as my captivity.

Then dinner arrived. It was handed in at the door by a brown woman with one of the enormous toughs standing behind her to make sure we didn't try to rush the door. He had a murderous-looking truncheon hanging from his belt to reinforce the point.

We ate in our quarters at a square table with four chairs -- the place seemed to be structured for four occupants, so maybe Ali had decided that would be enough to serve his needs. Dinner was mostly soup, but it was a generous helping of rich soup with lots of meat and vegetables mixed in with the broth and barley. There was an equally generous slice of whole-wheat bread on the side. I could tell that, unlike Steve and Artie, Ali valued women who were reasonably healthy.

Somehow I managed not to wolf my soup the way I always did my usual slop, even though my half-starved body was screaming at me to do so. I didn't want to make myself sick on the unaccustomed quantity and quality of food, and also I didn't want to look too much like a starving animal in front of my new friends. I also suspected that this food would bear savouring a little, compared to the slop that was best consumed without tasting more than necessary. But refinements such as savouring food would have to wait until later.

A little while after dinner, the woman came to take away the empty bowls we had stacked just next to the door. Instead of leaving with her, though, her guardian tough pointed to me and made a "come here" gesture. I had never heard him say a word, and I was trying to decide whether he didn't speak English or just didn't have the wherewithal to compose a coherent sentence.

He marched me down the hall to a small elevator. The woman with the empties had continued down the hall to what I assumed was the kitchen, so we had it to ourselves. As we rode up, I considered taking advantage of the situation and trying to overpower him, but as I contemplated his muscles and the truncheon at his hip, I decided against it. My smattering of martial-arts training was just not going to cut it against this guy.

It occurred to me that I was likely going to meet Ali already. I had thought he might wait a while until I had filled out a bit more, but I guess he was like a kid Christmas morning, anxious to try out his new toy.

We walked down another hallway, a lot more pretentious-looking than the spartan slave quarters, and stopped outside a door. The tough gestured at me to turn around, and he grabbed my wrists, crossed them behind me, and bound them again with a piece of rope he had in his pocket. Then he walked me through the door.

This was a little more Arabian Nights than the rest of the place, although the nostalgic orientalism was still somewhat restrained. The room was dominated by a huge and magnificent-looking four-poster bed with a luxurious canopy overhead. Past it, I could see what must have been Ali, sitting in a large chair and evidently waiting for me. He was wearing what appeared to be a silk dressing gown covered in brocade and little studs that looked like gemstones. Through the gaps over his chest I could see silk lounging pyjamas. He didn't have the usual Arab-style full beard; instead, he had a pencil-thin moustache, Clark Gabel style, and neatly combed short black hair above a round, almost cherubic-looking face. He had a glass of wine beside him -- evidently he didn't stick very closely to Muslim traditions on such things. It seemed to me that there's something in the Koran about respect for women, too, which he obviously wasn't applying to himself. He looked thoroughly relaxed, comfortable, and ready for an entertaining evening.