The Slave Games Ch. 05

*I would like to say that this is technically not a game. It is, however set within the universe that the other Slave Games are, and will hopefully cater to the same audience. I will consider changing the series name, though I don't know what to call it.*

It is said by many that Helen can only really come to life with marble.

"And these women are called the Caryatids, women charged to hold the world on their heads. The male equivalent would be that of Atlas. Remember please do not touch the pieces."

She adored the look it gave to a sculpture, in its youth a smooth surface unblemished by the flittering colours beneath, in age a sombre dullness that survived the rise and fall of empires. Surely all would agree it was the most superior form of artistic expression, more stoic than the canvas, more enduring than the word, more magnificent than even the physique of a bodybuilder or pornstar.

Was it little wonder then that she ended up studying history of art?

That other academics, her parents included, disagreed with her obsession sat ill in her stomach, but she was glad in the end that the rift between her and her family drove her to fly halfway round the world to escape them. On her graduation she basically fled to be amongst her beloved marbles. A gap year travelling Britain, Rome, Greece, soon extended itself to a second. She paid her way first through a donation page, then by offering amateur tours around museums, and finally as a softcore porn model posing in the nude. Her speciality was imitating statues.

Then suddenly, as the second year of ignoring her parent's calls began a third, she got the dream job of a lifetime.

She almost couldn't believe the job advert when she first saw it. One of her fans had actually sent her the link, and at first it seemed like a scam. Why would the museum want her to submit her proportions and height? Eventually she shrugged and put in some numbers that were as close as she could remember. After all, she would never forgive herself if she passed up the opportunity.

She and a few other young educated women were selected for interview and to her delight she was one of five of them selected to become tourguides around the newly-opened Acropolis museum.

And that, now clad in her few-sizes-too small (she should have paid more attention to the application after-all) white shirt, pencil skirt, and cute little glasses, was how a twenty-four year old woman was living her dream in Athens.

"The five you see here are the real. The Parthenon and Erechtheion as you can see out the window are being repaired and restored and so the ones you can see up there are in fact replicas. While some argue that repairing it will diminish its value, Greece and the Museum are going to great lengths to make sure that any restorations or replicas are as true to the original as possible."

She had a good rapport with the other girls guiding visitors round the museum. Each of them served primarily by request of tour groups rather than as a permanent service, meaning that rarely did they see each other even in passing in the museum offices, Helen also spent quite a bit of her time helping with the renovations up at the Acropolis. Despite that they would often organise a girls night out on the town, so they weren't distant.

So it was a shock when, four month ago, one of the girls just dropped off the radar, no social media, nothing, and the Museum director told them she'd decided to return home.

"The restoration is projected to last another fifteen years and is funded in part by your ticket price. Without these contributions these renovations could not continue. That concludes our tour, thank you."

More confusingly was that the other girls just sort of dropped off, one by one, as the months went by, even though their contracts all ran for a full year. None of them ever announced the plans. Cassandra even told Helen that she was planning to stay at least another six months. Of course, more young women were hired to fill the gaps, and soon Helen was the lone woman left of the original cohort.

She clacked her modest heels through the staff door, the curator had asked her to come have a quick chat at the end of her day. She stepped in through his office and greeted the stodgy but kind old man.

"Thank for coming in Helen, if you would like to take a seat, and would you like a drink? Water?"

She gladly accepted in the summer heat.

"As you know your contract runs for another five months, but the museum would like to say that we're very pleased with your performance so far, and with our recent hires we'd like to offer you a position as a supervisor. This would be in addition to your..."

She felt giddy with excitement as she took another sip to hide her joy.

"...and would also be a permanent and fixed position, with correspondingly more rigid rules, but I can attest that while restrictive they can be rewarding. We would like to offer a salary increase of..."

She took a few more gulps, still feeling the heat of the early afternoon, perhaps she was more dehydrated than she had first realised.

"-elen. Helen? Are you okay, you don't look well."

"Yeah," she fumbled with the bottle trying to take another gulp. "I'm okay, I'm just... a little...the water tastes funny."

"Oh that's wonderful."

On second thought, she didn't feel to good.

"...worried I hadn't given you a high enough dose..."

She couldn't hear another word as she slipped forwards onto the desk and into unconsciousness.

When she awoke it was dark, whether from time or environment she would not learn, as for as soon as she stirred and made to glance about, she heard a crack and a sharp sting down her spine, like strong static. She scrabbled to try to get up.

"Stay where you are. Close your eyes." A male voice said from the darkness behind her.

It took another electric shock to persuade her of the seriousness of the speaker. A third was required to stop her from reaching to rub the painful spots.

"Stay perfectly still."

She did so, and no further shocks arrived. As she slowly recovered she began to feel her body again. First the overwhelming feeling of lingering pain, then the cool air on her skin as she realised she was naked, then the dry taste from sleeping with an open mouth. And a throbbing heat coming from the back of her neck.

Seconds, then minutes, passed without any further words or strikes. Helen began to shiver from fear and cold, staying perfectly still curled in the foetal position. After a while she built up the courage again to try something, anything.

"Where am I?" she asked the darkness.

"Do not talk," it replied after a long pause, but even as she winced in fear, did not strike her.

"Why am I here?"

"Do not talk or you will be shocked."

Time passed, slowly, trapped in the fear of her own mind. She kept thinking that she could take the pain, that she was going to stand up and fight back, that she was going to escape. A moment later she would mentally shrink back in terror of punishments unknown. She kept expecting to wake up in her bed having overcome a night-terror, but no matter what she couldn't overcome her barriers and move.

Soon she began to drift into a feverish cold dream, but as her breathing slowed and she reached the precipice the voice yelled "Do not sleep." She was careful to stay alert after that.

She didn't know how long she had been lying there for. Hours? Days? Seconds? She tried counting her heartbeat but kept losing count around a thousand.

Did anyone know she was missing yet?

Was this what had happened to the others?

What came next?

"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes. Do not talk."

She finally freed from paralysis to find herself exactly the same place as before. A darkened room, four walls, a ceiling, and a floor. Tentatively, scared of getting shocked again, she carefully looked around in light of the single dim spotlight in the ceiling above.

The walls were rough concrete poured quickly, marred by a series of circular black glass inlays. The floor was smoother, cold like the air, and marked only by three concentric squares of white in the centre, the smallest she could have stood within, the second she could kneel in, the third would fit her lying head to toe. In one wall was the object of her greatest attention however; the millimetre wide outline of a door. The door. And it had no handle. A vent in the ceiling blew in warm air.

Her fingernails gained no purchase, her attempts at brute force unnoticed. She was well and truly trapped.

Helen cried.

Immediately she felt another agonising crackle down her spine. Wincing, she once again felt a hot throbbing pain at the back of her neck, and now free to move, she raised her hand to feel it. A scarred lump, laced with stitches.

"Do not attempt to remove it." The voice spoke from

Trapped. Alone. She couldn't even cry except in silence.

Some time later she was brought from her misery by yet more commands.

"Stand in the middle of the room. Face away from the door. Close your eyes. Do not speak."

And so she was left once again. Silently weeping from her closed eyelids.

Her feet began to ache with dull agony. Quiet but insistent. Still she remained still. For how long she couldn't te-

"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes. Do not speak."

Helen collapsed against the wall, and simply lay there, for just a while.

"Kneel in the middle of the room. Face away from the door. Close your eyes. Do not speak."

Weakly she dragged herself to the middle of the room and sat with her legs beneath her in the second square.

She wondered when her family would start asking after her. Would it be a week? Two weeks?

"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes. Do not speak."

She simply fell over and attempted to fall asleep. She was tired, aching, how long would this go on for.

"Stand in the middle of the room with legs apart and hands behind your head."

"You have been still for one hour. You may move."

She begged for mercy once, and was shocked for it.

"Stand with your hands on your breast."

"You have been still for one hour."

"Kneel on all fours."

She let herself fall over once, but was brought back to position.

"You have been still for one hour."

"Kneel with your hands gripping your elbows behind your back."

She could feel every tremor in her arms, her legs, feel her muscles cramping. She was living moment to moment, eternity to eternity.

"You have been still for one hour."

Then another pain joined the others. Her bladder.

"Please-" Zap! "I need to use the toilet!" Zap!

There was no response except; "Stand with your hands on your hips. Close your eyes. Do not speak."

"Please!" Zap. "Please!" Zap.

"Do not speak."

She couldn't. She couldn't take the electric again. But she couldn't take the strain either, and so she did the only and worst thing.

A tear dripped down her cheek. A grimace on her face, the only movement permitted. And she let her muscles relax. A warm streak running down her leg.

"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes. Do not speak"

She leapt from the puddle. Shaking the drying droplets off her. She wanted more than anything else to be left alone.

"Lie on your belly with your hands behind your back." No, no no no she thought. This was her limit. She would rather be tortured to death than suffer that.

To her horror only needed two shocks before she threw herself into position, lying face down in her own urine.

Before today? yesterday? She had thought herself strong willed. A fighter. Stubborn. She was ashamed to find out quite how weak her mind was. She'd run away from her parents, she'd kept her head down rather than worry about her friends.

"You have been still for one hour."

Knowing that she would be asked to lie down once more soon enough, she did her best to sweep the puddle towards the edge of the room, it was only partially successful, but it would be better than nothing.

"Stand on one foot."

There was no other word for this but torture. Her body was screaming at her to let it collapse. Her fear was screaming at her to stay still. She wobbled. To her relief there was no shock, and she struggled to keep her balance. She wanted to swap, her left foot feeling relief as she held it in her hands, but her right heel felt like it was bleeding.

One hour. Only one hour. Please. Please give her the strength. Block out the pain. Don't fall over.

"You have been still for one hour. You may move. You may open your eyes."

She instantly fell like a marionette with its strings cut, and simply exulted in the freedom to do nothing.

"You may speak."

Her mouth was dry. She could beg for water. Beg for food. Beg for freedom. Instead, she exhaustedly wept, "Why are you doing this?"

"This is training," the voice replied.

"Training for what?"

"To become a slave."

"Where is this?"

"Far from help."

"Why me?"

"You have the skills and temperament we were looking for."

Silence reigned for a long time.

"I'm hungry and thirsty, may I have something to eat?"

There was a long pause, and then, "Stand in the centre of the room, face away from the door, feet apart, hands on your head. Close your eyes. Do not speak."

Helen quickly complied, and a minute later she heard the soft breaking of a seal, and the clatter of something being placed on the floor behind her. Soon afterwards the sound repeated a second time, and then, the closing of the door.

"You may move. You may open your eyes. You may speak."

A bottle of water and a tray from the museum's staff canteen laid behind her. That at least told her she was still on museum grounds. But it would not help her unless she could escape.

She ate quickly.

"What time is it?"

"Early evening."

"Can I have a shower."

"Stand in the centre of the room."

As before she complied, at first. But as the door opened she couldn't help but turn and look. If only to see how inescapable it was.

Standing behind her, as naked as Helen was, knelt her friend Cassandra, carrying a bucket and sponge.

Helen winced as the expected shock arrived, but bit her tongue. She turned back and closed her eyes before the sadistic bastards could give her a second. And now she knew for certain what had happened to the others. No doubt what would happen to the new girls who had joined after her.

And she'd completely forgotten to look beyond the door, so now she still didn't know how difficult it would be to escape.

"May I speak?" Cassandra asked behind her.

"Yes," replied the man behind the microphone.

Cassandra came over to her, standing near, probably just outside the piss puddle, and placed a hand on Helen's back.

"It's going to be okay Helen. Things may seem tough now, but after a month you'll be ready for even the toughest poses."

"I don't want to."

"Don't speak," Cassandra said, "He's only given me permission because he knows it will be easier for you this way. To know the end. We're going to be auctioned off to the highest bidder, to be used as human decorations. They're training us to be art Helen. And not just any art, to be statues."

Helen was desperately holding back a sob.

"Today's training was just about getting you to be obedient, but tomorrow they'll start with physical condition, really get that muscle toned." Cassandra's hand was stroking across her belly now. "And in a week you'll be taught bodypainting and how to wear costumes. You'll be a Greek goddess one day. A Roman slave another. Whatever our masters want. And we'll be painting ourselves too, just think about it, you get to become the very marble pieces you love so much. Just... just think about it. I think you'll like it."

The tremor of hesitancy at the end belied the confidence with which Cass was saying this. But Helen already knew what would happen. She knew how weak she was. She'd been shown the easy way forward.

And so as she went to sleep that night it was fitful and as terrified, the next week she settled into the routine that would become her life, of exercise, posing, resting, then posing again. She learned how to use bodypaint, to use sealing spray to stop her from smudging it, how to get the veins of rock just right. She learned how to make a diaphanous chiton cling to her curves so her nipples would gently poke through.

She graduated to more complicated, more strenuous, and more sexual poses, and allowed to come up with her own. After a few weeks she was wasn't being shocked at all, not a single mistake was made. As a reward Cassandra would hand her a small vibrator with her evening meal and shower and she furiously rubbed out orgasm after orgasm as quickly as she could before she had to return it for bed time.

After a month or two she was ordered to stand in front of the door. It opened. She was given directions to go down several corridors and pick up a tray and water bottle, then given more directions to another door near her own. It opened toward her and there was another woman, standing with her back to the door. Helen placed the items on the floor, then left as she had been told. She was quickly ordered to bring a bucket and sponge to the same door.

Placing it on the floor she could recognise the woman now, Isabella, the newest hire when Helen had been free. She knew what she had to do.

"May I speak?" Helen asked.

She gave the same speech she'd received, though not quite the same words. She thought she'd done a better job than Cassandra had. She hadn't stuttered. She hadn't let through her fear of failure, her fear of getting shocked. She hoped that Izzy would listen as she did.

When she woke the next morning she found that a toilet and sink had been fitted in her room, and a television screen placed on one wall. After her daily routine she turned on the TV with its ten-button remote and was pleased to find it had rolling coverage of porn on all ten channels. Each had a theme, from loving consensual softcore sex between partners, to hardcore latex bondage. She was fairly certain the latter was not filmed with consenting actors.

She was even more excited to find out that she was allowed to leave it on when she was in position, although obviously she couldn't open her eyes while she was still, the whorish moans still set her loins aflame, and by the time her break came around she could bring herself to cum almost instantly.

And before she knew it, she was a slave, heart and soul. For a few minutes of fucking she would gladly pose for an hour in positions that would make a ballerina wince. She was ready, and she knew it.

Finally came the day of her sale.

"Gentlemen, welcome to our auction tonight. We have some exquisite pieces here for you tonight. Have you ever wanted to not just own the full Venus de Milo, but to make her squirm under your grip? How about an Aphrodite to liven up your garden, or the bedroom? Allow majestic Athena to stand guard in your hallway, and bow at your feet. These girls, trained in the art of mimicry will pose to any form you ask of them for hours on end. Their resolve is like stone."

Helen kept her eyes closed, even as she heard the men walking around her, admiring her lithe, nubile form from every angle.

"The five you see here are all for sale this evening, though we have replicas of their current poses in marble if you are not lucky enough. Until then feel free to browse, and please remember not to touch the pieces."

She posed in a parody of one of her favourites statues. A basket atop her head, kept there by balance alone, a number of silk drapes around her arms, and her hands placed upon her hips. High heeled sandals showing her manicured toes.

And of course, she and her outfit were in smooth alabaster, clean and shining, rippled with seams of slight discolour that added to the appeal. Even the lump on the back of her neck had been removed, the scar barely perceptible. The threat of electric shock no longer necessary for her obedience.