The Daughter of a Slave
by Bridget
(Part 3 of The Lost Bet)
This story is a continuation of “The Lost Bet.” If you have not read the first two parts of the story I would urge you to do so before continuing.
Bridget
My mother showed me the narrative she wrote and has asked if I can continue it. I’m not sure why she wants it continued unless she thinks the narrative will some day have value to our owners but I promised her that I would. Her story ended about two years ago, when I was sixteen. I have just turned eighteen and have been a slave my whole life. My name is Lara, the name the owners agreed to give me when I was born but my mother told me that she suggested it to the man who enslaved her and he suggested it to the owners. I know that it may be changed someday or even taken from me and not replaced as a man did to my mother years ago. Since that day she has been referred to by everyone as slave, or in her original owner calls her, little slave.
I don’t want anyone who reads this to feel bad for me because I grew up a slave. I certainly don’t feel bad about it so why should anyone else? In the compound where we live, I am safe and protected; far safer than I would have been growing up outside it. In terms of traditional education, I don’t have much, only up to the sixth grade, but the last six years my education has centered on things that are going to be important to me given my limited career choices. I guess that was my attempt at humor. Reading it, it isn’t nearly as funny as it seemed when I thought it but if this is to mean anything to anyone who reads it, you not only need to what I have done but who I am, so I guess I’ll leave it in.
When the compound was first developed, it consisted of 800 acres but since then the owners have expanded it so that now it comprises 1,200 acres. There are forests, streams, grazing land for cattle, and farmland for raising fruits and vegetables. Originally there was the main house which is very large, five small but very comfortable cottages, and the slave quarters. Now we have a school building, ten additional cottages, a children’s dormitory for the children who are born free, barn, garage for the ranch vehicles, infirmary, and there is talk of building another large house that could accommodate another twenty owners. Originally the population of the compound was forty people, twenty owners and twenty slaves. Today the population is one hundred twelve almost equally divided between slave and free.
Of the fifty-eight slaves, twelve are male but my mother thinks that the male slave population has peaked and will, over time, decrease to zero so that the owners will be almost completely male and the slaves all female. At that point, I expect that any women owners will be homosexual because a heterosexual woman would have a tough time without male slaves. Sex between male and female owners is not unknown but it is extremely rare. What man would want a free woman when he can have his pick of female slaves who have been extensively trained to please him? We still have the five original female owners, two that were added later, and the daughter of one of the owners who returned to the compound after getting her master’s degree in agriculture. One day she will manage the ranch operations. So in over twenty years the number of female owners grew only from five to eight while the number of male owners went from fifteen to forty-six.
We have a very good psychologist here who had to sell everything he owned to come up with an ownership share. He has made studying this community his life’s work. He says that average intelligence of the community would put it in the top ten percentile of the population and that includes the slaves. We are all very bright and, according to him, well balanced emotionally with the exception of some of the male slaves who were born here. I read in my mother’s narrative why they are the exception so I won’t repeat it here.
I find it interesting that most of the women who grew up free in the compound decide not to return. I suppose given the fact that they have unlimited educational opportunities and career choices, they find the lack of suitable work in the compound too restrictive. Only one of the free born males however chose not to return. The rest came back after completing their education and pursue their own interests. One of them is a painter who is starting to develop an international following. Two others have doctorate degrees in mathematics and can pursue their theoretical work here just as well as anywhere.
With that as background, I should write now about my experiences. That is what my mother wanted so that is what I shall attempt to describe. To start with, I have one older sister who is a slave, and two older brothers who are free. My sister, when not working, spends most of her time with one of the owners who joined the community in his twenties. My brothers are both away at college, but they come home on holidays and summer vacation.
Other than when I was in diapers, I have never worn clothes. I barely remember when I was first collared and certainly don’t remember wearing the diapers, so as far as my memory goes, I have been naked my entire life. Being kept nude by someone else’s choice doesn’t bother me, it is all I have ever known, but it does make you realize that you are less than the owners or their free born children who are clothed. Being naked at all times was not humiliating or embarrassing to me. I barely understand the concept of either of those words. But it is about being open, vulnerable, available, and submissive. All of these concepts I knew very well. I liked being on display, I liked people looking at me, not because I am an exhibitionist (another term I can barely understand) but because it pleased others. I like being vulnerable because it is the vulnerable who are protected by strong men.
However even though slaves were kept naked during childhood and adolescence, there has not been a single case of child sexual abuse the way the term is used outside the compound. I know many of the girls were willing, and often tried to tempt one of the free boys, but they never did anything because the penalty would have been expulsion from the compound. Male slaves were never a target because as soon as they reached puberty, they were locked into chastity devices.
Between the ages of four and twelve, I attended school taught by my mother with the other children who were both slave and free. I refer to it as a sixth grade education because of the number of years we attended, but if you factor in the fact that as a group we are much smarter than the population, you might be able to add a couple of grade levels to that. I have no way of knowing for sure, of course, having never attended a public school. It was made clear to the children she taught that in the classroom, she was the mistress and to be treated with respect at all times. Because she was the only person in the compound with teaching credentials, the owners assigned her the duty. Once they did, they promised and gave her full support. To her credit, she was always able to put down the small revolts that occurred when the free born children chafed under the guidance of a slave without the help of others.
After I was twelve, the slaves were separated from the free born children and the male and female slaves were further divided. The male slaves were taught how to perform maintenance, how to work on the farm, repair vehicles, and other manual tasks. The free born children, both male and female continued their formal education.
Over the last six years, I have been taught how to please men. Not just sexually, but in a variety of ways. I am a gourmet cook; I can sew, dance, and give massage. I learned how to use make-up and perfume to stimulate a man’s senses and to serve him so that I will be desirable to him. Everything I learned, I learned from experts; other female slaves whose life’s work is pleasing men. Six years may seem like a long time but even the owners don’t understand all the things we have to know to please them without them becoming bored. I must know hundreds of erotic dances, each step and movement programmed into my brain through repetition. I was taught how to relax my muscles completely so that when I moved it was with a grace that no free woman could possibly display without any sign of tightness or stress. I could cook in five star restaurants without threatening their rating. However, the most important lesson I learned was to take joy in my womanhood.
I understand that the world outside the compound is also dominated by men but that they give women the illusion of equality. Pay differences, glass ceilings, old boys’ networks, and family responsibilities all work against the woman as she develops her career so she comes to resent her womanhood because of the way it holds her back. I have been blessed with a “career” where I have not learned to resent being female, to the contrary, I take joy from being a woman and a slave. The difference between the career woman and me is that I acknowledge the domination of men and don’t hate myself because I was born a woman. So I ask, who is leading the more honest life, her or me?
At sixteen, when my pubic hair was fully developed, it and the hair on my legs and underarms was permanently removed. I had been shaving up to that point and was happy I no longer had to use the razor.
My “schooling” during that time was four hours a day. The rest of the day I was put to work, cleaning the cottages and main house, working in the garden, or doing other chores. The owners only do what they please and usually it is stimulating and worthwhile work, but sometimes it is just what interests them at the time. As slaves, part of our job is to relieve them of the mundane things so that they can focus on what is important to them.
Three months before my eighteenth birthday, I began taking birth control pills. One week before my birthday, I was branded as my mother and sister were, with the cursive S on my left thigh about two-thirds of the way up between my knee and hip. Indeed, all of the slaves in the compound are branded; the males with a block S and the women with the beautiful cursive S that is the first letter of the word slave. I spent the next week caged with my wrists tied behind my back but before being placed in the cage, my hymen was broken by the physician. This practice of caging slaves after they were branded started with my mother’s owner who had caged her after taking her home after her submission ceremony.
Unless you have experienced branding, there is no way I can explain the pain that I felt. What I can do is explain the effect it had on me. With the branding, the slave knows two things. First, she is made aware through the pain of the brand that she is truly the property of others. Only property is so marked, be it an animal or an engraving on a piece of equipment such as an automobile identification number. The second thing she knows is that in another week she will begin her real life’s work, pleasing the owners. I had been trained for this for six years and it could not come fast enough for me.
While I was caged and my brand healed, the owners held a lottery to determine who would be my first. The winner was about forty-five years old and he was the one who released me from the cage where I had spent the last week. He attached a leash to my collar and led me to one of the cottages where he locked a chain around my ankle. The other end of the chain was locked to a ring in the center of the floor and gave me access to every part of the cottage but prevented me from leaving.
He pointed to the floor and I knelt, knees spread, back straight, my palms on my thighs face up. It is impossible not to feel open and vulnerable in such a position, especially in front of a powerful man. He bent down and removed the leash from my collar, throwing it to the corner, then bade me to come into his arms. I was struggling to keep my trembling under control as I tried to stand as gracefully as I could. I pressed myself against him, crushing my breasts into his chest and turned my face up to his to kiss him. He stared at me for a few moments, looking at my face then lowered his lips to mine and we kissed. My entire concentration was on him. Most people when they kiss are thinking about something else, even if it is just their technique in kissing. But that had been trained out of us. Every slave became an expert at kissing in different ways, in sensing what the man wanted and responding to it without thinking. If we did not, we were whipped and I have had years to learn to do it correctly. He broke off the kiss and lifted me into his arms to carry me to the bed. He set me down gently and undressed as I watched him. When he was naked, I could not take my eyes off of his erection knowing that it would soon be inside me and would be my first.
Despite my nervousness, I pleasured him well that night and then the nervousness was gone. I must also admit that he pleasured me very well. Somehow I was expecting that he would enter me right away, but as he lay beside me, his hands and lips moved all over my body. I tried to reciprocate but he pushed me away and continued to stimulate me until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
“Please, Master, I cried out, “No more. I beg you to fuck your slave.” The last was a pitiful whimper because I could barely speak; the need in me was so great. He rolled on top of me and I drew my knees up and spread them wide so he could penetrate me.
When, hours later, we lay exhausted in each other’s arms, I felt more complete as a woman then I ever could have imagined. As we drifted off to sleep, I whispered in his ear, “Thank you, Master, for teaching me my slavery.” He gave me a squeeze and we went to sleep.
I awoke before him and prepared his breakfast. When it was ready, he was still asleep so I put it in the oven to keep it warm and climbed onto the bed. I took his erection in my mouth and as I sucked him, he woke up. He did not move as I finished and swallowed his sperm. I licked him clean and then he had breakfast, me kneeling beside him while he ate, waiting to get him whatever he wanted. When he finished, he told me to feed myself which I did in the kitchen while he showered and got dressed. He unlocked my ankle from the chain that kept me in the cottage and told me to report to the owners meeting room at nine o’clock. After he left, I showered and prepared my hair and make-up.
It was about eight thirty when I finished so I waited in the cottage until just before nine. It only took a few minutes to go to the main house where the meeting room was on the first floor. There was a clock by the door which was closed and at the stroke of nine, I entered. Six of the owners were seated at a long table, much like a board table in a large corporation, including the man who took my virginity. He got up and lifted me onto the table telling me to kneel on it as he did. Once I was in place, he took his seat at the other end of the long table. I found out later that the other five were the owners’ council that functioned like an executive board. Clearly the reason I did not know of them before was that the owners’ business is not the business of slaves so we were never told about them.
One of the owners looked to the man who had used me and asked for his report.
“She is an exquisite piece of slave flesh,” he began. “Her skills, while still a little raw, were well demonstrated throughout the night. Also, after what I would consider a minimal amount of stimulation cried out her need and begged to be used as a slave. She is very hot-blooded and energetic, and it was easy for her, even on her first time, to completely lose herself in our mutual pleasure. Her initial nervousness vanished very quickly. I would say that she is very confident in her skills and enjoys using her body to serve men.”
As I knelt and listened to this assessment, I did not blush at all. Instead I was thrilled that he was pleased with me. The head of the council thanked him for his report and he got up and left. When he was gone, he turned toward me, kneeling on the table at the other end.
“You are known as Lara, are you not?” he asked.
“If it pleases, Master, yes.”
He nodded and went on. “You will never speak to any of the children about this assessment. Understand?”
“Yes, Master.”
“Now, although I am not required to, I have found it best to explain some things to you. Until yesterday, you were under our special protection. As a child, we did not feel it was in our best interest to have you used before you were emotionally mature enough. As you may already know, the punishment for anyone who has sex with children is harsh. We also know that the hormones in teenagers are telling them yes while we are telling them no. We understand how frustrating it may have been for you these last few years, being trained to give pleasure to men but being denied a release for your own needs. Be that as it may, we have acted in what we believe to be the best interests of the owners, protecting our common property and maintaining its value.
“Those protections have also extended to the punishments you received as a child. Yes, as a slave, you were subjected to corporeal punishment, but it was always within guidelines we established and was not particularly harsh. Those protections have also been removed from you now that you have attained the age of majority. I want you to come with me.”
He stood up and I got down off the table and followed him through a door at the opposite end from where I had entered. The room we went into was about ten feet square and was painted a dull gray. It was windowless and illuminated by a single, bare bulb in the ceiling. About three feet away from one wall there were two posts that ran from floor to ceiling about eight feet apart. A heavy whip hung from a hook on the opposite wall. He told me to stand facing the wall between the two posts and while I did, the other council members bound me spread-eagled between them. My arms were pulled out and up from ropes attached to pulleys on the posts stretching them almost to the point where they might pull my arm from my shoulder. Once my arms were bound, loops of rope were fastened around my ankles and my feet were pulled widely apart. Because my arms were already raised high and spread, I had to get up on my toes to support my weight as my legs were spread. When I was finally bound, I was already suffering from the pain of being stretched between the poles.
He came up beside me and used his hand to turn my head toward him. “I do this not because you deserve it, you don’t. I do this because as your Master, I can do whatever I choose with my property.”
Then he stepped back and whipped me for almost an hour. I received fifty strokes, one each minute. I later learned that the reason he did not whip me faster was that he wanted the pain from each stroke to seep through my whole body before he administered the next one. I knew what was coming the moment I entered the room so I had steeled myself for the first stroke, clenching my jaw and drawing my hands into fists as I tensed every muscle in my body. I did not cry out with the first stroke, but my false bravado cracked on the second one and I screamed in agony. To add to torture, one of the other council members was using a watch to keep time and called out, “Now,” when it was time for another stroke so I knew within fractions of a second when to expect the pain.
Before the tenth stroke, I was balling and pleading for mercy; mercy which never came. Not long after that, all I could do was cry while I hung limply between the posts as the pain continued to build; layer after layer of pain on my back, my bottom, and across the backs of my thighs. I passed out a few times but they used smelling salts to revive me within the one minute timeframe of each stroke. For the first half of the beating, besides experiencing the pain, all I could think about was to wonder why they were doing this to me. My mind searched for answers but didn’t find any. Then my brain just shut down. Only the pain in my body existed. The sound of the whip whipping through the air and slapping my skin, the man calling out now when it was time for a stroke, even my own sobs disappeared and my world became silent. Likewise with my sight and even though I was still conscious, all was blackness. My body and the pain were inseparable; commingled so that I became my own pain.
When he finished whipping me, I was left hanging limply in my bonds to suffer. Slowly my senses came back to me and I tried to regain my footing, standing on my toes to relieve some of the stress on my shoulders. I don’t know how long I was there, whether it was an hour or a day because time didn’t mean anything to me anymore. When they came back to release me, the head of the council stood in front of me in the few feet between me and the wall. He lifted my chin and looked into my face.
When I finally focused on him he said, “Do not displease us.”
I was cut down and taken to the infirmary where I spent the next two days. The doctor use salve on wrists and ankles were they were chaffed from the ropes but nothing on my back. Unbelievably, I wasn’t cut or bleeding but I did have welts that would take time to heal. I spent the time on my stomach with my wrists and ankles chained to the bed.
While there I had two days to do nothing but think. I had learned a valuable lesson that could not have been taught to me while I was considered a child. Knowing you are owned and feeling owned are two entirely different things. I always knew I was a slave and that I would never be anything else. But now I felt my slavery in every fiber of my being. I was the property of others to do with as they pleased. My only goal going forward was to do everything I could to please my owners so that I would never be whipped like that again.
It was about four years later that I found my true master. I read in my mother’s narrative how the owners were very careful not to pick favorites and have monogamous relationships when the community first started but no one believed that could last. For the last fifteen years or so, she had kept the quarters of her first master and spent most of her time serving him when she was not teaching school. But it was not uncommon for one of the owners to call her on her way back to the main building after school and use her for pleasure. I had witnessed it myself several times and I remember envying my mother for her skills at pleasing a man.
One of my brothers was her true master’s son but because she did not serve him exclusively, and never would, she wasn’t sure about my other brother or me. The doctor kept records and genetic profiles of all the owners and slaves in the compound and was consulted before pregnancy was contemplated to make sure that there wasn’t any danger of having a baby with someone who was too closely related. But as an original member of the community, she did not need to be concerned. It was only the second generation, where the man or woman might not be aware of one parent, that it became an issue. The doctor kept our genetic records and was consulted before a second generation slave was taken off birth control in order to become pregnant. He would verify that there was no risk to the baby because of an unknown incestuous match.
When I was ten, she kept me after school and had a talk with me. I remember her saying that humans were, by nature, not limited to loving a single person and that she loved all of the owners and was devoted to serving them. But, she went on, every slave in the compound would develop a special feeling for someone; someone who would enslave her heart as much as her body and mind. And that special feeling was often returned as an owner found his one, true slave; the woman who he could make melt just by glancing at her. It wasn’t natural for humans to deny that feeling and she said she was lucky because her first master was her true master. She said that one day I would find my true master and he would be the one who would teach me the joy of being a woman and in love.
My true master was about four years older than me. He had just received his doctorate in chemistry and the council had authorized the building of a lab for him so he could continue his research. It took about six months to complete the lab and stock it with all of the equipment he wanted so during that time, he really could not work except on paper. When it was finally finished, I was assigned to him to help him unpack and organize all of his notes and research from his post-graduate. When I first reported to him, I knelt in submission and he looked at me quizzically. “Do I know you, slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master. As I child you knew me as Lara.”
“You’re Lara?” he asked surprised. “Skinny, little, flat-chested Lara? What do they call you now?”
“Whatever Master wishes,” I replied. Once, long ago he and a friend made a bet about whether a ten year old could masturbate to orgasm. I was the one they chose for their experiment. It was my first sexual experience of any kind and I remember how good it felt as I watched them watch me as I came. They clearly enjoyed watching me climax and as I remember it, I helped Master win his bet. It was just a few weeks later that mother had the talk with me about finding a true master and somehow I knew, even at ten years old, that he might be the one.
“Lara is fine for now.”
“Would Master enjoy seeing me masturbate again for him?” I asked to let him know I remembered.
“I would, but not right now. Let’s get to work.”
He had me unpack boxes of files with notes and organize a filing system for them while he started testing his equipment. As I worked, I was leaking, thinking about the time I came for him and his friend. After about an hour, when I saw him finish with a piece of equipment, I went over to him and knelt before him.
“Excuse me, Master, may I interrupt?”
“What is it?”
“Master, your slave’s need is great. May I please you?”
“Why now, Lara?”
“Master, when you had me masturbate for you and your friend, it was my first time. I have been remembering it, remembering how handsome you looked as you watched me and how much I enjoyed doing it for you. You left for college when I was but fourteen but I have often thought about that first time and what it would have been like if instead of masturbating, I had been allowed to serve you fully. Now seeing you again has brought it all back.”
Without another word, he undressed and we made love on the floor of his new lab. Afterward, as he held me in his arms, he confessed that he often remembered me masturbating for him and despite having many other sexual experiences in the compound and at college, that was the one he remembered with the most fondness, the skinny, little, flat-chested girl masturbating and having her climax while he watched. “I love you,” Master,” I said.
“I know, slave. I love you, too.”
After that, I became a permanent part of the lab staff as his assistant. He was very patient with me as he taught me the equipment and how to use the computer to enter his data and record his results. Most nights I spent in his rooms in the main house, preparing his dinner, cleaning the rooms, and doing his laundry. The only time I spent in the slave quarters was when he had to attend a conference and was away from the compound.
It was another year after that when something unheard of happened. There was a murder in the community. One of the original female owners had taken one of the second generation male slaves to one of the cottages to use for her pleasure. I understand that her original male slave, who was over sixty, could no longer satisfy her. The male slaves had been becoming more problematic for a few years and they were often punished publicly for disobedience. This growing revolt had been the topic of much conversation lately between the owners.
Anyway, what happened is that the slave climaxed too quickly and the owner was left unsatisfied. She whipped him as he lay bound to the bed, even flogging his testicles, which must have been excruciating for him. When she went to release him, she got sloppy and chained his wrists in front of him instead of behind him. He used the chain to strangle her.
There was not doubt about his guilt so there was no trial. The council ordered that he be destroyed and he was with a lethal injection in the infirmary. Then they had to address the problem of what to do with the other male slaves. They could not just release them to the outside world because they were not equipped to survive and there was a risk that they would expose what we were doing here. The choice came down to destroying them or isolating them far away from the main group of buildings where they would live as if in a prison for the rest of their lives. The choice, and I believe it was a humane one, was that they be destroyed. The second generation of male slaves still had life expectancies of over fifty years. Given the choice of isolation for fifty years or death, I think I would chose death.
The remaining female owners were given a choice. A pro-rated ownership share would be paid to them and they could leave the compound or they could become slaves. I should mention that an ownership share had grown to millions of dollars. When owners sold their work, be it art, or inventions, or services, the income went into the common fund. Added to the investment income that had accumulated over the years and it was a substantial amount of money each owner had accumulated as a share in the community. The remaining four original owners and the two that had joined later chose to leave. Surprisingly, the one second generation female owner we had chose slavery. When I asked her about it years later, she confessed to me that she had always wanted slavery, even as a child, but never had the courage to carry through on her desires. When her hand was forced, she said, she could not lose what might be her last opportunity to fulfill her need for enslavement.
So generations earlier than my mother’s prediction, it happened. The community consisted of male owners and female slaves exclusively. From that time, the daughters born in the compound were destined to be slaves and the sons to be owners.
We who live here are aware of what goes on outside the compound. We understand that there is a world beyond our gates where there are no slaves and owners and were everyone has choices. If I lived in that world, I might wonder how someone could give to someone else the power of life and death. I would wonder what type of person would chose to become property and, thereby, be subject to execution at any time. I can only answer that question this way; I never made a choice to become a slave. I was born a slave and I shall remain a slave until I die, whether it is by natural causes, an accident, or my owner’s determination.
Nor would I change it if I could. I am happy and fulfilled. A good man loves me and I love him and serve him. In making him happy, in the hundreds of different ways that he may not ever realize I have purpose and meaning in my life. From what I understand about the outside world, the divorce rate is high, the disease rate is high, and the crime rate is high. In all the years this community has existed, we have had one crime and it could be argued that it was the natural outgrowth of a bad decision, a decision that ran counter to human nature.
It has been several years since I wrote in this journal but thinking back, there is not much to write about. I have been pregnant four times by three men, my true master twice and two others in order to diversify genetically. I have one son who just left for college and three daughters between the ages of nine and sixteen. But I never spent time on the rape rack like my mother and others did. Instead I just moved in with the man during my fertile period, we had lots of loving sex, and when I caught, I moved back with Master. Master never showed any sign of jealousy when I was pregnant by other men and I think we may have advanced to the point where that emotion does not exist inside our walls. But being human beings, it can always reappear at any time. We are as healthy a group of people as you will ever see, both mentally and physically. If drama comes from conflict, then you will find no drama here. And I just can’t force myself to write about the routine things that happen every day like making love, or doing laundry, or cooking a great meal, or raising babies.
I was thinking as I wrote that last paragraph that my daughter is the same age as I was when my mother stopped keeping up with her story. Maybe when she turns eighteen I will let her read about the first two generations of slaves and how her grandmother and mother lived free despite, no correct that, because of the collars they wore.
One more note before I end this. It is fifteen years since my last entry but I wanted to update this one more time. My mother, a nameless slave for most of her life, has died. Her true master succumbed to cancer and when he died, she requested to be put down. She had lived with him for over fifty years and he was always her true master. I was present when the doctor administered the injection that terminated her life and was able to hold her hand as she took her last breath. For those of us raised as slaves, it is hard to imagine the courage and intelligence it took for that first generation to submit to enslavement. It was not, and probably still is not, considered to be normal or acceptable. But even in her eighties, her skin wrinkled and her breasts sagging, she walked as a slave walks, displaying her body for all to see and take pleasure from it.
The entire community mourned the passing of a nameless slave and no work was done for three days. That was an honor that was rarely given to owners and had never before been given to a slave. There is no higher praise that can be given to her.
End of part 3
Copyright© 2011 by Bridget. All rights reserved. I welcome your comments. Email me at brdgwriter@gmail.com