Archive-name: slave_girl_stephanie1-4

From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi>

Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Slave Market (MF, bd, Mdom)

Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Slave Market (MF, bd, Mdom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: STORY: Stephanie in Slave Market Message-ID: <5020@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 6 Feb 92 23:03:40 GMT

Here's a another story that a friend of mine wrote for me -- not the same person who wrote "Stephanie's New Master," but another co-fantasizer who is not even a native speaker of English. (You'll be impressed by his command of our language -- I was.) As in the other story, "Stephanie" in this story is modelled on me, but the story itself is strictly the product of the author's imagination. Any similarity between the characters and events portrayed in the story and experiences of real people is purely coincidence. :)

Enjoy!

Stephanie the Kajira



Stephanie in Slave Market
By Sir Kevin

I saw her standing there.

My eyes were fixed on her as soon as I entered the slave market. There were about twenty slavegirls on display in the market that day, and each one of them, I had to admit, was of the best quality. All of them were pretty; some were indeed beautiful. But she seemed to have a unique atmosphere around her that I found especially attractive.

Like all the other girls, she was completely naked. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, and her ankles locked in a set of heavy iron shackles -- too heavy, I said to myself, for her slim little ankles. On her neck was a black iron collar, attached to a chain hanging from a wooden beam above her head. She was forced by the chain to stand rigidly straight, waiting to be examined by potential buyers in the most humiliating way -- much in the same manner as the other girls in the market.

Yet she appeared somewhat different from the rest of the slavegirls. While all the other girls were tall and well-built, she was petite, no more than 5 feet 4 inches tall, with a waist small enough, it seemed, to be held in a man's hands. The others were all gorgeously blond; her hair was of a silky chestnut color. Surrounded by well-tanned breasts and thighs, her skin looked vulnerably pale, through which her veins could be seen as winding thin blue lines. Against the smooth whiteness of her limbs, the rough, dark surface of the irons that imprisoned them made a sharp contrast. While the other girls were making all efforts to present themselves to their future masters in the most beautiful and sexy way, she simply stood quietly and almost motionlessly in her corner, with her eyes rooted on the cement floor. A few bunches of long wavy hair climbed over her slim shoulders to her front, as if in a desperate attempt to cover her bare breasts.

Unlike the other girls, who must have been bought and sold in a slave market as a way of life, she had the freshness to one's eyes that belonged only to a girl who was having such a traumatic experience for the first time in her life.

I stopped in front of her. She raised her head slightly to glance at me, but quickly hung it again. I saw her bare feet trying to move back away from me, but the chain on her collar held her firmly in place.

"What's your name?" I asked, lifting her chin with a finger.

"Stephanie... sir." Her voice was trembling a little, but nevertheless extremely sweet and melodious. Meanwhile she tried hard to keep her eyes on the ground to avoid confronting my inquiring eyes. This made her look very lovely.

"Your last name?"

"It doesn't matter, sir," she said with a sigh. "A slavegirl doesn't need a last name any more."

She might be new in her bondage, but she certainly understood her situation quite well already.

I brushed aside her hair with my fingers to fully expose her breasts, and the pair of tenderly pink nipples. Her breasts were small and firm, and jiggled at the touch of my fingers. She couldn't be more than twenty, I thought.

"How old are you?"

"Eighteen, sir."

I took her breasts in the palms my hands, and started caressing them gently. This immediately send a little quake through her body, causing the chain on her collar to jingle. A faint groan came from her throat, and I could feel the two small patches of soft pink skin on the tips of her breasts hardening into thrusting nipples. She closed her eyes, apparently scared but nonetheless enjoying my touch. I was pleased with her response.

Perhaps I should have her nipples pierced if I bought her, I thought.

"Turn around," I released her breasts and ordered her.

With the jingling of chains, she slowly turned around, revealing about a dozen whip marks on the small of her back. The fingers of her cuffed hands rubbed against one another nervously.

"Were you whipped recently?"

"Yes, sir. This morning."

"Why?"

"I don't know, sir. Honestly." She gave a sigh and added in a soft voice: "but I guess whenever a slavegirl is whipped, it's always her fault, one way or another."

I smiled. She is cute.

I examined her hands carefully, and lifted her feet to look at their soles. Everything I saw bore the marks of an easy and comfortable life before the first chain was locked around her neck. Even after being forced to walk barefoot for days or perhaps weeks, as all slavegirls were, her feet were amazingly tender and clean.

"How long have you been a slave, Stephanie?" I asked, turning her around to face me again.

"About two weeks, sir."

"What were you doing before that?"

"I was a student at St. Julia College... sir."

"What was your major?"

"I was an English major..." She raised her head and stared blankly into the blue sky above the chains and the beams. I could see tears in her eyes.

"How did you become a slavegirl?" I was genuinely curious.

"It was a long story...," she answered after hesitating for a short while.

I walked around her nakedness and gave her a full examination again. The youthful and natural beauty of her petite figure, enhanced by the chains and shackles she wore, pleased me immensely. There was no permanent brand anywhere on her body; she had only a fading blue stamp on her left hip that read: "E&L Slave Traders." But the inscriptions on her collar indicated a different owner: "Property of Tony Francera."

"Stephanie," I informed her, "I think I'm going to buy you."

"Are you going to be kind to me, sir?" She raised her head again and for the first time let her eyes meet mine. Brown and clear, her eyes were very charming.

"It depends. On how you behave. But anyway, I'll keep you naked and chained like this all the time. And I'll whip you at least once a week. Also, how would you like a pair of little rings pierced through your nipples?"

"...Do I have a choice?"

"Of course not, you silly little slave!" I laughed and patted her on the back. Except for the fresh whip marks, her skin was soft and smooth, and felt good.

"Where is your master?"

Before the slavegirl could say anything, a man's voice came from behind me: "nice choice, fellow! She's real good stuff, isn't she?"

I turned around and found myself facing a short, dark-skinned man with a black mustache. With a friendly smile, he stretched out his right hand and said: "I'm Tony. This wench is mine. Isn't she a real sweetheart?"

"Oh yes, indeed," I agreed as we shook hands. "I haven't seen anything like her in the market for quite a while. Where did you get her from?"

"From the hands of the E&L guys. Those bustards! They would have wasted her. The day I went there, they had her hanging from the ceiling, her hands tied behind the back and drawn up and all that. And they tied a cement block to her big toes. Man, it looked like they were going to break her arms and ruin her for good. When I got there they had a pair of damn big alligator clamps on her nipples. They wired them up, and a guy was giving her electric shocks through the tits. The poor babe was jerking like a fish out of water. Man, you never heard a girl screaming like that!"

"Good God! Did they really do that to you?" I turned to the slavegirl.

"Yes, sir," she answered briefly. Her voice was noticeably shaking with terror at the memory.

"Why did they do that?" I asked Tony, truly unable to imagine the necessity to torture this sweet and helpless girl in such a horrifying way.

"It turned out some big brothel wanted to buy her, and they were only softening her up for the johns. Damn fools! I told them they were ruining genuine crystal to make a piece of glass. And I told them the best thing they could do by beating her up was to turn her into a bitch just like those," Tony pointed at the sexy blondes chained next to Stephanie.

"That's true," I agreed sincerely.

"Yeah! I could see at the first sight this babe was something special. High-class stuff; you know what I mean? She deserves better than that. So I made them a better offer and took her home. I trained her myself. It didn't take too much hard work. She's a real good girl. Aren't you, sweetie?" He turned to the slavegirl and started rubbing the back of his hand against one of her nipples.

"May I ask why you whipped her this morning?"

"Oh that! That was nothing at all. You have to use your whip on these girls once in a while, you know. Just to make sure they know who they are." Tony winked at me and changed the subject: "so you want her?"

"Well, how much?"

"She's going on auction in a moment. I'm asking only eight grand for a start."

"Eight thousand? That's pretty high a start, don't you think?"

Tony winked at me again and said, "well, she's not just any slavegirl, right?"

"True. Do you have her papers with you?"

"Sure thing!"

I had just started looking through her identification documents when suddenly a loud and rough voice burst out right next to my ears: "Well well well, little bitch! I thought we would meet again!"

Turning around I saw a very big man with a heavy beard standing in front of Stephanie. Twisting about fearfully in his shadow, the naked slavegirl looked all the smaller.

"Stephanie Dartville, right?" the man continued. "Still remember me, you little bitch?"

She obviously recognized him too. Her face turned pale, and her body shivered visibly. She turned her face left and right, as if searching for help, and struggled vainly against the shackles and chains to escape from him.

"Mr. Johnson!" Tony was suddenly all smiles. "How are you doing, Mr. Johnson? You know this wench?"

"Boy, do I know this little bitch!" the man burst out again. His words came together with a heavy smell of beer and tobacco. "She's one of those chicks working for the New Underground Railroad, and last year she helped several of my slavegirls run away. I've been looking for her all over the place. And what do you know! Here she is, the freedom fighter herself in the slave market! God, I love it!"

"For your information, bitch," the man turned to Stephanie, "I have caught all my chicks one by one, and I gave every one of them a lesson that she'll forever thank you for. And that friend of yours, Jennifer Stanistow, she ended up in my stable too. I showed her a living hell and then sold her to bunch of bikers. Tell you the truth she didn't enjoy it at all. Next it's your turn!"

Johnson suddenly grabbed the naked girl's nipples between his fingers and pinched them very hard. Poor Stephanie threw back her head and screamed in formidable pain.

"Tony," he roared, "I want this bitch. What's your price on her?"

"Mr. Johnson," Tony asked hesitantly, "you are not going to buy her just to kill her, are you?"

"Of course not!" Johnson answered. "Not this one. Death will be a luxury for her. I'm going to teach her things could be worse than death. I'll make a good example of her for all those chicks. She's going to spend a long time in the pillory on Broadway, but first I'll need to whip her hide into tiny pieces. Take a good look at this whip, little bitch! It's going to be your life-long companion."

The poor girl glanced at the whip in Johnson's hand, and her eyes were filled with horror. It was not one of the conventional whips designed for the tender skin of a girl. Made of raw cow hide, it was quite similar to the bull-whips that cowboys used on their cattle, only much shorter. It was an extremely brutal thing to use on the naked body of a girl.

And the pillory on Broadway was also an extremely brutal torture device. Besides the utmost humiliation of being displayed naked in front of thousands of people every day, a girl locked in the pillory by her neck, wrists, and ankles could support the weight of her body only by either standing on her toes, sitting on the sharp edge of the foot-stock, or hurting her neck in the upper pillory. It had not been used for over three years, but the moans and tears that it had extracted from every girl it had ever imprisoned still remained vivid in everyone's memory.

A bell rang at the center of the slave market, indicating the auction was about to start, and the men began moving toward the auction block. I took another look at the girl I had decided to purchase, and turned to join the other men.

"Sir..." It was Stephanie's soft voice.

Turning around, I asked her: "are you talking to me?"

"Yes, sir," she looked at me earnestly. "Are you going to buy me?"

"So you can run away?"

"No, sir, please..." her voice became eager. "I promise I'll never run away from you. I promise! I'll be your faithful slave throughout my life. I'll do anything you want... I can cook. I'm a good dancer -- I have learnt the belly dance. And I can play violin or mandolin for you. I can be very useful. And... you can do anything you please to me. Whip me all you want. Keep me chained. And you can pierce my nipples -- please do. Torture me anyway you want to. But please... please buy me, sir. You can sell me again later if you don't like me. But just...just don't let that beast lay his fingers on me; please?"

Tears ran down on her rosy cheeks. It was a plea that I could not say no to.

I stepped back to her, and wiped the tears off her face with my thumbs. Holding her face in both hands, I kissed her gently on her lips.

"Don't worry," I told her. "I'll do my best to outbid that old Johnson guy. I like you, sweetheart."

"Thank you, sir."

The auction started. Within an hour about ten of the slavegirls were sold, some for five or six thousand, others for ten of eleven. A girl with beautiful long legs and full bosom brought her master fifteen thousand and eight hundred dollars.

Then came Stephanie's turn.

She was led onto the auction block by an assistant of the auctioneer. The chain on her collar had been replaced by a leather leash held in the man's hand. The auctioneer kicked lightly on the back of one of her knees, and Stephanie dropped on her knees. She was told to sit on her heels, and the auctioneer's assistant kicked her knees apart to expose her pussy.

There she knelt, naked and shackled, with her head hanging low, her legs apart and her hands still cuffed behind her back, in a beautiful picture of female submission. Few people could imagine that only two weeks before this miserable slavegirl was sitting in a comfortable dorm room in one of the most prestigious colleges in the region, and perhaps writing anti-slavery poems.

The response from the bidders was moderate. Most of the men around the auction block were middle-aged businessmen, who would much sooner prefer a mindless blonde sexpot to a girl of intelligence like Stephanie, whose reserved look was to them an indication of trouble in the future. When the bidding went over ten thousand, Johnson and I were the only competitors left. Yet the bidding soon reached and passed twenty thousand, much to everybody's surprise.

Johnson was clearly determined to put his chains on Stephanie's neck, and for this he would pay any price. When he called out twenty-eight thousand after my offer of twenty-five, there was a brief commotion around the auction block, and then there was complete silence. I could hear jingling chains on both sides of the block; the girls still waiting to be auctioned were also stretching their necks to see what would happen next. Twenty-eight thousand was almost an insane price to pay for a slavegirl, even for one as pretty as Stephanie.

"Do I hear twenty-eight and five hundred?" the auctioneer asked.

"Yes." I said. It was far more than I could easily afford, but I was determined too.

"Twenty-nine thousand!" Johnson called out.

I looked at the naked girl kneeling on the auction block. All I saw was a pair of expecting eyes.

"Twenty-nine thousand and five hundred," I told the crowd.

"Thirty thousand!"

"Thirty thousand and five hundred."

"Thirty-one!"

"Thirty-one and five hundred."

It was all quite for a while. Johnson did not respond immediately to my new offer. On the auction block Stephanie closed her eyes and bit her lower lip in great anxiety.

"Do I hear thirty-two?" the auctioneer asked.

"No," Johnson replied, "you hear forty thousand."

This caused an enormous commotion in the crowd. A man standing next to me exclaimed: "give him that girl, young man! I could sell you my mother for that money."

Everybody laughed.

I looked at Stephanie at a loss. Again I saw the pair of expecting eyes, which were now getting rather desperate. But I quickly calculated my financial situation and recognized that I had lost her.

"Sold to the gentleman for FOR-TY THOU-SAND DOLLARS!" The auctioneer's voice expressed uncontrollable excitement.

More excited was Tony. I was sure he still could not believe what had happened: he had just made forty thousand dollars out of a girl he probably paid as little as four thousand for.

I saw him talking warmly with Johnson on the block, patting each other on the shoulders. Then he helped Johnson drag the poor girl down from the block. He removed the shackles from Stephanie's neck and limbs, and Johnson immediately tied her hands tightly behind her back with a long rope. Stephanie tried to put up a fight, but was easily overcome by the two men. After they had tied her up, Johnson kicked Stephanie down on the ground, and lashed her several times with his whip, making her cry out in pain and beg him for mercy on her knees. Then they took her away into the blacksmith's workshop behind the auction block. Shortly after, I heard her screams penetrating the wooden door of the small workshop.

I had let her down.

Stephanie's screams lasted a few minutes. When she was dragged out from the workshop, she was apparently in such pain that she could hardly walk. She was told to kneel in front of the notary's office, and Johnson and Tony went in.

I walked up to her.

Her whole body was shaking and covered with sweat. Her shoulders jerked with her sobs. She knelt next to the wall, and leaned on it, with her head sunk on her chest. The rope, tied around her wrists and looped several times around her arms, was so tight that it cut into her tender flesh. The horrible cuts that Johnson's whip left on her back and shoulders were still bleeding. I noticed her nipples were bleeding too. They had been pierced, and a small chain was attached to the silver-colored nipple rings.

On her right hip, I found a newly imprinted oval brand: "S. S. Johnson." A few other words were cruelly branded on her back near the right shoulder: "Stephanie Dartville, member of the New Underground Railroad." I could imagine the formidable humiliation these words would bring her when she was displayed in the nude in public.

"Stephanie," I did not know how to comfort her, "I'm sorry."

"No, sir," she said sobbingly, without raising her head, "you did all you could. I know. But there was no hope from the beginning; I should have known that. He wanted me, and he had enough money to buy me at any price. Thank you for trying to help, sir. You have done me a great favor, and I'll remember it forever. I'll pray for you every day till I die."

"Stephanie," I tried to offer my advice, "the important thing now is to take good care of yourself. Try to make the best of it. Try to please him, and obey him. Maybe he won't be too harsh on you after a while..."

"There's no use, sir," she interrupted, raising her tear-covered face and shaking her head in despair. "There's no use. He's determined to put me through hell, and he's going to do it no matter what. I know that beast..."

Her head sank again, and she fell silent.

"Well, buddy, still interested in her?" Johnson came out from the office. "That's all right. Just wait a few years. You can have this little bitch when I'm done with her. That is, you can have her bones after I've done away with her skin and flesh."

He laughed savagely, and grabbed the small chain on Stephanie's nipple-rings to pull her up on her feet, cursing and kicking her mercilessly in the meantime. Then he turned to me again and said, rather friendly: "seriously, buddy, take my advice: don't waste your emotion on a slavegirl. There are plenty of them around. Why don't you go get yourself another one? You can get five of them for the money you just offered. And you'll forget all about this chick in a blink."

Maybe he was right.

I watched while Johnson led Stephanie away through the crowd, holding the chain on her nipples, which forced her to walk with her breasts thrown out in a peculiar way. Then I wandered in the slave market for another ten or fifteen minutes, browsing through the girls still on display, but without seeing or hearing anything.

I decided to leave.

As soon as I walked out of the slave market, my eyes fell on Stephanie again. She was now suspended in a spread-eagle position on the back of a van, with fresh whip marks on her breasts and thighs. She bit her lip and suffered the agony in silence. A small crowd had gathered around her.

The van started moving when I walked up, but Stephanie had enough time to smile at me sadly and say: "Bye-bye, sir. God bless you."

"Bye-bye, Stephanie," I answered her in my mind. "I'll pray for you."

The small crowd dispersed, leaving me standing conspicuously on the curb. A security guard looked at me curiously.

Behind me the auctioneer in the slave market declared over the speaker: "Good news, gentlemen! In a few minutes we are getting two more girls to be auctioned today. Both are incredibly beautiful. Authentic college chicks..."

I ran across the street, and kept running.


Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!www.nntp.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!cs.utexas.edu!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!usenet From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Reunion (MF, bd, Mdom) Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:47:09 -0800 Organization: Penet anonymous remailer Lines: 249 Message-ID: <3280F94D.74F8@anon.penet.fi> NNTP-Posting-Host: smf-i3.facsmf.utexas.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; name="STEPHAN2.TXT" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.0Gold (Win16; I) Content-Disposition: inline; filename="STEPHAN2.TXT" Xref: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net alt.sex.bondage:13751 alt.sex.stories:16075

Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Reunion (MF, bd, Mdom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: STORY: Stephanie's Reunion Message-ID: <6631@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 31 Mar 92 04:07:24 GMT

Finally, at last, at long last, Sir Kevin's incredible and sometimes wild imagination is back with me again, after his long affair with Jennifer. :) For those of you who complained that the Jennifer stories are too short and fragmented, and cried for a longer story with a more coherent plot (me included, in fact), here is a little something to keep your appetite going.

My first reaction to this story was that it's still rather "Jenniferish," in that it is not as long and well-developed as his acclaimed (hee hee) "Stephanie in the Slave Market." I was tempted to pick on him for that, but decided not to, seeing how hard it has been just to get him back this far from Jennifer. After all, we can only wish that he had all the time in the world to give us more treats like the earlier Stephanie story. :)

Now, enjoy!

Stephanie the Kajira



Stephanie's Reunion
By Sir Kevin


Stephanie smiled at the slavegirls kneeling under the neon sign of Pompeii's Cafe, the favorite hang-out of her master and the other slaveowners. They smiled back at her. None of them said anything. An exchange of smile was all the greeting the slavegirls were allowed among themselves.


All the girls were naked, like herself. Some of them were chained or bound, others were not restrained save for the chains around their necks, but they also rigidly crossed their wrists behind their backs, as if held by their masters' magic spell.


Stephanie walked to the end of the row and fell on her knees. Sitting on her heels, she threw out her chest and knelt with the grace of a Greek statue, while her master locked the chain on her collar to a ring in the wall and disappeared into the cafe.


Her arms and hands were tied tightly behind her back, so tightly that it was hurting her. But she had decided not to complain. Her master was not in a very good mood that day. In fact, just before they left home he had whipped her severely for some extremely trivial mistake. Her back and breasts were still burning from the pain.


The street was crowded as usual. A constant flow of legs and feet moved to and fro before Stephanie's eyes. Some of them stopped in front of her. Then there would be a hand touching her at different places on her body, and maybe even a few flirting words. But over the last few years, Stephanie had learnt to simply ignore them. The armed security guards standing by the door of the cafe were her insurance that these passing menaces would not be any serious threat to her.


A pair of young lovers appeared around the corner, and Stephanie could not resist the instinct to glance at them a few times. The young man, rather gloomy-looking in his dark grey rain-coat, did not attract much of her attention initially. But his girlfriend, a cheerful little blonde wearing a bright red and white sport jacket, tight-fitting blue jeans and a pair of white leather boots, who walked in a way of dancing and talked in a way of singing, reminded Stephanie very much of herself before that fateful day in the slave market.


The girl stopped in front of each of the slavegirls and giggled brief remarks on them like an art critic appraising art-works on an exhibition, while her boyfriend hemmed single syllables from his nose either in agreement or disagreement. Vaguely, Stephanie found his voice somewhat familiar.


The white leather boots danced over to Stephanie, and the girl exclaimed in a raised voice: "Oh look! This one has all the elements of a Degas!"


"Now there you got it, darling. She's a real piece of art." The young man finally spoke.


Immediately, Stephanie realized whose voice she was hearing. On an uncontrollable impulse, she raised her head and called out: "Eddy!"


Stephanie felt like in a dream. Towering over her pitiable kneeling figure was indeed her younger brother Eddy.


Eddy was the only family she had in the world. Orphaned at a early age, she practically raised him by herself, although she was only a year older. Having always demonstrated a strong talent in art, Eddy aspired to go to an art school in Paris. Five years before, when he graduated from high school, Stephanie withdrew from her own college to work as a waitress in order to help him save the money. A few months later, when it became clear to her that they would never be able to save enough money with the kind of jobs they could find, she made an ultimate self-sacrifice for Eddy. She went to a nationwide slave dealer and signed up for an upcoming slave-auction, designating her brother as the sole beneficiary of the proceeds from her sale. The evening before she was taken away to the auction, Stephanie and Eddy locked each other in their arms and cried well into the night. The next morning, the men sent by the slave dealer had to literally tear her away from Eddy's arms. When the van moved down the road, Stephanie saw her brother running frantically after it, while she hit the barred windshield until her hands bled. Eddy's distorted voice had been echoing in her mind ever since then: "Stephie! Stephie! I'll come and get you out as soon as I return!" ...


It seemed to have happened only the day before, but in reality Stephanie had not seen or even heard from Eddy for well over four years. She knew Eddy should be back from Paris by now, and she had been praying day and night that he would come to her the very next minute. And now when her dearest brother suddenly appeared before her eyes like a miracle, Stephanie could not contain herself. Looked up at Eddy, her whole body was shaking violently, and her eyes were filled with passion and expectation.


A complex expression flew over Eddy's face. He had apparently recognized his loving sister, too. He stepped forward to her, but stopped instantly. Instead of throwing himself down to her and relieving her of her bondage as Stephanie expected, he stood motionlessly, mouth half open and eyes staring blankly beyond her, as if stricken by a lightning.


The little blonde looked up and down between Eddy and Stephanie, and asked him curiously: "You know each other?"


"Huh, what? Oh no, no, not really. I don't think so." Eddy seemed to have finally gathered himself together. He turned to his hapless sister, and asked: "How do you know my name, slavegirl? What do you want from me?"


"Eddy..." Now it was Stephanie who felt like stricken by a lightning.


"What? Do I know you?"


The cruel question came upon Stephanie like a dagger piercing through her heart. She let her chin sink on her chest, leaned back against the wall, and breathed deeply.


"You have forgotten, Ed...Master Eddy," after a long while, Stephanie managed to say in a small voice, without raising her head. "My master used to be your next-door neighbor... and I used to help you with your housework when you were young..."


"Ah, I see," Eddy quickly played along. "Now I remember -- Stephanie, right?"


"Yes, Master Eddy..." Stephanie felt as if something had been stuffed in her throat.


"It's been a long time, Stephanie. How have you been?"


"I'm fine...I guess. Thank you, Master Eddy."


"Where's your master, Mr., eh..."


"Mr. Van Dyke, Master Eddy. He's in the cafe. I have a message for you from him." In her shocked state of mind, Stephanie did not realize the illogicality of her last statement.


"Oh? What's the message?"


"My master wishes you all the best in you career, Master Eddy."


"That's... very kind of him," Eddy said after a long pause. "Please thank him for me, Stephie."


"I will, Master Eddy."


Both of them fell silent. They stared at each other for a time without saying anything.


Finally, Eddy's girlfriend broke the awkward silence. "I don't want to interrupt your little reunion, Eddy," she whispered, "but I think it's time for us to get back to the airport now. I don't want my parents to wait for us too long."


"Hm," Eddy replied, and slowly turned away from Stephanie like a dream-walker. Then abruptly he turned back to her and asked: "Stephie, is your master treating you well?"


"Yes, Master Eddy, very well." Tears streamed down from Stephanie's eyes.


"Good...now take good care of yourself, OK?" With the words, he walked away quickly.


"Hey, wait for me!" The little blonde bounced along after him, while waving to Stephanie. "Bye-bye, Stephanie!"


"Why do I have the feeling that you knew each other much better than just neighbors?" Stephanie heard her asking Eddy teasingly once she caught up with him.


"Oh, just those silly childhood things. You don't want to know."


"Yes I do! Tell me!"


"Nah. Leave me alone."


"No, I won't, till you tell me. Tell me tell me tell me..."


They disappeared into the crowd.


Stephanie spent the rest of the evening crying to herself. The other slavegirls watched her with great sympathy. Some even accompanied her in tears, but none of them said anything.


The security guards standing around also looked at Stephanie sympathetically.


"Poor girl," said one of them. "Must have had a crush on that little boss man."


"Hopeless," another guard commented. "That's why I always tell these girls: never get wrapped up in those romances."


Stephanie just cried.


Stephanie's master was astonished to see her tear-covered face when he came out from the cafe.


"What's wrong, Stephie?" He squatted down to wipe her face with his silk handkerchief and caress her bruised shoulders. "Did I beat you too hard this evening?"


"No, my Lord...not at all." Stephanie threw herself into his broad chest and cried like a child.


"Please...my Lord," she murmured between sobs, "please whip me again... whip me right now, my Lord; I want it... and whip me harder than ever..."


Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cpk-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!www.nntp.primenet.com!nntp.primenet.com!cs.utexas.edu!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!usenet From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Vignettes (MF, bd, Mdom) Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:48:30 -0800 Organization: Penet anonymous remailer Lines: 474 Message-ID: <3280F99E.5EA7@anon.penet.fi> NNTP-Posting-Host: smf-i3.facsmf.utexas.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; name="STEPHAN3.TXT" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.0Gold (Win16; I) Content-Disposition: inline; filename="STEPHAN3.TXT" Xref: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net alt.sex.bondage:13752 alt.sex.stories:16076

Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Vignettes (MF, bd, Mdom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

The Jennifer vignettes here were written by the same group responsible for the Stephanie stories and vignettes.


From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (12) Message-ID: <5688@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 4 Mar 92 04:03:16 GMT

[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]


Jennifer (12)


"Jennifer! Jennifer!!"


Her mistress' voice was filled with a sense of urgency. Jennifer jumped up from the lounge chair on the little balcony outside her room, and ran as far as her leg-irons allowed, stopping only to turn around and open the door with her fettered hands.


She suddenly froze when she came to her mistress' study downstairs. Robby, her mistress' eleven-year-old son, was standing nervously in a corner, and staring her up and down. She stopped and hesitated, not knowing whether to step in or to withdraw. She had been in the house for more than two months, but her mistress had never confronted her with Robby when she was naked and chained.


"Come on in, Jennifer," her mistress called her. "Don't be shy. Now kneel down."


Slowly, Jennifer fell on her knees, sat on her heels and spread her thighs. Over the last few months she had grown accustomed to this position of submissiveness, but this time she felt more than a little uncomfortable exposing the most intimate part of her body in Robby's presence.


"All right, Robby," her mistress said calmly. "Now go ahead and touch her."


Jennifer lowered her head and flushed when Robby's small sweaty hands pressed on her breasts and fondled her nipples tentatively. Apparently fascinated to see how the round nipples became erect, he pinched and pulled them with great interest.


"Touch her all you want, Robby." Her mistress sounded more serious now. "You can even hurt her if you like. It's OK to do whatever you want with Jennifer. She's our slave.


"But," she suddenly raised her voice, "if you get caught one more time bothering the girls in your school, don't ever come home to see me again!"


From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: STORY: Stephanie's New Master Message-ID: <5018@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 6 Feb 92 23:03:18 GMT

Well, I can't exactly say this is a "commissioned story," since I didn't pay the author any commission to do it. But this is indeed a story that was written specially for me as a birthday gift (...hmm...). It was written by a friend of mine -- a co-fantasizer, you might say -- who has no access to ASB.

Enjoy!

Stephanie the Kajira



Stephanie's New Master


The whip was about four feet long, made from soft leather wrapped around a tapering springy material for about half it's length, then continuing as a single lash to its end where it was knotted and splayed into four tips, each about two inches long.


He tested the springiness of the whip as he flicked it through the air. He then flicked it across Stephanie's belly. Receiving little reaction from her, he increased the the snap of the wrist, applying a little more speed and power to the tip of the lash.


Stephanie began to writhe and twitch as the tip of the lash began to bite her. Her new master decided to change his angle of attack, out of curiosty, to see if the blows would be visible on her flesh. He noted with interest that there was some period of delay between the blow and the appearence of the mark, and as he began to move the lash about a pattern of blows followed like a shadow. He became so engrossed in his experiments that he was unaware of the cries and moans of pain coming from Stephanie.


He stepped back to look at her. Her face was streaked with tears. The front of her body was now lined with streaks of pink shading from a light rose hue to a deep angry crimson. The stripes began at the swelling of her breasts and continued in an unbroken mass to her knees. He had made sure to pay more than a little attention to her breasts, inner thighs and lower belly.


Finally he became aware of the sounds of suffering coming from the naked bound girl. Stephanie was suspended spread-eagled inside a wooden frame of heavy timber that seemed to be hinged in the middle where it was held solidly to the floor and ceiling. The framework could pivot in any direction.


A wimpering Stephanie hung limply within the frame, held in place by padded manacles attached to blocks and tackles, her chin rested on her chest as she finally began to catch her breath.


She knew not to look up as she heard her new master go into a nearby cabinet.


"You have been taught well, Stephanie," her new master said as he walked back over to the frame.


"I guess we can conclude tonight's entertainment with 12 lashes from the martinet," her new master said gruffly.


He then held the martinet, a french version of the cat o'nine once used quit readily in French boarding school, up to Stephanie's lips.


"Well," he said.


She then kissed the leather that was soon to kiss her flesh.


"Now you are going to get a dozen of the best with this martinet, and you are going to count them," said her new master.


"Oh, please master,.. no more.. please.. Master, I hurt."


"You are supposed to hurt, Stephanie, it's the purpose of the lash to make you hurt. Do you want two dozens for whining?"


"No ... Please.. Master.. I beg for a dozen," Stephanie said submissively.


"You will count each stroke!"


"Yes, Master."


He layed the leather thongs of the martinet softly across her buttocks, measuring the distance for his swing. Stephanie tightened her rear in anticipaton.


Swissssssh.... SMACK...... Her new master struck a blow across her upper buttocks.


"One....... Master."


Swissssssh.... SMACK......


"Twwwooo....... Maaaaaster..." she cried.


The blows rained down on Stephanie, she could only quiver in the frame as each blow rained down on her. The stripes of the blows glistened red, from the top of her ass to the tops of her thighs.


One blow slashed between her legs.


"EIGHTTTT............... MASTER!" she screamed. Her voice climbed higher and higher as she counted the last four blows.


She was now whimpering, crying and gasping for breath. Again her new master held the martinet to her lips and she fonfly kissed it and said, "Thank you.... master.."


"And you were worried I wouldn't treat you well," her new master said as he lowered her from the frame..


From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (5) Message-ID: <5517@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 26 Feb 92 14:11:13 GMT

[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]


Jennifer (5)


The ship had been at sea for three weeks, and none of the girls knew where they were being taken to.


There were nineteen girls in Jennifer's cabin, chained into a coffle. Some of them were scantily clad in their underwear or whatever was left of their clothes, others were completely nude.


Jennifer was chained towards the end of the coffle. She was naked down to her waist, and her legs and feet were bare. Much of the tiny denim shorts she wore was also torn into rags. Her wrists and ankles were locked in rough iron manacles, connected by a long chain that led up to her heavy iron collar. Two other chains attached her collar to those of the two girls on either side.


On her right was Mary Lou, a Princeton senior less than two weeks from graduation when she was kidnapped. On the left was young Christina, formerly a cheerleader at Beverly Hills High School, who spent much of the journey crying.


Suddenly a girl in the middle of the coffle called out: "Land! We are approaching land!"


It was, in fact, a small island that the ship was approaching. On the top of the green slopes, stood an old castle, or fort, built of rocks.


"Oh Christ!" Mary Lou groaned out. "What a revenge!"


All the girls turned to look at her. After a brief silence, Jennifer said: "You mean...this is, well, this was one of the..."


"One of the slave-prisons that our own ancesters built," Mary Lou interrupted. "Off the African coast -- that must be where we are. They built these forts centuries ago to hold the black slaves before transporting them to the New World. And now...oh Christ! What an irony!"


Christina began weeping again, and was soon joined by several other girls, including Mary Lou. Jennifer caressed Christina's shoulder, and then Mary Lou's, with her chained hands in a vain attempt to comfort her companions, but could not think of anything to say. Before long her own face was covered with tears.


They heard the wistle blowing. The ship was getting ready to enter port. Through the small, barred window they could now see people, mostly Africans and Arabs, gathering on the docks along a narrow path leading to the slave-fort.


In a strange mood, Jennifer started to wonder how many dollars they would be willing to pay for her.


From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (18) Message-ID: <5943@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 14 Mar 92 05:17:28 GMT

[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]


Jennifer (18)


Jennifer looked at herself in the dressing mirror and felt puzzled. Ricky, her new master's six-year-old son, kept staring at her and giggling while she was trying to give him a bath before putting him to bed.


"What's wrong, Ricky?" she finally asked.


"Mommy says it's a shame not to wear cloths in front of other people," Ricky answered, still giggling. "How come you never wear any cloths?"


"Oh that!" Jennifer said with a sigh of relief. "That's because your mommy and daddy want me to be naked all the time."


"What for?"


"So that they can touch me or beat me whenever they want to," Jennifer explained patiently.


"How come?" A five or six year-old boy's curiosity was insatiable.


"Because I'm their slave." Having been a slavegirl for more than four years ever since she was fifteen, Jennifer had learnt to make this statement without any emotion.


"What's a slave?"


"A slave is...like a piece of property."


"What's property?"


"Property...it's like saying I'm not a human being like your mommy and daddy are. I'm a 'thing' that they bought. Like a horse in the stable, for example."


"But you are not a horse, Jennie."


"No, but they can treat me like a horse. They can do whatever they want with me, because they own me. Do you understand now?"


"Uh-huh," Ricky said, blinking and thinking. "Do I own you too?"


"...Well, I think you do."


"So I can treat you like a horse too?"


"I hope not; but yes, you can."


"And I can do whatever I want to you?"


"Yes yes yes, of course, my little master. Now stand up and let me dry you up."


At last, Ricky seemed satisfied with the answer and stopped interrogating Jennifer.


Early the next morning, Jennifer was waken up by Ricky's loud screams and cries outside her room. After a while, her mistress came in, looking completely frustrated.


"I'm sorry to get you up so early, Jennie," she said somewhat apologetically while detaching the night-chain from Jennifer's steel collar. "But Ricky would start the third world war right now if I wouldn't let you play with him."


Five minutes later, Jennifer found herself deeply regretful for what she had told Ricky the night before, when she was literally driven into the country road leading to town, walking on her hands and knees. Ricky had tied a thick flaxen rope around her waist. On the other end of the rope was his toy cart, in which sat Jennifer's little master, joyfully whipping the soles of her feet with a small riding crop.


From: wi.3249@wizvax.methuen.ma.us Newsgroups: alt.sex.bondage Subject: MINISTORY: Jennifer (19) Message-ID: <6162@wizvax.methuen.ma.us> Date: 16 Mar 92 12:34:41 GMT

[Posted by Stephanie the Kajira at the command of Sir Kevin. :) ]


Jennifer (19)


Jennifer could not wait till the end of the ceremony. She slipped out of the auditorium through the backstage door as soon as she had received the award, briefly answered a few questions from a small group of reporters who were smart enough to wait for her there, and, before the flock of other reporters realized that she was missing, she had already sneaked into the rented limousine and was well on her way to Vladimir's house.


She could not wait to share her joy with Vladimir, After all, she had just won one of the most prestigious award in classical music, after fifteen years of diligent practice. As Vladimir's protegee for the last two years, she was sure this latest achievement would make him very proud.


Jennifer wondered whether he was going to whip her for forgetting to mention his name in her little acknowledgement speech. She had been too excited at the moment, but she knew if he decided to whip her, no excuse would be good enough to save her a sore bottom.


Thirty minutes later, Jennifer was standing in front of Vladimir's large Tudor-style house. She rang the bell, and heard his voice over the intercom: "Come in."


She opened the door with her key and entered. In the dark hallway, she almost tripped over something. Turning on the light, she saw a small suitcase lying on the floor, with a note stuck on it: "Change before you come up."


She laid down her violin and opened the suitcase. In it she found an iron collar and two pairs of wide iron manacles, connected by a long, dark and heavy chain.


She did not need further instructions. Without any hesitation, she took off her black velvet evening dress, her underwear, shoes and stockings, and picked up the iron collar from the suitcase. The jingles of the chain and the touch of the cold metal on her bare skin sent a small thrill down her spine.


She carefully locked the collar around her neck, and bent down to place the manacles at the end of the chain on her ankles. Then, moving the chain behind her, she fastened the other pair of manacles, attached in the middle of the chain, around her wrists against the small of her back.


She hobbled upstairs and stopped at the door to his study. Turning around, she knocked lightly on the door with her fettered hands.


"Enter," he commanded briefly.


She walked in. He was sitting in a large armchair, facing away from her, and was watching her live performance at the ceremony on a video tape.


"I'm back, my Lord," she ventured to say.


"Hm," was the only answer.


She knelt quietly beside his chair, careful to avoid the soft Persian rug. In the dim light, she could not see clearly the expression on his face, and this made her rather nervous. When her performance was over, she saw him nodding approvingly, which relaxed her a little. But by the time her speech started on the screen, she could almost hear her heart pounding against her chest.


Vladimir turned off the TV and the VCR after her brief speech ended, but did not say anything. For the next five minutes or so, a thick silence filled the air, interrupted only by the tiny crackles from the burning firewood.


Finally, he turned to Jennifer and kissed her on the forehead.


"You have done very well tonight, my little one," he whispered. "Congratulations."


"Thank you, my Lord." Jennifer kissed his hand in return, finally feeling assured enough to lean on his legs.


A contented smile on his bearded face, Vladimir reclined in the chair, and stroked her long wavy hair for a while. Then, detaching her wrist cuffs from the chain, he put his Stradivari violin in her hands.


"Play that Schubert piece for me again."


She moved to a designated spot by the fireplace, stayed erect on her knees, and started playing. The warm light of the fire danced merrily on her ivory skin, giving it the color tone of Boris Vallejo's nudes.


This was a familiar piece. Over the last few weeks she had practiced it hundreds of times in the same position, at the same spot, with him sitting in the same armchair. She could even remember exactly at which notes his whip had stung her unprotected back, or which measures she had been made to repeat again and again while the little teeth of a pair of alligator clamps bit into the tender flesh of her nipples.


It was beginning to rain outside the window, but Jennifer did not notice anything. She was swept away by the Danube spring breeze that sprang to life from the strings under her fingers. She had dissolved into the music, and the memories brewed into the music.


She hanged her head and close her eyes when she had finished, immersed in an undescribable satisfaction, almost a kind of orgasm. She felt Vladimir's hands gently caressing her shoulders, and his warm lips kissing her on the back of her neck.


"Not bad. Not bad at all." In his vocabulary, this was the highest praise Jennifer could expect for her musical performance.


With a jingle of the chain, her collar and handcuffs were removed, but only to be replaced by a heavy wooden stock, which held her wrists on either sides of her neck. Then her anklets were also replaced by a foot-stock.


"But you still need to be punished. Do you know why?"


"Yes, my Lord," Jennifer answered without opening her eyes. "I know...I'm sorry."


"No, you don't, my little one. I'm sure you don't. Do you realize what you did slightly wrong when you introduced the second theme of the andante?"


Path: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net!cpk-news-feed1.bbnplanet.com!news.bbnplanet.com!cam-news-hub1.bbnplanet.com!howland.erols.net!math.ohio-state.edu!cs.utexas.edu!geraldo.cc.utexas.edu!usenet From: AnonEMoose <an000000@anon.penet.fi> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Plantation (MF, bd, Mdom) Date: Wed, 06 Nov 1996 12:49:42 -0800 Organization: Penet anonymous remailer Lines: 418 Message-ID: <3280F9E6.48A6@anon.penet.fi> NNTP-Posting-Host: smf-i3.facsmf.utexas.edu Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii; name="STEPHAN4.TXT" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: Mozilla 3.0Gold (Win16; I) Content-Disposition: inline; filename="STEPHAN4.TXT" Xref: ultrasparc-2.g-net.net alt.sex.bondage:13754 alt.sex.stories:16078

Subject: STORY: Slavegirl Stephanie in Parallel Universes: Plantation (MF, bd, Mdom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.bondage,alt.sex.bondage,alt.sex.stories

From: wi.5323@n7kbt.rain.com Message-ID: <2sk4em$71g@vixen.cso.uiuc.edu> Subject: NEW STORY by Sir Kevin Date: Sun, 3 Jan 1993 06:48:37 GMT

For those who enjoyed the stories "Stephanie in the Slave Market" and "Stephanie's Reunion," which I posted for "Sir" Kevin a while ago, here's a New Year gift from my favorite ASB story writer -- an all-new story featuring, again, Stephanie the hapless slavegirl! Hope you'll enjoy it!

Stephanie the Kajira


Ever wondered what if the result of the Civil War came out the other way? Well, here's what I envision...



Stephanie's First Day on the Plantation
By Sir Kevin



Early fall, 1992
Harrison County, Virginia
(The county would be found
in a separate state named
"West Virginia" had the
Union won the War.)


"You'll be home soon, sweetheart!"


The sheriff deputy smiled at Stephanie in the rear-view mirror as he pulled into a small dirt road, not far from where he had turned off US Highway 50. Apathetically, Stephanie surveyed the surroundings from the back seat of the patrol car.


The dirt road wound its way across the vast horizon of ploughed land. On either side of the dirt road, a rugged wooden fence escorted the road towards a cluster of weathered farm houses surrounded by large oaks trees. The age-old, unpainted lumber of the fences were almost completely covered by flourishing wild roses.


A few weeks before, landscape like this would have enchanted Stephanie into humming out her favorite Suzi Bogguss tune. But today, somehow the natural beauty of the simple country atmosphere had lost all its appeal to her.


The car stopped in front of a wooden gate at the end of the road. Beside the gate, and next to a handsome white Arabian horse, the man to be known as "Master" was already waiting for them.


The deputy opened the door for Stephanie, and again put on his broad smile.


"C'mon sweetheart! Cheer up! You're home! And there's your master, Big Ron Jackson. Aren't you happy to meet him at last?"


It was not easy to exit from the car with her wrists cuffed behind her back and her ankles connected by a short length of chain, but with the help of the deputy's friendly hands, Stephanie finally managed to balance herself on her bare feet.


She took a quick glance at her new master, who gazed back at her with great interest. Clad in a lumberjack shirt, torn blue jeans and cowboy boots, he presented to Stephanie the perfect picture of a hillbilly, a figure as remote to her in real life as she must be to him. Realizing how ridiculous she must look to him in her shackles and her UCLA cheerleader uniform, Stephanie hanged her head in embarrassment.


"I'll be damned, Al!" Ron exclaimed. "Now this is a bit of a surprise: she looks almost exactly like a white girl."


"If you ask me," the deputy replied, "I say she IS a white girl. Sheriff Dodd told me she's being delivered to you under the Fugitive Slave Act, but you can't fool me -- this girl ain't no runaway slave! I kept asking her on the way, but the sweetie won't say nothing to me."


"I don't blame her, Al. I'm not sure she knows enough herself."


"So tell me 'bout it!"


"Well, this babe is, what, one sixty-fourth -- hell no, a-hundred-and-thirty-second of a nigger, you know. What happened is that her grandma's grandma's grandma on her mother's side was a mulatto slave on the plantation when old Stonewall was still in charge. Rumor says she was fathered by old Stonewall himself, and somehow I think it's true. Anyway, some time during the War, this mulatto woman ran off with a bunch of Yankee soldiers, and ended up marrying one of them when the War was over. Well, that's about all we know, but it's enough to hold this babe here responsible for what happened back then -- thanks to the Helms Amendment to the Fugitive Slave Act, and the Supreme Court decision last May."


"Yeah, good for you, Ron," the deputy commented. "Come to think of it, you are practically cousins to each other."


"You're right, Al. Come to think of it, we are indeed!"


The two men enjoyed their little chat for a few more minutes. Then Deputy Al removed the handcuffs and leg-irons from Stephanie's wrists and ankles, and drove off along the dirt road, promising to come to dinner some day, while Ron locked a heavy iron collar around the poor girl's neck, and mounted his house.


He grinned at Stephanie, tugging gently on the chain attached to her collar.


"Welcome home, cousin!"


A rush of fear crept into Stephanie's mind when she found out that Ron was not taking her directly to the slave quarters. Instead, he led her to a large room in the mansion facing the main road, where the glamorous Victorian decorations, relics of the Jackson family's glorious past, struck a sharp contrast with the rest of the ranch.


"Strip." As soon as the door closed behind her, Stephanie heard Ron's command in a rather authoritarian voice.


She blushed. Not that she had never been naked in front of a man, but never in front of a perfect stranger. Besides, being ordered to strip itself was more humiliation than she had ever experienced. But she obeyed without further hesitation. Being a slave involved worse things than this, she knew.


She crossed her arms in front of her breasts after dropping the last item of clothing on the floor, in a feeble attempt to protect her modesty. But even this was not allowed.


"Put your hands behind your neck, and spread your legs," came the next commend.


Stephanie took on a deeper shade of blush, knowing how degrading this new position would be. But again she obeyed quietly. The chill of the cold collar chain dangling between her breasts caused her to shiver.


"Beautiful. Simply beautiful," Ron murmured while pacing around the nude girl and touching different parts of her slim body with his fingers.


He stopped behind Stephanie. Pulling her into his arms, he started fondling her round and firm breasts. Her nipples hardened almost immediately against his palms, and she felt a sense of arousal beginning to build up in the lower part of her body. She closed her eyes, feeling hopelessly torn between her heart and her mind, one telling her to enjoy the feeling, while the other was telling her to reject it.


"What size are these, slavegirl?" Ron's voice became soft, almost like whispers.


"32A, sir." The blush on her face and neck now extended to the top of her breasts.


"Hm. And how old are you?"


"I'm eighteen, sir."


"You city girls always look so much younger than you are." Ron heaved a sigh, and released her breasts to feel the muscles in her arms. "These tender arms, tsk. And your pale skin. Believe me, you won't survive one single day out in the cotton field."


His hands returned to her breasts, one of them gradually wandering down to her exposed sex.


"Then again," he continued, "I'm not sure I want you in the cotton field. That'll be a waste, won't it?"


Not knowing what to say, Stephanie kept her mouth shut.


Ron did not mind. He was very much pleased with this latest addition to his stable.


"Kneel down, slavegirl."


Stephanie dropped on her knees, and tentatively proceeded to sit on her heels. But a gentle kick on her left hip persuaded her to keep her body erect.


"Now, play with yourself."


For a moment Stephanie was petrified. She knew obedience was the most essential part of a slavegirl's code of ethics, but this was definitely too much for her to take.


"You hear me, nigger? Go on, masturbate, now!" Ron was drastically raising his voice, and for the first time he called her a "nigger," in a way loaded with threats.


"Please, Master..."


Her feeble plea for mercy was answered roughly by a powerful kick between her shoulder blades. Caught completely in surprise, Stephanie fell forward onto all fours. Then came the explosive pain when the thin leather strap of a horse whip cracked loudly against the bare skin of her unprotected back.


"So they say," Ron sounded genuinely angry, "a nigger will be a nigger, even with less than one percent of nigger blood."


The whip landed again and again on Stephanie's back and buttocks. Shocked as she was, Stephanie took the first few lashes in noble silence, but the fifth or the sixth lash started to extract loud moans from her. Within fifteen strokes, she was forced to cry out for mercy.


With great relief, she saw the whip thrown to the floor in front of her.


"Kiss it, nigger!"


Still panting heavily from the intense pain, Stephanie complied obediently. When she raised her head again, Ron was squatting by her side. Grabbing the trembling girl by her pony-tail, he forced her to lift her face to his.


"Were you ever whipped before?" His voice again softened into near whispers.


"No... sir."


"Good," he planted a kiss on her cheek. "Now you have learnt the whip. Hope that'll make sure you never piss me off again."


He stood up, and soon Stephanie saw his clothes and boots dropping on the floor next to her own. Her heart started pounding wildly.


"Are you a virgin?" Ron asked as he knelt behind Stephanie.


"No..."


"Good. Then I don't have to worry about damaging anything."


He entered her from behind. Stephanie bit her lower lip to keep herself from sobbing, but large drops of tears rolled down her cheeks, and dribbled into the thick Persian rug.


It was at dusk when Ron finally led Stephanie out of the mansion by the chain on her collar. She was still naked. Her wrists were now tied tightly behind her back, and her ankles were again shackled and chained.


"I think I'll find you stuff to do around the house," Ron informed her. "It's better for you, and better for my cotton, too. But you'd better live with the other slaves anyway."


They walked into a small open area in front of the barn, where a group of white employees on the plantation had gathered for their after-dinner entertainment. As if at somebody's command, all the beer cans, poker cards, harmonicas and baseball bats were lowered, and every head turned to the naked girl at one precise moment. Several whistles came from the small crowd.


Stephanie kept her eyes on her toes in humiliation, wishing the ground under her feet to open up and suck her in.


"Oh mah Gawd, boss!" one of them managed to say after a brief silence. "Is this the new nigger girl you been talkin' 'bout?"


"Yup."


"You kiddin', Ron? This chick ain't no nigger. She's whiter than you 'n' me!" Another man decided to be more skeptical.


"She only looks white," Ron explained, not without a touch of pride in his new acquisition. "She has less than one percent of nigger blood, but that's enough to make her legally a nigger."


"Ah know how that is," a third man nodded, wiping his mouth with a sleeve. "Mah ol' man got one the other day just lahk her. They say she was a big-time fashion model up in New York, but the next thing she knew, some new law made her a runaway slave."


"You get more and more niggers with white skin these days," Ron remarked.


"But a nigger is a nigger after all, even if she's white, green or blue." A man with a heavy beard drew up this rather philosophical conclusion, while walking up to Stephanie to pinch one of her nipples.


"No doubt about it," Ron moved to end the discussion. "Well, you guys go on have your fun. I've got to take this nigger girl to the slave quarters."


"Want me to do it for you, boss?" the bearded man asked.


"Thanks, Tony, but no thanks. I want her to be there before Christmas, you know."


The crowd burst into laughter.


The slave quarters were made up of a cluster of old wooden shacks, reinforced at random places by rusty iron bars. The dense growth of weeds and wild vines around the shacks made it difficult to believe that people actually lived in them. At the first glance, Stephanie concluded that they must have been standing there ever since Robert Lee became president of the United States.


Ron took Stephanie into a larger shack, which had a row of locked doors on either side of a long corridor.


"This house is for the single slave women," he told her, "like yourself."


He opened one of the doors, and thrust an old blanket into her bound hands.


"Here's your room, slavegirl. And here's a blanket for you. You won't need any cloths for a few days. I always keep new girls in the nude for the first week or so, just to let your status on the plantation sink in well. And keep the men happy, too. Now you have a good night."


The door was locked behind Stephanie, symbolizing her final severance from the world of freedom.


There were five other girls, all black, in the cell, sitting or lying on a row of low wooden beds lined up against the wall. All of them stared at Stephanie, apparently puzzled by the color of her skin. There was no expression on their dark faces, but their eyes were filled with suspicion and hostility.


"Hi!" Stephanie smiled at them nervously. "I'm Stephanie. I'm new here."


There was no response. The other girls continued to stare at her motionlessly.


Stephanie looked around, feeling rather awkward, and then walked to a bed that appeared to be vacant.


"Is this bed taken?" she asked, in the most friendly voice she could imagine.


No response.


"Can I sleep here, then?"


Still no response, but the black girls started to whisper among themselves.


Feeling immensely frustrated, Stephanie dropped her blanket on the bed, and sat down on the edge. But before she could feel the rough wood under her buttocks, her blanket suddenly flew into a corner of the cell, narrowly missing the toilet there.


Startled, Stephanie turned to find the youngest of the black girls, no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, waving a bony fist at her face.


"Git your white ass off mah bed, white girl!" the younger girl shouted. "Dis is MAH bed!"


Jumping to her feet almost subconsciously, Stephanie asked, still humbly: "Which bed can I take, then?"


From the far end of the cell, another girl answered: "Dere ain't no bed for you here, white girl. You go ahead and sleep on the floor, where your blanket is."


Stephanie had to fight back tears as she hobbled to the damp and filthy corner where her blanket had landed. Spreading the blanket with her fettered bare feet, she decided to lie down and keep to herself. But her wrists were hurting badly. And her hands began to feel numb. The thin nylon cord around her wrists must have obstructed her circulation.


She studied each of the black girls carefully, searching for a face that promised the most sympathy.


Her eyes settled on the one who seemed to be the oldest, perhaps in her late twenties. She was sitting next to a girl lying on her belly, gently wiping the fresh whipmarks on the girl's back with a wet towel. The tenderness on her face and in her movements reminded Stephanie of a young mother nursing her new-born baby.


"Excuse me..." Stephanie approached her cautiously.


"What?"


"Can you do me a favor? My arms are hurting terribly..."


"I don't deal wid no white girl!" the black woman interrupted rudely. "Leave us alone, white girl!"


"But I'm not a white girl!" Stephanie finally burst out. "I'm a slave just like you!"


The black woman stood up, and threateningly put her hands on her hips. "Jist like me, huh? Why don't you smash dat white face of yours, 'n' den tell me dat!"


At last, Stephanie lost the battle to hold her tears. She curled up into a ball in her corner, and wept herself into sleep.


Afterthought:

Are they still growing cotton out there, anyway?




Last modified (12/24/96 14:17:18) by Eli-the-Bearded.

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