Slaves For Export

Story by

Rogue Hagen

“Okay slaves, it’s display time, off you go, on the double”
The commands come from a beautiful blonde slave trader. Cruel eyes hidden behind shades, her lips are luscious, her skin pale and delicate. She has the look of a china doll, yet this single young woman has a dozen strong men in her thrall.
“Stop rubbing your prick” she orders as her riding crop sweeps a full arc and catches a slave square across his rump.
Gerry squeals out loud. His penis is so rarely free of a spiked restrainer; he can’t help but reach for it.
Siobhan’s lips form a cruel smile. Punishing any man is fun, well that’s what they’re there for in her view, but it’s more fun hurting some than others. Gerry is Siobhan’s favourite whipping boy.
“He’s such a wet” she thinks to herself as she slowly twists his nipple with her sharpened talons. “His face is just like a reptile’s, no wonder he looks best down on his stomach.”
“You’re an imbecile, slave” she taunts. “All males are stupid but you’re the lowest of the low.”
A lifetime of degradation has made Gerry a neurotic wreck. He’s easy meat for a she-cat like Siobhan who’s very aware of how she easily she petrifies him.
She releases her grip and surveys the other miserable slaves in her command.
They all look hangdog. They know there’s only one reason for the brief respite from their restrainers; they’re about to be paraded before a buyer. She could be from anywhere in the world, of any race. In a matter of hours, many of them will be in a crate heading to an unknown destination.
Cruella has a flourishing export trade in slaves. No other state has the expertise in genetic engineering that allows them to precisely regulate the number of males. Of course, the demand for slaves in the home market is insatiable, but the ladies of Cruella welcome the luxuries that foreign trade brings.
Siobhan’s squad joins thirty-six slaves from other cells. The guards herd them into a straight line across the barrack yard. Siobhan strolls past Gerry and can’t resist sinking her talons into his testicles.
“Nervous slave?” she asks.
“Mmmmmfff, y-yes Mistress” he replies truthfully.
“So you should bell she smiles. “You may think you’ve had a hard time here, but wait till you see the life in other countries. It’s very civilised in Cruella.”
She digs her nails in further. Gerry moans and sweats.
“If you don’t get chosen though, you’ll have Me to answer to” Siobhan continues.
“I’m sick of the sight of you, I want some new blood. If you don’t get picked, I’ll whip you into oblivion, do you understand?”
Gerry nods his head frantically. Tears roll down his cheek. Like always in this woman’s world, there’s no way he can win.
Siobhan releases her grip and slaps Gerry’s face dismissively.
Siobhan joins several guards and enjoys a cigarette. They chatter happily until the camp commandant enters the courtyard with a guest. The guards recognise the buyer, she’s a regular customer, one that commands universal respect. In her right hand trails a huge bullwhip.
There’s a click-clacking of high heeled boots as the two women approach.
Commandant Tamara is tall and strong, but even she must yield in both departments to Lady Melyssa.
A communal groan fills the air. Lady Melyssa’s skin is a creamy shade of brown and as every slave knows, black mistresses are utterly ruthless. Their whipping power is legendary; black women have held the world flogging championships for over twenty years. They so often possess a muscular physique and have a reputation for exceptional sexual appetites.
Melyssa exudes an air of natural authority, as well she might. In her home state of Vixena, she owns the nation’s largest plantation. Through the daylight hours, her slaves, handpicked from round the world, toil under the lash, picking cotton. At nightfall, when they crawl exhausted to the living quarters, their ordeal has only just begun. For it’s then the overseers descend, whips in hand, to slake their sadistic lusts.
Just as the slaves’ limbs are worked to the bone in the daytime, their tongues are driven to extremes of endurance at night. Many overseers attach weights to their victim’s tongues while they work. This increases their ‘service potential’.
Lady Melyssa examines the row of trembling slaves before her. They’re a fit looking bunch and well trained too. They gaze respectfully at her feet.
“Mmmm not bad, but I hope they’ve more endurance than the last lot. Some of them didn’t last too long. Mind you” she laughs, “my younger guards just don’t know when to stop.”
Melyssa’s words cause a shiver down the spine of the man in front. A slave can instinctively identify a really lethal woman and this lady terrifies him. Only Gerry sees it differently. For him, it’s a case of ‘better the devil you don’t know’.
“Let her pick me, please Goddess, let her pick me” his mind pleads as Melyssa strides majestically past. She writes numbers in a book as she walks.
“Okay, tongues out, as far as they’ll go” she orders.
The men obey, each hoping not to impress, except Gerry, who almost bursts a blood vessel in slavish devotion. Melyssa steps up to one slave, grips his tongue between her nails and pulls it hard.
“Mmm, I thought you weren’t really trying. It’s thirty lashes for you boy” Melyssa pronounces.
She doesn’t carry out the sentence straight away but continues inspecting the line. She uses a ruler to measure the dimensions of some of the drooling tongues. Eventually, she’s satisfied.
“Okay, I’ve made my choice. I’ll use the usual method to pick them out” she announces.
The guards know the ropes, they order the slaves to turn through 180 degrees, so the male backs and buttocks are laid bare before Melyssa’s bullwhip. She walks to one end of the line and cracks her enormous whip into the air. It makes a noise like a thunder crack. Some slaves are unsteady on their feet, fear gnaws at their stomachs.
Melyssa selects her first new chattel, it’s the third slave in line. The whip cracks in the air, lashes into his back and sends him hurtling to the ground. He howls like at a banshee in a mixture of pain and terror. Melyssa tosses her head back and laughs.
This is a lovely process for her. She licks her lips and stands behind her next choice.
One after another, Melyssa’s victims crash to the ground.
They have never felt such force from a single lash before. One fortunate slave, still standing, can’t control his nervous tension and vomits at his feet. Siobhan is upon him instantly, swiping his rump with her switch.
“Get down, lick it up, you filthy beast” she orders and down he goes.
The fear of the men is infectious. The slaves at the end of the line whimper to themselves, in their tenor some lose control of their bladder. Melyssa hums to herself merrily. The other ladies urge her on.
The slave to the left of Gerry is struck with the lash, he staggers forwards but somehow manages to stay on his feet. Melyssa frowns at this failure to take her man down. She summons her strength and with a loud grunt, launches her whip again. This time the slave crumples like a house of cards, writhing and groaning on the concrete. Melyssa smiles, normal service is resumed.
Gerry braces himself but a split second after the crack of the whip, the slave to his right falls in a heap.
“N000, n000” blurts out Gerry.
His mind is full of Slave Trader Siobhan, the woman that torments him beyond endurance. She threatens to whip him into oblivion and Gerry has every reason to believe her. He forgets years of training and flings himself at the feet of the towering black woman.
“Take me, please Madam, take me he grovels. “I’m a good slave, I’ll do anything, I can lick, please, look.”
Gerry slobbers desperately at Melyssa’s boot. She bends down and picks him up by the hair.
“You wouldn’t last ten minutes in my country” she snarls and swats him away with the butt of her whip.
“He won’t last much longer here” intervenes Commandant Tamara. She’s furious, this pathetic display reflects badly on her training methods.
“Siobhan, he’s yours I believe. Take him away and deal with him. Make it slow, I want him to suffer as much as possible.”
“So do I, I’m sorry about this Commandant, but he’s always been a hopeless case” replies Siobhan.
Secretly, she’s delighted. The guards can see the terror she invokes.
Gerry curls into a foetal position, sobbing dementedly.
“Up” commands Siobhan. “Up, up” she insists, pounding his body with her switch, but he lays still, totally defeated, unable to move.
A guard assists, poking him with an electronic cattle prod until he finally staggers to his feet. Siobhan grabs an ear lobe, forcing it down to her height and drags him to a punishment rock pillar.
“I’m going to do things to you, that you’ve never dreamt of in your worst nightmares” she threatens and twists her fingers suddenly to emphasise the point.
Gerry is delirious with fear, every hope has been drained.
Meanwhile Lady Melyssa completes her selection.
Fifteen slaves writhe on the cold hard floor. Their new owner orders them to crawl on their stomachs and prostrate themselves before her.
She cracks her whip through the air in exhilaration as she surveys the cowering figures grovelling on their bellies, a new consignment of white flesh to grind into the Vixenian dirt. Her luscious young overseers will revel in their complete debasement.
Lady Melyssa raises her boot and steps onto her new property. She delights in leaving stiletto marks across the writhing bodies. At home, she organises parties for select friends with a human dance floor. Especially amusing is a checkerboard effect of black and white flesh.
The guards, are transfixed by Melyssa’s public display of joyous fulfilment.
Cruellan’s are far more reserved by nature.
They usually behave with haughty detachment and glacier-like calm.
To observe a woman radiant with the excitement of inflicting pain is a culture shock. Commandant Tamara resolves to save for a holiday in Vixena.
Melyssa speaks.
“Now where’s the slave that’s got thirty lashes coming his way. I think we’ll have him tied to that post over there.”
Against the pillar, Gerry collapses as the seventh stroke of Siobhan’s bullwhip tears into his back.
“Now run, you embarrassing piece of shit!” she yells, furiously whipping him with a flurry of lashes.
Gerry struggles to his feet and begins to stagger away from the stone pillar and then runs along the rocky ground that cuts into his bare feet.
Siobhan’s lips form into a cruel smile as she walks towards her horse and mounts him.
She gallops towards the pathetic slave who turns in terror to see his fate. The horse and gleeful rider crash straight into him, throwing him hard into the solid concrete.
He struggles, unable to move, knowing that something must be broken. He doesn’t have enough time to think about it before the hooves come trampling across him again. He screams in agony.
Siobhan laughs with pure pleasure and feels the excitement growing between her legs. She reigns sharply back and yanks her mount around for another attack. The absolute power of life and death, generally the latter, excites her beyond belief; not to mention the pommel of the saddle that rubs frantically between her legs.
She runs over Gerry again, the metal shod hooves crushing bone and flesh into concrete. More screams from below as she once again reigns back sharply, pulling the bit deep. The horse skids and is quickly yanked around. She thrusts her spurs in and lashes her mount with a flurry of blows from her switch as they surge towards the writhing slave.
This time he is silenced by the pair as they thunder across his body.
“Shit!” she exclaims, “I’ve not come yet, the weak bastard!”
She turns the horse again and continues to trample the slave, taking it out on her mount with whip and spurs until finally she climaxes.
As a final act of utter contempt, she dismounts and walks on him herself – no movement, she notices. She raises her boot and stamps her heel into him. ‘Some real dirt – slave dirt – for another slave to lick from beneath my soles’ she laughs.