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The Mistress-Slave Contest by Frank Aaron

The Mistress-Slave Contest 
(Frank Aaron)


Chapter One


“I object, your honour.  Ms. Pennington’s point is not only lame, it is nonsensical.  I swear, she must have received her law degree through a correspondence school.  Is she really this stupid?”

Andrea Pennington turned her most vicious gaze on the opponent who was busy slagging her off in open court. She was accustomed to hating her legal opponents, feeling that she was a more effective litigator when she enjoyed crushing the other side.  When they were broken, financially and emotionally, she experienced a churning within her veins as if her blood had turned to molten lava.  If one sobbed or shuddered with dismay, she felt moisture accumulating in her loins, partially held back by her panties as if the thin silky cloth was a delicate dam.

But the sensations of the battle were quite distinguishable from those associated with the inevitable victory.  In the midst of the sparring, Andrea generally felt nervous and upset.  She utterly despised the fact that the court system permitted her adversary to talk without interruption. 

This time, with Mary Mahoney, it was the worst ever.  Something about Mary rankled Andrea to the marrow.  She felt nauseous every time she saw her.  When Mary spoke, Andrea nearly gagged.

Perhaps what Andrea loathed about Mary was the fact that she was so very much like her.

They were both beautiful.  Andrea was thirty-six, with long, auburn hair.  Mary was thirty-two, with a short blond mane, well-coiffed at all times.  They were both quite well endowed, physically, in a feminine sense, although Andrea was petite–five two and quite slim–and Mary was not–almost six feet and big boned.  They both had lovely faces, although they tended to wear frowns, scowls and expressions of utter disgust most of the time.  They were two aggressive, baiting, loud and obnoxious lawyers.  She had to answer the challenge Mary had thrown out, whether she liked it or not.

“I went to Harvard Law.  My undergrad work was at Yale.  My point was not unintelligible, your honor, rather it was too subtle for the dim to see.”

Andrea really didn’t like referring to judges as “your honor”.  She particularly felt ill at ease when the judge was another female.  What had Silvia Johnson, the Judge sitting high on the bench in front of Andrea, done to earn such respect?  She had gone through law school, passed the bar and now she was making about a tenth of Andrea’ remuneration. 

Silvia was close to fifty years old.  She was quite attractive, with long black hair, although her age was starting to show and she was obviously, in Andrea’s perception, struggling with her weight.

“The objection is sustained, counsel.  I don’t understand your point, either.”

Mary gloated, snickered just a bit, then smirked openly.

Judge Johnson glowered, disdainfully, powerfully and arrogantly. 

The atmosphere in the court crackled with humour and interest, female protagonists usually gave the best performances.

Andrea sighed with the full capacity of her lungs.  She released it audibly, expressing her contempt in a way which would not land her in jail for the night.  Then she closed her eyes and took a five second vacation from the current discomfort of her life, the sight of her hated opponent, a Judge she detested and a case which wasn’t going well.  She had developed this skill to a fare-thee-well.  It meant a brief trip into fantasy, into the past which was an escape, a refuge from all that beset her.

Here Mary was a princess in ancient Troy, a spoiled brat.  Silvia was Queen Hecuba.  Andrea herself was a stunning Mycenaean princess who had recently been captured by a Trojan raiding party and was being held to be sold as a slave to a people she utterly detested.  She spied Mary and Silvia and immediately hated them more than anyone else.  It was late at night and the awful, celebrating Trojan scum had just pulled the huge wooden horse left by the Greeks into their city walls.  The air was thick with fumes of food, ale and the mixed scents of trees and exotic flowers.

Oh, how Mary and Silvia danced for joy and openly taunted the captives of the war!  They insulted and threatened, with Mary loudly describing in great detail that she planned to claim Andrea as her own slave, how she would work her, punish her and freely lend her for the sexual pleasures of others.  Andrea felt in her daydream as she felt standing in court, hating Mary and Silvia so badly that she could have put their eyes out with her own thumbs and not felt the slightest remorse.

Night fell in the first second of Andrea’ daydream.  The awful Trojans had slipped off into drunken stupors, falling down alongside hastily lit fires, the overturned tankards of ale adding to the smell.  As silence fell, the belly of the wooden horse opened and ropes dropped out like entrails.  Greek soldiers shinnied down and in a short time opened the gates.  An enormous army rushed in, primed for the fight.  The noise was fantastic, clashing of swords, yells of the triumphant soldiers, yelling of women.  The drunken Trojans were overwhelmed before they were fully conscious.  Only the slaves stood, hoping for freedom, scared to draw too much attention to themselves.

Andrea was set free by a Greek soldier. She used her freedom to grab some food and then go searching for Mary who had been claimed by one of the soldiers.  Her arms were bound in front of her by a rope and she was being yanked along behind his purposeful stride in a recalcitrant stumble.  Her pretty face, which had been gloating and smirking so gleefully not five hours before, was now frozen in an expression of unspeakable horror.  Andrea revelled in it.

She followed the pair down to the harbor where Mary was unceremoniously loaded into the dark, dank hull of a huge ship. The Captain saw Andrea standing on the quayside and offered a ride in his quarters, something she gratefully accepted.

By noon they had set off for Greece.  Safe in her new position, replete with food and ale, Andrea inquired of the Captain about the conditions for the prisoners.  The Captain smiled.  “Prisoners?  Oh, you mean the slaves.  Come.  I’ll show you.”

As she followed the Captain down a long spiral set of rough wooden stairs, Andrea heard, felt and smelled the scene before she saw it.  She touched the Captain’s arm gently, indicating that she wanted to pause and wallow in the sensations before she witnessed the circumstances.

Every thirty seconds there was a loud smacking sound followed immediately by a muffled yelp.  That noise gave way to the loudest yell that Andrea could imagine.  The word bellowed was an extended “pulllllll!”  She heard whooshing and other smacks, emphasised by anguished female screams.  The heat emanating from the hull was horrendous and baleful.  It was like an oven, the stench sickening in the extreme. 

Satisfied with her preliminary impressions, Andrea smiled and nodded and the Captain led the way down.

The haughty female nobility and royalty of Troy had been turned into a galley of slaves doing their utmost to propel the heavy ship.  They were sweating profusely, each and every face reflecting the agony of over-exertion.  They were naked and chained in place.  There were a hundred female breasts of different shapes and sizes, fully exposed, bouncing, twisting and contorting with the immense effort of the bodies to which they were attached.      

Andrea giggled.  It was a very funny sight and a fulfilling one, too.

The slaves were seated on rough wooden benches, two to a bench and one bench to each side of a long walkway down the middle.  They tightly grasped the long, thick, obviously heavy oars.  There was a wooden railing just in front of them that confused Andrea.  The centre walk-way was occupied by three young women pacing back and forth, attired in scanty outfits, ominously brandishing canes, scrutinizing the rowers and laughing delightedly.  Andrea knew them.  They had been mistreated slaves of the Trojans not a day in the past.

At the back end of the vessel, raised up slightly and sitting on a comfortable chair, Andrea saw Helen.   Helen, whose abduction had instigated the war, had fallen out of favour in Troy and had been treated most vilely and with humiliating disrespect for years, particularly by Queen Hecuba.  Andrea supposed that Hecuba had committed suicide during the debacle or, if captured, was being treated well, if not kindly, as befits a Queen.

Next to Helen stood a large Nubian woman with very black skin and hair.  She had thick muscles which were glistening with perspiration.  She had undoubtedly been a slave in Troy since there had been no free Nubians there.  She was naked above the waist and held a short flat sword in her hand.  Before her was a bright red drum of sorts, extending up from a wooden cabinet.  The drum skin was rounded in an odd way.

Helen nodded.  The Nubian swung her sword in a huge arc and brought it down with great strength onto the drum.  A muffled yet desperate wail was heard from the cabinet.  Helen beamed happily and shouted out “pulllllllllll!” triumphantly, angrily and spitefully.     

The rowing slaves groaned as one as if they had practiced their line together.  Each pair of slaves grunted and lifted their heavy oar straight up, obviously out of the sea water.  They slowly and with obvious effort pushed the oar forward, lifting up in their seats until finally they had pushed the oar so far ahead that they had to lay their bellies on the wooden rail in front of them.  Their arms were shaking violently with the strain until, when they were completely out of their seats and leaning forward as far as they could reach, they let the oar drop back into the water with a simultaneous collapse.

Andrea glanced at the wooden wall of the hull.  Each oar followed an oblong slot which permitted it to be lifted entirely out of the water, pushed forward, dropped down and pulled back

in the desired rowing action.

The three former slaves in the middle of the current slaves sprung into action.  They snapped out insults.  “You’re lazy, bitch.”  “You’re not doing your part, Trojan noble.”  “Look at that fat butt of yours, slave.”  The points were emphasised by lifting their canes from their sides above their heads, until they stepped forward and swung the implements downward with all their strength.  Each one struck a Trojan bottom.  Each Trojan howled with agony and a fresh welt appeared on the flesh.  Andrea looked around and noticed that all the Trojan bottoms were well marked.

The Trojans paused to gather their strength.  Then they pulled back on the oar, rolling off the beam in front of them, sitting back on the hard wooden benches and pulling the paddle through the water until they had laid fully back, parallel with the deck and with the portion of the oar that they held pulled up between their breasts and their armpits.  It was maximum rowing effort.

The three slaves who had been struck all winced and yelped when their freshly sore bottoms hit the hard wood.  Andrea laughed at the spectacle. Then she saw Mary.  She gloated and smirked.  Mary turned, saw her and shivered with dismay.  Andrea watched through the next cycle of rowing and, when one of the former slaves saw where Andrea was staring, aimed the stroke of her switch at Mary’s tormented backside.


It was like a song to Andrea’s ears.

“How did that feel, slave?” she shouted.

“Uh.  Uh.  Uh.” It was a moaning response.

“That’s it, Trojan, wriggle your sore bottom.  It looks like an obscene silly dance.”

The Captain chortled at the taunt.

Andrea called out, more generally: “Just think, slaves, with all your efforts up to now, we are about a mile or so out of your former harbour.  You have fifty or a hundred times more than that to go.”

The slaves slumped.  The Captain laughed out loud, appreciating the wit.

Andrea continued. “And, when you finally arrive in Greece, you will be herded off of this ship, run through the streets naked, displayed on an auction block and sold to the highest bidder.  You spoiled, bratty bitches, who never worked a day in your lives!  It’s just starting.  You’re learning what’s in store for you forever.  You’ll clean toilets and stables.  You’ll work the mines and fields from before dawn until well after dusk.  In between your labours, you’ll spread your slutty legs and lips at the whim of others and suffer beatings and tortures if you don’t satisfy them just perfectly.  You’ll get down on your hands and knees and lick the sweat from the feet of your masters and mistresses and even their smelly, stupid children.  You’ll eat disgusting gruel out of bowls like a dog on the days you are lucky enough to eat at all.”

Andrea punctuated her tirade with a raucous laugh.  Most of the slaves sobbed overtly.  The Captain bellowed his appreciation.  Andrea was encouraged to ask a question.

“Whatever happened to Queen Hecuba?  Is she receiving special treatment on account of her status?”

“Special treatment?  In a sense.  She was the highest, most esteemed of all Trojans.  That makes her the lowest of the slaves.”

The Captain motioned for Andrea to follow him.  He walked over to the cabinet near Helen and opened a door in the front of it.  Andrea gasped with sheer joy.

Hecuba was not being treated as a former Queen.  Instead, she was the drum.  She was secured upside down, naked, her bottom being used as the drum skin.  Further down, the Greek soldiers were taking turns lying underneath her red face.  She was orally stimulating them.  Each time her sore bottom was smacked by the heavy sword wielded by the strong Nubian, Hecuba’s scream was muffled by the male member on which she dutifully continued to suck.

Andrea looked about.  She could see Greek men lounging off to the side and could tell by their posture and demeanor that they had already had their way with the former Queen.  Yet she didn’t see a drop of the product of a male ejaculation.  Andrea smiled.  She knew where it was.  It had settled, uncomfortably no doubt, in the belly of Hecuba.

“Counsel, why are you just standing there?  You’re wasting the court’s time.”

Hecuba had spoken in a most disrespectful tone - only it wasn’t Hecuba.  It was Judge Silvia Johnson.  They weren’t on the high seas.  They were in court, in 21st Century Los Angeles. Mary was giggling and almost dancing.  Andrea had permitted her daydream to run a bit too long.

“May we have a short recess, your honour?  I, um, need to, well, break, if you know what I mean.”

Andrea hated to sound so meek and respectful to someone like Silvia.

“You have to use the toilet, counsel?”

How dare the bitch identify Andrea’s bodily function requirement for so many strangers!

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Fine.  We’ll take a brief break.  Don’t dawdle, counsel.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

God, how Andrea despised Silvia and her arrogance!  God, how she hated Mary and her obnoxiousness!  She walked quickly, almost running to the ladies’ room, where she sat in a stall and masturbated.

It occurred to her that she had probably been born about two, three or maybe even four thousand years too late.  She would have loved to live in barbaric times, the more primitive the better.  She would have made a fabulous ancient Queen although her sniveling pathetic little slave girls wouldn’t have thought so.