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Slave Lord by Stephen Douglas

Slave Lord 
(Stephen Douglas)




The envelope, postmarked London, had a British stamp on it, with Airmail written across the top left corner by hand instead of the usual blue stick-on tag, and it had taken four days to reach Australia. As the busy editor of a proudly pro-feminist magazine, Kelly of course didn't have time to read all the mail that came in, but this one had been addressed to her personally, not to the magazine or The Editor.

It contained a short handwritten note and a half dozen quite disgusting Polaroids. The handwriting was familiar though, recognition coming when she got to the signature, Jo, signed with a big swoop off the J. Joanne was a freelance journalist and friend who occasionally wrote features for the mag., though she preferred to chase current news stories.

'Am onto the story of the century. See attached disk, Jo.'

Kelly looked in the envelope again just to make sure. No disk.

With a grimace of distaste, she spread out the photographs. The pictures were all of the same naked girl, a clearly limber young blonde, not overweight, but with a hint of one too many chocolates about her. The girl's hair was a gorgeous thick golden mane, while her breasts could charitably be described as exceptionally large. She was bound, her head in a tight black form-fitting rubber hood that left the only the mouth free, in all the shots.

In one photograph the blonde was tightly hog-tied, lying on the centre of a dining table, in another her breasts were tightly bound, with weighted clamps hanging from her nipples. Another showed the girl seated, her wrists in handcuffs in front of her, pushing a huge dildo into herself, the cameraman making her hold her head up with the tip of a long whip under her chin. In the fourth she was bent over a chair, displaying whip marked buttocks.

The cameraman must have taken the fifth shot down his own body, lying on his back, the hooded girl with a mouth full of cock. The final photograph showed the hooded blonde on her knees, mouth held open wide, saliva and semen dripping off her held-out tongue.

Kelly shuffled the photographs back together. The really strange thing was that at first, just for a second, she'd thought she was looking at pictures of Joanne herself, face hidden under a hood, cruelly bound, humiliated and violated.

She wondered what on Earth had made her think that? Even with her face covered by the tight black rubber, at a glance, the full figured girl in the photographs was clearly younger than Joanne, with much, much bigger breasts! If anything, Joanne, who worked off her excess energy in the gym, was a bit skinny. And the curvy girl in the photographs was not only top-heavy, but clearly - if amazingly - naturally big breasted, not the recipient of a boob job. Silicon just didn't squeeze like that.

With a disgusted sigh, she swept the lot into the bin. At least this pile of filth hadn't come with the usual half legible scrawl.

'I'd like to do this to you, you lesbo bitch, you ruined my marriage. My wife was perfectly obedient until she started reading your rag, etc, etc...' was pretty typical.

What on Earth was Joanne doing sending her this degrading smut? She very much doubted it was a new sexual direction for Joanne. The two of them went back a long time, to university together. They shared, respected and preferred to report the same uncompromisingly feminist point of view, but while Kelly was now blissfully happy with her chosen life partner, poor Joanne had the bad luck to be heterosexual. And as a decent man was practically impossible to find, her love life was of course a series of disasters. But Jo into SM? Not a chance! The last Kelly had heard of her she'd been in Africa, doing a corruption piece on some dictator!

Kelly looked in the empty envelope one last time, then tucked Joanne's note into a drawer. No disk and no mention of England or Polaroids. Clearly someone had got to Joanne's letter and pulled a switch. Hopefully just a cruel joke, not done with malicious intent, but somehow Kelly doubted it. Those pictures looked awfully real! Joanne was smart and fearless, but unfortunately, she also had a rather large character flaw. She just would not, could not, let go of a really good story. No matter where it took her.

Intuition, a hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach, told Kelly there was more, that her friend might be in trouble, but she eventually decided there really wasn't any point in going to the local police, never mind trying to get in touch with the British police through the embassy. All she had was some DIY porn and a feeling. She wasn't even sure Joanne was in Britain!

Kelly thought a moment more. Perhaps there were a couple of people she could talk to without turning the whole media pack loose on what could be a very embarrassing wild goose chase. A certain type of reporter, while always interested in the mysterious disappearance of a journalist, could also be counted on to be secretive and discreet as well. Conspiracy nuts had their uses!




Waiting at the edge of the stage to make her entrance, Joanne shivered helplessly. Behind the curtain, a baying crowd roared enthusiasm as the next contestant was led out.

As a feminist, Joanne was of course opposed to beauty contests in principle, as well as being personally rather offended by the idea of attractive young women parading themselves like cattle for the edification of the male chauvinist pigs who ran, organised and watched such events. Beauty contests were no more than pet shows for two legged poodles, and the women who defended them were brainless fluff, seeking fame at any price and too stupid to see how much damage they did the cause of women's rights.

In the normal course of events she would never have even considered actually attending an event so degrading to women, except as part of a protest, or if she was following a really good story. Sometimes a reporter had to make sacrifices, but even for a Pulitzer prize, the idea of ever entering a beauty contest herself, was just laughable.

A jerk on her collar, her lead held by a young English girl called Annette, a full eight years her junior, reminded Joanne to put her ankles together, and hold her head up, standing neatly to attention in her bonds; as she'd been trained to. She was completely naked, the girl holding her lead wearing a smart charcoal-grey two-piece suit with a burgundy blouse. Reluctantly admiring the top-heavy Barbie on the end of Annette's lead in the floor-length mirror set up opposite them, just off-stage, Joanne had momentarily forgotten to display herself properly! Her bound and gagged reflection had a huge cherry red ball-gag filling her mouth, straps tight across her cheeks and under her chin, giving her an appealing look of innocent, doe-eyed, submission.

Because entering a Beauty Contest of her own free will was flatly impossible, and being entered into a Pet Show for sex-slaves by a master the stuff of her darkest nightmares, Joanne had of course never even considered the possibility that she might make a truly beautiful sex-slave.

While feminists were usually disinclined to parade themselves naked in stiletto heels in front of mirrors - body fascists being another enemy of women - Joanne had for the most part always been satisfied with her appearance. She'd kept herself fit, lean, and she'd always thought she had rather good legs.

Naked in five inch stiletto heeled sandals, in silhouette or looked on direct, the sex-slave looking back at her from the mirror had superb legs! They went on forever - the eye starting at the hip on a naked slave in heels, not the hem-line as Joanne was used to - before trailing right down to the toe, her feet forced into an uncomfortable but pretty arch! Her thighs were firm, calves a delicate sculpture of muscle, her buttocks, marked with a half dozen decorative whip-stripes, also plumply firm.

A broad polished steel belt, a cruel and breathless eighteen inches, fastened with a padlock in the small of her back, cut deep into her flesh. From it, a chain digging into the firm swell of her belly and pulled up in between her sex-lips, ran down her front and under her, to emerge pulled up taut between her buttocks behind her. A built-in chain turned her stiletto sandals into manacles, and steel bands padlocked together around her wrists and upper arms kept her arms neatly together down her back, elbows touching. A thin tight collar was buckled snug around her neck, a pet's name-tag hanging at her throat, and her master had of course had her nipples pierced, a decorative chain swinging between the rings.

Joanne was well aware that by local standards she was a walking wet dream, not a feminist's nightmare, but she'd never imagined she could be brought so low as to actually admire herself; like this! As a chauvinist male might! But after only four weeks on a planet where slavery was legal and commonplace, her perspective, her sense of what was attractive and any ideal of feminine beauty she had ever had, were under constant and sustained attack. It didn't help that her jailers and sexual abusers were constantly telling her, and each other, how gorgeous she was!

No longer allowed the lean, smoothly muscular figure she had long maintained, her diet and exercise now controlled by her self-proclaimed owner, and force-fed when she didn't lick her bowl clean, Joanne's figure now inclined more towards the lushly curvaceous. She hated the very idea that she was more attractive voluptuous!

The ball-gag was making her drool, and already the first trickle of saliva was running down one of her breasts. Joanne was well aware she was now in the hands of people who found a helpless slave-girl slavering down her own naked body amusing and arousing. And also, that they liked their tits big!

Her enlarged breasts were the worst aspect of her new figure, but now that she found herself living in a male fantasy, she wasn't entirely surprised. Her master, the British ambassador to this awful Slaveworld, had injected her with a growth hormone - several times! - to make her boobs grow larger and then larger still. The full globes were both now quite huge, a firm but heavy teardrop shape.

She should have hated what they had done to her; she had at first. Being in the control of someone with power to turn her into a top-heavy, sexual plaything. But in unguarded moments, as now when she'd looked in the mirror, when once she should have felt nothing but horror, humiliation, or defiance; increasingly, her feelings about slavery were..... disturbingly ambiguous!

The problem was, if she looked at her own naked, gagged and humiliatingly bound reflection with Slaveworld eyes, then she was undeniably, quite stunningly beautiful, where on her own Earth she'd been rather ordinary! Compensating for the 'mousy' label she'd had as a child with interest.

The question that puzzled her was, since when did she want to be beautiful, much less a beautiful slave? A central tenet of feminism was that you did not judge a woman by her appearance! Even while Joanne silently rebuked herself, she couldn't deny that when Annette had brought her to heel with a jerk of the lead clipped to her collar, she had been turning herself back and forth, admiring her own reflection in the mirror. To find any naked, gagged woman in chains attractive was a betrayal of her life's beliefs. And when she was looking at herself....!

The swinging chain linking her ringed nipples drew attention to the slightest movement of her newly enlarged breasts, the way the full globes rose and fell with every waist-cinched breath, the eye also drawn to the swell of her stomach against unyielding steel. Joanne was still surprised at how delightfully a wasp-waist emphasised the flare of her hips and made her now hugely overlarge breasts seem positively enormous. The cuffs touching her elbows together behind her back also squared her shoulders and forced her to thrust out the ring and chain decorated melons just that little humiliating bit extra.

Beautiful? She was every feministís nightmare. A creature who existed purely for the sexual pleasure of others.

At least she didn't have to blame herself for being horny; an aphrodisiac surgically implanted under the skin, slowly dissolving into her bloodstream, kept her helplessly hot and wet. Trying to distract herself, Joanne tried to imagine how a free woman of Earth, her best friend Kelly for example, might see her. No one would believe her enormous slave-sized boobs were real until they'd given her a silicon-free squeeze, and to Earth eyes, a cinched waist added to the already generous flare of her hips made her appear a little heavy around the hindquarters; while her bound, forced to attention, posture, also made her shoulders look a little too broad, too powerful.

But that was Earth; another world. Joanne had been here long enough to know that by Slaveworld standards, she was the perfect carriage pony. Without the stamina and pace of a pure bred country pony-girl, the carriage pony was a city slave. She was first and foremost a docile, well trained, masochistic, bedroom sex-toy, but she was also regularly used to pull a carriage as a part of a pair or 4-team over short city distances.

The carriage pony had first been recognised as a distinct breed some 200 years ago; owners cross-breeding the powerful, athletic, country hacking pony with the more lush, top-heavy, pillow-slave: a pure sex-toy. The original carriage pony had still been a lean, spirited animal, but over the years owners had bred for a more placid, sexy slave. Today the breed was known for big full breasts and docile sex, a mature example considered by many the perfect first ride for a young lord or lady on his or her eighteenth birthday. A good specimen could sometimes fetch poodle prices at auction.

Joanne sometimes wondered if the peasants and workers of this world knew their lords and ladies looked on municipal and village birth and death records as stock books! Pedigrees! Her own master had had her appraised by several slave dealers. She'd stood in her bonds while strange hands had stroked and probed over a dozen times now.

The first thing the experienced owner looked for when buying a carriage pony was firm, powerful haunches. Big breasts were a must of course, and the ability to take good whip. The new purchase also had to be docile, obedient and aroused by degrading, sadistic sex. A cosmetic surgeon could add a pretty face if necessary. The carriage pony was not required to be intelligent or have any opinions! Some might never be allowed to speak throughout their years of service.

Joanne felt her nipples stiffen slightly, lust swelling her breasts, her clitoris an itch her restraints would not let her scratch as she mentally described herself; not just a pleasure toy! A pony-girl of all things!

In Joanne's feminist days kinky had equalled degrading to women, and she'd never been sexually adventurous. She'd never even heard of a pony-girl before her enslavement, and she'd been shocked to the core when she'd first been introduced to harness, bridle and pony-trap. Now, prancing down city streets, pulling her little carriage and driver, she sometimes almost felt exhilaration! It was as much freedom as this world would allow her.

Her reflection's eyes were wide, a startling bright baby blue, slightly glazed, her hair a thick shiny blonde mane, and - to hell with feminist principles! - she looked damn good in a ball-gag! Joanne blinked away shamed tears. Perhaps one day she would even learn to like herself with huge, firm, udders, not just naked in chains! The three went very much went together on this strange, cruel Slaveworld.

A uniformed man looked around the curtain. "You're next, My Lord," he told the young Lordling before Annette. "Two minutes!"

The nineteen year old English girl took a deep breath through her nose and squared her shoulders, preparing herself for the crowd. She patted Joanne on the backside, her hand lingering to stroke and squeeze.

"You next," she whispered.

Her free hand stroked Joanne's belly, fingernails trailing lightly to either side of Joanne's tight crotch chain, her touch familiar, blatantly sexual and also a confirmation of her total power. Joanne stayed neatly to attention as a hand stroked up her body, one of her slave-size breasts hefted, bounced in the young girl's palm, the heavy globe spilling out of her grip even with fingers splayed. The girl was not only reminding Joanne that she was a helplessly bound slave, but of the power Annette had over her; reminding her that sex at whim, and all manner of cruel, humiliating, sadistic punishments- punishments against which Joanne had no appeal - were just a moment away.

"Going to be a good girl?"

Joanne nodded obediently, already looking beyond her keeper, trying to see the arena around the curtain. Annette slapped her face!

"Look at me when I'm talking to you, you top-heavy slut!"

The sweet looking girl, just nineteen years old, scooped up her breasts, twisting and squeezing, fingernails sinking deep. Joanne's helpless moan of lust was soon punctuated by whimpers of pain as fingernails twisting deep into her lust swollen breasts were used to punish her. Cuffed hands clenched into tight fists behind her, biting hard into her ball-gag, Joanne of course remained neatly at attention as Annette squeezed and twisted her huge boobs harder still, relenting only when the first tear ran down her victim's cheek.

Gasping around her mouth-filling gag, Annette just gently kneading her breasts now, the heavy globes bruised and throbbing but still aching with lust, and oh so sensitive, Joanne could feel her tear pool against the cheek strap of her ball-gag. She gasped in delight as her nipples were tugged.

"You're not a reporter any more, you're just a fuck-toy; a beautiful, top-heavy vibrator on legs. You exist only to please, you should have no other thoughts in your head, so I do not expect to see you looking around like a tourist when I'm displaying you! Understood?"

Joanne nodded obediently, and submissively lowered her eyes. She'd forgotten herself. She was allowed to look at a person speaking to her, or directly ahead when standing to attention on a collar and lead, nothing else! The English girl nodded approval, gave her a pat on the hip and then planted a light kiss on each of the heavily enlarged breasts she'd just so casually punished. The once confident career woman inside Joanne raged at the docile pleasure slave she'd become, but her nipples stood out even harder.

The next contestant in line, a young lord leading another naked, gagged and helplessly bound girl stepped forward. His carriage pony was a lovely green-eyed brunette, with breasts that would have been described as large and heavy except in comparison to Joanne, her height, weight and figure otherwise a close match. Perhaps a little bit more power around the haunches and thighs, her buttocks a little firmer; but then not so spankable. The judges looked for these things!

"May I intrude a moment my Lady?" he asked.

"Sure," Annette said brightly.

"I couldn't help but notice your entrant's pedigree when I signed in, and...." he waved an uncertain hand.

And, Annette's name, accent, dress and behaviour, marked her down as a foreigner, Joanne mentally filled in.

"I was just wondering if your slave was a British girl?"

"Yes, she is."

"Superb," the young aristocrat sighed. "May I?"

"Be my guest," Annette said with a grin.

Her guest! Of course no one thought to ask the bound and gagged slave if she wanted a complete stranger hefting her breasts, pulling and twisting her nipples, squeezing a thigh and then patting a buttock while he stroked his fingers down her crotch-chain between the folds of her pussy-lips. Joanne tried to keep her sighs soft and her moans down as she was examined.

Joanne was actually an Australian citizen, but any girl kidnapped from her own Earth, the real Earth, and brought to this awful planet was referred to as a British slave here. British slaves were expensive, rare and, as the locals had quickly discovered, made absolutely superb pleasure slaves!

"Is she for sale?"

It was the third time she'd heard those words now, a hundred times in her dreams, and each time was more terrifying than the last.

"I don't think so, but you can pass an offer on to her owner if you want to. I'm just showing her."

The young lord was about twenty years old, far too young for her in an Earth relationship, but not here. Joanne, still savouring the cool strong warmth of his hands on her naked body, was desperately trying to tell herself she didn't find him attractive. He fished out a tiny personal computer doing double duty as the fob on a key ring, and hooked his finger through the ring set through her left nipple. Her breast was pulled up, nipple painfully stretched, the bar code and serial number tattooed on the underside of the heavy mound revealed. The aristocrat's microcomputer beeped cheerfully as it scanned the bar code, downloading Joanne's pedigree from the central net. An offer to buy her would automatically be sent to her owner, the ambassador, by e-mail.

He was called, leading his green-eyed beauty on without a backwards glance, and then Joanne and Annette were at the front of the queue. The young English graduate, snatched out of university by British Intelligence and given a post on Britain's secret offworld embassy to the Slaveworld's English Kingdom, and a 27 year old former Australian reporter, here, a legally owned sexual plaything. Both of them on a world they had not been born to, and both of them fitting in far better than they should have. Annette amused herself teasing her charge, flicking Joanne's nipples with her fingernails and plucking away a couple of stray pubic hairs.

Then it was her turn! Trembling with fear, eager humiliated lust and clinging to a faint remnant of feminist indignation, Joanne was led into the brightly lit arena.

The stiletto sandalsí built in hobble-chain made her take small, neat, steps, ensuring she walked with a fuck-me sway in her stride, her big breasts unsupported by harness or bra, jiggling, bobbing and swaying enticingly. She so desperately wished they didn't have to be quite so big, but she'd stopped sobbing herself to sleep at night after just her first week. And to her lasting shame, sex with the huge melons in clamps, tight bondage or simply slapped a burning scarlet during foreplay, was just fantastic. Listening to the enthusiastic hoots and whistles of the crowd and their calls, she was forcibly reminded once more that enormous boobs made her a very attractive, desirable and expensive slave-girl indeed.

The dildo mounted on her crotch-chain was also uncomfortably large, not just a teaser, a real pussy stretcher, making her gasp softly in helpless distressed lust with each step. Within moments of hitting the bright lights before a live audience of over 600 and a TV audience perhaps into the hundred thousands, her juices were running down her inner thighs. With every step she was forced to take, following Annette's lead, the big invader thrust, twisted and flexed inside her body!

After being paraded past the crowd twice - the mostly male audience not just admiring her bound nudity, but actually placing bets on which of the entered sex-slaves would win - she was led before the eight judges. Before the Slaveworld, Joanne had never once doubted that an enslaved girl would be anything other than the victim of male abuse. But to her continuing bafflement, male sex slaves were also entered into competitions like this. And given the chance just as many women like Annette seemed to enjoy abusing her as did men. Incredibly, she had finally discovered true equality, as a sex-slave!