Carol stood silently at the open door to her husband's den, waiting for him to acknowledge her presence. Dressed only in threadbare, faded cotton dress that barely covered the cleft of her bruised thighs, she stared downward, the streaks of mascara from her silent tears only partially obscured by the stringy, tangled dirty blonde hair falling over her face.
Carol's head was bowed, hands behind her, palms outward with the right hand resting in the left, precisely against the small of her back. She absent mindedly studied the position of her feet, ensuring they were exactly shoulder width apart and that tips of her toes were aligned with, but not touching, the threshold between the highly polished hardwood hall floor and the deep, plush carpet of her husband's den. She'd never seen carpet so thick and luxurious, and wondered what it would feel like under her bare feet. A useless thought, she knew; this was the one room in the entire house she was forbidden to enter, not even to clean it. Her husband had a maid a free woman who he paid to take care of that. The fact that the money he used to pay the maid was earned by whoring out his wife or daughter was immaterial.
"What is it?" her husband finally demanded, not even looking up from his computer screen. She could see that he was chatting, probably with a fellow slave owner.
"Sir, my period has started," Carol sobbed, no longer caring about the streaks in mascara. She'd not be wearing makeup after today, anyway.
"Fine," was the terse response. "Get your things moved and get her ready for me."
"Yes, Sir," she responded automatically at the command, bowing her head submissively before backing away from the door. Carol's husband heard the loud sobs as the tears flowed freely now, unhampered by the dread of having had made the announcement.
While her husband returned to his work, Carol slowly trudged down to the end of the hall, still crying softly as she walked up to the ornate, highly polishe,solid oak door separated her world from the rest of the house. She instinctively removed her dress and dropped the crumpled, stained garment on the floor. Clothing, such as it was, was not permitted on females in this wing of the residence.
Unlike the rest of the house, this area was never seen by anyone, not even the guests at her husband's frequent parties. That the interior side of the door was even painted was simple expediency; it was necessary in order to keep it from warping, for no matter how well maintained the varnished exterior was, the dank odors of the filth that lay beyond it would surely attack the wood were it not protected. Even Carol's husband rarely ventured past the heavy, ornate door; she could count on one hand the number of times he'd visited this part of the house in the twenty years they'd lived here. The door locked only from the outside, the key to the heavy lock constantly in her husband's possession. Females in this household had no right to privacy, but were often locked away, out of sight, when it suited their Master.
The appearance of this wing of the house seemed more suited to a sharecropper's shanty than the mansion in which it was situated. Completely separated from the main structure with walls that extended to the roof, it was remarkable only due to the extreme contrast with the more public parts of the well-built and immaculately maintained home. Bare, untreated wood floors that hadn't seen as much as a broom in over two years, and dingy, stained walls that hadn't been painted in longer than Carol had been alive were only the beginning. The entire wing was not only unheated, but unventilated, unless you counted the leaky roof. There was no ceiling here, just the bare beams and planking that created the underside of the roof. The windows were permanently welded shut and shuttered over from the inside. From the outside, pastel colored draperies hung behind glass panes, hiding the ugly metal covers from view and giving an appearance of normalcy. The air was permeated with the musty stench of dirt, urine, and unwashed, well-used female bodies.
She glanced at her daughter sleeping restlessly on the homemade mattress, the only semblance of furniture they had. Made from old, second hand blankets and filled with crumpled newspaper, straw, animal hair and whatever else Carol had been able to scrounge, it had been their only bed since her daughter's birth. She noticed, but with little real interest. the evidence of the abuse her daughter had received the night before: dried semen between her thighs, welts across her belly and tits from a whip or belt, and a large bruise on the side of her face, apparently from someone's fist. It wasn't the first time her daughter had been the main entertainment at a gang bang, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. At 20 years of age, Tina had more sexual experience than most prostitutes twice her age. Carol glanced upward, noticing the blinking red light on the security camera firmly affixed to the ceiling, reminding herself that her husband could be watching at that very moment, and even if he wasn't, the recorder was cataloging her every movement.
Taking another look around, her eyes focused on the bathroom entrance, examining the screw holes where hinges had once held a door. Mildew grew unhampered along the dirty tile walls and under the peeling linoleum floor. On one wall, a filthy open shower stall stood, an ancient garden hose attached to the spigot. A thick black ring ran around the inside of the rust-stained, seatless toilet. Carol noticed the brackish water contined neither urine nor feces. Tina must have flushed it recently, she thought. She'd have to find out exactly when; they were only allowed to flush their shared toilet once each day. They'd both been beaten for violating that rule before.
Carol wondered when she would next be permitted to disinfect the bathroom; the last time was nearly a year ago. A bout of illness affected both females, rendering them useless to their Owner. He'd resorted to renting a slut from one of his internet friends to tend to his needs. After Carol had become well, she'd been sent to a pimp until she earned back what her Owner had needlessly spent on the temporary replacement.
Then it struck her, and the tears began anew. She'd always known this day would come, but the implications never really hit home. Until now her first menstrual period after her fortieth birthday. She was to be displaced in her husband's bed by her own daughter, just as she had done to her own mother all those years before. While she would continue to feel the oftentimes painful bliss of sex, it would never again be with the man to whom she was wed. It wasn't that she would suffer from a lack of sex; the truth, in fact, would probably be just the opposite. Her husband would undoubtedly loan, and probably even rent, her body to friends, colleagues, acquaintances and even total strangers more often now than he had in the past. She'd probably end up getting used more now than ever before in her life. At least that was the way it was for her own mother; a seemingly endless round of orgies and abuse sessions, until she'd finally been sold to a breeder.
Sold. That would happen to Carol, too, but not for some time. Tina's baby girl had to be born first. She might end up as a wealthy person's housemaid, or maybe a sex slave in some Asian brothel. Neither of the most hopeful of options were likely, however. There was little demand for worn-out sex slaves, and while she was still fertile, breeding slaves over forty were rare exceptions. People who could afford such luxuries usually preferred young slaves, without stretch marks, scars and saggy tits. She knew she'd probably end up in a BDSM brothel, or at best, a labor slave somewhere, probably doing the backbreaking harvesting migrant workers had once performed. And when she was deemed unfit for even that work, well, her organs might still be worth something. Whatever happens, will happen, Carol thought silently, wiping the tears from her cheeks. Just like the rest of her life, she had no control over the future. Right now, she had a job to do, and she needed to maintain some semblance of control, if only for the sake of her daughter.
"Tina?" she whispered quietly, looking down at her teenage daughter laying exhausted on the filthy mattress. "It's time. You need to get yourself ready."
"Mama?" the young girl looked at her inquisitively for a moment before she understood. "Oh, Mama!" she cried, painfully raising her body from the floor and reaching to embrace her mother.
"It'll be all right, little one," Carol whispered, using the same diminutive as her own mother once used under similar circumstances. "Your life is going to change now. You're the woman of the house." The tears flowed freely from both females now. "He really is a good man; just do your best to please him."
"Oh, Mama," the younger girl wailed, "I can't do this!"
"Yes, you can, and you will!" the older woman said, grabbing her daughter forcefully by the shoulders. "You can and you will, just like I had to, and just like your own daughter will when her time comes!'
"But I'm not ready!" the girl complained, crying so forcefully that her words were barely understandable.
"Yes, you are, Tina. You're as ready - more ready- than I was. Look at me!" she demanded when her daughter tried to cover her face. The girl looked up into her mother's eyes.
"How long have you been fucking?" she asked pointedly. Women in this household weren't permitted to talk about sex in anything but the most obscenely graphic terms.
"You know the answer to that, Mama. Daddy sold my cherry on my eighteenth birthday, to that mechanic in exchange for an oil change. You helped him, remember? You tied my legs apart and then used your mouth to get him hard."
"And how many men have used your body since then?"
"I don't know, Mama. Daddy never said I had to keep count, but maybe a couple of hundred. There were eight just last night, Mama," she said sadly. "They hurt me." Carol looked down at her daughter's bruised, cum covered body and nodded her head.
"Don't you think it would be easier to please one man, to know what he likes and doesn't like, rather than having to figure out someone new every time? Or a group, like last night?"
