Stephanie and the Slavers

Author's note: this story features non-consensual sex and mild to medium torture, though not the really vicious stuff that injures people. If that's not your taste, please stop now.

I've tried to make it realistic to the extent that I don't ever show the victim coming to enjoy being tortured and raped, which I think only fuels rape culture with its tropes of "She was asking for it," and the perennial "She really enjoyed it."

It was early in my career as a slave-based BDSM brothel owner. I had started relatively small, following the first lesson of any Business Management 101 textbook: don't expand until you have thoroughly tested demand. Well, I had done that. Although for my own security I deliberately made myself hard to find, and becoming a client very complicated, word had gotten around, and I quickly had more work than I could handle with my starter set of three slaves. Even though I charged $2000.00 for an hour and a half with them -- with permission to do absolutely anything with and to them -- the cash flow wasn't enough. I had taken out a huge bank loan to finance my underground bunker -- the bank thought they were financing an underground parking structure -- and between the payments and the cost of everything from security to cleaning, money was going out the window faster than it was coming in the door.

I had considered a few alternatives. I could cut some corners, maybe giving clients only an hour as a time limit and putting the women out there several times a day. But I prided myself on always being able to present a product that was clean and well-rested from the previous day's client, not worn down like a worker in a cheap trick pad. I wanted to heed the second lesson of Business Management 101: don't water down your brand. That's why Canada no longer has an Eaton's department store chain: they dicked around with their product, customers stayed away, and they died in a sea of red ink.

I considered opening a sideline in porn videos. I certainly had the means to produce much more realistic bondage-and-torture videos than the faky-looking stuff you see on PornHub and such, all toy whips and poorly staged screams. But it didn't take much research to find out that that business wasn't as lucrative as I needed it to be, since the same Pornhub, with its fake but free product, had cut the legs out from under people who wanted to charge for something better. No, I had an excellent business model already. What I needed was more slaves, and fast.

I had personally "recruited" my first three, meaning that I abducted them after carefully researching them to make sure that they would be suitable. But I hadn't fully refined my abduction technique to the point where I felt absolutely safe doing it, and moreover the research and the careful execution were time-consuming. I was prepared to do it anyway when I saw the ad.

I was browsing in one of the darkest corners of the dark web, the same place I keep my site, when I saw it: "Quality Slaves for Sale." That got my attention. There was even an on-line catalogue, although there seemed to be only one slave on offer -- the plural "slaves" was a bit of an exaggeration. But the one piece of merchandise was certainly arresting.

In the picture, she looked to be somewhere in her mid-twenties, which suited me. I have no interest in under-age women, and I avoided even "barely legal" teens. I only targeted women who were old enough to have a bit of experience, sexual and otherwise, and who didn't make me feel like a pedophile.

She had chestnut hair a little below her shoulders, straight but styled subtly into a bit of a wave that curled around her face. That face was gorgeous, with just the right about of restrained make-up to set off her white skin and delicate features. She was fully dressed in fashionable and expensive-looking attire, but the way she was posing, about a quarter turn from the camera, was obviously designed to accentuate her fuck-perfect figure and medium-sized but well-developed breasts. Everything about her said, "Squeeze me, I dare you."

So I initiated contact. As I expected, it took a few twists and turns to get a personal reply. These slavers were being as careful as I was when it came to avoiding detection by anyone but serious potential clients. I finally received a curt text.

"What can we do for you?"

"I'm interested in the slave you have on offer. How much are you asking for her?"

"$10,000. Cash. of course."

I goggled. That was a lot of money, especially with my current constrained cash flow. But then, at $2000 a pop, I should be able to recoup that in five days. Nonetheless, I played hard to get.

"That's a huge amount of money for one slave!"

"Listen, you'll never see a more choice-quality product. She has a fantastic body, she's guaranteed STD-free, and she's thoroughly broken in to slavery. If you check other sex-slave traders, you'll find that's a bargain."

"OK, but I need to see her for myself. You can't always believe what you see in pictures."

We agreed to meet, following the usual intricate and obscure directions designed to make sure I was who I said I was. So, five days later, I loaded a suitcase with $10,000 in cash into my van -- the one with no windows in the back and an opaque partition behind the cab -- and two hours later, pulled into an underground garage.

I was met by the guy I called Slaver One -- I never found out either of their names, and I didn't know them long enough for nicknames to suggest themselves. He walked me down a long corridor, and I did some preliminary probing.

"So, this is your profession -- capturing women and reselling them as sex slaves?"

"Not really. We had hoped to make money by running a trick pad. But it was proving to be much more work for much less reward than we had hoped, so we are selling off our stock and moving to another line of work. She's the last one." What other line of work? I thought. Running a puppy mill or child porn site? But I kept quiet. It's not good business practice to begin by pissing off the person you're trying to set up a transaction with.

"Here we are," he said, stopping outside an imposing door. He opened it and we went inside.

There was nothing much in the room other than four large cages. Three were empty. The light was dim, and I struggled to make out what was in the fourth. There was a bucket in one corner, which, judging by the smell, hadn't been emptied in a while. In another corner was a shapeless pile of something I couldn't identify right away.

As I got closer, the pile unfolded itself and revealed itself to be a naked woman. I vaguely recognized the facial features from the brochure picture, but the creature that revealed herself to me had almost no other resemblance to the smiling, confident-looking young woman I had seen before. She was gaunt, looking half-starved. I guessed that she had lost twenty kilos or so since the picture had been taken. The shining chestnut hair was matted and filthy, and looked more like a miserable brown than chestnut. There was a fresh bruise on the side of her face and a half-healed one on her arm, and two angry welts across her breasts that looked like cane marks. Between her legs I could see a ragged and stubbly bush, as if she once had had a nice clean Brazilian and had been unable to maintain it. There were chafe marks around her wrists and ankles, suggesting the use of metal shackles.

But the worst thing was her eyes. They looked vacant and haunted, as if there was no life behind them. She looked right through me uninterestedly, as if she couldn't care less what happened next.

I was outraged. As a slave owner, I felt a professional responsibility to look after my products and make sure they were healthy and presentable for the clients who would be paying premium prices for their exclusive use for ninety minutes. Neglecting a slave, and worse, marking one up with a cane, would have been professional suicide.

I was so disgusted that I nearly turned around and just walked away. But something made me stop. It was those haunted eyes that reminded me of a recue dog in a shelter, waiting for someone to adopt and look after it. I try to avoid getting sentimental over slaves, calling them by number rather than using their names to remind myself that to me, they were just pieces of valuable property. But somehow, I just couldn't leave her here with these assholes.

I tuned on the slaver. "What the fuck are you trying to pull? You want $10,000 for that broken-down pile of shit? No wonder your trick pad isn't profitable if that's what you present to your customers. Don't you know how to keep a slave in good rentable condition?"

He just sputtered at me. I pointed at the slave. "Get her out of that fucking cage and get her something to eat. Now!"

His friend, Slaver Two, had just come in. He said, "I'll get it," and left again. Soon he came back with a bowl of something that looked like some sort of weird gruel. It seemed to be based on beans and rice, so at least there would have been some food value to it, but there also seemed to be bits of random food scraps mixed into it. He started to push it trough a space in the bars.

"I said first get her out of the fucking cage!" He was so unsettled by my manner, as well as my imposing size, that he seemed to forget that he was supposedly in charge here. He fumbled a key out of his pocket and opened the cage. Although the doorway was tall enough that she could have walked out if she ducked just a little, she crawled out on all fours and settled herself on the floor, her arms and legs drawn up tightly around her. He pushed the bowl toward her, and she grabbed it and wolfed it down like a starving animal.

"Now get her some clothes, and show me where I can take her to wash up. I can hardly see what I'm supposed to be buying under all that filth. And a hairbrush and toothbrush."

Slaver Two left to get what I had demanded. Slaver One produced a set of metal handcuffs from a pocket, and she meekly put her hands behind her back while he snapped them on. "She's likely to make a break for it if I don't use some restraints," he explained. "She's your responsibility to keep an eye on until she gets back here." He handed me a key and I slipped it in my pocket.

She said nothing as we walked down the hall, and I didn't try to engage her in conversation, especially with Slaver One leading the way. He showed us to a bathroom with a toilet, sink and shower stall, and left. I unlocked the handcuffs, turned on the water, and said, "There you go."

"Can I use the toilet first?"

I nodded and without a hint of shyness -- she obviously had had a long time to get used to a total lack of privacy -- sat down and had a good, long pee. "It's wonderful not to have to piss in a bucket for once," she said as she wiped.

"How long has it been since you've been able to have a decent wash?"

"Not once since I've been here. They bring me a rag and a bucket of soapy water so I don't stink so badly I would offend the customers, but that's about it." Then she walked over to the shower, tested the temperature, and climbed in.

She instinctively reached up for the shower curtain but I stopped her from pulling it across. "Don't worry, I've seen enough skin that I don't need to excite myself by watching you shower. But I said I'd keep an eye on you, and I don't want to let you out of my sight, even behind a shower curtain."

She shrugged, picked up the soap and started to wash. She was obviously luxuriating in the feel of soap and hot water as it sluiced off what looked like months of accumulated grime. She paid extra attention to her pubic area, scrubbing her vulva as if she was trying to wash away the countless men who had shoved their dicks in there. She looked around for shampoo, didn't see any, and lathered up the hand soap to use instead.

While she was washing, Slaver Two came in with a toothbrush, a part-tube of toothpaste, a hairbrush and a little stack of clothes. As soon as she saw him, I could see her tense, and she didn't relax until he had left.

The toothbrush didn't exactly look brand new, so I left it in the sink under the hot tap while I inspected the clothes. A man's T-shirt advertising some long-forgotten rock band, obviously about three sizes too large, and an equally oversized pair of sweat pants. Not panties, no bra. I guessed that they had wrecked her own clothes early on, probably ripping them off her, and, preferring to keep her naked anyway, had never bothered to replace them.

She finished towelling off and reached for the clothes. "Hold on for just a minute," I said. "I want to take a better look at those injuries of yours." I've seen lots of bondage injuries over time, and I wanted to see if any of them looked as though they'd leave lasting marks. The bruises were pretty superficial, as was the shackle chafing. The cane marks were more worrisome, but they looked as though the cane hadn't actually broken skin. They would be painful for a while, but shouldn't leave scars.

She shook out the clothes and grimaced at the sizing, but put them on, looking as though she was pleased to be wearing anything again, whether it fit or not. As she dressed, I said, "I have a pretty good idea how you got those marks, but why don't you tell me exactly?"

She started brushing out her hair and said, "Every time they imagined I had broken one of their rules, they liked to handcuff me to an overhead pipe and beat me with things. Sometimes fists, sometimes a baseball bat, occasionally a cane. If I tried to escape, or fought back when they tried to chain me up, or even just talked back to them, they'd use it as an excuse to punish me. Sometimes I thought they just made up rules as they went along to have an excuse for hurting me.

"Once I almost did make it out. Just one of them was dragging me down the hall to the trick pad, and I slugged him and ran like hell. But I couldn't find an unlocked door, and the two of them eventually grabbed me and laid a beating on me, then chained me to the bed in the trick pad anyway. After that, they loaded me up with handcuffs and a hobble chain when they moved me, and always did it together.

"That," she said, pointing to her breasts, now mostly invisible under the baggy shirt, "Was for the time when the guy you've been calling Slaver One was face fucking me, and I tried to bite his cock off. Almost succeeded, too, but his buddy slugged me before I got a good grip. I still savour the sound he made when I bit down. Squealed like a stuck pig. After they hit me and caned me, they left me hanging from my wrists for a whole day and night. I'm sure they only got me down because they had customers lined up. They didn't feed me again for the rest of the week. I haven't done that again, although sometimes I still think it would be worth it no matter what they did to me afterwards."

"And the shackle marks?"

"I spent hours every day shackled spread-eagled to a bed while a parade of men shoved their dicks in me. Thank God the slavers made them wear condoms, although I'm sure it wasn't for my benefit. Bad business to send customers home with STDs. And who really likes sloppy seconds anyway?"

She started to brush her teeth. "God, that feels good," she said around a mouthful of toothpaste.

"You've lost so much weight. How long have you been here anyway?"

"What date is it today?"

I told her and she did some mental calculations. "Six months. I doesn't take long to lose weight when they only feed you once or twice a day. Except for the days they forget entirely, or don't bother."

I got angry all over again. "Those assholes have no idea how to keep their money-maker healthy and presentable. No wonder they're losing money. Even if they cater to the kinds of clients who just want a hole to shove their cocks into, they aren't going to get a lot of repeat business if they present a specimen in as bad a shape as they've made of you."

Clean, brushed out and nominally dressed, she looked a lot better than the woeful creature I had first seen. Having been washed in nothing but hand soap, her hair hadn't regained the chestnut sheen of her picture, and the ends were untidy and in bad need of an expert trim. I'm sure that malnutrition hadn't helped her hair, skin or anything else, either. But I saw something I could work with, more a woman than a beaten dog.

"Let's find somewhere we can talk. I want to learn more about you, and I'm sure you're ready to hear more about me." I held out the handcuffs, and she turned to let me put them back on. "Sorry about these, but..."

"I know, you promised to keep an eye on me," she finished for me. We walked back down the way we had come, and I showed her into a small office I had noticed when we had passed it earlier. There was no-one using it, but it had a table and several chairs. I took the handcuffs off again and gestured for her to sit down.

"My name is Theo. What's yours?"

"Stephanie. I haven't been called anything but "Slave" and "Whore" for so long I'd almost forgotten I had any other name."

"I'll be calling you 'Slave Four' once we get you back to my place, to remind me that you're property, not a person. Now, why don't you tell me how you ended up here? Did they blackmail you? Snatch you off the street?"

"No," she said ruefully. "I fell for the oldest trick in the book: the fake modelling gig. I was trying to start a modelling career, but it was sputtering a bit. I had a website with some demo photographs, but so far I hadn't picked up anything more exciting than a few underwear ads for The Bay." I guessed that one of those demo photos was the one the slavers had posted to bait prospective buyers.

"I was getting desperate enough to think about some nude modelling to help pay the rent, when a text came out of the blue. They told me they were photographers looking for a model to do a demo shoot for some upstart fashion company. I had never heard of the company, but I supposed that was because it, like ne, was just trying to get started. Now I figure they just made it up.

"They made me an offer for a test shoot that was lucrative enough to get my interest, but not so outrageous that it made me suspicious. Their operation was only an hour's drive from where I lived -- they weren't expecting me to fly to New York or anything -- so I took them up on the offer. When I arrived, they told me that the studio was downstairs, so I went down with them. The next thing I knew, I was shoved into that fucking cage, stripped, raped in every hole, and left alone with my imagination. I haven't seen anything but that cage and the trick pad bed ever since."

I took over the conversation. "Let me tell you a bit more about what's going to happen. I'll use your condition as a lever to beat them down on your price, but rest assured I won't leave you here with them. But understand that this is a transaction, not a rescue. You'll still be a sex slave, just in better circumstances.

"My slaves generally are just on duty for a few hours a night, and only have to service one client. The down side is that those clients all have their own fetishes and their own fantasies about what they'd like to do to women. I let them indulge those fantasies -- a sort of Fantasy Island for an hour and a half. Expect to be tied up in all sorts of ways, suspended, gagged, stuffed with objects, flogged, raped, and generally abused in ways you never thought possible. But, as you've seen, I have no patience with clients who want to do real damage to my slaves. They can't do anything that will leave marks or other injuries that won't go away by the next day." I pointed to her mostly-invisible breasts. "None of that shit. If they step over the line, they lose a five-thousand-dollar deposit and maybe get banned from my establishment."