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Memoirs of a Sex Slave Ch. 01

By: Sapphos Sister



It had been, frankly, a rather wretched Friday. It started badly when Mr Jameson, the chief librarian, trapped me (again) in Maritime History (M to R) and practically wrestled me to the floor. When I told him for the umpteenth time that my interests lay in a different direction, he rather breezily replied that he was 'up for soixante neuf if that's what you mean'. Eventually I fought him off with a leather bound copy of 'A History of Nelson (Vol 2)'. Then, over lunch I had to listen to Maureen who spent an hour cataloguing (as only a qualified librarian can) every sex game that she and Mark, her current squeeze, had played over the last month. When she came to the incident involving the pool cue, the feathers and whipped cream I had to excuse myself and seek sanctuary in the Ladies. Finally, to cap it all, in the afternoon I received an email from my mother saying that she was planning to come and visit next week and could I ring her back that evening. 

So it was little surprise that as I climbed off the bus and crawled along the High Street that night, I had little on my mind but a hot bath, a cold drink and an evening devoted to The Shopping Channel. If I had been more attentive I would have noticed the rather beguiling blonde girl, in the surplus Army teeshirt and combat pants, leaning against the wall of the bank. I would have certainly remembered having exchanged smiles with her a few days earlier as I queued at the check-out of Kwiksave clutching my bargain bottle of vodka and sad-looking stack of ready-cooked meals (portions for one). She had looked at me as if to say: 'You look a likely lass.' In fact, it had been so long since I'd had a date that I was not so much likely as a racing certainty. 

Anyway, as I passed the bank doorway, the blonde suddenly grabbed my wrists and another, bigger, more formidable woman helped her bundle me down an alley. It was all done with such little fuss that, if performed in the library, it would have barely caused Mr Montague, our most regular patron, to stir from his afternoon nap. My God, I thought, this is Okehampton, not Moscow. 

In the alley the two women bound my wrists tightly and force-marched me out of the town and towards deepest Dartmoor. I didn't mind the knotted wrists so much – with Clara that used to be a rather ordinary Friday night – but I was wearing sandals and my feet were soon bruised and blistered. 

After about an hour we stopped and they untied me so that I could catch my breath and have a drink. I slipped off my sandals and spread out my toes. 

'What's this all about?' I asked them pleadingly. 

The bigger one, a rather ugly woman, probably in her late twenties, just stared back and spat at the ground. 

'Don't mind Vixen,' said the other, prettier one. 'She don't talk much.' She passed me a bottle of water and I took a long swig. 'They call me Pussy Willow. We've had our eye on you for a while. We're taking you back to camp.' 

'Why? What can you want with me?' I began to rack my brain: had I paid my final year's subscription to the Girl Guides? I had left under a bit of a cloud after that incident with Veronica Hardcastle. Perhaps these were the Provisional wing, exacting retribution. I felt so exhausted I began to cry. 

Vixen laughed. 'You goin' to be our sex slave,' she hissed in a thick Liverpool accent. 

'Really?' I said and began to perk up immediately. I slipped my sandals back on, helped Pussy Willow (such a delightful name) to her feet and held out my wrists for tying. 'Well, hadn't we better be getting on? The others will be wondering where we are.'  

We reached camp just as the sun was disappearing into the hilltops. There were another three girls waiting for us. One appeared to be the leader. She looked a little like that girl in Lost: you know, the cute, olive-skinned one, but she had a patch over one eye and about a dozen tattoos that appeared to have been self-inflicted. The others called her Nell. 

She undid my blouse and my braless boobs tipped out. 'Nice tits,' she said, squeezing them like oranges. 'You done well, girls. Have some beetle stew.' 

'Lovely,' said Vixen. 'Has it got flies in it? I likes flies.' 

Amongst this band of outlaws, the girls fulfilled all the roles required of such adventures. Vixen, Pussy assured me, was hard on the outside but a real sweetie when you got to know her. But do I want to get to know her, I thought to myself. Pussy Willow herself was the ditzy girl whom everyone else loved and wanted to help. There were two other girls. Grunt was German, Polish or possibly from Newcastle. She certainly gabbled in a foreign language, so that whenever she said something, the rest of us were required to look knowingly as if it had been of profound importance, whilst hoping that we would later discover that she did, in fact, speak English after all. The final member of the band was a Baroness who had fallen on hard times (something to do with a Stock Market crash). She was called Lady Shaver. 

'Well, Nell,' I said, once the introductions were over. 'How do you want to play this? Shall we get down to business?' I kneeled before her and raised my face to be gagged and blindfolded. 

'You must be tired and cold,' she replied. 'Get some sleep.' She helped me to my feet. 

'No, I'm fine,' I insisted. 'I'd be going out clubbing round about now.' 

But she wouldn't heed my protestations. 'Listen, Blue ....' she said. 

'Blue?' I interrupted. 'Are you calling me that because my eyes are deeper than the deepest ocean?' 

'No,' she said. 'It's because your tits look frozen.' 

'Good point,' I said and went to bed. 

The next morning they left me tied up whilst they went out to terrorise virgins in a nearby village. Pussy Willow came back early to release me so that I could prepare myself for their return. As you can imagine, I was very excited. I'd never been a sex slave before (if you discount the time I was playing hockey for Our Lady's Convent First XI and strayed into the wrong dressing room – the match had to be delayed by an hour). 

The girls returned exhausted. I quickly lined them up (as you would expect) in strict alphabetical order. Then I dropped to my knees and knelt between Grunt's legs. Urgghh, the stench! Had they not heard of personal grooming? 

'I'm not so much as dipping a gloved finger in there until you've had a bath, little lady,' I said. Then I frog marched them all down to the nearby lake and watched over them as they tended to their ablutions. 

Afterwards we started again. They lay, thigh to thigh, along the bank of the lake like beached mermaids, their browned bodies glistening in the evening sun. Their pussies came in all different shades and sizes. Not a waxed one amongst them, of course. Nell's was a tawny thatch, Grunt's browner, Pussy Willow had a lovely blondish tint, and Vixen was a real Earth Mother. Lady Shaver, funnily enough, was the hairiest of them all. That's aristocracy for you, I thought to myself, as, like Stanley searching for Dr Livingstone, I attempted to penetrate her undergrowth. I diligently went along the line bringing each girl to a shuddering climax with fingers, thumb and lips before taking a brief swill and moving on to the next. I must confess that after the last girl, Vixen, had come with an ear-splitting intensity, I had a little weep. 

Nell said: 'It's a hard life being a sex slave, Blue.' 

'It's not that, Nell,' I said. I had rather enjoyed the tongue work – after all, at the convent I was chair of the debating society, two years running – 'But a girl does find it disheartening that after having to put up with all that 'Oh my God', 'I'm coming' and 'Lick me, slave', not one of you has had the decency to say 'Thank you'. After all, it's only two little words – thank ... you – and even sex slaves like a little appreciation.' 

They all looked rather shame-faced, or at least as shame-faced as it's possible to look when basking in the glow of post-cunnilingual bliss. In turn they each muttered a 'Sorry' and a whispered 'Thank you' except, of course, for Lady Shaver who said that she'd never had to justify herself to 'staff' before and didn't see why she should do so to a slave (from now on it's slim rations for you m'lady, thought I). 

'Right,' I said, feeling much better, 'now who's for seconds?' 

Later, when the girls had retired, I crept over to Pussy's tent and pulled back the flap. 

'Would you like some company, Pussy?' I whispered. 

'I's awfully tired, Blue,' she murmured. 

'Well, you just lie there and let Blue do all the work,' I replied as I unzipped her sleeping bag and parted her reluctant legs. 

Soon the days settled into a routine of sorts. The girls would go off early for a day's huntin', shootin', fishin' and pillagin', leaving me in charge of the camp. I would brush out the tents, clean the sleeping bags (Pussy's always needed extra scrubbing!) and recover provisions from the wrecked plane (I forgot to mention the wrecked plane but, as you will have guessed, there's always one in stories like this). Thereafter I would sit down and whittle dildos from beech wood and prepare a fortifying nettle soup for when the girls returned with their tales of derring-do. In the evening I would do the rounds of the girls satisfying their physical needs – two sessions per girl without fail but sometimes three (if I asked nicely). 

Occasionally we would play a game I had devised. The girls would cover my eyes and I would have to guess which was which from the taste of their pussies. Vixen was the easiest, of course – you can take the girl out of Liverpool, I always say, but you can't take Liverpool out of the girl. I'd pretend to get them wrong and then have to do it all over again. I had rather hoped that this might cause them to give me a good spanking but, after my earlier tantrum, they seemed reluctant to do so. Nevertheless, I was in Paradise and hadn't enjoyed so much fun since Veronica had tested her knots on me at Girl Guides' camp all those years ago. 

It was all going so splendidly for me that when the end came it was a real shock. 

Nell sidled over one day and sat down beside me. I carried on washing the girls' smalls (I don't know how they got into that state – pillagin', I suppose) whilst Nell carved a tattoo into her forearm with a rusty machete. 

'Blue,' she said, wincing only slightly, 'me and the girls been talkin' ' – I glared at her and she started again. 'Sorry. The girls and I have been talking. We don't think this sex slave thing is working out.' 

'How do you mean?' I asked indignantly. 

'Have you seen them lately?' she countered. 'They're exhausted. Pussy's hardly slept for a week.' It was true that I had been paying her rather too much attention and she'd started to look peaky. 'Yesterday,' she continued, 'we was chasin' virgins in Princetown in order to deflower 'em and had to ask 'em to slow down. Lucky they was so obligin'.' 

'Well it's no bed of roses for me either,' I answered. 'A sex slave has certain expectations, you know: namely sex and slavery. The sex I've had, I grant you, but the slavery! I haven't so much as seen a bondage collar, let alone worn one. I thought that you'd be bringing strangers back to camp for me to service by the camp fire while you all whooped and hollered, but not a one! The only time you beat me was when I overcooked the roast ferret and, let's face it, your heart wasn't really in it, was it? Afterwards Pussy could hardly find the birch mark.' 

'Well, anyways,' replied Nell, fixing me with her good eye, 'we've decided to turn you loose. We're going to make do without a sex slave.' 

I was flabbergasted. 'Do you know of any other bands of brigands who might have need of one?' I asked, with a hint of desperation. 'And could you possibly provide a reference?' I think Nell would have answered positively but at that point she fainted from blood loss. 

I went to say goodbye to Pussy Willow but couldn't rouse her from her sleep. Even Vixen seemed reluctant to accept a kiss on the cheek and she'd been practically insatiable at the beginning. Lady Shaver treated me with all the disdain of true nobility. Only Grunt said anything: 'No problem,' in a German, Polish or possibly Newcastle accent. 

It was ages before I made it back to Okehampton. So there you are, mother, that's the reason – and the only reason – that I didn't phone you back.

Memoirs of a Sex Slave Ch. 02



I suppose it was all my fault. Hardly a day had passed since I posted my story – Memoirs of a Sex Slave – before I started to receive messages from dominatrices around the globe offering to chain, gag, beat, clamp, whip, spank and keelhaul me, and then to punish my poor pussy in ways that I didn't know existed. 

The prospect was terribly arousing (though, in most cases, illegal in Western countries) and rather whetted my appetite. So it was with a growing sense of anticipation that I settled down over a cup of cocoa and a packet of bourbons with my landlady, Mrs Barraclough, to sort through the pile of emailed responses.

Although Mrs B is a pillar of the community and a stalwart of the Women's Institute, the dear lady has been terribly supportive of my sexual endeavours. She says it's just that the opportunities didn't exist in her day. Otherwise she would have quite liked to try lap dancing and reckons that the late Mr Barraclough would have taken to the swinging scene like a fish to water.

'Good Heavens!' said Mrs B, flicking through the print-outs. 'This one's from a Madam Vegan. She wants to violate all your openings with cucumbers.'

'Oh, that's nothing. I said. 'There's one here from The Sushi Sun Goddess. She wants to thrash my backside with a conger eel and then insert live fish into me.'

'Wouldn't that be rather wriggly?' said Mrs B distastefully.

'It would be okay. I once had a boyfriend called Floppy Phil, but it's the fish I feel sorry for.' 

There wasn't one suggestion that satisfied what I considered to be rather straightforward requirements of a would-be lesbian sex slave: namely total subservience, bondage, spanking, nipple clamping, exhibitionism and compulsory group sex, with a little light dusting and ironing thrown in. It was all quite dispiriting and, with a heavy heart, I started to prepare a standard letter of reply:

'Dear Madam Vegan / Sushi Sun Goddess / Lady Horsewhip / Iron Maiden / Mistress Thumbscrew / Birch Bitch 

Thank you so much for your very tempting proposal. However, I'm afraid I will have to decline your invitation on account of my highly developed aversion to gourds of any kind / soy sauce / Paraguayan virgins' blood / barbed wire / execution chambers / gerbils (delete as appropriate).

I do hope that you are able to make alternative arrangements.

Yours obediently (in spirit)

Flora, aka Blue'

Mrs B offered me a consoling arm and, having finished our cocoa in disappointed silence, went to make another cup. 

A few moments later she burst in and exclaimed: 'Flora! There's been another email. What do you think?'

She read it out: 'Dear Lesbian Fuck Slut ....' 

'Well, it starts promisingly,' I said.

Mrs B continued: 'I want you now – bare-arse naked, handcuffed, pierced and clamped – to lick my boots whilst I beat your raw arse scarlet and then watch you fuck my maids of honour.

Email by return. 

Mistress Purgatory

PS Transport can be provided on alternate Tuesdays.'

'She sounds nice,' I said. 'I'll email straightaway.'

Mistress Purgatory replied to my email the next day and asked to meet me at a bungalow a few miles away, but I declined. I much prefer to have such liaisons in public places ever since an unfortunate blind date with a pole dancer I met on the internet. On arrival at the given address I discovered that Bethany was a six foot two dockworker trying to get in touch with his feminine side. I would have given it a go (after all, I'd had a waxing especially) but he just wanted to swap make-up tips. I had to escape through a window when he went to touch up his mascara.

Instead Mistress P suggested we meet at two o'clock in The Pussy Pillow, a new bar just off The Hoe. Sounds perfect, I thought and immediately requested a full day's holiday in order to prepare for the appointment. At least that would spare me lunch with Maureen. She was planning to give me a blow-by-blow account of her weekend in Dublin with Frank, her new beau. Apparently they'd had so much anal sex that he'd re-named her Kerrygold. Well, that would be a relief (which, it seems, is more than Maureen's derriere had enjoyed).

Of course, I spent the whole morning dithering about what to wear. How does one dress for an interview with a prospective dominatrice? Rubber hotpants would be appropriate but did tend to squeak rather distractingly in mid-squirm. Nipple clamps or not? Bondage collar? Mini-skirt and no knickers? I didn't want to seem too eager. I imagined that Mistress Purgatory would welcome a little reluctance on my part in order to prove her erotic omnipotence. Finally I decided on a simple black blouse and grey, pleated skirt just above the knee, with lacy black underwear and low heels. Classily demure with just a hint of challenge.

I arrived ten minutes early and found the lounge empty apart from a rather delicious waitress leaning provocatively across the bar. I sat down and sunk into a pile of pillows, each shaped like a pair of swollen red pussy lips. Very sophisticated. After a few minutes a middle-aged woman walked in, sat a couple of tables away and summoned the waitress over. Oh, I hope it's not her, I thought to myself. She had a shapely figure and looked encouragingly stern but was rather, well, whiskery. I do like my lovers to have less hair on their lips than their pussies – it's just one of my silly dating rules. It makes 69 so confusing. Another of my rules is: never say to a woman police officer: 'I bet you can do some interesting things with that truncheon.' With Madeleine I discovered she could, and she did.

Anyway, when another, older lady joined the bearded one, I relaxed. I glanced at the menu on the table and decided a cocktail might settle my nerves. The waitress breezed over to take my order.

'I'm torn between A Long Comfortable Screw Against A Wall and A Legspreader,' I said, studying the menu contemplatively. 'Which do you recommend?' The waitress grinned down at me.

'The Nipple Kiss always does it for me,' she said.

'Mmm, I'm not sure. Do you have any other cocktails?' I asked.

'What makes you think they're cocktails?' she whispered and sat down beside me.

'Oh,' I squealed delightedly. 'In that case can I have A Cat's Cradle followed by A Reverse Oral? I'm afraid we'll have to be quick – I'm here for an interview.' I reached for my handbag.

'You must be Blue,' replied the girl. 'Mistress Purgatory said you'd be coming by. She's waiting for you in the dungeon.'

I sighed disappointedly. 'Oh well, perhaps later. Which way is it to the dungeon?' I asked, rising to my feet.

'Just along the corridor to your right,' she replied.

'Down there where the screaming's coming from?' I asked excitedly, noticing the distant groaning noise for the first time.

'Actually,' she said, 'that's the plumbing.' 

I strode hurriedly down the corridor, hardly glancing at the sundry implements of torture hanging on the walls. At the end I knocked on a heavy wooden door.

A husky, female voice beckoned me in. The door creaked eerily as I prised it open. Inside all was gloom.

'Abase yourself before me, slave!' the voice cried out.

I felt a flood of excitement spill from my pussy into my tummy, complete two circuits and spurt back into my pussy. It was moistening nicely. I knelt down, my perspiring hands stretched out before me in supplication. I felt the butt of my mistress's whip on my bottom as she paced around my prone body.

'Identify yourself, slut!'

I cleared my throat, my gaze fixed to the ground. Then I adopted my meekest voice (the one I used when I asked Mr Jameson for the day off).

'Mistress,' I whimpered piteously. 'I am Flora, sometimes known as Blue. I come to offer you my body, mind and soul. Will you take me?' This was such fun. I do love it when my panties get squishy.

Mistress Purgatory stood silently above me, tapping the whip against her open palm.

'If I please you,' I continued, 'my reward will be your pleasure. If I incur your wrath, then I must be punished. I ask only that you honour me with your guardianship.' Not bad, I thought to myself. I've definitely got the hang of this sex slavery. I wonder when we get to the pussy-licking. But still not an utterance from Mistress P. I coughed and spoke again.

'I need to feel the heat of your hand upon me, Mistress, the scent of fear in my nostrils, the taste of your whip across my buttocks and the wet, weeping desire dripping from my slit with every stroke visited upon my flesh.'

A familiar voice finally broke the silence. 'Gosh, you're awfully good at this, aren't you? You'd never guess that you're a librarian.'

I looked up and was astonished to see Mrs Barraclough standing above me, whip in hand. 

'What are you doing here?' I shrieked.

'I sent you the email, dear. Or should I call you Penitence? That's your name here. Don't you think I look good in all this M & S gear?'

Mrs B's aging, plump body was squeezed into a basque, stockings and thigh length boots, and covered with a long, black leather trench coat.

'You look ridiculous, Mrs B,' I said. 'And anyway, it's S & M, not M & S.' 

'No, no' she said, showing me the Marks and Spencer label. 'I bought it from their new domination range.'

I turned to go, intent on claiming some sexy refreshment from my gorgeous waitress. Next I heard a clap of thunder and a crack of lightning across my poor rump and through every cell in my body. The pain was excruciating. I felt my right cheek. Mrs B's whip had torn my skirt.

'Designer label?' she asked, with mock sympathy.

'F-C-U-K,' I muttered between gnashed teeth.

Another lash gashed my left cheek.

'Oh, God, please!' I exclaimed.

'I do abhore swearing,' she said. 'It's so fucking rude. Now, if you remember, Penitence, my dear lesbian slut, I want you bare-arse naked on the floor.'

I looked her in the eye. She was slowly reeling in the whip, ready to strike again. I unbuttoned my blouse and pulled it out of the waistband of my skirt. A salty tear rolled down my cheek. Soon I was sobbing uncontrollably.

They were tears of joy .....

[to be continued]