index


Message-ID: <57602asstr$1210115401@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Sirsemega <sirsemega@gmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable
NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 6 May 2008 21:05:16 +0000 (UTC)
Complaints-To: groups-abuse@google.com
Injection-Info: x19g2000prg.googlegroups.com; posting-host=138.202.12.99; 
	posting-account=TytFgwoAAABJlpe8V_kFIkAmXTDwEeOG
User-Agent: G2/1.0
Subject: {ASSM} Life in the Harem (part 1) (BDSM, Ff, Mf, FemDom, MaleDom)
Lines: 421
Date: Tue, 06 May 2008 19:10:01 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Modern day harem life of slaves and their struggles for alpha slave
status.
Master is unaware of the intrigue and back stabbings that go on when
he is away from the harem between his sex slaves. Or is he?

(c) 2008 Sirsemega
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents
are either the product of the author's disturbed imagination and are
used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead,
undead or mostly harmless, business establishments, events, or
locales
is entirely coincidental.
If you enjoy it, please drop me an email at sirsemega@gmail.com

Life in the Harem

BEGINNING

Master must have come into money. He didn't strike me as a person born
to the blue. He certainly was graceful and eloquent, but there was a
certain polish lacking when it came to protocol. On very rare
occasions Master's oldest friend would come by to visit. Sir Jon had
known Master longer than anyone else, and was the person whom Master
had complete trust in. Sir Jon, however, gave us a glimpse as to what
Master was before he had acquired his wealth. Sir Jon was working
class, grease and grime always under his fingernails, no hope of ever
coming clean.

On these rare occasions, when Sir Jon visited, Master always allowed
him to take his pick of us for his entertainment. The estate was
remote, surrounded by forest and no other houses within view. Every
visitor that arrived either came in by small plane, landing on the
dirt runway, or had traveled for a very longtime by car. I have no
idea how I arrived here, but my first task after indoctrination was as
a greeter for visitors. I was not allowed in the main house, as that
was a privilege I would have to earn, rather I was placed in the
outdoor kennels, my clothes replaced with collar and body harness. The
harness did nothing to hide my exposed breasts or cunt. My job was to
greet all visitors as they arrived, recite the welcome chant prostate
at the door of the plane or car, "Welcome Sirs and Madams, this
unworthy slave greets you most humbly to Duquette Estate. Please allow
this wretch to escort you to the main house and to make arrangements
for your luggage."

I am not proud to say that I would listen to their conversations as I
went through my tasks, eager to glean any information outside my realm
of knowledge. Any news of the real world, about the environment I was
now in, anything at all. Before I knew better, I was able to gather
that the Estate that I now served in was so far away from help, that
there was no chance of escape if I was able to leave. I also found out
that my Master was not a man to be trifled with, he had become very
influential and powerful, so large a presence that my being couldn't
help but shrink in the importance of his stature.

I soon learned that eavesdropping on guests conversations was
something I should not concern myself with. It was in fact escorting
Sir Jon and his guest up to the main house that Lucinda, one of the
house slaves, discovered me listening intently to their conversation,
and it was confirmed, as Sir Jon made a particular funny joke, of
which I snickered, that changed Lucinda's welcoming smile to our
guests, to one of harshness as she excused herself from Sir Jon and
his guest, marched directly to me and instructed me to report to my
kennel. She did this in a subtle way that didn't alert our guests that
there was a problem. My stomach churned, and I went clammy as I
curtsied and turned heel, heading back to my kennel. Lucinda resumed
her duties escorting Sir Jon and his guest in the main house, of which
I had not been granted the privilege of entering, and now wondered if
I ever would be allowed.

There is a pecking order here among the slaves. Kennel slaves are
lowest, housed in the outside kennels, they are usually the newest
slaves, purchased or by other arrangements such as blackmail, agreed
contracts, or other means, both legal and illegal. They live housed in
a cell block, with collar and leather body harness only. Kennel slaves
are trained and either sold and moved to other owners, or if they are
very lucky, they are kept by Master. It is very rare for Master to
keep a new slave and he never visits the kennel. At some point in
time, Master stopped training kennel slaves and passed that assignment
over to his house slaves. During my entire time spent as a kennel
slave, I only saw my Master while greeting him as he arrived back to
his estate. Becoming a house slave is something all kennel slaves
dream about, it is their entire ambition to earn the right to wear
clothes, and be able to enter the Main house. Because of this right of
passage, all house slaves strictly maintain discipline of kennel
slaves. They become the trainers and punishers, policing the kennel
slaves and issue training strictly within the lines of protocol Master
has laid out. They take a particular kind of glee in issuing training
and punishment, remembering their own trials and toils shivering in
the kennels, being the lowest of all slaves and taking brutal hidden
punishment from all others. Some vindictively torture the kennel
slaves, forcing the new slaves to go through the same rite of fire
that they themselves had to endure.

House slaves have the responsibility of recommending kennel slaves for
promotion. They take that responsibility very seriously. Master at
this point cannot be bothered with something as trivial as weeding out
the new trainees. There are only a very small number of openings for
house slaves, as house slaves can outlive their purpose, be promoted,
or can be sold to a guest that takes a particular liking to them. The
house slaves are very guarded as to whom they recommend for promotion.
The kennel slave must be not only completely trained, but obedient,
pleasant, liked by all others, and trustworthy. If a kennel slave is
promoted and fails as a house slave, in whatever way Master sees fit,
the house slave and the ones who recommend promotion are removed from
the house. Most are sold off to live lives of unspeakable cruelty,
some are killed, but one has been kept within the estate, to be served
as a lesson to all slaves of the consequences of failure.

She is kept in a small cabin on the far end of the estate. Every new
slave on their first day is brought to that cabin to be shown what
happens with failure. Upon each promotion, they are again shown this
miserable wretch, as a reinforced reminder of what failure can bring.
She has no name. Some whisper that she was Master's second wife one
time, long ago. She is more a receptacle now than a slave, her arms
and legs atrophied from the steel cage box she is forced into. She is
inflicted with electrical shocks on a minute by minute basis; the pain
long ago forced her mind into mush. Estate hands, gardeners, workers,
have full use of her orifices and her body within the cage as they
beat, shit, piss and fuck her till they are spent. A sign at the door
reads: "This is what happens with failure. Its failure was poor
judgment. Enter with cruelty in mind. Take it out on the failure
inside."

This... "thing's" ... punishment was to serve out its days as a reminder
that with a modicum of power comes responsibility. This lesson remains
firmly entrenched within each slave here on the Duquette Estate,
making recommendations few and far between.

I didn't have to wait for Lucinda long. She came to my cage and opened
the door, grabbing my hair; she dragged me out and down the corridor
to the punishment room. Once inside, she strapped me to a whipping
post, and once secured, grabbed me by the jaw, twisting my head around
to stare directly into my tearing eyes. The olive skinned
Mediterranean woman was exotic looking, big eyes, very curvy and tall.
She looked glamorous, but hard. Her face was set, her body a steel
spring. She exuded resolve. I was afraid.

"Slave," she said sternly, I had not earned the right of a name or
number yet.
"Do you know why you are here?"
I nodded, and tried to cast my eyes downward. She reaffixed her grip
on me, yanking my face upward to meet hers, as she towered over me.
"You are to never listen in on conversations. Unless someone is
addressing you, talk is NOT to be heard."
"Yes, mistress," I chocked back some tears.
"It's very simple slave, you have one task, and you should be
concentrating on doing that one simple task only."
"Yes, mistress," I replied.
"Do not concern yourself with things beyond your purview, you little
bitch! You know the consequences of failure?"
I nodded and shuddered, remembering the cabin.
"Focus on your task at hand, and only that, and maybe, if you're
lucky, you will survive."
She smiled, and I let my guard down for a moment, hoping that the
lesson was concluded. Her face turned and she brought down across my
face a blow from a crop, where she produced it from, I do not know,
but the sting knocked me off balance, as I yelped in pain.
"Now, my pet, a little reinforcement is in order so that you learn
your place. Take this lesson well, you now have been logged, if you
fail again, you will live to regret the rest of your miserable life!"

She thrashed me for what seemed like days. Passing out, I was quickly
revived with a splash of cold water from a bucket. I begged her to
stop, that I had learned my lesson. She did not. No one punishing her
had been lenient. They had shown her no mercy. The connection to
failure for the punisher was just as frightening as for the slave who
failed. It was a vicious cycle that Master had devised, making others
accountable for the actions of all slaves that kept the estate
autonomous. Every slave was well aware of not only their own status
for failure, but also the actions of others who failed, if they were
in part responsible. That meant swift correction by higher slaves to
lesser slaves when an infraction occurred.

When Lucinda finally tired, I caught my breath between sobs, grateful
for the end of the punishment. I slumped on the post, still secured
there, my body in fiery pain as she had spared no part of it with her
whipping. She pushed the buzzer that sat beside the door. A silent
ring went off somewhere outside my world. For me, all I knew was pain,
and fear, and gratefulness that the instrument of pain had stopped.
Minutes later, a stable hand walked in, sweaty and grimy, he had a
thick leather apron on. He grunted as Lucinda pointed towards the
bundle of exposed nerve endings that was my body. He was holding
something. It glowed red.

Lucinda walked up to me, followed by the stable hand, she grabbed my
hair and pulled my face up to view her. "You knew the rules, slave,"
she spat. "From day one, we have been training you, yet you disobeyed
one of the rules. Listening to a conversation from your superiors is
something that does not concern you. For that, you have been
corrected. You have been logged. But we have a little something more
for you..."
She moved out of my view and I focused for the first time on the red
hot brand, the stable hand, held in his blacksmithing hand. It took me
a moment to realize what it was, and what it would do to my already
tender aching flesh. Burning a brand into my flesh, searing it into my
nerves, permanently marking me, I gargled in fear, spittle choking me.
I tried to plead. No words would come out. I tried to shake my head
no, Lucinda held my face firm. I tried to move away from the
approaching brand, the whipping post held me tight. I was at the mercy
of them, helpless to move, helpless to protest, my body shaking in a
deep rooted fear that petrified me to my very core. Spots appeared
around my vision, and then enclosed and I blacked out, only to be
slapped awake. The brand approached closer.
"That is the letter F," she said.
Failure. Branded a failure. Oh my god!
My body slumped, I awaited my brand, nothing I could do or say would
help. I was a slave. Owned. To be done with as my Master pleased.
Finally at the very last moment, only inches from my chest, the stable
hand pulled the brand away. Smiled, and left the room.
Confused, I looked up at Lucinda, tears in my eyes, unsure as to what
was happening.

She patted my head, and looked sternly at me. "That was your only
reprieve, slave. Learn this lesson well."
I leaned into her leg, grateful for the compassion she had shown me.
Right now, I realized that there was nothing in the world except her;
it was she who had the power of life and death over me, the power of
pleasure and pain over me. I sobbed as she stroked my hair.
"You have so far shown promise, slave. Beside this infraction, you
have taken to your training well. You have been noticed by the other
house slaves," she said.
I looked up into my world, this was the first I was aware that others
were judging me with an eye to the future. Could it be that I would
have a future? Up till now, I had lived for the moment, my past a
mystery, unsure that a future could even be possible. But now? I had
promise!
She smiled, this time a genuine smile with warmth. "We do not like to
mark slaves with promise for their first infraction. Ones that are
moved through here, do not get that option, they have to learn quickly
and brutally that rules are meant to be obeyed, first time, every
time."
I nodded. I had seen the miserable wretches, of all color and class,
come through the kennels. Some stayed for a few days, others a week or
two. They were kept isolated, only a trainer with them and no general
grounds tasks to do. Within the kennels, sobbing and crying and
wailing were heard almost all the time, either from despair, pain, or
suffering. Master had purposely made the walls thin so that the effect
of these cry's were felt and heard among all kennel slaves. It was a
constant reminder of our status, and that we could be in far worse
shape. At that moment, I felt very lucky that I had stayed a kennel
slave for so long. I had seen the others that moved out quickly, and
their bodies and minds had been crushed and broken. I could only
surmise that wherever they went after this place, it would be to a far
worse environment than here, destined to live life in a cellar, or
chained to a brothel bed, or work some mine a mile underground, never
to see the light of day.

I wrapped what I could of my bound body around my world, Lucinda's
leg, sobbing with gratitude, "I'm sorry mistress! I have learned my
lesson, mistress! I will not fail again, mistress!" I repeated over
and over again. She stroked me, mewing sweet nothings into my ear.
"There, there, little one," she whispered. Consoling me. Then subtly
she shifted her body around so that my face was in front of her
crotch. Raising her latex skirt, as she continued to console me, she
gently but with purpose, guided my tongue into her pussy. I lapped at
her, with a gentle vigor. She continued to whisper to me words of
kindness, of instruction, of confidence. I strained to reach her,
still strapped to the whipping post, she held me at the precise
position that she deemed fit.
Controlling me.
Directing me.
Slowing me down when I rushed.
Giving me guidance.
It was my first act of intimacy since I had arrived. My pain hummed in
the background, a low constant buzz, as the warmness from my loins
started to overwhelm my pain.

Lucinda took her time, getting exactly what she wanted, exactly when
she wanted it. Over and over we repeated this until I was dizzy with
exhaustion, pain, tightness and lust. My pussy growled with
anticipation as I lapped away at her rosebud. Finally she was done.
She stepped back. I tried to reach her, but the whipping post held
firm. My eyes glazed over, my world had shrunk from the world, to the
estate, to this room, to Lucinda, to now Lucinda's pussy. Nothing else
existed. She smiled.
"That was adequate, little one," she said. She lowered her latex
skirt, checked herself in the mirror.
I waited.
A glimmer of hope within me wondered if she would return the favor and
quench my thirst for orgasm. I had been on the edge for sometime now
and was desperate to finish. She must have noticed the look in my
face, the one of frustrated anticipation, as she smiled in the mirror,
her eyes now focused on me, her back still to me, "I don't think it
would be appropriate that I reward you for your failure, no?" My
stomach churned, a pit formed inside me. The mere mention of the word
failure now had a strong affect on my physical being. I fought back
the nausea, the buzzing between my thighs quickly died down. I shook
my head and dropped my eyes. "No mistress. You are of course, right."
How dare I presume to be allowed that special gift after I had
committed a transgression? I chastised myself in my mind.

She turned, faced me and came towards me. Dropping down on her knees
she now was the same height as me. She looked me dead in the eyes, "I
don't have to remind you that that gift has not been allowed for you...
yet." She trailed off. I nodded. "Don't be stupid and try to take care
of yourself, when no one is looking," she warned me. It was a threat
of tremendous magnitude. The estate had cameras, workers, and other
slaves, everyone watching out for everyone else. There was never
privacy. No where could anyone be sure that they were alone and
unwatched. You're at first paranoid, but soon we slaves accepted it as
a fact of life. We do not have anything, rights, things or privacy.
Lucinda's warning reminded me that even tucked away in my kennel, in
the middle of the night, that touching myself there would not be worth
the punishment for discovery. I had been spared one infraction; I
would never have another chance for mercy.
I nodded again, "yes mistress, I understand." And I did understand,
completely.

I renewed my resolve to become the best slave that I could be. Gone
were the eavesdropping, the wondering about the world outside, what
the main house looked like inside. I replaced all of those questions
with my own will power to blank out everything except the task set
before me. In many ways, it was very liberating. I killed my old self,
and a new rebirth occurred. I had no more worries, no more questions.
Everything was out of my hands now. I had no control or
responsibilities other than doing the task that I was trained for. To
become the best slave, I emptied my mind, focused on my world and
enjoyed the freedom of no worries, and just being.

I no longer saw Lucinda. I do not know what happened to her. It was
out of my scope, so I worried not about it. The beatings and torments
still occurred, there were many nights when I was roused from my
sleep, dragged from the floor of my cell, and forced to provide
pleasure for house slaves. No men were permitted to despoil kennel
slaves, if they ever rose to a rank where they would be for Master's
pleasure, he would not have accepted a slave that had already been
"used" by the help.

I focused on obeying, doing what was asked of me, even if it meant
suffering at the hands of some perverted frustrated house slave, I
paid my dues, and over time the frequency of these rites of passage
lessoned. There were other kennel slaves, fresher meat that needed
molding, training, and discipline.

TRAINING MY REPLACEMENT

One morning I was informed when I was awoken by a house slave, that I
would be training a new kennel slave in my duties. Nodding, I went
about training the new kennel slave, a small mousy Arab girl, the
duties that I performed. I had been given permission to "correct" her
within the normal limits. She was scared, and looked tired. Her hair
matted and dirty, scabs along her arms, the bugs had feasted on her in
her cell. My first task was to clean her up. She would not be
presentable as a greeter in her current state.

She shivered as I washed her, working away at tough stains of dirt,
encrusted in the cracks and crevices of her body. She tried to engage
me in conversation. In hushed whispers, she asked me for my name. She
almost blurted out her name. I shushed her, roughly placing my hand
over her mouth. "We do not have names, we have not earned that right,"
I said.
She was silent for a moment, and then tried to ask me where I was from
before I came here. She was terrified, confused, disoriented. She was
looking for someone, or something to settle her mind, to anchor her
back to her past.
I stopped the water. Grabbed her by her wet hair, and pulled her to a
ring mounted on the side of the wall. I quickly clipped her collar to
the wall with a padlock, locked her there, facing the wall, naked and
dripping wet. She stood a little under five feet, about a half a foot
smaller than I.
"Slave," I hissed into her ear. "Learn this lesson well! There is no
past, there is no name, there is no future. You exist here and now,
and that is what counts. I learned the hard way that thinking beyond
my means equals FAILURE!"
I pulled out a whip that hung on the wall near the ring, these little
punishment rings and whipping instruments were placed all over the
estate for quick correction. Any higher slave had the right to use it
on a lower slave for correction. The little Arab girl tested her
locked collar. Her face was pressed closely to the wall, her back and
ass exposed to me. It was quite effective, as I placed the key out of
her reach.
"You do remember what Failure means," I said, reminding her of the
first days visit to that cabin. That lesson continued to imprint
heavily on every slave, old or new.
She shuddered, "yes," she gasped.
WHACK! I struck her back with the whip.
"Yes, what?" I pressed.
"Yes...mistress." She sobbed.
I smiled. This was my first time punishing a slave. Memories of my
torments flooded my mind, as I whipped her good and hard. My
frustration finally found an outlet, and for the first of many times,
I finally understood how the house slaves could be so cruel to me with
their punishments and torments.
"Learn this lesson well!" I screamed. "Unlike me, you will not be
logged for this incident as a failure. You are still new, and logging
a failure for you will reflect badly on me as well."
I continued whipping her all over her body, her private parts were not
spared as I continued.
"You are very lucky to get a warning, slut! Most slaves do not get one
and are marked for failure. You will survive this, but after that it's
up to you to be the best slave you can be."
I passed the whip to my other hand and continued whipping the sobbing
mast of flesh in front of me. She twisted her body as best she could
to avoid the blows, but tethered as she was, she was no match to my
pent up frustrated rage.
"Failure," I continued, "means your worthless life as you know it now
will be filled with the pain you are feeling right now, for the rest
of your miserable life, be it short or long! Your mind will turn to
mush before the very end! You will not know what no pain is, as you
will never stop feeling the pain inflicted on your worthless body and
mind. You do not own your body, mind or soul anymore. The sooner you
get that through your thick skull, the better you will be able to
serve. Only very, very, VERY, lucky slaves are allowed a minor
failure. Master does not tolerate failure!"

Both my arms were rubbery from the lashing I had given her. I smacked
her one last time, this time aimed right on her pussy. She wailed one
last time, choking on her tears.
"Count this as a correction, and be sure you do not fail, slave." I
warned her ominously.

I hung the whip up and sat down on the floor to rest. She stood there,
rooted to the ring on the wall, sobbing and panting. She tried to rub
her sore body, but could only reach a few parts of her backside. She
kept muttering in whispered pants, "Yes, mistress, sorry mistress,
thank you, mistress." I regained some strength and pulled myself up
and unlocked her from the wall and proceeded to dress her wounds and
clean her up. I fitted her with a leather cross body harness, and
pulled out of the washroom and back to the training.

end part 1

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ------ send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com>|
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+