Rachel's Retrospect

I have little awareness of the passing of time now, but I do know it has been about a year since I was made a sex slave.

My parents reluctantly let me go off to college in Boston. Living the good life retired in Vermont, as an only child my mother was fearful of letting me leave home. But I was restless, adventurous, and 21 years old. All of my friends had left home and gone to college three years ago. I had finally convinced my parents to let me go. I was desperate to escape what I thought was their obsessive power over me, and I wanted to start my life as an adult.

When I arrived in Boston in the fall, I fell in love with the city and the campus. My parents had arranged for me to rent a small second-floor, three-room apartment in an old building a friend of theirs owned. It was musty with noisy plumbing and an ancient gas stove that rarely worked, but I loved it. I was finally on my own.

I made friends on campus quickly and enjoyed going into town with them to the clubs and pubs. I was smart, wealthy and pretty; I realize now it gave me instant access to the better cliques of students on campus. At the time I didn’t care if my money and position bought me popularity; all I knew was I was having fun and had my freedom at last. Little did I know that my freedom would soon be taken from me in a way I could have never conceived.

I can at least remember it was a Thursday evening that I was to meet Brandon and Heather at “The Roxy”, a large popular dance club in the heart of Boston. I didn’t have classes on Friday, so I planned to drink a lot, dance a lot, and hopefully pick up – or get picked up by – a good-looking guy. At home I dated a little – mostly the sons of the wealthy couples my parents knew. They were nice and polite young gentlemen, but only a few tried to score with me. And I was more than willing.

Brandon and Heather, as usual, were late. So I sat at the bar in "The Roxy" and bought myself a few glasses of wine. I usually liked to have a drink in front of me; it seemed to encourage any interested men to buy me another. And that usually led to conversation, dancing, and if I was lucky, a good screw.

I had found since I’d been on my own, a new Me was emerging. She was a free, adventurous, daring, and very sexual young woman. While I was innately a “nice girl”, I did enjoy being a young, attractive, wealthy woman who was finally free to explore the world and try new things.

Sitting in the “The Roxy” on that Thursday night, a man approached me. He was somewhat older than the usual college crowd – maybe 30 or so years old. While he was dressed nicely in jeans and carried a leather jacket over his shoulder, there was something rough looking about him. He wore a large silver chain around his neck. There were a couple of tattoos on his arm. His hair was black and long – slightly greying - and he had a short beard and moustache. A gold hoop earring hung from his right earlobe, just below another piercing where he wore a diamond stud.

“You waiting for Brandon?” he asked.

“Yes. He and Heather are late as usual. Are you a friend of his?” I replied and took another sip of wine. He wasn’t really my type, but I always played it cool and casual around men.

He put a five-dollar bill down on the bar and waved to the bartender to bring another drink for me.

“Yeah – talked to him earlier. He and Heather are going to the “Caprice” instead.”

“Damnit,” I quietly exclaimed; “I’ve been sitting here an hour waiting for them.”

I remember the man smiled – “Hate it when that happens. Let me buy you a drink then I’ll give you a ride over to the “Caprice”.”

I looked up into his dark brown eyes, slightly piercing and mischievous, and nodded.

“Sure, why not? I’m Rachel…”

I now cannot remember much of what happened next. I either drank too much or he drugged me. I know now it was the latter.

The first thing I remember when I woke up was not being able to move. Wherever I was seemed only dimly lit, cool, musty and smelled of incense and scented candles.

As I blinked open my eyes and could focus, I looked up and saw my reflection in a large full –length mirror. I was tied to a bed. It was a king-size bed with old, chipped, brass ladder-back headboard and footboard. My wrists were bound in black leather cuffs and handcuffed to the end rungs on each side of the headboard. My ankles were bound in similar cuffs, secured at each end rung of the footboard. I was still dressed, but there was a black leather collar belted tightly around my neck, with a large silver metal loop dangling from the front of it. In my mouth was a cloth gag – an old bandana – tied around my head.

I struggled weakly at first, still drowsy from the effects of the drug, and tried to yell. It took me a little while to truly realize what had happened, and what was happening to me. I now can’t remember much of what I thought those first few hours of abduction. Mostly, all I think I thought about was how afraid I was, what might happen to me, and how I could escape.

Once I fully awoke and calmed down enough to think rationally, I was able to turn my head to either side enough to look at where I was. It seemed to be a large basement. The only light was a collection of candles on a table next to the bed where I was bound, so the rest of the basement was cast in dim light.

The windows of the basement, placed just below the ceiling and the groundline, had been boarded up so no light could enter the dank cellar.

The man entered the heavy metal door of the basement entrance, locked it securely behind him with a key he then slipped into the pocket of his jeans, and approached the bed.

“Do you know what is happening to you?” he said with a slight smile, his dark eyes running the length of my body.

I wanted to struggle but was too afraid to move.

The man sat down on the edge of the bed next to me.

“Well, you should know a few things, and never forget them. Do as you are told to do and you won’t end up dead in some alleyway for the rats to find. Don’t ever try to escape, because you won’t ever be able to. And I will kill you if you try.”

He smiled now and ran his rough hand up and down my extended arm –“My old lady and me just sold our last slave to a friend, and we wanted a new one. Brandon is an old friend of mine – I sold some coke to him for a while. We saw you with him one night last week in “The Roxy”, and my old lady wanted you. So here you are…”

I whimpered a little bit, trying to fight back tears of fear, and struggled to loosen my arms.

The man laughed –

“Won’t do you any good, little girl. The more you struggle, the tighter the cuffs will get. And don’t fucking cry – I hate it.”

Saying that, he reached over and smacked me across the face. I bit into the gag as the sting of his slap tingled all over my face, and fought even harder to be quiet. I think fear was overwhelming me, but I tried to keep my head and think clearly. I knew it was imperative I stay alert to what was going on in order to survive the situation.

At that moment, I could hear the locks on the basement door rattling, and a tall, slightly large-figured woman entered. She had long dyed red hair, a face covered with severe make-up, and wore black leather pants and a black Harley-Davidson cropped tank top. At that moment I felt instant fear of her, unaware at that moment this woman would eventually become my Keeper, my Lover, my Abuser, my Mistress. And the man sitting next to me I would come to know as my Master and Owner.

The woman stood at the end of the bed and looked down at me with green eyes and a slight smile.

“She’s awake,” the woman said in a deep, smoky voice.

“Yep – told her what was going on,” the man replied.

“Cool,” the woman said with a smile. “Hey girl, I hope like hell you were worth the effort. It ain’t easy getting new slaves. Cops are getting closer, and we gotta move soon.”

I heard the woman’s words, but all I could do was feel my body struggling against the cuffs and against her exploring eyes. It was all starting to sink in, and I was terrified in a way I had never felt before.

“Relax, girl,” the woman said as she approached the other side of the bed and sat down next to me. “I ain’t gonna Use you just yet; you aren’t ready yet.”

I stopped struggling and tried to calm my breathing. As I kept my gaze up into the mirror above me, I saw the woman reach over with both hands and begin to unlace the bustier I was wearing. I instantly closed my eyes, not wanting to see her do this to me, and I felt the sting of her fingernails draw painfully across my cheek.

“Keep your eyes open, girl,” she commanded harshly; “I want you to watch everything I do to you.”

I opened my eyes, but they were clouded with tears, tears from the sting of her scratch and from the fear of what was happening to me.

The woman drew the last of the lace open and pulled back the leather garment from my chest. As I watched, silent but breathing heavily, I could almost see it as a dramatic and sensual unveiling of a woman’s beautiful body. At that time I couldn’t understand that was exactly what it was, but the moment now has meaning for me, and I will never forget it. It was the moment my body was taken by my Mistress and my Owner.

I could see my well-formed, pale-skinned breasts sag slightly as they were released from the bustier, my dark pink nipples erect as the cool, damp air of the cellar gently caressed across them.

The woman said nothing as she then moved to unzip my skirt. She opened it to reveal the black satin G-string thong I wore. I didn’t dare look directly at either the man or woman, but out of the corners of my eyes I caught them glancing at one another with satisfied smiles.

I looked up again into the mirror and saw my body as they saw it – a pretty young woman bound hand and foot to a bed, nude except for black panties and a gag in her mouth…helpless to whatever her captors desired to do to and with her. Though I didn’t realize it at the time, I remember now that I felt myself become damp between my legs. Even then my body knew I was meant to be what I became.

The man smiled – “Good enough for me.”

The woman smiled back at him – “Yeah, she’ll do for a while. She ain’t pierced, good tits, no tattoos.”

“Well, not yet she don’t,” the man replied, and looked at me with a dark grin.

Hearing that my body unconsciously began to struggle for freedom again. The man and woman both laughed at me.

“I gotta go meet Joe for a trade,” the man then said and moved toward the steel door; “Have fun with your new slut, Linda – later…”

The woman – who I now knew was named Linda – got up and turned on the old stereo sitting on the dresser. Out of the hollow darkness of the cellar I heard some sort strange music that I couldn’t define. It was like jazz mixed with Goth metal.

The woman then stood by the bed and began to undress. I could not help but watch her. Standing almost nude, she had a large, muscular but still feminine body. There was a tattoo of barbed wire around her right upper arm, and on the left outside upper arm was a tattoo of a red heart with a black dagger through it.

Her breasts were quite large but still firm. Through each nipple a gold hoop was pierced, about 2 inches in diameter. Through the upper skin of her navel was a smaller gold hoop. Her vaginal region was shaved clean, and through the skin of the left fold of her vagina a gold stud was pierced. Her whole body was slightly tanned and well toned. I had only seen another woman’s nude body back in the campus locker room after a game of softball. Of course I never really looked at my classmates as they changed clothes or showered in the locker room; but at that moment I could not help but take in this woman’s body and helplessly stare.

The woman looked down at me and laughed, putting her hands on her hips for a moment –

“So what do you think of me, girl?”

I instantly turned my head away from her with a strange embarrassment, and stared back up at the mirrored ceiling.

In the reflection, I watched her as she bent over the table next to the bed and lit a stick of sickly sweet-smelling incense. She then sat down on the edge of the bed next to me and opened the drawer of the table. I saw her retrieve a small kitchen knife, and I instantly began to struggle. That overwhelming fear I had just temporarily put at bay rose up again with increased ferocity.

The woman turned to me, and I gazed back at her with no doubt terrified eyes. She smiled.

“Stop struggling, girl; I ain’t gonna cut you right now.”

She then moved down and slid the serrated edge of the knife under the side of my panties. With one strong pull of the knife, she cut the material in two. The woman then leaned over and repeated the act on the other side of my panties. She pulled the severed satin material away to expose my crotch. As the cool damp air hit my exposed vagina, I could feel a tingle run through my entire body and I shivered. I could hear the woman quietly moan with pleasure as she watched me. She reached over to the table, pulled out a pack of cigarettes and lighter. She placed a cigarette between her dark red coloured lips and lit it. Exhaling the smoke, she began to speak.

“Let me tell you how it is from the start, girl. Forget your life before this moment – it ain’t real anymore.” The woman began to gently run her long fingernail around my right nipple. The sensation was intense and my body jolted, my breathing increased.

“See,” she continued, “Jack and me keep slaves. Been doing it for years. Had to sell the last one, Carla. She was getting too old and too used.”

As I listened, I stared up into the mirror, my mind alert but my thoughts blinded by a darkness that I suppose was fear. It is now hard to describe. The woman drew her blue-painted fingernails down across my stomach, causing my stomach to involuntarily quiver. I watched her doing this to me; part of me was repulsed, but another part of me – a part that now is my true consciousness – was strangely aroused by it.

“You’re about 21 or 22 years old, ain’t you?” the woman asked me.

I reluctantly nodded.

“Yeah, I told Jack I wanted a college girl,” she continued; “Get a lot of good years out of one; then sell her for a good price after she’s trained.”

Her hand was grazing the dark hair covering my crotch, and I could feel myself growing wet, the pit of my stomach tingling harder.

“So here’s the deal,” the woman said after taking a long draw on the cigarette.

“This is your new life. You are my and Jack’s sex slave. Do what we tell you to do and you will live to see another day. Just get used to it. You may get to like it – a lot of our slaves do.”

The woman drew her finger down between my open crotch and began to rub my clitoris. As she touched that sensitive, wet part of me, my whole body jolted and I uncontrollably gasped against the now-damp cloth gag.

“Jack and me are gonna do things to you you ain’t never seen or thought of before. And you are gonna do things you ain’t never thought of before,” the woman explained as she slowly smoked the cigarette. She was smiling with a salacious grin as she freely toyed with my body, watching and seemingly enjoying the reactions she pulled from each gentle assault.

“I’m gonna train you what to do, girl. All you gotta do is obey what we say. Simple as that. You try to get away and you are a dead bitch – you understand?”

I quickly nodded that I did, my eyes again clouding with tears as I tried to look at her.

Over the next few days – although it just as likely could have been a few weeks – I was harshly and painfully trained to be a sex slave. I was told that the leather collar around my neck was a symbol of my Ownership by them, and would not be removed unless I was sold to another owner. It was tight and abrasive to my skin, but after a while I got so used to it that I didn’t realize I was wearing it.

I was given food twice a day. An hour afterward I was allowed to relieve myself. I had to hold my need until those two times, or I would be severely punished. It also was the only time I was given even a small amount of physical freedom. The woman – who I now was instructed to call “Mistress” or “Ma’am” – always stood over me while I ate to assure I did so. At first I wanted to refuse to eat as a sign of defiance, even though I was starving and needed sustenance. However, I quickly learned to obey her commands, and eating was one of them I knew was best for me to obey.

I also learned that Jack – my Master, my Owner – was an extremely sick, evil man. He was a ex-Hell’s Angel who dealt in drugs and sex slaves as a living. From what I heard during their discussions around me – at which times I was regarded as a non-entity – Jack was moving up in the drug/slave trade, and he and Mistress Linda would soon be leaving Boston. I could only assume I would be going with them. The thought terrified me, but I had absolutely no choice in the matter.

At first, my training routine was predictable. It usually started with Mistress releasing me from the bed, my hands always handcuffed behind my back and my ankles always in shackles. I was taken to the Frame, my hands bound above my head and ankles cuffed to each side of the frame, legs spread wide apart. Mistress would then place weighted clamps on my nipples. It was extremely painful, but if I screamed or expressed any kind of pain, she would move behind me and whip me with a long leather strap. This would go on for what seemed like hours. My screams of pain echoed through the musty cellar, but I knew no one could hear me or rescue me from this nightmare.

Eventually, I mentally and physically toughened up enough to endure the weighted clamps and whipping without making a sound. At that point, I was freed of the uncomfortable ballgag Mistress placed in my mouth whenever she was training me. However, I still was only allowed to speak or make noise when Mistress or Master permitted me to.

Once Mistress was finished with me, she would then ‘prepare’ me for the Master’s training. This I dreaded even more than Mistress’ training of me. She shackled my wrists and ankles to the wall, spread eagle and forced to stand on my toes for hours until Master arrived. Or worse, she would tie me to “The Table” as I called it, my ankles tightly bound with rope or chains to each lower end of the table. My wrists were equally tied to each top corner of the table, secured to the large metal eyehooks nailed there. The ballgag was placed in my mouth and strapped tightly around my head. A chain hanging from the ceiling was attached to the metal loop on my collar, and I was hoisted by the neck a few inches off the table. Mistress then left me there like that until Master came to Use me. It was extremely uncomfortable and painful. The surprising thing was that I was quickly becoming used to it. More, I found myself fighting the thought that I actually liked it. In the few fleeting moments of true coherency I stole for myself, I realized this all was a horrible experience I should constantly try to escape. I knew that I should hate and abhor what was being done to me. But after a while, getting used to Mistress’ and Master’s training of me, I found myself changing my way of thinking, my way of being. Despite it all, I was becoming a willing sex slave.

Master usually started with clamps. I watched him in the mirror bolted to the ceiling above, attach the metal spring clamps to my nipples, and progressively tighten them until I whimpered in pain. He worked over me, occasionally glancing at me, but usually focusing on my body. Then he would take a set of metal spring clamps and attach one to one of my vaginal folds. A metal chain was attached to the each clamp, which he would run under my hips and bring up to the other side. The clamp attached to that end would be clamped to the other fold. My vagina would then be pulled wide open for his free Use.