This story was not written by me. It was written by ‘laurel rose’ over a decade ago. It is a beautiful depiction of a moment in a Gorean slave market.
It is a warm day in the slave markets. I am here to be sold. The man who owns me is a Slaver. He saw me in the streets and thought I would bring him a good price. I never knew he was watching as I shopped at the open-air markets of Boston, until I was grabbed and pushed into his wagon. My cries were lost in the sounds of merchants hawking their wares and all I knew disappeared that afternoon.
This is my life now and I can barely remember the time before. I have been with him for nearly a month under going the basic training for my new life. He has not been unkind to me and I have tried hard to avoid the whip and to learn the skills of my new position. Yesterday he said I might finally be of interest to a Master. I have seen other girls bought and sold-today it is my turn.
I kneel chained to a large pillar by a cuff around my left ankle and my hands are fastened behind my back in black leather cuffs connected by a chain. My pale skin is patterned by shadows as the sun moves higher in the sky. Usually I wear a short cloth tunic, but it was taken from early this morning. Slaves, I was told, are always sold nude. My long hair is tied back with a strip of black leather.
Suddenly, I hear the Slaver’s voice; he is talking to a stranger. He says, “This is the only red-haired female I have at this time. She is new to the collar, but not uninteresting.”
The stranger says, “May I examine her?”
His voice is very quiet and sure. I can not help trembling at the sound of his voice. This is the first customer of the day. I want to belong to a Master, to be able to give everything I am to Him, to serve Him. Keeping my eyes to the ground as I have been trained to do, I wonder if this will be Him.
The Slaver says, “Yes, you may. Let me know if you want the keys to her chains.” He leaves to attend to other buyers, so I am alone with this stranger. I bite my bottom lips slightly, a little frightened.
He says, “Look at me, pretty slave”
I timidly lift my head, raising my eyes to his. “Y-yes Sir.” He is tall, dark-haired. It is hard to meet his eyes. He makes me feel very vulnerable and small. I can feel the color rushing to my cheek as He looks at me. He smiles at my blush and reaches out to stroke the side of my face with the back of his hand.
My breath catches in my throat at his touch and I flinch slightly as his hand moves the strip of leather holding my hair back. With a quick tug the leather is gone and he spreads my long hair all along my shoulders. Then his hand returns runs along my cheeks. I moan softly at the light touch, and unbidden, turn to press my soft lips to his palm.
He says, “Very nice, slave.”
His hand slides slowly down my down my chest, chuckling low in his throat as he reaches my erect nipples. Cupping the soft mounds in his hands, rubs the hardening nipples with his thumbs. “You are quite responsive, aren’t you?”
I whimper at his words, shifting my position, opening myself more completely to his touch. Smiling his hands slips down over my flat stomach to the apex of my thighs. His fingers tease the short auburn curls and probe the soft flesh. He whispers in my ear, “You’re so hot and wet, such a helpless slave, wanting to serve.”
He continues speaking to me in that soft, commanding voice as he caresses me intimately, “Tell me, what is the one unforgivable thing a slave can do?”
I arch, rocking helplessly trying to press against his hand, hardly able to answer. But he is patient, his fingers hard and firm against my softness. As he waits for my words. Finally, I manage to answer, my voice is a soft whisper sharp-edged with passion, “….to lie to …..her Master….Sir” I hope desperately that my answer pleases him, but I’m not sure whether it will or not.
One hand encircles my throat for a long moment. I know he can feel the frantic beating of my pulse underneath his fingers. Despite the chain holding me in place, I want to run. I am frightened by the look in his eyes. He looks at me so intently, as if he would see clear through to my soul.
He says nothing, just continues caressing me, my breasts, stomach, lower still, between my thighs. “Don’t look away,” he commands. I am caught in his gaze, knowing he can see the need, the wanting there in my wide eyes.
I am squirming now from his touch; he knows well how to use a slave-girl. Evidence of my arousal coats his fingers and glistens on the pale skin of my inner thighs. My breathing is ragged, my skin is flushed, all I can do is whimper in need. His warm hands tease and caress my hot flesh, one hand continuing to stroke my breasts and pinch my nipples, the other rubbing my swollen, aching clit so very lightly, making me sob and close my eyes.
“Look at me, slave-girl, show me your need, writhe for me little one.” As he continues, his words flow over me, and I don’t really understand what he is saying. All I know is that he is a Master, and I am a slave, and I want to serve him.
His touch brings me closer and closer to the edge. Helplessly trying to press against his hand, I am crying and begging him for release, knowing I must wait for his permission. Deep in my slave belly, every muscle is coiled spring-tight in response to his touch. Finally after what seems an eternity, I hear his voice. He says, “Cum for me, slave-girl”
At his words I cry out, and cumming, shaking, trembling, my body responses to the release. He continues to touch me, making me spasm again and again, until my muscles are shaking with the strain. Finally, he stops, and I fall against him, sobbing, weak and utterly spent. After a few moments I stop crying and can breathe again, but I am in a daze…I can’t think, much less talk or move.
He smiles down at me, collapsed at his feet. I don’t understand his words at first, but he smiles softly and repeats them, making sure that I do understand. He says, “I think it is time to ask the Slaver for the key to your chains.”
In my opinion, though I did not speak, not having been addressed, they were. I had, from time to time, used, rented or owned various women of Cos, or former women of Cos. I had found them superb. Phoebe, of course, had been Cosian. What the women of Ar and those of Cos have in common, of course, despite their numerous political, cultural and dialectical differences, is that they are all females. Stripped in a slave market it is hard to tell the difference, one from the other. But this is true of all women. Any woman, properly mastered, makes an excellent slave.
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