A Slow Decline
Florence Dupont, also known as Flora to those who peered into her cell from the bridge of their noses, had found herself here for far too long. As each day passed, anger continued to bubble up, to show how agitated she was at this situation. She was stupid, she admitted, to being caught and returning here to being a slave -- for the last two years, or a little under (she sometimes couldn't remember; so that was her fault, so what?) -- she had lived as a free woman, happily living and going on and not having to worry about this. She wasn't worried about the sexual favors she had to give to others. She didn't have to worry about being led around by a collar and leash. She didn't worry about having to be bound to some machine and fucked endlessly until she could produce children -- that last thought made her visibly shudder. She didn't understand how people could do that to some females. Females were apart of the population, too, and had their own rights, didn't they? Not to slavers, apparently. Not to the people who decided to breed them. That just made Flora angry. And when Flora was angry, she wasn't really the, how do you say it, prime slave to buy. Today, though, she sat there, on the floor, her legs tucked up underneath her as she sat with her back towards the cages, her back towards anyone who decided to come and look at her. She wasn't interested in the harassment, in the pleasuring of others; she sure as hell wasn't interested in trying to please people just so they could get her free. She wanted to be free. She didn't want to be free of the cages only to be owned by some asshole that would get "treat her like she's free" when she's really not. She really didn't want to deal with these fuckers. She didn't want one at all, and then -- she gave a sigh. Her shoulders tensed in agitation; her shoulders squared and her back rippled slightly and her neck seemed to shorten between her head and shoulder blades, and there she was. Angry at everyone and more at herself than anything. She was so fucking stupid for getting herself into this situation. Why couldn't she just be free and not in a cage? Why did she feel like she had to be on display for people? She hated this. She wanted to punch the wall or hit her head against the bars of her cell, and to scream and to act out. Slaves who were like that were much more unlikely to get bought, right? Maybe the slavers here would let her go if she was more unlikely to get bought like that. They couldn't break her will, after all. Her will was so much stronger than that; it was terrible.