Sex stories

Sex stories




A Barbarian Girl on Gor Ch. 04

Chapter 4 - Amelia Jane Has a Long Day Ahead of Her

I was conducted to a new room by my handler using the chain of the coin box as an impromptu leash. The room was small and bare and windowless. In the centre of was a narrow grating, such as might lead down to a drain or sewer. There was a wooden bucket in the corner, a small cloth hung over the rim. On a table was a small vial. Next to the table a chair, upon which my handler sat down.

At his indication I knelt in my default position, my legs spread wide, my arms pinioned behind my back. The first thing he did was to remove my earrings. This bemused me a little, especially when, with surprising delicacy, he placed small metal keepers, little bars, in their place.

I squirmed a little as his fingers felt the lobes of each of my ears in turn, securing the keepers in place. He had done this delicately, without hurting me. I whimpered softly.

I looked up at him.

He grinned at me, "Steady, little animal," he said, "We are here for work, not play."

He undid my cuffs, freeing my hands. He then took the sodden cloth from the bucket and threw it at me. It was cold as it hit me on my chest, water dripping down my body. He pointed to the centre of the tiny room, where the grating was.

"Wash yourself," he said.

I struggled, carrying the heavy bucket the few paces to the centre of the room, and knelt. I dabbed at myself with the wet cloth, slowly taking away the accumulated grime of the pens. Several times I wrung out the cloth and dipped it again in the bucket. I was distressed to see how dirty was the water that was wrung out.

It is hard to keep oneself clean in the pens. It is not an environment particularly conducive to scrupulous cleanliness. I wondered if I smelt. It was good to feel the water on my body, cold though it was. I felt my nipples harden, as the cold water refreshed me.

"Everywhere," he admonished.

I blushed. I was to be afforded little privacy, it seemed. I complied with his instructions.

He pointed to the markings on my breast that I had been informed corresponded to my number, '44'.

"Clean them off," he said.

I dabbed and wiped with the little damp cloth. At first the blue smeared across my breast, but I was gradually able to diminish and finally remove the dye to my handler's apparent satisfaction.

I did not need a number any more. It had been replaced by a name, although that name was essentially a derogatory term. I wondered if it were better to be known by a number or by a name such as 'hole'.

I was not sure.

I cupped my hands and poured cold water over my head, my fingers running through the long golden strands of my hair, cleaning my unkempt tresses. I did this again and again, enjoying the sensation of having clean hair and skin once more. How good it felt, even though I was only washing with water from a bucket on the floor, and not from my normal panoply of expensively perfumed oils and lotions and such.

I looked up at my handler and smiled, showing my gratitude, my wet hair dripping on the ground.

He strode across to me, and grinning, lifted the heavy bucket easily, pouring the contents of it over my head. I gasped as the cold force of the dirty water splashed on my skin.

I gasped, surprised.

He laughed at what seemed to him, I suppose, an enjoyable joke.

I was cold and wet, and shivering.

He led me to the little table and fastened my hands once before behind me in the cuffs.

He took the vial and opened it.

"This, slut," he said, "is wine for you to drink. Open your mouth wide, and hold your head back."

I obeyed swiftly. I was certainly ready for a drink after the hard work of my cleaning, and wine sounded a real treat. He pinched my nostrils and poured a draught of the liquid onto my open mouth.

I had never tasted anything so foul. Its taste would be impossible to describe, but certainly had no resemblance to what I had previously known as wine. I tried to expel the liquid, but his hand was already over my mouth, ensuring that I could not do so. His fingers pinching my nose meant I could not breathe.

"Swallow, little animal," he said, gently, "Swallow your slave wine."

I tried to shake my head, my eyes wild. I could not think of swallowing the vile liquid.

His right hand remained implacably on my mouth, his left pinching my nose. Stinging tears came to my eyes as the foulness washed around my mouth. It would seem that I could either die from swallowing the grotesque concoction, or through lack of breath. His hands held my head in a grip of iron.

Choking, I swallowed the vile fluid.

Eventually he took his hand away. He wiped it on the cloth that had been using for my cleaning. I was weeping and spluttering.

The brute smiled at me.

"So now we don't have to worry about you getting pregnant," he said, casually.

I wondered at the import of this remark. What could the foul liquid have to do with the matter of my impregnation?

I looked at my handler blankly.

"You will be given slave wine regularly," he said matter of factly, "It will suppress your personal cycles and fertility. You will not become pregnant so long as it is administered to you."

I gasped, realising the implications of being a nude slave girl in the pens, available, without any risk of the inconveniences of impregnation.

I swallowed hard. I was not a virgin, but not particularly sexually experienced at that time. I more often used to employ my mouth and tongue to give pleasure, and that generally seemed to satisfy. Was this about to change? I was after all nude and helpless in front of my handler.

He sat back on the chair and pointed to his sandals.

"Kiss them," he said, almost casually.

I shook my head, still gagging from the horrid taste of the prophylactic that had been so cruelly administered to me. Who did he think he was?

"No," I said, "I won't do that."

He shook his head, almost sadly, and went round behind me, unfastening my cuffs. Then he took my wrists and took them high, looping them over a hook in the ceiling. I was suspended. My toes barely brushed the floor. My arms hurt, stretched, much of my body weight upon them. I did not know why he did this.

He went behind me. I hung, miserably, from the hook. My toes tried to gain purchase on the floor.

I heard a swish of leather, and felt a stripe of raw pain slash across my bottom.

I cried out. I could not believe the pain. Tears stung my eyes. I squirmed pathetically, my toes scrabbling on the stone floor.

Twice more was I lashed.

I hope the reader will sympathise, but I cannot describe it fully. It was too terrible. I was reduced to a throbbing mass of pain, all my feelings concentrated in the three lashes placed variously on my defenceless flesh. I dangled from the hook, my body on fire. I had never been hit before, let alone whipped. In some ways it was as bad as the marking. At least that was only pain in one place, here the pain was increased as different parts of my body were scourged by the leather.

My captor released me from the hook. I slumped to the floor, sobbing.

He pointed to his sandals.

"Kiss them," he said.

I kissed his sandals, hot tears dripping on the leather.

"More sensuously," he said, "Use that pretty little pink tongue."

I had tried so hard to be a good little girl. I had not wanted to stand out. I had wanted to 'blend in'. Now my body was a seething mass of pain.

I desperately licked and kissed at my handler's sandals, my tongue going between the heavy straps to push against the skin of his feet. I hoped that I was doing what he wished, I would do anything so as not to feel again the lash of the leather on my defenceless flesh.

"Now lick higher," he commanded from his seated position.

With my tongue I traced a path along his left ankle, and then up to his shin. He wore a tunic which dropped to his knees. I could feel the small hairs of his leg against the moisture of my tongue. I left a trail of dampness on his shin as I licked carefully upwards towards his knee. I heard him grunt with satisfaction, as I kissed him full on his knee, then licked the tenderer hairless skin behind.

I looked up at him.

"I did not tell you to stop," he said, not patiently.

I resumed my ministrations, now above his knee, as he sat, my head now between the brute's legs, pushing his tunic higher, smelling the maleness of him.

"You lick well," he said, "Professor Jones said that you were adequately skilled."

! felt myself blushing, "...For an untrained earth girl," he continued.

I did not answer, but continued, coming closer and closer to my handler's crotch. It was apparent that he wore nothing under his tunic, and I felt myself growing a little hot and bothered at my proximity to his male essence.

He was cruel, certainly, but a handsome brute, his legs taut and muscled, those of a trained athlete or soldier. Now that I had imbibed of the foul slave wine, and was protected from the consequences of male impregnation, would I find him taking full advantage of my body's pleasures?

His hand stopped me, firmly pushing me away. I gasped.

"Enough for now. We need to be on our way. You are a tempting little slut, but you have things to be shown before you try to earn your keep, and I have other business to do. To your feet."

I rose. He confined my hands behind me in the cuffs then took hold of my coin box, once more using it as a leash to pull me along. After passing down an empty corridor we came to a large door. From a shelf beside the door he took an item, that looked like some sort of leather bag. To my shock and chagrin he placed it over my head.

I was plunged into blackness, my sob of protest ignored. I heard the sound of a door opening and felt a rush of air on my nude body, still damp from having the water bucket upended over my head.

I was hooded, nude, clad in only a necklace to which some sort of can was attached, cuffs, and anklets. Even my earrings, the last remnant of my earth attire, had been removed from me and replaced with tiny metal bars. I felt a pull on my neck. I stumbled forward, feeling a colder material now on the soles of my feet, and cooler air on my body. We were outside.

My handler's pace was fast. It was all I could do, hooded and bound as I was, to keep up with him. Once or twice he yanked a bit to bid me speed my progress. We may have only gone a few hundred yards, but it seemed further.

I could hear people talking in the guttural language of my handler, and the calls of others, as if trying to attract attention.

I felt my handler's touch on my shoulder.

"Stop," he said quietly.

"Where are we?" I asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

I was very fearful. I was very aware that I was nude in public, perhaps the only mitigating circumstance being that I was hooded, and thus anonymous. The sounds about me told me that the place we were in was far from being deserted.

I had worn revealing bikinis and such in public places such as swimming pools, and when abroad in Europe, on the shores of the Mediterranean, had even, once or twice, it feeling deliciously scandalous and daring, gone topless, enjoying the admiring glances from the men on the beach. But that had been on my own terms. Now I was nude at the insistence and behest of others. I was terrified.

"We are in the marketplace," he said. "Do you recall how you licked my sandal earlier?"

"Yes," I said a little sullenly. I had not wanted to lick his sandal, and had been thrice lashed for my recalcitrance, but I had to admit to myself that I had not necessarily wanted to stop, either.

"I want you to do that to the men here," he said, "Remember to start at their left foot and not their right. Carry on, until either they stop you, or until it is apparent that you have satisfied them. Do you understand?"

I could not believe what he had said. I wanted to laugh. He surely could not expect me to carry out these actions?

But I felt the pain on my back and bottom from his lash. The burn on my leg. The rumours that I was not even on earth. I was hooded and had my arms bound behind me. I was nude, in public. I suspected that he was serious in his intention. It was intended that I, Amelia Jane Harrington, from London, a former investment banking PR representative, with an apparently bright future, the world at my feet as it were, should go up to men and introduce myself by going to my knees, and kissing their feet, and then strive to pleasure them with my mouth and tongue.

"Do you understand?" he repeated, more insistently.

I shivered. I am not a brave girl. I recalled the feeling of the lash on my tender flesh when I had shown hesitation.

"Yes," I said, "I understand."

"When I take your hood off you will not scream or draw attention to yourself will you?"

"I am nude," I said, fearfully.

"Do you wish to feel the lash?" he asked.

"No," I said.

I felt something being untied from under my chin, then bright light flooded my senses. I looked around myself and gasped.

All about me were people, some with carts, some on foot with bags and baskets. There were also girls, such as I, nude or scantily clad and barefoot. Some were carrying things, others just going about. All were beautiful. I realised that I was not the only one of my type in the market, and my nudity, although embarrassing and unpleasant, was not as conspicuous as I had thought it might be. In fact no-one seemed to be paying me and my handler any attention whatsoever.

Next to us was a kind of platform, about three feet square, and two feet above the ground, made from some sort of cement. In the centre was a fountain. It was not ornate. A single spout of water gushed up from a pillar of about two feet in height. The stream of water went to about four feet high. The water disappeared into a grate, presumably to be recycled into the fountain.

"When it becomes necessary, use the fountain to cleanse yourself. Do you understand?" asked my handler.

I blushed furiously. I supposed him to mean that I should wash myself intimately in public.

"Yes," I answered, bitterly. It would seem that I was to be afforded little privacy or dignity.

"You are, I think, ready to earn your keep," he said, "Begin."

I looked at him puzzled.

"That man there," he said, pointing to a corpulent man in a flowing robe, "Go to him."

Fearfully, I hurried over to this prospective client.

I knelt, my knees in the mud and placed my lips at his foot.

He was fat and bald, wearing a long white and yellow striped robe, rather dirty. He wore a light sandal, tied up high on his shin with thongs. It and his foot beneath were begrimed with mud. He grunted, and placed his left foot a few inches forward.

I let forth a small sob of despair, but knew what I must do. I bent over, my bottom high, my head low, almost at the ground, and put my soft lips to his sandal. They were of the type whereby the leather covered his toes. I pressed my full lips, so prized, one of my best features, slightly parted, to his footwear. He shifted his foot forwards - he would have me kiss higher, on the dirty skin of his foot, rather than on the leather of the sandal. I closed my eyes, tears spilling over my long lashes, splashing on the leather of his sandals, and moved my lips to where I imagined he wished them, higher on his foot, and pressed again.

He grunted, again. It would seem that he was not dissatisfied with my service so far, but wished for more.

I parted my lips further, and pressed my tongue against his soiled foot. I could feel the grit dissolving in my saliva, and the taste of the filth of the market place, unpleasant and earthy. I moved my tongue up along his foot almost to the ankle, my licking leaving a faint trail of saliva, and a paler area on the encrusted dirt of his sandalled foot. He let me do that for a moment or two, and then, unceremoniously pulled his foot away, back to where it had been.

He barked out a statement.

I did not of course understand what he had said to me. I looked up at him, from my place at his feet.

He repeated his statement, seemingly none too happily. From the inflection I guessed that it was a question.

I knew nothing of his language save the word for my 'default position', and the little phrase that I had been taught meaning 'I am a slave girl.'

I said the phrase.

He grunted again, as if with amusement.

He gestured to me with his left hand. I gathered from his signal that he was telling me to remain on my knees, but to kneel higher.

I did so. My head bowed.

Now it was easier for him to regard me.

I felt a fingertip at my chin, applying some upward pressure. He would have my head lifted to him.

I lifted my head. I was frightened. His appearance was so ugly, so primitive, so unsophisticated. And I was an investment banking PR representative, with a high salary, and an apartment in London.

Yet it seemed that he had the upper hand in our relationship. To begin with our transaction was being conducted in his language.

He regarded my face, appraisingly. He did not rush. His fingers brushed my nose and lips then back to my chin. I tried not to sob, my knees in the mud, my chin lifted, under his roving gaze. He gripped my chin harder and turned my head from side to side.

He lifted the chain on my neck, running it through his grimy hand, and then grasped the can and shook it. It was silent

He looked down at me, upper lip curled in contempt. He pulled the can higher towards him, forcing me to lift up further. The collar hurt under my chin as he used the chain as a leash.

Keeping his grip on the can with his left hand, he moved his right hand close to my mouth, his right index finger extended, as if pointing at me,

He commanded something of me.

Almost instinctively I knew what he required. My lips sucked at his finger, my tongue licking at it. I looked up at him submissively, I am sure there were tears in my eyes. I was Amelia Jane Harrington of London, England. How could this be happening to me? Where was I, a culture where women like myself could be treated thus, with casual contempt? He left his finger there; he seemed in no great hurry. I continued to lick and kiss at it, as best I might. I was surprised that despite what was being done to me I could feel a warmth between my legs. How my body was betraying me, as if it enjoyed being treated in such a humiliating fashion!

The man grunted again, as if with satisfaction, and withdrew his fingers.

He seemed to be still making up his mind, but then something else seemed to occur to him, as if he recalled something. He absently released my can, it dangling again in front of me as I knelt in the market place mud.

I looked after him as he strode away.

My handler was at my side almost immediately.

"You worthless piece of meat. You did not satisfy him!" His hands were in my hair, painfully pulling it back.

I wept, his hands painful in my blonde tresses.

"I tried," I sobbed, "I tried".

He cuffed me with the back of his hand, painfully.

My first attempt to earn my keep had been unsuccessful, it appeared.

My handler pointed out a new target. I scampered nude across the marketplace, hands tied behind me.

It seemed that I had a long day ahead of me. Chapter 4 - Amelia Jane Has a Long Day Ahead of Her

I was conducted to a new room by my handler using the chain of the coin box as an impromptu leash. The room was small and bare and windowless. In the centre of was a narrow grating, such as might lead down to a drain or sewer. There was a wooden bucket in the corner, a small cloth hung over the rim. On a table was a small vial. Next to the table a chair, upon which my handler sat down.

At his indication I knelt in my default position, my legs spread wide, my arms pinioned behind my back. The first thing he did was to remove my earrings. This bemused me a little, especially when, with surprising delicacy, he placed small metal keepers, little bars, in their place.

I squirmed a little as his fingers felt the lobes of each of my ears in turn, securing the keepers in place. He had done this delicately, without hurting me. I whimpered softly.

I looked up at him.

He grinned at me, "Steady, little animal," he said, "We are here for work, not play."

He undid my cuffs, freeing my hands. He then took the sodden cloth from the bucket and threw it at me. It was cold as it hit me on my chest, water dripping down my body. He pointed to the centre of the tiny room, where the grating was.

"Wash yourself," he said.

I struggled, carrying the heavy bucket the few paces to the centre of the room, and knelt. I dabbed at myself with the wet cloth, slowly taking away the accumulated grime of the pens. Several times I wrung out the cloth and dipped it again in the bucket. I was distressed to see how dirty was the water that was wrung out.

It is hard to keep oneself clean in the pens. It is not an environment particularly conducive to scrupulous cleanliness. I wondered if I smelt. It was good to feel the water on my body, cold though it was. I felt my nipples harden, as the cold water refreshed me.

"Everywhere," he admonished.

I blushed. I was to be afforded little privacy, it seemed. I complied with his instructions.

He pointed to the markings on my breast that I had been informed corresponded to my number, '44'.

"Clean them off," he said.

I dabbed and wiped with the little damp cloth. At first the blue smeared across my breast, but I was gradually able to diminish and finally remove the dye to my handler's apparent satisfaction.

I did not need a number any more. It had been replaced by a name, although that name was essentially a derogatory term. I wondered if it were better to be known by a number or by a name such as 'hole'.

I was not sure.

I cupped my hands and poured cold water over my head, my fingers running through the long golden strands of my hair, cleaning my unkempt tresses. I did this again and again, enjoying the sensation of having clean hair and skin once more. How good it felt, even though I was only washing with water from a bucket on the floor, and not from my normal panoply of expensively perfumed oils and lotions and such.

I looked up at my handler and smiled, showing my gratitude, my wet hair dripping on the ground.

He strode across to me, and grinning, lifted the heavy bucket easily, pouring the contents of it over my head. I gasped as the cold force of the dirty water splashed on my skin.

I gasped, surprised.

He laughed at what seemed to him, I suppose, an enjoyable joke.

I was cold and wet, and shivering.

He led me to the little table and fastened my hands once before behind me in the cuffs.

He took the vial and opened it.

"This, slut," he said, "is wine for you to drink. Open your mouth wide, and hold your head back."

I obeyed swiftly. I was certainly ready for a drink after the hard work of my cleaning, and wine sounded a real treat. He pinched my nostrils and poured a draught of the liquid onto my open mouth.

I had never tasted anything so foul. Its taste would be impossible to describe, but certainly had no resemblance to what I had previously known as wine. I tried to expel the liquid, but his hand was already over my mouth, ensuring that I could not do so. His fingers pinching my nose meant I could not breathe.

"Swallow, little animal," he said, gently, "Swallow your slave wine."

I tried to shake my head, my eyes wild. I could not think of swallowing the vile liquid.

His right hand remained implacably on my mouth, his left pinching my nose. Stinging tears came to my eyes as the foulness washed around my mouth. It would seem that I could either die from swallowing the grotesque concoction, or through lack of breath. His hands held my head in a grip of iron.

Choking, I swallowed the vile fluid.

Eventually he took his hand away. He wiped it on the cloth that had been using for my cleaning. I was weeping and spluttering.

The brute smiled at me.

"So now we don't have to worry about you getting pregnant," he said, casually.

I wondered at the import of this remark. What could the foul liquid have to do with the matter of my impregnation?

I looked at my handler blankly.

"You will be given slave wine regularly," he said matter of factly, "It will suppress your personal cycles and fertility. You will not become pregnant so long as it is administered to you."

I gasped, realising the implications of being a nude slave girl in the pens, available, without any risk of the inconveniences of impregnation.

I swallowed hard. I was not a virgin, but not particularly sexually experienced at that time. I more often used to employ my mouth and tongue to give pleasure, and that generally seemed to satisfy. Was this about to change? I was after all nude and helpless in front of my handler.

He sat back on the chair and pointed to his sandals.

"Kiss them," he said, almost casually.

I shook my head, still gagging from the horrid taste of the prophylactic that had been so cruelly administered to me. Who did he think he was?

"No," I said, "I won't do that."

He shook his head, almost sadly, and went round behind me, unfastening my cuffs. Then he took my wrists and took them high, looping them over a hook in the ceiling. I was suspended. My toes barely brushed the floor. My arms hurt, stretched, much of my body weight upon them. I did not know why he did this.

He went behind me. I hung, miserably, from the hook. My toes tried to gain purchase on the floor.

I heard a swish of leather, and felt a stripe of raw pain slash across my bottom.

I cried out. I could not believe the pain. Tears stung my eyes. I squirmed pathetically, my toes scrabbling on the stone floor.

Twice more was I lashed.

I hope the reader will sympathise, but I cannot describe it fully. It was too terrible. I was reduced to a throbbing mass of pain, all my feelings concentrated in the three lashes placed variously on my defenceless flesh. I dangled from the hook, my body on fire. I had never been hit before, let alone whipped. In some ways it was as bad as the marking. At least that was only pain in one place, here the pain was increased as different parts of my body were scourged by the leather.

My captor released me from the hook. I slumped to the floor, sobbing.

He pointed to his sandals.

"Kiss them," he said.

I kissed his sandals, hot tears dripping on the leather.

"More sensuously," he said, "Use that pretty little pink tongue."

I had tried so hard to be a good little girl. I had not wanted to stand out. I had wanted to 'blend in'. Now my body was a seething mass of pain.

I desperately licked and kissed at my handler's sandals, my tongue going between the heavy straps to push against the skin of his feet. I hoped that I was doing what he wished, I would do anything so as not to feel again the lash of the leather on my defenceless flesh.

"Now lick higher," he commanded from his seated position.

With my tongue I traced a path along his left ankle, and then up to his shin. He wore a tunic which dropped to his knees. I could feel the small hairs of his leg against the moisture of my tongue. I left a trail of dampness on his shin as I licked carefully upwards towards his knee. I heard him grunt with satisfaction, as I kissed him full on his knee, then licked the tenderer hairless skin behind.

I looked up at him.

"I did not tell you to stop," he said, not patiently.

I resumed my ministrations, now above his knee, as he sat, my head now between the brute's legs, pushing his tunic higher, smelling the maleness of him.

"You lick well," he said, "Professor Jones said that you were adequately skilled."

! felt myself blushing, "...For an untrained earth girl," he continued.

I did not answer, but continued, coming closer and closer to my handler's crotch. It was apparent that he wore nothing under his tunic, and I felt myself growing a little hot and bothered at my proximity to his male essence.

He was cruel, certainly, but a handsome brute, his legs taut and muscled, those of a trained athlete or soldier. Now that I had imbibed of the foul slave wine, and was protected from the consequences of male impregnation, would I find him taking full advantage of my body's pleasures?

His hand stopped me, firmly pushing me away. I gasped.

"Enough for now. We need to be on our way. You are a tempting little slut, but you have things to be shown before you try to earn your keep, and I have other business to do. To your feet."

I rose. He confined my hands behind me in the cuffs then took hold of my coin box, once more using it as a leash to pull me along. After passing down an empty corridor we came to a large door. From a shelf beside the door he took an item, that looked like some sort of leather bag. To my shock and chagrin he placed it over my head.

I was plunged into blackness, my sob of protest ignored. I heard the sound of a door opening and felt a rush of air on my nude body, still damp from having the water bucket upended over my head.

I was hooded, nude, clad in only a necklace to which some sort of can was attached, cuffs, and anklets. Even my earrings, the last remnant of my earth attire, had been removed from me and replaced with tiny metal bars. I felt a pull on my neck. I stumbled forward, feeling a colder material now on the soles of my feet, and cooler air on my body. We were outside.

My handler's pace was fast. It was all I could do, hooded and bound as I was, to keep up with him. Once or twice he yanked a bit to bid me speed my progress. We may have only gone a few hundred yards, but it seemed further.

I could hear people talking in the guttural language of my handler, and the calls of others, as if trying to attract attention.

I felt my handler's touch on my shoulder.

"Stop," he said quietly.

"Where are we?" I asked, "What are you going to do to me?"

I was very fearful. I was very aware that I was nude in public, perhaps the only mitigating circumstance being that I was hooded, and thus anonymous. The sounds about me told me that the place we were in was far from being deserted.

I had worn revealing bikinis and such in public places such as swimming pools, and when abroad in Europe, on the shores of the Mediterranean, had even, once or twice, it feeling deliciously scandalous and daring, gone topless, enjoying the admiring glances from the men on the beach. But that had been on my own terms. Now I was nude at the insistence and behest of others. I was terrified.

"We are in the marketplace," he said. "Do you recall how you licked my sandal earlier?"

"Yes," I said a little sullenly. I had not wanted to lick his sandal, and had been thrice lashed for my recalcitrance, but I had to admit to myself that I had not necessarily wanted to stop, either.

"I want you to do that to the men here," he said, "Remember to start at their left foot and not their right. Carry on, until either they stop you, or until it is apparent that you have satisfied them. Do you understand?"

I could not believe what he had said. I wanted to laugh. He surely could not expect me to carry out these actions?

But I felt the pain on my back and bottom from his lash. The burn on my leg. The rumours that I was not even on earth. I was hooded and had my arms bound behind me. I was nude, in public. I suspected that he was serious in his intention. It was intended that I, Amelia Jane Harrington, from London, a former investment banking PR representative, with an apparently bright future, the world at my feet as it were, should go up to men and introduce myself by going to my knees, and kissing their feet, and then strive to pleasure them with my mouth and tongue.

"Do you understand?" he repeated, more insistently.

I shivered. I am not a brave girl. I recalled the feeling of the lash on my tender flesh when I had shown hesitation.

"Yes," I said, "I understand."

"When I take your hood off you will not scream or draw attention to yourself will you?"

"I am nude," I said, fearfully.

"Do you wish to feel the lash?" he asked.

"No," I said.

I felt something being untied from under my chin, then bright light flooded my senses. I looked around myself and gasped.

All about me were people, some with carts, some on foot with bags and baskets. There were also girls, such as I, nude or scantily clad and barefoot. Some were carrying things, others just going about. All were beautiful. I realised that I was not the only one of my type in the market, and my nudity, although embarrassing and unpleasant, was not as conspicuous as I had thought it might be. In fact no-one seemed to be paying me and my handler any attention whatsoever.

Next to us was a kind of platform, about three feet square, and two feet above the ground, made from some sort of cement. In the centre was a fountain. It was not ornate. A single spout of water gushed up from a pillar of about two feet in height. The stream of water went to about four feet high. The water disappeared into a grate, presumably to be recycled into the fountain.

"When it becomes necessary, use the fountain to cleanse yourself. Do you understand?" asked my handler.

I blushed furiously. I supposed him to mean that I should wash myself intimately in public.

"Yes," I answered, bitterly. It would seem that I was to be afforded little privacy or dignity.

"You are, I think, ready to earn your keep," he said, "Begin."

I looked at him puzzled.

"That man there," he said, pointing to a corpulent man in a flowing robe, "Go to him."

Fearfully, I hurried over to this prospective client.

I knelt, my knees in the mud and placed my lips at his foot.

He was fat and bald, wearing a long white and yellow striped robe, rather dirty. He wore a light sandal, tied up high on his shin with thongs. It and his foot beneath were begrimed with mud. He grunted, and placed his left foot a few inches forward.

I let forth a small sob of despair, but knew what I must do. I bent over, my bottom high, my head low, almost at the ground, and put my soft lips to his sandal. They were of the type whereby the leather covered his toes. I pressed my full lips, so prized, one of my best features, slightly parted, to his footwear. He shifted his foot forwards - he would have me kiss higher, on the dirty skin of his foot, rather than on the leather of the sandal. I closed my eyes, tears spilling over my long lashes, splashing on the leather of his sandals, and moved my lips to where I imagined he wished them, higher on his foot, and pressed again.

He grunted, again. It would seem that he was not dissatisfied with my service so far, but wished for more.

I parted my lips further, and pressed my tongue against his soiled foot. I could feel the grit dissolving in my saliva, and the taste of the filth of the market place, unpleasant and earthy. I moved my tongue up along his foot almost to the ankle, my licking leaving a faint trail of saliva, and a paler area on the encrusted dirt of his sandalled foot. He let me do that for a moment or two, and then, unceremoniously pulled his foot away, back to where it had been.

He barked out a statement.

I did not of course understand what he had said to me. I looked up at him, from my place at his feet.

He repeated his statement, seemingly none too happily. From the inflection I guessed that it was a question.

I knew nothing of his language save the word for my 'default position', and the little phrase that I had been taught meaning 'I am a slave girl.'

I said the phrase.

He grunted again, as if with amusement.

He gestured to me with his left hand. I gathered from his signal that he was telling me to remain on my knees, but to kneel higher.

I did so. My head bowed.

Now it was easier for him to regard me.

I felt a fingertip at my chin, applying some upward pressure. He would have my head lifted to him.

I lifted my head. I was frightened. His appearance was so ugly, so primitive, so unsophisticated. And I was an investment banking PR representative, with a high salary, and an apartment in London.

Yet it seemed that he had the upper hand in our relationship. To begin with our transaction was being conducted in his language.

He regarded my face, appraisingly. He did not rush. His fingers brushed my nose and lips then back to my chin. I tried not to sob, my knees in the mud, my chin lifted, under his roving gaze. He gripped my chin harder and turned my head from side to side.

He lifted the chain on my neck, running it through his grimy hand, and then grasped the can and shook it. It was silent

He looked down at me, upper lip curled in contempt. He pulled the can higher towards him, forcing me to lift up further. The collar hurt under my chin as he used the chain as a leash.

Keeping his grip on the can with his left hand, he moved his right hand close to my mouth, his right index finger extended, as if pointing at me,

He commanded something of me.

Almost instinctively I knew what he required. My lips sucked at his finger, my tongue licking at it. I looked up at him submissively, I am sure there were tears in my eyes. I was Amelia Jane Harrington of London, England. How could this be happening to me? Where was I, a culture where women like myself could be treated thus, with casual contempt? He left his finger there; he seemed in no great hurry. I continued to lick and kiss at it, as best I might. I was surprised that despite what was being done to me I could feel a warmth between my legs. How my body was betraying me, as if it enjoyed being treated in such a humiliating fashion!

The man grunted again, as if with satisfaction, and withdrew his fingers.

He seemed to be still making up his mind, but then something else seemed to occur to him, as if he recalled something. He absently released my can, it dangling again in front of me as I knelt in the market place mud.

I looked after him as he strode away.

My handler was at my side almost immediately.

"You worthless piece of meat. You did not satisfy him!" His hands were in my hair, painfully pulling it back.

I wept, his hands painful in my blonde tresses.

"I tried," I sobbed, "I tried".

He cuffed me with the back of his hand, painfully.

My first attempt to earn my keep had been unsuccessful, it appeared.

My handler pointed out a new target. I scampered nude across the marketplace, hands tied behind me.

It seemed that I had a long day ahead of me.

gor   barbarian   girl  

Mar 8, 2018 in bdsm

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