Show Time for Slave Six

From little things, mighty struggles arise.

__Howard Smith

With a special thanks to artist Agan Medon (subscribestar adult)

“Places, Slave Six. Places, please,” the loudspeaker backstage crackled to life. The stage manager announced in a quiet monotone.

But Slave Six certainly didn’t hear it that way. Those same calm, controlled competent words, might as well have been a twelve-volt electric shock hard wired to her already jangled nervous system.

“Don’t they know?” She shot a quick sideways glance at Josef, a six-foot six former prize fighter, who had found his true calling as her handler and keeper.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” she corrected herself. Her keepers and handlers were sociopaths, slave owners and traders. She was just a commodity to them, a juicy morsel, a piece of pretty female sex meat meant to be toyed with, fucked, sucked, even tortured, for no other reason than the prurient entertainment of others.

Poor Slave Six. This was her debut. She had never been shown before, never forced against her will and made to stage a scene half naked, no, mostly naked, inside an S&M club devoted to the kinkiest pleasures known to a rare few.

And worst of all she really had no idea where she was. She was an American a dancer somehow smuggled into some east-bloc country, except for a few who worked backstage.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” she thought again. She had been given a number. They even took away her name. Her former life meant nothing anymore. She was lot.

“Time to go,” ordered Josef as he pulled her up and out of her chair in the dressing room.

“Wear this,” he said as he put on her half cup pushup bra.

“As if I had a choice,” She thought.

“And this.”  He forced her mouth open wide, inserted a big bright red ball gag, and buckled it in tight.

“Walk,” was his last command. Strong arms held her up and propelled her forward, again no choice.

She tottered along wearing the highest of high heels, black thigh high stockings, and a little black semi sheer thong panty, nothing else, except a metal collar and a black leather armbinder which drew her elbows tight together behind her back. Walking, just walking, wasn’t easy for Slave Six.

That little black bra did a number on her too. Every step set off a series of small movements, a bounce, a bobble or two, and even a little bit of a roll from side-to-side as her lovely torso pivoted on her hips, all of which rendered her breasts totally obscene.

She looked back a Josef to see if he noticed.

“Oh yeah,” he said. Spittle formed on his lower lip. He knew!

“Places, Slave Six. Places,” the stage manager called.

They came to a halt on a spike mark just behind a black curtain. The music blasted away. “Boom, chakkah. lakka, lakka, boom, boom, boom.”

A girl screamed. The audience roared. A new wave of fear swept over Six. Her stomach began to churn. Instinctively she tried to twist herself away, but Josef wouldn’t have it. He grabbed her hair and pulled her head back.

“Boom, chakkah. lakka, lakka, boom, boom, boom.” A whip cracked and cracked again. More screams.

“Ready, Slave Six,” announced the voice.

Josef’s other hand stroked her nipples. “Make’s em hard, you know.”

Slave Six Blushed.

More music. More whip strikes, more screams. Foreign voices cheered.

And then that finger, this time caressing her clitoris.

Six soon felt her sex respond.

“Makes you wet,” he said, pressing his erection up against her ass.

Six could feel her own juices wetting her panty. She could not look down, but she knew all too well they clung to her camel toe. No doubt they turned the fabric transparent too.

The music came to a crescendo with one last whip crack followed by one last scream. There was cheering and wild applause, whistles too. Six felt her body blush all over. Utterly defeated, she heard the backstage speaker crackle one last time.

“Show Time, Slave Six. Showtime.”