| Recueil | Smut |
|---|---|
| Livre | My (fancy) life as a slave |
| Type | Chapitre |
| État | Brouillon |
Flip the switch
"HALL-MEETING!", shouts again my dear mistress Morr, while leaving the hall.
Still chained to the wall, I wait for the other slaves to join me.
First, Gretha, our catfolk maid, comes and chains herself right next to me. She has put back her tiny apron on, and her tail wiggles as she hands me the note I forgot in the office.
My legs are still shaking. It's not everyday that I can cum thrice in a row. And it's just past midday.
With a satisfied look on his face, Abelaïd then enters the room. His chastity cage is locked back on his penis, and he is carrying a mason jar quater-full of his own sperm.
"You've taken your time!" I tease him from afar. He gives me the finger, then exits the hall again towards his lab. He's gonna join us when the jar is safely stored in his closet.
"What a wimp!" laughs Gretha.
Abel is indeed a cuck, his only bodily pleasure is to wank on the leftovers of our sexual punishments.
The fourth slave of our house appears. She is an old tiefling who constantly wears a look of suspicion on her face, with tiny fleeting eyes.
"Good morrrning, Salista!" joyfully greets Gretha, "we don't see you often in these parts!"
She chains herself afar from us, walled in silence.
Mistress Morr is finally back in the room. "Where is Abelaïd?" she asks, a bit upset.
"Right here, mistress!" says said Abel, swiftly pacing towards the metal rings to chain himself. "I am deeply sorry, I was just finishing what you asked me."
Mistress Morr walks up to him in a frown. She tilts towards his face, then slaps him with all of her might.
Abel fumbles and trips, nearly strangling himself with his slave collar that he just attached on the wall.
"Next time, it's gonna be a punch in the gut." scolds his mistress.
As a sign of submission, Abelaïd gets back on his feets and keeps his head down. Cold reminder of our condition. I also tend to forget that despite all the mutual benefits being Morr's slave brings me —us—, this is no place of leisure here.
Our mistress breaks from her stern expression and begins to inspect us.
She first go Salista, who is the further away from me.
"How are things going, at the shop?"
The tiefling lifts a tired eye at her, feeling quite distant. "Your affairs are going smoothly, mistress. I left details in your office, as usual. The only thing worth noting is the subsantial increasing demand of methylenedioxies. As long as the production can adapt, there will not be any issue." She has a side-eye for Abel, who is still looking at his feet, his cheek turning cherry-red. "I think we can apply a price increase of seven percents and thus hope for four point seven percent more sales profit for the next two weeks."
Salista is the manager —and sole worker— of the little shop mistress Morr has set up downtown. There, she sells the low-grade drugs Abelaïd makes, destined at the common folk. A nice addition to the top-grade product Lady Morr sells herself to the highborns.
"What is methylononoxies?", candidly asks Gretha.
Mistress Morr turns to her. "It's short for methylenedioxymethamphetamine. You know it by another name, pink-petal."
Gretha's cat ears goes right up. "Oh ! The hug-drrrug ! I like it !"
Mistress Morr shakes her head, holding up a smile caused by the cute innocence of her maid. Salista raises an pedant eyebrow.
"Anyway, no shoplift, no claim. Your reputation keeps the affairs perfectly afloat, mistress."
Despite her saying that, mistress Morr quickly examines the night-purple skin of the half-demon slave.
"Any overtime due in the future days, mistress?"
"Maybe. There is a peon that has been messing with my property. It won't be easy to find, but if I do, I may require your interference.'
I clench the note in my hand. Really? Just for spitting on me? That's harsh.
Salista's eyelid insensibly fall, selling out her slight disappointment. "Very well. I am at your disposal."
Mistress Morr then steps to Abel. "What about you?"
Abelaïd responds with a failing voice. "Production is up to schedule. The research you ordered are going well, but the formula isn't stable yet. If I need to make space for additional production, I may not finish it for the end of next week."
The mistress is disapproving. "I see. I'll find some time tomorrow and you will show me. Maybe we can speed things up if I take a look. Anything else?"
"Yes. I finished the other special products this morning. Aside from the one that needs research, everything is set up for next week."
Mistress Morr nods. "Very good. I'll also take a close look at Salista's next week's prevision to give you a more precise product input. Remember the priorities: first, the production, then the research. And the closed deadline is next Friday, so you'll have to make this work."
"Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress."
Mistress Morr steps away from the alchemist, and walks up to the catmaid.
"My dearrrly beloved mistrrress Morrrr! What can I do forrr you today?"
The slaver silently glance at her enthusiastic maid for a second, then steps away. "Nothing."
Gretha seems upset.
"But—"
"Nasué, in ten minutes we're out. You'll dress from the red-black cabinet, and add the ball gag and the yoke. I want you at your best, it's a big prospect we're visiting."
Then she turns away from us.
"Meeting over. Get back to work."
I can see our catmaid is quite sad to not have any part in mistress' today activities. I am about to confort her, when Abel comes to talk to me.
"Nasué, come to the lab. I have something for you."
As I walk away, I glance back at Gretha. I don't have much time to prepare myself, so I need to go on with Abel's errand.
We go to Abel's lab, when he produces the daily product's of the shop handled by Salista, the researches asked by our mistress, and his own research on drugs when he has 'free' time.
"Here, take this." He handles me a average-sized bottle filled with purple-black liquid, in which float sparkling particles.
"Looks like night's sky. What is it?" I asked.
He shrugs. "I don't know what you're gonna use it for, but it's steroids combined with a respectable dose of metaphedrone and a small dose of... phencyclidine."
I'm a bit bit surprised. "What? You're using 3C now? Since when you're cooking cheap drugs?"
He raises an eyebrow. "It's about the metaphedrone you're worried? You are either brave, or quite imbecile. Probably a bit of both."
I am dumbfounded, until it hit me. "Wait, there's PCP in there ?!? You're saying Mistress has ordered you to make me PCP ?!?"
He shrugs again. "In a very small doses, yes. I reacted a bit like you, with a roundabout questioning of her judgement, but got severly punished for that. So I just obeyed."
I stare at the angel dust floating in the black solution. "What am I supposed to do with it?"
"She probably have to specific plan in mind, go ask her." He then reaches for my shoulder. "Good luck with whatever it is."
I manage to retain a tear at the corner of my eye.
"Now go," shouts Abel, "don't make yourself late!"
He's right, I have to quickly prepare to not be late, or else mistress Morr's gonna punish me.
I run back to the hall, where I can see Gretha idling, close to the main entrance, fondling her own boobs.
"Stop touching yourself!" at shout as I pass by her, "You know Mistress hates that, you're gonna get yourself punished."
She throws at me a defying look. "Then maybe for once she'll pay attention to me!"
She then proceeds to try and lick her own nipples, which is quite easy for her considering the appreciable length of her cat-tongue.
What a brat. I swiftly exit the main hall and go to the dress room. It is a two-stories room containing tons and tons of clothes, from ragged loin clothes mistress Morr makes her slaves wear for day-to-day jobs to the finest suits she wears for special occasions.
I restlessly go to the aforementioned red-black cabinet, stamping at the idea of wearing what's inside. I carefully open the leaf, revealing to my sparkling eyes the marvelous garbs sitting inside. I quickly but carefully dress up.
I walk up to the great ornate mirror, and admire myself.
The sheer spider silk of the baby doll gown highlights my hip shape. Two black ribbons cross my chest, barely hiding my nipple, and two more run down my pubis, joining just above my shaved lips. Both of the thigh-high stockings and arm-up sleeves are almost transparent, displaying complex designs of roses. Finally, the vast translucent cape, light as a feather, casts a soft halo on my whole silhouette, floating in the air around me.
This distinguished attire isn't very covering, but it subtly hides the key parts of my anatomy, making me way more desirable than if I was naked.
I don't even have the presence of mind to wonder what great occasion would have pushed my mistress to ask me to wear that. I simply savor the most distinguished honor a slave can have.
I am the most beautiful slut in the world.
When I wake from my own fascination, I break into a run, realizing I'm probably getting really late. I grab a leather gag ball, a chrome yoke, and fasten myself while running in the long hallway — which is no easy task since I'm still holding Abel's custom drug vial.
When I arrive in a bang into the main hall, my mistress is frowning at me, visibly upset. I run to her, and I can see in the corner of my eye our maid, on the ground, her nose bleeding and a wide masochist smile on her face.
Mistress Morr glances at me. "I see you have recovered the concoction I asked to be made for you. That's good."
She extends her hand, and take it from my tied-up hand.
Then, in a flash, she grabs my neck and throws me against the wall.
"What's up with you lot, today? You really think you can be late with no consequences? Today is important, so I need some DISCIPLINE!"
She throws me on the ground. My knees absorb most of the impact, but as my hands are tied up my forehead hit the red carpet hard. I am a bit stunned, and I can feel the weight of my mistress on my back, pressing her foot.
"You are MY property! You obey to ME! When I say come, you COME! And you shall never be LATE!"
With a movement of her leg, she rubs my whole body on the ground, causing light burns on my joints and belly.
"Now, get up!"
I get up with difficulty, not able to use my hands.
"Gretha!" She eructs. "Come and clean her, NOW!"
The maid carefully walks up to us, and begins to lick my dusty skin with her raspy cat-tongue, then rearrange my expensive attire.
"Listen, Nasué. This house is of the best of the town only because I know how to find the best slaves that suit my needs, and I make it so they all prefer to stay and serve me. I know your kinks, for each one of you, and turned this slave thing into something you can flourish from, in a way. But this only works because you slaves serve me well enough. As soon as this balance falter, my house will decline and we will all plumet down to misery. Don't think you are in a good position, because I'll maintain this balance whatever the cost.
"You are my best earner. I need you to be at your best, as obedient as it needs be. If you ever fail, I shall put you brat in your place. Whatever the cost."
She brings her face close to mine.
"I will make you obedient, you hear? Forget about the fun punishments I reward you with each few days, I will break you if you force me to. I'll take a whole week from the busy town life, keep you in this insulated dungeon where no one could ever hear you scream. I'll bring down the worst kind of torture. I'll break your limb joints, cut a thousand wounds on your skin, and pour acid on it until you pass out. Then I'll use my best ointments to make your skin pristine again, bring you back to consciousness, then repeat the process. Tens of times a day, for a whole week. You'll be only be fed a spoonful of soup each day, and I'll make Abelaïd and Gretha take turns on the fuckatron so you'll be deeply fucked twenty-four hours a day, every day. You won't sleep. You'll wish you are dead. And if you ever dies from this, I'll use five hundred thousands golds to buy a resurrection spell so I can torture you again. I would sacrifice everything I have to have you understand what 'obedience' means. Do you understand?"
I look down, emitting a muffled assentiment through the gag ball.
"Speak clear and loud! DO. YOU. UNDERSTAND?"
I force myself to articulate. "Yussh Musshtrussh!"
"I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
Angry as ever, she raises her fist, ready to hit my face.
Of course she would not hit me, no mark on her slaves, but I'm so submerged by the terror that I recoil in reflex.
And that's all she needs. This proof of me fearing her is enough for her.
She lowers her fist. "Good girl."
Tears flow down my cheeks. "H'm sshurry, Musshtrussh..."
She raise my chin with a gentle gesture. "I know. You just needed to be reminded of some facts."
She relaxes a bit.
"After all, it's not everyday you can fulfill your duty thrice. And the day is not over yet."
Gretha steps back from us. I'm clean and ready to go.
The Great Mistress Morr proudly walks through the downtown streets, fully naked as she always is, prompting a very proud face as everyone can see the magnificent, well-dressed, pristine, first-class slave she drags around with a chrome chain.
I am well in my role, still shaken in fear, not knowing where we are going, only knowing that the second she ask me something, I will execute it in a heartbeat.
In this neighborhood, every social class meet. The slaves run errands and hold the counter of some shops, lower-class artisan have their workshop set up on the avenue, middle-class orks seek sex-battle to show their strength and sometimes claim higher-class slaves, all while the highborn look over their territory and network with their kind.
My mistress is in her element here, and I am widely exposed, everyone glancing at both of us in envy.
That's when something quite expected occurs. A middle-class ork, wearing a black shirt and a large dong hanging between his legs, comes from behind and violently grabs my hair.
"Morr! You pompous slut, you don't deserve your place! I'm claiming this lump of pink meat right here, right now, and'll show you what a real dick feels like!"
My mistress just stops in her tracks, her back turned at us. The claimer pulls my hair, straining my neck against the slave collar. Mistress Morr hold the chain firmly, but doesn't pull it. I am all tensed up, and my head begins to hurt.
The whole street has gone quiet. Someone claiming Morr's slave in front of her is an event to witness.
Some members of the local bourgeoisie gasp, feinting to be shocked, but impatiently waiting for the sex-battle to happen. A few male middle-class ork cheer behind the claimer — probably his friends.
Mistress Morr turns her head around, looks up and down to the sassy ork, then turns her head back again.
"You're not worth of my attention. Nasué, take care of him."
An even greater gasp come from the crowd. She refuses the challenge? She gonna let her slave do her battle for her?
This situation is a first. As I've ever heard of, no ork as ever let their slave fight for the claim while they were watching by. That's why most claims happen when the master is not around: because claiming defenseless salves is easy, even if it often means later retaliation from the owner.
Thus, refusing to answer to the challenge is a offense for the claimer. The ork that is pulling my hair is red with rage, and his friends are booing my mistress — which annoys me quite a lot.
"Oh yeah? You dare insult me like that?" Then he recomposes himself. "Whatever. This will be even more easy. It's basically free real estate at this point."
Mistress Morr let my chain go, and suddenly I feel all alone.
"Nasué," she says before the dance begins, "Show him what the Aphrothecary best salve is capable of. Show him how much you are loyal to me and how much you love me."
My feeling of loneliness immediately disappears at these words. I feel empowered by the pride I feel towards my mistress' trust.
You're right, Mistress, I'll show him. I'll show him what are the consequences of disrespecting you!
The ork stays at loss for words for an instant, downed by the mixed feelings this situations provokes in him.
"Well?" I taunt him, "One second ago you were so eager for sex, but now you are afraid to use that tiny rod of yours?"
It feels strange trash-talking someone who is supposed to dominate me. The bystanders are also shocked, plunging us in a deep silence.
But then, in an access of rage, the ork roars and tears off his shirt.
"I will destroy you for talking to me like that!"
He kicks my legs while still holding my hair, forcing me in a kneeling position. He takes a firm grab at my yoke, then brandish his growing and smelly penis in front of my face.
"Ready to get your jaw broken?" he spits, almost laughing.
I smirk. "You call that as dick? I eat three like these every breakfast!"
He roars. His free hand pinches my jaw to open it wide, and without further ado he proceeds to fuck my throat.
In another life, I would have gargled and coughed at such appendice, ten times larger that any human's. But I'm a sex-slave since long-enough to know how to handle it. It's not even that hard, considering that it's average-size — for an ork. I work my muscles a bit, and soon manage to impede my gag reflex.
From there, I begin to thrive. Does he think he can handle me? He can't handle me. It's time for tongue-play and sloppy sucking. I feel his dick thrubs as I now penetrate myself, sipping and the saliva and precum that tries to come out, and then periodically letting it all out in a long gooey wave of pleasury fluids.
My head job is now tighter than his grip, and I begin to hear him moan.
This is my change to reverse the situation.
As soon as I can take a deep breath trough my nose, I go balls-deep. With my yoked hands, I grab his thick waist, then spring into the air into a front-flip than brings my legs around his neck. I grab his short hair with both hand, heave myself up and stick my wet-ass pussy against his face.
He emits a muffled protestation, but I bring the bait.
"OH YESSS, MISTER ORK, You're sooo big, please, PLEASE MAKE ME CUM!"
It's a bit hammy, but he buys. Or at least, need to keep face.
He grabs my but with both hands, discard the black ribboons covering my lips with his tongue, and begin to lick me.
He isn't even half as good as I expected. I continue to shout false pleasure phrases, to make him feel he's gonna win, but this is not even half-enough to arouse me.
At this moment, I am deeply disappointed. I don't want a cheap victory. I want as orgasmic domination. I want to cum at his cumming face.
Now I know the thrill of the orkish sex-battles.
I let a long drip of saliva coming out my mouth. I scoop it with my hand and use it to lubricate one of the ork fingers.
Then, I forcefully penetrate my ass with it.
His tongue is now inside my pussy, and i begin to feel real pleasure as I'm begin double-penetrated.
I am both the one who penetrates and is being penetrated. I never though myself of a domatrix, but my first real sex-battle awoke something deeply hidden inside of me.
Time to wrap this all up.
I use my legs as a lever and pull myself forward. He arcs his spine, take a few steps back to try and keep his balance, but I move all of my weight above his head. He falls hard on his butt with a painful sound.
I get up, put a feet on his mouth, and spit "Now, fist my pussy." before sitting on his dick.
My ass is trained and prepared, so his rock-hard rod slip into my anus without any difficulties. He raises his hands between my legs, and I welcome it inside.
Little he knows, everyone has now acknowledged my domination to the fight. He doesn't seem to realize he is still in one.
His hand is now fully into my vagina, stretching all the muscles inside it, while I hop on his dick. He then begin to rub my clit with his free hand. My pleasure is now immesurable. But I ain't coming yet.
Oh no I ain't.
The only thing that'll make me cum, is his spermy juice filling up my belly. I fondle his balls, my back arced back and my boobs pointing at the sky.
"YES! Cum in me, mister! Fill me with your manhood! Break my ass and fill my hole! You're destroying my pussy! You're ruining my ass! Now finish me! Show me how STRONG you are! FINISH ME NOW!"
He lets out a hoarse roar, and with a final strong thrust, cum in my ass.
I am near climax, but I restrain myself, just a bit more.
Two more throbs of his hips, and the cum now overflows my ass and squirt out.
The fourth one is the last one, and he falls flat on the ground. I pull his dick out —but not his hand—, get up, bring myself above his climaxed face, and with a violent pull take out his hand.
It's now that all of the accumulated pleasure come out. I still feel the shape of his dick, his hand and his tongue inside my holes, and of the pleasure flow out like a broken dam.
I'm the dominatrix! I'm the strongest! I'm the best sex-slave ever!
A long flow of squirt rain down his face, making him cough as he has not caught his breath yet. I let out a long wail of orgasmic pleasure at the sky, savoring my victory more than any other climax I ever had.
The silence finally falls on us...
...Immediately followed by raging cheers and applause from the audience.
I'm a bit startled at that, I completely forgot where we were.
I turn to my dearest Mistress Morr, who is watching the scene a few steps away, and cry at her with a dramatic gesture.
"Behold, Mistress! I won! I won for you! I love you! I LOVE YOU FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY HEART!"
It is with a blissful satisfaction that she reclaims her property. She who is to stern, so phlegmatic, can't refrain a smile before my victory.
I pick up the gag ball my my teeth it bring to me mistress like the good bitch I am. She puts it back on me and we depart.
As we leave, I take a quick look back. The crowd is throwing stones at the sore loser. Some of them begin to kick him on the ground. Given the dishonor of losing such a fight and the glamour of my victory, the crowd is so excited he probably won't see the sun setting.
And that's all he deserves for challenging my beloved mistress.
"I couldn't be more proud of you, my little Nasué."
My Mistress pull on the chain until we walk side by side. She plunge her eyes into mine with a smile of deep contempt.
"Not only you marked history by being the first slave to best an ork in a sex-battle under the order of her mistress, but you won with such flair that no one will dare challenge me nor my servants for at least et few weeks. My reputation will skyrocket after that."
She stops and run her fingers through my hair.
"You deserve a treat."
My Mistress walks to the terrace of a restaurant and seat at a table. There are two bowl on the floor, one filled with water and the other one empty. I am parched from the effort I just made. I drop on all four and begin to lap up.
The waiter arrives and greet my Mistress with all the dithyrambism due to her rank.
"I'll have... The smoked salmon with a grilled cheese salad. And a bock of beer."
The waiter approves. "Noted. And for your slave?"
Lady Morr grins. "Same."
The little fully-clothed ork-boy is confused. "What? You sure? I mean, with all due respect..."
"The only respect you can afford to give me is following my order. I gave you my order, follow it."
The little waiter is dumbfounded. "Yeah, sure, at once, madam— I mean, milady."