Alice Sinclair Gorean style BDSM fiction

"You know how this ends, Slave."

Whether acquiring a trained slave or breaking a free woman, one’s task is the same. You must dominate her. The difference is only in the degree. This now was my task with this hot, little beauty. A routine and simple task.

"No!" Layla ran across the sand. She reached the door at the end of the room. She tugged at it, looked back, then tugged again. She placed one foot against the wall and heaved, teeth gritted.

Well, most times a routine and simple task.

When enslaving a girl, you must break her like a hard, dry bone. It is a battle of wills you may not win. You control her conditions. She, however, may resist till she dies. You could render her trainable in days - if it’s in you. Or, she may not break for weeks. Hyperborean men are not as patient as I am. If a girl does not break in three days, they kill her. Millennia of this brutal selection has bred odds in the Hyperborean men’s favor.  

A beauty in bondage, however, needs none of this. She just needs to learn you are her master. ‘Master’ means to her something we can’t ever understand. That she should watch your fingers, in case you snap them at her. That you may come for her, at night. That she must lie sleepless, chained in her kennel, uneasy. If you don’t come for her, that she should be more uneasy.

Beneath the villa was a large cellar. Its floor was covered in a foot of fine river sand. Iron rings and chain sets were set into the stone walls. Suspension rings and roped pulleys hung from the ceiling. Large devices had been laid out in the chamber. One was a wooden "X." It was mounted with a joint to its stand. I could strap a standing girl to it. Then, tilt her horizontal.

Alongside it was a polished beam mounted on trestle stands. There were cuffs on the stands and straps along the beam. I would push a girl over the "wooden horse." Then, cuff and strap her in place. I’ve used it for pleasure, punishment, and branding.

Beside the wooden horse was a stone tank filled with water. An iron grate cover lay propped against it. At the tank’s bottom were breathing straws. My girls feared this tank more than anything else. Once covered, the tank is too shallow for them to stand in. However, the breathing straws were short. Too short for them to both sit and breathe. Instead, they had to squat. They would stare up through the water, straws in their mouths. I’d cover them with my finger for just a few seconds. Then wait a while, and do it again. And again. Half an hour of that in cold, dark water changes a girl. It is a truly servile creature you pull out. Dripping and shivering, she looks up at you and wails she will never defy you again.

I am strict. My women, obedient.

I undressed and began to walk towards Layla. She wheeled around and stared at me. Her knees were bent, her hands braced against the wall. I began moving towards one side of the room. She made her way to the other. She slid against the wall, eyes never leaving me. I moved the other way. She too, reversed. I laughed.

"Stop acting like a child," I said. "Come here now, and I will not punish you."

"I will not swallow your seed!" She spat.

"You will," I replied, stopping at a small table. It was covered in irons and whips. I picked up a black, heavy leather with several flails. It ends were weighted with large but soft beads. Alongside the whip was a thin, black tube. It was shiny and fitted with a grip and a dial. I turned the dial; the smell of ozone rose from the tube.

"You don't know what this is, do you?" I held it up for her to see.

She made no reaction.

"It’s called a ‘shock prod’ in my language. I’ll teach you what that means.”

When buying a trained slave girl, one has two things to do. One: have sex with her. The sooner, the better; it sets the tone. Put her on her back with her calves over your shoulders. Grip her by her collar and force her to look into your eyes. Enter her; let her feel the power you have over her.

Except for weird cases (like Layla), this is enjoyable for both. She knows this is why you have bought her. Submitting to it is how she survived her first master. She expects to survive you the same way. The slave will spread her legs and beg for you to take her. She’ll put on a good show and tell you you’re wonderful. Look unimpressed, and she’ll give you the time of your life! This is important: it sets the bar. Her every performance thereafter must be on par with it. Otherwise, she will suffer the second thing that you must do. That is, thrash the living shit out of her.

This is critical. She’s not your slave because she likes living in a kennel. She’s your slave because she’s afraid you’ll you will feed her to wild dogs. You maintain your power over her with force. Her only choice is whether to accept it or not.

Whatever you inflict, do not drag it out. If you do, she will become used to it. Make it intense: you want to overwhelm her senses. As before, she will put on a good show. She wants you to go easy on her. To think that very little is needed to keep her in line. So, go all out. If uncertain her cries are genuine, assume they’re not. Cane her harder. See the red marks forming on her skin. When the screams are real, you will know. She will live in fear every time you touch your whip. She will do anything she can to avoid punishment.

Having done both these, you have dominated your slave.

This is why I found Layla’s running around tiresome. She knew how this ended: she didn’t hate me more than she wanted to stay alive. I was reminded of the last time this happened, back at Fogrim’s farm.

“This one is ready,” Fogrim had said to me, pulling his finger out of Layla’s vagina and studying the mucus. He’d just caught her arm as she’d walked by, put her down on her in the dirt, and checked her.

“Tomorrow morning will be best. Can you breed her?”

“What?” His question had stunned me. It had stunned her as well; she’d stared first at him, then at me, her jaw to the ground.  

“The morning will be best,” he’d slapped her buttocks and sent her running off.

That whole night, breeding her was all that I could think of. The next morning, she had vanished. I was furious. Fogrim, an otherwise strict master, had been amused. I hadn’t understood why.

Now I could see his problem as it had just become mine. Layla created drama. Fogrim had put up with it because otherwise, he’d have had to kill her. Layla was too beautiful - and shameless - to cull.

In that moment, I knew I would put up with it, as well.

"You little bitch. Alright then. Let’s do this." I went after her.

I ran after the slave. Layla screeched and tried to avoid me. She was fast, but the sand sucked at her feet. She wasn’t the first I’d chased down in this room. I grabbed her, my arms clamping her arms by her sides. She screamed as I lifted her up, her legs thrashing.

"Let me go! Let me go, you bastard! I hate you, Gerard of Stone!" She turned her head and bit at my shoulder. I grabbed her under the jaw, holding it in place. She winced as she tried pulling her head free, and failed.

A few feet away, a chain hung from the ceiling. It ran through a pulley bolted to the old stonework. Hanging from the chain was a pair of cuffs. The chain’s other end was secured to a small drum. The drum had an attached hand crank and was mounted on a table.

I hauled her to stand under the chain.

"I will kill myself before I swallow your seed!" She spat.

"If I don’t kill you first, you ungrateful little bitch."

"Ungrateful!"

"Yes," I opened a cuff and grabbed one of her small wrists. I forced it in and snapped the cuff shut. She tugged at the cuff, grunting. "I feed my slaves well." I shackled her other wrist.

I stepped back and beheld her. The naked beauty’s milk chocolate body gleamed with sweat. She shook her long, silk-black hair out of her face. She took a step back, gripped her chains, and tugged. She looked up at the pulley as she did so. The chain did not budge.

I turned the hand crank.

The chain pulled, and Layla’s feet skidded in the sand. She tried pulling back but failed. I turned the crank again, and she rose into the air. Her slim legs waved as she tried to reach the sand. Two more cranks, and I had her 4 feet in the air. She gave me dagger looks as she swung back and forth.

I went back and retrieved the whip and shock prod. Layla eyed the prod with suspicion. I set it aside, hefted the whip, and tugged its flails. Her eyes widened.

"You are mine, Slave. Obey me, or this is what will happen.”

“Master, please! Anything but the-”

I slashed the whip across her buttocks as hard as I could.

The sound of the flails rang out like gunshots. She screamed and jerked, swinging on the chain. I struck again, down her back. The flails struck from her neck to her tailbone. She howled in pain, a feral, animal sound. Yes! That's what you want, that depth of feeling! Bypass the human part and go to the animal brain. The human would argue whereas the animal cannot help but be trained.

I grabbed her by her thighs and steadied her. I spun her around on her chain. As it turned her to face me, I drew the whip back.

"No! Master!” she winced, and her legs thrashed.

The whip thrashed her belly and breasts. The slave howled.

"No?" I grabbed her leg. The skin was soft and smooth. The areas reddened from thrashing were hot. "You want me to stop, Slave?"

"Yes, Master! I beg you!"

I tossed the whip to the sand. Her expression went from distressed to surprised in an instant. I ran my hand up her buttocks and back, enjoying them.

"Thank you, Master?"

I took the shock prod and activated its lowest setting. The smell of ozone returned.

“Master?”

I tapped the sole of her foot. She screeched, and her whole body jerked. She stared at the prod, jaw dropped.

I increased the setting and tapped the sole of her foot again.

"Ai!" She howled, legs thrashing. She brought up her knees to try and keep her feet from me. She looked at me - her eyes filled with fear. At last! This was what I wanted to see.

I raised the setting and ran the prod up her spine. Layla exploded: legs jerking out, back arching, head thrown back. She screamed like a trapped, wild animal. It was the kind of desperation you heard in a slave camp. The wretched sounds girls make when being remade into something wonderful.

"By Yog! Oh Master, please stop! I beg you, Master!"

"You are mine, Meat," I held her against me. Her warm skin slid against mine. I put my head between her large, perky breasts and licked. I felt one giving under my teeth, soft, warm. "You are mine, Bitch."

I stepped back and shocked her nipple. Her scream was earsplitting; she kicked herself away from me, swinging. As she swung back, I shocked her other nipple.

I watched the shockwaves going through her. The prod’s contacts had been just instants. However, you don’t electrocute a girl’s nipples without changing her life.

"No!" She whimpered, tears streaming down her face, "please! I am sorry! I will never defy you again, please. I am so sorry, Master!”

I slipped the shock prod between her thighs. My finger hovered over the activator.

"You are sorry, Slave?"

"Yes! Yes!" she whimpered, body trembling.

I removed the shock prod and set it aside. I had given the slave a short and severe taste of discipline. Her senses had been overwhelmed. The first part of dominating her had been completed.  

Now, it was time for the second. Now, it was time to fuck her.

I lowered the little beauty to the sand. She staggered, unsteady on her feet. I unshackled her wrists and pushed her to the ground. She put out her hands to catch herself as she hit. She lay on her side, propped up on her elbows. Her head was down, hair dragging in the sand as she panted.

I got down behind my slave and stroked her buttocks. They were large, well-formed, and felt delightful under my fingers. She got to her knees and tried to crawl away. I let her go, catching her ankle at the last moment. She tried to pull her leg free, but I held her.

“Oh!”

I dragged her back. Still holding her ankle, I clamped my other hand around her throat.

The slave was still.

I released her ankle and slipped my hand between her thighs.

She gasped and clenched her thighs together. I shoved my knees between hers, forcing her legs apart.

My index finger ran along her labia; she was soaking wet! It was the wetness of a woman teased for some time.

"So this is why you hate me. You crave me so much; it frightens you.”

"No," she shook her head.

"Don’t lie," I pushed my finger between her labia. “I don’t permit my slaves to lie.” I pushed aside the flap of skin that covered her clitoris. With one finger, I began stroking it.

She moaned, and her back stiffened at once. I moved my finger in slow, gentle circles. In some, I stroked her clitoris. In some, I just teased it. I changed the movements this way and that, keeping it random.

“Oh!” she craned her head back, jaw dropped, eyes closed tight. Her fingers clenched fistfuls of sand.

I released her throat: my only contact was a finger inside her.

“Do you want me to stop, Slave?”

“No, Master!”

“Say you want me to continue.”

“Please don’t stop, Master!”

“You will swallow my seed.”

“Yes, Master!”

“Say it!”

“I will swallow your seed, Master!”

I made her chant it again and again. The verbal component mattered: it makes a slave buy into her treatment. Make her ask for it. Make her thank you for it, afterwards.

I gave her clitoris several minutes attention as reward for her submission. The power sexual pleasure has over a slave cannot be understated. Their food is drab. Their conditions abject. Their slavery is grueling. Sex is their only pleasure and is allowed only at their master’s.

The room was filled with the sound of her breathing and squeals.

Behind me in the sand lay an iron shackle. It was chained to a ring in the wall. While pleasuring her, I took the shackle and closed it around her slender ankle. It clicked and locked. If the animal knew - or cared - she gave no sign.

The slave tried again to bring her thighs together. Her head lowered and she pressed her cheek to the sand. She opened her mouth and panted. Her face had the strained expression of a girl close to orgasm.

I withdrew my hand.

She turned and looked back at me, eyes questioning.

Master?!"

"No," I stood up and over her.

The slave girl rolled onto her back. She propped herself with her hands behind her in the sand. Her legs were apart, knees raised and bent. The labia gleamed and dripped. Her expression was equal parts outrage and confusion.

"Master, please," it was a command.

"No," I gripped my penis. "Come.”

She glared at me for a moment. Then, she reached between her thighs with her own hand.

"No!" I pushed it away.

She snarled and tried again.

“Ah!” she yelped as I slapped her, throwing her head to the side.

"Come, Slave!”

"No!" She snapped, her face red.

"Fine," I turned and started walking away.

Behind me, I heard the chain rattle and go taut.

"Master! No!"

I turned.

The animal had scrabbled after me on her hands and feet. The chain was taut. The cuffed leg, extended behind her, raised.

"Master! Let me suck your cock! I will suck it so well for you!"

I laughed. Desperate slut! I turned back to face her.

She sat back on her knees, buttocks pressed against her heels. She gripped my legs and threw her hair back. Her lips parted, and she lunged for my cock. I thought she was going to bite it! Her mouth was a warm, wet sleeve closed around me.  

“Nnh!” she began rocking her head back and forth, frenzied.

"Easy, Bitch!" I grabbed her head in both hands. I slowed her, savoring the feeling. I prefer fucking a slave girl in the mouth. It is more degrading for her. Cum looks better dripping down her face than out her back. The aftertaste gives her something to think about. Deny her water to prolong this. Best of all, it denies her an orgasm. Her only pleasure is satisfying her master. Perhaps next time he will give her pleasure?

Layla pulled her mouth free, panting. Long, dancing strings of thickened saliva hung between my penis and her lips. She cupped my testicles in both her hands and ran her lips up and down the sides of my shaft, looking to me for feedback. She’d had two years with Fogrim’s strong hands at her throat. It had made her observant of every sign of body language. Perhaps reading my mind, she smiled and giggled. Such a smile! Her face was exquisitely beautiful. I stroked it, feeling the curves of her cheekbones. I felt those full lips under my fingertips. She licked them, staring up into my eyes.

Only one thing’s better than an obedient sex slave. That’s a sex slave in love with you.

I pushed her head back over my cock.

A few moments later, I came: five spurts. She was still till I was done. Then, she sat back on her heels, back straight, mouth fu1l. The slave looked up at me.

"Swallow," I commanded.

She remained staring, her mouth full.

"Swallow, Slave," I frowned.

Instead, she parted her lips and pushed out my load. It came out thick and gleaming, mixed with saliva. It spilled out down her chin and dripped under her jaw. The semen made lines running down her neck. They ran between her breasts and trickled to her belly.

She wiped her belly with her hands and licked them clean. She let the semen drip till it would go no further. Only then would she collect and eat it. She leaned back, buttocks pressing into her heels, to give a good view.

The performance was delightful.

"Did you like that, Master?" She smiled, raising an eyebrow.

“Slut! You know your work well.”

She smiled.

I took a pair of cuffs and a leash chain from a table. She crossed her wrists in front of her as I returned. I seized them and yanked them behind her back. I made her fold her arms: the posture pushed her breasts forward. Only then did I cuff her wrists.

She turned her head back to look at what I had done.

“No,” I shoved her head down. She grunted as I pressed her cheek into the sand. The animal’s dark, intelligent eyes watched as I leashed her. A foot from her face, an iron ring jutted from the sand. I ran the leash through the ring and pulled. The slave was fixed in place: ankle and leash chains taut. She crouched, breasts and shoulders touching the sand. Her chin hovered an inch over the sand.

I got down behind my female. Gripping my cock, I stroked between her buttocks. I wanted her to wonder which orifice I would enter. I stopped at the labia.

She gasped as I slid into her, her jaw dropping. Her vagina pressed around me in a comforting sleeve. Its walls clenched as I began a steady motion. Her large buttocks slap!-slap!-slapped! with every stroke, quivering. I went faster, and the slaps grew louder. The slave started moaning; the sounds were short, almost gasps. She raised her behind to meet each thrust. The moans rose into squeals.

I took my time and nursed her along to orgasm. When it hit, the squeals stopped, and she went limp. Her body jerked as waves coursed through her; I counted four. For a few moments, we were still, the only sound our breathing. I brought my face down against hers. She turned and kissed, eyes shut, her jaw making gentle movements. It was a slow, thankful kiss.

Layla was, by every measure, a spectacular female. 

She broke the kiss, snatching her head away to stare at the ground. Her body went tense. I sat back and stroked her, my hand running down her spine. Twisting in place, she tried to push my hand away.

"I hate you, you bastard." Her words were quiet. They were the tone of a victim who no longer cared to hide her feelings from her tormentor.

“Yes. And also no,” I stroked her hair. “It is unfortunate, Slave, that your feelings give you no peace."

"I don't care what you think!" She spat.

I laughed.

"No one in the world cares,” I unchained her, leaving her just cuffed and collared. Before she could sit up, I crossed her ankles and bound them. Then, I picked her up and threw her over my shoulder.

"You take me now to your bed? To lie with your trained sluts?" Her tone was accusing.

"No. I don’t need another harem girl.”

I left the room, my arm gripping her by her slender legs.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Where you will be most useful."

"To one of your brothels? Ha! I will suck a hundred cocks that I may never taste yours again!"

I reached a heavy, wooden door with a torch burning in a bracket beside it. I took the torch and opened the door. Stairs lead down into darkness.

"No," I replied, descending.

She started squirming.

"You would put me to work in your kitchens? In a field?"

The stairs led to a tunnel of ancient, grand stonework from a different time. We were about two stories underground now.

"Do you not listen? Master Fogrim already said that you are only good for breeding."

"What?!" Her body tensed into steel.

"I will be kept in a cage, in the dark. I will only take you out when you are pregnant. Then, back into the cage."

"No!" She began to thrash, trying to throw herself from my shoulder. I locked my arm around her waist. She was secured: not the first struggling girl I’d carried this way.

"No, this cannot be! Yog take you! You will not breed me!"

"I will. You will bear me three children this year, Layla. And again, next year. And so on, in this darkness, for the rest of your life."

Layla began shrieking and thrashing. She was as desperate and pathetic as an undrugged girl being dragged to a sacrifice.

My practices were strong: my breeding slaves were ever eager to spread their legs. Just the sound of nearing footsteps made them wet. None of them, however, were as crazy as Leyla. She’d beg for a kiss or a kick. However, would she beg to breed?

I was going to find out, one way or another.

I crossed the tunnel, entered the breedery, and caged the breeding slave.

***

Had Fogrim been right? Were the refugees not our people, but our problems? Did Dura matter a damn over gold, girls, and books?

All I knew was what had proved pointless that day versus what had brought fulfillment.

Dura be damned.