CHAPTER THREE
I WASN’T SURE at first whether or not I’d returned to the waking world. The sight of the clean, white room before my eyes was warped and fuzzy, none of the details quite clear. People moved through the room in front of me, but I couldn’t see who, or what they were doing, or really anything but vague shapes and colors.
I thought maybe I was experiencing some kind of sleep paralysis. I tried to move, but there was a heavy pressure closing in on me from every side that kept me completely immobile. I could move my eyes, but I couldn’t blink, and yet my eyes hadn’t dried out. The pressure extended into my mouth, keeping me from moving my jaw and forcing me to breathe steadily, and even up my asshole.
After a minute of this paralysis I realized I was probably awake. Whatever was being done to me, at least it wasn’t painful. However, the sensory deprivation and complete lack of control did strange things to my sense of time. I drifted through the hours in a sort of fugue state. I might have slept at some point, but it was impossible to tell for sure.
Finally, the force surrounding me convulsed. I lurched forward, gagging as the protrusions retracted from my orifices. Moments later, I slid feet-first onto a white tile floor, covered in a substance reminiscent of phlegm and gasping for air.
“What,” I croaked. “Where am I?”
“Medical wing,” said a bored voice. I rubbed the slime from my eyes and peered at the speaker. She was a tall woman, red-haired and well-muscled, sitting cross-legged on a nearby chair. Besides the thin metal collar and flat shoes, she wore only a short-sleeved crop top, blocked diagonally half bright red and half white, cut high at the neck but showing a good deal of her breasts below the nipples, and a red thong or cache-sexe. “They tore you up pretty bad at the initiation.”
As if I needed the reminder. I took in my surroundings. Behind me was a row of white pods, casket-shaped and with a hazy-sheened window taking up most of the front. I had come out of one. There were a couple stainless-steel tables. Chantrea was on the linoleum floor next to me, I realized, as coated with glistening gunk as me and naked apart from her collar.
I touched my neck and felt my own. The coppery metal was textured strangely, smooth but with facets, as if to evoke the pitted surface of a meteorite. Running my hands across it, I realized there was a spike on the inside that was embedded in the back of my neck, right at the spine. Gasping, I tried to pull it off, over my head, and was wracked with a wave of gut-wrenching pain across my whole body.
The tall woman shook her head. “Christ, what a little idiot. The collars don’t come off, kid.”
“Not a – wait, who are you?” Chantrea demanded, climbing to her feet as I flopped on the floor. “What’s going to happen to us now?”
“I’m your trainer, and I’m going to train you,” the woman replied without affect. “Slave WH, but you had better just call me Mistress, for the time being.”
“Trained as - what, as sex slaves or what?” I demanded, managing to sit up.
“Yeah, essentially.”
“You’re training us even though you’re a slave yourself?”
“Yeah. Look, time’s a-wasting and you’re already a day behind the rest of this batch. Let’s get at her, shall we?” WH hoisted herself out of the chair and went for the door, not even checking to see if we were following. Chantrea and I glanced at each other and followed. What else could we do?
We set a brisk pace down an ordinary-looking hallway, no decorations, just a tile floor and white walls. The air was thoroughly conditioned and a little too cold for comfort. I tried not to stare too obviously at WH’s powerful thighs and buttocks, not at all concealed by her choice of dress. She stopped at a heavy door and pushed it open, ushering us through.
It was a public bathroom, although with a couple key differences from the ones you might find at an office building or a gym. For starters, everything was in the open, with no stalls between the toilets or blocking the showers from view. On stools by the door were two girls in white-and-tan leotards, who stood to attention when we entered. “Ma’am,” they nodded at WH.
“Girls,” WH said, “the last of the new meat’s recovered . They’re joining my orientation class today, so I need them cleaned up and uniformed. When you’ve handled that one of you can bring them down to Room, uh, Room 316.”
When the slaves nodded in understanding, WH turned to me and Chantrea. “You two behave yourselves, and do whatever the toilet slaves say. I’m tuning your collars to zap you if your kinaesthetic readings spike, so don’t bother trying to start any fights.” Kinaesthetic readings? A chill ran down my spine. What, exactly, were these collars capable of? From what I could feel, it might have been plugged in directly to my spinal column. As WH turned and left, I couldn’t hide a shiver at the thought of what that might mean.
The toilet slaves got straight to business, not even bothering to introduce themselves. The busty one with black hair took charge of me. She turned on one of the shower heads and ushered me into its stream.
I jumped at the sudden chill. “Hey! We don’t get to use hot water?”
“You don’t get to wait for the water to warm up, anyway.” That said, she picked up a washcloth and set to scrubbing me down from head to toe of the thick slime.
“Can’t you just back off and let me do it?” I protested, squirming away from her touch.
She wrapped one arm around me, pressing her front to my back as she reached around to scour my breasts. “Sorry, against the rules. You aren’t supposed to be touching your own body when it can be avoided. Now hold still or I’ll have to punish you.” I managed not to move too much as she carried on with her task, despite the fear and rage gripping me. At least the water warmed up soon enough.
I glanced across to where the blonde toilet slave was scouring Chantrea’s boobs. Seeing them shake and bounce with the manhandling while feeling the same being done to me - well, I couldn’t deny that it turned me on a little.
“You like that, don’t you?” asked the black-haired slave, and reached down to my crotch. My face burned as I realized I had gotten a bit hard.
“Fuck off,” I snarled, twisting out of her grip. She grabbed me by the shoulders, and I began to shove her away before I felt a painful shock. I spasmed and fell to the tile floor.
The toilet slave sighed. “You’re only wasting our time, you little idiot. I’m adding a penalty to your chart, and if you don’t start cooperating then we’ll be late and both of us will get our asses whipped.”
She helped me to my feet. I was crying and trembling with despair, but I let her comb out and rinse my hair. I could see that Rea, too, wasn’t dealing well with the level of control we were being subjected to.
We were washed thoroughly and rubbed down with a floral-smelling lotion, our hair oiled and dried, and our teeth brushed with unflavored toothpaste. Then the blonde-haired slave, her pleather-like leotard still slicked with water, retrieved from an adjacent room our “training uniforms.”
I allowed the other slave to dress me. The first piece she put on was a bustier. The bottom hem sat well above my hips, just over my navel, with a few metallic rings built into it as if to hold up stockings or something. It was mostly backless, held on with only two thick straps, one at the small of my back and one just under my shoulder blades. The cups had minimal support for my bust, and were cut barely high enough to cover my nipples with most of my cleavage visible as well. The material was similar to the toilet slave’s leotard, appearing similar to leather but with a plastic texture. It was very thin, but tight and stiff if not actually constrictive - certainly not designed for comfort. It had the same blocked diagonal pattern as I’d seen on other slaves, half white and half pastel pink.
“Is there a significance to the colors?” I asked as she picked up the next item.
“White means you’re in training, or attached to the training program. Pink means you’re privately owned, rather than the collective property of the Resort, in which case your uniform would be entirely white. Now, shut up while I put your cinch on.” The cinch was a wide white belt, not a corset but aspiring to one. It had a satin-like texture, but with a rigid core that would bend around me but not up-to-down. It sat just beneath my rib cage, and reached as far down as the bustier, although the bustier did extend below where the cinch at my sides. It had small metal D-rings in several places, which would be fastening points for other bondage gear, and when it was tightened my ability to breath or bend over was restricted.
Next came a pair of white rubber mittens. They were just flexible enough that I could still touch my fingertips to my palms, but wouldn’t permit any complex manipulation. They buckled around my wrists. Then white, high heeled booties which buckled in the same way over my ankles. The heel was less than two inches high, but it was thin - not quite a stiletto, but I wasn’t confident in my ability to walk in them. Luckily, they had some degree of ankle support, because if not I would probably have turned an ankle sooner rather than later.
“Almost done,” said the slave. “Do you need the toilet before I finish you up?” I shook my head. “Yeah, the gelbaths take care of that stuff. Just checking.” She held up a pink butt plug, not that big, with a slot cut through its wide head. “Now spread your legs.”
I could feel my face grow red. I wanted to resist, to protest that my body belonged to me alone. For a moment, I honestly wanted to throttle her with my restrained hands. But I knew that couldn’t happen, so spread my legs I did, careful to keep my ankles straight so as not to get injured by my shoes. I even relaxed my anus as best I could as she slid the plug in.
The final piece of the uniform was a white, Y-shaped strip of leather with a thin triangle of stretchy material attached to the two “arms.” She attached it to the cinch around my waist, clipping these two straps to the anchors at my hips, then passing it between my legs. She made sure to arrange it so the twin straps passed to either side of my balls before threading the remaining strap through the slot in the plug protruding from my anus. It attached to the back of the cinch, and she pulled it tight before fastening it. The result was much like a high-legged thong. My ass was completely exposed, the rear strap buried between my cheeks with only the round head of the butt plug visible over it. My genitals were compressed under the triangular panel, forming a visible bulge. The panel was tiny, though, not even covering my entire pubic mound.
The slave led me over to the large mirror by the door. I stepped carefully across the tile floor and looked up. I gasped, bringing one gloved hand to my face. This outfit put my every asset on full display. It was like wearing a neon sign that announced I was someone else’s property - clearly designed not for my own comfort, but for the pleasure and convenience of another. I turned away, disgusted, but I could also feel my prick straining against its tight covering.
Chantrea was dressed in the same way. The only difference was the additional plug, the head of which was visible between her legs, and the fork of her “thong” was slightly higher in order to accommodate this. She looked as miserable as I felt, although her eyes lingered over my own outfit. There was no denying we each looked more the sex object than either of us ever had, except maybe at the initiation ceremony.
With only a brief pause to tie my hair in a tight ponytail, the toilet slaves led us out of the bathroom and back into the sterile halls. They took us down a flight of concrete stairs that looked like a fire escape.
The air got even cooler as we descended, and I shivered. “Are we underground?” Chantrea wanted to know. The blonde slave nodded in confirmation. It explained the lack of window and the heavily conditioned air.
The door to Room 316 was as nondescript as any other we’d passed. The blonde slave knocked, and in a few moments WH pulled it open. She gave Chantrea and me a once-over. “Good work,” she said to the toilet slaves. “You’re dismissed.” As the slaves turned to go, WH beckoned the two of us in. “You’re going to be playing catch-up, a little, since you’re joining the class a day late. You’ll be alright, though.”
The room reminded me of a ballet studio, with a wooden floor and one wall covered in a floor-to-ceiling mirror, even down to the hand rails along the walls - although ballet studios didn’t tend to have quite so many anchors for chains and ropes built into their walls and ceiling. Standing in a line along its center, facing away from us but catching my eye in the mirror, were three girls in the same training outfit as Chantrea and me. There was also another woman I presumed was a second trainer, slouching against one of the side walls.
“All right, girls,” said WH as she led the two of us to stand before the mirrored wall. “The last two members of class are joining us today. Why don’t we have a round of introductions? State your name, rank, and master. You all know I’m WH, a B-class slave trainer belonging to the Resort.”
The woman at the side of the room stood up straight when WH nodded to her. She wore a catsuit that covered everything but her head, in the same red-and-white colors as WH’s outfit. It seemed to be made of nylon, with the most stretched areas somewhat see-through. She was as tall as WH, but more lithe and slender than muscular, and with closely-cropped black hair and a severe, bony face. “I am KG, a B-class slave trainer owned by the Resort,” she introduced herself with a flourish of the stiff leather crop she held.
Now it was the slaves’ turn. The three of them had their hands held at waist-level with a clip connecting the rubber cuffs incorporated into their mittens to the metal rings anchored in their cinches. They also each had a second collar in addition to the slender coppery one worn by everyone in the room. These were iron, not tight but with large blunt points along their upper rim, and were connected with a cable to the ceiling. It was clear that the points would dig into the sensitive skin of the girls’ jaws and neck if they moved from the place they were standing, or tried to sit down. In fact, I could see bruises there that indicated this had been happening already.
The first girl wasn’t especially muscular, but she was powerfully built – tall, with a barrel chest and thick hands. Her boobs were huge, spilling out over the top of her bustier, and her light blonde hair was in a ponytail. “I’m MZ,” she said in a deep voice, slow, even drugged-sounding, “a slave-in-training owned by Master Neptune.” She wore the same white-and-pink outfit as Chantrea and I did, whereas the other two girls’ were identical but all-white.
The second was easily the shortest person in the room, maybe five foot two in her heels. “I am TU, a slave-in-training owned by the Resort.” She had a heavy eastern-European accent, dark hair in a bob cut, and was thin to the point of scrawniness.
“I’m -” The final slave started, then frowned. “I’m EV, a slave-in-training owned by the Resort.” She had a frizzy ponytail and the white uniform stood out starkly against her dark skin. She had a lithe, graceful figure. I could imagine her doing gymnastics, figure skating, something like that. Her wide eyebrows drew together and she gasped as KG whipped her across the ass, shuffling her feet but managing not to move so much as to tug on the collar.
“We expect prompt and flawless execution of our orders,” KG declared, “so try not to stutter.”
WH poked me in the hip. “Now you.”
I glanced at her, my eyes wide. I knew things wouldn’t go well for me if I hesitated, so I spoke quickly. “I’m QC, a slave-in-training owned - um -”
“By Master Day,” WH supplied. “Now you.”
Chantrea cleared her throat. “I’m LN, a slave-in-training owned by Master Day,” she recited.
“Excellent. Let’s get to it, then,” said WH. She and KG put our restraints on, clipping our wrists to our cinches and lowering a pair of collars from the ceiling to add us to the line of girls. “Today we’re practicing one of the most basic skills for any slave. You must be able to take pain without flinching or other outward reactions. Of course there are times when your master will desire a little gasping, screaming, or what have you, but all that’s very simple to learn as long as you’re adequately trained in the skill of non-reaction.” This said, she held up a short wand tipped by a glowing red LED, and brushed it against my thigh.
A low buzzing sound accompanied the sharp, hot sensation that hit me at the point of contact like a burning needle. I staggered, losing my balance with one of my slender heels and leaving most of my weight supported by the collar for a moment. I gasped, frantically finding my footing as the dull points dug painfully into my jawbone.
“An excellent example of what not to do,” WH declared as I managed to stand up. I glared at her, and she immediately touched her wand to the side of my breast. This time, I stood there rigidly with only a grimace at the pain. “You shouldn’t be making a facial expression like that, either, but I suppose we’ll be merciful and give you some time to practice at that before we start punishing you for it.”
I swallowed tears as WH flicked her wand against Chantrea’s chest. She did better than I had, with only a slight stumble before she stood up straight again.
For hours on end, WH periodically touched her wand to us slaves-in-training, while KG whipped her leather crop at our sensitive skin. Sometimes they went for several minutes without hurting anyone, but even then I was only filled with dread that they might begin again, with me, at any second. And the whole time, I was faced with my own image in the huge mirror before us. I was too embarrassed to make eye contact with any of my classmates, let alone myself. Still, I couldn’t help the occasional moment of admiration at just how hot I and the others were. The bustier, even with its cups tugged down to expose my nipples, supported my boobs enough that they bounced and jiggled with every jump or flinch. My waist, drawn slightly narrower by the cinch buckled around it, added to my feminine figure. And the thong, as well as leaving hardly anything to the imagination, was the only reason I didn’t get hard during these little self-reflections.
It wasn’t long before I had deep bruises all across the bottom of my jaw and around my neck. If I was getting any better at stopping myself from flinching, I couldn’t tell. In fact, I only got more exhausted as time wore on, and everything hurt more the more tired I grew. By the end of the all-day training exercise I was as much a quivering wreck as each of my four classmates.
“I have to say I’m disappointed in our progress today,” WH announced as she and KG freed us from the spiked collars, leaving us in the wrist restraints. Her voice was a little ragged from exertion - not that I felt a bit sorry for her. “We might have to add a day on to the schedule, if they don’t start improving.” KG nodded in accord.
We followed the two of them as fast as we could on our sore feet. The halls weren’t as empty as they’d been earlier, and we passed a couple other small groups of slaves. Soon we arrived at a bathroom similar to the one we’d been brought to earlier. Of the eight toilet slaves there, one was washing another girl in a shower stall, and five more came over to take care of our group. The green-eyed girl who removed my thong and butt plug sat me on one of the toilets. KG and WH had allowed us to pee twice over the course of training (holding a bucket between our legs and threatening dire consequences if we couldn’t wait), but by now I was full to bursting. I let my bladder go in full view of everyone in the room with a sigh of relief.
Then green-eyes stood me up and held up a nozzle at the end of a thin hose. “Legs spread, girl,” she ordered, and when I obliged she worked it in through my anus. Meanwhile, KG and WH had stripped nude and each turned on one of the shower nozzles in the far wall. They cleaned themselves without any sign of embarrassment at their little audience.
When my bowels were quite full of warm water, green-eyes removed the nozzle and let me sit down on the toilet again. For a moment I tried to hold it in. But I only managed for a second before a mixture of water and shit burst into the toilet with a loud farting noise. I’d been the first girl to complete her enema, and I could feel myself turning bright red at all the eyes that turned my way.
Paying them no mind, the green-eyed slave methodically removed each remaining piece of my uniform - the mittens, booties, cinch, and bustier. She led me over to the showers and gave me a quick rinse, keeping my hair dry, followed by an application of lotion over my whole body. Then she put the cinch back around my waist, and the mittens back on my hands, and clipped them together again. With that, she was done, and she left me by the entrance, waiting for everyone else to finish up.
Painfully, I lowered myself to sit on the floor and leaned back against the wall. My ass was sore from the sting of KG’s crop, but not as sore as my feet. Idly, I watched as the toilet slaves tended to my classmates. I couldn’t help but note that the big blonde girl, MZ, had a sizable dick.
Our group reformed as WH and KG came over to the door. Both were nude, damp, and carrying their clothes. I returned to my feet with a groan of pain and no small amount of difficulty, given I couldn’t use my hands. Still, I managed it, and followed along with the group.
It was a long walk through the underground corridors before we reached the room that would be our quarters for the night, or at least while we slept. I had no way of knowing what time it actually was. I wasn’t sure if we were still underground. There was a definite current of fresh air, warm and humid. Another group of slaves was arriving at the same time we did, and we shuffled through the open doors right behind them.
Later, I would find out that most people on the island referred to this room as the Kennel. The air smelled of excrement, rot, sweat, and misery. Wire cages were stacked three-high against both walls. They were probably designed to hold dogs, but it was human slaves that were kept here - anyone who hadn’t earned more or less comfortable accommodations in one way or another.
KG led the way into the room, with WH herding us along from behind. I squinted momentarily at the bright, harsh light that picked out the long room’s every detail. The floor and walls were concrete, with the sections of floor under the sturdy shelves that housed the cages sloped slightly toward the center in order to drain into the twin strips of steel grating that covered drains stretching the length of the room. They were streaked with brownish stains and congealment. The room was maybe twenty cages long, and more than half were filled by what must have been seventy or eighty slaves. All had their hands restrained somehow, mostly with cinches and mittens like my own. Many were in tan, or pink. The cages were only waist-high, and too short for most of their occupants to lie down flat.
KG took Chantrea by the shoulder and guided her into a cage on the lowest shelf, feet first. Each of us in turn were put in a free cage nearby. MZ and TU were on the highest shelf, while EV and I were on the middle.
I twisted around, finding a comfortable position. The wire mesh of the floor was thicker and closer-spaced than that of the walls, so it didn’t dig into my skin as much as it might have, but with my wrists held in place it was hard to adjust. I settled on sitting with my legs crossed, hunched over.
For a little while longer, there was a steady influx of slaves. They entered the Kennel and were helped into cages either by each other or by the room’s two attendants. These were a pair of toilet slaves in red-and-tan leotards who seemed to be responsible for the room’s smooth operation. At one point, EV began trying to start a conversation with one of the caged toilet slaves nearby, and one of the attendants wordlessly sprayed her with a powerful jet of cold hose water. So we watched the evening’s proceedings in silence.
About five in six of the cages were filled before the two attendants rolled a cart down the table and began doling out food from it. Not every slave got food, or the same food; it looked like they were checking a list on an electronic tablet as they handed it out. It was served in rectangular metal trays that they pushed through a slot in the bottom of each cage’s door. None of us could use our hands to eat, so we were stuck licking it out of the heavy tray like dogs. Many of the other slaves were swallowing desperately, apparently ravenous.
Not that I wasn’t hungry after such an exhausting day, but the food itself left a lot to be desired. Most of the tray was filled with a long-grained rice, cooked haphazardly and oversalted, mixed with what seemed to be some kind of paste made of boiled vegetables. There was definitely carrot in there, and a good deal of spinach, and other things I couldn’t identify. In the center was a generous mound of unidentifiable meat, cut into little yellow pellets. I didn’t recognize the taste or the texture. It wasn’t bad, but there was a strange crunch to it that I had never experienced before. Still, the meal could have been a lot worse.
When they’d delivered all the meals, the Kennel’s attendants flicked most of the lights off and I quickly realized why some of the girls had been trying to finish their food first. This dim, shadowy light gave free rein to the resident roaches. I heard a few brief shrieks from girls who were suddenly squirming wildly in their cages. When I felt the heavy body of a roach run up my thigh, I gave a little scream myself, turning over in a frantic attempt to shake it off.
The bugs were nosing around my food, too. I started eating as fast as I could, hoping to avoid their attention, but in the process I spilled a good deal of food and got plenty on my face, as well. I washed it down with a long drink from the flexible nozzle that hung by my cage’s entrance. Then, having eaten, there was nothing more to do but lie awkwardly on the cage floor, shoulders flat, legs bent sideways, and flinch at the shadows and imagined touches of roaches.
In a few minutes, the attendants returned down the aisle to collect the trays, pulling them out of each cage in turn and spraying cold water at a talkative pair of slaves. Then they retired to their chairs at one end of the room.
I hadn’t expected to fall asleep as soon as I did. The Kennel was an assault on the senses, and after the day I’d had I was a bundle of exposed nerves. But I was also deeply tired, and soon enough I slipped into unconsciousness.