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“Places, please for Slave Six. Places.” A woman’s voice announced over the backstage speakers. It was the casual tone of the stage manager spoken in near monotone. The insouciant delivery was most ironic. Backstage, somehow or another in the darkness, the word “slave” was a commonplace word for these people. It made sense. “Slave” was business as usual, nothing at all out of the ordinary.
But Slave Six knew better. Butterflies churned deep down inside her stomach as she heard the steady beat of dance music on the other side of the red velvet curtain just ahead of her. Raucous cheering, from what must have been an all-male audience, would break out at regular intervals, sometimes punctuated with wild applause and even a few occasional catcalls. The music played to a crescendo and stopped. An emcee’s voice broke the short-lived silence. The words were garbled, but they made no difference. A drum beat was played, the same beat that accompanied just about every striptease act since the days of Vaudeville: Boom chakka chakka boom chakka boom. It played again and again, each time followed by the tortured screams of some unseen girl.
Slave Six knew her time would have to come altogether too soon. She felt an overwhelming sense of fear and dread, greater than anything she had ever felt, even in these last few days after her capture. She tried to fight back against the feeling, tried to be stoic and keep her wits about her. But it was impossible. Fear undermined her every thought rendered her weak in the knees. Her lovely nearly naked body betrayed her too as she began to tremble all over. Six wanted to turn away. She wanted to run, but she had no choice. The strong arms of two very large men held her up and walked her slowly forward.
“Final call for Slave Five: Slave Five,” announced the unseen voice.
Six could see “Slave Five” standing directly behind the center of the curtain. Five had been blessed with a beautiful hourglass figure. She almost looked like a Barbie Doll, complete with impossibly long legs that were so well defined, they almost seemed chiseled. Five might have even been a dancer in her former life. She had costumed appropriately as a ballerina in a tiny crinoline tutu, arm length white gloves, white stockings, and white ballet slippers. There was no elastic, no zippers, or snaps. Everything was a traditional eighteenth century, including her white silk panties, also tied at each hip with white satin ribbons, which were in turn, tied in petite little bows.
The top half of Five’s costume, however, painted a contrasting picture. It was a brief white bustier/corset which had been laced up tight around her waist. It stopped just sort of her lovely breasts, exposing them, accentuating them, even pushing them wantonly up and out for her would-be audience to see. Five had also been fitted with a white ball gag that was tied deep into the back of her mouth, also with a satin ribbon. Five would not be dancing in the ballet, of course. Instead, she had been carefully crafted to create something more like a pornographer’s dream, an almost unreal vision of innocence defiled and obscenity revealed.
White satin ribbons also held the poor hapless beauty captive. Her knees and her ankles were bound together. Almost ironically, this little prima ballerina couldn’t even dance a simple step. Elbows and wrists also had been pulled together behind her back and similarly bound. A male guard, more than twice her size, held her steady. One arm wrapped around her wasp like waist and lifted her on tiptoes in a perfect en pointe pose, however rigidly enforced. His free hand grasped her long blond hair which had been carefully braided into a single severe strand behind her head. The guard used it like a rope. As far as he was concerned, her hair was just another bondage point. He used to bend her trembling body backward. It was a difficult pose for Five. The two of them together had created a terrible tableau of helplessness and pain.
Slave Six struggled with her predicament as well. Her long and lithe female frame had been perched on top of a pair of impossibly high black patent leather mule shoes with six-inch heels. The simplest steps were nothing less precarious, especially on the hard tile floor. To make matters worse, she had been cuffed on each ankle and tethered with a short twelve-inch chain that jingled with every step. A ring gag held her mouth open wide, forcing her luscious lips into an almost perfect “o” which distorted her lovely face into a strangely enforced expression. It was as if she was permanently poised for a scream. Whatever it was, the scream would never come. Still, she managed some degree of personal dignity. She tipped her head back as she walked. It may have made it more difficult to maintain her balance, but she didn’t want to drool all over herself.
“Last call for Slave Five,” announced the unseen voice. “Last call.”
A quiet battle of wills began to unfold as the winsome young ballerina struggled to twist herself free from her guard. In turn, each of her own constricted movements would be swiftly countered. He was a mountain of a man easily twice her size. Her struggles made no sense whatsoever, but the reason no longer mattered. Five was mindlessly lost in a roiling sea of her own emotions, all of which told her to run. Together the two looked like they might have been characters in some sort of absurd tragedy, or a strangely choreographed sideshow, a little bondage ballet depicting man’s inhumanity to women. And, oddly, it played itself out almost in perfect time to the music.
Six’s “costume” if one could call it that, stood out in sharp contrast to Five’s. She wore all black: sheer thigh high nylons held up by the tiniest strap garter belt, a pair of thong panties almost equally as transparent, a satin underwired black half cup push up bra which covered only the bottom half of her breasts. The little bra had shamelessly exposed her nipples and imbued them with an almost continuous sense of motion. Her lovely cleavage looked like liquid under the skin: a bounce, a bobble, and a ripple accompanied each of her hobbled steps. In just a few minutes, they were sure to become a command performance in their own right, but her own debasement was made worse by her bondage. Her arms had been pressed together behind her back and forced into a single sleeve leather monoglove which painfully pulled her shoulders back and cantilevered her cleavage up and away from her torso. The winsome Six was already well too aware of the show that she had been putting on for the guards. She glanced ever so briefly at their eyes, but they never made contact with hers. They were riveted on her breasts instead, eagerly drinking in every bounce and jiggle.
“Showtime for Slave Five,” said the voice. “Showtime.”
Slave Five’s guard pressed his cheek against the helpless girl’s. He kissed her gently on the ball gag and whispered something, no doubt obscene, into her ear. In turn, the frightened girl stiffened up and called upon every muscle in her lovely body to wrench loose from his grip in one last heroic effort, but is was futile. The guard just laughed. It was all part of his plan. He pulled her by the hair until and tipped her head back as far as it would go. A fanfare played. The curtains parted. And the two of them were framed in a bright white spotlight. Then, right on cue, the guard lifted the terrified girl off her feet and took a giant step on stage. In a trice, the curtain fell closed behind them as the audience roared with approval.
The corridor went dark once again. Slave Six was now all alone with the two leering guards. They walked her to the same place where the ill-fated Slave Five had stood. One of them pinched her nipples. She let out a squeal, but no one cared. The noise on the other side of the curtain had become deafening. The music played to a new crescendo. Somehow or another over the top of it all, Slave Six could hear the tortured screams of her predecessor.
“Makes them hard,” the guard spoke directly into her ear as he pinched her a second time. Another hand grabbed her by the ass.
“Final call for Slave Six,” said the voice. “Final call.”
A finger found its way past the tiny thong panty and worked its way up into her sex. Shocked and surprised, she stood up on tiptoe. She tried to wiggle away, but the finger stayed right with her, penetrating her, friction her, and fucking her by proxy. Six turned beet red in the darkness and closed her eyes in shame and humiliation.
“Oh,” she moaned in protest, shaking her head from side to side. Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Makes you wet,” said the other guard.
The three of them may have been standing still, but her breasts began to jiggle all over again, this time from the fucking. Against her will, she started to moisten up. Her panties turned wet and transparent, clinging gently to the tender cleft of her sex, now a fleshy female camel toe almost offered up for all to see. A new sense of shame came over her. Everyone would know she was aroused. There would be ho hiding it. She tilted her head back even further, this time not as a matter of pride, but total surrender.
What could she do? She was no longer a woman. She was just a number, nothing more than so much girl flesh, all lips and tits, an innocent victim of sadistic depravity, a fleeting figure on stage who would be ruthlessly toyed and tortured against her will merely for a moment’s entertainment. She was a slave and nothing more.
The stage was had grown quiet. Five had stopped screaming, but her incoherent sobs could be heard even through the curtain. A new crescendo played.
“Showtime for Slave Six,” came the call. “Showtime!”
The curtains opened once again. The light was blinding. The emcee said something but no one really noticed. The half-naked, semi-aroused and totally humiliated Slave Six was thrust forward so hard that her head tipped forward releasing a mouthful of drool all over her bouncing boobs. Cheers filled the room. Life would never be the same for Slave Six.
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