The blonde sitting over there at the desk – that’s Vanessa.
She looks fabulous for her thirty-two years. Hourglass figure, curves in all the right places. Well turned out in her heeled ankle boots and tight black pants. There’s something about her that tells you she’s in charge here. Perhaps it’s the way she wears her hair: Tied back as it is in that immaculate, high-knot pony-tail.
This is her office. She runs things here. She’s got over fifty girls on her books, most of them eastern-European and Russian. They probably expected to get chambermaid or waitress work. Perhaps they still think they might, one day.
Right now though, they work for Vanessa. They’re her girls. Her whores.
Vanessa’s supplier, Stenson, is the shabbily dressed, unshaven guy sitting opposite her across the desk.
“Well,” Stenson raises his brow expectantly. “What do you think?”
“Very nice,” Vanessa nods. “She’s pretty.”
They’re looking at Francesca.
Francesca is indeed pretty. And young. Too young to be here. Cropped blondish hair. Hazel-brown, blinking eyes. She’s shivering. Frightened? Looks tired. Distraught. It’s been a long trip.
“Do you speak English, Francesca?” Vanessa asks.
“Yes, a little.”
“You understand where you are and what is happening, don’t you?”
Was that a sob? Is Francesca crying?
“You’re to work for me until you’ve paid off your transport, fees and documentation costs. You understand that, don’t you?”
Francesca nods. Definitely trying to hold back tears.
Vanessa likes calling them “girls”. Her girls. It makes her feel important. Powerful. Sexy.
“Take off your clothes, Francesca. I want to look at you.”
Francesca doesn’t look up. She understands. She knows why she’s here. It’s only until she can pay them for bringing her here. She had to come, didn’t she? To find a better life. To try to be someone. Don’t look. Just undress. Easy.
“Come on, girl.”
Francesca crosses one arm over the other, pulls her frock up over her head, sets it to one side, and stands before them in her underwear.
“Everything. Hurry up.”
Francesca unclips her bra and reveals to them her medium breasts with their thick light-brown nipples. She slides her panties down her legs and steps out of them. She’s in good shape. The nub of her clitoris is visible. Did she shave her pussy because she knew she would end up here?
“Beautiful,” Vanessa sighs.
Francesca doesn’t look up.
Francesca turns obediently. Tight little bottom. She’s going to be popular. Stenson will want extra for her.
“She’s young. How old are you, Francesca?”
Francesca nods. She might be eighteen. She might not be. She definitely looks young. Too young. She should at home with her family in her village in Romania. This is no place for a girl her age.
“She’s not a virgin is she?” Can’t afford a virgin.
Stenson shakes his head. He knows she’s not a virgin. He knows that because he raped her twice on the way here. And Gatsby had a go too. Definitely not a virgin.
“Bend over, girl.”
Can’t see Francesca’s face, but she can’t be enjoying this. Displaying her pussy-lips to them from behind. But that’s why she’s here, isn’t it? That’s her ware. It’s what Vanessa is buying.
Vanessa gets up, struts confidently over to Francesca’s rear, places a palm on one of the girl’s bare buttocks, and gives it a good feel. Firm. Tender.
“I like her,” Vanessa makes up her mind. “But I want her cheap.”
“Three thousand,” Stenson says. “For this quality, that is cheap.”
Good. Not unaffordable.
“I’m going to have to train her up,” Vanessa shakes her head. “I’ll give you two thousand for her.”
Francesca still bent over before them. So this is what it feels like to be sold into sexual slavery. To be sold to an English woman. For a couple of thousand pounds. More money than can be imagined back in her village. So cold. So naked. So exposed. Have they finished looking at her pussy? Can she straighten up? Can she put her clothes back on?
“Two-and-a-half. Agreed.” Vanessa shakes Stenson’s outstretched hand.
“A pleasure doing business with you, as always,” Stenson beams at her. Another deal done. Another whore sold. Easy money. And he’ll be back. With another girl. Around the end of the month. Una Latina de Bolivia, perhaps, next time. Adios. He doesn’t even glance at Francesca as he exits Vanessa’s office, whistling.
Vanessa sits back at her desk and taps her keyboard. The minutes go by. Francesca shivers. Her pussy still on show from the rear. This is humiliating. Cruel. Absurd. Can she straighten up now?
“Don’t move girl.”
Why isn’t she allowed to move? Was this how prostitutes were supposed to behave? She hadn’t imagined it would be anything like this. Were all the girls that come here treated like this? Are they all raped by their traffickers? Are they all inspected and sold like meat?
“Listen, girl. If you behave yourself and do what you’re told, we’ll get along.”
Vanessa has said the same thing to more than one hundred girls. It comes effortlessly to her now, but it wasn’t always this easy. She used to feel the guilt and the shame. She used to want to stop and get out and not be involved. But over time she’s learned to be at peace with herself. She knows what she’s doing isn’t right. She knows she’s as much to blame for forcing these girls into prostitution as anyone. But she also knows that if she didn’t do it, then they would only be sold to someone else, and that that could be a thousand times worse. No. At least if they were with her, she could make it tolerable for them. Her girls are the lucky ones. She knows they are lucky because she has seen what goes on elsewhere. She has seen girls beaten to within inches of their lives. She’s seen them branded. She’s seen them Rocky-fested.
No, Vanessa doesn’t treat her girls like that. She’s helping them. Sure, she can be cruel. But it’s cruel-to-be-kind. That’s fair, isn’t it? Don’t the girls almost always end up thanking her, despite themselves?
“You may turn and face me.”
Francesca straightens up, relieved. As she turns she catches Vanessa’s gaze. She looks down hurriedly, unsure of herself. And ashamed. She knew it would be like this, didn’t she? But she still came anyway, didn’t she?
“I’m tough, but fair. I know how hard it is for you girls coming over here. I want to help you, but I can only help you if you help me. We’ll work out a plan to get your debt paid off. I won’t cheat or mislead you. Just work hard for me and obey me. If you can manage that, your stay here will pass smoothly, painlessly and quickly. Do you understand, girl?”
Francesca sniffs and nods. She understands. She doesn’t have any choice but to understand. Maybe they really will help her. Maybe.
“Do you know how to curtsey, girl?”
Francesca nibbles her lower lip.
“Where you’ll be working, you need to learn to curtsey. Curtsey for me now, girl.”
A small, shy curtsey. That will do. For now.
“Every time you speak to me, you will curtsey first – and that includes nodding to say yes. Understood?”
Francesca nods. Then curtsies.
Wrong way round. But that will do too. For now.
“Since I have just bought you, I am now your owner. You will address me as ‘mistress’.”
Francesca stares at the floor. Owned? She belongs to someone else?
“As far as I am concerned, you are my slave. My property. You will remain my property until you worked enough to buy yourself back from me.”
How does Francesca feel, now that she knows she is someone else’s property? A possession. A thing. A nothing.
“Please…” Francesca starts.
“What is it?”
“The man…” She manages between sobs. “He forced me…”
“I’m not interested,” Vanessa shrugs. “If you were raped, it was because you deserved it.”
That’s harsh, she knows. But it’s the only way. She’s gone the sympathetic route in the past and it’s ended up getting messy. Experience has taught her that the only way these girls will survive their ordeal with their psyche intact is never to pander to their doubts and uncertainties, however understandable they might be. Better instead to make them see from the outset that they cannot control it. If they realise they cannot control it, then they won’t feel responsible for it. If they are not responsible for it, then they can endure it.
“So, girl. Let’s see if you’ve understood. Who owns you?”
Francesca performs a small curtsey and squeaks inaudibly.
“Speak up girl.”
“Say it. Say ‘you own me, mistress’ and curtsey while you say it.”
“You own me, mistress.”
Delightful. She’s half-way there already. Such a sweet, submissive girl. Cute little curtsies. Need to work on her posture, though.
Oh, it’s Zynab. Look how she slides saucily round the half-ajar office door. Such a tease.
Zynab is Vanessa’s assistant. She’s twenty-three. British, but of Pakistani descent. Stunning short skirt. High-heeled sandals. Sexy floral-print blouse. Long, loose, dark hair. Full, pouting, fuck-me lips. Painted red.
“Oh my,” Zynab puts a finger to the corner of her mouth and grins mischievously. “Sorry to interrupt. Is that the new girl?”
Vanessa doesn’t answer. Of course it’s the new girl. What does Zynab want? Busy.
“Very nice…” Zynab’s eyes shine naughtily. “May I?”
Impossible to say no to Zynab. Not in that skirt. Even if she is interrupting.
“Of course. Go ahead.”
Zynab sidles up to Francesca and for a moment they return each other’s gaze. Mistake. How dare Francesca look her superior in the eye? Disrespectful little white slave-bitch. Slaves look down. At their owner’s feet. That’s how it works.
“Don’t look at me, whore!”
Vanessa bristles with pleasure. She adores watching Zynab reprimand the girls. Because she has a certain way about her, something which Vanessa has always envied. She has the courage to be cruel where most would hold back. And for someone so young, she’s not afraid to demonstrate her wicked talents openly. Almost as if it is the audience – in this instance Vanessa – that drives her.
“Sorry…” Francesca bleats.
Zynab glares at the pussy-maid-to-be (because that’s the vacancy they’ve purchased her for) and dares her – double dares her – to look up again.
“Look at my feet, whore.”
Wonderful feet. Incredible bottom too, from Vanessa’s vantage point. Who wouldn’t but admire Zynab’s buttocks tucked up snugly in that cute little skirt of hers. The skirt that Vanessa insists she wears. The skirt that Zynab resisted for so long – because in her culture “women don’t dress like whores.” But Vanessa is the boss. And this is her culture. Her assistant will dress as she pleases. Wear the skirt, or be replaced. Simple.
“My feet own you.” Zynab grips Francesca’s chin between her thumb and forefinger and tilts her head forwards. Then she turns to Vanessa and raises a questioning eyebrow.
Vanessa smiles. Zynab deserves a treat. She’s a good assistant. Look at her hips in that skirt. She’s an Indian Goddess. Would love to have her for a slave. To have her standing submissively, head bowed, displaying her rich, smooth brown flesh, her bare breasts… To have her curtseying and saying ‘mistress’ and kneeling and bowing. That’s the trouble with being accustomed to having submissive, naked girls at your constant beck and call. You can’t help but imagine having every woman you meet in your service.
“Sorry…” Francesca is in tears. The poor girl. She’s been forced into this. She’s an illegal in this country. She has no friends here. No relatives to turn to. She has to get some money from somewhere. She has to.
Vanessa feels her arousal growing. What is it about Zynab that makes her so horny? What if Zynab were to command *her* to kneel? Would she kneel? How must that feel? Her sheer beauty is enough to make you want to submit to her, isn’t it?
Francesca kneels, visibly afraid. She’s probably never had her tongue inside another woman’s vagina. She’s about to find out. Poor little thing. Naked. Miles from home. Just been told she’s owned. That she’s a slave. Raped by Stenson and his cronies. And now kneeling at Zynab’s feet. Still looking at them obediently.
They’re gorgeous feet. Perfect high-heeled sandals. Perfect coffee-brown skin.
“Kiss my feet.”
Francesca contemplates Zynab’s toes. She doesn’t have any choice. She’s not legal. She doesn’t know anyone. She’s their whore. Their slave.
“What are you snivelling for? You want to pay off your debt, don’t you? Kiss my feet. NOW.”
Francesca bows humbly and presses her lips to the bridge of Zynab’s left foot. Smell her flesh. Taste it. It was never meant to be like this. It was meant to be easy. Go to the UK. Work in the sex industry for a while. Make money quickly.
Vanessa, still seated at her desk, squirms with pleasure. This is why she puts up with the occasional prickles of conscience. Nothing trumps this. Nothing. One submissive sex-slave being dominated by one beautiful and willing assistant. Wearing the skirt she said she would never wear.
“Use your tongue. Lick my toes.”
Poor Francesca. It’s not her fault. She knew she would have to do some things she wouldn’t want to do. That was the nature of the work, wasn’t it? And she had even heard about the English and their perversions and their bizarre fetishes. But she never thought it would be like this. Like this! God. Not like this.
“Say sorry,” Zynab smirks down at her.
“Sorry…” Francesca sobs, repeatedly kissing the tops of Zynab’s toes.
“I am your mistress. You will call me mistress. Apologise again. Kiss my feet and keep apologising.”
“Sorry mistress.” Kiss. “Sorry mistress”. Kiss. “Sorry mistress”. Kiss.
It won’t be forever, will it? Kiss her feet. Accept inferiority. It’s just the way things are. Life is not always fair. Maybe she *had* been a little disrespectful? Look at Zynab’s ankles. And she has amazing legs, doesn’t she? No-one has long, smooth, brown legs like that back in Romania.
“Sorry mistress”. Kiss. “Sorry mistress”. Kiss.
Vanessa leans back in her chair and slips a hand past her belt-line into the front of her pants. Already moist. Watching Zynab makes her so horny. So incredibly horny.
“Sorry mistress”. Kiss. “Sorry mistress”. Kiss.
“Shut up and lick my toes.”
Francesca’s tongue waggles slavishly across Zynab’s toes. She’s good. Has she done this before? Does she have any idea how arousing her submissiveness is?
Vanessa locates her own clitoris and turns the tip of her forefinger around it. Her power makes her want to come. All these girls. These slaves. And Zynab. In her skirt. And Stenson raping Zynab. Probably raped her bum. Probably came in her face and made her suck him clean.
“Suck my foot, whore. I want to fuck your face with my foot.”
Francesca, by her failure to resist, is humiliating herself. But she won’t stop. They never do. She knows she is owned now. She knows she has to accept it. No choice.
“Today you’re my foot slave.” Zynab pushes the end of her sandal roughly into Francesca’s distorted mouth. “Tomorrow you will be my pussy-maid.”
Vanessa pants with excitement, captivated by Zynab’s performance. Both hands at her own sex now. Tending the flames. Knowing the only way to put out the fire is to let it burn.
“Look at my panties, whore.” Zynab pulls up the front of her skirt a little way, displaying the most astonishingly beautiful sight that poor little Francesca has ever seen. Vanessa can’t see it from where she’s sitting, but she knows that sight. She’s seen it more than a few times. In a way, she *can* see it. Because it’s all she ever sees when she looks at Zynab. In that skirt.
Perfect thighs surrounding a perfect little pussy. Covered by perfect panties. Soft, white, delicate, hand-tailored silk. They were a gift. From Vanessa. Just for Zynab. Vanessa had been there when the dressing-maids had measured her up. Zynab had been a doll that day. A living doll. She had argued and protested against dressing the way Vanessa wanted her to. But in the end, when she saw how much Vanessa was prepared to spend on her, she relented. And she remained so quiet, so passive while they measured and re-measured her sex. The distance between her anus and her sex. The width of her anus when bending over.
“My panties are worth more than you, whore,” Zynab brags. “Kiss them. They own you.”
Francesca, wet faced, nods her submission. Anyone entering the room right at that moment would surely be of the impression she was veritably salivating at the prospect of kissing Zynab’s panties.
Vanessa fidgets in her seat and sighs with pleasure. Imagine kissing Zynab’s perfect pussy through the material of her panties at her crotch. No. Don’t imagine that. Only the slaves do that. It’s how they know their place. Don’t even think about it. But imagine it though. How can one look at Zynab and not imagine it? Imagine being Francesca. If she hadn’t just been sold into sexual slavery, she might even be enjoying herself. Better than being raped, wasn’t it? Better than being branded. Or Rocky-fested.
“You’re my slave.”
Francesca pecks submissively at Zynab’s crotch. This is how slaves worship their owners. This is how they show respect. How they demonstrate their humility and devotion.
“You hear me, slut? You’re my slave.”
Vanessa loves hearing Zynab say that. She needs Zynab to say it again. She needs to hear it. Hearing it excites her more even than the prospect of a stiff thrust of cock between her legs. Imagine Zynab telling you that: That you are her slave. That she owns you. No. Stop thinking that. No need to think that. That’s not how it is.
“My panties are worth more than you. Think about that as you kiss them.”
Why doesn’t Francesca refuse? Why doesn’t she resist? Is she really going to make it that easy for Zynab? Why do they always make it so easy for her?
“Sniff me, whore.”
Vanessa imagines that smell. The divine fragrance of Zynab’s sodden, swollen sex. What she would give to make Zynab one of her girls and to own that pussy. As she had sat and watched her the day they measured her for the panties, hadn’t it felt then – even if only momentarily – that she *did* own her? But how to own her always? How to make a pet-slave of her? God. What would Zynab say if she knew how much she secretly lusted after her? Perhaps she does know. Maybe she wants it. Maybe she wants to be owned. Maybe that’s why she submitted to wearing the skirt? Impossible to sit still now. So aroused. Love watching slave-whores worship Zynab’s pussy. Need to come. Need to desperately.
Look at the new girl running her tongue over Zynab’s panties at her snatch. Lucky girl. She can do that and feel no shame because she’s nothing more than a slave-whore. Lucky bitch. Probably doesn’t know just how lucky she is. Impossible for Vanessa ever to do that. Not now. To sink that low would be unthinkable. No, not unthinkable. Not realisable. She could still think it if she wanted to, couldn’t she?
“Lick my pussy, whore.” Zynab grabs a clump of Francesca’s hair at her crown and steers her face into her groin. Then with her free hand she pulls her panties aside, revealing her glistening sex.
“Taste me. Taste your new owner.”
It doesn’t matter that Francesca has never done this before. It doesn’t matter that she’s not bisexual. Here, all girls are bisexual. It is a requirement. If it does not come naturally, then it will be learned. Or acquired.
Francesca will be doing a lot more of it, too. Zynab will have her line up with the other girls and they’ll take it in turns lapping at her expensive panties and kissing her feet and thanking her for owning them. That’s what Zynab does best. That’s what gets her off. How fortunate for Vanessa, because that’s what gets her off, too. It’s getting her off even now, as she massages her clitoris and wriggles in her seat.”More. Eat me faster,” Zynab snaps. Watch her pouting, red lips. She’s the devil. She’s perfect evil.
Francesca’s flicks her tongue frantically at Zynab’s insides. This is what life here will be like. This is the taste and the smell that will linger and serve as a constant reminder of who she is and what she has become. Every time Zynab passes, she will recall the sensation and remember that she is to bow her head and spread her legs, simply because she is worth less than the strip of material covering her mistress’ sex.