Carrion Comfort

Author's note: This is a story of a young women's plunging descent: from the heights of independence, leisure, and luxury, plunging directly into the depths of slavery, drudgery, and austerity. As told here, her journey is festooned with the various fetish images that I, the author, find most compelling. Hopefully, if we share enough of those fetish images, you, a potential reader, might also appreciate the descent described.

When finishing the first draft, upon writing the last line, the title Carrion Comfort just came on its own. That is the title of one of George Manley Hopkins' dark sonnets. Upon rereading that sonnet, the story was slightly revised to bring out its connection with the Hopkins poem, and certain lines of that poem were inserted at various places to highlight the connection. Those lines, in order, are: lines 2 and 3; lines 6 and 7; lines 10 and 11; lines 12 and 14.

And of course, all the people involved in the story are 18 years or older.

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Given the chance to finally tell my story to someone, to someone who knows English which is the only language I speak, yet to someone who could never be in a position to help me in any way, I would like to start with clarifying that it is essentially a story of how I have somehow endured, of how in the total devastation of the life I once knew and the continually escalating devastation of the life I now know, I found a meager tattered comfort to cling to.

(Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man

In me or, most weary, cry I can no more. I can)

I was alone in this foreign country. Possibly worrisome for a woman; but at the time I was young, rich, and beautiful; and an American. And so I felt entirely secure as I wandered the picturesque streets sightseeing and shopping. I had chosen to visit here since the economy functioned using a form of chattel slavery. All around I saw most of the menial labor being done by naked slave girls in bondage. It amused me that my purchases were delivered to my hotel by such slave girls hauling carts in their bare feet, and that my hotel's lobby and hallways were scrubbed clean by such slave girls on their hands and knees. It felt good to know they were all around me struggling in so many ways to please me; it felt good to know they would be whipped if they failed to please. \\

As I turned a corner, there was an instance of my very thoughts. A naked chained slave girl was cowering in front of a man with a whip, her overseer I supposed. He looked displeased. He pointed at the ground and she dropped to her knees; he pointed to his shoes and she bent over and avidly kissed them while raising her ass high and offering it to the whip. Yes, I thought, whip it, whip her. She must deserve it. But the man only said a few words, and the slave crawled on her hands and knees to a nearby entryway and started scrubbing energetically, presumably resuming the task in which the man had found her wanting. The man stood still and stared at her, and she trembling strained to visibly increase her efforts. I moved on, but I doubted if she could stave off that beating for long, not if the man continued to watch her.

I found myself a bit hungry, so picked a restaurant and ordered. Maybe if the timing was right I could catch her delayed beating after my meal. When the food arrived I found it inedible. I couldn't speak the language, but I loudly and longly made my disappointment quite clear to all the staff. When I then made the move to haughtily pay and stomp out, I realized that my purse was somehow now missing. Clearly one of the people working there had taken it when my attention was focused on making my displeasure known to everyone involved with my disgusting meal. When they attempted to bring the bill, I ignored it and tried to point out I had been robbed, and very quickly an official looking man appeared.

I then found myself being put into handcuffs. The bill for my meal was then brought again and held up to my eyes; it seemed to be inordinately large — undoubtedly the restaurant's revenge for my diatribe, a revenge eminently feasible against one in handcuffs. The official seemed only concerned with the bill, not with my missing purse. What with me being ignorant of the language, and with no one around admitting to knowing English, I felt helpless. Cowered, I made gestures indicating my total willingness to pay the outrageous bill. In turn, gestures made it clear to me that since the clothes I was wearing was all I had with which to settle the bill, I would have to agree to using some of them to pay. I was quite expensively dressed; my jacket alone would be more than enough surely, so I nodded agreement.

Thankfully the official then freed me from the handcuffs. But before I could even start to register relief, I was then stripped by the restaurant staff not just as expected of my jacket but of all my jewelry. A clerk of the restaurant glanced over them, wrote a number down, and seemed to nod his head 'no' at the official. I was further stripped of blouse and skirt; the staff seemed to thoroughly enjoy doing so. The clerk again wrote and then again 'no'; next my slip, heels and hose; and finally then my bra and panties, leaving me standing there completely naked surrounded by a leering restaurant staff. I noticed several cell phones appeared then. I felt so vulnerable. So surrounded by hostility. Before I could even start to recover my self composure from what had just happened, one of the staff at the restaurant picked up all my jewelry and clothing and left with them, while the clerk added up the numbers he'd written down. The restaurant bill was again held up to my eyes; the clerk had subtracted off a comparatively small amount. I was being outrageously cheated. Revenge is even more feasible against a helpless naked person. By gestures it was made clear to me that I still owed for the remainder. Terrified, I could think of nothing to do but nod agreement. At that point several more cell phones appeared. They were taking videos of me, and continued to video-record my nodding as the bill was pointed at, as I was pointed at, and as various of the people around me spoke. Then, at a word from the official, the cell phones all abruptly were put away, and the official then very roughly manacled my wrists and ankles and locked a metal collar about my neck. This was just like the way all the chattel slaves I had seen were kept in bondage. What was I to think? Was I now to be one of them?

I did not know till much later, but my nodding while being videoed was what doomed me. As a rich American I could have easily ensured means to escape my dilemma if I had not been recorded consenting. But in this country I had definitively agreed that I owed the restaurant bill and would pay for it with my now naked body. The recorded sequence of: bill pointed at and my nodding, my body pointed at and my nodding — that plus what was being said at the time — was considered iron clad proof of my consenting to being enslaved, and my total ignorance of the language carried no weight, not against the legal needs of the slave economy here, where once one had crossed the line to legally be presumed a slave, all legal protections were revoked with no recourse; once I was tentatively presumed a slave, I was irretrievably a slave forever. When the US embassy first heard of my situation, they were simultaneously shown the recordings; upon seeing them, the embassy officials simply shrugged and went on to other matters. 'Why don't our citizens learn the basic rudiments of the countries they risk visiting?' one of them had sadly muttered? Words I learned about much too late to help me.

So I stupidly nodded and was instantly put into slave bondage. I tried to strenuously object. I was rich. I would pay. There was no need of this. But the official quickly cut me off and, showing me a whip, pointed to the ground. I understood instantly, as I had seen this done with that slave earlier in the day. Trembling I dropped to my knees on the ground before him. He pointed to his shoes. I had also seen that. I bent over and kissed his shoes raising my ass to the mercy of his whip. I hoped I would be spared like the slave girl I saw earlier. The whip started lashing my ass. I had hoped that by complying, kneeling then kissing his shoes, I would avoid the whip. The slave I saw early today had so complied and was not whipped. Why was I treated differently? Why, all of a sudden, was the world crushing me like an ant caught between a boulder and a giant's fist. So helpless, my bruised heap of a self, helplessly longing to escape all this back to my normal life.

(Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan

With darksome devouring eyes my bruised bones?)

Terrified I kept kissing the shoes. The man raised the sole of his left shoe and pressed it in my face. More terrified I instinctively started cleaning the dirty sole with my lips and tongue, covering all of it several times and moving on to clean the heel too. He then replaced the left shoe with the right and I tongue cleaned its sole and heel also. And all the while I was being whipped. My ass and outer thighs at first; but at the prodding of the whip I naturally spread my legs as wide as possible so as to not appear in any way to be oppositional, and so I let the whip wander brutally over my inner thighs until my very pussy itself was included in my whipping. An intensely painful sensation totally unfamiliar to me at the time; of course now being pussy whipped is a familiar daily routine.

When I had several times thoroughly tongue cleaned the sole and heel of his right shoe, suddenly the whipping of my pussy and inner thighs transferred back to my ass and outer thighs, and then just as suddenly stopped. His shoe returned to the ground, and I was allowed to return to a kneeling position. But before I could thankfully catch my breath, a penis loomed large in front of my mouth. Fearful that the whipping might resume, I knew what I must do. All the men there then took turns with my mouth as I enthusiastically sucked and deep throated them all, desperate that they all would perceive that there was no need to prompt me any more with the whip. To avoid that I would enthusiastically do whatever they wanted of me.

Eventually my throat ravishments ended and a ball gag was secured in my mouth. By what had just happened and how I handled it, I had been silently made aware that I would from now on enthusiastically cooperate in being their or anyone's slave girl engaged in any activity they or anyone desired. I at first thought I was exchanging my total lack of freedom in enslavement for that one remaining freedom I desired — freedom from being whipped. But I soon realized how wrong I was. Whippings quickly returned as a normal training practice for me as a slave girl. In fact I soon was receiving daily routine whippings that were more severe than this one that had initially propelled me into a groveling acceptance of my slavery. No, in reality I had no negotiating say whatever in this. And as not native to this country and so not brought up to their native ways, I was always treated more harshly than the other slaves. The severe daily whippings were just one of many ways it was made clear to me and to everyone that, although I had once been a privileged foreigner - American even - I was now undoubtedly just another slave girl whose survival depended on enthusiastically embracing all that was required of her.

With the ball gag in place I was led away, pulled forward by a metal leash locked to my collar. My manacled wrists were fastened together behind me. My manacled ankles were joined by a short chain, so I could only take short steps and had to rapidly repeat them to keep up with the pull of my escort's leisurely large striding pace. I was taken to the outside of my hotel and harnessed to a cart containing all my luggage, all of my many packages of shopping including large heavy curios that had caught my eye, and my jewelry and clothes from the restaurant. 'How?' I wondered, until I saw a hotel clerk talking with someone from the restaurant staff. More revenge, so very feasible against one naked and in chains. It was easy to see that I and all my possessions were about to be led together to the auction block, and I was to be the work animal who would strain under the load of hauling them all there. The proceeds of the auction would undoubtedly be divided between the restaurant and the hotel to settle my debts to them. It was clear at the auction that I turned out to be by far the least valuable of the possessions accumulated for me to haul. I do not know what happened to the rest of them, but for myself, once sold I like all slaves was kept naked and in bondage, and have naturally remained so.

I was used as a farm animal for a while; I was very beautiful which would have ordinarily led to a more luxurious slave life, but my complete inability to speak their language doomed me to being used in the more brutal menial ways, while my beauty doomed me to being the preferred sexual object my overseers would choose to use in the more brutal sexual ways. I was sold several times as a work animal, and learned to accept the starvation diet and the daily routines of endless back breaking work, endless multiple whippings, and an endless array of penises probing my ass, pussy, and throat.

My life settled into a dull blankness, the original horror of it settled down into my new familiar daily routines. And late at night, at last chained rigidly in place for the brief sleeping interval allowed the likes of slaves like me, during that short hazy period of descent into slumber, my current physical torments would drift in my mind to swirl with my old psychological ones — those fierce self centered trauma's of the pampered — and they in a way seemed so similar, so in balance, that as sleep took me I dreamily felt my lips kissing the rod of my new life as I had once indifferently licked the silver spoon of my old one.

And somehow I started to embrace the hidden potentials for joy in what I had become. I felt pride in my now rock hard labor sculptured body, pride in its now continually unappreciated usefulness to others, pride in its ability to somehow absorb the blows with which those exploiting others repaid it, pride that its still remarkable beauty was so valued by those otherwise so disdainful. And through that bodily pride an emerging bodily pleasure could sometimes be stolen back during those times when those others were brutally stealing from my bodily treasure trove.

(Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod

Hand rather, my heart lo! Lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, cheer.)

And so my slave life went until I ended up a slave at the very same restaurant that had precipitated my slavery, brought there to scrub clean its floors, weed and tend its vegetable garden, pull its carts to and from the market, and much more. The staff there seemed delighted to be once again involved with the current chapters of my downfall - I was the only slave there the staff had known as a free person, although their experience of me in my freedom was rather brief and not one they remembered fondly. So tormenting me was an activity they eagerly engaged in. That added extra layers of harshness to every aspect of my slave life. For example, as a slave work animal I was as always to be fed a single meager ration once a day in the early morning; and so the staff concocted a special kind of slop to feed me that was so much more terribly nauseous than the meal here that had originally disgusted me so long ago; they loved to watch me on my knees, hands fettered behind me, collar leash restraining me, avidly straining in my desperate hunger to reach my putrid slave bowl with it's stinking inedible slop — but the only sustenance I was allowed — as they kept holding it tauntingly just out of my reach, while clearly joking mockingly among themselves that I was finally learning to appreciate their cuisine.

As usual I was again the most beautiful slave there, so I daily had to sexually service any of the male staff that wanted me, and so was constantly either doing deep throat sucking or being pussy ravished or ass buggered. One of the restaurant's serving girls seemed to take particular delight in watching me being abused. I wondered why, until one day the serving girl was clearly dressed up for a very important date and I noticed the elegant purse the serving girl carried. It then struck me — she had my old purse! The one whose absence had caused my enslavement. She must have taken it — my passport and money and room key — and she undoubtedly had told the restaurant about my hotel, so together the hotel and restaurant could sell off my possessions with me included. And as I found out much later, she had been entirely instrumental in inducing the restaurant to acquire me as one of their slaves.

At that moment I was in my chains on my hands and knees scrubbing the scullery floor while my pussy was being penetrated from behind by the ram hard penis of one of the male waiters. When the serving girl noticed my eyes widen and my gaze focus on the purse, she gave me a delightedly wicked smile. And then I recognized who the serving girl actually was in the story of my life — she was the first member of the staff my former haughty self so long ago had started berating about the disgusting food I'd been served.

The serving girl seemed to in turn recognize my recognition, for when my impaler finished ejaculating into me, and was about to leave me to my floor scrubbing, she then walked up to him and murmured something to him. He laughed and instead of walking away from me he stayed and, taking a mean looking willow branch from her, started whipping my ass with it. She stood by him murmuring, while he proceeded to cover my ass and outer thighs with immensely painful welts, before then turning his attention to thrashing my inner thighs and pussy in ways whose painful intensity I had never experienced before.

Before that moment my daily ration of whippings had settled into a dull barely tolerable routine. But from then on she would constantly murmur such things to the men around me, inspiring them to amuse themselves with more exotic and imaginative ways to abuse my body with increasingly unbearable torments. They were easy to prod, all the staff delighted in tormenting their former haughty customer fallen into their collective clutches. But she seemed to be an essential needed catalyst to ignite their impoverished imaginations. From then on I found the level and magnitude of my beatings increase many fold. In my travail I was also puzzled why she had not arranged for this type of escalation immediately when I first ended up back at this restaurant as a slave. I eventually realized she purposefully had held off doing this; she wanted to be sure, when this unceasing infliction started to descend on me, that I would be crystal clear about who was behind it and why.

I once had power over her and used it to berated her, and did so once. And she had responded by stripping all power from me and by intensely wielding against me the immense power over me that now and forever more surrounded me.

My newly found potential for an emerging joy felt threatened by her. She was managing, would manage, to squash that joy, to squash myself, back into that cowering bruised heap I once was and could easily be again. But in my total abject powerlessness, what could I do? Nothing I could do could ever change what was being done to me. Nothing.

Eventually I settled into a way of accepting in part what she had done and was doing to me, a way that held open a pathway toward some trickle of reemerging joy perhaps. So now, after every whipping, I would always crawl to her feet and kiss them repeatedly, and make it clear while doing so that I anxiously hoped she would permit me to tongue clean the soles of her sandals. It seemed to please her, my kissing her toes so avidly, although as I expected in no way did it affect the level or intensity of the beatings she instigated against me. But she usually would thrust her sandals in my face so my tongue could express itself on their soles. I do not know what my subjection at her feet meant to her. I never mastered the language here so could not tell her directly. But to me it meant that of all those around me with power over me, she was my one true master, the maker and implementer of my slavery, and I was first and foremost her slave and her slave alone.