Tilly ran as hard as she could. She ignored the burning in her lungs. She disregarded the pain in her bare feet too. She refused to focus on the chill air as it bit into her naked flesh. She just concentrated on pumping her legs and putting as much distance between her and Roland as she could.
Five years now, she had been a slave. Since her parents sold her, on coming to her majority, to the Baron. Five years as Roland's personal fuck toy. Her parents thought they were selling her into service to a good home, they had not counted on the Baron's youngest son. Even though he was her master, and aged thirty-two, Tilly thought of the sick twisted monster, Roland, as nothing but a boy.
The Baron had four children. Anthony, the eldest, was like his father. Rotund, jolly and brash. He, again like his father, treated the slaves on the estate as impersonal things. He expected no backchat and complete obedience. He fucked in a brusque, physical way, and would usually send any girl he used away with a swat to the backside, and no more thought than that. Being fucked by the Baron or Anthony was considered a pleasurable inconvenience.
The remaining three of the Baron's offspring were all aficionados of BDSM. But all three had very different ideas of just what that meant. Julien liked to play with rope. He seemed endlessly fascinated with ways to tie a slave up. Tilly had heard another slave call it Shibari, but whatever it was, it rarely hurt. The girls in Master Julien's stable strove hard to please their owner, for fear of being sold. They knew a soft gig when it landed in their laps.
Mistress Matilda, Matty to her brothers, Mistress Em to the slaves, liked dressing her slaves up. After five years naked, Tilly did not know what she would think of clothes if they were forced upon her. But, Mistress Em did not dress her slaves in regular clothes. Rubber catsuits, hobble dresses, vinyl maids uniforms, leather gimp outfits, cruel corsets, choking posture collars and constricting straight-jackets. Mistress Em delighted in tormenting her slaves with clothes. All her stable of slaves teetered about in ballet boots. All of them wore ensembles of tight glossy fabric, that left little to the imagination, and often exaggerated or distorted a slave's natural features.
Roland was a sadist. Roland dressed his slaves in welts and bruises. Roland liked to hear his slaves scream, cry, sob and wail. Every so often, he'd 'accidentally' kill one. Going too far with breath play, mock hangings or crucifixions. Roland was a monster.
Even now, as Tilly ran, she gritted her teeth as scabs on her back pulled at her exertion. Tilly was motivated like no other of the slaves today. As Roland had put her in the trap, he'd whispered in her ear, "I'm getting tired of you, cunt. If I catch you today, it's your corpse I'll bring home."
But Tilly had a plan. This year Tilly was not going to fall into Roland's clutches. Frankly, she did not care which other members of the family caught her. She held no illusions of being able to actually escape the estate. Nor did she think there was anything she could do to stop Roland.
But each year the Baron insisted on a hunt being held. The Slave Hunt. In truth, it was a hunt in name only. For the ever-present collar, welded snugly about her throat was broadcasting her location to the family even now.
Yet three weeks ago, Tilly had gotten lucky. For a precious week, she had been summoned to kitchen duty. One of her sister slaves had fallen ill, too ill to work. The Baron had demanded Roland supply the replacement, and Roland had sent her.
The kitchen slaves had assisted by turning a blind eye. They dare not actually help. But what they did not see... Tilly hid what she needed out by the bins. Kitchen foil, two bits of broken mirror and a basting pipette. She clutched them to her chest as she ran. The slaves had an hour to run and hide. Then the Baron would fire the canon, and the hunt would begin.
The hunters were mounted on quad bikes. Laptops, tacking the slaves, mounted on the handlebars. They used dogs, to flush their prey, and carried net-firing guns and bolas too. The Baron merely concentrated on rounding up his favourites, his children wisely leaving them uncaught if they flushed them out accidentally. But they competed ferociously for the rest. The bragging rites, and the largest stable of slaves, meant a lot to these idle, congenitally affluent, wastrels. How their prey felt about this, they cared not one jot.
Tilly was running away from the other slaves. They, like flocking birds or schooling fish, felt there was safety in numbers. Unfortunately, that also meant she was running towards the front of the estate, the farm, and the boundary she was not allowed to cross. But what she wanted was a building. To get away with her plan, she needed a plausible reason for her collar to stop broadcasting. Interference from a building, like a metal barn, would do nicely.
Arriving at the outbuilding, Tilly allowed herself a minute to catch her breath. She then set to work with the foil. Pulling it off the cardboard tube, she wrapped it around her collar. Pulling the thing away from her throat and stuffing it in the gap, she endeavoured to smother the fetter in foil. A quiet ping followed by the collar announcing, "WiFi signal lost. Slave return to the manor and request technical support." This repeated and did not stop.
Tilly thought hard. The message was good as it meant her plan was working. But she had not counted on her collar making any noise. It could give her away. Looking about, she spotted some hessian sacking. Tearing it into strips, she wrapped it about her neck to smother the sound from the collar.
Tilly did not dare risk the GPS being disabled too. It would shock her unconscious if she left the estate. But she was off the hunter's screens now and had to take advantage of that. Tilly started running again. This time towards the swamp.
