Trigger warning: this dark story is non-consensual and contains scenes of sexual violation. In line with Literotica policy, the victim who's violated comes to orgasm and gets some enjoyment from it. If this will upset you, please do not read it and look elsewhere for something erotic.
Everyone is over the age of 18, and the story is set in an entirely fantasy world. Slavery and sex trafficking still happen today in this world and are utterly evil. Please consider supporting an anti-sex-trafficking organization.
The names, characters, places and events in this story are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any similarities to real persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Thank for reading and I hope you liked this tale. Please do leave a comment as I read all of them and take them all onboard.
SLAVES 1: THE OWNER'S STORY.
Of course, I had heard of Kupro Marbordo, the Copper Coast. A tropical country, famous for copper mines, marble quarries, beef cattle. And slaves. It is, I think, one of the very few countries now where that 'peculiar institution' still flourishes.
But that didn't concern me. I worked at my uncle's broker's house in the United Zones, up in the northern continent. Thousands of miles away from Kupro Marbordo. I knew we had interests in many cities and countries throughout the New World, but I never gave Kupro Marbordo much thought.
Until, one day a few weeks ago, my uncle called me into his office. As befitted a senior partner, his office was massive. Oak paneled with oil landscapes and portraits on the walls. A huge mahogany desk stood on a Neo-Assyrian carpet.
"James," he said, "I want you to take over our brokerage down on Kupro Marbordo for a couple of years. Our current resident has retired and I need a man I can trust to take over. I know it's only a backwater of a place at present; however, it has potential to expand. Between you and me, I think he let our interests slide. If you can build up our business there, it will stand you in good stead for promotion to a more important posting later. What do you think?"
Well, when a man as important as my uncle asks you to do something, what can you say? Of course I agreed on the spot.
So, a few weeks later, I found myself walking down the steamship's gangway onto the quayside of Haveno Ananaso, Kupro Marbordo's capital city. The name Haveno Ananaso means Port Pineapple. The sultry tropical heat washed over me. I'd have to buy myself some lightweight clothes. The docks were very busy with ships of all sizes loading and unloading. Didn't see any pineapples, though.
I pushed through the crowds to the Customs House. A large, ornate building that dominated this part of the docks. Outside, a gang of laborers carried sacks of oranges over to one of the ships. I stopped, in astonishment at the sight. A man bumped into me, mumbled something about stupid tourists before heading past me into the shade of the Customs House verandah.
This crew must be slaves, then. The men, at least a dozen of them, were chained together by their necks. The chain was loose, giving them freedom to work but not to vanish into the hustle and bustle. A few had red marks across their deeply tanned, bare backs. All the men wore in the heat was a pair of denim shorts, a straw sun hat and boots.
A man in a white jacket, a wide brimmed hat, carrying a whip stood nearby and directed the men's efforts. Occasionally, he tapped a man on the shoulder and gestured with his whip. All the direction he needed.
Now my eyes were opened, I saw another gang of slave laborers, also hard at work. However, I couldn't stand and stare all afternoon. I made my way through to Customs, answered their questions about my stay. I tipped the bored official a few piastres, the local currency. Then my passport was stamped and I was through.
"Enjoy your stay. Do you want help with your bags, sir?" asked the official. I nodded.
The man gestured to a young man standing nearby. The man jumped to attention and picked up my trunk. Like the laborers outside, he wore denim shorts, boots but also a white t-shirt with the Customs logo printed on it. As he lifted the trunk, I saw a thin steel collar around his neck.
A second man, identically dressed, helped carry the rest of my bags. I followed them outside onto a main road running past the docks. Out of the shade, the heat crashed down on me again. A row of horse-drawn cabs waited. The two men, slaves, loaded my baggage onto the cab.
I thanked them both. I offered them a piastre each. They refused with horror.
"No, master," said one. "Slaves aren't allowed money. But thank you for offering." They ran back into the Customs House. Away from the crazy foreigner who might get them into trouble.
I glanced at my note book. My firm had already arranged accommodation for me. "Kresto Abrikoto," I said in my best accent. Apricot Ridge. It sounds a nice area of the capital. My pronunciation must have been all right as the driver understood.
He flicked his whip at the horse and it trotted off. Slowly, we left the busy city centre and climbed up a steep hill. The views from the heights to the city and then over the sea were spectacular. But even better, there was a cooling breeze.
After a few kilometers we passed a few peach and apricot orchards, and then the driver pulled up outside a small villa. It was set in its own gardens. Pink and purple tropical flowers festooned the villa. What I saw under the blooms impressed me.
It was whitewashed with green shutters under a red, pan tiled roof. I paid off the cab driver as he helped me unload my baggage. He saluted me before flicking his whip and returning downhill.
I pushed open the gate, up the short path then knocked on the door. A moment later the door opened. A woman, several years older than me stood there in the dim light. She was maybe thirty with dark hair, chocolate brown eyes under arched brows, and a generous mouth.
She stepped back into the hall, I followed. As soon as I crossed the threshold, she did something which shocked me. She lifted her light blue dress over head then dropped it to the floor. She unhooked her breast band, dropping that onto her dress. Then she knelt before me, knees wide apart exposing her shaved sex, placed her hands behind the small of her back and looked down.
"Welcome, master," she said. Her voice low and quiet.
Despite my embarrassment, I couldn't but help look down. Any man would. Her hair was shoulder length and hid her face. She had large breasts with dark nipples and areola. Further down, I saw the swell of her hips and her smooth, shaved sex. She was a good looking woman. Then I noticed the thin steel collar around her neck. So she, too, was a slave.
I stooped and picked up her dress. It was still warm from her body.
"What are you doing? Get dressed," I told her.
She stood. "Do I displease you, master? I can be replaced, if you want."
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"I am your house slave, master, provided by the landlord as part of your rent. I'm here to do your cooking and cleaning. And to satisfy any other needs you may have, master."
"Well, firstly, get dressed."
She nodded and slipped her dress back on. It's too distracting talking to an attractive, but nude woman.
"Is there anyone else here?"
