If you're interested in more than just easy sex and uncomplicated lustful liasions, this story may just be for you. I've been crafting these characters and their relationships for many years now, and it was all because I was wandering around on Literotica one day and wondered to myself 'what if the lord who kept the slave actually had more than one? what if he actually enjoyed keeping them? what if this were more than just sex and stress relief?' And thus, my imagination ran wild. What you are seeing now is a much more polished, fleshed version of the original. I hope you enjoy reading along as I try to keep posting and sharing more. It may take a chapter or two to build, but I hope it appeals to some of you here. Cheers!
And thank you for reading my very first attempt here on the site. Feedback is always appreciated, criticism as long as it is constructive.
*****
It was linen. Her prison uniform was made of linen.
She hated linen.
It reminded her of that summer that her parents and brother had taken a trip to the southern towns along the coast and the weather had been warm. Too warm. Her mother had bought her a linen dress to wear that was woven with blue and green and purple and white. Cara had thought it far too beautiful to wear in the sand near the ocean water, but her mother had insisted it would fare better than the wool of her mountain dresses. Cara had loved that dress. She felt beautiful in it, delicate, like a magical creature flitting about in the salt water with bare feet steaming in the hot sand and grains tickling the spaces between her toes.
Linen was a reminder of that trip. They had gone to the sea, and the sea had betrayed her. The boating trip that had put them at the hands of an angry wave had claimed Cara's father that day. He'd managed to save her mother, but was pulled in by the current. She remembered the linen dress, sopping wet, clinging to her, itching her skin like a smoldering fire as she sat on the beach. Sand and weed coated her legs like another skin while her mother begged and pleaded with people to help revive her father. There had been other beachgoers, of course. Vacations were popular on the south coast.
When they returned home, they brought a casket with them.
Cara remembered tossing the linen dress into the trash basket in her room. Somehow, though, she hadn't been able to bear the thought of throwing it away.
"Lights coming on, ladies, don't start your shouting," a warden's call shook Cara from her foggy memories. The only lights in these cells were high above on the ceiling and there was nothing in the cell high enough even standing on to reach them. They went on and off at sunrise, sunset, and if there was a visitor in the middle of the night, they were turned on by block.
Cara's block hadn't been very active as of yet. She'd only arrived a few days ago after her sentencing, and the pain and rage she felt was still sore, like a fresh burn.
"Block Twelve, up against your back walls, hands on your heads, feet spread!"
On the wall opposite each cell door was the block number, printed on the concrete for anyone that was uncertain of where she was. Cara felt as if the number on the opposite wall would be burned in her vision for years as she placed her feet on the faded paint that indicated where the prisoners would stand to be counted or inspected. She'd done this many times already since she'd arrived, and it always grated on her. The linen of her grey jumpsuit scratched against her arms and made her bristle with annoyance. Most of it was probably nerves, although the girl was not quite sure why she was nervous. It was most likely just a head count.
"Cell fifteen," the warden said in a more conversational tone from just outside Cara's cell.
Cara's heart seemed to drop into her shoes and fly to her throat at the same time. That was her number. There wasn't another woman in this cell with her; she had been the only one since she arrived. What could they be calling her number for? Had her sentence been commuted? Had she been exonerated? Had someone put in a plea for her?
