Lost in Lisbon

This is the epilogue of "The Terrorist" series. At this point, I intend to continue more with the "Lost in Lisbon" series', and focus on the new life of Sofia, Sara and Miguel as they have to live together, as well as the latest challenge for Sofia as a milf top model and a high school principal, the loyalties and duties of a slave, love, and law.

I haven't forgotten about some supernatural overtones in the story, but I'm not sure if I will go that way.

As you may know, Sofia was sentenced to 7 years of slavery and 500 lashes for vehicular manslaughter, while Sara was sentenced to 12 years of slavery for her part in a terrorist attack.

I think that 500 Lashes was over the top, and it is hard to fit into the story. Nevertheless, I wanted to maintain a sword of Damocles over Sofia, just as the threat of the death penalty haunted Sara. Although not entirely, these threats were removed to be now replaced by others more in the realm of power dynamics.

"Stora" is Portuguese for "Senhora professora" meaning "Madam teacher" in Portugal students don't address teachers as Mr. Or Mrs.+ last name but as "Stora" or "Stor" + first name, someone named "Carlos Silva" could be Stor Carlos in Portugal while in the anglo-saxon school, he would be Mr. Silva.

In the same way, I prefer the term Owner, to Master even if none is correct the Portuguese word for someone who owns slaves Is "Amo" or "Senhor" "Amo" can be translated to boss, or head of a House thus In Portugal slaves receive the same surname as their owner family. Unlike Southern USA Slaves Portugal saw slaves more like members of a house, in a feudal or Roman Empire way and not in a capitalist way, and "Senhor" means both lord and mister but derives from the Latin "Senior" meaning the eldest of a house, like an ancient roman Landlord.

"Turra" is Short for terrorist but also means stubborn and baby talk for the head bump.

This is the end of the boring part.

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Miguel's Pov.

I carried Sofia up the stairs from the garage to my flat, her white silk dress a stark contrast to the situation. I wasn't entering with my wife, but with my slave, both of us reeling from a traumatic experience. I had left in the morning with one slave and returned with two - Sofia and Sara her former student.

"Take 20 euros and buy all the ice bags you can from the supermarket. Hurry, Terrorist," I barked at Sara, my new slave girl. I was unsure if buying her was the right decision; it had been impulsive, driven by emotion. Sara, still clad in the black trash bag I'd used to cover her after the auction, turned to me. "What's happening? What's wrong with Miss Sofia?" she asked, shocked by the angry red welts covering Sofia's body.

Bzzzz!

She jumped up, "Hurry up, or the next one will be serious," I said after delivering a small electric shock to her collar. She rushed out the door; I hadn't told her where the supermarket was, but now it was too late.

I carefully undressed Sofia and started the cold water running in the bathtub, her body marked with welts from the lashes, I could feel the heat emanating from the marks on her skin. It was a great mistake to have allowed her to participate in that accursed television program.

"Thank you, Sir, I know what you think about her, but you did well, and I know you did it for me."Sofia cast a glance my way, her eyes a mesmerizing blend of blue and green, gratitude etched on her features.

"I don't think I did anything right today, but don't speak, lie down in the bathtub. I'll take care of you. Forgive me for not protecting you from yourself."

I guided her into the tub, trying my best not to touch the welts that marred her skin. She winced with each movement, and it was clear that even breathing caused her pain.

"It's freezing!" Sofia protested as she lowered her battered body into the bathtub.

"Yes, it's cold, but it's for your own good. Here, take this and open your mouth."

I administered a metamizole pill to help alleviate her pain, and the cold water would provide much-needed relief for the bruises. I was eagerly awaiting Sara's return with the ice packs; at least she would be able to be of some use.

I caressed Sofia's hair, and then unbraided it. I couldn't look at her without feeling guilty - the lashes were part of the sentence that was bound to happen, but the bruises in her anal area were all my fault. I had failed to protect her as a good owner should.

After the commotion that had ensued in the theatre, following the intervention of the secret police, the production had been left unsure of what to do. Marina Bodorova had been escorted out of the auditorium by the police, and some members of the audience had also left the room, while others waited in a murmur to see what would happen next.

Fernando Mendes addressed the audience, "My apologies for this interruption. Please remain in your seats." But, in truth, he had no idea if he could continue. The format of the show always involved two convicts serving their sentences in parallel, with various challenges and additional punishments. Marina had already been dealt the vibrator, and Sofia had been forced onto the wooden horse, its sharp edge digging cruelly into her body. As they debated whether the programme was still valid or not, Sofia remained in a constant struggle, to either stay on her tiptoes or let the sharp edge of wood bite painfully into her perineum.

I got caught up in the debate over whether the contest would be valid or not, and only realised what was going on when a murmur from the audience alerted me.

"20, and she's not screaming!"

"Incredible!"

"Sofia! Keep going!"

"Hang in there girl, I've got money on you!"

And other shouts of the like. I glanced at the screen displaying the pain Sofia was enduring.

I saw she was on the verge of passing out; the level of pain from the sharp edge was worse than the pain my lashes had caused her.

"Release her immediately! This show is over!" My voice was desperate, though it came out firm.

"But we've still got an hour of airtime, and if the jury doesn't call the show valid, the bets could all be scrapped," said a panicked Fernando Mendes. I knew the money riding on this thing was big, Sofia had asked me to place a significant bet, and I had put down around 3,000€ myself.

"I don't give a damn about any of that!" I barked at them. "You, help me untie her!" I shouted at one of the assistants, who obeyed, visibly shaken. I kicked down the wooden horse thing to ease the pressure on Sofia's crotch.

"If you stop now, the lashes you gave your slave won't count for shit! Think about it, everything will have been for nothing!" shouted Fernando Mendes. He was desperate to keep the show going. That's when help came from someone I never expected.

"The lashes Sofia received during this Show, thirty in total are counted towards her full sentence of five hundred. This is what the court decreed for the death of my son. I shall not forgive her a single one, but neither will I demand more than what was assigned to me."

The black-clad, somber figure of Constança Silveira brought the entire theatre to silence. I thanked her with my eyes and draped Sofia's body with the white silk dress; it was an excellent choice, easy to put on and easy to remove. Carla had chosen Sofia's attire well.

As I carried Sofia in my arms towards the exit, someone stood up and applauded, then another, and another, until by the time we left the auditorium of the Belém Cultural Centre, we were beneath a full standing ovation. The applause grew louder when Sofia kissed me on the lips, but all I wanted was to leave, take her to the car, and get home, where I could finally tend to her, and undo some of the pain that clung to her body.

Trrinnn! Trin! Trimm!

It was Sara knocking at the front door. At last, I left Sofia in the bath to go open the door for my new slave. She too would need my care, but Sofia was my priority.

"Come in, quickly, dump the ice in the bath. How many bags did you buy?" I said, pointing towards the bathroom, nearly knocking her over as I showed her the way.

"Fifteen bags, sir, I couldn't carry any more." She was bewildered by the unfolding situation, dressed in a garbage bag with her blue hair falling across her sunburned face. "Miss Sofia! What happened to her? Who did this?" She gasped in horror at the sight of her naked teacher, body marred with red welts and bruises, and shot me a look of accusation, disbelief etched on her face.

"Yes, it was me." If Sara hadn't been wearing a slave collar around her neck, my life would have been in danger, even though I weighed twice as much as she did. The fury and anger in her gaze made that irrelevant. I took a step back; perhaps my guilt turned the mere look of a slender slave into the gaze of a lioness.

It was that guilt that had driven me to buy this little terrorist who now threatened me with her gaze in my own home.

As I carried Sofia in my arms from the theatre to the car park, we passed a skinny man leading a skeletal girl with blue hair, her skin red from sunburn, on a leash. He tethered her to a post along with other criminals who were to be sold as judicial slaves. "Sara! That's Sara! Miguel! Stop!" I said nothing and hurried on towards the lift, eager to reach my car and return home to tend to Sofia's battered body. As I laid her in the back seat and wrapped her in a blanket, she spoke again about Sara.

"Miguel, please... Sara... We can't leave her."

"It's not your responsibility, Sofia. She's a terrorist; she made her choices."

"She's just a child! I was her teacher; I should have done better. Please, Miguel... I beg you."

"Sofia, I can't..."

Instead of driving away, I found myself back at the slave auction. I barely had time to pay the 500€ registration fee and bid for Sara, in extremis, just as a fat woman was preparing to snatch the little Terrorist who now threatened me with her gaze. Another mistake among the many I'd made today?

Buzzzzz!

"Oi! That hurts!" The little terrorist protested.

"It's was gonna hurt a lot more if you did what you were thinking," I replied, while she rubbed her neck.

"Come with me and dump that bin bag." She looked at me, "Yeah, you're going to be completely naked in front of me, terrorist. Get used to it: in my house, the slaves walk around naked or semi-naked." The Slaves, I only have another one and wanted neither, reluctantly she took the bin bag off and followed me to the kitchen.

"What are you going to do to me?" I could understand her fear; she was naked in the house of a stranger who also had her teacher naked in a bathtub of ice-cold water, with lash marks all over her body.

I pulled a knife from the block and opened the fridge door. The sight of the blade sent a visible shudder through her, her eyes widening with fear.

"Calm yourself," I said, my voice deliberately soft. "I'm only making some lemonade. I hope you'll like it."

She watched me with wary eyes, her body tense as a coiled spring, whilst I sliced and squeezed the lemons. The sharp citrus scent filled the air, a stark contrast to the palpable tension between us.

"Here, drink up," I urged, pushing the glass towards her. "Every drop, mind you. And you can toss that bin bag in the rubbish. You won't be needing it again."

She grasped the jug with trembling hands and gulped down the lemonade ravenously. Her parched throat worked overtime, desperate for the cool relief. Her eyes never left me, scrutinising my every move as she tried to make sense of her new reality. T

"Thank you, sir. It was delicious," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. No sooner had she finished the lemonade than she instinctively covered her small breasts and vulva with her arms.

I made no comment, merely allowing a small smile to play across my lips. The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. Truth be told, I hadn't the foggiest idea what I'd do with her for the next half hour.

"What do you intend to do with me?" She asked me again as if reading my thoughts. One needn't be a great mentalist to do so.

"For now, you'll help me look after Sofia, and then I'll tend to that nasty 1st degree burn you've got. As for the next 12 years, I haven't the foggiest. The idea to purchase you wasn't mine."

She was visibly ill at ease, her discomfort radiating from every pore. She reached for another glass of lemonade, gulping it down eagerly. I observed silently, noting how the lemonade served as an excellent natural alternative to those commercial electrolyte drinks. She was clearly dehydrated; her skin bore an angry reddish hue, and her lips were dry and cracked.

I looked at her with a man's eyes. Sara had a beautiful face; her large, dark brown eyes and thick eyebrows gave her a penetrating gaze. Her fine nose and lips, slightly fuller than most, made for a pleasant combination. Her expression was serious and hard, but it wasn't an ugly face. Her turquoise blue hair fell to her shoulders. I remembered the song's chorus, "... The girl with blue hair...", and smiled, wondering if she had problems with her father.

Further down, her breasts were almost non-existent, small round mounds with brown nipples. Her ribs were visible on her thin torso, and her stomach was flat with a small navel. One thing I liked seeing was the thick carpet of black hair that covered her sex, as well as her armpits. She was a beanpole, and only her round little bottom might catch a man's attention, though it seemed to me that she didn't much care for male company.

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Sara's Pov.

The lemonade had been rather good, and I'd gulped down both glasses greedily. I hadn't known what to do or say to this man who was old enough to be my father; he'd looked even older than my dad. I'd already seen that he didn't hesitate to use violence, and my teacher had been proof of that. Why on earth had he thrashed her like that? But at the same time, he'd been taking care of her and me, and I hadn't sensed any bad energy from him. Considering that I should've been dead, or licking the dirty, foul-smelling fanny of Guard Helga, drinking lemonade starkers in a man's kitchen hadn't been bad, but I still hadn't been sure if it'd be good.

I'd drunk more lemonade whilst feeling my new owner had also been sizing me up. When he'd headed back to the bathroom, I'd followed him automatically. He'd said he'd take care of my burn; my skin had felt like it was still burning and had shrunk as if I'd been wearing the skin of someone smaller than me.

"Help Sofia out of the water." I'd found it strange how he'd addressed the teacher informally; I'd always called her "Stora" or "Mrs", but slaves didn't have the right to titles.

Stora Sofia extended her arm to me and leaned on me to get her out of the freezing water. She'd had goosebumps, her nipples were hard, and I felt her body was ice-cold to the touch. But the truth was that the red welts had been much more reduced. As I'd observed the network of dark red lines covering Miss Sofia's white breasts, I'd felt the anger towards my, our, owner resurface. Her belly and buttocks were in the same state, covered with red welts. As soon as she'd got out of the bathtub, he'd wrapped her naked body in a fluffy bath towel, embraced her, and took her to the bedroom. The gentle and careful way he'd done it had left me perplexed.

"Miguel, thank you for taking care of me, and thank you for buying Sara." Stora's voice was slow and laden with pain, but also filled with admiration for "Miguel". It hadn't been the way I'd expected her to speak to the man who'd flogged her. My stomach had churned with a mixture of confusion and disdain. How could she thank him?

"Terrorist, now you go into the bathtub while I take care of Sofia." The mere thought of being submerged in water again sent waves of panic through my body.

"No! I don't want to! Can I just take a cold shower? I don't want to be in freezing water." Buzzzzz! That was the answer I received. It wasn't terribly painful, just an electric tingling sensation coursing through my body.

"This is not a democracy, slave! Into the bathtub, now!" I gritted my teeth and stepped into the bathtub. The icy water sent a violent shiver through me, as if I were reliving my punishment. I nearly leapt out of the tub, but truth be told, after the initial shock, I felt considerably better. The burning sensation disappeared, and my muscle aches became more bearable. I tried to eavesdrop on what my owner and Stora Sofia were saying, but beyond a word here and there and the occasional moan, I couldn't make out much. My body began to grow numb from the cold. I submerged my head completely underwater, and time seemed to stand still, until I heard...

"Come on, hop out now, let's take care of that sunburn." I felt his hand grasping mine, helping me out of the water. As he wrapped me in a towel, I began to shiver and cry uncontrollably.

"Go ahead and cry, it's good for you. Come on." He led me to the bedroom. Miss Sofia lay naked on her side on the bed, her breasts, stomach, and buttocks covered with a thick layer of white cream, and a compress soaked in dark yellow liquid between her thighs. She looked at me and smiled serenely. For the first time, I felt safe.

Mr. Miguel dried my body with the towel. I didn't protest; in fact, the warmth of his touch was comforting. When he finished drying me, he spread the towel over the bed.

"Stretch out your arms and close your eyes." I obeyed. I felt his hand moving across my face and then my body, even my intimate parts. He covered my entire skin with a gel. His touch had nothing sexual about it; he simply tended to my burn.

"Stay in that position for a few minutes until your skin absorbs the gel, then lie down and try to rest." He kissed Stora on the forehead and then left, leaving me alone with my teacher in the room.

My eyes stung when I opened them, possibly due to the product my owner had applied to my body. Thanks to the ice-cold bath and the gel, I felt much better, and at least my skin no longer felt tight or hot.

Following my owner's advice, I lay down on the bed next to Professor Sofia.

"Hello Sara, I'm so happy to see you. I wasn't expecting Miguel to buy you at all," she said in a gentle voice.

"Wasn't it you who asked him to buy me?" Had I misinterpreted the words?

"Yes, I did ask, but his answer was... let's say, negative. He must have changed his mind. I'm glad he did." My owner had looked at me like trash, made me wear a garbage bag as a dress. I could only imagine what his response must have been.

"And now we're both slaves to this man. Do you know what he intends to do with me?" As I contemplated the teacher's body, I imagined mine in the same situation covered in welts, not that I was in a good state myself.

"No, I don't know. I hope he treats you the way he treats me, but the truth is, I don't know. Although I'm very happy to have you here, until a few minutes ago... only when I saw you at the auction... did I know that you hadn't been executed. What happened?" Miss Sofia's voice showed she was happy to see me, despite it being painful for her to speak.

"You were right Miss. I apologize for thinking badly of you when I saw you enter the classroom wearing that slave collar." My voice was thick with shame; I had humiliated the woman who had possibly saved my life. "You were right, Stora. All slaves are so by their own choice. I had said I'd prefer death to wear this collar, but when the moment came, when death was only minutes away I screamed and begged them not to kill me." Tears started running down my face again, and I turned my head, trying to hide my shame.

Miss Sofia's voice was gentle, understanding. "Don't be ashamed. I cried too, sometimes I still do. Even though Miguel is a good man, I'm still his slave. It's hard being a slave."