I had a name not so very long ago, but it is lost to me now. No one uses names here - not even the handlers address one another by name - I suspect this is another subtle way they attempt to condition us - by trying to teach us that names are no longer important. On the odd occasion we are required to speak, we are to address them all as Master.
When you obey the rules, the handlers begin to treat you with a little more humanity. After a few days of good behaviour, they begin to address you in your native tongue - nothing special, just 'slave', 'slut' or sometimes 'whore.' If you're wondering how this is humanising then you still fail to understand our situation.
Compare this to the captives who don't obey, who are still addressed by a barked command in a foreign language, and the lash of a whip. I'll happily be addressed as 'slut' as an alternative.
Once you're trusted to behave, more privileges are awarded to you - so you can better understand, let me paint a picture for you.
Our living quarters consist of double rows of cages, with aisles spaced wide enough that the handlers are able to patrol their assigned area.
The cages are bolted to a thick wooden floor. Shelter is provided by a heavy canvas marquee - about as wide as an football field - so far there has been no rain, or anything more than a gentle breeze, so I am unsure about how this holds up in more extreme weather. If the thick wooden poles that the canvas is fixed to are anything to go by, I suspect we'd be sheltered from a lighter rainstorm at least. Oil torches are fixed to the poles and provide our lighting.
The marquee is connected to others by smaller canvas tunnels in what seems like an endless maze of white tents. In the early days, we never saw anything other than the inside of our cages, and as you can imagine, the smell was unbearable - not just for us, but for the handlers. I was one of the first to receive bathroom privileges, due to my lack of resistance - and most of the other captives soon followed - the situation was too degrading to sustain for very long,
We take trips to the bathroom twice a day - morning and evening. So far there has been no exceptions to this rule, as I soon learned after hydrating too much on a particularly sweltering day, and having to spend the rest of the day soiled as a result.
Our bathroom lies on the far left of the tent. In the morning the handlers descend the rows and unlock our cages, and we emerge and wait to be leashed to one another by our collars, and marched naked to the bathroom.
A more recent development is that myself and a few others no longer have our wrists and ankles locked up at night - we aren't seen as a flight risk. You might think we're crazy not to escape, especially in the morning when we're waiting, unchained, outside of our cages for our handlers, but the reality is that if by some chance we escaped them, the landscape that awaits us outside is unsurvivable. Any captives that have tried have quickly been foiled, and escapees are an inconvenience rather than a concern.
After we're paraded through the tent, chained at the neck for our fellow captives to see and the handlers to leer at, we reach the bathroom through a canvas tunnel to our left.
The only difference to this tent structurally is the floor, a raised metal grating so the water can drain away to the pits underneath. The showers line either side of the tent at this end, the heads spaced evenly and fixed to a metal trellis that is fixed to either side of the marquee.
We pass them to make our way to the far end of the tent where the toilets are located. By toilets, I mean stalls that reach chest high if you're small like I am, with wooden boxes set over pits. A jug of water to clean yourself with, and a bucket of sand to throw down afterwards. There must be another method of removal or drainage below as the smell never becomes overpowering, but it's a shock to the system when you're used to modern plumbing.
The sink is just a long, metal trough with cold taps located intermittently, and a shelf fixed above with a bottle of mouthwash, and liquid soap for us to use.
Then it's time to shower. The water is cold, although it feels like a blessing in the oppressive heat. More liquid soap and nothing else, and maybe two minutes to wash. No privacy, and no towels - you dry quickly anyway. I know that good hygiene is practical for the handlers, but they must enjoy the daily show too. My neighbouring captives - a pretty, delicate Japanese girl to my left, and a regal, lithe Ghanaian to my right - are almost impossible to look away from, and I admit to sneaking more than a few glances their way myself.
Whilst we have no names here, it's impossible not to call them something in my head - the Japanese girl has a beautiful tattoo of some kind of flower on her hip - she caught me admiring it once, and whispered 'Ume' so now that's what I think of her as.
I have had no interactions with the Ghanaian girl, but being so regal and poised in her movements, I ended up thinking of her as a Duchess.
After our shower, provided we behave, our handler (who I have named Hands, for reasons I'll explain later) will march us back through the main marquee, and through another canvas tunnel, to a tent with a row of wooden tables lined with benches either side, and a large metal surface at the far end where the food is prepared. We are fed by young girls with dark hair and caramel skin, who will never meet our eyes. We eat here twice a day, morning and evening, with just fruit and water in the middle of the day to sustain us. The food is healthy, bland, and just enough to keep us going.
Those who have disobeyed are returned to their cages, without breakfast, where they spend the day, or dragged outside to the punishment area depending on the severity of their infraction.
For those who follow the rules, a less painful but no less exhausting day lies ahead.
* * * * *
My assumption is that to maximise our value, we must be in peak physical condition. When I arrived, my body type was short, curvy and average. Fitness was never a priority, I had more interesting things to attend to, and my large breasts, big lips and expressive eyes were enough to attract others. In hindsight, I wish I had paid more attention to my stamina and physical condition, as it would have made the first days here much less painful.
After breakfast, we are taken to a larger marquee with open sides, with views of an empty desert stretching as far as the eye can see. Exercise equipment litters the middle of the floor - weights benches, dumbbells, you get the idea. But before we get to that, we have to run laps of the marquee.
We are allowed one warm up walk, and then we run. Now as you can imagine, being chained at the neck is a big hinderance, as is the heat. When you can't keep up, it affects the rest of your group.
When you slow enough you receive one verbal warning from your handler. The second warning is a sharp, quick lash to your ankles. If you still can't keep up, you are punished.
I am ashamed to say that both my punishments were due to my inability to keep up. I am, of course, not the only one, but I am disappointed in myself for not taking good enough care of my body.
The first day of exercise was almost the worst. After twenty minutes of running in the heat, I began to slow, slowing Ume down who was running ahead of me, and allowing Duchess to catch right up with me. Ume turned to me with pleading eyes, afraid of the consequences for herself. I felt Duchess' foot sharply nudge my ankle, then heard Hands bark a command - I guess it loosely translated to "Move, now!"
But I just couldn't. I was drenched in sweat. My legs shook. I couldn't take another step forward. The sharp sting - my first taste of that cruel whip - was enough for me to stumble forward, but I could run for no longer.
I felt a sharp jerk - the line of captives had ground to a halt - and then I heard Hands shout something else. Soon there were cruel fingers unclipping me from the others, and jeering as they yanked me to my feet and pinched derisively at my sides and thighs.
Despite my exhaustion, I knew better than to resist my punishment. I had collapsed, physically unable to continue running, but I knew that resisting would earn me a harsher reprimand, so instead of them having to drag me to the punishment area, I walked meekly, led by a leash clipped to my collar, eyes downcast, accepting my fate.
The desert sun outside is unforgiving - you can feel it's burn the moment it touches your skin, and the sand scalds your bare feet. I am especially pale and have never tanned, so as soon as it touched my skin I knew it was burning. The sand under my feet was torture, and tears were already streaming from my eyes by the time I reached the wooden platform, where a large metal frame is bolted, with individual cuffs for wrists and ankles attached to long, thin chains.
Despite my terror at what was to come, I was grateful for the relief on my feet. The wood was hot, but nothing compared to the molten heat of the sand. I walked willingly to the middle of the platform, plenty of slack on my leash, and held my wrists and ankles out for them to be cuffed. The Master who was cuffing me snorted with laughter at my compliance, and patted my head like I was a dog. Then the chains were pulled tighter, and tighter, until I was almost dangling, having to balance on the tips of my poor, burnt toes.
I closed my eyes, anticipating what was coming but knowing I would never have experienced the pain of what was coming in my previous, spoilt life. The Master jeered, and then grabbed and spanked my ass almost jokingly, making me jump.
