Stephanies Slave Journal

Stephanie's Slave Journal: A Theo Story

Introduction

I started keeping this journal a couple of years ago, partly to give me something to do in the afternoons. The mornings are usually taken care of with gym time, anal and vaginal exercises, and all the other required chores. Unless I'm serving a client on the afternoon shift, the afternoons are pretty much "free time" -- using the expression with all the irony you choose to layer onto it. We can watch movies, browse the internet (even though we can't send anything out), read, play board games, or whatever. I often do those sorts of things, but I also find that it helps me process what's happened and is happening to me to write it down.

You know the first part already, if you've read "Stephanie and the Slavers," but it's all from Theo's point of view. I feel like letting you know a lot more of the details from my point of view. It's not strictly journal material, as I have no way of dating anything; call it a "prologue" if you want. Then I'll start with some dated entries. I'll collect some of the more interesting ones (some of them just say things like "Cuffed to bondage bed, flogged, fucked in ass," or everyday things like that). I know that it's incredibly unlikely that anyone will read them other than me and a few slave friends whom I like to share them with, but I feel the need to organize them as if they would someday be published. So here goes.

Part 1. Prologue: How I Got Here.

I'm white, average height, medium build, medium breasts (a well-developed B cup, which is an asset in the modelling business -- you want the audience to be admiring the clothes, not trying to stare through them at huge boobs). My hair is probably my most notable point -- a rich chestnut brown that looks especially good when sunlight brings out the red highlights. At the time, I was wearing it a little below my shoulders, pretty much straight but with a bit of a curl to it that made it curve around my face in what I hoped was an attractive way.

I'm talking as if I was actually a model, but in truth I was just a model-in-waiting. I have always really loved clothes, especially ones that are more expensive than I can afford, and I've learned how to make them look good on me. I've taken a course on modelling, and spent lots of time studying the models in various clothing store flyers and such. I had quit my pay-the-rent job as a server at a gay bar in order to have a try at a modelling career full time. No, I'm not gay, but the management didn't seem to discriminate as long as you could keep your orders straight and avoid spilling beer in anyone's lap. As a side benefit, it was nice not having to deflect unwelcome flirty comments all the time.

I had paid a good photographer to take some demo photographs and I'd put together a web site. I'd also cold-called a number of modelling agencies. The ones that actually phoned back said they'd put me on their list, but I got the impression that their lists were pretty over-populated with models-in-waiting. I got a couple of lingerie ads for The Bay and that was about it.

The rent was coming due, so I started researching nude modelling. The pictures I had seen on the more tasteful sites looked as though I could handle the job. Not all the women had DD hooters, and many of the poses didn't look all that much different from the ones I'd been practicing, minus clothing of course. It didn't seem as though I'd have to pose sprawled on my back with my legs wide open if I didn't want to. I had also checked out some porn videos and decided that that was definitely a redline for me. Being fucked on camera by some overendowed stud and then sprayed with cum (or maybe just leaked on with cum -- I suspected some of them attempted a few too many ejaculations in a row) was just not worth it to me, no matter what it paid. I'd go back to slinging beer first.

I was halfway through trying to find contact information for some legitimate nude modelling agencies (do nude models have agencies? Or do they just deal directly with one or another porn site? I obviously had a lot to learn if this was going to be a regular rent-paying side gig) when I saw the ad: "New models wanted for up-and-coming modelling firm." That got my attention.

It sounded legitimate. A new modelling agency was trying to reel in some clients and they needed a few models to put together a demo package. It sounded as though they would pay -- not handsomely at first maybe, but enough to put food in the fridge and pay the rent, and they were interested in how I looked with clothes on, not off. It was worth a shot.

I phoned the number in the ad. A male voice answered. "Hello, New Glories Modelling, Steve speaking." Well, that was a good start -- I had gotten a human being first try, and he sounded professional enough. We chatted for a while and he told me how he and his partner Artie had an ambition to turn their interest in photography into a career. I told him how I was hoping to turn my interest in clothes into a career as well, shared the link to my demo site, and before I knew it, we had a deal of sorts. It would be strictly demo photos until he and Artie landed some real clients, but he was indeed willing to pay enough to help me live to the end of the month without having to let someone take pictures of my bare tits and post them on the internet.

Their studio wasn't far away -- less than an hour's drive in my elderly Matrix -- so we set a time a couple of days in the future and I headed out. I was wearing what I hoped was my most fashionable outfit, and I had a small case with a variety of other clothing ranging from high-society chic through sexy-swanky and down to everyday, plus a couple of swimsuits and halter-shorts combinations, so I was ready to show my stuff in a variety of styles.

The building that bore the address I'd been given didn't look like a modelling agency, but that wasn't surprizing. Steve had told me that they had recently rented space downstairs in a multi-business complex to give them some studio space to get started on until they could afford a slightly more imposing and professional-looking space.

I rang the bell. In a minute or so, a man opened the door. He was white, on the short side, clean-shaven with dark brown, almost black hair pulled back in a pony tail. I thought he looked as though he could be a photographer, all right.

"Steve?"

He smiled. "You must be Stephanie. Come on in."

There was something about him that set off minor alarm bells, but I couldn't place what it was. He didn't seem sleezy, or over-friendly, or threatening in any way. There was just something in his manner that I didn't quite like. Maybe a bit of oiliness, I don't know. Since I couldn't place it, I put it on hold, set the alarm bells on pause, and went inside.

"Come on down to the studio. Artie will join us in a few minutes. I see you've brought a variety of clothes -- good. We'll need to show prospective clients all the things we can do."

We walked down a flight of metal stairs into another corridor. We stopped at a door with a sign that read "Studio One."

"There isn't a Studio Two. We're just thinking of the future."

Steve pushed the door open and we stepped inside. Immediately, the faint alarm bells were replaced by a klaxon horn. This didn't look, or smell, remotely like any photography studio I'd ever seen. I was standing there getting used to the dim light when I suddenly heard a woman's voice scream, "He's lying to you! Run!"

I was frozen for half a second while my brain processed this total reversal of expectations. Then I realized what I'd been looking at in the dim light: big steel cages. People-sized cages.

I instantly turned and bolted for the door, but Steve grabbed me from behind before I got two metres and wrestled me to the ground. I twisted onto my back and, remembering my self-defence class, stabbed two well-manicured thumbnails directly at his eyes. I couldn't get enough purchase from my position on the floor to aim properly, and Steve was able to turn his head and save his vision, although he got two nasty claw marks on his right cheek. This made him good and mad, and he pulled back his right fist and gave me a powerhouse blow to the side of the head.

I've always wondered whether "seeing stars" is just an expression. Well, it isn't. My vision exploded into a cloud of microscopic stars, and I had to fight to keep at least some control of my body and my mind. I was sufficiently stunned and disoriented that Steve didn't have any trouble grabbing me by the back of my fancy suit jacket and shoving me into one of the cages, which stood conveniently open. I felt the seam of my overpriced jacket rip as he grabbed it, but damage to my clothing was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment.

I laid face down for a second, winded from having been shoved so roughly onto the floor. This gave Stave time to lie on my back, grab both forearms, and shove my wrists through the bars. Another man, whom I presumed was Artie, was waiting outside the cage, and snapped a pair of metal handcuffs on them to trap my arms through the bars.

I tried to twist over onto my back to see if I could get a knee into Steve's groin, but the handcuffs wouldn't give me enough slack to let that happen. I was also screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs, hoping that we weren't buried so far in the basement that we would be out of earshot of other tenants of the building.

Steve didn't like that. He grabbed a rag off the floor and shoved it into my mouth, hard, and just about half way down my throat. I won't try to describe what it tasted like -- for a start, it tasted as if maybe someone had been wiping their ass on it, among other things -- but I couldn't spit it out because Steve, who had been wearing a classy necktie, had pulled it off and tied it around my head and through my mouth in a cleave gag that held the rag securely in place. My frantic screams were replaced by pathetic muffled gargling noises.

Then he started pulling off my clothes. He grabbed the back of my jacket where it had started to rip and finished the job, ripping it clean down the back into two pieces. The buttons flew off the front when he changed his grip and yanked again. He couldn't get my arms out of the sleeves, so he left it hanging on my body in two pathetic pieces as he did the same job on the white blouse I wore under it. He dug in his pocket, pulled out a penknife, and cut the straps on my bra so he could take it right off, leaving my breasts dangling and bouncing as I squirmed and struggled.

The skirt and panties slipped off over my legs, leaving me totally naked except for the traces of ruined jacket and blouse. By this time Artie was in the cage too. He grabbed two chains attached to opposite sides of the cage, and he and Steve each took an ankle, yanked in opposite directions, and clamped shackles on the ends of the chains around my ankles. Now I was totally helpless, legs chained wide apart and wrists handcuffed through the bars.

All three of us took the opportunity to lie still and drag in some deep panting breaths after our exertions. Mine were partly through my nose and partly around the edges of the rag Steve had shoved in my mouth, still held tightly in place by his necktie. Then Steve reached under me and started exploring my well-waxed pussy with his fingers, sticking them in my vagina and pinching my labia to pull them even farther apart.

I suppose this is the part where, according to most BDSM stories, my pussy was supposed to start creaming from the stimulation as my body betrayed me. Not a chance. My body and my mind were totally on side with each other, just wanting to punch this asshole hard in the balls and get out of there. I heard pants unzipping, and found an erect cock pressed against the entrance to my vagina. I could feel my vaginal walls contract violently -- they had the same idea as my brain, namely, keep this asshole out of there.

Not happening. Steve shoved harder and harder, forcing his cock into my totally dry and resisting vagina in the most painful fuck I've had in my life. His thrusts were short and hard, animalistic in their intensity, and it didn't take him long to empty himself deep inside, right up against my cervix.

My sexual partners usually wore condoms, but I've done bareback sex with a few trusted longer-term partners as long as their STI tests came back negative and my contraceptive shots were up to date. Some of them could pump quite a bit of cum at a session, but they were pikers compared to Steve, who seemed to be pumping about three litres into me. I guessed that he hadn't had his balls drained in quite a long time. That helped explain why he was so eager to get my clothes off and his cock up me the minute he had me restrained in the cage.

Then, of course, it was Artie's turn. He shucked off his pants, kneeled between my legs, and started trying to shove his cock between my labia. I guess he was no fan of sloppy seconds, because he moved further back, which meant further up since I was lying on my belly, and started trying to ream my asshole.

This is normally high on my no-go list of sex acts. I'd tried anal sex before, but no matter how careful the man tried to be, it always hurt like hell and I got zero pleasure from it. Maybe I had a hangup about it that made me tense up in a self-fulfilling prophecy of pain, but whatever the reason, none of my partners could get away with it once I had decided that it wasn't for me.

Artie, of course, couldn't have cared less. In fact, I think my muffled shrieks of pain were turning him on. Other than some of Steve's cum that he had picked up on his tour of my pussy, he didn't use any lube. Cum is a pretty poor lube, but it's better than spit,, or nothing, and given that I didn't expect to receive a fingerful of Liquid Silk any time soon, I was grateful for even the smallest mercies.

Once Artie had finished splitting me in half and filling me with cum, he picked himself up and put his pants back on. He slapped me once more on the side of the head for good measure, but at least it wasn't as bad as that first roundhouse punch. Then they both walked out, leaving me chained to the floor oozing cum and a bit of blood from cunt and asshole.

**

Once I'd recovered a bit from the abuse, I began to see if I could improve my situation a bit. I obviously couldn't do anything about the shackles and handcuffs, but there was a bit of slack in the ankle cuffs. Eventually I was able to get my head close enough to the bars that I could twist my hands around and start picking at the knots holding the necktie. After what seemed an eternity, I got them loose and was finally able to spit out the filthy rag that passed for a gag. I badly needed a drink of water to wash out my mouth -- hell, half a bottle of mouthwash followed by a mickey of rye whisky wouldn't have been too much -- but that clearly wasn't going to happen, so, having improved circumstances as much as the limited opportunities permitted, I started looking around at my surroundings for the first time.

There was absolutely nothing in the cage except for me and a bucket in the corner that obviously was going to serve as a toilet if they ever decided to uncuff me from the bars. There were three other cages in the room: two were empty and the third held what must have been the source of the shouted warning when I had first stepped into the room. It was a woman, as naked as I was but gaunter and more sallow-looking, as if she hadn't seen the sun in a very long time. Her hair hung down in very long, tangled clumps, and she was sporting a fresh bruise over one eye. Several cuts were healing on various places on her body, and she looked filthy.

"I'm sorry I didn't call out a few seconds sooner," she said in a creaky voice that sounded as if it hadn't been used in a while. "It probably wouldn't have helped, but if they hadn't locked any doors behind them, you might have had a fighting chance to escape this hell-hole. Now you're trapped here just like me."

I looked around. "What the fuck is this place, and what's going to happen to me?"

She sighed heavily and leaned back against the bars of her cage. "What the fuck this place is, my dear, is the lowest-end and worst-run trick pad on the planet. I found out one day that Steve and Artie charge $20 a pop for johns to shove their dicks in us. I think they're overcharging. I mean, look at me. I'm not exactly the glamorous hooker after the neglect they've lavished on me. Most men demand something that at least looks like a woman. Those assholes cater to guys who don't care what she looks like as long as she has a hole in the right place. Sometimes I think they could drill a hole in a watermelon and put it out there, for all some of these johns care.

"Most places like this are staffed by women who are enslaved by their own circumstances. Maybe they're immigrants who don't speak enough English to get another job, are desperate not to be deported to somewhere they'll be treated even worse. Some are slaves to various addictions. Some just plain have nowhere else to go. But finding women like that and grooming them to lie on their backs all evening takes work. That's not Steve and Artie's style. They'd rather lure a woman down here, cage her up, and just use force to keep her legs spread."

I didn't want to ask the next question but I couldn't help myself. "How ... how long have you been here?"

"I have no way of knowing. What year is it?" I told her and she sighed again.

"Four years. I'd guessed as much from the length of my hair. I never have a chance to cut it here so it just keeps getting hangier and hangier."

I tried not to vomit at the thought of being stuck here for four years, or more. "Sorry, I'm being rude." she said. "My name's Anabelle. I'd shake your hand, but I can't reach it and besides, it's chained to the bars."

"I'm Stephanie. They got me here by offering me a fake modelling job. How about you?"

"Fake job as a sales rep for a cosmetics company. They aren't very original. Over the years, women keep answering job ads and never reappearing. It totally beats me why the police haven't been able to put a pattern together. It's not exactly like these guys are smart.

"Let me fill you in on how this place works so you're not surprised. Every day at what I'd guess is five o'clock or so, they'll drag you down the hall to the trick room. There's not much in it but a bed that's totally stained with cum, and they'll chain you to it spread-eagled on your back so clients can get in and get out with a minimum of wasted time. They obviously deal in volume, not quality. If you don't scream and protest, they probably won't bother to gag you in case some guys want to face-fuck you.

"You'll be there most of the night. There's no way to keep track of time in this place, but I gauge it like this. They make their customers wear condoms to cut down on STI's and pregnancies. You'll start the night with a box of a hundred beside you -- beats me how they get their hands on industrial-sized quantities like that. Maybe they're supposed to be sold to people who restock the condom machines in public bathrooms or something. Anyway, by the time you get back to your cage so you can sleep a little, there might be twenty or thirty left. Do the math.

"They get a lot of throughput, but I get the feeling they're still losing money. They're starting to save more and more on overhead. Like food." I looked at the ribs that were starkly outlined against her skin and felt sick to my stomach all over again.

"I have no idea why they acquired a new girl. I had gotten the impression that they were trying to get out of this racket. But maybe they think that if quantity over quality isn't working, they'll just do more of that and maybe it'll work. Definition of insanity.