Strange Queens

Disclaimer:

This story contains references to acts performed by fictional characters that might offend some readers. The author ensures that these events were written in as a story telling plot device and as an expression of the tale being told in their imagination, and hopes that the story is neither ruined for the reader nor as a whole by any references to any positive or negative occurrences. Additionally, they would like to add that it is their wish that this story function multi-purposely; as though it would still be a kick-ass adventure if one removed every trace of sexual activity, offensive scenes or otherwise impacting material.

All sexual acts performed in this story are willing interactions between people of 18 years or older and any references to forced intercourse, rape or non-consensual sex are used as a plot device and do not actually describe these events occurring, nor do they confirm these events as having happened. Any reference to rape or violent intercourse while performing such an act are references used as devices to enhance the story rather than to imply an unwanted, violent or otherwise painful attack.

Finally, I, as the author, sole writer and fond fan of the people I've come to develop in this series, would like to thank you for taking the time to read one or many of my stories and hope that you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it. I hope the above doesn't put you off reading; I have included references to non-consensual sex in the story and I have no wish to deny it as I believe it is a necessary plot tool to convey the mindset of the main protagonists. However, every reference is made in assumption, as though the act is possible, but never confirmed. This I believe to be an acceptable story telling use of otherwise negative insinuations.

Finally, one last note. There is reference in this story to a certain woman, one with very important visual descriptions. In the time between writing Strange Queens 2 and this story I had completely forgotten about the idea of this girl -- I won't tell you the look I'm talking about, for the sake of true spoilers -- but anyone who has read the first two machinations of the Strange Queens will know that this character already exists! This is an error on my part, but would require either re-uploading the first stories, heavily edited, or almost completely re-writing this one, and I couldn't bear to do either. I'd like to state here that, henceforth onwards, the character mentioned in

this

story is the correct one. Corrections to appearance will be made at the beginning of Strange Queens 4. Uh oh, did I just drop a 4

th

chapter guarantee...? Shi-

Alright, enough from me. Read on, enjoy, thank you, and have a fantastic day or night!

* * * * *

We return to the story after several months between writing. Some small points may not tie up totally and for that I formally apologise here and now. Hopefully I can finish this storyline before it finishes with me once more. I must add that, for any veteran of the first two stories in the Chelsea and Jordan instalments, I tell of Chelsea having eyes as gold as her hair. However I turned around and used it again in this text, and I feel it works much better in reference here than it does in book two for Chelsea. For this reason I would like to assume that Chelsea is adorned not with the matching gold eyes of her blonde locks, but with the bright, crystalline blue eyes of a naturally gorgeous woman like herself.

* * * * *

PART 1

"Why start anew when you can fix just that which is broken?"

~Unknown

* * * * *

Shuffling forwards, Jordan took a dirty tray of her own and held it up to the counter, as high as her chained wrists, arms and body would let her. The usual meal was slopped on the surface and she was moved along by the next girl in line. Stumbling away as she always did she made her way to the table on the right wall, as she always did, and sat with her friends -- if they could be called friends -- as she always did.

Jordan's grand plan all those days ago in the container hadn't worked. If it had, she wouldn't be tied, chained and bound in chastity as she was now. Originally, between the four or five that had cared about breaking free, only one girl had escaped, and not the kind of escape you want to imagine when you think of becoming free from captivity. The woman was one of the older females, a girl of about mid-thirties, who had evidently been through the system a few times. She'd bolted for the road outside this place the moment they opened the doors. She wasn't shot or cut down -- she ran right in front of an oncoming car.

It had been after that that the gates swung shut and Jordan, Rachel, Amanda and the rest of the females in their transport were locked in once more.

Now they sat, three times a day, at tables like a school cafeteria, and ate shitty food from dirty trays in silence, in a room full of naked women. Each and every slave girl here was chained in a very, very high quality chastity belt. In fact, it was more of a chastity armour than simple belts -- breast cups, groin belt, spiked flap with piss tube, arm and wrist cuffs, ankle straps and neck collars, weights, chokers, spikes and magnets. Even their hair was cut, sliced short, shaved down to something that would look clean on men but look, well, stereotypically lesbian on women.

Jordan's dark hair helped framed her face in shadow, while Amanda's shock of red looked like an angry swarm of ants and Rachel's salty strawberry blonde looked just, short. Not just their scalp, either - their pubic hair was completely absent, removed from even the most sensitive of places, and their arms and legs waxed. Even certain, all the more private locations had been meticulously stripped of their follicles, leaving clean, bear skin. It was a good job, too -- perhaps laser work. All up, the girls were as naked as they had ever been, with no darkness to cover them in the stark lights, no hair to shield them from scrutiny, and their chastity chains covering only what they had to to do their job. Prisoners.

'I miss the container.' Rachel, big, tall, busty and bulky, muttered, breaking the silence. The other girls in E6, the girls from their container - eight in total - echoed the sentiment in their minds. Their markings, a bright red E6, had been tattooed between each of their shoulder blades, where they could never touch it, and where it could never be removed. Big, bold, red, and visible to all, it was a permanent reminder of their enslavement. It bore itself out behind their looping metal bands and swore to speak of the females' slave destiny to anyone who saw it. Beyond Rachel's words, no one -- at any table in the room -- spoke a word. Only the sound of scraping plastic and jingling chains could be heard.

Jordan, for her part, hadn't stopped thinking. Her chastity wasn't totally unusual to her, as she'd often worn binds and chastity belts for Chelsea back in their hillside retreat. She'd even spent twenty four hours chained to a bed while Chelsea had gradually built her to orgasm with remotely controlled dildos, vibes, and her own body when it would help elicit arousal. Jordan had never felt her body worked so hard, and had never experienced an explosion bigger than the one she'd had twenty-three hours, fifty six minutes and five seconds after she'd been locked to that bed. That, however - a sex-crazed, glorious day of bliss, of total helplessness and arousal under someone she loved and trusted - and this, chained naked in chastity belts so complete they could pass as clothes in an unknown location under hostile guard whilst kept inside stark concrete cells were two very different things.

Sucked from her short revelation on her past, a short, piercing horn called three times from speakers over their heads.

'All girls return to rooms. Girls to rooms.' Came a shrill, harsh female voice. Gloomily, the room of women stood and returned their trays to the counter before shuffling to the exit door, manned by a tall, all-black wearing guard. Dressed in hardened armour about their crotch, torso and face, they were protected both from attack and seduction, and were in return unable to inseminate any of the captives in the facility. It was all so inhuman, almost like the girls were imprisoned by emotionless robots rather than men and women with feelings and genitals like themselves.

Passing the black figure -- man or woman, it was impossible to tell behind the black mask, and their clothing was so bulkily unruly that breasts or any sort of genitalia was unidentifiable -- Jordan made her way out to the hallway that was the cell block. Rooms consisted of two beds for two girls, heated chambers with only metal furnishings inside, albeit well shaped, somewhat comfortable metal furnishings. Jordan's roommate was Rachel, the big girl she'd met in the container back on the road to this prison. Amanda and the little girl were in the room across from them, and the other women from their container were paired in several other cells. Stepping inside their rooms, they stood side by side until a black-clad guard came and checked them over. Glancing in, they saw two females, locked up in their chains, standing and awaiting the door's closing. Finding no issues, they then promptly swung the door shut and bolted it. A key turned in a lock, and the girls' imprisonment was complete once more.

This process was repeated for each cell until the whole hall was once again empty of women.

Inside their cell, Jordan and Rachel sat back on their metal tables.

For a while, neither spoke. Indeed, Jordan hadn't raised conversation with Rachel for four days, and Rachel, normally loud and proud, hadn't done much more than grunt. She, however, was suffering the most -- used to freedom, the confined room and chastity locks were taking their toll, and she'd spent their first day or so variously trying to tear off her padded chains, banging on the door, or even, at one point while she'd thought Jordan was asleep, silently trying to fuck herself through her spiked pee flap. The long red cuts down her fingers the next day, and the flustered, sleepless face had said it all. The chastity belt was a good one, and had punished it's wearer for her bad actions. Jordan almost wanted to help herself, just to let the girl relax, even if her own fingers ended up scarred like that.

'I can get out.'

It took Jordan several moments to look up from her silent seat, back pressed straight against the wall, legs over the edge of her bed, eyes closed.

'What?' Jordan breathed, voice hoarse from lack of use.

'The cafeteria. Behind the counter. There's a kitchen door. It goes outside. We can leave.' Rachel rasped. Lying down, Jordan couldn't see her eyes -- couldn't make out her intent -- but the girl's metal-covered breasts rose and fell slowly. She wasn't in a panic attack.

'What makes you think there's an exit?' Jordan asked quietly. Not for privacy -- there was no need in such a small place -- but because no higher volume was needed. Far from playing negative, Jordan was excited to hear that Rachel had been coping well enough to plan and plot, rather than going crazy from her imprisonment.

'Kitchen always has exit. For scraps, and for fresh food. Besides,' she went on, 'no other doors.'

The girl was right. This hallway ended in a blank wall. The cafeteria and the cells were the only rooms any of them had seen since they'd arrived. It made sense to have one door - all you needed was one person on it and the entire place was, effectively, secure.

'What are you thinking?' Jordan breathed. At the lack of reply, she popped lightly down from her bed and leaned over Rachel, but the big girl, her muscled body still, had drifted off. Either that or she was being silent, something she often did after violently attacking the door, her chains, or herself. Nothing more would be shared for the moment.

Detecting no further conversation from the strong female for the time, Jordan slid her butt back onto her metal bed, wiggled to get the padded beam of metal pressed as comfortably as it could be between her cheeks, and shuffled her chains back till she was straight-backed and comfortable. It was an inconvenience, to be sure, having a curved, rubber coated metal beam forever pressing between your rear and against your entry ways, and worse still having those same padded metal fittings snaking around your waist, back and limbs. But Jordan had found she'd slowly gotten used to them, and the table had been carefully shaped to allow room for the bands to rest in, at least making it comfortable for sleeping. It didn't do much for the cell, however.

Jordan settled herself, resting back into her padded chains. Then, she closed her eyes, let her muscles relax, and sighed.

* * * * *

In the days after Chelsea's sudden abandonment of her previous life, her mindset had done a full three-sixty. Where not long ago she had been lover of Jordan, the cute and sexy girl with a pert, perky bust, firm and wide bubble butt and glorious blue crystal eyes embedded in a creamy white face of perfection and framed by long, flowing dark hair, and who, it had to be said, was one of the most lusty and damn sexy slaves Chelsea had ever known, now she was a totally different worshipper. The victim to a godly incantation, Chelsea's very soul had been bound by the power of the ancient heavens to her new Master's -- a man by the name of Paulo Crete. One of the most powerful secret businessmen, operating on the line between legality and criminality, Paulo's bloodline was one of holy royalty, a distant descendant of a true god, one whom governed the rules of power, worship, love and dedication.

A hopeless lover of mortals, he had bedded one of the human females -- one of some elevation, he had been led to believe, a queen or heir or noble of some sort, and one with whom he was most madly in love -- and had immediately after been stripped of his powers and banished to a life of mortality. Not letting this stop him, he married the female and copulated with her, his meagre power still able to bend weak enough minds somewhat to his own, enough so that he could persuade the king that he was of noble blood. Birthing four children, the banished god, Eros, and his wife, Elanorè, had lived happily until Eros had thrown himself into a river, forgetting his mortality, and drowned.

Madly in love, heart broken, and more than prepared to follow him, Elanorè's children had been her only reason for living on. Banishing her weaknesses, she returned to the throne, now suffering from lack of pure blood, and took her seat, her sons her servants until maturity. Once they had left, she was found in a sleep that could not be broken, a single white rose to her bosom. She had sealed off her heart until her job was done, and passed of her wounds, the only wound that could kill even immortals.

Hundreds of years later, countless generations passed by with little knowledge of their power before one had discovered it. From then it was a matter of discovery, and each successive son had found a new key to their ability. But it was Paulo, or rather one step before Paulo, that the Crete line had realised their heritage and had accepted their ability, and thanks only to the advent of modern technology and science, as well as the research derived from ancient history and a natural born lust for power and control. From then, power and money had entered the family easily, thanks to the discovery.

It was Paulo's father who had lost their family wealth, and it was Paulo's determination -- his vow to his god -- to return it. Stealing women, trading illegal goods, buying businesses and farming online resources, Paulo had been slowly seizing back his late father's lost gold. Chelsea had been one such capture - taken for her car, Paulo's voice had had a particularly profound effect on Chelsea's already mind-control tuned, hypnotically susceptible brain. Picking up on the incantation it rendered her passive and open, tranced, and Paulo had no choice but to claim her, body, mind and spirit, as his own, or leave her to melt away, her mind never fully returning to her body, forever awaiting a spiritual grip that would seize and submit her to its will, a power that would never come. Her body would fail long before her mind gave up waiting. It had been Paulo's only option.

Plopping a sizeable pill into each cup of warm chocolate as she prepared them, a strong looking woman, dressed in tight black full-arm gloves and thigh-high tights - and nothing between save for a sexy but scarce chastity belt combination, tarnished in shining gold - listened to a man as he spoke.

'You mentioned the big girl, the one who needed the double size cups. She was the strong looking one, yes? Came from the shipping depot?' Deep, bass tones.

'Yes, Master. Rachel, her name was. Violent one, likes to assault her door some nights, and we've seen her fingers cut several times in the mornings. Russian, I think, or something eastern. Probably has more muscle than some of our guards. A suitable match, perhaps?'

The man sighed, considering a few thoughts in his head. He brushed his tie absently. 'I have a client across town that sent me a personal request for a female who could take, and give, a beating, somewhat literally. He likes big women, no fat, lots of muscle, short hair, lesbian sort of stereotype. Apparently he gets off on seeing them struggle helplessly before him, enjoys breaking their will more than your average pussy on legs. Also apparently likes to fuck them till they bleed, also literally. If she can run red from every hole and still take his load... I'll have a look at her for sure.'

'Certainly, sir. There is a second option, a Swiss woman, very similar profile. I'll prepare her also.' The man nodded.

Speaking candidly, the female in her gold and black outfit finished her drinks and placed them on trays. The suited man, dressed in expensive clothes with immaculate hair and sunglasses on inside, stood leaned against a bench, clipboard and paperwork spread about the table before him. The two spoke fairly openly, as though they knew each other. Indeed, they did. Gloria, the owner of the building and manager of all Paulo's slave girls was a previous victim of Paulo's godly control. A victim of necessity, he had found her in a brothel as one of the few girls auctioning herself rather than letting her slavemasters pick her clientele. Apparently she preferred anal and only came for women, but could stand a cock for money. Only gave oral when she could bite.

Paulo's semen had changed that deep inside her, and a few chanted words later he'd watched her cunt explode on the bed helplessly before him as he'd claimed her as his own. Decreeing her a lesbian, she would find only his penis aroused her. A dominatrix, her fetish would be seeing other girls helpless, chained and unable to diddle themselves while she, dressed exactly like them, cut her fingers and came despite her chastity. She would be victorious over them because she could overcome her restraints, which only made her feel even more hot for her Master.

Paulo, for his part, felt like Gloria was an old friend, a pleasant ally to visit. She was intelligent and her strong will kept her with her own personality after he'd claimed her as his - something most girls couldn't do. She had been the perfect pick for owner of his slave trade, and even had a magnificent pussy, tight and deep, and always sopping wet. Not once had not he come here to talk slave girl trade only to find himself plunged deep inside her, rolling across the hard kitchen bench, hilt deep as she screamed for him, her own teeth drawing red from her lip as she bit it.

'Paulo? Did you hear me, baby?' She said again. Paulo blinked, remembering himself. His tented pants gave his imagination away, but Gloria already knew what she made him think of when he was with her. Passing him, she brushed her metal-clad body against his and pecked his cheek as she carried trays out to the cafeteria.