The Slave World Abductions Ch 06

The Slave World Abductions

A Fanfiction

Part Six

by The Preve

Based upon characters and concepts created by Roxy Rex.

The author wishes to express his deepest thanks to Roxy Rex for his permission in writing this story.

The Dancer

Sara gasped and clutched the silken sheets, quaking from her latest orgasm. The Sharif's big hands held her legs spread, while his thick, long cock drilled her like a piston. A corner of her mind noted, with a bit of wry, her energy. The moans, grunts, and gasps her mouth exhaled, with considerable pleasure, punctuated the irony of the moment. When this whole adventure began for Sara, her point of view was completely different.

First came the hands, seemingly from nowhere, that grabbed her in the studio, along with the chemical-soaked cloth rendering her unconscious.

Next, the blazing clear sky to which she woke, with nothing but a metal collar on her neck, attached to a stake by a thick iron chain.

Things, "men" out of the worst parts of Dungeons and Dragons, leered at her naked body. The torture and breaking began soon after.

The "man" who purchased her, an ifrit she later found, was Farid ibn Hassan ibn Kassir, Sharif of Avarakan. He paid a steep price for her, which, under different circumstances, would be considered flattering. Her interests at the time were centered on escape, murder (Farid, her kidnappers, her sellers), or suicide.

The caravan to Avarakan was the first time in fact, she could spend to herself. They put her in a carriage, and kept her fed and washed.

Escape was out of the question. This place (Slaveworld, she learned) contained things, her handler assured, far worse than the creatures in the dungeon.

Then, as the caravan entered the Desert of Gold, escape became so impossible as to qualify as insane. They didn't give her clothes. A naked woman wouldn't last fifteen minutes in the desert.

The landscape changed as the caravan neared Avarakan. Dunes changed to boulders, then palm trees, then oases, then farmland.

The caravan route followed a river shaming the Amazon. They traveled through settlements inhabited mostly by tieflings, at first. The villages grew larger and the population more diverse: tieflings, humans, elves, and minor djinn lived in the better houses.

Her handler explained the djinn were nobility. The Sharif of Avarakan, her owner, was an ifrit, high nobility.

When the caravan topped a rise to offer a first view of Avarakan, even Sara could not resist a gasp.

Avarakan seemed a city right out of Arabian Nights; giant, sprawling, with golden towers and white domes, gleaming like the rays of a sunrise.

"I won't be surprised if there's magic carpets," she thought.

Avarakan had no magic carpets but everything else exploded with exotic beauty, more Sir Richard Burton than Walt Disney. Sara was swept into a sea of sensuality, in sight, sound, and smell.

The city teemed with djinn, humans, elves, and tieflings. The caravan passed giant bazaars larger and more elaborate than the shopping malls of Earth. Huge markets made the largest warehouses of Amazon, Walmart, and Home Depot look like garden sheds. Exotic smells, spices, perfumes, meats, fruits, and flowers, permeated the air.

The crowds and markets gave way to residential homes, mostly well kept small bungalows. The bungalows grew into two story houses as the caravan progressed.

The houses grew into manors, the manors to palaces. The caravan passed through a beautiful park, with fountains, emerald green hedges, rainbow colored flowers, and shade trees of elm, oak, and palm.

Next, the caravan emerged into a complex of buildings. Sara found later, the buildings were administrative.

The palace complex could be a city in itself. The buildings gleamed with white marble, emblazoned with patterns, designs, and words in gold and silver. The domed wonder at the center rivaled the Taj Mahal.

The caravan veered around the right of broad stairs leading to great bronze doors. Servants and guards directed them to the back.

The back of the palace contained a large courtyard. The courtyard was a sea of activity. Sara's caravan was not the only one present. Workers and slaves loaded and unloaded the wagons and pack animals. Crates, wrapped packages, and cages containing exotic animals streamed to and from the palace entrances.

Tieflings, dark elves, and human servants swarmed the courtyard, carrying clapboards, and marking inventory.

One servant, human, olive-skinned, fastidious, and formal, came to her caravan. He walked along the line of pack animals, inspecting the merchandise, and making notes on his clapboard.

"This stock for the kitchens, take these books to the library, the pokers and whips for the dungeons."

He came to Sara's carriage, "Bring out the new acquisition."

Sara was pushed out. "Stand at attention slave!" her handler shouted.

The servant looked Sara over as if examining a prize horse.

"Hmmm, good legs, ass, thighs, and torso. A dancer's body, it looks like. Fine-featured face, symmetric eye placement, some freckles, good golden hair, defiant eyes, green. Impressive but not overly so. Your purchase price seems a bit high for what I see, but the Sharif bought you, and I don't question him."

Sara stewed in frustrated anger. Ripped from her life into this nightmare, talked about as if she were a piece of furniture. Her fists clenched.

Her handler moved to strike, "No defiance slave!"

"Uh uh ah," the servant tisked, blocking the handler's hand. "You have some fire," he said, "Good, the Sharif likes that in his property."

Sara moved her eyes about for a second. There had to be someway, anyway, of escape.

The servant leaned close, "Yeah, I know that look," he stepped aside. "Go ahead. Start running. Go out and see the city. If you can get past the other slavers, the thieves, rapists, murderers . . . and the djinn, you'll get your freedom. Of course, you'll have to brave the desert afterwards. Should I mention some of the denizens, in and out of the city, see your kind as a prized delicacy? Should be easy for them to spit roast you, not in the sexual manner of course. You're already naked. Won't take much work. Some of your parts might fetch a good price at the butcher's."

The look on the servant's face as he spoke, smirking and contemptuous, begged for a punch. Sara gritted her teeth but unclenched her fists. He was right. She'd seen enough in the market dungeons to know it. The thought of giving in, especially to Punchable Face, made her insides boil, though.

"Not now, Sara," she thought, "But someday." Sara swore something else, one day she would do more to this man than punch his face. For the moment, this man's smirk shifted to a sneer.

"Good," he sniffed on her acquiescence, "Take this one the the harem. Get her cleaned, prepped, and perfumed for the Sharif."

"You heard the Seneschal, slave!" her handler growled, "Move!"

The handler hustled Sara through the palace. She had almost no time to view the luxury before finding herself thrust through a large bronze door.

The room on the other side was huge, Byzantine, with a high domed roof supported by thick, ivory white granite pillars. Elaborate golden Arabic carvings, decorations, and writings, wound around the columns. Arabic language was one of the few Midgaardian imports Slave World allowed.

Exotic plants, palms, and flowers were arranged throughout the room, fed by sunlight streaming through thick glass windows in the dome.

Here and there servants bearing pitchers, watered the plants, or sprayed them down.

Women, dozens of them, in various stages of nudity, lounged on thick satin pillows, and cushioned benches. Sizes, races, and species varied: most were humans or elves. Some were tiefling, plus a few large green and gray women, tusked, whom Sara recognized as orcs. The Dancer shuddered in fear, and rage. Orcs and tieflings were the cruelest in the dungeons.

A huge pool dominated the room. It made Olympic pools look like ponds. The pool looked like a small lake, with an island in the middle. The "island" was, in fact, a Turkish bath, with a fountain. Many women lounged in the pool, and at the bath. All were nude.

Eyes fastened quickly on Sara. Expressions ranged from quizzical to curious, with varied levels of hostility. Sara, strangely enough, found the scrutiny familiar. She'd been to enough auditions, danced in enough troupes, to know this game.

I'm fresh meat. A new rival. They're sizing me up.

Sara's defenses went on full alert,

Watch out girl. Some of them are going to make a move.

The hand at her back, and the shove, came unexpected. The next instance found her gasping and choking in the water.

"Meet the new meat, girls," sneered her handler, "Clean her, prep her, and show her, her place. I don't want to see a single scratch otherwise. The boss has plans for her. I'll be back in an hour. Have fun."

Sara blinked the water from her eyes, stopped coughing, and looked about. The women reflected the harem's variety.

Some tiefling, others elves, both dark and light, many humans, of different colors and races, ranged from cream pale to ebony black. Most of the humans, Sara later found, were from worlds other than her own: a confirmation of the childhood stories about Atlantis, Lemuria, and other lost kingdoms.

She noticed a few more orcs. She'd learned in the dungeons, few allowed themselves to be taken captive, or "slaved." They made poor slaves in any case. Orcs were like as not to kill their owners, or themselves, or both, to remove the dishonor of captivity.

Sara further studied the expressions. Most were hostile as she thought, along with some contempt, a few disinterested faces gave nothing away. One or two showed something close to sympathy but, as the Dancer would come to know, such concern constituted weakness and, therefore, a liability.

The first one to make the move was a tiefling, Charla, Sara later found.

"Beautiful woman," Sara admitted with grudge. Her hair was curled, waved, and glossy black. Her teeth gleamed white and fanged, ringed by pillowed, dark lips.

Golden yellow eyes set in a fierce, predatory face, with a beauty approaching supermodel perfection. Flawless skin of deep, rich blue gleamed, wet and shiny, in the water.

Charla licked a long, dark pink tongue across her plush lips, savoring the new morsel.

"Well meat," she snarled, her voice deep and husky, "Welcome to the harem. If you been through the dungeons like us, you know what to expect. No use fighting. We outnumber you thirty to one, and it didn't help with the other freshies either."

"You'll get one anyway," Sara gritted.

"Spark and fire," Charla sneered, "We'll beat it out of you . . . or fuck it out." The tiefling raised her fist.

"Stop, Charla," a tall, black woman, Sara later found was named Evanna, said. She held back the tiefling's strike with an arm every bit as strong as the other.

"No bruises, scratches, or marks. The boss wants her, remember?"

Charla glared at Evanna. Sara noted the hatred between the two, but detected something else.

They hate each other but also respect each other. Can one be an ally?

Sara would later learn Evanna came from New Atlantis, a colony founded by old Atlanteans. Most of the population emigrated there after the island sank. Evanna's own sister sold her to the Sharif, ostensibly to pay off a debt, in reality to get her out of the way of a substantial inheritance.

Evanna moved close to Sara and leaned in.

"Your best chance is at the bath. More freedom of movement there. No fists, and be careful with your nails. The Sharif doesn't like too many marks on his property."

Sara gritted her teeth and nodded. The women followed the Dancer as she swam to the bath. A few appreciative nods and whistles came her way as she ascended the steps. Her athletic dancer's body, long, toned legs, and well-shaped ass, drew many an admiring eye back on Earth; problematic with some of the less mannerly male and female choreographers, stage, and video directors.

Sara stepped towards the bath. The other women flanked and followed. The refreshingly cool water was a godsend after the heat and dust of the desert.

The soaps and oils, set in niches around the bath, were beyond exotic. The crystal bottles alone would cost in the thousands on Earth.

Not as if this place would use Dial.

Sara made sure to slather herself, keeping a sly eye on the others, who watched her intensely.

If they're going to make a move, I better be slippery.

Sara's time in the market's dungeons was a black lesson in helpless outrage. The creatures in the dungeons were bigger and stronger. Chains, leathers, and ropes restrained her body in some way or another.

The women of the harem were not much taller or shorter than herself. Their main weapons against her came from numbers.

Well, may as well start this.

"Okay girls, if we're going to play Drop The Soap, get it over with so I can at least finish washing."

"Oh, I don't know this Drop The Soap game you're talking about," sneered Charla, "I have a good idea, though. Don't worry, we'll do the washing for you."

The next hour could be described as not so much a fight, as an extended wrestling match/orgy. It started with a few teasing grabs from the braver ones, which she easily slapped away. They were testing her. She recognized that.

Sara's slick body limited the restraining arms and hands. She could wriggle free for a few moments. Finally the others resorted to swarming her, piling on her body. The Dancer nearly smothered under a heap of warm, wet flesh.

A multi-armed, multi-handed creature mashed and massaged her breasts, slicked hands over her body, plunged fingers into her petal and bunghole. Fingers teased and swirled her clit, stroked her vulva, and dove deep inside her tunnel.

The women did not force kisses upon her. She would have bit in any case, damn the Sharif. The mouths went to her breasts. Sara growled at the touch of lips, tongues, and light bites of teeth on her nipples.

Few words were spoke that lacked profanity, few sounds, outside of grunts and gasps, were uttered.

Sara's dancer's stamina carried her for most of the half-hour before the numbers overwhelmed it. The others soon had her body spread wide open.

"You gave us a good one, bitch," Charla smirked, "That's actually a new record."

Sara said nothing, just spat in the tiefling's face.

Charla wiped off the spit and smeared it on her hand.

"Not the first time someone's done that, and not the last," she chuckled, "But I'll make you pay for it nonetheless. Let's see how big that pussy of yours is, shall we?"

The tiefling drove her fingers into the Dancer's pussy.

"Oooo, you're already wet. A lot of cum here," she chuckled, chorused by the others.

The tiefling curled her hand into a fist, and pushed it into Sara's folds, sliding it in to her wrist.

"Warm, wet, very stretchy," Charla grinned, "They really loosened you up in the dungeons."

"Fuck you!" Sara grunted. Her pussy experienced a lot of cock in the dungeons. Charla's arm was certainly not as thick, or long, as the cyclops on level three. Yet, from the time which included the tiefling at the stocks, to that cyclops, Sara never felt more hate, than towards this bitch of a tiefling pumping her fist in and out of her pussy.

Sara's groin bulged and flattened with each pump. She hissed, grunted, and growled, while orgasms raced across her body.

On Earth, Sara limited her sex life, insisting on condoms for the few partners she bedded. She doubled with birth control for herself.

Women also expressed interest. One classmate at Juilliard admitted a crush, but Sara never moved in that direction; not so much from close-mindedness as concerns over the effects on the friendship dynamic.

Most of her limits stemmed from an intense focus on building a career. Sex was useful for letting off excess energy. She got the Jones as much as the next person, but made it clear to her partner of the moment, career came first. Friendship with benefits was the best she could offer.

Many, to their credit, understood. They had careers of their own to build. Complications from unwanted pregnancies would put a wrench in the trajectory, so they were good with protection.

A few weren't so understanding. One or two past partners would fit very well with dungeon's environment. On Earth, Sara had the freedom to give them the boot (along with a kick to the balls, plus a restraining order or two).

Those fuckers would have a field day now, and what would my classmate think?

The other women resumed their "washing" of Sara's body. Hands squeezed and kneaded her breasts. Lips, mouths, and tongues enveloped and sucked her tits. More tongues licked the sweat on her quivering belly. Women sat on her face and ground their clits on it.

The women's bodies obscured Charla, but Sara felt the tiefling's fist withdraw. Other women's fists and tongues replaced it. One after another, the Sharif of Avarakan's harem initiated the Dancer into their company.

Sara affected a slight detachment used with less than satisfying partners from Earth. It served her in the dungeons well.

Not so much the sex as the "people".

The only one who did not participate was Evanna. She recognized Sara's detached look, remembering her own initiation. She also recognized another thing in the Dancer.

She will not break. She'll bend and compromise but won't snap. Charla's making a formidable enemy.

The question was, could this woman be an ally?

That will be up to the Sharif.

The women switched out, to ensure all got a taste of Sara. They alternated fists and tongues; the tongues were not quite as invasive but more effective on her clit. Sara's body convulsed and gyrated under their hands.

The Initiation stopped, as it had to eventually. Tongues left her pussy, hands left her arms and legs, groins left her face.

Sara lay spread, wet, and cum-soaked, glaring at the sneering tiefling.

"You taste really good, bitch," Charla laughed, "I'm looking forward to more."

Sara kept her glare.

"You got something to say, slutmeat?"

Evanna, looking back at the following event, thought, "Charla really shouldn't have put herself in that position."

Charla stood over Sara's supine body, superior and triumphant. Her parted legs exposed the perfect target. She didn't anticipate the fresh meat would still have some stamina. A second later she experienced the female equivalent of a nut buster, courtesy of Sara.

"No," the Dancer replied, answering Charla's query.

"Charla's gotten too used to power." Evanna thought, "She's getting careless." Evanna filed this note away for future reference. Right now, she needed to intervene.

"No marks!" she shouted, placing her body between Sara and the others. "You want the Sharif to whip us?"

Charla was writhing on the floor, snarling tiefling curses, her hand between her legs.

"Kill . . . kill . . . kill her! I'll . . . rip her flesh! Eviscerate her!"

Evanna watched Sara rise, on her own feet, then sneered down at Charla.

"The Sharif's orders were no marks on her. He didn't say she couldn't mark you."

"Fucking . . . human slut! She's a dead bitch! I will kill her! My vow by blood!"

"And the Sharif will execute you for insubordination," Evanna turned to the others, "And the rest of you. Let her wash. You had your fun. She has to be presented to the Sharif."

Evanna looked at Sara and nodded. Sara nodded back and went to the bath. The other women went to the pool. Evanna noted a few sneers directed Charla's way. She saw trouble ahead.