The little fat man put his hand up my tunic and started stroking the back of my thigh. Gradually he moved upwards to cup and squeeze my left buttock. His other hand then lifted the hem of my flimsy garment exposing my pussy, naked and shaven. Forced into a kneeling position by ankle stocks, with my arms suspended on chains above my head I was powerless to prevent his hand from crossing my belly, down my smooth, hair-less triangle to delve between my captive legs. Soon I would be stripped and with my lot number painted on my forehead, put on the block where rich men would compete with each other, my naked body to go to the highest bidder to be harnessed to a carriage and whipped around a race-track.
Humiliating? Maybe, but in truth I had never felt more alive. I was effortlessly breathing in great gulps of energising air coursing through my veins my whole body a-tingle. The touch of his hand now weighing my right breast, exposed to view by further lifting of my shift, sent a electrifying thrill through my whole body.'Front heavy,' he commented walking on to examine the next 'slave' in the line.
The auction was arrange so that the girls likely to fetch the highest price went first. The money from the sales went into a pot and the owner of the winning carriage took the whole pot, so it was the most athletic girls who looked as if they could run fastest that were most in demand. I was about the fifth or sixth girl who the assistant auctioneer released from the viewing pens. He hobbled my ankles with a short length of chain, cuffed my arms behind my back and fixed a lead chain to the leather collar I was already wearing. Next he took scissors and cut the sleeves of my tunic leaving just a narrow strip of cloth on each shoulder. Then it was my turn to be knocked down to my new master.
The masters were lounging in easy chairs, drinking, smoking or eating tit-bits from dainty bowls. The slaves already purchased were kneeling beside their masters, naked and in chains, heads bowed in supplication. The Auctioneer balanced me on the block, put his hand on the back of the neck of my tunic and pulled violently. The remaining cloth on my shoulders tore allowing the garment to flutter down to the ground leaving me naked and fully exposed. Instinctively I lowered my gaze unable to meet those greedy eyes.
It is difficult to describe my feelings as I stood there, degradation, obviously but as the bidding rose there was certain pride at how much these men wanted me. Mostly I felt elated, as if I were floating inches above the floor. I was now locked into a kind of roller-coaster, all I could do was surrender to the ride.
The carriages were double harnessed each Master purchasing two slaves. After the auction our Master led both of us by our neck chains back to his chalet. My carriage-sister's lot number was '12'. She was tall and blond with long slim limbs and small pointy breast in contrast to my dark hair and squat but well muscled body. As it was now dinner-time we served our Master his evening meal a sumptuous spread with lots of dishes and several types of wine. It being well known that hungry slaves run fastest all we got was a cup of skimmed milk and a few left-over scraps fed to us from our Master's hand. Then it was bath time.
The shower was a small one but we two slaves just managed to squeeze in together and by jiggling and gyrating we got ourselves covered in water all over. By now our arms were pinioned behind us in the small of our backs, the position they would be in for pulling the carriage. This meant that we could not lather ourselves; the Master did that for us, squeezing liquid soap onto his hand and applying it to various parts of our bodies which we presented to him. If he lingered longer over certain of our little bits, well he was the Master. Strictly speaking sex was not part of the script but 'motivational chastisement' was. It would be a foolish girl who refused a man with a leather tawse to hand. If, when he dried us with the big fluffy towel we leaned in, rubbing our breast against his chest or pressing our buttock into his crotch who was to blame us?
Some Masters use sex as a way of dominating their slaves. They figure that if you had their prick up your bum the night before you will exert yourself more for them during the race. Normally I would not let a man anywhere near my bottom but to-day I really have no choice, protesting just gives the Master more sport, whipping you until you submit, offering up your little orifice.
Laying half on the bed face down with my crotch on the edge of the mattress, thighs spread waiting to be buggered I ask myself,'Why! Why would any woman put herself through this litany of pain and degradation? I need not have responded to the text message inviting me here; nobody would have thought less of me for refusing. I wasn't going to get any money for this; the price paid for me goes into the pot for the winning master and anyway I don't need money I have a good job and a career. I could be relaxing nice and cosy in my flat with a full belly and a bottle of wine.' All I can say is there are always more willing slaves than carriages. At the end of each auction there is inevitably a few wouldbe slaves who do not get sold. Why is it always the women who are slaves and the men the Masters? Well, the only Master who makes a profit is the winner of the race; all the others pay out thousands of pounds just for the experience, many with no really expectation of winning anyway. No woman would fork out that sort of money for the privilege of whipping a naked man around a race-track. On the contrary it is the men who have to pay the dominatrix.
You can tell a lot about a man by the way he Sodomises you. As a slave I am not allowed to look at my Master, not directly but occasionally you catch glimpses from the corner of your eye. This one is fortyish, medium height with short grey hair. At the moment he is wearing a cut down bath robe just long enough to cover his manhood, except that he has left it open at the front, his dick, spent from buggering me, hanging limply between his legs. The rest of his body is lean and muscular; a man who takes care of himself. His arse-probing was vigourous, oblivious to my pain but not excessively so; selfish but not sadistic. Now it is over I experience a kind of rush, a feeling of invincibility. I have faced my worst fear and survived. A warm glow begins to envelope me. Far from resenting my masters invasion I feel a closeness to him, a need to please him. I kneel down in front of him, kissing his foot. He takes up my dangling neck chain and pulls my head up higher towards his visibly reviving cock. The light flick of his whip on my buttock only serves to quicken the desire burgeoning within me, but like a good little slave I wait agonisingly on his pleasure.
That evening seems to go on for ever but eventually the Master, replete, retires to bed leaving us slaves sitting on the floor our neck chains attached to rings in the wall. We are shackled too far from each other for any close contact but, in the dark I feel a soft stroking sensation on my left calf. No 12 is rubbing her foot along my leg. As we inch closer together her contact reaches further and further up onto my thigh and then, at the furthest reach of both our chains, her big toe makes contact with my labia, gently circling then minutely delving. I had been penetrated half a dozen times that evening and had come in buckets but there was still that within me to respond to that tentative touch. I achieve what in some ways was my most meaningful orgasm of the day.
I tried to reciprocate, rubbing my foot along her thigh but alas my leg was too short to reach her special place.
We both slept.
The Master woke up bright and early next morning, in time for a nice breakfast. That is to say he had a nice breakfast - bacon, eggs, sausages, fried bread etc. We knelt naked beside his chair trying to ignore the mouth-watering smell and our empty bellies. Eventually he gave us each a glass of skimmed milk which, our hands being still strapped behind our backs, we had to drink through a straw and some strips of dry toast which he fed to us with one hand whilst the other fondled our unresisting bodies.
The carriage harness was quite simple. A thick leather girth strap fixed tightly around our waists was attached at the sides to the carriage shafts. A chain ran from the front of our collar down between our tits to a ring where it split into two each end attached to one of the shafts, when we were pulling the carriage forward this kept our heads down and our bottoms up. A single rein was attached to the back of our collar running to the driver's seat allowed him to brake or steer the carriage. A small bungee line from the centre shaft kept the loose rein out of the way leaving our buttocks fully available to the master's whip.
Saturday was 'Training Day' up until 4 o'clock when the heats began, the final being run tomorrow morning. All masters seem to think that training must begin with a sound thrashing just to show who is the Boss and who chose slavery. Actually it is not so bad. There is a kind of trade off - if they whack you too hard that weakens the muscles needed for a good performance in the race. There is a range of 'chastisement devices'. A broad leather strop spreads the energy over a wide area. It is painfull but the effects are short-lived. Within an hour our backsides were cherry red but we could still trot.
There are two elements to training for carriage-slaves. The first is to pull together. With two pullees if one goes faster than the other the carriage veers to one side, not good during a race. The second element is control. The race course has several curves and bends involving slowing down and speeding up. The carriage has no brakes so it is important that the slaves respond to the reins and the whip. Although our heads are forced downward we do still have limited vision ahead but we must learn to trust the master's judgment rather than trying to use their own. This involves charging at high speed towards trees or other immovable object to brake or swerve at the last moment. Scarry when you consider the consequences should the Master make a mistake.
At mid-day we take a break for a picnic. He has a pork pie, salad and freshly buttered rolls followed by gooseberry fool washed down with a half bottle of hock. We get two digestive biscuits washed down by a cup of water. Afterward he relieves himself, just like that. Out with his willy and sprinkle the grass, feet away from where we are standing. No attempt to conceal not even turning his back to us as if we were of no account at all. He sees my displeasure and, with a wicked grin, fishes an empty plastic bowl out of the picnic hamper. He hold it between my legs. 'Piss'. I am so stressed out that there is no way I can preform. I shake my head from side to side as far as my straps and chains allow. He reaches into the carriage and takes hold of the slim cane - the most painfull of the 'devices'. He taps me just lightly on the buttock and with no conscious effort on my part a fierce stream of urine jets out from between my legs. He laughs, empties the bowl onto the ground and pats me on the head like a dog that has performed a clever trick. I become aware that No 12 beside me is getting very fidgety, then she too relieves herself. He pats her approvingly on the bottom.
Is there really so little separating us from the beasts of the field?
Six light two-wheeled carriages each being pulled at high speed by a pair of she-slaves, naked and shackled between the shafts, heads down, unprotected bottoms forced up, totally at the mercy of the driver's whip. We were to run in the second heat so our master had trotted us to a position where we could watch the first race. As they came bounding along I was shocked at the determination and ferocity of the drivers until I reflected that the prize money would be somewhere between forty to a hundred thousand pounds. Enough to silence anyone's conscience.
Approaching the corner as the drivers applied the reins heads came up, the girls, tits a jiggle struggled to slow down against the momentum of the carriages transmitted to them through the girth straps now pressing into their backs. For racing most drivers favoured the four foot long coach whip braided from a dozen leather thongs ending in a tip about a inch wide. Once round the bend these were applied liberally to taughtly straining backsides as the carriages accelerated into the straight.
The contestants settled into two groups - three out front running neck and neck, the remainder straggling further and further behind. Since only the first and second would go through to to-morrow's final, competition among the leaders became more and more intense. The race was for three laps. By the time they went round the last time the slaves were clearly exhausted, their bodies glistening with sweat, their little arses cherry red from their 'chastisement' and still the masters drove them on. Eventually one team dropped back the other two qualifying as finalist.
Immediately the race was over officials ran onto the track releasing the losing teams from their bondage, handing them tunics to cover their nakedness. Eight of them in a group they headed towards the big house where they would shower, dress and fill their empty bellies with a big meal served to them by the still naked unsold slaves. The 'winning' teams still under their master's whip were trotted back to the chalets to prepare for to-morrow's ordeal. When you are a slave it does not always pay to be a winner.
The second heat was not due to start for another half-hour so the Master alternately walked and trotted us around the estate to keep us warm without tiring us. We were deep in the country far from prying eyes. The house was legally registered to an anonymous Swiss corporation but I suspected that one of the masters was the actual owner. In reality the chalets were converted portacabins set in a row alongside the barn where the auction had been held. Minutes before our race was due to start the freed slaves from the first heat, now fully clothed emerged from the house. They took up positions alongside the track jeering and taunting us with the bacon sandwiches and hot coffee they were tucking in to. Somewhere a whistle blew, I felt the sting of the Master's whip on my behind and we were off.
The carriage was light; there were two of us pulling so the first lap passed with very little effort. Halfway through the second lap I began to tire but if I slackened the pace even slightly I paid for it through the arse. Mostly they were just little flicks of the whip but with the occasional whack that really smarted. Soon my legs were like lead, I was breathing in gasps, sweat was pouring out of me running down my dangling breasts, drops shaking off my jolting nipples my whole rear-end one burning agony and still the slog went on. By this time one team had drawn well ahead of the pack. Others dropped back until there were just the two of us vying for second place. We were neck and neck as we came into the final bend, a steep one. I readied myself for the pull on the rein to slow down but still the Master was flicking us forward,surely we were going too fast. With my head pulled down by the neck chain I could see only yards ahead, I had no choice but to trust the Master's judgment. I sensed the team beside us dropping back but still our Master goaded us on.
When it came the pull on the reins was so hard I thought it was going to break my spine. My head came up, thrusting my tits out in front of me; the chain underneath me bit into my stomach and hips; the girth strap pushed into my back causing me to miss my footing; I scrabbled to regain traction my feet now ahead in a frantic effort to loose speed. The carriage veered from side to side according to the efforts of No 12 and I, the Master trying to correct by pulling even harder on this rein or than. Then I heard the slap of leather on yielding flesh as he larruped No 12 accelerating her round the outside of the curve. The Carriage skittered sideways several feet but we were round. There ahead was the home straight and the winning post.
It crossed my mind that this would be a good place to throw the race, put an end to this ordeal; simultaneously the whip flailed my rump, a full bone-jaring lash jolting me forward, putting every thought except that of obedience out of my mind. The race over we watched exhausted and forlorn as the other girls were released, free to cover their bodies and fill their bellies. Our lot - another day of degradation and servitude.
After the race he took good care of us; giving us fruit juice to drink, through a straw of course. Still harnessed to the carriage he sponged us down, the icy cold water bringing us out in goose bumps. Then he rubbed soothing cream onto our ravaged behinds. Unharnessed he led us into the chalet where he shared his meal with us, feeding us cut up pieces of sausage. We were so hungry we even licked the grease off his fingers.
Kneeling beside his chair, my belly, for the first time in ages, at least partially full a warm glow started to spread over me. I had difficulty breathing, my nipples became erect, the burning sensation in my ears perculated to the rest of my body. Within minutes I had achieved the most intense sexual arousal I have ever known. I could barely move. His casual touch on my arm was like an electric shock. Looking at No 12 I could see that she too was similarly smitten, her face red, her nipples swollen, eyes aglaze. The Master seeing our predicament gave a wolfish smile.
He bent me, still kneeling over the table, then grabbing No 12 by the hair raised her to her feet, walked her round behind me and laid her on top of me, her legs spread by her quickening, straddling my behind, our slots lined up one above the other. Undoing his trousers he entered No 12's slick pussy for a few brief thrusts then withdrawing from her he pushed into me. My arousal, already near fever pitch heightened to almost but not quite boiling point. Then he swapped back to No 12. Back and forth, again and again. each time an agony of frustrated passion.
Eventually it was No 12 who orgasmed first, balanced precariously on top of me, only his hands on her shoulder preventing her flailing from toppling us all. Our pussies were so moist that his cock was still erect as he thrust into me, splayed on the table with both their weights pinning me down. My inevitable climax landed us in a gooey heap on the floor. At least it slaked his ardour. He went to bed leaving us chained up for the night.
The actual final was an anticlimax; the team that beat us the day before got off to a good start and it soon became apparent that nobody was going to catch them. The Master was very good about it not taking his dissappointment, forty grand is a lot of money, out on us. He did whip us a bit but only for show. I was quite drawn to him. I have had boy-friends with worse temperaments than that. I always get emotionally attached to my Master. Well! He had been in total control of us for nearly forty hours and bought us though without serious mishap. Silly really because we would never meet again. Exchanging contact details being strictly taboo.
Free At last! The race is over and us six 'losing' slaves are released from our chains and head for the big house and the comforts we have been denied during our bondage. Walking across the grass I feel ten feet tall, the air is so sweet, the bird songs so loud, the pain and humiliation forgotten, my feet just do not seem to touch the ground at all. Magic!
The communal showers are a tangle of naked female bodies, arms, legs, bums, tits all glistening with delightfully warm water, flecked here and there with suds, gyrating under the spray nozzles. There are big fluffy towels to dry off with and soothing cream for our hurts. Applying this to my sore rump is no easy task and No 12 seeing my predicament offers a helping hand. Her soft little fingers massage the cream into my ravaged buttocks then she hands the cream to me to repay the favour. I am surprised just how little actual damage there is. Yes! there are bruises and a handfull of livid red weals. She will not be riding a bicycle any time soon, but there will be no lasting damage. A few days taking is easy and she will be right as rain. The same probably goes for me too. Some of the others are doing more than just soothing each other but I am not into girl-on-girl so I give No 12 a gentle pat on the bottom and we both head for the changing room and our street cloths.
Sunday lunch was the most memorable meal of my life. All of the freed slaves round a huge table, roast beef with all the trimmings served by the still naked 'winning' team and the, also naked, wouldbe slaves. There was wine but nobody drank very much we were all high on our recent experience and its accomplishment. The guest of honour was the winning Master who was in an expansive mood, as well he might be with all that money in his pocket.
Later, on the drive home I reflected that for forty-eight hours I had not had a single thought about presentations, dead lines or staff apprasels: magic.
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