Coal lay back for her latest piece of decoration. The tattooist’s needle on her smooth pubic mound, just above her cunt, felt like a finger jabbing home the point that she had definitively surrendered herself. The tattoo, in lower case type, read “slave”.

With time, Coal became less person and more prized asset. Her owners accordingly customised and adorned her further. She was given jewellery. Rings were put in her nose and eyebrows, and the hood of her clitoris was pierced.

The use made of Coal was extensive, and she was able to identify patterns and tendencies in those using her, and expectations of each encounter. The most preferred of her holes by far was her anus. Some ejaculated inside her body, but most chose to come on her face. She invariably opened her mouth.

Beyond makeup, Coal was always well-maintained. She was regularly depilated and perfumed. Other girls kept her cunt shaved smooth, and she carried out the same duty for other slaves.

Owned 🖤

As word of her spread, and interest in her grew, Coal’s owner’s embraced her myth. She was always made up heavy and dark around her eyes, reinforcing her name.

Humiliation, degradation, objectification—these were stimuli that had always been part of her psyche, unrecognised, but now Coal identified them, named them, and rejoiced in them. As she was paraded nude and shackled past passers-by, she now understood why she was wet between her legs.

Word got around of Coal’s willingness as a sexual resource, and she started to be shared between clans. Though always nude, chains were attached to her collar, wrists and ankles, and sometimes her nipples and labia, and she was processed with great ceremony to her next users.

Sometimes she found her lying with a man, masturbating him to keep him hard, his hand stroking her hair, and realised she was enjoying their conversation. These exchanges she was happy to conclude by taking his semen in her mouth and swallowing it.

Coal found over time that slavery didn’t weigh on her nearly as heavily as she’d expected Her owners weren’t brutal, and nothing had yet been asked of her that she found intolerable. She did not strain for release. She generally enjoyed the sex.

As the last vestiges of Mallory dissolved, Coal asked herself why she always surrendered to submission so readily. Since the Professor had changed her, there had been the Captain, Suprema, Devlin and an entire nightclub. Perhaps the experiment had diminished her will as well as boosting her libido.

We’ve never asked her her name, the man who led Mallory into the room says. It doesn’t seem important. She feels the men’s appraisal of her nude body like physical contact. She’s a black-eyed thing, says one. Black in mood, too. We can’t refer to her by a number. We should call her Coal.

Tightly tethered, Mallory is powerless to resist the following stages of having her body customised - or, she thinks, mutilated.

Mallory now undergoes what seems like formalised processing. She is bound to a frame, limbs wide. The first act is the shaving of her cunt. A woman, nude like her, draws up a stool before her and with a fine blade, leaves her pubic mound perfectly smooth. Her armpits are also tended to.

Once inside what seems a barracks or prison, the first thing done is to put a black steel collar around Mallory’s neck, fastened with a padlock. A tear runs down her face as she thinks of her absent darling Sada. She feels sorrow at missing her; relief that Sada didn’t see her lover made a slave.

Ultimately, though, she is just one woman, armed with a single sword and not even clothing, facing a squad of armoured and well-equipped men. Mallory is captured and her weapon taken from her. She is never held by fewer than four pairs of hands.

Mallory heaves the soldier’s impaled, lifeless body off her and exhausted, gets to her feet. She wipes the blood from her mouth, and sweeps her hair back. Blood streaks her breasts and her belly. She extracts her sword from the soldier and steps through the other massed corpses.

Her nude body glazed with sweat, Mallory surveys the ranks of armoured men before her. She blows the hair out of her eyes, closes her hand around the grip of her sword, gathers herself and stalks forward.

Did that help? Sada looks up from between Mallory’s legs, her lips and chin slick and gleaming. Mallory strokes her hair lovingly. That was wonderful, cub, she says. But even coming hard like that doesn’t budge this endless fucking horniness.

Daylight had not yet spilled into the room when the door opened. A man unfamiliar to Mallory stood in it, and though she was still struggling to shake off sleep, she saw that Sada had instantly got out of bed and to her feet. This was a practised summoning. She hadn’t reached for clothing.

Mallory failed to stifle a yawn, and Devlin immediately apologised for keeping her up after her long day. I hope you’ll be happy for Sada to look after you, he said. Sada took Mallory’s hand and led her with undisguised excitement from the room.

Ingrid Pitt

The veil…

#Art by Hajime Sorayama #HajimeSorayama

Trying a little smart phone detox. Will see how that goes. If it goes well I'll be posting less, but still posting!! Just tryin' to be less of a dopamine junkie, know what I mean? Wanted to post a picture that would embody me trying to kick a habit and this one made me laugh! Enjoy❤️ #photography

I don’t understand

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Model: Carla Monaco