Forced Femdom Slave

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Forced Femdom Slave
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Home » Blog English » Femdom Stories » SLAVE PROTOCOL – Femdom Story
In a civilized society human beings are governed by the rule of law. Even a uniquely Utopian society such as the New Amazon Empire requires a complex set of laws to ensure a peaceful and productive coexistence of its Female Citizens and their unquestionable rule over their male slaves. Indeed the Amazon Law regulates many aspect of the New Amazonian society. It protects Women’s rights and freedoms, regulates the personal relationships between women and their relations to their property, including slaves.
The most striking feature of the Amazon Law is its benevolent nature in addressing its Female Subjects. In an advanced form of society, built on mutual respect and cooperation between Women, there is little need for coercion. For the most part the Amazon Law provides a guidance for Women on how to lead a meaningful and productive life in the Female State.
This apparently humane and benevolent nature of the Amazon Law takes a sharp turn when it comes to dealing with men, on whom it often exerts the utmost cruelty. Amazons view men as irrational, dangerous and atavistic creatures that are best kept under firm control. Thus the Female Authorities keep a close watch on a handful of free men that are allowed to live on the territory of the Amazon State.
The Law has very little patience with those who breach the rules of the Female World Order. Many a slave who toils under the yoke of his Female Owners would give anything to return to that day when he stole a woman’s purse or broke into a store. But his choice is now long forgone.
Once a man is condemned to live the rest of his days as a slave, he literally ceases to exist and a new being is brought into life in his place. A wretched being whose sole reason of existence is to serve the Superior Gender. A being resembling a human being, yet a being that is infinitely inferior to human.
The Amazon Law regulates the lives, or more precisely, the existence of slaves down to the last detail. Even so, it would be superficial to assume that it somehow addresses them. Slaves are not considered human beings, so they are not really subject to the law in the strict sense of the term. A slave is always ruled by the female mind. He is either subject to the whim of an individual lady or to the collective mind of the female community. The detailed rules the slaves have to follow are best thought of as a convenient tool to assist a lady in her everyday interactions with slaves.
Once you think about it, it all makes perfect sense. Amazon slaves are as slavish as a slave can be. They have no rights and no will of their own. Amazon women take great effort in thoroughly reducing their slaves to the condition of abject servility. During their training they are tormented, crushed, dehumanized and ultimately molded into spineless, blindly obedient automatons.
An Amazon lady would find it disgusting to imagine that her slave possesses even a shred of a free will. A slave is a hollow creature, devoid of any other thought or feeling other than fear and the need to obey. As such he is an intrinsically passive being. He stays put in his abasement until given an order.
The lack of personality and ability to think independently of his mistress makes an Amazon slave an ideal multipurpose tool. A slave combines the resilience and efficacy of the machine with the unique slavishness that can only be found in sentient beings. As most Amazon women would put it: using a robot is not anywhere near using an actual slave.
But as it happens, reducing a man to this wretched state comes with a price. Amazon slaves lack initiative and require orders to function properly. It would be terribly inconvenient for women if they would have to order slaves around all the time. Wash my car! Clean the toilet! Polish my boots! Kowtow in my presence! These are all repetitive tasks that slaves should generally perform without being told so directly. Indeed, there are many situations when the presence of a woman is simply untenable. Slaves working in unpleasant environments definitely require a whip every now and then, but one could hardly ask a taskmistress to descend into the sewers just to inspect the sewage slaves doing their job.
To overcome these drawbacks, complex sets of rules, known as slave protocols, were enacted. Slave protocols regulate the slave’s behavior down to the last detail. They dictate him when to eat, when to sleep, when and where to work. Slave protocol is essentially a slave’s autopilot. In the absence of a direct order, slave protocol keeps the slave busy, usually close to his limits.
Slaves do not really learn their protocols. Their protocols are rather implemented in their minds with the help of classical conditioning. The process is rather simple. Failure to meet the requirements of the protocol results in pain. Only after the slave has been thoroughly conditioned, only after he has been broken and dehumanized, only after the last remnants of his personality have been squeezed out and replaced by the slave protocol and the slavish instinct, only then can a slave truly become a generic being. Only then can he be released into the female society to meet his ultimate purpose. To serve women.
Slave Grub was currently busy following his slave protocol in a rather lavishly decorated ladies room in the capital of New Amazonia. Grub wasn’t his real name. Slaves have no names. They have a number and a barcode tattooed on the back of their heads, which is more than sufficient to tell them apart. Still, ladies sometimes find it convenient to name a slave, especially if he serves indoors. So without giving it much thought his owners named him Grub. A fairly common name for a slave of his category. Quite appropriate too, as he was spending his days crawling on hands and knees.
For a slave of his category, being close to the ground comes natural. The lower the slave is in terms of slave categories, the more oppression and dehumanization he has to endure. And slave Grub was certainly near the bottom of the slave ladder. Slaves in his category were colloquially known as crawlers as they literally spent their lives crawling on hands and knees. Indeed, it wasn’t physically possible for them to move around any other way. Their ability to walk upright was medically disabled during the process of their transformation.
As pathetic as these slaves might be, the process of transforming men into slave crawlers is nevertheless a remarkable achievement. It is a scientific accomplishment as much as it is a demonstration of female cruelty and determination in suppressing the criminal and antisocial elements among males. Amazon women see little good in locking criminals away in prisons where they would live on their expense. Criminals shouldn’t simply be hidden away as in some Utopian fantasy where nothing bad ever happens. On the contrary, criminals should be rendered harmless, enslaved and finally exposed to the public so everyone can see what happens when a male rises against the Natural Order.
♥ Slave Grub payed for his offense dearly and will continue to pay for it for as long as he lives. Not long ago he was convicted of armed robbery. As a violent offender he received a swift and merciless punishment. After being convicted by the Female Court, he was taken away to the slave center, where he underwent a number of medical procedures, followed by excruciating slave training. What resulted was a peaceful docile creature that crawled around on all fours and threw himself on the ground pressing his face into the dirt every time he heard a woman walking towards him.
The slave training was a never ending ordeal of pain and humiliation. Prison taskmistresses had only one job. To break his spirit and reduce him into a subhuman. They were mostly young women in their twenties who were drunk with power they held over the slaves. They took turns torturing and humiliating him in every way they could think off. They placed a saddle on his back and took turns riding him around the prison until his hands and knees were bleeding. They stretched him on a rack. They trampled him, jumped on him. The regularly whipped him and kicked him. Spit on him. They even make him eat the mud of their boot soles. And they laughed and joked while they were doing it.
After that came the boredom. He was taken to the slave market and locked up in a tiny cell underground with nothing to do all day but wait for his prospective buyer. He could see other slaves lingering in their cages. No one uttered a word. There was nothing to talk about. They were crawlers and crawlers don’t talk. The days were passing by in silence.
Crawlers weren’t in high demand and visitors to this place were rare. Usually the slave market was full of women checking on slaves, but they rarely descended into the crawlers department. They were more interested in personal slaves, thralls, beasts of burden and of course pleasure slaves. Slave crawlers simply weren’t as useful as other slaves, so they were mostly bought by rich women who wished to add designated footslave or floorscrubber to their collection of slaves.
Slave Grub was eventually acquired by one of the popular downtown clubs to serve them as a cleaning slave. As a crawler he was assigned a particularly tedious and demeaning job. Since the day he was brought here, his world was reduced to the interior of the female restroom. The opaque automatic doors that lead in and out of the restrooms were the beginning and the end of his world. He barely dared to look at them. He was strictly prohibited from leaving the restroom. And violation of this rule would naturally result in a harsh punishment.
After a month or so he knew the geography of the restrooms to the last detail. The restroom contained twenty toilet cubicles, each containing a toilet he was supposed to clean. It also contained twenty bathroom sinks that were off limits for him. A creature that crawls on all fours cleaning the toilets and scrubbing the floor has no place cleaning the place where ladies wash their hands. Bathroom sinks were cleaned by another slave who wandered into the ladies room every couple of hours.
He worked 18 hours a day. All the time he was not working he was locked in a tiny cell that was hidden behind the wall. His day began a few minutes before 10 am, when a waitress let him out of his cell and fed him a tasteless slave gruel she placed on the floors next to his cell. He ate it in a hurry, watching her heels clicking on the floor tiles a few centimeters from his face. She was always so impatient. He barely managed to eat his meal when she kicked his bowl away and showed him to work.
His job was to ensure the toilets and the floors of the bathroom remained spotlessly clean. For a seemingly simple job, it was surprisingly demanding. The club was usually open from 5 pm to 10 am and during this time it was visited by hundreds of women. During the weekends, when women went out partying and the club was full, he could barely keep up the pace. Every time a lady used a toilet, he was supposed to crawl into her cubicle and clean it. In between cleaning the cubicles he was supposed to scrub the floors, pick up the trash and even clean a ladies footwear is she wished.
What made his job even more difficult was the strict slave protocol that required him to always display an utmost servility and abasement. A crawler wasn’t supposed to live for a minute without constantly reminding him and his surrounding of what he is. A lower form of life. When in the presence of a woman he was supposed to drop everything and kowtow before her with his forehead touching the ground.
It wasn’t like women actually appreciated his displays of devotion. Most of the time they simply ignored him, walking past his kowtowing body as if he was some sort of an object. The only exception was when they required his shoeshine services. The bathroom contained a shoeshine chair close to the exit. If a lady wished to have her shoes cleaned, she would simply sit in the designated chair. She didn’t need to say anything. The slave’s instinct was responsible to bring him underneath her. And if he didn’t notice her sitting there because he was busy wet-sponging the toilet seat, well, too bad for him. The punishment for negligence was harsh.
Grub’s misery and struggles certainly weren’t something miss Chloë would give much thought to when she visited the bathroom. In fact, being a daughter of Lady Elizabeth Blanchefleur she didn’t have to give much thought to anything. Her mother was owner of one of the largest industrial conglomerates in the country and was a respectable member of the New Amazonia political elite. Lady Blanchefleur’s companies employed thousands of slaves and produced billions of profit. Elizabeth Blanchefleur was one of the more experienced businesswomen in the country and a close adviser to the Female Government.
Her 22 year old daughter Chloë, on the other hand, had different plans for her future. Politics and business bored her. She studied art and spent her days visiting galleries, fashion avenues and high society parties. Being a member of a new generation of women, she didn’t share her mother’s concerns about the stability and prosperity of the Female State. She couldn’t relate to those women who still found men to be a danger to the female prosperity. For her, female supremacy came natural. She didn’t find men menacing at all.
No one could blame her for that. From her point of view it was ridiculous to see men as a threat. Female supremacy was now firmly established and the majority of males were reduced to livestock. Indeed, to Chloë the words “man” and “slave” meant exactly the same thing. And a slave certainly isn’t something to be afraid of.
That’s not to say Chloë didn’t know or enjoy the company of free men from time to time. Even though the New Amazon society held strong prejudice against males, there were still men who traveled to and lived in the New Amazonia. The state ensured them personal freedom and a few basic rights, provided they paid taxes and obliged the Female Law.
Chloë made acquaintance of many such men. They came from different countries and different cultures and it was always interesting to speak with them. They were always so keen on pleasing her and making a good impression. Chloë teased them and played with them, but never accepted them as equal. They were men. And men were, in general, slaves. These men were no different. They just haven’t found their rightful place yet.
Sometimes this was painfully obvious. Chloë was always curious to find out why a free man would travel to New Amazonia, where he would be looked down upon and where he could witness members of his own gender enslaved. More often than not she could guess the right answer: deep down inside they wanted to be a part of this. Deep down inside they knew they were inferior. They saw how slaves are treated in New Amazonia. They were appalled, but at the same time they wished to be in their place.
Mark was one of these lost souls. His two weeks trip to New Amazonia was a highlight of his life. Officially he was here to visit the famous museums and art galleries. The true nature of his visit, however, was somewhat different. For as long as Mark could remember, he always felt a strange sense of inferiority in respect to women. He struggled with it, he even tried to get rid of it, but it was to no avail. Through the years it only grew stronger.
He heard of New Amazonia years ago, but he forced himself not to think about it. He felt of his peculiar desires as of some strange part of him that needs to be suppressed or it will drag him down. Then one day, in a moment of weakness, he read an article written by a well known female psychologist. It described him perfectly. It even contained a word for him: a natural born slave. The author of the article argued that some men are evolutionary inclined to serve women and are therefore natural born slaves. If they live in patriarchal society the may try to suppress this inclination, but they can never escape it. Their fate is to be slaves.
He was so ashamed of himself. Is that what he was? A natural born slave? The harder he tried to forget, the stronger it itched him. Maybe that’s really what he was. Maybe it was wrong to resist. After all, isn’t serving women something that he truly yearned for? Finally he gave in. He booked a plane ticket to New Amazonia.
It took Chloë less than five seconds to understand what he was. She spotted him in the front of an immigration office, where he was to report every evening. He was obviously trying to look calm and confident, but his body language screamed submission.
Chloë loved such types. They confirmed her prejudice about the natural inferiority of men, both freemen and slaves. Men like that were so much fun to play with. She loved to see them struggle with their natural desire to submit. Some women enjoyed seeing the proverbial macho types being reduced to docile and frightful slaves, but Chloë had little patience for those atavistic brutes. As far as she was concerned, those beasts should be crushed, subdued and locked away in the underground mines or some other foul place. But these shy and naturally submissive men were a different story. They were like toys. And this man certainly looked one of them.
Mark turned around in disbelief. A luxurious looking rickshaw was standing at the sidewalk, pulled by a big and muscular slave. He was a real giant, but he looked utterly miserable in his role of a pack animal. His head was restrained with a halter and specially designed blinkers restricted his eyesight. A heavy iron collar oppressively entangled his neck and his hands were shackled and chained to the rickshaw poles. A young lady was sitting comfortably in the padded seat of a rickshaw, holding reins attached to the slave. She was staring directly at him. To Mark she looked as if she was a Goddess. She wore a short tight black dress that enhanced her shapely figure. Her long legs were encased in black stockings and she wore stylish black leather stilettos. Her blonde hair was done in an elaborate updo style that matched an expansive golden jewelry she wore around her neck and shoulders.
“What’s the matter? Did I scare you? You look like a stray pup. Come closer, let me save you from the perils of the street” she laughed at him.
He walked towards her not knowing what to do. He stood by the rickshaw and looked up at her.
“I see you are a foreigner” she continued. “I love talking to foreigners. They are always so full of interesting stories. Listen, I am just heading to a club. I want you to join me in an hour or so. It’s a female only club of course, but they will let you in if you show them my card. Tell them you are being sent by Lady Blanchefleur. You have the address written on the card. Don’t disappoint me, boy!”
Mark was startled and unable to speak. To him – and most other foreigners for that matter – that felt as an awfully strange way to make acquaintance. For Chloë however, it was a perfectly normal and reasonable request. She always got what she wanted. The moment she told him what she expects of him, she simply took her reins and whipped her pack animal into pace, without looking at him again.
An hour later he was standing in front of a palace in the center of the city. He told the slave at the entrance he has an appointment with Lady Blanchefleur. They kept him waiting for a whole ten minutes, before the door finally opened and an attractive waitress allowed him to enter.
“This is ladies only club” she told him. “Entering here without permission would be seen as a breaking and enteri
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