Lesbian Slavery Stories

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Lesbian Slavery Stories
65
A Caning By Miss Spiteful
Always On The Bare
A Visit To Greenwich
At My Lady's Pleasure
Ball Shackle Story
Charles
George
I Met Claire In A Coffee Shop
Judicial Bastinado
Judicial Punishment
Kevin's Poem
Kim
Long Weekend
Long Weekend Conclusion
Loving Domination
My Visit
Penitence
Plimsolls
Robin's Electrical Torture
Shoeshine Boy
Slave To The Cane
The Basement
The Cleaning Maid
The Colony
The Escape Artist
The Huntress Caning
The Language School
The Worm's View
Webb Encounters
Z

Chapter 8 - I Settle Into My Life As A Slave

The following week passed slowly. As she said, I was left on my chain, ignored by everybody, the entire week. I seriously wanted to get off my chain. I had spent hours examining every link of my chain. Every link was securely welded. I had carefully explored my collar, and the padlock, with my fingers. They were heavy steel, with no possible way to get them off. The chain was attached to a heavy steel ring, which was bolted into a huge stone block at the end of the wall, by the gate. There was no escape from the chain. They had made sure I could not escape!
 I was left to spend the week totally naked, on my chain. I had at most one gate-opening to do each day, and I did them as efficiently as I could. I did not dare get another punishment. Most days I had absolutely nothing to do. I just waited, a slave, on my chain.
The next Sunday, I was taken back to the pillories again. This time I only had twenty strokes. When I say ’only’, I simply mean I didn’t get additional strokes. I was allowed one minute to masturbate, in full view of the ladies. Then I got twenty strokes from the black bitch with her leather strap. The twenty strokes were still absolute agony, and left me weeping with pain. But at least I didn’t get seventy, as one of the other poor slaves did. 
As I stood locked in my pillory, listening to his screams and watching the ladies laughing as he was strapped, I resolved yet again to be a perfect slave! I would be content to live on my chain! I would be completely docile and respectful and obedient! I realized that the Ladies here had perfected a method of converting men into total slaves! They used good heavy chains and regular hard strappings! After experiencing the chain, and a good hard strapping in the pillory, none of us would ever intentionally be disobedient, ever again! We each knew we could not ever get off our chain! And we each knew the consequences of not being good! We had all been made into total slaves. Even me.
I think I spent almost three months on my chain by the gate. I lost track of the exact date, but it must have been about three months. I gradually grew very lean and fit. I did have extra strokes on two occasions, by being too slow with the gate. In my opinion, the two ladies who accused me of being slow, were unreasonable, but I had to accept the punishment. I was simply informed that I would get extra strokes. I was not asked to speak, so I had to accept in silence.
After three or four months, the summer was ending, and I was moved, escorted in tight shackles, to indoor barn work. In the barn, before my shackles were removed, I was padlocked into an even heavier collar, with an even heavier chain. My new chain was longer, about 30 feet long. Heavy thick steel links. There was no escape from this chain. The end of my chain ended in a thick steel ring that slid on a horizontal steel beam bolted to one wall of the barn. I could move along the entire barn on my chain, by sliding the ring along the beam. The steel beam did not extend to the door however, and my chain pulled me up just short of the door. The windows were set high in the wall, and were heavily barred.
My supervisor visited me in the Barn. She gestured to me, to stop work. I immediately ran and knelt before her, the closest to her that my chain would let me. I missed her! She had been strict, but decent. She had been kind to me. I respected her.
She stood before me. I knelt naked, chained, at her feet. I so wanted to touch her. But I dared not. She passed her hand though my hair.
“I’ve come to say goodbye, dear Peter. We must all move on. You could only be our gate slave for a short time. We need our slaves for harder work, to keep the farm going. I managed to get you transferred to a chain in the Barn. I hope you are grateful. The Barn is much easier work than work the fields! You would not like being a chained slave in the fields! You have a new supervisor now. You must obey her as you would me. I hope you don’t think I was too cruel with you. I was strict, as I had to be. But you endured so well! I was proud to be your supervisor. We have a new slave coming tomorrow, and I will put him on the gate, on your old chain. But I wish I still had you! Goodbye, dear Peter.”
She turned and left me. I think she was crying.
My new supervisor was a heavy set blond. She dressed in black leather, and always carried a short, black single tail whip. She liked to use it, hard, whenever she had the slightest reason. It hurt like hell! I disliked her immediately, and she disliked me.
I spent all that winter in the barn, on my new chain, alongside the five other slaves who were already working there when I arrived. The other slaves kept their eyes down and did not stop their work as my collar was fitted and padlocked. We were not allowed to talk to each other. Each of us were naked, collared, and secured to the same steel beam, by an individual long, heavy chain. I saw that each of the other slaves also had an IRS number tattooed on his right buttock. I was so glad they hadn’t tattooed me. I guessed that they could not do that for me, since my Contract was only for 12 months. I certainly would not ask for any time extensions! I would be so happy when my 12 months were up and I finally got out of here!
We spent our days on manual labor, mostly threshing wheat, tying straw into bales, and similar work. No thought or skill was needed, just brute strength. We worked naked. We were not allowed tools, so it all had to be done by pure manual labor, with our hands. It was hard, mind-numbing, primitive work of absolute boredom. It probably could have been done by a machine, or by using modern tools, much faster and easier. But the Ladies liked to use slave labor, and it clearly amused them to work us, chained, like animals.
Our supervisor wrote our daily and weekly work quotas on a blackboard on the end wall each morning. She then inspected us. She then made us kneel and kiss her boots as she stood before each of us, in turn. She enjoyed making us do that. My first tentative kissing was rewarded with severe lash from her short whip. It was agony! I immediately kissed her shiny boot fervently, licking and kissing, kissing and licking. She laughed, then passed on to the next slave. After that, I always kissed her boots very, very well. The whip bitch. That is what I started to call her. The name fitted her perfectly. She was exactly that. A blond whip bitch. A vicious bitch, with a whip. With six chained male slaves to whip, just as much as she liked.
After we started work in the morning, the whip bitch mostly left us alone in the Barn. She looked in on us during the day, at unpredictable times, sometimes opening the Barn door, and sometimes using a small peephole in the door. We never knew when we were being watched, so we felt we were being watched all the time. There was no need to supervise us more, since we were each on our chains. If we were not working when she looked in on us, we would have extra strokes. No excuses were accepted or even allowed to be presented. There was no real need to check that we were working. None of us would dare break a rule, and if we failed to complete our daily and weekly quotas we would have extra strokes.
We worked in silence, naked, on our chains, hour after endless hour. Speaking was forbidden. None of would risk getting caught talking. Even if one of us had spoken, I suspect the others would have reported him to the whip bitch, in the hope of some reward. Good luck to that! Personally, I couldn’t ever imagine the whip bitch ever showing any kindness, not to any man, anyway.
We were her chained male animals. We were all wonderful examples of men, physically. I felt strong and healthy. The work and diet had made my body supremely vigorous and healthy. The Company had at least kept that promise to me. But I was not a man. Not a real man. I was chained. I was a slave. A slave to the whip bitch.
At about midday the whip bitch would bring us a bucket with assorted scraps. She would dump the scraps in a stone depression, and our water in a trough beside it. We had to wait until she tapped us on the shoulder, and then we were each allowed to eat and drink in turn. She enjoyed having six strong men completely under her control. And she had her favorites. She allowed her favorites to eat first, and get the best scraps. I was always allowed to eat last. We had to drink from the trough like animals, and had to eat like animals, with our hands clasped behind our backs. We were kept completely naked on our chains, like animals, and strictly allowed no articles or possessions.
After eating, she allowed us to rest for about 30 minutes, and also to relieve ourselves at open concrete lavatory stalls in the corner, then wash at the water trough. She watched us as we did this. We were allowed no privacy. Apart from the mid day break, we were worked nonstop, from dawn to dusk. Raw materials for our work, corn and straw, and sometimes other root vegetables, were dumped in at one end of the barn by the field slaves, and our completed products were passed out the same way, through a hatch that was immediately relocked.
We had a preset quota of work to accomplish each week. We were punished if we were seen to stop work without permission. And all of us got twenty extra strokes on Sunday, if we collectively failed to meet our weekly work quota. So we all worked very hard.
We were kept on our chains at all times, except when we were taken out in shackles on Sunday to stand in the pillories and receive our weekly strapping.
We were all very good slaves! We had no choice! Only rarely did one of us get more than 20 strokes. When we did, it was always due to back luck, not intentional disobedience. One of us would occasionally have put down some work, to pick up another piece, and would be unlucky enough to have the whip bitch look in, at just that instant. That unlucky man would get fifty strokes extra, for supposedly stopping work without permission. The weekly regular 20 strokes were unbearable, and to get an extra 50 was too awful to contemplate. So none of us dared ever break any rule. We had all been powerful strong-willed men in our previous lives, but now we were each on a chain, and had all been turned into very good slaves. Slaves of the whip bitch. I so hated the whip bitch. I wanted my old supervisor again! And I so wanted to get off my chain! I would have done anything, anything at all, for any Lady who would unlock my collar!
At nights, when the whip bitch had closed and locked the heavy Barn door for the night, and had turned the lights off, we were left to sleep on our chains, naked, as best we could. Normally this wasn’t a problem as we usually had plenty of straw in the barn, and could slide our chains up and down the beam to find a place to sleep. So we each found separate places to sleep. I found a place at the far end of the barn, and huddled down in the straw, at the end of my chain. It was warm, and quite comfortable, once I got used to the feel of the straw on my bare skin. Definitely better than sleeping out in the open, by the gate. 
We never talked to each other. Talking was not allowed at any time, and none of us would take any risk of being punished. I thought about having sex with my guard almost all the time. She was the only woman I ever saw, and she was very erotic, in her powerful way. I am personally not into sex with men, and I don’t think any of the others were either. But sex was impossible between us anyway, since we were each locked into our chastity devices. I could not even masturbate, and I don’t think the others could either. My lack of masturbation meant that I was permanently horny, and my dreams were always full of sex. It didn’t help my dreams to have the whip bitch charge of me. She was a really good looking woman, even if she was a whip bitch. I both hated her, and had erotic dreams about her.
I spent the first night carefully feeling my collar, the padlock, and each of the links of my chain, using my fingers in the darkness, hoping to find some weakness. I did this quietly, after dark, because I didn’t want the other slaves to see this. They might have reported me to the whip bitch, in the hope of some better treatment themselves. I would not have blamed them. I would have turned them in too, in an instant, if I thought that might get me in the favor of the whip bitch. I would have happily listened to their screaming, as they got their extra strokes, if I thought that might get me spared a few strokes.
I quickly found that the heavy padlock was securely locked, and there was no way to slip the steel collar. And the thick links of the chain had no weaknesses. I was securely chained! I knew I could never get off my new chain, any more than I could my old chain.
I could never get off the chain, that was obvious. I realized I had no alternative but to be a good slave. I knew the rules here were absolute, and were strictly enforced. I knew what the alternative was, to not being a good slave.
After the first day and night in the barn, I knew I had no hope of getting off my new chain. It was just as secure as my old one. I was chained, until one of the Ladies would choose to unlock me. And that did not seem very likely. I was a slave, on a chain. I resigned myself to having to complete my 12 months contract. I thought about the contact I had signed: I could not remember the exact words, but I was pretty sure that it specified that I could leave after 12 months. I was almost clear about that, although it’s true I was hazy about the other details. Or, did it say I ‘might’ have to stay longer??? Wasn’t there something in the contract about time extensions? I couldn’t quite remember! And the Contract had been written in that confusing style that lawyers use. I prayed that I only had to endure 12 months, and then I prayed that I would be let off my chain. I so wished I had read the contract!


To continue this story, click My Twelve Months Are Completed


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Mamamia Out Loud

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To say Victoria’s Kim Debron and her “Master” Joe have an unconventional relationship wouldn’t really do it justice.
The mum, who is in her 50s, says it best herself on her website, when she writes: “i am a collared slave, and i am owned by and married to Master Joe.” Beside the text, is an oval-shaped image of Kim wearing a collar. It is engraved “MJ’s girl.”
(Kim uses ‘i’ instead of ‘I’ when referring to herself.)
Speaking to news.com.au about her relationship, Kim explained: “i spent most of my adult life being in charge, running a riding school, running a section in a government department, running a business with my first husband, being a single parent…
“For me, knowing i am His collared and owned slave, means that i have given Him all of me that there is to give. It means that He owns my body, He controls my mind, He fills my heart, and He soothes my soul.”
Admittedly, relinquishing all control of her life has not come without difficulty.
“In the early days of our relationship i found submitting to His will or His decisions, was often difficult because i had been in charge of myself for so long,” she told the publication, adding that she can add input into discussions with her Master, and that “he may change the decision” based on her feelings.
So, what does the average day look like, when your husband is also your “Master”?
The average day, Kim says, looks fairly similar to that of any modern woman, with added chores, strict names of “Sir” and “Master”, asking permission to go to the bathroom, and the occasional spank on the rear of course.
Kim has also committed to always serving her husband's needs - whether that be a glass of water, or the television channel - before her own.
While her lifestyle may raise eyebrows, Kim says she's not fussed. In fact, she describes herself as 'safe, loved, cared for, protected, and complete.'
And you can't argue with that, now can you?
Sounds like she had a mental breakdown somewhere along the line..... why I earth would you be doing this otherwise.


I wanted to see myself as the cool, hip queer I hoped I was: someone who doesn’t have to subscribe to retrograde and patriarchal notions of what love is, or could be. 


“My friends and I don’t wanna be here if this isn’t an actively trans-affirming space. I’m only coming if all my sisters can.”


Our identity hasn’t been able to shake the anti-gay stereotypes of lesbians as uncosmopolitan boomer TERFs, sporting Tevas and cargo pants covered in cat hair.


“I don’t have a husband,” I said. “I’m gay. We’re all gay.” 


Olivia is one of the last dedicated venues for lesbian debauchery still standing.


From the very beginning, we moved as if we’d known each other a long, long time. 


I saw how much pride she took in her butch womanhood, which wasn’t some androgynous nowhere zone — femininity’s absence — but a whole universe unto itself.


We did a lap around the upper deck before sunset, arms linked, and when we arrived back on the main deck, a big group of lesbians literally cheered .


She told me she’d lived on this earth for 53 years. She knew what she wanted. And now it was my turn to figure that out for myself.

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I didn’t expect that spending a week with a couple thousand lesbians on a cruise ship would push me to radically reconsider the future I’d planned for myself.
It’s night four of the cruise — karaoke night — and everybody’s been picking slow, sad songs. So I decide to wake the place up a little.
The second dinner session has just let out, and the Rendezvous Lounge (which is as tacky as it sounds) is overflowing with lesbians. They’re mostly middle-aged or older; they’re wearing brightly colored tourist T-shirts purchased on our excursion earlier today to St. Kitts; they’re cheering for their new friends; they’re here to have a good time.
I’m determined to do something showstopping, but our offerings are comically limited. No Sheryl Crow, no Michelle Branch. Not even “Total Eclipse of the Heart.”
“These choices are homophobic,” I tell my new friend Dana. She’s technically my press handler, tasked with making sure I see the best that the tour operator, Olivia
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