Initiation

(thanks to Dazinbane and Bdsm3d for the pictures)

I wake early, it’s probably not much after two, but I’ve only slept anxiously, haunted with tears of loneliness, and frightening dreams ...

Wash my bare body down with the chilly water from the tap, make sure my pale skin’s glistening in the starlight through the high, barred rooflight. I shake my hair out, it mustn’t be tied, it must swing loose – but I’ve trimmed it to make sure my shoulders are bare, it mustn’t impede the Whip.

To go for her whipping a girl wears a burlap kamisk, just a piece of rough sack with a hole for my head, a cord round the waist. It only just hides my girl-parts, half-covers my bum. And it’s threadbare and grimy, I know when I come back there’ll be bloodstains and girl-sweat to rinse from it.





Softly step out through the slave-gate into the chilly night air, skin tingling, stride briskly into the sleeping town. I follow the back lanes, slaves aren’t allowed on the grand boulevards, and even in these dark alleys, a girl – a dreg, as they call us – must walk in the gutter, we can’t use the footpath, not even by night.

Rats hiss as my bare feet brush by them, trespassing in their rat-realm, flies from the foul drains buzz in the foetid air. It’s quiet, though some slaves are busy in fire-lit workshops, hefty men lugging huge burdens, lithe youngsters hurrying on errands, the littlest slaves scuttling past me, scared of their Masters’ or Mistresses’ anger even at this hour.

The Castle looms gaunt and forbidding, a massive grey hulk devoid of decoration thrusting up into the night sky. I find the low gateway in the outer wall marked ‘dregs’. I knock, an ugly woman unlocks and gestures me in, frisks me for weaponry, groping my breasts and between my thighs, points me across the yard to some steps and a doorway.

Inside a young woman in uniform asks me my number, checks me in a register, nods and directs me through to the stripping room. On my way I pass cages, girls in them, naked, and across in a cloister-garth there’s a platform with a whipping-frame. I shudder, but hurry on.

Back in the building, the stripping-room itself is a large cage, a male guard thrusts me inside. I need no commanding, strip off my burlap, drop it on the bench, stand at the ready, legs open, breasts lifted, hands behind bum. While I wait, men pass back and forth past the cage-bars, some pause and inspect me, I keep my eyes lowered, but feel theirs exploring me, drinking me in.

After a time, a timid youngster with long blonde curls, clad only in a pair of red knickers, enters the cage. Gesturing to me to do the same, she drops to her knees in obeisance, hair thrown forward, face to the floor, arms stretched in front. she whispers simply, “The Flagellator”. Moments later, a pair of booted feet clumps close to my head.

“Up, dreg – display!”

in a well-practised move I’m up on my feet in an instant, legs wide, breasts up again, but now with my hands behind my head. He looks me up and down. He’s tall and broad-shouldered, I feel like a half-grown schoolgirl standing before a royal guardsman, I barely come up to his square chest.

“Slavegirl?”

“010119 Sir” I answer.

“Which planet?”

“this girl is an earth-dreg,” I humbly reply.

“Hm. earth-cunts are rubbish until they’re well-broken,
but then they can make quite saleable slaves.”

“this girl hopes she will, Sir.”

He begins examining me, feeling the muscles of my thighs, pressing my buttocks, prodding my lower abdomen, squeezing my breasts, fingering my female parts, testing my tenderness, my readiness for the Whip.

“Ever been whipped before?”

“N-no, Sir.” I feel myself trembling, heart pounding.

“Full treatment then.”

He calls to the waiting slavegirl, “Bring me the sleen-skin twelver, the one with the star-stone tip!”

Gripping my upper arm tightly he swings me round and leads me to a staircase at the opposite side of the cage. Down the stairs, I’m marched through a narrow archway with a double surround of pinkish, rounded stones, along a dark, damp passageway that opens out into a curved, vaulted cellar.

In the centre, a massive pillar supports the roof. He thrusts me towards it, I need no telling, I know I must stand here. Above my head-height, a metal loop holds a chain of half a dozen links, from which hangs a pair of wrist-irons, open and ready. I lift my arms to be shackled. I’mused to wrist-cuffs, they’re everyday wear for a slavegirl, but these are much heavier, sturdy enough to hold up a bridge, never mind a seven-stone dreg. As they’re clamped shut and screwed tight, they bite into my wrist bones. Instinctively, I tug, but there’s no room for wriggling, I’m held fast, acutely conscious of my captivity.

The shackles tug me up onto my toes on the gritty flagstone floor, my body swings against the hard marble of the pillar, my breasts brushing its cold surface. The stones of this cellar have an ochre, slightly greenish tinge, but those of the pillar, and the slabs below my feet, are stained a darker shade, a deep russet.

i feel a strong sensation of timeless observance, this is an ancient place, hundreds of years old. And it is a female place, surely the pink archway, the dark passage, this womb-like room, were fashioned for female initiation? my coming here observes an ancient ritual - for centuries, millennia even, girls have come here, offering ourselves for one purpose only – to be broken. Thousands of breasts like mine have polished these stones, girls’ sweat, blood and body-juices have sunk deep into the surface while they struggled. The very air of this place is rich with scent of females, heavy with odours of oestrus.

i turn towards my Flagellator. The young slavegirl has brought a terrible Whip, my stomach churns at the sight of it. she takes off her knickers, the only garment she’s wearing, then starts kissing and licking the plaited thong, and pulling it between her thighs, against her lower lips, moistening it with both girl-juice and saliva. she draws it out to its full length, well over twice her, or my, own height, uses the knickers to wipe it. After this ritual preparation of the leather, ensuring its suppleness, she kneels, holding up the dreadful instrument, offering it to her Master – to use on me.

i turn my face back to the pillar, my fingers clench and clutch at the manacles. The Flagellator takes a few practice swings, I hear the lash whistle and crack, jump like a cricket at the very sound.

And then I feel my hair whisked up by the draught as the thong like a white-hot blade slices across my shoulder-blades. I leap, I hear my squeal ring round the echo-filled chamber, my breasts press against the stone, my fists clench at the shackling chain, as I brace myself for the next.

My buttocks! On their sinewy soft flesh, the pain works differently, the lash digs in, takes a few instants, then the fire bursts outwards, gripping the muscles, forcing my legs to flail in a frantic dance.

His third shot snakes round my flank, the vicious little star-stone at the tip bites into the edge of my breast, a surge of pain floods through my mammary glands, my torso squirms.

Three blows, three different kinds of pain. I’m soon to learn, the sharpest comes when the thong bruises my bone where it’s closest under the skin – my shoulders, ribs, hips – when it strikes those, I shriek in instant pain, the echoes sound like demented choirboys.

Blows to the tender parts – my bum, my thighs – sink in, they take a little longer, but hurt deeper, and drive me to hurl about, stretching and swinging on the wrist-chain, bruising my knees against the pillar-stones.

But cruellest of all are those evil whisks that swoop round my armpits and rip into my breasts, or even flick fiercely between my legs, tearing my most tender parts. These set off strange spasms, exquisite agony, cruelly arousing – I feel my breasts swelling, my nipples hard against the stones, hot throbbing in my womb and my vagina.

As I skip and cavort, acutely conscious of my nakedness, strangely aroused in my sexuality, in spite of – maybe even because of - the sharp pangs of pain, I’m tormented in another way, with a merciless, ever-growing desire to erupt in orgasm!

i don’t cry, don’t beg for mercy, my slave-brain tells me it’s futile, a dreg can expect none. But more than that, through all this hurricane of agony, I’m quietly determined – not to resist, no heroics - but simply to take and absorb all he hurls at me. Such is the way, the only way, a slavegirl can survive, this is what I’ve come here to be trained in, the lesson of the Whip. So I cling to the chain with tight fingers, thrust my bare breasts to the pillar like a lover, let myself scream, as I’m flung about helpless, blow upon blow.






He takes his time, long pauses to watch me writhe, waiting till he spots a chance, as my kicking and twisting expose new, nubile targets - then a lightning flash of the whipthong whistles and cracks against my hide again, again, and yet again.

I’m panting, gasping, pouring out sweat, my cries are growing hoarse, a raging thirst adds to my torment, yet still my inward, sexual hunger tortures me worse ...

I’ve no sense how long it goes on for, how many lashes he lands on me – maybe two dozen, maybe three, or even more, it soon becomes a continuous stream of pain, waves crashing over me, sucking me down in a whirlpool of agony.

In the end, I’m confusedly aware of my wrists being freed, I feel myself sink, sliding on my silvery gloss of sweat down the pillar to my knees, and then on the floor in a posture that’s already instinctive, the pose of obeisance, my face on the blood-spattered dust by his boots.

“Th-thankyou ... Sir ...” I croak.

He kicks me, I roll over on my side, onto my back, it’s hideously sore, my spine and shoulders shudder as they ‘re chafed on the rough slabs.

“Sula-ki!” He commands, I lay my arms beside me, palms up, thighs spread, knees bent, soles planted firmly on the floor. Then I lift my whip-weltered hips, he kneels between my legs, his penis proudly erect, I hold myself still in readiness.

my poor vulva’s bleeding from the nips of the stone-tipped whip, I cry out once more as he penetrates me. He grips at my bruised, bleeding breasts, pounding away in the body he’s just been breaking – and still the strong surge of desire is gripping my woman-parts, responding to his violence, the orgasm I’ve been nourishing as I struggled now bursts through the whole of my body, at the moment his sperm erupts into me, I whinny like a mare, he roars like a bull.

He pulls himself out of me, stands up and straightens his clothing, I sink back to the floor, panting, quivering, the muscles of my sore abdomen still contracting in sharp spasms, my mind swimming in a delirium of pleasure and pain as I gaze at the cobweb-hung stone vault above me.

He kicks me again. “Up!” I struggle to pull my senses together, lift myself unsteadily to my feet, stand trembling at the ready.

“Not bad for an earth-cunt,” he growls,

“Thankyou, Sir,” I say, feeling at last that I truly mean it.

“We shall meet again,” he continues with a grin, I shall look forward to it. Full-frontal next time. Then maybe suspension, hanging on chains, eh, dreg?”

“It will be an honour, Sir.”

He grabs my arm and hauls me half-staggering back along the dark passage, out through the narrow archway, almost carries me up the stairs. In the stripping room, the blonde slave is kneeling in obeisance again beside a new girl, naked like me, next in line for the Flagellator’s attentions.

While he starts to examine her, I pull on the burlap, tie the cord, prostrate myself once more for a final “Thankyou”. He is preoccupied now with the intimate anatomy of the terrified youngster, her grey-blue eyes follow me with a look of helpless fear – the sight of my freshly-whipped, still-bleeding and sweat-glistening body must be filling her with terror.

I return past the cages where cold nudes are greedily supping their morning slops of gruel. The whipping-frame in the prison yard now has an occupant, her quivering bare body crimson-striped like mine, but she’s a criminal, she’ll hang there in the hot sun all day, tormented by flies, flogged when she faints.

As I depart, at the desk by the entrance door, I’m handed an envelope by the female in uniform, “For your Owner.” I thank her, tuck it safely under my waist-cord, step out blinking from the place of pain into the bright and busy sunshine. A few deep breaths, then I’m hurrying back to my Owner’s villa. The alleys are thronged now, as I weave my way along the gutters, I’m jostled by burly men, knocked by carts, splashed with filth.

My body’s still a blazing ball of pain, my limbs ache as I walk, my fresh scars and bruises burning under the burlap, and clearly to be seen on my bare legs and loins. But a well-whipped slavegirl is nothing out of the ordinary in these streets. I keep my eyes lowered in the gutter – even in these back-alleys, I know I’m a dreg, lowest of the low.

Yet my body’s filled with a glow, a sense of satisfaction, even fulfillment. I pat the precious envelope - my proof that I’ve passed the ordeal. I’m even “not bad for an earth-cunt”! I straighten my spine, lift my sore breasts, I walk proud with my whip-weals, badge of a true kajira!