Slavers are all cruel, but word reaches even us that this “Monad” is something special. They say he’s more animal than human. They say he never backs down from a fight. They say he rules by fear. They say no-one else uses a woman after he’s had her.
And this is the one whom fate has decreed now has ultimate power over us all, here at the Flower Garden.
The Hub has been quiet today. Approximately an hour ago, someone behind the wall fucked me hard. I did not see his face, but he did it roughly, as though he hated me. Perhaps he was a Dystyr male, perhaps not. Why do so many men hate women like me? When they take us, it’s about more than raping us. They’re getting even, settling a grudge.
Recovering in the wall, I’m staring at the floor, lamenting being born female, when I hear a strangely familiar voice.
“Coora,” someone male says to me.
I look up, and cry out in shocked humiliation.
Jurong is standing in front of me, staring at me. Oh no, oh no! His dreams are finally fulfilled. I am naked before Jurong, a Jurong who is transfixed at the sight of me. I am too familiar with that expression of hunger. This will not end well.
“Gods, Coora,” he says to me, “your tits are even better than I imagined they would be.”
“No!” I plead, shaking my trapped arms in a futile effort to conceal myself. “Please, don’t look at me Jurong, not when I’m like this.”
“But you’re beautiful, Coora,” he says. “You shouldn’t be ashamed. And you should see how you look from the back.”
I close my eyes in despair, blinking back the tears. Being naked and degraded in front of strangers is one thing, but here is someone who knows me from when I had dignity.
“How much is it for a session with you?”
Oh Gods, please not him. But he presses, “Answer me, Coora.”
“One hundred credits, if you want to go inside. Ask the Slaver, Jabal, and he’ll have me released from here.”
I’m supposed to say “One hundred credits, Master”, but I can’t bear using that term with him.
“One hundred credits? There’s plenty of girls on the Hub for much less than that.”
Good. Let him use one of those poor creatures.
“But then, they’re not you. They’re not my Coora.”
“Please Jurong,” I beg, straining to free my wrists. “If you have any kind feelings towards me, please don’t rape me.”
“You know Coora, when you struggle, the way your breasts shake is exquisite,” he says, and I stop dead. “You should keep still if you want to deter men.”
“Please, Jurong,” I beg again, but I plead from a stationary position all the same.
“Everything will be okay. I’m going inside,” he says, and I burst into tears. Please, somebody help me. Not this…
Jurong has gone from my view. Soon Jabal appears, but not with Jurong. I am released from my position. I stand there weeping openly, rubbing my sore neck to ease the discomfort.
“Put your wrap on. You look like a slut, standing there naked,” Jabal snaps at me.
I scrabble on the floor for the meagre bundle of clothing. I wasn’t planning to dress for the short distance inside the brothel. Not because I’m lazy or unashamed, but because clothing myself will only give Jurong the satisfaction of ordering me to remove it. But I can’t disobey Jabal, so I secure my wrap in place with the approved tie – a bow under the left arm. Right-handedness is most common among males across the universe, and they naturally reach to our left sides. The knot can be untied easily, and we can be stripped while restrained.
The rooms inside the brothel are utterly impersonal – more like being in a hotel room than an individual’s bedroom. The lighting is soft pinks and oranges. The colors are supposed to hide skin blemishes, but with my iridescent tone I think they make me look sickly. There are no bed covers, just a mattress with a cover that can be quickly removed for cleaning. All around the bed are anchor points for restraints – hooks and alloy eyeholes. The equipment for this is in drawers under the bed. Everything a man may require is there – I know from bitter experience – cuffs, chains, ropes, gags, clamps, whips, phalluses, vibrators, lubricants, and blindfolds.
A small table is stocked with spirits, ethanols, stimulants, and forms of aphrodisiac. We are forbidden from using anything on the table, unless we do so under instruction from a client.
Jurong is sitting on the bed of this room, looking around with great curiosity.
“This is your home?” he asks.
“None of this is my home,” I answer tersely. “A slave cannot have possessions. We use whichever room is free.”
“You’re going to be like this, today, are you, Coora?” he says with a wry smile, as though I’m being unreasonable. “I’ve come a long way to see you.”
“You’ve paid for me,” I say bitterly. “Just have your fun, and go away, Jurong.”
“Your profile says you’ve been highly trained in slave skills,” Jurong says, ignoring my animosity. “I guess you didn’t find much use for your politics here, huh? Show them to me, Coora. That’s an order. Serve me Danaean Spirit, but humbly, the way a trained slave serves her master.”
I cannot refuse. Pouring the drink, I must kneel before him to present it, kissing the rim of the glass and then lifting it to him, as though in offering to a God. I must kneel with my thighs wide apart. In the demeaning wrap, this will hide nothing of my core from him.
While I make the preparations, he talks.
“The college held a memorial service, for all those who died or were taken in the pirate attack,” Jurong tells me, as though he thinks anything in my past matters now. “Nearly two hundred from our class were on that ship. Just from our class, one-hundred-and-twenty-nine women were taken alive. Twenty-four were killed, either by the Slavers or by ending themselves. Nineteen males enslaved, and fifteen of them killed. The lucky remainder of the men evaded capture, but no women from the class returned home. All told, nearly five hundred captives were taken in the raid on Moons of Odaron, the vast majority of them females captured for sexual slavery.”
And one of those young females was me. I kneel as a sex slave before Jurong, my former classmate, humbling myself, spreading my thighs to give an obscene view of the private place between my legs. I kiss the drink glass and present it to him holding it extended with both hands. I keep my head submissively down, but must look at him, so he can see my eyes.
Jurong takes the glass from me, and sips.
“That is good spirit,” he says.
I do not reply.
“Ilza is the women’s class president now,” Jurong continues. “All the guys want to date her, now there’s so few women left. There’s just a handful of women from our year that weren’t on the voyage.”
I remember Ilza. She was one of those jealous, spiteful types.
“I bet she likes that,” I can’t help saying. “She’d like knowing I’m here.”
“She does know you’re here. You, Trindii, all of them. There’s a big display showing all the ones who were taken, Coora, a memorial,” he says, and I moan in humiliation. The tears are coming again. Please, don’t let me cry in front of Jurong.
“You probably know this as well, but the Slavers advertise everything about the girls working on the Hub,” he presses relentlessly. “All your information is there. It says you weren’t a virgin when you were taken. That disappointed me. But you’re one of only a few who were enslaved that can be traced. I was so relieved when I saw that you were in a brothel. Most of the girls have probably been sold privately, and are lost. Trindii has disappeared. Cliria is gone, somewhere. Eleese is gone. Gods, she was hot. It’s a lucky man gets to own that. But really, for me there was only ever you, Coora.”