Layla was a drama queen. Everything she did was to draw attention to her. It did not matter if it was punishment or pleasure, or if it benefited or hurt her interests. She would do whatever she could to draw her master's attention and hold it.
The solution to breaking her, therefore, was to give her no attention whatsoever.
I had already seen this: back when she had run away at Fogrim's farm, he had given it no heed. It was I who got angry and hunted her down. Even as I bound her to stakes in the ground, spread her legs, and bred her, it was she who had manipulated me.
It was time to turn the tables on the little bitch!
First, I took away what made her different. The guards took the bone tube her ponytail had been pulled through and crushed it in front of her. Next, her collar had also been changed. Instead of the well-crafted piece of a snake swallowing its tail, she was fitted with a common, rough-cast collar that blacksmiths sold by the bag. It was the same kind the other breeding slaves wore. I’d also had her numbered, just like the others. A ‘13’ had been tattooed on her right breast, just above the aureole. I hadn’t planned it that way, but it was quite appropriate that she’d occupy that number.
The second touch was subtle - but no less effective. Layla was a transhuman; her body regenerated fully. As such, her brand was fading. Anticipating her exchange with me, Fogrim had not put her back under his branding iron. Soon, her brand would fade away altogether. I was letting that happen. As she looked at the clear, well-made marks on the other breeding slaves, she would wonder if she’d been forgotten - or worse, if anyone even cared.
The last step was to disorient her. The breedery was designed for this, specifically, to take away a girl’s sense of time. It had been 10 days since I had caged Layla in the breedery. Throughout that time, the guards had forced her to stay awake for random intervals. Sometimes they did this by drenching her with a bucket of ice-cold water. Then, the sweltering heat of the cages would return. Her waking schedule was also randomized. She was fed slave boil at irregular intervals, so she could not work out time by the feedings. Her exercise times were also changed. Some days she had no exercise. Others, she was put to a double shift at pushing a heavy grinding wheel made of stone. Her wrists were chained to its crossbar, and she was gagged and blindfolded, so she could not interact with any other girls at the wheel. Sometimes she was exercised as part of a chain gang. Other times, she pushed on her own.
Today was her tenth day in the breedery - and time for an escalation. I'd had her put to a long stint pushing the wheel and fed no boil - either before or after. When she was returned to her cage, hungry and exhausted, I visited the breedery to make my move.
***
The air was hot, stale, and humid. The only light came from a few dour, yellow oil lamps set into the granite walls. The slave cages, each just three feet on their side, were arranged in rows. Each row was three cages long. Cages were stacked on cages, almost to the ceiling. There were three of these floor-to-ceiling stacks. They were spaced apart to create aisles for access. I walked between the aisles and measured with hands - yes, I could shrink the aisles. That would make room for a fourth stack. If so, it would the chamber’s capacity would hit thirty-six slave cages. Thirty-six!
I plucked an oil lamp from the wall and held it up. Many pairs of eyes stared at me from inside the cages. There were several more girls now since the last time I had been here. One was a petite, Hataduri kitchen slave who had looked at me a little too long one late night. I had gone to the kitchen for a snack but brought her back instead. Now she was crammed into a breeding cage -- one cage above Layla’s.
"Master!" the Hataduri called out, pressing herself against the cage bars. She stretched like a cat. Her dark eyes twinkled as I held the lamp closer to her cage. Elfin features smiled up at me, and she clutched the bars.
I reached between them and grabbed her by the hair at the back of her head. She closed her eyes as I forced her face between the bars and kissed her. Her lips were soft, warm.
Peering up at me from the cage below, on her hands and knees, was Layla. Her hair fell to the ground, thick and glossy. Her eyes went from me to the Hataduri slave, then back to me. Her expression seemed expectant.
I ignored her.
"How is my slut?" I asked the Hataduri meat. My tone was kind.
"I am happy now, Master!"
This wasn't the usual slave pandering. Nothing makes a slave delighted at your hand on her body like days of sensory deprivation.
"Why is that?"
"Because you are here, Master! Check me, Master," she pressed her forehead to mine and whispered. "I am ready."
I forced her head back, baring her neck. I licked it, my tongue beginning just under her chin. It slid down the smooth skin. She was warm and tasted of salt. It stopped at the heavy, iron collar resting on her collarbones. I tasted iron as I probed behind it for the small pit at the base of the throat.
There was a scraping as Layla fidgeted in her cage.
I continued licking the Hataduri girl’s throat.
The scraping repeated, louder.
I thrust my hand into the Hataduri’s cage. My fingers forced past her belly, snaking between her thighs. She parted them best she could inside the cramped cage, and I forced to fingers into her vagina. She was quite wet.
Using my fingers like a spoon, I stirred her - quite literally - before pulling them out and flicking them dry.
Drops of vaginal secretion hit Layla in the face. She blinked but did not wince or jerk away, as a fresh slave would have. A pretty slave girl soon learns the feel of another slave girl’s juices on her skin, and their taste, and to find them unremarkable.
I stepped away from the Hataduri. She was wrong - every breeding slave thinks today is the day. I knew the girl’s cycle; she was still a week from ovulation.
Adjoining her cage, wincing at the brightness of the oil lamp, was a petite girl with dirty blonde hair. It fell in thick, generous curls to the bottom of her cage. Blue-green eyes like tarnished copper peeped at me. She was stocky; her body fit, the curves athletic. A chain just a foot long ran between two, heavy cuffs that clenched her ankles. A similar pair held her wrists. A star pattern had been branded on her thigh by the expert taps of a red-hot, branding wire. The same gauge of wire had made a delicate zigzag line by the side of her breast.
The blonde's breasts were large: they jiggled as she rose up on her elbows and knees. They were well shaped: rounded, heavy, with small aureoles and hazel brown nipples. I had bought her for those breasts and kept her chained at the ankle in my bathtub. The intention had been to have her bathe me. This was a pleasant but bad idea. I wasn't attached enough to add her to my harem, but I was too attached to send her to the tavern.
That left the breedery.
"Oh!" She squealed and tried to shrink back as I reached inside the cage. I gripped her by her collar and yanked her back to the bars, her chains rattling. She whined as my other hand gripped her breasts.
So warm and soft!
I gave them a hard squeeze, and she winced.
Below, Layla sat with her hands on her knees, head turned to the side and peering through the bars.
She coughed. It was a sharp, clear sound. It almost sounded like an order.
"Please, Master!" The blonde’s oval face was a picture of desperate begging. "Please do not keep me here! Please do not breed me!"
I licked her thigh brand. My tongue traced the straight lines of white, raised scar tissue that formed the star. She had only been in the breedery for four days.
"In five days, you will beg for me to breed you," I lied. "If you beg sooner, that can only mean it is in your nature to breed.”
“No, Master!”
“I have bred many girls. Do you believe me when I say this?"
"Yes, Master," she said without hesitation.
"Then know if you beg, sooner than five days from now, it will mean it is your true nature to be a breeding slave. That Shub Niggurath marked you for this. I will then tattoo his mark between your legs and keep you here for the rest of your life,” I gestured about the room, “just like these others.”
She would break in two or three days. She was Hyperborean born and raised: their women are easy to submit. Whenever she did break, she’d be told it was before the five days had passed. She would not know: down here, it wasn’t just Layla who couldn’t tell the passage of time.
"Put me in your dairy, Master," the blonde begged. She gripped the bars with her cuffed hands. "You like my breasts, Master? Let me give you milk, instead! Use it to sweeten your food! Ferment it to make kumis beer!" She grabbed her breasts instead and lifted them towards me.
"You came from a town, didn't you? From a city, yes?"
"Yes, Master. How did you know?"
"A country girl knows the size of the slave’s breasts does not matter. Only her fitness and how often she is milked. Spread your thighs."
The blonde hesitated for an instant - but only an instant. She spread her legs apart, head down.
As I reached inside the blonde, I felt Layla's eyes following my fingers all the way in. The blonde was dry. She was afraid. However; I could use that to arouse her. I was not seeking sport however, not with her, not today. In two or three more days, yes. For now, I just pushed in deep. Using my fingers inside her, I forced her to rise on her knees. I held my hand like that, letting her feel me inside her. A slave girl can hardly feel more dominated than with her limbs shackled, locked in a small cage, and with her master’s fingers inside her for no reason she could understand.
"Feel that," I said. "How deep it is. How it feels against you. Think about it as you lie here in the dark, in your cage. In less than five days, you will beg to feel it again."
I pulled my fingers out of her.
With my other hand, I grabbed her jaw and forced her mouth open. In my fingers went. She gagged, and her eyes became wide as they slid past her tonsils.
"Clean them, slave."
Her tongue stroked my fingers.
Below, there was a dull, metallic tone as Layla thumped her shoulder against the side of her cage. She clung at the bars; her back was straight, tense, as if ready for action.
I continued ignoring her and turned to one, last, new girl.
This one was a tall, thin, pale beauty with long, straight, dark hair. Her jaw and cheekbones had strong, elegant lines. Her legs were sleek like a running animal’s - what fun it would be to chase her! Her slender arms were held by cuffs with a short chain between them. She had been blindfolded with a black rag. Her ears were blocked with black, rubber plugs.
"Master?" She asked, her head moving to the side. It was the motion a blind man makes toward a sudden sound. Her words were loud - she’d been seven days with her ears plugged.
I said nothing and stepped right before her cage.
She turned her head this way and that as if trying to sense me. "Master? Are you there?" Her accent was Duran. “Cthulhu, guide me!”
The Dagonite fisherfolk and farmers of the Borderlands are an old people. They are a peasant-based folk, so sadly lack treasured clay tablets and historied lineages. All that bound them was folklore, language, and the worship of their monstrous water god. They have been in the Borderlands for almost a thousand years.
But here and there, one finds pockets of an even older people. A tall, pale group with straight, dark hair and grey-blue eyes. Once they had been great: walk the jungles for a few days and you will the mounds of their half-buried canals. Sail the Black, and at low tide, you may see stone towers emerging. Where they remained civilized, they blended in with their Dagonite neighbors. Their past, and almost all else, quite forgotten. Where they degraded still further, they became the Marsh Tribes.
Only their faith remained to set them apart. Great Cthulhu, alone, was their lord. His statues were now just eroded knobs on weathered, dry hills.
“Master?”
I began unlocking the cage door. She sensed the vibrations, and her whole body jerked. She rose on her knees, back straight, her palms going flat against the cage floor. I swung the door open, and she turned her head back as if to look at me.
"Master, I-"
grabbed her by the ankles and yanked.
She yelled as I pulled her pale legs out. Chains rustled in the other cages, and the yellow lamplight reflected in staring eyes. The big-breasted blonde crept as far back as she could in her cage. The Hataduri bitch did the opposite.
The dark-haired girl cried out a second time with my next yank. This pulled her right out of the cage. Her feet thudded as they hit the floor, and she bent at the knees. The Hataduri stared as the girl faced her cage, hands through the bars.
I slammed against the slave, pinning her against the stack of cages. I ripped the plugs from her ears and yanked down the blindfold. She stared, blinking, seeing and hearing for the first time in days.
I shoved my hand up between her breasts and gripped her by her throat. The other gripped behind her knee and raised her leg up. This bared her vagina. Her thigh clenched as she tried to force her leg back down.
I squeezed her throat.
The slave girl moaned, and her leg became still. I eased on her throat. Her foot came to rest on the floor bars of the Hataduri’s cage. She did not move it from there.
I pulled out my penis, pressed it against her labia, and pushed into her.
The slave gasped - her eyes became wide, and her jaw dropped. She was wet, and I slid in with ease. I pushed like I was trying to spear right through her. The girl gritted her teeth and pressed her forehead against the cage bars, and made a primal sound.
I looked over her shoulder. In the cage before her, the Hataduri girl was staring at us, rapt. She put one hand down between her thighs and began pleasing herself. Then, she leaned forward and licked the dark-haired girl’s belly.
I began. The stacked cages clattered with each thrust, the girls in them clutching at bars, perhaps afraid their cages would fall. The Duran girl started to moan. Her sounds grew louder and higher pitched.
From the bottom cage, Layla reached out and scratched the girl’s leg. It was the move a cat would make as it swatted another. The Duran didn’t react - her moans became breathless whimpers.
Her body spasmed, and she threw herself against the cages. It spasmed again as a second orgasm flooded her. I continued thrusting while several more waves went through her body.
I came; five long spurts. When it was done, I stopped pressing up against her, and the Duran girl collapsed. She knelt on the ground, panting, forehead pressed against the bars of the glaring Layla’s cage. Even in the poor light, I could see the Duran girl’s skin was flushed. The panting became interrupted with little giggles. She turned to look up at me, eyes shining.
This is what happened when you deprive a slave of her senses for a week, keep her caged and shackled - and then give her a sudden, hard fuck. It overwhelms and disorients. It makes the sensations are so much stronger. She has difficulty even processing what has happened to her. In these ways you confuse her and lower the barriers of her mind, and recast her into something wonderful.
The slave turned, resting her back against Layla's cage. She took my penis and balls in her cuffed hands, as gentle as if she were holding an infant bird. Staring up at me, she brought her lips to my balls and kissed them, again and again. Her tongue snaked out and lifted them one at a time as if trying to weigh them. My semen smeared her thumb and fingers. She licked them clean and ran her tongue up and down the shaft. Her lips closed over my penis, and she drew her head back, lips pressed to make a seal. She did this twice, and then her throat bobbed as she swallowed.
I gripped her hair with both hands and started pumping her head back and forth. I felt her neck go limp and her jaw open wider as she submitted. I soon came again.
"Good slave," I said; she had not gagged.
I pulled out my penis; thick strings of semen mixed with saliva stretch between it and her lips. I wiped myself on her cheeks. She kept her head still while I did so, staring up at me. Her expression was rapt, more akin to someone having had a profound, spiritual experience.
This was the intended outcome.
I gripped her by her hair and forced her to stand. Then, I turned her around, lifted her up, and forced her back into her cage. Semen dripped from her labia and down between the cage bars. The Hataduri girl scrambled to catch them with cupped hands.
One fell on Layla’s shoulder. She turned her head in an instant and licked it off.
I pulled the blindfold from around the Duran girl's neck, shut her cage door, and locked it. She turned to face me, sitting on her behind, head tucked down to avoid the top of the cage. Her knees were bent, feet sticking through the bars.
"Spread your thighs, Slave."
"Yes, master," she obeyed, baring her vagina. Milky-white semen still dripped from between the outer, labial folds.
I reached between the bars and mopped her dry, using the blindfold. I pressed around her vagina, pushing out semen. She did not move a muscle for any of this.
"Good Slave," I said without looking at her.
I looked about the room.
Every slave girl was looking at me.
"Who will get the blindfold next?" I asked, holding up the semen-soiled cloth while bending to pick up the rubber earplugs off the floor.
Layla knelt, pressing herself against the bars. Her knees poked through. She pushed herself against the cage; her breasts jiggled as she forced them through the bars. She stared up at me, lips parted. Her chest rose and fell with heavy breaths.
"Me, Master!" The Hataduri girl whined and tugged at her cage bars like the small, trapped animal she was. "Please, Master! Me!"
I beheld the big-breasted girl with the dirty blonde hair. She eyed me, her eyes wary. As I stared at her, her eyes grew wider, and her jaw dropped.
"No, Master!" She shook her head. "Please, no!"
I unlocked her cage door, the tumblers making loud clacks. The door swung open.
She recoiled.
There was nowhere to hide in a tiny cage - I grabbed her by her collar and pulled her head out. She grabbed my arm and tried to pull it away, grunting with effort.
I gave her a slap. She cried out, then let go of my arm and looked down. She remained still as I plugged her ears and tied the soiled blindfold around her eyes. Then, I forced her head back in and locked the cage.
I updated the papyrus record tied to the door and girl's cage and noted down the predicted break date for the large-breasted blonde.
"Master?" Asked a small voice from the bottom cage.
I pretended I hadn't heard it. I went back to the Duran’s record and noted how many waves her multiple orgasm had been.
"Master!" Said Layla, louder.
I reached into the big-breasted blonde's cage and grabbed her by her chin. I turned her face to the light and studied her face. There was no mark or swelling. Satisfied it needed no attention, I turned to leave.
"Master!" Layla banged on her cage with little fists. "Master!"
I left the breedery. It had been an excellent session. One girl had been used, another one would soon be, and a third one wished she had been.