A New World, Chapter 8: Masters are Masters, and Slaves are Slaves

It was a scene as old as humanity: a man teaching a younger man a particular skill.

In this instance, it was Mathias teaching Trig how to use his new whip, with bale of straw standing in for a slave. Nearby, a group of female slaves sat on the ground in the shade of an oak tree, emptying old straw out of the slaves' sleeping pallets and stuffing them with fresh straw. They chatted quietly among themselves, enjoying the shade, companionship, and their simple task.

"Don't just use your wrist," said Mathais, making a chopping motion with his hand. "Use your whole body, hips and shoulders. Take a small step with your left foot, turn your hip and shoulder when you bring down the whip."

Trig took another swing at the bale of straw, heeding Mathias' advice. The whip cracked and shards of straw flew from the impact.

"Good, good! That delivers more force with less effort. Don't exhaust yourself! You might have to whip a dozen slaves sometime. I had to whip fifteen once, thirty lashes each. My arm was sore for days!"

Trig took another lash at the bale, pleased with result when more straws scattered from the leather.

"Try to get a forty-five-degree angle from right shoulder to left buttock. That gives you maximum contact on the slave's body." Trig landed a perfect lash on the bale from top right to bottom left, smiling at the result.

"Now, imagine that you're whipping a slave's ass, not its back. You want it more horizontal since the target is smaller, especially on males. Use a more sidearm motion," he said, mimicking the motion for Trig.

Trig lowered his arm a little to the right, and landed a horizontal slash across the bale, sending straw flying.

"You're sweating," Mathias said; Trig wiped his brow, a little embarrassed. People didn't sweat anymore, unless it was during exercise or sports. Slaves sweated.

"I know," said Trig. "Sweating like a slave, as they say."

Mathias beckoned him, and took the whip from Trig. "See this dragon tail?" he asked, holding the slightly wider end of the lash in his fingers. "It's not just cosmetic. It serves a practical purpose. The wider tip means less chance of breaking skin and causing injury or infection, but delivers pain to more nerve endings. The goal is to punish the slave, not make it unable to work. So, you can really lay it on without worrying about injuring the slave."

Mathias handed him back the whip, and walked towards the females, who quieted at his approach, bending to their task. He grabbed one by the hair, lifted her up and marched her to Trig.

The slave was older, about the same age as Trig's mother, he guessed, black-haired with streaks of grey and droopy-titted. Her hands fluttered as she scurried along, bent over by Mathias' fist gripping her hair. "Master?" she asked, her eyes wide with alarm. "Master?" she asked again, "Have I displeased you, master?"

Mathias led her to the bale of straw. "Bend over and put your arms around it. Master Trig is going to give you two lashes for practice. If you move, he'll have to start over. Understand slave?"

"Yes master!" she said, her body tense as she hugged the frayed bale. Mathias turned to Trig.

"Give her one across the back, another across her ass," he said.

Trig felt some reluctance to whip a slave who had done nothing wrong; he had already done that accidentally to Dingo yesterday. He and his family were strict with their slaves when he was growing up, but they rarely whipped or punished one who didn't deserve it. Unlike some of their friends and neighbors, they almost never tormented a slave just for their amusement.

Nonetheless, Trig felt some pressure to perform while Mathias watched. This was the profession he had chosen; he was a master and slaves were slaves. He had to learn to stop thinking of them as anything but livestock. They are not people, like you are, he reminded himself. They are property, and must be shown their place in the world. It's for their own good.

Trig drew back his arm, and aimed for the woman's right shoulder. The whip cracked against her skin, as she gasped and choked back a sob. Within seconds, a red welt appeared, from her shoulder to buttock. Mathias nodded approval as the slave hugged the bale tighter, as though trying to seek some comfort from it. "Now her ass," Mathias said.

Trig delivered a horizontal lash the woman's broad ass; she whimpered and rose on her toes but did not break position. Mathias beckoned Trig to come forward and take a closer look at his target.

Mathias put his finger on the red welt beginning just under her right shoulder, tracing it down to her left hip, then did the same with the welt across her buttocks. "Good work. Maybe a little off-center on her ass, but close enough." He said to the slave woman, still wincing from her whipping, "You did good. Now get back to work," The slave scurried away, two red welts striped across her back and buttocks.

Once she was out of earshot, Mathias turned to Trig. "I know you were holding back. Don't do that. You're not doing a slave any good if you don't keep them properly disciplined. It leads to more misbehavior, more punishments, and eventually the slave is worthless. And then..." Mathais let his words trail off; there was no need to remind Trig what that meant. "A disciplined slave is a happy slave. They are intelligent creatures, but they are governed by base instincts, reward and fear of punishment. Remember, they don't feel pain like we do. Selective breeding has made them better slaves, but less responsive to pain.

"Keep practicing if you want, but don't tire yourself out. You've got at least fifty lashes to give to Buster and Jasmine, maybe more."

Trig had already been working three hours today since the staff meeting; it was rare for anyone to work more than four or five hours a day--except slaves, of course. He decided to relax for a while before he had to assist Mathias with Buster and Jasmine, heading back to his room.

After his nap, Andy decided to have some fun with the two slaves that had upset his quiet morning. Jasmine was the first to notice him approaching, her eyes wide and trying to warn Buster, facing in the opposite direction. Her muted squeals around her gag alarmed Buster, who craned his head as much as the stocks allowed, unable to see what had so frightened Jasmine.

Buster felt a hand on the small of his back, sliding down his buttocks, then between his thighs, to where his testicles dangled below his caged penis. The hand cupped his balls...then squeezed tightly.

Buster screamed around his gag, rising up on his toes. He tried to "run away" from the pain, his neck and shoulders bruising around the stocks that held him in place as he writhed, his metal collar clanking against the wood. Even in his agony, he could hear laughter, and recognized Master Andy.

Jasmine, helpless, looking up at Master Andy as he tormented her lover, could do nothing other than whimper for mercy on his behalf, the ball gag in her mouth making her sound like a mewling dog, begging with her eyes.

Andy, hearing her plaintive whimpers, looked down at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, are you jealous because he's getting all the attention?" He reached down with his other hand, pinching the nipple of her dangling breast, twisting and pulling it. Andy laughed as she squealed in pain.

"I think your boyfriend wants to kiss your tit. Let's see if it can reach his mouth. I'll help you!" Andy gripped her soft breast in his hand and roughly stretched it towards Buster's gagged mouth, making Jasmine scream and squirm in the stocks. "Hmmm, sorry, just can't get it close enough!" Andy said.

For a little while, he played the two slaves like musical instruments, alternating Buster's cries of pain with Jasmine's squeals as he yanked and pinched and twisted his testicles and her nipples.

Eventually, he bored of this game, leaving the slaves gasping and sobbing in their restraints. The pillory put their faces at his crotch level; he thought about stuffing his cock in their mouths, or fuck Buster and then have Jasmine lick him clean? Or vice versa? But he just wasn't in the mood right now. Maybe later.

Andy left them with a lie, to add mental torment to their physical suffering: "Oh, by the way...I told Mathias you both should be put down. I hope it will be a tip-toe hanging...so much fun to watch a slave trying to breath when it can only reach the ground with its toes! I wonder which of you will go first, and who gets to watch the other one strangle?"

He patted each slave on their ass before walking away to get something to eat, leaving them alone to dread what was coming.

Meanwhile, Daisy, cuffed and confined in the darkness of the closet, tried to alternate between squatting and standing bent over, as much as her collar chained to the hook would allow. She had been put in "passive punishment" before, and knew that the best way, the only way, to mitigate the ache in her muscles and joints was regular movement, as much as her restraints allowed. Stand up, bent at the waist and count. Try to get to 300. Squat, and count, again to 300. If it hurt too much, maybe 250, maybe 200, maybe 100...it was the only way. Up and down, again and again in the darkness, the cuffs and collar chain clinking.

It would have been better if Mistress Janice had taken the whip from Daisy's mouth and flogged her; it would have been over and done, a few moments of sharp pain instead of these unknown hours of aching agony.

Breathe, she told herself, breathe deep and slow. Do not get angry, because if you do, you will exhaust yourself, and rage and yank at the collar chain, and then be whipped for breaking a bond or pulling the storage hook off the wall.

Tears are okay, just let them be gentle tears; it's okay to let them trickle down your cheeks. Not the other kind of tears though; the ones that flow hot and bitter, from clenched and raging red eyes, teeth tight with fury.

A few times during her hours in the closet, other slaves had opened the door to retrieve a mop or broom, startled to see a slave hanging there among the other implements. The averted their eyes; a slave being punished was a pariah among slaves, lest that slave's misfortune be reflected onto them. Also, they were frightened by the expression of the normally docile Daisy, her eyes blazing as she blinked in the sudden and brief light.

Eventually, her body betrayed her mind, her hands wanting to reach up to her neck, just to adjust the collar an inch or so, perhaps for a few seconds of less discomfort. Her wrists fought against the cuffs behind her back, uselessly, pulling at the leather and chain links. Her frustration welled up, and rage filled her, yanking her collar against the chain, and trying to pull the cuffs apart by sheer strength and anger. Her soft sobs became a feral growl of fury, and she fought her restraints, mindlessly trying to pull apart the leather and steel that held her wrists. She kicked her bare foot against the closet door, making it boom like a drum in the empty dining room. Furious and raging, for a moment, docile Daisy became a dangerous creature.

The stormy waves of her fury broke upon stones that would not be moved; they passed, and she collapsed against the wall of the closet, her tears flowing, exhausted from her useless struggle against her bonds and the catharsis of crying, her chest heaving, sobbing in pain and exhaustion, despair and hopelessness.

Stand and count, squat and count, breathe, just breathe, Daisy the slave girl told herself, again and again, her chains clinking, alone in the dark.