The FSRA

The FSRA – Slave

The pain in my back, arms and legs was excruciating, bent back in an inverted “O”. My new owner was getting revenge for my soiling her blouse, however unintentional and beyond my control it was. The darkness of the car trunk was complete, though there was constant movement as we wove through traffic and finally began moving on a highway.

The girl in the trunk with me, the breeder, was breathing heavily, but kept silent. She had obviously been trained, and lay quietly in the trunk. Our legs touched, but that was all. It was hot, humid and sweaty in the darkness, and I could smell her body, close to mine. My constant erection seemed to seek her out in the darkness, wanting to touch her flesh, but was not rewarded. It strained to no avail.

As we drove, I thought about something that the auctioneer had said… that I was 28. Could he have been right? I was barely 20 when I signed myself over to the FSRA in prison. Had it been 8 years? I couldn’t remember, the time at the sperm milking facility was a blur, and the years at the farm were vague as well.

The car eventually turned off the highway, and drove through country roads, slowing and making several turns. It eventually drove on a gravel or dirt surface and then stopped. The doors opened, though the trunk stayed closed. Instructions could be heard being given to servants, though I could hear nothing of what was said.

I was moaning in pain when the trunk lid was suddenly opened, and light poured in, blinding me. I shut the light out, squeezing eyes shut as strong hands pulled me up and out of the trunk. The stress on my back and shoulders increased suddenly as they moved me and I screamed through my ring gag. I opened my eyes to see a large estate home nestled in woods. I was carried to a side door, which had stairs leading down, obviously to a basement.

Once inside, I was dumped on the floor of a small cell, about 3 feet wide by 8 feet long. It stunk of feces, urine and something else I couldn’t identify. My bonds were removed and my body slowly extended itself, relieving the cramping and reseting joints to their proper position. Moments later, I was fed, some grey and brown slop which appeared to be something like pureed leftovers. It didn’t taste bad, and the water was clean, and I fell asleep to the sound of the other new slave being dumped in a cell next to mine.

Waking early the next morning, I took the opportunity to examine my new cell. It was made of a rough stone, though the stones and cement between them appeared to be new. The heavy wooden door had several small slots in it, all closed. A small amount of light shown through a small slit high in the back wall. This place was new, an estate that had been built, or at least remodeled, with the idea of holding human slaves such as myself.

I cringed against the back wall when the door was unlocked and opened. Two large men entered, dressed as caretakers of the estate, and took me by my arms and dragged me to another room, much larger than the first. I had been a prisoner long enough that I recognized this room as a dungeon, or torture chamber. Iron, rope and other implements hung about me as I was secured to a post in the middle of the room. There I waited, standing naked and cold, arms extended above my head, wondering what might happen next.

Exhaustion was beginning to come over me as as I sagged against the post for support, nearly three hours later. Mistress Cynthia came in to the room, and examined my body in detail, paying special attention to my constant, huge erection. As she performed her examination she amused herself with a random needle insertion, twist of a nipple, or squeeze of a testicle. She obviously enjoyed hurting me. That’s what I was there for.

She stepped away, and I saw her reaching for a flogger on the wall. It was a heavy one, with thin leather strips designed to cut, and knots in the strips designed to cut chunks of flesh. I turned my face to the post and tensed, waiting the first stroke.

I could hear it coming, as she grunted with effort and there was a brief sound as the leather whistled through the air before my back exploded in a stinging pain. Barely getting out my first scream, the lashes cut in to my back again, and again… Each strand of leather kissed my bare flesh with pain, leaving a line of red and taking small chunks out where knots pulled against my skin. Across my back, around the curve of my side and ribs the strokes went. Down to my buttocks, and thighs, leaving the burning pain as each stroke was followed by another. I counted twelve strokes in all. My back and buttocks were on fire, and I hung from my arms on the post, no longer able to stand.

Mistress Cynthia came around to face me, and I looked up at her amused face. She was sweating from the exertion of my whipping, her face and bare shoulders glistening as she leaned down and kissed my lips lovingly. She then turned and left, dropping the flogger on a table as she went out the door.

I hung from the post for a while, not thinking. A caretaker came in after a while, and splashed a bucket of water on my sweaty and blood streaked flesh. I screamed, for the water had been salted, heavily. The salt might help my wounds heal but it stung like hell. The caretaker unchained me and led me out of the basement, and tethered the chain to a heavy post in a beautiful garden. His instructions - to weed the garden, which my chain would allow me to reach.

The sun was high, and I was dehydrating quickly, sweat trickling down my body everywhere. But I knew this mistress was cruel, and a cruel punishment awaited me if I did not perform satisfactorily. I dug with my fingers, clawing up weeds and piling them in a bucket that had been left. My fingers were raw and bleeding when I finished and went back to see if I had missed anything. The caretaker returned, reviewed my work, and nodded. He didn’t care about punishing me, he just wanted his work done.

Unchained from the post, I was led back to my cell in the basement. The caretaker seemed curious about my constant huge erection, and when my chain was secured to a ring on the wall of my cell, he ventured to touch it. As usual, it throbbed, ready to ejaculate at any provocation. His hand pulled back quickly, and he laughed nervously. The door slammed behind him.

An hour later food was provided through a door slot. The same leftover slop as the day before.

That evening, the door to my cell was opened, and I was removed, and moved in to the next cell, where the girl slave, the breeder, was kept. The door once again slammed shut. The cells were small enough there was no room for the two of us to sit without touching, and so we faced each other, legs intertwined. My penis was pointing toward her, about 12 inches away and slowly pulsing as if straining to cross the gap. It was, in a way, she was a lovely girl, young and shapely. Her hair was long and smooth, though it needed to be washed, and her eyes were greenish-gray, darting about and then slowly closing as she relaxed once again after my arrival.

We both knew why we were there, she as well as I. She was the breeding stock, I the stud. There was little I could do about it, my body had been medicated to the point where I was permanently aroused and could hardly stop myself. My hips slid toward her, her legs stretched and sliding over my thighs, our sweat mingling. She slid right up easily, until she was sitting on top of my thighs and my penis entered her smoothly. It felt so good, having a woman’s body wrapped around my erection, and as she began sliding up and down on it I felt an orgasm building inside.

The first time she rode me. The second time she rode me as my arms surrounded her and held her body against me, slippery with sweat from the heat. The third time she lay on the ground, legs around my hips, back arched, gasping and straining to reach her own orgasm.

So it went, repeatedly throughout the night. At times we rested in each others arms, others we slept, only to wake and satisfy ourselves again. She was the most sturdy, resilient, insatiable woman I had ever known, but when the morning light reached us, she lay exhausted and my erection remained, ready to perform again.

She spoke to me then, admitting that she had never had a man like me before, that she was known by some as a nymphomaniac, never satisfied. Satisfied for the first time in her life, she wrapped her arms around me and cried, just a little. When they came to take me away, she clung to me for a moment before I was yanked out of the cell.

For several weeks, this was the pattern - work in the hot sun, return to my cell, and later placed in the common cell with the girl whose only name was Breeder. I worked hard, and there was little punishment, for my work was appreciated by the caretakers. The one caretaker who had been interested in my erection showed interest a few more times, once even to the point of bringing me to an orgasm and watching me spurt a load of semen on the wall next to him. I suspected he had more than casual interest in me and my body, but it never went further.

Evenings with the Breeder were wonderful, pleasurable, and exhausting. She came the closest of any woman I had ever known to satisfying me. The constant, unrelenting orgasms I had with her seemed to flow one in to another, continuing for hours. She was able to keep me going, and keep herself going until we both lay dehydrated and exhausted 6, 8, or 12 hours later.

One day she spoke to me and told me that she was pregnant. I don’t think I was surprised, as it had been clear we were put together to breed like animals. But I was curious about her sadness.

She explained that she had been fed heavy doses of fertility drugs. She was sure she was pregnant with multiple children, but that she was not sure she would survive the birthing process. She also knew that she would no longer be with me. Her hand caressed my cheek as she said this, and I became sad as well, holding her tightly in our dark cell.

The next day she was removed from her cell, and not returned. I was upset, dejected, and found it difficult to work. After several whippings over the next few days, I began to rebel, not knowing what I hoped to accomplish but expressing my animal frustration at having yet another mate taken from me.

One day I was not removed from my cell for work. The next day I remained in my cell. After three days I was agitated and began pounding on the walls, yanking on my neck chain and trying to break free (however useless the attempt might have been).  On the fourth day, my cell door opened, three caretakers came in and removed me kicking and screaming, dragging me to the large workroom in the basement. Mistress Cynthia was there, the first I had seen her since the day of my arrival and the whipping she had personally delivered.

There was a metal table in the center of the room. I was taken to it, and fastened down securely by my wrists and ankles. Mistress Cynthia came to me, caressed my cheek in a horrible parody of the Breeder’s caress. She then said something that chilled me to my bones.

“I have never liked you much, but while you were a good worker I could see your use. You no longer have much use, do you? I have decided on a new use for you. You shall became art.  Art which will fit in nicely with my home decor.”

My eyes grew wide in fear as she motioned and the caretakers rolled a table to my side, filled with instruments of unknown use, some with blades, saws, things that looked like ice picks, a medical device with hoses and tubes, and a very large syringe.

I whimpered and finally screamed in fear as the syringe was driven home, injecting some unknown substance in to my body.