Alice: Slave at the Marketplace by Aphrodite Hunt Page A
Authors: Aphrodite Hunt
Tags: Erótica, BDSM, Farm, rough sex, submission, bondage, domination, Erotic, sex slave, oral sex, milking, lactation, slave market
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sure Mistress Karen hears none
of this lest she disillusions them about my status.)
12.00 p.m.: Lunch. More of the same glop,
except there are actually vegetables swimming in the awful stew
now.
1.00 p.m.: We are all assigned ‘chores’. Can
you imagine me doing housework? (You can’t, right? I can’t either.)
Apparently, the house and barn and shed don’t get cleaned by
themselves. Fancy that.
So we have to clean everything up. Thank
goodness there are so many of us, and so we make short work of
everything.
Luckily, we don’t have to do our chores on
our hands and knees, which would be cumbersome. But we do them
completely naked and with those tails in our asses. The farmhands
would inspect our work and sometimes tweak our engorged breasts and
stroke our exposed pussies. Sometimes, they would worm their
fingers into our vaginas and wriggle them around.
4.00 p.m. Fuck time!
We are assigned each to farmhand, who takes
us to his room in the farmhouse – which he usually shares with
another farmhand. We are always in rotation, and there are plenty
of farmhands around, and so in the seven days we are here, I have
never gotten the same guy twice.
Once in the room, the farmhand strips off his
dungarees. His cock is always stiff and ready. One thing I can say
about all the farmhands – they are all well hung. It must be all
that wonderful country weather. The farmhands are mostly English,
but we don’t spend a lot of time talking. It’s wham, bam thank you
sex immediately.
Prostrate yourself on your hands and
knees.
On the bed.
Spread your legs.
In plunges the cock.
Ohhhh!
In, out, in, out. A vigorous rhythm is
established. Those farm boys can really fuck HARD and they always
have lots of energy.
I can’t say I am disappointed.
Sometimes, they would ask me to suck their
cocks. I always comply readily. Their cocks are hard and thick and
long, and I would swallow one as deep as it can go in my
throat.
Not a single one of those farmhands ask to
suckle my teats. I guess my milk is reserved for someone else.
Come to think of it, I don’t even know where
all that milk goes. I mean, they milk us and collect that creamy,
rich white fluid in pails. Where does all of it go?
I guess I am about to find out.
6.00 p.m.: Bath time. We go on the conveyer
belt again, all naked, all soapy and all wet. I feel like processed
meat in a factory.
7.00 p.m.: Glop dinner. Blecch!
8.00 p.m.: We are allowed time for rest and
recreation but we are strictly not allowed to have sex with one
another. What then is the point?
10.00 p.m.: Bed. Lights out. No sex. I stare
at the sleeping and breathing body of Kinko across from me and
wonder what I should do to plot out my revenge against my
father.
2
It is Market Day.
I have never been to Market Day, but some of
the girls have. I want to ask some of them what this is all about,
but Mistress Karen shushes us.
“No talking in the ranks,” she orders. Her
cattle prod waves menacingly.
We are lined up before the barn. We are
naked, naturally, but since we are going to market, we are adorned
with more than the usual accoutrements. Our tails are shoved in
through the dildos in our asses, but we now get to wear bells
around our necks.
Fancy that. Cow bells. How quaint.
We tinkle and make quite a noise as we file
ourselves in a line and load ourselves onto the bus. The bus has
darkened glass which do not allow anyone from the outside to peer
in, and no wonder. If we are going to travel through the English
countryside, we certainly don’t want anyone looking in on our huge,
lactating breasts and other jiggling bits.
Instead of normal seats inside the bus, there
is only a floor filled with straw. Mistress Karen gestures to us to
sit on this straw. I guess they are trying to maintain the illusion
that we are farm animals, except that farm animals probably don’t
travel by bus.
There are waiting buses in front of each of
the other farmhouses. The
of this lest she disillusions them about my status.)
12.00 p.m.: Lunch. More of the same glop,
except there are actually vegetables swimming in the awful stew
now.
1.00 p.m.: We are all assigned ‘chores’. Can
you imagine me doing housework? (You can’t, right? I can’t either.)
Apparently, the house and barn and shed don’t get cleaned by
themselves. Fancy that.
So we have to clean everything up. Thank
goodness there are so many of us, and so we make short work of
everything.
Luckily, we don’t have to do our chores on
our hands and knees, which would be cumbersome. But we do them
completely naked and with those tails in our asses. The farmhands
would inspect our work and sometimes tweak our engorged breasts and
stroke our exposed pussies. Sometimes, they would worm their
fingers into our vaginas and wriggle them around.
4.00 p.m. Fuck time!
We are assigned each to farmhand, who takes
us to his room in the farmhouse – which he usually shares with
another farmhand. We are always in rotation, and there are plenty
of farmhands around, and so in the seven days we are here, I have
never gotten the same guy twice.
Once in the room, the farmhand strips off his
dungarees. His cock is always stiff and ready. One thing I can say
about all the farmhands – they are all well hung. It must be all
that wonderful country weather. The farmhands are mostly English,
but we don’t spend a lot of time talking. It’s wham, bam thank you
sex immediately.
Prostrate yourself on your hands and
knees.
On the bed.
Spread your legs.
In plunges the cock.
Ohhhh!
In, out, in, out. A vigorous rhythm is
established. Those farm boys can really fuck HARD and they always
have lots of energy.
I can’t say I am disappointed.
Sometimes, they would ask me to suck their
cocks. I always comply readily. Their cocks are hard and thick and
long, and I would swallow one as deep as it can go in my
throat.
Not a single one of those farmhands ask to
suckle my teats. I guess my milk is reserved for someone else.
Come to think of it, I don’t even know where
all that milk goes. I mean, they milk us and collect that creamy,
rich white fluid in pails. Where does all of it go?
I guess I am about to find out.
6.00 p.m.: Bath time. We go on the conveyer
belt again, all naked, all soapy and all wet. I feel like processed
meat in a factory.
7.00 p.m.: Glop dinner. Blecch!
8.00 p.m.: We are allowed time for rest and
recreation but we are strictly not allowed to have sex with one
another. What then is the point?
10.00 p.m.: Bed. Lights out. No sex. I stare
at the sleeping and breathing body of Kinko across from me and
wonder what I should do to plot out my revenge against my
father.
2
It is Market Day.
I have never been to Market Day, but some of
the girls have. I want to ask some of them what this is all about,
but Mistress Karen shushes us.
“No talking in the ranks,” she orders. Her
cattle prod waves menacingly.
We are lined up before the barn. We are
naked, naturally, but since we are going to market, we are adorned
with more than the usual accoutrements. Our tails are shoved in
through the dildos in our asses, but we now get to wear bells
around our necks.
Fancy that. Cow bells. How quaint.
We tinkle and make quite a noise as we file
ourselves in a line and load ourselves onto the bus. The bus has
darkened glass which do not allow anyone from the outside to peer
in, and no wonder. If we are going to travel through the English
countryside, we certainly don’t want anyone looking in on our huge,
lactating breasts and other jiggling bits.
Instead of normal seats inside the bus, there
is only a floor filled with straw. Mistress Karen gestures to us to
sit on this straw. I guess they are trying to maintain the illusion
that we are farm animals, except that farm animals probably don’t
travel by bus.
There are waiting buses in front of each of
the other farmhouses. The
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