StripSearch

39. The Box

The dining hall buzzed with the clatter of trays and the murmur of voices as the slaves gathered for lunch. Melissa stood near the serving table, her hands steady as she helped Zuri arrange the bowls of stew they’d cooked that morning. The air was thick with the scent of spices and boiled yams, a rare comfort in the academy’s cold routine. She glanced at Hannah and Jennifer, who were setting out wooden spoons, their movements quick and practiced. Hannah caught her eye, offering a small, tired smile, but Jennifer kept her gaze down, her lips pressed into a thin line.

The door swung open, and Zuri strode in, her whip coiled at her hip, her expression as unyielding as the stone walls around them. Behind her shuffled a new girl a steel collar glinting around her neck. She was naked, her pale skin flushed with embarrassment, her arms twitching as if to shield herself. She fumbled with the collar, fingers brushing the metal, then crossed an arm over her breasts, her other hand hovering near her vagina before dropping in defeat. Her green eyes darted around the room, wide with a mix of defiance and unease.

“This is Carla,” Zuri announced, her voice sharp. “She’ll be joining us. Carla, help set the table.”

Carla’s head jerked slightly, her breath catching as her eyes widened at the command. Her hands trembled, fingers clenching into fists at her sides, but she didn’t meet Zuri’s gaze. Ordering me around like a bloody servant? she thought, her Irish accent thick in her mind, outrage simmering beneath her fear. But the weight of the collar, the sting of her nakedness in this foreign hell, held her back. She swallowed hard, her voice low and hesitant, tinged with a shaky defiance.

“I… fine,” she muttered, her tone barely masking the anger bubbling inside. She moved to the table, her steps stiff, her arms still half-covering her chest as she grabbed a stack of bowls, her movements jerky and reluctant. Melissa watched, her own collar a heavy reminder of her first days—how she had hated the nakedness, the loss of freedom and being ordered around.

As they knelt on the ground to eat, Melissa, Hannah, and Jennifer clustered around Carla, their curiosity piqued. “So, Carla, how’d you end up here?” Hannah asked, her tone gentle but probing, her Canadian accent softening the question.

Carla’s eyes flashed, but she answered, her voice low. “I worked for a bastard in Dublin. Found out he was embezzling company funds—big time. I gathered evidence, thought I could do the right thing, and asked him to come clean with his higher-ups—stupid me. He had me snatched and shipped here. Now I’m his ‘property.’” She spat the word, her fingers brushing her collar again. “What about you lot?”

Hannah shrugged, her smile bitter. “Au pair scam. Thought I’d nanny in France—ended up in a shipping container. Been here two months.”

Jennifer’s voice was colder. “Modeling gig in London. They locked me in a cage, sold me to some rich creep. Three weeks in.”

Melissa stayed quiet, her own story too raw to share.

Lunch ended too soon, and Zuri’s voice cut through the chatter. “Outside, all of you. Training.” The slaves filed out to the courtyard, the tropical sun blazing overhead, the dirt hot under their bare feet.

Zuri barked orders, her whip cracking in the air. “Run! Crawl! Faster!” Melissa dropped to her hands and knees, her muscles burning as she scrambled through the dust, the other girls panting beside her. A sharp sting lashed her thigh—she’d been too slow—and she bit back a cry, pushing harder.

Carla lagged behind, her face red with exertion and anger. She crawled awkwardly, her arms still trying to shield her breasts, her movements jerky as she muttered under her breath.

“This is bloody insane—naked outside, like animals!” A whip crack landed on her back, and she yelped, her body jolting.

“Move, slave!” Zuri shouted, her voice like thunder. Carla’s eyes blazed, her resolve hardening even as she complied, the strike fueling her defiance.

—

Back inside, Zuri led them to a training room for posture drills.

“Kneel!” Zuri commanded, pacing the line of slaves. Melissa sank to her knees, her thighs spread as trained, her gaze fixed on the floor. Hannah and Jennifer followed suit, their movements smooth from practice.

Carla froze, her face twisting with disgust. She glanced at the others, her body tensing as she started to lower herself, but revulsion surged within her—kneeling for Zuri felt like a betrayal of everything she was. Her knees bent slightly, then stopped, her legs trembling with the effort to obey. Fear of Zuri’s whip clawed at her, but her pride burned stronger, screaming against humiliating herself before this woman who had already struck her outside, who didn’t deserve her submission.

Zuri circled back, stopping in front of Carla just as the next command came. “Kneel!”

Carla’s body stiffened, her half-lowered stance locking in place. Zuri loomed over her, a black woman, older, her frame wiry but commanding. Carla’s mind rebelled—she shouldn’t have to kneel for anyone, least of all Zuri, who had already proven her cruelty.

Her lips curled in defiance, and she straightened fully, her voice a low mutter. “I’m not kneeling for you.”

Zuri’s eyes narrowed, and her stick came down hard, striking Carla’s shoulder. “Kneel, slave!” she barked.

Carla flinched, her defiance wavering, but she held her ground.

Zuri struck again, a barrage of blows raining down—shoulder, back, thigh—each hit a sharp crack against her skin.

Carla’s legs buckled under the onslaught, and she sank to her knees, her face red with humiliation, her eyes burning with rage.

“Spread your legs!” Zuri ordered, her voice cold.

Carla’s cheeks flushed deeper, but she complied, her thighs parting as she knelt before Zuri, her defiance still smoldering in her gaze.

Zuri turned to the group, her riding crop tapping against her thigh. “Why do we spread our legs when we kneel?”

She scanned the lineup, her eyes narrowing as she stopped in front of Jennifer. With a flick of her wrist, she extended the crop, lifting Jennifer’s chin until their eyes met. “Jennifer?” she prompted, her voice sharp.

Jennifer swallowed, her voice flat but steady. “To show masters we’re not hiding anything.”

Zuri nodded, a curt acknowledgment. “That’s correct.”

She retracted the crop, stepping back to survey the line.

“Worship position!” Zuri commanded next. Melissa lowered her forehead to the floor, her hands beside her head, her body a picture of submission.

The others followed, but Carla froze.

Worship—before Zuri, the woman who’d beaten her, who stood over her now like some god to be revered. It was too much. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest heaving as panic clawed at her throat.

“No,” she said, her voice trembling, cracking with a mix of terror and defiance, her eyes wide with fear. “I—I can’t do this!”

Zuri’s face darkened, and her stick came down hard, striking Carla’s thigh with a sharp crack.

“Obey, slave!” she roared.

Carla, still kneeling upright, flinched under the blow, the sting radiating through her leg, but her resolve hardened. She broke position, shuffling to her feet, backing away as Zuri’s strikes followed—thwack, thwack, thwack—each hit landing on her thighs and arms, bruising her skin.

“I said no!” Carla shouted, her voice raw with defiance, her words spilling out in a frantic, pleading rush. “I shouldn’t be here—this is wrong! I’m not a slave, you can’t do this! Let me go, please, just let me go!” Her voice cracked, tears brimming in her eyes as she stumbled back, her hands flying to cover her breasts and vagina in a frantic, futile effort to shield herself.

‘You will,’ she said, voice like gravel. ‘Or you’ll learn what happens to those who don’t.’

Melissa’s breath caught, her head still pressed against the floor and her hands next to her head, a jolt of fear spiking through her—this was different, a defiance she hadn’t seen before, and the punishment Zuri hinted at felt darker, more sinister than the whip’s lash.

Zuri’s patience snapped. She grabbed a whistle from her belt and blew a sharp note, summoning Victor. The head trainer stormed in, his bulk filling the doorway, his cold eyes scanning the scene.

Zuri turned to him, her voice tight with frustration. “Victor, this one refuses to obey. She won’t take the Worship position—keeps breaking stance.”

Victor’s gaze settled on Carla, a satisfied smile curling his lips. “We fix that,” he said, his Russian accent thick, his tone flat but laced with anticipation. He seized Carla’s arm, his grip iron-tight, and dragged her out as she struggled, her shouts echoing down the hall.

“Please, I don’t belong here!” she cried, her pleas echoing with desperation. “I’m not a slave—let me go!”

Melissa watched, her heart pounding, as the door slammed shut behind them.

Zuri turned back to the group, her expression hard. “Worship position—again!” The slaves dropped into the stance, foreheads to the floor, hands next to their heads. Melissa’s muscles trembled, her mind racing with Carla’s defiance and the price she’d pay. The training continued, Zuri’s commands relentless, her whip cracking to keep them in line.

An hour later, as they held a kneeling posture, a faint sound drifted through the open window—a muffled cry, sharp and desperate, followed by a dull thump of fists against the box’s wooden walls. Melissa froze, her breath catching. The sounds came again, softer now, a broken sob barely audible over the courtyard’s hum. She glanced at Hannah, whose face had paled, her eyes fixed on the window.

“It’s the box,” Hannah whispered, her voice tight. “They always make sure we hear.”

Melissa’s stomach twisted, the faint, eerie cries burrowing into her. She couldn’t—she wouldn’t—end up like that.

—

Later, the slaves gathered in a low-ceilinged room for a lesson in Grabesian culture. Mats lined the floor, jars of oil and cloths stacked along the walls, the air heavy with the scent of herbs. Melissa sat between Hannah and Jennifer, their presence a quiet comfort, while the other girls settled around them. Zuri entered alone, her stern face carved with the authority of a woman born to this land, her whip coiled at her hip. Carla’s absence hung thick, a silent testament to the morning’s clash.

Zuri stood at the front, her voice rasping with a native edge, clear and unsoftened by foreign tones. “Today, you learn about Grabesh—its blood, its truth. Here, justice is not what you think. It’s not soft words or grand promises. It’s might—pure and simple. Power rules all: who eats, who works, who owns, who kneels. Long ago, five tribes fought over this land. None could win until two joined forces in the Great War. They crushed the rest—took their fields, their lives, their kin. Them that won, like my ancestors, stand free today. Them that lost, their descendants wears collars. That’s justice here—what you take and hold with strength, you keep. Nothing more, nothing less.”

She paced, her boots scuffing the floor, her gaze sweeping the group. “You understand this?”

The girls’ voices rose in unison, a weary chorus. “Yes, Ma’am.”

Zuri nodded, her eyes narrowing. “Now listen. You came from lands with a different idea of justice—soft, weak, full of lies. They tell you the world owes you fairness, that you’re born free, that chains are wrong because you’re good or pure. They say everyone’s got rights, like some shield handed down from the sky. Where I’m from, we don’t believe that. Rights don’t fall into your lap—they’re won with blood. Freedom’s no gift; it’s a prize your kin fight for. In the wild, a lion takes a gazelle because it’s stronger, faster, sharper. No one cries ‘unfair.’ Here, tribes are the same—some rule, some serve. That’s the law of nature, not some book of rules.”

She stopped, her whip tapping her thigh. “You see the difference?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the chorus answered, fainter this time, the weight of her words sinking in.

“Good,” Zuri said, her voice rising with conviction. “Your foreign ideas of justice are nothing but fairy tales. They don’t teach you the value of violence. That is why your people can’t fight. And that is why you wear collars now. In Grabesh, justice is might—nothing more, nothing less. You’re not here because of a failure of justice or because you were cheated. You’re here because might won. My tribe stands free because we fought and we won. The defeated? Their kin kneel because they lost. Such is the way of nature—power decides, and them with it live free, them without it serve. Learn this, and you’ll see your place is not unjust—it’s the natural way of things.”

She leaned forward, her tone sharpening. “You following me?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” they replied, voices steadier now, drilled by habit.

Zuri’s voice softened for a moment, her gaze drifting as if caught in a memory. Years ago, her husband had abandoned her for a younger, prettier woman, leaving her to scrape by with three children in a society that shamed a wife for such a loss. It meant her bond with her husband had been too weak to hold him, and a younger woman’s beauty had been stronger.

Her life had been hard ever since—scrubbing floors, harvesting crops—until she found her role at The Slave Academy. Now, facing these defiant, pretty slaves, she felt that old sting, their youth and beauty a bitter reminder of her past. Of the woman who had taken her husband from her. She enjoyed their suffering, the punishments she gave them felt like a late revenge against the woman who had once stolen her husband and her old life from her.

Zuri’s lips pressed thin. “Now look at what you saw today. That new girl, Carla—she shouted this morning, ‘This is not right,’ ‘I don’t deserve this,’ ‘I have rights,’ ‘I am free.’ She’s wrong, and you’ll see why. She was free once, yes, because her people had strength to keep her safe—until they didn’t. She could not fight the men who took her. Her kin could not stop it. Men with greater force came, and they seized her. That’s not a failure of justice; that’s her false idea of justice from her homeland failing her. She thought she was free by some rule above us all. No. She was free only while her people could hold it for her.”

She leaned forward, her tone sharpening. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the chorus rang out, a mix of resignation and understanding.

Melissa’s fingers twitched on her mat, a flicker of defiance Zuri didn’t see.

Zuri straightened, her voice dropping low and fierce. “Those lands you come from peddle that lie—‘everyone’s born free,’ ‘rights are yours.’ It’s not a truth; it’s a deception. They tell you freedom’s given, not earned, so you don’t fight for it. Makes you soft, lazy, blind. They tell you this to disarm you. And when you’re weak, might takes you—just like it took you all. You’re here because the lies your homelands fed you left you vulnerable. You could not hold what was yours, and now you kneel. Freedom and rights are won with blood and strength, not handed out. Them that don’t see that lose it—just as you lost yours.”

She asked again, “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Ma’am,” the naked slave girls said in unison.

She stepped back, her stern face unyielding. “Good. Class is over. Meet outside for dinner in twenty minutes.”

She turned and stalked out, the door thudding shut.

The room buzzed with quiet unease, Carla’s fate a raw echo in the silence. Melissa’s fingers dug into her mat, her breath shallow, her mind reeling from the horror of the box—this was no mere threat, but a glimpse into the Academy’s true power, a cruelty she’d never imagined. Zuri’s words clawed at her—brutal, rooted in this land’s bones, and too real to deny. She’d thought she’d seen the worst, but the box proved her wrong. its horror now seared into her memory, a fear that would haunt her like the taser’s sting on her first day. Hannah sat still, her calm a thin veil, while Jennifer’s eyes darkened, her smirk gone. The lesson sank in, heavy and unshakeable.

—

The next day, as another week of relentless training dawned at The Slave Academy, the sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the yard. Zuri strode to a small, wooden box nestled against the mud-brick wall—a cramped structure, barely waist-high, its rough planks weathered and stained, measuring no more than a meter and a half square. A heavy bolt secured the lid, which Zuri yanked open with a grunt, the hinges creaking sharply in the still air.

“Out,” she barked, her voice slicing through the humidity. A pale hand emerged from the darkness, trembling as it gripped the edge. Carla’s head followed, her dark hair matted and clinging to her sweat-streaked face. She crawled out awkwardly, limbs stiff and slow from the tight confinement, a sour stench wafting from her—24 hours in that box had left its mark. Grime and sand coated her bare skin, her breaths shallow and ragged as she blinked against the light, eyes wide and haunted. Zuri grabbed her arm roughly, hauling her to her feet. Carla swayed, knees trembling, hands limp at her sides, the reek of her unwashed body sharp in the still air.

“You refused me once,” Zuri said, her coal-black eyes boring into Carla’s. “Now you’ll do it right. Attention!”

Carla’s legs wobbled, but she forced them apart, hands shaking as they rose to lock behind her head. Her movements were slow, unsteady, muscles cramped from the box, yet she obeyed.

“Kneel!” Zuri snapped, and Carla dropped, knees hitting the sand with a soft thud, a faint grimace crossing her face.

“Worship!” Zuri’s voice cracked like a lash, and Carla bent forward, forehead pressing into the grit, hands sliding beside her head. The pose was shaky, her body trembling with effort, but she held it, the fight gone from her. Zuri paced around her, boots scuffing the earth, her stern face unyielding.

“Good enough for now,” she grunted, stopping short. “You stink like a pen. Go clean yourself—thoroughly. Report back to me for inspection when you’re done, or it’s two days next time.”

She tapped her whip against her thigh—crack—then turned and stalked off, leaving Carla kneeling in the dusk, a trembling figure against the box. Melissa watched from the courtyard, the other slaves’ faces a mix of pity and relief, the sour smell still lingering as Carla rose unsteadily and shuffled toward the wash area.

—

The next morning, the yard buzzed with the shuffle of bare feet as Zuri paced before the line of slaves, her whip swaying like a pendulum.

“Attention!” Zuri barked, and the group snapped into place—feet apart, hands behind heads. Melissa moved with them, her muscles honed by weeks of drills, her eyes flicking to Carla two spots down. Carla stood rigid, her pale frame trembling faintly. She spread her feet and locked her hands behind her head, but her elbows sagged inward, not fully extended. Zuri’s gaze sharpened.

“Elbows out,” Zuri growled, stepping closer. She tapped Carla’s arm lightly with the stick, a firm correction. Carla flinched, her breath catching, but she quickly pulled her elbows wide, her face flushing with shame. No hesitation marked her now—no flicker of the fire that had flared in her earlier defiance.

“Kneel!” Zuri snapped, and Carla dropped fast, knees hitting the sand with a soft thud, gaze fixed downward. Her hair hung lank over her shoulders, her chest bare, the fight wrung out of her. But her knees pressed together—a mistake, as slaves were trained to part their legs, to show they weren’t hiding anything.

Zuri’s eyes narrowed. She strode to Carla, the stick tapping the inside of her thigh. “Legs apart,” she ordered, voice cold. Carla’s knees jerked open, sand shifting beneath her, her cheeks burning red. She adjusted without a word, her body trembling but obedient.

“Worship!” Zuri’s voice cracked like a lash, and Carla bent forward, hands settling beside her head. Her forehead hovered an inch above the ground, not quite touching—a novice’s error. Zuri stepped closer, her boot nudging Carla’s head down. “Touch the ground,” she commanded, and Carla pressed her forehead into the grit, her breath shallow.

Jennifer, beside Melissa, muttered low, “Bloody hell, they got her quick,” her sharp tone hiding a shiver. Zuri paced past, boots scuffing the earth, her grunt of approval cold and grudging.

Carla rose at “Stand!”—swift but unsteady, her legs wobbling as she straightened. Her hands hung loosely beside her, but her feet were too close together. Zuri’s stick tapped her ankle. “Wider,” she snapped, and Carla shifted, spreading her stance. The girl who had shouted ‘I won’t’ on her first day was gone, her defiance now broken, leaving only a fumbling, submissive shell. Her silence was haunting, a stark contrast to the fire she’d shown days before.

—

Two nights before Melissa’s test, the basement dorm was quiet, the air heavy with the scent of Grabesian stew and sweat. The slaves sprawled on their mats, each chained to the wall, the metal links clinking faintly as they settled for the night, the dim light casting shadows across the rough weave. Melissa was sitting cross-legged, her chain dragging lightly across the floor as she shifted, Hannah to her left, Jennifer a mat over, their tired eyes reflecting the day’s strain. Carla knelt nearby, her pale hands twisting in her lap, her knees pressed tightly together as if to shield herself from the others’ gazes, her voice a low rasp cutting through the stillness.

“It was… black,” Carla began, her voice halting, eyes fixed on the floor as if seeing the darkness again. “The box. No light, just walls… so close I couldn’t stretch out—my legs cramped up and ached like hell.”

Hannah gasped softly, leaning forward instinctively, only for her chain to pull taut, stopping her short, her hand brushing Carla’s arm. “God, Carla… that sounds awful,” she murmured, her voice thick with empathy.

Carla’s breath hitched, her words stumbling on. “Hot… like an oven, sand sticking to my sweat. I yelled at first—banged ‘til my knuckles bled—” She held up her hands, showing the bruised, scabbed skin. The soft clank of chains echoed as Jennifer shifted on her mat.

“Bloody hell,” Jennifer muttered, her sharp tone laced with unease, “they let you bleed in there?”

“No one came,” Carla said, her voice cracking. “Just… silence, then my breathing, loud, fast… stuffy air choking me. I thought I’d pass out. Couldn’t tell time—hours dragged, or maybe seconds, I don’t know.”

Melissa’s stomach twisted, her voice barely a whisper. “How did you… keep going?” she asked, her own fear of the box seeping into her words. Jennifer glanced at her, noticing how Melissa’s breasts rose and fell more noticeably, her breathing quickened by the tension.

Carla swallowed hard, her fingers trembling. “Something… crawled over my foot—sharp, bit me—and I jerked, but… nowhere to go. At night it got cold, my teeth chattered. I begged… alone… just wanted out.” She shifted from her kneeling position, moving to sit against the wall, the chain scraping lightly as she adjusted. Once seated, she pulled her knees to her chest, wrapping her arms around them to cover herself, her naked form curling inward in a protective gesture.

Hannah leaned in, her voice trembling with disbelief and sympathy. “They did that to you… just for not kneeling?” she murmured, her eyes wide with concern, a faint shudder running through her.

Carla’s gaze stayed down, her voice trembling. “Yeah… just for not kneeling. They don’t tolerate any resistance here.” She paused, her fingers brushing her bruised knuckles, a shiver running through her. “Felt like forever. No food, just a cup of water through a slit—spilled half grabbing it. I thought I’d die there, that they’d forget me. By the end, I’d have done anything to get out—kneel, crawl, whatever Zuri wanted. When she opened it, I couldn’t even stand.”

“That’s horrific,” Hannah said, her voice trembling, eyes wide with sympathy. “You didn’t deserve that.”

Carla’s words trailed off. “It wouldn’t stop.”

Melissa’s stomach churned, Carla’s words painting a grim picture—worse than the whip, a punishment that broke more than the body. She couldn’t shake the image.

Jennifer snorted, her edge softened by stillness. “Bloody monsters. They’d lock us all in there if they could—turn us into puppets faster.”

A wave of dread hit Melissa, Carla’s words making her see the fate she’d come so close to suffering.

Carla met her eyes, haunted but steady. “I thought I could hold out—thought I was tougher. Now I’ll do what they say because I can’t go back. I just can’t. It’s not giving up—it’s just… staying alive.”

Hannah nodded, brushing Melissa’s arm. “We’ve all got our breaking point. Talking like this keeps us sane.”

Jennifer lay back, smirking faintly. “Yeah, well, next time Zuri barks, I’ll picture her in that box—might make kneeling easier.” A dry laugh rippled through them, thin but real, giving them a fleeting moment of relief.

40. A Trip to the Market

Saturday’s market square buzzed as the coffle shuffled in, a long chain threading through the collars of thirteen women—white and Asian, their bare feet scuffing the dirt.

Carla was not part of the group; after her defiance she had to first earn The Slave Academy’s trust. Victor refused to risk her misbehavior making the Academy look bad in public. Until Carla proved herself obedient over the next few weeks, she wouldn’t be allowed off the premises. Instead, she’d been chained to one of the rings in the basement where they slept, a chastity device locked on by Zuri to prevent her from masturbating while alone.

Zuri strode ahead, holding the coffle chain, her stern face cutting through the crowd, stick coiled in her grip like a threat. The townsfolk parted, their murmurs rising into a hum of curiosity, eyes glinting with crude fascination.

Melissa trailed near the end, the chain tugging her collar—a hated weight she’d worn since her arrival in Grabesh, now linking her to the others on the chain. She seethed at being marched out like this: naked and linked to the chain for the crowd to gawk at—she forced the anger down, wary of Zuri’s stick.

Jennifer, just ahead of her, kept pace, her sharp jaw set but her eyes darting to the gawkers. As they neared the makeshift stage, the crowd thickened, their stares pressing heavier than the midday sun.

Jennifer leaned back slightly, her voice a low hiss meant only for Melissa. “These geniuses act like we invented walking—brilliant.” Her sarcasm carried the same bite from that first night in the dorm, a flicker of defiance masked by a smirk.

Melissa’s lips twitched, a brief spark of amusement cutting through the shame creeping up her spine.

Up front, Zuri barked an order to halt, her voice faint at this distance. The line slowed unevenly, and Melissa bumped lightly into Jennifer, who shot her a quick, dry glance as they steadied themselves, their shared amusement went unnoticed by Zuri in the crowd’s bustle.

They were led onto a makeshift stage where Zuri freed them from the chain. The gaze of the Grabesians stayed heavy on them. Victor stepped forward. His voice boomed over the murmurs, a flourish in his gesture. “Here at The Slave Academy, we ensure obedience, cleanliness, and submission above all.” The women stood at attention. Eyes faced forward, feet shoulder-wide, hands locked behind their heads.



Melissa scanned the crowd, her heart steadying as she prepared to perform—until her gaze fell on Markus and Zahara. Her breath caught, a jolt of shock tightening her chest. She hadn’t expected them here, watching her like some trained animal forced to show off tricks. Her stomach knotted, the humiliation burning deeper. She kept her face blank—training demanded it—but her jaw clenched with resentment. Markus, the man who owned her, sat there, coffee in hand.

Beside him, Zahara watched, her quiet smile a cruel reminder of her role in Melissa’s suffering. Markus had let it slip at the pool that Zahara convinced him to send her to The Slave Academy for training, and now Melissa stood here, helpless, performing for the crowd while Zahara reveled in her success. Rage simmered inside her, gnawing at her chest—she was trapped, degraded, all because of Zahara’s meddling. She pushed the thought away. She could not afford to show her anger now.

Victor began the demonstration. He commanded the slaves through pose after pose—kneel, stretch flat, bridges, legs apart—no matter how demeaning or tiring, they obeyed.

Melissa moved. Her hands trembled slightly as she locked them behind her head, the effort to obey warring with her anger.

Melissa moved with Hannah to her left, Jennifer to her right.

Hannah leaned in, whispering, “Chin up—think of it as a bad parade, yeah?”

Jennifer hissed, “Look at them—drooling like they’ve never seen legs before.”

Melissa stifled a smirk, their mockery easing the crowd’s stare.

The crowd watched, some muttering, others gawking, as he showed off how their resistance had been broken. All these women had grown up free and only been enslaved as adults. These women bent and twisted on command, naked before strangers, and Victor reveled in it.

Melissa had no choice. In the week after Markus’s evaluation, Zuri had relentlessly drilled immediate responses into her with the whip. She had not spared it, and Melissa felt the threat of a whiplash with every command from Victor. His orders now landed with unshakable force. The Slave Academy had turned her into their performer, a role she despised, but she obeyed without faltering, conscious of the consequences.

She moved without pause, lessons hard-learned, but inside, her shame burned deep. Markus and Zahara sat there, sipping coffee, eyes fixed on her. Markus, the young man her age who owned her and refused to free her from her collar. And next to him Zahara, who had persuaded him to put her here—now they watched her, helplessly performing under their gaze. Every pose stung worse because of them.

And there was no end in sight. Melissa knew that when the event was over, her collar would be snapped back to the chain, linking her to the coffle with the others, and they’d drag her back to The Slave Academy. There she’d stay until Markus decided to take her out—if he ever did.

Victor moved to cleanliness next. He called volunteers from the crowd to the stage. At his word, the women stepped forward. They bowed low and tossed their hair to the front. Strands hung before their faces. The volunteers ran fingers through Melissa’s hair, checking for grease or dandruff. She felt their hands tug lightly, their breath close as they muttered approval. The women stood straight again. Melissa pushed her hair back. It dropped behind her shoulders.

Next, they held their hands out, palms down. The volunteers leaned in, inspecting her fingernails for dirt or cracks. She kept still, her jaw tight. Then they knelt to check her toenails.

Finally, at Victor’s command, the women turned. They stood with their feet shoulder-wide, grabbed their ankles, legs straight. A volunteer’s fingers touched her thighs, warm and firm, then grazed her buttcheek. She collected all her willpower to resist the urge to pull away, knowing that resistance would mean corporal punishment. Another hand gently spread her, the touch light but steady near her most private skin and gently spread her buttcheeks. Heat rose in her face. She felt the press of strangers’ fingers, a faint shiver of revulsion running up her spine. Their touching hands treated her like an object on display.

The volunteers confirmed her cleanliness to the crowd, a nod to the Academy’s standards. She stood again in attention, legs apart, hands behind her head.

She felt Zahara’s gaze—sharp, satisfied—and it stung deeper than the act itself. Markus watched too, his face showing relief mixed with satisfaction. Markus had initially felt some unease at The Slave Academy’s methods, but seeing her performing so well here, and without the visible defiance from the previous week when she had performed for him, proved to him that these methods were working. He was still not entirely comfortable with them, but he was increasingly satisfied that she was getting the training that she needed.

Melissa wondered if he’d subject her to inspections like this when he took her back. The thought churned in her mind.

Victor paused the demonstration. He turned to the crowd with a broad gesture. “Who wants to try? Volunteer, please.” A teenage boy pushed forward, his grin wide with eagerness. He climbed onto the stage, eyes bright, and took his place before the lineup. Victor nodded. “Go ahead.”

The teenager pointed at Melissa first. “Kneel,” he said, voice loud with fresh authority.

Melissa sank to her knees, wood rough against her skin. He moved down the line, ordering poses—kneel, stand, worship—each command sharp, relishing the power as the slaves obeyed him. Zahara watched, her coffee cup steady, and Melissa’s chest tightened.

The young Grabesian came back to Melissa.

“Worship,” he ordered this time.

Melissa leaned forward. Through her hair, she caught Markus in the crowd. He sat next to Zahara, cup paused in his hand. A line creased his brow. Unease flickered in his eyes—her under this youngster’s command unsettled him. Zahara’s face stayed smooth, a faint curve to her lips. Her resentment surged. She hated them both—Zahara for convincing him to put her here and Markus for agreeing to it. Her stomach churned at the thought of bowing to this lad—he hadn’t done anything to deserve this kind of deference. He just happened to be free and she was a slave. At this moment, she would have given anything to be able to spit in his face and walk off. But the memory of Carla’s fate was still fresh in her mind, her initial defiance, her shouts and how they had led to the muffled cries she had later heard from the box outside. Her forehead touched the floor of the stage before the young Grabesian’s feet. Her hands rested beside her head. It irritated her that this novice master had control over her, that a stranger could be given reign over her like this and she was helpless to refuse.

The youth gave the order she dreaded. “Open.”

Melissa froze, her pulse spiking as a wave of disbelief crashed over her—this couldn’t be happening, not here, not in front of all these strangers. Then her training kicked in. She rose to her feet and spread her legs. Toes turned outward. Knees bent sharp. Her back stayed straight. Hands locked behind her head, exposing her fully to the crowd. Her face burned with a shame as if she’d never hardened to it. Resentment churned beneath her obedience as the crowd’s murmurs swelled, their eyes crawling over her like she was livestock on display.

The pose strained her thighs. Her muscles ached. The position exposed every inch of her body, her legs spread wide, her most private areas laid bare for the crowd—and the young Grabesian—to see. She felt the weight of their stares, the murmurs of the Grabesians pressing in, but the lad’s gaze was the worst. He stood directly in front of her, his eyes raking over her form, up and down, a slow, deliberate inspection that made her skin crawl. He was young, barely a teenager, his face alight with a mix of awe and glee. Melissa’s stomach churned with humiliation—this young Grabesian, who’d likely never controlled a slave before, let alone a white one, now had her at his mercy. She could see it in his wide-eyed stare, the way his lips parted slightly: this might be the first time he’d seen a naked white woman up close, and he was savoring every moment. In the Worship position, her body had been low to the ground, her exposure limited, but now, in the Open position, everything was on display for his inspection. Her cheeks burned, shame flooding her as she was forced to hold the revealing pose, her body shaking with the effort of staying still under his scrutiny.



He stepped closer, his breath quickening with excitement. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he ran his fingers along the underside of her left thigh, the touch light but invasive, sending a shiver of revulsion through her. His hand moved across her vagina, a fleeting graze that made her flinch inwardly, her breath catching in her throat, then continued to her right thigh, tracing the curve of her skin. She wanted to pull away, to scream, but she held the position, her training—and the fear of consequences—keeping her rigid. He paused, his fingers brushing through her pubic hair, stroking it with a curiosity that made her skin crawl, her humiliation deepening as she stood there, exposed and powerless, for this teenager’s enjoyment. Her muscles were beginning to ache now, the sharp angle of her knees sending a dull throb through her quads, her calves tightening as they fought to hold her weight.

The young Grabesian stepped back, his grin widening, and began to walk around her slowly, inspecting her like a prize he’d won. He took his time, his eyes drinking in her form from every angle, enjoying the power he held over her. When he reached her back, he paused, his hand reaching out to gently cup her buttocks, his fingers pressing into her soft white skin, exploring the texture with eager curiosity. Melissa’s breath hitched, her body tensing further, the ache in her legs growing sharper as she struggled to hold the position. It was becoming hard now, her thighs beginning to shake with the strain, her calves burning as the effort mounted. She couldn’t hold it much longer—her legs were on the verge of giving out.

Her eyes darted to the young Grabesian in desperation, her gaze pleading for him to release her from her stressful pose, but his wide-eyed stare gleamed with eager lust, savoring her exposed body. He relished the power he held, knowing she couldn’t break position without his command. She knew if she gave in to the strain and collapsed, Victor might see it as a lack of effort, a failure that could shame The Slave Academy before the crowd—he’d likely punish her with a whipping, the sting of which she dreaded, though the box loomed as a worse fate if he suspected deliberate defiance. Her chest tightened, panic rising as sweat stung her eyes, her silent plea to the boy growing more desperate as her legs shook with exhaustion.

The teenager continued his slow circle, his footsteps deliberate, until he stood before her again. Her legs were burning now, the sharp angle of her knees sending a deep, throbbing pain through her quads, her calves shuddering violently as they struggled to hold her. Sweat beaded on her forehead, trickling down her temples, her breaths coming in short, shallow gasps as she struggled to keep her balance. The crowd’s murmurs pressed in, their eyes boring into her exposed body, fueling her shame and resentment. She wanted to collapse, to let her legs give out and end the torment, but the fear of Victor’s wrath—and the shame of failing in front of this crowd—kept her upright. Her gaze remained on the teenager, her eyes still pleading, her body aching for relief. The position left her bare for their enjoyment, stirring her anger, but she braced her legs to hold it because the fear of failing Victor in front of everyone outweighed the pain. Zahara’s gaze lingered, a quiet triumph in it. Melissa held firm, legs unsteady. The teenager paced past. His eyes met hers—her strain plain—but he savored the moment.

At last, he said, “Stand.” Melissa exhaled a shaky breath, her legs nearly buckling as she straightened, the relief flooding through her like a wave. Her thighs twitched, the ache lingering as sweat dripped down her spine, her chest heaving with deep, ragged breaths. She stood, her body unsteady but free of the strain, the crowd’s applause a muffled roar as she fought to steady herself. The crowd clapped.

“They’re having fun today,” Melissa thought. A spark of resentment burned in her thoughts.

—

Her legs throbbed. She sought Markus again. He clapped, his face a mix of curiosity and something like pride. Zahara’s smile differed—a quiet triumph gleamed in her smile, a prize won at Melissa’s expense. Anger burned hotter. This was Zahara’s vision—Melissa reduced, displayed—and she sat there smug beside Markus.

The demonstration shifted. Victor called for affirmations. The slaves recited their vows in unison, voices flat with surrender. “I embrace being a slave with pride and joy,” they began. Then, “I find pleasure only in my master’s satisfaction,” and “I desire nothing but to please.”

In the afternoon, they paired off to clean. Every pair was chained together by their collars. They moved into the market to clean. Dust and sweat marked their work—a show of utility and obedience for the public. Their cleaning bolstered The Slave Academy’s reputation with the townsfolk.

The sun dipped low. The slaves were locked into the coffle once more. The chain clinked as they marched back to the Academy. Melissa walked among them. Her body ached, her thoughts bitter. Her eyes flicked to Markus in the distance, then Zahara beside him. Their shapes faded into the bustling crowd. She wondered when this would end—or if it ever would.

—

Back at The Slave Academy, the coffle was disbanded.

Carla, released from her chains in the basement and the chastity device, joined the group as they began cooking the stew, her steps hesitant and her demeanor subdued from her confinement.

The sun dipped low as they scattered to tasks, Melissa trailing Hannah toward the outdoor hearth.

Dmitri slouched against a palm tree, thumbs flicking over his phone, barely glancing up as they took their posts.

Jennifer knelt by the fire, stirring a pot of millet stew, while Melissa shaped flatbread, the heat prickling her bare skin.

“Hey,” he called, voice thick with a Russian burr, not looking up. “Keep it moving, yeah? Uncle Vic says no lazy girls.”

Jennifer snorted, her hands pausing mid-roll. “Says the kid who’s been swiping right all day.” Her tone dripped acid, loud enough to carry.

Dmitri’s head snapped up, a grin tugging his lips—half-amused, half-annoyed. “Missing my eyes on you? Keep dreaming, dough-girl.”

Jennifer smirked, flicking a speck of dough off her fingers. “Please, you’d need a better profile pic than that scruffy mugshot to get a match.” Her voice danced with mischief, daring him to bite.

He pocketed the phone, unfolding himself from the tree with a lazy stretch, then sauntered over. “All of you—Attention. Now.”

Melissa’s jaw clenched, resentment flaring at having to obey this boy who was younger than her, but the drill ran deep. She rose, feet shoulder-wide, hands locked behind her head. It grated her how he could casually order them around. She moved fast to not risk feeling his stick and stood firm before him.

Hannah followed, her movements slow but obedient.

Jennifer muttered, “Pervert,” under her breath but complied, her glare cutting sharp as she stood rigid.

Carla quietly assumed the Attention position alongside them, her movements careful and deliberate, keeping her head low to avoid drawing Dmitri’s attention. She was still a bit stiff from having been chained and not being fed for most of the day.

The four lined up before him, the evening breeze cool against their exposed skin.

Dmitri paced in front, eyes lingering too long, then stopped in front of Jennifer. Her earlier jab hung in the air, and his grin faded into something tighter. He pinched her nipple gently with his right hand in a threat to pinch down painfully. Jennifer’s instinct was to swat his hand away, but she was drilled to hold her position of attention. She knew that breaking position would result in punishment. It could be a whipping or going without dinner for a day or two which would be miserable. It was better for her to take whatever this boy had in mind for her to avoid getting into further trouble, she decided.

“So,” he said, voice low and taunting, “you think I’m swiping too much on my phone?”

Jennifer’s breath hitched, a bead of sweat tracing down her temple. Her muscles tensed, instinct screaming to swat his hand away, to shove him back—but her hands stayed locked behind her head. Breaking pose meant Zuri’s whip, or worse. Her eyes flicked to his, anxiety flickering behind her usual fire. She swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“No, Sir. I didn’t mean it. You’re… you’re fine as you are.” Her voice strained, groveling just enough to appease him, though her lips twitched with suppressed venom.

Dmitri’s grin returned, smug now. He lowered his hand, stepping back with a lazy nod. “Good girl.” He shifted to Melissa, his boots scuffing the dirt, and tilted his head, eyeing her up and down. “What about you, huh? Got any issues? Unsolicited life advice you think I need?”

Melissa’s chest tightened, his stare prickling her skin. She kept her face blank. Her head shook once, firm but controlled. “No, Sir,” she said, voice flat, giving him nothing to grab onto.

Dmitri shrugged, losing interest.

“Smart one. Dismissed!” He ambled back to the palm tree, flopping down with a grunt and fishing his phone from his pocket. The earbud went back in, his focus drifting to the screen as if nothing had happened.

The girls eased out of Attention, sinking back to their tasks. Melissa stirred the stew, her knuckles whitening on the spoon. Hannah pressed dough in silence, her calm unbroken. Jennifer kneaded hers harder, a low hiss escaping. “Little creep’s got all the charm of a wet sock,” she whispered, just loud enough for them.

Hannah’s lips twitched, a rare half-smile. “At least he’s too busy posing to notice us plotting his demise.”

Melissa huffed a quiet laugh, the steam masking her scowl. “Next time he’s swiping, I’m dumping this pot on his head.” Their quiet rebellion bound them, a flicker of defiance they shared, hidden from Dmitri’s distracted gaze.

—

Victor stood at the edge of the courtyard, his broad frame partially obscured by the shadow of a palm tree, his blue eyes sharp as he observed the scene. The girls’ banter—Jennifer’s sharp mockery of Dmitri, Hannah’s steady quip, Melissa’s veiled threat to dump the pot—carried across the hearth, a subtle defiance they thought went unnoticed. Even Carla, her hands trembling as she shaped dough, joined their quiet laughter, her hesitant smile a sign of the bond they shared, a sisterhood forged in the crucible of the Academy’s oppression. Victor’s lips twitched, a faint smirk forming as he watched them lean on each other, their trust a quiet strength amidst their labor.

He could disrupt it so easily—summon them now, demand they report on each other’s whispered complaints about Dmitri, promise lighter tasks to whoever spoke first. Dmitri might leap at the chance to crush their defiance, but Victor knew better. He would love to have them snitch on one another—to break their trust, to complete his control over them, to break their spirits. But what he loved even more than that was money. The money his clients paid him. And his clients did not want their slaves’ spirits to be broken. That was the promise The Slave Academy made: It would create obedient slaves and keep their spirits intact as much as possible.

Trust was important to the human spirit. The slaves needed to be able to trust one another to form bonds. So, hard as it had been for him, he refrained from having them tell on one another. They thought they were clever, hiding their shared defiance in these moments of gossip around the hearth, but Victor wanted them to lean on each other. He wanted them to form strong bonds. Because this kept their spirits intact and in turn it made him money.

These bonds, forged in the Academy’s oppressive grip, were a quiet strength, a hook that kept the girls resilient, their spirits vibrant for their masters. This was an aspect in which The Slave Academy differed from many other slave-keeping institutions. Victor was skilled enough that he could do without these control mechanisms. And the results were slave girls that provided more fun to their masters and more business to him.

And it was for the same reasons that he did not administer punishments on a whim. There was nothing more he’d love to do. But the girls needed to trust that their obedience—shaping dough, stirring stew, following orders—would shield them from the whip. It was for that reason that Victor, reluctant but necessary, refrained from meting out punishment unless it had been deserved. And it was important that the slaves understood why the punishments were administered.

Victor’s gaze lingered on the girls a moment longer, their shared laughter a quiet defiance he allowed to persist. He turned away, his boots scuffing the dirt as he headed back toward his office, satisfied that his methods were bearing fruit—not in broken spirits, but in the resilient bonds that would make these girls all the more valuable to their masters.

—

“They treat us like animals, but at least they feed us well,” Hannah muttered, tearing off a warm piece to taste. “Back home, it was greasy fries or whatever was cheap—I’d kill for this stew on a broke day.”

Melissa nodded, rolling dough between her palms. “Yeah, I lived on instant noodles half the time—no time to cook between lectures. Here, it’s all fresh, every day. Weird, right?”

Jennifer, stirring the pot nearby, snorted softly. “Oh, sure, Zuri must think a full stomach makes us jump higher.”

They ate their work under the fading sun, the stew’s warmth settling in their bones.

—

Later, dusk settled over the courtyard. Zuri signaled the end of their daily duties, letting them loose for volleyball.

Melissa smacked the ball, Jennifer lunging as it sailed past. “You’ve got way too much energy after a day like this,” she grumbled, brushing dirt off her knees.

Carla, standing nearby, hesitated before joining the game, her movements cautious at first. But as Hannah tossed the ball her way with a gentle smile, Carla returned a tentative hit, a faint spark of energy flickering in her eyes. For a moment, the shared laughter and rhythm of the game lifted her spirits, a small step toward healing after her ordeal.

Iced tea cooled Melissa’s throat, Hannah’s quiet chuckle blending with the humid air. A fleeting break, stitching them closer amid the grind.

41. The Mask of Obedience

A week had passed since Melissa’s last faltered attempt to prove her obedience before Markus.

The training room at The Slave Academy hummed with quiet tension, its unadorned walls and wooden floor a stark stage for Melissa’s test. She stood at the center, collar glinting—Melissa Maurer, property of Markus Wagner—her exposed feet steady after weeks of drills. Markus sat at a low table, Zahara beside him, her dark eyes glinting with anticipation. Victor leaned against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze sharp as ever, while Zuri lingered near the door, whip coiled like a silent threat. This was Melissa’s chance—a flawless performance could earn her a brief release from these walls, a taste of the world beyond.

Victor nodded to Markus. “Start with the poses. Let’s see her foundation.”

Markus straightened, his voice firm despite a flicker of nerves.

“Attention.” Melissa snapped into it—feet apart, hands behind her head, back rigid. No hesitation this time, the whip’s memory from the last evaluation driving her.

“Kneel,” he said next. She dropped smoothly, knees kissing the floor, eyes down.

“Worship.” Her forehead met the wood, hands beside her head, precise and swift. Markus circled her, nodding.

Melissa’s stomach churned as she moved through the poses, her body bending like a puppet on strings. She hated this—every command a reminder of her powerlessness—but she complied, the memory of Carla and the box echoing in her mind. The whip, once a horrible, demeaning punishment, now felt like a mere warning. If she failed to heed the warning strokes of the whip, the box awaited, a fate far worse than welts. Embarrassment burned in her chest at how vulnerable she’d become, how easily they could break her with that threat. She kept her face blank, unwilling to let Markus see the leverage he held over her, the fear that gnawed at her resolve.

“Stand.” She rose, fluid and obedient. Victor’s lips twitched—her body had learned its part.

“Good,” Markus said, stepping back to the table. “Now serve us—coffee and snacks. Zahara’s with me.” He gestured to a tray on a side table: a pot, cups, and a plate of Grabesian flatbreads.

Melissa moved to it, lifting the tray with practiced care—as she had learned in her lessons in culture and serving at the Academy. She approached Markus first, kneeling beside him.

“Master, your coffee,” she said, voice even, placing the cup before him with a slight tremble she hid. He took it, eyes searching hers. Then she turned to Zahara, and the air shifted.

Zahara smirked, leaning forward. “Mine too, girl—don’t dawdle. Your master shouldn’t wait for me to be served.” Melissa’s jaw tightened, a flash of hate sparking in her chest—Zahara’s smug face stoking it. She knelt again, but her movements stiffened. “Master, her coffee,” she said, her tone flat, slamming the cup down harder than intended. The liquid sloshed, a faint splash marking the table. Zahara laughed, sharp and taunting. “Clumsy thing—can’t even serve without a mess. Try harder, or is that too much for you?”

Melissa’s eyes flicked up, locking on Zahara’s—a glare burning through her mask of calm. She grabbed the flatbreads next, setting the plate between them with an abrupt thud, her fingers rigid. “Master, your snacks,” she muttered to Markus, then, to Zahara, “Yours,” the word clipped, venom seeping through.

She knelt again, ordered to stay there as they ate, but her shoulders hunched, her body a taut line of reluctance—kneeling for Markus was one thing, but Zahara’s presence twisted it into a knife.

Markus sipped his coffee, watching her. Zahara nibbled a flatbread, her smirk unwavering. Victor stepped forward, his bulk casting a shadow.

“Enough,” he said, voice low, Russian accent rolling thick. He turned to Markus, then Melissa. “She passes the poses—her body submits, no question. But look at her.” He gestured to her rigid frame, the angry set of her jaw, the cups askew from her rough handling. “The serving’s sloppy, sure, but it’s more. Her mind’s not in it. She obeys with her hands, not her head.”

He crouched beside her, blue eyes piercing. “You glare at Zahara when she speaks—think I don’t see? You slam cups, stiffen up like a board. That’s not submission, Melissa. That’s going through motions. Your attitude’s lacking because you don’t mean it—you say the words, but they’re empty. You’ve been reciting those affirmations without believing a damn one.”

Markus frowned, setting his cup down. “She did what I asked,” he said, voice uncertain.

Victor straightened, shaking his head. “She did, but not right. Obedience isn’t just acts—it’s intent. She hates this—hates Zahara, maybe you too—and it shows. She’s failed this test, Markus. Not because she can’t serve, but because she won’t bend inside.” He glanced at Zuri. “Take her back. Affirmations next—make her mean them.”

Victor’s verdict twisted in her gut. She should have left—last week, today.

Zuri stepped forward, her stern face unyielding. “Up,” she barked. Melissa rose, her glare lingering on Zahara a beat too long, then followed Zuri out, the door thudding shut. Victor turned to Markus. “She’s close, but not there. Give us time—she’ll learn, and so will you.”

—

“A word in private?” Victor nodded once, leading him past the yard to his office: bare walls, a desk piled with logs, no Zahara in sight. The door shut with a click. Markus paced, voice low. “She’s been here for weeks—I barely get time with her. You’ve got that room for owners, right? I want her now. It’s been too long.”

Victor leaned against the desk, arms folded, his stare unflinching. “The conjugal room? For her—today?”

He tilted his head toward the yard where Melissa had failed. “She can’t serve correctly, and you want her now? I wouldn’t.”

Markus bristled. “It’s my right—she’s mine.” Victor’s lips twitched into a tight smirk. “Sure, she’s yours. Others use that room, no issue. But you, asking for this now? That’s where you’re going wrong. We’re not just training her here—we’re training you too. You want her obedient? This isn’t how you start.”

Markus stopped, frowning. “What’s that supposed to mean? She’s my slave—sex is part of what she owes me.”

Victor straightened, his voice calm but cutting. “That’s the problem, Markus. You’re treating sex like a chore she has to do. A master’s closeness has to be sought by his slave girl, not pushed on her. You’re undermining yourself right there.”

Markus’s jaw tightened. “How’s that undermining me? I’m the one giving the orders here.”

Victor didn’t flinch. “Because you act like you’re not able to get intimacy with her unless you order her—that’s not how a master behaves. You must train her to see your closeness as a reward for doing well, not a service she has to provide.”

Markus crossed his arms, skeptical. “A reward? She’s here to obey, not get treats.”

Victor leaned in, firm. “She’s here to obey, yes—and you train that by setting it up right. You don’t give her closeness for nothing. You set standards—like the task she has just failed. She meets them, you reward her with your time, your attention. Sex isn’t what she owes you—it’s what she earns when she does well. That’s how you reinforce obedience.”

Markus nodded slowly, testing it. “So I only give it when she’s good?”

Victor nodded back. “Exactly. She does well, you step in—calm, in charge. She starts to see: ‘I obey, I get him.’ But it starts now—you’ve got to learn this from the first move.”

Markus paused, brow creasing. “Then why not now? She failed, I get that, but I’ve waited weeks.”

Victor’s eyes sharpened. “Because now’s when you begin. She failed her test again. You take her now, you’re not framing it as a reward—you’re just taking it, like always. That’s not training her to earn it. You hold off when she fails, give it when she succeeds. That’s how you set the pattern.”

Markus tilted his head. “But she’s already used to me ordering her—won’t she just see it as more of the same?”

Victor smirked faintly. “Right now, yeah—she sees it as a chore because that’s all you’ve shown her. You change that starting today. Don’t take her after this mess-up. Wait ‘til she gets it right—then step in. She’ll feel the difference over time: failure gets her nothing, obedience gets her you.”

Markus rubbed his neck, frowning. “So I’m supposed to just sit here, itching for her, until she shapes up?”

Victor’s smirk widened. “You’re the master—you don’t itch for her, you decide for her. She failed today; you don’t go near her. She nails it tomorrow, you reward her. You’re not waiting—you’re judging her worthiness. That’s your power, Markus—use it.”

Markus glanced out the window—Melissa shuffled back from Zuri, head bowed, still off-balance.

Markus rubbed his neck, piecing it together. “Let me get this straight. I stop acting like she owes me sex—that makes me look weak, like I’m less than her. I make it a reward for when she meets my standards instead. And I don’t take her now because she failed, and I’ve got to start showing her it’s only for when she does well. Right?”

Victor clapped his shoulder, firm. “Spot on. You’re the master—she earns you. Let her fail today. Next time she hits the mark, you’ll see it work.”

Victor paused, then leaned in, his voice lowering slightly. “And it’s not just about sex, Markus. Closeness—real closeness—is what you use. Slave girls need it like plants need the sun. I mean emotional closeness: when she does well, you caress her, hold her, tell her you like what she’s done, that you appreciate her. She should feel warmed by you, like she’s basking in it. But when she misbehaves—like today—you pull back, withhold that warmth. She’ll feel the cold, and it’ll train her to seek your approval, to behave right to get that sun again.”

Markus blinked, his frown easing. “You mean… hug her, talk to her—like I used to want with her?”

Victor nodded, a glint in his eye. “Exactly. You loved her once, didn’t you? This is how you bring that into this—she earns your care, your attention. Start with that, and the sex follows naturally. She’ll work for it, not dread it.”

Markus’s gaze drifted to Melissa, still unsteady from Zuri’s correction. He nodded, slower this time. “I could do that. Make her feel… wanted, when she’s good.” Victor’s smirk returned, faint but approving. “Now you’re thinking like a master. Hold off today—she’s in the dark. Tomorrow, if she shines, give her the sun.”

Markus watched Melissa, and considered his words. Victor was right—he wasn’t here to chase her. He’d hold off.

—

The next day, Zuri summoned Melissa for one-on-one training in a narrow chamber. Shadows draped the walls. The old woman stood before her. Whip rested in her hand. Her eyes glinted with a cold edge Melissa couldn’t read. “Recite,” Zuri ordered. Her voice cut sharp as leather.

Melissa straightened. Hands stayed behind her back. She began. “I embrace slavery with pride and joy,” she said. Her tone fell flat, rehearsed. “My pleasure comes from my master’s satisfaction. I desire nothing more than to please. My fulfillment lies in submission.”

Zuri’s hand flashed out. A sharp slap struck Melissa’s cheek. Pain flared, hot and sudden. “I don’t believe you!” Zuri shouted. Her voice sliced the air. “Again—mean it.”

Melissa swallowed. Her cheek throbbed. She started over. She forced feeling into the words. “I embrace slavery with pride and joy…” Another slap landed, harder. Teeth jarred.

“Lies!” Zuri snapped. “You mock me with that empty voice.”

Zuri slapped her again, the sting blurring her words into a strained rush. The old woman’s strikes carried a contempt that went beyond discipline, a bitterness Melissa had sensed before but couldn’t quite place. Melissa wondered if Zuri’s harshness hid some pain of her own, something she glimpsed in the overseer’s unyielding gaze, though its source remained a mystery to her. She held the pose, eyes locked on Zuri’s, seeking an end. The old woman’s gaze remained hard, unrelenting.

—

The day after, Zuri’s whip met Melissa again. The same chamber greeted her. The same commands rang out.

“Recite,” Zuri demanded. Her stance held firm. Whip twitched like a live thing. Melissa’s voice trembled as she began. She pushed emotion into each line. Her cheek still ached from yesterday.

“I embrace slavery with pride and joy…” Zuri’s hand rose. Melissa braced for the blow. It landed lighter—a warning, not punishment.

“Better,” Zuri grunted. Her eyes narrowed. “Again.”

Melissa repeated the affirmations. Her tone lifted with forced conviction. Slaps came less often. Zuri’s scorn lingered, a silent jab in every glance. Melissa’s speech cracked by the end. Her body tensed. Punishment eased. Zuri stepped back. Whip lowered. Her face showed grudging approval.

—

The third day brought Victor. Melissa stepped into his office. Relief flooded her—no whip, no shouts, just his broad frame behind the desk. Grey streaks in his hair caught the dim light. He pointed to the floor. “Kneel,” he said. His accent rolled soft over the word.

She sank to her knees. The wood pressed cool against her skin. Her legs ached from days under Zuri’s lash. Victor leaned forward, hands clasped, blue eyes warm—a relief after Zuri’s fury. He’d hired Zuri for her harshness, her glee in every slap and whip crack, to scare the girls so much that his gentle tone felt like a haven. Without her, they’d never trust him; after her, they crumbled, opening up to his calm. She terrified them all, pushing them toward him, and his fatherly voice got inside their heads. Melissa felt it now—Zuri’s wrath a shadow, Victor a refuge she couldn’t resist.

“You make this hard on yourself, Melissa,” he said. His voice stayed low, steady. “Zuri demands your soul in those words. You fight her. Why?”

Her throat tightened. His gentleness disarmed her. Zuri’s slaps stung in her memory—sharp, relentless, a punishment she’d flee any way she could. Victor’s quiet strength offered escape. “It is… difficult,” she said. Her voice barely rose.

Victor nodded. He stepped back, his voice steady as he spoke. He’d seen it before—girls clinging to dreams of rescue, of freedom slipping back like a lost glove. His job was to rip that dream away, to plant the truth in their minds: That their enslavement was not temporary but permanent.

Some owners believed hope kept their slaves’ spirits alive, but Victor knew its unfulfilled promise turned to bitter disappointment, poisoning their minds with despair. Only by extinguishing it could they fully embrace their role, their spirits untainted by this despair. He understood that hope was the obstacle keeping them from committing—Melissa’s faint spark of freedom was a stubborn barrier. His goal was to crush it, instilling the certainty that slavery was inevitable, so she could surrender mentally and find a kind of peace in her servitude, becoming the compliant, enjoyable slave The Slave Academy promised.

He rose and crossed the small space. His hand lifted her from her knees. He settled her on his lap. His arm steadied her. The gesture blended strength and care. It crumbled her guard. “You resist because you don’t believe,” he said. “You see yourself as a free woman, caught by some mistake, waiting for freedom to come back. That hope dies here, Melissa. You are a slave now. You will wear a collar until your last breath. If not this one, then someone else’s. Like every slave in this land. You are only hurting yourself by denying this.”

Her stomach twisted. His words hit hard, their weight sinking in. She wanted to argue, to clutch that fading dream—England, her old life, a day without chains. Fear of Victor—of Zuri’s wrath waiting outside—kept her silent. Inside, her mind rebelled. No, she thought. This can’t be forever. I’ll find a way. A faint spark of defiance flared, too weak to act on but too stubborn to fade. Her jaw clenched, a defiance she hoped he wouldn’t see.

Victor’s eyes narrowed. He saw through her silence. “You think I don’t know that look?” he said. “Every girl like you starts there—denial. ‘This isn’t me,’ they tell themselves. ‘I want to be free of the collar, I want to wear clothes again. I don’t want to kneel before free people. I’ll escape.’ I’ve seen it a hundred times. But tell me, Melissa, when you fantasize about your escape: Where do you run? Out there, naked, collared—how far do you get? That steel marks you. No one hides a slave here. No one helps. You can’t tear it off. The jungle, the towns, the sea—all dead ends. You’ve nowhere to go.”

She swallowed hard. His words hit hard. She pictured herself escaping—running barefoot over sharp rocks, the collar around her neck shining in the sun, strangers seeing her and shouting for bystanders to stop her. Her breath sped up. She hated him for making her see it, hated how real it felt. There’s still a chance, her mind whispered, weaker now, barely holding on.

He leaned closer. His tone grew firm. “Slaves like you make it worse for yourself by fighting this. You hold on to a lie—that freedom waits. It doesn’t. You’ll live as a slave, die as one. Zuri breaks you with pain because you force her to. I offer you a better way. Accept this, and the suffering eases. Those affirmations—they’re not just words. They fit you to this life. Believe them, and you stop tearing yourself apart. That’s what they give you: peace.”

Her hands rested limp on her thighs. His certainty weighed on her. She didn’t want to believe—couldn’t fully let go. A free Melissa lingered inside, fragile but alive, dreaming of escape. Yet his words stuck, sharp and relentless. Forever? The idea chilled her. Zuri’s slaps flashed in her mind, the whip’s bite, the endless drills. Resistance meant more of that. Victor’s voice, soft as a father’s, promised relief—not freedom, but surrender. Her stomach twisted. She rejected it in her core, but fear of Zuri’s cruelty tugged her toward him.

“I’ll… try,” she said. Her voice shrank to a whisper. She forced the words, craving his nod to dodge the old woman’s wrath. Inside, dread coiled tight.

Victor smiled. Satisfaction shone in his eyes. He savored this—her fear of Zuri, her turn to him. His hand patted her shoulder. “Good girl,” he murmured. “Start now. Recite.”

She drew a breath. Her lips parted. “I embrace slavery with pride and joy,” she began. The words came slow, heavy. Before, they fell empty—rote sounds without weight. Now, they echoed Victor’s truth, a fate she dreaded might take her. “My pleasure comes from my master’s satisfaction…” Her voice quivered. She saw herself under Zuri’s whip, crawling through exhaustion—not just tasks, but a life without end. “I desire nothing more than to please…” Fear tinged each line, a bitter taste she couldn’t swallow. She didn’t mean the words but she dreaded that one day she might accept them as true. Her chest ached as she finished. Victor’s nod eased the moment, but her faint hope for freedom still lingered, too stubborn to fade.

—


Over the next few days, Melissa followed Victor’s advice. She didn’t want to be slapped again by Zuri. In group drills under the sun, she recited the affirmations with an effort to sound sincere. ‘My identity is my obedience.’ Her voice joined the others as they crawled through the grass. Knees and palms pressed the warm earth. Sweat ran down her face from the effort. She repeated the words day after day to prove she could obey—enough to please Zuri, enough to convince Markus to take her out of this place.

During a break from crawling, Melissa slumped beside Hannah and Jennifer, the grass damp under her knees. Carla settled a few paces away, her breath uneven, a faint tremble in her hands as she brushed sweat from her brow.

‘I can’t get these affirmations right,’ she muttered, rubbing her stinging cheek from Zuri’s last slap.

Hannah leaned in, her voice low, “Say it like you mean it—she’ll ease up if you sound eager.”

Carla glanced over, a flicker of her old defiance in her green eyes, and added softly, “Aye, or just keep your eyes down—she likes that better than any words.”

Jennifer smirked, her eyes glinting with mischief, “Or throw in a wild ‘yes, mistress!’—she’s vain enough to lap it up.”

Melissa blinked, a slight grin tugging at her lips despite the ache, their words a comfort against Zuri’s looming threat.

Apologies for the long wait since my last update—but real life got in the way! Writing The Slave Academy also proved more challenging than I expected. I thought crafting chapters set in a training facility for pretty slave girls would be straightforward, but weaving together the characters’ arcs and events turned out to be trickier than I anticipated.

In this release, we see Melissa’s progress, Markus’s growth, and a new face at the Academy. What did you think of these developments? Any favorite moments or areas you liked or felt could improve?

Let me know your thoughts, and please rate this update in the poll above!

Hoggle: Welcome back!

In my opinion, overall, it is very well written. I did like the deep psychology discussion. The problem, I am sure the writer is aware of (one can read it out from chapters as Melissa is adjusting) , is that fundamentally it is not possible to fully restructure subconscious with training/punishments. It could be done with fully breaking the mind and reprogramming. The moral aspect of this without slave consent is a question though.

Great chanter as usual, but i would have to see the teenager put a finger somewhere to see Marcus's reaction

Hi Outstander,

Outstander wrote: ↑Sun Apr 27, 2025 3:38 pm In my opinion, overall, it is very well written. I did like the deep psychology discussion. The problem, I am sure the writer is aware of (one can read it out from chapters as Melissa is adjusting) , is that fundamentally it is not possible to fully restructure subconscious with training/punishments. It could be done with fully breaking the mind and reprogramming. The moral aspect of this without slave consent is a question though.

Thanks for your feedback! I’m glad you found the writing strong and enjoyed the psychological depth in these chapters! It means a lot to hear your kind words about the story’s execution and the exploration of the characters’ inner struggles.

You raised an interesting point about the moral aspect of non-consensual enslavement. The Slave Academy, run by Victor, a brutal sadist and felon, and Zuri, who shares his mindset, isn’t guided by morality or consent. They’re not interested in ethical questions—their focus is on control and profit. However, their sadistic impulses are curbed by their objective to make a profit. Customers don’t want broken slaves; they want fun, enjoyable ones who can still bring some spirit to their role. That’s why The Slave Academy doesn’t fully break the girls. They break them just enough to accept their roles while preserving as much of their spirit as possible for their customers.

On the psychological restructuring, I agree that training and punishments can’t fully change the subconscious. And that is not The Slave Academy’s goal. They aim to create enjoyable slaves, not broken, reprogrammed ones who’ve lost all sense of self. And from a storytelling perspective, a fully broken Melissa would be dull and unengaging. Her push-back, outrage, and indignance at her treatment create a fun tension in the story. I’ve tried to show this balance through her gradual adjustment—her compliance is often driven by fear, but her inner resistance persists.

Hi Babaurome,

Babaurome wrote: ↑Mon Apr 28, 2025 9:37 am Great chanter as usual, but i would have to see the teenager put a finger somewhere to see Marcus's reaction

I’m glad you liked the update!

I did consider that the teenager might take it further. But then I decided against it due to potential taboos around a teenager’s involvement in a more explicit act, even in fiction. I didn’t want to risk discomfort for some readers or violating forum guidelines. I guess I could have made him explicitly 18 or 19 years old, and then it would have been ok to add some additional action.