34. Fractured Ties
The sun rose over Ngalawa Bay the next morning. Its light cut through the palm fronds and cast uneven shadows across the sandy path to Tariq and Amina’s hut. Markus walked forward. His sandals scraped the ground with each heavy step. The air held the salty scent of the sea, but it offered little relief to the tightness in his chest. He had slept poorly. Thoughts of Melissa’s defiance and Arbek’s arrest had troubled him all night. He needed to mend things—He felt the rift with Tariq and Amina widening.
The hut stood ahead. Its mud walls showed wear but held firm. A low hum of voices drifted through the open window. Markus stopped at the door. He raised his hand to knock, hesitated, then tapped twice. The sound broke the morning stillness.
The voices inside quieted. Footsteps approached slowly. The door opened with a creak. Tariq stood there. His dark eyes narrowed. His jaw tightened beneath a shadow of stubble. He blocked the doorway with crossed arms.
“Markus,” Tariq said. His voice stayed level, offering no warmth. “What do you want?”
“I’d like to talk,” Markus replied. “I need to sort out what happened yesterday.”
Tariq showed little interest. “Sort it out? After you put Arbek in jail?” He held his ground, but Amina’s figure appeared behind him. Her presence eased the strain slightly.
“Let him in, Tariq,” she said. Her tone carried fatigue but resolve. “We can’t just stand here staring each other down.”
Tariq let out a sharp breath. He stepped aside with a reluctant nod. Markus walked in. The cool shade of the hut felt welcome after the sun’s heat. The living area looked simple. Woven mats covered the floor. A low table held scattered cups. The faint smell of old coffee hung in the air. Amina sat on a stool. She folded her arms. Her eyes watched warily, though less harshly than Tariq’s.
“I regret how this turned out,” Markus started. He kept his voice low and earnest. “I didn’t want to call the police. I mean that. But Arbek took Melissa from my hut. What could I do? Just let him take her?”
Tariq gave a bitter laugh. “You regret it? You had options, Markus. You could have talked to us, to him. Instead, you went straight to the law like some owner chasing lost property. Arbek’s our friend—yours too, once.”
Zahara shifted in her chair, her eyes flicking to Tariq with a faint edge. “Friend or not, he’s the one who started this mess,” she said, her voice smooth but pointed, cutting through the tension. “Rushing in like that—just taking her like that—it’s reckless. If it lands him in a cell, that’s on him.” Her tone stayed calm, but her fingers tapped the table once, a quiet tell of her impatience. She didn’t look at Markus, keeping her gaze on Tariq, as if daring him to push back.
Markus flinched, Tariq’s words striking a raw nerve. Like some owner. The sting twisted into something sharper as he stood there, heat rising in his chest. He’d been patient—too patient—waiting for Melissa to see reason, to choose him. A mistake, he realized now. She’d taken his patience for weakness, not kindness, and it had emboldened her to run with Arbek the moment the chance came. His jaw tightened. He’d held back too long, hoping she’d soften, and it had only made her bolder. He’d misjudged her. He’d been a fool to think patience would win her.
He forced a breath, meeting Tariq’s glare with a steadier gaze. “I know he’s your friend,” he said, his voice low but carrying a new edge. “He was mine too. But Melissa belongs to me—by law. He didn’t just take her; he broke rules here. I couldn’t stand there and watch her leave. I got scared, okay? I didn’t know what else to do.”
Amina leaned forward. Her voice stayed soft but cut deep. “You got scared, and now Arbek’s locked up. Melissa’s still a slave. An apology doesn’t undo that. We tried to support her, Markus. We didn’t want this either.”
“I see that,” Markus said. He looked her in the eye, hoping for some understanding. “I’m thankful you’ve stood by her. That’s why I came—I don’t want this to break us apart. Look, I’ll go to the police today. I’ll tell them I won’t press charges against Arbek. He can go free, no record, nothing. But I need something in return.”
Tariq raised his brows. Doubt creased his face further. “In return? You’re making deals now? What do you want?”
Markus took a steadying breath. “I want Arbek’s promise that he’ll respect my claim to Melissa. That he won’t try this again, here or in England. No trouble, no legal mess. If he agrees, I’ll straighten it out with the police. I just need to know this won’t turn into chaos later.”
Silence filled the room. Amina’s fingers gripped her arms tighter. Her lips formed a thin line. Tariq stared at Markus, looking for weakness, but found none.
“You want him to give in to you,” Tariq said at last. His voice dropped low and cold. “To agree Melissa’s yours, not our friend. That’s what this is, right?”
Markus shook his head. Frustration edged his words. “It’s not about giving in. It’s about keeping things together. I kept her from being sold off—Arbek couldn’t do that. I’m not the bad guy here. But if he keeps pushing, it won’t just hurt him. It’ll pull us all down—me, Melissa, you two. I’m trying to find a way out, not make it worse.”
Amina’s look softened a bit, though doubt clung to her. “And Melissa? You’re so focused on yourself, Markus—what does she gain? Freedom? Or just a tighter leash?”
Markus swallowed. The question struck a sore spot he couldn’t fully avoid. “I want her to pick me, Amina. Not because she must, but because she wants to. I’m working on that—giving her room, trying to improve things between us. But I can’t do it if Arbek keeps stirring things up.”
A door creaked before Amina could answer. Zahara stepped out from the hallway. Her dark hair stayed tied back. Her face remained steady but alert. She had clearly heard everything. Her entry shifted the room’s tension like a breeze through the heat.
“Morning,” she said. Her voice flowed smooth as she moved closer. Her eyes darted between Markus and the others. “Sounds like you’re trying to smooth things over, Markus. Good call.”
Tariq glanced at her. Annoyance flared in his eyes. “Good for who? Him or us?”
Zahara overlooked his sharpness. She sat on a chair at the table. Her posture relaxed, but her eyes stayed keen. “For everyone, Tariq. Markus has a point—Arbek crossed a line, legally. He took Melissa, and in Grabesh, that’s theft. Markus had every right to call the police. But he’s here, offering to drop it. That’s more than most would do.”
Amina’s eyes tightened. “He’s offering a trade, Zahara. Arbek’s freedom for his quiet—and Melissa stays trapped. You think that’s fair?”
Zahara tilted her head. She stayed calm. “I think it’s sensible. Arbek’s in a cell because he acted fast and loose. Markus could push charges, and Arbek would face a trial he’d lose. Instead, Markus offers a way out. And Melissa? She’s still here, still secure—not in some awful place or gone forever. That’s thanks to Markus, not Arbek.”
Tariq let out a short, harsh breath. He leaned against the wall. “Secure? Locked up every night? That’s not security—that’s power.”
Markus spoke up. His voice rose a touch. “I don’t lock her up because I like it, Tariq. I do it because she ran. I want to trust her again, but I need to know she won’t leave the moment I turn around. The chains, the fights—I’d rather she just… stayed. Without me having to force her.”
Zahara nodded. Her tone stayed even. “He’s not wrong. Melissa’s escape forced his hand. If he’d done nothing, he’d look soft—here and back home. He’s offering to let it go, but he needs Arbek to stop. It’s a deal. You don’t have to agree with it, but it keeps things from getting messier.”
Amina stood. Frustration sharpened her movements. “And Melissa? She’s the one hurting here, not us. You’re all focused on rights and deals, but she’s still collared, still naked, still his. How does this help her?”
Markus met her eyes. His voice eased but held steady. “I’m working on that, Amina. I told her last night—I want her to have more voice, to feel we’re on even ground somehow. It’s not perfect, but I’m trying. If Arbek’s free and leaves me alone, I can focus on her, not on fighting him.”
Tariq stepped away from the wall. His eyes stayed hard. “You’re trying to trade Arbek’s freedom for our goodwill. That’s how this feels. And you’re still keeping her captive.”
“It’s not about trading,” Markus insisted. He gripped the table’s edge. “I regret it went this far. I didn’t want Arbek in jail—I didn’t want any of this. But he took her, and I acted. I’ll fix it, but I need you to see my side. I’m not letting her go—not yet—but I don’t want to lose you two either.”
Zahara leaned forward. Her voice broke the growing strain. “Tariq, Amina, consider it. Arbek’s stuck unless Markus steps in. You want him out? This is how. Markus isn’t asking you to turn on Melissa—he’s asking Arbek to let this go. Which by law he should be doing anyway. So he isn’t giving up anything. But in exchange his charges are dropped.”
The room went quiet. The ocean hummed outside. Tariq and Amina shared a glance. Amina’s shoulders eased a bit. Her voice dropped low. “We’ll speak to Arbek when we can. If he agrees, fine. But don’t think we’re okay with this, Markus. We’re not your friends in this—we’re just... caught in the middle.”
Tariq nodded. His tone stayed short. “Get him out. That’s all we want now. After that, we’ll see.”
Markus let out a breath. Relief mixed with worry. “Thank you. I’ll go to the police this morning. I just hope we can... find a way forward.”
Zahara stood. Her smile stayed slight but sure. “You’re doing the smart thing, Markus. It’s a step.”
Markus left the hut. Tariq and Amina watched him go. Their faces showed a blend of doubt and acceptance. Zahara’s steady confidence lingered like a quiet presence.
—
Markus left Tariq’s hut. His sandals dragged through the sand as he walked away, shoulders bent under the weight of the morning’s tension. Zahara watched him from the doorway. Tariq and Amina stayed inside. Their faces carried doubt mixed with reluctant acceptance.
She stepped out and followed him. Her sandals moved silently over the path. The sun pressed down with steady heat, but her thoughts remained clear, focused. Markus needed guidance now—his uncertainty showed in every step—and she saw her chance.
She caught up to him where the path curved past a row of palms. Her voice broke the quiet first. “Markus, wait a moment.”
He turned. His eyes squinted against the sun’s glare. Weariness lined his face, but a flicker of hope lingered there too. “What’s on your mind, Zahara?” he asked. His tone stayed low, cautious.
Zahara stood a few steps away. Her hands rested on her hips. She kept her expression calm, her words measured. “You look worn out, Markus. Melissa resists you every chance she gets. That escape with Arbek yesterday—she almost slipped away. You pulled her back, but she fights you still.”
Markus frowned. His hand brushed the back of his neck. “What do you mean by that?” he said. Doubt edged his voice.
She held his gaze. Her mind turned to Melissa—always there, always in the way. Zahara had wanted Arbek for herself long before Melissa arrived. She remembered his easy laugh, the way he looked at her during those early days in England. Then Melissa swept in, all soft hair and quick smiles, and took him. Zahara never let go of her hope. One day, she told herself, Arbek could be hers. Markus buying Melissa had opened a door—kept her away from Arbek, gave Zahara room to move closer. But Arbek’s rescue attempt nearly ruined it. She had pushed Markus to call the police then, and it worked. The plan failed, Arbek landed in jail, and Melissa returned to Markus. Now Tariq’s talk of freedom threatened it again. She could not let Melissa wear Markus down.
“She’ll keep at it,” Zahara said. “You need help to manage her. There’s a place called The Slave Academy. They train slaves to settle into their role, to obey without trouble.”
Markus shifted his weight. His brow creased deeper. “A training place?” he asked. “I’ve never heard of that.”
Her voice stayed steady, practical. “They know how to handle this. Experts teach slaves to accept their place. Melissa would stop pushing against you. No more escapes, no more arguments—just peace for you both.”
He looked away for a moment. His fingers tugged at his hair. “You think that would fix things?” he said. “Melissa’s strong-willed. She doesn’t want this—or me, maybe.”
Zahara stepped closer. She kept her tone firm yet gentle. “That’s why you need this, Markus. She ran with Arbek yesterday. Nearly got away. I told you to call the police because I knew she’d drag him back into her mess otherwise. She’s safe now, but only because you acted. Tariq wants you to free her, and she’ll press you until you bend. The Academy can guide her to see you as her place. You won’t need chains every night to keep her close.”
Markus met her eyes again. His doubt lingered, but he listened. “It feels wrong to change her like that,” he murmured. “I wanted her to choose me, not force her mind.”
She nodded slightly. Her lips curved into a faint smile. Inside, she saw the plan unfold—Melissa gone, locked away in training, out of Arbek’s sight. Zahara could step in then, draw Arbek near once more. If the training succeeded, Melissa would stay with Markus, no longer a threat. A quiet justice, too, for crossing her path, for taking what Zahara craved.
“Call it guidance,” she said. “You’ve tried your way—talking, hoping she’d come around. Look where it led: Arbek in jail, Melissa still defiant. They can teach her to accept you. She deserves that lesson after what she pulled.”
Markus exhaled. He stared at the path ahead. “I don’t know,” he said. His voice roughened with indecision. “It’s a lot to take in. I’ll think it over. Thanks, Zahara.”
Her smile held steady, small but sure. “Take your time,” she replied. “But don’t wait too long. Things only get harder the more she resists. Let me know what you decide.”
He nodded once, then turned to walk away. Zahara’s words stayed with him. The Academy offered a solution he had not wanted. Melissa’s eyes came to mind—defiant, unyielding. Peace with her seemed far off. He slowed his pace. His thoughts weighed the option. A way existed to keep her without constant struggle. He needed time to decide.
Zahara watched him go. Confidence settled in her chest. He would agree—she felt certain. Each move Melissa made toward that facility cleared the way for her own plans.
—
Markus walked to the beach nearby. Melissa’s plea for freedom echoed in his head. Waves rolled beyond the shore as he stood there. Zahara’s advice returned to him—proper guidance could smoothen out their situation. He had resisted, but her escape yesterday had proven the risk.
—
Markus sat at the table in his hut, the morning sun slanting through the window. He traced the edge of his coffee mug with a finger.
The quiet pressed in, broken only by the distant crash of waves. Melissa was out, probably taking a walk at the beach. He was trying to give her this kind of freedom in their daily lives. He had told her he wanted her to choose him, to build something real together. Those words felt true when he said them. Now, doubt gnawed at him.
He thought about her escape with Arbek. She had run without hesitation, her eyes fixed on freedom, not him. He had saved her from the auction block, poured his savings into her rescue, yet she still saw him as her jailer. The police brought her back, leashed and bound, proof of his legal rights. Rights alone did not ease the ache in his chest. He wanted her trust, her presence by his side, not just her body under his roof.
Zahara’s suggestion echoed in his mind. There were experts at training slaves who could teach Melissa to accept him, to stop fighting. He had pushed the idea away at first. It felt wrong to shape her will like that. But the more he thought about it the more it made sense to him. Their life couldn’t go on like this. Her arguments, her attitude, that wore him down too—her quiet resentment, his own guilt. If she learned to see him as her place, that she was meant to be here with him, maybe they could move past this struggle.
He sipped his coffee. The bitterness matched his mood. Freedom for her meant losing her, and he could not face that. Not after everything. Zahara’s idea offered a way to hold on, to make her stay without constant fighting. He set the mug down, decision settling in. She needed guidance he could not give alone. Maybe these experts would help her understand. Resolve hardened in him. He knew his next step.
Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Last edited by hoggle123 on Sun Mar 16, 2025 3:13 pm, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
35. The Path to Obedience
The sun was shining bright in the sky, baking the sand where Melissa and her fellow slaves, Kaya, Liana, and a new face named Sara, played an intense game of beach volleyball. Sara, with her dark hair and quick laughter, was from a local Grabesian family, enjoying a vacation, yet bound by the same chains of slavery as the others. Their laughter and shouts mingled with the rhythmic thud of the ball against the sand.
Sara’s bright laugh rang out over the sand as she shifted her feet for the next play. The four women moved together. Their steel collars caught the sunlight, a reminder of their shared condition during this brief respite.
Melissa wiped her forehead. Her muscles ached from tension that lingered since her escape attempt with Arbek failed. The ball flew toward her in a blur of orange. She lunged and struck it hard. It landed on Kaya’s side with a thud. A groan rose from her teammates. Melissa felt a quick jolt of satisfaction, a small lift amid her heavier thoughts.
“Good hit!” Sara called out. Her voice carried a bright Grabesian lilt. She jogged closer. Her dark hair swung with each step. She grinned at Melissa. “We might win this time if Kaya stops hogging the ball.”
Kaya laughed and brushed sand off her knees. “Me? You trip over your own feet half the time, Sara.”
Sara leaned toward Melissa. Her voice dropped low with a playful edge. She tugged at her collar. “Look, we have the same collar! High fashion from our generous masters.”
A laugh escaped Melissa before she could stop it. The sound came out clear and sharp. Sara’s grin grew wider. Her eyes sparkled with fun. Liana glanced over and let a small smile slip onto her face. For a moment, the sand felt warm under Melissa’s toes. The sun softened into a gentle touch. That shared laugh tied her to these women who understood her struggle without needing words. It offered no escape, but it gave her a breath of ease, a light note against the day’s weight.
—
Arbek approached from the path beyond the sand. His face looked worn, his steps slow with a burden she recognized too well. The game paused. Kaya held the ball against her hip. Sara and Liana turned to watch. Melissa stepped forward, her heart raced at the sight of him, worn and burdened.
“Melissa,” Arbek said. His voice stayed low, tight with strain. “I’ve got trouble from the jail. They charged me with visa fraud and bribery. I’m out on bail now, but one slip, and I’m locked up again until court. Markus dropped the theft bit—said I could walk if I respect that you are his from now on.”
Melissa’s chest tightened. The news sank in like stones into shallow water. With Arbek bound by this deal, her hopes dimmed further. She forced a weak smile, a thin mask over the unease inside her. “We’ll figure something out,” she said. Her words barely rose above the sea’s murmur.
He glanced at the ground, then back at her. “It’s from what I did—bringing you here without a visa, calling you my slave when you weren’t. And the bribe at the Health Office to get you out early. They dug it all up after you talked in that interview. The police got wind of it, and now I’m caught.”
—
Her breath caught. The memory of her ‘interview’ with Safina flashed—those hours under the interrogator’s glare, her words spilling out under pressure, naming Arbek’s moves to save her. She met his eyes, searching for blame, but found only weariness.
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. They pushed me hard. I had no choice. I can barely even remember what was said exactly.” Melissa’s throat tightened as the memory flickered—Safina’s relentless questions, her assistant pushing the suppository into her anus while was stuck in that contraption, and the haze that swallowed her focus thereafter.
Arbek nodded, slow and deliberate. “I know. You were cornered. I don’t hold it against you. Just wish I’d seen this coming.”
—
Later, by the pool, Melissa sat with her legs dipped in the cool water, watching Kaya and Liana splash around with Sara. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her.
"Are you Melissa?" a voice asked with a Russian accent. She turned to see a towering man, his hair greying at the temples, his eyes sharp and assessing. When she didn’t respond, too caught in her surprise, he reached out, brushing her hair aside to read her collar. "Ah, Melissa Maurer, property of Markus Wagner," he confirmed, his tone business-like.
Panic surged through Melissa as he produced handcuffs, snapping them around her wrists. He then attached a chain leash to her collar, the metal cold against her skin. "What's happening?" she gasped, her eyes wide with fear.
Markus, who had been reading by the pensioners, looked up at the commotion. He approached, but not with the urgency of rescue; instead, he greeted the man warmly. “Victor, it’s good to see you. I hope she’s not giving you trouble.”
Melissa’s voice trembled with confusion. “Markus, what’s going on?”
“Victor here will help you adjust to your role, Mel,” Markus explained. His voice stayed calm, betraying no hint of the storm within Melissa. “Zahara said an expert like Victor could fix things between us—make things work.”
Her breath caught. Zahara’s name hit her. She had pushed for this? Anger flared, but she was handcuffed and on Victor’s leash now. She twisted to glare at Markus, his face serene, oblivious to the anger in her.
Victor shook Markus's hand with enthusiasm before turning to lead Melissa away. She felt trapped with the leash fastened to her collar and her hands chained behind her back. She caught sight of Arbek, his face a mask of anger but powerless to act, and Zahara, whose smile seemed oddly content, almost victorious when she thought no eyes were on her.
As Melissa reluctantly walked behind Victor on his leash, her mind raced. She had long suspected Zahara's interest in Arbek, but now, the thought that Zahara might be orchestrating her deeper entrenchment in slavery loomed large. If Zahara managed to sway Arbek, Melissa would lose her only ally in this nightmare.
Melissa followed behind Victor with mechanical steps away from the resort.
—
The sun spilled through the palm fronds overhead, scattering patches of golden light across the sandy path. Melissa trailed barefoot behind Victor, her toes sinking into the warm, yielding sand with each step. The steel cuffs hugged her wrists, and the leash in Victor’s hand tugged gently as he guided her forward, his Russian accent cutting through the tropical breeze with an odd, lilting charm.
"Where are we going?" Melissa asked. Her voice hovered soft and low, her toes flexing into the sand for balance.
"To The Slave Academy," Victor replied. His eyes stayed locked on the path ahead, the vibrant green of the jungle framing the scene around them. "You will learn to be an exemplary slave for your owner."
As they moved, the beach unfurled to her left, a sweep of powdery white stretching toward the horizon. Turquoise waves lapped at the shore, their rhythm steady and inviting. Melissa let her gaze drift over the water, its surface glinting like a sheet of glass under the midday sun.
If she had come to Grabesh as a free woman, this could have been an amazing holiday. She imagined herself free, swimming in the sea, unburdened by chains. No leash, no cuffs, just the sun warming her shoulders and the breeze teasing her hair. She’d swim with the vast blue sky overhead, then wander back to shore for a cold drink under a palm tree. The beach stretched endless and open, a playground she’d explore with friends, not a path she’d walk in chains.
For a moment, the thought lifted her spirits. The colors around her sharpened—the deep blue of the sea, the vivid green of the palms, the soft gold of the sand. She breathed in the salty air, letting it fill her lungs. Even now, with Victor’s steady steps ahead of her, the beauty of this place refused to fade.
As they moved beyond the settlement, the sand gave way to a dirt road, the texture under Melissa's feet shifting from soft to gritty. She stumbled slightly, her balance thrown off by the handcuffs behind her back, but Victor's grip on the leash allowed only so much leeway. She managed to regain her footing, her feet now navigating the cool, sticky mud, each step a challenge to keep her balance.
"What will happen to me there?" Her question was punctuated by the squelch of mud underfoot, the rich earth clinging to her skin.
"You will be trained in obedience, in service," Victor said, his voice calm, almost soothing, as if teaching a lesson he believed in deeply. "To make your master's life easier, happier."
"How long do I have to stay?" Melissa's feet found a small rock, her body tensing as she adjusted her weight to step over it, the handcuffed hands making the act more laborious.
"It depends on how well you apply yourself," Victor replied, watching her struggle with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Melissa paused, the beauty of the surroundings—a vivid tapestry of flowering plants and the distant sound of the ocean—belying her current plight. "Are there others like me there? Women forced into this?"
"There are many women at the Academy, all learning to be better," Victor said, his pace steady, guiding her around a puddle that reflected the sky above.
"Can I refuse to learn?" she asked, her steps now more cautious as they navigated a path where roots protruded from the ground, each one a potential trip hazard.
Victor's tone was firm but not unkind. "Learning is in your best interest, Melissa. What we teach will make your life easier, make you more valuable."
Her feet slipped on a patch of wet leaves, her hands useless to catch her fall, but she managed to right herself with an awkward shuffle. "Will I be hurt there?" she asked, her voice now laced with fear.
"Discipline is necessary," Victor responded, his words measured, as if explaining a natural law. "But the Academy aims to mold you into a good slave, not to break you or cause unnecessary pain."
Melissa’s wrists strained against the handcuffs behind her back, the steel biting into her skin. The leash wasn’t locked to her collar. It was just a simple clip. If her hands were free, she thought, she’d tug that clip loose in a heartbeat. She pictured it—her fingers fumbling for a second, then the leash would fall to the ground and she’d be free.
Her mind raced ahead. She knew her legs. She used to jog regularly back home. Victor, with his grey-streaked hair and steady stride, didn’t strike her as a runner. She’d outpace him, she decided—dart into the jungle where the palms loomed thick and green, their fronds a curtain to shield her. Her breath would steady into a rhythm, feet pounding earth as she wove through vines and roots. The distance would grow, his shouts fading behind her, swallowed by the chatter of birds and the rustle of leaves.
She glanced down at her bare feet. Not now, though. The ground would turn rougher past the settlement—jagged stones and thorns waiting to slow her. Barefoot, she would not be able to run fast. Her soles were unready for the wild. Victor wouldn’t need speed then; he’d catch her anyway with her bloody feet.
Melissa's eyes scanned the idyllic landscape, the irony of her situation not lost on her—a prisoner in paradise. The mud dried on her feet, leaving a cool film as they continued towards what felt like an endless horizon of servitude.
The sun was shining bright in the sky, baking the sand where Melissa and her fellow slaves, Kaya, Liana, and a new face named Sara, played an intense game of beach volleyball. Sara, with her dark hair and quick laughter, was from a local Grabesian family, enjoying a vacation, yet bound by the same chains of slavery as the others. Their laughter and shouts mingled with the rhythmic thud of the ball against the sand.
Sara’s bright laugh rang out over the sand as she shifted her feet for the next play. The four women moved together. Their steel collars caught the sunlight, a reminder of their shared condition during this brief respite.
Melissa wiped her forehead. Her muscles ached from tension that lingered since her escape attempt with Arbek failed. The ball flew toward her in a blur of orange. She lunged and struck it hard. It landed on Kaya’s side with a thud. A groan rose from her teammates. Melissa felt a quick jolt of satisfaction, a small lift amid her heavier thoughts.
“Good hit!” Sara called out. Her voice carried a bright Grabesian lilt. She jogged closer. Her dark hair swung with each step. She grinned at Melissa. “We might win this time if Kaya stops hogging the ball.”
Kaya laughed and brushed sand off her knees. “Me? You trip over your own feet half the time, Sara.”
Sara leaned toward Melissa. Her voice dropped low with a playful edge. She tugged at her collar. “Look, we have the same collar! High fashion from our generous masters.”
A laugh escaped Melissa before she could stop it. The sound came out clear and sharp. Sara’s grin grew wider. Her eyes sparkled with fun. Liana glanced over and let a small smile slip onto her face. For a moment, the sand felt warm under Melissa’s toes. The sun softened into a gentle touch. That shared laugh tied her to these women who understood her struggle without needing words. It offered no escape, but it gave her a breath of ease, a light note against the day’s weight.
—
Arbek approached from the path beyond the sand. His face looked worn, his steps slow with a burden she recognized too well. The game paused. Kaya held the ball against her hip. Sara and Liana turned to watch. Melissa stepped forward, her heart raced at the sight of him, worn and burdened.
“Melissa,” Arbek said. His voice stayed low, tight with strain. “I’ve got trouble from the jail. They charged me with visa fraud and bribery. I’m out on bail now, but one slip, and I’m locked up again until court. Markus dropped the theft bit—said I could walk if I respect that you are his from now on.”
Melissa’s chest tightened. The news sank in like stones into shallow water. With Arbek bound by this deal, her hopes dimmed further. She forced a weak smile, a thin mask over the unease inside her. “We’ll figure something out,” she said. Her words barely rose above the sea’s murmur.
He glanced at the ground, then back at her. “It’s from what I did—bringing you here without a visa, calling you my slave when you weren’t. And the bribe at the Health Office to get you out early. They dug it all up after you talked in that interview. The police got wind of it, and now I’m caught.”
—
Her breath caught. The memory of her ‘interview’ with Safina flashed—those hours under the interrogator’s glare, her words spilling out under pressure, naming Arbek’s moves to save her. She met his eyes, searching for blame, but found only weariness.
“I didn’t mean to drag you into this,” she said softly. “I’m sorry. They pushed me hard. I had no choice. I can barely even remember what was said exactly.” Melissa’s throat tightened as the memory flickered—Safina’s relentless questions, her assistant pushing the suppository into her anus while was stuck in that contraption, and the haze that swallowed her focus thereafter.
Arbek nodded, slow and deliberate. “I know. You were cornered. I don’t hold it against you. Just wish I’d seen this coming.”
—
Later, by the pool, Melissa sat with her legs dipped in the cool water, watching Kaya and Liana splash around with Sara. Suddenly, a shadow fell over her.
"Are you Melissa?" a voice asked with a Russian accent. She turned to see a towering man, his hair greying at the temples, his eyes sharp and assessing. When she didn’t respond, too caught in her surprise, he reached out, brushing her hair aside to read her collar. "Ah, Melissa Maurer, property of Markus Wagner," he confirmed, his tone business-like.
Panic surged through Melissa as he produced handcuffs, snapping them around her wrists. He then attached a chain leash to her collar, the metal cold against her skin. "What's happening?" she gasped, her eyes wide with fear.
Markus, who had been reading by the pensioners, looked up at the commotion. He approached, but not with the urgency of rescue; instead, he greeted the man warmly. “Victor, it’s good to see you. I hope she’s not giving you trouble.”
Melissa’s voice trembled with confusion. “Markus, what’s going on?”
“Victor here will help you adjust to your role, Mel,” Markus explained. His voice stayed calm, betraying no hint of the storm within Melissa. “Zahara said an expert like Victor could fix things between us—make things work.”
Her breath caught. Zahara’s name hit her. She had pushed for this? Anger flared, but she was handcuffed and on Victor’s leash now. She twisted to glare at Markus, his face serene, oblivious to the anger in her.
Victor shook Markus's hand with enthusiasm before turning to lead Melissa away. She felt trapped with the leash fastened to her collar and her hands chained behind her back. She caught sight of Arbek, his face a mask of anger but powerless to act, and Zahara, whose smile seemed oddly content, almost victorious when she thought no eyes were on her.
As Melissa reluctantly walked behind Victor on his leash, her mind raced. She had long suspected Zahara's interest in Arbek, but now, the thought that Zahara might be orchestrating her deeper entrenchment in slavery loomed large. If Zahara managed to sway Arbek, Melissa would lose her only ally in this nightmare.
Melissa followed behind Victor with mechanical steps away from the resort.
—
The sun spilled through the palm fronds overhead, scattering patches of golden light across the sandy path. Melissa trailed barefoot behind Victor, her toes sinking into the warm, yielding sand with each step. The steel cuffs hugged her wrists, and the leash in Victor’s hand tugged gently as he guided her forward, his Russian accent cutting through the tropical breeze with an odd, lilting charm.
"Where are we going?" Melissa asked. Her voice hovered soft and low, her toes flexing into the sand for balance.
"To The Slave Academy," Victor replied. His eyes stayed locked on the path ahead, the vibrant green of the jungle framing the scene around them. "You will learn to be an exemplary slave for your owner."
As they moved, the beach unfurled to her left, a sweep of powdery white stretching toward the horizon. Turquoise waves lapped at the shore, their rhythm steady and inviting. Melissa let her gaze drift over the water, its surface glinting like a sheet of glass under the midday sun.
If she had come to Grabesh as a free woman, this could have been an amazing holiday. She imagined herself free, swimming in the sea, unburdened by chains. No leash, no cuffs, just the sun warming her shoulders and the breeze teasing her hair. She’d swim with the vast blue sky overhead, then wander back to shore for a cold drink under a palm tree. The beach stretched endless and open, a playground she’d explore with friends, not a path she’d walk in chains.
For a moment, the thought lifted her spirits. The colors around her sharpened—the deep blue of the sea, the vivid green of the palms, the soft gold of the sand. She breathed in the salty air, letting it fill her lungs. Even now, with Victor’s steady steps ahead of her, the beauty of this place refused to fade.
As they moved beyond the settlement, the sand gave way to a dirt road, the texture under Melissa's feet shifting from soft to gritty. She stumbled slightly, her balance thrown off by the handcuffs behind her back, but Victor's grip on the leash allowed only so much leeway. She managed to regain her footing, her feet now navigating the cool, sticky mud, each step a challenge to keep her balance.
"What will happen to me there?" Her question was punctuated by the squelch of mud underfoot, the rich earth clinging to her skin.
"You will be trained in obedience, in service," Victor said, his voice calm, almost soothing, as if teaching a lesson he believed in deeply. "To make your master's life easier, happier."
"How long do I have to stay?" Melissa's feet found a small rock, her body tensing as she adjusted her weight to step over it, the handcuffed hands making the act more laborious.
"It depends on how well you apply yourself," Victor replied, watching her struggle with a hint of satisfaction in his eyes.
Melissa paused, the beauty of the surroundings—a vivid tapestry of flowering plants and the distant sound of the ocean—belying her current plight. "Are there others like me there? Women forced into this?"
"There are many women at the Academy, all learning to be better," Victor said, his pace steady, guiding her around a puddle that reflected the sky above.
"Can I refuse to learn?" she asked, her steps now more cautious as they navigated a path where roots protruded from the ground, each one a potential trip hazard.
Victor's tone was firm but not unkind. "Learning is in your best interest, Melissa. What we teach will make your life easier, make you more valuable."
Her feet slipped on a patch of wet leaves, her hands useless to catch her fall, but she managed to right herself with an awkward shuffle. "Will I be hurt there?" she asked, her voice now laced with fear.
"Discipline is necessary," Victor responded, his words measured, as if explaining a natural law. "But the Academy aims to mold you into a good slave, not to break you or cause unnecessary pain."
Melissa’s wrists strained against the handcuffs behind her back, the steel biting into her skin. The leash wasn’t locked to her collar. It was just a simple clip. If her hands were free, she thought, she’d tug that clip loose in a heartbeat. She pictured it—her fingers fumbling for a second, then the leash would fall to the ground and she’d be free.
Her mind raced ahead. She knew her legs. She used to jog regularly back home. Victor, with his grey-streaked hair and steady stride, didn’t strike her as a runner. She’d outpace him, she decided—dart into the jungle where the palms loomed thick and green, their fronds a curtain to shield her. Her breath would steady into a rhythm, feet pounding earth as she wove through vines and roots. The distance would grow, his shouts fading behind her, swallowed by the chatter of birds and the rustle of leaves.
She glanced down at her bare feet. Not now, though. The ground would turn rougher past the settlement—jagged stones and thorns waiting to slow her. Barefoot, she would not be able to run fast. Her soles were unready for the wild. Victor wouldn’t need speed then; he’d catch her anyway with her bloody feet.
Melissa's eyes scanned the idyllic landscape, the irony of her situation not lost on her—a prisoner in paradise. The mud dried on her feet, leaving a cool film as they continued towards what felt like an endless horizon of servitude.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
36. The Slave Academy
Victor had always enjoyed the raw thrill of violence. From a young age, the act of brutalizing others, had been his catharsis. It was as if the blows he delivered were a release, a way to quiet the chaos within him. Naturally, a career in organized crime beckoned him, and he thrived in that shadowy world where his penchant for violence could be both a weapon and a source of income.
When the Russian state began its crackdown on his former employers, Victor saw the writing on the wall. He transitioned to trafficking women, a move that kept him ahead of the law by allowing him to travel abroad frequently. His new clients were often the wealthy and depraved who sought women for their pleasure. They paid handsomely, but often came back dissatisfied when their acquisitions resisted or fought back. They needed these women 'softened', and Victor was more than willing to provide that service, enjoying both the brutality that came with it and the generous pay he could demand.
Victor's business frequently took him to Grabesh, where he found a unique demand among wealthy expatriates. Initially, these men engaged with the local black slave girls, but over time, they grew weary of this and sought the familiarity of white women from their own cultures. Victor catered to this shift by trafficking white women into Grabesh. Trafficking was illegal in Grabesh, but the local police were largely indifferent as Victor's activities posed no threat to them or the stability of the Grabesian state. Instead, his presence was seen as an opportunity for extra income through bribes, making him not just tolerated but almost welcomed among the local authorities. Victor liked the Grabesian authorities. At no point did they make him feel at risk of being charged or even arrested. All they wanted was for him to put some money in their hands. Victor was no stranger to this practice. He had paid off local authorities many times in Russia, at least the Grabesians were grateful when he handed them the money. They made him feel valued and welcome.
As he aged, the constant travel began to wear on him. So, Victor decided to establish a permanent presence in Grabesh. He would create a business that catered to the needs of his clientele by preparing women to be more pliable, more submissive to their new masters. This venture, the slave workshop, would allow him to escape the Russian winters, reduce his exposure to legal risks, and indulge in what he loved doing most.
However, transitioning from the criminal underground to a legitimate business brought new challenges. The market in Grabesh was already crowded with local slave schools, driving down the prices he could charge. His clients now had the audacity to have preferences. They demanded he make their slaves obedient but also wanted the women to retain some semblance of spirit, to be enjoyable companions as well as compliant slaves.
This shift was more complex than Victor had anticipated. In the underworld, he had been setting the pace and the price. Now, in the open market, he had to adapt, to refine his methods. It wasn't just about breaking spirits anymore; it was about sculpting them with precision. His years of experience with violence were a good starting point, but now he needed to go from being a butcher to being a chef. He had to be a virtuoso, a surgeon of the soul, or perhaps somewhat of a ‘spirit chiropractor’ who molded these women into what his clients desired while keeping as much of their spirit intact as possible.
Victor embraced this challenge. He saw it not as a decline but as an ascension in his profession. He was no longer merely a brute; he would become an artist, a master craftsman of obedience. His age brought not a decrease in his desire for violence but a transformation in how he applied it, a testament to his skill and experience.
Victor carved out a niche for himself by specializing in reconditioning women who had been recently thrust into slavery, a stark contrast to the local slave training establishments. These local shops primarily focused on enhancing the skills of slaves who had already accepted their fate. Additionally, there were businesses that trained black slaves captured during raids; these slaves were natives, fully aware of their captured status and resigned to their lack of escape. This segment of the market was Victor's nearest competition.
However, Victor's unique angle was in dealing with women from outside Grabesh, predominantly white and Asian, for whom the concept of slavery was entirely alien. His background in trafficking women taught him how to unravel their resistance and reshape their minds for their new life in Grabesh. He would train these women in English, guiding them through a rigorous process designed to shift their mindset, to acclimate them to their new reality as slaves. His methods were tailored to break down their resistance and help them find their place in their new home. And so while The Slave Academy subjected their charges to rigorous discipline it wasn’t just drills and whips. Victor had carved a system—including daily recreation to keep spirits alive, lessons in massage and Grabesian cooking to mold them into assets. Clients wanted obedience, yes, but also women who could ease a day’s strain or serve a meal with skill. He balanced rigor with reward, ensuring they bent without breaking entirely.
And so, The Slave Academy was born. Victor was proud of how he had turned his life of crime into a legitimate business. An old dog could learn new tricks after all.
—
After their walk to The Slave Academy, Victor had sat Melissa down in his office to talk to her. He asked her details, she knelt before him and told her everything he wanted to know. Victor was trying to get a feel for Melissa, who she was and what training she should receive. He nodded, jotting down notes, then sent her to join the others.
Dinner followed outside. She sat with other slaves on the grass and had traditional Grabesian food. It looked like tasty burritos. Melissa was surprised how well slaves were fed. They ate under the stern gaze of an old black woman who barked orders at about twenty collared girls. One had passed her a burrito with a steady glance, another smirked at the commands, but no one spoke.
Dinner ended outside. The taste of Grabesian burritos lingered on Melissa’s tongue. She followed the others into the basement dorm and sat on a thin mat. The rough weave prickled her knees. An old black woman—Zuri, they called her—paced before a line of twelve collared girls. Exhaustion marked their faces. Steel collars glinted in the dim light. Melissa’s heart thudded. Her first day left her lost in a haze of unspoken rules.
“Kneel!” Zuri snapped. Her voice cut like a blade. The girls dropped to their knees in unison. Melissa stumbled to copy them. Her legs folded awkwardly as she sank beside them. She glanced at the others. Uncertainty gripped her.
“Lock!” Zuri barked. Her stern face showed no mercy. Her eyes glinted with cold authority. Each girl reached for a chain beside her mat. Short, heavy links held an open padlock, attached to a ring bolted into the wall. They lifted the padlocks to their collars’ D-rings. Their hands moved with steady precision. Clicks echoed as they snapped the locks shut. They chained themselves for the night.
Melissa froze. Her breath caught. She stared at the chain beside her mat. The metal looked cold and dull. She was supposed to lock herself to the wall? This was madness! The other girls acted fast. A pale girl clicked her lock shut. A sharp-featured one secured hers without a flinch. Melissa’s hands hovered. She hesitated. Lock herself? She didn’t understand. Once shut, the padlock offered no escape—no key, no release until Zuri allowed it. Her stomach twisted. She’d trap herself all night.
She looked up. Zuri’s coal-black eyes fixed on her. The stare carried impatience, a silent dare to falter. The other girls tilted their heads upward. They offered their locked collars for inspection. Melissa’s chest tightened. Everyone else obeyed—swift, silent, like routine. She didn’t want to stand out. Not here, not on her first day, when fear already choked her. Zuri’s boots thudded closer. That pressure forced her decision.
Her fingers grasped the padlock. The cold metal chilled her skin. She lifted it to her collar’s D-ring. Her breath stayed shallow. She paused, then pressed the lock shut. A sharp click sounded. The chain’s weight pulled at her neck. She had chained herself for the night. No way back. Her throat tightened. A shiver ran through her.
Zuri paced the line. Her gaze swept over each raised chin, each locked collar. She stopped at Melissa. A grunt of approval escaped her lips. The padlock held secure. She moved on. Satisfied, she stepped back. “Worship!” she ordered.
The girls bent forward. Foreheads pressed to the floor. Hands settled beside their heads. Melissa followed. The chain clinked with her shift. Zuri’s boots thudded past, slow and firm. The door creaked shut behind her. Silence fell over the room.
This released the slaves from their pose and they laid down on the mats to rest for the night.
“Hey, new girl—still awake?” Melissa lifted her head slightly, chain clinking faintly. A young woman on the next mat met her eyes, her face pale but softened by a tired half-smile.
“I’m Hannah. What’s your name?”
“Melissa,” she replied, her voice hushed, glancing toward the door to ensure Zuri was gone.
A rougher voice chimed in from a few mats over, sounding weary.
“Jennifer here. So, Melissa, how did you end up here?” She propped herself on an elbow, her sharp features catching the dim light. Melissa shifted, the chain tugging her collar.
“I… was enslaved at the airport… I didn’t understand what was going on… My boyfriend tried to free me multiple times but it didn’t work, and I was sold off to someone. He’s in legal trouble now, and I’m here.” Her throat tightened, the memory bitter.
Hannah nodded, her eyes heavy but warm.
“I get that. I was an au pair—signed up online for a summer in France, nannying for some rich family. Plane landed, and a guy met me—said he was the dad. Drove me to a house, locked me in a basement with other girls. Next thing, I’m in a shipping crate, sold to a bar owner here who liked my ‘energy.’”
She sighed, rubbing her neck where her collar irritated her skin. Jennifer snorted softly, her smirk fading into exhaustion.
“Mine was a photoshoot gig—London, quick cash. Ad said ‘kinky poses,’ £200. Got there, they had me strip, and put me in chains for pictures. Then they told me to get into a cage for more photos. But then they never let me out. Brought me to a warehouse. From there I was shipped to some millionaire’s mansion in Grabesh. He sent me here when I wouldn’t play slave quiet enough.” She yawned, her voice trailing.
“Yeah,” Melissa murmured, their stories sinking in. “Promised one thing, trapped in this instead.”
Voices rustled faintly down the line—other girls whispering names and snippets, a quiet chorus of introductions Melissa only half-caught in her haze.
“Sophie… backpacking…”
“Lila… job offer…”
Their words blurred as Hannah leaned closer, her breath slowing.
“We’ve all got a tale—keeps us human, I guess. Rest up, Melissa, tomorrow’s another day in this crazy place.”
Jennifer grunted, already sinking back. “Sleep’s the only escape tonight, new girl. Take it.” Her eyes closed.
Melissa lay back, the mat hard beneath her, their names—Hannah, Jennifer, the others—settling in her mind like stones in a stream. A fragile link to who they’d been, shared in the dark. Exhaustion dragged at her, and she let it pull her under, their whispers fading into silence.
—
A few days earlier…
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky over Ngalawa Bay with streaks of orange and pink. Markus walked along a narrow dirt path, his sandals crunching against the gravel, the air thick with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine. Zahara’s words had led him here, to The Slave Academy. She had pulled him aside, her voice low and certain, telling him about places like this—places that could train Melissa, make her compliant, solve the problems tearing him apart. Now, desperation and a flicker of hope drove him to this low, sprawling building half-hidden by palm trees, its walls blending into the dusk.
He approached the entrance, a simple wooden door weathered by years of sea breeze, and hesitated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not just from the heat but from the uncertainty clawing at him. Melissa’s voice echoed in his mind—her sharp demands for freedom, her arguments that left him speechless, her flight with Arbek that had nearly undone everything. He felt out of his depth, a man drowning in a role he was never meant to play. With a steadying breath, he knocked.
The door creaked open, and a tall man emerged, his hair graying at the temples, his broad frame filling the threshold. His eyes, sharp and blue, studied Markus with a calm curiosity. A faint smile curved his lips, revealing lines etched by time and experience.
“Yes?” the man said, his Russian accent rolling through the word like a slow tide. “What brings you here?”
Markus cleared his throat, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I’m Markus. I’ve got a problem—a slave problem. Someone told me you might help. Can we talk?”
The man’s smile widened slightly, and he stepped aside. “I am Victor. Come in.”
Markus stepped inside, the cool shade of the room a relief after the evening’s warmth. Victor gestured to a sturdy chair across from a desk. Markus sat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“So,” Victor began, settling into his own chair. He leaned back, his posture relaxed but his gaze intent. “Tell me about this slave of yours.”
Markus exhaled, the words tumbling out before he could refine them. “Her name’s Melissa. She won’t stop fighting me. She argues all the time, demands I let her go. She even tried to run once, with a friend who’s in jail now because of it. I don’t know what I’m doing, Victor. I thought I could handle this, but I’m in over my head.”
Victor nodded, his expression softening with a fatherly warmth that caught Markus off guard. He steepled his fingers, resting his chin against them as he listened. When Markus finished, Victor leaned forward, his voice steady and measured.
“Let me guess,” Victor said. “She wasn’t born a slave, was she? Came into it later in life?”
Markus nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah. She wasn’t always like this. She has only recently become a slave.”
“And you,” Victor continued, his tone gentle but probing. “You’re not from here, are you? A Westerner, maybe? New to owning someone?”
“Yeah,” Markus admitted, his shoulders slumping. “I’m from Germany. This whole thing—it’s not what I’m used to.”
Victor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So you want her to obey you, but you don’t know how to get her there. You feel lost in this role—unsure what being her master even means?”
Markus let out a short, rueful laugh. “That’s it. Exactly. I’m trying, but I don’t know how to make it work.”
Victor leaned forward, his voice steady and measured. “What you describe is common, Markus. I see this often—slaves who come to it late, fighting against it, and masters like you, new to the game, struggling to find their footing. You’ve come to the right place, then. The Slave Academy can fix that. We train women to be obedient, to understand their duties. But it’s not just about her.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch for a moment before continuing. “It’s a bond that needs shaping—she submits, you command. We’ll make sure you both learn your parts.”
Markus leaned back, his fingers loosening their grip. The idea rolled through his mind, a mix of relief and intrigue washing over him. “That sounds… interesting,” he said, his voice cautious but curious. “Training her to obey, teaching me how to manage her—it could solve a lot. I’ll need to think it over.”
—
Victor stood, crossing to a shelf and pulling down a leaflet. He handed it to Markus. “Take this. Read it when you have time. It explains what we do, how we work. But before you go, would you like a tour? See what we offer firsthand?”
Markus paused, the leaflet firm in his grip. “A tour? Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.”
Victor nodded, his smile steady, and led Markus out of the office. They moved through a narrow hall, the air cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of sweat and dust. Victor pushed open a heavy door, revealing a training room. Inside, an old black Grabesian woman named Zuri stood before a lineup of fourteen slaves—all female, all either white or Asian. She clutched a whip, her voice sharp as she called out commands.
“Attention!” Zuri barked. The slaves straightened, feet shoulder wide apart, hands locked behind their heads. “Kneel!” They dropped to their knees in unison. “Worship!” Heads bowed to the floor, hands beside them.
Zuri’s eyes scanned the line. She stopped at one girl whose hands weren’t positioned correctly, stepped forward, and delivered a quick stroke with the whip. The girl squealed, corrected her posture, and held the pose. Zuri moved on, the routine relentless.
“Stand!” They rose swiftly. “Turn, spread, ankles!” The slaves faced away, legs apart, hands grasping their ankles for inspection. “Face me, flat!” They turned back and lay prone before her.
Victor gestured toward the scene. “This is where they learn discipline,” he said, his tone calm. “Details matter.”
Markus watched, his stomach tightening at the whip’s crack, but he stayed silent as Victor led him to another room. The classrooms sat empty, desks in neat rows, a chalkboard marked with faded lines. “Here, they study theory,” Victor explained. “Most are new to Grabesh—don’t know the land or its ways. We teach them some history, the role of slaves here. They also learn practical skills—cooking, serving food.”
Next, Victor took Markus down a dim stairwell to the basement. The sleeping area stretched wide, a communal space with thin mats laid out on the floor. Before each mat, a ring bolted into the wall held a chain. “They sleep here,” Victor said. “Chained at night. Keeps order.”
Markus frowned, the harshness of it sinking in. Part of him recoiled—Melissa here, treated like this? He thought of how he managed her, softer than this, and yet she resisted, ungrateful. Maybe a taste of this would shift her view, make her see how easy she had it with him.
Victor guided him to the adjacent showers and bathrooms, an open area with no doors or partitions. “Hygiene’s a priority,” Victor said. “No slave lets herself slip. They groom daily—inspections every morning ensure they stay clean and neat.”
Markus nodded, approval creeping into his thoughts. Cleanliness made sense—orderly, practical.
—
Victor led Markus outside. The slaves rested on the grass just a few steps away under the sun, sweat clinging to their skin after a tough drill.
Markus looked at one of the slaves. Her sweat drenched hair was plastered to her forehead, beads of sweat rolling down between her breasts as she caught her breath. She looked up, and their eyes met. A young white man, who looked like a teenager, paced near the slaves, with a stick in his hand. He lightly poked a girl with his stick and told her to sit straight.
Victor crossed his arms. “Rest keeps them sharp—disobedience isn’t allowed even now,” he said, his voice firm with a slight Russian edge. Markus nodded, the booklet steady in his grip.
“Thanks for the tour. I’m impressed. I’ll think it over,” he told Victor. Victor clapped his shoulder, grip strong. “Good. Let me know your choice. We help here.” Markus turned and walked into the dusk, the slave girl’s sweaty, tired look burned into his mind, a decision taking root.
Markus observed, the physical toll clear in the slaves’ taut faces. He turned to Victor. “Thanks for the tour. I’m impressed. I’ll consider your offer.”
Victor clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Good. Let me know what you decide. We’re here to help.”
As Markus walked back into the fading light, the leaflet in his hand, the Academy’s walls loomed behind him. He thought to himself: this could work for Melissa. A stint here, under this rigor, might make her value the lighter days with him. The life with him with beach volleyball, pool swims, nice food and a soft bed were a life far kinder than how slaves were treated here. The path ahead felt less uncertain now, a choice taking shape.
Victor had always enjoyed the raw thrill of violence. From a young age, the act of brutalizing others, had been his catharsis. It was as if the blows he delivered were a release, a way to quiet the chaos within him. Naturally, a career in organized crime beckoned him, and he thrived in that shadowy world where his penchant for violence could be both a weapon and a source of income.
When the Russian state began its crackdown on his former employers, Victor saw the writing on the wall. He transitioned to trafficking women, a move that kept him ahead of the law by allowing him to travel abroad frequently. His new clients were often the wealthy and depraved who sought women for their pleasure. They paid handsomely, but often came back dissatisfied when their acquisitions resisted or fought back. They needed these women 'softened', and Victor was more than willing to provide that service, enjoying both the brutality that came with it and the generous pay he could demand.
Victor's business frequently took him to Grabesh, where he found a unique demand among wealthy expatriates. Initially, these men engaged with the local black slave girls, but over time, they grew weary of this and sought the familiarity of white women from their own cultures. Victor catered to this shift by trafficking white women into Grabesh. Trafficking was illegal in Grabesh, but the local police were largely indifferent as Victor's activities posed no threat to them or the stability of the Grabesian state. Instead, his presence was seen as an opportunity for extra income through bribes, making him not just tolerated but almost welcomed among the local authorities. Victor liked the Grabesian authorities. At no point did they make him feel at risk of being charged or even arrested. All they wanted was for him to put some money in their hands. Victor was no stranger to this practice. He had paid off local authorities many times in Russia, at least the Grabesians were grateful when he handed them the money. They made him feel valued and welcome.
As he aged, the constant travel began to wear on him. So, Victor decided to establish a permanent presence in Grabesh. He would create a business that catered to the needs of his clientele by preparing women to be more pliable, more submissive to their new masters. This venture, the slave workshop, would allow him to escape the Russian winters, reduce his exposure to legal risks, and indulge in what he loved doing most.
However, transitioning from the criminal underground to a legitimate business brought new challenges. The market in Grabesh was already crowded with local slave schools, driving down the prices he could charge. His clients now had the audacity to have preferences. They demanded he make their slaves obedient but also wanted the women to retain some semblance of spirit, to be enjoyable companions as well as compliant slaves.
This shift was more complex than Victor had anticipated. In the underworld, he had been setting the pace and the price. Now, in the open market, he had to adapt, to refine his methods. It wasn't just about breaking spirits anymore; it was about sculpting them with precision. His years of experience with violence were a good starting point, but now he needed to go from being a butcher to being a chef. He had to be a virtuoso, a surgeon of the soul, or perhaps somewhat of a ‘spirit chiropractor’ who molded these women into what his clients desired while keeping as much of their spirit intact as possible.
Victor embraced this challenge. He saw it not as a decline but as an ascension in his profession. He was no longer merely a brute; he would become an artist, a master craftsman of obedience. His age brought not a decrease in his desire for violence but a transformation in how he applied it, a testament to his skill and experience.
Victor carved out a niche for himself by specializing in reconditioning women who had been recently thrust into slavery, a stark contrast to the local slave training establishments. These local shops primarily focused on enhancing the skills of slaves who had already accepted their fate. Additionally, there were businesses that trained black slaves captured during raids; these slaves were natives, fully aware of their captured status and resigned to their lack of escape. This segment of the market was Victor's nearest competition.
However, Victor's unique angle was in dealing with women from outside Grabesh, predominantly white and Asian, for whom the concept of slavery was entirely alien. His background in trafficking women taught him how to unravel their resistance and reshape their minds for their new life in Grabesh. He would train these women in English, guiding them through a rigorous process designed to shift their mindset, to acclimate them to their new reality as slaves. His methods were tailored to break down their resistance and help them find their place in their new home. And so while The Slave Academy subjected their charges to rigorous discipline it wasn’t just drills and whips. Victor had carved a system—including daily recreation to keep spirits alive, lessons in massage and Grabesian cooking to mold them into assets. Clients wanted obedience, yes, but also women who could ease a day’s strain or serve a meal with skill. He balanced rigor with reward, ensuring they bent without breaking entirely.
And so, The Slave Academy was born. Victor was proud of how he had turned his life of crime into a legitimate business. An old dog could learn new tricks after all.
—
After their walk to The Slave Academy, Victor had sat Melissa down in his office to talk to her. He asked her details, she knelt before him and told her everything he wanted to know. Victor was trying to get a feel for Melissa, who she was and what training she should receive. He nodded, jotting down notes, then sent her to join the others.
Dinner followed outside. She sat with other slaves on the grass and had traditional Grabesian food. It looked like tasty burritos. Melissa was surprised how well slaves were fed. They ate under the stern gaze of an old black woman who barked orders at about twenty collared girls. One had passed her a burrito with a steady glance, another smirked at the commands, but no one spoke.
Dinner ended outside. The taste of Grabesian burritos lingered on Melissa’s tongue. She followed the others into the basement dorm and sat on a thin mat. The rough weave prickled her knees. An old black woman—Zuri, they called her—paced before a line of twelve collared girls. Exhaustion marked their faces. Steel collars glinted in the dim light. Melissa’s heart thudded. Her first day left her lost in a haze of unspoken rules.
“Kneel!” Zuri snapped. Her voice cut like a blade. The girls dropped to their knees in unison. Melissa stumbled to copy them. Her legs folded awkwardly as she sank beside them. She glanced at the others. Uncertainty gripped her.
“Lock!” Zuri barked. Her stern face showed no mercy. Her eyes glinted with cold authority. Each girl reached for a chain beside her mat. Short, heavy links held an open padlock, attached to a ring bolted into the wall. They lifted the padlocks to their collars’ D-rings. Their hands moved with steady precision. Clicks echoed as they snapped the locks shut. They chained themselves for the night.
Melissa froze. Her breath caught. She stared at the chain beside her mat. The metal looked cold and dull. She was supposed to lock herself to the wall? This was madness! The other girls acted fast. A pale girl clicked her lock shut. A sharp-featured one secured hers without a flinch. Melissa’s hands hovered. She hesitated. Lock herself? She didn’t understand. Once shut, the padlock offered no escape—no key, no release until Zuri allowed it. Her stomach twisted. She’d trap herself all night.
She looked up. Zuri’s coal-black eyes fixed on her. The stare carried impatience, a silent dare to falter. The other girls tilted their heads upward. They offered their locked collars for inspection. Melissa’s chest tightened. Everyone else obeyed—swift, silent, like routine. She didn’t want to stand out. Not here, not on her first day, when fear already choked her. Zuri’s boots thudded closer. That pressure forced her decision.
Her fingers grasped the padlock. The cold metal chilled her skin. She lifted it to her collar’s D-ring. Her breath stayed shallow. She paused, then pressed the lock shut. A sharp click sounded. The chain’s weight pulled at her neck. She had chained herself for the night. No way back. Her throat tightened. A shiver ran through her.
Zuri paced the line. Her gaze swept over each raised chin, each locked collar. She stopped at Melissa. A grunt of approval escaped her lips. The padlock held secure. She moved on. Satisfied, she stepped back. “Worship!” she ordered.
The girls bent forward. Foreheads pressed to the floor. Hands settled beside their heads. Melissa followed. The chain clinked with her shift. Zuri’s boots thudded past, slow and firm. The door creaked shut behind her. Silence fell over the room.
This released the slaves from their pose and they laid down on the mats to rest for the night.
“Hey, new girl—still awake?” Melissa lifted her head slightly, chain clinking faintly. A young woman on the next mat met her eyes, her face pale but softened by a tired half-smile.
“I’m Hannah. What’s your name?”
“Melissa,” she replied, her voice hushed, glancing toward the door to ensure Zuri was gone.
A rougher voice chimed in from a few mats over, sounding weary.
“Jennifer here. So, Melissa, how did you end up here?” She propped herself on an elbow, her sharp features catching the dim light. Melissa shifted, the chain tugging her collar.
“I… was enslaved at the airport… I didn’t understand what was going on… My boyfriend tried to free me multiple times but it didn’t work, and I was sold off to someone. He’s in legal trouble now, and I’m here.” Her throat tightened, the memory bitter.
Hannah nodded, her eyes heavy but warm.
“I get that. I was an au pair—signed up online for a summer in France, nannying for some rich family. Plane landed, and a guy met me—said he was the dad. Drove me to a house, locked me in a basement with other girls. Next thing, I’m in a shipping crate, sold to a bar owner here who liked my ‘energy.’”
She sighed, rubbing her neck where her collar irritated her skin. Jennifer snorted softly, her smirk fading into exhaustion.
“Mine was a photoshoot gig—London, quick cash. Ad said ‘kinky poses,’ £200. Got there, they had me strip, and put me in chains for pictures. Then they told me to get into a cage for more photos. But then they never let me out. Brought me to a warehouse. From there I was shipped to some millionaire’s mansion in Grabesh. He sent me here when I wouldn’t play slave quiet enough.” She yawned, her voice trailing.
“Yeah,” Melissa murmured, their stories sinking in. “Promised one thing, trapped in this instead.”
Voices rustled faintly down the line—other girls whispering names and snippets, a quiet chorus of introductions Melissa only half-caught in her haze.
“Sophie… backpacking…”
“Lila… job offer…”
Their words blurred as Hannah leaned closer, her breath slowing.
“We’ve all got a tale—keeps us human, I guess. Rest up, Melissa, tomorrow’s another day in this crazy place.”
Jennifer grunted, already sinking back. “Sleep’s the only escape tonight, new girl. Take it.” Her eyes closed.
Melissa lay back, the mat hard beneath her, their names—Hannah, Jennifer, the others—settling in her mind like stones in a stream. A fragile link to who they’d been, shared in the dark. Exhaustion dragged at her, and she let it pull her under, their whispers fading into silence.
—
A few days earlier…
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky over Ngalawa Bay with streaks of orange and pink. Markus walked along a narrow dirt path, his sandals crunching against the gravel, the air thick with the scent of salt and blooming jasmine. Zahara’s words had led him here, to The Slave Academy. She had pulled him aside, her voice low and certain, telling him about places like this—places that could train Melissa, make her compliant, solve the problems tearing him apart. Now, desperation and a flicker of hope drove him to this low, sprawling building half-hidden by palm trees, its walls blending into the dusk.
He approached the entrance, a simple wooden door weathered by years of sea breeze, and hesitated. Sweat beaded on his forehead, not just from the heat but from the uncertainty clawing at him. Melissa’s voice echoed in his mind—her sharp demands for freedom, her arguments that left him speechless, her flight with Arbek that had nearly undone everything. He felt out of his depth, a man drowning in a role he was never meant to play. With a steadying breath, he knocked.
The door creaked open, and a tall man emerged, his hair graying at the temples, his broad frame filling the threshold. His eyes, sharp and blue, studied Markus with a calm curiosity. A faint smile curved his lips, revealing lines etched by time and experience.
“Yes?” the man said, his Russian accent rolling through the word like a slow tide. “What brings you here?”
Markus cleared his throat, his hands fidgeting at his sides. “I’m Markus. I’ve got a problem—a slave problem. Someone told me you might help. Can we talk?”
The man’s smile widened slightly, and he stepped aside. “I am Victor. Come in.”
Markus stepped inside, the cool shade of the room a relief after the evening’s warmth. Victor gestured to a sturdy chair across from a desk. Markus sat, his hands clasped tightly in his lap.
“So,” Victor began, settling into his own chair. He leaned back, his posture relaxed but his gaze intent. “Tell me about this slave of yours.”
Markus exhaled, the words tumbling out before he could refine them. “Her name’s Melissa. She won’t stop fighting me. She argues all the time, demands I let her go. She even tried to run once, with a friend who’s in jail now because of it. I don’t know what I’m doing, Victor. I thought I could handle this, but I’m in over my head.”
Victor nodded, his expression softening with a fatherly warmth that caught Markus off guard. He steepled his fingers, resting his chin against them as he listened. When Markus finished, Victor leaned forward, his voice steady and measured.
“Let me guess,” Victor said. “She wasn’t born a slave, was she? Came into it later in life?”
Markus nodded, his brow furrowing slightly. “Yeah. She wasn’t always like this. She has only recently become a slave.”
“And you,” Victor continued, his tone gentle but probing. “You’re not from here, are you? A Westerner, maybe? New to owning someone?”
“Yeah,” Markus admitted, his shoulders slumping. “I’m from Germany. This whole thing—it’s not what I’m used to.”
Victor tilted his head, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “So you want her to obey you, but you don’t know how to get her there. You feel lost in this role—unsure what being her master even means?”
Markus let out a short, rueful laugh. “That’s it. Exactly. I’m trying, but I don’t know how to make it work.”
Victor leaned forward, his voice steady and measured. “What you describe is common, Markus. I see this often—slaves who come to it late, fighting against it, and masters like you, new to the game, struggling to find their footing. You’ve come to the right place, then. The Slave Academy can fix that. We train women to be obedient, to understand their duties. But it’s not just about her.”
He paused, letting the silence stretch for a moment before continuing. “It’s a bond that needs shaping—she submits, you command. We’ll make sure you both learn your parts.”
Markus leaned back, his fingers loosening their grip. The idea rolled through his mind, a mix of relief and intrigue washing over him. “That sounds… interesting,” he said, his voice cautious but curious. “Training her to obey, teaching me how to manage her—it could solve a lot. I’ll need to think it over.”
—
Victor stood, crossing to a shelf and pulling down a leaflet. He handed it to Markus. “Take this. Read it when you have time. It explains what we do, how we work. But before you go, would you like a tour? See what we offer firsthand?”
Markus paused, the leaflet firm in his grip. “A tour? Yeah, I’d like that. Thanks.”
Victor nodded, his smile steady, and led Markus out of the office. They moved through a narrow hall, the air cooler here, tinged with the faint scent of sweat and dust. Victor pushed open a heavy door, revealing a training room. Inside, an old black Grabesian woman named Zuri stood before a lineup of fourteen slaves—all female, all either white or Asian. She clutched a whip, her voice sharp as she called out commands.
“Attention!” Zuri barked. The slaves straightened, feet shoulder wide apart, hands locked behind their heads. “Kneel!” They dropped to their knees in unison. “Worship!” Heads bowed to the floor, hands beside them.
Zuri’s eyes scanned the line. She stopped at one girl whose hands weren’t positioned correctly, stepped forward, and delivered a quick stroke with the whip. The girl squealed, corrected her posture, and held the pose. Zuri moved on, the routine relentless.
“Stand!” They rose swiftly. “Turn, spread, ankles!” The slaves faced away, legs apart, hands grasping their ankles for inspection. “Face me, flat!” They turned back and lay prone before her.
Victor gestured toward the scene. “This is where they learn discipline,” he said, his tone calm. “Details matter.”
Markus watched, his stomach tightening at the whip’s crack, but he stayed silent as Victor led him to another room. The classrooms sat empty, desks in neat rows, a chalkboard marked with faded lines. “Here, they study theory,” Victor explained. “Most are new to Grabesh—don’t know the land or its ways. We teach them some history, the role of slaves here. They also learn practical skills—cooking, serving food.”
Next, Victor took Markus down a dim stairwell to the basement. The sleeping area stretched wide, a communal space with thin mats laid out on the floor. Before each mat, a ring bolted into the wall held a chain. “They sleep here,” Victor said. “Chained at night. Keeps order.”
Markus frowned, the harshness of it sinking in. Part of him recoiled—Melissa here, treated like this? He thought of how he managed her, softer than this, and yet she resisted, ungrateful. Maybe a taste of this would shift her view, make her see how easy she had it with him.
Victor guided him to the adjacent showers and bathrooms, an open area with no doors or partitions. “Hygiene’s a priority,” Victor said. “No slave lets herself slip. They groom daily—inspections every morning ensure they stay clean and neat.”
Markus nodded, approval creeping into his thoughts. Cleanliness made sense—orderly, practical.
—
Victor led Markus outside. The slaves rested on the grass just a few steps away under the sun, sweat clinging to their skin after a tough drill.
Markus looked at one of the slaves. Her sweat drenched hair was plastered to her forehead, beads of sweat rolling down between her breasts as she caught her breath. She looked up, and their eyes met. A young white man, who looked like a teenager, paced near the slaves, with a stick in his hand. He lightly poked a girl with his stick and told her to sit straight.
Victor crossed his arms. “Rest keeps them sharp—disobedience isn’t allowed even now,” he said, his voice firm with a slight Russian edge. Markus nodded, the booklet steady in his grip.
“Thanks for the tour. I’m impressed. I’ll think it over,” he told Victor. Victor clapped his shoulder, grip strong. “Good. Let me know your choice. We help here.” Markus turned and walked into the dusk, the slave girl’s sweaty, tired look burned into his mind, a decision taking root.
Markus observed, the physical toll clear in the slaves’ taut faces. He turned to Victor. “Thanks for the tour. I’m impressed. I’ll consider your offer.”
Victor clapped him on the shoulder, his grip firm. “Good. Let me know what you decide. We’re here to help.”
As Markus walked back into the fading light, the leaflet in his hand, the Academy’s walls loomed behind him. He thought to himself: this could work for Melissa. A stint here, under this rigor, might make her value the lighter days with him. The life with him with beach volleyball, pool swims, nice food and a soft bed were a life far kinder than how slaves were treated here. The path ahead felt less uncertain now, a choice taking shape.
Last edited by hoggle123 on Sun Mar 16, 2025 3:13 pm, edited 5 times in total.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
37. Crossing Borders
Markus felt uneasy. The thought of someone in England noticing Melissa’s absence troubled him. He understood the risks—questions, investigations, maybe legal trouble if anyone traced her back to him. He decided on a solution. Switzerland offered a place to study without the threat of English authorities.
With Melissa kept at The Slave Academy, Markus had the time to organize his move. He packed up his life in England. Memories and belongings filled boxes unevenly. Then he relocated to Switzerland’s safety.
Markus stood in his new flat in Zürich. Boxes piled high around him. The faint hum of the city drifted through the window. He wanted to mend things with Melissa—perhaps free her or at least restore some piece of their old life. Yet her defiance always cut deep. Her voice demanded what he couldn’t give. He had spent most of his savings to save her from the auction block, to keep her with him. Still, she only wanted to get away from him. Victor’s advice echoed in his mind—she had to learn her place and he had to learn to lead her. Those ideas clashed with the man he once was. Could he turn into the master Melissa needed him to be? His hand gripped a taped box. Guilt clashed with a cold, settling resolve. Maybe Victor had a point—maybe she needed to feel his authority to find her place, to view him not as a peer but her master.
He shifted, uneasy. The thought of her under a whip—her eyes pleading like they once did—twisted his gut. He’d saved her from the auction, not to break her himself. Victor’s way worked, but he’d leave the harshness to them. His hands stayed clean.
He set up his studies and living arrangements for remote work. This allowed him to return to Grabesh without losing his academic progress.
—
Two weeks later, Markus stepped onto Grabesh’s soil again. The place felt both familiar and strange. He went straight to The Slave Academy. Victor greeted him there. The man’s manner blended fatherly warmth with firm control. “Come, see what we do,” Victor said. His slight Russian accent rolled the words. He led Markus to the training room.
Inside, an old black woman, her face set in stern lines, commanded a line of slaves. The slaves came from outside Grabesh—white, Asian, all female and all collared. Among them was Melissa, her eyes catching Markus's but her body remaining disciplined, unmoving.
The trainer's voice was harsh as she barked commands. "Attention!" she called, and in unison, the slaves stood with feet wide, hands locked behind their heads. "Worship!" followed, and they knelt, heads bowed to the ground, hands beside their heads in a gesture of submission.
Markus watched Melissa. She obeyed now, so different from the woman he remembered. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. Guilt stirred in him. But a part of him—a quieter, darker one—felt relief. She seemed to accept this new life.
Victor showed Markus the courtyard where a few slave girls kicked a ball in the evening sun with occasional laughter. “A little fun ensures they bend, not break—clients want that spark,” he said, his accent rolling the words.
—
Victor guided Markus to his office after the display. There, he spoke at length about mastery.
Victor settled into his chair, the wood creaking under his bulk, and fixed Markus with a steady gaze. “So, Markus, you see her now—obedient, yes? But you didn’t get her there. Tell me, what you do when she fights you?”
Markus shifted, his hands tightening in his lap. “I… I tried talking to her. Made a deal—she’d work with me, like a relationship. Didn’t work. She kept pushing, arguing.”
Victor’s lips twitched, a flicker of disdain quickly masked by a fatherly nod. “Talking. Deals. This is your mistake.” His voice rolled low, the Russian accent sharpening each word. “Being master is not negotiation. You don’t beg her to like you. You set rules—hard, clear. She breaks them, you punish. She follows, you give a reward. Simple.”
Markus frowned, the words jarring against his instincts. “But I thought if I treated her… I don’t know, decently—sitting at the table with me, going out—she’d come around.”
Victor leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his blue eyes narrowing. “Decently? She’s not your girlfriend, Markus. She’s your slave. You sit her at your table, she thinks she’s equal. You take her on dates, she forgets her collar. No. She kneels at your feet, calls you ‘master’—that’s her place. You make her feel it, every day, or she never bends.”
Markus’s jaw tightened, a flush creeping up his neck. “I get that, but I can’t treat her like a slave—not fully. She was someone to me before all this.”
Victor’s gaze hardened, his tone cutting through like a blade. “That’s why you have problems, Markus. She is your slave—law says it, collar says it—but you treat her like a girlfriend. Mixed signals. She fights because you let her think she can be that girl again. She can’t. Not while she’s yours. And as long as she’s your slave, she’ll never be your girlfriend.”
Markus blinked, the weight of it sinking in. “So I just… define it? Make her see it?”
“Da,” Victor said, nodding sharply. “It’s your duty as master. She needs you to lead, to show her where she stands. You send clear signals—rules, punishment, reward—she follows. You waver, she rebels. We don’t just train slaves here, Markus. We train masters too. You learn this, she learns her place.”
Markus leaned back, his brow furrowing as he chewed on the thought. “Her place… I can see that. She can’t be my girlfriend while she’s my slave. And I can’t free her—she’d ruin me back home.” His voice dipped, almost to himself. “But what about love? I wanted that with her.”
Victor let out a short, gruff laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Love, Markus? It’s a trap. Fades fast and leaves you soft. Women use it like a leash—get you running their errands, bending to their whims. You’ve seen it back home, all those guys jumping through hoops just to keep someone happy.”
Markus shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing. “I used to think that’s how it worked—what I grew up hearing. Do the right thing, and it all pays off. Guess I was wrong.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk tugging his lips. “Pays off how? You’re twenty, a student, and where’s it got you? No girl, no sex—just rules you followed like a kid hoping for a prize. That’s what they teach you over there, right? Be good, wait your turn?”
Markus nodded slowly, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah. And it’s left me with nothing.”
“Exactly,” Victor said, leaning forward, his voice low and firm. “It’s a lie they sell you—keeps you weak, chasing something that’s not there. Power, control, obedience—that’s real. You can hold it, build on it. Time to grow up, Markus. Leave that Western fairy tale behind.”
Markus went still, Victor’s words striking a chord. He’d heard echoes of this before—those pensioners at the resort, had talked to him about society’s norms drained men by making them serve the interests of others. Love as another trick, another leash. His fingers tapped the armrest, slow and deliberate. “Pursue power instead of love,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s the way to go. I should pursue something I can actually get.”
Victor’s smile curled, approval glinting in his eyes. “Exactly. Rational man picks what he can get, not what always slips away. Start there—command, don’t ask. Show her you’re her owner, not her lover.”
Markus nodded, the logic settling into place despite the ache in his chest. Victor’s certainty anchored him, pulling him from the tangle of his old hopes. “Command, not ask,” he said, voice firmer now. “I’ll try that.”
Victor leaned back, satisfied. “You learn this, she learns too.”
—
Before he left, Markus requested another look at Melissa. Victor led Markus to the outdoor exercise area, where slaves crawled across the grass under the hot sun, Zuri pacing with her stick.
Melissa moved with them, her knees digging into the earth. Rage pulsed in her chest for making her to inch along, as a naked slave at Zuri’s mercy.
Jennifer, nearby, hissed under her breath, “Feels like we’re worms racing a bird—thanks, Zuri for the experience.”
Hannah, crawling beside her, leaned close and whispered, “She’s just jealous how fast we can crawl.” Her voice carried the steady calm Melissa remembered from that first night.
Their words faded into the group’s shuffle, unheard by Zuri, and Melissa let out a faint huff of a laugh, their quiet sarcasm lifting her spirits a bit.
Victor crossed his arms. “This teaches obedience,” he said. “We push them hard—relentlessly hard. They learn orders stand, no matter the exhaustion, no matter the pain. Disobedience isn’t an option here. This is their life now: obedience above all, fitness for service.”
Zuri struck a girl who faltered, her pace too slow, and the girl cried out in pain but pushed harder.
Ahead, Jennifer muttered low, “Zuri enjoys this way too much—that grumpy old witch.”
Markus observed. Unease pulled at him. The training’s harshness unsettled him. But her escape had shown him talk wasn’t enough—Victor was an expert at this, so he had to give it a try. He believed Melissa needed this shaping for their future together. Too much hung in the balance—legal ruin back home if she never accepted him. He turned away. The sounds of obedience and discipline followed him. They were the path he had chosen for them both.
Markus felt uneasy. The thought of someone in England noticing Melissa’s absence troubled him. He understood the risks—questions, investigations, maybe legal trouble if anyone traced her back to him. He decided on a solution. Switzerland offered a place to study without the threat of English authorities.
With Melissa kept at The Slave Academy, Markus had the time to organize his move. He packed up his life in England. Memories and belongings filled boxes unevenly. Then he relocated to Switzerland’s safety.
Markus stood in his new flat in Zürich. Boxes piled high around him. The faint hum of the city drifted through the window. He wanted to mend things with Melissa—perhaps free her or at least restore some piece of their old life. Yet her defiance always cut deep. Her voice demanded what he couldn’t give. He had spent most of his savings to save her from the auction block, to keep her with him. Still, she only wanted to get away from him. Victor’s advice echoed in his mind—she had to learn her place and he had to learn to lead her. Those ideas clashed with the man he once was. Could he turn into the master Melissa needed him to be? His hand gripped a taped box. Guilt clashed with a cold, settling resolve. Maybe Victor had a point—maybe she needed to feel his authority to find her place, to view him not as a peer but her master.
He shifted, uneasy. The thought of her under a whip—her eyes pleading like they once did—twisted his gut. He’d saved her from the auction, not to break her himself. Victor’s way worked, but he’d leave the harshness to them. His hands stayed clean.
He set up his studies and living arrangements for remote work. This allowed him to return to Grabesh without losing his academic progress.
—
Two weeks later, Markus stepped onto Grabesh’s soil again. The place felt both familiar and strange. He went straight to The Slave Academy. Victor greeted him there. The man’s manner blended fatherly warmth with firm control. “Come, see what we do,” Victor said. His slight Russian accent rolled the words. He led Markus to the training room.
Inside, an old black woman, her face set in stern lines, commanded a line of slaves. The slaves came from outside Grabesh—white, Asian, all female and all collared. Among them was Melissa, her eyes catching Markus's but her body remaining disciplined, unmoving.
The trainer's voice was harsh as she barked commands. "Attention!" she called, and in unison, the slaves stood with feet wide, hands locked behind their heads. "Worship!" followed, and they knelt, heads bowed to the ground, hands beside their heads in a gesture of submission.
Markus watched Melissa. She obeyed now, so different from the woman he remembered. He wasn't sure how he felt about this. Guilt stirred in him. But a part of him—a quieter, darker one—felt relief. She seemed to accept this new life.
Victor showed Markus the courtyard where a few slave girls kicked a ball in the evening sun with occasional laughter. “A little fun ensures they bend, not break—clients want that spark,” he said, his accent rolling the words.
—
Victor guided Markus to his office after the display. There, he spoke at length about mastery.
Victor settled into his chair, the wood creaking under his bulk, and fixed Markus with a steady gaze. “So, Markus, you see her now—obedient, yes? But you didn’t get her there. Tell me, what you do when she fights you?”
Markus shifted, his hands tightening in his lap. “I… I tried talking to her. Made a deal—she’d work with me, like a relationship. Didn’t work. She kept pushing, arguing.”
Victor’s lips twitched, a flicker of disdain quickly masked by a fatherly nod. “Talking. Deals. This is your mistake.” His voice rolled low, the Russian accent sharpening each word. “Being master is not negotiation. You don’t beg her to like you. You set rules—hard, clear. She breaks them, you punish. She follows, you give a reward. Simple.”
Markus frowned, the words jarring against his instincts. “But I thought if I treated her… I don’t know, decently—sitting at the table with me, going out—she’d come around.”
Victor leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his blue eyes narrowing. “Decently? She’s not your girlfriend, Markus. She’s your slave. You sit her at your table, she thinks she’s equal. You take her on dates, she forgets her collar. No. She kneels at your feet, calls you ‘master’—that’s her place. You make her feel it, every day, or she never bends.”
Markus’s jaw tightened, a flush creeping up his neck. “I get that, but I can’t treat her like a slave—not fully. She was someone to me before all this.”
Victor’s gaze hardened, his tone cutting through like a blade. “That’s why you have problems, Markus. She is your slave—law says it, collar says it—but you treat her like a girlfriend. Mixed signals. She fights because you let her think she can be that girl again. She can’t. Not while she’s yours. And as long as she’s your slave, she’ll never be your girlfriend.”
Markus blinked, the weight of it sinking in. “So I just… define it? Make her see it?”
“Da,” Victor said, nodding sharply. “It’s your duty as master. She needs you to lead, to show her where she stands. You send clear signals—rules, punishment, reward—she follows. You waver, she rebels. We don’t just train slaves here, Markus. We train masters too. You learn this, she learns her place.”
Markus leaned back, his brow furrowing as he chewed on the thought. “Her place… I can see that. She can’t be my girlfriend while she’s my slave. And I can’t free her—she’d ruin me back home.” His voice dipped, almost to himself. “But what about love? I wanted that with her.”
Victor let out a short, gruff laugh, shaking his head slightly. “Love, Markus? It’s a trap. Fades fast and leaves you soft. Women use it like a leash—get you running their errands, bending to their whims. You’ve seen it back home, all those guys jumping through hoops just to keep someone happy.”
Markus shifted in his seat, his brow furrowing. “I used to think that’s how it worked—what I grew up hearing. Do the right thing, and it all pays off. Guess I was wrong.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, a faint smirk tugging his lips. “Pays off how? You’re twenty, a student, and where’s it got you? No girl, no sex—just rules you followed like a kid hoping for a prize. That’s what they teach you over there, right? Be good, wait your turn?”
Markus nodded slowly, a flush creeping up his neck. “Yeah. And it’s left me with nothing.”
“Exactly,” Victor said, leaning forward, his voice low and firm. “It’s a lie they sell you—keeps you weak, chasing something that’s not there. Power, control, obedience—that’s real. You can hold it, build on it. Time to grow up, Markus. Leave that Western fairy tale behind.”
Markus went still, Victor’s words striking a chord. He’d heard echoes of this before—those pensioners at the resort, had talked to him about society’s norms drained men by making them serve the interests of others. Love as another trick, another leash. His fingers tapped the armrest, slow and deliberate. “Pursue power instead of love,” he murmured. “Maybe that’s the way to go. I should pursue something I can actually get.”
Victor’s smile curled, approval glinting in his eyes. “Exactly. Rational man picks what he can get, not what always slips away. Start there—command, don’t ask. Show her you’re her owner, not her lover.”
Markus nodded, the logic settling into place despite the ache in his chest. Victor’s certainty anchored him, pulling him from the tangle of his old hopes. “Command, not ask,” he said, voice firmer now. “I’ll try that.”
Victor leaned back, satisfied. “You learn this, she learns too.”
—
Before he left, Markus requested another look at Melissa. Victor led Markus to the outdoor exercise area, where slaves crawled across the grass under the hot sun, Zuri pacing with her stick.
Melissa moved with them, her knees digging into the earth. Rage pulsed in her chest for making her to inch along, as a naked slave at Zuri’s mercy.
Jennifer, nearby, hissed under her breath, “Feels like we’re worms racing a bird—thanks, Zuri for the experience.”
Hannah, crawling beside her, leaned close and whispered, “She’s just jealous how fast we can crawl.” Her voice carried the steady calm Melissa remembered from that first night.
Their words faded into the group’s shuffle, unheard by Zuri, and Melissa let out a faint huff of a laugh, their quiet sarcasm lifting her spirits a bit.
Victor crossed his arms. “This teaches obedience,” he said. “We push them hard—relentlessly hard. They learn orders stand, no matter the exhaustion, no matter the pain. Disobedience isn’t an option here. This is their life now: obedience above all, fitness for service.”
Zuri struck a girl who faltered, her pace too slow, and the girl cried out in pain but pushed harder.
Ahead, Jennifer muttered low, “Zuri enjoys this way too much—that grumpy old witch.”
Markus observed. Unease pulled at him. The training’s harshness unsettled him. But her escape had shown him talk wasn’t enough—Victor was an expert at this, so he had to give it a try. He believed Melissa needed this shaping for their future together. Too much hung in the balance—legal ruin back home if she never accepted him. He turned away. The sounds of obedience and discipline followed him. They were the path he had chosen for them both.
Last edited by hoggle123 on Sun Mar 16, 2025 3:12 pm, edited 2 times in total.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
38. The Evaluation
The Slave Academy sat low against the Grabesian dusk. Mud-brick walls merged with shadows cast by palm fronds overhead. Markus adjusted the strap of his bag. The leather felt smooth against his shoulder. He drew a deep breath. Salt and sweat filled the humid air, clinging to his skin as he approached Victor’s office. A note had arrived that morning—Come see progress. Victor—and it lingered in his mind all day, a blend of dread and curiosity he could not shake. Zahara walked beside him, her steps light, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had pushed for this—urged him to send Melissa here—and now she was curious to see the result.
He knocked twice. The sound cut through the quiet against the weathered wooden door. Victor opened it. His broad frame filled the entrance. Grey streaks in his hair caught the dim light. Blue eyes swept over Markus and Zahara, sharp and assessing, before a faint smile curved his lips.
“Markus, good you came,” Victor said. His voice carried a deep tone with a slight Russian edge, smooth and clear despite his heritage. “Welcome.” He stepped aside and gestured with a large hand.
Markus entered. The coolness inside offered relief from the evening heat. Zahara followed, her presence a quiet hum at his side. Markus sat. Zahara took a spot against the wall, arms crossed, her dark eyes glinting with interest. His hands clasped tight. Knuckles turned white.
Victor took the opposite chair. He leaned back with ease that contrasted their heavy topic. “So,” he began, fingers laced together, “we discuss Melissa. She’s here two weeks now. Today we test her. How do you behave with her—what’s your approach?”
Markus frowned. The question surprised him. “My approach?” he asked. His voice stayed steady but uncertain. “What do you mean?”
Victor’s smile twitched. A trace of patience masked an inward reaction. “How do you keep her in line? Discipline her. Reward or punish—what method do you use?”
Markus shifted. The chair creaked under him. He rubbed his palms against his thighs. Fabric scraped against damp skin. “I wanted her to be my girlfriend when she was still free,” he said. Words came out raw and unpolished. “Melissa ended up enslaved and mine by unusual circumstances. She’s reasonable, or used to be, you know I tried talking, like I told you—deals and all. It didn’t work. She fights me all the time.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, a glint of judgment flashing through them. His face remained calm, almost fatherly. Inside, he winced at the softness, but he held steady. “You chase her love, Markus—that’s why you fail. No rewards, no punishment—just talk and deals. She resists because she sees you as weak, thinks she can manipulate you into giving her what she wants. You’re letting her call the shots.”
Markus frowned. The words clashed with his instincts. He pictured Melissa—her sharp words, her pleading eyes. Doubt stirred in him. “Punishment?” he asked. His voice wavered. “You mean like whipping?”
Victor’s gaze held firm. “Da, whipping, or whatever it takes. You came here why, Markus? She argues. She rejects you as master, yes? She knows in her head she’s yours. Law says it. Collar says it. She doesn’t feel it here.” He tapped his chest. His shirt dulled the sound. “What I tell you now answers why you came. It plants that truth deep inside her.”
He paused. Silence filled the space. Then he continued. “Punishment forces her to obey—simple enough. But it goes further. She suffers and still follows your word. She kneels under the whip, forbidden to shield herself, and holds the pose though every lash stings. She crawls through drills, exhausted, legs ready to give out, yet keeps moving because you command it. That cost—obeying when she wants to break—teaches her. She sees herself do it, over and over. Her mind, deep down, learns from those acts: she obeys no matter the pain. That makes her a slave, not just in deed, but in what she knows herself to be. We carve that into her core, step by step.”
Markus blinked. The logic settled into him. He had never thought of it this way. Victor’s words carried a weight and precision that sliced through his uncertainty. “That’s new to me,” he said. His voice softened, respect creeping in. “So it’s not just her doing what I say—it’s her realizing she’s mine because she obeys even when it costs her. Her own actions show her she’s a slave. That makes sense.”
Victor’s smile grew. A teacher approved his student’s grasp. “I watched Melissa two weeks. She doesn’t need much punishment. Small tokens will do. Enough to prove the point.”
Markus nodded. Victor’s certainty drew him in and eroded his unease. “Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s see it.” Zahara’s smile widened slightly, anticipation flickering in her eyes.
—
Victor led Markus and Zahara down a corridor. Cool air carried hints of sweat and dust. They entered a plain room. Bare walls echoed their steps. A sturdy table stood at the center with a few mismatched chairs around it. Markus sat in one. Zahara settled into another, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. Victor took a third. His bulk made the chair creak. Anticipation hung in the air.
The door opened. Zuri strode in. Her stern face showed no yield. Melissa followed. Bare feet scuffed the floor. Her hands hung free at her sides. Her collar gleamed—Melissa Maurer, property of Markus Wagner—proof of his ownership of her. She stopped when she saw Markus and Zahara. Her water-blue eyes widened, then narrowed with defiance. Zahara’s presence hit her hard—she knew Zahara had suggested this place to Markus, it was because of her that Markus had sent her here. Seeing her here fueled her anger.
“Stand there,” Zuri ordered. She pointed to the center. Melissa stepped forward. Her movements flowed smooth, but her jaw stayed tight. Zuri stepped back. She folded her arms. Her whip hung at her side like a coiled shadow.
Victor nodded to Markus. “Go ahead. Command her. You remember what I showed you last week—keep it firm, no wavering.”
Markus stood. His throat felt dry. He faced Melissa. Her gaze hardened, resentment flaring as it darted to Zahara.
“Attention,” he said. His voice sounded firm but unsteady.
Melissa straightened. Her feet spread shoulder-width apart. Hands rose to clasp behind her head. Weeks of routine made the pose natural, but Markus’s voice—and Zahara’s eyes—stung her. Zahara had wanted her here, and now got to watch her perform before her like a trained animal about to show off its tricks. Her chest tightened. Anger burned hotter.
“Good,” Markus said. He circled her. Her skin tingled under his look, and Zahara’s too, both sharp and unyielding. “Kneel.”
She paused. Her knees locked for a moment before they bent. She sank to the floor. Rough wood pressed into her skin. Her eyes showed defiance even as she followed. Victor stood nearby. His shadow kept her in line. She feared him—his whip, his cold control. Markus and Zahara, though—she wanted them to feel her reluctance, especially Zahara.
“Worship,” Markus ordered. His tone grew steady.
Another pause. Her lips pressed thin. Then she leaned forward. Her forehead touched the floor. Hands settled beside her head. The stretch pulled at her body. She felt their eyes—Markus unsure, Zahara smug. Hesitation clung to her, a quiet refusal they could not miss.
He took her through more—“Stand.” “Turn.” “Spread.” “Flat.” Each command met a slight delay. She obeyed. Her body bent to his will, but her spirit lagged. Her movements stayed stiff and slow. Markus saw it. Victor’s keen eyes noted it. Zahara tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging her lips.
“Enough,” Victor said. His voice cut through the air. “Upward kneeling pose.”
—
Zuri stepped forward.
Melissa assumed the pose. She straightened her back and locked her hands behind her head. Her knees pressed firm against the floor. She felt their stares—Markus, Victor, and Zahara—fixed on her. Her breath tightened.
Victor moved closer. “Markus, she hesitates. This motivates her,” he said. He nodded to Zuri. “Five strokes. Slow.”
Zuri raised the whip. Leather snapped against Melissa’s abdominal area. Pain flared, sharp and hot. She flinched, her stomach tightening, but she couldn’t break the pose Victor had ordered her to take. Zahara had wanted her trained like this, and now she watched with quiet joy. The second stroke cracked on her left thigh. Heat spread across her skin. She bit her lip. Markus shifted, his face uneasy, while Zahara’s eyes gleamed.
The third lash hit her right thigh. The sting burned deeper. Her legs trembled under her weight. She wanted to twist away from Zahara’s stare, but the pose pinned her in place. Victor’s point seared into her—her had delays to obey had earned her this, and Zahara loved it. The fourth struck her hip. The sound echoed. Pain pulsed through her side. Her breath caught. Markus looked torn, Zahara leaned in, her satisfaction clear—it hurt more than the whip.
The fifth landed on her breast. Pain seared her breast. She gasped, a cry slipping free. Her body bent forward, hands still locked behind her head. She gasped, chest heaving, sweat dripped from her brow. She fought to straighten up—her muscles shook.
Zahara’s smug face and Markus’s tense silence pressed on her. She couldn’t break the pose. Breaking position would lead to further punishment. And she refused to give Zahara the satisfaction of seeing her being whipped further. With a hard breath, she forced her back straight again, thighs quivering, hands steady despite the fire in her chest.
Victor lifted a hand. “Enough. Stand.”
Melissa straightened. Her legs trembled. Sweat traced her spine. Pain lingered where the whip had struck. She stared ahead. Resentment and defeat twisted in her thoughts.
Victor turned to Markus. “Again. Command her.”
Markus nodded. He stepped forward. “Attention,” he said. His voice carried new firmness. Zahara watched, her smile steady.
Melissa moved at once. Feet spread. Hands clasped behind her head. No pause this time. The whip’s sting drove her—fear of more pain silenced her reluctance. She kept her face blank. Inside, anger flared brighter. Zahara sat there, smug, and Melissa gave her what she wanted. It felt like a betrayal of herself.
“Kneel,” Markus ordered.
She dropped to her knees. The wood pressed hard against her skin. No hesitation marked her move. Her body obeyed fast. Her mind rebelled—she knew him, trusted him once, and now bent for him while Zahara looked on. The poses cut deeper with her there. She hid her feelings. Victor watched too closely.
“Worship,” he said.
She leaned forward. Forehead met the floor. Hands settled beside her head. Swift, precise. The welts throbbed with each shift. She pushed the pain aside. Obeying Markus under Zahara’s gaze twisted her gut. She gave no sign of it. Fear kept her sharp—Zuri’s whip loomed.
“Stand. Turn. Spread. Flat,” Markus continued. Each command flowed. She followed without delay. Legs parted. Hands gripped ankles. Then she lay prone. Her body moved like a machine. Inside, she seethed. This was their win. She had no choice but to yield, and Zahara’s quiet triumph fueled her resentment.
Markus finished. Victor spoke. “See? Small tokens are enough. She’s not ready to leave—not yet. That defiance, that lag in her spirit—it holds her back. More time here will fix it.”
Melissa knelt again at his order. Her thighs parted, the back of her hands on her thighs, her head bowed. She stared at the floor. Victor’s words sank in. Release had dangled close—two weeks might have ended it. Her hesitation, her anger at Zahara, cost her that chance. The whip’s sting proved it. Now she faced more days under Zuri’s lash, more nights chained to the wall. Her throat tightened. Defiance had betrayed her again.
Furthermore, she had proven Victor right. Her quick obedience after the whip confirmed his lesson. The pain had forced her to bend.
She remembered Kaya and Liana’s words. That it was best to give masters what they wanted immediately or one would get hurt. Their words echoed in her mind as she felt the pain from the welts on her skin.
Resentment burned—she hated that they had won, hated her own compliance under Zahara’s eyes. Yet fear held her still. Zuri stood ready with the whip. She had no way out. Her prompt moves proved the whip’s threat bent her will, and Zahara’s presence made it personal, her stare saying she’d come out ahead.
Victor gestured to the door. “Back to training.”
Zuri stepped forward. “Move,” she ordered. Melissa rose and followed. Zuri led her away.
—
Back in the office, Victor shut the door. The click sounded loud in the quiet. He crossed to his desk and sat with a sigh, his bulk making the chair creak. “Markus, her obedience falters with you—not us. She knows Zuri and I won’t bend; she feels the weight of our rules. With you, it’s different. She’s used to you as something else—someone she could sway, someone she does not have to serve. That’s why she hesitates.”
He leaned forward, his blue eyes steady. “This is not unusual. Changing what you are to her takes time. She needs more of this place—its discipline, its structure—to soften her to the shift. Leave her here longer. We’ll train her to see you as master, not a friend she can push. You’ll learn your part too. It’ll come together, but not overnight.”
Markus sat across from him, Zahara by the wall, her nod a silent approval. His fingers tapped the armrest, doubt flickering in his chest. Victor’s voice replayed in his mind: ‘She resists because she sees you as weak, Markus. She’s used to pushing you. Leave her here, let this place drill the obedience into her—she’ll learn you’re not that man anymore, and you’ll learn to lead her.’ That truth anchored him. He’d watched her hesitation melt after the whip’s crack, a sign the shift was starting.
“More time,” he repeated. His throat caught. More weeks of that—her cries echoing in his head. He didn’t want this, not like this, but Victor knew best. She’d come back whole, not hating him. He nodded slowly. “Yes. I get it now. She needs to feel it—really feel it.”
Victor’s smile gleamed. Approval shone in his eyes. “Good. You learn fast. We’ll get her there.”
—
Zuri marched her to a mat-strewn room. Her stern face bore lines of age. Melissa’s steps dragged. The whip’s welts ached when she moved. Her mind churned. She could have been released—after two weeks, after passing the test. The test had been a chance to leave this place. Her resistance to obey and Victor’s judgment had snatched it away. Her pauses, her glare at Zahara—they had earned her the lashes, and now more time in this place. More days here stretched awaited her now, Zuri’s shouts, the clinking of chains at night, the endless crawling through drills. Her defiance had cost her. She clenched her fists. Anger burned, but despair crept in. How long could she fight this?
A dozen slaves knelt in rows, their collars were dull in the dim light. Shelves along one wall held jars of oil and folded cloths. A low table stood at the center, its wood scuffed from use. The room smelled of herbs and exertion. This was a space for lessons beyond slave poses.
Zuri halted. Her stern face swept over the group. “Pair up,” she barked. The slaves shifted into twos. Melissa knelt beside Hannah. Zuri crossed her arms. Her whip rested against her hip. “Massage today. Deep tissue. You lot butcher it every time. Not enough pressure—lazy, all of you. Your masters feel nothing but your weak fingers fumbling around. Useless.”
She strode to the table and slapped its surface. The sound cracked through the room. “One lies flat. Other works the back. Focus on the shoulders—dig in, past the surface. They need to feel it in their bones. You don’t press hard, you waste my time and theirs. I catch anyone slacking, you’ll feel this instead.” She tapped the whip once, her eyes narrow. “Practice it right, or I’ll drill it into you myself.”
The slaves nodded. Heads bowed low. Zuri’s gaze lingered, then she turned. “You worthless fools wear me down—worse than broken mules!” Her voice rasped with scorn. She shuffled to the door. Her old bones creaked with each step. “I need a break from your nonsense. Get it done.” The door thudded shut behind her.
The pale girl beside Melissa exhaled. Her hands moved to her shoulders. “Her aim’s worse than a drunk toddler’s,” she whispered. Melissa’s lips twitched. The sting of the welts eased under the touch.
Jennifer next to them added, “Yeah, what a miserable old hag—bet she gets herself off with that stick at night.”
Melissa snorted—a small win amid the day’s burn.
—
At dusk, they spilled into the courtyard. Melissa hit the volleyball, Jennifer cursing as it sailed past.
“Nice one, Melissa—you can go pro once you’re out of here!” she quipped.
Later, they sat with iced tea, the air heavy with sweat and silence.
Melissa gripped her cup, staring at the horizon, her voice tight with barely contained fury. Disgust bubbled in her: The thought of how she was trapped here, collared and naked, herded like livestock.
“How is this even possible? That we’re stuck here—chained, naked, ordered around like cattle? Do you ever think we’ll get out, or are we just supposed to swallow this outrage?”
Hannah’s fingers clenched around her cup, Melissa’s heat sparking a flicker in her eyes. “I used to think I’d get out—dash free somehow. Now it’s the clank of those night chains every time I close my eyes, holding me fast. You nailed it—It’s wild to think that we can be kept like this.”
Jennifer kicked the dirt hard, her tone sharp and jagged. “Collared like dogs, chained up at night—it’s beyond humiliating, it’s a bloody insult! Animals get better. And why? Because my ‘owner’ can’t handle me saying no to his stupid perv fantasies, so he dumps me here to be beaten into shape? It’s sick!”
Hannah’s gaze darkened, her words cutting through the dusk. “Same with my bar owner—shipped me off like I’m a broken toy to be fixed. No voice, no rights—just Victor’s rules shoved down our throats. They think they can own us, break us, like it’s some natural law. It’s maddening when you say it out loud.”
Melissa’s jaw locked, her voice rising with indignation. “It’s not just maddening—it’s revolting! My body’s theirs now—to dictate every move, to whip when I falter. I’m no thing they can bind and strip—I’d claw my way free if I had half a chance! I’d fight tooth and nail!”
Jennifer snorted, her fire flaring to match Melissa’s. “Fight? Good luck—naked all day, collared like beasts, always at their mercy. You think I don’t want to smash their faces in? But it’s not like we can just shrug it off. I hate how I’m starting to take it, like it’s normal to be their damn pet!”
Hannah traced the collar at her neck, her laugh bitter and sharp. “Normal? It’s a disgrace that never fades. Their eyes—Zuri, Victor, Dmitri, the market gawkers—raking over us like we’re slabs of meat. No say, no dignity—just waiting for their next barked order. Melissa’s right—it’s outrageous we’re here at all.”
Melissa slammed her cup down, the grass jabbing her bare skin, her voice trembling with fury. “I should be raging every second! Back home, I’d have torn this place apart—told them no one owns me! But here? They all enforce it—Victor, Zuri, Dmitri, this whole rotten system. I’m naked, chained, and they’re too strong—how am I not exploding over this?”
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed, her bite softening to a grim edge. “Yeah, try fighting when one slow kneel gets you five lashes. I thought I’d claw my way out too, but turns out I’m not tough enough to beat their whips. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate it—bloody infuriates me every day.”
Hannah’s fingers stilled on her collar, her tone steady but laced with a new steel. “It’s not just their strength—it’s the gall of it. Alone, collared, no one coming—I used to dream I’d break free. Now I kneel because I have to, but Melissa’s got a point—it’s an outrage we’re even in this position. Makes me sick to stomach it.”
Their eyes met, a fierce current passing between them—anger blazing hotter now, mingled with loss and the sting of forced surrender. Jennifer leaned back, her voice dropping. “Guess we’re not the rebels we thought we’d be—not yet, anyway.”
Hannah nodded, a faint spark glinting in her gaze. “But we’ve got each other. That’s a start—keeps the fire alive, even if it’s quiet.”
The Slave Academy sat low against the Grabesian dusk. Mud-brick walls merged with shadows cast by palm fronds overhead. Markus adjusted the strap of his bag. The leather felt smooth against his shoulder. He drew a deep breath. Salt and sweat filled the humid air, clinging to his skin as he approached Victor’s office. A note had arrived that morning—Come see progress. Victor—and it lingered in his mind all day, a blend of dread and curiosity he could not shake. Zahara walked beside him, her steps light, a faint smile playing on her lips. She had pushed for this—urged him to send Melissa here—and now she was curious to see the result.
He knocked twice. The sound cut through the quiet against the weathered wooden door. Victor opened it. His broad frame filled the entrance. Grey streaks in his hair caught the dim light. Blue eyes swept over Markus and Zahara, sharp and assessing, before a faint smile curved his lips.
“Markus, good you came,” Victor said. His voice carried a deep tone with a slight Russian edge, smooth and clear despite his heritage. “Welcome.” He stepped aside and gestured with a large hand.
Markus entered. The coolness inside offered relief from the evening heat. Zahara followed, her presence a quiet hum at his side. Markus sat. Zahara took a spot against the wall, arms crossed, her dark eyes glinting with interest. His hands clasped tight. Knuckles turned white.
Victor took the opposite chair. He leaned back with ease that contrasted their heavy topic. “So,” he began, fingers laced together, “we discuss Melissa. She’s here two weeks now. Today we test her. How do you behave with her—what’s your approach?”
Markus frowned. The question surprised him. “My approach?” he asked. His voice stayed steady but uncertain. “What do you mean?”
Victor’s smile twitched. A trace of patience masked an inward reaction. “How do you keep her in line? Discipline her. Reward or punish—what method do you use?”
Markus shifted. The chair creaked under him. He rubbed his palms against his thighs. Fabric scraped against damp skin. “I wanted her to be my girlfriend when she was still free,” he said. Words came out raw and unpolished. “Melissa ended up enslaved and mine by unusual circumstances. She’s reasonable, or used to be, you know I tried talking, like I told you—deals and all. It didn’t work. She fights me all the time.”
Victor’s eyes narrowed, a glint of judgment flashing through them. His face remained calm, almost fatherly. Inside, he winced at the softness, but he held steady. “You chase her love, Markus—that’s why you fail. No rewards, no punishment—just talk and deals. She resists because she sees you as weak, thinks she can manipulate you into giving her what she wants. You’re letting her call the shots.”
Markus frowned. The words clashed with his instincts. He pictured Melissa—her sharp words, her pleading eyes. Doubt stirred in him. “Punishment?” he asked. His voice wavered. “You mean like whipping?”
Victor’s gaze held firm. “Da, whipping, or whatever it takes. You came here why, Markus? She argues. She rejects you as master, yes? She knows in her head she’s yours. Law says it. Collar says it. She doesn’t feel it here.” He tapped his chest. His shirt dulled the sound. “What I tell you now answers why you came. It plants that truth deep inside her.”
He paused. Silence filled the space. Then he continued. “Punishment forces her to obey—simple enough. But it goes further. She suffers and still follows your word. She kneels under the whip, forbidden to shield herself, and holds the pose though every lash stings. She crawls through drills, exhausted, legs ready to give out, yet keeps moving because you command it. That cost—obeying when she wants to break—teaches her. She sees herself do it, over and over. Her mind, deep down, learns from those acts: she obeys no matter the pain. That makes her a slave, not just in deed, but in what she knows herself to be. We carve that into her core, step by step.”
Markus blinked. The logic settled into him. He had never thought of it this way. Victor’s words carried a weight and precision that sliced through his uncertainty. “That’s new to me,” he said. His voice softened, respect creeping in. “So it’s not just her doing what I say—it’s her realizing she’s mine because she obeys even when it costs her. Her own actions show her she’s a slave. That makes sense.”
Victor’s smile grew. A teacher approved his student’s grasp. “I watched Melissa two weeks. She doesn’t need much punishment. Small tokens will do. Enough to prove the point.”
Markus nodded. Victor’s certainty drew him in and eroded his unease. “Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s see it.” Zahara’s smile widened slightly, anticipation flickering in her eyes.
—
Victor led Markus and Zahara down a corridor. Cool air carried hints of sweat and dust. They entered a plain room. Bare walls echoed their steps. A sturdy table stood at the center with a few mismatched chairs around it. Markus sat in one. Zahara settled into another, her posture relaxed but her gaze sharp. Victor took a third. His bulk made the chair creak. Anticipation hung in the air.
The door opened. Zuri strode in. Her stern face showed no yield. Melissa followed. Bare feet scuffed the floor. Her hands hung free at her sides. Her collar gleamed—Melissa Maurer, property of Markus Wagner—proof of his ownership of her. She stopped when she saw Markus and Zahara. Her water-blue eyes widened, then narrowed with defiance. Zahara’s presence hit her hard—she knew Zahara had suggested this place to Markus, it was because of her that Markus had sent her here. Seeing her here fueled her anger.
“Stand there,” Zuri ordered. She pointed to the center. Melissa stepped forward. Her movements flowed smooth, but her jaw stayed tight. Zuri stepped back. She folded her arms. Her whip hung at her side like a coiled shadow.
Victor nodded to Markus. “Go ahead. Command her. You remember what I showed you last week—keep it firm, no wavering.”
Markus stood. His throat felt dry. He faced Melissa. Her gaze hardened, resentment flaring as it darted to Zahara.
“Attention,” he said. His voice sounded firm but unsteady.
Melissa straightened. Her feet spread shoulder-width apart. Hands rose to clasp behind her head. Weeks of routine made the pose natural, but Markus’s voice—and Zahara’s eyes—stung her. Zahara had wanted her here, and now got to watch her perform before her like a trained animal about to show off its tricks. Her chest tightened. Anger burned hotter.
“Good,” Markus said. He circled her. Her skin tingled under his look, and Zahara’s too, both sharp and unyielding. “Kneel.”
She paused. Her knees locked for a moment before they bent. She sank to the floor. Rough wood pressed into her skin. Her eyes showed defiance even as she followed. Victor stood nearby. His shadow kept her in line. She feared him—his whip, his cold control. Markus and Zahara, though—she wanted them to feel her reluctance, especially Zahara.
“Worship,” Markus ordered. His tone grew steady.
Another pause. Her lips pressed thin. Then she leaned forward. Her forehead touched the floor. Hands settled beside her head. The stretch pulled at her body. She felt their eyes—Markus unsure, Zahara smug. Hesitation clung to her, a quiet refusal they could not miss.
He took her through more—“Stand.” “Turn.” “Spread.” “Flat.” Each command met a slight delay. She obeyed. Her body bent to his will, but her spirit lagged. Her movements stayed stiff and slow. Markus saw it. Victor’s keen eyes noted it. Zahara tilted her head, a faint smirk tugging her lips.
“Enough,” Victor said. His voice cut through the air. “Upward kneeling pose.”
—
Zuri stepped forward.
Melissa assumed the pose. She straightened her back and locked her hands behind her head. Her knees pressed firm against the floor. She felt their stares—Markus, Victor, and Zahara—fixed on her. Her breath tightened.
Victor moved closer. “Markus, she hesitates. This motivates her,” he said. He nodded to Zuri. “Five strokes. Slow.”
Zuri raised the whip. Leather snapped against Melissa’s abdominal area. Pain flared, sharp and hot. She flinched, her stomach tightening, but she couldn’t break the pose Victor had ordered her to take. Zahara had wanted her trained like this, and now she watched with quiet joy. The second stroke cracked on her left thigh. Heat spread across her skin. She bit her lip. Markus shifted, his face uneasy, while Zahara’s eyes gleamed.
The third lash hit her right thigh. The sting burned deeper. Her legs trembled under her weight. She wanted to twist away from Zahara’s stare, but the pose pinned her in place. Victor’s point seared into her—her had delays to obey had earned her this, and Zahara loved it. The fourth struck her hip. The sound echoed. Pain pulsed through her side. Her breath caught. Markus looked torn, Zahara leaned in, her satisfaction clear—it hurt more than the whip.
The fifth landed on her breast. Pain seared her breast. She gasped, a cry slipping free. Her body bent forward, hands still locked behind her head. She gasped, chest heaving, sweat dripped from her brow. She fought to straighten up—her muscles shook.
Zahara’s smug face and Markus’s tense silence pressed on her. She couldn’t break the pose. Breaking position would lead to further punishment. And she refused to give Zahara the satisfaction of seeing her being whipped further. With a hard breath, she forced her back straight again, thighs quivering, hands steady despite the fire in her chest.
Victor lifted a hand. “Enough. Stand.”
Melissa straightened. Her legs trembled. Sweat traced her spine. Pain lingered where the whip had struck. She stared ahead. Resentment and defeat twisted in her thoughts.
Victor turned to Markus. “Again. Command her.”
Markus nodded. He stepped forward. “Attention,” he said. His voice carried new firmness. Zahara watched, her smile steady.
Melissa moved at once. Feet spread. Hands clasped behind her head. No pause this time. The whip’s sting drove her—fear of more pain silenced her reluctance. She kept her face blank. Inside, anger flared brighter. Zahara sat there, smug, and Melissa gave her what she wanted. It felt like a betrayal of herself.
“Kneel,” Markus ordered.
She dropped to her knees. The wood pressed hard against her skin. No hesitation marked her move. Her body obeyed fast. Her mind rebelled—she knew him, trusted him once, and now bent for him while Zahara looked on. The poses cut deeper with her there. She hid her feelings. Victor watched too closely.
“Worship,” he said.
She leaned forward. Forehead met the floor. Hands settled beside her head. Swift, precise. The welts throbbed with each shift. She pushed the pain aside. Obeying Markus under Zahara’s gaze twisted her gut. She gave no sign of it. Fear kept her sharp—Zuri’s whip loomed.
“Stand. Turn. Spread. Flat,” Markus continued. Each command flowed. She followed without delay. Legs parted. Hands gripped ankles. Then she lay prone. Her body moved like a machine. Inside, she seethed. This was their win. She had no choice but to yield, and Zahara’s quiet triumph fueled her resentment.
Markus finished. Victor spoke. “See? Small tokens are enough. She’s not ready to leave—not yet. That defiance, that lag in her spirit—it holds her back. More time here will fix it.”
Melissa knelt again at his order. Her thighs parted, the back of her hands on her thighs, her head bowed. She stared at the floor. Victor’s words sank in. Release had dangled close—two weeks might have ended it. Her hesitation, her anger at Zahara, cost her that chance. The whip’s sting proved it. Now she faced more days under Zuri’s lash, more nights chained to the wall. Her throat tightened. Defiance had betrayed her again.
Furthermore, she had proven Victor right. Her quick obedience after the whip confirmed his lesson. The pain had forced her to bend.
She remembered Kaya and Liana’s words. That it was best to give masters what they wanted immediately or one would get hurt. Their words echoed in her mind as she felt the pain from the welts on her skin.
Resentment burned—she hated that they had won, hated her own compliance under Zahara’s eyes. Yet fear held her still. Zuri stood ready with the whip. She had no way out. Her prompt moves proved the whip’s threat bent her will, and Zahara’s presence made it personal, her stare saying she’d come out ahead.
Victor gestured to the door. “Back to training.”
Zuri stepped forward. “Move,” she ordered. Melissa rose and followed. Zuri led her away.
—
Back in the office, Victor shut the door. The click sounded loud in the quiet. He crossed to his desk and sat with a sigh, his bulk making the chair creak. “Markus, her obedience falters with you—not us. She knows Zuri and I won’t bend; she feels the weight of our rules. With you, it’s different. She’s used to you as something else—someone she could sway, someone she does not have to serve. That’s why she hesitates.”
He leaned forward, his blue eyes steady. “This is not unusual. Changing what you are to her takes time. She needs more of this place—its discipline, its structure—to soften her to the shift. Leave her here longer. We’ll train her to see you as master, not a friend she can push. You’ll learn your part too. It’ll come together, but not overnight.”
Markus sat across from him, Zahara by the wall, her nod a silent approval. His fingers tapped the armrest, doubt flickering in his chest. Victor’s voice replayed in his mind: ‘She resists because she sees you as weak, Markus. She’s used to pushing you. Leave her here, let this place drill the obedience into her—she’ll learn you’re not that man anymore, and you’ll learn to lead her.’ That truth anchored him. He’d watched her hesitation melt after the whip’s crack, a sign the shift was starting.
“More time,” he repeated. His throat caught. More weeks of that—her cries echoing in his head. He didn’t want this, not like this, but Victor knew best. She’d come back whole, not hating him. He nodded slowly. “Yes. I get it now. She needs to feel it—really feel it.”
Victor’s smile gleamed. Approval shone in his eyes. “Good. You learn fast. We’ll get her there.”
—
Zuri marched her to a mat-strewn room. Her stern face bore lines of age. Melissa’s steps dragged. The whip’s welts ached when she moved. Her mind churned. She could have been released—after two weeks, after passing the test. The test had been a chance to leave this place. Her resistance to obey and Victor’s judgment had snatched it away. Her pauses, her glare at Zahara—they had earned her the lashes, and now more time in this place. More days here stretched awaited her now, Zuri’s shouts, the clinking of chains at night, the endless crawling through drills. Her defiance had cost her. She clenched her fists. Anger burned, but despair crept in. How long could she fight this?
A dozen slaves knelt in rows, their collars were dull in the dim light. Shelves along one wall held jars of oil and folded cloths. A low table stood at the center, its wood scuffed from use. The room smelled of herbs and exertion. This was a space for lessons beyond slave poses.
Zuri halted. Her stern face swept over the group. “Pair up,” she barked. The slaves shifted into twos. Melissa knelt beside Hannah. Zuri crossed her arms. Her whip rested against her hip. “Massage today. Deep tissue. You lot butcher it every time. Not enough pressure—lazy, all of you. Your masters feel nothing but your weak fingers fumbling around. Useless.”
She strode to the table and slapped its surface. The sound cracked through the room. “One lies flat. Other works the back. Focus on the shoulders—dig in, past the surface. They need to feel it in their bones. You don’t press hard, you waste my time and theirs. I catch anyone slacking, you’ll feel this instead.” She tapped the whip once, her eyes narrow. “Practice it right, or I’ll drill it into you myself.”
The slaves nodded. Heads bowed low. Zuri’s gaze lingered, then she turned. “You worthless fools wear me down—worse than broken mules!” Her voice rasped with scorn. She shuffled to the door. Her old bones creaked with each step. “I need a break from your nonsense. Get it done.” The door thudded shut behind her.
The pale girl beside Melissa exhaled. Her hands moved to her shoulders. “Her aim’s worse than a drunk toddler’s,” she whispered. Melissa’s lips twitched. The sting of the welts eased under the touch.
Jennifer next to them added, “Yeah, what a miserable old hag—bet she gets herself off with that stick at night.”
Melissa snorted—a small win amid the day’s burn.
—
At dusk, they spilled into the courtyard. Melissa hit the volleyball, Jennifer cursing as it sailed past.
“Nice one, Melissa—you can go pro once you’re out of here!” she quipped.
Later, they sat with iced tea, the air heavy with sweat and silence.
Melissa gripped her cup, staring at the horizon, her voice tight with barely contained fury. Disgust bubbled in her: The thought of how she was trapped here, collared and naked, herded like livestock.
“How is this even possible? That we’re stuck here—chained, naked, ordered around like cattle? Do you ever think we’ll get out, or are we just supposed to swallow this outrage?”
Hannah’s fingers clenched around her cup, Melissa’s heat sparking a flicker in her eyes. “I used to think I’d get out—dash free somehow. Now it’s the clank of those night chains every time I close my eyes, holding me fast. You nailed it—It’s wild to think that we can be kept like this.”
Jennifer kicked the dirt hard, her tone sharp and jagged. “Collared like dogs, chained up at night—it’s beyond humiliating, it’s a bloody insult! Animals get better. And why? Because my ‘owner’ can’t handle me saying no to his stupid perv fantasies, so he dumps me here to be beaten into shape? It’s sick!”
Hannah’s gaze darkened, her words cutting through the dusk. “Same with my bar owner—shipped me off like I’m a broken toy to be fixed. No voice, no rights—just Victor’s rules shoved down our throats. They think they can own us, break us, like it’s some natural law. It’s maddening when you say it out loud.”
Melissa’s jaw locked, her voice rising with indignation. “It’s not just maddening—it’s revolting! My body’s theirs now—to dictate every move, to whip when I falter. I’m no thing they can bind and strip—I’d claw my way free if I had half a chance! I’d fight tooth and nail!”
Jennifer snorted, her fire flaring to match Melissa’s. “Fight? Good luck—naked all day, collared like beasts, always at their mercy. You think I don’t want to smash their faces in? But it’s not like we can just shrug it off. I hate how I’m starting to take it, like it’s normal to be their damn pet!”
Hannah traced the collar at her neck, her laugh bitter and sharp. “Normal? It’s a disgrace that never fades. Their eyes—Zuri, Victor, Dmitri, the market gawkers—raking over us like we’re slabs of meat. No say, no dignity—just waiting for their next barked order. Melissa’s right—it’s outrageous we’re here at all.”
Melissa slammed her cup down, the grass jabbing her bare skin, her voice trembling with fury. “I should be raging every second! Back home, I’d have torn this place apart—told them no one owns me! But here? They all enforce it—Victor, Zuri, Dmitri, this whole rotten system. I’m naked, chained, and they’re too strong—how am I not exploding over this?”
Jennifer’s eyes narrowed, her bite softening to a grim edge. “Yeah, try fighting when one slow kneel gets you five lashes. I thought I’d claw my way out too, but turns out I’m not tough enough to beat their whips. Doesn’t mean I don’t hate it—bloody infuriates me every day.”
Hannah’s fingers stilled on her collar, her tone steady but laced with a new steel. “It’s not just their strength—it’s the gall of it. Alone, collared, no one coming—I used to dream I’d break free. Now I kneel because I have to, but Melissa’s got a point—it’s an outrage we’re even in this position. Makes me sick to stomach it.”
Their eyes met, a fierce current passing between them—anger blazing hotter now, mingled with loss and the sting of forced surrender. Jennifer leaned back, her voice dropping. “Guess we’re not the rebels we thought we’d be—not yet, anyway.”
Hannah nodded, a faint spark glinting in her gaze. “But we’ve got each other. That’s a start—keeps the fire alive, even if it’s quiet.”
Last edited by hoggle123 on Sun Mar 16, 2025 3:12 pm, edited 4 times in total.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Dear Reader,
Thanks for reading this far. If you've read the entire story up to here from the first chapter, you have read 345 pages!
The Silmarillion has 365 pages, so we are getting there.
I've had a look at the views for each installment:
Intuitively I would have thought that a series has some interest in the beginning and then over time interest drops.
But this seems to be the other way around. It looks like the latest installments are getting more views than the earlier ones.
I'm not sure why people would start the series midway and not from the beginning. Or are these people who are rereading the latest chapters?
Chapter 32 seems to have been wildly popular and I have no idea why.
The ratings look quite stable:
Looks like people are generally enjoying the series. I'm glad to see that!
And there is no clear trend I can see in how many people take part in the poll:
Looks quite random.
As usual, what did you like, what didn't you like?
Let me know what you think and don't forget to enter a rating at the poll at the top!
Thanks for reading this far. If you've read the entire story up to here from the first chapter, you have read 345 pages!
The Silmarillion has 365 pages, so we are getting there.
I've had a look at the views for each installment:
Intuitively I would have thought that a series has some interest in the beginning and then over time interest drops.
But this seems to be the other way around. It looks like the latest installments are getting more views than the earlier ones.
I'm not sure why people would start the series midway and not from the beginning. Or are these people who are rereading the latest chapters?
Chapter 32 seems to have been wildly popular and I have no idea why.
The ratings look quite stable:
Looks like people are generally enjoying the series. I'm glad to see that!
And there is no clear trend I can see in how many people take part in the poll:
Looks quite random.
As usual, what did you like, what didn't you like?
Let me know what you think and don't forget to enter a rating at the poll at the top!
You do not have the required permissions to view the files attached to this post.
-
riskylesson
- Lurker
- Posts: 2
- Joined: Sat Oct 31, 2020 5:55 pm
- Gender: Female
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
What stands out to me is how weak and petty these so-called masters are. They mistake pain for strength; fear for respect; obedience for devotion; and Stockholm syndrome for love. The milieu empowers them but they are still pathetic, mewling slugs who will be completely duped by the masks that trained slaves quickly learn to wear. Kudos to you for realistically portraying the slaves’ emotions regarding their own bondage. Yes, they will break — everyone breaks; it’s the rational strategy for captivity without realistic opportunities for emancipation — but there is no pretense that they will embrace their degradation with willing (or healthy) hearts and minds. They may learn to find and treasure small joys and pleasures as chattels but it will always be with the conditional, inherently two-faced and anxious demeanor of a trained menial with no better option than to caper and prance for crumbs and capricious kindness. It’s a pity that (almost) no slave in this genre has loving, wealthy family. These idiotic roaches playacting as men would quickly learn that not all consequences are postponed until the afterlife (which would swiftly approach in any event). As always, I hope for eventual manumission and bloody retribution. (It may come as no surprise that I identify as a femme bottom whose tolerance for submission and the whims of foolish wealthy men is decidedly time-limited.)
- These users thanked the author riskylesson for the post (total 3):
- Toywhispers • Babaurome • Greyman
-
Toywhispers
- Commenter
- Posts: 8
- Joined: Tue Feb 22, 2022 4:29 am
- Gender: Female
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
I have to agree with riskylesson here. This story started amazing and was suspenseful but is headed down a very doom and gloom path. Markus has given up his friends and any real shot with Melissa to trade it in for a shell.
Zahara has manipulated arbek and markus both taking out a hate on Melissa. While this happens in a lot of slave-verse stories most of the characters already have/had slave mind and slave tendencies. Melissa does not.
Still i will say while I'm not enjoying the direction this story has taken it is still good writing.
Zahara has manipulated arbek and markus both taking out a hate on Melissa. While this happens in a lot of slave-verse stories most of the characters already have/had slave mind and slave tendencies. Melissa does not.
Still i will say while I'm not enjoying the direction this story has taken it is still good writing.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
I have enjoyed your story. I can only assume that he will sell her at some point because he can take her off the island without ending in jail.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Ok, this installment has been a bit more polarizing with commenters who don't like the direction the story is going, but still quite a few who do seem to enjoy it:
I want my readers to have a good experience. The original start of the story had this disclaimer:
On the other hand, a disclaimer should not give away too much of the plot.
Maybe one of these would be apt:
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian setting. It explores dark psychological transformations and power dynamics. If you find these elements offensive or prefer lighter resolutions, please don’t read this story.”
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian tale. It offers a raw, unflinching look at captivity and coercion, not a journey toward redemption. If these themes offend you, or you expect a feel-good conclusion, please pass on this read.”
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian psychological drama. It portrays a brutal descent into subservience, not a tale of love or liberation. If this content upsets you, or you favor hopeful endings, consider skipping this one.”
What do you think?
I think the last one strikes a decent balance without giving too much away.
I want my readers to have a good experience. The original start of the story had this disclaimer:
I'm wondering if the disclaimer should not just be reinstated but also amended to hint at the dark scenario it builds towards. That would avoid readers getting invested into a long story only to be eventually disappointed.
On the other hand, a disclaimer should not give away too much of the plot.
Maybe one of these would be apt:
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian setting. It explores dark psychological transformations and power dynamics. If you find these elements offensive or prefer lighter resolutions, please don’t read this story.”
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian tale. It offers a raw, unflinching look at captivity and coercion, not a journey toward redemption. If these themes offend you, or you expect a feel-good conclusion, please pass on this read.”
“This story contains themes of slavery, enforced nudity, and humiliation in a dystopian psychological drama. It portrays a brutal descent into subservience, not a tale of love or liberation. If this content upsets you, or you favor hopeful endings, consider skipping this one.”
What do you think?
I think the last one strikes a decent balance without giving too much away.
You do not have the required permissions to view the files attached to this post.
- These users thanked the author hoggle123 for the post:
- LoyalHound
-
lovethissite
- Gold Member
- Posts: 179
- Joined: Fri Apr 23, 2021 5:42 pm
- Gender: Male
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Hoggle: Loved your disclaimer repeat. If people read stories on this site they shouldn't expect reading G rated stories. From the beginning of this series I have always wanted it to move from a love story to a darker story and you are delivering thank you. These latest changes were excellent. I am hoping Zahara will be able to take a more active role when Markus is away especially when in the company of their friends. Melissa is understanding her new status and hates Zahara what better person to be her temporary Mistress. Keep up the great work you can't please everyone and who cares anyway if you don't? I'm still waiting for Melissa to be slave naked.
-
Toywhispers
- Commenter
- Posts: 8
- Joined: Tue Feb 22, 2022 4:29 am
- Gender: Female
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
It's not an expectation of a G rated ending. This started out as mistake with an opportunity for a love story in the perils of a slave world, which in many cases have good endings for those involved. It turned into a character that being markus throwing away friends and potential happiness for a shell. Nothing about Markus statements make any sense now or are true.
People do not just throw away friends like that for something so empty.
This isn't a story of a lost claim ticket or auction gone wrong from someone who has slave mind slave tendencies. Markus "saved" Melissa because he wanted to be with her. Now he doesn't have her. If he sells her he won't have her either.
I don't critique the author or the writing, but the story and how it turned from hope to doom and gloom, when there could have been, and might still be, a better path for them both.
People do not just throw away friends like that for something so empty.
This isn't a story of a lost claim ticket or auction gone wrong from someone who has slave mind slave tendencies. Markus "saved" Melissa because he wanted to be with her. Now he doesn't have her. If he sells her he won't have her either.
I don't critique the author or the writing, but the story and how it turned from hope to doom and gloom, when there could have been, and might still be, a better path for them both.
- These users thanked the author Toywhispers for the post:
- Greyman
-
Belinda
- Platinum Member
- Posts: 201
- Joined: Sun Nov 03, 2019 1:33 pm
- Location: illinois
- Gender: Female
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
So love how you have taken this story. These last chapters sure make this submissive's blood boil.
Yours truly,
Belinda
Yours truly,
Belinda
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Great chanter, i love to see that instead of Markus becoming a master he get manipulat by one of Melissa's rival !
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Hey everyone,
Thanks so much for the feedback! I post here to learn what’s going through your minds as you read, whether you love the story or not. Even when readers don't like how the story is going, I want to know about that and why that is. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll rewrite anything, but understanding where the audience is, is great and can give me important pointers.
Your comments got me thinking. A few of you flagged that Markus risks turning into a flat, cold guy, who is just about power over Melissa. And I agree that is not good. I’m planning to tweak his arc to keep the conflict alive in him. That is not just more realistic, but I hope it will make him more relatable. That tension of wanting control but held back by his feelings should keep him from being just a power-driven jerk, and maybe ease the chill on Melissa’s end too. What do you think of that?
The poll’s awesome: 10 “Love it,” 7 “Like it,” only 1 “Dislike”—so most of you have enjoyed the story. For those loving the dark turn (and that blood boil!), I’m not planning to change that—just adding some layers.
Your thoughts are welcome as always!
P.S.: I told you guys there would be consequences!
Thanks so much for the feedback! I post here to learn what’s going through your minds as you read, whether you love the story or not. Even when readers don't like how the story is going, I want to know about that and why that is. It doesn’t necessarily mean I’ll rewrite anything, but understanding where the audience is, is great and can give me important pointers.
Your comments got me thinking. A few of you flagged that Markus risks turning into a flat, cold guy, who is just about power over Melissa. And I agree that is not good. I’m planning to tweak his arc to keep the conflict alive in him. That is not just more realistic, but I hope it will make him more relatable. That tension of wanting control but held back by his feelings should keep him from being just a power-driven jerk, and maybe ease the chill on Melissa’s end too. What do you think of that?
The poll’s awesome: 10 “Love it,” 7 “Like it,” only 1 “Dislike”—so most of you have enjoyed the story. For those loving the dark turn (and that blood boil!), I’m not planning to change that—just adding some layers.
Your thoughts are welcome as always!
P.S.: I told you guys there would be consequences!
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
It's so good ! Best erotica I've read so far, on par with Antebellum School project ! Can't wait for the next chapter
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Hey Babaurome,
Thanks so much for the amazing feedback! I’m thrilled you’re enjoying The Making of a Slave and that it’s hitting the mark for you. 'Best erotica' is high praise! I’m really sorry I haven’t posted in a while—life got busy, and I’ve found the chapters at The Slave Academy tougher to write than I expected. They’ve been a challenge to get just right, but I’m still plugging away at it. I’m hoping to have another update ready to share soon, so stay tuned! It means a lot to know you love the story. It keeps me motivated to keep going. Thanks again!
Cheers,
Hoggle.
Thanks so much for the amazing feedback! I’m thrilled you’re enjoying The Making of a Slave and that it’s hitting the mark for you. 'Best erotica' is high praise! I’m really sorry I haven’t posted in a while—life got busy, and I’ve found the chapters at The Slave Academy tougher to write than I expected. They’ve been a challenge to get just right, but I’m still plugging away at it. I’m hoping to have another update ready to share soon, so stay tuned! It means a lot to know you love the story. It keeps me motivated to keep going. Thanks again!
Cheers,
Hoggle.
Re: Slaves Don't Need Visas Ch. 34-38
Thanks for your response! I do understand that life can get in the way of things, especially when it comes to things that you kindly share with us freely!
Yeah I understand that the academy can be tough to Wright, how do you train someone to become submissive ?
Thanks you so much for the hard work
Yeah I understand that the academy can be tough to Wright, how do you train someone to become submissive ?
Thanks you so much for the hard work