At The Slave Academy
Carla’s bare feet shuffled on the dusty path as Juma tugged her chain leash, leading her to the main building of The Slave Academy, its stone facade interrupting a wire fence that encircled the compound. The fence gleamed under the sun, its mesh deceptively neat and pretty, like a garden trellis, but barbed wire coiled at its top and base, sharp and cruel, a barrier no naked slave could cross without tearing skin. A tall man with a thick Russian accent opened the heavy door, his broad frame looming in the entrance. An old black woman, small but stern-faced, stood just behind him, her braided whip coiled at her hip, dark eyes raking over Carla’s pale skin as if sizing up livestock for a master’s pleasure.
“Hey, I’m Victor, your colleague made a booking with us,” the man said to Juma. “Come to my office, we’ll discuss the training. Zuri will take the girl.”
Juma unlocked the padlock on Carla’s leash with a click, the chain falling free from her collar.
“Follow me,” Zuri said, as she turned and led Carla through the main building’s dim interior. They stepped out an exit into the fenced courtyard, allowing Carla to see the wire mesh and the barbed wire again, but from the inside. Zuri’s braided whip swayed at her hip like a constant unspoken threat. Carla’s heart thudded, her naked skin prickled with dread. That whip was meant to keep girls like her in line, to sting her bare flesh, to force her to submit.
They arrived at a mudhut where voices murmured inside.
Zuri pushed open the dining hall door, the clatter of trays and scent of spiced stew filling the air. “This is Carla, she’s joining us,” she announced to the slaves inside. She turned to Carla, “Help set the table for lunch.”
Carla’s breath caught at the command. Ordering me around like a bloody servant? she thought, outrage simmering beneath her fear. Her eyes darted to the slaves, all pale-skinned, their collars glinting under the dim light. A shock jolted through her: every slave here was a white girl. She hadn’t seen any other white slaves so far, and here, there seemed to be maybe a dozen of them. She felt a strange kind of relief at seeing others like her, that she was not alone. Despite her desperate state, she was curious. Why only white women? Did this place specialize in breaking girls like her?
She swallowed hard and muttered, “I… Fine,” as she moved to the table, arms twitching to cover her chest, fingers clenching bowls with jerky motions.
The dining hall buzzed with clattering trays and murmured voices as slaves gathered for lunch. A young woman, no older than twenty, arranged stew bowls at the serving table. Her blond hair caught the dim light, strands shimmering like pale gold. Her blue eyes, sharp yet soft, scanned the room with a quiet focus. Her beauty seemed like a cruel contrast to this place. The young woman’s grace made Carla’s fumbling hands feel clumsier, her collar heavier. Two others set out wooden spoons, their motions quick and practiced. One, with a soft face, offered Carla a tired smile. The other, sharp-eyed, kept her gaze down, lips tight.
As they knelt on the ground to eat, the three women clustered around her.
“So, Carla, how’d you end up here?” the soft-faced one asked, her voice gentle with a Canadian lilt.
Carla’s eyes flashed. “My boss set me up with drugs to shut me up. I knew their deals were illegal in Ireland. Betrayal’s a bitch.” Her heart thudded at the thought of what Celtic Circuits had done to her. “What about you lot?”
The soft-faced woman shrugged, her smile bitter. “I’m Hannah. Au pair scam. Thought I’d nanny in France, ended up in a shipping container. Been here two months.”
The sharp-eyed one spoke colder. “Jennifer. Modeling gig in London. They locked me in a cage, sold me to some rich creep. Three weeks in.”
The blond girl stayed quiet, her blue eyes met Carla’s with a warmth that felt out of place in the Academy’s cold grip. Her quiet attention, the way her lips curved slightly, felt kind, almost defiant in this place of whips and chains. Carla’s gut twisted. These girls had been betrayed just like her.
Lunch ended too soon. Zuri’s voice sliced through the chatter. “Outside! All of you! Training!”
The girls filed out to the courtyard.
Carla thought how Zuri was quite old, more than sixty years old she guessed. Carla and the others were young and fit. She reckoned she could probably beat Zuri in a fight. In a fair fight, that was. But she was naked, and Zuri had a whip. That whip would be painful, she was certain. But there were at least a dozen girls in here. If they fought against Zuri, Zuri would not stand a chance. Zuri would probably not even stand a chance against two of them. Against three, she would certainly have no chance. Even with them being naked and with her whip. But she was new and had no allies, so she decided to go along with what everyone did.
As Carla stepped out, she felt the hot air envelop her body and the tropical sun on her skin.
Zuri stood at the edge, her small frame tense, her braided whip coiled like a snake at her hip. She barked orders, her voice sharp as she pointed to a simple obstacle course: low wooden hurdles, a rope net to climb, and a stretch of grass for crawling.
“Run! Through the course, now!” she snapped, cracking her whip in the humid air, the sound slicing like a blade.
Carla stumbled forward with the others, her legs heavy, heart pounding. She leaped over the first hurdle, her bare thighs scraping the rough wood, and scrambled up the rope net, its coarse fibers burning her palms. Zuri’s dark eyes tracked every move, her whip snapping to spur them on. The blond girl moved ahead, her grace defying the course’s grind, her blue eyes low with focus, as if she’d learned to push through pain. One of the girls got her foot caught on a hurdle and tripped. Zuri’s whip found her skin with a crack. The girl cried out, and covered her thigh with her hand where the whip had hit her.
“Faster, slave!” Zuri shouted, her voice like thunder. Carla pushed harder, her breath ragged, the welt burning.
They reached the grass, and Zuri barked, “Crawl! Low and fast!” Carla dropped to her hands and knees, the blades pricking her palms, dirt smearing her naked skin. Zuri paced alongside, her whip cracking above, urging speed. Another girl faltered, her movements sluggish, and Zuri’s whip struck her back, a sharp thwack that drew a yelp. Carla’s heart raced, her body trembling as she crawled faster, grass sticking to her sweat-soaked skin. Zuri’s eyes never wavered, catching every hesitation, her whip ready to punish any who slacked.
“Move, slave!” she roared, and Carla’s arms shook, her pride stinging as much as her thigh, the Academy’s cruelty grinding her down.
The blond girl moved with a grace that defied the whip’s threat, her pale hair swaying as she scrambled through the dust, panting with the others. Her blue eyes stayed low, sharp with focus, as if she had learned to bend herself to their will without breaking. Carla struggled to keep up, her legs burned from the unaccustomed strain, her breath ragged as exhaustion dragged at her muscles. She wasn’t used to this relentless push, her body faltering over a hurdle, her bare thighs scraping the rough wood.
Exhausted, she looked at the fence in the distance. The area outside The Slave Academy seemed so close. But she also saw the barbed wire at the bottom of the fence. In her naked state, she couldn’t even go near the fence. And there was barbed wire coiled at the top of the fence as well. Even if she somehow managed to jump over the barbed wire on the ground and cling to the fence, she would not be able to climb over it.
A searing lash struck Carla’s thigh, the whip’s bite a sudden, blinding pain. She cried out.
She had been whipped. The experience that she could be whipped shocked her. Her heart pounded from the pain and the indignation of what it meant, her skin throbbing where the leather had hit her.
Carla lagged behind, her face flushed with exertion and fury, her mind reeling from the whip’s lesson. Her crawl slowed, shock numbing her limbs as she grappled with the truth—she could be whipped. Zuri could do this to her if she wanted. Another whip crack landed on her back, a sharp jolt that tore a second cry from her throat. Her body lurched forward, the pain snapped her back to the moment. It was worse this time. The whip really hurt! The first hit had probably been a warning shot.
“Move, slave!” Zuri shouted. After the lash with the whip, her voice struck her like a thunderclap that shook her to her bones.
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Back inside, Zuri led them to a training room for posture drills. She paced before the line of slaves, her boots scuffing the sandy floor. “Attention!” she barked. The group snapped into place, feet spread, hands locked behind heads. Carla stood stiff, her pale skin prickling under the dim light. She spread her feet, hands clasped behind her head, but her elbows sagged inward. Zuri’s eyes narrowed, her small frame taut with authority.
“Elbows out,” Zuri growled. She tapped Carla’s arm with a stick, the wood stinging her skin. Carla flinched, her breath catching, and pulled her elbows wide. Her cheeks flushed hot.
“Kneel!” Zuri snapped. Carla froze, her face twisting with disgust. She glanced at the others, their thighs spread wide on the sand, and her stomach churned. Dropping to her knees for Zuri felt like spitting on everything she was. Zuri had struck her twice with the whip, and submitting to this woman felt like she was rewarding Zuri for that. Her legs trembled, caught between fear and fury. She collected all her courage.
“I’m not kneeling for you,” she spat, her voice shaky but sharp, fists clenched at her sides.
Zuri stepped closer, her eyes cold as stone. “Kneel, slave!” she barked, her stick cracking hard against Carla’s shoulder.
The pain blazed through her, sharp as a knife, and Carla gasped, her body swaying, but she held her ground, her breath ragged with shock. Zuri struck again, blows landing on her shoulder, arm, thigh. Each hit stung her bare skin, ripping a scream from her throat. Her legs gave out under the pain, and she sank to her knees before Zuri, her face burning with humiliation, her eyes wet with rage.
“Spread your legs!” Zuri ordered, her voice ice.
Carla’s cheeks flushed hotter, the pain and shame grinding down her will. Her lower legs scraped against the floor as she parted her thighs, as if to present her most sensitive part to Zuri. Her heart pounded, and the areas of her skin that Zuri had struck still throbbed.
Zuri faced the group, her riding crop tapping her thigh. “Why do we spread our legs when we kneel?” She stopped in front of the sharp-eyed woman, lifting her chin with the crop until their eyes locked. “Jennifer?” she asked, her voice sharp.
Jennifer swallowed, her voice flat but steady. “To show masters we’re not hiding anything.”
“That’s correct,” Zuri said, nodding as she paced on.
“Worship position!” Zuri barked.
The beautiful girl with long blond hair lowered her forehead to the sand, her hands resting beside her head, her body a stark picture of submission. The other slaves followed, their bodies folding into the same humbling pose, foreheads touching the floor, hands next to them.
Carla’s breath caught at what was expected of her. Her upbringing screamed against assuming such a position before any human. And even though she had stopped believing young, it still went against Carla’s grain. Her chest heaved as she stared at the blond girl’s graceful surrender, her pail hair spilling across the floor like a veil. The sight hit her hard. Bowing like that before Zuri, the woman who had whipped her and struck her, was too much for her. Her stomach churned, revulsion clawing at her throat.
“No,” Carla said, her voice trembling, cracking with terror and defiance, her eyes wide with fear. “I can’t do this!”
Zuri’s face darkened, her stick cracking hard against Carla’s thigh, the pain blazing through her leg. “Obey, slave!” she roared.
Carla flinched, the sting radiating, but her resolve hardened. She broke position, scrambling to her feet, backing away as Zuri’s strikes followed, each thwack bruising her thighs and arms, ripping a raw scream from her throat.
“I said no!” she shouted, her voice raw, words spilling in a frantic rush. “I shouldn’t be here, this is wrong! I’m not a slave, you can’t do this! Let me go, please, just let me go!” Her voice cracked, tears brimming as she stumbled back, hands flying to cover her breasts and vagina in a futile shield.
Zuri’s patience snapped. She grabbed a whistle from her belt and blew a sharp note.
Victor stormed in, his bulk filling the doorway, his cold eyes locking onto Carla with a satisfied smile.
Zuri turned to him, her voice tight with frustration. “Victor, this one refuses to obey. She won’t take the Worship position—keeps breaking stance.”
“We fix that,” he said, his Russian accent thick, his tone flat but eager.
He seized her arm, his grip iron-tight, and dragged her out as she struggled, her shouts echoing down the hall. “Please, I don’t belong here!” she cried, her pleas thick with desperation.
Carla’s bare feet scraped the rough ground as Victor hauled her across the yard, his fingers digging into her skin like clamps.
The sun beat down, sweat stinging her fresh welts from Zuri’s stick. Her heart pounded, her breaths coming in short gasps, her naked body twisting in his hold. He stopped at a small wooden box against the mud-brick wall, barely waist-high, its rough planks weathered and stained, no bigger than a meter and a half square.
Carla stared at it, her stomach dropping like a stone. He wanted to lock her into this? It was so small! She would only just fit. He couldn’t be serious, could he? She turned to him and saw the determined set of his jaw. Her heart sank. A cold sweat broke across her skin as panic clawed up her throat.
“No, please, don’t put me in there! I’ll do it, I’ll kneel, just don’t lock me in that thing!”
Victor’s laugh rumbled low, his free hand yanking the heavy bolt free with a grating screech. The door creaked open, revealing a dark, narrow space, the inside rough and splintered, reeking of old sweat and dirt.
“You learn now,” he said, his voice cold. He shoved her down, forcing her to crawl inside, the rough wood grazing her palms and knees, the sour smell of her sweat rising.
“Please! I understand now, I’ll do what she says!” She tried.
Victor slammed the door shut. She heard the bolt scrape on the wood as Victor locked it from the outside.
She curled up tight, her shoulders brushing the sides, her head bumping the door.
It was pitch black. She waited for her eyes to adjust, but they didn’t. She couldn’t see her own hand in front of her face. Any gaps must have been sealed to prevent light from coming in.
The air was already warm, thick with the smell of old wood and her own breath. She tried to stretch her legs but her knees hit the end of the box. Her shoulders scraped the sides when she turned. There was no room.
Okay, she told herself. Just breathe. They would let her out soon.
She counted her breaths to stay calm. One. Two. Ten. Thirty. She lost count soon.
The heat built up slowly, like someone turning up a dial. Sweat beaded on her skin, ran down her back, pooled under her. She shifted, trying to find a more comfortable position in this cramped space. But the floor was hard, and the confined space didn’t allow her much space to maneuver.
They were teaching her a lesson. She understood that. It had been foolish of her to think she could refuse and get away with it. This was some kind of slave training facility designed to break slaves. Of course they would have ways to punish those who refused. She had been stupid to push back without understanding what she was getting into.
I’ll kneel next time, she told herself. I’ll worship this damn woman. Message received. Just open the damn door.
She pounded against the walls with her fists. Once. Twice. The sound came back dull, swallowed by the wood. No answer. Her fists hurt. She stopped. They’re busy. They’ll come when they remember.
More time passed. She wasn’t sure how much. She shifted again. No position was truly comfortable. There was always a limb going to sleep.
If only she could stretch! She tried to but was immediately met with the hard wooden walls of the box confining her.
The air grew heavier, harder to pull in. Her mouth dried. She licked her lips. She heard her heart beat. How long had she been here?
She tried to count again. But she lost track at fifty. The walls felt closer. She pushed against them with her palms. There was no give. They didn’t move.
They forgot me.
A cramp seized her calf. She needed to stretch. But she could barely move in this darkness. It hurt. She put all her strength into pushing against the box, she tried to break it by putting all her will into it. But there was no give at all.
She called for help. They had to let her out. She would promise them that she had learned her lesson, that she would do as they told her.
No one came.
Carla screamed. She screamed as loud as she could. They would come and check what was going on with her. She would plead to let them out. Her gut twisted at the thought, but if need be, she would beg whoever opened the door to check on her to let her out. But if they refused, maybe she could convince them to give her a few minutes to recover. Just a few minutes. So she could stretch, she could pee, and then she could go back in. It would be easier then.
But no one came. No one answered her screams.
She began to despair at her own helplessness. She knew her confinement was out of her control. She was locked in here, and there was nothing she could do about it, regardless of how much it made her feel like she was suffocating.
She wondered how long she had been here. Was it hours or days even? Sometimes she wondered if she was awake or dreaming. How could she even tell the difference?
She hit and stomped against the walls of the box with all her might. She knew her fists would hurt. But the pain would be better than the darkness, the nothingness that engulfed her. If she felt pain, she was still alive.
She screamed again until her voice was gone, just a dry croak in the dark. Please, I’ll do anything. Just end this.
She would die in here, she thought. Forgotten, a naked body in a box.
