StripSearch

45. The Bargain

Melissa sank onto the bed in Markus’s hut Wednesday evening, her muscles aching from two grueling days of hauling trash for the council’s “character building” work. Her collar bit into her sweat-damp neck, the weight of The Slave Academy, the penalty, and her endless servitude dragging her down. She just wanted to collapse, to let the world fade for a few hours. Markus stepped in, shirt unbuttoned, a sheen of sweat on his chest, his eyes dark with hunger. His gaze traced her bare curves, a familiar ache swelling in his chest, he loved her, needed her, the scent of her skin stirring a desperate lust. Sex was his solace, a fleeting closeness he craved, and a fragile hope lingered, if he claimed her often enough, maybe she would feel something for him too.

“Up,” he said, voice low and firm, gesturing to the bed. “On your back.”

Her jaw tightened, irritation flaring. She was bone-tired, her body screaming for rest, but his command cut through her haze, ordered to submit, she had no choice.

Yet a deeper heat simmered beneath her exhaustion, one that had been building up during her time at The Slave Academy. There, she was never alone, always under watchful eyes or chained together with the other slaves for the night. She did not want to be seen masturbating by the others, so she sometimes waited until she thought the others were sleeping to do so.

Melissa suspected Victor had crafted this environment to leave them starved for sexual release, ensuring they would be more sexually willing when with their masters, a tactic that would be in line with The Slave Academy’s objective to create pleasurable slaves.

Here, with Markus, she could give in to her need for sexual release without having to feel ashamed for it. Her constant nudity, the sun and wind on her bare skin, provided relentless sensual stimuli that made her feel acutely present in her body, a stark contrast to her life as a free woman in England where, as a student, she lived in her head, disconnected from her physical self, her mind burdened with abstract theories that pulled her from the moment. Now, no longer studying, she was free of those cerebral demands, and as a slave, she was not there to think, only to obey, trained and treated like an animal, her existence grounded in the raw immediacy of her senses, stoking a primal, animalistic arousal she had never known as a free woman.

She did not care for him, his touch meant nothing to her heart, but her body craved release, and sex with him was a calculated trade, satisfy her pent-up desire, but most importantly soften him for the commitment to her freedom she would seek afterward, believing that providing him with enjoyable sex would make him more amenable to granting her some kind of promise of liberty.

She spread her thighs, her voice carefully neutral yet compliant. “As you wish.”

Markus shed his shirt and trousers, his erection straining, thick and pulsing, the tip glistening with precum as he climbed over her, his breath hot against her neck. He gripped her wrists, pinning them above her head, his body pressing her into the coarse sheets. His penis was hard and it brushed her inner thigh. The sensation sent a jolt of lust through him as he positioned himself. He pushed his penis into her vagina with a slow, deliberate thrust, savoring the tight warmth of her slick vaginal walls as a soft groan escaped his lips.

Each movement was full of lust, but it was also a desperate bid to bridge the gulf between them. His heart pounded with the hope that she would feel his love through his touch. Her compliance, the soft “As you wish” she had murmured, felt like a victory, a sign she was finally warming to him, the typical resentment he had grown used to absent from her voice, fueling his fragile hope that she might be starting to feel something for him.

Melissa’s breath hitched, her body jolted under him, her vagina swelled with arousal, the slick folds parting around his girth, a tingling heat blooming deep inside as her inner walls pulsed with need. Her breasts pressed against his chest, her nipples hardening into tight peaks, each brush of his skin sending sharp sparks of pleasure through her, the sensation a mix of relief and torment as her body betrayed her resentment. She arched into him, chasing the release she needed, her hips rocking to meet his, a low moan slipping free as pleasure coiled tight in her core.

Markus’s pace quickened, his hands sliding to her hips, fingers digging into her flesh as he pulled her closer, his penis driving into her repeatedly, the friction igniting a fire in his groin as he claimed her harder. His own release built with the raw intimacy he craved, Melissa’s gasps a melody he longed to hear as love, not just lust. Melissa’s nails bit into her palms, her climax surging despite her resentment, her vagina clenching around him, wet and throbbing, her breasts bouncing with each thrust, the sensitive peaks grazing his chest, intensifying the heat until a sharp cry tore from her throat, waves of relief crashing through her.

She collapsed onto the bed, chest heaving, their sweat-soaked bodies tangled, her mind already shifting to the plea she would make.

—

Markus’s breath slowed, a flicker of triumph warming his chest as he lay beside her, sweat-soaked and sated. Her willingness tonight, the absence of her usual resentment, felt like progress, a sign she might be softening to him, and it fueled his fragile hope that she could one day return his love, blinding him to the calculation behind her compliance.

He rolled off, chest heaving, a smug curl to his lips. She lay still, pulse pounding, the afterglow sharp with questions she’d buried too long. She propped herself on an elbow, one hand gripping the steel collar at her throat. She would rip it away if she could.

Her voice cut through the quiet, firm and deliberate. “Markus, I have done everything you asked—kneeled when you commanded, worked till exhaustion, given my body whenever you wanted it. When is this collar coming off? We need to discuss my freedom now.”

His smirk faded, eyes narrowing as he sat up. “I will consider it,” he said, his voice cold and measured, swinging his legs off the bed. He grabbed his trousers, pulling them on as he stood, leaving her naked on the bed. Melissa’s other hand clenched the coarse sheets, fury blazing in her chest at his dodge. Her bare skin prickled in the humid air while Markus dressed. Her heart pounded. After weeks at The Slave Academy—endless drills, whips, chains—she was finally alone with the man who owned her, the man who could free her. Now after having had sex with her, he was in a good mood. This was her chance. Revulsion churned in her gut. In her mind, she was a free woman, and she should not have to beg for this.

She sat up, her voice sharper, fingers still tracing the collar’s cold edge, its metal a constant reminder of her enslavement to him.

“I’m really grateful you saved me from being auctioned off, Markus. I know I’d probably be in some brothel or worse if you hadn’t stepped in. But gratitude isn’t enough to keep me like this. I can’t live in captivity forever.”

Markus paused, his shirt halfway on, his gaze flickering with something like guilt before he looked away, pulling the fabric over his shoulders.

“Mel, I… I’m glad you feel that way about what I did. It means a lot to hear you say that. But it’s… well, it’s not so simple, you know?” His voice wavered, his hands fumbling with a button, betraying his unease.

Melissa’s chest tightened, her nakedness making her feel even smaller as she watched him dress himself, something she couldn’t do. She pushed further, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

“You’ve always said you wanted me to be your girlfriend, not just your slave. But how can we have a real relationship like this? It needs to be equal. If you let me go, we could actually build something that’s not forced. Don’t you want that?”

Markus turned to her, his expression conflicted, his eyes darting to her collar before meeting hers again.

“Mel, I still want that, I really do, more than anything. But… well, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, and maybe I was wrong about how we get there. We need to work on things as they are, you know, build something strong first. I can’t just change our whole situation right now.” He shifted, adjusting his shirt, his movements a shield against her plea.

Melissa’s heart sank, but she pressed on, her fingers tightening around the collar, the steel biting into her palm as she spoke. Her voice began to tremble as she slid off the bed, standing unsteadily, her bare feet pressing into the rough floorboards.

“I’ve been trying so hard to show you that you can trust me, Markus. I’ve done everything you asked. I’ve kneeled when you told me to, worked until I could barely stand, given you everything you wanted from me. I haven’t tried to run or fight back. Doesn’t that prove I’m not a risk? Can’t you let me show you I can stay with you as a free woman?”

She began to pace, her naked body moving with restless agitation, her arms crossing over her chest as if to shield herself, then falling helplessly to her sides. There was no hiding her nakedness. She was nude, as all slaves had to be, pleading with the man who owned her, and the shame of it burned.

Markus rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flickering with guilt as he looked at her, then away, focusing on pulling on his shoes. “You’ve been really good, Mel, and I see how hard you’re trying. I appreciate that, I really do. But trust is… it’s a bigger thing, isn’t it? I need to know this is how things will stay, that we’re solid. I can’t just change everything overnight. It’s too much to figure out right now.” His voice softened, but his avoidance stung. He was fully dressed now.

Melissa’s breath hitched, frustration and desperation coiling tighter in her chest. Her pacing grew more frantic, her bare feet slapping against the floor, her hands clenching into fists as she turned to face him, her voice now shaking with raw emotion. She thought of the pensioners’ warnings about legal trouble—how freeing her might put Markus at risk—but she couldn’t promise not to report him, not after everything he’d put her through. Her anger at him, at this whole nightmare, made her think that maybe he deserved to face consequences. If she promised not to report him, it would be a lie. She never lied and with no experience at this, Markus might notice. If Markus believed she was lying to him, he would lose trust in her. And then he would never free her. No, she thought, there had to be another way.

“Okay, if you’re worried I might leave, how about we set a timeline? Let’s say in a month, if I keep showing you I won’t go anywhere, you let me go. I’ve already proven I’ll follow your rules. Just give me a chance to earn my freedom.”

Her voice cracked on the last words, desperation spilling out as she pleaded with the man who owned her, her naked body a stark reminder of her enslavement.

Markus hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as he glanced at her, then away, focusing on tying his shoe.

“A timeline… that’s… well, it’s an interesting idea, Mel, and I can see you’re trying to work with me. I just… I’m not sure we’re ready for that kind of step.” His voice faltered for a moment, a shadow of the old Markus surfacing for a moment. What if she never loved him? “I mean, I need to know we’re really solid, that this, us, is working. Let’s focus on building that first, okay?” He stood, fully dressed now, his casual dismissal a gut punch as she sat there with her freedom still out of reach. Melissa’s shoulders slumped, defeat sinking in, and a deeper fear surged within her—if she were ever freed, she’d have to face her parents, their judgmental stares, their horror at what she’d become: a naked, collared slave, stripped of dignity and forced to obey. The shame of their knowing gaze twisted her gut, a humiliation she couldn’t bear to imagine.

He turned, jaw tight, meeting her stare. “Anyway, get yourself cleaned up—Victor is expecting us.”

—

The Slave Academy’s training room hummed with tension as they arrived, the air thick with herbal oil and sweat. Victor stood by the door, his bulk a quiet command, while Dmitri lounged against a wall, whip coiled in his hand, his teenage smirk glinting. A new girl, Nadine, pale and wide-eyed, knelt near a wooden bench. Her collar was fresh and her naked body was trembling slightly with fear. Melissa’s gut twisted—another newbie, another echo of her own shock months ago.

Victor’s voice rolled out, steady but edged. “Markus, her outburst yesterday, complaining about scrubbing streets for the community work, shows she needs more time here. She should not be questioning your orders. She should not even process or judge them. She should just obey. It is like someone who has spoken English all their life now trying to speak Chinese. She can learn, but at the first chance, she will revert to what is natural. And when she was with you, she reverted to English so to speak and started questioning her orders as if she was a free woman once again. Full immersion in her role as a slave will correct this. She is good, but not finished.”

Markus crossed his arms, frowning. “She’s solid enough—obedient at home and works when I tell her to. More training just means more tuition fees I’d have to pay for.”

Victor’s lips twitched, his gaze steady as he leaned forward slightly, his tone shifting to something more deliberate, like a salesman pitching a deal. “True, the fees add up. But I’ve got an offer that could change that—something to lighten your load and keep her training on track. What if we put Melissa to work in a way that covers her costs?”

Markus tilted his head, brow furrowing. “Work? She’s already doing the council tasks. What do you mean, Victor?”

Victor gestured toward Nadine, then back to Melissa, his voice calm but carrying a calculated edge. “There’s a milk bar in Ngalawa Bay—runs on slave girls who lactate. We could get Melissa producing, have her serve there as a waitress and sell her milk. She would work alongside Nadine here, our new arrival. Their output would partially cover her training fees, easing the financial burden while you retain ownership.”

Melissa’s stomach twisted. This couldn’t be real. Her body, used like that—milked and sold? Her breath caught, her skin prickling with dread. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

Markus froze, his eyes widening as he recoiled slightly, the absurdity of the idea hitting him like a cold wave. “A milk bar? Lactate?” he stammered, his voice tinged with disbelief. “You mean… turning her into some kind of dairy slave? That’s… that’s insane, Victor, how does that even work?”

Victor nodded, unfazed, his Russian accent rolling thick as he elaborated. “Simple science, Markus. We use hormone pellets—inject them, steady release into her system. In a week or so, she’ll start lactating. Once she’s flowing, she serves at the bar—fresh milk for the customers, straight from her. It’s popular here; there is a farm outside town, the Coconut Grove Farm. They rent out their girls for it. Melissa’s pretty enough to draw a crowd, and Nadine will learn the ropes with her. Dmitri oversees them there, manages the shifts. He’s still green as an overseer, so his rate’s lower—cuts your costs further.”

Melissa’s fists clenched at her sides, her blood boiling as she listened, her body a bargaining chip again, now for milk? She glared at Markus, daring him to flinch, but he rubbed his jaw, his initial shock giving way to a flicker of curiosity. His mind churned, the strangeness of it all battling with a growing intrigue, and beneath it, a subtle thrill stirred at the thought of Melissa’s body transformed, her milk flowing under his control, a new layer of dominance that sent a shiver through him.

“So… you inject her with hormones to make her produce milk?” Markus asked, his voice slow but steadier now, a mix of wonder and calculation as he tested the idea. “And she serves it, just like that? Like a barmaid with… an erotic twist?”

“Exactly,” Victor said, a faint smirk tugging his lips. “Pellets go in, hormones do the rest. She’ll feel it soon enough—swelling, then flow. At the bar, she uses a handheld pump to extract her milk into a container, which is then poured fresh for the customers. Customers pay well for it, Grabesians see it as a delicacy. Dmitri handles the logistics, keeps them in line. Her output will help cover part of her training fees, reducing your costs.”

Markus glanced at Melissa, then back to Victor, his tone steady but probing. “So her earnings will lower the fees, and she keeps training? What’s the catch?”

Victor shrugged, his gaze flicking to Dmitri with a nod. “No catch—just commitment. She stays here part-time for discipline, works the bar when she’s with you. Dmitri’s oversight means less hands-on from me, so it’s cheaper. The hardest part of her training’s done—she doesn’t need constant guidance now. This keeps her sharp and useful.”

Melissa’s voice broke through, sharp and incredulous, unable to stay silent. “Useful? You’re talking about pumping me full of hormones and milking me like a cow—for strangers? Markus, you can’t seriously be considering this!”

He turned to her, eyes hardening, though a flicker of unease crossed his face. His mind raced with the practicality of the arrangement—she’d be useful at the farm, her milk would cover the costs while he studied in Switzerland, a decision that felt cold but necessary to secure his future.

“It’s practical, Mel. Training’s not free, and this… it works for us. I need to hear more, but it sounds like a good deal.”

“Practical?” Her laugh cracked, wild with disbelief. “You think sticking needles in me and selling my milk is practical?”

She wanted to scream that back home, this would be a crime, a sick joke, but she caught herself, her breath hitching. If Markus thought she would report him to the authorities for anything, he would never free her. She couldn’t risk that.

Swallowing the words, she pressed on, her voice trembling with restrained fury. “How do you not see how insane this is?”

Victor cut in, his tone firm, redirecting to Markus. “She will adjust, it is part of the process. The farm girls do it without fuss. You retain ownership, Markus, and her shifts at the bar will cover part of her training costs. With Dmitri managing them at a lower rate, your expenses will be significantly reduced, though not fully covered. What do you say?”

Markus rubbed his jaw again, his mind calculating the savings. The reduced costs were a practical compromise, even if they didn’t eliminate the fees entirely. He nodded slowly. “Alright, the lower costs are acceptable for now. Explain the details, how it starts, what she does. If it is as straightforward as you say, I’m in.”

Melissa’s rage surged—her body hijacked, her fate sealed in a casual barter.

—

Victor nodded to Dmitri, who sauntered to a shelf and retrieved two syringes—clear liquid glinting under the lamplight—along with a small tray of supplies. He turned, his grin sharpening as he barked, “Both of you—stand up, turn around, spread your legs, grab your ankles. Now.”

Melissa’s stomach lurched, rage surging, but Markus’s stare pinned her in place—she’d push back later, not here. Not with Victor present. She turned, legs parting, hands gripping her ankles, the pose stretching her bare skin taut. Nadine followed, trembling, her breath hitching as she bent forward beside her. The room’s humid air clung to them, every eye—Victor’s, Markus’s, Dmitri’s—burning into their exposed forms.

As Melissa bent forward, her mind reeled: This can’t be real. Hormones? Milk? Milk production? This is absolutely bizarre—they couldn’t just do this to her, even in this place.

Dmitri stepped close, his boots scuffing the floor, and pulled a cloth and a vial of antiseptic from the tray. He dabbed the cloth, the sharp sting of alcohol hitting her nose as he swiped it slowly across her right buttcheek, then her left—his touch deliberate, taunting. “Clean first,” he muttered, tossing the cloth aside. He took a syringe, its needle thicker than she’d expected, glinting ominously under the lamplight, designed for the solid hormone pellets. He pressed it to her right cheek, the cold tip biting her skin. “Hold still, princess.”

The needle’s cold tip pressed into her skin, and her stomach flipped. How was this allowed to happen? How does the world let them turn women into… livestock? No one back home would believe this. She didn't even quite believe this was happening.

Melissa’s instincts screamed for her to pull away or dodge, the needle’s size promising pain, but the looming threat of Victor’s watchful presence kept her in line. She gripped her ankles tighter, jaw clenched, as he pushed—the thick point pierced deep, a sharp, searing sting ripping through her flesh, the pellet sliding in with a slow, burning ache that spread like fire under her skin. She stifled a gasp, her legs trembling, rage drowning the urge to flinch.

He peeled a bandaid from the tray and slapped it onto her buttcheek with a pat. “Good girl, well done.”

Nadine whimpered beside her, her hands shaking on her ankles as Dmitri moved to her. He swiped the antiseptic across her right cheek, then pressed the needle in—her body jolted, a cry escaping as the thick point dug into her flesh, the pain sharp and immediate in a burning stab. Her instincts took over, she yanked away, broke position and raised her hands to shield herself. Dmitri’s grin vanished, his hand snapped to the riding crop at his belt. He cracked it fast across her thighs—once, twice—red welts blooming as she yelped, the sound echoing in the humid room.

“Back in position,” he barked, voice low and hard. “Legs spread, ankles, now.” Nadine stifled a whimper of dread, trembling, but bent forward again, gripping her ankles, her breath ragged. Dmitri swiped her left cheek with antiseptic, pressed the needle in, the sting hitting again, deep and cruel, the pellet burning as it lodged under her skin.

Nadine’s hands shook on her ankles, her mind a chaotic blur: Milk her? Like an animal? This couldn’t be happening—it was insane, it was impossible. The antiseptic stung her nose, and she stared at the floor, thoughts tumbling. Three days ago, she had been folding laundry, arguing with my housemate about the dishes—now some teenager was sticking a needle into her butt to make her lactate? For strangers to drink? The needle pierced, and her cry wasn’t just pain—it was shock, a scream against a reality she couldn’t grasp. This couldn’t be real. This couldn’t be her life.

She whimpered, but held still this time.

He finished with a bandaid and patted her buttcheek with a mocking chuckle. “All done, ladies! See, it wasn’t that bad, was it?” Dmitri stepped back, satisfied. “Turn around and kneel before us. Both of you.”

Melissa turned and dropped to her knees, Nadine following, her glare locked on Dmitri—I’ll make you regret this, you little shit.

Her heart raced as the needle touched her skin. The sharp sting made her flinch. How could this be happening? A chill ran through her, her mind reeling, but she was helpless to stop it.

He turned to Markus, voice smug. “These hormone pellets will release a hormone cocktail into their systems—steady drip, gets them lactating in weeks.”

Markus nodded, impressed, his tone steady. “That was surprisingly straightforward. It works that easily?”

Dmitri shrugged, smirking. “Yeah. Once they’re lactating, we can try giving them a second shot to ramp up the hormones. See if that increases their milk production. If we’re lucky there might even be a profit after deducting the tuition fees.”

Melissa’s rage burned—her body was being hijacked for profit and there was no escape for her. But she’d find a way to fight, slow and sly, until they choked on it.

—

A week later, the night chains clinked as they settled onto their mats in the basement dorm. Melissa's collar was locked to the wall ring, the steel cold against her neck, and lay back, the rough weave prickling her bare skin. Sleep tugged at her, but a strange warmth bloomed in her chest—a tingling, then a faint dampness. She shifted, frowning, and brushed a hand across her breast. Her fingers came away sticky, a tiny bead of whitish fluid glinting in the moonlight. She froze. Her body was doing this? Milk? Her breath stopped, disgust and disbelief hitting her hard. Her pulse pounded as she stared at the liquid.

Nadine stirred beside her, chain rattling as she sat up. “Melissa?” Her voice was a whisper, shaky. She rubbed her own chest, then froze, eyes widening. “Oh God—mine too.” A drop glistened on her nipple, falling to the mat with a soft pat. She squeezed, and more came, a faint stream pooling under her. “This can’t be real,” she hissed, her hands trembling as she wiped it away, disgust twisting her face.

Melissa’s throat tightened, rage and shame warring inside her. “They’ve made us produce milk,” she muttered, voice bitter. “No choice but to be used like this for their profit.”

—

Morning broke with Zuri’s boots thudding into the dorm. “Up!” she barked, her stern face unyielding as she unlocked their chains, the padlocks clicking open one by one. The slaves rose, stretching stiff limbs, and shuffled to the open wash area—no doors, just concrete and cold water. Melissa splashed her face, scrubbing the dried milk from her skin, her breasts heavy and tender under her hands. Nadine did the same, her movements quick, her cheeks flushed as she avoided eye contact.

An hour later, Zuri returned, whip at her hip. “Line up—Attention!”

The slaves formed a row, feet shoulder-width apart, hands clasped behind heads, spines rigid. Melissa stood beside Nadine, her chest prickling as the humid air brushed her bare skin. Zuri paced the line, coal-black eyes scanning for dirt or neglect, her hygiene inspections a daily ritual. She stopped at Nadine, peering close—a faint white drop clung to her nipple, glistening in the morning light.

Zuri’s brow arched. “Leaking already,” she grunted, then moved to Melissa. Her gnarled fingers pinched Melissa’s nipple, firm and quick—a sharp sting flared, and a thin stream of milk spurted out, splashing to the floor. Melissa flinched, jaw clenching, but held the pose.

Zuri stepped back, nodding. “Both flowing. I’ll tell Victor.” Melissa’s rage simmered as her body betrayed her under that cold scrutiny.

Later that day, Dmitri summoned them to a back room, straw crunching underfoot. He lounged against a table, two small devices in hand—breast pumps, handheld and sleek, the kind young mothers used back home. Their rubber cups gleamed under the lamplight, tubes dangling like leashes. He grinned, tossing one to each of them. “You’re milking now, princesses. Twice a day—morning and night. Deliver it to me after.”

Melissa caught hers, the weight foreign in her palm, her stomach twisting. Nadine fumbled hers, nearly dropping it, her wide eyes darting to Dmitri. “How—?” she started, voice small.

He snorted, stepping close. “Easy. Like this.” He grabbed Melissa’s pump, pressed the cup to her breast, and squeezed the handle—a sharp tug pulled at her nipple, milk streaming into the tube with a soft hiss. She gritted her teeth, the sensation a dull ache, her cheeks burning as he smirked. “See? Pump ‘til it’s empty. Nadine, you try.” Nadine hesitated, then mimicked him, wincing as the pump sucked milk from her, white drops pooling in the container. Dmitri watched, arms crossed, his grin widening. “Good. Twice daily—don’t slack, or I’ll know.”

Melissa pumped under his gaze, milk flowing steady, her hands trembling with suppressed fury. Nadine worked beside her, her breath hitching, shame flushing her face. “Twice a day,” Dmitri repeated, tapping his whip. “Every drop to me. Get used to it—you’re in the game now.”

Melissa scowled, the pump’s pull a dull ache. “Humiliating, milking us like cattle, and then selling it. Markus gets a discount on my fees because of my milk. I’m practically paying to be kept here.”

The pump hummed, tugging at Melissa’s chest, and she glanced at Nadine, her voice a low hiss.

“Can you believe this? Sitting here, hooked up like dairy cows—it’s madness.”

Nadine’s eyes flicked up, red-rimmed, her hands gripping the jar as milk dripped. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up. That this is some sick joke. How do they even think of this—turning us into… what, livestock?”

Melissa’s laugh was bitter, sharp. “Victor’s got it down to a science—needles, pumps, profit. I’d laugh if it weren’t my breasts in this thing. You ever imagine this back home?”

Nadine shook her head, voice trembling. “Never. I served coffee, not my own damn breastmilk. My mom—she’d faint if she knew. How’s this real, Melissa? How’s it allowed?”

Melissa’s jaw tightened, the pump’s pull a dull ache. “Back home, this would be illegal—nobody would let this happen to us. Here, they don’t care, and we’re stuck proving it with every drop.”

Nadine’s lips quirked, bitter. “At least we’re in it together. I cannot believe this is our life now.”

—

Friday evening, Simba’s Milk Hut buzzed with the hum of Grabesian men, their laughter echoing off the wooden walls as lanterns cast a flickering glow overhead. Melissa and Nadine shuffled in, collars linked by a thin chain, their bare skin prickling in the humid air. Ten other milk slaves, farm girls, black and native Grabesian with long braided hair swaying, lined up beside them, their calm a stark contrast to Nadine’s wide, trembling eyes. Melissa and Nadine stood out as the only white slave girls in the lineup, their pale skin drawing lingering stares from the patrons. Melissa’s stomach churned, her bare feet pressing into the rough floorboards, the weight of her collar a cold reminder of her enslavement. She glanced at Nadine, whose pale face was tight with dread, mirroring her own disbelief—this couldn’t be real, could it?

A broad-shouldered Grabesian by the window snapped his fingers, his deep voice ringing out over the din of conversation. “One Prime-Yield—make it quick!”

The bar owner, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek, turned to the girls, his tone sharp and commanding. “Fresh order—milk up!”

The farm girls stepped forward with practiced ease, but Melissa froze, her hands trembling at her sides, the order sinking in like a blade. Dmitri, pacing behind with a whip tapping his thigh, noticed their hesitation and stepped close, his teenage smirk sharp as he pointed to a shelf.

“You two, grab the milking devices. You’ve learned this at The Slave Academy. Milk yourselves, just like you were taught. Just with an audience now.”

Melissa’s throat tightened, her hands shaking as she fetched a handheld breast pump, its rubber suction cup gleaming under the lamplight, a tube dangling like a leash.

Nadine fumbled hers, nearly dropping it, her breath hitching as she whispered, “This… this can’t be happening.”

The slave girls, farm girls alongside Melissa and Nadine, lined up before the customer and knelt on the floorboards in a neat row, their knees pressing into the grain, their naked bodies exposed in full view to display their healthy bodies and prove the milk’s freshness to the customer, a spectacle that assured the Grabesian of the drink’s quality.

Their gazes raked over her naked body, drinking in every inch, and her collar felt heavier than ever, a reminder of her role, bare and enslaved, now a spectacle farmed for their profit. She pressed the suction cup to her right nipple, the machine humming to life with a low buzz, and squeezed.

The pull was sharp, a deep ache radiating through her swollen breast as milk streamed into the bowl, white and steady. Her face burned, incredulity crashing over her—I’m milking myself for them? In front of everyone? Her hands trembled as she pumped, the men’s stares a heavy weight, their murmurs and chuckles amplifying her humiliation. She switched the device to her left nipple, the ache flaring anew, her milk flowing faster now, the container filling steadily.



Nadine worked beside her, her own pump humming as milk flowed into the device’s attached container, her breaths shallow and panicked, her cheeks flushed with shame. “I can’t… I can’t do this,” Nadine whispered, her voice breaking as a drop fell to the floor.

The farm girls worked with mechanical precision, their calm efficiency a stark contrast to Melissa’s shaking hands. A demarcated line on the container marked a quota each girl had to meet, and the thought of falling short—being singled out before the crowd—sent a jolt of panic through her. She pumped harder, her nipples throbbing, and glanced at the line on the cup with worry. Relief washed over her as the milk level crept past the line, the white liquid just kissing the mark. She switched off the pump, disconnected the suction cup, the pressure easing with a dull ache. She removed the container from the milking device and held it before her, her cheeks burning hotter as she followed the unspoken protocol.

The bar owner paced the line, his scar catching the light as he poured each girl’s milk into a single cup, mixing the milk from the slave girls together. He handed it to the customer, who swirled the milk in the glass a few times, then lifted it to his nose, inhaling deeply to savor the faint, creamy scent of fresh human milk before taking a long sip, his grin widening with satisfaction. Melissa’s hands fell to her thighs, her nipples throbbing from the pump’s relentless pull, the men’s lingering gazes a constant weight on her skin.

—

At the end of her first shift, as Dmitri locked her and Nadine into a coffle of two and cuffed their hands behind their backs, her spirit was shaken. She glanced at Nadine beside her, whose pale face mirrored her own despair. As Dmitri led them by the coffle chain back to The Slave Academy a silent resolve hardened within her. She would endure this, but she would never accept that she was mere cattle.

46. The Price of Milk

Sunlight filtered through the mudhut’s slatted window, casting thin lines across the wooden table where Markus sat, shirt unbuttoned, hair damp from the morning’s heat. Melissa stood nearby, her collar glinting as she poured coffee from a chipped pot into his mug, her bare skin catching the light. The air carried the faint scent of roasted beans and the ocean beyond.

Markus glanced up, his voice casual but firm. “Add some milk, Mel.”

Her jaw tightened, fingers pausing on the pot. She set it down, grabbed a shallow bowl from the shelf, and positioned it on the table. With a sharp breath, she leaned forward, hands moving to her breasts. Milk dripped into the bowl, a slow, steady rhythm, her face a mask of quiet fury. When enough had gathered, she tilted the bowl into his mug, the white swirling into the dark liquid. She slid it across to him, her eyes narrowing as she met his gaze.

He lifted the mug, took a sip, and nodded. “Really nice. Tastes good—better than I expected. The Grabesians are onto something with this human milk idea. I can’t believe I spent my whole life drinking from animals like cows when this was an option.”

Melissa sighed, her voice low and edged. “This isn’t right, Markus. It’s exploitation—using me like some dairy pump.”

—

A sharp knock rattled the door before she could reply. Markus frowned, stood, and crossed the room. He swung it open, and there they were, Tariq, Amina, Arbek, and Zahara, faces set, tension rolling off them like heat from the sand outside.

Tariq stepped forward, arms crossed, his voice sharp with disgust. “This has gone too far, Markus. You can’t keep doing this to her.”

Arbek’s voice followed, rough with anger. “Forcing her to lactate, selling her milk, treating her like some animal, it’s sick. We didn’t think you’d sink this far, Markus.”

Markus leaned against the frame, a faint sneer curling his lips. “I saved her, didn’t I? She’d have been lost to the Grabesian slave system, sold to some lowlife, probably working a brothel by now, if I hadn’t taken her in. You should be thanking me.”

Amina shook her head, her tone firm, her eyes blazing. “This isn’t saving her, Markus. You’re worse than the locals, turning her into your personal dairy cow for profit. It’s vile.”

He straightened, hands slipping into his pockets, his voice cold. “She agreed to be my slave, didn’t she? That was her choice, not mine. I’m just making the most of it.”

Melissa’s voice cut through, low but trembling with fury. “I agreed to be your slave to escape the auction, Markus, not to be humiliated like this.”

Markus turned to her, his chest tightening with a sting of betrayal. Her words cut deeper than he had expected, a bitter reminder of his failure. Over the past weeks, her willingness in their intimate moments had sparked a fragile hope in him, a belief that she was softening, that she might one day return his love, but now that hope had shattered. He had gained nothing from her, no loyalty, no gratitude, not even a hint of the sympathy or the love he had hoped for. Despite all the time they had spent together and all the training at The Slave Academy, here she was, defying him at her first opportunity, her rebellion laid bare before Arbek, Tariq, and Amina. He had never considered them true friends, just shallow acquaintances he cared little about alienating, but Melissa, the only one who truly mattered to him, was watching. He couldn’t let his hurt show, not before the others, not with her eyes on him, judging his weakness. A master wouldn’t tolerate this, he thought. He buried his pain beneath a mask of authority, determined to appear in control rather than a broken failure. His jaw clenched as he forced his voice into something sharp and commanding.

“Be silent, Melissa. You know better than to speak without permission when free people are talking.”

Tariq’s eyes narrowed, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “She agreed to avoid being auctioned off, not to be exploited like this. You’re no better than the slavers she escaped, Markus. Maybe worse.”

Markus shrugged, his voice steady but laced with arrogance, masking the flicker of fear beneath. He couldn’t tell them the truth, that freeing her might lead to her reporting him to the authorities back home, where he would face severe criminal charges for his crimes against her. He really had no other choice than to keep her enslaved to stop that from happening. But he couldn’t tell them that. They couldn’t know about his fear, lest they threaten to report him to the authorities back home themselves, a move that could ruin his life. The best defense is a good offense, he thought.

“I paid dearly for her, and she’s mine now. This is none of your business. Stay out of this!”

Arbek blinked, his fists clenching, his voice shaking with rage. “So you’re saying you’ll keep her enslaved forever? That’s your plan? After everything she’s been through, after I tried to get her out before?”

Markus met his stare, calm but resolute. “She’s mine, Arbek. Deal with it.”

Arbek’s face twisted, his voice dropping low, barely containing his fury. “You’re pathetic. Keeping her enslaved to satisfy your selfish desires. You’re despicable, Markus, and you disgust me.” He stepped closer, shoulders squared, his body tense with barely restrained violence.

Markus met his stare, his jaw tight, his eyes cold with a resolve he barely felt. The old Markus would have caved by now, he knew, buckling under their judgment or slipping away with some excuse, but that would mean showing weakness in front of Melissa, and the thought burned more than their words. He couldn’t let her see him falter, not after everything, not after failing to win her loyalty. He had come too far to fall back into his old ways. What would Victor do? Back down to friends turned foes? Hardly. Victor would stand his ground, unyielding, a master in every sense. Markus squared his shoulders, channeling that iron will, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade.

“Keep whining, Arbek. You couldn’t save her then, and you won’t now. She’s my property, and I’ll do whatever I want with her.”

—


Arbek lunged, his fist slamming into Markus’s jaw with a dull crack that echoed through the room. Markus stumbled back, the coffee mug slipping from his hand and shattering on the hardwood floor, shards skittering across the kitchen. Neither of them had ever thrown a punch in combat, but Arbek’s towering height and powerful build gave him a clear edge over Markus.
Pain flashed across his face, but before he could recover, Arbek’s next swing caught his cheek, snapping his head to the side.

Zahara’s voice cut through, sharp and loud. “Arbek, quit it!” He didn’t flinch, winding up for another hit. She fumbled for her phone, dialing fast. “I’m calling the police.”

Arbek’s third blow rocked his nose with a sickening crunch, blood trickling down his chin, staining his crisp white shirt.

Markus gasped, clutching his face as he staggered against the counter, his lean frame trembling. “You bastard,” he spat, voice thick with pain and rage, his eyes darting for an escape. But Arbek was relentless, his bulk filling the space, muscles coiled like a predator. Markus, desperate, swung a wild fist toward Arbek’s chest, but it lacked force, Arbek caught his wrist mid-air, twisting it with a grunt until Markus yelped, his knees buckling.

“You don’t get to treat her like this,” Arbek growled, his voice low and dangerous, his anger ignited by Markus’s cruelty toward Melissa over the past few weeks. He drove his knee into Markus’s stomach, doubling him over with a wheeze, the air rushing out of him in a choked gasp. Markus crumpled, clutching his gut, but Arbek wasn’t done. He grabbed Markus by the collar, yanking him upright, and slammed a heavy fist into his ribs, the impact reverberating with a dull thud. Markus groaned, his legs wobbling, blood now streaming from his nose and a split lip, his face a mess of swelling and red marks.

Melissa froze, the bowl still in her hands, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded, a mix of fear and a quiet vindication, a raw surge of seeing the man who’d kept her enslaved finally facing consequences. Part of her wanted to look away, but she couldn’t, her eyes locked on the scene, a flicker of grim satisfaction stirring deep within her chest.

Markus, gasping for air, made one last futile attempt to fight back. He lunged forward, aiming a clumsy punch at Arbek’s jaw, but Arbek sidestepped easily. He caught Markus’s arm, twisted it behind his back with a sharp jerk, which forced a cry of pain from Markus’s lips. “Not so tough now, are you?” Arbek snarled, shoving Markus against the wall, pinning him there with a forearm across his throat.

Arbek’s fist came down again, this time catching Markus’s temple, dazing him as his head rocked back against the wall with a thud. Blood smeared across his cheek, his eyes glassy and unfocused, his breaths ragged. Arbek stepped back, letting Markus slide down the wall to the floor, a crumpled heap of blood and bruises, his once-pristine shirt now stained and torn. Arbek towered over him, chest heaving, his knuckles raw and smeared with Markus’s blood, a storm of fury still simmering in his gaze.

Melissa’s grip on the bowl tightened, her knuckles white, her breath shallow. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, but her eyes burned with a quiet intensity. Markus, the man who’d kept her enslaved for months, was nothing now, just a battered figure on the floor, his power shattered in a matter of moments. For the first time in a long while, she felt a spark of something she thought she’d lost: hope.

—

Tariq grabbed Arbek’s arm, pulling him back. “Stop it, man. This isn’t helping—you’re just making it worse.”

Amina joined Tariq, her hands on Arbek’s shoulders. “Enough—calm down. You’re not fixing anything.”

Arbek shook them off, chest heaving, but his fists lowered. He glared at Markus, now slumped against the wall, wiping blood from his lip. “Look at you. She’s suffering, and you’re sipping her like a prize.”

Markus straightened, wincing, his voice hoarse but steady. “She’s mine. You don’t get it.”

Tariq ran a hand through his hair, pacing. “We used to. How’d it get this far, Markus? You weren’t like this.”

Amina nodded, her gaze shifting to Melissa. “We thought you’d treat her better—not force her into this milking scheme.“

Melissa set the bowl down, her voice quiet but firm. “Better’s not in his vocabulary anymore.”

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Two officers pushed through the door, their eyes landing on Arbek. One squinted, recognition dawning. “Oh, it’s you again, the bribe guy from the visa mess. Hands behind your back.”

Arbek tensed but didn’t fight as they cuffed him. Tariq stepped forward, his voice urgent, hands raised in a calming gesture. “Wait, officers—hold on. This was just a moment’s lapse, a flash of temper. Arbek and Markus are friends—there’s history here. It’s about a slave he still cares for, feelings got the better of him. They can sort this out themselves, no need for this to go further.”

The taller officer, a broad man with a scar over his brow, shook his head, his tone flat and unyielding. “Assault’s serious, friend or not. Look at him—” He jerked his chin toward Markus, slumped against the wall, blood streaking his chin, a bruise blooming on his jaw. “That’s not a handshake gone wrong. And this one’s on parole—assault’s a clear violation, no wiggle room. Law’s the law.”

Tariq’s jaw tightened, his voice dropping low, insistent. “Come on, it’s not like he planned it—emotions ran hot, that’s all. Markus’ll heal, they’ll talk it out. You don’t need to haul him off for this.”

The second officer, shorter and wiry, snapped the cuffs tighter on Arbek’s wrists, his eyes cold. “Parole means he’s already on thin ice. One punch might be ‘hot emotions’ to you, but it’s a crime to us. Injured man, witnesses—there’s no talking this away. He’s coming with us.”

Amina joined Tariq, her hands on his arm, her voice soft but firm. “Tariq, they’re not listening. Let’s go with them—figure it out at the station.”

Arbek’s head bowed, his voice a low mutter as the officers tugged him toward the door. “She didn’t deserve this.” His shoulders slumped, the fight draining out of him. The officers hauled him out, boots scuffing the floor, the sirens’ wail swallowing his words.

Tariq lingered a moment, his gaze flicking to Arbek’s retreating form, then back to Amina. “Don’t worry, man,” he called after him, voice steady with resolve. “I’ll get legal help—sort this out. Hang in there.” He turned, following Amina and the officers into the dusk, leaving the hut behind.

Markus watched them go, rubbing his jaw, blood smearing his cheek. He pressed a hand to his nose, wincing, then turned to Zahara. “I need a doctor,” he said, voice nasal and strained. “Can you watch her while I’m gone?”

Zahara’s eyes flicked to Melissa, a tight smile curling her lips. “Of course. Take your time getting that fixed—I’ll look after her like she’s my own slave.”

Melissa’s gaze hardened, the bowl dripping beside her, as Markus grabbed his shirt and limped toward the door, leaving her under Zahara’s command.

47. Zahara’s Game

Melissa stood near the wall, her bare feet shifting on the rough floor. Zahara stood by the door, arms crossed, her athletic body tense with energy. The room was quiet for a moment, then Zahara spoke, her voice firm and sharp.

“Kneel,” she said.

Melissa frowned, a spark of resistance flaring inside her, but she obeyed. Her knees bent slowly, and she sank to the ground. The Slave Academy had taught her that much—disobeying meant punishment. Melissa knew that Zahara was at The Slave Academy from time to time to check on her. One wrong word to the trainers there and she’d suffer. She looked up at Zahara, her eyes narrowing. “Why are you doing this, Zahara? Why did you arrange for me to end up in that brutal Academy? Why keep me enslaved with Markus? What do you get out of it?”

Zahara stepped closer, looking down at Melissa with hard, dark eyes. “You don’t understand. You’ve never had to. Everything I have, I earned through effort. But you? You didn’t earn anything. You’re a pretty white girl. That’s all it took for you to get Arbek.”

Melissa’s breath caught, and she shook her head. “Arbek? That’s what this is about? He chose me. I didn’t plan it or fight for it—it just happened.”

Zahara’s face tightened, her voice cold. “Indeed. With Arbek, you had an unfair advantage with him, so I used one too. All is fair in love and war, don’t you know?”

Melissa clenched her hands on her thighs, her voice rising, sharp and steady. “So this is what it’s all about? You’re angry because I’m prettier than you?”

Zahara crouched down, meeting Melissa’s eyes. “Well, you are not just pretty, but you are also naive. I learned as a child to be vigilant, to sense danger early on, to stay ready. You never learned that. You have got all that education, but you do not know how to spot a threat. That is why you are a slave now, not because of me.”


Melissa’s eyes widened as a memory clicked. “You sound like Zuri. She said strength is all that matters here. That’s how you think too, isn’t it?”

Zahara stood up, a small smile on her lips. “You mean the ability to survive and to fight. I’m sure Zuri understands that, she is from here after all. And you don’t get very far here if you haven’t learned this. But these things don’t just matter here, it is the same everywhere. The mighty set the rules, Melissa, and that’s how it’s always been. Your books full of lofty ideas blind you to how the world really works.”

Melissa swallowed hard, her voice firm. “So you think me being a slave is right? Just because I wasn’t raised with your values?”

Zahara’s eyes narrowed, sharp and cold. “Right? No. It’s not about your precious values—it’s about who comes out on top. The strong rule, the weak serve. That’s what I’ve seen.”

Melissa cut in, voice tight. “And I am weak because I did not grow up learning what you did?”

Zahara’s lip curled, a bitter edge creeping in. “You did not have anyone worth a damn. I learned early to smell trouble, to fight for what is mine. Your people did not toughen you up, they just sent you to schools with fairy tales about fairness, not how to fight and stand up for yourself.”

Melissa’s jaw clenched. “They gave me skills—reading, thinking. That’s something.”

Zahara leaned in, with an expression as if almost pitying her. “Skills? Sure, they taught you tricks, but not to stand on your own. No one showed you how to watch your back or fight for yourself. You’re raised to be a tool for others to use—always leaning on some boss or cop to keep you safe. That’s why you’re kneeling here now.”

Melissa’s breath hitched, anger flaring. “You think it’s all about looks? Arbek saw something in me—something real, not just a pretty face you can sneer at. And those ‘tricks’ you mock? They let me see through bullshit like yours. Strength isn’t everything—your ‘mighty’ just stomp on whoever’s down and call it winning. I’m not a tool, I’m not weak—I’m still here, despite you.”

Zahara straightened, voice a low whipcrack. “Worship.”

Melissa’s eyes blazed, defiance surging. “You’re not a god to bow to—you’re just a bully with a grudge!” Her words lashed out, sharp and raw, but her hands shook—the Academy’s conditioning gnawing at her, the threat of punishment a cold grip on her spine.

Zahara’s stare turned to steel, unyielding. “Worship. Now.”

Melissa’s chest heaved, fury flared, but she was a slave and disobedience meant pain.

She bent into Worship before Zahara, hands sliding to the floor, forehead pressing into the dirt as resentment burned.

—


Zahara pulled her phone from her pocket, her eyes still fixed on Melissa’s bowed form. “Simba’s Milk Hut? It’s Zahara. Can I drop Melissa off for an extra shift?” A pause, then a nod. “Good. She’ll be there soon.” She hung up, turning to Melissa. “Where does Markus keep the handcuffs and the leash?”

Melissa’s forehead stayed pressed to the ground, her voice tight. “Drawer. His nightstand. Both are there.”

“Fetch them,” Zahara ordered.

Melissa rose, grabbed the cuffs and the leash from Markus’s room, and handed them over.

“Turn away, hands on your back,” Zahara said. Melissa complied and looked up at the wall while Zahara snapped the cuffs on her wrists, the steel biting her skin.

“Turn around and face me,” Zahara said, her tone clipped. Melissa shuffled around, her eyes flickering with resentment as she met Zahara’s gaze. “Now look up.” Melissa tilted her head back, exposing her collar, and Zahara stepped in close, attaching the leash with a quick, practiced snap to the metal ring.

As Zahara turned to grab her bag, Melissa shifted, a sudden pressure in her bladder making her stiffen. “I need to pee,” she said, voice low.

Zahara’s head snapped back, eyes narrowing. “You don’t tell me anything, slave. You ask permission. Try again.”

Melissa’s jaw clenched, heat rising in her cheeks. “Can I use the bathroom?” she muttered, the words sour on her tongue.

Zahara smirked. “Of course. But slaves don’t get to use the same facilities as free people. That would not be hygienic. You’ll use the squat loos outside. Come on.” She tugged Melissa’s leash, leading her out the door to a row of rough concrete stalls in the yard. Melissa twisted slightly, pulling her shoulders back to show the handcuffs binding her wrists behind her, then looked at Zahara. ‘Can you take these off so I can pee?’

“That’s not necessary,” Zahara said, tone flat. “Slaves manage. Squat.”

Melissa’s eyes locked on Zahara’s, a silent demand flickering—turn away, give me something—but Zahara stood still, arms crossed, offering nothing. Melissa held the stare, anger simmering, then squatted awkwardly, hands pinned behind her. She broke eye contact, focusing downward, and let go, the sound sharp against the concrete. When she finished, she stood, glancing up—Zahara wasn’t even watching, her gaze had drifted to the street instead, bored.

“Let’s go,” Zahara said, pulling her up by the chain. They walked, Melissa’s bare skin prickling under the sun. Her bare feet shuffled over the rough path, wincing as a sharp stone jabbed her sole, while Zahara’s shoes crunched steadily ahead. Zahara tugged the chain. “Slaves don’t walk like that—head down, eyes on the ground.”

Melissa’s face tensed, but she lowered her head, gaze dropping to the dirt, steps slow. She sidestepped a jagged pebble, the leash pulling taut as she veered slightly, forcing her back in line. Zahara nodded. “Good. I can’t believe you haven’t learned this yet after all these weeks at The Slave Academy. Markus is too easy on you.”

They walked, the sun warm on Melissa’s bare skin, her collar glinting as Zahara led her down the dusty path. Melissa’s toes curled against the hot dirt, dodging a cluster of stones while Zahara walked over them without a thought. After a while, Zahara glanced at her. “Why do you give Markus such a hard time?”

Melissa’s lips tightened. Her wrists jerked against the handcuffs, the steel biting as she strained to move her arms, then dropped with a frustrated huff. “He’s the one keeping me enslaved. It’s his fault I’m still a slave—he could free me anytime, end this nightmare.”

Zahara snorted. “He’s your master. In Grabesh, you could have worse—much worse. Markus has feelings for you, you know that.”

“But I don’t have feelings for him,” Melissa shot back, her voice sharp. She yanked at the cuffs again, wanting to cross her arms, her shoulders tensing as they stayed pinned behind her.

Zahara’s eyes narrowed. “A slave doesn’t lie. I read Safina’s interview transcript—you said he’d be a good fit for you. Don’t pretend otherwise.”

Melissa’s steps faltered, but she held firm. Her bare feet hit jagged dirt, making her wince, but the leash kept her from slowing as Zahara marched on. “Maybe I said that. Doesn’t mean I feel anything for him.”

Zahara stopped, turning to face her, voice low and cutting. “You could’ve used his feelings to your advantage. He loves you—you could have shown him a sign, played along, and he’d have freed you. He was waiting for that.”

Melissa’s eyes flashed. Her hands twisted in the cuffs, straining to gesture as her voice rose. “I shouldn’t have to fake feelings just to get free. That’s wrong.”

Zahara’s smirk tightened. “Wrong? You said earlier it’s not right that you’re enslaved, but now you won’t do what it takes to fight for your freedom. You’d rather stay a slave than do what it takes to regain it.”

Melissa’s gaze sharpened, her voice cutting through the heat. She tugged hard at the handcuffs, the metal clanking as she leaned forward, desperate to jab a finger at Zahara. “What it takes? You mean live a lie, choke down my disgust, and fake love for Markus just to trick him into freeing me? That’s disgusting! I won’t do that—I’ve got some damn integrity, unlike you. That’s why Arbek picked me, Zahara, not because I’m white or pretty, but because I’m not a scheming snake who’d stab him in the back.”

Zahara’s hand snapped the chain tight, a sharp pull that made Melissa’s collar dig into her neck, forcing her head to lurch forward. Her smirk faltered as she stepped in close, voice dropping to a low growl. Her shoes planted firm, kicking dust onto Melissa’s bare feet as she loomed. “Integrity? That’s your excuse? You’re too good to play dirty, and look where it’s got you: cuffed and headed to the milk bar.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened, her bare feet planting firm as she glared up. As they continued their walk she shifted to avoid a sharp rock, the leash jerked taut as Zahara held her in place, and her wrists yanked against the cuffs in fury.

“Yeah, you schemed—got me into that hellhole Academy for weeks, you manipulated Markus from being a lovesick guy into my damn jailor. You pushed him to send me there, where they toughened him up and subjected me to endless slave drills. And what has it got you? Arbek’s not yours, is he? All that plotting, and he’s still fighting for me, not you. Your backstabbing didn’t win him—it just proved why he never wanted you.”

Zahara’s eyes flared, and she yanked the chain hard, dragging Melissa forward a step, the sudden pull making her stumble barefoot over a rough patch, a hiss escaping her lips.

Zahara’s eyes flickered, her usual sharp smirk faltering for a moment. She let out a slow breath, her voice dropping, almost like she was talking to herself. “Maybe I was wrong to want him in the first place.”

Melissa’s brow furrowed, caught off guard. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Zahara’s gaze shifted to the side, her fingers idly tracing the chain in her hand. “Back in England, Arbek was… impressive. Grew up there, had everything going for him—success, charm, control. I had a crush on him, I’ll admit it. He seemed like the kind of man who’d be fun to be with.” She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. “But here, in Grabesh, he’s different. Irrational. Impulsive.”

Melissa tilted her head, studying Zahara’s face. “You mean because he’s fighting for me?”

Zahara met her eyes, her expression a mix of frustration and reluctant admiration. “Yes, and no. I liked that about him at first—his loyalty to you. It’s rare, seeing a man so passionate and risk so much for his woman. But the way he does it…” She shook her head. “He’s got no sense of the consequences. Trying to free you from Markus like that, losing control—it was rash. And then today, assaulting Markus while he’s on parole? He’s landed himself in jail twice now, Melissa. He might even get prison time.”

Melissa’s stomach knotted, but her voice stayed firm. “He’s doing it because he believes in something. That’s more than you can say, with all your schemes.”

Zahara’s jaw clenched, but she didn’t bite back right away. “Maybe. But belief doesn’t keep you free. In England, he looked like he had it together—here, where it matters, he’s falling apart. Loyalty’s one thing, but throwing everything away for it? That’s not strength. It’s a flaw. And I don’t want a man with flaws like that.”

Melissa’s lips curled into a faint, bitter smile. “So you’re giving up on him? Just like that?”

Zahara shrugged, her tone hardening again. “I’m rethinking him. I wanted the Arbek from England—the one who was fun and seemed to be on top of things. Not this… reckless fool who can’t stay out of a cell. He’s not worth it if he can’t keep himself together.”

Melissa straightened, her shoulders squared despite the chain around her wrists. “He’s worth it to me. He’s not afraid to fight for me, flaws and all. You wouldn’t get that—you’d rather scheme behind everyone’s back than face a real fight.”

Zahara’s eyes narrowed, and she yanked the chain hard, making Melissa stumble forward, her bare feet scraping the dirt. “Listen, you cocky little brat, I don’t need to fling myself into every brawl like your precious Arbek. His big hero act just got him arrested.”

Melissa tried to find her balance, her bare feet scrambling to steady herself as she glared at Zahara. “Arrested or not, he’s still fighting for me. You’ve got Markus and you have me leashed, but Arbek’s fighting for me—not you. That’s what’s gnawing at you, isn’t it? You’re scared he’ll never pick your side.”

Zahara’s grip on the chain tightened, and she gave it another sharp tug, pulling Melissa closer. “Scared? Hardly. He can fight for you all he wants—doesn’t change the fact he’s rotting in a cell. Being loyal doesn’t help him—or you. You’re both idiots if you think it’ll get you out of this.”

Melissa's breath quickened. Zahara’s jab at Arbek’s arrest hit hard, but that strain in her voice—anger or uncertainty—stood out to Melissa, a subtle admission of vulnerability perhaps. She gritted her teeth, readying herself as they pressed on.

—

Zahara turned and kept walking, her shoes crunching over the path while Melissa trailed, dodging stones. They reached the milk bar, its shutters still down, the street hushed except for faint voices in the distance.



“Kneel,” Zahara said, her tone flat as she pointed to the bicycle racks by the door.

Melissa dropped to her knees, the rough ground biting into her skin. Zahara locked Melissa’s chain to the rack, then tossed the keys into the milk bar’s letterbox with a faint clatter.

“Markus was a mess before I stepped in—soft, indecisive. He would still be offering you freedom in exchange for love if I hadn’t pushed him to act.”

“See you later,” Zahara said, turning to walk away, her steps brisk and unhesitating.

Melissa’s eyes widened, panic surging as she yanked at the chain, the metal digging into her collar.

Her voice broke through, sharp with desperation.“What, you’re just going to leave me here like this?”

Her wrists strained against the handcuffs, the steel biting into her skin, her naked body fully exposed to the street. She felt the weight of every passing glance, some curious, some leering, her vulnerability a raw ache as she realized she was at the mercy of any passerby.

Zahara paused, glancing back over her shoulder, her expression cold and unyielding. “You’re waiting for your milk bar shift. This is where you belong.” She took another step, dismissing Melissa’s plea with a casual wave of her hand.

Melissa’s heart pounded, frustration boiling over as she tugged harder at the cuffs, her shoulders burning with the effort. Her voice rose, edged with helplessness. “Can you at least uncuff my hands? Please, I can’t even move like this!”

Zahara turned fully now, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. “You don’t need your hands while waiting for your milk bar shift, slave. Stay still and behave, that’s your job.” Her tone was sharp, cutting through Melissa’s plea like a blade, leaving no room for argument.

Melissa’s breath hitched, her glare burning with fury and fear as she shifted on her knees, the rough ground scraping her skin. The uncertainty gnawed at her, she didn’t even know how long she’d be left like this, exposed and defenseless.

Her voice trembled, a mix of anger and dread. “How long will I be chained here? You can’t just leave me like this, who knows what could happen!”

Zahara’s smile faded, her eyes narrowing with impatience as she adjusted her bag on her shoulder. “Someone will come later to use you. Stop whining, you’re a slave, not a free person. You still think you deserve freedom, don’t you? Looks like you need more time at The Slave Academy to learn your place.”

She turned away again, her shoes crunching on the dirt path as she walked off without a glance back, her figure receding into the distance.

Melissa glared after Zahara’s retreating figure, then leaned back, testing the chain that tethered her to the bike rack. It pulled taut against her collar, the metal biting into her skin as she strained, her shoulders burning with the effort. The chain held fast, unyielding, and with a frustrated huff, she slumped against the bar, the cool steel pressing into her bare back. Passersby moved past her—some gawked openly, others averted their eyes—her nakedness and restraints a public exhibit she couldn’t escape. Trapped and exposed, her anger simmered, a slow boil beneath her skin.

—

The sun rose higher, its heat searing her bare shoulders, sweat trickling down her spine and pooling at the base of her neck. Her throat scratched with thirst, each swallow a dry rasp, but the chain kept her pinned, unable to reach for relief. The handcuffs gnawed at her wrists, the steel edges digging in after hours of immobility, her arms stiff and throbbing behind her back. She tried to shift, to ease the ache, but the cuffs tightened with every move, a relentless irritation that made her grind her teeth.

Time crawled by, measured in the shuffle of Grabesian life around her. A woman in a vibrant skirt laughed with a friend, her freedom a stark contrast to Melissa’s chains—envy stabbed at her, sharp and fleeting. A fisherman passed, his gaze lingering too long before he muttered and moved on. Then two children darted by, chasing a ball, their shouts piercing the air. They stopped short when they spotted her, their wide eyes brimming with curiosity. The girl, her hair in tight braids, stepped closer and ran a small hand along Melissa’s arm, petting her like a stray animal. Melissa tensed, her jaw clenching. I’m not your damn toy, she wanted to snap, but she swallowed it, her glare burning into the dirt. The boy giggled, patting her shoulder, before they scampered off, their laughter fading into the street.

Her legs ached, pins and needles prickling up her thighs from sitting too long in one position. With a grimace, she shifted awkwardly, the handcuffs making it difficult to move. She scraped her knees against the rough ground as she adjusted from kneeling to sitting, but the small relief was worth the effort. She shot a venomous look at the letterbox where Zahara had tossed the keys. The thirst, the cuffs, the relentless heat—they clawed at her, each moment stoking her frustration. She wanted to scream, to tear the chain free, but all she could do was wait.

—

At last, Dmitri swaggered into view, his lanky frame cutting through the crowd, a smirk already twisting his lips. Nadine trailed behind, her bare feet dragging in the dust, a chain leash clipped to her collar and taut in Dmitri’s grip. Her wrists were cuffed behind her, shoulders slumped, her flushed face a mask of exhaustion and shame as she avoided the stares of onlookers. The sight of her—leashed like a dog—twisted something in Melissa’s chest, a mix of pity and recognition.

“Heard you signed up for overtime, huh?” He snickered, his juvenile glee grating on her nerves. “Gotta keep those jugs busy—milk doesn’t squeeze itself!”

Dmitri stopped in front of Melissa, tugging at her leash and frowning when it didn’t budge. He crouched, inspecting the lock with a puzzled grunt.

“Where’s the damn key?” he muttered, scratching his head. Melissa’s eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“Zahara left them in the letterbox, you idiot.” Her wrists strained against the cuffs, the ache flaring as she tugged, her body screaming to move.

Dmitri’s head snapped up, his smirk vanishing as his eyes narrowed. “What’d you call me, slave?”

Before she could react, his hand shot out, fingers seizing her left breast, pinching the tender flesh with a cruel twist. The pain was immediate, a searing jolt that made her gasp, her sensitive breast throbbing under his grip—lactation had already made it swollen and tender, and now the pressure sent a sharp, burning ache through her. Instinctively, she tried to jerk her hands forward to shield herself, but the handcuffs held her arms fast behind her back, the steel biting into her wrists as she strained helplessly against them. Her face flushed a deep red, anger and frustration boiling over at her own helplessness, disciplined like this by some teenager who’d been put in charge of her. A few drops of milk squirted from her nipple, splattering onto Dmitri’s fingers, a couple more dripping to the dusty ground below.

Dmitri blinked, then grinned, lifting his hand to inspect the milky droplets on his fingers. He licked them off with a casual swipe of his tongue, smacking his lips.

“Not bad,” he said, his tone mocking as he glanced at the drops on the ground. “Shame to waste it like that, though.” He twisted her breast a little harder, his voice dropping to a taunt. “Uncle Vic says slave girls need to have good manners. Say it right—try again.”

Melissa’s jaw clenched, fury flashing in her eyes, her cheeks still burning with rage at her trapped state, but the pain forced her compliance.

“Zahara left them in the letterbox, Sir,” she bit out, her voice tight with resentment, the words tasting like ash.

Dmitri released her, laughing as he stood. “That’s better. See? Not so hard.” He turned to the milk bar door, his keys jangling as he unlocked it with a casual twist, swinging the door open with a flourish. The letterbox, built into the door, had dropped the keys inside, and they lay on the floor just beneath the slot, glinting in the dim light. Dmitri stepped in, dragging Nadine behind him by her leash, her bare feet scuffing the threshold. He bent down, scooped up the keys, and strolled back to Melissa, Nadine trailing silently as her leash tugged in his grip. Dangling the keys in front of Melissa’s face, he grinned. “Miss me, princess?”

Melissa’s eyes narrowed, her voice cutting through the air like a blade.

“Just unchain me, you creep.” Her wrists strained against the cuffs, the ache flaring as she tugged, her body screaming to move. I’m not your puppet, Dmitri, she thought, her jaw tight. And I’m sure as hell not Markus’s.

Dmitri’s grin vanished, his eyes flashing with irritation as he stepped closer, his voice dropping to a low, mocking growl.

“What’s that, slave? Forgot your manners again?” His hand darted out, fingers clamping onto her right breast this time, pinching harder than before, the pressure excruciating against her already tender, lactating flesh. A fiery pain shot through her, worse than the first time, her breast throbbing as if it might burst, and she flinched, a choked cry escaping her lips. She instinctively tried to pull her hands forward to shield herself, but the handcuffs yanked her arms back, the steel digging deeper into her wrists as she strained helplessly, trapped and powerless. Her face burned a deeper red, fury and frustration surging at being disciplined again by this teenager, her helplessness a bitter pill. A few more drops of milk squirted out, some landing on Dmitri’s fingers, others dripping to the ground in small, white splashes.

Dmitri glanced at his hand, the milk glistening on his fingers, and smirked. A few drops had fallen to the ground, and he shook his head, his tone sharp with annoyance. “You’re wasting good stuff, slave—better not make a habit of it.” He tightened his grip on her breast, his fingers still pinching her nipple hard, the pressure unrelenting as he twisted slightly, sending fresh waves of pain through her. “I just taught you this—come on, say it right. Uncle Vic don’t like rude girls.”

Melissa’s glare burned, her fury barely contained, her cheeks flaming with rage at her trapped state, but the searing pain in her nipple made her squirm, her body twisting against the chain as she fought the urge to cry out. Her voice broke, a raw, pained plea torn from her throat. ‘Unchain me, Sir—please, I’m begging you, stop!’ she pleaded, her voice shaky and raw, the words spilling out in a rush of helpless surrender as she strained against the cuffs, her wrists burning with the effort, her trapped state fueling her desperate cry, her anger a quiet undercurrent in her forced compliance.

Dmitri’s smirk widened, and he finally released her nipple, chuckling as he shook his head. “That’s more like it. You’re a slow learner, huh?” He licked the milk off his fingers with a slow, deliberate swipe, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Still not bad,” he said, before unlocking the chain from the rack with exaggerated slowness.

He yanked the leash, pulling her to her feet, her legs unsteady after hours of confinement. He led her into the milk bar, Nadine shuffling behind, her leash still in his hand. Inside, he linked their collars with a short chain, locking them together. “There,” he said, his tone dripping with mockery. “Two peas in a pod. Can’t have you running off now, can we?” Melissa rolled her eyes, her patience fraying, while Nadine shifted beside her, the chain clinking faintly.

Dmitri uncuffed their wrists, freeing their hands. ‘Alright, slaves, get moving. Chairs down—guests need somewhere to sit.’ But Melissa had other priorities. Her throat burned with thirst, and without a word, she made a beeline for the nearest water tap, dragging Nadine along by their linked collars. She turned on the faucet, cupped her hands under the cool stream, and drank deeply, the water soothing her parched throat. Nadine followed suit, their shared relief palpable.

Melissa and Nadine set to work, unstacking chairs from the tables and placing them on the floor, their movements stiff and deliberate. Melissa’s hands trembled slightly, the ache in her wrists lingering, her mind heavy with the weight of this place. She wasn’t a person here—just a tool, her milk a product, her labor expected. Markus calls this love? she thought, scorn twisting her lips. He’s not saving me—he’s using me.

A low rumble sounded outside, growing louder, and Dmitri’s head snapped toward the door. “Main event’s here,” he muttered, stepping out. Melissa and Nadine paused, the growl of an engine filling the air. Through the doorway, an offroad buggy rolled into sight, dust swirling around its tires. Behind it creaked a livestock cart, its wooden slats rattling, carrying a dozen naked women packed tight. Their black skin gleamed with sweat, collars shining in the sunlight, chains linking them to a central line bolted to the frame. Young and fit, they met the milk bar’s grim standards, their beauty a cruel irony in their captivity.

The owner—a stocky Grabesian in a stained shirt—leaped from the buggy, barking orders. “Out, slaves! Line up!” The women filed down a ramp, chains clanking, forming a row beside the bar. Their faces were blank, worn by routine, though a few cast fleeting glances at Melissa and Nadine, their eyes glinting with shared understanding.

Melissa’s stomach churned, horror at the other women’s enslavement, dread of her own continued captivity, but also a spark of defiance. We’re all caught in this, she thought, straightening her spine. But I won’t let them own me. Markus can chain me all he wants—I’ll never bend. Her jaw set, her gaze hard.

Dmitri strolled back in, his grin sharp as a knife. “Showtime, slaves. Let’s see what you’re worth today.”

Hi Everyone,

In this installment, we follow Melissa through a grueling few days as her exploitation deepens with Markus’s decision to send her to the milk bar, leading to her first shift and an extra one under Zahara’s control. We see her struggle with the harsh realities of working at the milk bar, while her defiance remains a spark amidst her enslavement. Markus’s refusal to free her, Arbek’s impulsive fight for her freedom, and some insights into Zahara’s world view heighten the conflict surrounding Melissa’s captivity.

What did you think of these chapters?

I’d love to hear your thoughts on Melissa’s emotional journey, from her desperate plea for freedom to her resilience at the milk bar. How do you feel about Markus’s evolving role as a master, Arbek’s protective rage, and Zahara’s manipulative game? Did any moments stand out, or are there parts you think could be improved? Let me know!

Please share your feedback in the comments, and don’t forget to rate this update in the poll above. Thanks for reading!

So I really liked these chapters. Melissa is going through another great humiliation working at the milk bar, but I hope she gets a chance to get out of there.
I quite like Zahara as a character. She's more or less a negative character, but I like her. Melissa was competition for her. But when Melissa got into trouble, Zahara simply took the opportunity that came her way. And she doesn't hide her intentions, at least from Melissa.
Arbek lost his temper and beat up Markus. That's probably what I liked the most. Arbek will probably have problems from it now, but I still believe he did the right thing. And Markus, that spineless worm, didn't deserve anything else.
Thank you very much for this scene. And I'm already looking forward to the next chapters.