Lady Charlotte's Conditioning, Part One

[imreadonly2]

As if I didn’t have a care in the world I strolled out on to the shaded garden terrace and set my cup of jasmine tea down on one of the side tables next to the rocking chair I had selected. I sat down in the chair and slowly began rocking-back-and-forth as I slowly and deliberately mixed some honey in my tea.

I knew Charlotte could see me, although I hadn’t even bothered to look down at the 100 naked girls exercising in the massive courtyard below me. They were, after all, only slave girls, and while it might be amusing for me to watch them gyrate for my viewing pleasure it was important that I get my tea right as well.

After taking a sip of my tea – perfect! – I picked up the paper. It was in Arabic, but I looked at the pictures. I wanted to watch Charlotte, of course, and was anxious to watch the slave trainers put my lovely wife through her pace. But understanding her unimportance was an important part of her slave training, and I hoped my seeming indifference to her would only deepen her sense of submission.

When I finally deigned to look up I took in the group as a whole, and counted 12 rows of 15 girls per row. How many was that? What did it matter? This was a large auction house, and processed thousands of girls at a time. My lovely wife Charlotte was now just a number.

The girls turned, knelt on all fours the ground, and began doing leg lifts. She couldn’t see me know, but I had a wonderful view of 150 naked bottoms. I picked up the binoculars and quickly located 67-8585, Charlotte’s number, which was written across her perfectly rounded bum. Ah yes, 3rd row, 5th one over. And from the way she was panting and the sweat on her body she looked like she was working up a stink.

My mind flashed back to three days before, when Charlotte and I had sat together on the balcony and sipped our tea together. “You know, it actually looks like a wonderful exercise program,” she said. “I could really use an exercise program like that.”

I should explain that my wife, Lady Charlotte, is the epitome of upper crust British society. Impeccably mannered, well-educated and filthy rich, she has traveled the world, and was thus quite delighted when I was able to take her someplace she had never been: my friend Omar’s slave training facility.

That morning Charlotte had been wearing a short but very expensive sundress that showed off her long legs. She had slipped her sandals off and was gripping the iron railing of the balcony with her bare toes, rocking back and forth gently as she watched the slave sluts exercise. Whenever one of the trainers flicked one of the girls across her naked bottom with the whip, Charlotte would laugh.

“Ouch! I bet she really felt that one.”

“Ha-ha! That will get her big bottom moving.”

“Ha! That whip crack sound like a pistol shot. I wish I had a trainer like that.”

As a member of the top 1% of the top 1%, Charlotte was never much for empathy. But I could tell she was intrigued… and aroused.

The entire first day of our visit was like that, with Charlotte expressing admiration for the auction house’s “amazing training program” while dropping increasingly unsubtle hints that she wanted to experience it firsthand. Omar and I had been friends for years, and I had told him all about Charlotte’s submissive tendencies and her fantasy of playing slave girl. At dinner I simply sat back and watched the two of them spar.

“So do you think a proper British lady – one with pedigree and title, and a degree from Oxford, let’s say – do you think she would fetch a premium price on the block?”

“Perhaps,” Omar mused. “There is still much resentment of British colonialism in this part of the world, and there might be cruel masters who would take a sadistic satisfaction in putting a spoiled and pampered British lady in a yoke, and under the command of the whip.”

It was an unexpected answer, and Charlotte paled and squirmed a bit in her chair as she imagined the vengeance of some fat African or Arab master who despised everything that Charlotte represented. “Britain did a lot of good here, too, “ she said defensively. “Perhaps the master would be less ignorant of history, and grateful.”

“Or indifferent. This auction house processes thousands of slave girls every year and the ones that bring the best prices are the juiciest and most submissive sluts.”

“THAT intrigues me,” Charlotte said. “The psychological training. I took quite a few psychology courses at Oxford, so I know all about your little tricks. Robbing the girl of her sense of identity, and creating a sense of hopelessness and dependence on her captors, and all those little ploys. Of course I’m quite certain they wouldn’t work on someone with my level of education. But it would be interesting to witness firsthand.”

“You have witnessed it firsthand, have you not? You watched the girls being trained.”

“Yes, but watching is hardly the same as participating, is it?” Charlotte said, with her butter-won’t-melt-in-my-mouth smile.

“Indeed it is not. But you are not qualified to be a trainer.”

“Oh, dear! If only there were some other way I could participate! Some way where I could experience the entire process, from beginning to end, soup-to-nuts. But being a silly girl I can't think of a thing!” Charlotte said, feigning stupidity.

I knew where this was going. We all knew. But it was fun to watch, like a tennis game where Omar and Charlotte were volleying back –and-forth.

“There is one way I could think of that you might be participating. Given your level of education I’m sure you would find the entire process quite interesting. I could train you.”

"Oh, my!" Charlotte said, pretending to be shocked. "I had never dreamed... Oh, dear! Is such a thing even possible?"

"Quite possible," he said. "In fact, it would be quite routine. For us, anyway."

“So how long does such conditioning typically take?” Charlotte said, pretending to be calm in a way that bellied her heavy breathing and the trickle of sweat running down her neck.

“Usually no more than a week or two,” Omar said, snapping his fingers to signal the naked slave girl standing to the side of the table to refill Charlotte’s water glass. “Although of course we won’t stop until the job is done, and the girls knows that. It’s one of the things that breaks them down more quickly.”

Charlotte frowned at the menacing answer, but quickly shifted her footing. “Two weeks doesn’t sound so bad!” she said, laughing. “Not for such an interesting experiment, with a little bit of physical conditioning to tone me up thrown in. I was actually planning on spending two weeks in the spa when we got back to London.”

“How much does this training cost?” she asked.

“Nothing. I make my money when I sell the girls.”

“Well, you wouldn’t make any money selling me!” Charlotte said, laughing. Omar did not reply.

Charlotte frowned again when she noticed the mark on the bottom of the girl pouring her water. “That’s an interesting tattoo,” she said. “I noticed a lot of the girls have them.”

“It is not a tattoo, but a brand,” Omar said. “Go ahead and cup her bottom cheek in your hand. You will feel the ridges.”

Charlotte looked at me, hesitating. I nodded. The naked slave girl didn’t flinch as Charlotte cupped her bottom. “Oh my! That is a brand. It’s… it’s lovely. What does it mean?”

Omar looked to the slave girl. “Tell her.”

The girl spoke with a lovely French accent. “It is the mark of this auction house, a mark of quality. I begged for the brand.”

“Did it hurt?” Charlotte said.

“Yes, Mistress,” she said. “It hurt terribly.”

Again I smiled as Charlotte squirmed in her chair. At last she was learning empathy.

“So the girls aren’t branded unless they beg for it?” she said hopefully.

“Yes,” Omar said. “But they all beg for it.”

“This girl’s accent. She is French. What part of France is she from?”

“France? She comes from nowhere,” Omar said. “She has no existence prior to her enslavement. I will put her on the block next week, but she is an excellent cocksucker, so I am using her as my serving maid.”

Omar turned to me. “Would you like to try her out? She uses her tongue well.”

“No, he wouldn’t!” Charlotte said, laughing as she answered for me. “That’s my job!”

“Indeed. I imagine it would be a job you might do better if you had this little French coquette give you a few tips.”

“An intriguing proposition,” Charlotte said, weighing the idea. “Yes, I imagine I might pick up quite a few tricks here. Of course I’d need to make sure that I didn’t get mix in with the other girls TOO thoroughly. I wouldn’t want to end up on the auction block.”

“We are very careful with our inventory,” Omar replied, laughing. “All of the girls are numbered.”

“Numbered?” Charlotte said, confused.

Omar nodded toward the French slave girl. She knelt down next to my wife and rolled her lower lip down to reveal a serial number tattooed inside her lip. “That is her international slave number,” Omar explained. “A slaver anywhere around the world can look a girl up and tell her ownership history.”

“Is the girl tattooed at the beginning of the process or the end?”

“At the beginning. The girl is tracked through our systems using that number.”

Charlotte blanched. “Is that… strictly necessary?”

“Yes,” Omar said. “It is absolutely necessary.”

“Well, I could always get a temporary tattoo” Charlotte said. “That’s technically possible.”

“It is not possible,” Omar said flatly. “The mark must be permanent. It is part of the conditioning.”

There was no more talk about “experiments” or how amazing Omar’s conditioning program was during dinner. I could tell the idea of getting a permanent slave tattoo chilled Charlotte to her very core. Nonetheless we had very hot sex that night in our room, with Charlotte sucking my cock in a way that seemed most competitive! The French girl was obviously on her mind.

By the time I had woken Charlotte was already looking at her inside lower lip in her magnified vanity mirror.

“No one would ever know it was there,” she said to her own image. “And I could always have it removed back to London. It’s a safety thing, really.”

“Yes,” I said. “No difference than chipping a pet really.”

Charlotte winced at my analogy but didn’t argue with me. “The letters on the inside of that girl’s lip were HUGE. Fat and ugly. I could ask Omar to make them smaller.”

“Yes, you could ask,” I replied.

Charlotte did ask. However they used the same enormous font, and 67-8585 now covered the entire inside of her lip. They also wrote the same number on her bottom with a magic marker. She was now registered as a slave. Internationally.

The girls were doing jumping jacks now, and as I pretended to read my paper I watched Charlotte’s lovely breasts bounce-up-and-down. I could already tell that the conditioning was having it’s intended effect, as she was watching the other girls closely, trying to blend in, trying to perform like all the rest. Some of this was simple punishment avoidance conditioning, as girls who stood out were whipped, and despite her best efforts poor Charlotte already had several nasty looking welts across her lovely rump. But the net effect of endlessly aping of the other slave girls was exhausting her will to resist, and I could see that the fire was already starting to drain out of her beautiful blue eyes.

Yet it was the conditioning that Charlotte wanted. “That girl spoke excellent French. She seemed very well educated.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “What does it matter? She’s only a slave now.”

“Don’t talk like Omar. My point is she was so… submissive. I bet she would have sucked your cock right at the dinner table if you had let her.”

“If you had let her,” I chuckled.

Charlotte laughed and punched me in the arm. “The point is, she wasn’t some ignorant African girl they snatched out of a hut. She was a well educated, white European.”

“Like you, you mean.”

“No, not like me. I’d never debase myself like that. The conditioning wouldn’t work on me.”

“Are you certain you're THAT special?”

Charlotte thought long and hard. “Yes, I'm that special. But, the conditioning is exciting to think about, isn’t it? To be broken down that way! And there is only one way to find out how it really works, if it works.”

“Yes, there is only one way,” I agreed, aping Omar’s elliptical sentence constructions.

“Perhaps I could make a wager with Omar,” she suggested. “I know he can’t break me. “

“Perhaps,” I replied, leaving it unclear as to whether I was doubting the possibility of a wager or the possibility of reducing Charlotte to a cock sucking slave girl.

“We’ll make a wager!” Charlotte said brightly. “If I win, he’ll give me a slave girl.”

“And if you lose, I’ll get one,” I chuckled.

Charlotte frowned. “Then I won’t lose. I never lose.”

Charlotte cried when they burned her purse and luggage.

“My passport is in there!” she cried as she watched her purse burn.

“Slave girls do not need passports,” Omar replied coldly. I wondered if her passport was still in her purse. It did not matter. 67-8585 was now entirely naked, psychologically, legally and literally. Even if she managed to somehow escape from the fortress like slave-training center the first person she encountered would quickly return her.

“Do not think your embassy will save you,” Omar chuckled. “They will obey the local laws. They will return you to me. Then you will be punished.”

I picked up the binoculars. Charlotte was flat on her back, legs spread wide, back arched so her ass and pussy were in the air. She was masturbating herself along with the other girls, chanting her mantra:

“I am a slave slut. I exist to pleasure my master.”
“I am a slave slut. I exist to pleasure my master.”

She could stop this anytime she wished, of course. But then she would lose the bet. I knew Charlotte would not lose the bet. The question was whether Charlotte would exist when the wager was complete, and she begged for Omar’s brand.

The girls were encouraged to be noisy, and watching them orgasm on the lawn one by one-by-one was strangely amusing, like watching popcorn popping. Charlotte was gasping as she screamed out her chant:

“I am a slave slut. I exist to pleasure my master.”
“I am a slave slut. I exist to pleasure my master.”

They would switch to Arabic soon, then to Chinese. Her slavery was, after all, international. This was an important part of her conditioning, tying her rocking orgasms to self-abasement and slavery. Watching her pleasure herself it seemed to be working perfectly. Omar was impressed with her progress, and said she would be “ready for the block” no later than Tuesday.

I loved Charlotte and would never sell her. But it might be fun to see the randy little slut put through her paces on the auction block. Perhaps Omar could arrange something.

Under the shade of the porch I sipped my fragrant tea and watched as Charlotte’s pussy spasmed with pleasure and she loudly cried out in orgasm. She looked like she was having fun. I knew I was.

[Carl Bradford]

You have used approximately the same plot line--English gentlewoman tempted into becoming slave slut--in several of your stories, but this bodes well to be one of your best! Too bad the wager wasn't such that, if she lost, she would belong to the slave merchant; I imagine she (falsely) believes that, worst comes to worst, her husband would free and respect her! Foolish woman. Fantastic as always, Joe.

[lovethissite]

I think like a fine wine this story gets better each time I read it. I hope you finish her adventure. Thank you.