Alice: Slave at the Marketplace Read online

  ALICE: SLAVE AT THE MARKETPLACE

  (BOOK THREE OF THE ‘ALICE’ BDSM SERIES)

  By Aphrodite Hunt

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright 2013 by Aphrodite Hunt

  Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

  ALICE: SLAVE AT THE MARKETPLACE

  1

  “You are all going to the market, milk cows,” Mistress Karen announces.

  We are all standing before the red barn, naked, in front of her with our hands clasped demurely behind our backs. Our breasts are still engorged even though we have been milked this morning. A breeze is flowing from the open pastures beyond, and it is slightly chilly this summer morning.

  I am shivering. Not that Mistress Karen gives a damn.

  I have been here for exactly seven days. Seven fucking days.

  Every day, they subject me to a routine.

  7.00 a.m.: Mistress Karen rudely awakens us in the cow shed by banging loudly on a gong that clangs and reverberates throughout my skull.

  Kinko always smiles at me when we get up. She always is bright and chirpy and ready in the morning, while I’m grumpy and bad-tempered and sleepy. Still, the sight of her slender naked body perks me up. But when I try to touch her nipples and pussy, she lowers her eyes shyly and shakes her head.

  8.00 a.m.: After our morning ablutions – none of which are private – we all troop to a breakfast of corn meal and gruel, swimming in milk. Cow’s milk, that is, not ours. We do not sit at a table like ordinary folk but are made to eat off a trough on our hands and knees. You can imagine how dirty our lower faces and chins are after that embarrassment, particularly when we are not allowed to use our hands.

  “Bend over and slurp with your tongues,” Mistress Karen intones as she strides up and down the length of the trough.

  She nudges our pussies – lifted for her gaze as our bodies crouch on all fours – with her cattle prod. The prod elicits a spool of pleasure from my clit as she rubs it slyly on my tender morsel of flesh.

  Up down.

  Scritch scritch.

  “Gobble it all up, milk cows,” she would say. “You need your chow to get your lactation going.”

  I mean – who the hell talks like that?

  9.00 a.m.: Milking time. We are strapped, one way or another, onto racks, ties and slings. Our ripe breasts are squeezed by gloved hands or ropes or milking devices – anything to pull the greatest magnitude of milk out from our swollen teats in the shortest amount of time possible.

  We are not fucked as we are milked. The gangbang is reserved for initiates and first milkings.

  10.00 a.m.: Milking takes a lot of energy out of us, and so we are allowed to rest and frolic in the pasture. We have to wear our cow tails in our anuses as we do so, and we are not allowed to walk upright, merely amble around on our hands and knees.

  In the pasture, cowhands hang by the fence to watch us. Grins are plastered on their smug faces.

  We are allowed to mingle, and so we exchange chit-chat on where we are from and who our masters are. Most of the girls here have been sent to Gabriel’s farm by their masters, who wish them to have an ‘education’ on what it is like to be a country slave.

  I, of course, have no master but Gabriel. This puts me on higher standing than the rest of the ‘cows’, and they are all in awe of me.

  “I have never seen Master Gabriel before,” one of the girls – a redhead with a very light complexion and a smattering of freckles on her nose – says. She has small pert breasts and a pussy in which you can hardly see her clit; so buried is the little sliver of flesh between her labia. “I heard he is very handsome.”

  The other girls are gathering around us to listen to this interesting exchange.

  I lift my head up proudly. “Yes, and I am all his. Master Gabriel has handpicked me himself from a hundred girls. He has fucked me many times.”

  Of course, Gabriel has never even touched me, and hasn’t been near me since he plucked me from the hands of my betraying father. But the girls don’t know that and they oooh and aaaah ceremoniously.

  I am quite the superstar.

  I make sure they all know I’m a billionaire’s daughter as well, who just happens to be slumming it for a bit.

  (I also make sure Mistress Karen hears none of this lest she disillusions them about my status.)

  12.00 p.m.: Lunch. More of the same glop, except there are actually vegetables swimming in the awful stew now.

  1.00 p.m.: We are all assigned ‘chores’. Can you imagine me doing housework? (You can’t, right? I can’t either.) Apparently, the house and barn and shed don’t get cleaned by themselves. Fancy that.

  So we have to clean everything up. Thank goodness there are so many of us, and so we make short work of everything.

  Luckily, we don’t have to do our chores on our hands and knees, which would be cumbersome. But we do them completely naked and with those tails in our asses. The farmhands would inspect our work and sometimes tweak our engorged breasts and stroke our exposed pussies. Sometimes, they would worm their fingers into our vaginas and wriggle them around.

  4.00 p.m. Fuck time!

  We are assigned each to farmhand, who takes us to his room in the farmhouse – which he usually shares with another farmhand. We are always in rotation, and there are plenty of farmhands around, and so in the seven days we are here, I have never gotten the same guy twice.

  Once in the room, the farmhand strips off his dungarees. His cock is always stiff and ready. One thing I can say about all the farmhands – they are all well hung. It must be all that wonderful country weather. The farmhands are mostly English, but we don’t spend a lot of time talking. It’s wham, bam thank you sex immediately.

  Prostrate yourself on your hands and knees.

  On the bed.

  Spread your legs.

  In plunges the cock.

  Ohhhh!

  In, out, in, out. A vigorous rhythm is established. Those farm boys can really fuck HARD and they always have lots of energy.

  I can’t say I am disappointed.

  Sometimes, they would ask me to suck their cocks. I always comply readily. Their cocks are hard and thick and long, and I would swallow one as deep as it can go in my throat.

  Not a single one of those farmhands ask to suckle my teats. I guess my milk is reserved for someone else.

  Come to think of it, I don’t even know where all that milk goes. I mean, they milk us and collect that creamy, rich white fluid in pails. Where does all of it go?

  I guess I am about to find out.

  6.00 p.m.: Bath time. We go on the conveyer belt again, all naked, all soapy and all wet. I feel like processed meat in a factory.

  7.00 p.m.: Glop dinner. Blecch!

  8.00 p.m.: We are allowed time for rest and recreation but we are strictly not allowed to have sex with one another. What then is the point?

  10.00 p.m.: Bed. Lights out. No sex. I stare at the sleeping and breathing body of Kinko across from me and wonder what I should do to plot out my revenge against my father.

  2

  It is Market Day.

  I have never been to Market Day, but some of the girls have. I want to ask some of them what this is all about, but Mistress Karen shushes us.

  “No talking in the ranks,” she orders. Her cattle prod waves menacingly.

  We are lined up before the barn. We are naked, naturally, but since we are going to market, we are adorned with more than the usual accoutrements. Our tails are shoved in through the dildos in our asses, bu
t we now get to wear bells around our necks.

  Fancy that. Cow bells. How quaint.

  We tinkle and make quite a noise as we file ourselves in a line and load ourselves onto the bus. The bus has darkened glass which do not allow anyone from the outside to peer in, and no wonder. If we are going to travel through the English countryside, we certainly don’t want anyone looking in on our huge, lactating breasts and other jiggling bits.

  Instead of normal seats inside the bus, there is only a floor filled with straw. Mistress Karen gestures to us to sit on this straw. I guess they are trying to maintain the illusion that we are farm animals, except that farm animals probably don’t travel by bus.

  There are waiting buses in front of each of the other farmhouses. The rest of the farm animals – the rabbits, the hens, the horses, the goodness knows what else – are also similarly being herded into them.

  I guess we are all going to the market, the entire farm of us.

  I wonder what awaits us there.

  *

  The ‘market’ is a little distance away, and it takes the buses about forty-five minutes to get there. It is in a little enclave which is also guarded by sentry posts. I peer out of the darkened windows together with the rest of the girls in my bus.

  “No talking,” Mistress Karen rasps. She is sitting up front with the driver, a surly looking Hispanic man. Although here, he is likely to be from one of the Mediterranean countries.

  “What’s this all about?” I whisper to Kinko.

  She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips. Sssssh. Or you will be poked by a cattle prod which might just happen to be electrified.

  We pass wooden buildings and more open areas until we finally come to a large parking lot. Several of the other buses are already there.

  “All right, cows, all line up now and get out,” Mistress Karen commands.

  She is wearing white today for a change. A white tight leather cat suit, although she is so fat that her bulges are more pronounced than ever. She should just give up trying to look sexy. It’s a lost cause.

  We all troop out of the bus. Our feet are bare, but the ground is soft beneath our soles. Outside, the sun is shining brightly in the blue bowl of the sky. I squint in the brightness and shade my eyes. The air is filled with the scent of grass and dandelions, together with a freshness that I have scant encountered in America.

  “Walk along now,” Mistress Karen says.

  We follow her around a grassy hillock, shaded by trees. The cow bells around our necks make silvery tinkling sounds. It’s almost like Christmas.

  The whole place is fringed by a profusion of trees. A bustle of activity greets us around the bend. I almost stop in wonder.

  Kinko bumps into me from behind.

  “Walk,” she whispers.

  “Right.”

  I walk, taking it all in. The marketplace is filled with tents – gaudy, billowing circus-like tents which flap in the breeze. There are all sorts of tables and stalls outside these tents, as well as an unusual number of apparatuses – all which are made out of wood. People are setting up all sorts of things on the stalls – cakes and pies and vegetables and produce. The aroma of freshly baked bread and roasting meat fills the air and makes my mouth water.

  My fellow sex slaves from the farmhouses are here. They are being assigned to each tent by their masters and mistresses. I spy Mistress Sasha again – she of the Nordic beauty – ordering the ‘rabbits’ to enter one of the tents. She raises her sharp blue eyes to me as I pass.

  “Here.” Mistress Karen halts us.

  We stop at a blue-and-white striped tent which is held down to the grassy ground by pegs. Outside, long wooden tables have been laid. These are filled with all sorts of cakes and cookies and tarts, as well as a good number of cheeses in wedges and other cuts. Bottles of milk are kept in a mini-refrigerator with a glass front.

  All the products have prices on little placards before them. I almost step back in shock as I register the prices.

  A hundred British pounds for a chocolate fudge cake decorated with purple macarons. Three pounds each for an éclair. Either inflation has set into England, or they are charging really steep prices here.

  A large sign in curvy old English writing proclaims:

  YE OLDE DAIRY.

  And in smaller letters beneath it:

  ‘ALL PRODUCTS ARE MADE FROM HUMAN BREAST MILK’.

  Okayyyyy. I think I know where our milk went to.

  I stare at the cakes and pastries with new insight. I take in the delicious looking creams enveloping the cakes, and wonder if my very own milk went into whipping them. I don’t relish cakes or anything filled with carbohydrates and fat myself, but I have a sudden urge to taste these. I wonder if human milk is as sweet as folks make them out to be.

  I mean, babies get fat on it, right?

  “Get in,” Mistress Karen instructs us.

  The opening of the tent has a sign which says:

  ADMISSION: Fifty pounds.

  For fifty pounds, there had better be a spectacle.

  Inside, the ground is covered with more straw and bales of fresh, sweet-smelling hay. A large and very long wooden structure with multiple cubicles has been set up to cordon off one part of the tent. It is pretty much like the changing room of a clothing store, replete with curtains – which are currently drawn aside to reveal each cubicle.

  Each cubicle is boxlike, but instead of mirrors on their backs, there is a plan wooden board with two semi-large holes in its middle – like two oversized peepholes.

  I wonder what the entire structure is for.

  Several of the farmhands from our barn are present. They are dressed in their usual dungarees and straw hats. They grin as we enter. I recognize the few who have milked and fucked me in succession back in the farmhouse, including Samuel.

  Samuel comes up to me.

  “How’re you doing?” he says in a low voice.

  I breathe in deeply. Samuel always excites me ever since the first day he milked me. Besides, he has a nice, thick schlong which fills me capably.

  “Peachy, just peachy,” I tell him.

  “Good.”

  He inspects the tail protruding from my ass and gives the dildo inside a little wriggle. Tendrils of pleasure course all over my anal sphincter.

  “Now come,” he says.

  He leads me to the other side of the structure. The other farmhands are similarly shepherding the ‘cows’. The reverse side reveals a plain wooden board with pegs and hooks in addition to the holes. The pegs and hooks have cuffs on them, linked by chains. The holes are medium-sized, about the diameter of small watermelons. They are interspersed two by two, like peepholes for very large eyes.

  Samuel presses me to a pair of holes. He grabs my breasts and massages them, feeling their weight and heft. To be honest, I haven’t been milked this morning, and so my breasts feel positively heavy – like I am carrying deadweight. My milk seems ready to burst forth from my swollen nipples.

  “Nice,” Samuel concedes. “Now put your tits into these holes here.”

  “Huh?” I say.

  “You heard me. Come on, I’ll help you.”

  He pushes the front of my body again to the board and teases my huge breasts into a pair of holes. Beside me, the other ‘cows’ are being similarly pressed. The board itself is not very thick – just maybe about an inch. The texture of the wood is smooth, and so the edges do not grate on my soft and very tender flesh.

  Once Samuel has finished, my entire chest juts forward uncomfortably. My breasts are on the other side, bare to everyone who wants to admire them. My head is forced to tilt backwards with my chin resting upon the board. My feet have to be twisted and pronated to the sides.

  Samuel tethers my wrists to the cuffs at the pegs on other side. My chest is very stretched, and my breath catches in my throat. Surely there must be a more comfortable way to manage this?

  “Stay still,” Samuel says.

  Here we are – pretty milkmaids
all in a row – shackled to a board with our tits squeezed for a display that we are not privy to. It takes all of my effort just to breathe, and my ankles are starting to cramp from the protracted pronation.

  On the other side, a bustle of farmhands and other people we cannot see ensue. Although I cannot see what is going on, I feel a warmth before my breasts and some scraping foot sounds, indicating that someone is standing before me. I hear the wheels of carts squeaking. Both male and females voices interact.

  “Do you have chocolate sauce? Pass me the tube, will you?”

  “I think I’m going to do a bull’s eye pattern on this one. You know, like a target board.”

  “I should layer this pair with buttercream.”

  I experience a tingling sensation upon my breasts. Someone is squirting a cool layer of what I presume is cream upon my tits. I totally understand what they are doing on the other side. They are decorating our breasts as if they are cakes!

  I can only imagine the marvelous designs that are being wrought upon our protruding flesh. The creams and icing used are interchangeably cool and warm – as in room temperature. It doesn’t take very long before the sensations end and our teats are coated with a layer of icing.

  And then we wait.

  The tent is filled with the low murmur of voices as the bakers confer with one another as to the intricacies of the art of breast decoration.

  We wait. And wait. My leg cramps are getting worse, and I have to constantly shift my feet. The wood around my breasts are starting to chafe my skin. Either my breasts have become more positively engorged, or the holes have become positively smaller.