This is only my second story, please please give me feedback, or tell me anything it made you think and feel.
IMPORTANT: All inequality, such as sexism, racism or the concept of slavery, is evil and deplorable. This is simply a way of safely exploring those things which one inexplicably finds themselves turned on by.
Bryan leaned back in his chair and yawned. It had been a long day of phone calls and emails, and his back was getting rather sore from sitting. Still, he rarely had any serious complaints about his job, and he knew he was lucky to have climbed to such a position. Bryan was the manager of Whipmaster, one of the biggest hard rock bands in the world at the moment. As their more bookish and number-savvy friend, he had been their manager since their early days, and had reaped the rewards of their huge commercial success just as much as the band members. A reminder of the luxuries his success had earned him was in the corner of the office, tucked in beside a large pot plant - a small young slender woman, naked and kneeling, facing away from him into the corner of the wall, with her arms crossed behind her bare brown back. Under her jet black hair her only piece of clothing, a smart steel collar, gleamed. She was Filipino, a souvenir he had picked up on the band’s last tour there, thinking it was about time, now that he was rich, that he kept a slavegirl or two in his office so he didn’t have to bring any of his home slaves with him every day. He kept her facing the wall so as not to distract him while he was working.
As said, it had been quite a long day in the office. He was organising the band’s upcoming world tour, a major event in promotion of their soon-to-be-released fifth album "13 Uses Of Woman", so there was a lot of organising to do. Whipmaster, who like many commercial acts were major lyrical proponents of the fun of the proper oppression and use of the female sex, most notably in the band’s music for pain, were renowned for their elaborate big-budget stage shows, featuring the prominent use of live women, both as decorations and as props to be tortured and otherwise used along with the lyrics. Bryan had received the numbers and de***********ions of the females required for the tour from the band and the stage artistic designer, and was in the process of sourcing them. While some of the “decorations” could be shipped with them from place to place and strung up every night, the girls receiving the band’s “attentions” on stage would need to be sourced new for every gig, as the band preferred the girls looking fresh and unmarked at the start of each night because it made the audience feel more special, not like they were at just another autopilot gig. And of course it is more mentally and visually pleasing to see a pristine unmarked woman worked on and given stripes.
At the moment, Bryan was finding that it was quite difficult to source a lot of red-haired girls in Japan, unsurprisingly, or anywhere for their Asian portion of the tour. Most red-heads in those countries were expensive, and were probably owned individually by private owners. He looked again at the sheet of paper that specified “5 fresh red haired girls per night, pale, slender to medium acceptable, upper age limit 23”. This was for the section of the setlist dedicated to their newest hit single, ”Burning Red”, a double-entendre title about both the colour of ginger hair and the colour of their pale skin after a thorough whipping. It would probably be easier, he decided, to get the whole lot of red-heads required for the tour in one package from a country with a more plentiful supply, and have them shipped around with them as they went. It would be costly, but no expense was too much for a Whipmaster show - they’d easily make it back in ticket sales anyway.
The set designer the band were working with to plan this tour was the legendary Andy Carl Farrower, one of the biggest names in the visual art world, specifically the world of male-dominance body art. He was a visual visionary and highly influential innovator who truly saw women as raw materials, their bodies like building bricks or splashes of paint, just another physical medium to be positioned, modified, bent, and sometimes broken. He knew how to arrange contrasting skin tones for certain visual effects, what positions to fix rows of female bodies into, the difference in visual impact of different kinds of asses, tits and vulvas. The word in the art world was that he had whole warehouses full of massive bulk cages of women of all types, his reservoir catalogue of raw materials for any use, any project. They were categorised by cage - cages of starved skinny women, cages of obese women, tall women, dwarf women, women of every colour and race in the world, enormous breasts and flat chests, specially collected women with interesting physical deformities, young women, and even ancient old weak women wasting away their final years naked in a cage in this artist’s storage facility, just a material in his toolbox that might get used or might not but wasn’t even thought of day-to-day by their legal owner. His work with a live rock show was a new avenue for him, and he was enjoying the new creative challenge.
On all previous tours too, ever since becoming famous with their breakthrough debut album "House Of Female Tears", Whipmaster liked to give the audience a visual feast to go with their hugely popular music. They often gave a personalised touch in each country they visited around the world by having choice local women from that country strung up on the big stage and whipped and tortured at some point in the set, which the crowd always went wild for, loving the personal connection it created between them and the band. It also kept each night different and fun for the band, as they got to sample the local slaves. In fact the guitarist had a huge underground vault in his mansion lined with small cages in which he kept one naked slave woman from every country they had ever played a gig in, all leftover slaves that had been used in their stage show, a kind of memento system and a nice way of remembering all their good times and travels. He loved just walking down the row of cages and seeing the immense ethnic physical diversity of female flesh filing past him, wondering spiritually at the huge variation of creation.
A typical Whipmaster show featured naked oiled women hung by their wrists or ankles from the top of the huge stage, or hung in crucifixion position behind and to the sides of the band, all for decorative purposes. They’d have specific focus moments in the show where, in a climactic guitar solo for instance, the lead singer would take his iconic trademark black bullwhip and whip the back off a bound naked girl in the middle of the stage, maybe tied to a post or put in stocks, or even left to run free around a pole connected by a collar chain, for the fun of the audience watching her desperate attempts to avoid the agonising cut of the whip. Lines of women would also be whipped rhythmically to the beat of the introductory song. They incorporated other tortures too, such as breathplay, live branding, or cages with one woman in each hung over large fire-shooters, writhing to escape the intermittent burning. Naked women were sometimes incorporated into keyboard stands, drum stools, etc, and of course there were always bent-over naked women who the singer or guitarist or bassist would thrust into or get head from, to the cheers of the audience. At one particularly famous concert that had gone down in Whipmaster fan legend, about six years ago now, the singer and some bouncers had thrown twenty naked, thoroughly trussed-up slave girls into the moshpit, throwing slave after screaming helpless slave into the throng of thousands of ecstatic men, to do with as they pleased.
On the band’s rider of what they wanted supplied backstage at each venue, alongside the food and drink, was their list of women they wanted for entertainment, the number and type. Typically these would be a load of trained pleasure slaves, sourced to the band member’s specifications - e.g. six blondes with large tits, a few young skinny brunettes, a pair of big-assed black women. Some things were consistently on their rider at every show - for instance, the bassist always asked for a pair of skinny long-legged blonde girls, and he enjoyed getting different girls that matched this request every night - while some requests would change from venue to venue - for instance, in some countries they’d ask the local venue promoter to just surprise them with the best of what the local women had to offer, or give them a platter-like range.
Of course, the members also had some of their more valued personal slaves brought with them on tour for more familiar and homely company, either to be kept to themselves or shared with the band, and for three of the members who were now married, they also sometimes chose to bring their wives along. Wives were slaves who were specially chosen, often out of a build up of love between master and slave, to be legally bonded with. Legally, men could have no more than three wives, and many settled with the traditional number of just one. Only legal wives were allowed to carry children for their masters, while all common slave women had to be on long-term birth control, except for those owned by licensed breeders which kept the population ticking as normal. Therefore, for women who wanted children, their only goal was to work hard to please their master as best as possible and hope to be picked as a wife from among his other bits of female property.
At the end of every tour, of course, the band had whole loads of girls to get rid of, mainly the stock of slaves that had been transported with the tour and used as stage decorations every night. There would be plenty of available pussy at the band’s famous end-of-tour party for the whole road crew and any other friends. The band members would take their pick of any girls they wanted to keep for themselves, any that they particularly liked or even felt attached to, and often the people who had worked on the tour, like stage hands, roadies, sound engineers, lighting technicians and stage managers for instance, would each get given one of the leftover women to keep as a souvenir of the job, a generous gift from the band. After being divvied up like this, bulk lots of slave women could of course be resold to slave supply companies, which Bryan was always happy about as the person who handled the band’s accounts.
Between tours and periods of recording new albums, the band members all enjoyed their private lives with friends and family. Of course, the riches that stardom brought them were well-used, and all members, as well as their manager, lived in lavish personal mansions, full of fine food, fancy accessories, and of course plenty of beautiful slave pussy, the best-quality women money could buy, matched to any tastes they had. Rumours had it that the singer had top-class beautiful expensive girls, who would have grown up presuming that they’d live lives of being relatively valued due to their looks and high price, simply installed as living urinals in his personal bathroom, and in the guest bathroom as well. The guitarist was famous for his unusual tastes, including his growing collection of permanently naked and head-shaved dwarf women, who he kept chained together by their necks in one big mass and trained to entertain guests under his whip. The bassist was a connoisseur of Indian women, a passion he had discovered fully the first time they had played in that country, and liked to surround himself almost solely with their naked brown curves, keeping the most beautiful naked Indian girls in decorative golden hanging bird cages, hanging from the ceiling in every room of his mansion as well as from posts outside, lining the path to the house. He insisted on only increasing his collection on trips to India, when he could *********** the most perfect features from a larger pool of choice.
The drummer was a sports fan, and was an avid collector of ponygirls. He had a field track outside his mansion, where he spent a lot of his free time sitting in his little speed-designed carriage, holding a riding whip and feeling the wind in his hair as he was pulled by his well-trained team of naked bridled girls, running monotonously as trained around and around the track in the sun. Sometimes he even liked to go for a ride around the track in the heavy rain, putting on his warmest clothes and most secure raincoat, as he loved the splash of the girls’ bare feet in the water on the track, and the dark look of their drenched, dripping hair. He also liked to have some of his famous sporting friends come over for casual fun races, bringing with them their own teams of ponygirls, and sometimes trading girls to each other. Once he had had his close bandmate, the guitarist, bring over six of his dwarf women, disconnecting them from the main chain group, and they harnessed them up to a carriage and laughed as they strained to pull first one and then the other master around the track, under their relentless whip.
He had a large row of stables on his property, containing his high-end collection of ponygirls, including matching pairs and sets-of-four of black ponygirls, asian ponygirls, latina ponygirls, polynesian ponygirls, blonde ponygirls, red-headed ponygirls, stick-thin ponygirls, etc. Some were expensive ponygirls from the best breeders in the country, but he also enjoyed just going to the regular slave markets, buying girls who showed a promising long-legged powerful body shape, and training them himself from scratch. This training was a passion project, a relaxing side hobby of his, and he enjoyed the process of moulding a girl’s mind and body into a singular purpose, to pull him around the track at speed, pushing her harder and harder to her physical limits.
Also in his stables, in her own enclosure, was a special prized possession of his - a much older slave than all the other ponygirls, in her mid 40’s. She was a famous ex-world champion whose jockey had won the final with her more than twenty years ago, a race which the drummer remembered watching on live television as a little kid. After becoming rich and famous with Whipmaster, he had won her for a huge amount of money at auction. Obviously having not been run competitively for a long time, her fate was that of most aging professional ponygirls, to be owned as items of pride by rich sports fans and ponygirl collectors. The drummer still felt amazed at how far he had come in life when he took her out and harnessed her up once again, relishing in the well-trained steps of the older woman as she pulled him naked around the track, loving the opportunity to give her that familiar sting of the whip on her slightly sagging skin, even though she was slower now and her age and a lifetime of hard training was wearing painfully on her joints.
However, even more prized to the drummer than her was another girl who he kept in her own stable as a special mark of some small kindness. She was his first ever ponygirl - he had been given her for his 18th birthday, with her the same age. She had been a cheap, mostly untrained starter girl of course, dark-haired, pale and every so slightly flabby, and he had had no experience as a trainer then, so she was nowhere near the league of his stables full of other girls now, and was probably barely worth anything were he to sell her. But he still kept her, and would keep her for her whole life, because he had so much nostalgia attached to her. He could still remember the absolute excitement and thrill of being so young and being pulled around the local field by her for the first time - the sight of the back of her naked body jiggling with movement, the hard working strain of her stepping legs, the feeling of the movement of the carriage propelled by nothing but her muscles, the slight bouncing movement, the wonderful feel of the whip in his hand and the red lines it made on her back and ass, the feeling of absolute power and control and ownership over another human who had to run until he told her to stop or she passed out. He remembered being uncertain with the whip at first and gently touching her, but then getting into it and whipping harder and harder, until he was thrashing her behind with all his power, feeling the primal ecstasy of whipping a female for the first time. He had cut her ass open badly on that first exciting day, and had felt sorry and moved but also excited and powerful when he dismounted, came around to the front, and saw her red crying face. When he saw his son and new ponygirl return from their first ride, his father had taught him how he had to control his use of the whip so that she was still regularly usable - unless of course you had the luxury to buy girls just for whipping and not for any other use, a dream which immediately stuck in the drummer’s mind and that would come true sooner than he could have imagined. Even though she wasn’t a naturally great ponygirl, she had pulled him faithfully for 12 years now, and they had some kind of a bond, even one where they both knew their places in their interaction. He was so used to the sight of her bare ass bouncing in front of him, the specific feeling of being pulled by the gait of her legs, the curve of her shoulder blades on her back, the way she responded to his steering, and she was so used to feeling his weight on her shoulders, to the specific way he applied the whip to her, more as an affectionate form of connection and for his own pleasure than for anything. He still took her out for a run every now and then when he was feeling nostalgic, and she was always grateful for this, though he never showed her to visitors or ran her in sets with the better ponygirls.
Back in the present, Bryan decided he’d done as much as he usefully could in the office today, and that he’d head on over to pop into the studio where the band were rehearsing. He liked to touch in with the band and stay connected to the musical side of things, which was the reason he had a job at the end of the day, even though the creative process had nothing to do with him, and he liked to see how tour rehearsals were coming along. He wordlessly locked away his Filipino girl for the night with some basic food (he had never bothered to give her a name, or even thought to know her birth name.) She had knelt looking into the wall corner for the whole day, completely unused for her sexual purpose, silent and still just as she had been trained/hurt into being. Then he shut down the lights, locked up, got in his car and took off to the studio, which was just a five minute drive away.
Pulling up in the car park and getting out of the car, the first thing he saw was a line of about 10 naked girls standing in the grim grey car park, their hands tied simply in front of them, all facing one way, connected by a chain linking their neck collars. Presumably they had just been unloaded from the big truck parked in the loading bay. The delivery slave-handler was just signing them off to Terry, the band’s slave-manager/handler, who had come out the studio door to meet them, and the two men were chatting friendlily and having a quick smoke. It was a cold grey winter’s day with a bit of wind, and the two men were both wearing warm puffer jackets and jeans, joking about the traffic nonchalantly while ignoring the completely naked girls who were shivering violently in the cold, their eyes betraying their suffering as they stared miserably into space, just waiting to be led inside. Their shivering was so strong that their chains were making a constant jangling sound, which Bryan found to be quite pleasant as he got out of his car, put on his big jacket, and walked over to join the men. He lit his own cigarette, greeting Terry and introducing himself to the delivery driver. As he exhaled a puff, he looked over at the line of “frozen goods” as the driver jokingly put it, drawing a laugh from him and Terry. For some reason his eyes picked out a skinny pale girl of about 19, if he had to guess, about three quarters of the way to the back of the chain line (how insignificant it must feel, thought Bryan for a brief second, to be just another girl towards the back of a chain line.) She had light brown-blonde hair, small tits, and her whole skin was raised in goosebumps as she struggled to hold herself still and not draw attention to herself as her shivers rattled the neck chain. Her tied hands were trembling in front of her, and she stared mournfully and blankly into space with bulging eyes, her jaw clenched in an unsuccessful attempt to stop her audibly chattering teeth.
He found her shivering body cute, and for a second he thought about having a feel and maybe a quick turn at her right there, but then thought she would be cold to the touch on his skin, and he wanted to stay warm. Never mind. The men finished their cigarettes, the driver said goodbye and took off, and Bryan headed into the studio. As he went into the lobby, he could hear the sound of his friends, the band, practicing one of their earliest classic hits, “Throw Away The Key”. He could just make out the singer’s voice over the bassy thump - “A woman should be caged/it’s how she’s meant to be/so I stuffed that slut inside/and I threw away the key…”
Terry followed, taking up the chain hanging from the front slave’s neck, a dark-haired, tall but young-looking girl with a round face. The line of naked frozen female bodies followed with relief into the warmer building, stiffly shuffling after each other. Bryan knew that these were practice slaves which the band got into their tour rehearsals to try out setpieces on, seeing what worked and honing their performance, trying out where in a song they wanted to do a big whipping, testing out new torture ideas to see reactions, making sure the timing of everything was well-rehearsed, etc. Because their appearance and condition did not matter, as there was no audience, the band always used the practice slaves hard, practicing on their bodies day after day for the weeks of rehearsals.
Ten minutes later, the singer was looking over the line of practice slaves, and grabbed the face of the skinny strawberry-blonde girl Bryan had set his eyes on in the line before. “Perfect,” he said, “I was imagining something like this to whip during that climax after the final chorus in ‘Screaming Blondes’.” The rest of the band made general sounds of agreement, deciding to practice the so-far-unreleased song from the new album. Terry the slave handler unlocked the chain from her collar, and led the slave, who was now shaking from fear not cold, to a practice whipping post set up next to the singer’s microphone stand, which he fixed her hands and neck to. Bryan was sitting watching the band from a seat on the side of the room, and was looking forward to seeing this poor little thing get the trademark Whipmaster treatment. Still, he felt a tiny touch of sorriness for the cute little girl, as the whip hurt the skinny ones even more, and her suffering wasn’t even seen by an audience, but was just a casual practice. Bryan knew that the band would be practicing the song, with all the setpieces and actions, countless times over and over again in the coming days, by which time he couldn’t imagine there’d be much skin left on the little practice slave. Having had this thought, he made a mental note to pop into rehearsals again in a few days, to see how she was looking. As the band started up the song’s heavy opening riff, he stirred his tea and settled back in his chair, ready to watch her face.
This is only my second story, please please give me feedback, or tell me anything it made you think and feel.
IMPORTANT: All inequality, such as sexism, racism or the concept of slavery, is evil and deplorable. This is simply a way of safely exploring those things which one inexplicably finds themselves turned on by.