Slave Protocol III – Femdom Story

4.1
(66)

by Tau_90

artwork by https://www.deviantart.com/0formant0

It had been ten days since he found himself cast into this abyss, a consequence of his ill-fated attempt to escape New Amazonia. Ten days in which he could do nothing but gaze into the enveloping darkness. His grasp on time had slipped away, the only markers being the daily visits of a woman who arrived with his meager sustenance. Her arrival was heralded by the rhythmic clicks of her high-heeled boots, the only sounds breaking the otherwise silent pit.

In the dim light filtering through the bars of the iron hatch high above, he could barely discern the passage of time. A rusty key turning in the lock signaled her entrance, revealing a woman clad in the uniform of a security guard. Yet, it was not the standard attire of the New Amazonian Police; this was a distinct, privately issued uniform. Even in the gloom, he immediately recognized the emblem adorning her attire—the same coat of arms he had observed eleven days prior on Lady Chloë Blanchefleur’s rickshaw. He wasn’t a captive of the State of New Amazonia; he was imprisoned beneath the Blanchefleur Mansion, under the private jurisdiction of Lady Blanchefleur.

The uniformed woman would casually throw him a few pieces of moldy bread before sealing the hatch without uttering a word. The entire interaction unfolded in mere moments. She didn’t spare him a proper glance, devoid of pity or a trace of gloating. Cold indifference emanated from her every action.

Her daily visit became the lone marker of the passage of time. In the enveloping darkness and silence, he was aware of other prisoners confined in similar pits, evidenced by the dozen trapdoors he had seen before descending into his own incarceration. However, communication with them was impossible, save for shouting through the opening high above, a risk he dared not take.



There was nothing left to do here but think. He found himself alone with his thoughts, reflecting on his past life, now irretrievably lost due to his ill-fated decision to come to this wretched place. He had placed blind trust in Lady Blanchenfleur, carelessly revealing her his weaknesses. And she took full advantage of them. But ultimately it was his attempted escape that sealed his fate.

Things took a rapid downturn thereafter. Following his apprehension at the airport, he was escorted to the police station, where he endured the most excruciating treatment. He was convinced that this was the end, acutely aware of the harsh treatment that awaited runaway slaves in New Amazonia. However, instead of being condemned to the mines, he found himself handed over to Lady Chloë Blanchenfleur, who, in a sudden spur of the moment decided to gift him to her sister, Lady Marie Louise Blanchefleur.

He was branded with her name and transported to the Blanchenfleur mansion but largely forgotten thereafter. His new mistress displayed no interest in her slave, now languishing in the dungeon deep beneath her chambers.

Although she neglected him, his thoughts were consumed by her. Understanding little about Lady Chloë Blanchefleur, he knew even less about her sister Marie Louise. Miss Chloë, with her angelic and goddess-like appearance, maintained a consistently cold and haughty demeanor. She was the embodiment of the beautiful, icy mistress from his submissive fantasies. He cursed those fantasies, because they brought him here and made him into what he was now: an insignificant slave creature.

Reality sharply contrasted with his fantasies. It was cruel and unjust. The prospect of being at the mercy of these women terrified him. Having witnessed Mistress Chloë’s capabilities, he pondered what life would be like under her sister, Marie Louise. From their initial encounter, she seemed more relaxed than Chloë, yet insufferably arrogant and spoiled. The thought of spending his remaining days serving a spoiled despot as a slave brought tears in his eyes.


“Hello, slave! How was your rest? Are you adjusting to your new surroundings?”

He opened his eyes to discover that his dark oubliette was now suddenly bright with light from the reflectors high above him. Looking up, he saw his new mistress, Lady Marie Louise, peering down at him. Lady Elizabeth Blanchenfleur’s 22-year-old daughter, his rightful owner, his despot.

She was clad in a tight-fitting black tunic with a high neckline, black-patterned pantyhose, and metal-toed high-heel stiletto shoes, her long blonde hair neatly arranged in a high bun ponytail. Her demeanor seemed casual and relaxed. In contrast to their last encounter where she remained profoundly disinterested, there was now a subtle hint of interest. The ambiguity left him unsure whether this was a positive or negative development.

I must admit I almost forgot about you, slaveling” she continued. “But this morning I was riding through the plantations on my horse and I witnessed all these swarms of subhumans, toiling under the hot sun. Working tirelessly for us. It occurred to me that I have a slave, ostensibly in service to me, but instead, he’s sitting idly in his squalid pit. This will not suffice. The guardess mentioned she has been feeding you well these past days. Why should we provide sustenance if you’re not fulfilling your role in serving me?”

He dared not answer, only meeting her gaze with a blank expression.

“Lift this wretch,” ordered Marie Louise. The guardess, who had been feeding him for the past ten days, stepped forward and operated a small automatic crane, lowering a steel cage-like basket into the depths of the oubliette. He obediently climbed inside, and the crane hoisted him up through the narrow opening of the oubliette. Once outside, he remained on all fours, cowering fearfully, his eyes fixed on his mistress’s footwear.

Marie Louise fixed her gaze upon the slave at her feet. “Very well, slave. It is time to put you to use. Chloë informed me that you recently arrived from Europe and possess a natural talent for servitude. Yet, you attempted to escape us. Do you even comprehend how fortunate you are? Do you grasp the consequences for runaways? Allow me to enlighten you: you have now been classified as a servant in category D, the second-lowest category. Servants in this category have no interaction with women whatsoever. They are considered unworthy and are forbidden from standing or lifting their gaze above a woman’s knee. Therefore, merely being in my presence, afforded the opportunity to serve me, is an act of immense clemency and generosity. Show your gratitude, slave, for the privilege I bestow upon you.”

Her stern words struck fear into him. He recalled Chloë’s comment about Marie Louise’s lack of experience in training slaves. Was this her attempt to prove otherwise? Was she using him as an example of her strictness and demands? Was she demonstrating her ability to mold a raw and primitive creature, as Chloë had described him, into a docile slave? He observed her gripping a riding whip with menacing metal spikes at its tail.

He lowered himself to the floor, assuming a posture of utmost submission. He kissed the metal tips of her stilettos, expressing his complete surrender: “Most gracious and merciful Lady, I am profoundly grateful for accepting me as Your slave. Thank You for sparing me from the dire consequences I would otherwise face. My life is indebted to You, and I pledge to serve You to the best of my abilities.”

In response, Marie Louise unleashed a barrage of hits with her riding crop.

“Do not address yourself in the first person, slave!,” she admonished. “You are not a free person, nor even considered one. You are my possession, akin to the clothes or shoes I wear, albeit they hold more value than you. I demand nothing less than total submission and unwavering obedience from you. Your training will require a firm hand and strict discipline.”

After this brief outburst, she swiftly regained her composure and resumed her casual, playful demeanor. She fastened a collar around his neck and attached a leash.

“Follow me, dog” she commanded, and he obediently crawled behind her on all fours, never once considering the thought of standing upright.



“Is this the slave who attempted to flee our country?” Lady Elizabeth’s tone dripped with disdain as she scrutinized the kneeling figure before her. “I must express my disapproval, Marie. Bringing this… creature into our household! You ought to have handed him over to the authorities for the punishment he rightly deserves. He belongs in the depths of the sewers, never to grace our sight again! Instead, you allow him to serve you. It is wholly inappropriate! I shudder to think what you and Chloë were considering.”

Slave Spot, once known as Mark in his days of freedom, knelt before his mistress Marie Louise and her mother, Lady Elizabeth Blanchefleur, enduring the weight of their scorn. As he diligently massaged Mistress Marie Louise’s feet, Lady Elizabeth casually rested her legs upon his back, treating him as nothing but furniture, her sharp stilettos pressing into his flesh with indifference.

Spot quivered with fear. He was well aware of Lady Elizabeth’s reputation long before his arrival in New Amazonia. A woman of immense power, she ruled over vast army of namelsess slaves toiling in her factories and plantations. To be in her ownership was to be rendered insignificant. Yet, despite her formidable presence, she possessed an undeniable beauty. At 47 years of age, she possessed a mature yet firm and statuesque body, thick blonde hair, and piercing blue eyes, though her expression remained consistently cold and menacing.

“Don’t fret, Mother dear. I haven’t forgotten who this wretch is,” Marie Louise remarked with a smile. “Rest assured, I won’t be lenient with him. However, Chloë was correct. I require a slave of my own to train. I shall administer his punishment personally. In fact, I plan to use him for experiments and I already have myriad ideas of what I will do to him. Perhaps he’ll long for the sewers.”

“Very well,” Lady Elizabeth conceded. “If that is your desire. But remember, he is an untamed beast from foreign shores. Should you find yourself incapable of managing him, you need only surrender him to me, and I shall break him for you.”

With a disdainful kick to the kneeling slave, she commanded, “Fetch the pedicure toolbox from over there. Let us ascertain if you are fit to serve even in the lowly capacity of a footslave.”

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