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Sold (Miguel De Riviera)

Sold by Miguel De Riviera


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    • Average 3.2 from 4 ratings

Cruel and brutal yet with a keen eye for the feelings of the victim, Miguel di Riviera's vivid thriller shows that you can't keep an intelligent, spirited girl down, no matter how well you train her. But you can keep on trying!

Product type: EBook    Published by: Fiction4All    Published: 3 / 2009

No. words: 32000

Style: Sex Slavery / Training

Available Formats: Palm  PDF  


Shana gazed through the grille of her dormitory window at the brown hills of Southern Spain. She sadly assumed it would be the last time she would see them. Today was her 18th birthday. She was packed and ready to leave the orphanage in accordance with the rules. She had lived behind the high stone walls of this secluded place all her life, so she knew she would miss it, but she was excited about her new life. Until her 21st birthday she had agreed to work as a maid for a family called Stradde. Most of her wages would be turned over to the orphanage as partial repayment for the years it had cared for her.
Shana thought her daily work, which she had done since she was five, cultivating the vegetable garden, feeding the chickens, milking the goats, scullery work in the kitchen, scrubbing floors, making beds, washing laundry, and supervising seventy younger girls, paid for her room and board, but apparently not. Not even the delicately embroidered hankies and the knitted baby booties she fashioned, and which were sent off somewhere, compensated for her keep. Mrs. Merryweather, the strict manager of the orphanage, told her that she should be grateful to have had a roof over her head, and should not question the decisions of her betters. Shana knew this was true and regretted her curiosity about things she did not understand. For instance, Mrs. Merryweather frequently mentioned the high cost of raising a girl. What was cost? She was afraid to ask. Several times she had been thrashed for displaying "improper curiosity" about matters far beyond her station in life. Her place was to be a maid in a household of her betters. Shana had been told this hundreds of times, and she accepted it. Certainly that was what she had been trained to do.
One virtue Shana had learned at the Merryweather Orphanage for English Girls was obedience. Mrs. Merryweather enforced the provisions of the "Golden Rules" with a terrifying caning of four to twelve strokes on a girl`s bare bottom. Often this punishment was augmented with enforced fasting in a small, dark, unfurnished room where a miscreant could not stand up nor lie down straight. It was a narrow room that sometimes seemed to be filled with crawly insects. The result was that disobedience was a rare event in the isolated community.
Shana took one more glance at the landscape. The morning April sun was casting a golden glow over the nearby olive grove and the patch of wild grass and flowers below her window. She had often wondered what it would be like to walk out there. But of course no girl at the orphanage ever went beyond the high walls. They all accepted that condition of isolation as natural for girls of their station in life.
Shana heard footsteps in the hallway. She faced the door and smoothed the wrinkles on her faded gray canvas tunic.
It was Seņora Salerno, Mrs. Merryweather`s assistant. Shana clutched her hand. "I will miss you."
The woman smiled. "And I will miss you, sweet girl." They had formed a friendship over the years, even though formal relationships were prohibited between the girls and staff.
They walked down the halls to the office in silence. Just before they entered, Seņora Salerno took Shana`s hand and gave her a sad smile. "This interview will not be easy, sweet girl. Promise me you will be obedient."
"Of course," Shana laughed. "Am I not always obedient?"
"Yes, you are a good girl." The woman gave Shana`s cheek a gentle pat.
"I was not given underwear today. Did Virginia forget? I hope she won`t be punished." The girl made a little laugh of embarrassment. "I have nothing on except this tunic."
The woman patted her hand reassuringly. "Don`t worry about that, Shana. Just be obedient and all will be well."
This reply left Shana a bit puzzled, but she trusted Seņora Salerno.
The Straddes were a middle aged couple. Both looked healthy and athletic with slim bodies and the deep tan of people who spend a great deal of time laying and exercising in the sun. They gave Shana broad smiles as she entered the office.
"She`s a stunner," Mrs. Stradde whispered to her husband, obviously thinking the girl could not hear. It was easy to see that Mrs. Stradde had once been a stunningly beautiful woman, and she still was except her blond hair was now losing its luster and her features were degrading with blemishes of sun and age.
Mrs. Merryweather, the omnipotent power of the orphanage, stood behind her huge mahogany desk. She was a lean, tiny woman who wore her gray hair in a tight bun. She had black eyes that were always squinted in disapproval, as were the tight thin lips. She had no discernable breasts and her thin body looked frail. But she had great energy and could summon terrible strength when she was chastising girls for wicked behavior. Mrs. Merryweather directed Shana to stand in the middle of the room. Seņora Salerno remained near the office door.
Mr. Stradde approached the prospective maid with a broad, friendly smile. He had blond hair, cropped short in military style, and weather wrinkled facial features. He stroked her face. His hands felt rough. For the next several minutes he perused her minutely, her teeth--forcing up her lips as though she were a horse--hair, hands and feet, and finally her eyes. Meanwhile Mrs. Stradde drifted across the room to the assistant. They began to converse in Spanish. They made no attempt to keep their conversation confidential, assuming that Shana spoke no Spanish. She never had spoken the language, but she had spent 13 years working at menial tasks for long hours in the kitchen with the Spanish cooks who jabbered in their native tongue all day long. Being a bright girl, Shana had slowly accumulated an understanding of the language. The staff never attempted to speak English because the rules stipulated there should be no communication between the outdoor staff and the orphans.

"This girl has never been taught to read or write?"
"No, we keep them ignorant so that you can easily mold them. They have never left the grounds, never talked to anyone outside the orphanage. She has, of course, been taught woman`s skills such as knitting, crochet, needle point, sewing, child care, and all the usual housekeeping chores she needs to serve as a maid."
"She knows nothing about sex?"
"Dios mio, no. She is a virgin in every sense of the word. She is completely unaware how beautiful she is. She has no idea of the concept of erotic beauty, much less sexual sensuality."
"So she has been prepared to be nothing but a slave?"
"An extremely obedient slave. She is even ignorant about religion. We teach her there is an omnipotent being called Saint Jude You as her owner can convert her easily to any religion by telling her that Saint Jude is really Allah or Christ or whatever."
"How interesting," Mrs. Stradde commented, giving Shana a critical appraisal.
"And where do all these girls come from? You must have several hundred here."
"In order to assure absolute confidentiality, we only accept girls born to slaves. The mothers are slave girls usually put to enforced breeding. It`s a lucrative occupation that you might consider. You can sell whelps to adoption agencies all over the world at very interesting prices. Of course, sometimes accidental pregnancies happen. Immediately at birth the whelp-if it`s a female, of course--is taken from the slave so she never has the opportunity to bond with it. We buy these newborns and raise them to 18 years."
"Raised and disciplined for a life of bondage. It makes me shiver just thinking about it. If my husband approves the girl, I`m looking forward to training her."

All this frank conversation upset Shana`s protected and cozy world, talk of slavery, planned ignorance, her mother a slave possibly forcefully impregnated. How exactly that was done she had no idea. It was like suddenly gazing into a nightmare, a distorted vision of how truth should be. And the Stradde couple, she suddenly realized, were the demons. She was now frightened and apprehensive. The whole world she knew was dissolving like a pleasant dream at wakeup time. She now understood that Mrs. Merryweather, a woman she had admired and trusted, and relied on for shelter and protection, was not the loving benefactor she had always believed. She was a wicked impostor who was selling Shana into bondage. Shana was not sure what that meant exactly, but instinctively understood that it was not good. She resolutely held back the tears of disillusionment that surged into her eyes and tried to spill down her cheeks.
Hans Stradde finished the preliminary inspection of the girl. Now he faced Mrs. Merryweather. "I`m certainly satisfied with this girl as far as I`ve seen, but you understand I must now view her naked."
"Of course," Mrs. Merryweather nodded. She turned to Shana. "Take off your tunic, Shana."
Shana was shocked. Instinctively she felt it was wrong for a man to see her naked. She saw Stradde watching her intently. Shana was in a quandary. She made no move to disrobe. She was conflicted.
She stood frozen by indecision.
"Did you hear me, Shana?" Mrs. Merryweather demanded testily.
"Yes, Mrs. Merryweather, but it isn`t right. We were taught that nudity is wicked. We should never see ourselves nor let others see us naked, we were taught." Shana turned to Seņora Salerno who was approaching her. "What should I do?" she pleaded.
"You`ve foolishly been disobedient, Shana," the assistant told her sternly. "You must be punished."
Shana moaned her dread of punishment,
Mrs. Merryweather had already produced the thin, whippy switch she used on these occasions.
"But don`t you see she is telling me to do something that we were taught many times is wrong?"
Seņora Salerno waved away this argument. "Go to the chair, Shana," she ordered sternly.
Shana knew the woman only wanted the best for her. She was still confused, but she trusted Seņora Salerno. Even though it seemed wrong, she felt somehow it must be right if Seņora Salerno agreed.
The chair was a sturdy wooden armchair bolted to the floor in the furthest corner of the office.
Making little sounds of distress, Shana obediently moved to the chair and knelt on the seat. The back of the chair was a stock for neck and wrists. Mrs. Merryweather levered up the top panel. Shana placed her neck and wrists in their respective concavities. The manager lowered the top piece and shoved the locking pin in place. Shana was now securely held in position for her punishment, her upper body horizontal.


Hans Stradde had intently observed the girl floating across the room to the chair. He was enchanted by her lithe body swaying provocatively with each step. This girl with her shapely legs, long, glistening honey colored hair falling in waves to her waist, her lovely blue eyes, full sensual lips and jutting breasts, was something he must have no matter what the cost. But for the moment he was anticipating, with rising sexual excitement, the girl`s whipping. He hungered for the sweet sound of her squeals and sobs, and then, the delicious finale, the disrobing for his close and intimate inspection. He surreptitiously adjusted the engorging bulge in his trousers as he waited for Mrs. Merryweather to begin.
She folded back the skirt of the girl`s tunic, neatly up to her waist, revealing the generous proportions of the young globes, the smooth white skin, and the dainty pink petals embracing the entrance to her sex.
Mrs. Merryweather looked at Mr. Stradde and offered him the switch. "Would you like to do the honors, Mr. Stradde?"
He fought to quell his rush of arousal, managed to conceal his real feelings behind an expression of a man reluctant but ready to perform a distasteful duty. "If you wish, Mrs. Merryweather," he said, taking the switch from her.
Right away he could tell the switch was of superior quality. He bent it into a circle, and then made a few practice slashes in the air, whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. Shana stirred uneasily.
"Considering some extenuating circumstances," Mrs. Merryweather pronounced judiciously, "I think four strokes will suffice."
Shana made a low moan.
Mr. Stradde stepped up to his target and took the measure of it so that the very tip of the switch would snap on the far side of the girl`s lovely bum. He raised his arm, paused, then brought it down in a hard, expert stroke. The switch first made a whoosh sound as it cut through the air, then a loud plop on the soft flesh. Shana gasped and her body twitched.
Mr. Stradde had anticipated at least a short cry of agony. He regarded the vivid red line neatly bisecting the girl`s orbs. He settled himself to make a harder hit.
Whoosh, plash!
This time Shana gasped a little louder and her bottom did a few more gyrations.
Only on the fourth hit did Shana emit a muted cry. Salerno helped the girl off the chair and directed her to kneel before Stradde. Shana turned her round blue eyes up to him devoid of expression. There were no tears. "Thank you, sir, for correcting me," she said meekly.
In a strange way Stradde found the episode unnerving. At this moment the thoroughly switched girl should have been sobbing.
Mrs. Merryweather cut in, "Stand up and take off your tunic, Shana."
Stiffly, Shana climbed to her feet and faced the woman with a look of resolution. "Mrs. Merryweather, I remember you yourself once told our class that we should never let anyone see us naked."
"That was an order to the students applying to themselves," Mrs. Merryweather shot back. "But the issue here is not your nudity but your obedience!"
Shana`s eyes began to stream tears. "I want to be obedient, but-"
"That`s enough! You will not argue with me, Shana."
"I want to obey you, but I don`t know which to do!" the girl lamented.
Mrs. Merryweather turned to the Straddes with an expression of exasperation. "I must apologize-"
"Not at all," Mr. Stradde assured her. "We know how girls can sometimes turn difficult."
"We shall soon deal with it," the manager said with a grim look. "Shana!" she barked with authority. "Go back to the chair!"
Sobbing, the distraught girl obeyed. Salerno locked her into place and folded up the tunic.
Mrs. Merryweather approached, this time wielding a whip. Stradde noted with interest that it was a four-foot single strand braided whip with a split end of four fine five-inch tails. Stradde was relieved to see there were no blood knots. He enjoyed viewing a girl`s stripped bottom no matter how livid, but not blood. Blooded rumps took too long to heal. Stradde knew the fine tails would sting like an adder`s bite when they lashed soft flesh, but would not cut.
When the girl saw the instrument of her punishment she blanched and her body visibly quivered. "Oh please-you`ve never used a whip on me."
"Silence! Not a word from you, stupid girl! It`s time you learned what a real whipping feels like. I`m sure this won`t be the only one."
Shana stifled a sob, but her body trembled.
The room hushed as Mrs. Merryweather positioned herself to deliver the first blow.
The whip hissed and landed across the girl`s buttocks with a crisp snap. "Uuuuuu!" Shana cried out.
Hiss. Snap. "Aaaaaa!"
Hiss. Snap. "Aaaaauuuuu!"
Hiss. Snap. "Uugh uugh uugh!" she bawled.
"Well, stupid girl, are you ready now to be obedient?" Mrs. Merryweather demanded, puffing from her exertions,
"Yes," the girl sobbed.
Seņora Salerno freed the bawling girl from the chair.
"Face Mr. Stradde," Mrs. Merryweather commanded.
Stradde regarded the girl`s woeful and tear-stained face with a surge of pleasure. Her sobs were music to his ears.
"Take off your tunic."
There was a final hesitation before she pulled the tunic over her head. At least the whipping had broken her resistance. She wore nothing under the tunic. She was a stunning vision of feminine beauty. Her taut, up tilted breasts with their stiff pink nipples were even more erotically perfect than he had imagined. Heavy, generous but not too large. He imagines stroking and squeezing them-owning them, doing whatever he wanted to them.
"Feet further apart, Shana," Mrs. Merryweather instructed. "Arms away from your body, eyes downcast. There, she`s all yours, Mr. Stradde."
Hans Stradde moved towards the naked girl with the reverence of a man approaching a great work of art. He had experience introducing naīve, innocent girls to the degradation of nakedness and sexual slavery. He could see from the way she hunched, the way her lips trembled, the way her whole body was shivering that she was experiencing a sense of deep degradation. However, on several levels this girl was different. She was a little taller than he was, tall, willowy and gorgeous, but with a core of obstinacy which was always a pleasure to deal with. What a joy it would be to own her, train her, punish her, and wallow in her carnal enchantments.
He stroked her shoulders, her lovely face, the high cheeks, the glossy hair. He had a special clamp to pull out her tongue to check its color and length--attributes of special interest to Mrs. Stradde. Her meek compliance excited him, an obstinate female whipped, if only temporarily, into submission. He reached out to cup her breast and felt beads of sweat forming on his forehead. His cock twitched at the feel of the protruding softness. He pressed the nipple, caressed and pinched it. He fondled the other breast. Then he moved his hand slowly down the creamy torso. He stroked the voluptuous swell of hip, thrilled at the velvety smoothness of her inner thighs. All the while the girl held her expression passive although he could feel her body shuddering. He could sense her deep feelings of humiliation. Her eyes blinked wide when he pushed a finger into the intimate cloister of her vagina. When his questing finger nudged the all-important hymen, he withdrew immediately sensing that she was close to fainting from all the depraved acts being performed upon her.
"She`s intact," Mr. Stradde told his wife. "Very well, Mrs. Merryweather, we`ll take her."


A good story, ruined by lack of proof-reading. 1 out of 5 (Attila)

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