Free Condemned to Slavery by Bruce McLachlan Page A

kneeling pose offering her naked loins to attention. The boot instantly moved in and nuzzled into the cleft, rubbing against her whipped pussy, making her stiffen with discomfort and a flash of pleasure, the tickling of her sex by the leather rousing her appetite.
    The Warden moved the boot back and regarded the lines of new moisture upon the fabric.
    “Lick it off and then do the sole you wanton little bitch,” decreed the Warden with a smile and shake of her head, amused by Lydia’s reaction.
    Dropping her head forward, she tasted her own arousal and lapped it free before being offered the sole of the boot. Again she diligently attended her duty, her eyes fixed to the stern icy glare of the Warden, the exchange melting her into her task. The feelings were alien within her, set lose since her capture, as though the ordeal had dislodged some secret nugget of her psyche that she herself had not even known was there.
    “That will do, six one nine two,” she stated, standing up and moving back around the desk, leaving Lydia kneeling, her heart racing, the taste of leather and feminine fluid controlling her palate.
    Addressing the intercom, the Warden called for the guards to return and having been patiently waiting outside, they entered instantly.
    “Remove it,” she said with disinterest, slipping the crop back into the drawer. Sitting down behind her desk to study Lydia’s file, she decided to examine the details of the individual she had just so viciously abused and coerced into an act of debasement that had left her sparkling with bizarre concupiscence.

Chapter Four
    The guards removed her fetters and grabbed a bicep each before hauling up, dragging her forward as her legs flopped vainly, the beating and delightful derogation having stripped her of energy. In the uncomfortable grasp of the villains she was drawn out of the area and back down the stairs, her giddy ears still ringing with her own screams while she listened to the guards laughing and conversing in their own language, keeping their words out of her understanding.
    Continuing deeper into the prison the surfaces became laden with flaking tongues of paint, the sheets spewing out ragged tears as the walls shed the layer in untidy strips. The ceiling was a shifting mass of such blistered neglect, the stone floor being flecked with small discharged segments. The pipes that ran along the corridors were old and rusted, leaking their cargo of water in places, the seepage spilling down the mildewed wall and filling the section of passage about them with a pool of stagnant water. The molds that thrived about such ruptures added the only color to the palette of gray and mottled whites that formed the dreary penitentiary, the sporadic lights overhead being weak and dirty, their grimy rays only making the prison seem all the more unsanitary and ramshackle.
    The last stretch of corridor was sealed by two barred gates, the short safety zone between them housing an open door through which could be spied a number of guards lounging in comfort to drink, eat, and distract themselves with irreverent chat and diversions. Two morose and whip marked prisoners acted as servants and saw to their needs, their wild eyes and hidden masks of subdued terror testifying to the fear of irking their jailers But it was not the sight of these prisoners being demeaned by their use as waitresses, nor the hands that often strayed to their bare skin to grope and molest freely, it was that a fair portion of the guards were men. The realization that some of her oppressors would be licentious males, with all the terrible possibilities of usage by them that such a discovery presented, caused her to find a sudden and consuming dread of her captivity.
    “Vesson! Come and join the game, we have an extra seat,” shouted one of the guards from his position at a card table.
    “Maybe later,” replied the escort who had been so ready to brutalize Lydia for even the slightest misdeed.
    “Ah, so