Free Alice: Slave at the Marketplace 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