Slave World by Johnny Stone
Far outside of the United Planetary Federation’s jurisdiction is a world of unprecedented fetishes and kinks, unrestricted by the governing laws of submissive ownership. This pearl of debauchery has a name- Slave World- a hell on earth to some, and a Garden of Eden to others. Margo Winters, an emotionally scarred and unstable veteran turned independent freighter pilot, is about to find out firsthand which category she falls into.
A routine ssubmissive delivery for Margo and John, her out-of-date droid/companion/co-pilot and sex partner, turns catastrophic when their cargo escapes cryo-stasis and takes control of her ship. Margo has a hidden secret though, and one of the escapees recognizes it, dooming her to a life of sexual submissiveness.
Sold to a brokering house, Margo is collared, trained, and stripped of her humanity, before being purchased by a cruel and sadistic man. Simple slavery isn’t enough for him, and Margo soon joins her ‘brothers and sisters’ at the ranch stables to begin her new life as a cosmetically and genetically altered pony girl.
She quickly becomes a helpless player in a web of intrigue, finding herself torn between her Master’s twisted desires of power, the man of her dreams, and the innate call of animalistic lust for another slave. Her ultimate challenge isn’t to just survive her ordeal with her pride and sanity intact- it’s to keep from ultimately killing the man she comes to love more than life itself.
Includes: M/f, Anal, Oral, Rough sex, Toys, Humiliation, Branding, Pony play, Exhibitionism and public nudity, consensual submissiveness, Abduction, Amorphous pony/ animal sex (humans physically augmented with animal characteristics.) And group sex. There are several minor instances of milking mentioned, as well as several scenes of graphic violence.
I pushed in my shoulders, cupping my boobs to form a meager amount of make-believe cleavage in the mirror. A ruing sigh, and a smirk of disgust, followed shortly thereafter. Strike three, you’re out! Guys had a thing for big tits; they always have, and always will. Why? What the hell was so damn special about having a massive rack, anyway? There wasn’t a man alive that could keep their hands off them, even my pale excuse for womanhood. It was like they had…That’s it, a delirious, sleep deprived cackle crawled its way from my chest. The mystery’s finally over! Men were born with boob magnets in their hands.
I could laugh about it now, but my sense of mammary-based insecurity had been especially bad when I was growing up. It didn’t help matters that I’d been a bit of a tomboy growing up: boy’s clothes, catching frogs down by the swamp, a rough and tumble game of full contact Football with the boys, followed by skinny dipping out at Hennington Lake. That kind of stuff was okay when I was a kid, but as I got older… Most times I felt like I wasn’t a girl at all, just a pretender that happened to have a vagina, by chance of fate.
I dropped heavily on my double bunk, unbuckling my boots, slowly being consumed by a dark and tired mood after belittling myself in the mirror. I knew what it was, yet was powerless to stop it as usual; the depression I’ve battled with, off and on throughout most of my life, had a nasty habit of unexpectedly rearing its ugly head.
My thoughts began to swirl, forming a bottomless vortex of lifelong regret and self-pity, as I thought about the only man that had ever truly given a damn about me. I could still remember the morning he died like it was yesterday, so sudden, so unexpected. My father had been the center of my universe when I was a little girl. We did everything together. It’s funny, because I still don’t see it as sexual abuse, even today, except in a technical sense. He was the only man that ever loved me, that made me feel needed and special, and that was all I’ve ever wanted in my life.
My little sister Aurora and I were finishing breakfast before heading off to school, and dad was on his way out the door for another 16 hour double shift in the infernal hell of molten durasteel production, at the metallurgy plant in town. Daddy was a good man, and worked hard to provide for us, yet always made time for Aurora and I in his busy life. He stopped on his way out the door, to tell us one of his stupidly funny jokes.
“Daddy, that was really dumb.” He laughed of course.
“I know. See you tonight princess.” Then he was gone. The last thing I’d said to him when he was alive was how dumb his joke was. He was killed in a freak accident that morning, it shouldn’t have happened, but it did.
“A robotic arm at the plant gave way due to structural fatigue,” the man had told my mother. “The backup safety rigging had been improperly secured, your husband was killed instantly by the falling pallet of machinery, I’m sorry.” The investigation later found that the operator had been drunk on the job. Of course he’d been fired afterwards, but it was a moot point by then.
Like most normal people, mom and dad didn’t have the money to keep a memory cube and brain pattern tape on file, in the event of an untimely death. The cost alone of keeping a clone on ice with one of the big cryo-firms, even if my parents hadn’t been purists, was astronomical in itself. Daddy was dead and would never be coming back, no matter how much I prayed for it. I was twelve years old at the time; that was when my life changed forever.
I looped my fingers around the string of my panties, and they slipped down my legs with an involuntarily sniff of neglected female hygiene; that was a bad idea on my part. Ugh! God I stink. It reminded me of tuna simmering garlic sauce. The hell with it, I can always wash the sheets later, I silently scowled, crawling over the haphazard mountain of covers, reaching into the wall-drawer for my habitual dose of sleep tabs. I hadn’t been able to sleep soundly for years, without them.
Mom learned to cope with his loss by becoming an invert alcoholic, while I lashed out in any way I could: hanging out with the wrong crowd, drugs, and then sex, not the closeness and love like with daddy, made its way into the hell I called life. Even if it was only a twisted shadow of what I’d received from him, it temporarily eased my pain with a sense of false security, and imaginary self-worth. My grades continued to slip, and my behavior worsened. Mom couldn’t handle me any longer, and our relationship hit a low point. I was sent to Springdale, a group home for emotionally disturbed and troubled teens, not long after that.
I lived incognito on the streets for a few years after leaving Springdale. I couldn’t go back home, not after what I’d done to mom. The guilt of reality had finally set in; I’d only made the situation worse. No matter, there was always some guy willing to take me in for a guaranteed piece of ass every night, and because of it, my life corkscrewed into a haze of drug-induced nightmares, meaningless episodes of sex, and forgotten names. In many instances it turned into abuse, both physical and emotional, and I accepted it. It was a way of life for me now.
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