The bright sunlight of early morning streamed through the windows into Mrs. Roberts' bedroom. Joints creaking stiffly, as if the middle age woman needed reminding she wasn't a little girl anymore, the woman rolled out of bed and walked across the floor to the bathroom.

Fifteen minutes later, Mrs. Roberts had changed into her day clothes. She tied a white apron over her blue spotted dress. The front of the apron had several deep pockets on it. Before heading downstairs, the old woman filled them with everything she would need that day; several white handkerchiefs, a roll of sticky duct tape, and plenty of short coils of rope.

Moving at the slow, comfortable pace of someone with a task to do and all day to do it, Mrs. Roberts climbed down the stairs and made her way to the kitchen. On the way, she passed through the living room, and by the front door of her house. She paused for a moment, standing beside the fireplace.

For a moment, Mrs. Roberts remembered her surprise when she'd opened her front door during that heavy storm to find a young woman shivering and wet on her front porch. Had it really been a whole week since then?

Bacon, frying in a cast iron skillet, smelled good. So did the pancakes Mrs. Roberts cooked next, using the grease left by the thick rashers of bacon. The old woman also scooped a cupful of grits into a small pot, with some water, setting it on a burner to heat up.

A few minutes later, Mrs. Roberts dug into a large stack of flapjacks smothered in syrup. The bacon was nice and crisp and crunched delightfully while she ate it. The pot of unflavored grits she left to simmer on the stove as she finished up her breakfast with orange juice.

She quickly finished her morning meal and set the dirty dishes in the sink, half filled with water and some other dishes, to soak a bit, until she could get around to getting them cleaned. Returning to the stove top, Mrs. Roberts turned off the burner and poured the warm slop into a small bowl. She set the bowl on a small, wooden tray with a mug of lukewarm tap water.

Picking the tray up, the old woman carried it across the kitchen to a small door beside the pantry. This was the door to the cellar. Before opening it, Mrs. Roberts paused, thought for a second, and grabbed a sharp knife from a nearby counter setting it on the tray.

As she unlocked the door and opened it, a narrow beam of light slipped through the opening, cutting into the dark gloom of the basement. The old woman's eyes followed the bar of light down the rickety wood stairs and across the bare concrete floor. On the far side of the cellar, in one corner, was an old iron frame bed. Lying on the bed, wrapped in a thin, ragged blanket was a young woman.

The girl sat up in bed, woken up by the light. The bed beneath her creaked as her weight shifted. An iron collar was locked around her slender neck. The chain, running from the front of the collar to a large metal ring set into the floor near the bed, rattled loudly in the confined space.

Cynthia blinked in the sudden light as her jailer stopped at the bottom of the stairs of flip the light switch there. Overhead, the single, naked light bulb, flashed into life, illuminating the small prison in its harsh glare. Sullenly, the young woman slipped her long, slender legs over the side of the bed, sitting facing the older woman. She shrugged the tattered, dirty, blanket off her shoulders. Beneath it, she was completely naked.

"Good morning, slave!" Mrs. Roberts said, cheerfully. She held the kitchen knife in one hand loosely beside her side, in case her prisoner was foolish enough to try something rash.

"Good morning, mistress…" Cynthia replied, softly. As she'd been instructed on the first morning of her captivity, she sat still on the bed, head bowed, hands folded submissively in her lap. The young woman hated the little morning ritual, but she didn't really have a choice in the matter.

The first morning after Mrs. Roberts had drugged and taken her captive, Cynthia had refused to comply with her kidnapper's wishes. The flogging she'd received as punishment for her 'insolence' had convinced the young woman it was better to obey. Worse than the physical beating, though it hadn't seemed like it at first, Cynthia's stubbornness had cost her breakfast that morning.

The small bowl of tasteless mush wasn't much, but it, and the slightly larger portion of the same she got each evening before being locked up for the night, were the only food the captive girl received. She ate every bit, even though, without silverware she was forced to scoop the bland slop into her mouth with her bare fingers, drained the mug of foul tasting water and wished earnestly for more.

Cynthia couldn't remember a moment, since her kidnapping that she hadn't been hungry. She lived from meal to meager meal. The promise of extra food, or more often the threat to withhold what little she already had, was often more than enough to force obedience from the soon-to-be slave. At night, she dreamed about food almost as often as freedom.

The young woman had never imagined she could be brought so low. When Mrs. Roberts had first told Cynthia had fate, to be sold as a sex slave, the stubborn girl had vowed to do everything she could and try and escape the clutches of this evil woman. Failing that, she would refuse to submit and quietly become a submissive little slave ready to be sold. Now, she would probably sell herself for a big mac and fries.

While Cynthia had been eating, Mrs. Roberts had climbed back up the stairs to the house proper. As the young woman finished, she reappeared, bearing several items in her hands. Approaching the bed, she set down a small bucket filled with water and an old washrag. On the bed, she dropped a travel makeup case and a small hand mirror.

Picking up the tray with Cynthia's bowl and mug, Mrs. Roberts commanded her captive, "Now slave, you have fifteen minutes to make yourself presentable, before I get back." With that, she turned and headed back out of the makeshift dungeon.

Cynthia slid off the bed and stepped over to the bucket. This wasn't part of the usual routine she'd come to know and hate in the last week. As the young woman had learned to her sorrow since her capture, anything out of the ordinary was likely to be bad for her somehow.

She reached into the bucket and pulled out the rag. The water was cold and there was no soap, but she did her best to clean off the collected grime and dirt a week's imprisonment had left covering her bare skin.

She wiped down her arms and legs and washed down her chest, cold water running down her bare breasts. She tried, without much success, to wash her shoulder length brown hair, without any soap or shampoo. Lastly, she hurriedly soaked the rag in the water and cleaned between her legs.

Dropping the rag back into the bucket with a small splash, Cynthia turned to the mirror and the makeup case, shivering and wet all over. There wasn't much to work with in the small plastic case, but again, Cynthia did her best. She had no doubts Mrs. Roberts would punish her if she didn't, and probably if she did anyway.  Her makeup done, she found a small, plastic comb in the case, and sat on the side of the bed, trying to get some of the tangles out of her hair.

Cynthia hurriedly put the comb away, bowing her head low and folding her hands in her lap, as the door to the cellar opened again, and Mrs. Roberts once more descended the stairs. She glanced over the younger woman's naked body with a cruel, appraising eye. "You look better than before. I suppose it'll have to do." She said, motioning for Cynthia to stand up.  

Cynthia sighed, softly to herself, as she complied. She hated this part. Reluctantly, the young woman turned and crossed her hands behind her back for her kidnapper to tie. Mrs. Roberts quickly went to work, looping a short length of rope around her wrists, pulling it tight.

To forestall any plans Cynthia might have of escaping, Mrs. Roberts kept her captive tied up at all times when she was let off the chain and taken out of the basement when she put the younger woman to some pointless task to break her spirit.

When she wasn't toiling away, cleaning the same room for the fourth time since her kidnapping, Mrs. Roberts demonstrated her skill with the ropes by placing her prisoner in stringent, uncomfortable bondage, unable to move in the slightest for hours at a time. Cynthia had suspected, she was positive now; the evil woman derived a sadistic glee from such torture.

"Ow!" Cynthia cried out, as Mrs. Roberts began tying her elbows together, yanking hard on the rope, forcing Cynthia's arms together painfully.

"Quiet, slave!" Mrs. Roberts growled, giving her helpless captive a stinging slap to her backside. "You're going to have to get used to being tied up like this. Odds are, your future owner will keep you bound like this most of the time anyway."

Cynthia moaned softly as the slaver stuffed a balled up handkerchief in her mouth and tied another handkerchief in her mouth and tied another handkerchief between the young woman's lips, cleave gagging her. Pulling another short coil of rope from her pocket, Mrs. Roberts knelt and quickly bound Cynthia's knees together.

Standing back up, the older woman patted her young captive affectionately. "Now, don't go anywhere, young lady…" She said with a chuckle. Cynthia could only moan softly into the cloth filling her mouth as she watched her captor head back upstairs.

Mrs. Roberts was always careful to keep the keys to Cynthia's collar out of the basement, whenever she wasn't kept tightly bound. That way, even if the captive girl managed to overpower the older woman, she'd have no way of getting her collar off and escaping the basement.

Cynthia could only stand still like a good little slave and let the older woman truss her up each morning, and in the evening when she was untied to try and get what sleep she could before the next day of this nightmare.

It galled the young woman to give in and obey so easily, nut her captor had made it quite clear, if Cynthia resisted in the slightest or failed to perform the degrading tasks or humiliating rituals she required, the slaver would leave Cynthia in the cellar alone, until she starved.

After a minute or so, Mrs. Roberts was back with the key. Cynthia groaned in relief as the thick iron collar was unlocked and lifted from her shoulders. She straightened up, free of the collars weight, as the older woman set it on the ground with a loud clank.

The thick, iron collar was immediately replaced with a smaller, leather dog collar. The cruel slaver cinched the degrading thing tight against Cynthia's throat, tighter then the iron collar, as if to make up for what it lacked in weight, and buckled it on. She clipped a short, chain leash to a ring in the front and gave it a sharp tug before turning back to the stairs.

Reluctantly, Cynthia followed after her 'mistress'. With her knees bound, she could only manage a slow hobble. The two women climbed up the stairs into the kitchen. In the kitchen, she saw Mrs. Roberts had cleared off the kitchen table.

"Slave! I want you to get up on the table and lie on your back!" She ordered. She helped the tightly bound girl clamber up onto the wooden surface. Untying Cynthia's knees, Mrs. Roberts quickly lashed the young woman's legs to two of the table legs, forcing them apart.

She untied Cynthia's wrists and elbows and did the same with the young woman's hands, leaving her spread-eagled across the table. Stepping back, Mrs. Roberts admired her handiwork. Cynthia's cheeks flushed red behind her gag as the slavers eyes ran over every inch of bare skin. Bound as she was, Cynthia had no way of preserving her modesty. With her legs spread as they were, her pussy was laid bare to her captor's gaze.

"hmmm…yes, this will have to go…" Mrs. Roberts said to herself, running the fingers of one hand through the patch of light brown hair over Cynthia's crotch. The young woman's cheeks burned as she felt the older woman's nails brush lightly over the lips of her sex.

With a loving pat, Mrs. Roberts turned and left the room. A minute later, she returned with a can of shaving cream and a razor. Cynthia squirmed, helpless as the older woman rubbed the white foam evenly across her mound. She trembled in fright as the slaver honed the razor on a leather strap. It wasn't a modern safety razor, but an old fashioned steel straight razor!

"Keep still, my dear!" Mrs. Roberts said, placing her free hand on Cynthia's thigh as she slowly lowered the razor to the white foam mound covering the girl's pussy. "You really don't want me to slip right now…"

Cynthia moaned, chewing on her gag. She shut her eyes, trying to be as still as possible. She could feel the cold steel edge of the razor running across her skin, expecting any moment to feel it bite into her and draw blood. With a steady hand, Mrs. Roberts ran the keen edge across the lips of her captive's sex, shaving off foam and hair, leaving nothing but smooth, bare skin behind.

After what was probably only a minute or two, but felt like half an hour to the frightened girl, Mrs. Roberts rinsed off the razor in the sink and wiped the last of the shaving cream off of Cynthia's crotch with a towel. "There, how does that look?" she asked, cheerfully.

Cynthia raised her hand, glancing down across her nude body. She hadn't thought it possible, but she felt even more naked then before. With a playful giggle, Mrs. Roberts leaned close and blew across the newly bare skin of her prisoner's lips. The soft jet of air felt odd and cold on her freshly shaved skin.

"Now," Mrs. Roberts said, cheerfully, reaching into a drawer. Cynthia flinched as she saw what was in the older woman's hands; a digital camera! Setting it between Cynthia's legs for a moment, Mrs. Roberts went and adjusted the curtains on the window, making sure there was plenty of light for the photo-shoot.

"Smile for the camera!" Cynthia felt her cheeks burn with shame as the slaver snapped picture after picture of the nude young woman.

"Come now, my dear, show that pretty face of your to me!" Mrs. Roberts ordered. She snapped more photographs, taking close ups of her tightly bound captive's naked breasts and shamefully exposed crotch. "When I put these pictures up on the web this evening, there'll be over a hundred men, all over the world seeing you, just as you are now!"

Cynthia sobbed into her gag, tears forming at the corners of her eyes. Soon enough, she was all too aware; one of those men would be her new owner, holding her life in his hands. Mrs. Roberts continued taking pictures, enjoying her captive's despair.

At long last, she finished taking her pictures. She grinned, looking over what she'd taken on the camera's small screen. "I think these look good, my dear." She walked around the table to show Cynthia. On the tiny screen, the young woman could see herself lashed down to the table, her naked body cruelly exposed to the camera's unrelenting gaze.

"The bidders are just going to love these!" Mrs. Roberts exclaimed, as Cynthia sobbed into her gag…