Mature Content

The Schism

Part 4

Illustration by

In actual fact, I loved being a slave. Those first weeks were an incredibly steep learning curve, though. I really struggled with my collar. It seemed way too tight. The first chance I got, I complained about it. I was being shown the showers, an important feature, given all the slaves sweated freely in the heat. While being instructed how to shave my vayjay, Ruth walked in to check on me. I leapt at the chance to gripe.

"Mistress, I think I've been given the wrong size collar."

"Oh, why is that, slave?"

"It's way too tight, Mistress."

"Looks fine to me, slave."

I was momentarily taken aback. Was she not even going to inspect how tight it was? "But, Mistress, I cannot even slide a finger under..."

"Silence!" I quickly stopped talking, stunned at how fast Ruth had turned. "So, girl, what is that around your throat?"

"A collar, Mistress."

"What kind of collar is it, slave?"

"A slave collar, Mistress?"

"Because you are a...?"

"Slave, Mistress."

"Correct, you are a slave. A thing. Property. Someone's possession. It is tight, tall and heavy so that you are constantly aware of it. It is there to remind you that you are nothing but a slave. It is also there to tell others you are just a slave. It is there so that you can be led on a leash. The only way it is ever coming off is if you stop being Mother Superior's slave. An event, very unlikely to occur. It is not a fashion statement. It is not there for your convenience, but for your owners. Have you eaten breakfast, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Well then, the collar is fine. You can eat, breathe, and unfortunately, talk. The last can be remedied, though. Complain about your collar once more this week, and you will wear a gag for twenty-four hours."

I struggled in silence with my collar after that.

I eventually met up with Jenny a week after we had been enslaved. I was very relieved that she bore me no ill will for leading her into the same trap. Unbeknownst to me, Jenny and I were generally kept apart during the first few years of our slavery. Friendships with our sister slaves were encouraged. BFF's or lovers were not. It was a struggle at first, as it made me feel isolated. But the bit I found hardest to accept was that Mother Superior, as I must now call Mistress Vanda, was not human.

Have you heard of Demonia before? I hadn't, and I was pretty sceptical at first. But after a while, you cannot deny the facts of your daily life any longer. Mistress, nor her children, ever ate. Neither did they sleep. The sweltering heat was for their benefit. It was uncanny how they seemed to read your mind too. You could keep no secrets in a Demonia's collar.

But as you came to accept the facts, it quickly became quite normal. Within a year, I was completely unfazed that I was a real slave, held in permanent lifetime bondage, the property of a humanoid creature called a Demonia.

Bizarrely, the least human-looking member of our household, Ruth, was indeed human. Ruth looked like she did because she had been changed by our owner.

Perhaps I should rewind a bit...

Demonia look human at first glance. But there are subtle differences if you know what to look for. I spotted one the day I was enslaved. Mistress Vanda's symmetrical face. All Demonia, or Demonius as the males are called, have perfectly symmetrical features.

Their iris are near black too. Making it hard to tell where their pupil ends and the iris starts.

They don't eat food. But are somehow sustained by the odour, or energies, given off by a human when tortured. They delight in our pain and revel in our shame. I've heard Mother Superior describe emotions as odours on numerous occasions.

Apart from not sleeping, they are stronger and faster when they need to be. They like to live in temperatures most would sauna in. Demonia are also incredibly long-lived. We are talking thousands of years old, not just a few more than us. They also have a weird way of raising their young.

In fact, they do not directly raise their own young. Demonia are not cuckoos, though. Instead, they form a symbiotic bond with a human partner. That partner is in charge of the child-rearing. The symbiote has her own life extended, as well as her ability to heal increased. Once picked she develops the ability to cope with the heat Demonia enjoy. She also evolves comparable or greater strength and speed, though at a small secondary cost. Her hair still goes white with age, but the skin loses the ability to shed melanin and eventually turns black. The ears keep growing too. Ultimately becoming pointed like an elf in fictional stories.

Demonia typically give birth to litters of between three and seven babies. The children do not breastfeed for more than a week before turning to the famula for its nourishment. The famula provides this by torturing slaves in the infant's presence. Demonia young feed of pure pain.

Slightly less than once a week, I was taken to the creche. Then my wrist chain was attached to another chain in the ceiling, and I was winched off my feet. Two other chains were attached to my ankle cuffs and used to spread my legs. As the infants looked on, I was then beaten and whipped until I nearly passed out. I would then spend the rest of the day hung by my wrists as the children played around me. As I recovered from the flogging, the stresses of hanging by my wrists would increase. A day in the creche was pure agony from start to finish.

Between these visits, I served my owner as a domestic drudge. I waited on her in her chambers, cleaned the floors, cooked for my sisters in slavery, set the fires in the hearths, washed and ironed my owner's clothes.

I was also used as a sex slave. Mistress Ruth bedded me at least once a fortnight, often more frequently. Mother Superior summoned me to her chambers fifteen to twenty times a year. Mistress Ruth did not allow me to sleep with any of my sister slaves, the only person she shared me with was our owner. No matter how we fucked, Mistress Ruth always insisted I eat her out. She taught me exactly how to pleasure her, and when she came, I was forced to swallow all her juices.

In contrast, Mother Superior never allowed me to eat her out but focused instead on making me climax. Each of these sessions were near repeats of my first night. Every time they occurred, I renewed my love for my owner. I also knew, in my heart, I had done the right thing in becoming her slave.

Of course, I did not discover all this at once. I gathered tidbits of information and observed things in my duties. Though some stuff was imparted directly. Like why there were no old slaves...

I was having breakfast with Willa, who was training me. Willa was a petite brunette with a bubbly personality. It was impossible to be down or sulk around the woman. Her bonne humeur was just so infectious. Buoyed by her mood, and the good-natured banter being exchanged at the table, I interjected, "Why are there no old slaves?"

I may as well have declared I'd murdered my mother, it would have had the same effect. Everyone stopped talking and looked at me.

"Why do you ask that, Sydney?" Inquired my trainer.

"It's just... Well, if we've been enslaved for life... I mean it stands to reason... Well, there ought to be... It's just you are all so young!"

"Ahhh, I see," smiled Willa. "Gisele, how old are you, dear?"

"I don't know, Willa. What year is it?"

"You've got me. Sydney, what year is it?"

"You don't know?" I was incredulous, but then I realised they had no need to track the time. We simply obeyed. "Umm, it's nineteen eighty."

"Really!" Exclaimed Gisele in surprise. "How time flies. Well then, girl, that means I'm fifty-eight years old."

"Fifty-eight! But you look like you're in your twenties. You all do."

"Thank you, dear," preened Gisele, "I do try."

"Who's going to tell her?" Asked a smirking Willa to the room in general.

"Tell her what?" Asked Ruth, walking into the room.

"Oh, Mistress, I did not see you there. Mistress, Sydney was inquiring why all the slaves look so young." Willa, unusually, was blushing scarlet. As if caught doing something she ought not to.

"Well, Sister Willa, you are training the novice," smirked Ruth, clearly in on the joke. "Educate the girl."

"Yes, Mistress," murmured Willa before turning to me. "Novice Sydney, the fluids we ingest when orally pleasuring Mistress Ruth contain something that every beauty company would murder to own. Whilst you serve our owner, your looks will not fade, nor your body visibly age."

"Tell her how slaves die, Willa." Ordered Ruth, a malicious grin on her face now. "She deserves the truth, she wears a collar too."

"If we die of natural causes, it is usually heart failure, often at night. Usually around your eighth or ninth decade. The primary cause of death, though, is Demonius."

"Demonius?" I turned to Ruth, "The men, Mistress?"

"The boys too, I'm afraid, slave." Her grin was gone. A look of sad resignation seemed to creep over her. "Demonia are a matriarchy. They feed on us when in pain or embarrassment. The children, not being fully developed, feed on pain only. The boys... The boys as they age... Change. Part of that change is that they need more extreme emotions to survive. When a Demonius comes of age, he must kill to feed."

"Kill us?" I was horrified.

"Most boys take themselves away, leave home when they feel the change upon them. Some, though, fall victim to their passions. Their manhood catching them unawares. Creche duty becomes perilous when the young are nearly mature."

"This is terrible," I wailed. My hands reaching up to the collar at my throat. As if my puny fingers could remove the steel riveted in place.

"Calm yourself, slave," admonished Ruth. "We all face the same risk. Do you see your sisters rending at their hair in despair?"

I looked around, suddenly feeling foolish, as the other women smiled at me. The creche was populated by four boys and no girls at this time. Why were they not scared?

"I'm sorry, Mistress," I apologised.

"Better. We watch the boys. It is rare for us to miss the change, so the risk is extremely small. However, the men are The Shame of the Demonia race. Once they leave us, they often grow to like or enjoy the act of killing. Some require a tithe to mate with our owner. Though again, this has not happened in fifty years."

"A tithe, Mistress."

"A slaves life, in return for their seed. Finding victims who will not be missed is hard for them. If a Demonia wants to mate, a slave or two is often requested."

Slack-jawed, I stared at Ruth. I'd found my vampires. They were nothing like I had imagined. But inhuman monsters who killed us to eat summed them up perfectly.

Eventually, I managed to put the thought I could be murdered on a whim out of my mind. Days became weeks, which became months which inevitably turned into years.

The collar became more comfortable as time wore on. The constant heat changing my metabolism and causing me to shed some weight. Something the smith had perceived would happen as he sized me up.

So, in time I learned to love my life, my sex life especially. The company was enjoyable, and while creche duty was arduous, the rest of the work was not. At times I would have pangs of regret. I'd idly wonder what happened to my family. But on the whole, I enjoyed my lot in life.

Then everything changed. It did not happen overnight. In fact, it took years. But a child had been born before I was enslaved who would change everything. One of the more significant changes to occur was I ceased being Mistress Vanda's slave.

Next Chapter: