Everywhere
It had been over two years since Rachel Mayhew had left
Scotland for a job in London. Rachel
counted herself lucky to have been able to rent a one-bedroomed flat rather
than a studio and one in which you could stand up in the bedroom. It was no more than forty minutes on the
Underground to her office and there were at least a couple of convenience
stores, if not a shopping centre, in easy reach. Her position meant long hours and hard work
with minimal time for socialising except online. That had proved not to be too much of a
draw-back and it was how she had managed to meet Jeremy. In fact only three weeks earlier they had
become engaged. Evenings out with Jeremy
were usually at some event like a play or an art exhibition which Jeremy felt would
exercise Rachel’s mind and broaden her tastes.
However, much of her weekends Rachel spent either catching up on report
writing or doing chores such as cleaning and grocery shopping.
This evening, being Friday, Rachel had battled to get home
and drop off her laptop and other work stuff before heading out once more to
meet up with Jeremy. They were meeting
at a newly opened restaurant that apparently all the newspapers were raving
about. It was supposed to be a treat
laid on by Jeremy’s father. Rachel had
only met him once before and he had come across immediately as both pompous and
patronising. She did not know whether to
count herself lucky that he had felt she was up to the standard of his son,
without undergoing too much modification.
Rachel had had no time to change out of her work clothes. As a result, she imagined Jeremy’s father
would protest that she should have been in some designer’s dress and stiletto
heels, hardly styles she liked, even if she could have afforded them. Her work suit was smart enough, she felt. However, she guessed that it would not match
with her future father-in-law’s desire for a nubile woman who would transform
into a fecund breeder once she was married into his family. Rachel giggled mischievously as she thought
that one major reason why she liked Jeremy was not because of what he could do
with his cock, but rather because he was willing to go down on her. The rasping of his tongue across her clitoris
was enough to make her shudder pleasurably whenever she happened to recall it.
Rachel glanced at the time on her phone, hoping that there
would be no delay on the underground service so that she stood a chance of
making it into the West End in time.
Jeremy and his father shared a dislike of tardiness and she knew she
would not be able to cope with their disapproval doubled that way. Tucking her phone back, Rachel was conscious
of something going wrong as the ground seemed to slip away from her and then
approach rapidly. As her handbag,
despite its size and weight skidded from her, and the phone progressed even
further, Rachel realised that she had tripped.
Then the motion stopped and she was conscious of her cheek pressed on to
a smelly, unpleasantly warm paving stone.
Her palms felt sore but as she lifted herself up she realised she was
unharmed. Then she was grateful that she
was not in the designer dress and heels.
As her thoughts cleared, Rachel felt a hand grasp her own
and with a grunt, pull her to her feet.
In front of her was a dark-skinned woman, perhaps from somewhere in the
Mediterranean or the Middle East. Her
black hair was short but her full lips and large oval eyes had a clearly
feminine beauty. She was wearing a long
grubby parka that looked like it had been taken from a security guard or even a
trucker working at some rundown warehouse.
As she moved, though, beneath it Rachel caught glimmers of light coming
off something shiny and black beneath.
She imagined that below the coast this woman was wearing suitable for a
night club, but for warmth and to avoid hassle had concealed the outfit beneath
this very unassuming coat. The woman
gave a distant smile and then staggered.
Rachel caught her and steadied her.
“Thank you.” The
woman said weakly.
Rachel wondered if the woman was drunk or on drugs. However, her face looked far too alert for
that. Instead, she quickly gained an
impression that the woman had been running; perhaps trying to escape from
something or someone. Rachel looked
around for somewhere to sit this stranger down.
As she did she became conscious of her belongings scattered on the
pavement.
“Are you alright to stand here for the moment?”
The woman nodded but looked uncertain. Rachel rushed to pick up her things. Quickly she returned to the woman, who was now
bending at the knees, exposing that they were sheathed in long, shiny
boots. Rachel wondered if this woman was
not in fact a nightclubber but a prostitute.
However, this district was certainly not known for them; crime seemed
limited to the occasional mobile phone theft.
Maybe she lived here and worked somewhere else. As Rachel saw the blood trickling down the
edge of the woman’s hand and drip to the floor, she felt she had a good idea
why the stranger was unsteady.
“I think you need to get to a hospital.”
“No, no … can’t do that; they’d … they’d find me.”
Some other women would have hesitated then and wondered what
they were getting themselves into.
However, Rachel had never thought that way. Strangely she could envisage herself in this
woman’s position and thought of some of the dresses and boots Jeremy had sought
to persuade her to wear.
“Come on, come with me, I’ll get you sorted out.”
Rachel had not yet got far from her flat and she imagined it
would be best to get this woman sat down and cleaned up there. She seemed to be of no threat and anyway it
was clear that she could not make off in a hurry even if she wanted to. There was no sign of a handbag or a mobile
phone let alone a weapon and Rachel was certain she could have the upper hand
if the situation altered.
“I am Rachel, Rachel Mayhew; friends call my Raych.”
“Thank you Racherachelmayhewfriendscallmeraych. I am Dora.”
“Dora, that’s a nice name.”
“I’ve managed to hold on to it; to keep them from taking it
and giving me another one.”
“Oh, okay. Well,
that’s good to hear then.” Rachel
remembered something about talking to delirious people as if they were making
sense; it apparently stopped them getting so stressed.
Soon they were walking into Rachel’s flat. In the brighter light there, Dora looked
different from the first impression of her Rachel had had. Her skin tone was paler and her hair longer,
seemingly a mousy brown shade rather than black.
“Go ahead, use the bathroom; I know it’s a bit awkward, off
the bedroom.” Rachel directed.
Dora gave her a hesitant smile but then went the way Rachel
had directed.
“I’ll make some coffee.”
Rachel called out but there was no response.
Moments later Rachel heard the shower running. This woman seemed to be making herself at
home. Rachel guessed she could not
begrudge her that. It seemed likely the
woman had been mugged and was probably in shock. However, she was determined that once she was
cleaned up she would encourage Dora to head to the police.
Rachel was just pouring out the coffees when the doorbell
rang. Typically it would be one of her
neighbours who had either taken in a parcel for her or was running short of
something. However, as she reached the door,
she found two women there: one short and rather rotund; the other tall and
lanky but both had an air of menace about them.
For a moment Rachel had a feeling that they were police and she wondered
if her impression of Dora being a prostitute had been a correct one.
“Good evening.” The
shorter woman spoke.
She was probably in her fifties and had white blonde hair
slicked back from her face. She wore a black
suit over a white v-necked blouse. She
smiled but in a way that Rachel felt was affected rather than genuine.
“Erm, good evening.
How can I help you?”
“I am Madame Coombe and this is the Lady Vandevelden.”
The taller woman had gingery hair, unruly on top and cropped
at the sides. Her face was long with a
prominent though slender nose. She bowed
her head. Their appearance to Rachel
seemed so theatrical but yet she could not shake the sense that they had
something to do with investigations; her impression was quickly confirmed.
“Our sister, Isadora has gone astray. We heard from a gentlemen in the street that
she came into this building. Have you
seen her?”
Rachel could hardly believe these two women were sisters let
alone that they were related to Dora.
Lady Vandevelden held up her smartphone displaying a picture
of a black, bald-headed woman. The top
she wore matched the one on Dora and there was a familiarity about her
features. However, Rachel felt no unease
when she shook her head. There was no
way the woman shown could be Dora.
“No, I’ve not seen anyone like that.” Rachel said truthfully.
“Such a pity. Isadora
is a woman who needs help; she does not work well on her own; she needs someone
strong to look out for her, you know - make the decisions.”
“I see.”
Rachel said, wondering for a moment if she had happened to
run into a trio of women from a mental health care home out for the day. However, though peculiar, she felt they all
seemed too articulate for that. The two
women in front of her did not move until Rachel muttered some apologies and
shut the door, compelling them to edge backwards. Then she heard her mobile phone warbling from
the living room. She headed back there
and was disconcerted to find the image Lady Vandevelden had just shown her was
now appearing on her phone’s screen. No
matter how strange the two had been, it was clear they had access to personal
information or high tech equipment to be able to get her number so easily. Rachel wondered what she might have got
herself mixed up in and was now eager to get this Dora on her way as soon as
possible. She walked through into the
bedroom and almost leapt back in surprise.
“Dora?” She asked
hesitantly.
In front of her was a woman now dressed in her leather jacket,
a scoop top and jeans fed into her brown knee-length boots. Her hair was long, a pale brown, almost
blonde shade. She looked like a typical
‘yummy mummy’ from the London suburbs and given that she was dressed in
Rachel’s clothes, she did wonder if her wardrobe had got a little too
conservative for a woman of her age.
“Isadora, yes.” The
woman said confidently, almost arrogantly.
She took a cup of coffee and sat on the dresser chair.
“You …” Rachel did not know what to say.
“Look different; of course.
What picture did they show you?”
Rachel held up her phone.
“Yes. I would have
been that if I had not managed to get away.
It’s all part of the process.
They do not only change your mind, your name, your identity, your
autonomy, even your sexuality; they find it takes more strongly if they change
you physically too. Then you’re all nice
and smooth, ready to take pleasure from their fellow slaves. However, white become black; black becomes
white; Oriental becomes Slavic; Nordic becomes Middle Eastern and so on.”
Now Dora, Isadora, whoever she was, was making less sense
than the women at the door. Rachel
cursed herself for having got all mixed up in this. The woman downed her coffee and looked at the
bedside clock.
“I’ve got a long way to go tonight.” Isadora said as she stood.
“Where do you live?”
“I guess I can let you have that – Norbury-Sunbury Gateway; the
Norbiton-Surbiton Axis; Northampton-Southampton Row.”
“Right.”
It was not an area she was certain she had heard of and
guessed it had acquired that name from estate agents’ ornamentation – was it in
South-West London? Isadora stood and
walked past Rachel without a further word.
In moments she was through the flat and Rachel heard the front door
close. She was stunned, not really understanding
what had happened. Had the woman just
walked off with some of her best clothes?
Was she simply so rich that she gave no thought to the fact that other
people had only limited wardrobes and had to save hard to get decent
stuff? Was it that she saw herself on
some mission of national importance? Was
she some kind of spy, perhaps undercover among whatever group the rather
unnerving two women had been part of?
What had been their names? She
found it difficult to even cling on to the images of their faces; of their
clothes. Was she working too hard? Was her blood sugar falling?
With those thoughts, Rachel remembered that she had supposed
to be heading to dinner with Jeremy and his father. She glanced at the clock and checked
again. It was saying that five hours had
passed since she had set off for the underground station. She looked at her phone, but the clock
function was frozen and in fact she soon found she could do little with it
except look at the picture that someone had sent her of a black woman in sexy
shiny black clothes. They were just like
those she now saw draped over the chair in the corner of her bedroom, the
thigh-length boots sitting on the floor beside them. Where had they come from?
In the kitchen the clock showed the same time as in the
bedroom and the television and Rachel’s laptop soon all confirmed it. Where had the time gone? Had she been drugged by … by the people who
had come here? She tried to ring Jeremy
on her landline with no response either from his mobile or home phone. She tried to email him and send a message
through Facebook, but something was playing up and it all failed or bounced
back. Her own mobile seemed utterly
wrecked; frozen on the image of that black woman. Who was she?
An actress? Was this some
advertising campaign that had managed to destroy her phone? Wearily, given how late it now was, Rachel
headed to bed and sleep took her quickly, but it was a sleep filled with hectic
dreams.
****
Rachel awoke feeling refreshed. Her reflection in the mirror showed her
looking tanned and she wondered when she might have caught the sun in the
previous week. Her mobile phone was dead
but her landline indicated a message. It
turned out to be from Jeremy telling her in that overly-controlled tone he used
when furious that he had no idea what she was up to and that she must courier
the engagement ring back to him by Monday evening at the latest. Rachel picked up the phone and tried his
numbers but the connection kept dying.
Her laptop was working but she seemed unable to connect to the internet. Quickly she breakfasted and dressed wondering
where her new leather jacket and favourite boots had gone. It seemed that the only thing to do was to
confront Jeremy at his own flat.
Reaching the underground station Rachel found her oyster
card had stopped working no matter how many times she thrust it against the
reader. She took it to the ticket office
but seemed to keep joining the queues with the rudest people who pushed past
her as if she did not exist and turned a deaf ear to her complaints. Even when she got to a window with no-one in
front of it, the member of staff simply gazed at her and then at his computer
screen as if he could not see her, let alone hear what she was yelling at him. Unnerved, Rachel walked to the bus stop now
not clear where she was going; feeling something was very wrong but not quite
certain what. She got on the bus with no
difficulty, even though her card did not seem to register. She stood up and had to deal with people constantly
pushing passed her. Eventually she
reached a shopping centre and got off with many others. Seeing the clothing stores, she decided to
get a replacement jacket, perhaps some boots too, to cheer her up.
Rachel was soon walking into the changing rooms with a
leather biker style jacket, black instead of the caramel one she had lost to
Isadora. It was quilted at the shoulders
and she felt it was a style more in keeping with her age. For boots she had gone beyond what was
typical for her and now had an over-the-knee pair in black suede. Quickly she slipped off her raincoat and
pulled on the jacket; then the trainers she had been wearing and slid the boots
over her leggings. As she stood up to
look at herself in the mirror she was aware that something had altered. There had been no other women in the changing
rooms when she had entered but now there was a strange quietness about the
place. As she looked at herself in the mirror
she almost screeched as the distinctive figures of Coombe and Vandevelden
stepped into its reflection; bracketing her.
“Good morning, Miss. Mayhew.” Coombe said with a repeat of that sly smile.
Rachel tried to respond but no words would come.
“Looking for something new are we, Miss. Mayhew?” Coombe continued.
“We were looking for something … someone.” Vandevelden recalled.
“Yes, and we still have not found her … the delightful Dora. She has eluded us … aided by yourself, it
transpires.”
“We bear no hard feelings.”
“No, that is right, Lady Vandevelden, we bear Miss. Mayhew
no hard feelings, just soft, warm, encompassing ones.”
Vandevelden laughed before she even made her joke. “Then she’ll be having many hard, rock hard
feelings of her own.”
“Yes, indeed. Well,
there seems no reason to delay taking her down the path to them.”
Rachel found that she was unable to maintain the sense that
this pair were mad; released or escaped from some care institution. Something about them made all they said seem
perfectly rational and that she had to rush to catch up with them. Nervously she looked around to see if there
was a shop assistant or even just other customers, but the changing room was
deserted and even noise from the shop itself seemed muted.
“You’re already part of the way into our world.” Madame Coombe said. “I think you have already found that people have
stopped noticing you. That is because,
really, you no longer belong here. Think
of it as a kindness that we are not leaving you in limbo, rather that we are
guiding you fully over to our side. And
look how wonderful you will be once you’re there.” Madame Coombe gestured to the mirror.
Rachel almost jumped back in surprise. For a moment she thought that somehow one of
the women were projecting the image from their phone. However, in moments she realised this was
different from what they had shown her before.
The woman reflected had the same mocha skin tone, but rather than an
entirely smooth head, a long plait of jet hair rose from the crown and snaked
down to rest on her shoulder. In the
place of the black vinyl the woman in the mirror wore a cropped leather jacket
over a bustier; leather shorts and thigh-length suede boots with heels that
raised her and seemed to present her body to the viewer.
“Oh yes, very kind on the eye, just the sort of concubine
her majesty admires.”
Concubine? The word
seemed curious to Rachel, but like much of what these two strange women said,
it now appeared to be perfect sense.
“Concu-bine,” Lady Vandevelden repeated slowly. “I thought they were slaves; at best, pets.”
Madame Coombe gave a quick smile. “Always adhering to the most direct approach,
my dear lady, always.”
Vandevelden gave a grin as if it was a compliment.
“Well, we have no time to waste dilly-dallying over
definitions. We need to complete our
task. Now it shall begin.”
Coombe gestured to Rachel and gave a nod as if indeed
signalling to someone to start doing something.
For a moment it was if the clothes Rachel wore had come alive, moving
gently around and across her body. The
leather jacket seemed to take on more of a shine and it became shorter, leaving
her midriff bare. Then Rachel noticed
that her top had gone and her scarlet and black bra had now become a
bustier. Her leggings now matched the
jacket, black leather but smooth where it was quilted. However, that did not seem enough and under her
boots they seemed to be drawing back, rising up her legs, growing ever shorter. In contrast, her boots were longer still than
before, encasing her legs in the suede almost to what were now her shorts. She rose as her boots’ heels grew to become a
steep wedge. Rachel felt a little as if
she had let this happen to her; the clothing choices she had made now evolved
into an erotic outfit.
“What’s happening?”
Rachel asked in panic.
“Just getting you the kind of clothes your new body would
simply insist upon.” Madame Coombe said
with a smile.
“New body? What? What do you mean?”
“You stole from us.”
Lady Vandevelde said simply.
“Yes, yes, you did.”
Her companion agreed.
“Stole what? I didn’t
take anything from you.”
“Oh, but you did.
Don’t you recall us asking if you had seen our lost Dora? And you denied that you had done because
clearly you wanted to keep her for yourself.
Keeping something that is not yours, now, how else would you define
theft?”
“And that means you need to pay compensation.” Vandevelde insisted.
“Yes, a fair rate: for one mocha-skinned slave, an adorer of
women, the most wonderful of pets, well, we receive the same in exchange. Here we are, simply receiving our dues.”
Rachel dimly recalled the woman saying something about being
changed, white to black and even having sexual orientation shifted. Yesterday she would have, in fact she had,
disregarded such comments as impossible.
Now, however, with all that she had witnessed, she had no reason to
doubt these two women. Her mind tried to
say it was impossible, but her body, especially as it became conscious of the
soft ridge of leather in her tight shorts, pressing down on her smooth pussy
and clit, had no desire to argue. Though
rationally it seemed impossible, she realised that the two women had turned her
clothes into those worn by the reflection, hallucination, projection, whatever
it was.
Distracted by the new sensations she was feeling, Rachel was
only distantly aware that other changes were taking place. A little curiously she looked at her hand,
its skin darkening to the shade of her reflection. She reached up to run her fingers over her
smooth scalp and then down the length of her long plait. As she looked at the mirror to see her sleek,
large-breasted body, shown off so well in these sexy clothes. She smiled, pleased in herself.
“Most satisfactory.”
Madame Coombe smiled as she looked over the woman who had been
Rachel. “Now we have our Raquell, the
one we will supply to Queen Park. You
will love serving a woman as powerful as the Queen, won’t you my dear; my dear
Raquell?”
For a few moments the identity of Rachel clung on. However, now in this very different body, she
found she quickly took on her new name and all that it implied. The thought of serving a powerful woman had
become a delightful idea to her and to consider it, she found, simply
heightened her arousal even further.
Raquell put up no resistance as she was led by the two women. She had to struggle to stop herself running
her fingers over her smooth body, from clutching at her firm breasts and even
playing with her sex. She felt confident
that no-one around her would even notice; what was more important was pleasuring
her wonderful, sexy body.
As Coombes and Vandevelden led on, Raquell followed, paying
little attention as they opened a door at the rear of the changing rooms and
entered an old fashioned lift that soon was descending further and further. Raquell quickly realised that she found the mesh
of diagonal metal, so like a cage, somehow reassuring. It made her feel valued, as if she was a
precious item that had to be protected from anyone who might steal her. Finally, the lift came to a halt. The trio emerged on to a flight of stone
steps going down to a canal. It was
illuminated by a wide assortment of lights ranging from flame to neon. The two women took Raquell to something
resembling a gondola with faded red paint and gold chasing. The boatman or woman was in a hooded robe but
one of worn red velvet and brocade in metallic thread. Coombe and Vandevelden manoeuvred themselves
into the boat and Raquell knelt between them.
Coombe made a gesture and the boat set off along the subterranean canal
housed in the broad arc of brickwork. A whole
host of other vessels passed by, some with passengers, a few jammed with boxes,
a couple selling hot food from little charcoal grills contained within them.
The scene at first had seemed ‘normal’ to Raquell, something
not to question. However, it quickly
acquired a reminiscence too. Memories of
being on a river in Bangkok very much like this one, as someone else – as
Rachel Mayhew with Jeremy Gibson beside her.
Rachel struggled to pin down the images in her mind’s eye and then use
them to challenge what she was seeing around her.
“Where are we?”
Rachel asked abruptly.
Lady Vandevelden looked concerned as the question was thrown
at her. However, Madame Coombe rested a
reassuring hand on Rachel’s arm.
“The Stamford Brook, of course, Raquell.”
“And where are we going?”
“To one of the great places of down here, my dear Raquell:
the Goldhawkers’ Road.”
The names seemed distantly familiar to Raquell. Her own name sounded a little peculiar to her
ears, but each time Coombe used it seemed to reinforce her own acknowledgement
of it. The thread of her questions now
felt a little frayed, but she clung to the last of them.
“And what will happen at … the Goldhawkers’ Road?”
Coombe gave that smile once more, the one that seemed to say
that nothing was of any major concern; it was all just friendly chit-chat.
“It is in the name.
It’s not at all like the Bush Market.
Items, very special items, just like yourself, Raquell, are hawked, that
is retailed, sold, marketed, exchanged, for gold.”
“But not just to anyone.”
Vandevelden said briskly. “You
will be sold to Queen Park. Isn’t that
good news?”
Raquell caught the two women’s enthusiasm. It brought back to mind what she had felt in
the metal cage lift about being of value: a desirable item to be possessed. That sensation was delicious to her. Then her attention was taken by the sound of
music echoing down the tunnel. As they
came closer the light was much brighter and banners appeared all around. There were more boats here, but all seemed to
be carrying passengers; the selling in this area was on land. The boat they were on pulled into a narrow
stone berth alongside many others. An
attendant hurried to help Madame Coombe and Lady Vandevelden from the vessel. They tossed coins at his feet.
Coombe gestured for Raquell to follow. Almost feeling as if the two women were
tugging her by a cord, she clambered from the boat. There was a press of stalls around the boat
berths, but the two women ignored them all.
Raquell cast glances at the range of traders: some were people selling
from suitcases, others had stalls large enough that you could enter their dark
interiors. The most random of objects were
on sale from jewellery made from parts of mobile phones to skeletons of
umbrellas and single shoes. She had no
idea who might want these items.
Soon Coombe and Vandevelden had reached a rickshaw. However, to it were roped two muscular men
dressed in brown leather outfits as horses.
They were moving and snickering to fit with their assigned roles. The lady and the madame climbed aboard and
distantly Raquell wondered how much of a burden they would all be for the two
horse-men. She went forward to join the
pair in the rickshaw.
“No, no my dear, you are too precious to ride up here with
us. Valuable … items need proper
transit; a palanquin.” Coombe explained.
She gestured to something that look like a giant black egg
hanging from beneath a pole. A squat man
stood at either end. A long, spindly
woman came over to the ‘egg’ and slid open a panel. She waved Raquell forward and she
complied. It was a challenge to get
inside but Raquell managed it. As the
panel was slid closed, she felt strangely reassured. It turned out not to have encompassed her
fully. There were in fact slender grills
on the side and as the palanquin was manoeuvred through the crowd Raquell could
see out, largely at people at waist height.
To be in this sleek black container to herself just reinforced her
feeling of being of value. She could
easily understand that some jealous person might want to snatch her away. The thought that she might run off herself,
did not trouble her mind.
Time in the palanquin felt to have no meaning. Rachel was not clear if she had fallen
asleep. She peered out of the grill but
all she could see was various types of brickwork passing: some dark and damp,
some brick red and dry. She struggled to
rouse concern about where she was. There
was something peculiar about her body, but the light in here was so weak that
she could not get a good view. She hoped
that wherever she was going she would get there soon. Then the palanquin stopped. Rachel looked back through the grill to see
bright geometric textiles hanging from a wall.
She could hear voices but could not make out much more than a few words,
many of them were numbers. Then there
was the chink of what sounded like a pouch of coins and the talking
stopped. The palanquin was turned and
set on the ground, from what Rachel could see, it had been placed in front of a
low flight of steps covered with a fine carpet.
The panel was pulled back and gratefully Rachel climbed from the black
‘egg’.
“Ah yes, Raquell. I
am Queen Park.”
Rachel’s senses took some moments to understand where she
was. It was a cube-like room with a dais
at one end that the steps led up to.
Knelt on them were five black women dressed in a way that Rachel knew
was familiar. As her eyes adjusted and
she looked down at the body she now wore, she realised that she was no
different. Stunned, Rachel looked to the
woman who had spoken. Queen Park was sat
imperiously. Rachel could almost sense
her strength from where she stood. It
was difficult to tell her age; she could have been ten or thirty years older
than Rachel. She was wearing a blood-red
leather dress with a corseted top and a broad skirt, split open to show long,
laced boots and, as she moved her legs, her bare pussy below.
Queen Park was Oriental in origin, her skin a pale olive
shade; her mouth was small but her chin and her forehead broad. Her nose came to a prominent bud and, combined
with her black hair pulled back into a horse-tail and her angular ears, gave
her an elfin air. Her dark brown eyes were
penetrating, an effect accentuated by the skilled make-up that shadowed her
lids and her cheeks. She looked at
Rachel as if boring into her with her gaze.
“Now the procurers are gone, memories of the life up there
keep slipping in, don’t they? You cling
to the hope that somehow you will escape here and get back to that, back to
being a free woman and even the way you looked before. No doubt dressing how you might choose;
living a life unfettered. However, all
of those things are wrong; they are false.
You will never be anything more than what you are now. You are my possession, I own you
completely. You are simply my slave and
nothing else, forever more. I will have
Ayo fuck the remainder of those other, wrong thoughts from your mind. You are nothing more than a playbeing, a toy,
to be enjoyed by me.”
Rachel wondered if this was some kind of dream or nightmare. The fact that she looked so different from
what she recalled added strongly to that sense.
The sexual overtones; the sense of having no control over what was
happening were further signs. Yet, as she
ran her hands over her smooth dark brown skin she liked the sensation.
“Yes, it is so much better to be one of my concubines than
anything you’ve known before. Yield to
it. You are a toy, a pet, nothing else,
enjoy that fact. Enjoy being owned by
me; serving me, pleasuring me. It’s what
you ache for, isn’t it?”
Rachel found the words so seductive and she felt it would be
good to acknowledge them; to become all that the Queen was describing.
“Ayo, I grow impatient.
Finish Raquell off: truly make her what she should already be missing
being.”
One of the women rose.
She was dressed in a skin-tight sleeveless black leather dress and long
suede boots very much like those Rachel wore.
From between a slit in the front of the dress’s skirt reached a long
black dildo. It was a geometric shape, a
smooth cylinder coming to a hemisphere head, not like a man’s penis at
all. However, Rachel knew its purpose
was sexual and that if it penetrated her, something would be taken from her and
she would be nothing ever again except Raquell, Queen Park’s concubine.
Ayo stood in front of Rachel and she felt almost as if she
was looking into a mirror. That made
Ayo’s beauty all the more stunning and Rachel felt an ache to be like this
woman and she shuddered deliciously as she realised she already was. She tried to track back from those thoughts,
recognising that maintaining her identity and her freedom needed her to fight
for them.
“Raquell, you are one of us already. You will join us fully, with no thought of
anywhere else or anything else.” Ayo
explained.
Rachel wanted to deny it, but she knew anyone seeing her now
would take Ayo’s claim of them being alike as the truth. She was unresisting as Ayo reached out a
slender hand and cupped Rachel’s breast clad in its leather bustier. The other then went to her shorts, sliding
down the zip. Her fingers sneaked
through the gap and stroked at the smooth lips of Rachel’s dark pussy, showing
her how aroused she was. She knew the
next step was coming but there was nothing she could do to stop it. Ayo closed on her, the black rod slipping so
easily into Rachel. She gasped as it
entered and she felt that her mind had been knocked away. As Ayo pulled her back and forth on its hard
rubber, Rachel’s mind was cleared of any remnants of the world she had woken in
that morning. She was finally completed
as a woman; as a concubine of this world below.
Her love was for her queen; no-one else could even take her attention,
let alone anything she would offer. As
the thrusting continued Raquell felt her orgasm rising and as she came, she
shuddered, pleasurably hanging on the dildo that her queen had ordered into
her. All doubts were gone: she was
Raquell – concubine; plaything of Queen Park.
Ayo pulled back and Raquell slumped to the floor. As she recovered her breath, she crawled up
the stairs to her owner. The queen was
unresisting as Raquell moved her smooth head between her booted thighs and
began to lap at her owner’s pussy and clit.
She would be doing that intermittently as ordered, for many hours to
come.
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