Alice: Slave at the Marketplace

(BOOK THREE OF THE ‘ALICE’ BDSM SERIES)

This book is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s
imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Copyright 2013 by Aphrodite Hunt

Cover art by Aphrodite Hunt

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 sure Mistress Karen hears none
of this lest she disillusions them about my status.)

12.00 p.m.: Lunch. More of the same glop,
except there are actually vegetables swimming in the awful stew
now.

1.00 p.m.: We are all assigned ‘chores’. Can
you imagine me doing housework? (You can’t, right? I can’t either.)
Apparently, the house and barn and shed don’t get cleaned by
themselves. Fancy that.

So we have to clean everything up. Thank
goodness there are so many of us, and so we make short work of
everything.

Luckily, we don’t have to do our chores on
our hands and knees, which would be cumbersome. But we do them
completely naked and with those tails in our asses. The farmhands
would inspect our work and sometimes tweak our engorged breasts and
stroke our exposed pussies. Sometimes, they would worm their
fingers into our vaginas and wriggle them around.

4.00 p.m. Fuck time!

We are assigned each to farmhand, who takes
us to his room in the farmhouse – which he usually shares with
another farmhand. We are always in rotation, and there are plenty
of farmhands around, and so in the seven days we are here, I have
never gotten the same guy twice.

Once in the room, the farmhand strips off his
dungarees. His cock is always stiff and ready. One thing I can say
about all the farmhands – they are all well hung. It must be all
that wonderful country weather. The farmhands are mostly English,
but we don’t spend a lot of time talking. It’s wham, bam thank you
sex immediately.

Prostrate yourself on your hands and
knees.

On the bed.

Spread your legs.

In plunges the cock.

Ohhhh!

In, out, in, out. A vigorous rhythm is
established. Those farm boys can really fuck HARD and they always
have lots of energy.

I can’t say I am disappointed.

Sometimes, they would ask me to suck their
cocks. I always comply readily. Their cocks are hard and thick and
long, and I would swallow one as deep as it can go in my
throat.

Not a single one of those farmhands ask to
suckle my teats. I guess my milk is reserved for someone else.

Come to think of it, I don’t even know where
all that milk goes. I mean, they milk us and collect that creamy,
rich white fluid in pails. Where does all of it go?

I guess I am about to find out.

6.00 p.m.: Bath time. We go on the conveyer
belt again, all naked, all soapy and all wet. I feel like processed
meat in a factory.

7.00 p.m.: Glop dinner. Blecch!

8.00 p.m.: We are allowed time for rest and
recreation but we are strictly not allowed to have sex with one
another. What then is the point?

10.00 p.m.: Bed. Lights out. No sex. I stare
at the sleeping and breathing body of Kinko across from me and
wonder what I should do to plot out my revenge against my
father.

2

It is Market Day.

I have never been to Market Day, but some of
the girls have. I want to ask some of them what this is all about,
but Mistress Karen shushes us.

“No talking in the ranks,” she orders. Her
cattle prod waves menacingly.

We are lined up before the barn. We are
naked, naturally, but since we are going to market, we are adorned
with more than the usual accoutrements. Our tails are shoved in
through the dildos in our asses, but we now get to wear bells
around our necks.

Fancy that. Cow bells. How quaint.

We tinkle and make quite a noise as we file
ourselves in a line and load ourselves onto the bus. The bus has
darkened glass which do not allow anyone from the outside to peer
in, and no wonder. If we are going to travel through the English
countryside, we certainly don’t want anyone looking in on our huge,
lactating breasts and other jiggling bits.

Instead of normal seats inside the bus, there
is only a floor filled with straw. Mistress Karen gestures to us to
sit on this straw. I guess they are trying to maintain the illusion
that we are farm animals, except that farm animals probably don’t
travel by bus.

There are waiting buses in front of each of
the other farmhouses. The rest of the farm animals – the rabbits,
the hens, the horses, the goodness knows what else – are also
similarly being herded into them.

I guess we are all going to the market, the
entire farm of us.

I wonder what awaits us there.

*

The ‘market’ is a little distance away, and
it takes the buses about forty-five minutes to get there. It is in
a little enclave which is also guarded by sentry posts. I peer out
of the darkened windows together with the rest of the girls in my
bus.

“No talking,” Mistress Karen rasps. She is
sitting up front with the driver, a surly looking Hispanic man.
Although here, he is likely to be from one of the Mediterranean
countries.

“What’s this all about?” I whisper to
Kinko.

She shakes her head and puts a finger to her
lips.
Sssssh
. Or you will be poked by a cattle prod which
might just happen to be electrified.

We pass wooden buildings and more open areas
until we finally come to a large parking lot. Several of the other
buses are already there.

“All right, cows, all line up now and get
out,” Mistress Karen commands.

She is wearing white today for a change. A
white tight leather cat suit, although she is so fat that her
bulges are more pronounced than ever. She should just give up
trying to look sexy. It’s a lost cause.

We all troop out of the bus. Our feet are
bare, but the ground is soft beneath our soles. Outside, the sun is
shining brightly in the blue bowl of the sky. I squint in the
brightness and shade my eyes. The air is filled with the scent of
grass and dandelions, together with a freshness that I have scant
encountered in America.

“Walk along now,” Mistress Karen says.

We follow her around a grassy hillock, shaded
by trees. The cow bells around our necks make silvery tinkling
sounds. It’s almost like Christmas.

The whole place is fringed by a profusion of
trees. A bustle of activity greets us around the bend. I almost
stop in wonder.

Kinko bumps into me from behind.

“Walk,” she whispers.

“Right.”

I walk, taking it all in. The marketplace is
filled with tents – gaudy, billowing circus-like tents which flap
in the breeze. There are all sorts of tables and stalls outside
these tents, as well as an unusual number of apparatuses – all
which are made out of wood. People are setting up all sorts of
things on the stalls – cakes and pies and vegetables and produce.
The aroma of freshly baked bread and roasting meat fills the air
and makes my mouth water.

My fellow sex slaves from the farmhouses are
here. They are being assigned to each tent by their masters and
mistresses. I spy Mistress Sasha again – she of the Nordic beauty –
ordering the ‘rabbits’ to enter one of the tents. She raises her
sharp blue eyes to me as I pass.

“Here.” Mistress Karen halts us.

We stop at a blue-and-white striped tent
which is held down to the grassy ground by pegs. Outside, long
wooden tables have been laid. These are filled with all sorts of
cakes and cookies and tarts, as well as a good number of cheeses in
wedges and other cuts. Bottles of milk are kept in a
mini-refrigerator with a glass front.

All the products have prices on little
placards before them. I almost step back in shock as I register the
prices.

A hundred British pounds for a chocolate
fudge cake decorated with purple macarons. Three pounds each for an
éclair. Either inflation has set into England, or they are charging
really steep prices here.

A large sign in curvy old English writing
proclaims:

YE OLDE DAIRY.

And in smaller letters beneath it:

‘ALL PRODUCTS ARE MADE FROM HUMAN BREAST
MILK’.

Okayyyyy. I think I know where our milk went
to.

I stare at the cakes and pastries with new
insight. I take in the delicious looking creams enveloping the
cakes, and wonder if my very own milk went into whipping them. I
don’t relish cakes or anything filled with carbohydrates and fat
myself, but I have a sudden urge to taste these. I wonder if human
milk is as sweet as folks make them out to be.