7 - Bending

“Inspect,” a mounted warrior called down at me.

I stopped, my hands went to my neck, and I spread my legs shoulder-width apart. With head bowed. I seethed waiting for him and his fellow riders to make their jokes, laugh, and ride on.

My arms ached as this group of four commented on every curve. They openly debated how well they thought I’d provide service, each coming to the conclusion that they would enjoy an opportunity to break me in. And this was just one group of a long line of warriors and slaves barking orders at me just to see if I’d obey.

As humiliating as the warriors' barking orders at me were, the women were far worse. They quickly taught me all the expected poses, including the most humiliating ones. “Brace!” They would cry, then explain in the most degrading ways. “Hands and knees, get those tits in the dirt… Reach back and invite your master in!” or “Yield!” while laughing, “On your back, knees bent so he can tame you, stupid girl.”

Worst of all, the silks were pink. It was the gross sort of hyper-feminine objectification that had chaffed at me from an early age. As an adult, I’d never owned anything pink on purpose. An ex had once commented that I had a ghost wardrobe, colors so tactically neutral that I could blend into the background of any environment. I did tend to gravitate toward Navy blacks and greys with the occasional olives and browns. 

It hardly mattered, though. The silks were transparent and hid nothing. Not that I could have anyway. “Bend!” a slave would yell, “That’s it, girl, get that head between your ankles, and reach back and show everyone how eager you are.”

The pink outfit was nothing more than silk scarves. One strip wrapped around my chest, lifting my breasts in a way that felt deliberately obscene. The fabric constantly brushed my nipples, keeping them traitorously hard no matter how much I tried to ignore it. The areolas were clearly visible, as if I were wearing nothing at all. The bottom was nothing more than two long strips connected with strings, a panel in the front barely hiding anything, and a panel in the back. Both hung down to my knees. Every step made the silk slide across my skin like teasing fingers I couldn’t brush away, keeping my body in a state of constant, humiliating awareness.

I knew precisely what they were doing. Every last one of them. Jaxon, meanwhile, was absorbed in male camaraderie, oblivious to the systematic erosion happening three feet behind him. The costume and the treatment were deliberate social tools to strengthen in-group bonding and to erase identity. They were all working together to break down an errant individual who challenged their cultural norms. 

Even with full awareness of the techniques being applied, even as I cataloged them in real time, the humiliation still registered as a physiological response I could not suppress. In a way, knowing what they were doing made the humiliating feeling so much worse. I was a psyche-rat being experimented on in real time… Only I knew these techniques worked, and it was only a matter of time before mental and emotional exhaustion would set in and I’d comply just to stop being the target of abuse. 

The first few hours were a miserable exercise in self-dissection. I turned over everything I’d done in my mind. The situation was gross and unfair, but I was an experienced officer. I should have been able to keep my temper in check. A part of me rationalized how lucky I was that I hadn’t just been given to the clan, and that Jaxon had the sense to claim ownership. My emotional explosions could have gotten him killed, and me ravished a hundred different ways. 

I defaulted to cataloging triggers, methodologies, and projected breaking timelines. The way any trained operative would. It was the only shield I had left, and I could already feel it thinning. My Naval Evasion Training was decades ago, but I recall being taught that everyone breaks eventually. There were techniques to delay psychological coercion, but it was still all a matter of time before compliance happened. 

The column halted after noon. While the other slaves served food to the men, a few volunteers remained with me to bark poses at me. They threw a new command at me, “Reveal.” This one was demanded after an initial pose was issued. On this new command, I was to move my silks aside, offering unrestricted access to any of my holes. Even while trying to tell myself this was just another front of their psychological warfare, it was so humiliating that I considered refusing.

The slave girls ate in a group while I was forced to continue acting out the poses they demanded of me. “Cradle,” one of the slaves said while the others snickered. “Sit on the ground, lean back against the cart wheel… Now reach down and grip your ankles and pull your legs back so that you are open and inviting… No, inside the thighs, push your knees back with your elbows.”

The position was so humiliating that I trembled with shame. I was expected to reach down between my legs, grab my ankles, then pull my legs up, bending like some sex doll as I pressed my knees to my shoulders. Naked from my earlier “Reveal” command, this was the single most pornographic pose I’d been put in. I wondered if there was possibly any worse.

“Master, would you like to see the new girl?” one of the slaves asked someone on the other side of the cart. “She trains nicely and is learning Cradle.

I froze. The pose burned, my hamstrings screaming as my stomach folded unnaturally tight. I closed my eyes, trying to blank my mind and not think about how I must look as footsteps approached.

A masculine voice asked, “Can she get her feet over her head?”

“You heard, master, get those feet up,” the slave said.

“Open your eyes, slave girl,” he barked.

I forced my eyes open to see a man in leathers with a spear looking down at me. His girl, a dark-haired slave whose name escaped me, stood just to the side behind him with her head bowed. She wore silks much like mine, thin gauzy panels and sheets that hid almost nothing.

“She’s still poorly trained,” he turned to his slave, “Even in this pose, she thinks she is equal.”

“Bow your head slut,” the woman hissed at me. “You’ve not earned the right to feast yourself on my master. Avert those whore eyes.”

He wanted them open, but not looking at him. Not daring to defy his might with a feminine gaze. Straining to maintain the doubled-over pose, I looked down, bowing my head any more was impossible. With my eyes open, the only thing I could see was my own pussy, lewdly on display for some strange man. I had to fight my natural instinct to close my eyes in shame.

Rough fingers traced the thin, manicured strip just above my slit. The touch was casual, almost clinical — yet my body answered with a traitorous flicker of heat that made my stomach twist with unwanted heat and disgust. I hated how easily it registered, how my own flesh could betray me after a single day of this treatment. I looked up at him, ready to remind him that I was not his… I… belonged to another. I’d certainly be punished for it, and wished Jaxon were here to interfere and… protect me.

I hated all of it. The display, the casual betrayal by other women, the way my body was reduced to parts on offer. I wasn’t a person anymore. I was just a collection of holes and curves for their amusement. And I most hated that I needed Jaxon, my faux master, to keep other men from taking what they naturally assumed was theirs. I wanted to liberate this world with fire.

His fingers traced the strip. “Odd,” he said to his slave, “she’s only partially shaved. And has this… Ornament.”

“It is pretty,” she said. Her eyes flicked up to mine, and I could see a sly smile. She knew she was tormenting me and enjoyed it. “Would you, master, enjoy having such decoration on your slave?”

He ran his fingers through my pubes a few times, and against all my will, I could feel myself heating up. I almost wanted him to touch my lips. I was struggling to maintain the pose, and it was getting harder to concentrate on being the docile doll they expected. It was getting harder to keep my hips still with everything out on display. The combination was so excruciatingly humiliating that I couldn’t speak or think clearly.

“Yes,” he said finally, then stepped back to admire the view. “There’s a fire in that girl that needs to be smothered in the pens.”

“The other slaves said the same,” she agreed.

“How long to grow out that little thatch?”

She leaned in as if inspecting a fruit on sale, “A few days, master.”

“Good. It will be interesting to play with.”

She practically squealed. “I look forward to it, master.”

“We’re preparing to move out.” He said, turning and walking away. “There is enough time for Slave Bending before we depart.”

“Yes, master,” I heard her say before running off. 

With no one there to demand I stay in position, I relaxed and let my legs down. Realizing she’d left me behind, the dark-haired slave returned and waved frantically at me, “Come on, you stupid slut. Vyrkesh is about to begin.”

I climbed to my feet and gathered my silks. The slave kept urging me to hurry after her giving me no time to get back in the silks Kessa had loaned me. I followed her around the cart to see most of the slaves in camp arranging themselves into a perfect military grid. They spaced themselves in rows and columns, a body length apart, dropping into Kneel as they found their place. There were more than twenty women in a multitude of colored silks, some completely naked. 

Kessa rushed over to me and took my hand, dragging me to the front of the formation, right in front of three older women who seemed to be guiding the affair. By older, they were barely out of their thirties, with patches of grey in their hair, crow's feet at the corner of their eyes, but fit and trim bodies. Kess pointed a spot to me, and I mimicked the other slaves, dropping to my knees. Kessa did the same to my left, then nodded to the women at the front who watched over us all. I wanted to slip into my silks, but wasn’t about to get up while all the other women were kneeling.

“Time is short, but we’ve been given enough to perform our daily duty of Vyrkesh.” The oldest woman in front called out. Even through her dark silks, it was easy to see that she kept in shape with toned muscles and abs. “Kessa has been charged with helping the foreign girl. Please be sure she doesn’t shame us.”

Kessa leaned forward, bowing her head to the ground, then sat straight back up, moving her hands to open palms on her knees.

“Let us begin.” She told the assembly. “In Kneel breathe in… Think of your master, or the men you serve… Breath out in pleasure… Hold the emptiness… And breathe, taking him in… You are his vessel… And release him, breathing out… And hold, hold his image in your mind… And breathe him in, imagine taking all of him… And out with a sigh, to show your perfect submission…”

I followed the breathing exercise with deep concern. Yoga had been a part of my routine for years, but fucking void, the use of guided erotic imagery combined with breathwork for operant sexual conditioning was insidious. These women were being psychologically conditioned en masse to be nothing more than sex dolls. Framing yoga, along with objectification and self-deprecation over time, would break down any woman, especially because of our inherent in-group pleasing. No wonder the women here seemed so eager to debase themselves at every turn.

“And as one we bend into Brace…” the instructor sang. The women all around leaned forward, spreading their hands on the ground and pressing their faces and breasts into the grass. In unison, they pushed their asses up into the air as if in open invitation to any man.

“Brace!” Kessa hissed at me with her face turned so one cheek pressed into the grass.

I knew all the women behind me would be looking at me, and so I shot forward mimicking the humiliating pose.

From the front, the cadence continued, “Vyrkesh makes the girl supple so she sheaths better. Breathe…”

It was then that I noticed all the women around me were repeating mantras after the instructor spoke. There was a  chorus of soft voices around me whispering, “makes me supple, so I can sheath better.”

For the next half hour, we moved from position to position. Some were slave poses with breathing and spoken imagery, others were deep stretches. The purpose of the stretching was obvious, to make our bodies perfectly flexible to be violated in any number of positions. 

The Instructor remained at the front of the formation, demonstrating each move and narrating to us all through the session. Her two assistants moved through the crowd, helping pose women, pressing down to help stretch, and giving words of affirmation to the most docile. Kessa would occasionally whisper to me, “Very good, Selene,” or “You can push deeper, think of your master,” and other words of encouragement.

Partway through, one of the instructors leaned against my back, helping me to stretch while whispering to me, “A stiff slave is a useless slave… relax and imagine your master's eyes upon you.”

Finally, the woman up front leaned back from her cat and camel yoga pose. “And we finish in Kneel, perfect, beautiful submission… One last breath… Feel how you’ve been used, your body and mind coming together in perfect unity… And out… Complete.”

Kessa stood quickly and came over to me, offering a hand to help me up. She told me, “You did well for your first time.”

I let her pull me up and said nothing about my usual exercise routine, which involved a lot of cardio and hand-to-hand drills. The yoga of this world might have been good in its goal of enhancing limberness and stretching, but for all the wrong reasons. At least it was a type of exercise. I had a fantasy of retreating into it in the future when things got rough, but those mantras would eventually wear down my defenses. 

The next four were marching along a dusty trail through rough woodlands. Only half of the men were ever among the carts and caravans. Most of the time, they were out riding patrols around us to ensure there were no raids or ambushes. I suffered the march with more abuse from the women. Kessa did nothing to stop the other women from barking sudden orders at me, or demanding that I assume a humiliating pose so they could show their master the outsider cunt. By late afternoon, I was exhausted. I hadn’t done this much hiking since the Naval Academy.

The sun was beginning to dip behind the horizon of trees when we stopped to make camp. The women, of course, were expected to do all the work. And I was the one picked most often to haul the heaviest things and run around the most. As darkness descended, I was all too happy when Kessa touched my shoulder, inviting me to dinner in the mess tent. I followed like a worn-out puppy, eager at the thought of even a bite of meager stew.

Women, of course, cooked and served. I was taken to a partitioned area in the tent where the younger slaves were eating. We were the ones who’d continued laboring to get the camp set up while the older slaves, and by older I mean late twenties, prepared the communal meal. When the warriors flooded into the mess hall, slaves filled bowls and cups and rushed to serve their owners. Kessa found me and thrust a wooden bowl and mug, both with elaborate hand carvings, at me. She then filled hers and darted off. 

I knew the utensils were meant for Jaxon. I wondered, with a quiet twist in my stomach, what the slaves themselves were allowed to eat. Filling both, I padded on my bare feet out to the men’s area. A long communal table and bench had been set out, and they talked and ate ravenously as demure women darted around bringing them food and drink. The whole scene grated on me the way nearly every moment of this journey had with men lounging and talking while women scurried to serve them. It felt ancient and ugly and far too comfortable for all of them. And come darkness, men would make sexual demands and do nothing to please their partners, while the women again had to do everything.

If nothing else, I was glad to be dressed again. Even see-through silks were at least some form of clothing. 

Snaking my way through the tent, I looked for Jaxon as men commented on my barely covered body. I was getting the brunt of stares and comments, a new girl, a foreigner, among this clan who’d traveled for weeks already. There were plenty of crude comments about wearing the new girl in.

I finally found Jaxon, sitting with Thrain and his son Vorn. He wasn’t wearing his flight suit, but instead had leathers like the other warriors. I only spotted him because I recognized Thrain first, then realized the man Kessa was kneeling behind was Jaxon. He was animatedly explaining some nuanced points about phase-rifle use. I made a mental note that I’d have to lecture Jaxon about the Mandate when we had some privacy. Kessa, of course, was kneeling, head bent behind Thrain.

I set Jaxon’s food down in front of him and almost sat with him on the bench. A quick look around, I was able to confirm that women sitting with men wasn’t the norm. Most of the women either stood or knelt behind their partners, or were scurrying around fetching something. I wasn’t about to kneel willingly, so I stayed behind Jaxon, moving out of the way of women ferrying food or drinks for others. 

Jaxon dipped a wooden spoon into the thick broth and meat that I’d delivered. Thrain and his son were already done with theirs, the older warrior gave me a disapproving glance. Void! How had I offended him now?

“How is it?” Thrain asked.

“Good,” Jaxon said between slurps, “A little on the cold side…”

I stood there pretending not to listen to their conversation, sort of watching the other woman run through their routines. Thrain stared at me in open irritation as Jaxon worked on his food. Suddenly, Thrain snapped his finger, and Kessa leaped up, leaning over so she could hear him over the din of all the men talking loudly.

Watching her go, I wrinkled my nose. Just sad how these men had programmed their women to act without thought. She ducked behind the food prep partition and came back out quickly with a bowl of meaty broth and another of dark bread. Given enough time, that would be me. In an environment with massive conditioning, totalistic thought reform was guaranteed. I’d have to find ways to skip the barbarian yoga and isolate myself from everyone.

Kessa nodded her head at me, and I stepped back to let her pass by. She turned instead and leaned over Jaxon, setting the food in front of him. I understood in a second, I’d failed again. Jaxon had said the food was cold, and I didn’t correct him instantly. Thrain had to intervene.

I tried to calculate the vector Thrain would use next. The man was predictable in his methods, if nothing else. That predictability didn’t make the knot in my stomach any smaller. I didn’t have to wait long at all. 

“And how is the meal now?” Thrain asked.

“Just amazing…” Jaxon grunted, spooning mouthfuls.

“Interesting that a dish served just right could change the taste so dramatically…” Thrain mused. Vorn watched his father closely, aware that Thrain was about to make an illuminating point. “You know it is the same slaves…”

“Oh?” Jaxon stopped spooning food into his mouth for a moment.

“Indeed.” Thrain nodded. “Did you enjoy Kessa’s services last night?”

Jaxon stiffened. I didn’t need to see his face to know he was afraid he was walking into some sort of trap. He wiped his face, giving him a moment to think, then replied, “I did, and there was no fault with her at all. She was exceptional.”

“But… You were distracted from the ambush, and the collaring ceremony… You used her quickly while she was attending to your own slave.”

I recognized the maneuver immediately: classic emotional anchoring through positive reinforcement. I should have been able to warn him. Instead I stood silent, calculating the probable success rate of his conditioning. Jaxon was being deliberately led to a conclusion he probably couldn’t perceive. And I was unable to do anything to warn him. If this were a standard negotiation on any other of a thousand worlds, I would call for a break so we could discuss strategy.

“This is true…” Jaxon finally relented.

“Then I’d like you to enjoy Kessa wholeheartedly tonight. She will perform for you as she has been trained, like you are the only man in the whole world.”

Void! He meant to separate us. My mind recoiled in horror at the thought of spending an evening with him, while Jaxon indulged in every debased fantasy with a willing sex doll. My mind raced for a way to interrupt this entire conversation.

Thrain continued, “I only ask that you have your slave stay in Brace, unspeaking, and watching so that she too can see the beauty of a fully trained girl.”

Wait? What? He wanted me to sit and watch Jaxon and Kessa fuck? I struggled to find any strategic advantage in what Thrain was proposing. All I could see was the trap… And the terrifying possibility that Jaxon might not want to escape it.

“As a matter of fact,” Thrain leaned in and clapped a hand on Jaxon’s shoulder. “I insist. You would dishonor me to deny this request. Enjoy, my girl. You will be her whole world for the night. And if she convinces you. If you see how much more value Kessa has, then your girl will be sent to the training yards immediately upon arrival in Trafok.”

Blast it all. Thrain wasn’t just trying to separate us. He was deliberately engineering attachment. I’d read Jaxon’s psyche profile; he’d been promiscuous in University. But that was with Federation women seeking careers. Lots of casual attachments, nothing long-term or meaningful. I tried to imagine what Kessa could possibly do in one night. But exposure to a woman who existed only to worship him might make him wonder why he was dragging around someone who challenged him. Might make him wonder why he couldn’t just have… Her.

Worse than all that, Thrain’s suggestion that I should be close at hand to watch it, like some sort of living lesson, or slap in the face, to put me in my place, infuriated me. I knew I should be warning Jaxon, screaming at the top of my lungs, that this was emotional conditioning 101. Instead, I had to stand there, dressed in pink silks, with a sore ass and a traitor's body that was already reacting to the idea. I hated this world. And I hated the part of me that was afraid he’d end up enjoying it… and her.