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 How to Deal with a Runaway Slave An Illakian Story by Dominica Potestas

   This story is set in the world of Illakia.  Please see 'Introduction to
Illakia' for further details about this world.  Dominica Potestas writes
fiction and does not condone any actions or opinions expressed in this
story.  If you cannot tell the difference between fantasy and reality do
not read any further.  Any comments or ideas please email me at
dominicapotestas@hotmail.co.uk

   Thanks to Falcon for his invaluable help with this work.

   M+F nc rape sad snuff tort viol Mdom humil va best crux



   How to Deal with a Runaway Slave

   Over a wall.  Bare feet.  Up over boxes and over another brick wall. 
The blue burlap tunic tears revealing her upper torso.  A well-defined
collar bone.  Leg muscles tense as she lands.  A cut on the foot, like that
matters now.  There's blonde hair on that nail in the wall, like that
matters at all.  Feminine toes patter on the road, feeling the pounding of
the shoes of policemen 10 yards back.  Shit!  This road's a dead end!  They
only way is...  through that open door!  That open door turns out to be a
derelict factory.  Dark and damp.  She slips, gets up with dark grease
smeared down her left thigh and tunic.  The tunic's lost a shoulder strap
now.  No way out!  A mountain of rubbish sacks?  Maybe.  A scramble up, but
pain!  Pain!  Pain in her right thigh.  A dart is sticking out.  Police are
now rushing into this workshop, into her fate.  Her right leg loses all
movement.  She slips again and slides to the bottom, left foot kicking for
purchase.  Too late.  Metal closes round her throat.  The policeman at the
other end of the snare lifts her to her feet.  Metal closes round her
wrists.

   Shit!  Shit!  Shit!

   "Nooo!"

   ***

   There was one punishment and everyone knew it.  No need for a trial; a
slave is not human, no rights.  One punishment for a runaway slave - death
on the cross.

   Mr Finley was quietly furious as he made his way to Justice Palace.  He
had never had a slave escape before.  He was really going to deal with this
bitch, he had decided.  Apparently the blonde fucker had broke free while
being transferred to a cage on its way to one of his business's many
promotions in the city centre.  Mr Finley was the owner of Finley's
Ultimate Entertainment Arena, an amphitheatre in Grand City that fuelled a
public desire for the punishment and entertainment meted out in Justice
Square and town squares across Illakia.  The public wanted whole days of
extreme torture and execution.  So Mr Finely charged them for the pleasure.
He bought up attractive and healthy slaves from across the Empire, then
charged over 100 lira a ticket for the monthly show where his latest
acquisitions would be tortured, killed and would often be forced to kill
each other in a game he called Gladiators.  Such business had existed as
private clubs, rich men clubbing together to buy a slave purely for snuff
entertainment, but Mr Finley took it to the masses, building an
amphitheatre arena and dreaming up more imaginative tortures than what was
offered in Justice Square.

   He had a meeting with the judge on duty.  An arrangement was made. 
Instead of the state paying the unfortunate owner compensation for the
necessary loss of a slave - because an example must always, always, be made
in these cases - the mandatory execution of this slave would be performed
in the Arena; Mr Finley could charge spectators so the state wouldn't have
to pay compensation.  No need for any more formalities.  There was no
trial, no extensive paperwork.  As the judge put it, you don't hold a trial
when you put down a rabid dog, so why should the state bother with a
creature that has even less rights?

   ***

   Arena staff came to collect the slave.  She was properly restrained this
time, chains over her body, tunic long taken by the excited policemen.  Mr
Finely had congratulated the policemen and they were to be rewarded, he
said, with free tickets and special `behind the scenes' access.

   ***

   She hung there, powerless, chained and shivering in that damp cellar
under the Arena.  She wondered how many other unfortunate, helpless souls
had been through this chamber of horrors.  The shackles dug into her
wrists, but the callous men who appeared in this cell, into her world of
misery, didn't seem to care.  She was frightened beyond belief, her ribcage
pounding up and down in time with her shallow nervous breathing,
perspiration forming on her brow despite the cold.  She had almost been
sick when she had been caught; she knew what the penalty was, which was why
she had to keep on running.  She had cursed herself a thousand times since
for doing something so incredibly stupid.  Had you ever heard of a slave
escape?  Even if she had managed to outrun those policemen, the police and
the Arena wouldn't have taken long to find her, as all slaves were
microchipped.  No slave ever escaped.  So incredibly stupid!  But she was
too proud, too fearful to ignore that opportunity when it had arose in that
busy Grand City street.  Sure, she could have died in the Arena anyway, but
in a less savage and painful way than the mandatory punishment for an
escaped slave; crucifixion.  She could have even escaped death - that was
the reward given to winners of wrestling and gladiator competitions to
encourage them to play.

   The heavy wooden door creaked open and Mr Finley walked in.  Her eyes
flared up at the sight of him.  He stood in front of the captive and
examined his property.  He reminded himself what a good buy he had made. 
Her blonde hair had been allowed to grow during her slavery, so that it now
meandered down her back.  Beautiful wide blue eyes, offset by dark arching
eyebrows, glared hatred at him.  Her nose was stunning, pointy and cutely
upturned.  Full red lips, high cheekbones; any slaver would have paid a lot
for her cunt.  She had once been white and plump, but she was now at
exactly the beautiful moment when her body was becoming toned, but
feminine, her skin tanned, but delicate.

   "Do what you want," the slave said quietly but defiantly, "but I've done
nothing wrong in my life; you'll never have me begging for your mercy!"

   Mr Finley laughed.

   "Well, we'll see about that, my cunt, but first I would like you to
entertain these gentlemen."

   The five policemen who had caught her came excitedly through the door in
civvies, some whistling at the enticing body before them.

   ***

   Mr Finley came into the cellar housing the star of the show.  What a
sight.  That defiant bitch hung slumped from her chains.  The policemen had
lowered her, so that she now kneeled, shackles from above still wrenching
her arms up painfully.  Cum oozed out of her cunt down her proud thighs,
parted far wide by her ankles being locked in the farthest apart shackles
on the floor.  Her eyes stared at him with unrestrained anger, but that
effect was compromised by her mouth, opened achingly wide by an O-ring gag,
and obviously stuffed with some rags after the policemen were finished to
keep her vile tongue quiet.  The edges of her mouth had traces of dried cum
dribbling down past her chin and onto her breasts.  The policemen had
obviously been using her long blonde hair to wipe their cocks, as it was
now caked by dried cum.  What a slut she looked.  Wonderful, thought Mr
Finley.

   She felt disgusted.  She may have a strong personality, but she wasn't
prepared to have her sexuality ripped from her as brutally as it had done
last night.

   She felt shamed beyond the pale, angry beyond comprehension, and nervous
beyond capacity, but she vowed to keep a proud face.

   To be continued



   Please check out my other Illakian stories.  Contact me at
dominicapotestas@hotmail.co.uk.  Join the Illakia Online group at
http://groups.google.co.uk/group/illakia