Prologue

The winds grow heavier as I approach the Tower. I can smell...roses,
lavender, and something else: the smell of sweat, and of a woman aroused. It
seems to come from above. From Rapunzel.

The wind buffets the willow trees on the knoll. There is only one way up, the
trellis of bright red hair, Rapunzel's long braid. I begin to climb, one hand
over the other.

The braid begins to unravel beneath me. I am about halfway to the balcony
before the loose hair blinds me, entangles me. I would have fallen then, but
the hair seems to act like a net, suspending me. It seems to root itself in
me, and as I try to free myself, I look for its source, groping with my hands
for its origin.

Finally I push back the unruly mass of fiery hair, my hands touching my head,
shocked to find that the long ringlets are mine. That I'm naked, in the
tower, a beautiful young woman reflected in the mirror opposite the balcony.
That my hair, now loose, billows through the archway and into the open.
Behind me, in the mirror, I see myself, or rather the man who has taken my
manly form. He is laughing as he lowers himself out the window by my hair. I
look down and I see a tattoo on my left breast: "Slave".


Part One

Chapter I a slavegirl is born on Acteon

I awoke with a start; I opened my eyes, but it was still dark. A light breeze
wafted over me, and I realized I was naked, with no coverlet. Instead of the
thick cotton filled bedding I'd grown used to, I was lying on what felt and
smelled like straw. I also smelled lavender, perfume, and sweat, and it took
me a moment to realize that the odor was my own, that even the smell of sex
from the dream was mine. It took a moment for this to register in my mind.
Then I propped myself up on my pallet, reaching in the dark with my hands to
touch the soft, pillowy weight of the breasts that were now a substantial
part of my chest. The chain which connected my leather collar to the pallet
rattled as I sat up.

"Back to sleep, Alisha!" a man's voice hissed "Thirty lashes in the morning
for you." I quickly lay back down, my hands fingering the chain, and my
collar, remembering what had happened. All around me I heard the light
breathing of the slavegirls on their pallets. With a terrible sinking feeling
deep in my heart, I realized I might never escape this life, this body, that
I might forever be doomed to serve my new Lords with my mouth, hands and
cunt, as I'd been forced to do this night. Booted footsteps approached, and
the guard laid his rough hand on my hip, patted it. "Sleep, slave. You need
the rest for tomorrow", he whispered. I closed my eyes as his hand caressed
my breast. Then the hand disappeared and the guard returned to his post. I
suspected then I would never be able to return to Earth. I would be only
Alisha, slavegirl to The Council of Lords, on the planet of Acteon. I began
to remember, as I drifted back into a slavegirl's slumber, to a world where
even in dreams I served a Master, I began to recall how this fate had
befallen me.


Acteon was classified in the Confederation Dossiers as an M class planet,
colonized by humans in the year 2304, nine hundred years ago. The colonists
were Naturals, eschewing technology in favor of an agricultural civilization.
They deliberately eradicated all knowledge of the other worlds in their
histories, and, not surprisingly, became isolated and regressed to a feudal
society. The world was now roughly equivalent to the Dark Ages of Earth in
its warlike nature and level of technology. The colonists were assumed in
Confederation Intelligence to have perished very soon after their arrival,
and the recent rediscovery of the planet and its inhabitants required careful
handling. It was decided that no contact should be made, and that its
civilization should not be interfered with. We placed watchers on the planet,
to record and study its people and guard against outside interference.

It's easy to become a powerful figure on a planet with inferior knowledge and
technology, and this was precisely what the Societal Conservation Board
suspected Lord Baird was up to. They had determined that he was, in fact,
Tyron Beale, an intersystem trader who'd apparently stumbled on the world and
decided to set himself up pretty well. He'd joined the Council of Lords as an
Associate from an undetermined island fiefdom, and with a seemingly unlimited
supply of gold and superior weaponry was on his way to controlling the
Council. The other Lords were clearly unhappy with this turn of events, and
war was breaking out on scales previously unseen on the planet.

It was my job, as an Interceder, to take Lord Baird's place and slowly remove
myself from the Council, stepping down hostilities. I had landed on the
planet some three weeks earlier, and, disguised as a free knight, had worked
my way toward New Hope, where the Council of Lords held court. I had the
exchanger with me. The device, though undetectable, required that the target
and I maintain physical contact for ten minutes, to allow for data transfer.
The plan was to drug Lord Baird with a sedative which would act for about a
half hour, then drug myself with a stronger sedative. I would awaken first in
Lord Baird's body and confine him, now in my body. The watchers would
retrieve him.


As a knight, I was invited to the main hall for dinner, and ate with a
hundred other knights in a din of entertainers and slaves.

One of the slave-wardens approached and begged for my attention.

"Yes, speak," I said. He bowed slightly.

"Esteemed knight, it has been noticed that you are new to New Hope Castle,
and the Lords wish to show hospitality..." He gestured to his right, and then
I noticed the girl.

She was quite short, perhaps 5'0", or in Acteonese measurements, seven and a
half krems. She was utterly beautiful. Her face was small, pixielike, with
large red lips and green eyes. Her hair was long, cascading over her
shoulders, halfway down her back, and it was fiery red, but she had little of
the freckling of the skin associated with her hair color. Her breasts, though
not large, seemed full on her diminutive, fragile frame.

This slavegirl's hands were behind her, her wrists undoubtedly cuffed
together, as is the custom with slaves offered to guests. Her eyes were cast
downward, and a short leather leash was fastened to her slender black leather
collar. This the slave-warden held in his right hand, which he offered to me.

One of the spoils of war, of course, is an abundance of slaves, including
pleasure slaves; this is common on all warlike planets. But the slave-wardens
of Acteon had developed a drug, which the slaves ingested with their meals,
which affected their pleasure centers and made them quite docile and
submissive at the same time. Every person of noble birth owned at least one
slave, and marriages to slaves were not unheard of, though such marriages in
no way nullified the girls' slave status, and a husband would commonly offer
his wife- slave for guest's use. Not to offer would be discourteous, to
refuse, in turn, was an insult to the host.

Physiologically speaking, the girl was quite typical for a fifth-generation
slave (which a slave-mark, freshly tattooed on her left breast in the
Acteonese written language, indicated her to be) - indeed, a perfect example.
Acteonese women vary in quite predictable patterns, according to whether they
are free or slave, and if slave, the nature of their breeding and genealogy.

The Watchers had been conducting studies on the genetic evolution of the
Acteonese race, and it had been quite clear that through a combination of
active husbandry (only the most compliant, contented slaves are allowed to
breed) and the genetic effects of the slave's bane, fourth generation or
later bred slavegirls committed no acts of defiance whatsoever. Slave's bane
permanently altered one's pituitary gland, so that androgens produced were of
a kind useful only for the well-being of the body, and produced no aggressive
feelings.

Free Acteonese women, as on other planets, are generally only slightly
shorter than men, and their body type and weight can vary widely. Some are as
broad shouldered as a man, some slender, some fat. Free women tend to be
larger breasted than slaves. A free woman must accentuate her features to
best effect through many layers of concealing garments. Perhaps this trait
evolved through natural selection, rather than the active husbandry that
dictates the shape of a slave's flesh.

A slave's body, on the other hand, is bred to appear its best in the nude,
and this typically means that a fourth generation slave's breasts are almost
always about the size of a mango or coconut, rather than the large grapefruit
shape that Acteonese free women pride themselves on. The smaller shape is
more pleasing to the eye, and lasts longer before it finally begins to sag (a
trait free women can conceal). Generally, slaves average in height about 5'6"
(never taller), although there is a less common breed (called Bendari after
the region in which they were first bred), which averages about 4'11" - this
girl was clearly of this breed, which made her somewhat rare here in the
South. A slave's shoulders can sometimes be as narrow as 14" across. Her
musculature is extremely underdeveloped, though fit. To the Confederation
eye, used to women whose births were the result of random mating, an
Acteonese slavegirl of proper breeding appears almost cartoonishly angelic
and childlike. It is as if all traces of masculinity have been sucked out of
the body, leaving only soft, malleable, manipulable flesh.

Different varieties are deliberately bred, of course, but these are mostly
based on skin coloration and hair color. Acteonese men have surprisingly
consistent taste when it comes to body shape and size in a slave. The only
exception appears to be the small-mouth girl of the Western Archipelagoes,
whose nether regions are plugged and never used by her master. Instead, her
mouth has been bred to be much smaller, so that her lips grip her master's
shaft tightly.

I took the leash and offered my thanks.

"Kneel beside me, little one." The girl dropped to her knees immediately.
"What is your name, slave?" I asked.

"Alisha, if you please, my Lord," she answered, half-whispering.

I smiled. There are benefits to this world, I thought, only half cross with
myself for indulging in the thought of using her. The watchers couldn't see
what I didn't want them to see.

"Well, then, Alisha, you will follow me to my quarters, one pace behind; no
less." I stood, tugged on the leash, and began to walk back to my room at the
inn. She jumped up and fell in step behind me. I judged her to be about
fourteen years old, and again wondered at her beauty and abject obedience.
When in Rome, do as the Romans do, as the ancient proverb goes, and this
wasn't the first time in the past few weeks I'd taken a slavegirl.

She was a model of obedience. I spent some time using her mouth while I sat
in an armchair. She was rather inexpert, and the tattoo on her left breast,
marking her as a slave, was still fresh and healing, so I judged her to have
been recently trained.

It was common for a man to raise his slave-birthed daughters as free women
until they ripen. The girl understands that her freedom ends as soon as her
father determines she is ready to be sold, and for the rest of her life has
her brief period of freedom to contrast her abject slavery with. In addition,
slaves raised in this manner are quite intelligent, learn more quickly, and
are more capable of appreciating more subtle punishments.

She sucked me dry when I came, and lay still when I pushed her to the floor.

I ignored her for awhile, while I took care of some writing, which would be
scanned into my personal log on the ship later.

When I'd finished, and began thinking of her again, I turned to find her
kneeling upright by my side. I took her to the bed, uncuffed her wrists and
attached them to the rings set in the headboard for the purpose. She moaned,
eyes closed. I stripped and took her. The effects of the drug were such that,
even abused so, the little slave felt pleasure as I bit deeply into her
breast. I locked my mouth over hers, and her lips responded pleasingly.

I'd been taking my time stroking into her hot cunt, enjoying myself and
enjoying her little cries and moans, slapping her face just to hear her moan
louder. Now I pumped in earnest. As I grew close to climax, something strange
happened. I was looking into her eyes, which, strangely, she did not avert,
and something knowing was in them, as if she were smirking. She smiled, and I
came involuntarily, shooting into her not just my juices, but...I felt myself
slipping into her, my vision greying, mixing. For a moment I saw her face
under mine, and my own face hovering above me at the same time. Then her face
faded, and I was left staring up at my own visage, in the throes of orgasm.
Something large and thick was pushing into me, and I couldn't move my arms;
something was holding them down. And I was coming, coming hard, but in a
strange way, all over. My eyes clenched shut as I rode the unfamiliar wave of
pleasure to its final, dissipating conclusion.

I heard a man laugh, felt his hot breath, smelling of beer and venison, on my
face. I opened my eyes and saw my own face grinning down at me. He laughed
again, put his mouth over mine and kissed me deeply. To my own surprise I
returned the kiss.

"Ah, that's the drug, my little fool," he said as he broke off the kiss. "You
can't help yourself. You don't know how hard it was for me to be a slavegirl
for the three days I waited for you. It's just about impossible not to submit
to your owner's wishes. Which is why this body is the perfect dumping ground
for you." He straightened up, got off the bed and began to dress.

"Don't look so surprised. I knew you were coming for me. Some of the watchers
are easily bribed. It doesn't matter - I suppose this could have been done
differently, but I had my reasons, which a slave hardly needs to know about."

He released my bonds, rolled me over easily, and reattached the wristcuffs
behind my back.

"Kneel by the door, slave," he commanded. Suddenly he seemed frighteningly
intimidating; the tone of authority in his voice had a strange effect on me.
Though I was exhausted both from the change and from the way I'd been used, I
crawled off the bed and obediently knelt in the place he'd prescribed. My
heart raced, and I found myself thinking about his cock. My eyes were lowered
as he attached the leash to my collar, and my gaze rested on the fresh
tattoo, which still felt raw and was beginning to scab over. 'slave,' the
first line read in small calligraphics. I certainly felt like a slave. The
second line indicated my breed, Bendari, and lineage - fifth generation. Dear
God.


He had brought me back to the Castle that night and handed me over,
despondent and exhausted, to the slave-warden. I can tell you now, hopefully
without revealing too much ahead of time, that I didn't see my male body
again until five full years later, at the age of nineteen. I had not thought
of my former life then for some years; any hope of reclaiming my lost
identity was crushed, however - the possessor of my old body, when he
purchased me and added me to his harem, made it clear that - well, that will
come later. That first night I still harbored hope that I could escape this
abject fate.

The slave-warden that night informed me that the next morning I was to serve
Lord Baird in the garden. Apparently it wasn't enough to feminize and enslave
me; I was to be Lord Baird's plaything for awhile as well. As my keeper led
me by the leash to the slave's harem, I wondered if any of the watchers
assigned to the mission were not under Tyron's influence, and if there were
any chance of them coming to my aid. Under normal circumstances, I would have
felt more optimistic, but the drug seemed to hamper thoughts not associated
with servility and humble submission. I had a hard time imagining myself as
anything other than this slavegirl.


More dreams. This time I'm still in the tower, a naked slavegirl named
Rapunzel. But my hair has been cut short, to waist length, so no rescuer can
come for me now. The slave-warden uses my cutoff hair to tie my wrists behind
me, and to gag me. I look up at the slave-warden, and I see Lord Baird's
face. He slaps me, hard.

Now I'm in my spacecraft. My crewmates are there; they're discussing leaving
the planet. I tell them that I'm here, that I've come back, but they ignore
me. I begin screaming at Roberto. He looks at me, finally, and I remember
that I'm Alisha. A lewd expression crosses his face as he pushes me onto my
hands and knees. He shoves his cock into me, telling me I'll make a good
housewife back on Mars.


Chapter II morning grooming and discipline

A light slap on my hip awakened me. The warden continued down the row,
shaking and slapping the girls awake. I propped myself up on my elbows, again
surprised at where and who I was. Each girl deftly rolled herself forward
over the end of her pallet, so that she was kneeling in front of it, facing
the wooden frame. This maneuver pulled the leash attached to her collar taut,
pinioning her.

I belatedly followed suit, clumsily mimicking my fellow slaves' motions, and
found myself on my knees, my face pressed against an oak board, the surface
of which was worn with centuries of use, and smelled of pine oil. I seemed to
have crossed my arms behind me without realizing it. I was acutely aware of
my body now, in this daylight, and my nakedness and femininity embarrassed
me, but I had no defense against the shame I felt when a warden strapped my
wrists behind me, took my leash and led me out. I could still feel the dried
come on my thighs, and realized that I was wet with desire already. The
slave's drug, I concluded distractedly.

I was blushing furiously as he led me through the courtyard to the slave's
bath; the knights, footmen and other men of the castle gathered daily in
small numbers here for breakfast, mainly for the view, and I could feel their
eyes on me as I was led past helplessly. I had realized at once when Lord
Baird had changed me that he'd chosen Alisha to be my vessel because she was
among the youngest and the most beautiful of the new slaves, and now I bore
the burden of a fourteen- year old girl's beauty and freshness, and
vulnerability.

We reached the baths. The warden removed my collar and unstrapped my wrists.

"You are due thirty lashes, girl," the warden said softly.

"See that ring, slave?" he demanded, pointing at a large steel ring set into
a stone column next to the steaming bath. I nodded. "Go to it and put your
hands around it. You are to hold it fast, and not let go, while you receive
your punishment."

I hesitated, took a step forward.

"No one here will help you, Alisha. You will grasp the ring, and you will be
whipped. In your homeland you may have been a princess; here you are a
slavegirl. Even if you were to return home today, you know they would abide
by the code of honor and keep you enslaved. Once a slavegirl, always a
slavegirl. You have been chosen and it is your fate to obey. Now submit to
your punishment."

I took a deep breath, walked forward, reached up and wrapped my fingers
around the cold steel ring. The washerwoman, sitting on a bench nearby,
watched silently as she ate her morning meal. The ring was polished around
its lower curve from frequent use. I rested my head against the column, felt
its sun- warmed marble roughness against my bare breasts.

"Spread your legs, Alisha." Trembling a little now, I complied. Steam from
the hot bath wafted across my legs. "Wider." I repositioned my feet, splaying
myself out as far as I could and still hold the ring.

I thought of what it had been like, to be a man. I'd enjoyed myself, had a
good life, a good job, and it had all been taken from me. Now, instead of the
hard, well-muscled chest I'd worked for, I had a set of soft, pert, pliant,
gorgeous tits. Instead of receiving respect, I now had to respect, and obey,
everyone who felt entitled to command me. Poems were written on this planet
about the three orifices of a slavegirl, and how best to fill them. The
villain in all the tales was always overcome, and magically transformed into
a slavegirl, where she could serve her victims happily, a fully integrated
(if helpless) member of society. Romances were often threesomes between a
Lord, a Lady, and her slavegirl (and, of course, they often switched roles).

The slavewarden approached from the right. "If you cry out, that is
acceptable. But you must not, under any circumstances, plead for mercy, ask
me to stop, or protest your punishment in any way. And you must continue to
hold onto the ring."

The first blow fell hard and evenly across my buttocks, searing both cheeks.
I clenched my teeth, stifling a cry, as the pain, at first sharp and
stinging, turned to a dull, deep bruising pain, spreading upwards and out,
making my legs weak. I held onto the ring with my clenched hands, determined
not to succumb. I felt tears welling up. One left a wet trail as it streaked
over my cheek, stopping at my upper lip.

The second blow fell slightly higher, so as not to hit an already
desensitized patch of flesh. I bit my lip. Already I was crying, my hot face
pressed against the stone. My flesh was burning.

Three strokes. Four. Five. Eight. Fifteen. I was sobbing at this point.

"Turn around, slave Alisha. Continue to grasp the ring."

I remained motionless, terrified.

"You're owed fifteen blows across the breasts with a cat o'nine tails. Now
it's twenty. Turn around, slave." I reluctantly obeyed, my arms still
overhead, clutching the ring.

"Spread your legs wide, you dumb cunt!" He snarled, and stepped forward and
kicked my legs apart. I began to sob anew; I couldn't even see. I heard the
first hiss before I felt the many strands of the cat cut into my delicate
breast flesh. One. Two. My eyes cleared; I saw the third blow, and watched in
a haze, as the endorphins finally kicked in, watched my flesh turn red and
streaked under the administered blows. Eight. Fourteen. I began to feel
faint.

The final blow was not with the cat but with a birch switch; this cut into my
flesh so hard and deeply that, I saw before I fainted, my right breast was
bleeding.



The slavewarden helped my up to my knees. "Move slowly, slave. Apparently you
are even more raw than I suspected. You will be dizzy for a few moments. When
your head is clear you will continue your duties as required. Wait until you
are sure you won't faint again. Do not wait long, however. If I suspect you
are misusing this reprieve you will be punished twice as hard.

"When you are ready, crawl into the baths. I will take your collar and cuffs,
and will place them on you when you are sent back to the harem. Lord Baird
wishes you unrestrained.

"The washerwoman will bathe you. When she dismisses you, you will walk
straight up this path and kneel beside your Master."

The slavewarden gathered up his gear and walked leisurely back to the harem.
I knelt on the grass, still dizzy. My right side was damp with blood,
although the cut now looked shallow. My breasts were throbbing in pain, and
seemed bloated. I felt the eyes on a few onlookers on me as they ate their
morning bread. One knight's words carried over the babbling of the baths: "A
fine sight, that. Exquisite. Look how the blood seeps into her navel, spreads
in her sweat? Blood is sacred, my friend, whether it spills from a vanquished
enemy or a delicate young flower like that one, there."

I looked down at my breasts, my belly. The knight was right. The stain was
pretty.

Suddenly I was lifted by my arm and hauled over to the bath. "Come on, girl,
I don't have all day." I felt light-headed, and began to protest:

"But the slavewarden -" my protest was cut off by a sharp, agonizing pain in
my left breast - the washerwoman held its bruised meat in her hand and was
twisting it.

"You do not protest. You are a slave. If you protest again you will merit
another beating after you serve Lord Baird. If you're dizzy the steam from
the bath will awaken you." She picked me up and lowered me into a stone tub
carved into the side of the natural spring. The water was stingingly hot, and
burned my injured flesh, but after a moment the burning passed, and the heat
loosened my muscles tensed from the stresses of the punishment. "Kneel on the
straw pad at the base of the bath." I complied, my hands again naturally
finding resting places on the soles of my feet.

The big woman used a loofah sponge to scour my flesh and remove the grime of
a days' slave work; the dried semen on my face and between my legs, my blood,
dirt from kneeling or otherwise abasing myself. She washed my hair and combed
it expertly. When she had dried it she braided it into a single long braid.
She braided a leather thong with a handle at the end into the weave of my
hair, forming a leash from my own hair.

Her hands were large and rough, and she was a broad, plain woman in her mid
thirties; there was nothing attractive about her. But in a strange way her
expert handling of me aroused me. She seemed to know my slave's body better
than I did myself, and her hands were sure and firm as she bent me forward to
cleanse my back, or lifted my arm to expose my pit and breast better to her
sponge. She brushed my teeth with a crude horsehair toothbrush. She took care
with my buttocks and breasts, which were by now crisscrossed with angry pink
lines. She scrubbed my hands and cleaned the dirt from under my nails. I grew
so quietly heated that when she cleaned my pubic region I choked back a low
moan. To my mortification, she laughed. She put her large hand under my chin
and lifted my head.

"Look at me, slave." I obeyed, and looked up into her eyes. "Don't be ashamed
that you feel pleasure when I touch you. It is your nature. You are trained
and conditioned to respond the way you just did. A week ago you were a
princess, I'm told, and a week ago you would have been disgusted, perhaps
appalled at your present predicament. I doubt it, since you are a bred
Bendari. In any case, things are different now: now you are a slavegirl, and
it is right for you to moan when touched.

"My name is Marion. You may call address me as Madam. I will wash you twice
daily, now and before the evening feast, so you will see quite a lot of me,
and I of you. You will grow used to my administrations. Lean back and give me
your right leg." She began to shave my leg with a very sharp razor and thick
suds. The hot spring swirled the soiled water away as she lathered and
shaved. "Now the other." I closed my eyes and let Madam Marion work.

After a few minutes she slapped my knee. "Now you have to sit on the flat of
the rock, here, with your legs still in the water. Like this," she said, as
she guided me up onto the rock and onto my back. She spread my legs wide, so
that my nether regions were facing her and thoroughly exposed. "We'll do this
daily. Your beautiful red hair is considered a treasure in this part of the
world, but red hair in the cleft of a woman is considered unlucky. So you
will have to be shaved every morning," she added as she first trimmed, then
shaved my pubis mound. "There. Just like a baby," she chuckled. "Don't be
ashamed. You're the only fire-haired slave in New Hope Castle, so your bare
condition will make you a novelty and more in demand."

Madam Marion sat me up and pulled me out of the bath. She rinsed me and
towelled me dry. Then she applied a daub of scented oil behind my ears,
between my breasts and on my neck. She pulled on the braid leash, as if to
test it, and I found myself helplessly looking up into the sky.

"Very good. Well, you're a little too short for most men's tastes; Bendari
girls are out of fashion and leggy girls are more in demand in these times.
But I must say you're quite fetching. In any case the King, at least, seems
to have a thing for the short ones these days." She looked at me with an
appraising eye. "You would have made a good princess, given the chance." Or
Interceder, I thought to myself ruefully. That life, taken from me just ten
short hours ago, was still fresh in my mind, as much as my hormones and
circumstances might try to repress it.

"Now say 'Thank you, Madam', and you may go perform your duties."

"Thank you, Madam," I half-whispered. They were the first words I'd been
given permission to speak since I'd awakened in the harem, chained to my
sleeping pallet. I hesitated for a moment.

"Go on! Or do you want another beating?" I quickly turned and walked up the
path, my hands clasped behind me at the small of my back, through the thick
low hedges flanking the cobblestone entryway to the western wing of the
castle. I stole a few glances at my surroundings for the first time, and
noted quickly that there were walls on all sides of the courtyard, with
sentries on the walkways above.