My Opera"She Said Yes" Prologue
Sunday, June 12, 2011 8:05:54 PM
Decided to go ahead and share full chapters instead of snippets. If you prefer shorter scenes check out my new tumblr account, thanks!
*******
I, Luciana Spence, was just eighteen when my own father sold me to Harold Skimmer. Eighteen. Think back to when you were eighteen. How idealistic were you? How rebellious? How fun-loving? I was all of those things and more. But not for long—not after the afternoon of June 14, 2004, happened.
You see, on the island of Star Croite, a small island in the Pacific Ocean, slavery is not only legal, it is encouraged. Not slavery in the way that women are beaten and abused for the amusement of who they belong to, but slavery for the sake of making a person’s life easier. On Star Croite, a slave is the respected helpmate of the person she serves—her Master or Mistress. She lives with the person’s happiness in mind and knows that if they’re happy that she, too, should be happy. She is treated with all the respect and kindness given to any other living person but she is also treated just a little bit worse. She is sometimes relegated to sleeping on the floor or on a cot next to her Master or Mistress, she always comes second to them, and she doesn’t have the freedom to come and go as they do, but still she (the slave) is happy. In theory, at least.
Not all women are bred to become another person’s slave. It often depends on that woman’s demeanor and background. If she comes from a wealthier family then odds are she will never know what it is to serve another person. Indeed, she will likely be the Mistress of a slave. But if she is like me, poor and living paycheck to paycheck—my paycheck—then she has no choice but to become the slave of another. And I had no choice. My father was a carpenter who worked occasional jobs but never for long. Often within just hours of fresh employment he would be sent home because of his constant inebriated state. Dad couldn’t help it, though. He was a weak man who loved his whiskey.
I was fine with this. Fine with the idea of being a slave, I mean. I had even begun going to parties and events where I knew those in need of a new slave would be, hoping to meet the right man or woman who would agree to take me on.
And then, on the afternoon of June 14, I came home to find my drunken father exchanging slurred words with a paunchy middle-aged man with fat fingers and a ruddy complexion. The man introduced himself as Harold Skimmer and told me that he would be my Master.
Thinking him to be one of my father’s drinking buddies I laughed at the man, sure that he was joking but he was not. And he did not like to be made fun of. I learned that the hard way.
Citing that he merely wanted to get to know me without the influence of my father, Harold pushed me down the hallway and into our guest room, shutting then locking the door behind him. With a leering and smug smile Harold reached for his belt buckle, undoing it then the clasp of his too tight slacks, shoving them onto the floor and lithely stepping out of them. With a lick of his lips he told me that this is what happened to naughty girls who don’t show men the respect they deserve.
Struck silent with fear at being forced into our guest room by a man I didn’t know I did nothing to encourage or discourage Harold as he joined me on the bed he had shoved me onto. I also didn’t encourage or discourage him as he shoved down his underwear just far enough to reveal his swollen stubby candle of a cock, roughly shoving it between my legs as he pulled up the frilly denim skirt I had been wearing.
I gasped in pain as Harold breached my virginity and began to curse at him and shove at him in an effort to get him off at me but quickly stopped with a muffled and tearful “I’m sorry” when he backhanded me across the face with a slap that was so hard I saw stars and could taste blood.
Thankfully Harold was so turned on by my fighting him that he finished with me rather quickly. He spilled his seed onto my lower stomach and legs, telling me that I hadn’t yet earned the prize of his seed inside of me, then told me to clean myself off and fix my clothing and join him in the living room.
Too afraid to fight him again lest I have to go through a repeat of what had happened I did as he asked, joining him and my father with tears in my eyes.
My father, too drunk to accurately know what was going on but still sober enough to know that I was troubled asked what was going on but believed Harold over me, when Harold “regretfully” informed my father that he had had to discipline me some.
My father agreed that I could be a handful at times and that a slap across the face was all that it usually took to remind me of my place. Why my father said that I still don’t know. He had never slapped me. Never even spanked me. Cursed at me, called me ungrateful? Yes. But he had never raised a hand to me. Probably because he knew that it was thanks to me that he could afford the whiskey he so loved. I had made money doing odd jobs for neighbors and friends from the time I was only seven or eight years old.
I ended up leaving with Harold that day. I had no choice. My father had sold me to him for enough money to supply him in all the whiskey he could want for a month. Plus, according to both men, a verbal agreement had been made that I was to go with Harold as his slave for a period of at least one month. Not that I blamed my father for taking Harold’s money or for making such an agreement. My father and I had long since talked about my desire to find a good man to be a slave to and in his eyes Harold was just that man.
Don’t get me wrong. My father isn’t that bad of a man. I mean I could have made my point by throwing a tantrum or by taking my dad into our guest room and showing him the bloody sheet I had hidden that would prove that Harold had done something to me but I hadn’t. Instead I went along with things. Indeed, I even allowed them to get worse before I realized I had the power to make them better.
Harold lived in a modest but well-decorated two-story home in midtown Downe, the largest city of Star Croite. He had no other slaves and he was a hard-working banker who lived within his means but thought more of his self than was necessary.
We no sooner arrived at his home when he instructed me to make him his afternoon tea—blackberry tea with a lump of sugar and a caramel biscuit on the side—then rub his feet. Having been a tea drinker for most of my life I knew well how to make a proper cup of tea and had no problem serving him. I was even pleased to do such a mundane task, thinking that what he had done to me earlier had been a terrible mistake that he would not soon repeat.
Harold had, however, taken one sip of his tea when he spewed the contents of his mouth onto the carpeted floor of his living room, set the cup down on the table next to him with a clatter and shoved me away with a foot to my chest. Without a word I righted myself and made him a fresh batch of tea, thinking that perhaps he preferred a weaker style than the strong brew I preferred. But no. Thrice more Harold showed his contempt for the way I made his tea before he finally declared that I was too stupid of a cunt to know any better and that he was no longer thirsty—no longer thirsty for tea that was.
With a sinking feeling I righted myself for the fifth time (each time after serving the tea I had dropped down to my knees near Harold’s feet in a vain attempt to massage his feet in the hopes that calmed him down…with no luck.) and asked Harold what he wanted instead.
Me, I was told. Harold told me to take off my clothes, get on all fours and crawl over to “Daddy’s cock.” Harold chuckled at that and told me I would refer to him as Daddy from now on. I wanted to chuckle too, but out of nervousness and uncertainty, not amusement.
When I took too long to undress Harold growled and launched out of his recliner, tearing at my clothes until I was as naked as the day I was born, and then roared at me to get on my knees and take off his slacks.
I did as he asked. I was too scared to bother fighting him. Harold was a man who was rather pretty when he was happy and calm but in anger…an angry Harold is not a man you want to mess with. His meaty hands are capable of bruising and crushing and his teeth love to bite things that shouldn’t be bitten.
Harold raped me again, this time taking me on the floor of his living room, his pathetic excuse for a penis buried inside of me while one hand, wrapped just tightly enough around my throat to make me behave, held me still and the other pinched my naked breast. My moan that he was hurting me only caused him to move his mouth to where his hand on my breast had been, showing me just what his teeth were capable of. His mouth soon discovered how much they enjoyed chewing on the tips of my breasts and over time while raping me Harold’s mouth would always find its way to my breasts, gnawing on my nipples as if they were chicken breasts instead of tender flesh that bruised all too easily.
Over the next six years, Harold raped me too many times for me to count; but each time left a firm mark on me that I don’t honestly think I’ll ever be free of. Not that Harold was always rough with me. There were occasions when I did something that made him happy and the resulting sex wasn’t too bad. I still considered it rape, though. Consensual sex involves a consenting man and woman who respect and care for each other. I will never respect or care for Harold; nor would I ever consent to having sex with him. No. The few times Harold was somewhat pleasant in bed with me were times when he told me to be naked and waiting for him in bed while he showered. These were times when Harold didn’t have to hold me still with a hand wrapped around my throat. They were times when I willingly allowed him the use of my body.
By now you likely think me to be a weak and stupid woman, right? After all, only a moron would put up with that kind of abuse for such a prolonged period of time! To be honest, if I were reading this I’d likely feel the same way. But I am not weak or stupid. I merely know when the correct time is to fight and when it is best to comply. With Harold it was always best to comply. You see, Harold had control of my body but he didn’t control my mind. In all the time I spent with him, with all the names he called me and all the times he would kick me to the ground because I had displeased him not once did he break my mind. I never began to think of myself as stupid or worthless. Because I am neither of those things and I never will be.
I stayed with Harold for as long as I did because I felt that I had no option. Harold didn’t pay me anything in exchange for being his slave. In his eyes the fact that I was allowed to sleep in a bed, an actual bed, and eat food from his kitchen was payment enough for everything that I had to do for him. Little did he know that every time he gave me money to run errands for him I would keep some of the change I’d get back. It all added up and overtime became enough that I could purchase a bus ticket to Ceptser, a small town just south of Downe, and start my new life as the morning cook of a wealthy but kind family I had often heard about from Harold.
The Sparrow family was the bane of Harold’s existence. Four brothers between the ages of twenty-nine and forty, the Sparrow brothers were everything that Harold was not. Or so I heard over the years as Harold’s slave. Harold always had a different picture to paint of the Sparrow family. According to him they were vain, simplistic, too kind, and fake. But anyone who was kind to others was seen as fake by Harold.
Even though Harold claimed to not think too highly of the Sparrow brothers, he still enjoyed talking about them. And I enjoyed hearing about them.
The Sparrow brothers supposedly lived in four Victorian style houses that were next to each other and were incredibly close despite their range in age. Mitchel, the eldest Sparrow brother, was, according to Harold, one of the most fair and true men you would ever meet. Stephen, the next eldest brother, was the more mature and educated of all the brothers and had the ability to reason his way out of anything. Next was Bryan, who Harold often described as being a bit girly but an all-around good guy to know when you were in need of a laugh or a friend. And finally was Jacob. He was supposedly the black sheep of the family. Where his brothers usually had cheerful dispositions, Jacob was surly and rude. It was Jacob and that Harold knew the most about. Jacob was a drinking buddy of Harold’s.
According to Harold, Jacob had a thing for chains and leather and enjoyed using them on the women he associated with. Harold also often delighted in telling me that Jacob had a mean streak that could not be found in most other men. That Jacob delighted in the pain of others, in fact.
But knowing Harold the way I did I knew to take everything he told me with a grain of salt. I mean in his own eyes, Harold was a man of worth and compassion. Two words I would never use to describe him.
And yet it was Harold’s description of the Sparrow family that caused me to decide on Ceptser of all places to go. If it hadn’t been for his talk of them I likely would have just stolen away in the middle of the night and hidden in some flea-infested hotel room until I could find work as a housekeeper or something. But no. Harold’s talk of the Sparrows made me want to get to know them. It made me yearn to know the truth about them and how kind they were to their employees.
Employees. Funny how a word that can be a glorified term for slave makes things sound so much more appropriate.
The Sparrow brothers had employees, not slaves. Female employees. Female employees that could wear what they wanted, within reason, and were paid actual money for what they did. Employees who were given respect and kindness and whose body belonged to the person who inhabited it, not the person who employed it.
I left Harold the night of May 7, 2011, and was employed as the Sparrow’s morning cook just three days later. Little did I know at the time that leaving Harold’s was the biggest mistake I could ever make. Or was it? I haven’t quite made up my mind on this just yet.
*******
I, Luciana Spence, was just eighteen when my own father sold me to Harold Skimmer. Eighteen. Think back to when you were eighteen. How idealistic were you? How rebellious? How fun-loving? I was all of those things and more. But not for long—not after the afternoon of June 14, 2004, happened.
You see, on the island of Star Croite, a small island in the Pacific Ocean, slavery is not only legal, it is encouraged. Not slavery in the way that women are beaten and abused for the amusement of who they belong to, but slavery for the sake of making a person’s life easier. On Star Croite, a slave is the respected helpmate of the person she serves—her Master or Mistress. She lives with the person’s happiness in mind and knows that if they’re happy that she, too, should be happy. She is treated with all the respect and kindness given to any other living person but she is also treated just a little bit worse. She is sometimes relegated to sleeping on the floor or on a cot next to her Master or Mistress, she always comes second to them, and she doesn’t have the freedom to come and go as they do, but still she (the slave) is happy. In theory, at least.
Not all women are bred to become another person’s slave. It often depends on that woman’s demeanor and background. If she comes from a wealthier family then odds are she will never know what it is to serve another person. Indeed, she will likely be the Mistress of a slave. But if she is like me, poor and living paycheck to paycheck—my paycheck—then she has no choice but to become the slave of another. And I had no choice. My father was a carpenter who worked occasional jobs but never for long. Often within just hours of fresh employment he would be sent home because of his constant inebriated state. Dad couldn’t help it, though. He was a weak man who loved his whiskey.
I was fine with this. Fine with the idea of being a slave, I mean. I had even begun going to parties and events where I knew those in need of a new slave would be, hoping to meet the right man or woman who would agree to take me on.
And then, on the afternoon of June 14, I came home to find my drunken father exchanging slurred words with a paunchy middle-aged man with fat fingers and a ruddy complexion. The man introduced himself as Harold Skimmer and told me that he would be my Master.
Thinking him to be one of my father’s drinking buddies I laughed at the man, sure that he was joking but he was not. And he did not like to be made fun of. I learned that the hard way.
Citing that he merely wanted to get to know me without the influence of my father, Harold pushed me down the hallway and into our guest room, shutting then locking the door behind him. With a leering and smug smile Harold reached for his belt buckle, undoing it then the clasp of his too tight slacks, shoving them onto the floor and lithely stepping out of them. With a lick of his lips he told me that this is what happened to naughty girls who don’t show men the respect they deserve.
Struck silent with fear at being forced into our guest room by a man I didn’t know I did nothing to encourage or discourage Harold as he joined me on the bed he had shoved me onto. I also didn’t encourage or discourage him as he shoved down his underwear just far enough to reveal his swollen stubby candle of a cock, roughly shoving it between my legs as he pulled up the frilly denim skirt I had been wearing.
I gasped in pain as Harold breached my virginity and began to curse at him and shove at him in an effort to get him off at me but quickly stopped with a muffled and tearful “I’m sorry” when he backhanded me across the face with a slap that was so hard I saw stars and could taste blood.
Thankfully Harold was so turned on by my fighting him that he finished with me rather quickly. He spilled his seed onto my lower stomach and legs, telling me that I hadn’t yet earned the prize of his seed inside of me, then told me to clean myself off and fix my clothing and join him in the living room.
Too afraid to fight him again lest I have to go through a repeat of what had happened I did as he asked, joining him and my father with tears in my eyes.
My father, too drunk to accurately know what was going on but still sober enough to know that I was troubled asked what was going on but believed Harold over me, when Harold “regretfully” informed my father that he had had to discipline me some.
My father agreed that I could be a handful at times and that a slap across the face was all that it usually took to remind me of my place. Why my father said that I still don’t know. He had never slapped me. Never even spanked me. Cursed at me, called me ungrateful? Yes. But he had never raised a hand to me. Probably because he knew that it was thanks to me that he could afford the whiskey he so loved. I had made money doing odd jobs for neighbors and friends from the time I was only seven or eight years old.
I ended up leaving with Harold that day. I had no choice. My father had sold me to him for enough money to supply him in all the whiskey he could want for a month. Plus, according to both men, a verbal agreement had been made that I was to go with Harold as his slave for a period of at least one month. Not that I blamed my father for taking Harold’s money or for making such an agreement. My father and I had long since talked about my desire to find a good man to be a slave to and in his eyes Harold was just that man.
Don’t get me wrong. My father isn’t that bad of a man. I mean I could have made my point by throwing a tantrum or by taking my dad into our guest room and showing him the bloody sheet I had hidden that would prove that Harold had done something to me but I hadn’t. Instead I went along with things. Indeed, I even allowed them to get worse before I realized I had the power to make them better.
Harold lived in a modest but well-decorated two-story home in midtown Downe, the largest city of Star Croite. He had no other slaves and he was a hard-working banker who lived within his means but thought more of his self than was necessary.
We no sooner arrived at his home when he instructed me to make him his afternoon tea—blackberry tea with a lump of sugar and a caramel biscuit on the side—then rub his feet. Having been a tea drinker for most of my life I knew well how to make a proper cup of tea and had no problem serving him. I was even pleased to do such a mundane task, thinking that what he had done to me earlier had been a terrible mistake that he would not soon repeat.
Harold had, however, taken one sip of his tea when he spewed the contents of his mouth onto the carpeted floor of his living room, set the cup down on the table next to him with a clatter and shoved me away with a foot to my chest. Without a word I righted myself and made him a fresh batch of tea, thinking that perhaps he preferred a weaker style than the strong brew I preferred. But no. Thrice more Harold showed his contempt for the way I made his tea before he finally declared that I was too stupid of a cunt to know any better and that he was no longer thirsty—no longer thirsty for tea that was.
With a sinking feeling I righted myself for the fifth time (each time after serving the tea I had dropped down to my knees near Harold’s feet in a vain attempt to massage his feet in the hopes that calmed him down…with no luck.) and asked Harold what he wanted instead.
Me, I was told. Harold told me to take off my clothes, get on all fours and crawl over to “Daddy’s cock.” Harold chuckled at that and told me I would refer to him as Daddy from now on. I wanted to chuckle too, but out of nervousness and uncertainty, not amusement.
When I took too long to undress Harold growled and launched out of his recliner, tearing at my clothes until I was as naked as the day I was born, and then roared at me to get on my knees and take off his slacks.
I did as he asked. I was too scared to bother fighting him. Harold was a man who was rather pretty when he was happy and calm but in anger…an angry Harold is not a man you want to mess with. His meaty hands are capable of bruising and crushing and his teeth love to bite things that shouldn’t be bitten.
Harold raped me again, this time taking me on the floor of his living room, his pathetic excuse for a penis buried inside of me while one hand, wrapped just tightly enough around my throat to make me behave, held me still and the other pinched my naked breast. My moan that he was hurting me only caused him to move his mouth to where his hand on my breast had been, showing me just what his teeth were capable of. His mouth soon discovered how much they enjoyed chewing on the tips of my breasts and over time while raping me Harold’s mouth would always find its way to my breasts, gnawing on my nipples as if they were chicken breasts instead of tender flesh that bruised all too easily.
Over the next six years, Harold raped me too many times for me to count; but each time left a firm mark on me that I don’t honestly think I’ll ever be free of. Not that Harold was always rough with me. There were occasions when I did something that made him happy and the resulting sex wasn’t too bad. I still considered it rape, though. Consensual sex involves a consenting man and woman who respect and care for each other. I will never respect or care for Harold; nor would I ever consent to having sex with him. No. The few times Harold was somewhat pleasant in bed with me were times when he told me to be naked and waiting for him in bed while he showered. These were times when Harold didn’t have to hold me still with a hand wrapped around my throat. They were times when I willingly allowed him the use of my body.
By now you likely think me to be a weak and stupid woman, right? After all, only a moron would put up with that kind of abuse for such a prolonged period of time! To be honest, if I were reading this I’d likely feel the same way. But I am not weak or stupid. I merely know when the correct time is to fight and when it is best to comply. With Harold it was always best to comply. You see, Harold had control of my body but he didn’t control my mind. In all the time I spent with him, with all the names he called me and all the times he would kick me to the ground because I had displeased him not once did he break my mind. I never began to think of myself as stupid or worthless. Because I am neither of those things and I never will be.
I stayed with Harold for as long as I did because I felt that I had no option. Harold didn’t pay me anything in exchange for being his slave. In his eyes the fact that I was allowed to sleep in a bed, an actual bed, and eat food from his kitchen was payment enough for everything that I had to do for him. Little did he know that every time he gave me money to run errands for him I would keep some of the change I’d get back. It all added up and overtime became enough that I could purchase a bus ticket to Ceptser, a small town just south of Downe, and start my new life as the morning cook of a wealthy but kind family I had often heard about from Harold.
The Sparrow family was the bane of Harold’s existence. Four brothers between the ages of twenty-nine and forty, the Sparrow brothers were everything that Harold was not. Or so I heard over the years as Harold’s slave. Harold always had a different picture to paint of the Sparrow family. According to him they were vain, simplistic, too kind, and fake. But anyone who was kind to others was seen as fake by Harold.
Even though Harold claimed to not think too highly of the Sparrow brothers, he still enjoyed talking about them. And I enjoyed hearing about them.
The Sparrow brothers supposedly lived in four Victorian style houses that were next to each other and were incredibly close despite their range in age. Mitchel, the eldest Sparrow brother, was, according to Harold, one of the most fair and true men you would ever meet. Stephen, the next eldest brother, was the more mature and educated of all the brothers and had the ability to reason his way out of anything. Next was Bryan, who Harold often described as being a bit girly but an all-around good guy to know when you were in need of a laugh or a friend. And finally was Jacob. He was supposedly the black sheep of the family. Where his brothers usually had cheerful dispositions, Jacob was surly and rude. It was Jacob and that Harold knew the most about. Jacob was a drinking buddy of Harold’s.
According to Harold, Jacob had a thing for chains and leather and enjoyed using them on the women he associated with. Harold also often delighted in telling me that Jacob had a mean streak that could not be found in most other men. That Jacob delighted in the pain of others, in fact.
But knowing Harold the way I did I knew to take everything he told me with a grain of salt. I mean in his own eyes, Harold was a man of worth and compassion. Two words I would never use to describe him.
And yet it was Harold’s description of the Sparrow family that caused me to decide on Ceptser of all places to go. If it hadn’t been for his talk of them I likely would have just stolen away in the middle of the night and hidden in some flea-infested hotel room until I could find work as a housekeeper or something. But no. Harold’s talk of the Sparrows made me want to get to know them. It made me yearn to know the truth about them and how kind they were to their employees.
Employees. Funny how a word that can be a glorified term for slave makes things sound so much more appropriate.
The Sparrow brothers had employees, not slaves. Female employees. Female employees that could wear what they wanted, within reason, and were paid actual money for what they did. Employees who were given respect and kindness and whose body belonged to the person who inhabited it, not the person who employed it.
I left Harold the night of May 7, 2011, and was employed as the Sparrow’s morning cook just three days later. Little did I know at the time that leaving Harold’s was the biggest mistake I could ever make. Or was it? I haven’t quite made up my mind on this just yet.
