Do not read further if you are below legal age in your state/country, or if you are offended by sexual themes, D/s and the idea that someone could be bought and sold as property. None of this is real or based on real people or situations.

It sets things up for a series of stories sharing the same background, based loosely on a MUSH called Shangri’la; this means that although certain things will be familiar to those who’ve played it, others will be plain different. These are stories, not roleplaying logs, and as such I am taking certain liberties with the way organizations are set up, magic works and people react to the themes found in them.

This is a prologue. It doesn’t contain much sex at all, but it is setting things up to lead to that. If you have comments, questions, requests or anything else for that matter, feel free to send them to removethis_asstr_nightelf@yahoo.com . Since I am trying to avoid enormous spam on that account so that I can actually read the real messages, please make sure to take out of the address the “removethis_” part at the beginning. Including the underscore.

I will be placing stories published by yours truly on the web page space offered by ASSTR (http://www.asstr.org), at the address http://www.asstr.org/~nightelf/index.htm .

The strong smells penetrating Farad's nose and senses were nothing if not uncomfortable to the short, stocky man; not only did he dislike heat waves with a passion to begin with, but having to share his immediate proximity with dozens - sometimes hundreds - of others of sometimes dubious hygiene living under extremely unfamiliar conditions, but he had to get close to them, talk to them, and most of the times more than just that.

Farad was an officer of the Slavers' Guild, and last week's news of a major caravan entering through the portal bringing eighty six new slaves might have been met with something of an unenthusiastic response by the guards' and trainers' community - especially the ones he'd describe as overworked and underpaid. Especially the ones like him.

With a sigh and a mental push for resolve, the trainer pushed the wooden door in front of him in order to enter the collection area of the Processing Center; all of the unclaimed slaves were always gathered there after the end of each day at the market so that they could be looked at and if possible, corrected - the Guild made no coin out of unsold bodies, and the Guild didn't like that. And what it didn't like, Farad had to hear about from his superiors since it was in many ways their job - his job - to ensure their value remained high.

With a quick examination, the trainer started barking orders to the guards. "No, that one, the tall guy!" he yelled, indicating a muscular if fat black man, probably in his early forties. "He has to be washed first, didn't I say this yesterday? Didn't I? Heavens burn me, you didn't really take him to the market yesterday like that, did you? Unshaved? Did you at least oil him?" Although not slaves were sold for pleasure, it was always good business to emphasize their virility and strength - just in case. "Take him from my sight."

"Sir, excuse me?" came a voice from behind him; the guard who approached him had a slave trailing behind him, with a simple bronze chain connecting to a collar around her petite neck. "She didn't sell again today for the minimum price, I'm afraid."

Another day, another sigh. New guard. It wasn't his responsibility to make sure she was sold, of course, just to walk her to the market and back if she wasn't, but to be surprised at the result? "Jakarth, is it..." he muttered under his breath at a wisp of a redheaded girl standing near the exit, obviously terrified of the proceedings; she mustn't have been more than fifteen, which was good for many reasons, dressed in a skin-tight green dress that left her arms bare and most of her thighs just a few inches under her developing ass; but it wasn't those assets Farad took notice of first. A lot of girls sold on a daily basis had asses as good as hers or better. "Jakarth, do you see those horns? At the top of her forehead?" He asked patiently, even faking a smile; no sense yelling at someone whose fault none of this was. "Of course you don't bloody see, because they are fucking buried underneath all that hair of hers! Give her to the dresser, ask Mila to do something with her hair, she can tie it back or whatever. And put her in something else."

Out of habit he checked the young slave's collar for her name - Silarisa. It wasn't one of his, which he already knew. Probably Mikos' - a common pitfall with certain slavers was having too much fun with some of the stock and neglected the rest; as a business practice it wasn't so bad, since a single really good pleasure slave could go for more coin than twenty others, but Farad cared about those things. Eventually, if a slave wasn't sold, she would be given away as a gift or sent to do the really unpleasant tasks in the city. And that's saying something.

In his way, Farad was a fucking humanitarian, or so he sometimes thought.

"And her?" he asked on his way to the next leftover of the previous day; it didn't follow sense on a first glance that she was returned. Slender and lithe, Elves tended to sell well and sell fast to begin with, with their long lives and extremely well honed senses, but her silver mane of straight hair falling down her back and dark, dusty skin marked her for a Drow, which tended to be quite popular. Regulations demanded that unless there was a good reason, slaves had to be dressed in different garb than they were used to, meaning to plant in their heads firmly the idea that things were no longer as they used to be, and that they were going to be leading different lives, so she was put in a long dark green robe, perhaps reminiscent of that daytime Elves sometimes wore; it didn't emphasize her form particularly, but that wasn't the intention. Vyxila was the name written on that plain leather collar of hers, but before the slaver had the chance to inquire more of her status from the escorting guards he realized he didn't have to ask any questions; no, not after meeting her eyes.

While the Drow's eyes were red, it wasn't uncommon among her race. The open hatred and barely suppressed hostility in them however was a nearly tangible thing, the threat of a bowstring drawn and pointed. And Farad already wasn't having the best day, with at least a dozen others to look over before lunchtime. "Did she bite anyone?" he asked, hoping it wasn't someone's cock - they might have to take very strict measures if she had.

"Nah, hm, that she didn't." answered Michael, one of the Guild's veteran guards, who had been at the job for a good ten years by the time Farad himself ever imagined of working here; if he was hesitant to talk about it, then the girl had obviously been bad. "She spit in a guy's face though, called him a hm, a cock-sucking pig, if memory serves. Tried to kick another in the balls. And head butted Jain in the nose, I sent him home early. She didn't make a scratch, but it was in public and that one has a temper. Didn't want her whipped raw until you took a look for yourself."

Farad gave the old guard a nod before turning to consider the Drow; talking about such things in front of slaves was another strategy often employed by the Guild, both to drive in home the fact that others would talk over them as if they weren't there, and to allow their imaginations to fill in the gap of what punishments would follow which was often much worse than they actually were - which is saying something, especially for this one Guild that often hired and prized sadists to oversee training anyway. But this one was just staring at him now in a way that spelled death and promised daggers, and that was going to be her downfall.

"You fucking idiot. Release me at once!" cried the black skinned girl between her teeth, words snarled and spitted out rather than actually spoken; there was something of a snake in that one, probably a poisoned one. "Don't you know who I am? Didn't these idiot grunts tell you? I am the third Daughter of Urhhhmmm!?!" The last bit was never uttered, not with the leather bit between her lips Michael put there to muffle her, his fingers working the gag with an expert's confidence; she never had the slightest chance to bit him, not even if she had known he was going to do that. Not to a Guild Captain.

"I really don't care who you are, girl" said Farad and meant it; didn't care at all about her previous life in whatever world she had been taken in; all he did care about was that he didn't intend to lose this one, since the commission from her sale could be substantial. However she had hit a guardsman - it wouldn't do to let her get away with it, or word would spread. No slave was ever going to be getting away with it, not when they routinely outnumbered their keepers ten to one. "Well, girl", he said with a little smile. "It is time you learned the sweet kiss of the lash, which you obviously did more than earn. Michael, have her given twenty strikes per day for the next three days, and take her to the kennels on the third. The dogs will..."

"Do nothing to her. The dogs. Will do nothing to her."

Farad knew that voice without turning. What in bloody hell was a Disciplinarian doing here? His day had just taken a step for the much worse. And he hadn't even had lunch yet.

---

The Guild of Slavers was old, more so than any currently working for it could really tell; some claimed it had always been there, an organization as old as the very land of Shangri'la, acting as its backbone and heart at once. It was responsible for the gathering of slaves from every bit of creation there were words for - and several there weren't - as well as their training in an area their skills, physical condition and temperament were best suited for, and eventual purchase by one of the land's freemen and women who would put them to work for most likely the rest of their lives.

There were three major sections to the Guild, each ensuring its continuation; there were the Guardsmen, acting as jailers, training aides and protectors at once to the slaves. They were responsible for having them fed and watered, for ensuring they didn't run away while in their care - or taken away by force, either by those so-called liberals who wanted them free, or by those who wanted to enjoy their charms and work without having to pay for it. During training, Guardsmen were often put to the actual physical acts, ranging from carnal acts meant to reward, punish or just condition a slave in various ways depended on the individual, to having them punished, or even dressing them up and tending to their physical needs in cases of advanced and prolonged bondage.

The Trainers themselves were responsible for allowing a slave to reach their potential. Since Shangri'la was the eventual home of so many different creatures and each of those was different both psychologically and otherwise, it took a particular knack for the job to allow someone to teach them the meaning and responsibilities of their new - to most - lives. Not everyone took to being property the same way, and a talented Trainer would need to both make sure they understood their place, and learned to live with it - a slave who constantly tried to escape or was a danger to their Masters was really inappropriate, and would yield a small price or actually be returned to the Guild, the ultimate humiliation for the prestigious organization.

It was the last department that many forgot about, because they showed up the least in public; their jobs were private, although those jobs weren't always practiced in that manner. The Disciplinarians were there for the slaves both hardest to condition and most valuable to waste. Repeat offenders sometimes warranted a meeting with a Guild officer, if they were prized enough, and other times they were given the task of reprogramming a freeperson into something entirely different - employing psychology, technology and magic at once, they were the Guild's sometimes unseen servants, but the slaves knew they were there. They knew that very well.

---

At Farad's office, the trainer was used to being in charge; among their many tricks this was one of the simplest, taking someone to your place of personal power and prestige where you would be, by default, more comfortable than they were. The trick wasn't working now, not when Sebastian Denareis was standing in the room.

He wasn't a particularly impressive man, at least not in the usual physical sense; where Farad was muscular the Disciplinarian himself was merely tall, leaner than most, with jet black hair he kept trimmed to just over the shoulders. His face spoke of a similar strictness, a straight nose and chiseled straight lines on a pale face that seems to often lack expression altogether, like a block of stone and a will expressed through a pair of cobalt eyes. That same pair of eyes was fixed on him now, and eventually he found himself looking away. Bastard.

"So, er, what's your guys' interest in this one?" he muttered between taking a few papers out of the desk's top drawer to take a look; the motion would at least allow him to mask his discomfort for a few minutes. "According to this, the Drow Elf is no one special, some sort of local nobility. Here... lemme see, it says she was captured when her raid party attacked the caravan. Heh, guess they didn't know who they were messing with, I guess. She was the only survivor, and they actually had to heal her burns. They brought her across before she even regained consciousness, which means we don’t know what the transition did to her, exactly." Looking up again, the trainer grimaced. "So why are you here?"

The Disciplinarian didn't answer at once, but he instead pursed those thin lips of his while pulling a chair to sit on; it was as if every motion of his was calculated, meant to put others off balance - and in the mean time, arrogant as hell. While Farad knew they were schooled and trained to create exactly this effect, it didn't mean he liked it, and he would have interrupted the process with something nasty if Sebastian hadn't spoken up first.

"We had a request." said the man in that so-very quiet voice of his; it could have been a whisper, if each word wasn't so clearly phrased. "The Red Palace has asked us to look into finding a serving maid." he murmured then, taking a chair in order to rest on.

"The Red Palace. I thought they were full." One of Shangri'la's more prestigious gentlemen's clubs, that particular one had a thing for the immortals; they were employing their girls and boys from stock that wouldn't grow old even if the land's own nature prevented such things from happening anyway. Among their slaves they counted Elves, angels - fallen and otherwise - as well as shape shifted dragons, tamed vampires and more exotic breeds. While serving maids weren't counted among their pleasure stock per se, it was always part of their duties to provide such services to the club's members - suck the occasional cock of businessmen on their lunch breaks or provide a quick fuck behind the kitchens to their earnest sons, as well as of course clean the floors and the like. It wasn't so much agelessness the Red Palace looked for, as much as past - the lure wasn't so much that slaves wouldn't get old from now on, but the fact they took in those who might have already lived for centuries. Nothing like a pair of lips with a thousand years of experience wrapped around your shaft, figured Farad.

"They were. They no longer are. One of their maids was bought, and taken. Fell in love with a customer. Or that is the story I heard." You could tell the contempt in the Disciplinarian's voice; it wasn't so much romantic feelings he detested, the slaver guessed, as much as the fact someone took a slave trained to give pleasure to many men to be his wife. He had better not expect her to be loyal, at least not in her mind - the Guild's conditioning included making them not merely tolerate the company of more than one bedfellow on a regular basis for such commissions, but to actually crave it.

"Well, alright. So you are thinking this... now, that's a mouthful, this Vyxina Firi'del'zolien will make Red Palace stock? Then you should have let us deal with it, if you don't mind me saying so. We do this sort of thing regularly, you know."

"I know." agreed the Disciplinarian and that in itself was enough to surprise Farad somewhat; they didn't usually play nice, unless they wanted something. That didn't sound right. "What would your approach have been, if you don't mind me asking?"

"The standard one. Lash her, whip her on a daily basis around specific times, withhold food and water until she learns to ask properly, and once she does, start rewarding her." This was an old tactic employed by the Guild, perhaps the oldest one in the book; actually named the Whip and the Carrot, it was merely an intensified variation of the reward/punishment combination used to train animals for even more years than Shangri'la itself was around for, and it had been around for some time indeed.

"And you would make her into a painslut. She would break, yes. That much I agree with, Captain." said Sebastian then with a slight smile; he was making Farad nervous again, and the skies knew he hated that. "She would break, of course. Anyone would, and since she is unused to the feel of the raw lash on her back she would break sooner than she thought, and breaking so fast would do the rest. Yes. You are quite right. And soon she would learn to crave its touch, and long for it. And miss it when it didn't come."

Farad had no choice but to nod, almost against his will; he knew he really shouldn't, he was being led to a conclusion he didn't want to make, but everything the Disciplinarian said so far was true - he had seen it, it worked. "Yes... so do we have an agreement?" He didn't really wish to see that one get away from his grip now, and it wasn't so much the diminished profits due to another department's commission; he didn't want to be a pushover for some dark dressed freak.

But the freak wasn't done, and when that pale stare was fixed on his own eyes again, Farad knew it was over. "And in doing so, Officer, you would make her into a painslut. She is too strong willed as she is. She will need to be bent, not broken. Or she will attribute her fall on pain, and put it on a pedestal. She will seek it, and pardon it, and make it her religion. It would be her only Master." Long arms folded on his chest, and the Disciplinarian actually grimaced somewhat. "And sooner or later drinks would be spilled in the Red Palace's patrons' laps. Accidental trips would cause expensive china to shatter into pieces. Drinks she carried would be too cold, or too warm, or just badly mixed with water, so that she might earn herself the next trial, her next trip into that star-eyed land. And that, Officer, is something we do not wish. Because the Palace does not wish it."

Farad just sighed again, waiting for the words he knew would come. "The Drow Elf is to be handed over to us. And you are to come and oversee her conditioning, as per expedition regulation six; she is your captive, and we will provide a service in your behalf. Do we have an agreement, Officer?"

He hated his words being turned back on him so much. "We have an agreement." There goes the week, he thought.