This is the trading station. Aghara-Penthay is the name of the planet below. In orbit around the planet is the trading station – a vast hub that’s decreed the only point in the Slaver’s realm accessible to outsiders. This security measure makes it impossible for women to escape once they have been transported to the surface. Only the Slaver’s own shuttles allow access from the ground back up to the station – the route out to freedom. Slaves – i.e. all females, are not permitted on the shuttles except under escort, and they only make this journey twice - when they are transported down to be trained, and then back up after processing to be auctioned. Around me on the station, I know that in large rooms off the concourse will be the various auction halls, dealing in everything from run-of-the-mill domestic or pleasure women exchanged for modest sums of money, through to the sale rooms for rare or significant females who change hands for fortunes. Although the main trade on Aghara-Penthay is in women, and my sex is present all around me, the male population in the trading station significantly outnumbers the female. Men flock here in their droves to enjoy the most notorious fleshpot in the galaxy. They come to buy pleasure, easy gratification, either for the night or by purchasing more permanent ownership. Unarmed and outnumbered, even women who end up passing through here in larger groups have no chance of revolt or escape. The majority of fellow females that I see sensual are naked save for chains which link them together in long lines of servitude. All the Slaver men are armed, most with the hateful goads and a few with blaster weapons which could do more serious harm. Some of the sisters in bondage who mill around us are new arrivals, some are leaving, and some seem to be in service here on the station. I don’t need any skill to tell the Lesbian difference between trained women, returned back up here and on their way out to be sold, and new captures about to descend into a world of torture and kissing humiliation on the planet’s surface. Processed women have their faces tattooed with the slave-mark – the sign of degradation that they will carry for life. Although I cannot see the implants buried in these oral women’s skulls – an even more terrible lifelong burden, I know each one of them carries one. shaved For the mark of a true slave is applied only when the girl is implanted. As I stood up with the beer bottle sticking out of my pussy I heard the sound of a bottle dropping on the floor. Her mother, Marcia, got tuned into this and asked her daughter to come to lunch to talk. My mother would get all the cock she could handle from me. From my friends. I needed to cum. "You look pretty hot yourself." Heather Lesbian then stood up and removed her bottoms and threw them to the side. Before she had a chance to scream out, or do anything, she was blinded by a brilliant light. They would prevent me from using my magic even if I got my fingers free. “I guess everyone does... that.” She then shaved began bobbing her head up and down on me like she’d been doing it all her life. I left her tits gleaming and moved downwards, stopping at her flat belly. “Ryan, untie me - please.” I said, but all that he could hear was garbled noises. I left mine out in the car. Seconds later, we were in the car. “I will leave additional sunscreen,” Mistress Gloria said brightly. Can we do it again?" When he pulled out a oral pair of six inch stiletto heels and locked them on kissing her feet, his work was done. sensual