The captives were shackled and put on heavy iron hoops, thin from the painful transition of the neck. The hammer knocked on the anvil, and every blow of it responded with a shiver in all the members. Pale more from fear than from fatigue slaves were kneeling on a wide platform, resignedly waiting for their turn.

Those who were already wearing chains were taken away by the guards and placed across a thick log, tightly tied with wide rawhide straps and gagged with leather spherical gags. Then a hefty fellow came up to each of them, holding a can of red paint and a small tassel in their hands, and putting a badge on the left breast. In accordance with this sign slaves should have been branded.

Ilma stood from the very edge and watched the distant look taking place. Heavy road, unbearable heat and hunger have done their dirty deed: they exhausted the once beautiful girl's flexible body, always cheerful lively eyes were put out. And the scouts of the overseers ripped up their backs, and now it was burning like after burns.

- Next drag! The blacksmith shouted, wiping his brow wet with sweat.

The guards grabbed a small thin blonde with huge blue eyes like the sky and dragged him to the anvil. The poor slave was so exhausted that she could not even independently rearrange her legs. One of the guards handed her whip on the back, but the girl just screamed and hoed her head on her chest.

- Why bother? - the blacksmith shouted, - I'm up to the night, or something, will I hang around here?

The guard dragged her, seized the slave under his arms and threw the blacksmith at his feet with force.

- Install it yourself! - he growled.

- What to install? - the blacksmith muttered displeased, - Will die by the morning! Get her out of here and get the next one.

The guard grabbed the still-lying blonde by the hair and pulled him aside. Kicking her foot, he grinned and headed for the next miserable one.

- You also caress a whip? - he poked his hilt in the side of a tall girl with short cropped hair.

The slave rose from her knees and dutifully followed the guard, her head down. The blacksmith put her in the machine, clutching his legs and arms with hoops, and began methodically fitting bracelets, chuckling and smacking his tongue, looking at the beautiful girl's body.

Ilma sighed heavily and closed her eyes. Tears choked her, but the girl did not want anyone to see her cry. She will not utter a sound when they begin to put chains on her. She will not moan and scream when the red-hot iron burns down the stigma. She is...

- Hey, you! - There was a loud cry over his ear, - How long will you still dream?

A hefty guard, waving a whip, stood in front of the girl, legs spread wide. Ilma slowly got up and went to the anvil. The guard, muttering something under his breath, stumbled from behind.

- What a beauty! Exclaimed the blacksmith.

“This girl needs special shackles,” the senior guard reminded, “And Milard ordered to put the rings in the boobs and down there.”

“I see,” the blacksmith grumbled discontentedly, tightening the girl’s body with a metal hoop.

- Maybe she immediately shut the mouth? - asked the big man.

“Let him go,” the older man waved.

The blacksmith threw a thick strip of metal around his neck and closed it, inserting a red-hot rivet into the eyes. The hammer smashed a red rod. Collar tightly gripped the throat of a slave.

“Patient,” said the guard, grinning. “Looks like sparkling eyes!”

“Leave her alone,” the blacksmith pushed him aside.

Rummaging in a drawer, he took out two bracelets, connected by a thick chain, and began to fit them on his ankles. Ilma squinted at her legs and was surprised to find that not rivets were inserted into the lugs, but bolts, and the blacksmith, armed with pliers, tightens massive nuts on them. Similarly, he bound the girl and his hands.

After inserting a strut between his legs, the blacksmith looked askance at the slave and for some reason sighed heavily.

“Now it will be very painful for you,” he said with some annoyance, “Can you really shut up your mouth?” Easier to endure.

Ilma shook her head.

“Well, as you know,” the blacksmith sighed again, “Then shout.” Do not be shy. I allow.

Stitching coals in a brazier, he pulled out a thin long needle and brought it closer to the girl’s face. Grabbing the nipple with two fingers, he with a sharp, sharp movement pierced it with a red-hot needle. A terrible pain pierced the whole body of a slave, unwittingly making her twitch and moan. Glare danced in his eyes, dizzy. A strong rush of blood hit his temples.

The smith, holding the needle for several seconds, carefully pulled it out of the hole and immediately inserted a small brass ring into the nipple and squeezed it in a vice.

“Take your breath, girl,” said the old man, smiling, “And while I’m feeling stronger the needle,” he said. It won't hurt so much.

And then Ilma burst into loud weeping tears. The guard, who had jumped toward her, swung his whip, but the blacksmith strongly pushed him aside, rewarding with a weighty kick. Showing a fist, the old man hissed:

- Just touch her! I'll take you with this needle myself. Go away!

The guard, clumsily rising to his feet, walked back home, rubbing his hurt side and muttering curses. The smith spat after him and began to prepare the tools for the second puncture. The girl, unable to look at it, turned away. When the old man clamped her second nipple, Ilma's nerves could not stand it, and she lost consciousness.

“It seems to have come to its senses,” said one of the guards, bending over a slave.

“Good,” the smith smiled.

The whole body was burning. The girl was beating as if in a fever. Ilma looked around and tried to move. Her body responded with a sharp pain in the groin and both breasts. The slave groaned plaintively.

- Do not move, - the blacksmith advised, - I put a stigma while you were unconscious. Rest for now. I ordered to bring you food. I'll go. Need to work. Your girlfriends were already waiting there in the sun.

“What about that blonde?” - asked Ilma, - Well, that lost consciousness.

“It is over,” the old man replied gloomily, “She turned out to be weak.” Her road dokanala.

The blacksmith left, and soon the first shouts came from the courtyard. Branding started. Ilma covered her ears with her hands, but the screams of the unfortunate were still heard. They cut the ears, penetrated into the soul, tormented her, dull the mind. The girl began to cry.

This went on for a long time. The unfortunate captives shouted so that even the round leather gags inserted into their mouths could not drown out these shouts. The guards, whistling with whips, tried unsuccessfully to silence them, but only shouted themselves in their impotence. Sometimes a thick bass of a blacksmith cut through, driving them away so as not to interfere with work.

But it all died down. A guard entered the barn. Grunting something in a disgruntled voice, he looked around the room with a lazy look and set a bowl of dried meat and a slice of gray bread in front of the slave. After hesitation, he pulled out a small pumpkin flask from behind his bosom and laid it on the ground. Looking at the girl again, he left the hut and closed the door. Twilight came.

Ilma settled herself on her thin bedding and closed her eyes. Great fatigue and nourishing food, the first for the whole transition, calmed her down a bit. Unnoticed by the girl fell asleep. She did not hear how the guards, snapping their thick and long whips, pounded exhausted captives into the barracks, as they groaned from aching pain, sobbing from despair, rattling the shackles.

Slave slept. Sleep is the most beautiful condition for a slave. Surrendered to the power of Morpheus without a trace, the slave can at least feel free for a while. There are no guards above her who will not miss the chance to once again demonstrate their power over a defenseless girl chained in heavy slave iron, beaten and intimidated. Sleep frees her from all conventions.In a dream, there is no need to kneel, humbly lowering your eyes, you do not need to fulfill the vagaries of an insatiable owner, fantasies ...