#florapastthread

The dead of night was terrifying. Or, well, in Flora’s mind, it usually wasn’t until she was being chased by a blood sucking psychopath that decided he wanted her. How did she end up here? She stumbled stupidly against a rock that caught her toes, making her wince in pain as she tried to steady her run. Her hair felt all over the place, messy and damp with some of the lingering rain water that stuck to the leaves and bark of trees around them. Sticks dug into her bare feet, and she felt the lingering cool of the night against her bare skin of face, neck and arms, but she wanted to continue running. She had seen her escape; he had turned his back, started to talk to someone, wasn’t paying that much attention to her, and there she was. Gone in a flash. Her small frame and quick body made it faster for her to slip away from the dumb ass who wasn’t paying attention. More power to her. She didn’t want to be a slave, anyways. She stumbled again. The darkness wasn’t her forte to run in, and instead of catching herself this time on the stumble, she found herself hitting a set of rocks hidden underfoot. Knees scraped hard against the ground, and she hissed almost inaudibly at the pain that she felt. She hit it so hard that it felt like her kneecaps shattered, but it wasn’t the case. She could hear rustling coming from the bushes, yelling from behind her. She had to run. Forcing herself to get back to her feet, she didn’t think twice of brushing off the mud and dirt off her, and just barreled through on running. She was getting tired, and her legs hurt from the fall, but no way was she going to stop. It would be stupid to stop now, she told herself. She wouldn’t let herself fall into that man’s hands again. By no means was she a slave. She had every right to be free like he was, right? Why did this world choose slaves and masters? Why couldn’t everyone just be on good terms? She tried to make a mental path on where the fuck that ship was, but in the long run, she didn’t care. She wanted to be as far away as possible from it. She stumbled through a meadow, the grass long and sticky from the previous rain showers, and the stars above seemed to grow brighter as she stumbled through. Her running was slower and more effort was needed for every step. She felt like every step she took was labored and hard, and she knew it was really only a matter of time before her new owner caught up with her. She made it to the end of the meadow to lean against a tree, halting for a minute to get her breath. She didn’t know if that minute would result in being snagged back to where she was running from, or if it’d give her time to get another few breaths in before bolting yet again.

Florence Dupont, also known as Flora to those who peered into her cell from the bridge of their noses, had found herself here for far too long. As each day passed, anger continued to bubble up, to show how agitated she was at this situation. She was stupid, she admitted, to being caught and returning here to being a slave -- for the last two years, or a little under (she sometimes couldn't remember; so that was her fault, so what?) -- she had lived as a free woman, happily living and going on and not having to worry about this. She wasn't worried about the sexual favors she had to give to others. She didn't have to worry about being led around by a collar and leash. She didn't worry about having to be bound to some machine and fucked endlessly until she could produce children -- that last thought made her visibly shudder. She didn't understand how people could do that to some females. Females were apart of the population, too, and had their own rights, didn't they? Not to slavers, apparently. Not to the people who decided to breed them. That just made Flora angry. And when Flora was angry, she wasn't really the, how do you say it, prime slave to buy. Today, though, she sat there, on the floor, her legs tucked up underneath her as she sat with her back towards the cages, her back towards anyone who decided to come and look at her. She wasn't interested in the harassment, in the pleasuring of others; she sure as hell wasn't interested in trying to please people just so they could get her free. She wanted to be free. She didn't want to be free of the cages only to be owned by some asshole that would get "treat her like she's free" when she's really not. She really didn't want to deal with these fuckers. She didn't want one at all, and then -- she gave a sigh. Her shoulders tensed in agitation; her shoulders squared and her back rippled slightly and her neck seemed to shorten between her head and shoulder blades, and there she was. Angry at everyone and more at herself than anything. She was so fucking stupid for getting herself into this situation. Why couldn't she just be free and not in a cage? Why did she feel like she had to be on display for people? She hated this. She wanted to punch the wall or hit her head against the bars of her cell, and to scream and to act out. Slaves who were like that were much more unlikely to get bought, right? Maybe the slavers here would let her go if she was more unlikely to get bought like that. They couldn't break her will, after all. Her will was so much stronger than that; it was terrible.

Well, wasn't this just peachy? Flora found herself dragging her feet -- or, more likely -- trying to stop herself from walking as her "owner" -- no, that's not the right word, but Flora was far too angry to think of something better -- marched her fighting and screaming to the car from the auction house. She wasn't one of the few slaves who went willingly -- in fact, she was far from willing and found herself being cuffed and basically carried to the car. How rude, she told herself, seething in anger. Fuck this. Fuck him. Fuck this whole situation. Her jaw tensed, an ugly look plastered across the soft features of the face she was graced with as she found herself staring at the door that could most likely give her freedom. Roderick wasn't in the car yet -- he was busy doing, well, whatever the fuck assholes like him did. She scooted over and managed to get her hands on the latch to open the door (hey, it wasn't the first time she's escaped, y'know), and went to push it open when Mr. I own you best shut up and listen had decided to slip inside and shut the door. The audacity he had when he locked the doors, just to be on the safe side. Flora sat there, glaring daggers at him, listening as he talked but could care less either way. She wasn't interested in him or his slutty girls or whatever the fuck he had at home. He could do his worst, but the only thing Flora would do would sit there and be angry, aggressive and downright rude. That was the only thing she could be. Her eyes only slightly narrowed as he spoke going on about this and that, bullshit and fucking and who the fuck cared? She didn't. To put out the clear disinterest she had, she turned her attention from him and towards the outside. Maybe she could hit her head and break the window. She wondered how thick the glass on the car was, ignoring the conversation completely. Tell him about her skills? No thanks. Give him respect? Definitely not on her list. Oh, wait, what was that? He wanted to help her? At that, she rudely, and quite obnoxiously, snorted. Sure. A man who wanted to help her and clearly had a harem of females at his fingertips -- no thank you. She was fine with living the rest of her life as an angry old woman in the slave house pens. She'd much rather prefer it than this fucker. How could she clearly and focusly inform him to "go fuck himself on a dildo" without sounding like a brat, but a well informed adult? After all, she was eighteen, right? She had to be an adult. So she did what she did best. She plastered a sweet, almost innocent smile on her face as she turned to him, her eyes locking with his. With one silent breath, she said the following, her voice clearly angry, but her features defining otherwise. Such a liar she was, at least visibly. It was until the cuffs came off and the voice betrayed her. "Perhaps you should go take your ass to the other male you were fighting with for me, and make sure he sticks his penis where it belongs. Perhaps you'll find yourself looking at this situation in a very, very different light. How desperately she wanted to add that he should stop his annoying yammering like a puppy without a master. She was starting to form that headache again, and the anger that was pooling up from her core didn't make it any easier to control her actions. In fact, it just made it harder.

There she was, pacing the far end of her cell, her cage, her home that she loathed. She had only been there a few days, no, maybe it was a few hours, but even so, the anxiety of being locked up had settled in her stomach, making her feel squeamish and nervous and all sorts of antsy. She wanted to get out. Several times a slaver walked by and told her to cut it out as she tried to wiggle the lock free on her cell, and try to dismantle the bed to use it as a weapon to free herself. After the first or second time, she had lost everything inside her cell, save for the thin, matted blanket that the slavers left her. She was angry. Stubborn and angry and mad were all sorts of things thrown into one, and she paced more. Her footfalls seemed to resonate through the cells. She was, apparently, lost in one of the darker parts of the pens, a lesser traveled path that seemed to only have one meal instead of the standard three like others. They were dirtier here, a little more sullen. A little more broken. Florence wouldn't let herself be broken. She was far too pretty and far too head strong to be broken by a set of metal bars around her, keeping her locked up like an animal. Even when a set of masters came, almost interested in her, her attention seemed far and few between, and she dismissed any order they gave, and she chose to act like the stubborn girl who grew up by herself, instead of the subservient girl who grew up in a pen, being slowly trained to be bred for her own service into producing the next generation of slaves. Her fingers tightened in her hands, the nails biting into flesh as she stood there, watching the eyes of the person staring back before they finally gave up and walked away. No way was she going to let any of these people own her. Her fighting spirit was strong, and her willingness of needing to be free seemed to grow stronger with every heartbeat that pounded hard inside her rib cage. She was tired of this already. She was tired of the looks people gave her, of the way hands reached into her cage to touch her -- she was ready to bite. She was ready to run. It was written on her vital stat's screen to open with only two slavers, as she was known to try and bolt. The cage was tight, constricting, and she wanted out. Eventually, she got tired of the pacing, of the staring, and she found herself on the ground, curled up in a ball and underneath the thin blanket that outlined her form. She wasn't the tallest or the most athletic, but she knew that, should someone from the home pen she was from came and saw her, she'd find herself back inside one of those cages, being prepped to grow children for any Master that wanted one. She didn't want that. For now, she just wanted to watch the world burn, and to get out of the cage. She would ignore the world, and ignore the voices outside her cage. Until a set of slavers came in to get her to pay attention, she'd do her own thing. It was just the bout the stupid stubbornness that she owned and cradled with an ounce of salt.