Slave Collar Novels & Stories

It was a garment for a concubine, a plaything—a visual representation of my status as a slave. Finally, they replaced my heavy iron collar with a new one. This one was delicate, crafted from polished silver and etched with the Obsidian Pack’s crest: a howling wolf over a mountain peak. It was beautiful, and it was a torture device. The moment the clasp clicked shut, the silver began to sing against my jugular, a constant, burning reminder of my captivity. "The Alpha is waiting," Martha said, stepping back.

He simply circled, studying the silver collar from every angle. “Interesting craftsmanship,” Voss murmured. “Not pack-made. Older. Royal forge, perhaps.” He touched the metal with gloved fingers. A faint hum vibrated through the collar, and Caelan tensed. “Does it hurt?” Voss asked. “Not anymore. It did when it was first locked on.” Voss nodded once. “Suppression runes etched inside. Subtle. Expensive. Designed to mute secondary scent markers without killing the wearer. Clever. Dangerous.”

Pulled out something that made my breath catch. A collar. Black leather, simple but elegant. A small ring at the front. "What is that?" "Your consequence. And your reminder." He walked back over, crouched down to my level. "You're going to wear this. Not in public. Not where anyone can see. But here, in this house, when it's just us, you wear this. It'll help you remember who you belong to." "Silas, I can't--" "You can. And you will." He fastened it around my throat. Not tight enough to choke but impossible to ignore. "There. Perfect."

But all I could see was the necklace. A thick band of platinum and diamonds, sitting high on my throat. It was exquisite. It was worth more than my tuition. And it covered the faint, reddish-purple bruises Stellan’s fingers had left there the night before. A collar. That’s what he had called it. I reached behind my neck, my fingers fumbling with the clasp. It was intricate, a hidden mechanism that didn't just snap open. I tugged at it, frustration rising in my throat, panic fluttering in my chest. It wouldn't budge.

"You're a terrible liar." I put my hands on my hips. "And how, exactly, is some little trinket going to keep me here?" I studied the collar. It was actually quite pretty. Several smooth bluish-green stones were placed equal-distance around the black leather strap. Each stone was surrounded with swirls of silver and mounted into the collar. "The collar is embedded with Moonstone and a silver additive, making it impossible for you to shift. You also won't have the increased strength of your Wolf nature." He stated all of those things as if they weren't devastating to me.

For your… compliance. A delivery arrived that afternoon, a long, heavy box. Inside, nestled in black satin, was a necklace. But it was unlike any jewelry she’d ever seen. It was a collar, but an exquisite one. Solid platinum, intricately wrought with delicate, thorn-like patterns. At the front, where a pendant would be, was a flawless, teardrop-shaped black diamond. It was breathtakingly beautiful and unmistakably what it was: a slave’s collar, rendered in priceless materials. There was no lock; it was a seamless, permanent-looking circle. A note card rested on top: A more suitable symbol for your current value. Wear it tonight, and always. The old one is retired.

“And marks you as mine personally. You will wear this, no hand but my own is ever to remove it and there will be hell to pay if I find out you or anyone else has. If you try to remove it or make escape attempts, then my mark will be permanently etched into your pretty skin.” “Such a crude marking would be a shame to inflict upon your skin when set against such a wondrous marking as the one on your wrist, but make no mistake, I will not hesitate to enforce my words on you. You are my slave and as such, my words are law. I can choose to remove this collar should you agree to become mine and prove yourself trustworthy. A slave tattoo cannot be removed short of losing that limb. I would suggest

When the technician removed the device, Trish had a sturdy metal collar around her neck. The feeling of the uncompromising metal was what made Trish Bousquet realize that no ... this was no dream. She never was going to wake up, because she had never gone to sleep. Trish had become a slave. The collar marked her as a slave. Because of the collar, the world around her would always see her as a slave. The collar would become her identity. Nothing else would matter. As the collar technician packed up his supplies, the auctioneer made a final announcement:

she said, gesturing to her neck. The waitress examined the items closely. "They're very unusual," she said. "They both have little locks on them." Julia lowered her voice. "Sex slaves are not allowed to remove their collars and manacles. Their Masters must do it for them." Sharon looked at me with something akin to horror, her hand going up to her mouth as she gasped slightly.

He gave a toothy grin, walks over to my wardrobe and brings out a box. He placed the box on the bed, opened the box and brings out a dog collar from it. The collar was just plain, with no design... Rusty silver collar. "You see this right here, slave. This is your collar." His grin became more wider. I shifted back in horror, no.. this is the height of it, I have already gone through so much humiliation, I will not let him put that collar thingy on my neck. I am not a dog!!.