THE AUCTION
“SOLD!” Tiffany’s voice penetrated my cocoon. “Ernestine Royal is sold to the woman in the gray jacket!”
It hit me suddenly. I had been in denial. This was all just a nightmare, I told myself. I will wake up and tell my husband about this dream and we will share a laugh together. Someone took me by the hand and led me to the edge of the stage. There my shoes were pulled off and the few pieces of jewelry removed. The last of my old life was left on the stage. I caught a glimpse of my new owner.
I didn’t know her. I knew everybody, so she must have been from out of town. She was a bit shorter than me, with gray hair and about thirty extra pounds. Her cloth coat was gray—something like a trench coat. I thought I saw tan boots on her feet. I did see brown pant leg between boot and coat hem. No fashion sense at all—was my new owner trailer trash? I reminded myself to never say anything that would give my owner an excuse. Slaves have no rights. I could be beaten, snuffed and eaten for any reason or no reason at all. Our eyes met—hers were brown.
“Silence,” she hissed as she tugged on my arm. I barely felt the pavement beneath my feet. She led me to a large unmarked white motor home. The side door was open. “Climb in!”
Inside there was a table with straps. Someone up front started the engine. I was pushed inside. The door slammed. We were in motion! While I processed this, my new owner applied pressure to my arm and spun me around. Before I was able to do anything I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. I felt my ankles get strapped in position, and then my wrists were secured at my sides. I lifted my head to look at my owner and something was buckled around my neck.
“Remain quiet,” she commanded. “This is a training collar. If you talk you will be shocked like this.”
The initial shock was unexpected. I yelped and was shocked again. That caused me to yelp again. Shock. Yelp! Shock! The shocks were getting more powerful. I was sobbing when my owner took pity on me and shut my collar off.
“Shut up, slave!”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” I gasped. I couldn’t stop shaking. It hadn’t been ten minutes and already my owner was torturing me.
“Get control of yourself. I’m turning your collar back on. Don’t fight me and you won’t be shocked. There are worse things than the collar.”
Worse? I had a very bad feeling as the woman moved around and busied herself out of my line of sight. A sudden pop made me flinch against my bonds—the buzz sounded like a saw mill. My owner grabbed my head and pushed something cold and vibrating against my scalp. It hurt! Oh, it hurt as she sheared my hair from my head. I only barely managed to stifle my screaming—just some moaning. No shocks, thank God. In a few seconds I could tell that my head was bald. Without turning off the clippers, she released my head and moved between my legs. There wasn’t as much hair down there. It felt as if it were being yanked out instead of sheered off. I saw some stubble left behind—and angry red welts. The clippers went silent and the woman moved back to my head. Things slid. I heard snapping, smelled rubber. The next smell was something like really bad eggs.
“Keep your eyes closed or you will go blind,” my owner snarled. “Tighter!”
She smoothed on some harsh depilatory. It tingled at first, and then the tingle became a burn. After covering most of my head, I felt her coat my legs and crotch. She then worked some of that horrid burning stuff into my arms, on my chest, and my armpits. I was crying and moaning—a tingle at my collar warned me not to scream. I heard her moving around, water running. A moment later, she was chatting with another person while bald me became balder. I didn’t understand what they said as they giggled and gabbed. The minutes dragged on and my skin felt like it was being burned off! My bonds held me fast as I squirmed in growing discomfort. I began to wonder if the collar would knock me out—I was this close to screaming because the burning was getting worse than the shocks. Cold water and a rough rag removed the pasty lotion—the burn lessened, but I was tender all over. A few minutes later the woman wiped my face with something cooling. She rapidly covered my skin, replacing burn with cool.
“You can open your eyes now, slave,” she told me. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at my new mistress. The driver remained unseen by me. If he or she had a mirror, I’m sure that they could simply glance in the mirror and see my tonsils through my private parts. My thighs were open and my head was pointed back of the vehicle. I tried to raise my head, but somehow the collar held me down. My owner came around and I felt myself blush. “I am going to let you ask a few questions in two minutes. Keep your voice low or you will be shocked and I will stop answering questions. We are both free women and we expect you to respect us. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” I whispered.
“Good. Two minutes. I will not tell you where we are going or what we will do with you. You don’t need to know our names—we are all ‘Mistress’ to you. Your name is slave. Think about your questions, slave. Your life depends on them.”
THE TRIP TO MY NEW HOME
Questions? I had lots of questions. That two minute time limit was a cruel joke. I couldn’t ask who my new owners were or where they were taking me. They weren’t going to tell me what they were going to do to me.
Tiffany Mullen had given us wives a limited amount of slave training prior to the auction. Thank you, Mistress Tiffany. It was painful, but may have saved my life.
“Mistress,” I began—I was supposed to be on my knees with my eyes cast down out of respect—impossible when strapped supine to a table,” slave requests to know if being bald is permanent—and how a bald slave may better serve Mistresses.”
The woman regarded me for a moment.
“Time’s up, slave. Looks as if you don’t get your questions answered. Does that bother you, slave? Too bad! Slave has no rights. If I want, I can snuff you just by pushing a button.” I felt a tingle through my collar - I couldn’t help moaning. “Ah, our first stop. Don’t go anywhere!”
Two women giggled as they exited the van. The noises of the gas station were familiar. Soon, someone got back into the van. The engine started and the van drove around for a while, and then stopped. The engine turned off again. Someone made the van bounce as she moved around. A few minutes later I was released from the table. My owner made me sit up. She fastened my hands behind my back with plastic ties and made me sit in one of the chairs. My owner wore a brown pants suit—she had shucked her gray coat. Tiffany’s lessons came back: do not make eye contact with your owner or any free person or they will hurt you for your insolence. I began to tremble.
“Are you cold, slave?”
“No, Mistress,” I shook my head as I spoke. I could have kicked myself! “I’m just nervous, Mistress.”
“Good,” my owner chortled. “I wasn’t going to let you wear anything even if you were freezing to death. It is good that you are nervous. You should be nervous. Remember that you have no power. Your future depends upon my good graces.”
The van was silent for a while. I risked a glance at Mistress. She was leaning back in her captain’s chair on the passenger side of the van. She was watching the front of the store—one of those club stores or discount warehouses. I never would shop at those places. That was for trailer trash—not Wheaton Heights residents! My owners were trailer trash? Tears filled my eyes, ran down the outside of my nose and dripped off, splashing against my thighs. I couldn’t help myself. I started sobbing.
A lightening bolt coursed through my body.
“Stop that! I forbid crying, slave,” I glanced at Mistress in surprise, received another jolt. “Don’t look at me, bitch! I am a free woman and you are a slave! Never forget that! Oh, you used to be so high and mighty. Now you are in my power. I never forget. You are going to pay for what you did to me and Cov.”
I couldn’t help myself. She shocked me and I bawled. She kept shocking me and I kept crying. After a while the door to the van opened up and several cloth bags were tossed into the van. These bags were white. I didn’t see any markings. When the door shut, the smell built up. It was horrid—it smelled like burned leaves soaked in gas.
“I’m driving, Cov,” my owner said. “Got my cigarettes?”
“Here. Ready to head out, Hun?” Cov asked.
“Yes. Did you get enough charcoal?”
“That’s why I needed help from a store slave. I sent her back to get whipped for being uppity.”
“Good for you! Do you want to whip slave?”
“No–just give me that goddamned remote.” Both Mistresses cackled in glee. “What goes around comes around!”
It was a long, painful trip. Mistress smoked those awful clove cigarettes. Between the awful smell of the charcoal, the stench of cloves and the electric shocks I lost my breakfast all over the back of the car. That brought retribution. After a while, it didn’t matter any more.
How long did I travel? I can’t say. I didn’t even know that the van had stopped until the door swung open and I was unbuckled from the chair. Cov dragged me out and hosed me down with cold water. She made me rinse out my mouth and drink from the hose. She didn’t shock me any more—just slapped my butt. Presently, I was marched into the house.
“Slave,” Cov snapped as she pointed to the floor, “kneel.”
For the next hour or so I was given painful instructions on what my owners expected from me. They would snap an order and punish me. If I got it right, they would sneer that I was finally making progress. Mostly they hit me and screamed that I was a worthless cunt. I couldn’t help crying. They were so mean!
Then I was chained to a chair. Hun gave me a spiral-bound notebook and a pen.
“Write what just happened. Leave nothing out. You will be punished if you don’t tell the truth.”
That’s why I’m writing this journal. I don’t dare leave anything out—even if they are insulting to my Mistresses.
NIGHT AND DAY
Mistresses gave me an hour to write in this journal last night and another hour this evening. Picking up where I left off last evening, Mistresses fed me some oatmeal. I can’t decide if oatmeal or slave chow are worse. It was just oatmeal—cold, glue-like slime. Amazing how much taste there is in food when only bland stuff is available! Breakfast—I was given table scraps and half a cup of cold coffee. I got some bread and water for lunch. I haven’t had dinner yet—right now that oatmeal doesn’t seem so yucky.
Mistresses played sex games with me most of the night. They fucked me with strap-ons. I was amazed to find that Mistresses didn’t have any hair—that they were as bald as me! I wasn’t into lesbian sex before I was enslaved. Now my life depends on it. Thank you, Neville Champion and thank you Queenie for your lessons in how to pleasure women. It seems that Mistresses call each other ‘Cov’ and ‘Hun.’ I am called ’slave.’ That means something bad, I think, not having a name. Neville and Tiffany taught me that I needed to establish a bond with my owners as quickly as possible. The only tools left to a slave are instant and complete obedience. Neville and Queenie didn’t have much time to teach me to use my other tool, sex, but they said that the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol planned to use me and that would be an opportunity to practice pleasuring a man. Tiffany ordered us enslaved wives to practice pleasuring each other—just in case a woman bought us. Last night I did my best. I was beaten and denied orgasms and left tied up. In the morning during and after breakfast I did my best to pleasure Hun. Cov seems to get pleasure only from beating me. I am sore, but I think that I will just try harder. Mistresses spent the day training me. Note to other slaves: it is nice to kneel unmolested beside Mistresses while they watch television. It is good to be caged and tied up—because I’m not being whipped. I pray that my groveling isn’t inciting them to punish me more!
Right now I am sitting comfortably at a desk and writing this journal. In a few minutes, Mistresses will lock it up again. I’m not sure why they are having me keep a journal, but it beats being beaten!
THE NEXT DAY
Mistress Hun let me sleep on a pad in the cage last night. They seemed satisfied with my performance and allowed me to finish their Chinese take-out dinners. It was the best meal that I’ve had in a week! The next morning I was puppy-dog eager to please them with my tongue and fingers and anything else. They fed me part of an omelet and some pastries. The coffee was warm—oddly salty, too. If Mistresses tell me that they’ve peed in the coffee before they gave it to me, I will kiss their feet. Coffee is coffee. I’ve had worse.
I was locked in the cage outside during lunch. Mistresses were cruel, eating and telling me that I wasn’t to be fed.
“You will be motivated to provide better sex, slave.” It was Cov who told me that.
After they had eaten lunch I was taken to a room that was bare except for a plain metal desk, something an office worker would use. On the desk was a plastic bag with the Tri-Shop logo, the store we stopped at. Cov pulled out a pair of seamed stockings and and some nylon dog collars. I was perched on the edge of the desk and the stockings were rolled up my legs. Cov didn’t bother with garters—the elastic tops fit snugly. A pair of shoes—cheap old black pumps with three-inch heels, a bit too big for me—were slipped on my feet. Cove fastened the dog collars around my ankles and then clipped a short black bar to the collar’s rings. She spun me around and forced me to bend over. I panicked and was shocked.
“I don’t have time for your shit, bitch!” Cov snarled. “Mr. Page will be here at any time and you will be ready or I will shock you until you piss all over yourself again! Now bend over and don’t move!”
I held as still as I could. A chain rattled between my feet—Cov clipped something to the bar on my legs. Some straps were put on my wrists.
“Hold this in your mouth. Don’t let it fall or you’ll be sorry!”
It was a plastic box—my remote? I heard a snap and felt the plastic tie fall off. Cov forced my hand to the end of the desk and clipped a chain on the band. She grabbed my other hand and did the same on the other corner of the desk. She jammed a wig on my head to finish off my ‘costume.’ My new owners—hadn’t they heard of a wig cap? It is a stocking thingie that goes over the scalp and anchors the wig. Now my head itched.
“What do you think, Hun? Is there time to whip her?” I shuddered to realize a little itching was the least of my worries.
“Let’s wait until after Mr. Page finished with our slut. We have the rest of her life once he finishes with her. You know how these rich bitches are. Mr. Royal told me that his bitch didn’t putout. Stupid bitch here cheated him of his husbandly rights. Those days are over for her. She’s going to do everything we tell her to.”
“Or else, Hun?”
“No ‘or else,’ Cov. We’ll just whip her for the hell of it.”
The doorbell rang. I could hear voices. One was male and sounded British, only not quite. I heard Hillary Vandyne, my old neighbor, sold with me. She was Slave Number One and I was Slave Number Six. Neville had paired us up with each other and his slave-wife Queenie taught us how to please men and women. I hate to admit it, but Neville and Queenie were the best sex I ever had. I knew Hillary’s body well. Tiffany made a point of putting two or three of us in the same slave cage so that we could get used to girl-on-girl sex. It kept us warm, too—we were given only one ratty old sleeping bag. When the bag was unzipped, it covered two of us. We had a thin foam pad to lay on. We could stay warm when we huddled together—the garage was cold! I never thought that I’d look back on that horrid garage with longing.
I didn’t hear them come in. He was just there, with a naked Hillary standing in front of me. I tensed up, butterflies in my stomach. He played with my hair. When he touched my back I jerked—the surprise was that I had a small orgasm! I sagged in defeat.
“Good afternoon, Earnie.” A pause. “You may greet me.”
My mouth was full of remote. I could only manage ” ‘ud affnn maffer”
