Dark Erotic Fiction

CASTLEMAN TRUST CHAPTER 56 – CANADIAN CHRISTMAS PRESENTS

Peter J. Foster

December 24th fell on a Monday in 2001. I wanted to go to Ellisia for Christmas. I was there with a plane load of slaves. The slave work force compound had been expanded, winterized and all the other contracts had been absorbed by DEV. There was an odd incentive for the slave workers—the top worker of the week would get used by me for sex. The top worker of the month would get a weekend with me where ever I was. Stocking up on vitamins seemed like a good idea.

Speaking of having to stock up on vitamins, Ambassador Woulfe parked his wife and six daughters with me. The roster (from eldest to youngest) was:

Elizabeth (wife)

Alina (eldest daughter)

Brielle

Claire

Destiny

Evelyn

Fallyn (youngest daughter)

A federal white slaver, Mr. Mitch Herbert, the same Mr. Herbert who enslaved the First Lady almost a year ago, handed me the ownership documents.

“This is my commitment to Canada’s White Slave Act,” Ambassador Woulfe told me. I must have looked bewildered. “When we finally pass our own Act, I will request that you form a DEV Canada and transfer ownership of my wife to that organization. I love my daughters, but I’m quite content with you owning them. I can live with you owning my wife. You can’t help yourself, Peer. You will do what is best for these women.”

“Besides, Peter,” Elizabeth Woulfe said, “Look at us. What do you see? Randolf wants a son or two. If you would consent to use us, Randolf could have a grandson to carry on the name.”

“I’ve tried six times already,” Ambassador Woulfe said. “You can see the results.”

“It’s okay,” Shawna told me. “The Woulfes share our religion, Peter.”

“After they return from holiday with their families, every woman on the Embassy staff has been converted,” the ambassador told me. “You own them. We looked at setting up an American corporation or trust so that our women would be protected from your Yank enslavement laws. Canadians can’t currently own slaves—or companies that own slaves. We’re working on that. You should be getting calls from the New Zealand, Australian and British embassies after the New Year. Your Mr. Harrington is working on establishing an American trust specifically for managing non-American slaves. Canadian families who send their daughters to live, work and attend school down here have been advised to seek DEV conversions and have their daughters attend college on an education asset contract.”

“I’m not that big,” I said.

“That’s why the new trust is being formed. All Canadian citizens will have a clause that will transfer ownership to the Canadian edition of DEV as soon as the Canadian slave law passes. Oh, by the way, Canadians look down on exposing slaves in public. We have federated all of our police forces, so go ahead and expose your slaves when you like. I know that many of your slaves no longer want to wear clothes. I just had a delightfully productive appointment with your Carla to map out my daughters-er, your Canadian slaves’ education. The younger ones will start attending the Susan B. Anthony School for Gifted Girls next month. Alina has already graduated and she would like to teach at Eastlake University.”

“Sir, why not simply get diplomatic immunity for your staff?”

“Not every staffer rates diplomatic immunity. My wife gave up hers in order to set the example. We won’t risk those rather brutal slave laws you yanks made up. If they are already slaves, they can’t be made slaves.”

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but something was not quite right.

“There is another reason, Peter,” Shawna added. “Master Randolf and Elizabeth share our religion. They share our belief that all women should be slaves, too. Some cultures won’t allow this—not yet.”

“So, how will this affect your political career when you become Prime Minister?” I asked.

Randolf Woulfe smiled and gazed vacantly out the window. “Prime Minister. I only hope. “

He shook himself out of his reverie and faced me.

“I would feel much better if you were to brand or tattoo my wife and daughters and the other five staffers. If you mark them as yours, you will more likely protect them.”

“Me?”

“Canada has barely 56,000 men and women in its military establishment. We have another 18,000 Mounties. Our thin red line is really thin. You are more likely to investigate the disappearance of one of your own. Heaven help the people who hurt your charges!”

Yeah, right. As if I could do more than sue. As if I would. Using force always has consequences. What really bothered me was the probability that I would pull a Don Quixote and tilt at imaginary giants—getting tossed by windmill sails!

“I’m still young enough to have children,” Elizabeth was saying. “I’d like to have some of yours, if you would let me. I understand that this is the custom in cougar County, too—us old hags taking a young man as a lover.”

“Old hag?” I asked, looking Elizabeth right in the eye. “How old are you? I need to know because I’ll check the records.”

“38, Peter,” Randolf said. “The records will say 41, but Elizabeth is actually 38. You’ll have to take my word over the official record.”

“I’ve lied to you, too,” Shawna said. “I’m actually 13 years older than my official record. You may snuff me now, if you wish.”

“No,” I said, glancing at Shawna. “I’ll stick to the official records. Thank you for being candid.”

“You don’t believe me?” Shawna asked.

“I am so busted,” I muttered. “I don’t believe you, no. I need to act as if I do, yet I need to also pretend that the official record is correct. Elizabeth, for example, could be 38 or 38 or 41—I can’t tell. You, Shawna, could pass for late 20’s too. If you have a fountain of youth or something, we need to either share it or keep it secret.”

“Genetics, healthy living and hormone therapy,” Shawna said. “Those are our secrets. Long ago we had the ability to renew our bodies. When the world became modern, we gave it up. Too much danger of being burned at the stake for witchcraft. Right now, the easiest and safest way to get a new body is to be ritually sacrificed and born in a new body. Yes, you don’t believe that either, dear boy. It is possible to live forever. Who would want to? It is like never being able to forget anything. You have forgotten your previous lives or you couldn’t do what you must.”

Hey! This was the land of make-believe: Ellisia. I just had to willingly suspend my disbelief, enjoy myself, and remember to re-engage my disbelief at the end of my vacation. I could have punished Shawna for lying to me, but I was sure that she believed every word she told me. I’d rather have Shawna tell me what she believed than what she thought I wanted her to say.

“Facinating,” Randolf watched me closely. “I can see you thinking. I have no idea what is going on inside your mind, but I can see that you are thinking.”

“He’s always thinking,” Shawna said. “Sometimes dear Peter forgets to have fun because he is always thinking. That’s just Peter—and it suits his destiny. Peter is supposed to rule from the head and not the heart. He has us pearls to provide his heart. We just have to earn his trust—and remain trustworthy.”

That reminded me—I’d have to check my personal assets some time. I didn’t really own much—I just managed things for other people. There is the new business paradigm that your employees should be empowered so that they regard your company as their private property. I disagree—but perhaps I’m old school. I always treat borrowed property better than something I own—if I break my stuff, too bad. Breaking someone else’s stuff is breaking trust. They trusted me to return the borrowed property in the same condition that I received it in. Is the stewardship concept dead? Do you see why I have my attitude towards slavery? Especially Defensive Enslavement Volunteers—Persons of Limited Rights, or Pearls. They are loaning me themselves during their prime years. Yes, I will use them. I will give value for value, too. Perhaps they can do better for themselves as free women. Perhaps not.

“As long as you are my slaves and when you are with me, then I’ll have you follow my dress and grooming code. That means total nudity when practical, no body hair, and I’ll have to decide on a case-by-case basis on your scalp hair. Does anybody here need a slave boot camp so that you can accept being a slave? No? Good. I won’t have you shave your head. Sometimes I do that so that the woman can leave her old identity behind. Being naked all the time helps—she is either so aware of being exposed that she can’t think of anything else until she gets used to being nude, or she leaves her obsolete free-woman identity behind with her old wardrobe. There is another adjustment that you need to make—recognition that you all are no longer in control of your lives. Never were—though most people never figure out that they didn’t control their lives. That’s how many women wind up enslaved. That’s how they get into a bad slavery situation. You’ll find out that most of the family member enslavements are more or less voluntary, but those that aren’t will overwhelmingly be due to attempted manipulative activities on the part of the woman. Whining. Self-destructive behavior. Withholding sex.” I almost laughed—I had so much sex that I was hard-pressed to keep up. Fortunately, I’m not the jealous type. How can I be? She has to be happy, too. “All sorts of childishness. The woman reverts to childish when under stress because she survived that behavior in the past. Just like a lot of men revert to brutality—when they were younger, brutal spelled survival. We human animals tend to revert to what worked for us before. Well, we THINK that worked for us. More likely, we just survived our own folly and mistook the source of our own misery for a way to survive.”

“I see what you mean, Shawna,” Randolf sounded in awe. “When is he going to run for President?”

That’s all I needed—a life sentence as a politician!

“I do believe that you’ve scared the poor boy,” Shawna hugged me from behind. “Peter is not the Caesar type. He would rather someone else take the spotlight.”

Yea, verily! Look at what happened to the Caesars! Speaking of Caesars…

“Shawna, how do I screen and monitor women for the Caligula Syndrome?” I saw Randolf’s puzzlement and explained, “Absolute power corrupts absolutely, Ambassador. Sometimes I hesitate to act because I fear becoming another Emperor Caligula. He acted out of warring emotions. Caligula may have been mentally ill. I have only read what his enemies wrote, but it could happen to me. I have established checks and balances so that I don’t destroy myself. But I will depend upon women—slave women—to run DEV and other programs. I can’t be everywhere at once.”

“I don’t have a solution,” Shawna said. “You are the primary balancing agent for us. When you discover a slave abusing her power, take it from her. That is what you are supposed to do. That is also why you are going to sacrifice me. Any woman who becomes the high priestess of our order must sacrifice her life. We are only allowed a few years. We priestesses select the next high priestess, the Great Mother, and you are charged to remove her at the end of her reign. You also remove her when she commits treason against the order. That is why we are forbidding any of your sisters or children or those who you designate as wives from holding that office—it is too much to ask for you to kill a part of yourself.”

“Peter,” Elizabeth had undressed by now, “I noticed that many of your women have permanent hair removal. Would you do that to us? All of us? My daughters and me?”

“Yes, do!” Randolf said. “Like I said, I want you to mark them as your own. Doctor Prince explained to me about sheep and wolves and sheepdogs. I see. You are afraid that you will let everybody down. Let me tell you a secret, my lad. You will rise to the occasion. You can do far more than you think you can. How does a college student party all night and then go to class the next morning?”

“Mostly, they don’t,” I said.

“What? Poor example. No wonder so many of your co-eds wind up dropping out. Now they can get enslaved for that.” Randolf glanced at his daughters. “That’s why I enslaved them. Two let themselves get into a dangerous demonstration.

“No, the secret to rising to the challenge is that you must. Husbands and fathers work long and hard when they’d rather not because their wives and children depend on them. Housewives live as poorly as slaves do because their husbands and children depend on them. Soldiers shake off fear on the battlefield. Fire fighters rush into burning buildings. We do what we have to do.” Randolf looked into his wife’s eyes. “Slavery will be good for the majority of women in it because they will be forced to be better people—or they will be killed. Most owners will be decent people. Those that aren’t decent to their slaves may escape justice for a while—but that Caligula disease sounds devastating. Having the power of life and death over another changes people. I’ve been to war. I was a subaltern in Princess Pat and I saw soldiers become indifferent brutes. One thing I fear about slavery is that being able to use women for sex will destroy the capacity for love. That’s not going to be a problem for you.”

“No,” I agreed. “I have an attachment disorder. I get fond of people.”

“But Peter,” Shawna observed, “you will do what is best for people you are fond of whether they like it or not—whether they like YOU or not. That’s your nature. You won’t change.”

I wasn’t going to argue. Perhaps if I kept telling myself that I HAD to, I could. The things I did to women I could rationalize—but I did things like permanent depilation, implanting RFID’s, messing with their minds by keeping them naked…

“The park will open soon. Part of the Ellisia experience requires wearing clothes—so get into your touring costumes, ladies. You’ll lose them as soon as we return here. It is just too cold—and except on Wednesdays there is a strict dress code for plying in the park. I even have the slaves that work here wear winter coats to work. It is just too cold to bare skin today.”

It was a cold, blustery day. I had fun anyway—as always. Of course, my visit to Ellisia wasn’t all fun and games. My primary responsibility was to make sure that the slave cast and crew functioned well. Was I creating an observer effect? How would I counter that?

“Master Peter,” Fallyn asked just prior to the daily Christmas parade, “I have some friends that would like to work here. Can you help them?”

“What are you asking for?” I leaned in closer. “I can get them an interview if they meet all the requirements. Are they 18? They need to be 18 first. I want them to be high school graduates—or they can take classes until they qualify. They have to pass an audition here—and I’m not going to interfere with the audition panel’s selection process. Most of all, the female cast has to be slaves. I can send someone for an interview and audition, but it will be up to her to do well and get selected. Many very fine women don’t get picked because someone else did better.”

“I want to work here,” Fallyn said. “I know seven other girls, too. We will be 18 some day.”

“I can stack the odds in your favor,” I said, “by helping you to get ready. It begins with doing well in school. I can show you what to study to improve your chances. It will be up to you to measure up.”

“Okay.” Fallyn giggled. “I have one advantage over the other girls. I get the Best Cast/Crew prize—time with you. If I am hired here and win that prize, can I share it?”

“You can ask that another be given that prize in your place,” and actually, sometimes the winner DID get to share. Like the audition process, how they picked that week’s winner was mysterious to me. Winner? I enjoy my weekly Ellisia girl so much that I thought I consider myself to be the winner. “You have given me an idea, and I need to work on it some more. What would you like as a reward?”

“Telling me that I gave you an idea is rewarding.” Fallyn looked me over. “If I can give you enough ideas, maybe you’ll keep me?”

That evening I took a blushing cast member, the winner of that week’s Best Cast/Crew contest, to the visitor’s quarters with me. Her name was Gemma and she was very enthusiastic in bed. It was hard to let her return to work the next day. She gave me the impression that she wanted to stay with me. But there were no tears from her when she did return to work—Gemma said that she was going to work harder so that she could have a second night with me.

What a wonderful Christmas for me.

CASTLEMAN TRUST CHAPTER 55 — NAUGHTY NINJA NEGATED

Peter J. Foster

May I never grow complacent! Cougar County is a remote section of Oklahoma. “Remote” means that the road network is sparse and that few people live there. I had lots of eyes watching for strangers—the place wasn’t deserted. For some reason everybody in Cougar County was friendly to me. When strange people showed up, the grapevine told one of my slaves and I was notified. It was better than radar.

That grapevine was important at the moment because governor England was staying at the Bar BQ Ranch with her grand niece, Darcy. My former classmate and lab partner had avoided being arrested for treason and terrorism by volunteering for conversion to Person of Limited Rights status. Governor England signed a warrant for the arrest of one Citizen Darcy Freedman—but slave Darcy was off the law enforcement radar screen. Off until after the next election, that is. No telling what the new administration was up to.

“Oh my God!” Governor England exclaimed. “Are those coyotes?”

“Suzie adopted them. They’re still pups. I found a dead female coyote about a mile away.”

“Who is Suzie?”

I called over my grizzled German Shepherd, the pack alpha.

“Father got her from the Air Force five years ago. Suzie had puppies,” I explained. “She used to guard the B-52 fleet. She has a reputation as a biter. When she came to live with us I was only 16—and at first, she was in charge! Now she lets me be in charge—she runs my dog pack, but she lets me be in charge.”

“He is not joking,” Colonel Murphy said as Montana, one of my Army slaves, rushed up to me and saluted. It looked a bit strange, a nude slave standing at attention and rendering a hand salute. As Colonel Murphy told how Suzie trained me and the other dogs, Montana informed me that a black Garret Motors SUV with Oklahoma vanity plate TRN123 with three men and a woman had stopped for gas and asked direction to the Bar BQ Ranch. “That’s the secret to Peter’s dog training success. Suzie does the training and Peter takes the credit.”

“How typically male,” the governor dryly observed. “You men take the credit for making babies, too.”

“We help,” Colonel Murphy pouted.

“Governor, Colonel,” I reported, “Professor Morrison’s truck has been spotted and is about 30 minutes away. I need to alert your protection detail, Governor.”

“No, I’ll do that,” Governor England said. “My orders are that you attempt to capture them. Don’t take any unnecessary risks, of course, but give them a chance to surrender.”

“Ma’am, I need clarification,” I said. “I have combat arms people with me. Do I ask them to play cop or soldier?”

“What’s the difference?”

“Cops arrest criminals and gather evidence for trial. Cops use the minimum force necessary to control the situation and effect capture.” I glanced at Colonel Murphy for moral support. “Soldiers, especially combat arms soldiers, destroy the enemy. We will use our most powerful weapons at maximum ranges to minimize our own casualties. That group is equipped for close combat and is very skilled. If they don’t surrender, we cannot handle them with anything less than concentrated rifle fire. Your protection detail needs to guard you. If you need it, my pilot can fly you to safety.”

“I’ll be safe here, young man,” the governor’s eyes were hidden behind thick glasses. “Flying isn’t safe. You do what you need to. One question—won’t dead bodies raise eyebrows?”

Colonel Murphy laughed.

“See that building?” Justin Murphy pointed at a squad bunker-like concrete shelter with a tall chimney. “Peter has a lot of slaves. He doesn’t eat them when they die and he really doesn’t have room here for a cemetery. That’s his private crematorium. Four bodies? No problem. The car—I know people who will make it disappear.”

“Good. We don’t need publicity. Take care of it, Lieutenant. And get me my niece.”

Darcy was working out in the gym under Bonnie’s watchful eye. I left her there with instructions and got suited up. It was getting dark.

The actual operation was anticlimactic. We were able to keep tabs on the car by simply flying a single-engine light plane at 8,000 feet, high enough so that it was lost in the night sky (we cheated and didn’t use navigation lights—a no-no) and high enough that the engine noise wasn’t readily discernable. The night was crisp and clear. I was in the plane with radios and a pair of night vision binoculars. The hot engine showed up as a green blob that made the rest of the truck stand out. The truck parked on the gravel road and three figures got out. Their black ninja costumes gleamed in the half moon’s light—somebody washed their clothes with commercial detergent containing brighteners! I was able to follow them from there because the three talked to Professor Morrison in the car using ordinary ‘family-band’ walkie-talkies. Their radio security was lousy! They even talked about kidnapping the governor and ‘rescuing’ Darcy over the radio. I had Michelle, the pilot, pull an orbit of about six miles in diameter, placing me about five miles from the car—close enough to see something with the binos and far enough away to keep from spooking them. On the radios was a new girl, Maya. Her name means ‘princess’ in Arabic—ironic for a slave.

“Heather,” I said into my radio, “have Darcy call them.”

I didn’t need to say anything more. I monitored the cell phone call in the cramped cockpit.

“Professor Morrison, this is Darcy. Listen carefully, please. You are being watched. I am commanded to ask you and the others to surrender. Peter is running the show and he won’t let you get away. Don’t give him an excuse.”

When Professor Morrison started the engine, Montana began firing an M-14 rifle into the engine compartment of his truck. Yes, the rifle had a silencer—and with the Starlight scope Montana couldn’t miss at 60 yards. Don’t think that the shots were totally silent. For one thing, they still broke the sound barrier. For another—well, have you ever thrown rocks at a metal shed? Imagine the racket when faster bullets strike a metal truck and punch pieces out of its engine. Professor Morrison didn’t even get to shift into gear before his engine quit working. He got out of his car and began running down the road. He was on his radio telling the others to get England.

Complacency kills. I found it difficult to believe that the neo-ninja walked up the road. Okay, there was a lot of brush along the sides. When Professor Morrison called, the trio had just entered the ambush. I saw the floodlights come on. Those rifles didn’t have silencers. I was able to see some muzzle flashes. I ordered Michelle to land.

“Ramrod, we have three horses corralled,” my radio crackled. I was using simple voice codes that wouldn’t attract suspicion when overheard. Another voice reported “The fourth horse is on his way to the corral.”

So much for prisoners. If they were alive, the code phrase would have been: “Cows in the barn.” Corral meant dead. I left no ambiguity in my orders—if the neo-ninja resisted, they were to be shot. Once down, they were to be shot again, then the dogs would check them for explosives. I got out of the plane as soon as it stopped at the hangar and I boarded the pick-up truck with the remainder of my team. In a few minutes my girls brought the bodies into the crematorium for inspection.

My caution was rewarded. Between the three of them, the neo-ninja warriors had seven fragmentation hand grenades and two demolition charges made from ten pounds of dynamite. They also had three crossbows—no match for rifles, but quiet. Professor Morrison was caught with a machine pistol—I didn’t know anybody still carried that little Czech Skorpion. It has itty bitty 20 shot magazines and a high rate of fire—and a cheap detachable silencer.

Darcy promptly threw up dinner when she saw the four bullet-riddled naked bodies.

“I suppose that was necessary,” Governor England said as she surveyed the dead. Tough woman. I was feeling green myself because the four stank. Gut shots liberate fecal matter and intestinal gases. Darcy was escorted inside. “This didn’t happen, gentlemen. If it were known that organized rebellion to the White Slave Act existed, it would encourage more rebellion. Are you finished with the bodies, Lieutenant?”

“He’s finished,” colonel Murphy said. “Burn them, Lieutenant.”

Ordinarily that would be illegal. What made it legal was that I operated under a sealed executive order. These people had given up legal protection by making war—and they could have regained those protections by simply surrendering. While actively fighting, they were an immediate threat to my soldiers. The neo-ninja trio foolishly fired crossbow bolts at the spotlights. Professor Morrison emptied a magazine of .32 ACP—that Skorpion fires really fast—and he was hit by fire from two rifles and two shotguns. The actual shooting took less than three seconds—eight women fired about four shots each. Then there was that second volley to prevent grenade attack—the Viet Cong and North Koreans liked to do that. They also liked to rig bodies with explosives.

The crematorium was designed to burn up to two bodies at a time. Professor Morrison and Hamilton Bridgeport were the first two down the memory hole. I left the crematorium in capable hands and attended the debrief. Yes, the soldiers were naked. I joined them. Attending the debrief was one of the protection detail.

“This place is more secure than the White House,” Captain Martin remarked.

“Safer, too,” Governor England remarked. “Sunday evening I need to go back to the capitol.”

It was Friday, December 7th.

A short time later I was showering with 18 naked soldiers. There were another four still on duty, but I needed to spend some time with my women warriors. The debriefing took longer than the gunfight—of course. Officially, the gun battle never happened. I regularly held life-fire exercises, so a few gunshots were nothing out of the ordinary. The four people were never here. Evidence from the shot-up SUV included written plans to kidnap the governor—or assassinate her if that proved impossible. Perhaps the neo-ninja warriors could have silently penetrated the governor’s security screen—we will never know. Given those explosive, they could have succeeded.

Not only the governor, but Darcy was to be killed if she couldn’t be rescued.

“I’m taking my niece with me,” Governor London told me as she walked into the shower. “Peter, you are cute and all, but it still bothers me to see you naked. Oh, don’t get dressed on my account. Do I have to keep Darcy naked all the time?”

“Your call, Governor. My doctrine is nude unless circumstances dictate otherwise. It is cold outside. You don’t have any slaves.”

“I’m getting them. Weren’t you told? You will lease some slaves to me for housekeeping duties at the Governor’s Mansion. If I win the next election, I will have an all slave staff. If I lose, two things will happen. I plan to move here if I lose the election and volunteer to be my husband’s slave. The new governor will want reliable slaves to run the mansion. He might ask you to provide them.”

Angelica had commanded the ambush party and was first. Montana was also with me that Friday night. Heather was eight months pregnant and Jane was four months pregnant—they liked sex even while pregnant, but Doctor Granger advised them to take it easy. Not so with the two soldiers. They wanted it rough. Montana fastened Angelica spread-eagle on the bed and allowed Jane to strap Montana’s wrists to her own thighs. Both soldiers were dripping lubrication—there’s something arousing about surviving sudden violence, especially when you are on the winning side. It is something that rape victims aren’t told—they can get sexually aroused because their blood pressure elevates. It isn’t desire or lust—it is the result of a racing heart and extreme fear. Excitement is excitement. The body doesn’t know the difference. Sex takes place mostly in the mind. For example, Angelica needed—really needed—me to flog her nipples and pussy with a riding crop. No, not cut her up with really hard slashes—just stimulate with the sharp slaps that were hard enough to sting. Then I mounted her and rubbed my body against the throbbing skin. When we were spent, Jane had some other slaves clean us up and I drank some tea.

Then it was Montana’s turn. The sniper was helpless to resist me—just the way Montana preferred. No whipping this time. Just hard ravaging of a helpless woman. Montana had been warmed up by Heather and Jane while I was servicing Angelica. I don’t remember who cleaned me up afterwards, but I fell asleep between two contented women. It wasn’t a bad way to end a day.

Castleman Trust Chapter 54

Neville to the Rescue

I was in Eastlake when Neville received his first rescue assignment: Marvela Smith. She was the eldest daughter of George and Leonora Smith. Marvela didn’t come home from beauty college. When Leonora looked for Marvela, she hadn’t been at school either. Marvela was 20, almost 21, so she was not a child anymore–even young Tamara was 18. If they came up missing, the police would politely take the report. People went missing all the time. In the world of the White Slave Act of 2000 women often dropped out of sight without a trace. George and Leonora were committed abolitionists, friends of Neville Champion and his family. They also knew that Neville has established a detective agency as part of his Slave Rescue Service. Neville brought the three of them to April Hall.

“And who is this?” Neville asked of the shivering young girl beside me. For the record, this slave was clothed. “She looks out of it.”

“She is,” Summer was professionally known as Doctor Kimberly Prince. Now that Dr. Prince was a Person of Limited Rights, she normally worked naked. “Her name is Randi and she tried to commit suicide by going to Hill’s. Randi isn’t old enough to vote yet, so Peter managed to save her life. Right now, Randi is a person of limited rights and under my care.”

“Why did you want to commit suicide?” Leonora asked. “You are young. You are beautiful.”

“You could have gone to Spellbook Slaves and all of your troubles would be over!” Tamara sneered.

“Tamara!” the parents chorused.

“”It would have! There’s lots of reasons.”

“Billy dumped me,” Randi said softly. “He told me that if I loved him, I’d let him fuck me. When I refused, he said that there was more pussy available.”

“That sounds like a good excuse as any,” Tamara commented.

“Tamara!”

“Are you Peter Castleman?” Tamara asked me. I explained that I was the star of the Castleman Trust Show, Peter Foster. “Good. Here is a notarized voluntary conversion form. I’m not pregnant and I’m not drunk and I’m not on drugs and I’m not crazy. I want to be a slut–”

“Tamara!”

I looked over the document. It appeared in order. When someone fills out a DEV application, the form is copied to our data base. Most notaries also operate on-line now, making electronic copies of their work–especially enslavement documents. The federal government is rapidly changing from the paper world (it ain’t real if it ain’t written on paper) to the digital universe (the only reality is the data base–make it real by putting it in the data base.) The White Slave Act is all about the database–it is the database that everyone consults when determining if a woman is a free citizen or a person of limited rights. The documents are nice, but documents do not determine the woman’s status–the data base does. April Hall and the other slave sorority houses are connected tot the slaver database because I intended that these sororities would be DEV recruiting stations at three colleges: EU, UOKE and EMTC. It took only a few minutes to log on and check the data base.

“While the check is in progress, Tamara,” I ordered,” I have a valid application for voluntary conversion to person of limited rights status. Your driver’s license and your parents have verified your identity. You are now required by Oklahoma and federal laws to obey my commands during processing. Undress and accompany Heather to the bathroom where you will give a urine sample. Do you need to drink some water or something?”

“I’ve been holding it for an hour,” Tamara dropped her long coat and unzipped her boots. She was completely nude beneath the coat. “I should be calling you Master Peter, now.”

“You can’t!” George Smith said. “I forbid it.”

“Sir,” I said as the naked women retreated, “interfering with lawful slave trade is a felony–and if you go to jail you can’t find Marvela. You wife would be judicially enslaved. Neville MIGHT have enough cash to buy her out as an agent of DEV–he’s still waiting on his slaver’s license right at the moment. The only way to insure that Leonora isn’t bought by an Alternate Meat Source plant. She could even wind up as a lab animal or in a torture club–do you know how many people hate their parents, how many gladly pay for a mother substitute to torture and snuff?”

“Peter,” Summer pressed her breasts against my back as she embraced me from the rear. Damn it! I was wearing a shirt! It blunted my pleasure–but I was on my way out the door when Neville arrived with his first rescue case. “Dear master, you are over wrought again. Save who you can save. Let ‘natural selection’ work its dark magic. Not everyone will live.”

“What are you talking about?” George Smith asked.

“Master Peter is trying to keep you from breaking the law, Master George. Yes, you love your daughter. So do you, Mistress Leonora.” Summer nuzzled my neck. “Master Peter has an attachment disorder. It is the opposite of the Caligula Syndrome. Master Peter is a sheepdog. We sheep have trouble telling sheepdogs from wolves–but sheepdogs protect the flock because it is who they are. A wolf may prevent another wolf from poaching, but a wolf is a wolf.”

As Summer was explaining the three types of people, sheep dogs and wolves and sheep, Heather returned with Tamara. Tamara handed me her urine bottle. The tests were all negative.

“Tamara Jayne Smith, as of 10:45 AM this Friday, December 7th, 2001 you are a person of limited rights belonging to Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. Over the next 90 days you will undergo evaluation intended to develop your academic and business careers–not to mention your personal life. This is the major question we will answer–what will you do with the rest of your life?”

“That’s not what I expected,” Leonora said.

“You’ve been watching too much television, Mistress. Many owners suffer from the Caligula Syndrome. They have absolute power over another person and the owner isn’t able to deal with no limits.” Everyone is familiar with Emperor Caligula, so I will skip the catalog of paranoia (justifiable for Roman politicians of the period, really), excesses and just plain weirdness. “Now not every suffer will go the route of Hannibal Johnson–he was bombed out on drugs, according to his autopsy. Meth ruined his life. Most of the suffers will simply kill their slaves for the sheer thrill of it. I apologize to Master and Mistress if I offend, but as a professional psychologist most people suffering from the Caligula Syndrome are otherwise wonderful human beings. Many serial killers are the nicest people you’ll ever meet–as long as you are never under their heel. They aren’t real wolves–just feral sheep.

“Master Peter, may I discuss your case with these people so that they can feel that their daughter is safe?” How can I refuse that request? I nodded and Summer continued. “Master Peter has been monitored for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder since he was 17. He killed some people in the line of duty, but he is free of PSTD. Master Peter kills only when he has to protect. The people you see on the torture and snuff channels kill for a variety of reasons. They’re angry. They’re sad. They’re frightened and if they don’t kill, they will die and the girl they were supposed to kill will die anyway. Caligula Syndrome sufferers will kill because they can and because they like it. They like feeling the power rush–causing another fear, pain and death lets the suffer forget being scared, in pain and mortal.”

“I have myself checked regularly for the Caligula Syndrome,” I said. “Even if I didn’t own slaves, I am a force professional. Traditionally we force professional monitor each other. That is the answer to ‘who watches the watcher?’ WE watch each other. We are bound together by bonds of mutual loyalty–loyalty to each other, to our organization, to the Constitution. Today we enlist professional such as Doctor Prince–a Castleman Trust slave who calls herself Summer. She is a talented psychologist.”

“Thank you, Master. We were on our way to Cougar County with Randi. Master Peter wants Randi to promise not to kill herself.”

“I need three years,” I said. “I know it is a long time, but I need that much time to show you that life is worth living. I care about you, Randi.”

“My parents don’t,” Randi said.

“Parents are just human,” I said. “They lost track of you because you grew up. I’m sorry about your father. I don’t think he meant to have that heart attack. Your mother just got lonely. Your stepfather–”

“He isn’t my father!”

“Step one is to promise that you will give me three years that you won’t kill yourself. Step two is a little bit easier–simply write a letter telling your family that you are okay–for at least the nest three years. If they want to get in touch with you, we’ll deal with it then. If not, I’m sure that we’ll find an acceptable substitute.”

“Peter,” Summer shook her head, “sometimes you are one blunt sheepdog.”

“Slave or not, I am treating you like an adult–even if your official adult status is three weeks away. Randi, I can try to keep you alive against your will. Or you can give me a chance. Am I credibly sincere, Randi? I know that you hurt. Your last chance–so you feel–was to get married to Billy. Guess what? Billy PPC’d three girls already. He has others on the line. I have one of his victims at the Bar BQ Ranch. Relax–the place was named after a pair of brothers and their bear totem.

“Tamara, I have a mission for you. I don’t want you to leave Randi alone for one moment. You are going to tell me everything you know about your sister. Neville is in charge of her rescue operation–I can assist, but NOTHING ILLEGAL. If it means that Marvela dies, as long as her killers are acting within the law, then we will hold a memorial service for your sister. There’s a lot we CAN do. First, find her. The worst is if she winds up on one of NMG’s snuff shows. They have deep pockets and even $100,000 won’t be enough to bail her out. Most AMS dealers will sell out for a tidy profit.”

“We want her body,” Leonora said. “If Marvela is dead, I want to bury her.”

“It won’t come to that,” Neville had more faith than I did. He was right, numerically speaking. Marvela had been missing for two weeks. If she had survived her first two weeks in slavery, odds were that she was still alive. “Now what were you told when you filed the missing persons report?”

“They told us that Marvela was an adult and she was free to do what she pleased,” Leonora spat. “I got no help these past two weeks. They finally took a police report last week, but they have no cause to investigate. There is no evidence of foul play. They said that there was nothing to investigate.”

“We tried a private detective,” George said. “He said he was our friend and that he wouldn’t take our money. He checked the slaver data base and Marvela wasn’t there.”

“Let me check,” I said. “What is Marvela’s Social Security Number?”

I found out really fast that Marvela had become a slave that very morning! She was also in California. That complicated things. Well, nobody promised that it would be easy. Marvela was now owned by the Hassim Brother’s Slave Shop of Bakersfield, California. I had Neville get on the phone immediately. A few minutes later, Neville owned his fourth slave. Now all he had to do was go and get her.

I later found out that Neville spent $7,000 to buy her. He out-bid the booming brothel industry starting up in the LA area. There was more to the story. George Smith wanted to prosecute for illegal enslavement. Mr. Paulson looked over the case, took Marvela’s statements, had slave Mercy look over the evidence. No grounds for illegal enslavement. George and Leonora wanted both of their daughters freed immediately. Not possible for Marvela–she had been PPC’d. Several women had been purchased and freed by their families within a week–and the woman was almost immediately re-enslaved under the original PPC because of three acts of sexual intercourse within the 30 day window. Other families were sued for freeing their daughters without a proper ‘cooling-off’ period. Don’t ask me which is worse–politics or court cases. I will admit that they are better than battle–fewer people die, less property is destroyed.

Randi? She pledge to not attempt suicide for three years.

Castleman Trust Chapter 53

A Cloudy Day at Ellisia

Ellis Wilson, Sr.’s birthday fell on December 5th. In 2001 that was on a Wednesday, which had been set aside as a clothing optional day. Ellisia was open from 10 AM to 8 PM that cold, windy autumn day—and there were no reported nude guests in the park. The Defensive Enslavement Volunteer work force wore their winter clothes on their walk to work. If that wasn’t enough to make even Shawna shiver, the day was overcast and threatened rain.

“I don’t get it,” Darcy said. “You are letting me wear clothes?”

“No,” I corrected. “I am MAKING you wear clothes. You don’t get a choice in the matter. I have determined that it is too cold outside for you to be exposed to the weather. As soon as we return to our trailer, you get naked and I will lock you in the cage.”

“You always were weird,” Darcy said as I took her left hand and began to examine it closely. “What are you doing? That makes me feel deformed.”

“I told you the first time—this makes you unique. I wish I could magically replace your missing finger. I’m accepting it because it is you and we can’t do anything about it. Tell me again how you lost your ring finger. Do it in French so that Annette and Marie understand. I want the Woulfe’s to practice French too—not everyone speaks English.”

Darcy was engaged to be married in high school in 1996. Her fiancé, Mark Aster, had given Darcy an expensive engagement ring. Darcy never took it off. One day Darcy was in the football stadium at Mid-Eastland High School cheering for her fiancé. She was on her way to the restroom when she was shoved. Darcy fell off the bleachers—but in a freak accident she caught her ring on the safety rail and her finger ripped off. Darcy fell fifteen feet and broke her right arm and leg. Mark disowned her because Darcy was no longer perfect. All this happened before I met Darcy at UOKE. Darcy was still bitter about her treatment by her ex-fiancé and still felt that being maimed made her worthless. Now she was a slave, too.

Clothing for a slave isn’t the same as what free women wear. Nudity is almost always acceptable even though naked slaves are still novel. Next is fetish gear—lingerie or leather or school-girl uniforms. Don’t forget the slave shift! Seldom does the slave wear underwear AND regular clothing—unless you count the SINO. Basically, a Slave in Name only is a free woman who has become someone else’s property—someone who treats her as if she were still a free woman. SINO’s are often accused of being pets—pampered playthings. SINO’s generally wear ‘normal’ women’s clothing. Work slaves frequently required clothing for protection—and that was usually just a pair of cheap shoes. Often, though, a rectangle of cloth with a hole in the center for a head was draped over the slave. Sometimes this was secured by a belt or bit of rope and sometimes the slave shift fluttered in the breeze, randomly revealing and concealing the slave’s charms. A few work slaves wore lab coats or aprons only. Some wore ‘business attire.’ It depended on the owner and the function the slave filled.

Castleman Trust slaves were normally nude because I preferred them that way. Even they needed clothes from time to time. This was usually a pair of shoes—and a short cape when the weather was foul. I insisted that they wear a flight suit when they flew in my twin-engine airplane for safety reasons. At Ellisia the slaves complied with a dress code in the park’s public areas—except on the clothing-optional Wednesdays. Today it was just too cold. Too windy, too. It might rain. Today I had everyone wear leg warmers with their shoes and capes. The capes were reversible, dark blue on one side and red on the other, with the Castleman Trust logo on the back in gold. I left it up to the women if they wore more underneath their capes—except for Darcy.

“Everyone is getting Ellisia clothing for winter,” I said. “Slave guests are not permitted in the dressing rooms—you will be changing right out in the open in front of mirrors.”

I forgot who came up with this—having slaves change in the open area on the edge of the store. Free women might be using the open dressing area—but to use the dressing room, an Ellisia passport had to be shown. There were basically season passports, adult (free citizen) passports, children’s passports and slave passports. The slave paid the child’s price to enter Ellisia. Slave tickets were about 3% of Ellisia gate receipts, children were another 20% (except on Wednesdays, when they fell to just 1%–few people brought children to Clothing Optional Wednesdays), annual season passes accounted for 4% and the rest were adult tickets. In the slow season, an ‘adult’ was 12 years old. Slave tickets were bright pink. Children’s tickets were sky blue. Adult tickets were silver. The annual pass was a gold colored card. All tickets were the size of a credit card—but printed on thick paper. Children had to be accompanied in the dressing room area by an adult. It was rare for a slave to buy the overpriced clothing in Ellisia.

“If you feel cold, tell me. This is supposed to be fun. I can’t have fun when I’m too cold. Now stay with your groups at all times. Do not separate from each other.” I had them in groups of four. “That includes bathroom breaks. When one of you uses the bathroom, all of you do.”

My group consisted of me, Darcy, Button and Lana. Heather and Jane were with Penny and Susan—they were a different group, but we’d stay together. This grouping had a purpose. I really wanted to tour with my sister. Ellisia is my favorite theme park. Where penny went, Susan went. The same with Jane and Heather—I kept them together as much as possible. It wasn’t always possible. Button and Lana were paired up because of Darcy—I didn’t trust Darcy to behave. Button and Lana were with me just in case Darcy became a problem.

We went through the main gate with the rest of the opening-hour crowd because Ellisia had opening and closing ceremonies. There was the flag thing, a band, and various Wilson Productions characters in costumes. I was a little surprised to see that Olive Pit’s two historic characters, Maid Marion and Molly the Pirate, were represented. Olive, of course, was in Cougar County teaching school. She would teach a seminar in Eastlake at the EMTC that weekend.

The first stop after all the festivities was at the Locker Room, a sports clothing shop. There we bought some warm-up suits and gloves—and hats. It was that cold. Next, I took my contingent into the bakery shop in the World War movies area. My happy slaves sat chatting, sipping cocoa and eating rolls. Darcy watched as the bake shop cast served Annette and Marie and their party of four.

“When their English is better, I might have them work down here,” I commented. “They know the real Europe.”

“Are all these workers really slaves?”

“Let’s ask. Did you notice how much service we’ve been getting? How there is no discrimination against slaves here?” I waved at one of the staff and had three girls at our table: Jean, Carrie and Selma. “This is Darcy.”

“Hi, Darcy!” the three chorused.

“She is new,” I said, “and hearing your stories will help her adjust. Don’t get yourself in trouble with the boss.”

“They won’t get in any trouble, Master Peter,” the master baker—a man—said. “We know you. Besides, you are good for morale. When you are in town all of my girls are happier.”

Note: he said ‘my girls’ and not ‘goddamned cunts,’ ‘bitches,’ ‘sluts,’ ‘slaves’ or something else derogatory. The name tag said Jacques, but that may have been for atmosphere. It was a Swiss bake shop. Marie was standing nervously behind Jacques. I used my French to ask her what was wrong. When she answered, Jacques laughed and gave her a hug.

“An import?” Jacques asked me? I nodded. Annette got near her partner and the two briefly told Jacques what happened to them. “Well! I’m glad that most of the guest don’t speak French! That tale would dampen their Ellisia Experience!”

“Darcy would like to know your stories,” I said to the three bakery shop slaves. “Keep it brief because there are other customers.”

A girl of perhaps ten shyly approached me with an autograph book.

“Are you Peter Castleman?”

“I’m often called that,” I explained briefly about the Castleman Trust show and its replacement, the Pearl Hour. “How do you want me to sign your autograph book? I’m called ‘Peter Castleman’ so often that I might have to adopt that as my stage name.”

“Master Peter, can I be your slave when I grow up?” This provoked a response—a mousy looking woman rushed up to her ‘baby’ and took the child’s hand.

“It’s okay,” I said. “Anything can happen. What is your name?”

“Penny.” I was shocked. My Penny and her partner Susan giggled.

“I’ve got a surprise for you.” I introduced my sister and her partner. “Would you like all of our autographs?”

The mother was quite nervous. Her name was Winifred and she was obviously very submissive. My sheepdog reflexes kicked in.

“Join us, please,” I said as I scribbled my signature and a message to Winifred’s Penny. “I know things about this park. I can make your stay pleasant.”

Meanwhile, Darcy was getting an ear full. The entire bake shop slave cast had wound up enslaved. Selma broke up with her boyfriend—who promptly PPC’d her and sold a part interest to DEV. He was actually a decent sort, but he didn’t want Selma to get away from him. They lived nearby—Selma didn’t live with the other slaves except for two nights a week due to slave schooling. Carrie had been converted for speeding in a small Texas town nearby and DEV out-bid the local AMS dealer because Carrie had been 17 at the time. She was now 18 and VERY happy to work at Ellisia. Jean was one of those Hill’s Fine Meats rescue jobs from Eastlake. Jean had failed her junior-year finals and had walked into Hill’s in June to end her life as someone’s dinner. Jean was only 17 then, so Jim called me. A bit of therapy, reconciliation with her very worried parents, an October birthday and Jean was working in Ellisia. She travelled home once since arriving to visit her family and her family would be spending Christmas in Ellisia. Darcy kept glancing my way.

“You set this up,” Darcy accused.

“Thank you, Darcy,” I replied. I told Winifred that Darcy’s remark was a compliment because think of all the coordination I had to do. “Of course, you can look up their backgrounds yourself. Either I’ve doctored the official records or I’ve stage-managed this to a T. Is it okay for Penny to go on the next ride with my Penny? We’re taking the Allied Flyer Rescue Adventure next. Besides, I think you should talk to me.”

That ride allowed the guest to experience getting shot down over Germany in 1943 and being rescued by the Underground. I was being a bad sheepdog, again—reeling in a lost sheep. Winifred reluctantly told me that she was divorcing her husband because she was afraid of being enslaved. He was behind in his child support payments—and I managed to get Winifred to admit that she really couldn’t afford her vacation here in Ellisia.

“It’s just one day,” Winifred said.

“What are your options? I suspect that you are about to lose your daughter. I think I can help—but you would have to work for me as a free woman. Penny is too young. Let her be a child for a while longer. I think we can fix your financial problems. Where do you live?”

‘Anywhere you want me,” Winifred eyed me the way a mouse eyes a cat. “You aren’t going to enslave me?”

“Not right now. It isn’t good for your Penny to lose her mother. I have a number of free women living under my roof. Some will be slaves, but not right now. Some will remain free. I don’t know which. You would actually work for a slave. Does it bother you to have to obey a slave?”

“Will you use me for sex?”

“You are a free woman. Do you want to be used? I have more than enough bed partners. If you want to become one of my lovers, there’s a line. I’m not just bragging, Winifred. Heather handles my social life.”

“Master, I had to let Penny do that,” Heather grinned sheepishly. “She wanted to, and your life is getting complicated. We coordinate your business and personal lives and keep Angelica n the loop so that you are protected at all times. Penny and Susan do a good job, don’t they?”

I didn’t know that my sister was scheduling my love life. I was afraid at times that I would fail to please my bed partners.

“You are serious, aren’t you?” Winifred asked.

“He always is,” Jane replied for me. “Summer—that’s Doctor Kim Prince—says that Master Peter is a sheep dog.”

Jane explained that some people are wolves, most are sheep and there are sheep dogs like me. We protect the sheep from wolves. All the while I was greeting cast members, free and slave alike. Nearly all the free cast members were men and nearly all of the women were slaves. There were a few child actors—free, of course—who played some Ellis Wilson Productions characters. The few free women were either not eligible for conversion or had been grandfathered. Ellis Wilson Jr. was happy to leave it that way. New hire women would normally become slaves. There were a few exceptions.

“I’m afraid to ask this, but could I stay with you while I make up my mind?” Winifred asked. Yes, I have a soft head! I agreed. I told her that she would undergo evaluation and that she would get more information that way. “I won’t have to be sex tested, will I?”

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking. I do have slaves sex tested. Free women working for me may volunteer for sex grading and I encourage them to take sex training, but slaves are not given the option of refusing. Darcy, tell Winifred your scores and what they mean.”

Darcy blushed, but complied. Darcy admitted to being a criminal, that she had volunteered to be my slave in order to avoid a trial and a very painful execution.

My cell phone rang. It was my boss. I was to immediately go to a secure area for a mission briefing. Darcy, of course, was going to accompany me. I had secrets from Darcy, but the way my alert was worded told me that Darcy was to be permitted to see everything. I left the other groups behind with Heather in charge. It was painful to leave Ellisia, but duty called. I was also in compliance with my own orders—I took Lana and Button with me.

The secure facility was just a quarter mile hike away. Angelica swept the place for listening devices and I had a minimum staff of five people: four Military Female Slave Detachment 46 Army slaves and Darcy. Colonel Murphy wasted no time when we established secure communications.

CASTLEMAN TRUST CHAPTER 52

THE NATIONAL SLAVERS’ ASSOCIATION FUTURE PROJECTIONS

I had been a bad boy. I had attended the National Slavers’ Association meeting as I had been ordered to. I dragged Neville Champion, abolitionist, to the meeting. There, our party favors were Annette and Marie, two cute women from Switzerland. I didn’t behave entirely naughty–I didn’t argue. I barely asked two questions–one was ‘how much’ for the two slaves and the answer was ‘pay the taxes and take them–they don’t speak English.’ Good boys don’t bring strays home.

Neville not only got roped into coming with me to the NSA meeting, I conned him into attending the Castleman Trust Board of Directors meeting. Saturday, November 10th, 2001 was a very busy day for April’s boy Peter! I had to leave my slaves in the parking lot–good thing, too. Some of the girls were snuffed and three were spitted and roasted whole at the NSA meeting. Annette and Marie were still in shock. Neville wasn’t much better off. Me? I was angry–but controlled it. I had to. Besides, I had practice. We left the NSA meeting as soon as it was ‘polite’ to do so. On the way out an angry man in a purple polyester leisure suit blocked my path screaming obscenities.

“Let him go, Dillon,” the other speaker was impeccably dressed in a gray East Coast banker’s suit. “Mr. Foster and his abolitionist friend will further our agenda and that is all that matters. Mr. Foster, I’ll be in touch. Here’s my card.”

“But he’s going to miss the main course!”

“Mr. Foster doesn’t eat girl roast.”

“That’s more for me, then!”

Leisure Suit Dillon waddled off to the bar.

Darcy spoke better French than I did. I told her to talk to the new girls. Button caught my signal. Darcy didn’t know that Button and Lana were hard cases. She didn’t know that both were fluent in languages other than English. I kept Darcy in the dark because she couldn’t be trusted. Darcy might act up when I turned my well-guarded back. She had already made three phone calls to her confederates and may have managed a few more that we weren’t aware of. Darcy glared at me.

“They watched their friends and classmates die. Ask them how they came into the country. I want you to tell their story to the board.”

“They would have been killed if Peter hadn’t rescued them,” Neville told Darcy. “I thought getting a white slaver license was counterproductive. Now I understand. I can buy slaves on the spot. How many lives have you saved?”

“I lost count.” I shook my head. “There’s more to it than simply getting the girl. If you free her, how will she live? Will she wind up enslaved again within hours? DEV puts women through school, makes sure that they have jobs. The ten-year contracts have provisions for early manumission–but it is mandated on the woman being more valuable as a free woman. That means money–she has to be able to earn her freedom. If the woman cannot stay free on her own, she is better off protected.”

“Protected!” Darcy spat. “As a slave?”

“Yes,” Heather spat back. “My mother promised to spit-roast me alive at her next woman’s club meeting. I ran to the Castleman Estate and volunteered to be Peter’s slave. I have never regretted it.”

Of course, that was only about seven months ago. Heather was six months pregnant now. We had left our marks upon one another. I tuned out the chatter as the other slaves ganged up on poor Darcy. True, Darcy may have deserved it, but I still pitied her. I worked on my UberSpot presentation and only caught bits of the royal chewing out my slaves gave Darcy.

“I will always remember Friday, April 20th, 2001,” Naomi was one of those doing the chewing. “It was my 18th birthday. My father had bet me and my mother and lost. I was at Hill’s Fine Meats and I was going to be spitted. I had watched my own mother die on the guillotine. Master Peter pointed at me and said, ‘how much.’ Mr. Hill gave me to Master Peter. Look–you can just make out my meat brand.”

I was in a good mood when I arrived for the Castleman Trust Board of Directors meeting. It didn’t take much to deflate my balloon. I hooked my laptop into the projector and Colonel Murphy yanked the cable back out.

“If you can’t explain it without becoming an UberSpot ranger, you don’t need to say it,” my boss pushed me to my seat. “Numbers are meaningless. Make it mean something. Now, in small words, explain what went on at the NSA meeting.”

I did. The meat of the presentation was that NSA was in it for the money. They were upset that with 8% of the ‘available women’ — less than one in twelve of those women who are eligible to be enslaved — have glutted the market and driven down prices to the point where white slavery wasn’t the gold mine anticipated. If it hadn’t been for the Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act of 2001, most white slavers would have gone out of business disposing of all that biohazard waste material–dead slaves. The porn industry and sex workers were the other thing keeping white slavers afloat. It almost wasn’t worth the effort to sell to agriculture or the mining industry. Much of the NSA meeting was exploring new markets. The NSA spokesman praised the new Garret plant, GVVN, Ellisia and the various schools that DEV was running. Yes, we were on the radar screen. Of course, we were a non-profit organization. If the truth was known, we were subsidized.

“But the real news was that the 32% enslavement rate was not taken from ALL women–just about 29% of the female population are in the age band from 16 to 55 and ’eligible’–meaning that they are not pregnant or with small children. That means only 1 in 3 women roughly speaking are targeted for enslavement. It is from this segment that the 32% enslavement rate comes from-”

“What did I tell you about numbers?”

“Sorry, Colonel. Instead of 1 in 3 women being enslaved, the actual target is 1 in 9. That is proving to be uneconomical right now. I thought that the goal was 65 million slaves, with about 45 million of the slaves coming from the prime group of 54 million women–those ages 16 through 24. The other 20 million would come from the group between 25 and 45. I feared that 5 out of 6 women in an entire generation would wind up as slaves. I was wrong. The reality is quite different because the infrastructure is still being built. Social structure will change, but social change takes time. We are looking at no more than 17 million slaves at the end of the decade, about a quarter of the slaves I had expected. There’s also going to be a lot of imports. Annette and Maria here,” I spoke to the girls in French briefly,” they are one source of perhaps 3 million slaves in ten years. It costs too much to import them–assuming that the European Union and the Asian Co-Economic Sphere adopt their own slave act and send surplus women overseas–so no more than 1 in 3 slaves will originate from outside the United States, and the expected imports will be outnumbered by domestic products because of the language barriers. The NSA analysts thought that only 10% of the slaves would come from overseas because of the language difficulties and expense–but if the domestic market becomes profitable enough and domestic slaves scarce enough, NSA anticipates no problem in filling any future slave shortages. Note that DEV has more than two dozen foreign nationals as slaves–those Canadians. Oh, yes, and now we have Annette and Marie. Right now that 29% of women is being enslaved at the rate of 8%–and that comes out to less than 4 million slaves. About 1 in 8 of those slaves has been killed so far, which means about a half-million deaths and 3.5 million surviving slaves. It is anticipated that the number of living slaves will increase to 7 million by January 2003–but the market won’t support much more right now. NSA is trying to promote greater use of slaves and is seeking assistance from several religious cults. Like ours, I guess. Most of these slaves seem to be off-market right now, circumventing the drug laws or exploiting the tax-exempt status of the person of limited rights. I have more than 100 women in DEV who converted just so that they could be naked in public. The NSA has noted that the Susan B. Anthony slave students have superior scholastic scores–but that ignores the fact that pre-WSA2000 Susan B girls were superior academically.”

I had Darcy translate Annette’s and Marie’s story from the new slaves’ own mouths. The long anticipated trip to America, land of opportunity. Landing in the impoverished US Virgin Islands and being judicially enslaved at the airport.

“They didn’t understand the signage that said: ‘cross this line under penalty of conversion.’ They claim that their tour guide told them to wait in there.”

It could have been Puerto Rico, I guess.

The situation was grim, but less than 1 in 20 women were enslaved or would be enslaved during the next 90 days. That is still millions–but not quite the holocaust I had anticipated. Not by a long shot. It was unlikely that the profit-driven private sector would achieve that modest goal of 20 million slaves on December 31, 2010.

“But that doesn’t mean that DEV or the Slave Rescue Service are just a waste of time. First, we take good women off the market and give them good lives. If they are targeted for conversion, they can very easily be enslaved. Certain career fields will be slave traps–actresses especially because of their residuals. Why pay an actress when you can buy her or trick her? Most of the sex trade will follow. Those women are considered disposable by society anyway. I’m afraid that colleges are going to become slave traps. The college coed is in the prime enslavement age range, she is smart and pretty and away from home for the first time in her life–so she is vulnerable to anyone for a bit of phony affection. Compared to high school graduates who don’t attend college, it appears as if both more college coeds and a greater percentage of college girls will be converted. The NSA was laying the groundwork for that with the ’lesser jurisdiction’ designation of colleges and universities. To cinch the deal, NSA has a model school conversion contract–they aim to enslave 1 in 3 college seniors and as many of the underclassmen women and college drop-outs as they can because the college girls make better slaves. Oh, yes–the medical field has great need of slaves–most of the nursing chores will be done by slaves. There’s housekeeping for those who didn’t make it to college but were enslaved.”

“Yes,” Neville butted in. “The NSA speaker bragged about how all those idle rich brats would be enslaved and snuffed–who needs them anyway? Well, that’s what he said. He was talking about a campaign to make enslavement chic. The idle rich tend to be more politically active and they create many of society’s problems.”

Darcy looked as if she were ready to explode. Still new to slavery and nudity, still smarting from a spanking that morning, Darcy lowered her eyes when I glanced her way. She was still furious–but calculating. I reminded myself not to underestimate her. Darcy was potentially the viper in our nest.

“I’ve figured out that the White Slave Act isn’t about money,” I said. “There’s money to be made. Slavery must turn a profit if it is to survive. But ‘making money’ is just an excuse to cover the real purpose of the White Slave Act of 2000–power. Women make up most of the population. Women are also less likely to be politically active than men–unless someone stirs them up. In the last election, only 40% of the ballots were cast by women. Yes, the voter turn-out was lower than 50%, but men out-voted women despite being outnumbered. The White Slave Act will remove many of the women most likely to vote from the voter pool. The threat of enslavement will keep wives in line–if they haven’t had kids.

“That reminds me of another career slaves will dominate–motherhood. In the old days, rich women hired other women to raise the children because the rich women were just too good for that! Fewer women are becoming mothers today compared with last century, and they have fewer children. If I wanted children, I’m better off buying a couple of healthy women than getting married. “ Darcy glared openly at me. “Of course, there is also the 20% of men who are openly and exclusively gay. Free women will be less likely to bear children than slave women.”

“Now Peter,” Doctor Granger scolded, “that dark prediction is unlikely. You were wrong about the enslavement rate. I think you are wrong about the motherhood issue.”

“Perhaps, sir,” I countered. “The Castleman Trust could have simply been a sperm bank. We whole-heartedly embraced slave mommies. I like it, and I suspect that the heterosexual man will chose slave wives and slave mommies over free women. I’m sure that free women will not willingly accept sharing their man with another woman–especially an inferior slave woman. I read about the abuse that wives of slave owners dished out to the slave women.”

The board meeting broke up after resolving to close most of the DEV offices around town. We’d hand out flyers, business cards and advertise on the net and in likely slaver hunting grounds. Some places were going to be out of bounds for DEV–slaver bars, for instance, and court rooms.

CASTLEMAN TRUST CHAPTER 51

OH CANADA!

It was a cold October just south of Vancouver, the site of the reunion between those naughty Canadian protestors and their families. Yes, they had visitors while in Cougar County. These slaves had exposed themselves while free women on international television, yet when they met with their families at the Bar BQ Ranch every one of them blushed.

But it was too cold and wet to force them to be naked. Besides, the Canadian government had expressed its reservations about ’exposing’ my property to the public. That’s right, MY property. DEV named me the primary owner of these women. It may have been punishment for rescuing them. No good dee goes unpunished. Just when I thought I was rid of them, getting them to the border and preparing to manumit them all on the other side, I was met by a group of four uniformed and one plain-clothed Mounties and Mr. Woulfe, the Canadian Ambassador to the United States.

My first thought was that I had just been hit with a truck load of filled grain sacks. Political stuff! When I got around political stuff, people died. It was going to happen sooner or later. I was news. “The people’s right to know!” Yeah, right–some people’s right to exploit the bizarre for profitable advertising revenue. That was the principle at stake here. Well, as long as nobody shot at me…

“Good morning, Ambassador Woulfe,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage. “Are you here to see the manumission and hand-off of 17 Canadian citizens?”

“Not really.” It was worse than I thought! “Come inside. We will hold a pres conference shortly. Let your slaves stay in the bus for now. “

Inside the building was the ambassador’s family–his wife and seven daughters. They were naked except for chains.

“Canadians cannot own slaves,” Woulfe explained. “NAFTA demands that we honor your property rights. We would already have our own White Slave Act if not for your barbaric Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act of 2001.”

“Yeah, ain’t it funny how the most draconian government measures have such innocuous names? The Committee of Public Safety in Revolutionary France, for instance.”

“Quite. Well, I’ve enslaved my wife and daughters here in the states, but I cannot own them. So I have to sell them to you. I want one dollar for the lot of them and I want you to personally train them. I’d like to borrow them for Christmas, but otherwise they are your slaves.”

I sighed. What’s a sheepdog to do?

“What about the rest?”

“You are granting them a furlong. If they fail to show up on the second Tuesday in January, well, we can’t interfere with any legal property recovery activities that you Yanks do. Just remember that –oh, dash it all, Peter. Just pick up your slaves. You’ll have about three times the slaves when you do. When we finally get our own White Slave Act they will be the first Canadian slaves. We owe the press a show, so I need you to bring in those protestors naked, what? The Mounties can provide you wit zip ties–all livestock must be restrained.

The bus contained people that I had to supervise directly–Darcy among them. I also had a protection detail along from MFS Det 46. I had not intended to cross the border. Now I had to. In a few minutes I had marched 17 naked women into the customs office. They had gotten used to being naked most of the time. The majority thought being naked and bound for the cameras was a joke–and they were right.

First, the media feeding frenzy. The hungry news cameras devoured naked female flesh as if they were cannibals at a girl roast. I fielded questions with standard DEV answers. When the slaves were asked questions, I intervened with ’slaves are supposed to be seen and not heard.’ That got a laugh from the men. I had the usual hate-filled monologues poorly disguised as questions. Those I answered with a simple ’No. Next question.’ After twenty minutes in the chilly customs office I called a halt to the media circus. I filled out the paperwork and was told that I would meet them in person at the Grand Lizzie Hotel in 90 days. I escorted the 17 naked slaves to the Canadian side of the border and handed them off to their families. When their bonds were released, all 17 hugged and kissed me–and they remained naked in the cold drizzle until they got into their cars. I returned to the American side of the border and then I took my seven new nude slaves to the bus and climbed aboard.

“Well,” Mrs. Woulfe said with a shiver, “that wasn’t too bad.”

“Who’s hungry?” Penny asked. She was passing out sandwiches and cups of hot soup assisted by Susan as the bus pulled out of the customs post. Jane, Heather and Darcy passed out blankets.

It wasn’t what I expected. I went into default mode as I unlocked the chains.

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

Castleman Trust Series Chapter 50

Fry those Trons!

Peter J. Foster

I was very busy on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2001. Monday I had been at the Garret plant smoothing out an issue with the CEO. I gave her two choices–she would resign or be enslaved for breach of contract. Ms. Kochfeld did the manly thing–she killed herself. Used a shotgun–very messy. I replaced her with Melody, one of the Castleman Trust project assets. The rest of the week promised to be as busy–Wednesday was the start of Naturism Days at Ellisia. I wanted to wait for January, when it would be too cold to wear just a birthday suit–I’m no hero! As for the rest of the week–well, I’m seldom bored!

Except when I have to attend meetings. If I could make meetings productive instead of mere stroke sessions–stroking the big cheese’s ego, that is. I was woken and dragged myself from a warm bed at around 2 in the morning. I took Button, Jane, Shawna and a protection team and we left in a van. I cautioned the driving crew to switch off every hour to prevent dozing off–and fell asleep between Shawna and Jane. The weather was cool and I ordered everyone to dress accordingly. We arrived at a suburb in Oklahoma City before 5. I met up with Colonel Murphy. He was chain smoking cigarettes, a filthy habit that he had kicked. My irritation was minor compared to something that would make Colonel Murphy smoke again!

“You need Shawna more than I right now, sir,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. Colonel Murphy was quiet for a long moment. Finally someone in a trench coat and fedora approached. The colonel just pointed at me. That was bad, really bad.

I was escorted to a mass of yellow crime scene tape around an electric transformer substation. The smells of burned oil and ozone and other stuff told a tale of catastrophic failure. I was led to a red and white rental van. The roll-up door was open, as were the driver and passenger doors and the engine compartment. There were gasoline-powered flood lights everywhere. A mechanic’s tool kit sat in front of the van and several coverall-clad people were shivering in the pre-dawn chill. I was just about to give thanks that it wasn’t raining when a mist fell…

“Look at that and tell me what you see.”

I pulled a small flashlight out of my pocket and climbed in back. It didn’t take long. I verified the essentials, then informed the man in the trench coat that I needed to verify his credentials in a secure area, that I was prohibited from further discussion until cleared.

“Goddamn, Pete!” Colonel Murphy NEVER called me Pete and seldom swore. “Just tell him.”

“Two years ago I was part of a lab group. We had to come up with an original project for an electronics project. ‘Let’s make an electromagnetic pulse generator,’ I said. I could have made a robot or a radio or a refrigerator–no! I had to make a pneumatic-powered electromagnetic pulse generator! It was smaller than a breadbox and I calculated the output of the scale model correctly. I shielded the experiment adequately. There was no collateral damage. The next thing I knew my whole lab team was under arrest and being interrogated. Our lab notes were seized and classified. No, strike that–all of our school books were seized, our homes were ransacked, I lost my home computer and after a week we were told to never speak of that infernal machine again. I keep getting in trouble for simple school projects. There was that report on the Spanish Flu and another report for my mythology class correlating the Sky People legends–”

“Enough, Peter. “ I saw that Shawna was standing next to her husband Justin Murphy. She wasn’t shivering despite being nude in the chilling drizzle. “Tell him what happened here.”

“This is a larger edition of our lab project. Darcy could never wind an armature properly. See? This is from an old color television set. It is the X/Y driver yoke and shapes the beam. Somebody left off the Faraday screen. They may have gotten a dose of RF radiation and feel bad this morning. Most of the energy went into that transformer and acted like a short circuit, fried the installation and set it on fire. Leakage knocked out the ignition system in this vehicle. If they had gotten a diesel and left the engine running they may have driven away. My full-sized model puts out a 200 kilowatt pulse every five seconds until the nitrogen cylinder pressure drops. I used pneumatics so that there’d be no heat signature. It has to be aimed and I guess that there are three to five shots from that big cylinder. Give me a second to work out the inverse-square law for leakage and I’ll figure out how far out the device burned out electronic devices.”

“Don’t bother.” The man in the trench coat eyed me sourly. “I suppose you didn’t build this device. You know nothing about it.”

“Professor Morrison had our report. The lab team may have managed to hold on to a copy. It was detailed enough to build the full-scale model. I used a small electric motor’s field windings–”

“Stop! We need names.”

I gave up the other four people on the lab team: Darcy Freedman, Darrel Hunterfield, Carman Lacy and Hamilton Bridgeport. “Aside from yourself and Sergeant First Class Archer, I don’t know who else had access to the report and prototype. They didn’t identify themselves.”

“You are in a lot of trouble, boy.” Trench coat failed to impress me. His words meant that he was unable to figure the case out on his own rapidly enough to please his masters. “Don’t shift the blame.”

“What’s the next step? Do I make my ten o’clock meeting with the Eastlake chapter of the New Underground Railroad?” That was the name of Neville’s abolitionist group. Trench coat glared at me.

“We haven’t found the others,” Colonel Murphy said, “Only Darcy was at home. She’s being watched right now. You have your slaver kit? I’ve a notary with me. This is how I want you to handle Darcy’s conversion.”

Darcy was no morning person. She blinked at me in irritation. I was getting that all over today!

“What do you want?”

“Darcy, that pneumatic-powered pulse projector project has been used to knock out Del City’s electrical gird. It also fried some of the communications towers. I want you to volunteer to be my slave. Otherwise you will be picked up in an hour and put through the wringer again about your part in that silly project. Somebody used our device.”

Darcy took it calmly.

“Can I have a few minutes to think it over?”

“Sure. I can wait in my van. Let me give you my cell number.”

“No, I’ll come out. Which one is yours?”

I showed her. I went and waited.

Darcy incriminated herself with her next moves. She made one phone call, sent a mass of e-mails and then shredded paper. She put her hard drive in the oven and let it bake. All of these actions were monitored under a blanket warrant. She spent 27 minutes inside and even put on make-up. I fired up my lap-top and accessed the internet via cell phone. In a few minutes Darcy had signed the documents. She went back inside to give me a urine sample, then locked up and came out with a full bottle. She was clean. In a few minutes Governor London England’s grand niece Darcy Freedman was no longer a free citizen. As I drove her to the Governor’s Mansion the forces of law and order began tracking down the people Darcy called and e-mailed. I am not privy to the details. It deals with law enforcement. Darcy was under wraps.

My next stop was at a home. As in the past, there are a lot of rich abolitionists. Woodrow Edwards surprised me when the meeting began–I had five conversions to perform. Did I mention that becoming a statistic makes hypocrites of us all? These conversions were his wife, his two nieces and his own two daughters. Mr. Edward’s sister had died. Why the conversions? He caught the daughters and nieces ‘fooling around’ with each other and convinced his brother-in-law to fill out the conversion papers. Mrs. Winnie Edwards was converted just in case she objected. They were simple general conversion by family member documents and already notarized.

“I need to nip this in the bud.”

“Yes, sir. After the meeting I’d like to talk to you about education and job training under Defensive Enslavement Volunteers.”

“Your own slaves are always naked?” Jane, Button and Angelica had come with me from Oklahoma city–a clothed Yolanda was baby sitting our van. Heather and Carla had collected a PonyEx notary, Cody again, and met us at the Edwards Estate. Shawna had stayed behind with her husband Justin–my colonel. All six slaves, including outsider Cody and pregnant Heather were nude.

“The weather is a bit chilly for it, but unless there is a health or safety or legal reason for clothing I prefer them naked.” I admitted. “The are pushing it a bit because they really like me. Just a moment. Cody, come here please.”

“Yes, Master Peter?” Cody was a cute girl. I’d have to get her story.

“You are not required to be naked. In fact, it is cold outside. Why did you chose to be nude?”

“I want to fit in,” Cody said. “I hope and pray that you will like me enough to keep me.”

“I guess I could. Is there anybody at the kennel you would like to join you?”

“Yes, Master. But it would be better if you just sent Heather to take over management for a few days.”

Woodrow Edwards was staring at Cody with a strange expression on his face.

“And how badly do the girls in the mall want personal supervision?”

“Badly enough sir that we will do anything. Some of us were volunteers that the mall bought, but I was a shop lifter. It was just a joke.” Cody sniffed back tears and gulped. “I am a joke. I got myself in deep trouble and the only reason I haven’t ridden a spit is that after you trained mall security the mall management stopped snuff shows. I deserved getting whipped, but being spitted and roasted for swiping some cosmetics seems excessive.”

“What about the slave workers who get whipped when inventory comes up short–or worse than whipped?”

“I didn’t think about them then. Now I’m the one who gets whipped.”

“Tell Heather what you need until we get to the Castleman Estate. I’ll call the mall office. “

“She is cute and freckled and red-headed,” Mr. Edwards observed. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I’ll be in Texas at the Ellisia theme park tomorrow. It is naturist day, the first one, and if it isn’t too cold I’m touring the park with a pack of naked slave girls. I’ll take Cody along, with permission of course, and if she can hang tough with the rest of us I figure out something.”

“Got room for some more? I think I’d like to send my new slaves with you.”

The meeting was much smaller than previously. One of the attendees was Carman Lacy–and she was with a woman. I recognized that the woman was really Hamilton Bridgeport in drag. After a quick couple of cell phone photos I told Heather to start our presentation if I took too long in the bathroom. I called Colonel Murphy’s office and told him that there were two persons of interest at the meeting. I got back just in time to see an obviously undercover cop answer his own cell phone. He looked right at his quarry–bad form! I thought that I recognized Professor Morrison in disguise, too. I had my orders–stay clear and let the professionals handle it. They were trying to catch bigger fish.

The presentation went off without a hitch. Next, Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge brought their families up to the front of the room. I enslaved them–including ordering them to undress and provide urine samples. I had enough slaves present that I was able to assign one to each new slave.

“I haven’t had time to complete the contracts,” Mr. Edwards said, “but these five are going to be trained by DEV. Starting now.”

“Slaves, present,” I ordered. I was explaining how slaves were trained as I inspected anuses and vulva. “Mr. Edwards, what are your standards of hygiene and grooming?”

“I haven’t thought about it. Use your standards.”

“Ladies,” I don’t address my slaves as ‘slut.’ Remember, my mother died as a slave and my sister is my slave. “After this meeting I am going to have my slaves bathe and groom you. I will supervise. You failed to meet the standard and I will correct your shortcomings. Right here. In front of everybody. So far you are behaving yourselves splendidly. I know it is hard, but keep obeying.”

I didn’t bother watching the suspects so I didn’t notice when they left. I did notice that the person I had pegged as an undercover cop had left his seat near the door. Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge explained why they had enslaved their daughters–that the daughters were just discovering sex and that boys could PPC them.

“Just like Martha Champion–only she was lucky. The other three weren’t.” Mr. Edwards looked close to tears. “I couldn’t bear to lose my daughters that way. Neville has told me how DEV slaves are treated. Peter was telling me about a daughter conversion that lasts only seven years. I need to have my lawyers look over the contracts and then I’ll decide, but Peter has graciously agreed to take all five of them to Ellisia with him tomorrow. He has a number of slaves working there–”

The audience booed him.
“QUIET!” Angelica’s command boomed in the small room. “Many of you in this room will be slaves or dead in five years. My master cares. don’t make it harder on him.”

Not exactly kosher, but it worked.

“Why me?” the former Mrs. Edwards asked.

“Because I didn’t want you to nag me for the next seven years, woman!” Edwards shouted back. “If you can behave yourself, I will keep you as a Slave in Name Only for a year or two, then free you. After that, it you will have me, I’ll remarry you.”

“Woody, we might as well tell her.” Edwards nodded to his brother -in-law and Tallbridge continued. “Bunny, while you are a slave we will both share you sexually. You need to go to sex school–Woody says that you just lay there and ‘think of England.’ He wants better when you become a free woman again–if you want to stay with him, that is.”

“And the girls?”

“They need to learn about sex.” Edwards explained. “Not all their lessons will be pleasant, but they need to learn them.”

“Will you be using them for sex” Bunny asked. Both fathers looked shocked by her suggestion. “Well, maybe you should. We’re just slaves now. It isn’t as if we are in a brothel or something.”

Three young women–I’m bad at guessing ages–came up to the table and started undressing. A middle aged woman screeched “No, Polly! You will become a slave over my dead body!”

“Ma’am, how old is Polly?” I asked. “Is she over 18?”

The woman nodded.

“Then think about it for a moment. First, she has the right to volunteer for enslavement–unless you enslave her first. Second, preventing her from doing so is a crime and the penalty is enslavement. Third, she could sneak out and get enslaved elsewhere–like Eastlake Snuff or Hill’s Fine Meats. She’d be dead and you’d never know what happened. Slavery isn’t a trip to Ellisia, but if you plan it out you can emerge alive and better off than when you went in.”

The total of new slaves by lunch time was 11 women. They ate lunch naked–except that most were blushing. After lunch they lined up in one of the large bathrooms for their baths–and a shave job. I phoned the Castleman Estates for a bus.

Carla was busy explaining the educational programs. Six of the new slaves had signed the standard 10-25 year voluntary conversion contract and the first five still were general slaves while Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge checked with their attorney. While everyone else was busy I called Yolanda. After her collar phone rang ten times I phoned for a back-up team and alerted Angelica.

“Stay with me,” I ordered. “We can’t help her if we’re dead and help is just ten minutes away. They’ll find her by her cell phone.” My phone rang. It was the back-up team and Yolanda was dead beside the van. The procedure now was to leave the scene to the police and evacuate me. “Wait on the evacuation. Check the parking lot for other bodies. How many responding?”

“Sir, this is Sylvia. We have twelve.”

“You are in charge, right? Send in two after you check the parking lot and secure our egress route. Has someone called the police?”

“Eastlake Sheriff and Coroner are en Route. We just found another body.”

Actually there were four other bodies. You’ll have to read the reports yourself. I only found out how Yolanda died because I saw her body–she had been garroted.

But I was very busy that day. I delegated the funeral arraignments. Edwards and Tallbridge came to the Castleman Estates and signed the contracts with Carla. My first four daughter conversion contracts were named Loren, Kathy, Mary and Sally. Loren was the eldest and had dropped out of Eastlake University out of fear due to the White Slave Act of 2000. Kathy and Mary were twins, Tallbridge girls, and had graduated from high school a year late because they had been overseas for a year with their parents and had to repeat a grade. The youngest, Sally, had graduated with the twins. The three youngest had refused to attend college–fear again. Carla explained all this to me. It seemed as if the four girls were watching too many snuff videos. I called them into my office,

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked the four. They glanced at each other.

“No, sir,” Loren was their unofficial leader. “We saw you on the Castleman Trust show.”

There it is, folks. If it isn’t on television it isn’t real.

It was almost 9 when Colonel Murphy and Shawna arrived. They had Darcy with them. Of course, both Shawna and Darcy were nude–even though the night was really nasty.

“How do you manage? I’d find it hard to bear in a GorTex rain suit with polypro. You aren’t even wearing shoes.”

Shawna’s laugh was musical. Darcy was sullen–her skin was cold and clammy when I touched her. Shawna, on the other hand, was quite warm to the touch.

“I think you need to soak in the spa until you warm up,” I told Darcy. “I’m out of sorts tonight. A member of my National Guard unit was murdered today. She was in the parking lot making sure that nobody put a bomb in my car when someone used a garrote on her. She was a slave–and she died at an abolitionist meeting. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Did she die to save you?”

“And the rest of my family. It looks as if she died stopping an attack on us.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can’t talk about it, dear, but our Master Peter protects America from some very dangerous people.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Colonel Murphy said. “We need to talk in your office about your security posture.”

When we were alone, Colonel Murphy told me that he sympathized with my loss. I was told that Yolanda was being restored to full status as a soldier for her military funeral–and it was to be held Friday.

“About Darcy,” my boss lowered his voice, “don’t trust her. She can hurt you if she wants to.”

“We could simply turn her over to the authorities.”

“The governor wouldn’t like that. London realizes, of course, that Darcy can never again be a free woman. The instant she is free she will be picked up and charged with treason.”

“I feel sorry for her, sir, but I have reservations about harboring a traitor. Is Darcy aware of her tenuous status?”

“Not yet. We are still playing her.”

“She needs to know that she is a slave.”

“That much you can do. You can tell her that you saved her from being picked up for unspecified crimes, that you were told there was a felony warrant but you don’t know the charges and specifications. Unlike your two gymnast coaches Darcy really is guilty. The other two could stand trial and prove their innocence, but they risk death. Shawna tells me that they are content with their lives. They love you and they are achieving their life ambition. Darcy is a suspect in mass murder and there is enough evidence linking her to that EMP device. They used her internet provider’s records to locate a locker with several uncompleted devices and a full set of blueprints. As long as Darcy stays a slave, she won’t be prosecuted. We are officially using Darcy as a controlled source. Once she’s no longer useful, she can stay with you for the rest of her life. Just wait for the end of the investigation before you let her know that we are using her.”

I worried that my family was in danger from this game with Darcy. If it came down to Darcy or just about anybody else, she would lose!

We were bussing down to Texas so that I’d have a few hours to meet with the DEV Ellisia workers before the park opened. The seats had been replaced with folding bench seats so that the floor could be used for sleeping. I also used a recreational vehicle. All the new slaves, including Darcy, were in restraints.

My day ended on the road. I got what sleep I could.

Castleman Trust Series Chapter 49

School for Cheats

Peter J. Foster

I inherited the leadership of one abolitionist movement as an undercover operative. Some undercover–the abolitionist knew me to be ‘from the dark side!’ Now Neville’s gang was approaching me for advice. Politics! One reason politics is dirty is that everyone is a hypocrite.

Including Peter Joseph Foster!

Neville was still morning the ‘deaths’ of three free citizens; they were now slaves Queenie, Rachel and Martha. True, they were slaves, not corpses–but legally speaking, corpses had more rights than a slave. Three of Martha’s friends had been killed and served as girl roasts. DEV was established in reaction to the Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act of 2001 and Martha survived because of DEV.

But I was going to attend a meeting of Neville’s abolitionist group. Neville called about a domestic crisis. His newly-transferred slave=wives were disobeying him. I arrived with Jane, Button and Shawna–Montana and Michelle were my bodyguards today and they remained in the van as I escorted my three naked slaves into the Champion residence. The three disobedient slaves kneeling in Position One. A pile of clothing was in front of them.

“I ordered them to dress and they refused!” Neville fumed. “I don’t want them naked on the street!”

“I see,” I said. I really did grasp both sides of the issue immediately. “Girls, you are slaves. Neville is your primary owner. All of you did something to get yourself enslaved. Martha was betrayed–but she put herself in that situation. Queenie and Rachel volunteered. Slaves obey. Do as Neville ordered.”

“But–”Queenie began.

“What part of ‘slave obey’ do you not understand?” I cut her off brutally. “Neville ordered you to dress. Obey. He will ask your opinion when he wants it.”

The three reluctantly got to their feet.

“Where’s your enthusiasm?” I snarled. “Do you want Neville to lose you? If you disobey him, you can be taken away.”

Jane and Shawna pitched in and helped the three new slaves dress. Dress up is more like it: foundation garments, hose, frilly panties, lacy bras, silk slips, elegant gowns, wrist dangles, necklaces (not slave collars), hair ornaments, ear rings and a pair of spike heel shoes. Jane looked repulsed, Shawna amused–and Button was obviously envious. As for Neville, he appeared confused.

“For what it’s worth,” I told Neville, “dogs are very good trainers for masters. I can loan you a dog, if you wish. She’ll teach you how to run your pack–er, ah–family.”

Neville blushed and the slaves all laughed.

“The funny thing is that my husband is serious,” Jane said. “He talks to his dogs all the time. Peter has me doing it now. I’m beginning to think that the dogs are talking back.”

“I wouldn’t laugh about it,” Montana said as she entered with a notary from the PonyEx at the mall. Montana was in a slave tunic with go-go boots–and her costume easily concealed a handgun. The PonyEx girl was also dressed in a red PonyEx slave tunic and moccasins. Montana reported that the slaver kit was in the van. I had a hunch that we’d have a few DEV recruits among those die-hard abolitionists. On the other hand, my hunches are often wrong. If I were more organized, I’d keep track of my hunches and figure out how often I was wrong. “My psychology professor taught me that animals don’t have feelings. After working with the dogs, I’m starting to believe that they are smarter than me.”

“Montana,” Shawna teased, “have you been at the dog food again?”

“It does look exactly like slave chow,” Jane said.

“Slave chow is dog food,” Neville was getting into the spirit of the exchange. “Lighten up, you three. If you want to be naked at the meeting, go for it. You will be appropriately clad in public.”

“Master Neville,” Shawna bowed her head–but don’t ask me if she was being humbly submissive or hiding a grin, “do you mean appropriately clad for a slave?”

“Queenie and Rachel and Martha know exactly what Neville means,” I said, “so don’t confuse the issue, Shawna.”

“Yes, son.”

I had to laugh.

The meeting took place at a church, appropriately enough. It used to be a church–now it was a community theater. I got with the caretaker and set up a table with the slaver kit ready–including a laptop. I could connect to the slaver database through a cell phone.

The notary’s name was Corky. At first she watched me with understandable wariness. Shawna put her at ease.

“Are you really his mother?” Corky asked Shawna.

“No,” Shawna replied. “That’s a title. I’m the head of a cult. Peter is my master. I have a husband–even though the law says our marriage ended when Justin converted me. Justin is my beloved, my husband, and Peter’s boss, but Peter is my master and owner.”

“That sounds so complicated,” Corky said. “What next? Space aliens?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Jane began that tale of Star Children and men.

I watched as the abolitionist filed in. They glared at me and my three naked slaves. Queenie spoke with Neville a moment, Neville shook his head and said something that I didn’t catch.

“Button, come here,” I said. Button followed me to a storage space just backstage. “Do you trust Winston Smith?”

“Yes. Totally.”

“Then I won’t bother you when I tell you that you are officially a general slave owned by Winston Smith,” I said. “I have a 90-day training contract for one Slave Button. Are you okay? I can sedate you if you need it.”

Button blanched. She gulped back a sob.

“It’s real, isn’t it?”

“If it is in the data base, it is reality,” I hugged her. “In public I may be required to punish you. I’m telling you this because I am going to order you to present out there. If you balk, I’ll correct you. Your other self may be embarrassed, but out there you are Slave Button. She would obey–and it doesn’t matter if she obeys out of terror or out of devotion. You may not have noticed, but every time you’ve been naked in public it has been with other slaves. Cody isn’t my slave–yes, I can order her to undress and display, too. I can beat her–but if I want to snuff her I need to call her company. According to the training contract with Winston, I have full discipline authority over you–in fact, I am required to snuff you in specified situations. You need to know that this is nothing personal. Be a professional. After this I need to talk to you about your legend. Real slaves make the best spies because they are expendable.”

I took a thoroughly-cowed Button back on stage. I handed her to Jane.

“I shook her up,” I told Jane. “Stay with her. You are Siamese twins until we leave here. I need Shawna to work the crowd. After the introduction you two stay at the table. If you need to pee, use the bucket and do it in front of everybody.”

Button gasped.

“Peter does that so any volunteer can’t say that she was misled,” Jane took control of Button. “We are going to make love to each other in public–it is my first time, too.”

When I glanced at Cody, she lowered her eyes–but not before I saw her expression.

“Cody, dear,” Shawna comforted her, “we have roles to play. Master Peter isn’t going to ask you to do anything more than sit here in your tunic and notarize conversion papers.”

“I don’t have to undress?”

“You won’t have to present and you won’t be forced to have sex. We three will be.”

“I want to,” Jane said. “I want to make Peter happy. I like it that the free people can look–but can’t touch without my master’s permission. Playing with Button is fun. Besides, it will be a challenge.”

“Challenge?” Button asked.

“Overcoming your stage fright,” Jane said. “I’m scared, too–but I’ll do anything for Peter.”

Abolitionist had been filtering in. Most of the women glared at the three naked slaves. Most of the men glared at me–and some leered at Jane and Button. I thought Shawna was sexy, too–even at the ‘advanced age’ of 47. Actually, Shawna often passed for 30–or less. I looked at the hostile crowd.

“Peter,” Shawna’s voice was low, “be careful. Young men sometimes get competitive. It is okay to back down here.”

“Thanks, mother. I’ll remember that.” I hoped I’d remember.

The meeting started on time. My presentation was on Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. As the traditional school year had begun, I concentrated on the new school contracts–and the many ways college girls could be enslaved. It was a multi-media presentation.

One medium was Martha. She told her story. Martha still wore her dress and was indistinguishable from a free woman. I could tell that her story brought tears to some eyes–and enraged other people.