Dark Erotic Fiction

Editors note:

This takes place before the auction where Tiffay’s mother is sold. I missed the time line elements in this story so I didn’t post it at the correct time My bad.

Constance”s Conversion

Tiffany

Denial is an important coping mechanism. Just ask your mental health counselor. Denial and work kept me going during the week from hell. It began with my usual once per month stress event: Dad would decide whether or not to convert me. The deal was this: if my hymen was not intact during a monthly medical inspection, Dad would convert me on the spot. Friday was a nasty surprise. Dad converted Mom and asked me to run an auction for seven enslaved wives of the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol fundraiser. I stayed away from home for a while. I had work, school and my social life. The latter is a joke.

I was getting ready to leave Spellbook Slaves for the day when Mr. West gave me an overtime assignment. Ordinarily I would have rolled my eyes or something. Today?

“Yes, sir.”

“I”m sending Otto out with you. Just help him collect the pick-up and then you can go home.” Mr. West handed me a business card. “Tiffany, call this number. Talk to somebody. You are too good at sales to lose.”

Otto tried some lame jokes. I could only manage a smile. He drove the company van and I took my car. When we parked near my dorm I realized that I hadn”t asked where we were going.

“Your room, Tiffany.” Otto smirked at me when I asked. “You never did like Constance Remora.”

Constance was a slave? If it could happen to her, it could happen to anybody. I stumbled after Otto as we went up to my room. I unlocked the door.

“Who is that? You know the rules, Tiffany!” Brown hair, brown eyes obscured by granny glasses, long granny dress and granny boots—Constance was the perfect “goodie two-shoes.” “Get him out or I will call campus security.”

Constance made me feel better. Still the same ice bitch. There is a God!

“Constance Remora, at this time there is a valid request for your conversion to slave status. You are required, by state and federal law, to follow my instructions. I am allowed, by law, to apply what ever level of force need to make you follow my instructions. I am instructing you now to provide me with a urine sample. Do you understand my statement and instructions?”

I wished that I had my camera with me. Duh! I did have my camera with me. I yanked it out and began taking photos. Constance glanced from Otto to me and back to Otto.

“You can”t take my pictures!” Constance made my day. I pulled out my stun gun and let it snap, crackle and pop. “No! Please don”t! Momma, I”ve been GOOD! Please don”t hurt me!”

A stun gun makes all of us equal. Constance was bigger and stronger than me—most people are. I pinned her against the desk and zapped her. Otto dug out the slaver kit—we were going to have to draw urine using a catheter. I was actually beginning to feel good for the first time in a week! It didn”t take long to undress Constance—even though I had to zap her again with the stun gun. Red, yellow and green areas—Constance was breaking the law and she was bigger than me. I could use whatever force necessary, including stun gun to the red areas of her body. A stun gun against the neck can kill—as can a shock directly to the heart. I already had her panties off when I stunned her over her kidneys. Luckily Otto was right there with the sample jar—the pig peed all over me, all over the room, all over!

In a few minutes I had the naked wet woman trussed up. She needed the slave dolly. I needed a shower. Constance, of course, came up clean on the pregnancy and drug screen. There wasn”t any doubt in my mind that she would. Constance may have had communion wine at mass, but other than that I don”t remember Constance taking so much as an aspirin. She didn”t eat take-out food. The only bad habit she had was being so irritatingly perfect! Otto finished enslaving her after entering the data on line. He went through his standard speech welcoming her into a life of slavery. After my partner left, I snapped a bunch more pictures to e-mail to Mr. West.

Several minutes later, Otto returned with the slave dolly.

“Close the door,” I snapped. When Otto turned around, I attacked his fly. I needed something. It didn”t take long for Otto”s eyes to roll back in his head and for him to squirt off in my mouth. Dad couldn”t prove a thing—but didn”t need to. “Now I”ll help you finish processing this pig.”

Constance was softly sobbing through the disposable gag as we strapped her to the dolly. I helped Otto cart her down to the van and waved goodbye. There I was in the parking lot of my dorm. I reeked of pee. Mom was enslaved—hell, I was going to auction her off that weekend! My roommate was gone. I was going to have to call her folks and box up her stuff. I might get another roommate, but for now I had a private room. And I was okay. I went back into the dorm, got a mop, and cleaned up the mess.

My cell phone rang. It was Mr. West.

“Tiffany, would you box up Constance”s things and have them ready for her brother to pick up tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, Mr. West.”

“If you need help, call that number.” Mr. West hung up after that reminder.

It took me about three hours. First, I finished cleaning up the room. Next, I took a shower and changed clothes. A trip to the baggage room and some empty boxes gave me a place to put her things. I broke down and washed Constance”s clothes with my own, folded her clothes neatly and tucked them in her suitcases. Stealing was an expellable offense at Eastlake University—that meant “convertible offense” for women. I was very careful to put all of Constance”s things in her luggage or in the boxes. I even removed her framed picture of the Pope and her crucifix from the wall and packed them away. When the boxes were stacked in the corner, the room seemed empty. I kept very little stuff in the dorm—just my school books, a few clothes, my war paint and a photo of Mom and Dad. Sometimes Constance joked that I was a ghost. It was a habit I developed at Dutch Hall—the fewer things in my room, the fewer demerits I got for untidiness. My roommate had been almost as neat.

Now she was gone.

Dad gave me the list of the women that will be sold for the Neighbored watch club of his.

1. Hillary Vandyne, age 39
2. Sharon Baughn, age 34
3. Alexandra Colbert, age 36
4. Noreen Woolard, age 38
5. Bethany Mullen, age 43
6. Earnestine Royal, age 48
7. Tia Crittenden, age 37

Mr. West agreed to have Spellbook Slaves to handle the slave auction. The contract between the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol and Spellbook Slaves divided up the profits: 75% went to the Community Patrol and 25% to Spellbook Slaves. That was net profits—there were expenses. The slaves would have a federal slave sales tax applied—Uncle Sammie would lop its 15% off the top. The fees for shipping and handling would be part of the sales price. There were several things that had to be done prior to the auction. Each slave had to be meat and sex graded. They needed a full set of photos. The auction had to be publicized. Overhead cuts into the bottom line. Mr. West estimated that costs would be 30% of gross sales. I thought I could cut that to 25%. That would mean if Mom sold for $2000, Mr. West would get $500 for Spellbook Slaves, Uncle Sam would get $300, there would be $1000 for Dad”s community watch cop wannabe group and $200 would be used to pay sex testing and meat grading, for the publicity and all that. The auction would be held in Dad”s garage. Decorating the garage—well, Mom was going to do that. I had a total budget of $1400 for the processing and publicity. I thought I could bring it in for less. Eastlake University taught me the business world. It”s past time that I got something out of my education.

What do potential buyers want to know before they show up for the auction? Many are just looking for a fuck toy. That means appearance is important. We take four-view photographs and three-view close-ups of the head. Below that we start with the slave”s slave name. In this case, the slaves were using their old names—some people in the community had already expressed interest in buying Mom. I would, if I had the money. She gave me life. Dad told me that he wanted a minimum of $10,000 profit from the sale of seven women—he didn”t want less than $5,000.

“Dad, why not get your group together and submit minimum bids? If nobody out-bids you at the auction, then you can try a direct sale through Spellbook Slaves, you can take the minimum bid off your income taxes as a charitable deduction, and as long as the minimum bidder is not the slave”s former husband, nobody will cry “fraud.” I estimate that we will need to get $2500 per sale on average,” it was not easy to keep my professional demeanor while talking about selling Mom. “Unfortunately, Spellbook Slaves sells its 18-24 year old Grade B slaves for about $900. I have an idea that will drive their prices up. I need to advertise and I need to have all seven slaves tested. I need to write their qualifications on their ads. We are competing with 18-24 year olds. One reason men sell their wives is that she isn”t any fun in bed.”

I managed to avoid stuttering and blushing. Thank you, Mr. West. I had enough experience to keep feelings out of it.

“Take Mom, for example: she is 43 and very well put together for her age.” Yes, I felt squicky inside. I”d deal with it. I rattled off Mom”s bra size, her height, weight. “Unofficially, she is a C-grade because of her age—a B grade if someone is feeling generous. That affects sale price. Mr. West buys Grade B at $5.50 per pound and Grade A will bring $9.00 per pound, with extra tacked on for skills at cock sucking. Mom weighs about 120 pounds, so the difference between Grade A and Grade B is $420. That is what Mr. West pays for them. You are smart in running an auction.”

“What does a Grade C bring?”

“Mr. West doesn”t buy Grade C. They don”t move out of inventory fast enough and they don”t rent often enough. Spellbook Slaves would lose money on that deal.” Not true, not really. As long as Spellbook Slaves can generate $250 per slave profit, she”s worthwhile. That profit can come from sales or from rental fees. The thought that Mom would only bring about $700 if sold to Mr. West irked me—but if I were at the front desk, I”d try to talk Dad down to $350. It”s my job. “I need to see Mom”s resume. She does have one?”

“Don”t give me that attitude, young lady!” I guess Dad was human after all. I apologized. If groveling was required, I would. That was the moment when I caved in to reality. I would seek defensive enslavement if I didn”t meet the $10,000 goal set for Dad”s wannabe cop group. I could just see myself becoming a kiosk slave—not this kid! I”m on the small side for a meat slave, but I could imagine Dad roasting me on the grill in back. Dad seemed mollified when I apologized and told him that I was just getting the most money for Mom. “Well, okay. Yes, your mother had a resume. I don”t see what good that will do now.”

I had just handled a sale to a think tank that week. They were looking for groups of women who had long-term personal relationships with each other in addition to high scholastic achievement. Long-term personal relationships meant sisters, mothers and daughters, close friends, even formerly free women with their own slaves. Neighbors was close enough, as were classmates. Otto had picked up five Dutch Hall girls—and no, I don”t remember their names! They came in, Otto and I processed them, and two women picked them up. I thought I had better send a flyer to that think tank. The free woman was young and pretty—she would easily be sold for the targeted $2500 without any work and as much as $16,000 to the right person. Her slave companion looked older than any of the watch group wives. I guessed that the slave had been a slave for five or six years. She looked familiar—Otto had sold her to a man, an estate sale. I remembered because Mr. West chewed Otto out. She brought $400 from a man who said that he was buying the older slave for his own slave. Mr. West only made about $150 on that sale. Yes, I”d have to look up the think tank. They would want to buy several slaves at one time—if they were still in the market. Mr. West got $15,000 for those five Dutch Hall girls and they had been sold before they got in the door. On top of that, the woman paid to have all five sex tested and meat graded! Another easy $500.

So I had a good idea of what the slave market was selling. I had left my computer in my room. Dad let me go upstairs and get it. Men are funny at times. I heard screaming from behind the closed bedroom door - Mom and Dad”s room. I hurried past and grabbed my laptop. I dashed back downstairs. If Dad had felt my panties just then -

The Spellbook Slaves slave record form goes like this: free woman name, slave name, Spellbook Slave Number, age, enslavement option (volunteer, family commitment, PPC or conversion by magistrate), a long section on sexual experience including number of sex partners and when the slave lost her virginity, a self rating on sex skills, education, work experience, hair color, surgeries - you get the idea. The self-ratings on sex skills was important—better to claim too low than too high. Slaves are generally tested now, unless they are pre-sold like the Dutch Hall Five. We don”t bother testing meat slaves—a consignment of spit muffins headed for the barbeque pit are almost always pre-sold. We call up medical records and financial records—slaves no longer have privacy rights. All this takes time and money, but satisfied customers mean more business for Spellbook Slaves. In the early days, I heard that any woman would do. Many women were purchased or enslaved just for snuffing. Later, the slave had to be pretty and skilled at sex, too. Now the market demands other skills. Many slaves are dual-purpose: they are workers and they are used as sex toys. A skilled slave can bring a lot. Mr. West says that he was doing a pick-up from a law firm and the bitch was sold to one of the law firm”s clients for $10,000 because the silly slut sassed the client before realizing that she was going to be converted in minutes. It was more than her meat value, so Mr. West sold her.

There was a lesson in that: be polite to everyone. The next conversion could be mine.

After getting all of the information from Dad that I could. Every bit of information was a reason to demand more for the slave. I wanted to start the bidding at $1500, less than we needed from each slave, but some could be sold for more. Dad said that he”d talk to the rest about putting up the minimum bid so that the wives wouldn”t be sold for less than their conversion taxes. I”ve seen it happen. Boyfriends and husbands dump women at Spellbook for as little as $50 cash. The only dumber thing was a story Mr. West told me of five women paying to be converted! It was my mother, and I was going to get top dollar for Mom.

That”s why I”m the top sales person at Spellbook Slaves.

Next I did the same for the other six women. I had all of the information for Mr. West at my morning meeting, minus the photos and on-site testing.

That afternoon Dad signed the contract with Spellbook Slaves and brought in Mom and the others. We photographed them. They were weighed and measured and graded. We even had a rudimentary medical exam conducted by one of the new slaves. I finished the ad packet and closed up shop.
Dad took them all home. I elected to stay in my dorm room that night. Yes, I might never see Mom again. There were seven reasons why: seven drunk and horny men. Dad didn”t do the incest thing. Not sober. Alcohol has a way of changing one”s mind. I still think I can avoid becoming a slave. The dorm was marginally safer—there were still drunken horny men. They weren”t allowed in our dorm. My roommate Constance was so straight laced that she squeaked, so I didn”t have to worry about her boyfriend.

Why be a slave before its necessary?

I dodged the bullet again. My dad had “the talk” with me shortly before my 16th birthday. He told me that I had become a woman. Dad horrified me.

“I will not have a slut daughter. Tomorrow your mother is taking you to the gynecologist. You will remain a virgin until at least your 21st birthday or I will have you converted and sold.”

I crave sex—who doesn”t? I didn”t want to be a slave. All these years I”ve been careful to remain a virgin. I”m counting down the days to my 21st birthday and freedom. It stinks—70% of enslavements are done by parents or boyfriends and a big segment of the 20% of voluntary enslavements is defensive enslavements. Fathers regularly convert their daughters, I should know, I do it at work all the time. I know that it can happen to me.

Dad”s friend Neville has a white slaver”s license. Neville specializes in family conversions. Every month Dad has Neville over for dinner right after my gyno. Mom is fully in agreement with Dad—I am to be converted and sold if I don”t remain a virgin. There were the four of us sitting around the dinner table. I was nervous even though I knew that I was okay. Mom held the sealed medical report. Dad handed Neville the documents for my conditional conversion and took the medical report from him.

“You are safe this month, Tiffy,” Dad calls me Tiffy. Any of you try calling me Tiffy and I”ll maim you! Only Dad can call me that. Dad cleared his throat. “However, I have other business with Neville this evening.

That made me feel creepy! Neville stood up and began reading from a card. I knew what it was because it was the standard card that the National Slaver Association. Figures he would use that instead of committing it to memory. Hell, Otto can do it while cumming in my mouth. And has, for real.

“Bethany Victoria Jackson-Mullen, at this time there is a valid warrant for your conversion to a person of limited rights. State and federal law require you to obey my instructions in executing this warrant. I am authorized to use any degree of force needed to compel your obedience. At this time, I order you to disrobe and produce a urine sample. Do you understand my instructions?”

“Ben, what is this?” Mom said uneasily. “Is this a joke?”

“No joke,” Dad told her. “Now do what Neville tells you to do.”

“Dad, don”t,” I pleaded.

“Tiffy, sit there quietly. I”ll explain later. I can still have you converted, too.”

I was freaked out! Mom took off her clothes. It was the first time that I had seen her naked. Mom”s face and shoulders turned red because Neville had her squat and pee right there in the kitchen. I was humiliated, too. When I tried to leave, Dad told me that I had to stay. Part of my shame was my relief that I wasn”t being enslaved. Neville tested Mom”s pee and then pulled his Dingle-Berry PDA out of his briefcase. He pressed a button and said “Slaver Web.”

“Bethany, as of 7:41 PM Central Daylight Savings Time on March 20, 2008, you are a person of limited rights.” Neville turned to Dad. “I need some photos for the database. I already have her fingerprints.”

“You”ve wanted a piece of Bethany for years,” Dad”s words made me want to run, but I was too frightened. It isn”t fun being weak. “You can use my bedroom. I need to talk to Tiffy.”

We had a talk. Dad reminded me that if I became a slave, he”d sell me.

“I don”t do the incest thing,” he repeated. “I”m a traditional man.”

Dad wanted me to talk to Mike West, my boss at Spellbook Slaves, about an auction. Seven wives had been converted by Neville that night. Dad”s neighborhood watch cop wannabe group needed new patrol gear. They donated their wives. Dad was volunteered to get me to run the slave auction—Neville specialized in family conversions. Neville didn”t do auctions, of course, that requires a bit of work. He preferred to either keep the slave with her family or find her a good home. Neville recommended Spellbook Slaves for the auction because they could get the highest prices, which is true, normally.

“Schedule the auction in for next Sunday.” Dad told me. “Until the auction, Beth is going to be used. Tomorrow night I”m having an orgy in this house. All seven slaves for the auction are going to be here with their husbands. Beth was cheating on me anyway, Tiffy. She got what she deserves.

“Now I don”t approve of incest. I”ll keep my promise if you lose your virginity,” Dad meant that my hymen had to remain intact. He was going to have me visit the gynecologist just before my 21st birthday with Neville in tow—and convert me on the spot if the doctor said so. “I will let you spend as much time with your mother as possible. Use her as you wish—she is no longer your mother. Beth is a slave. She is to remain naked for the rest of her time with us. I know that you might try to buy Beth yourself, but you don”t have the money. The Watch was hoping to get $10,000 for the seven. If we don”t get at least half that, then we have to look at selling our daughters or other slaves.”

I cried myself to sleep. I woke up early and drove to a coffee shop for breakfast. I spent the rest of the morning waiting for my boss outside of Spellbook Slaves. We had to talk.