Dark Erotic Fiction

Normally, when I arrive at a home to do a pick up, I find the slave or slaves in one of two conditions. Totally naked, or dressed in casual street clothes. Naked, of course, normally means that they know they are about to be converted, and have started to adjust to the idea. Clothed could mean either they don’t know, or if they do, they wish to hold on to some amount of modesty or dignity. The exceptions to these broad general rules tend to be a bit odd.

For example, a Mr. Wayne Prichard had arranged with Spellbook Slaves and Games to have his wife, Charlotte, picked up while he was away on a business trip. As I didn’t process the paper work, I wasn’t really aware of what type of sale this was, just the it had been approved. Boss man just sent me out to go get her. When arrived,I found Charlotte was nude and collared, with a rawhide “bone” in her mouth, waiting by the door when I arrived.

I assumed that this meant that she knew she was about to be converted, or this was a re-sell of a slave.

Silly me.

It took 3 zaps with the stun gun to get her to stop fighting.

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So, the boss man sends me out on a simple family conversion pickup. Suzi and Belinda Woodham. As I drive out there,  I wonder to my self if this Woodham family is related to my 9th grade English teacher.  She was sort of hot, in that MILF sort of way.

I get to the address, and am meet at the door by Mr. Ted Woodham, Esq. Says so, right there on the brass door plate over the door bell button. Don’t know if he really is a lawyer, or if he’s just being uppity. My money is on he’s an uppity lawyer. Whatever. He hands me the papers, and yeah, sure enough, it’s a mother and daughter conversion. He informs me, after we finish the basic paper that “Your product is in the master bedroom”. Sort of harsh way of referring to your wife and daughter, but, again, uppity lawyer, whatever. I go down the hallway to the ‘master bedroom’.

I open the door, and see two nude women laying on the bed. As soon as I see the older one, I pull my taser out and fire it into her. As she jerks around, with the darts still in her flesh, I hit the “Zap” button a few times. The daughter leaps up and screams. Mr. Woodham come running down the hall to see what’s going on.

“Shouldn’t have given me a D on my final report, Mrs. Woodham“

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One of my best ways of getting “prime” slaves is to get on the good side of the RA’s at Eastlake Universities Freshmen dorms. A surprisingly large number of incoming co-ed don’t fully understand what “In loco parentis” means. First hint, it doesn’t mean “My ‘rents are crazy”. Of those that don’t understand this concept, a fairly high number of them are on one form or another of student loans. Between the two of these concepts, lays a large amount of conversion possibilities for the unwary co-ed

This means that pissing off your RA with loud drunken behavior is a sure fire way to meet me or one of my staff. Guess how many of these girls were introduced to me in a professional setting last night.

Unfortunately, or not, depending on your point of view, the co-ed with the white tee shirt was a full payment student, with no loans and one who’s parents had not signed over their full rights. This saved here from conversion, due to the fact that their party had not quite made it to the violation of the city ordinance level, just the pissed off RA level.

Her topless friend was not quite so lucky.   She and the other girl were double whammed, in that their parents had fully signed on to the “In loco parentis” system of Eastlake University and that they were both on some form of student aid.

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I see them as I drive around town.

Young, pretty women.   Girls, really.   They may be over 18, or even 21, but they are still girls.

I know 2 things about these girls. The first is that they are free today. The other is that they are doomed to become a slave.

The only questions left are “when and how.” The “why” is because it’s seems to be their nature. It’s their natural role. They may not think it, but it is. They may be in denial about their nature, some even saying they are, in fact, natural mistresses, not natural slaves.   They are wrong.

Not all women are by nature slaves.   These girls are.

I often wonder how they will be converted.     Some of them will come recognize their nature and will volunteer to convert.   Most will not.   Most will under go betrayal by some one they thought they could trust.   That’s also natural.   A short time ago, this was called “breaking up” or “ending a relationship”, it might even be called “a divorce”.   It was full of noise and drama.   It was a normal part of the becoming an adult, or so people thought.

Today, it’s different.   Instead of calling a moving company or a lawyer, men come to me.

And after that, the girl discovers her true nature.

I see them.   I see slaves.

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“OK, boys, you say you’ve got papers and proof of personal contact on both of them? Let me see the tits. OK, sure, I’ll give 400 for the blonde, and will toss in a keg and tap.”

“Man, we need a little more than that.   What about Michele?”

“Well, I can offer 200 for her. Not much call for flat chested mousy browns around these part. Markets way down on them, being as how we get so many from cross the border. Brown haired that is. The no tits is a different bag of catfish.”

“Damn.   I can see where your coming from. Told you guys a pair of blonds was a better idea.   Well, I guess that will have to do then.   Bye bye, girls.”

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Boss man sends me out to Eastlake University, as support to the campus cops.     What he means is that they are going to arrest and convert some coeds and that they don’t want to drive to our shop.   Might cut into their doughnut eating time.

Seems there is a a bit of a disturbance in one of the free dorms. Some sort of anti-slavery protest in the woman’s bathroom.

First off, WTF. I mean if you’re going to protest slavery, why do it in the one place where most people that are there normally are going to be at least likely sympathizer to your cause? That’s a case of “expanding on religious dogma to the temple singers” to use boss man’s phrase, which is to say more or less a waste of time.

Next, if you’re going to do this, in the “safe” place, why make a big enough mess and/or noise that you attract the attention of the campus police?

I just don’t get it.

Any rate, I give them the speech and the one in the middle flips me off.     So she gets a tazer to the navel, while Angelica hits ‘Incinerate’ with her tazer and Tiffany nails ‘Filthy’.

OK, three more or less hot chicks converted to slavery for violating the EU’s rules on time and place for protests.   If they had done it out side in the quad, it would not have been a problem.   Doing it inside the dorms, during ’study hours’ (loosely defined as before 10:00 PM) in a designated no harassment zone, well, as the comic book guy says “Worst. Protest. Ever.”

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It seemed like such a good idea.   I needed some work done around the house.   I wanted a play toy.   So I went and bought me a play toy, then got tools and told play toy to work on the project list I left for her.   Seemed like a perfect mix.     I got a fuck and suck toy for a night, and while I was at work, all those “honey-dew” list things that the wife wanted done would get done.   Wife was even OK with the idea.   She even help me pick out the play toy.

First project was fixing that damn plant stand in the sun room.   Why we need a tri-level display for various green growing things is beyond me, but it seems to be important to The Wife, so it’s important to me.

Sigh. Play Toy, it seems didn’t think that she needed to take the plants off the damn thing before she started bashing at it it make it level and add some support elements.

Do you have any idea how much some of those damn green fuzzy things cost?   I had no idea.   Wife did, of course.   She informed me about it when I arrived home from the office.     Seems that they cost more than Play Toy did, in total.   I had no idea.

So, The Wife took the tools away from Play Toy and spent some quality time with the hammer.     Play Toy’s hands are going to be a bit useless for a while, what with the tip of each finger smashed flat.   But that’s OK.   I’m not all that into hand jobs and The Wife didn’t do any thing to her mouth, ass or cunt, so she’s still good to go as Play Toy.   Wife says she even does well at the carpet cleaning thing.

Learned an important lesson.   If you want a play toy, buy a play toy. If you have two things that need to be nailed together, hire a carpenter.   Lots cheaper in the end.

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I love doing pickups.

The look on most women faces when they realize who you are and why you are there.   That look of hopelessness.   That look knowing that some one that they know, maybe even loved and trusted, sold them into a life of slavery, or maybe even worse, sold them to be snuffed.   Killed.   Murdered, possibly by tortures to vile to think about. Someone they thought they could trust sold them.   Sold them to me.   And I get that look as they see me.

It’s why I got into this business to start with.   In an other age, I would be one of those men that the TV crew would have the neighbours say “He was a quiet man, keep to him self.”   But I don’t have to be that sort of man now.   I can go about my passion in the open.   I’m a licensed business man.   Doing a public service.     But i still get that look.   The look of helplessness and fear.   Oh yes, I get that look.

While the volunteers are fun, and make for an easier dollar, it’s the conversions, the involuntarily ones that I love to pick up.

It’s just that look they some times give you.   That look of knowing that their life, as they know it, is over.   That all that they have to look forward to is a life as slave, if they are lucky.     A painful and humiliating death if they are not.

Oh, yeah, i love doing pick ups.   It’s what i do.   And the look is a good part of why I do it.

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Robert Staub and his current “fiancee” had just pulled into one of the “Hill’s Fine Meat” Parking lot. Bob had told her that this would spice up their sex, add some “danger” to it.

“OK Bitch, this is your last chance. Do it good enough and I don’t take you in.”

Judy Fulford had little fear, Robert had always liked her giving head. She was sure that he was just doing this to show off his power Alpha male and all that..   She even smiled as she started to go do on Bob.

What Judy didn’t know is that Bob, her “loving boyfriend”, had started to really hate her.   She seemed so, well, clingy.   Plus loosing that bet on the Knicks games didn’t help. Needed 500 fast, and well, he didn’t need to make it look like he had to push for sales, might effect the promotion. So Judy Fuckface it was. Might as well make a game out of it and get one more blow job, then tell her it wasn’t good enough and take her into Hill’s Fine Meat.   Should get enough to pay off the loses, and still have some walking around money, even if she wasn’t Grade A Prime.

Judy started with enthusiasm and skill.   Robert soon felt that tell sign that he was about to cum.   He decided to dump into her throat, so he push her head down hard on his cock, loving the feeling of her gagging on his erupting cock.   It was, truth to be told a masterful blow job.   Possibly the best she had ever done.   Too bad this was all a charade, she was going to be sold regardless of her skills. Silly bitch had signed a “pre-nupt” that stated that they were already engaging in sex. That made him a Person of Personal contacts, even with out any films of them fucking. Best bit of shyster advice he got from his lawyer. Hell, with that paper, he might as well be a husband as far as the White Slave laws went.

She looked up at him “Well?”

“Is that the best you can do?   Fuck that.   I’m selling you by the pound.”

As he drove away, $750 richer, he thought.   “That was easy, wonder if I could pull that off with Audrey Albert over in Sales and Marketing. She seems like the type that would jump for (and on) a Sr. Account rep, who was on the short list for district VP.”

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I’m working it front desk today, the intake side. I’ve processed 7 or 8 women, girls, really, so far this morning. Mainly parental conversions, which is normal for this time of year.   Most of the ones I’ve seen to day have been Grade A, with only one given the “Live Roaster Endorsement”.   All but one were straight ahead sales, the other, Jami Mcneece, being a party package, which is to say that Jami, aka the meat course, would be kept here for 10 days, undergoing various forms of torture to release stress chemicals into her blood before she would be spitted and roasted for a block party. Jami is a hot red head, I was looking forward to helping with her torture, because, hey, it’s a redhead to torture, what’s not to love there?

Well, there was another processing that wasn’t technically a sale, even though the meat did get bought.   I did one of the Beta Gamma Delta sorority girls when they brought their pledge class through on a “fact finding tour”.   Cute little brunette girl.   She got on the Jessica 3000 when asked, but did start to throw a bit of fit when the president of the chapter signed her conversion invokement, then pushed the kill switch. I can’t believe that they got their whole pledge class to sign conversion papers and give the chapter president the right to invoke them at will.   I’d lay long odds that none a single member of that pledge class will make through the year alive, much less free.

I hear the door chime go off, so I look up from my work station, where the schedule of torture for Jami was listed to see a certified blond goddess, a prime roaster if I ever say one standing in front of me.

“My name is Samantha Kebert and I need to be snuffed like the pig I am.“

This is not what I normally hear from women that come here.

Well, OK, we can do that.   Do you have your conversion request paper work?

With out a word she hands them to me. All correct. I run her name and SSN through the database and she’s currently listed as a free woman, and not a mother, with no outstanding warrants. As far as the state of Oklahoma cares, she can volunteer to make her self into a spit roast if she wants. I hand her a urine sample cup.

“I need you to fill this to the red line, please. Use that ladies room.” She returns with the sample cup in a few minutes.   She’s clean and golden. Soon to be golden brown. I entered the data in the machine and Samantha Kebert just became a meat animal.

“You need to strip and to stand here, so I can grade you, oh, and for the record, you are a person of limited rights as of this time.“

The machine did it’s digital photo and laser scan of her body, and as expected it kicked back a grade of A-LRE*, which I went ahead and changed to A-Prime. I did a fast scan of outstanding bids for blond A-Primes and found 3.   I decided to be nice and ask her which one she wanted.

“So, pig, I’ve got 3 bids for a blond with your rating.   One’s a straight roast at the McPherson’s wedding, the next is a televised live oven roast on the Extreme Food Network and the last is a request for a terminal theatrical event slave from the Hellfire Group.“

What does a terminal theatrical event slave mean?”

“Well, in this case it means you will be slowly tortured to death over the course of a dinner theater show, mainly by whipping and being pulled apart a rack.   The shows normal go on for about 3 to 4 hours.” I checked the details of the bid. “It seems that the show is in 2 weeks, and that the slave will be used as a urinal slave until the show.”     I made a few more checks and found that they had bids for a total of 7 slaves for that event, all marked terminal.   I check the coding on the blond bid and determined that it was for a back ground death, not the center stage.   “Yeah, it looks like they are going to torture a blond to death in the back ground, it’s not the main drama.   So what it’s going to be?“

She looked at me. “So, I can be part of the happiest day of some woman’s life, have my death seen by maybe millions of TV viewers or I can be abused to 2 weeks, then die a painful, but mainly pointless death as part of some community theater group?“

“Yeah, pretty much.“

“Send me to the Hellfire Group then.“