Dark Erotic Fiction

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.“

There are several things I like about my job, like the fact that it’s my job to make hot chicks get naked.  Plus having a hot chick partner who also likes to make chicks get naked and who loves to suck cock.  These things do not suck.

There are a few things that I don’t. Running Bitches are high on my list of things I don’t like.

Let me give you an example.   Today, on my third pick up, I was sent to the address of one Ashlee Theus, on a simple triggered parental pre-approved conversion. Seems that Miss Ashlee wasn’t living up to the promises she made to her parents after she graduated from High School and got “her own” apartment.  The fact that daddy was paying the bills didn’t seem to sink in.

Any rate, Tiffany and I show up at Miss Ashlee’s apartment.  She lets us in, and I launch in to “The Speech”

Ashlee Theus, 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 disrobe and provide me with a urine sample. Do you understand my statement and instructions?

She nodded her head, kick off her flip-flops, then quickly stripped out of her jeans and tee shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra, which, I had been told, was one of the many issues that her parents had with her. She was wearing a black “Thong” style pair of panties.

The silly bitch pulled the thong off, stopped for  a few seconds, then threw it at Tiffany, then turned and started to run towards the back of her apartment.

ZAP

If your going to run, start more than 10 feet away, because if you don’t, well, you will be with in 35 feet of me when I get the Taser out. And if your less than 35 feet, well, your going to get a pair of darts in your ass. Literally in this case. I turned to Tiffany, while Ashlee flopped on the ground like a landed fish “I hate it when they run.“

Tiff looked up at me, as she was putting the not so swift running girl in to a “steel hogtie” (a set of 4 cuffs with about 6 inches of chain attached to each, meeting in a steel ring, making an X)

“No, you don’t you love it. That gives you an excuse to taze their ass, with out any worry about boss man looking at the tapes and getting on your ass for excessive force.“

OK, she’s right.  I really don’t hate it when they run.  I really also don’t hate it when Tiffany blows me over their stunned and quivering body either.

“We have a pick up where?”

“Like I said, at the Rosemary College. It’s at 31st and Sherman, right by the expressway.”

“I know where it is, but, it’s a freaking beauty school! There is no way this is legit.”

“Why do you think I kicked this one up stairs to you? Mom Hayden didn’t raise too many fools.”

“Otto….”

“Boss, you want me to go?”

“No, I better, besides, I still need to get out more. I’ll find out what the hell is going on.”

Normally, when we get a call from a school of some sort, it’s an open and shut case, and I can send out any body. The public high schools have “School Court”, which is just an Eastlake municipal judge who comes out the the school once a month or so. Most of the private schools require a pre-approved conversion for female students of age, or at least the ones that I deal with, and of course Eastlake University has it’s own court system. But Rosemary ‘College’ is one of those more or less fly by night trade schools and has no legal standing to do conversions. Add in the fact that most of their ’students’ are over 21, meaning no parental conversions, and you can see my issue.

I arrive at the school, where I am directed to the ‘Dean of Admissions’ office. I note that there is a ‘Overview Cards Taken Here’ sign next to the ‘Dean of Admissions’ office. Yeah, rough admissions policy “Did your check clear? Yes, then you are good to go! Welcome to the class of July, 2008!” The door says “Pearlie Masden, Dean” on it. Any rate, I open the door and find 2 totally nude women sort of sit/standing on cheap chairs.

A middle aged women, dressed like you think the ‘Dean’ of a beauty school in Oklahoma would be dressed looks up from the papers on her desk.
“Are you from the slaving place?”

“Yes, I am. Mike West of Spellbook Slaves at your service”

“Good. Take Valene and Carry with you. If I may be bold, I suggest that they would make great roasts. Or use them to train fighting dogs. Maybe one of those slow hangs things I see on the TV some days. But that’s just me. I don’t deal well with stupid.”

“Ok, Ms. Masden, that may be what happens, but on what grounds?”

“Oh, well, I assumed that is what happens to dumb slaves. I mean could you use them for sex, but really, wouldn’t killing them be so much better? I mean, isn’t that what you really want to do?”

I’m starting to think that Ms. Masden has a bit of a fixation on snuffing slaves, or at least these two.
“Well, let’s not put the cart before the horse here. What I meant was what ground do I have to convert them?” I turn to the two nudes. “I assume you aren’t volunteering”

Carry, the one on the right, just sort of looks up at the ceiling, and rolls her eyes, Valene more or less snorts “Whatever. No, as if we would do that. Take her, I mean, really, she didn’t tells us that there her freaking school had books and test, I mean, like, when do we get to cool cosmetics tricks Huh?  They never did that, so it’s not like we got what we signed for any way…”

Carry adds in “Yeah, like it really matters what the skin HP is.”

Ms. Masden looks like she is going to blow a fuse. “It’s Skin Ph you twit. There is NO WAY I’m letting you out on the world to damage people’s skin and hair. NO WAY YOU HEAR ME! Cosmetics is a SCIENCE AND AN ART. A SCIENCE YOU HEAR ME!”

She turns to me “See! That’s why! Take them, take them both to their painful death!”

Yeah, got some issues here.
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that not knowing what the Ph scale is, much less as applied to the human body, isn’t a convertible offense in this state. I don’t think it is in any state, actually.”

“But they FAILED THEIR TESTS!  They did NOT PASS the state boards!  UNDER 50%!  TWICE!  They lowered my schools average! ”

“Ah, well, that’s not a convertible offense either…”

“But they are on student aid! I’ve got their contracts right here!”

“OK, let me see them.”

She hands me a fairly thick contract. “Sections 7 through 9” I read the sections, noting that each section has a signature block. They boil down to that if you take the student aid package and don’t pass your Cosmetician board test at the end of your training, you could be converted and sold to pay off the loan. My first though on reading this was no one in their right mind would sign it, then I looked at Valene and Carry, and decided that “in their right mind” wasn’t really something I would every say about them. I flipped to the end of the stack, and sure enough there was a drug screen test result from a lab. All the ‘i’ were dotted and the ‘t’ crossed.
“Well, girls, should have read your books.
n

George and his Slaves – Keeping them occupied.

Driving my rental car back from Cov’s – Earnie’s Mistress – I glanced frequently at
Hillary in the seat next to me. She was nude, but I’d left her wrists unbound, instead of
cuffed behind the headrest like they’d been on the trip out. She’d been subdued the
whole day, since I accepted the group decision that she would be the one to accompany
me. She’d been compliant – that was the best word – in giving me some background on
her former friend, and then taking the part I’d instructed in the event itself.

She’d turned downright pensive afterwards, when she’d knelt beside me while I
discussed Earnie’s future with her owners, Cov and Hun. Earnie’s _short_ future.

“Talk to me,” I said, about halfway home. “What’s bothering you?”

“Nothing.” Her voice was flat, and she stared straight forward.

I checked the mirrors – I’d been doing so even more regularly than I’d been looking at
my slave: Driving on the wrong side of the road was going to take some getting used to –
for traffic before looking at her again. “Oh?”

“Nothing, _Master_” stressing the title.

I braced myself against the wheel and slammed on the brakes, throwing her forward into
her seatbelt, and then sped up again, throwing her back.

“Lying to me is bad,” I said as I steadied the car again. “I’ll punish you worse if I catch
you in a lie than if you say something I don’t like. Now what’s bothering you?”

“You’re going to eat her?” She still didn’t look at me, but at least her voice had some
emotion in it.

“Yes, a slice or two. Just to see what it’s like.”

“But that’s cannibalism,”

“Only technically. Legally, I suspect I’d cause more offence eating roast beef in a Hindu
temple.”

She was quiet for another couple of miles. But it was a different quiet to earlier.

“It’s real, isn’t it? You could to exactly the same to one of us,” she whispered very
quietly.

“Yes it is, and yes I could.”

***

Arriving home, I set Hillary to preparing dinner, and quickly padded down to the
basement to see how my other two slaves were getting on.

The basement of my new home was very much a product of the last seven or so years.
There were attachment points all over the place, and a movable pulley system like a
mechanic’s chain hoist on tracks from the ceiling. There was also a heavy diagonal
cross – a Saint Andrew’s, I think it’s called – built into the wall

Most of the fittings had been stripped by the previous owner, but the most permanent
installations had been left in place. I’d taken a couple of photos on our shopping trip the
day before, in order to get some advice in refitting everything, and the manager of the
local slave outfitters had recognised it instantly – he’d done most of the original
installation work.

With his help, I‘d brought most of what I’d needed to bring my dungeon back up to
scratch, and had orders in for the rest. It was certainly enough to provide Noreen and Tia
with sufficient ‘entertainment’ while I was out.

Tia was strapped tightly into the cross, cuffed ankles and wrists pulled out with ropes
threaded through pulleys at the tip of each arm. Most of her weight was being supported
by wide leather straps around her thighs and waist. Her breasts were squashed flat
between two balsawood boards. Not tightly, but enough so that she would feel it s
something tugged on them.

That something was a rope that passed down between he legs, behind the cross, up
through a series of guides to the ceiling, along to the hoist and down. To Noreen’s wrists.

Noreen was positioned in the middle of the room, her feet spread wide in a set of ‘ankle
stocks’ and bent over at the hip because her arms were bound together behind her back
and lifted away from her in a classic strappado.

It was a nicely tuned little system. To avoid pulling on Tia’s breasts, Noreen had to lift
her arms above a point that she could hold for very long. Conversely, Tia could pull on
her wrist ropes and cause the cleverly built cross to sink on springs and create just enough
slack to give Noreen a respite. The tension in the springs could be adjusted, and I’d set it
– after some trial and error – so that she should hold it about the same length of time as
Noreen could raise her arms.

At neither extreme should the bondage seriously damage either woman, although I
expected Tia’s chest to be tender for a while.

To mix things up a little, both women wore ring gags and had electronic dildos inserted
that randomly varied from pain to pleasure.

As a last, and probably cruel, touch, I’d had them bring one of the new televisions
downstairs and it was looping a DVD that I’d quickly put together the previous night
from the promotional videos for some of the goods I’d brought from the slave outfitters
and some training movies.

As I arrived, the programme was just finishing “Basic Passive Sodomy” and beginning
the promotional spiel for the various lethal collars offered by the supplier. There were a
surprising number of ways to die from a collar around your neck and the video showed
all of them.

Everyone was familiar with the ‘greater’ explosive collars that blew a slave’s head right
off, but there were also the ‘lesser’ explosive collars that used a much smaller charge to
blow out the throat or spine. There were collars that used a fine wire to garrotte the
victim, and ones that used a broader metal band to choke them to death. Overcharged
electric shock collars could do the job, too, and there were poisons, venoms and even
acids for the more exotically inclined.

I’d had one of the store slaves explain them all in detail to my slaves, and they paled
when I chose one of the exotics. Tetrodotoxin – Puffer fish poison – was one of the more
painful and messy ways to go, the store slave explained, with the victim often remaining
conscious through increasing gastric distress and then paralysis over the course of four to
six hours. The promo showed a strongly sanitised version of this, but I had a full length
movie record from exposure to expiry that I was saving for a penultimate warning.

I checked my watch and decided that this was the third time they would have seen this, so
I reached for the remote that I’d left by the door.

The movement attracted Tia’s attention, and she called out an obvious, if
incomprehensible, plea to be let down.

That caught Noreen’s notice and she twisted to see who was there, which, of course
pulled on the rope. I laughed and slipped out of my clothes as Tia yelped and Noreen
groaned in frustration.

Naked, I wandered slowly across the room, paused for a rope-jerking slap on Noreen’s
ass and stopped in front of Tia. A quick examination reassured me that there didn’t seem
to be any significant damage and I unclipped the rope from the boards, letting it fall to the
ground.

“Nearly done,” I told her as I reached down between her legs to flip switch on the dildo
from random to pleasure. She shuddered as the toy began its gentle stimulation.

Noreen felt the tension release as the rope fell and was beginning to straighten up when I
picked up the rope and pulled it painfully taut again. “Not quite yet,” I called out to her.
“Hold position for a couple of minutes.”

I picked up the claw/hook that I’d used to thread the rope through the ceiling pulleys and
unthreaded it again, back to the last pulley above Noreen. I flipped her dildo to pleasure,
then grabbed to rope and pulled her wrists far enough up to force her to bend till her head
was at the level of my crotch.

My intent when I stepped in front of her was obvious, and she went to work immediately,
wiggling the opening of the ring gag to get it over the head of my penis, then laving her
tongue liberally over everything it could reach.

It was unfair, I suppose: Earnestine had left me drained. Still, I managed a stand, so I
pulled out and, stripping the rope down through the last pulley, undid the ankle stocks
and led her over and used it to secure her to one of the padded horses.

Out of perverse whim, I left the dildo in place as I lubed up her sphincter and forced my
way past. Yeesss, much more comfortable than the virginally tight Earnie.

I could feel the bulk of the toy filling her other orifice, but not its more subtle electrical
effects, as I started o saw in and out to the rhythm of Noreen’s grunts. Unless that was a
slight tingle, just at the sensitive spot on the underside of my cock?

Wow! I DID feel it when the dildo started vibrating! I started pounding harder and faster
and then lost all control when Noreen orgasmed and squeezed her asshole tight. I came
hard and shot what little semen I’d been able to regenerate into her colon.

“_That_, I liked,” I whispered in her ear as I undid all of her bondage and helped her
upright, and then made her squirm by running my tongue into her ear.

Releasing her with a playful slap on the butt, we proceeded to release her fellow slave.

“Si, thank you patron,” were her first words as I removed the gag. I waited until her
dildo brought her to another orgasm and then released the boards on her breasts at its
peak. Her moan started to turn into a gasp, but reverted to a moan as I licked, and then
gently sucked her right nipple. Motioning Noreen to join me, we spent a couple of
minutes soothing her abused flesh before continuing.

Bracing myself in front of her, I had Noreen undo the waist belt, and then release the arm
ropes so that she flopped down onto me, wrapping me in a tight embrace while Noreen
freed her legs. Tia leaned her whole weight on me briefly before getting her feet under
her. I used the opportunity to give her a good hug as I let her go.

“So, my pretties, did you learn anything?”

They both nodded and Noreen added “But you tied me down too tightly to try anything.”

“You’ll get another chance, but it’s Tia’s turn tonight. You’re in the pussy eating
hogtie.”

Earnestine Royal

“Nice,” I thought as the house save led me into the room where his afternoon’s entertainment was waiting.

As I’d discussed with her new owner at the auction she was bent over the narrow end of a standard office desk, facing away from him with her legs spread wide. Three inch heels and stockings completed her attire. Except for the restraints, of course. Nice and simple: Spreader bar holding her ankles apart just about to the legs of the desk, a short chain linking the middle of it to the desk. Wrists cuffed and stretched toward the far corners. A nice, clean bent spread-eagle with a little bit of play in the stretch, so her breasts weren’t mashed down. Lastly was the collar – a standard brushed aluminum radio collar, by the look of it.

I stepped closer, approaching her for the first time since the auction, and shifted her hair, so I could examine the markings on the collar, near the latch. Yup, same brand as mine – rather, the ones my three new slaves were wearing – but the modality symbols were different. Earnestine’s only had the lightning bolt that symbolized an electric shock collar.

She’d tensed up as I approached, so I ran my fingertips lightly down the length of her spine. She jerked a little and pulled tight at the first touch but then relaxed as I chuckled.

“Good afternoon, Earnie,” I said, calling her by the nickname that until now – or so I’d been told by my slaves - only her husband had ever called her. Wheaton Heights was at the pretentious end of middle class: She was Earnestine to everyone but the closest female friends, who called her Tina.

“You may greet me,” I told her when she didn’t reply, only to get a muffled “ ‘ud affnn maffer”

I walked right around and saw the problem: the collar remote was jammed in her mouth.

Pulling it out, I stood back and raised an eyebrow.

“Good Afternoon Mast-eeeEEE!” I chuckled as I released the switch, letting her slump down.

While she gasped, I waved my own slave over and she began caressing Earnie’s ass, again causing the bound slave to start.

“Good afternoon, Earnie,” Hillary said in her furry contralto.

Earnie tried to whip her head around but locked in spasm as I triggered the collar again.

“Face me, Ernie,” I said as I crouched down to meet her eyes. “That’s right, look at me. I’m here to rape your virgin asshole. Keep looking at me while Hillary gets you ready. That’s right – keep looking at me, stay calm. Now, please, Hillary.”

I watched Earnie’s face as my slave intensified her caressing of her buttocks, kneading them before stretching them apart and running her finger down the crease. Earnie’s eyes widened at the first touch on her rosebud, and then more as Hilary inserted the narrow nozzle of the bottle of lubricant. The chilled lube made her gasp as Hillary squeezed the bottle and then she moaned as my slave inserted first one, and then two fingers up her ass.

“She’s ready, Master,” my slave reported.

“Good – come around head and undress me.”

Earnie watch as a nude Hillary removed my t-shirt and jeans, then leaned forward and licked up my already hard cock. She blushed and shuddered as I smiled and told her ‘Any time now.”

Hillary’s well greased hand caressed my cock, coating it with now warmed lube, as we walked back down to the business end of the table.

Stepping up behind the bound woman, I pulled her ass cheeks apart and placed the head of my cock right on her asshole. A quick prod revealed a slick give, and then she screamed as a hard thrust forced her ass wide open around my crown before she clamped down again, hard.

Good god, she was tight.

We acted in counterpoint – I’d thrust and she’d scream – until I was finally buried to the hilt. I pulled back for a couple of short thrusts and then slapped her on the ass. “How do you like that?”

“It hurts,” she sobbed.

“You should have had this done years ago, what was your husband thinking?” I asked as I pulled out completely.

I cut her reply off with a quick zap of the collar. “It was rhetorical. More Lube.”

Hillary complied quickly, firing another squeeze up Earnie, then running a drizzle down my length and massaging it in.

Stepping up, one long scream accompanied thrust buried me completely. “Much better. God, you’re tight, woman.”

I grabbed her hips and set up a rhythm of short strokes followed by long ones as she whimpered and screeched, but it didn’t take long. Between her tightness, the screams and the excitement of popping an anal cherry, it was only a few minutes before I filled her rectum with semen.

Pulling out one last time, I gave her a light slap. “I’m going to have to arrange more visits with your owned,” I told her. “I want to see how you improve.”

As Hillary wiped me off with a cloth, there was a click/thump from the table as the ropes holding her wrists released, and so did the chain holding the spreader bar to the table.

“Thank him, slave,” A voice ordered from the doorway. Earnie’s owner stood here holding a duplicate collar control, which she triggered when the slave didn’t move.

Earnie groaned when the current stopped, and pushed herself backwards off the table until she was kneeling with her ankles still spread by the bar and the mixture of lube and cum starting to run down her thigh. She knee-walked awkwardly over to me and bowed, touching her forehead to the floor. “Thank you master, for raping my asshole. May I show my appreciation by sucking your cock?”

How could I refuse? I nodded and she leaned forward to lick the head, but quickly proceeded to deep throat me in a single pass. Wow!.

“She’s got a Fuck&Suck rating of 85 for her oral skills,” her owner told me, although I have to admit that I wasn’t paying a huge amount of attention. “She’s really quite good.”

Was she ever! It took a little longer than my first orgasm, but I was soon pumping another load down her throat.

Yep, I’d definitely be seeing whether I could come back for another round.

Just a Little Drink!

Slave Tracie

My name is—or was—Tracie Bothwell. I was born 23 years ago. Last week I was Reverend Jesse’s personal secretary. Yes, we were intimate. It’s a miracle that I wasn’t enslaved already, but Jesse never even mentioned it. Jesse was my life. Not only did I handle his affairs, but I was a valuable member of his staff. The Revival Bible Fundamentals Network is very much a 21st Century church. We believe in enjoying life. That includes sex and alcohol—in moderation. Jesse is so masterful that I would do anything for him. Anything. But my life is over, now.

As a hobby, I sang alto in the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network Choir. That led to my undoing. My solos intoxicated me. I already know that I’m a follower, one of the sheep. When several of the girls went out for drinks, I didn’t have it in me to refuse. We all put on bathing suits under our clothes and the five of us headed into Eastlake to bar hop. We’d be careful to stay away from slaver bars—they’re clearly marked on the outside. We were careful to get just one drink, and to drink only half of it. I lost track of the time and how many bars we went to. Yes, I got drunk. The rest of the night was like a bad dream. Some guys told us that they were cops and that we were under arrest. Don’t quote me—I’m a slave now, and I was so drunk that I peed all over myself. The next morning I was naked and in a cage by myself. That evening I was given some dog biscuits. I was hungry enough to gnaw on them. I wanted more water—one of the men used a garden hose to spray me down. He laughed at my sputtering and hosed me down some more. I lapped up the water on the floor of my cage because I was so thirsty! Then a girl came in and asked what was going on. I think she was called Crystal or Muffin or something like that. Anyway, she got me some more water and got me dried off.

A man calling himself ‘John’ got us out of the cages and the girl Trixie or whatever helped us clean up. ‘John’ scribbled down some notes as Trixie took some photos. He said that all five of us were prime, whatever that means. Muffy herded us back into our cages. I never knew we were wearing those horrid collars until I fell to my knees after asking Muffy when we were going to be fed. I keep calling her a girl—she was a short, skinny, cute little thing. Poor girl!

After we were left alone I tried talking to the others. Anything other than a whisper and our collars would shock all of us! I tried to talk and all five of us yelped—which shocked us and we cried and we’d get shocked…

The little girl came in again and told us that we had to be quiet. She explained about our collars. It was able to shock us by remote control. If we talked too loudly, it would shock us. If we left the garage, we’d get a strong shock—enough to knock us out, all of us. The girl demonstrated by shocking all of us.

“Your collars are set so that if one of you misbehaves, you all suffer. Tonight you are going to be visited by the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol. They are the ones who caught you tearing around the neighborhood and arrested you. Neville took your voluntary conversions.”

Traci tried to say something—we were all given another shock.

“Girls, get used to it! Your lives are in danger. Dad will have you barbecued if you don’t sell at auction this weekend. You don’t get it—you are slaves. Mr. Robinson came by and put in a meat bid on you. If you don’t sell, you will be slaughtered here and your lifeless bodies sold to the highest rated long pig BBQ place in Eastlake–Roberson’s Fine BBQ and Party Supply. If the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol can’t beat Robinson’s meat price, they can kill you without paying a meat tax and Robinson’s can buy you. All they have to do is push a switch on this collar remote and you’re all dead! I need your help to sell you for a high price. If you’d rather be meat, just give me some grief. Follow my instructions and you might be bought by a good master.” The girl’s voice dropped to a whisper. “I sold my own mother last week. She brought $3800 and I’ve seen her since the auction. Mom is working at the slave sorority house at Eastlake University. Her owner told me that Mom was going to be taking classes and working at the sorority house as house mother. The more I sell you for, the more likely your new owner will treat you well. Be glad that the minimum bid is $1000. You could wind up sold as farm labor. You could become a miner—working under conditions so bad that they won’t use a robot. It’s better that you be put down than some things that happen to slaves. How do you think they test new medicines now? Those kinds of slaves are bought for as little as possible. I haven’t seen them buy anyone for those jobs at higher than $400. Now, cooperate with me and we can get a good price for you—a good home. Otherwise, after the auction Dad will push the button and you will die.”

The little girl looked right at me and her next words chilled me to the bone.

“Don’t think that I’m a pushover just because I’m small and cute. I like watching stupid bitches writhe under the whip. I don’t hate you, but I’m jealous that you’ve got those big tits. I’m jealous that you are going to have sex. Dad promised to enslave me and sell me to Robinson’s if he ever catches me acting like a slut. I’m not going to give him that excuse. If I have to fry every one of you big titted bitches, I will. I know what can happen and I will do whatever it takes to remain a free woman. Anything!”

There were some old mattresses in a corner. Buffy brought us some tasty bread bars. The little loaves were stamped with a castle thingy—like a chess piece. They were good. I whispered my thanks as I was given another bottle of water to wash it down.

“Mistress,” I whispered, “what are these? The food we got earlier tasted like dog food.”

“Slave bars. Mom gave me a few. They are good, aren’t they?”

“Yes, Mistress. Thank you. This fills me up better than the dog food.”

“Mom made them. Shelly Clark gave me a bag when she heard that I had more slaves to sell.”

Later we were let out of our cages to bathe one at a time. Terrie had us move some mattresses from a corner of the garage to the middle and tied us up. She told us that we’d be used for sex all week. The better we performed, the better we’d eat. A while later, a bunch of drunken guys had their way with us. Another girl named Connie brought blankets and put us back in our cages after untying us. She must have been a slave, too. She was naked. Connie had old welts and new and was still crying.

My other cage mates were Tracie and Josefina and Melba and Jeannie. We all looked up to Jeannie because she was our composer and choir director. Jeannie had been leading us in prayer. When we were left alone for the night, Jeannie led us through a prayer that Reverend Jesse would raise the money and bid on us. We prayed to Jesus for His mercy. It got cold in the garage lying on the concrete cage floor with just one thin blanket. I thanked the Lord for that thin little blanket.

Over the next several days we were sex tested by Melvin or Marlin—I’m really bad with names. I actually enjoyed myself. Even the pain testing was fun. Don’t get me wrong—I don’t like pain. Marvin made it fun. Connie was there all of the time and little Buffy visited us once a day. There was even a Mark East, a slaver—he looked us over. I guess he didn’t like what he saw. We ate dog food, left-overs that Connie brought us, and some of those good slave bars, but there was never enough. Jeannie led us in our prayers of thanks. Three times a day Connie took us to the bathroom. Prayers, feeding, getting fucked by the men, going to the bathroom—those were the high points in a boring existence. Finally, Zoe or Ziffy got us ready for the auction. We prepared the auction stage and we cleaned up. It was hard to get presentable with just soap and water and a shared hair brush. Connie and what’s-her-name got us cleaned up and the crowd arrived. When we were displayed at the start of the auction, I looked around for Reverend Jesse. He wasn’t there! I felt so low that I didn’t notice the start of the auction.

The good news was that nobody went to Robinson’s.

I was bought by Peter Castleman! That’s one name I remember—I catch all the reruns. I even had the unrated ”too hot for TV” DVD’s. Jesus had mercy on me.

Master Peter asked me what I wanted to do with the rest of my life. As we went to his home outside of the city, other naked slaves asked me questions. I didn’t know. My life is in Jesus’ hands. Master Peter is those hands. Whatever he tells me to do.

Upon arriving at the Castleman Ranch I was medically examined, photographed, something was put in my butt so that I could be tracked and I was questioned about my past. Master Peter said that my close contact as Reverend Jesse’s personal secretary was private information—that those were not my secrets to share. Me? Secrets? I don’t know any secrets. I did get my first real meal in a week. No clothes, though. Everybody here runs around in their birthday suits—even Master Peter. I guess I can get used to being naked all the time. The Castleman Trust DVD’s showed that everyone was naked, so it wasn’t a surprise. I’m making friends. There’s somebody called Ginger—I recognize her from television, too. As for the rest, I’m going to make up a spreadsheet so that I can tell who is who. There are a lot of people here!

Oh, yeah, Master Peter is going to Ellisia. Penny, one of his slave wives, made sure that I have something to wear—Ellisia has a dress code. Clothes are required.

I do wonder what the rest of my life will be like. It isn’t bad being a slave here. I’d like to wear clothes, but that’s okay. Nobody else does around here. I don’t want to be out of place.

Jeannie told me that I should have dyed my hair blonde. I didn’t know that was a put-down until Susan told me different—I do need that spreadsheet! Susan is another slave wife.

Just think—all this occurred because of a little drink.

The Mistress (Part 1)

Professor Jack Neil and I first met at Oxford. A dashing black-haired man in his early forties, he once served as a Member of Parliament. But he lost his seat when the conservative party fell from favor and accepted a professorship at Oxford.

Something of a prodigy, I—Shara McCray—entered Oxford at fourteen. The same year I turned seventeen, I matriculated with a double first in economics and mathematics. Acting as an academic advisor of sorts, Jack recommended I obtain an MSc in Financial Economics.

Over the next few years, I earned my MSc while Jack taught me ever so many lovely aspects of sex, including bondage and the joy of being utterly dominated by a man who knew his way around a woman’s body. I lack the words to describe how infatuated Jack had me. The mere the sight of him dampened my panties. I happily became—to be blunt—his submissive slut.

Because Jack was married, I was more or less his mistress. And let me tell you, I loved sex as his mistress, the feel of his body against me, atop me , and inside me. On those times when he spent prolonged time with his family, I would masturbate several times a day while thinking of him. In some ways, it felt like worshiping at the feet of a god.

Although he was more than twenty years older than me, Jack had an attractive, athletic body. His dark blue eyes and tousled black hair shot through with streaks of silver drove me wild. He liked to mix up our sex, sometimes soft and romantic; other times, he’d take me rough and hard. He loved tie-up games, always with me tied to the bedpost and him basically doing anything he wanted to. And I confess, I found it thoroughly thrilling.

Frankly, I found Jack exciting whether he tied me up or not. Several times, he came up behind me in the student lounge where I might be wearing a tiny pair of shorts, and a minuscule tank top cut off just below my breasts. His arms would wrap around me and he would kiss the back of my neck, while sliding his hands up to cup and squeeze my breasts. Oh yes, other students might stare jealously, faculty would frown, but no one questioned Jack.

The year I finished my MSc, Jack left Oxford to take a position with the Foreign and Commonwealth Office (FCO). It meant going abroad to America: the land of savages and slavery. When he told me that he was leaving, I felt crushed. It was as if my heart had died. I couldn’t stop crying.

And I’m afraid, I behaved rather badly. I threatened to tell his wife if he left me or maybe go to the tabloid press. I contemplated suicide and I made sure everyone in the vicinity knew it.

In the end, Jack came through. He got me a position as staff with the FCO as a trade analyst. I would be posted with him at the new consulate in Eastlake, Oklahoma. It was always his intention for me to join him, he explained.

Six months later, we sat in the kitchen of the studio I rented outside the British Consulate. I wore a yellow blouse and pleated skirt and looked demure and a rather young twenty. I’m petite with a fair, heart shaped face, green eyes and thick, long auburn red hair that now spilled in loose curls over my shoulders.

Jack laid my copy of the “Story of O” on the glass tabletop. “The O of this story was truly committed to her man,” Jack said in a flat voice. “She placed no artificial limits on her relationship.”

“Jack,” I cried out. “I would never stopped you from anything. I love you.”

He smiled and stood. “Stand,” he commanded.

Readily, I stood and moved into his arms. He slid his hands down to where they rested on my bottom, squeezing and kneading it through my skirt. Pulling my skirt up, he slid his hands underneath my silk panties, fondling my buttocks directly, groping hungrily at my soft skin. I sighed when he pulled me fiercely against his chest. He moved from underneath my skirt and ripped my blouse open. Unhooking my lacy bra, he bared by firm breasts and began to stroke and fondle me. My breasts weren’t the biggest he would have felt, but they were firm, young, and well-shaped. I had no shyness and began to gasp a little as he stroked me further.

Dropping my own hands, I undid his belt and then pants, feeling his cock throb. Easily lifting me, I straddled his body with my legs. I felt a quick tug as he ripped my silk panties and shifted me slightly before thrusting inside me. I had already started to pant my arousal when I heard his voice as if from a distance.

“O consented to be her lover’s slave,” he said.

“Yes,” I gasped as I squeezed his body with my legs, his cock with my pussy. “I’m your willing slave.” I felt a heat deep in my loins and my heart pounded with excitement as he shifted me so that my bottom sat on the glass of the kitchen table. I ran my hands through his hair and then scratched my fingernails down his back, rippling across the black silk of his shirt.

“Here in the United States,” he said, “you literally could be my slave.”

I blinked at the thought. “Only while we stayed in this country,” I said slowly.

“True,” Jack said. “But you’d be at my mercy while here in Eastlake.”

I shuddered at the deliciousness of the thought. “Would you agree to limits,” I asked struggling to focus even as my lover’s cock drove me wild.

“No limits,” he said. “My slave totally and completely.”

As I said yes, he drove into me, pulsing within my vagina, his seed spilling into my womb as I screamed out in orgasmic submission to his will. I still felt sticky between my thighs when, less than thirty minutes later, I found myself dressed and being driven to a gum-chewing, mid-fifties woman who would notarize my agreement to submit to voluntary enslavement.

I shivered as I signed the paperwork. I’m supposed to be this incredibly bright woman. But it was like my love of Jack had shut down my brain. I wanted to be his slave. And the mere thought of it terrified me. But the thought of losing Jack terrified me more.

Once I signed the enslavement form, Jack bundled me back in his car. “We need to go to a registered slaver next,” he laughed. “You can’t directly sell yourself to me. After he accepts your voluntary enslavement, he transfers ownership of you to me. That way, there’s a licensed slaver at each end of the transaction.”

I smiled nervously and he kissed me hard on the lips. “I love you,” I whispered to him.

“Then prove it,” he said as he pulled to the curb outside a private house. “Follow me.”

The man inside wore a lawyer’s pinstripe suit. But he looked hard. I had to provide a urine sample. And then I signed another form all the while shooting nervous little glances at Jack. I sat sipping a glass of water the man had given me while we waited for results of the test. Moments later, the man smiled at Jack. “We’re good,” he said. “Now if you’ll hand me a five dollar bill, I’ll transfer ownership of Shara to you.”

I felt woozy. And I couldn’t quite understand when Jack stood and said, “I’m sorry. I forgot to bring American currency. I’ll have to return another time.” It was about then, I felt terribly cold in my chest. Then I passed out.

I woke in a small red walled room. It was semi-dark, but I could see it had two doors, one led out—I presumed. The other door was slightly ajar. I suspected it led to a bathroom. I sat in a bed that rested flush with the left wall. The only other object visible in the room was a thick steel ring set above the bed. A long steel chain descended from it onto the bed, its links forming a little pile. I was naked, but for a pair of leather bracelets and, I later learned, a leather collar. Even as I looked around and caught my bearings, the outside door opened and the slaver entered.

He no longer wore the clothes of a wall-street lawyer. He now wore a casual pullover sweater and a pair of faded blue jeans. “Morning lovely,” he said as he reached out and hooked the chain through rings in my wrist bracelets. I felt strangely passive and the-morning-after as he laced the chain through a hook on the bed. “Please stand,” the slaver said.

Shuddering, I tried to stand, but could only get to my knees. With one hard calloused hand, he took me by the elbows and helped pull me straight. I now stood on the bed with my face to the wall. I felt him pull the chain tighter, my wrists rising above my head. “Where’s Jack, ” I managed to ask just as I heard a whistling sound behind me and a lash of some sort cut into my shoulders.

I screamed. And I continued to scream as the slaver beat me across my back and shoulders. I lost my footing and hung there by my wrists as he continued to beat me. Sobbing, tears streamed down my face as the lash bit into my ass, waist, and even once hit my neck and wrapped around my cheek, leaving a line of pain on my face.

Eventually, I felt his hands on my hips and he turned me to face him. He was a tall man. But I could look into him face to face. He had cruel grey eyes and held a leather whip with a soft, leather flexible lash. He stepped back and I flinched as I saw him bring his arms to continue my beating. The lash fell on my thighs, my belly, my breasts. And when he finally stopped and unchained me, I fell moaning to the bed, slight stains of red staining the white sheet where the lash had cut particularly deep.

I flinched as he smoothed a cool ointment into the worst of the cuts. He tipped my head up and gave me water to drink. I wanted to resist, but he cruelly forced my head around and commanded that I drink.

Time blurred. I woke intermittently to random beatings, less intense somehow than the initial beating. But still, he always left me in agony. My mind a blur of pain and confusion. Did hours pass? Or was it days? Even weeks? I had no idea. My tormentor would feed me bits of fruit and cheese from time to time. On occasion, he took me to the adjoining bathroom and helped me as needed with my personal needs.

At some point, he began to end the beatings with a demand that I take his cock in my mouth. I desperately wanted to resist. No matter how wild and decadent I might have been with Jack. He had remained my only lover. But the slaver resisted my pleas and with a skilled application of pain forced my mouth open.

I found my lips wrapped around his his thick cock. His grey eyes coolly stared down on me. He thrust into me and used me as mere tool, forcing his cock down my throat. I had learned to deep throat Jack, but I still found myself gagging as he jerked my face back and forth against his groin. When he finally gasped and came in my throat, he softened and pulled out. “You’ll have to do better,” he said and then left me curled in a ball of pain on the bed.

Now, I woke to beatings and then after, trying to please him with my mouth. He always seemed angry. “Your don’t even try,” he would yell.

And I blubbered, “I don’t know what you want.”

He shook his head and used ties to secure me to the bed. “Playtime is over,” he said. He forced my mouth open with his left hand. And my eyes widened when I saw he had what looked like a pair of pliers in his right hand. “Struggle and I’ll make you wish you were dead,” he utter in a low, forceful voice.

My green eyes held dread and fear as he pulled my tongue outside my mouth. “I’m using a ten gauge needle,” he said. Surprisingly, the pain when he pierced my tongue felt minimal. So many other areas of my body hurt more. Until now, he had not caressed or otherwise touched my vagina. But now, I felt him spread my legs. I whimpered and felt something wet and cold as he cleaned me.

I wanted to see what he was doing, but couldn’t. I felt a strange sensation as he slid something under the hood of my clitoris. And then a sharp biting pain. “It’s a beautiful vertical piercing,” he said. “You’ll love the look.”

The pain that night was worse. He set ice chips by my bed and after awhile, he brought a towel wrapped bag of ice for between my legs. He acted almost gentle. When I woke in the morning, there was no beating. He unchained me, though, I still wore a leather collar and bracelets. And he then gave me a filmy white robe. I tried to talk, but my tongue was too swollen.

He led me to another room where I sat uncomfortably at a table. When Jack walked in with another man—someone I recognized from the British Consulate—I began to cry.

“It’s okay darling,” Jack said. “Do you still want to be my slave?”

I hesitated and he started to turn as if to leave. Maybe it was my imagination. This was my true love, Jack. So I nodded and mumbled through my swollen tongue something meant to be a yes.

“Wonderful,” he said with a smile. Mr. Worrick is here to witness your signature on a few documents. “It turns out, a British citizen can’t own another British citizen.” He set a three page document in front of me. It was already filled in with my name and identifying information. Mr. Worrick leaned over the table and said officiously, I’ll need you to sign here and here.

My hand shook as I scrawled my signature on the page. “Now darling,” Jack said. “You’ll execute this document. It transfers the trust left to you by your parents to me. I felt like dying. But I signed the document. I had to trust Jack. I had no choice.

Jack turned to Mr. Worrick. “You’ve witnessed Shara’s signature renouncing her British citizenship and transferring the trust. Any questions regarding her mental state?”

“No,” Worrick burbled. “Sharp as a tack, I’m sure.”

“Well then,” Jack said as he pulled a five dollar US bill from his wallet. “I’ll take her.”

The man I thought of as “slaver” signed a document and handed it to Jack. “A pleasure doing business with you,” he said with a smile. “It’ll be a few weeks before she’s wholly healed up.”

Jack sighed. “I can’t really deal with it. Can you keep her until she’s fully healed?”

“Of course,” my captor said. I was screaming through the pain of my swollen tongue as Jack and Mr. Worrick walked out.

THE AUCTION

“SOLD!” Tiffany’s voice penetrated my cocoon. “Ernestine Royal is sold to the woman in the gray jacket!”
It hit me suddenly. I had been in denial. This was all just a nightmare, I told myself. I will wake up and tell my husband about this dream and we will share a laugh together. Someone took me by the hand and led me to the edge of the stage. There my shoes were pulled off and the few pieces of jewelry removed. The last of my old life was left on the stage. I caught a glimpse of my new owner.
I didn’t know her. I knew everybody, so she must have been from out of town. She was a bit shorter than me, with gray hair and about thirty extra pounds. Her cloth coat was gray—something like a trench coat. I thought I saw tan boots on her feet. I did see brown pant leg between boot and coat hem. No fashion sense at all—was my new owner trailer trash? I reminded myself to never say anything that would give my owner an excuse. Slaves have no rights. I could be beaten, snuffed and eaten for any reason or no reason at all. Our eyes met—hers were brown.
“Silence,” she hissed as she tugged on my arm. I barely felt the pavement beneath my feet. She led me to a large unmarked white motor home. The side door was open. “Climb in!”
Inside there was a table with straps. Someone up front started the engine. I was pushed inside. The door slammed. We were in motion! While I processed this, my new owner applied pressure to my arm and spun me around. Before I was able to do anything I was flat on my back, staring at the ceiling. I felt my ankles get strapped in position, and then my wrists were secured at my sides. I lifted my head to look at my owner and something was buckled around my neck.
“Remain quiet,” she commanded. “This is a training collar. If you talk you will be shocked like this.”
The initial shock was unexpected. I yelped and was shocked again. That caused me to yelp again. Shock. Yelp! Shock! The shocks were getting more powerful. I was sobbing when my owner took pity on me and shut my collar off.
“Shut up, slave!”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” I gasped. I couldn’t stop shaking. It hadn’t been ten minutes and already my owner was torturing me.
“Get control of yourself. I’m turning your collar back on. Don’t fight me and you won’t be shocked. There are worse things than the collar.”
Worse? I had a very bad feeling as the woman moved around and busied herself out of my line of sight. A sudden pop made me flinch against my bonds—the buzz sounded like a saw mill. My owner grabbed my head and pushed something cold and vibrating against my scalp. It hurt! Oh, it hurt as she sheared my hair from my head. I only barely managed to stifle my screaming—just some moaning. No shocks, thank God. In a few seconds I could tell that my head was bald. Without turning off the clippers, she released my head and moved between my legs. There wasn’t as much hair down there. It felt as if it were being yanked out instead of sheered off. I saw some stubble left behind—and angry red welts. The clippers went silent and the woman moved back to my head. Things slid. I heard snapping, smelled rubber. The next smell was something like really bad eggs.
“Keep your eyes closed or you will go blind,” my owner snarled. “Tighter!”
She smoothed on some harsh depilatory. It tingled at first, and then the tingle became a burn. After covering most of my head, I felt her coat my legs and crotch. She then worked some of that horrid burning stuff into my arms, on my chest, and my armpits. I was crying and moaning—a tingle at my collar warned me not to scream. I heard her moving around, water running. A moment later, she was chatting with another person while bald me became balder. I didn’t understand what they said as they giggled and gabbed. The minutes dragged on and my skin felt like it was being burned off! My bonds held me fast as I squirmed in growing discomfort. I began to wonder if the collar would knock me out—I was this close to screaming because the burning was getting worse than the shocks. Cold water and a rough rag removed the pasty lotion—the burn lessened, but I was tender all over. A few minutes later the woman wiped my face with something cooling. She rapidly covered my skin, replacing burn with cool.
“You can open your eyes now, slave,” she told me. I slowly opened my eyes and looked at my new mistress. The driver remained unseen by me. If he or she had a mirror, I’m sure that they could simply glance in the mirror and see my tonsils through my private parts. My thighs were open and my head was pointed back of the vehicle. I tried to raise my head, but somehow the collar held me down. My owner came around and I felt myself blush. “I am going to let you ask a few questions in two minutes. Keep your voice low or you will be shocked and I will stop answering questions. We are both free women and we expect you to respect us. Do you understand me?”
“Y-yes, Mistress,” I whispered.
“Good. Two minutes. I will not tell you where we are going or what we will do with you. You don’t need to know our names—we are all ‘Mistress’ to you. Your name is slave. Think about your questions, slave. Your life depends on them.”

THE TRIP TO MY NEW HOME

Questions? I had lots of questions. That two minute time limit was a cruel joke. I couldn’t ask who my new owners were or where they were taking me. They weren’t going to tell me what they were going to do to me.
Tiffany Mullen had given us wives a limited amount of slave training prior to the auction. Thank you, Mistress Tiffany. It was painful, but may have saved my life.
“Mistress,” I began—I was supposed to be on my knees with my eyes cast down out of respect—impossible when strapped supine to a table,” slave requests to know if being bald is permanent—and how a bald slave may better serve Mistresses.”
The woman regarded me for a moment.
“Time’s up, slave. Looks as if you don’t get your questions answered. Does that bother you, slave? Too bad! Slave has no rights. If I want, I can snuff you just by pushing a button.” I felt a tingle through my collar – I couldn’t help moaning. “Ah, our first stop. Don’t go anywhere!”
Two women giggled as they exited the van. The noises of the gas station were familiar. Soon, someone got back into the van. The engine started and the van drove around for a while, and then stopped. The engine turned off again. Someone made the van bounce as she moved around. A few minutes later I was released from the table. My owner made me sit up. She fastened my hands behind my back with plastic ties and made me sit in one of the chairs. My owner wore a brown pants suit—she had shucked her gray coat. Tiffany’s lessons came back: do not make eye contact with your owner or any free person or they will hurt you for your insolence. I began to tremble.
“Are you cold, slave?”
“No, Mistress,” I shook my head as I spoke. I could have kicked myself! “I’m just nervous, Mistress.”
“Good,” my owner chortled. “I wasn’t going to let you wear anything even if you were freezing to death. It is good that you are nervous. You should be nervous. Remember that you have no power. Your future depends upon my good graces.”
The van was silent for a while. I risked a glance at Mistress. She was leaning back in her captain’s chair on the passenger side of the van. She was watching the front of the store—one of those club stores or discount warehouses. I never would shop at those places. That was for trailer trash—not Wheaton Heights residents! My owners were trailer trash? Tears filled my eyes, ran down the outside of my nose and dripped off, splashing against my thighs. I couldn’t help myself. I started sobbing.
A lightening bolt coursed through my body.
“Stop that! I forbid crying, slave,” I glanced at Mistress in surprise, received another jolt. “Don’t look at me, bitch! I am a free woman and you are a slave! Never forget that! Oh, you used to be so high and mighty. Now you are in my power. I never forget. You are going to pay for what you did to me and Cov.”
I couldn’t help myself. She shocked me and I bawled. She kept shocking me and I kept crying. After a while the door to the van opened up and several cloth bags were tossed into the van. These bags were white. I didn’t see any markings. When the door shut, the smell built up. It was horrid—it smelled like burned leaves soaked in gas.
“I’m driving, Cov,” my owner said. “Got my cigarettes?”
“Here. Ready to head out, Hun?” Cov asked.
“Yes. Did you get enough charcoal?”
“That’s why I needed help from a store slave. I sent her back to get whipped for being uppity.”
“Good for you! Do you want to whip slave?”
“No–just give me that goddamned remote.” Both Mistresses cackled in glee. “What goes around comes around!”
It was a long, painful trip. Mistress smoked those awful clove cigarettes. Between the awful smell of the charcoal, the stench of cloves and the electric shocks I lost my breakfast all over the back of the car. That brought retribution. After a while, it didn’t matter any more.
How long did I travel? I can’t say. I didn’t even know that the van had stopped until the door swung open and I was unbuckled from the chair. Cov dragged me out and hosed me down with cold water. She made me rinse out my mouth and drink from the hose. She didn’t shock me any more—just slapped my butt. Presently, I was marched into the house.
“Slave,” Cov snapped as she pointed to the floor, “kneel.”
For the next hour or so I was given painful instructions on what my owners expected from me. They would snap an order and punish me. If I got it right, they would sneer that I was finally making progress. Mostly they hit me and screamed that I was a worthless cunt. I couldn’t help crying. They were so mean!
Then I was chained to a chair. Hun gave me a spiral-bound notebook and a pen.
“Write what just happened. Leave nothing out. You will be punished if you don’t tell the truth.”
That’s why I’m writing this journal. I don’t dare leave anything out—even if they are insulting to my Mistresses.

NIGHT AND DAY
Mistresses gave me an hour to write in this journal last night and another hour this evening. Picking up where I left off last evening, Mistresses fed me some oatmeal. I can’t decide if oatmeal or slave chow are worse. It was just oatmeal—cold, glue-like slime. Amazing how much taste there is in food when only bland stuff is available! Breakfast—I was given table scraps and half a cup of cold coffee. I got some bread and water for lunch. I haven’t had dinner yet—right now that oatmeal doesn’t seem so yucky.
Mistresses played sex games with me most of the night. They fucked me with strap-ons. I was amazed to find that Mistresses didn’t have any hair—that they were as bald as me! I wasn’t into lesbian sex before I was enslaved. Now my life depends on it. Thank you, Neville Champion and thank you Queenie for your lessons in how to pleasure women. It seems that Mistresses call each other ‘Cov’ and ‘Hun.’ I am called ’slave.’ That means something bad, I think, not having a name. Neville and Tiffany taught me that I needed to establish a bond with my owners as quickly as possible. The only tools left to a slave are instant and complete obedience. Neville and Queenie didn’t have much time to teach me to use my other tool, sex, but they said that the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol planned to use me and that would be an opportunity to practice pleasuring a man. Tiffany ordered us enslaved wives to practice pleasuring each other—just in case a woman bought us. Last night I did my best. I was beaten and denied orgasms and left tied up. In the morning during and after breakfast I did my best to pleasure Hun. Cov seems to get pleasure only from beating me. I am sore, but I think that I will just try harder. Mistresses spent the day training me. Note to other slaves: it is nice to kneel unmolested beside Mistresses while they watch television. It is good to be caged and tied up—because I’m not being whipped. I pray that my groveling isn’t inciting them to punish me more!
Right now I am sitting comfortably at a desk and writing this journal. In a few minutes, Mistresses will lock it up again. I’m not sure why they are having me keep a journal, but it beats being beaten!

THE NEXT DAY
Mistress Hun let me sleep on a pad in the cage last night. They seemed satisfied with my performance and allowed me to finish their Chinese take-out dinners. It was the best meal that I’ve had in a week! The next morning I was puppy-dog eager to please them with my tongue and fingers and anything else. They fed me part of an omelet and some pastries. The coffee was warm—oddly salty, too. If Mistresses tell me that they’ve peed in the coffee before they gave it to me, I will kiss their feet. Coffee is coffee. I’ve had worse.
I was locked in the cage outside during lunch. Mistresses were cruel, eating and telling me that I wasn’t to be fed.
“You will be motivated to provide better sex, slave.” It was Cov who told me that.
After they had eaten lunch I was taken to a room that was bare except for a plain metal desk, something an office worker would use. On the desk was a plastic bag with the Tri-Shop logo, the store we stopped at. Cov pulled out a pair of seamed stockings and and some nylon dog collars. I was perched on the edge of the desk and the stockings were rolled up my legs. Cov didn’t bother with garters—the elastic tops fit snugly. A pair of shoes—cheap old black pumps with three-inch heels, a bit too big for me—were slipped on my feet. Cove fastened the dog collars around my ankles and then clipped a short black bar to the collar’s rings. She spun me around and forced me to bend over. I panicked and was shocked.
“I don’t have time for your shit, bitch!” Cov snarled. “Mr. Page will be here at any time and you will be ready or I will shock you until you piss all over yourself again! Now bend over and don’t move!”
I held as still as I could. A chain rattled between my feet—Cov clipped something to the bar on my legs. Some straps were put on my wrists.
“Hold this in your mouth. Don’t let it fall or you’ll be sorry!”
It was a plastic box—my remote? I heard a snap and felt the plastic tie fall off. Cov forced my hand to the end of the desk and clipped a chain on the band. She grabbed my other hand and did the same on the other corner of the desk. She jammed a wig on my head to finish off my ‘costume.’ My new owners—hadn’t they heard of a wig cap? It is a stocking thingie that goes over the scalp and anchors the wig. Now my head itched.
“What do you think, Hun? Is there time to whip her?” I shuddered to realize a little itching was the least of my worries.
“Let’s wait until after Mr. Page finished with our slut. We have the rest of her life once he finishes with her. You know how these rich bitches are. Mr. Royal told me that his bitch didn’t putout. Stupid bitch here cheated him of his husbandly rights. Those days are over for her. She’s going to do everything we tell her to.”
“Or else, Hun?”
“No ‘or else,’ Cov. We’ll just whip her for the hell of it.”
The doorbell rang. I could hear voices. One was male and sounded British, only not quite. I heard Hillary Vandyne, my old neighbor, sold with me. She was Slave Number One and I was Slave Number Six. Neville had paired us up with each other and his slave-wife Queenie taught us how to please men and women. I hate to admit it, but Neville and Queenie were the best sex I ever had. I knew Hillary’s body well. Tiffany made a point of putting two or three of us in the same slave cage so that we could get used to girl-on-girl sex. It kept us warm, too—we were given only one ratty old sleeping bag. When the bag was unzipped, it covered two of us. We had a thin foam pad to lay on. We could stay warm when we huddled together—the garage was cold! I never thought that I’d look back on that horrid garage with longing.
I didn’t hear them come in. He was just there, with a naked Hillary standing in front of me. I tensed up, butterflies in my stomach. He played with my hair. When he touched my back I jerked—the surprise was that I had a small orgasm! I sagged in defeat.
“Good afternoon, Earnie.” A pause. “You may greet me.”
My mouth was full of remote. I could only manage ” ‘ud affnn maffer”

George’s Slaves – The first night.
The after dinner cleanup ended with al four of us in the oversized master shower, where I took the opportunity to get my first real ‘feel’ for the three women. They were, perhaps, a little better than my initial impressions had led me to believe – I suppose that first walk to their new home was something of a miserable trudge to a fate that looked worse than it had ended up being. So far, at least.

Tia clearly had the lushest figure of the three of them, but Noreen and Hillary weren’t as solid as I’d originally believed, although there was room for improvement in all of them, I decided after a playfully through examination.

An examination that they returned, of course. With three sets of hands alternately rubbing my chest, grabbing my cock and balls and – Noreen, that witch! – running her fingers up the crack of my ass, I was very quickly rock hard again.

When Tia squatted down in front of me with a murmured ‘Thank you, Master” I figured it as time to move on. I lifted her head by the chin and looked down into her eyes. “Not yet, Tia mia. Come, let’s rinse off.”

I grabbed the main shower hose and quickly rinsed myself down. Stepping back, just our of the shower box, I suddenly flipped the water to cold and tightened up the nozzle, making them yelp as they were hit with a jet of icy water.

“Out,” I ordered, waving them to the stack of towels. Note to self: get more towels. “Quickly, then in a line in front of the bed.”

“Stand straight, shoulders back.” I said as Hillary made as if to go down to her knees.

When they were more or less at attention, I picked out a short riding crop from one of the dresser drawers where they’d stored it after unpacking the boxes.

“Hillary, Question: Do slaves use the same beauty salons as free women?”

“No. There are, call them grooming services, for slaves that offer the same services, and more.”

“Master?” I nodded at Tia. “It depends on the salon. I took Sandra to one as a treat for her birthday, about a month after I, uh, converted her.”

“Very good. Make sure I know which ones. It sounds like a suitable reward for good behaviour. Noreen, hold out your left hand.”

When she did so, palm up, I slapped it with the crop, just hard enough to sting and make her flinch. “Time to amuse myself some more,” I told her hurt look.

“Now, I’m going to have you hair straightened. Pick a colour. Noreen.”

“Blonde.”

“Specify.”

“Um,” I waved the crop at her hesitation. “Golden Blonde, Master.”

“Very good. Tia?”

“Unchanged, Master. What I have now.”

“So be it. Hold out you hand.” She got the same slap that Noreen got.

“Hillary. Red hair. Specify.”

“Copper Auburn, Master” he said, glancing at the bookcase full of DVDs where one particular nine-season series took pride of place. “Can I wear it in a short bob?”

“Perhaps. End of questions for now.” I put the crop away, to at least one stifled sigh of relief. The four point padded cuffs I brought out in its place counteracted that nicely.

I stood in front of them and hefted the cuffs lightly in my hand.

“Hmm,” I mused. “Two volunteers. Step forward. Now.” I couldn’t help myself: I fell automatically into the cadences I’d learned in my youth. Might be an idea to see what I could do with a squad of eight. Still, first things first.

I tossed the cuffs to Noreen, who’d stepped forward quickly with Hillary. “You seem to be the resident bondage mistress,” I told her. “Cuff Hillary in a hog-tie, face down, feet and hands behind her.” Hillary went down to the floor quickly, which surprised me, and put herself into as close a position as she could – which surprised me even more – leaving Noreen to fumble with the cuffs.

I was starting to rise again, but there was still a slave with nothing to do. Can’t have that, can we. “Tia, come over her and suck me while they get their act together. Slowly, just get me ready for the next stage.”

She did, and I let her alone while I watched the other two. Noreen eventually figured the cuffs out and bound Hillary in the hog-tie. It wasn’t a tight tie; there was just enough tension to keep her taut. There was plenty of room in the chain of the cuffs to make it _very_ uncomfortable.

“Get a vibrator from the drawer and insert it,” I told Noreen. “How are you with women, Hillary? Much experience?”

“I prefer men, Master, but some. A few in college, more since the WSA came in. Sometimes Gracious Services would send one around, or one of my husband’s business friends would bring a slave.”

“Good,” I said as Noreen inserted one of the larger vibrators, a big ‘rabbit’ style one. “You can practice on Tia while I amuse myself with Noreen. Grab a couple of pillows and go lie down in front of her, Tia. Let her lick your cunt, but don’t come. If you do, there’s five strikes with the crop for each of you. If she doesn’t, Hillary, that’s ten strokes for you.”

“Make a note, one of you,” I said as I watched Tia try and position herself below Hillary. “We need more pillows, and maybe some of that sex furniture. Foam wedges, that sort of thing. Lay back, Tia. Noreen, put Hillary in place, then get up on the bed.”

It was a bit of a struggle, but she finally managed to get the bound woman in place, and Hillary set to work with a will, ramping Tia up so quickly that she had to reach down and almost snatch the other woman’s head up off of her clit.

“Can’t keep her like that the whole time,” I warned her.

“Hands and knees,” I instructed Noreen as she climbed onto the bed. “Now pop the elbows. All the way down, that’s right. Face into the bed, and leave that delectable ass waving in the air.”

“Are you going to - “

“Yup. Hard and rough, just like I said.” I got up behind her and drizzled some lube across her tailbone and massaged it into her buttocks. “How did you like the plug?”

“I could feel it there, every time I sat down, or took a step. That wasn’t even a big one, was it?”

I ran some lube down the crack of her ass, then made sure my fingers were well coated. “Nope. You should have seen a couple of large ones in the drawer. Imagine how full you would feel with one of those in you ass while we walked around the shopping centre.”

She shuddered – or shivered – at the thought and then gasped as I unceremoniously forced my middle finger past her sphincter. My index finger followed quickly, to another moan as I rotated them to make sure her ring was well lubed.

I withdrew my fingers and replaced them with my cock, getting well seated before the gape closed completely. I grabbed her hips and one long, firm, thrust buried my entire length.

Noreen was good about it, really. She managed not to scream or cry out, just a long protracted ‘Ahhhhh’ as I pushed, while she balled the bed covers in her fists.

It was, however, enough to distract the other two, who were watching us as I looked up.

“Has she cum yet?” I asked Hillary, who shook her head. “Well, then, back to work. Two extra strikes to her for each orgasm after the first.”

As they got back to work, I looked down at Noreen, who was recovering her breath. “Where were we? I mused out loud, running my fingertips lightly over what I could reach of her back. “Oh yes.”

I grabbed her hips again and commenced a series of hard, fast, strokes. Her tightness and warmth were just about perfect as I slammed into her, causing her to grunt on every down stroke and ball the bedclothes tighter.

As I got close to my own orgasm, I pulled out to relubricate and give myself a chance to recover.

“How do you like that?” I asked, with a hearty slap on the rump.

“Not much.” Well, no surprise there, really.

“Do you think you could cum like this?”

“No, not like this. Maybe if there were, you know, more than just you banging away at me.”

“More than just me, or more than just banging? Never mind. Not tonight.” She nodded against the bed and I popped her on the ass again. “Time for more.”

More lube on top of my earlier pounding made penetration easy, and I slammed her for a few more strokes before asking for her hands.

“Cross them behind you, so I can grab them,” I explained. She did so and the change in leverage arched her back even further as I thrust.

It also made her cry out as I pulled on her shoulder joints, and then even more as I held her wrists together and lifted them away from her back, like a strappado. I had to stop stroking to do so, but it was worth it.

Letting her arms go, I looked over at the others, just as Tia’s moans reached a crescendo of mixed passion and – frustration? – as she came and Hillary went to work with a vengeance, looking to earn her those extra strokes.

I laughed and slapped a quick tattoo on Noreen’s ass cheeks before grabbing her hips for the last time and pounding away in earnest. Now that I was actively seeing it, my orgasm wasn’t long in coming, and I emptied my load as deep in Noreen’s body as I could reach.

I pulled out and collapsed on the bed beside her. “All done,” I whispered, kissing her lightly on the cheek closest to me. “Let’s get cleaned up, so I can try out the crop.”

I helped her off the bed and we leaned on each other as we stumbled to the bathroom. I have to admit that my knees weren’t exactly what you’d call solid. That one was a mind-blower.

A quick rinse and wipe later, I told her to go and set the Jacuzzi up while I dealt with the other two. “Unless you’d like to watch?”

“Do you have any wine?” she asked

“Try the cabinet in the lounge.” Huh? Ah, right. “We’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

She headed out the door as we walked back into the bedroom and I announced “Time’s up!”

Both of the women on the floor relaxed, and I unlatched Hillary’s cuffs, helping them both to sitting positions. “So,” I asked, “What’s the score?”

“Just one, Master,” Tia reported, with Hillary nodding in agreement. “But it was close.”

“I bet I get you next time,” Hillary told her.

“Next time it’s you on your back and someone else in the cuffs,” I replied. “So, that’s five strokes each. Who’s first?”

“I’ll go,” Hillary offered. “On the ass?”

At my nod, she levered herself to her feet and bent over by one of the bedposts at waist height. – Oh, I love how huge four-posters are in fashion here. Must be all the attachment points.

“Done this before, have you?”

“A few times,” she admitted. “Plus my husband’s favourite slave brothel had a lot of punishment slaves. Do you want this to be a formal punishment drill?”

I shrugged. “If you want.”

She faced back toward the post, and I brought the crop down on her left cheek. Not too hard, but hard enough to leave a lovely looking splotch. I heard the air hiss between her teeth, but that was it.

“Thank you Master”

The second time, I hit the right cheek, and alternated the rest, with her thanking me each time.

It was odd, actually. Sure I’d seen all the movies, read all the stories, even got the immigration briefing, but I’d never believed that a woman would really take a blow and thank her abuser without a _lot_ more threat than I’d offered. And yet here it was. Back home, what I’d already done to Hillary would have gotten me jailed, let alone the way I’d treated Noreen. Oh, I suppose that I might have found a woman who was ‘into that sort of thing’ if I’d looked carefully enough, but even then there would have been limits, and a single word would have brought it to an end.

But not here, I realised as Hillary stood at attention on the spot where I’d had them all lined up earlier.

Here there were no limits. I didn’t even have to keep to the five strokes I’d promised Tia, as she took the same place and pose as Hillary. I could not give her any, or I could whip her till my arm fell off. It was entirely up to me.

She yelled and jumped as I landed the first hit. Oh yeah, much more responsive than Hillary, I thought absently as my main train of thought continued.

The only limits on what I could do were my own, what I was prepared to do to make them accept it. There were going to be minefields to navigate – like this business with Tia’s daughter – and the happiness of my household was going to depend on how I chose to handle them.

The second stroke, on the other side elicited the same response, and I smiled as she stumbled over her response. Three and four went backhand-forehand, sacrificing power for speed, and I wound up to full strength for a final blow that brought out the first shriek of my new life.

I stepped forward quickly to catch her before she fell into the bedpost. She was sobbing and I turned her around into a proper embrace and a quick squeeze as I smoothed her hair. “All done,” I whispered as I signalled Hillary over with a jerk of my head and gathered her in as well.

“Come,” I said after half a minute or so. “Let’s go and see if Noreen’s got that Jacuzzi working yet.

As I followed them out, admiring their patterned backsides, I thought quietly to myself: Yes, all done.

For now.

Dinner, when we all met after our showers – I’d used the main bathroom on the ground floor – was a relatively messy affair.

The pizzas were good, much better than the ‘fast food’ versions that I was used to. My one, heavy on the meat and cheese, had what looked like an inch of delicatessen meats, wile the other was an impressive looking ‘supreme’.

I brought out the vodka and cola again and while I stayed with the soft drink, I made sure that the three slaves were liberally, er, lubricated.

“Some ground rules, I suppose,” I began, as I cut the tip from my first slice of pizza and fed it to the handcuffed Tia. “Are there any health issues I need to know about? Food allergies, whatever?”

“Okay,” I went on at their negative answers. “Ground rules, like I said. Housekeeping is for you to handle. Cooking, cleaning, shopping – I take it you know the local delivery services. Use your judgement. I’m used to pretty simple fare –“I took another bite of pizza, then fed the crust to Tia “- but if you want to train me to something fancier, I probably won’t object.”

Hillary saw Tia looking hungrily at the supreme pizza, so she waved a slice under her nose, pushing it forward just as she snapped at it. Tia got a bigger mouthful than she expected, but a good portion of the remaining topping ended up falling down her front, to everyone else’s amusement.

I checked off my fingers as we continued eating, Hillary and Noreen taking turns to feed – or not - Tia. “Housekeeping, check. I’ll set up an account that you can use. Nudity. I don’t insist on it. Unless I give you other instructions, wear what you like. If I don’t like it, I might say so, or I might just decide to punish. Do you actually have any clothing? What’s the practice about your old things? Noreen.”

“Everything we had became the property of our husbands when they enslaved us,” she said. “You brought us ‘as-is’. Usually, though, there’s not much problem with things like clothing or keepsakes, but you have to ask.”

“And I will. Tomorrow, make up a list of things you’d like me to try and get. That’s another account for clothing and accessories. Check. Entertainment. Permissive. In other words, unless I’ve said otherwise, go for it. I will hold you responsible for breakages, injuries and any other losses, however, so use your heads. Let’s include sex toys, movies, books and outings in that, too.”

Three quarters of the food was gone by now, and no one was looking particularly interested in the last slices. I helped Tia with another sip or two of her drink, followed by a finger full of cold pineapple and cheese from her chest.

“Punishment is different from what I do for my own amusement.” They looked at me intently, Noreen taking a swig of her drink. “This afternoon, with the collars, was for my amusement. This - ,” I went on, getting to my feet to stand behind Hillary. I reached past her for a slice of pizza and rubbed it firmly across her face and chest. “– Is punishment.”

Everyone laughed, even as I picked up the last slice and repeated the treatment for Noreen.

“I’ll always try to let you know the reasons for a punishment, or if I’m just amusing myself.” I shrugged. “You’ll probably find me somewhat capricious and random in what amuses me, but I don’t think that I’m unnecessarily cruel. I’ll probably find some kind of balance eventually. In the meantime, I don’t intend to keep you in cages. I expect we’ll work something out in the end.” I finished with another shrug.

“What do we call you?” Hillary asked.

“I’m not terribly into the whole formal routine, although it worked pretty well in the middle of a scene, didn’t it Tia? As long as you remember your place, we won’t have a problem. Like this is fine, although we might want to put on more of a show in public, or if we have guests. Next question?”

“Are you going to kill us?” Noreen, this time.

“I honestly don’t know. Do I want to snuff a slave? Yes. Frankly, it’s one of the reasons I came to the States. Whether it will be one of you three, I don’t know. Right now, I don’t think so, not in cold blood. I can’t guarantee that I won’t get so caught up in a game that I take it too far.”

That shook them a little. The two unbound ones looked decidedly less sure of their positions. Tia seemed less unhappy, but then I’d already brought her off once, and I suspect that the others were wondering if my doing so gave her some kind of ‘favourite’ advantage. Amusing, considering that Tia was very much a second choice after I decided not to compete for one of the other slaves on offer.

“Can we ask what you do?” Noreen, again.

“I,” I started as I puffed out my chest ridiculously “am a Gentleman of Leisure. No, seriously, I won a big lottery back home, something like, oh, sixteen million US. It should keep us pretty well, even without effort. If any of you know anything about investment? No? Oh well, I might have to buy an investment broker, or something.”

“And what -” Hillary bit her lip and looked at Tia, “What about our children?”

“No problem. They can visit, so long as you’re not, ah, otherwise occupied. If they’re old enough, they can –“

Tia’s face more or less caved in and she started to sob and the vibrator she’d been so diligently holding fell to the floor. Hillary was beside her immediately, wrapping her in her arms. “I’m sorry, honey, but I had to ask. My own –” she looked up at me “Master, please untie her.”

I did so quickly, as the Hispanic woman cried into the shoulder of her friend. “She was _mine_,” I heard her say. “I was keeping her safe.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked Noreen as I stepped back to give the others some space.

“Tia converted her daughter, Sandra, after she found drug paraphernalia in her car. Roach clips or something, I think. Did it personally, so as not to tempt her husband, I think.”

“Will he sell the girl?”

“I don’t know. This whole conversion-and-auction thing came out of the blue, so I don’t know.”

“Okay. How about you? And Hillary?”

“I’m fine. One boy, age fifteen. Little shit was starting to bitch bout how all his friends had their own slaves, and why didn’t he? Hillary’s got two girls and a boy. Claire, eighteen years old and is an educational asset with a local accounting firm. Charlie’s a twenty-percenter and Heather, the youngest, is thirteen. Three years grace, but she and Hillary are close.”

“Twenty-percenter? No, the details can wait.”

I took a deep breath and went over the Tia and Hillary. Gently motioning the older woman aside, I squatted down in front of her and lifted her chin. “Tia, mia, should I try to bring her here? Would you like that?”

“Patron?” her accent had deepened again, as she focussed intently on the hope I was holding out.

“She was yours, yes? I told you earlier that I would try and get your things from your husbands, didn’t I? Do you want me to try and get her and bring her here?”

“Si, Yes master, I would like that.”

“What were you keeping her safe from?”

“I didn’t want her to be enslaved and killed, Master, or eaten. I was keeping her in school, and making sure she didn’t act like a puta, a whore.”

“Would your husband sell her to me?”

I could see the thought chasing itself around her mind. She’d never consider selling her daughter, but she hadn’t expected her husband to sell _her_, so…

“I do not know. Tim sold me, but she’s his daughter.”

“If I buy her, she will be here, just the same as you, you understand? I’ll keep her in school, but I will punish her and play with her just like I do with you. I will whip her and I will fuck her in every hole and I will make her eat out Noreen and Hillary, and maybe even you.” I held her chin firmly as my harsh description sunk through.

“But I will not eat her, I will not kill her and I will not let her be a whore for anyone but me. Do you understand?”

“Wh- Why would you do this?”

“A teenage slavegirl who is undoubtedly as beautiful as her mother? How can I resist? And it will make you happy, which will make you a better slave for me.” I released her jaw and stroked gently up the side of her face.

It would also give me another control over you, one as good, or better, than the shock collar. But you don’t need me to be saying that out loud, I thought.

“Think about it, Tia mia. I must reassure Hillary about her own children, and Noreen.”

I stood up and offered a hand to Hillary. “Noreen told me about your three,” I said to her. “You’re most concerned about your Heather?”

“Yes. Listen, you wouldn’t really – “

“Tia’s daughter? Yes, I would. She’s a slave and if I buy her, I deserve to get something for it. Your daughter is different, because of her age. Even when she is old enough, only her father can enslave her. I can’t unless I sleep with her, so she’s safe from me. If you want them to visit, come and talk to me. The same goes for you, Noreen. Just keep in mind that if they come here, they’ll be exposed to whatever’s going on here. Understood?” They both nodded.

I went back to Tia. “Have you thought it over, Tia mia? Knowing what will happen if she comes here, do you want me to talk to your husband, do you want me to buy Sandra and bring her here?”

“Yes,” she nodded. “Please speak to my husband. I do not know what he will do with her. I do not like all you have said, but I feel that you will keep your word and she will be safe.”

I leaned forward and kissed her on her forehead. “Then I will do so.”