Due to matters beyond my control the current sale ending has been moved to roughly noon on Monday. That is also the theoretical deadline for payment or contact about payment for the first sale.

Today’s thumbnail is a teaser about next week’s plot line. Assuming I stop with the antihistamines long enough to write. As you might have guessed the neighborhood watch finance committee is looking at a third sale, to make up what they see as a lack of interest in the Fort Jones girls. Of course the fact that those 5 were what amounted to free and didn’t impact on any one’s real life means that any thing is good, but they still need to get enough to finish tricking out the patrol cruiser. SatNav and XM radio sets aren’t free you know.

I hate oak pollen.

After The Auction

Slave Bethany

“Sold to the man in the red sweater for $3800,” my daughter announced. Mistress Tiffany Mullen, age 19, worked for Spellbook Slaves. The auction was a fundraiser for the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol. My ex-husband, Master Ben Mullen, was one of seven men who had enslaved their wives and put them up for auction. I was taken to the back of the stage. There I waited until the last of the women had been sold. Mistress Tiffany came backstage after thanking everyone for a successful fundraiser. She announced to us slaves that the Community Patrol had exceeded its fundraising goal by eight percent. “You all did well.”

I was conflicted. I was a slave. My husband had put me up for auction and my daughter had sold me to a stranger in a red sweater. My life was over. I would never see Mistress Tiffany again. My husband of 21 years had been my life, outside of Tiffany. That was all over. But there was Neville and his talented tongue. His slave Queenie really was Queen in the bedroom. I found out why—both had diplomas from Bates and Jackson Institute of Sexology. They weren’t licensed sex testers because the certification requirements were too much bother they said, but they gave me the best sex I ever had. I was trained with six other women that Saturday morning nearly a week ago. My F&S scores that afternoon were O40/A26/V53/40 (Oral/Anal/Vaginal/Average) –dismal, but Neville told me that I had improved from Friday night. My oral score was an average of my skill on cocks and cunts. Ooh, so deliciously nasty! I scored higher on cunts—I got only a 23 on cock sucking but a 56 on cunt lapping. There were other skills such as masturbating others, how chewable my tits were, my appearance and attitude. Queenie said that I was a lesbian. Neville said that I could be trained.

My pain tolerance was rating was in the basement. When they tested me at Spellbook Slaves, I passed out at the first stroke of the whip. One reason I was glad that I only had one child was labor pains. I’m a baby when it comes to pain.

The man in the red sweater introduced himself as Master Bill Hanson. He paid the $3500 for me and led me to his car. There was a pregnant slave in the back seat. She hugged me when I entered and introduced herself as Cheryl. As Master Bill drove, Cheryl asked me to tell her my story. I finished as we arrived at a sorority house just off the Eastlake University campus. I had seen this house several times. It was a private trust sorority house for slaves. Cheryl happily hopped out barefoot on the cold pavement. I was thankful that I had shoes, even those uncomfortable black patent leather pumps with the two inch heels. Tiffany had me wear them for the auction because she said that men found them sexy. I take back my thought that the men could wear them if they liked them so much! I wished that I had some clothes. Yes, I had been naked for a week. That had rarely been in public. It was still cold outside. Master Bill and Cheryl didn’t keep me in the cold long. The house was two stories tall and seemed to be an old hotel, a cheap one at that. In the lobby a bright young thing sat at what would have been the check-in desk.

“Hi, Master Bill! Hi, Cheryl!” The woman was about my height with perky, medium-sized breasts, brown eyes, a bizarre bleach job that left her with brown roots and wavy hair, about my own height. She hugged Master Bill and Cheryl. “And this must be Bethany. I’m Ellie.”

I got both a hug and a kiss.

“Welcome to Juanita Hall,” Ellie announced. “Is anyone hungry? If so, I can get something from the kitchen.”

“We’ve got to go, Ellie,” Master Bill said. “Bethany, Ellie will be your guide for the next few hours. Until the House Mother gets here, you will obey Ellie. Are you going to need a shock collar to behave yourself?”

Shock collar?

“No, Master Bill.”

“Honey,” Cheryl told Bill, “I think we can spare a few minutes. Bethany needs it.”

“So do I,” Ellie announced. Master Bill and Cheryl both laughed. “Well, I do!”

“No, not now. Ellie and Bethany will have to take care of each other.” Master Bill shook his head. “I don’t feel right about leaving you alone with an untrained slave.”

“I got my brown belt three months ago, Master Bill,” Ellie said. “As long as I remain in condition orange, she can’t dish out anything I can’t handle.”

Brown belt? As in karate? Was I on drugs?

“Okay,” Master Bill gave Ellie a kiss and a hug. “I wish I had more time.”

“I wish you had more time, Honey,” Cheryl said. “You know how much I like three-ways.”

Cheryl kissed Ellie and left with Master Bill.

“You look lost.”

“I am. How do I address you?”

“Ellie. Just plain ole Ellie.”

“What are you, some kind of security guard slave?”

“Oh, no! I’m the nurse. We staff the Eastlake University dispensary. There are four of us. During school hours, at least two of us are on duty in the dispensary. At least one of us is on call around the clock. You’ll meet the others later. Would you like to start the tour, or do you need to fuck first? There’s time. It’s Sunday and most of the slave students living here are visiting or working. A couple is upstairs, studying in their rooms right now.”

“Are there any free women here?”

“We get an occasional free woman visiting. Visitors are restricted—we are slaves and not citizens, you know.” Ellie took my elbow and began steering me to the office. “Leave your shoes in here. When Shelly gets in this evening, she will issue you clothes—but you won’t need them for a while.”

I was introduced to the office. It was empty except for desks and other office furniture. I put my shoes in the corner and looked at the doors.

“You’ll start working here tomorrow morning. Come on. We have places to see.”

In quick sequence we visited the kitchen fitness center, library, recreation room, indoor pool, dining hall and laundry. At the end of the hallway were four visitor’s rooms. There were also some storage rooms and a janitor’s closet. Upstairs there were the dorm rooms and a janitor’s closet. A small freight elevator completed the tour. We were back at the office. Ellie poured me tea.

“You need to read the house rule book,” Ellie got me one. “Upstairs: no clothes, no visitors. Slaves should be naked as much as possible. Are you used to being naked, yet? Don’t answer that. It’s a trick question. If you aren’t comfortable being naked all the time, you need to stay naked so that you are. When you are used to being naked, you don’t need clothes. Most of us would work naked at our jobs if we could.

“Visitor policy—you have to clear visitors before you can invite them in. Oh, damn it! I forgot to tag you. Come with me.” We went into a room connected to the office. “This is the first aid station. It is off-limits except to the House Mother and four nurses. Lay on your stomach.”

“What are you going to do?” I asked as Ellie sprayed something soothing on my butt.

“Tagging you for positive identification.” My butt felt a pinch, then went numb. “Hold still.”

A loud noise made me flinch.

“All done. The bandage can come off in an hour or so. Your butt will be numb for three or four hours.”

“What did you do to me?”

“I put a small radio in your butt.” Ellie helped me stand up, made me walk around. “Do you want to call your daughter, Tiffany? Tell her that you are all right? Tell her where you are and give her a number so that she can call you or schedule a visit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Take your time. You have the rest of your life—but you are going to be busy tomorrow. Did Master Bill or Cheryl tell you what you would be doing here?”

“No.”

“Everybody takes a turn at housekeeping—that’s in addition to picking up after yourself. You saw the rooms. Right now, you don’t have one.”

“About the rooms, how many to a room?”

“Four. I don’t like sleeping alone. Sometimes we just pile six in a room, but we are assigned four to a room. If you don’t have a place to sleep tonight—unlikely—just ask any girl here and she’ll find you a bed. I got off topic again. You are going to be testing for the next two weeks. You will learn how to be a good slave. After that we will place you in a job. Too bad that you didn’t already have one before you were converted. Everyone earns her keep here. Once you settle in, you can even go on dates—but you will have to follow some rules.”

“Dates?” I was confused. “What if I want to get married?”

“Your new husband can lease you or rent you. Most likely you’ll just bestow your favors on him for a few weeks and move on. Men get possessive.”

My head was spinning. This wasn’t what I expected at all.

“Are we all slaves here?” I asked.

“No. Shelly lets two men share one of the guest rooms, and there are a few free women who more or less live here. Kelly wants to become a slave, but she is afraid to. She’s right to be afraid. There is no safety—at least not for women. Leona is thinking about getting married, but she’s afraid that her fiancée will convert her. She’s hiding out right now. The free women have to be naked upstairs just like the rest of us. They can be naked downstairs or in the recreation area out back—it’s private, there is a privacy fence, and Eastlake cops like us a lot. Speaking of cops, there are two at the door. I hope they’re here for a social visit.”

I felt a bit naked when I followed Ellie into the lobby.

“Put your butt up against the plate and the door unlocks,” Ellie pointed to a plastic box, and then demonstrated. The door clicked loudly and the light on the box went from green to red. Ellie threw her arms around the uniformed Eastlake police officers and kissed them both. “Tom! Hank! I’d so glad to see you two!”

“Down girl!” the older officer, Hank, said. “We’ve got business.”

“But we’re off at four,” Tom said.

“Business first, Tom,” Hank said gravely. “Is Shelly in?”

“No, but she’ll be in soon.” Ellie released them and stood back. “May I offer you something? Coffee, tea or me?”

”You are new here,” Tom was staring at my crotch. “Nice pearls!”

At Tiffany’s insistence, I had worn jewelry. I had a fake flower in my hair. I had a bracelet, two rings on each hand, and ornaments in my pierced ears. I wore one string of pearls around my waist and another around my neck. Tiffany had helped me bathe prior to the auction and had trimmed my pubic hair. It struck me that my daughter had tried to take care of me. Ben didn’t get to keep all of my worldly goods. The jewelry and my shoes were the only things I had from my old life.

“Coffee will be fine,” Hank said. “We’re here because we each have daughters that should graduate from high school in June. Tom and I want to convert them and leave them here over spring break. Tina’s grades will let her graduate, but she doesn’t have good enough grades to get into Eastlake U. Her mother really wants her to attend the same school that she did.”

“My daughter may need to complete a few credits to get her degree,” Tom said. “Unfortunately, she isn’t very smart. Her mother and I thought that she could get job training or something.”

“It’s really hard to get in contact with DEV now that you don’t have a main office,” Hank continued. “There’s the Cat’s Pajamas, but they are on the other side of town.”

“You want to talk to Veronica. She’ll be here soon.” Elle smiled again. “Veronica is teaching a seminar. When she gets here, she will start Bethany’s education.”

“Bethany, how did you become a slave?” I told Hank. “Cop wannabes! There is so little crime in that area and more patrol cars are assigned there than in the battle zones. If they really wanted to cut crime, they’d donate the funds to real cops.”

“Master Hank,” Ellie had sobered up totally,” Bethany was enslaved and sold to pay for that equipment. Master Peter thinks that the daughters are next.”

“We’re not really any better,” Tom said. “I’m here to see about getting my daughter enslaved so that she has a future. Isn’t that funny! I don’t want to enslave the rest of my family, but the missus said that if it gives Stella a better chance, make her a slave too.”

“As if they have a choice,” Hank glanced out the door. “Ah. Shelly’s here.”

Two women entered. They introduced themselves as Shelly and Veronica. I was a little shocked—both were completely naked—not even shoes. Ellie had told me about them, but the reality had to be seen.

“Dear,” Veronica rubbed my nipples and sent shivers down my spine, “I am delaying your interview for an hour. If Shelly doesn’t have something for you to do, just hang around and see how we do the educational thing.”

“I do need another hand in the kitchen,” Shelly said. “There is just me and Ellie and we expect everybody here for dinner. We will serve in three hours.”

“Let Bethany call her daughter and tell Tiffany that everything is okay,” Veronica commanded. “Invite her to dinner here. Don’t take long, dear. There’s work to be done.”

The police officers were talking with Veronica. I used the desk phone and called my daughter.

“Hello?” Tiffany sounded as if she had a cold.

“Mistress Tiffany, this is Slave Bethany,” I told here where I was and what I was doing. “This looks like a nice place. Veronica said that you can come to dinner if you wish, Mistress Tiffany. We will have dinner in three hours. I’m helping to fix dinner.”

“Mom, you don’t have to call me ‘mistress.’ I’ll be there. I know where the slave sorority house is.”

Dad demanded that I show up at least every Friday night for dinner at home. He was still my dad. The first mandatory Friday dinner was April 4th.

“There is someone I want you to meet,” he told me on the phone. “Be there between six and seven.”

I got home after my shift ended at Spellbook Slaves. It was half past six when I walked into the kitchen. A slave was busy at the stove. She had to be a slave—she was wearing a bustier, garter belt, stockings, and her four-inch spike-heels were padlocked to her feet with a foot of chain connecting her ankles. The woman had brown hair in a tight chignon and wore a posture collar and wide leather bands on her wrists. When she turned around, she gasped and fell to the floor in a position of obeisance.

“Mistress, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you come in,” the slave wheedled. The kitchen seemed to lurch—the voice was that of Constance Remora! What was she doing here?

“I see that you’ve met Toy-toy,” Dad said from behind me. “If she is a good girl, I might let her resume her classes at Eastlake University.”

“Am I going to auction her,” I pointed at Constance, “Toy-toy, in this week’s auction?”

“No,” Dad smiled, “no. You did so well at the last auction that we have been looking around for more slaves to sell. Those big tittie bimbos in the garage were really asking for it. Driving around drunk at three in the morning! The guys are here for dinner tonight. Can you show them what you’ve been doing all week?”

“I can have the Ubersoft ‘PowerSpot’ presentation set up for the meeting. We can show it on the new TV in the den.”

“Do that.”

The meeting consisted of the seven men of the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol:

1. Harris Vandyne, Patrol Captain
2. Stu Baughn, Patrol First Lieutenant
3. Albert Colbert, Patrol Second Lieutenant
4. Norris Woolard, Patrol Sergeant
5. Ben Mullen, my dad, Patrol Treasurer
6. Eddie Royal, Patrol Secretary
7. Tim Crittenden, Patrol Dispatcher

The only other people at the meeting were myself and Constance—I mean Toy-toy. I felt oppressed during the dinner. Six of the men were undressing me with their eyes. Dad seemed oblivious to their leers. They bragged and drank and crammed food in their filthy mouths. After the evening had dragged on for most of the night, it was time for my presentation. Dinner had started at 7:30 and it was a quarter to nine when I began my slide show presentation. The first photo up was the group mug shot snapped by Mr. Baughn and Mr. Woolard. They had arrested the women. I briefly recounted that night.

“Get it right, girl!” Mr. Baughn said. “We had to chase them down with butterfly nets!”

“Yeah,” Mr. Woolard’s voice was slurred. “They meandered through our neighborhood in a white minivan. They blew through three stop signs, went too fast, did a 270 degree U-turn in the intersection of Moore and Wodestreet, bounded off a curb and two cars, and broke a fire hydrant. They got out and began dancing under the streetlights. Two of them took a piss in the middle of the street!”

“We got them rounded up and brought them here. They signed the Intent to Enslave and were converted that morning by Neville.” Mr. Baughn belched and giggled girlishly. “They blew a BAC of 1.3 on average. The one in the leopard print bikini admitted to driving. Had we taken them to court, they would have wound up as meat.”

“They might still wind up as meat, sirs,” I said as I clicked the next slide. It read: Buy these sluts or they fry! This slide showed them on their knees naked and bound. “I am pushing this slogan.”

The next slide said ‘WHAT A WASTE OF T&A’ and showed close-ups of their massive breasts and tightly-packed butts. Slide Four was a photo of a woman roasting over the coals—one of the photos from Spellbook Slaves. I had a small copyright notice on the photo. No way Bethany’s little Tiffany was going to be converted for a little piracy!

Meet (or meat) some of the ladies of the “Revival Bible Fundamentals Network Choir” of Fort Jones Arkansas There is a little more at stake for these 5 big titted slaves than the wives faced. If they don’t get sold off, well there is a pre-bid for them all by “Roberson’s Fine BBQ and Party Supply”. No going home to their loving husbands for this set of slave. They either leave with their new masters or mistress or they ride a Jessica 2000.
Each of these women has received a “real meat” grading of ‘Prime’ from Roberson’s. Roberson’s, of course is the highest rated long pig BBQ places in Eastlake. When asked about the fact that his grading scale doesn’t seem to line up with the more popular slave meat grading scale, the one used by most slaver John Roberson replied “I don’t serve no skinny chicks. You want the real deal, you want mouth watering smoke long pig, you get the real deal from me. After 4 hours on a grill, it don’t matter how hot she was before. What matters in the quality of her meat. That’s why I use the “real meat” grading scale. You don’t care what you pig looked like before it was made into chops, why should you care about your long pig?”

From left to right:
1 Traci Wheelock, 23
O88/A70/V79/79 pain HI
white suit/ 5′2″/122/43DDD-26-36
Traci was the lead soprano in the Revival Bible Fundamentals
Network choir and the accountant for that non-profit organization.

2 Tracie Bothwell, 23
O63/A64/V62/63 pain ME
leopard print suit/5′3″/127/41E-28-35
Tracie (not to be confused with Traci) was an alto in the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network choir and personal secretary to the Reverend Jesse Wriggles.

3 Josefina McHone, 25
O75/A68/V71/71 pain ME
green suit/5′2″/110 lbs/42DDD-23-34
She was a member of the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network choir and served under every officer in the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network.

4 Melba Ybanez, 22
O77/A60/V69/69 pain LO
lavender suit/5′4″/133 lbs/42F-28-36
She collected butterflies and can talk for hours and hours and hours on the different species. A member of the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network choir and a skilled graphic artist.

5 Jeannie Peek, 23
O72/A73/V67/71 pain HI
orange suit/5′4″/135 lbs/42DD-31-37
The composer of the Revival Bible Fundamentals Network choir.

Wheaton Heights Community Patrol Slave Sale details

• End of Sale: 12:00 PM, Friday April 4th, 2008 CE
• Starting bids 1000 (per slave)
• Default: Sold to Roberson’s Fine BBQ

SlaveBay and SlaveBay style auction rules

1. All bids must be made either as comments to the post that starts the sale or as emails to Tiffany (mullen.tiffany@gmail.com)
2. Bids are in dollar amounts for the slave at a rate of a dollar a word. In other words if the final bid is $2575.00 for a slave, a 2,575 word story is owed. For SlaveBay sales, the taxes and what not will be added on later, and are not part of the bid. You will not have to cover them in real life.
3. Payment is one of two ways.
   1. Via a story written by you for the amount you bid at rate of 1 dollar per word. In the example case you would need to write a 2,575 word WSA2000 story, in theory about your slave.
   2. Via a donation to Spellbook Software (see here for how) at a rate of a penny a word. I will write an “on spec” story for you about your new slave. Yeah, I’m cheaper but we are talking real money here, not fake money. The example case would result in a $25.75 donation and me writing a 2,575 word story for you.
4. If the starting message is for a group sale, (like this one) all women can be bid on at any time, there will not be a message per slave.
5. Each sale will have a end time. Messages must be time stamped at or before the stated end of sales. Winners will be announced roughly 6 hours real time after end of sale.
6. In the case of a slave not being sold, a short (sub 500 word) story about the default for the slave will be published the next day after the sale has ended.

Editors note:

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

Constance’s Conversion

Tiffany

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

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

“Yes, sir.”

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

Otto tried some lame jokes. I could only manage a smile. He drove the company van and I took my car. When we parked near my dorm I realized that I hadn’t asked where we were going.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can’t take my pictures!” Constance made my day. I pulled out my stun gun and let it snap, crackle and pop. “No! Please don’t! Momma, I’ve been GOOD! Please don’t hurt me!”

A stun gun makes all of us equal. Constance was bigger and stronger than me—most people are. I pinned her against the desk and zapped her. Otto dug out the slaver kit—we were going to have to draw urine using a catheter. I was actually beginning to feel good for the first time in a week! It didn’t take long to undress Constance—even though I had to zap her again with the stun gun. Red, yellow and green areas—Constance was breaking the law and she was bigger than me. I could use whatever force necessary, including stun gun to the red areas of her body. A stun gun against the neck can kill—as can a shock directly to the heart. I already had her panties off when I stunned her over her kidneys. Luckily Otto was right there with the sample jar—the pig peed all over me, all over the room, all over!

In a few minutes I had the naked wet woman trussed up. She needed the slave dolly. I needed a shower. Constance, of course, came up clean on the pregnancy and drug screen. There wasn’t any doubt in my mind that she would. Constance may have had communion wine at mass, but other than that I don’t remember Constance taking so much as an aspirin. She didn’t eat take-out food. The only bad habit she had was being so irritatingly perfect! Otto finished enslaving her after entering the data on line. He went through his standard speech welcoming her into a life of slavery. After my partner left, I snapped a bunch more pictures to e-mail to Mr. West.

Several minutes later, Otto returned with the slave dolly.

“Close the door,” I snapped. When Otto turned around, I attacked his fly. I needed something. It didn’t take long for Otto’s eyes to roll back in his head and for him to squirt off in my mouth. Dad couldn’t prove a thing—but didn’t need to. “Now I’ll help you finish processing this pig.”

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

My cell phone rang. It was Mr. West.

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

“Yes, Mr. West.”

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

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

Now she was gone.

OK folks, welcome to the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol fund raiser slave sale. We’ve got 7 slaves for sale to day. Tiffany, why don’t you bring them out.

After a short pause, Tiffany leads out the 7 slaves for sale.

OK here they are and their number for this sale:
1. Hillary Vandyne, age 39
2. Sharon Baughn, age 34
3. Alexandra Colbert, age 36
4. Noreen Woolard, age 38
5. Bethany Mullen, age 43
6. Earnestine Royal, age 48
7. Tia Crittenden, age 37

Some one yelled (a female) out “So why is that bitch Sharon special? Why can’t we see her pussy?”
Tiffany leaned over and whispered in my ear. “It’s that time for her, and well, eww messy.” I laughed. “Seems it’s that phase of the moon for her. It’s a bit messy.” There is general laughter, and a few “ewws” and “TMI” calls mixed in

Some one else yelled out, “Well, that would explain why it’s a red one then!” More laughter.

OK, I’m going to turn this over to Tiffany. She is going to run the auction…

“OK, folks, lets start with number one, Hillary Vandyne. Starting bid is $1500, which might seem high, but don’t forget that 3/4 of your bid is tax deducible as charity. Plus just think how much safer you will feel knowing that the Wheaton Heights Community Patrol has the best possible gear while they keep us safe at night!”

Wheaton Heights Community Patrol Slave Sale details

• End of Sale: 12:00 PM, Friday March 28th, 2008 CE
• Starting bids 1500 (per slave)
• Default: Returned to husband for his use

SlaveBay and SlaveBay style auction rules

1. All bids must be made either as comments to the post that starts the sale or as emails to Tiffany (mullen.tiffany@gmail.com)
2. Bids are in dollar amounts for the slave at a rate of a dollar a word. In other words if the final bid is $2575.00 for a slave, a 2,575 word story is owed. For SlaveBay sales, the taxes and what not will be added on later, and are not part of the bid. You will not have to cover them in real life.
3. Payment is one of two ways.
   1. Via a story written by you for the amount you bid at rate of 1 dollar per word. In the example case you would need to write a 2,575 word WSA2000 story, in theory about your slave.
   2. Via a donation to Spellbook Software (see here for how) at a rate of a penny a word. I will write an “on spec” story for you about your new slave. Yeah, I’m cheaper but we are talking real money here, not fake money. The example case would result in a $25.75 donation and me writing a 2,575 word story for you.
4. If the starting message is for a group sale, (like this one) all women can be bid on at any time, there will not be a message per slave.
5. Each sale will have a end time. Messages must be time stamped at or before the stated end of sales. Winners will be announced roughly 6 hours real time after end of sale.
6. In the case of a slave not being sold, a short (sub 500 word) story about the default for the slave will be published the next day after the sale has ended.

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

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

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

What do potential buyers want to know before they show up for the auction? Many are just looking for a fuck toy. That means appearance is important. We take four-view photographs and three-view close-ups of the head. Below that we start with the slave’s slave name. In this case, the slaves were using their old names—some people in the community had already expressed interest in buying Mom. I would, if I had the money. She gave me life. Dad told me that he wanted a minimum of $10,000 profit from the sale of seven women—he didn’t want less than $5,000.

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

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

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

“What does a Grade C bring?”

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

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

I had just handled a sale to a think tank that week. They were looking for groups of women who had long-term personal relationships with each other in addition to high scholastic achievement. Long-term personal relationships meant sisters, mothers and daughters, close friends, even formerly free women with their own slaves. Neighbors was close enough, as were classmates. Otto had picked up five Dutch Hall girls—and no, I don’t remember their names! They came in, Otto and I processed them, and two women picked them up. I thought I had better send a flyer to that think tank. The free woman was young and pretty—she would easily be sold for the targeted $2500 without any work and as much as $16,000 to the right person. Her slave companion looked older than any of the watch group wives. I guessed that the slave had been a slave for five or six years. She looked familiar—Otto had sold her to a man, an estate sale. I remembered because Mr. West chewed Otto out. She brought $400 from a man who said that he was buying the older slave for his own slave. Mr. West only made about $150 on that sale. Yes, I’d have to look up the think tank. They would want to buy several slaves at one time—if they were still in the market. Mr. West got $15,000 for those five Dutch Hall girls and they had been sold before they got in the door. On top of that, the woman paid to have all five sex tested and meat graded! Another easy $500.

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

The Spellbook Slaves slave record form goes like this: free woman name, slave name, Spellbook Slave Number, age, enslavement option (volunteer, family commitment, PPC or conversion by magistrate), a long section on sexual experience including number of sex partners and when the slave lost her virginity, a self rating on sex skills, education, work experience, hair color, surgeries…you get the idea. The self-ratings on sex skills was important—better to claim too low than too high. Slaves are generally tested now, unless they are pre-sold like the Dutch Hall Five. We don’t bother testing meat slaves—a consignment of spit muffins headed for the barbeque pit are almost always pre-sold. We call up medical records and financial records—slaves no longer have privacy rights. All this takes time and money, but satisfied customers mean more business for Spellbook Slaves. In the early days, I heard that any woman would do. Many women were purchased or enslaved just for snuffing. Later, the slave had to be pretty and skilled at sex, too. Now the market demands other skills. Many slaves are dual-purpose: they are workers and they are used as sex toys. A skilled slave can bring a lot. Mr. West says that he was doing a pick-up from a law firm and the bitch was sold to one of the law firm’s clients for $10,000 because the silly slut sassed the client before realizing that she was going to be converted in minutes. It was more than her meat value, so Mr. West sold her.

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

After getting all of the information from Dad that I could. Every bit of information was a reason to demand more for the slave. I wanted to start the bidding at $1500, less than we needed from each slave, but some could be sold for more. Dad said that he’d talk to the rest about putting up the minimum bid so that the wives wouldn’t be sold for less than their conversion taxes. I’ve seen it happen. Boyfriends and husbands dump women at Spellbook for as little as $50 cash. The only dumber thing was a story Mr. West told me of five women paying to be converted! It was my mother, and I was going to get top dollar for Mom.

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

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

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

Why be a slave before its necessary?

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

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

I crave sex—who doesn’t? I didn’t want to be a slave. All these years I’ve been careful to remain a virgin. I’m counting down the days to my 21st birthday and freedom. It stinks—70% of enslavements are done by parents or boyfriends and a big segment of the 20% of voluntary enslavements is defensive enslavements. Fathers regularly convert their daughters, I should know, I do it at work all the time. I know that it can happen to me.

Dad’s friend Neville has a white slaver’s license. Neville specializes in family conversions. Every month Dad has Neville over for dinner right after my gyno. Mom is fully in agreement with Dad—I am to be converted and sold if I don’t remain a virgin. There were the four of us sitting around the dinner table. I was nervous even though I knew that I was okay. Mom held the sealed medical report. Dad handed Neville the documents for my conditional conversion and took the medical report from him.

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

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

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

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

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

“Dad, don’t,” I pleaded.

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

I was freaked out! Mom took off her clothes. It was the first time that I had seen her naked. Mom’s face and shoulders turned red because Neville had her squat and pee right there in the kitchen. I was humiliated, too. When I tried to leave, Dad told me that I had to stay. Part of my shame was my relief that I wasn’t being enslaved. Neville tested Mom’s pee and then pulled his Dingle-Berry PDA out of his briefcase. He pressed a button and said “Slaver Web.”

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

“You’ve wanted a piece of Bethany for years,” Dad’s words made me want to run, but I was too frightened. It isn’t fun being weak. “You can use my bedroom. I need to talk to Tiffy.”

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

“I don’t do the incest thing,” he repeated. “I’m a traditional man.”

Dad wanted me to talk to Mike West, my boss at Spellbook Slaves, about an auction. Seven wives had been converted by Neville that night. Dad’s neighborhood watch cop wannabe group needed new patrol gear. They donated their wives. Dad was volunteered to get me to run the slave auction—Neville specialized in family conversions. Neville didn’t do auctions, of course, that requires a bit of work. He preferred to either keep the slave with her family or find her a good home. Neville recommended Spellbook Slaves for the auction because they could get the highest prices, which is true, normally.

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

“Now I don’t approve of incest. I’ll keep my promise if you lose your virginity,” Dad meant that my hymen had to remain intact. He was going to have me visit the gynecologist just before my 21st birthday with Neville in tow—and convert me on the spot if the doctor said so. “I will let you spend as much time with your mother as possible. Use her as you wish—she is no longer your mother. Beth is a slave. She is to remain naked for the rest of her time with us. I know that you might try to buy Beth yourself, but you don’t have the money. The Watch was hoping to get $10,000 for the seven. If we don’t get at least half that, then we have to look at selling our daughters or other slaves.”

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

I’m a little early to the office this morning. Tiffany is waiting by the door. Normally she is ‘right on time’, never early. Hmm.

“Ah, Mike, can I talk to you this morning? I’ve got something that I really need to talk to you about. It’s job related.”

What the hell? Tiffany isn’t normally one of my problem employees. In fact she is damn near perfect, other than that ‘almost late every day’ thing. Most people call that ‘on time’, but hey, I’m the boss, I can call it what ever I want. In a normal business I would be worried that she was about to bring a sexual harassment case against us, or something like that, but here? And her? No, not that.

“Ah, sure, let me get into the office and I’ll see you once I get a cup of coffee.”

One cup of coffee later, Tiff is in my office. She looks a bit, well, weird.

“Let me start off with this is not my idea. It wasn’t even my dad’s idea, but he is in charge of it now, well, because of me.”

“What idea, your not making of the sense right now Tiffany. Spit it out.”

“Well, you see, my dad is a member of one of those neighborhood watch cop wannabe groups. They need money to upgrade their ‘patrol gear’.”

“Stop. We don’t donate slaves. While it can be done, it’s a mother fucker to get the paperwork right and it costs out the ass. Sorry…”

“Oh, no, they don’t want that. They want us to run a slave auction for them. They would like a deal on how much we keep, but that’s it…”

“OK, so what is the problem then? We can and have done this all the time. Normally our take of that sort of auction is 25%, vs our normal 50% cut.”

“Well, the problem is that they are wanting to sell off wives. My dad has already put mom up. Six other guys put up their wives. The thing that is weirding me out is that they want me to run the auction.”

Well, yeah, I can see that where that might be a problem for Tiffany. So, does Tiffany sell of her mom or not?

n

I’m sitting at my desk looking over the books. Seem to be a good month, even if I was off for most of it. Tiffany calls me over the intercom. “Mr. West, could you come explain what “personal contact” means in this state, please. We seem to have a bit of an issue here.” I check the video of the front desk. There seems to a young couple at the desk talking to Tiffany. She’s a thin dishwater blond, looks like largish a, maybe B cups. He is, well, my “punkdar” goes off. Skinny white dude in a dirty white tee shirt, black jeans, weird semi mullet hair cut. Can’t see his feet, but I’ll bet he is wearing either fake combat boots or shit kicker. With out cause, I’ll also wager, betting that he has never seen a tactical situation or worked around critters that make you need to wear shit kickers. There are a bunch of photos on the desk that I can’t quite make out. Lots of pink flesh showing so I assume it bad amateur porn. Like there is good amateur porn. Back in the days before I started this I never would have thought that. Now days I see way to damn much of it. Worse than when it was my part of my job to surf for porn. Otto, my loyal hench-tern, is leaning against the wall behind the desk trying to look cool. He’s doing a fairly good job at it, given that has had been doing a lot of weight lifting work in the last 6 months or so, and was, well, a big old boy to start with, so to speak. If I was into beef cake I’d be all over it. I’m not however, so well, you know, not all over it. But if I was, well, yeah, not so, whatever. He’s my on call bouncer of choice. Otto’s shaved head is a nice touch. Adds a effect overall.

When I get up to the desk I look at the photos, I look at the girl and the guy. It’s her all right, but who the fuck knows if it’s him or not. I look at the date stamp. 17 months ago? What the fuck is going on here?
“Well, where do you want me start?”

The guy gets all up in my face and sort of blusters out

“You, ‘Mr. West’, can start by telling me how much you are going to pay me for Melanie. Then I’d like to see this slave get 10 lashes for being rude to a free man. I know the law.”

Ah, shit. I don’t want to deal with this today.

“Tiffany, take 5. I’ll deal with this. Otto, hang loose.”

I pick up the images.

“Well, just for starters, Tiffany is a free woman, much like Melanie will be when you leave here. Her getting 10 lashes isn’t on the table. ” Otto smiles and start so say something “but Tiffany sort of likes…” He shuts up as I raise a finger at him. I file away the fact the my 19 year old sales women with a 90 plus rating at cock sucking might like to be flogged as information I might need later, but has nothing to do with my current, err, issue. Problem. Whatever.

The customer, so to speak starts up with “What the fuck are you talking about? She’s a slut and can be converted by who ever brings her ass in first. Don’t tell me other wise, I know my rights! I know the fucking law, You only need 3 items of proof and I gave you 4! I want my fucking money for the slut or I’ll have your job! I’m a personal friend of the owners you know.” He sort of back hands the photos I’m holding to make his point.

He says he is friend of mine? A personal one? Damn and odd. Must have meet him while I was on some strong drugs after the car wreck. I think about it. Nope. No memories, fuzzy or other wise of meeting teen age punks. Just some nice ones of nurses in mini skirts and heels. Ah, yeah, and pain meds… Good times.

“Do you fucking hear me? I’ll fucking have both of your jobs!” This dude is starting to bother me. Why all the rude customers here in my fine establishment of late. Need to look into that. On the other hand this current ‘client’ is just an ass punk that I want out of my store. Time to end this crap.

“No, dill weed, I do not need 3 photos of the lady in question doing something that you might call being a slut. What I need is proof of 3 consensual vaginal intercourse acts in the last 30 days with the requester and the possible converted woman. What I have here is 4 photos of a blow job roughly a year and a half ago. They are too old, not the right kind of sex for making you be a person of personal contact, and when you get down to it, I don’t even know if that’s you she is sucking on. Given the size of the tool, and how you seem to be acting, smart money is that it isn’t you, and your the dweeb holding the camera. All in all, what you have here is bumpkins. Speaking of bumpkins, and your brain, it might also behoove you to know who the owner of a place of business is before you go and claim friendship with him. I don’t know you from frog shit. Please do not let the door hit you on your way out.”

“Do you know who the fuck you are dealing with? I can get you closed down!”

“I think I’m dealing with a moron who thinks 4 photos of the same 17 month old blow job where you can’t see the man’s face is the same as proof of 3 separate fucks in the last 30 days. Beyond that, I don’t know, nor do I care. Now would you please leave my place of business, before I let Otto here remove you? You are invited to never return, and of course, if you so chose attempt to close me down. Good luck with that.”

Otto lacing his fingers together, cracking them as he stretched his arms out in front of him, with that thin smile of his was just a bit over the top.
“Can I boss man? I haven’t gotten to toss a punk ass cracker in a while….”

Cracker? Why in the fuck is he saying that? Otto is so white as to be poster boy for whiteness. Other white things have shrines to Otto’s whiteness. So to speak. On the other hand I knew what he meant.

The cracker in question grabbed ‘Melanie’ by the wrist and started to pull her towards the door. She tried to pull her hand free. “Biff, just go. I said I would come here with you. I didn’t say any thing about leaving with you. Now just get the hell out of my life.”

Biff wasn’t having any of it and tried to pull her again. Sigh, I hate tazering people… As I reach for my Tazer on my belt, Otto leaned forward and applies a hapkido pressure point grab on Biff’s right hand, making his arm bend at a funny angle and release his non-slave ‘Girlfriend’” Good to see my money I spent on sending every one to classes wasn’t a total waste of money. First time I’ve seen him use one on a some one other than an about to be converted woman. Seemed to work just as well on a teen punk. Note to self. Check on Otto’s current belt level. Smart money is on brown. Second note. Spend some time in the Dojo, I’m getting rusty, as I didn’t even thing of that, just went for the magic Zap-o-matic on the belt.

Biff glares at Otto and started to say something, Otto raises his finger like I had to Otto, then sort of growled.

The lady said leave her life. The door is over there. Biffy boy I suggest you go.”

Biff looked at her, then back at Otto, then, when Biff looked back at Melanie and started to reach for her again, Otto slapped the desk top.

NOW

Biff jumped about 3 feet and ran for the door. We heard a car start up and burn rubber out of the lot. Need to put in bigger speed bumps on the exits. I hate people speeding out of here.

After he left. Melanie turn to me “Mr. West if I ‘volunteer’ to become a slave, can you make sure Biff or his friends don’t buy me? I know that I would have no legal rights, but if you give me your word, I’ll sign my self over to you.”

I shrug. “Sure, I’ll give you my word. May I ask why your going to convert your self?”

“Well, just because Biff doesn’t have the right kind of photos doesn’t mean they aren’t out there. I’d just a soon be safe when he talks with his ‘running dogs’. I’d hate to be sold to a meat packer. Besides I’ve heard that you treat your sex slaves well. I got a 95 on my oral test from ‘F&S Testing’ last month. ”

A 95 oral from F&S? Lindy Lovelace at her best wouldn’t get that. Yeah, I can use you Melanie. I start to gather to papers work for doing a voluntary conversion together.

“I’m sure we can work out something my dear.”