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.“

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.”

The Final Survivor

At the very moment that Holly was fiercely pledging to ensure that the last member of the strike force was caught, Marcelle Fair was leaving her hotel room. Fear had interrupted her uneasy alcohol-induced slumber and forced her to arise early. She decided to get some fruit and coffee, along with a few aspirin to kill her pounding headache. The lobby was brightly lit at the early dawn hour and Marcelle was looking forward to stretching her legs after a light repast in the small hotel cafe.

She saw a small crowd clustered around some sort of exhibit and moved that direction to see what was causing the interest. Upon approaching, she recognized that it was one of the new ‘display’ roasters. She quickly appraised that the unit was just firing up because the women’s flesh was still blemish-free and remained the gorgeous alabaster of chilled blood-free girl meat. She gasped when she realized that one of the four women, a big busty brunette was still alive. Stinging tendrils of salty oil were making her eyes blink and occasionally small quivers shook the tightly trussed long pig. Her plump breasts were already a dull blue from her constricting bondage.

Each girl’s hair had been pulled back painfully tight in a ponytail, secured with a nylon tie, and then hacked off just below that point, leaving only a ragged inch-long ponytail. The gutting process on three of the women helped emphasize their tiny waists and made their breasts and thighs seem larger.

Marcelle gasped in sudden recognition of one of the three dead women. She’d just recognized Mary Hess, the FREEDOM Cell Resistance Leader that controlled her BEACON Team. “She’s spitted and roasting. Oh, crap! Mary Hess has already been caught and killed,” she told herself with horror. “I never heard about this on the news.”

She stepped back and studied the scene again. “Mary and the other one are young, probably college aged. The other two are older, but with bigger frames and much larger breasts; although the dead one is blonde.” Marcelle struggled to remember if she’d seen either of the other two dead women or the live brunette at some point in her past. Eerily, the big-titted brunette seemed to wink furiously and even wiggle a bit each time she came around and faced Marcelle. The resistance fighter was just deciding that freeing the brunette might be a required course of action when a woman beside her giggled.

“Look, Herald, … no matter where we stand, … the live one’s eyes seem to follow us.”

Another man interjected, “Yeah, it’s the same with me from where I’m standing. Kinda weird, huh? Almost like that Mona Lisa painting, … right?”

That reality check sobered Marcelle. She shook herself with the certainty that it’d been her imagination that the doomed brunette was trying to contact her. Marcelle said a final mental goodbye to Mary Hess, and left without a backward glance.

Behind her in the display cooker, Sheila Mull groaned in realization that no miracle was going to save her. She’d struggled with every bit of her strength to contact Marcelle Fair through the glass front of her enclosure. Her presence at the window had seemed her salvation. Any delicious thoughts of potential revenge against Holly for betraying her vanished along with the departing member of BEACON Team.

Having lost her appetite, along with her pounding headache, Marcelle Fair then spent the morning shopping. The depressing realization that overnight two highly-trained teams and a leadership cell were completely destroyed had been almost overwhelming. The skewered form of Mary Hess, who she thought was an Underground Railroad leader, had been the final straw.

Her first purchase of the day had been at an upscale leather goods store to replace her travel-worn school backpack. Next, she replaced her college wardrobe with expensive business attire that matched the classy valise she’d purchased. As she progressed from shop to shop, Marcelle slowly discarded anything that tied her to the disastrous Underground Railroad membership, to St. Julia College, in the city of Hutchinson Kansas, or even the appearance of being a coed.

The local and national news outlets were in full crisis mode; building up hysteria about other potential attacks by the Underground Railroad. Candace Walter’s head exploding in a spray of red gore was at the top of every news story. Marcelle knew that she was in serious trouble and feared that news rumors of a well-placed anti-slavery mole in Eastlake may been the reason her organization had been so easily wiped out. “A traitor,” she whispered cautiously. “Could a traitor have exposed us?” Marcelle decided it didn’t matter, her mission was now to survive. “I’ve already done my bit against slavery,” she told herself. “Now, I have to move on and try and make a new life.”

“An anonymous spokeswoman for the New Underground Railroad just released this statement,” Marcelle heard as she walked past an electronics outlet. She paused to listen.

The newswoman continued her story. “The New Underground Railroad has distanced themselves from ‘the misguided act of violence that killed innocents and slaves in Eastlake, Ohlahoma. Our policy,’ they said ‘is to change laws and to free women enslaved in violation of moral codes founded upon our basic humanity. We are not like the animals that enslave, murder, and eat our own.’”

Back outside Magnus Hotel, the shaken woman paused and considered her options before she went in to her room. Marcelle now knew that she was the sole survivor of BEACON Team and there had been little information about the specific survivors of ANVIL Team other than she knew they were in the hands of the notorious slaver Mike West. The FREEDOM Cell Leadership of the New Underground Railroad Movement had likely been quashed permanently. Given the announced capture of Wendy Adler and Anne Kinison at the very truckstop they’d departed from the night before, the entire movement was being described as collapsed because it had been full of empty-headed young twits. The news reports were gleefully playing up the story of how once the two truck drivers realized who they’d given rides to, they’d quietly taken the wrong interstate highway ramp and returned back toward Eastlake. Wendy and Anne were described as brainless, self-deluded girls too stupid to remain free. NMG was highlighting their capture as proof that the WSA 2000 laws were wise and protected the public from similar delusional idiots.

Holly, NMG executives, SWAT teams, and literally hundreds of news cameras were on hand to capture the anticlimactic turn-over of the two stunned women. Holly released a press release stating that NMG planned to request an uncontested right of purchase from Federal Prosecutors given they were the target of that group’s terrorist scheme. They hoped to overrule the politically motivated ploy of the female State Prosecutor to interfere in the case.

During that morning, Marcelle disposed of all the identification she’d managed to find from her ill-fated team, even her own. A surprise among the pile of documents had been the discovery of a false ID that Candace Walters had left in her purse. Given their resemblance and age, Marcelle decided to assume the fictitious identity of Anna Young, a blonde girl her same age, height, and weight. “Thankfully,” she mumbled, “I’ve never had my fingerprints taken so changing my identity should work if this false ID is any good.”

Her mind made up, Anna Young turned away from the hotel and hailed a taxi cab. She told the cabbie to take her to the nearest salon. “I’ve never been a blonde,” she told herself almost cheerfully given the traumatic events of the last hours. “And, I’ve got enough cash to open a local bank account and get a fresh start at the university here in Eastlake.” Anna also decided that like mice during the last ice age, “she’d be humble, quiet, and stay out of sight.”

Holly paced the floor of Marcelle’s empty hotel room. Sheila’s computer files had easily given up the identity of the remaining team member. Completely focused on her mission to capture the last remaining FREEDOM Cell member, Holly had reviewed the hotel security tapes from the night before. She’d easily recognized the brunette checking in just moments after Gabrielle Crooks because of the photos in Sheila’s extensive computer files.

Desperate to eradicate the last link to her hotel and the subsequent murders that Holly had done in order to protect herself, she’d charged upstairs to Marcelle’s room. “Where the hell is she?” Holly muttered angrily. Her police baton was put away down in her office, but a bulge in her pants pocket concealed the taser that Holly intended to use as soon as she spotted Marcelle Fair.

Hours later, she returned to her office and reviewed the computer-based security videos to remove any visual sign that tied her to the women or even that they’d been in the hotel at all. Discovering that two of the rooms were taken with false identities and that Marcelle had used a dead teammate’s credit card only as identification before paying cash had been a huge relief. “I don’t have to leave records that they even entered. Ah, here’s the piece showing Marcelle Fair leaving this morning.” Holly sighed and then deleted that entry as well.

Inwardly, she prayed that nothing from the three rooms rented the night before would be linked back to the resistance movement. “Sheila, your passion for security might save my ass. You might have hidden my existence from your Benefactor. Now, I have to get the vans taken care of. Maybe there will be a good ending to this mess. Maybe, … oh, merciful deities, I hope so.”

The Aftermath – Part V

By about two in the morning, Sheila and Gabrielle had completed their joyful romp in bed and were playfully squirting each other with the spray hose in the suite’s large Jacuzzi. Under their laughing forms, Mary and Shelly were miserably sputtering and sobbing as soap and water sluiced onto them from their betrayers’ bodies. The two resistance leaders meant to clean up much more than just the urine on their fallen comrades and the sex musk on themselves.

Gabrielle finished up rinsing shampoo off Mary’s red, tear-streaked face while Sheila stood by the bathroom mirror, quickly patting her body down with an oversize, fluffy towel. The spray hose off, Gabrielle grinned up at her co-conspirator. Then, her smile froze and her eyes widened in terror in the final micro-seconds before the twin darts of Sheila’s taser jammed into her upper torso. Sheila cruelly fired high voltage down the coils of wire again and again until she was sure that Gabrielle was completely subdued.

“Sorry, honey,” Sheila whispered to her former best friend in the world. “It’s only business, you know. The revolution must live on and you are the only remaining link that could bring me down.” She lovingly rubbed the quivering face of her lover. “You understand, … don’t you?”

Gabrielle Crooks was far too disoriented from the multiple 450,000 volt shocks that had just coursed through her wet and defenseless body. Her overloaded muscles had become jelly-like as the lactic acid from the bone-jarring electric-fueled spasms, reducing her to a quivering, defenseless mass. Sheila had intentionally purchased the most powerful taser on the market; one banned by most law enforcement agencies as too risky for use.

Sheila picked up her discarded towel, wrapped it around her lush form, and picked up the phone. “Holly, honey,” she purred. “It’s that time. I want you to have my slavegirls picked up right now. Yes, … I know your concerns, … but we already covered this in great detail. Oh, … by the way, send a cart large enough for three. And, … I want them gutted and spitted within the hour, … after all, you know the consequences if you don’t get them roasting. You will follow my directions exactly if you don’t want to be linked to tonight’s events.”

While she waited for the kitchen staff to arrive, Sheila straightened up the room, adding Gabrielle’s things to the pile destined for the hotel incinerator. The easy tasks freed her mind for remembering the last time she’d seen Holly in person when she’d walked outside the glass lobby entry of the National Media Headquarters reserved for the exclusive use of the downtown office of Spellbook Slaves and Games.

“Holly had just walked outside with a woman who liked like she was some kind of Norse queen come to life. I was close enough in my recon to hear the poor idiot bemoan the way she’d been bullied by Darlene, the ex-owner she admired so much, to take her for some wild sex with that jackal Mike West,” Sheila remembered. The blonde Mistress became disgusted with Holly and left her there looking like she was going to vomit.

“I was wearing a blonde wig, that tight grey business skirt and jacket, decorative-top hose, and no panties, bra, or shirt.” She smiled at the memory of how easy it had been to get the attention of the huge-titted Mistress as she left Holly by the slaver’s building. “It was a target of opportunity. All I really hoped to accomplish that day was a preliminary survey of some target sites. Then, I saw those ‘double-Ds’ and the Mistress outfit and it was too good a chance to pass up. All it took was a hand signal bring the van forward to the curb, warn Gabrielle what we were doing, get to the sidewalk before the Mistress, drop my briefcase, and point my ass toward her. The poor thing was putty in my hands; she had drool running down the front of her Mistress outfit before I even tasered her.”

“Holly doomed herself when she didn’t call for help after recognizing me. Plus, the camera that Gabrielle Crooks was running of the NMG headquarters clearly caught Holly’s look of recognition in the background behind where the tasered Mistress twitched on the sidewalk. Priceless!” Sheila muttered with real satisfaction. “We had to quickly get a program together to handle that huge Mistress, but it was well worth it. I hope to start releasing video clips of her humiliation soon.”

Sheila remembered that after lewdly exposing her crotch, she casually walked to the driver’s door as if nothing happened. “That’s when I saw Holly staring at me. I winked at her and left. Whatta hoot!”

“Since then,” Sheila continued to herself, “I’ve been periodically contacting the girl about once every five or six months using a special phone. She had no choice but to give us cash, Mike West’s habits and his office locations, and the access code to his office. Silly slut, … she’s mine forever now.”

When the kitchen team timidly knocked on the door, Sheila was ready with a grin because her plan was going so flawlessly.

A narrow spray of mace squirted between the opening door and the steel jamb, striking Sheila squarely in the eyes. Aggressively pursuing the attack, Holly stepped forcefully into the room, crouched into a batter’s stance, and two-handedly swung a heavy police baton across Sheila’s belly with the weight and power of her torso behind the blow. In rapid succession, thumping blows to legs, arms, and her back followed. At least one sharp crackling pop told of broken bones. Sheila ended up weakly writhing on the floor, unaware and unable to resist when Holly knelt down and used bright red nylon binding rope to secure ankles and wrists together. When she was finished, Sheila was a mass of pain contorted in a painful hogtie.

With a clatter of wheels, Holly tugged a huge laundry cart into the suite. She took care of the easy things first; bags, suitcases, and personal effects. Two sets of van keys were tucked into Holly’s pocket for later use.

The hotel kitchen was dark, cold, and completely deserted at two thirty in the morning. The early shift would arrive in less than an hour and a half. Gabrielle whimpered in horror when Holly whisked a beige plastic cover aside to reveal a Jessica 3000. Because she was working alone with dangerous slaves, and because she had a little compassion for two of the women she was murdering, Holly gave Shelly and Mary a strong dose of quickly metabolized tranquilizer suitable for livestock. Then, she slipped Gabrielle’s weakly resisting form into the Jessica 3000 cradle system while the drugs went to work on the two duped assistants.

“Normally,” Holly lectured to Sheila and Gabrielle as the Jessica 3000 sprang to life, beginning a merciless fucking motion into Gabrielle’s softly bucking form, “it’s recommended to let the machine fuck and shock the meat into prime tenderness for several cycles before triggering the pneumatic gutting and spitting process. Unfortunately, we’re in a hurry, so you and Gabrielle won’t get the full benefit of the torture you bitches so richly deserve. Instead, I’ll let Gabrielle feel the pain of an accelerated program where the cock expands bigger and harder and the shocks are much more intense. Plus, the nipple heaters and clit burner hurt like hell.”

After a few long moments of silence, she pulled down a Lexan shield. Then, with a thundering hiss, Gabrielle was gutted, sluiced clean with high pressure jets, and spitted, all in a matter of seconds. A splatter of blood, body parts, and water explained the shield. A moment later, Gabrielle was draped beautifully on a special cart, held up only by the long spit that entered her torso through her cunt and exited her mouth. Holly wrapped heavy cotton roasting twine in key spots to secure the head, elbows, wrists, knees, and ankles to the skewer. “I prefer cotton twine to the traditional steel skewers or baling wire which I think ruin the look of the golden skin once cooking is finished, Holly told Sheila authoritatively.”

At ten minute intervals, Mary Hess, and then Shelly Richmond joined Gabrielle on the cart. A grunting, whimpering Sheila Mull witnessed the amazingly fast process from the swivel chair Holly had bound her to. Finished with the first three carcasses, Holly rolled Sheila’s chair toward a section of wall. “Sheila, on the other side of this rollup wall is the back of our new glass-fronted rotisserie.” The wall clattered up noisily and revealed the backside of a faux firepit with a heavy steel rotisserie carousel above it. Holly slipped the cart full of the three lifeless carcasses forward and slid Shelly’s skewer onto the receiving clips of one arm of the rotisserie carousel. Holly slightly rotated the spit by pushing on Shelly’s soft ass until it clicked into position and then she closed the locking latches on the skewer mounts. With a whir, the rack rotated up and the next empty set of rotisserie arms were aligned with the cart. Mary and Gabrielle were quickly mounted to the carousel as well.

Holly turned to Sheila, “Once I open the opposite shutters, anyone at this end of the lobby will see today’s dinner entrees cooking.” She smirked at her blackmailer and added dryly, “I hope you noticed that our dinner special is half off on a Chef’s Special.” She gestured toward the three bodies already on the roaster and continued, “We all know that alternate meat like this isn’t really live roasted despite the label of ‘live roaster’. However, if you carefully examined our Dinner Special advertisement, you’d have seen that today we prepare a real delicacy, although I don’t especially enjoy the pungent wild-meat taste.” Holly took Sheila’s chin in a tight squeeze and added, “It’s one hundred percent, live roasted, unprocessed girl, … Sheila-meat.”

Sheila peed; the spattering of the smelly piss on the tile floor was loud in the quiet kitchen.

Holly picked up a heavy meat mallet and after an experimental swing or two said, “There’s more than one way to tenderize tough meat. Behave or I’ll make this especially painful.”

Holly stuck a needle in Sheila’s jugular and eased a tiny bit of calming sedative into her bloodstream in order to ease the mounting process for the traitorous bitch. Holly had no intention of mitigating the painful process of being roasted alive. She laid a special roasting rod on a stainless steel food preparation table and rolled Sheila atop it. She carefully aligned a one-inch diameter rectal shaft with Sheila’s tiny puckered rear opening. Holly sprayed vegetable shortening on the unyielding steel and then jammed it six inches deep into Sheila’s ass before tightening the skewer mount onto the shaft. With the lower torso rigidly attached to the shaft, she rolled Sheila onto her side. Next, she gathered up a quarter-inch stainless steel cables fed through a slot on the heavy shaft which she tightly wrapped around Sheila’s thighs before ratcheting the cable tight. A similar cable secured Sheila’s ankles to the shaft. The last cable was secured under Sheila’s ample breasts and tightened to attach the upper torso to the shaft.

After studying her helpless prey, Holly rolled the long pig onto her belly and bound her wrists behind her back. Then, Sheila’s wrists were ratcheted all the way up to just below her neck, dislocating her shoulders with discernable pops. The pain penetrated into Sheila’s lightly drugged brain and she whimpered as each wrist was dragged into position up against the thick rotisserie shaft. Lastly, Holly locked Sheila’s head tightly to the shaft.

Sheila came to full attention as something cold misted across her body. “Hmmph!” she cried. A little blood dribbled off her tongue where a skewer held it outside a ringgag locked behind her incisors. Holly didn’t want Sheila swallowing her tongue and dying any earlier than possible.

“Hush, you little baby,” Holly whispered. “You wanted your girls quickly prepared and I’ve done just that. The stuff I just sprayed on you is the same as each of them got; a thick coat of olive oil; it’ll hold a thick coating of spices on your skin and will brown everything nicely in the roasting pit.”

The rotisserie carousel whirred and began to rotate up and over the faux bed of coals. Each of the four pigs slowly rotated on their own skewers at the same time. As each girl passed by, Holly rubbed salt and herbs onto the glistening bodies, including Sheila’s. She made sure that each crevasse of their bodies was coated by the taste-enhancing additives.

“At this point,” Holly explained loudly over the softly whirring machinery, “the room is refrigerated. At six this morning, the lobby shutters will rise, … of course that’s when the gas coals below will ignite and the rotisserie will begin to rotate. This is a true slow cooking process so you’ll last at least three hours before rising temperatures in your inner core shut down your brain activity forever. I just wish you’d be awake when the chef does your final gutting before letting you finish cooking. Most of your blood will remain in your blood vessels, coagulated from the heat of roasting alive, and giving the special ‘wild game’ taste. Goodbye, you cowardly and blackmailing bitch!”

Holly slammed the rotisserie panel shut and left the kitchen. Her next stop was at the hotel incinerator.

Hours later, in her office, Holly contemplated the computer disks, notes, cash, and the laptop on her desk. They were all that remained of the four women spitted and slow roasting over the now glowing coals of the glass-fronted rotisserie. Frankly, Holly should not have been amazed at the extent of the cash Sheila and Gabrielle had with them. It was clear from the cash bonanza that they placed a high value on their own safe escape. Their clothing and flammable gear had already fed the hungry inferno of the hotel incinerator and Holly planned to scatter their weapons, ammo, and cell phones in small, disassembled bits from a boat on the nearby river. She’d rented a small motorized skiff and would discretely drop everything at points between the two Eastlake oil refineries.

The most surprising discovery had been the unencrypted files on Sheila’s laptop computer. In addition to every possible detail about the organization, its membership, and their plans, Holly had made the chilling discovery of the identity of the power broker behind the attacks in Eastlake – the mysterious ‘Benefactor’. “No wonder Sheila decided to have Gabrielle act as the sole contact with him. He’d mercilessly kill off any possible connection tying him to a conspiracy against slavery. Holy merciful deities! If this is tracked back to me, … I’m way worse off than Sheila. I have to hope he never discovered that Sheila was the true leader of the cell with me as their blackmailed contact in Eastlake.” That sobering discovery had prompted Holly to attempt to end this matter forever.

By then, Holly had already heard the news that two of the escaping terrorists had been turned in by alert truck drivers after a widespread BOLO (Be On the Look Out) broadcast had been sent through law enforcement channels. The media had discovered the BOLO and rebroadcast the information through their public radio and television outlets. Further, the news was ridiculing the women as brainless twits for letting themselves to be led right back to the very truck stop where they initially fled from in Eastlake. Their capture had resulted in a frenzy of speculation about the New Underground Railroad Movement.

A chill went down Holly’s spine at the news. “Who else knew the identities of the escapees from BEACON Team?” She sat sweating in fear. “I have to be sure the last surviving member, Marcelle, is found and accounted for if I want to severe the line of evidence leading back to Sheila and then myself,” Holly told herself fiercely. “The problem is, … why hasn’t her identity been released? And, what about the other three pigs cooking downstairs? Why aren’t the authorities looking for Gabrielle, Mary, and Shelly? Marcelle couldn’t have exposed the two escapees on her team; there simply wasn’t enough time for that. Or, …was if it was the Benefactor that set this whole thing up?”

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.

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter 29: You can’t find it on the map!

I made it to Saturday, May 26th, 2001 without killing anybody. I managed to survive a busy week. My weekend promised to be even busier, but I had enough time off to sleep really late—until seven. I was showering when Jane told me that Colonel Murphy was on the phone and it was urgent.

“Colonel Murphy, this is Lieutenant Foster.”

“Tell me everything you know about a Mrs. Aapti Vasant.”

“Yes, Colonel. Mrs. Vasant is the three-time prime minister of Zerksi. She gets elected and then she gets arrested and deposed by the Zerksi Parliament. I thought our politics was convoluted! That little nation is between Burma and Thailand, an island in the Indian Ocean. It is ethnically diverse and every faction hates each other. Mrs. Vasant was a movie star turned activist. Oddly enough, she is a devout Catholic, too. The religious break-down is 48% Hindu, 35% Buddhists, 11% Christian, and 7% Muslim, with the numbers a bit off due to rounding. You know government statistics, sir—often they’re just educated guesses.”

“That is ‘scientific estimation,’ Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Aapti is going to be visiting friends in Eastlake today. One of them is Carla Connor. You are to accommodate Aapti.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ever since Zerksi exploded its first nuclear weapon in ’99, the official US policy has been to accommodate them. We do hope that they’ll rid themselves of their stockpile, soon.”

Some stockpile! Never mind what the classified reports say. Use your head. Zerksi has very little industrial infrastructure and a population of about 50 million. They detonated a device that produced 47 kilotons yield. It could be that they acquired a number of Cold War nuclear weapons and demonstrated their best warhead. The official Zerksi line is that they managed to assemble their own from the Atoms for Peace program. In 1999, the Zerksi Air Force consisted of thirty-five well-worn Mig-17 fighter-bombers and twenty-seven Puma helicopters—and seven old PV-2 Neptune patrol aircraft. No nuclear delivery platforms there! The National Police had a dozen assorted light helicopters, mostly Italian-made copies of the Bell Jet Ranger. Their national airline had several old Douglas jets and a bunch of old twin-engine propeller aircraft not too different than Uma Castleman’s Twin Otter—only older. The nation was broke. Now they were scheduled to receive F-16 Fighting Falcons that were ‘surplus to requirements’ from the United States Air Force—along with some C-130 Hercules transport aircraft. The Hercules COULD be used to deliver a nuclear warhead—especially if the Zerksi pilot followed the Zerksi suicide attack provision. Not the F-16’s, not without the nuclear weapon delivery packages—unless the same suicide attack option was used. Zerksi could have been the origin of the Bezerker. It’s not something modern nations brag about.

For the average American, Zerksi is a place that you cannot find on a map.

Aapti had been educated in Europe and the United States. She was in her mid-50’s and still a handsome woman. Aapti was known by her first name world-wide as an advocate for women’s rights. That may have been the source of most of her troubles in Zerksi.

I had my own problems. The government record-keeping requirements were not adequate for my needs. They wanted paper files, and they wanted each document in a separate file. All drug/pregnancy screens went in one file. Copies of driver’s licenses went into another file. Birth certificates? A third file. Ditto for transfer papers for those enslaved by magistrate, for marriage licenses, for notarized enslavement forms, for voluntary enslavement forms—you get the idea. I decided to keep two sets of files—one set would be filed under the slave’s ID number and the other set would conform to current government requirements. I did this over the objection of both attorneys. They quite reasonably pointed out that providing more than the minimum required was asking for trouble. I told them that they were correct, but I needed to be able to lay my hands on everything officially relating to any of my slaves. In addition to the official records, I kept extensive electronic files on each slave. These files included a portfolio of photographs. A standard set was head and shoulder frontal and profiles, full body front, right profile, back and left profile, and close-ups of vulva and any ‘scars, tattoos or distinguishing marks.’ Fingerprints and a DNA sample were kept on file, too. Don’t forget that all my slaves were marked with RFID tags. With the right reader, they could be found in the open within a quarter mile. A normal RFID reader works only at spitting distance—the FCC didn’t like all those stray radio signals and there is a safety issue, both addressed by keeping the ordinary reader transmit power to the microwatt level. The RFID tag was rather dumb, being more or less the equivalent of your automobile’s VIN. There was basically the slave’s ID number and some basic identification data: date of birth, birth name, old social security number and such.

Carla was supposed to leave at 8:30 so that she could be at Ms. Marion Fitzgerald’s homecoming. I was still working on my files when she came in at about eight.

“Peter, may I take Heather with me?”

I thought for a moment.

“I need to know if you are going to visit with Aapti Vasant any time soon. Colonel Murphy said that she was in town and mentioned you.”

“Aapti? Here?” Carla struck a coy pose and giggled. “But I’ve nothing to wear!”

“Court order. I’ll print you out a copy. If your friend Aapti doesn’t like it, have her speak to me.” I picked up an origami basket I had made in odd moments. “Take Heather and Jane both. I’d like it if you’d give this to Ms. Fitzgerald.”

It was a handful of marbles. The card read: “See? You haven’t lost them!”

“I saw you make this,” Carla examined the gift. “Clever boy and strips of colored paper. Now I know what you were up to. She can’t have candy.”

“They are a stone-age remote control. Simply throw them.”

Business was picking up at Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. It was the end of the school year and we were getting a dozen walk-in volunteers per day. In addition, we got four family conversions on Wednesday, two on Thursday and six on Friday. I bought three from Hill’s Fine Meats and got the fourth one free—there were some parents that might be upset over their daughters living instead of being chops and steaks, but Jim Hill kept his promise: no 16 or 17 year old girls were butchered. Those four girls were currently caged upstairs contemplating their fates.

“Carla, I want you to take one of the new girls with you. Yes, it is a test. Her name is Allie and she is too young to be sent to slave camp.”

We went upstairs and pulled Allie out of her cage. I carefully rigged Allie out with a waist belt, wrist and ankle cuffs, gag and radio collar. The webbing was nylon and the buckles were secured with small brass padlocks. The collar had just an 80-milliwatt two-way radio/GPS system, but the GPS would tell compatible systems where Allie was from a distance of miles, depending upon terrain. Allie was trying to behave herself—that’s why I decided to send her along—but she was still ashamed of being naked.

“If the ground is rough, put beach sandals on her feet,” I told Carla. “Otherwise, keep her barefoot.

“Allison Stanley, listen to me.” I held the shaking girl in my arms. “You are a slave, now. Your legal title is ‘person of limited rights.’ That isn’t the truth—your only real right is that your children are born as free citizens of the United States. My dogs have more rights under the law, and they can be seized and killed if someone complains that they heard my dogs barking. I need you to get used to being a slave, get used to being naked in public. You are still the same person, but the fake part of you, your identity, has changed.”

There were several occupied cages in the room. The caged women watched while I chained Allie’s wrists to her belt and connected her ankles with 18” of chain. Allie couldn’t do much with her hands. I fastened a leash to her belt—it would just as easily fit on her collar, but Allie wasn’t gagged. I merely looped the gag around her neck, ready for instant use.

“Have Jane feed Allie some breakfast before you go, then get Allie cleaned up. I’ll see you later.”

Carla kissed me. She turned to Allie and took the leash.

“I’m not Master Peter,” Carla said, “but I think you could use a good whipping.”

“It is understandable that your parents would get upset when they found you half dressed with a boy in the living room,” I said. “I can understand their anger when they found that you had been drinking and smoking. It did seem to be overreaction to sell you to Hill’s as a girl roast, though.”

I patted the REJECT stamp on Allie’s thigh.

“Carla will be talking to you about your future.”

“If she has one, Master,” Carla tugged on the leash. “Come on, girl, I want breakfast too!”

Carla had already had breakfast. She probably would have coffee and part of a roll. I watched as Carla led Allie out the door.

“Master,” a quavering voice said, “thank you for saving my life.”

“Your name is Fatima, isn’t it?” I turned to a small, sad, face behind the cage door. The door was a sheet of Plexiglas with ventilation holes. “Thank your parents if you ever see them again. Normally the tradition is honor killing. They could have done that legally by simply doing a parental enslavement. Instead, they sold you to Hill’s and pocketed $250.”

My shoulders slumped—and I reminded myself that my glass was more than half full. There had been six women sold with Fatima. They were all hanging in cold storage now, minus head and internal organs. It was the $250 price paid for Fatima that got to me—okay, there were the enslavement taxes, too. Jim Hill paid those: Oklahoma slave tax, Federal Slave Tax, Alternate Meat Source Slave Tax. When her meat was sold, there’d be the Oklahoma sales tax. I bought Fatima for $600, which was basically at cost. Since Fatima wasn’t going to be killed, the meat tax didn’t apply. Still, to invest nearly two decades of love and labor on a child, then dump her for $250!

“Master, I was wrong to talk to that boy.”? Fatima sniffed back a sob. “In my culture I would have been married long ago, but here in Oklahoma we had to wait. Allah delivered me into your hands. Getting butchered and sold as meat wasn’t the worst fate I faced. I could have gone back to the old country. I could have been tortured to death. Last year my cousin was—we had to watch. I am fortunate.”

Yes, kid, I thought to myself. Fortunate indeed! My dark thoughts were interrupted by Penny and Susan wheeling in the food cart. On board were bottles of water and packages of Slave Chow. It wasn’t much, but it was the slave’s brunch. Later, the slaves would be taken to the classroom and tested on their computer skills. They’d be permitted some exercise time in the yard—as much exercise as you can get bound hand and foot—and they’d be fed dinner at four. Not slave chow for that meal, but not exactly a three-course dinner at Eastwood’s finest restaurant, either. Allie would be getting better food. Small things counted for them, now.

“Penny, who is going to bathe the slaves today?”

“Shawna is leading the clean-up detail, Brother Master,” Penny said. “Susan and I volunteered to clean the cages this week.”

“That means we show the new girls,” Susan and Penny were slaves themselves and they called other slaves ‘girls’ regardless of age,” how to wipe down their cages and then we let them do it. After that, we demonstrate proper slave hygiene for Shawna on each other. The rest of the week we just watch and make rude comments, Brother Master.”

“Who is the security detail?”

“Bonnie is in charge. It is Montana and Michelle Bronson today.” Penny opened up the cage pass-through and shoved a food packet and water bottle inside. “They have school tomorrow, so it will be Odette Odell and Cynthia Bank. I don’t know about Monday, Brother Master.”

“Just don’t open the cages without security present,” I said. “I don’t want to lose either one of you.”

“Master,” Fatima said, “I have to make water. I can’t hold it any longer.”

“There is a piddle pack in your cage,” I said, “Follow the directions on the bag and leave it in your pass-through.”

“I’ll demonstrate,” Susan said as she pulled a spare pack from the cart.

“Peter,” Summer’s voice was recognizable over the intercom, “we have a problem in medical. Please respond.”

“On the way.” I hurried downstairs. Summer wouldn’t have called me if it hadn’t been an emergency.

It was Katheryn Volt-Haute—Kitty, if you prefer. Heather’s mother had been converted by Mr. Luther Volt-Haute, husband to Kitty and father to Heather. Kitty was staring into space.

“You are the doctor, Summer,” I said when I saw Kitty’s face.

“She needs you,” Summer said. “I need to see another patient, but I can send in someone else. Pam.”

“Pam will be fine. I understand that Kitty is at bottom right now.” I shook my head. “I’m no professional, but I think she needs human contact. I think she needs to know that she is a valuable human being—even if she’s a slave right now.”

“I am right here,” Kitty whispered. “You can talk to me. Master.”

Summer left as I began to knead Kitty’s shoulders.

“Are you ready to attend all of your Women’s Relief Union while naked? In addition to setting the example, will you encourage other slave wives to attend those functions naked?”

“No!” Kitty glared at me.

“Good and bad, Katheryn. You are still not at rock bottom, yet, but you are improving. What happened to you is something you had a hand in. Are you ready to ask for a whipping?”

Kitty’s gaze fell to the floor.

“I can’t stop you, Master.”

“That is acknowledgement of the inevitable, but not quite what I want.” I sighed. “My policy is to never criticize a slave’s former owners or parents. Dwelling on the injustices of the past only sours the present. Don’t criticize—but it is okay to state facts. These are facts: your daughter ran away from home, your husband enslaved you, you don’t like it and you think you have been treated unfairly. This is criticism—your worthless daughter ran out on you and your husband cheated you out of your freedom and wealth. Do you see the difference between the two, between facts and criticism?”

“No,” Kitty raised her gaze and met my eyes. She trembled and I saw the fear in her eyes. “I don’t see any difference.”

“Oh,” my own shoulders slumped. “I am used to objective reporting. My education is in the hard sciences, especially electronics. Ever cuss at your computer when it does what your key strokes commanded instead of what you wanted the stupid machine to do? I have. Facts are objective, measurable, and repeatable. Your feelings are not facts—but you can still tell people how you feel. Just remember—the facts can be observed by others. Your interpretation of the facts have to be separated from the facts. ‘It isn’t fair’ means little. I have an idea of what happened between you and Mr. Volt-Haute. For years, you have been manipulating him by whining, withholding affection—not just sex, but you withdrew every bit of your approval of him as a human being. I suspect that you gave him the silent treatment for days at a time. When he asked you what was wrong, you’d reply ‘nothing!’ Then you’d say nothing. The last two decades men were disarmed in this battle of the sexes—you could just simply file abuse charges with no proof other than your word. If you had any bruises, he would be jailed for the rest of his life. Now the boot is on the other foot and any husband is a fool for not immediately enslaving his wife.”

“But that isn’t fair!”

“Fair is for fairies—you are human. You are a slave now and the free-woman option of leaving the relationship isn’t yours anymore. You abandoned your husband by withdrawing affection. Woman, you should have just left him and never looked back! I should have you talk to Gigi about that.” Speak of the devil—Gigi leaped on my lap and meowed. “Okay, Gigi withholds affection as well. I’d call her on that, but Gigi is a cat.”

Gigi meowed again.

“Yes, Gigi.”

The cat leapt off my lap and trotted out of the room.

“You can talk to her?”

“So can you. Communications isn’t perfect. Look at how much trouble you have with your daughter and husband. When you nagged—not criticized, nagged—Heather, you used words like ‘you are dead meat, Heather,’ or ‘I’m selling you off you worthless thing.’ Heather didn’t tell me—she was following my no-criticism doctrine. She is still learning the objective reporting thing. Gigi told me that she is bringing her toy cat into the conversation. Here she is now.”

Gigi came into the room with her toy. Gigi deposited it on my lap and gave a short speech. Please don’t ask me for a translation—I missed most of it. Then Gigi began grooming her toy cat.

“I think she said; ‘love, or don’t love.’ Dogs do the same thing—usually. They don’t pretend—not often. What do you think, Kitty? I asked for a subjective opinion.”

“I think you’re crazy,” Kitty said softly. She shifted her eyes from Gigi to my face. “I think I am going crazy. Master, if I never wear clothes again, who will respect me?”

“Who respects you now? Was it respect when you were made a slave?”

I got the impression that Kitty would have cried if she had any tears remaining.

Pam came in at that time. Kitty was saggy compared to Pam’s tight body. Kitty had small breasts, but her nipples were on line with Kitty’s mammary fold—though they did point forward. Pam’s breasts were slightly larger but stood proudly out from her chest without a hint of sag—she easily passed the pencil test. I had closely examined Pam’s breasts and if they were fake, the surgeon was skilled enough to fool me! Kitty had a thick waist—Pam had a classic wasp waist. Pam was 42 and had no children. Kitty was three years older and had gi8ven birth to Heather. Even though Pam had the prettier body, Kitty’s body was perfectly acceptable—especially once that jungle had been removed from her crouch. Okay, I’m a pervert. Live with it!

“Dear, has our Master been making you feel bad again?” Pam beamed. “Well, in that case, there is only one thing to do. Master Peter, may I give you a blow job?”

“I have a better idea, Pam. Help me ravage this sweet but depressed lady.”

“Oh, goody! I get to start off with a blow job!”

It was a bit difficult making love in the clinic, so I moved us to my bedroom. Gigi followed with her toy cat in her mouth and Gigi vanished beneath the big bed. After moving, it took only a few minutes to get Kitty to do everything. Kitty was lonely and starved for any sort of affection. A blow-by-blow description would be boring—but I had scarcely gotten into vaginal intercourse when Dawn announced that I was needed on the phone.

“It’s Colonel Murphy.”

“OH GOD!” Kitty screamed. “DON”T LET HIM STOP!”

Dawn dissolved in laughter.

“You’ll call him back,” Dawn wiped away tears. “If he doesn’t understand, Shawna and I will explain it to him.”

That meant more sex, of course. I finished Kitty off and told her that we would resume that evening with Heather. Dawn promised to join in and Pam resumed making Kitty purr.

“Good morning, Colonel,” I said when I got him on the line. “What was medium priority?”

“Medium?” Murphy asked.

“If it had been high priority, I would have had to drop what I was doing. Instead, you let me finish and call you back.” I briefly described that I was conducting physical therapy on Heather’s mother. Murphy laughed.

“Okay, Doctor Love,” he chuckled again. “I need you to get your loving ass over to the Gusher Hotel on the fifth floor. Use the main conference room. You will be meeting with the Women’s Relief Union and Mrs. Vasant—and your slaves.”

“When?”

“The meeting convenes at five.”

“I’ll be there, sir.”

“Take the slaver’s kit and pick up a notary from Sunrise Coffee Shop and Notary Public. You did know that as an officer of Defensive Enslavement Volunteers you can enslave women?”

“No, sir,” I said. “I missed that.”

Murphy roared in laughter.

“That is novel—something getting past you! Do you know the paperwork?”

“Yes.”

“Heather can help. She just got licensed this morning.” It was normal that Colonel Murphy would know more about my business than I. “Don’t worry about being unprepared. Just be your normal charming self. One exception—try not to kill anybody.”

As I was getting ready, I remembered that Kitty was part of the Women’s Relief Union. I decided to take her. First, lunch.

Lunch wasn’t anything fancy—just a stew and some bread, with an apple for dessert. I had a meeting at Ellisia to attend on Wednesday, final examinations, a Friday meeting at the Garret Motor Works, on Saturday MFS-46 was running a training exercise for my old Military Police detachment, on Sunday there was—I forgot! I’d have to look it up!

I didn’t inform Kitty that she was leaving until a few minutes before departure. I tied her up as Allie had been. Penny suggested that I take Fatima as well. I could see merit in it.

“Do you want to come along, too?”

“Yes, Brother Master!” chorused Penny and Susan.

I had them bind up Fatima. That’s how I went from just myself to six guests for the meeting of the Eastlake chapter of the Women’s Relief Union. We arrived right on time. I had gagged the three newer slaves and I ordered my sister and Susan to remain quiet. Kitty began making distress noises and blushed furiously when she saw who was meeting in the main room. I comforted her as best I could, then handed her off to Penny and Susan.

“Identity crisis,” I explained. “Kitty doesn’t know whose opinions are important. It isn’t that many people, either. It begins with her accepting herself.”

I looked into Kitty’s eyes.

“It won’t be easy, Kitty. I don’t know if I have the guts to face life if I were in your shoes.” For the record, Kitty’s feet were bare. “Heather still needs you. You still have much to offer humanity. I want you to give me a chance. Now, when we go inside, I want you to hold your head up in pride. It will gall people—and they can’t do anything about it because I order you to hold your head up!”

We went inside and I finally laid eyes on the famous Aapti. She was surrounded by my naked slaves.

“Mr. Foster, welcome!”

The multi-media presentation was on America’s influence. We passed the White Slave Act of 2000 and President Carson signed it into law eleven months ago. WSA 2000 had been in force six months—more or less. Projected on the screen was Ms. Fitzgerald. She was propped up in a bed and looked a bit loopy.

“Mr. Foster,” the image of Ms. Fitzgerald spoke. “I appreciate the joke. You made me laugh and that hurt! So I still have all my marbles. The ladies here are not aware of what I went through to finish my work. I may have to hand it off to you.”

Great! Find a busy man and dump something else on his plate. I’d survive. I could hope that I wouldn’t ruin too many lives in the process.

Aapti gave a short speech on her own fate—that she was returning to Zerksi and probably wouldn’t return.

“I pledged my life to my country,” she announced with a decided upper-class British accent, “and I am deposed and in exile. Zerksi is planning on enslaving all of its women. I am returning to my country to propose an alternative: I am using the Defensive Enslavement Volunteers contract as a model for new legislation. In a moment I shall present the alternative inspired by this man. First, though, I am making certain of my family’s future. Lexi, baby, come here please.”

A young woman walked to Aapti and handed her some documents. Aapti handed the documents to me as Lexi began undressing.

“Mr. Foster, as an agent of Defensive Enslavement Volunteers, I task you to enslave my daughter under the conversion by family member provisions of America’s White Slave Act of 2000. Lexi was born in Chicago and is 19. She is my youngest daughter and her best chance for survival is being a DEV slave. I’ve talked with Carla and Marion. I’ve talked with Jane and Heather.” Aapti shook her head. “You treat slaves better than men in my country treat their wives and daughters. Lexi has a future with you.

“I enslave my daughter with a heavy heart. It is for the best because there have been several attempts on my life already. Take good care of Lexi, Mr. Foster.

“It is a sad commentary on the world of men that my daughter has more protection and more rights as a slave than as a free women. Freedom: you can’t find it on a map.”

I went through the slaver routine. I dispatched Heather to escort Lexi Vasant to the ladies’ room and fired up the lap-top with its cell phone Internet interface. Heather and Lexi returned and Heather handed me the urine sample. Lexi was blushing through her light brown complexion. The tests came out clean. I pushed the appropriate buttons and Lexi was now officially a ‘person of limited rights.’

The rest of the celebration was concerning the alternate proposal for Zerksi’s pending slave act. The party broke up two hours later. Aapti explained to me that she had already lost a husband and two sons to assassins.

“I can’t abandon my country.”

“Well, then, how about accompanying me to Ellisia on Wednesday? I’ve got meetings, but you can tour the best theme park in America.”

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter 25: Death by Protest

Was Saturday ever going to end?

My slaves had it much worse. I felt bad about complaining. I was a little sleepy and I had at least an hour of work ahead of me.

“Tough it out, Foster.” I commanded. I took the disk and plugged it into the machine, wondering when I’d be using the new flash drives instead of bulky, fragile disks. The machine spooled up and the images began.

“This is a vegan protest from ARMIES,” a fat woman in a sweat shirt and jeans said into the camera. “I am Amber Anderson, president of the Eastlake chapter of the Animal Rights Militant International Executive Society, or ARMIES. The entire chapter is here at the Dixon estate to protest killing and eating animals. Stick to eating humans! There are too many of us!”

Great! I’m sleepy and I have to view this tripe! No doubt Ms. Vegan there was going to be the girl roast at the Dixons. I wondered if the spit would hold her weight. Amber Anderson introduced five other women:

Josie Dixon, vice president

Nadine Humphrey, treasurer

Kathleen Citron, executive secretary

Tulip Redman, publicist

Hawthorne Waite, recruiting

Also introduced was their slaver, Kentucky Smith. Kentucky Smith? I wondered if I was merely having a vividly weird nightmare. What happened next convinced me that I wasn’t. The camera was hand-held and operated by someone called William. The slaver had the six women undress and urinate for the mandated tests. At that time, Hill’s arrived. I didn’t recognize the crew—four women and a man. He said that his name was Richard. The naked Hill’s slaves were prettier than the ARMIES crowd by a country mile—but the Hill’s crowd lacked that hard fanatic stare. Amber was the first one trussed to a spit for live roasting. They didn’t gut her or anything—they were just wiring her to a spit that held her rigid. It took four straining slaves to get her over the coals. The rod was beefy enough to hold Amber.

“Any final words before we light you off, Amber!”

“GO VEGANS!”

Amber was gagged and Josie was next. Josie was anorexic, with flaps for breasts. Josie had fresh welts and cuts all over her body. Her last words were: “We’ve had 12 girl roasts this year. It is my turn, Daddy! Mommy, I hope you rot in Hell, too!”

After Josie was gagged, another plumper was wired to the spit. Her last words were that she was happy to sacrifice her own life so that a hog could continue living. So much for Nadine.

Kathleen had so much metal on her body—I stopped the tape and counted the visible piercings. I quit at 30. She crowed that she was getting off Planet Earth to make room for some other more-deserving life form.

Tulip couldn’t stop laughing. They gagged this homely woman and put her over the cold coals to await her fate.

Hawthorne had a lot to say. She read a manifesto that dragged on and on and on. When William said that he had had ‘enough of this shit,’ Richard gagged Hawthorne and that big girl was hoisted over her coals. The roasters were lined up in a row and three slaves positioned themselves to light off the coal beds. The roasters were not the standard Jessica’s—the spits didn’t penetrate the women. That meant an agonizingly slow death awaited them. The fires whoomphed to life, and the trussed women began to wriggle and scream through their gags almost immediately. The four Hill’s slaves began basting the roasting women. I saw the fires flare as the dying women voided bladder and bowel over the fire. There was a break in the video and the six women had ceased wriggling, were turning reddish brown over the fire. Kentucky Smith wasn’t visible any longer, but there were a shocked man and a screaming woman next to Josie.

“Why? Why? Why?” The woman sobbed at her roasting daughter.

It happened so rapidly that it didn’t register at first. Something red flashed through the old man and he fell. The woman’s head toppled off her shoulders and she collapsed. I saw the blur and guessed that it was Hannibal Johnson. He was shouting MY MEAT over and over again as he hacked down Richard, then the screaming Hill’s slaves. William’s survival reflexes were absent—Hannibal rushed the camera and the last image was of the sky.

I reviewed the last few seconds at one frame per second. It was Hannibal and he was clothed at the time. He held a machete and a fire axe and used them both. The last images showed a blood-stained madman rushing the camera. I checked the last few seconds and determined that it took just nine seconds to kill eight people—four slaves, three men and a free woman. The time was shortly before the attack on the Foote party next door, if the cameraman had set his date/time correctly.

I jotted down the report, including the incredibly short time span of the attack. Okay, he caught the first two by surprise, the third was Richard, who was just too slow, all four slaves had been wearing leg irons and chains on their wrists, and William the cameraman was just recording video on automatic pilot—but still, that was speedy death. I had thought that the ARMIES women had hard glares—Hannibal’s eyes were something out of Hell’s depths.

Despite that nightmarish vision, I finished my report and called for Cheryl. I began making slow love to her, assisted by Shawna. After the nightmare of Hannibal Johnson, I was more than happy to worship creation of new life. Cheryl and I became one with the universe.

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter Twenty: Capital City Snuff Shop

“Don’t get your news from the news media,” my media professor cautioned. “It isn’t news. The news media is entertainment. Only entertainment: our modern news media is the modern counterpart to Rome’s Bread and Circuses.”

Viewing the news did upset me. The news is skewed. ‘If it bleeds, it leads.’

Case in point: Capital City Snuff Shop. Prior to WSA 2001, I would have expected an upscale chewing tobacco vendor. Capital City Snuff Shop lasted all of ten days before being raided for violating WSA 2000’s prohibitions on who and what could be enslaved. I think it was the market niche that Capital City Snuff Shop tried to create: the owner, Gabriel Peck, only took in women who were to be immediately killed.

It is not widely known that upon conversion, all of a woman’s assets become the property of her owner. I assume that the owner has to liquidate the slave’s property and pay off any outstanding debts, but I don’t know. The real money in WSA 2000 isn’t in converting women for minimum cost and then selling them quickly and at a high price—a presentable woman 18-24 brings about $2000, about half of that profit after overhead and ‘costs of goods sold’ are deducted—it is in looting her property and money after conversion. Older women (30+) or those who aren’t very pretty will bring about $600, which is a net loss of $50 to $400. Might as well sell cars. A new family sedan retails for about $4000, and the profit is around $800—with cars, the real profit is in selling automobile financing. Sell the woman as meat? I wonder why more women don’t get sent to organ banks—the meat prices are low compared to transplantable organs. I’m no business major, but if I’m in business to make money, I’d sell to the best-paying market. The woman herself will bring the slaver about $500 profit for selling her living body, on average. Selling her as meat brings about the same. Converting women for others brings fees of $25 to $100—quick and easy money. On the other hand, taking all of a woman’s savings and property averages about $2500. A convertible woman has a small bank account ($400), a car ($300), real property ($700 equity) and other chattel such as clothing and jewelry ($700). There is even a speculation market with stocks and bonds and such—but don’t ask me to explain what I don’t understand. There is more to a woman’s net worth than her tender pink body.

Capital City Snuff Shop was in the business of snuffing women for profit. There were two routes used: ‘volunteer conversions’ and ‘conversions by relative or person of personal contact.’ The third route, judicial conversions, was low-profit because the state had already looted the new slave. That is why so many judicial conversions wind up dead—not worth the slaver’s time to pick up the living. According to reports, Capital City Snuff Shop wasn’t too careful about who they converted. Many of the elderly rich women were converted ‘voluntarily—‘and there are no surviving witnesses to say otherwise. These women had protected themselves by prenuptial agreements, and they had heirs, which is why the ‘voluntary conversion’ raised some doubts. But the wheels of justice grind slowly. What touched off the raid was a video.

Colonel Murphy had me watch the video. He warned me that I’d need Summer’s services afterwards. I placed myself mentally in a detached, analytical state of mind. Five young women were shown in the video. They wore school girl uniforms and giggled a lot. Two slaves, naked except for thick white collars and black gun belts, asked the girls what they wanted.

“We want to convert and ride a Chair-I.A.T.” It was explained in subtext that Chair-I.A.T. stood for Chair, Individual, Automatic Termination. The woman pronounced it ‘chariot.’

“Fine,” the slave appeared bored. “Check the appropriate boxes. I need your driver’s licenses.” More giggling. “Thank you. Now take everything off and put it in a box. Everything. You wouldn’t want to get hurt.”

“How about my nipple rings?”

“I’ve got a navel ring.”

“I’ve got a clit stud.”

“I’ve got all of them.”

“I’ve only got ear rings,” the first girl said.

“There’ll be the rest of your life to take care of that,” the slave said. “Take them out.”

“I can’t” said the one with everything pierced. “Only my ear rings come out.”

“We can let her ride with them in, Stace” the second slave said. The second slave affixed a black collar with a bulky box on it to each school girl as they finished stripping. The box was placed on the back of the neck.

“What’s this?” asked Nipple Rings.

“That’s part of the Chair-I.A.T. You’ll need it to experience the ultimate high.” The first slave smirked. “Ladies, follow me to the next room.”

The camera view changed, showing the small crowd as they entered the room. There were three low-backed chairs in a line. Protruding from the seat was a small smooth dildo. The chair was fitted with straps for the legs, a seat belt, shoulder straps, and on the chair’s arm rests were motorized clamps for elbow and fore arm.

“Which three first?”

There was a bit of a shoving match, but three girls seated themselves. First, the women had to impale themselves on the dildo. Two chose the vagina and Nipple Ring chose to accommodate the dildo in her anus. They strapped their ankles to the foot rests as requested, then snugged down the waist strap. The shoulder straps were next, and they slipped their wrists through the loops and placed their elbows in the elbow cups.

“Press hard against the elbow cups,” Slave one said as she pulled a remote from her belt. When the women complied, the clamps compressed around the wrists and a hoop swung around the elbow joint with a click. Suddenly the three seated women gasped—and the two standing women grabbed for their own throats. The chair-bound women began convulsing, their faces turning red and going purple. The two standing girls staggered and fell, spasmed, then went limp. Puddles formed beneath the chairs and the two bodies on the ground.

“God!” the first slave said. “I love my work!”

Slave Two entered and drew a box cutter and a pair of pliers from a pouch on her belt. She began cutting body jewelry off the corpses as two more nude slaves entered the room. These slaves wore just red collars and they began removing bodies. The corpses’ collars were taken off the bodies, and the chairs released the three seated corpses. The bodies were stacked in the next room on a wooden pallet. A fire hose was used to wash everything down the drain: blood, urine, fecal matter.

The scene changed. Two Goth chicks entered. One had very short black hair and was rail thin—call her Mutt. The second had black hair reaching below her shoulders and was chubby—call her Jeff. Mutt and Jeff looked as if they hadn’t smiled in years. They also looked very young.

“What can I do for you today, Ladies?” Slave One asked.

“Cut the horse shit, sister,” Mutt monotoned. “We are here to die. Where do we put our clothes?”

“In a few minutes we will be getting 28 women who thing that they are getting a free abortion. They are, but not the way they think.” Slave Two smirked at the two Goths. “How would you like to help out?”

“Cue-el,” Jeff said evenly.

“Put everything but your driver’s license in the boxes. Fill out the form on the electronic pad and leave your license on the counter.” Slave One said. “I’ll check your work in a moment. Let’s get these shock collars on you.”

“Just as long as you test them on us,” Mutt said as she shucked her sweatshirt, revealing large, firm breasts with erect nipples. “Life sucks. Humans stink.”

“We just want off this ball of shit,” Jeff said as she deposited her dress and shoes in the box. She wore nothing beneath and Jeff’s slender body could have passed for a boy’s in the locker room. Jeff had hairy arm pits, black hair on arms and legs, and a full fluffy pubic bush. “Helping others will be a bonus.”

“Yeah, shoving others off this rock will rock,” Mutt added as her jeans hit the floor. Mutt’s abdomen bulged and it didn’t appear to be fat. In contrast to Jeff, Mutt was almost hairless—just a trace of pubic hair showed.

“Good answer,” Slave One peered at Jeff’s driver’s license. “You don’t look 36.”

“It is a going away present for the mother unit,” Jeff tapped the electronic pad. “I would like to be around to see her face when she learns that she’s volunteered to be a slave—but I don’t want to wait. We want to die soon. Besides, she has a protection order out against the father unit so that he cannot enslave us. I’d like to be dead before breakfast.”

“Oh, yes,” Slave One said. “Capital City cops will be here in two hours. We are to have everything sewn up by then.”

Slave Two was peering at Mutt’s driver’s license. “She’s too young to be your mother. Step mother?”

“Naw,” Mutt responded as she scrawled a signature on the electronic pad. “My straight-laced prude big sister. Can I list three ‘right of first refusals’ here? I want Hill’s Fine Meats, Stuff’n’Snuff Slaves and Prudence’s Pain Palace.”

“Oo, sister,” Slave Two cooed admiringly, “I like your style! Too bad that we’ve got a date in Hell.”

“I’ll find out if there’s life after death. If not, tough shit.” Mutt laid down the stylus. “Do I get those rights of first refusal? If so, add in that I want just two dollars. This makes Mildred a slave, right? You don’t know that I’m not Mildred, right?”

“Honey, if you have your mother’s driver’s license, I’ll do her too!”

“How about a credit card? Will that do?”

“It is identification,” Slave One said. “The Slave Authority isn’t too picky and we can pull a birth certificate off the net by hacking the TerraCotta Systems web.”

“Good. I hate my step mother, too. I want her dead. Same address, same three companies for ‘right of first refusal.’” Mutt’s eyes glittered. “Notify the companies to pick up at 7:30. They always have breakfast at 7:30 and I’d like it to be today. It can be tomorrow or sometime this month. But specify that they have to pick up at 7:30 on the dot.”

“I have a better idea,” Jeff said. “Let’s report that my mother unit is not only a slave, but an escaped slave. Report that she is harboring other escaped slaves at her place of business and that all women will have to be detained and their identities verified. She can be picked up at 4587 East Brookings Street, Suite D, second floor, at Mildred’s Interiors.”

“Done! The Slave Patrol sometimes takes no prisoners!” Slave One picked up a pair of red collars matching the pick-up slaves. “We can use the help. Any last requests?”

“Yes,” Jeff said as she embraced Mutt. “We want to die holding hands.”

“That is possible. Let me get these collars on you.” Slave One buckled two red collars on them, making sure that the collars were tight. The collars had a small pouch on each side and a box at the back. Slave One took her remote out and triggered it. “There are two features to this collar: a remote control stun gun and a garrote. The garrote will tighten down and strangle you, then snap your neck with a spring-loaded hammer in that box on the back. You will lose control of your body almost immediately. We haven’t had any complaints—“

“Geeze, Stace,” one of the clean-p crew slaves staggered in from the other room. “Give us some warning before you do that? I bit Violet’s tit!”

“I didn’t feel it,” Violet’s left nipple was bleeding profusely. “Can we tape a paper towel to it? I don’t want to scare the customers.”

“No need. Just stay in the back until we snuff the sows. After the police raid us, the meat dealer will pick up as agreed.” Slave One, or Stace, grinned wickedly as the Goth chicks rubbed their throats.

“Cue-el!” Mutt choked out. “I will really like the kill feature.”

“Tiff and I will ride the Chair-I.A.T.” Violet said. “It is a failed automatic abortion and female sterilization machine. The spatula rips out the womb and then cauterizes it.”

“That is why we don’t need to do a piss test,” Stace said. “We have a doctor’s certificate guaranteeing that the sow wasn’t preggo.”

“What about the drug screen?” Jeff asked.

“We lie. The record-keeping requirements do not require a specimen. The bodies will be destroyed. If we weren’t shutting down, we could run this way forever and not get caught. No evidence. Here’s the killer—you know those driver’s licenses? We sell them on the black market. Since their owners are now registered slaves, guess what? Our buyer generally waits 30 days before telling the Slave Patrol.”

“Why 30 days?” Jeff asked.

“First payday. Illegal immigrants, real escaped slaves and women on the run are our customers. Don’t they get a surprise!”

“Cue-el!” Mutt rubbed her crouch.

“Stace,” Slave Two said. “They’re here.”

“You and the new girls go outside and herd them in a dozen at a time at 25-minute intervals. We only have a dozen black collars.”

I lost track of individual women as the new victims were paraded naked into the reception area twelve at a time. They handed over drivers licenses, at least they appeared to be driver’s licenses. Mutt and Jeff fitted the black collars on with Slave Two. Three women at a time were taken into the death room. The scene shifted to the Chair-I.A.T.s as the doomed women seated themselves.

“You’ve got to watch this,” Slave Two said as the doomed women strapped themselves in and triggered the restraints. “There is a fifteen-second delay. Some silly cows stick the dildo up their shitters!”

“Why would anyone stick an abortion—“the speaker stiffened in her Chair-I.A.T. gasped, began soundlessly screaming while her eyes bugged. The other two seated women reacted the same way. Two out of three chairs began dripping a clear liquid.

“Because, stupid bitch, they weren’t told that the Chair-I.A.T. was an automatic abortion machine. They thought it was just a vibrator. There’s a vacuum system and a water hookup so there isn’t any blood. When the cauterizing element fires up, there is a bit of a smell. It looks painful. Anyway, we choke off their screams with the mechanized strap, then we break their necks like this.” Slave Two pushed the remote’s button and the three women went limp. A stream of liquid poured from the third woman. “Isn’t progress great?”

“Cue-el,” Mutt said. “I like the choker, too. I’d prefer black.”

“We color-coded them so that we wouldn’t hit the wrong switch.” Slave Two said. “Look, this button with the chair symbol? It releases the restraint systems.”

The three women fell from the chairs when their straps and clamps released and retracted. The silver dildos even retracted, the seats tilted forward and the dead or dying women slid off the seats. Two Chair-I.A.T.s had brown smears on them.

“The problem is that the Chair-I.A.T.s are not self-cleaning. Plus, we still have to remove the bodies. Give Violet and Tiff a hand with the meat and hose this place down. In a minute, we’ll bring in the next bunch.”

The scene was repeated nine times. There was one woman left over. It took about five minutes to process one batch. The Nazi SD running the death camps might have liked the Chair-I.A.T. The final batch consisted of one more ‘abortion clinic patient,’ Violet and Tiff. The last ‘patient’ had been drafted to load the boxes containing women’s clothing aboard the bus. Mutt and Jeff were also loading things. Stace closed the lap top computer system and reeled in three electronic note pads, put them in a case and handed them to the bus driver.

“Good bye, Gabe.”

“Remember, tell the cops to look for the video system. Bye, Stace.”

“Now what?” Mutt asked.

“We wait for the cops and then we die. Want to watch Violet and Tiff die?”

“Cue-el! We’re next!”

The Capitol City police busted down the front door and screamed “Police! Freeze!”

Stace pushed a button. Mutt and Jeff’s were holding hands with they spasmed. Their free hands curled into fists and rose to waist level—and the police opened fire. Bullets riddled the three women at the front. Stace’s collar flashed and her head separated from her body—Stace’s knees buckled. The scene shifted again and three women in Chair-I.A.T.s began their final dance. Slave Two smiled into the camera, but her words were drowned out by gunfire from the next room. Slave Two’s collar flashed and her head fell off as the door burst open. A man in black coveralls and assault armor riddled Slave Two as her body fell, his weapon on full automatic. If it mattered, it was a P90.

“What do you think?” Colonel Murphy asked.

I shook my head.

“When was this? Who edited the video? What did they use for sound? Where are the bodies?”

“I’ll give you the report.”

“Sir, why am I seeing this? What is it you wanted me to do?”

“Fake ID, lots of untraced cash, I’m sure you will figure it out. I don’t want to prejudice your operation. Tell me if you find anything. I’m leaving Shawna with you. After you write a summary, classify it and put it in your safe. I’ll take the video with me. Eastlake is opening a snuff shop between Eastlake University and Industrial Center.”

What the colonel meant was that I was supposed to look for conspiracies to overthrow the government of the United States through violent means. It was okay to use political action, as long as laws were obeyed. Those who became a ‘clear and present danger to