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.“

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 Nineteen: The Movie Star

I had a nice relaxing Saturday morning at the range with the Eastlake South Mall security guards and some of my Army-issue slaves. I looked over the Eastlake South Mall revolvers—and asked Hiram Smith, CEO of the Eastlake South Mall, if he could spring for new guns. The revolvers needed overhaul at the least. They were abused. He used the cheapest holsters and the feeble 130-grain full metal case bullet—plus the revolvers had the standard factory grips. For about $12 each Mr. Prater could provide the Eastlake South Mall security department with grip adapters, speed loaders, a speed loader case, and clean the revolvers up. One of the officers had difficulty firing her revolver—it was simply a matter of hand size and hand strength. I swapped her my Model 60—with some training wad cutters. The next cylinder was the full-force .357 magnum loads I normally used—125 grain jacketed hollow points. Even with that load, she shot better because the gun fit her hand. With her issue revolver, she had to thumb back the hammer. That wouldn’t be possible after the revolvers were modified.

“I guess you will have to find another job, Maria. You have to use the tools we give you.” Mr. Smith was grinning. The other security guards were laughing. I decided to get even.

“You are a good shot. Come work for me. We can hammer out your contract this afternoon.”

“I won’t have to be a slave, will I?”

“I need security at several sites. After we talk, you decide. I will get you a job.”

I introduced Caroline Umbermort. She had only been training about two weeks in the technique, and I had her demonstrate four shot bursts and two-shot bursts. I even had her fire on three targets in rapid sequence. She explained that she barely qualified as a police officer, but she was able to shoot better now. Caroline demonstrated the Federal Law Enforcement Training Center method of rapidly reloading a revolver using speed loaders. I had her borrow one of the revolvers that wasn’t too bad—after Frank had cleaned it up. She wore only shoes, shooting glasses and ear plugs—and a borrowed gun belt. Yes, the woman was naked on the range. It kept the men amused—until she demonstrated deadly accuracy with their worn-out issue revolvers.

Their duty ammo was old and filthy. Being carried around for months, if not years, had left the cases green and corroded. It wasn’t safe to shoot on the range. Was I just unlucky that the dead security guard’s gun managed to fire despite neglect? Maria fired the qualification course with .357 magnum ammunition, and the course was an Applegate. This required shooting at one or two targets in two-shot bursts. She out-shot the men. Obviously, the guns were at fault. I managed to talk Hiram into replacing the full metal jacketed ammunition with hollow point ammunition—and corrosion-proof nickel-plated cases—so that there would be less chance of over-penetration. Frank Prater had just the right load in stock—a 125 grain hollow point with a nylon jacket instead of a metal jacket at a nominal velocity of 830 feet per second. It was designed for security officers and the soft lead expanded when it hit, braking it inside the body. For the final demonstration I took my little Smith and Wesson out to the 100 yard line and put ten shots into the target. I only scored a 97 that time.

The men wanted to shoot my gun, so I set the target at 25 feet. They sneered at me—but most only got off two shots before crying uncle. Hiram Smith managed to get off all five shots. He watched to make sure that Maria loaded up the same hard-kicking ammunition and did the rapid-fire four-shot drill. She reloaded in seven seconds and was back on target.

“I’d like to see her shoot that again naked!” One of the male officers said.

“Buster, buy me one of these and let Mr. Foster teach me some more and I’ll work the mall naked every day!” She blushed. “I really like this gun. It bucks hard, it makes a lot of noise, but it is very accurate and I don’t hurt when I shoot it.”

I looked at her hand and wrist.

“I over-trained you. Your hand will be sore tomorrow. Can I take you home and have my doctor look at it?”

“Maria, you’ll wind up a slave!”

“Can it, Tim!” Maria said.

“Gentlemen, remember that I drilled you to fire four times? If you must shoot someone in the mall, you need to shoot them enough so that they stop what they’re doing immediately. I drilled you into firing four shots so that you wouldn’t have an empty gun. Under-trained shooters make three mistakes when under stress—they fail to shoot, they shoot one time and then stand there until killed or they empty their gun at the first thing in sight. If you have to shoot, the four shot drill will shut down your target immediately. Caroline did that while your boy was trying to kill me. He was in a blind panic—it wasn’t really his fault. He died anyway. It took Maria seven seconds for that last reload under range conditions. She had only one bullet in the gun because mine is a five shooter—I had to give up something to get a tiny revolver. She had one shot if she needed it. As I said at the beginning of class, your next drills will be with air guns. You will shoot, then step off-line and scan for other problems. Don’t forget to look at the first problem. Get to cover as soon as you can. You should have two shots for immediate use. Once you get to cover and have scanned again, you can reload.”

The class continued indoors with plastic pellet guns. I took Maria’s hand and massaged it. Palm, fingers, web and thumb: I also made sure to wring out her forearm. When the guys commented, I pointed out that they had fired only 30 rounds of light target loads and their new duty ammunition. She had fired 50 rounds of the hard-kicking stuff—they had only gotten a maximum of five shots. That stopped the laughter.

“Maria, I would like to have you continue to work at the mall,” Mr. Smith said at the end of class. “You shoot better than the rest of my apes combined. I’ll even buy you that fancy silver pistol.”

“I’ll think about it,” Maria said, “after I talk with Mr. Foster. Is Caroline a slave?”

I had Caroline answer that question. She was an investigator for the Child Welfare and Protection Agency and she was on probation amounting to temporary enslavement for attacking me, but still was a sworn law enforcer.. I trained her to shoot better in return. We ran through the drills—Caroline was the ‘no shoot’ target simulating the mall’s slave staff. She got hit several times.

Hiram Smith talked to me for a few minutes after his security force left. I would train the other half next week, provided that nothing happened. I was supposed to do that two weeks ago. Life happened. I was forgiven—this time.

“I hear that you are training DiscountMart’s slave work force. Your slaves seem happy and productive. What do I need to do to make mine that way?”

“You can start with making your mall a no-snuff zone,” I replied. “Since you began torturing and killing women, you’ve had an increase in vandalism, shop lifting, robbery, rape and assault at your mall. More cars are being stolen and broken into. You’ve had to hire more security. There was that crazed lone gunman that wandered through your mall—the one I shot. Your sales staff is demoralized. For what? Your sales keep dropping! No, I have some alternatives, but snuffing girls in your food court was a bad idea.”

To his credit, Smith didn’t bluster, object or become defensive.

“The dead girls cost something to replace. I think you can get the older slaves for $650 if you shop around, but you probably pay a good $2500 for a presentable young slave that you still have to train. Instead of snuffing them you can sell them off. You can have disciplinary executions—but hold them off-site. Better yet, in a few weeks DEV will have a trained workforce for lease. Make the mall family-friendly because that is where your 80% is; most of your money is in repeat business. Now you will have problems because a mall is mainly there to sell clothes to women. Let’s say that within 5 years about 20% of the women in Eastlake are enslaved. That is 18% of your total potential market. Actually, it is worse than that. Most of those slaves are going to be between 16 and 25. Most of your customers are women between 16 and 25. Check your sales figures and the market you catered to. When you supported WSA 2000, you sank Eastlake South Mall as you know it. You’ve had half your stores shut. They cannot stay in business. I suspect that the prime slave target group was a bit more than half of your sales. Now they are gone. Your slave workforce is actually less productive than your free work force, but they do have lower costs—provided that you are not buying new girls each month. Your work force is 250 girls? Killing one per week is a bit more than 50 girls annually. Each girl costs you what to replace and train? I’m guessing about $3000 unless you get the culls and rejects. Those rejects are unmotivated, not pretty and very lazy. What incentive do you give them? An end to boredom and pain? It will be intensely painful at first, but many women seek release from better circumstances by volunteering to become torture and snuff slaves. Replacing 50 girls per year is $300,000 in profits that you won’t realize. If you sold them off for half of what you paid for them, you’d bleed $150,000 less each year.”

“How do I keep them in line?”

“Leadership, sir. It will take active management. I have some slaves that would excel at managing your mall for you. They won’t lease cheaply, but they will bring your sales back up. For example, what people really want to see is passion—the death drama is attractive and repulsive both. Try having non-lethal nude wrestling contests between your slaves—with real rewards for the participants and big rewards for the winners. I was surprised that you apparently don’t need a brothel license to offer free and public sex to your customers. You had your snuff slaves on display and available to customers who had a winning lottery ticket or who had purchased a set amount of merchandise. That may end, soon.”

“But the other malls do it!”

“What? They offer free enslavement with hair-dos? ‘Ma’am, may we spit you after you eat your burger and fries?’ Why not advertise yourself as the Death Mall, that your customers all lose their rights when they enter your property, with snipers that shoot little kids on sight? You could make a killing by generating PPC’s on every woman that strolled in—you enslave her and take all of her property. It is a dirty little secret among the successful slavers that the person enslaving a woman gets all of her property and money. When the slave market settles down, when the competition for fresh meat gets so fierce that a girl sells for the cost of a new luxury car and comes with no additional loot, that sort of advertising will be too expensive.”

“If I do it your way, will I get free advertising?”

“Not quite. I am obligated to account for GVVN’s expenses. On the other hand, it will be EFFECTIVE advertising. You want the golden customers—those people who come in, cause no trouble, pay their bills promptly and leave, returning with new customers just like them. Repeat customers. If you enslave and snuff your customers, you will run out of them eventually.”

“Sex sells!”

“So does fat and sugar in foods. Speaking of which, you’ve room for a health club now with all of the store closures. I could even put in a Defensive Enslavement Volunteers office and you’d have room for something with a notary public—something like a courier service or a private mailing firm. You won’t be competing with DiscountMart on price, you will provide services. It will confuse customers at first, but you will get new customers and keep your best ones.”

“Let me think about it. I’ll talk to my people about it.”

“It is your business. I was recently reminded that I am the master and I have to decide. I can solicit information from my slaves, but the decisions are mine. Even when I grant decision making to the slave, the decision to have her make the decision is mine. You are the CEO of Eastlake South Mall. You know your business better than I do. Eventually, snuffing slaves to draw business will bankrupt malls. Do you intend to retire in five years? Never work again? Live off a fixed income in a trailer park until you have to move into an old folk’s institution?”

“I’ll get back with you on it.”

Next, it was my Army slaves time to shoot. There were only nine rifles—seven were obsolete M16A1’s and two were the even older M16 rifles (no forward assist assembly). I had only ten training rounds per trained soldier and only four working magazines. The M9 pistol I received was okay—but had just one magazine and a single box of ‘duty’ ammunition. I had 120 rounds of duty ammunition for the rifles. Fortunately it was the correct M193 loading. The Army is funny about saving duty ammunition and expending training ammunition. If I wanted to train more, I’d have to get non-Army rifles to fire non-Army ammo. Them’s the rules! The lack of ammunition was a problem. I picked the three best rifles. One of the Army slaves was a trained armorer—she made sure the rifles I picked were good and that the magazines weren’t too dented and rusty. I could sure have used a good supply sergeant right then!

Yes, except for shooting glasses and ear plugs, the Army slaves shot their ten shots in the nude. I used reduced-sized silhouette targets at 25 meters. It was the best I could do. The sights were close enough. The only concession to comfort was to put cardboard on the ground for the slaves to lie on while they shot from the prone position.

Next was pistol practice. Frank Prater had gotten his hands on a dozen ex-police Model 39 pistols. They each had only two 8-shot magazines and a silly European-style flapped holster with a pouch for the extra magazine. Frank had plenty of surplus European military 9mm ammo to fire. I ran all the Army slaves through pistol basics. Even Edna and Ethyl tried a few shots. I concluded with a few rounds of buckshot per slave. Then we cleaned up the range and class room and went home.

The girls went home. I went to the DEV office with Caroline.

The media circus outside the DEV office was no tip-off. Defensive Enslavement Volunteers was getting a lot of media attention. Today it was for one woman. Her name was Olive Pitt. Yes, that Olive Pitt. Born Mary Jane Donnerson, she took Hollywood by storm almost 25 years ago as a child actor. Now she was driven to the Defensive Enslavement Volunteers office by her agent in her last role as a ‘free’ woman. Olive Pitt had taken her final ride nude, and her agent had been stopped by an Eastlake patrol officer. Olive just said, ‘DEV office, please,’ and she not only had an escort, but the patrol officer called ahead. I arrived while the agent, Kenneth Nelson, was fielding questions.

“Mr. Foster! Mr. Foster! Mr. Foster!”

“People, you tell me what’s going on? I just got the call that my attorney needed to see me.”

“Is it true that Olive Pitt wants to be your wife?”

“You’d have to ask her. Last I heard, she was in Hollywood.”

“You’re shitting me!” It was one of the raunch reality broadcasters. “You want us to believe that you don’t know what the fuck is going on?”

“Believe what you want. I am going in to find out what is going on.”

The agent, Kenneth Nelson, followed me in. I recognized Olive Pitt when I saw her. She was naked, blonde and 36. Olive was also very beautiful—though a bit more-busty than I liked. I wondered what she was doing here.

“Peter,” Mr. Paulson looked flustered, “I assume that you know Olive. Olive, this is your new owner, Peter. You must address him as Master Peter unless he tells you otherwise.”

“What did you do, Olive?”

It was a quick tale. Olive had enslaved herself to her agent on January 1st and kept it quiet. Kenneth Nelson looked at her with puppy dog eyes—I’ve seen those often enough in my shaving mirror. Finally, one of Olive’s producers attempted to convert her on a shaky breach of contract charge. Since she was already ‘taken,’ he ‘outed’ her slave status to the press. Olive had requested that Kenneth take her to Eastlake where she hoped to become a Castleman Trust slave—or failing that, transfer into the Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. At the moment she was Kenneth’s property—a general slave. Her only protection was that if Kenneth died, I would inherent everything because of Kenneth’s will.

“Why me? Why come all the way out here?”

“Life is pointless. I haven’t had a good script in a decade. Kenneth is – I’d better let my former master explain. I’ve talked with people who have met you and I trust my life to their judgment. I love Kenneth, but I’d like to have a baby. I’d also like to arraign a humane but exciting snuff job when I am too old and decrepit to have any more fun. With Kenneth I’m a Slave in Name Only. I know it will be different with you. I also know that you are a compassionate man. I still need Kenneth, but I’m giving up life for whatever you command, Master.” Olive knelt on the floor, them bowed until her forehead touched. She remained there. Kenneth simply shrugged when I glanced his way.

“What is her status, Mr. Paulson?”

“She tested fertile and should ovulate next week,” was my attorney’s reply, “so she’s a Castleman Trust slave. No hurry. You have ten years.”

“How did you test her, sir?”

“Hormonal markers in the urine.”

“I’d feel better with a full physical,” I said. “That test only measures whether or not the hormonal balance is conducive to pregnancy. It doesn’t measure ovulation or if the fallopian tubes are blocked. It doesn’t even measure XY chromosomes. I’ve read the literature. A biological male can temporarily alter his body chemistry and test pregnant or as a fertile female.”

I faced Olive. “You aren’t on the Pill? You don’t have birth control implants?” Olive shook her head. “What did you use for birth control?”

“Since the first of the year? Condoms, the Morning After pill. Master Kenneth and I discussed getting me pregnant instead of enslaving me. We decided that finding the right slave owner was a better option.” Her voice was muffled from being close to the floor.

“That’s because we are broke, sir,” Kenneth said. “Our net worth is negative. As soon as I conclude my business here, I’m returning to California and liquidating her estate. She has nothing. Lack of work is the reason, now that actresses and porn stars are being converted. It isn’t even a half year into the White Slave Act and already every wanna-be starlet has to be converted before anybody will even consider hiring her. That includes extras. Industry predictions are that half the actresses will be enslaved before the end of the year. Normally the top stars are going to escape enslavement—but were you aware that pending Federal legislation will exempt slaves from the definition of porn? That anything can be shown on screen as long as the actress is a slave? Anybody can see where that will lead—the star will be snuffed on-screen for her final performance; unless she is to be the main course at someone’s party afterwards. The stars have never been considered human, really. They’ve been venerated as gods and goddesses, and they used to be consumed only vicariously. Now they are really eaten—at least the women. I’ll be okay, but I could use a job. Olive was my only client. The others accepted enslavement contracts. Of the six, three are dead today. I’m not counting on the other three to live out the year.”

“What a waste,” I said. “I guess that is to cut costs. You don’t have to pay residuals to a slave. A dead slave gets even less. It takes a lifetime to deliver a performance and a good actress gets better with experience.”

“That’s not how Hollywood sees it,” Kenneth buried his face in his hands. “They want fresh meat. That wasn’t supposed to be a pun.”

“Well, since Olive is a Castleman Trust slave now, I have ten years to get her pregnant or she dies. Then I need to transfer her to another enslavement or free her or she dies again.”

“Master, my body temperature will eventually match room temperature. I’d rather die at your hands while life is fun than linger on in a decaying body. Ten years sounds good right now.”

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life? I could use another mommy, but I want more out of you. What do you do? Oh, stand up and face me like a human being! In fact, are the two of you hungry? We have to tell the media what is going on, but I’m hungry. Caroline ate a light breakfast.”

We ate a simple but decent lunch. Thick slabs of warm bread and a tasty soup and with raw vegetables on the side, washed down with tangy lemonade or skim milk made for a healthy but satisfying meal. The office had a small kitchen staff because there were nearly 30 people there around the clock. I staffed the front office with naked slaves. DEV is very up-front: we will make a slave out of you. The first thing is that the slave loses all of her privacy. Modesty has to go. I was still working on a slave indoctrination program—which I wanted to last a month. I had never in my wildest dreams thought that I’d have more than three slaves. Keeping slaves is labor intensive. Owning slaves is more labor intensive. The difference between keeping a slave and owning a slave is that merely keeping a slave may be a voluntary thing on the slave’s part. There is a pact between master and slave. That pact changes when the master is the slave’s owner, especially under WSA 2000.

I held a short news conference. When the questioning focused on lurid and non-existent details, I said that since they’d make up most of the stories themselves anyway, my presence wasn’t required. Ginger stuck her tongue out at the other media reporters as her GVVN crew left.

Next, it was to the impromptu hospital and the seven poisoning victims. They were kidnapped and illegally enslaved. Because they were ‘evidence’ in a capital crimes case, even though their original enslavement was illegal, they would have remained in ‘protective custody’ due to some unique circumstances. First, all were suffering from the effects of a Russian brainwashing drug. This drug basically erased a few days of memories. Handy for those unexplainable UFO sightings or getting shed of political enemies. Second, they had nobody to care about them—other than the board of directors of Susan B. Anthony School for Gifted Girls. It was the seven men on that board who had arranged a trap for the 13 women they thought were the key to controlling the school. They gave the women wine spiked with the GRU (Soviet military intelligence directorate) ‘truth serum’ and murdered five of them. All of the women were enslaved according to WSA 2000, except that they were not entered into the data base—not yet. What was the hurry? The process had begun at noon when all 13 women were free. Three of the women were already Defensive Enslavement Volunteers asset slaves (converted between 4 and 5 that afternoon, with no hits on the slaver data base) and they refused to drink because they didn’t know if they had permission to get drunk. When the other women began to act strangely, my three teacher slaves tried to excuse themselves. Only Veronica lived to tell the tale. Veronica was finishing up the story to Olive when I took them both to the small recovery ward extemporized out of one bedroom.

“I was on a Jessica 2000 and the spit was in my pussy. I was scared. I knew that it was going to hurt. Then I saw a little girl. She called herself April and she said that Peter was saving me. I swear that I saw my two dead friends standing behind her! Except they were little girls! Anyway, something buzzed and I thought, ‘this is it.’ Mickey Hill swore and pulled out a cell phone and called someone. Said he needed a repair crew immediately, that he had a sow on the stick and customers were hungry. Then he was rubbing my tits and belly and ass when suddenly SWAT barged in. They were all given a trial date this morning. Master Peter is supposed to keep all of us naked and enslaved until they finish the case. After that—well, I’m a slave. I plan to refuse freedom, but until offered, it isn’t my choice to make.”

“That would make a great movie!” Olive Pitt gushed.

“We have another role to play,” I said. “Hi, Summer. You need some rest!”

“Lana and I plan to get some sleep in the hospital. We are following your directions. It seems to be working.”

“I’ve been where they are. They’re hiding in a safe place in the dark recesses of their minds. Part of it is the drug. Part of it is the abuse they’ve witnessed and been through.” I embraced Summer and rubbed her back and buttocks. “This is one way to reach them. They are infants in their minds right now, which is why you have to diaper them. Hold them. Cuddle them. Stroke them as if they were babies. Right now, they are escaping an unlivable reality by being babies again. I’m glad that we have enough lactating women to nurse them back to health.”

“It works, Master Peter,” Lana was exhausted. “That skin-to-skin contact, I didn’t believe it at first. My babushka (granny) taught me the same thing when Pavel was injured and in a coma for a week. The doctor said that he would never recover. Little Pavel was fine when I left Russia five years ago. These women shouldn’t be recovering soon. They are beginning to come out of catatonia now. I’m afraid that Ms. Connor had a lethal dose. They aren’t supposed to mix that stuff with alcohol and give the target more than one dose. She has all they symptoms of an overdose. Ms. Connor is responding.”

“When I really need a break I hide out in the kennel with the dogs. Only three people follow—Penny, Jane and now Susan.” I touched Lana’s shoulder. “If you need solitude, I can introduce you. Wulf and Bear are gruff males, but they defer to Bitsy—she’s the pack alpha when I’m not around. Let me introduce you. Just go to the kennel nude after you’ve met them and they’ll let you sleep there. Bitsy will even force the others to share their food with you—but she expects you to bring more food into the pack. Oh, no! Here I go again on the pact between man and dog!”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ll tell you when we are comforting the sick, Olive. Lana needs to lie down. Notice that we have only double beds in here? They’ve been poisoned, they don’t have anything contagious. Warm bodies beside them, skin-to-skin contact will bring them back. They need spiritual healing. This is as close as I can get to that.”

The seven sick survivors had already been fed lunch. They had been cleaned up and re-diapered. Four of them were almost lucid again. Two were responding to external stimuli. Carla remained inert. I removed my clothing, locked my handgun in a gun box, and lay beside her. The diaper was a necessity because she no longer had bowel and bladder control. In a few days she would be okay, I told her. The bad men were in jail. I needed her help to keep them there. I would take care of her and love her and keep her safe.

Though it sounds corny, this was the message that the sick women needed to hear. When they got better, they’d need a more mature message in keeping with their current mental age. Right now, they were infants or less mentally. Drugs and stress are a wicked combination. I’d have to ask Summer about using some of the drugs in age regression therapy sometime.

After about 90 minutes, I got up and someone else took over Carla’s care. The care giver didn’t need to be awake—which was a good thing. The care giver had to be there in touch proximity. It really is child abuse to isolate an infant for hours at a time in a darkened room. Modern child rearing practice makes children fragile because they quickly learn that they are alone in a cold and uncaring world—and powerless. I think the high infant mortality rate in modern hospitals and especially in orphanages is due to the isolated infant giving up and dying. Simply putting two babies in the same crib would cut the mortality rate—look how they manage in poor countries! Whatever! The damage may be for life. That infantile insecurity may be one reason why so many modern women exhibit suicidal and childish behavior in a world ruled by WSA 2000. They want Daddy to take over and make everything right for them again.

I took Olive to the gym in the basement. We watched as the karate class roughhoused and wrestled for the final few minutes. Bonnie saw me and called the class to order. Kiki was flustered.

“Blowing off steam at the end of class is good, Sensei Kiki,” I said. “We humans need to play. It is how we learn. Training is structured play. It is also artificial experience. Have they had their post-work-out rub-downs yet?”

“That is next, Master Peter-san.” Kiki clapped her hands. “Karateka, partners will swap off. Make sure to pay attention to thighs and abdomen. We exercised those hard today. You don’t want your partner sore. First, soap up and rinse off. Second, 15 minutes in hot tub. If you feel faint or ill, get out of tub. Then work the muscles we used and go eat what I told you to eat.”

After they trooped out, I embraced both sensei.

“Sounds like they are in the advanced conditioning phase already. Good work.”

“Thank you, Master,” both women said in unison.

“This is Olive Pitt. She is a new Castleman Trust slave.” I saw something akin to hunger in my instructor-slaves’ expressions. “Mr. Paulson did the conversion. I am trying to establish a new policy—before a woman can enter the Castleman Trust, she must be a slave already and she must be pregnant by me. The Castleman Trust requires that the woman be forced into the trust, that the choice to enter the trust be someone else’s. All members of the Castleman trust fit this requirement even though they are all willing to be my brood mares. There is a window of ten years, ample time, but if you and I are not fertile with each other, I have to kill you after ten and I cannot free you or transfer you. I want to make it a rule that the woman also be at least 18, but no older than 39 so that they can complete the 10 year minimum obligation. I don’t want to have to kill someone I care for. See Jane or Heather and they’ll schedule you in for regular nights with me. If you want to be Castleman slaves, I want you pregnant first. Then we’ll transfer or manumit you before your 50th birthday. I want you around to see your grandchildren.”

“Master Peter-san,” Bonnie asked, “will you enslave our daughters?”

“I plan to. I hope I can wait until they are 18, but