Dark Erotic Fiction

CASTLEMAN TRUST CHAPTER 51

OH CANADA!

It was a cold October just south of Vancouver, the site of the reunion between those naughty Canadian protestors and their families. Yes, they had visitors while in Cougar County. These slaves had exposed themselves while free women on international television, yet when they met with their families at the Bar BQ Ranch every one of them blushed.

But it was too cold and wet to force them to be naked. Besides, the Canadian government had expressed its reservations about ’exposing’ my property to the public. That’s right, MY property. DEV named me the primary owner of these women. It may have been punishment for rescuing them. No good dee goes unpunished. Just when I thought I was rid of them, getting them to the border and preparing to manumit them all on the other side, I was met by a group of four uniformed and one plain-clothed Mounties and Mr. Woulfe, the Canadian Ambassador to the United States.

My first thought was that I had just been hit with a truck load of filled grain sacks. Political stuff! When I got around political stuff, people died. It was going to happen sooner or later. I was news. “The people’s right to know!” Yeah, right–some people’s right to exploit the bizarre for profitable advertising revenue. That was the principle at stake here. Well, as long as nobody shot at me…

“Good morning, Ambassador Woulfe,” I said as pleasantly as I could manage. “Are you here to see the manumission and hand-off of 17 Canadian citizens?”

“Not really.” It was worse than I thought! “Come inside. We will hold a pres conference shortly. Let your slaves stay in the bus for now. “

Inside the building was the ambassador’s family–his wife and seven daughters. They were naked except for chains.

“Canadians cannot own slaves,” Woulfe explained. “NAFTA demands that we honor your property rights. We would already have our own White Slave Act if not for your barbaric Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act of 2001.”

“Yeah, ain’t it funny how the most draconian government measures have such innocuous names? The Committee of Public Safety in Revolutionary France, for instance.”

“Quite. Well, I’ve enslaved my wife and daughters here in the states, but I cannot own them. So I have to sell them to you. I want one dollar for the lot of them and I want you to personally train them. I’d like to borrow them for Christmas, but otherwise they are your slaves.”

I sighed. What’s a sheepdog to do?

“What about the rest?”

“You are granting them a furlong. If they fail to show up on the second Tuesday in January, well, we can’t interfere with any legal property recovery activities that you Yanks do. Just remember that –oh, dash it all, Peter. Just pick up your slaves. You’ll have about three times the slaves when you do. When we finally get our own White Slave Act they will be the first Canadian slaves. We owe the press a show, so I need you to bring in those protestors naked, what? The Mounties can provide you wit zip ties–all livestock must be restrained.

The bus contained people that I had to supervise directly–Darcy among them. I also had a protection detail along from MFS Det 46. I had not intended to cross the border. Now I had to. In a few minutes I had marched 17 naked women into the customs office. They had gotten used to being naked most of the time. The majority thought being naked and bound for the cameras was a joke–and they were right.

First, the media feeding frenzy. The hungry news cameras devoured naked female flesh as if they were cannibals at a girl roast. I fielded questions with standard DEV answers. When the slaves were asked questions, I intervened with ’slaves are supposed to be seen and not heard.’ That got a laugh from the men. I had the usual hate-filled monologues poorly disguised as questions. Those I answered with a simple ’No. Next question.’ After twenty minutes in the chilly customs office I called a halt to the media circus. I filled out the paperwork and was told that I would meet them in person at the Grand Lizzie Hotel in 90 days. I escorted the 17 naked slaves to the Canadian side of the border and handed them off to their families. When their bonds were released, all 17 hugged and kissed me–and they remained naked in the cold drizzle until they got into their cars. I returned to the American side of the border and then I took my seven new nude slaves to the bus and climbed aboard.

“Well,” Mrs. Woulfe said with a shiver, “that wasn’t too bad.”

“Who’s hungry?” Penny asked. She was passing out sandwiches and cups of hot soup assisted by Susan as the bus pulled out of the customs post. Jane, Heather and Darcy passed out blankets.

It wasn’t what I expected. I went into default mode as I unlocked the chains.

“What do you want to do with the rest of your life?”

Castleman Trust Series Chapter 50

Fry those Trons!

Peter J. Foster

I was very busy on Tuesday, October 2nd, 2001. Monday I had been at the Garret plant smoothing out an issue with the CEO. I gave her two choices–she would resign or be enslaved for breach of contract. Ms. Kochfeld did the manly thing–she killed herself. Used a shotgun–very messy. I replaced her with Melody, one of the Castleman Trust project assets. The rest of the week promised to be as busy–Wednesday was the start of Naturism Days at Ellisia. I wanted to wait for January, when it would be too cold to wear just a birthday suit–I’m no hero! As for the rest of the week–well, I’m seldom bored!

Except when I have to attend meetings. If I could make meetings productive instead of mere stroke sessions–stroking the big cheese’s ego, that is. I was woken and dragged myself from a warm bed at around 2 in the morning. I took Button, Jane, Shawna and a protection team and we left in a van. I cautioned the driving crew to switch off every hour to prevent dozing off–and fell asleep between Shawna and Jane. The weather was cool and I ordered everyone to dress accordingly. We arrived at a suburb in Oklahoma City before 5. I met up with Colonel Murphy. He was chain smoking cigarettes, a filthy habit that he had kicked. My irritation was minor compared to something that would make Colonel Murphy smoke again!

“You need Shawna more than I right now, sir,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. Colonel Murphy was quiet for a long moment. Finally someone in a trench coat and fedora approached. The colonel just pointed at me. That was bad, really bad.

I was escorted to a mass of yellow crime scene tape around an electric transformer substation. The smells of burned oil and ozone and other stuff told a tale of catastrophic failure. I was led to a red and white rental van. The roll-up door was open, as were the driver and passenger doors and the engine compartment. There were gasoline-powered flood lights everywhere. A mechanic’s tool kit sat in front of the van and several coverall-clad people were shivering in the pre-dawn chill. I was just about to give thanks that it wasn’t raining when a mist fell…

“Look at that and tell me what you see.”

I pulled a small flashlight out of my pocket and climbed in back. It didn’t take long. I verified the essentials, then informed the man in the trench coat that I needed to verify his credentials in a secure area, that I was prohibited from further discussion until cleared.

“Goddamn, Pete!” Colonel Murphy NEVER called me Pete and seldom swore. “Just tell him.”

“Two years ago I was part of a lab group. We had to come up with an original project for an electronics project. ‘Let’s make an electromagnetic pulse generator,’ I said. I could have made a robot or a radio or a refrigerator–no! I had to make a pneumatic-powered electromagnetic pulse generator! It was smaller than a breadbox and I calculated the output of the scale model correctly. I shielded the experiment adequately. There was no collateral damage. The next thing I knew my whole lab team was under arrest and being interrogated. Our lab notes were seized and classified. No, strike that–all of our school books were seized, our homes were ransacked, I lost my home computer and after a week we were told to never speak of that infernal machine again. I keep getting in trouble for simple school projects. There was that report on the Spanish Flu and another report for my mythology class correlating the Sky People legends–”

“Enough, Peter. “ I saw that Shawna was standing next to her husband Justin Murphy. She wasn’t shivering despite being nude in the chilling drizzle. “Tell him what happened here.”

“This is a larger edition of our lab project. Darcy could never wind an armature properly. See? This is from an old color television set. It is the X/Y driver yoke and shapes the beam. Somebody left off the Faraday screen. They may have gotten a dose of RF radiation and feel bad this morning. Most of the energy went into that transformer and acted like a short circuit, fried the installation and set it on fire. Leakage knocked out the ignition system in this vehicle. If they had gotten a diesel and left the engine running they may have driven away. My full-sized model puts out a 200 kilowatt pulse every five seconds until the nitrogen cylinder pressure drops. I used pneumatics so that there’d be no heat signature. It has to be aimed and I guess that there are three to five shots from that big cylinder. Give me a second to work out the inverse-square law for leakage and I’ll figure out how far out the device burned out electronic devices.”

“Don’t bother.” The man in the trench coat eyed me sourly. “I suppose you didn’t build this device. You know nothing about it.”

“Professor Morrison had our report. The lab team may have managed to hold on to a copy. It was detailed enough to build the full-scale model. I used a small electric motor’s field windings–”

“Stop! We need names.”

I gave up the other four people on the lab team: Darcy Freedman, Darrel Hunterfield, Carman Lacy and Hamilton Bridgeport. “Aside from yourself and Sergeant First Class Archer, I don’t know who else had access to the report and prototype. They didn’t identify themselves.”

“You are in a lot of trouble, boy.” Trench coat failed to impress me. His words meant that he was unable to figure the case out on his own rapidly enough to please his masters. “Don’t shift the blame.”

“What’s the next step? Do I make my ten o’clock meeting with the Eastlake chapter of the New Underground Railroad?” That was the name of Neville’s abolitionist group. Trench coat glared at me.

“We haven’t found the others,” Colonel Murphy said, “Only Darcy was at home. She’s being watched right now. You have your slaver kit? I’ve a notary with me. This is how I want you to handle Darcy’s conversion.”

Darcy was no morning person. She blinked at me in irritation. I was getting that all over today!

“What do you want?”

“Darcy, that pneumatic-powered pulse projector project has been used to knock out Del City’s electrical gird. It also fried some of the communications towers. I want you to volunteer to be my slave. Otherwise you will be picked up in an hour and put through the wringer again about your part in that silly project. Somebody used our device.”

Darcy took it calmly.

“Can I have a few minutes to think it over?”

“Sure. I can wait in my van. Let me give you my cell number.”

“No, I’ll come out. Which one is yours?”

I showed her. I went and waited.

Darcy incriminated herself with her next moves. She made one phone call, sent a mass of e-mails and then shredded paper. She put her hard drive in the oven and let it bake. All of these actions were monitored under a blanket warrant. She spent 27 minutes inside and even put on make-up. I fired up my lap-top and accessed the internet via cell phone. In a few minutes Darcy had signed the documents. She went back inside to give me a urine sample, then locked up and came out with a full bottle. She was clean. In a few minutes Governor London England’s grand niece Darcy Freedman was no longer a free citizen. As I drove her to the Governor’s Mansion the forces of law and order began tracking down the people Darcy called and e-mailed. I am not privy to the details. It deals with law enforcement. Darcy was under wraps.

My next stop was at a home. As in the past, there are a lot of rich abolitionists. Woodrow Edwards surprised me when the meeting began–I had five conversions to perform. Did I mention that becoming a statistic makes hypocrites of us all? These conversions were his wife, his two nieces and his own two daughters. Mr. Edward’s sister had died. Why the conversions? He caught the daughters and nieces ‘fooling around’ with each other and convinced his brother-in-law to fill out the conversion papers. Mrs. Winnie Edwards was converted just in case she objected. They were simple general conversion by family member documents and already notarized.

“I need to nip this in the bud.”

“Yes, sir. After the meeting I’d like to talk to you about education and job training under Defensive Enslavement Volunteers.”

“Your own slaves are always naked?” Jane, Button and Angelica had come with me from Oklahoma city–a clothed Yolanda was baby sitting our van. Heather and Carla had collected a PonyEx notary, Cody again, and met us at the Edwards Estate. Shawna had stayed behind with her husband Justin–my colonel. All six slaves, including outsider Cody and pregnant Heather were nude.

“The weather is a bit chilly for it, but unless there is a health or safety or legal reason for clothing I prefer them naked.” I admitted. “The are pushing it a bit because they really like me. Just a moment. Cody, come here please.”

“Yes, Master Peter?” Cody was a cute girl. I’d have to get her story.

“You are not required to be naked. In fact, it is cold outside. Why did you chose to be nude?”

“I want to fit in,” Cody said. “I hope and pray that you will like me enough to keep me.”

“I guess I could. Is there anybody at the kennel you would like to join you?”

“Yes, Master. But it would be better if you just sent Heather to take over management for a few days.”

Woodrow Edwards was staring at Cody with a strange expression on his face.

“And how badly do the girls in the mall want personal supervision?”

“Badly enough sir that we will do anything. Some of us were volunteers that the mall bought, but I was a shop lifter. It was just a joke.” Cody sniffed back tears and gulped. “I am a joke. I got myself in deep trouble and the only reason I haven’t ridden a spit is that after you trained mall security the mall management stopped snuff shows. I deserved getting whipped, but being spitted and roasted for swiping some cosmetics seems excessive.”

“What about the slave workers who get whipped when inventory comes up short–or worse than whipped?”

“I didn’t think about them then. Now I’m the one who gets whipped.”

“Tell Heather what you need until we get to the Castleman Estate. I’ll call the mall office. “

“She is cute and freckled and red-headed,” Mr. Edwards observed. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I’ll be in Texas at the Ellisia theme park tomorrow. It is naturist day, the first one, and if it isn’t too cold I’m touring the park with a pack of naked slave girls. I’ll take Cody along, with permission of course, and if she can hang tough with the rest of us I figure out something.”

“Got room for some more? I think I’d like to send my new slaves with you.”

The meeting was much smaller than previously. One of the attendees was Carman Lacy–and she was with a woman. I recognized that the woman was really Hamilton Bridgeport in drag. After a quick couple of cell phone photos I told Heather to start our presentation if I took too long in the bathroom. I called Colonel Murphy’s office and told him that there were two persons of interest at the meeting. I got back just in time to see an obviously undercover cop answer his own cell phone. He looked right at his quarry–bad form! I thought that I recognized Professor Morrison in disguise, too. I had my orders–stay clear and let the professionals handle it. They were trying to catch bigger fish.

The presentation went off without a hitch. Next, Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge brought their families up to the front of the room. I enslaved them–including ordering them to undress and provide urine samples. I had enough slaves present that I was able to assign one to each new slave.

“I haven’t had time to complete the contracts,” Mr. Edwards said, “but these five are going to be trained by DEV. Starting now.”

“Slaves, present,” I ordered. I was explaining how slaves were trained as I inspected anuses and vulva. “Mr. Edwards, what are your standards of hygiene and grooming?”

“I haven’t thought about it. Use your standards.”

“Ladies,” I don’t address my slaves as ‘slut.’ Remember, my mother died as a slave and my sister is my slave. “After this meeting I am going to have my slaves bathe and groom you. I will supervise. You failed to meet the standard and I will correct your shortcomings. Right here. In front of everybody. So far you are behaving yourselves splendidly. I know it is hard, but keep obeying.”

I didn’t bother watching the suspects so I didn’t notice when they left. I did notice that the person I had pegged as an undercover cop had left his seat near the door. Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge explained why they had enslaved their daughters–that the daughters were just discovering sex and that boys could PPC them.

“Just like Martha Champion–only she was lucky. The other three weren’t.” Mr. Edwards looked close to tears. “I couldn’t bear to lose my daughters that way. Neville has told me how DEV slaves are treated. Peter was telling me about a daughter conversion that lasts only seven years. I need to have my lawyers look over the contracts and then I’ll decide, but Peter has graciously agreed to take all five of them to Ellisia with him tomorrow. He has a number of slaves working there–”

The audience booed him.
“QUIET!” Angelica’s command boomed in the small room. “Many of you in this room will be slaves or dead in five years. My master cares. don’t make it harder on him.”

Not exactly kosher, but it worked.

“Why me?” the former Mrs. Edwards asked.

“Because I didn’t want you to nag me for the next seven years, woman!” Edwards shouted back. “If you can behave yourself, I will keep you as a Slave in Name Only for a year or two, then free you. After that, it you will have me, I’ll remarry you.”

“Woody, we might as well tell her.” Edwards nodded to his brother -in-law and Tallbridge continued. “Bunny, while you are a slave we will both share you sexually. You need to go to sex school–Woody says that you just lay there and ‘think of England.’ He wants better when you become a free woman again–if you want to stay with him, that is.”

“And the girls?”

“They need to learn about sex.” Edwards explained. “Not all their lessons will be pleasant, but they need to learn them.”

“Will you be using them for sex” Bunny asked. Both fathers looked shocked by her suggestion. “Well, maybe you should. We’re just slaves now. It isn’t as if we are in a brothel or something.”

Three young women–I’m bad at guessing ages–came up to the table and started undressing. A middle aged woman screeched “No, Polly! You will become a slave over my dead body!”

“Ma’am, how old is Polly?” I asked. “Is she over 18?”

The woman nodded.

“Then think about it for a moment. First, she has the right to volunteer for enslavement–unless you enslave her first. Second, preventing her from doing so is a crime and the penalty is enslavement. Third, she could sneak out and get enslaved elsewhere–like Eastlake Snuff or Hill’s Fine Meats. She’d be dead and you’d never know what happened. Slavery isn’t a trip to Ellisia, but if you plan it out you can emerge alive and better off than when you went in.”

The total of new slaves by lunch time was 11 women. They ate lunch naked–except that most were blushing. After lunch they lined up in one of the large bathrooms for their baths–and a shave job. I phoned the Castleman Estates for a bus.

Carla was busy explaining the educational programs. Six of the new slaves had signed the standard 10-25 year voluntary conversion contract and the first five still were general slaves while Mr. Edwards and Mr. Tallbridge checked with their attorney. While everyone else was busy I called Yolanda. After her collar phone rang ten times I phoned for a back-up team and alerted Angelica.

“Stay with me,” I ordered. “We can’t help her if we’re dead and help is just ten minutes away. They’ll find her by her cell phone.” My phone rang. It was the back-up team and Yolanda was dead beside the van. The procedure now was to leave the scene to the police and evacuate me. “Wait on the evacuation. Check the parking lot for other bodies. How many responding?”

“Sir, this is Sylvia. We have twelve.”

“You are in charge, right? Send in two after you check the parking lot and secure our egress route. Has someone called the police?”

“Eastlake Sheriff and Coroner are en Route. We just found another body.”

Actually there were four other bodies. You’ll have to read the reports yourself. I only found out how Yolanda died because I saw her body–she had been garroted.

But I was very busy that day. I delegated the funeral arraignments. Edwards and Tallbridge came to the Castleman Estates and signed the contracts with Carla. My first four daughter conversion contracts were named Loren, Kathy, Mary and Sally. Loren was the eldest and had dropped out of Eastlake University out of fear due to the White Slave Act of 2000. Kathy and Mary were twins, Tallbridge girls, and had graduated from high school a year late because they had been overseas for a year with their parents and had to repeat a grade. The youngest, Sally, had graduated with the twins. The three youngest had refused to attend college–fear again. Carla explained all this to me. It seemed as if the four girls were watching too many snuff videos. I called them into my office,

“Are you afraid of me?” I asked the four. They glanced at each other.

“No, sir,” Loren was their unofficial leader. “We saw you on the Castleman Trust show.”

There it is, folks. If it isn’t on television it isn’t real.

It was almost 9 when Colonel Murphy and Shawna arrived. They had Darcy with them. Of course, both Shawna and Darcy were nude–even though the night was really nasty.

“How do you manage? I’d find it hard to bear in a GorTex rain suit with polypro. You aren’t even wearing shoes.”

Shawna’s laugh was musical. Darcy was sullen–her skin was cold and clammy when I touched her. Shawna, on the other hand, was quite warm to the touch.

“I think you need to soak in the spa until you warm up,” I told Darcy. “I’m out of sorts tonight. A member of my National Guard unit was murdered today. She was in the parking lot making sure that nobody put a bomb in my car when someone used a garrote on her. She was a slave–and she died at an abolitionist meeting. Ironic, isn’t it?”

“Did she die to save you?”

“And the rest of my family. It looks as if she died stopping an attack on us.”

“What do you mean?”

“He can’t talk about it, dear, but our Master Peter protects America from some very dangerous people.”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Colonel Murphy said. “We need to talk in your office about your security posture.”

When we were alone, Colonel Murphy told me that he sympathized with my loss. I was told that Yolanda was being restored to full status as a soldier for her military funeral–and it was to be held Friday.

“About Darcy,” my boss lowered his voice, “don’t trust her. She can hurt you if she wants to.”

“We could simply turn her over to the authorities.”

“The governor wouldn’t like that. London realizes, of course, that Darcy can never again be a free woman. The instant she is free she will be picked up and charged with treason.”

“I feel sorry for her, sir, but I have reservations about harboring a traitor. Is Darcy aware of her tenuous status?”

“Not yet. We are still playing her.”

“She needs to know that she is a slave.”

“That much you can do. You can tell her that you saved her from being picked up for unspecified crimes, that you were told there was a felony warrant but you don’t know the charges and specifications. Unlike your two gymnast coaches Darcy really is guilty. The other two could stand trial and prove their innocence, but they risk death. Shawna tells me that they are content with their lives. They love you and they are achieving their life ambition. Darcy is a suspect in mass murder and there is enough evidence linking her to that EMP device. They used her internet provider’s records to locate a locker with several uncompleted devices and a full set of blueprints. As long as Darcy stays a slave, she won’t be prosecuted. We are officially using Darcy as a controlled source. Once she’s no longer useful, she can stay with you for the rest of her life. Just wait for the end of the investigation before you let her know that we are using her.”

I worried that my family was in danger from this game with Darcy. If it came down to Darcy or just about anybody else, she would lose!

We were bussing down to Texas so that I’d have a few hours to meet with the DEV Ellisia workers before the park opened. The seats had been replaced with folding bench seats so that the floor could be used for sleeping. I also used a recreational vehicle. All the new slaves, including Darcy, were in restraints.

My day ended on the road. I got what sleep I could.

Castleman Trust Series Chapter 49

School for Cheats

Peter J. Foster

I inherited the leadership of one abolitionist movement as an undercover operative. Some undercover–the abolitionist knew me to be ‘from the dark side!’ Now Neville’s gang was approaching me for advice. Politics! One reason politics is dirty is that everyone is a hypocrite.

Including Peter Joseph Foster!

Neville was still morning the ‘deaths’ of three free citizens; they were now slaves Queenie, Rachel and Martha. True, they were slaves, not corpses–but legally speaking, corpses had more rights than a slave. Three of Martha’s friends had been killed and served as girl roasts. DEV was established in reaction to the Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act of 2001 and Martha survived because of DEV.

But I was going to attend a meeting of Neville’s abolitionist group. Neville called about a domestic crisis. His newly-transferred slave=wives were disobeying him. I arrived with Jane, Button and Shawna–Montana and Michelle were my bodyguards today and they remained in the van as I escorted my three naked slaves into the Champion residence. The three disobedient slaves kneeling in Position One. A pile of clothing was in front of them.

“I ordered them to dress and they refused!” Neville fumed. “I don’t want them naked on the street!”

“I see,” I said. I really did grasp both sides of the issue immediately. “Girls, you are slaves. Neville is your primary owner. All of you did something to get yourself enslaved. Martha was betrayed–but she put herself in that situation. Queenie and Rachel volunteered. Slaves obey. Do as Neville ordered.”

“But–”Queenie began.

“What part of ‘slave obey’ do you not understand?” I cut her off brutally. “Neville ordered you to dress. Obey. He will ask your opinion when he wants it.”

The three reluctantly got to their feet.

“Where’s your enthusiasm?” I snarled. “Do you want Neville to lose you? If you disobey him, you can be taken away.”

Jane and Shawna pitched in and helped the three new slaves dress. Dress up is more like it: foundation garments, hose, frilly panties, lacy bras, silk slips, elegant gowns, wrist dangles, necklaces (not slave collars), hair ornaments, ear rings and a pair of spike heel shoes. Jane looked repulsed, Shawna amused–and Button was obviously envious. As for Neville, he appeared confused.

“For what it’s worth,” I told Neville, “dogs are very good trainers for masters. I can loan you a dog, if you wish. She’ll teach you how to run your pack–er, ah–family.”

Neville blushed and the slaves all laughed.

“The funny thing is that my husband is serious,” Jane said. “He talks to his dogs all the time. Peter has me doing it now. I’m beginning to think that the dogs are talking back.”

“I wouldn’t laugh about it,” Montana said as she entered with a notary from the PonyEx at the mall. Montana was in a slave tunic with go-go boots–and her costume easily concealed a handgun. The PonyEx girl was also dressed in a red PonyEx slave tunic and moccasins. Montana reported that the slaver kit was in the van. I had a hunch that we’d have a few DEV recruits among those die-hard abolitionists. On the other hand, my hunches are often wrong. If I were more organized, I’d keep track of my hunches and figure out how often I was wrong. “My psychology professor taught me that animals don’t have feelings. After working with the dogs, I’m starting to believe that they are smarter than me.”

“Montana,” Shawna teased, “have you been at the dog food again?”

“It does look exactly like slave chow,” Jane said.

“Slave chow is dog food,” Neville was getting into the spirit of the exchange. “Lighten up, you three. If you want to be naked at the meeting, go for it. You will be appropriately clad in public.”

“Master Neville,” Shawna bowed her head–but don’t ask me if she was being humbly submissive or hiding a grin, “do you mean appropriately clad for a slave?”

“Queenie and Rachel and Martha know exactly what Neville means,” I said, “so don’t confuse the issue, Shawna.”

“Yes, son.”

I had to laugh.

The meeting took place at a church, appropriately enough. It used to be a church–now it was a community theater. I got with the caretaker and set up a table with the slaver kit ready–including a laptop. I could connect to the slaver database through a cell phone.

The notary’s name was Corky. At first she watched me with understandable wariness. Shawna put her at ease.

“Are you really his mother?” Corky asked Shawna.

“No,” Shawna replied. “That’s a title. I’m the head of a cult. Peter is my master. I have a husband–even though the law says our marriage ended when Justin converted me. Justin is my beloved, my husband, and Peter’s boss, but Peter is my master and owner.”

“That sounds so complicated,” Corky said. “What next? Space aliens?”

“Well, as a matter of fact,” Jane began that tale of Star Children and men.

I watched as the abolitionist filed in. They glared at me and my three naked slaves. Queenie spoke with Neville a moment, Neville shook his head and said something that I didn’t catch.

“Button, come here,” I said. Button followed me to a storage space just backstage. “Do you trust Winston Smith?”

“Yes. Totally.”

“Then I won’t bother you when I tell you that you are officially a general slave owned by Winston Smith,” I said. “I have a 90-day training contract for one Slave Button. Are you okay? I can sedate you if you need it.”

Button blanched. She gulped back a sob.

“It’s real, isn’t it?”

“If it is in the data base, it is reality,” I hugged her. “In public I may be required to punish you. I’m telling you this because I am going to order you to present out there. If you balk, I’ll correct you. Your other self may be embarrassed, but out there you are Slave Button. She would obey–and it doesn’t matter if she obeys out of terror or out of devotion. You may not have noticed, but every time you’ve been naked in public it has been with other slaves. Cody isn’t my slave–yes, I can order her to undress and display, too. I can beat her–but if I want to snuff her I need to call her company. According to the training contract with Winston, I have full discipline authority over you–in fact, I am required to snuff you in specified situations. You need to know that this is nothing personal. Be a professional. After this I need to talk to you about your legend. Real slaves make the best spies because they are expendable.”

I took a thoroughly-cowed Button back on stage. I handed her to Jane.

“I shook her up,” I told Jane. “Stay with her. You are Siamese twins until we leave here. I need Shawna to work the crowd. After the introduction you two stay at the table. If you need to pee, use the bucket and do it in front of everybody.”

Button gasped.

“Peter does that so any volunteer can’t say that she was misled,” Jane took control of Button. “We are going to make love to each other in public–it is my first time, too.”

When I glanced at Cody, she lowered her eyes–but not before I saw her expression.

“Cody, dear,” Shawna comforted her, “we have roles to play. Master Peter isn’t going to ask you to do anything more than sit here in your tunic and notarize conversion papers.”

“I don’t have to undress?”

“You won’t have to present and you won’t be forced to have sex. We three will be.”

“I want to,” Jane said. “I want to make Peter happy. I like it that the free people can look–but can’t touch without my master’s permission. Playing with Button is fun. Besides, it will be a challenge.”

“Challenge?” Button asked.

“Overcoming your stage fright,” Jane said. “I’m scared, too–but I’ll do anything for Peter.”

Abolitionist had been filtering in. Most of the women glared at the three naked slaves. Most of the men glared at me–and some leered at Jane and Button. I thought Shawna was sexy, too–even at the ‘advanced age’ of 47. Actually, Shawna often passed for 30–or less. I looked at the hostile crowd.

“Peter,” Shawna’s voice was low, “be careful. Young men sometimes get competitive. It is okay to back down here.”

“Thanks, mother. I’ll remember that.” I hoped I’d remember.

The meeting started on time. My presentation was on Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. As the traditional school year had begun, I concentrated on the new school contracts–and the many ways college girls could be enslaved. It was a multi-media presentation.

One medium was Martha. She told her story. Martha still wore her dress and was indistinguishable from a free woman. I could tell that her story brought tears to some eyes–and enraged other people.

“Why don’t you just free her?” a member of the audience asked.

“For the first two weeks she could have been re-enslaved by Carl Manning–and she had her 18th birthday only days after being enslaved. She told you about Hill’s policy–you don’t roast until you are old enough to vote.” I took a calming breath–I had grown fond of Martha. “If she had been re-enslaved, she would have died. But you have a point. I could have recommended that DEV free her. She was rescued from certain death. DEV doesn’t exist just to save lives–it exists to give enslaved women a meaningful life. Make no mistake–they are slaves. Just in case there is any doubt, I command my slave-wife and a slave student to step up here on stage and present. You may file past and inspect them.”

Jane took Button by the hand and led her in front of the podium. They faced the audience, then turned around and bent at the waist, feet three feet apart. Both women used their hands to spread their butt cheeks, exposing anus and vulva. Button was sniffing back her tears, her face red with humiliation. Jane was an exited exhibitionist.

“Peter,” Shawna said, “Cody and I would like to do that.”

“I need you here. Cody, you can keep your shirt on.”

“Thank you, master. I wouldn’t mind.”

The two girls on display waited–nobody approached. When I asked if anybody wanted to touch a real live slave girl, there were no takers. So I ordered Jane and Button to 69 each other.

“No,” Neville said. “You won’t humiliate these women just to prove a point.”

“Master Neville, I’m proud to obey Master Peter.” Jane said as she positioned herself over Button.

“How about you, Button?”

“It is a slave’s right to obey her master,” Button replied. “Besides, Jane is fun to fuck.”

“DEV is a school for cheats,” I said. “We cheat death. We cheat despair. Many wives get enslaved because their husbands think the wife was cheating on them. More than a few daughters get converted for cheating on tests at school. There’s a whole lot of cheating going on. DEV may even cheat the real purpose of the White Slave Act. Who among you voted WSA 2000 into law?”

The textbook answer was nobody. Congress passed it in both houses by a simple show of hands–and got more than 3/4ths vote. They only need 2/3rds majority in a quorum. They had enough to override President Carson’s veto–if he chose to veto it. He didn’t. WSA 2000 was crafted by a committee and isn’t really bad, as such projects go. Don’t try to pin that law on any one person or group–you can’t!

I had Shawna introduce herself. Shawna was not only high priestess of her cult of ‘Star Children,’ she was also the chief executive officer of Universal Female Enslavement, a political action group. The question was how can a slave hold office in a political organization.

“I am an asset slave,” Shawna replied, “and the office is administrative. I make sure that the organization follows its goals. UFE believes that every woman should be enslaved from age 18 to age 25 under contracts like DEV’s seven-year daughter conversion contract. This model contract evaluates and educates a woman, prepares her for freedom, sets her up in a career. As Jane and Button demonstrate, it is real slavery. Some women are unsuited and may not survive even under Master Peter’s gentle care. Many women are not suited for life as free citizens. It’s getting worse as the man shortage gets worse. You may wonder why a slave is touting enslavement of every woman in the United States. I’ll tell you…”

She did. Then it was Neville’s turn.

“Fellow abolitionists, DEV provides a safe enslavement for women in danger of being enslaved by PPC, by family member or by magistrate,” Neville said. “Peter Foster saved my sister’s life. He gave me two obscene choices: she could remain with Peter or she would be partly owned by me under a 10 to 25 year educational and career asset contract. “ Neville drew in a deep breath, shuddered, then continued, “If it was your mother or sister or wife or daughter, what would you do? There’s more to the story–my wife and secretary volunteered for slavery, too. Both took the 25 year minimum enslavement contracts instead of the 10-25 year contracts.”

The short story was Shawna talked them into it. Both women had come to the Castleman Estate to beg for Martha’s life. When they were convinced that Martha was safe, Shawna told them about the Castleman Trust–and suggested a group marriage.

The abolitionist audience was understandably hostile as Neville introduced his own Slave Rescue Service.

“DEV doesn’t rescue those already enslaved–except for Peter’s deal with Hill’s Fine Meats. DEV only offers defensive enslavements with a future. Simply enslaving a woman for a month to prevent PPC conversions will not help her–she will still be the same person when the month is out and may trust the wrong guy again.”

“Master Neville,” Shawna butted in, “there are some law suits charging that month-long enslavements to escape conversion by persons of personal contact are frauds. Being a slave for months changes a woman. Master Peter does make provisions for early manumission from DEV contracts, but the woman has to put a minimum amount of money away in her own personal freedom fund and demonstrate life skills. A committee consisting of nine slaves and three free people determine if the slave is ready for manumission–early or on the contractual manumission schedule. If you rescue a doomed slave, Master Neville, do no free her too early. She’ll only get re-enslaved. She’d be better off remaining enslaved. You might not be able to save her the second time around.”

Button and Jane had orgasmed several times. They had collapsed, spent, and were dozing on the hard stage floor. Somehow that live sex show was being overlooked as Neville finished his presentation and fielded questions.

“I’m Terri Weathers,” a middle-aged matron announced. “We are against slavery. Why should we support any further enslavements?”

“Protection,” I said. “It is possible that all women may be enslaved within the next five years. The goal right now is to enslave 36% of all females by the end of this decade. That is about 25% of the projected population–and doesn’t tell the whole story. Numbers never do. Most of those enslaved will be between 18 and 30 years old. Slavery will take at least half of that age group. Look around you. In ten years, half of the women who are now between the ages of 8 and 20 will be slaves. That doesn’t include those who died while enslaved or will be freed slaves. Do the math. If you fail to plan for slavery, you could die.

“Neville is going to organize a slave rescue service. He just said that he plans to locate women lost to slavery and reunite them with their families. That means purchasing them–”

“No!” Ms. Weathers screamed. “I won’t pay slavers one cent!”

“You would have allowed Martha to die?” I challenged. “I suppose she is already dead to you. Neville, you are the primary owner. In accordance with our contract, what do you intend to do with Martha?”
“Educate her. We’re all going to go to the Bates and Jackson Institute of Sexology. She’s also getting a business degree. I’m looking for a husband for her, too.”

“By contract the only unilateral transfer you can make is back to DEV,” I said. “Other transfers or manumission must be by mutual agreement with yourself and the DEV board. Your contract is one such mutual agreement. It includes provisions for an escrow account that Martha can add to for her life as a free woman in 10 to 25 years. At first she won’t earn that much. Neville seeded her account with enough money to pay her manumission fees–but that will leave Martha naked and destitute. She’s going to have to earn the rest.”

“As a slut?”

“If necessary, Mistress Terri!” Martha spoke up. “Master Neville, may I have permission to disrobe and tell these fine citizens what it is like to watch my three best friends get spitted and gutted alive on a Jessica 3000? Please, Master?”

Neville considered her plea.

“Okay.” Neville said. “You two as well. Then I want you to wander through the audience.”

Six naked slaves on display didn’t move the audience. Martha’s story didn’t move them. Who said that you cannot out-stubborn a cat? It is difficult–most humans can’t. Neville did get some interest in the Slave Rescue Service–but no funding commitments.

“Why are they so blind!” he asked after we returned to the Castleman Estate. “We can save lives.”

“That takes money,” I replied. “Can you save 25% of the United States? Where will you get the funds? That very question haunts me. I have over a thousand women depending upon me right now and if I have to let others die in order to save them, I shall. Your Slave Rescue Service will have to pick and chose. What criteria will you use?”

The doorbell rang. At the door were a dozen women–led by Terri Weathers. Half were nude and bound.

“We caught our daughters playing strip poker,” Terri explained. “We need them enslaved. Some of us will join them. I was thinking that it wouldn’t happen to me or my daughters. I need them both protected.”

“Good thing you rented Cody for a week,” Shawna said as she started the documentation. “A slaver’s work is never done!”

Not all the daughters converted that evening were involved in the game. Two were merely sisters. Three mothers volunteered for conversion as well. Mrs. Weathers was a widow. She elected to remain free. Mrs. Whitehead phoned her husband–she snapped her cell phone shut, pale and sweating, hands trembling.

“Me, too. Brody just promised to spit me.”

Scratch an abolitionist and find a slaver underneath? I don’t know. Only two women remained free an hour later. The world is mad.

Castleman Trust Series Chapter 48

Girls Really Are From Outer Space!

Peter J. Foster

Carl “the Cad” Manning had converted Martha and three of her friends at Hill’s Fine Meats because Hill’s paid cash on the hoof for ‘fine roasting heifers.’ Martha wasn’t old enough to vote, so she was spared the spit–her three friends weren’t so lucky. Martha’s fate led Mrs. Neville Champion (‘Queenie’) to volunteer for enslavement–as did Rachel, Neville’s secretary. Neville lost it for a moment, but quick intervention put him back on what passes for sanity in our mad world.

“At least they didn’t go to Eastlake Snuff Shop,” Button commented. Button was a free woman who was pretending to be my slave. It was training for undercover work–I guess. More likely I was being spied upon. “They would have all died.”

“No, Eastlake Snuff Shop only collected money. Benny, the owner, didn’t pay anything for fresh meat.” I lowered my voice. “What did they use those jet injectors for?”

“Winston said that the dead bodies were laced with arsenic,” Button shook her head. “Why did they do that? Arsenic is not very toxic.”

“The people I named do not have deep pockets,” I grimaced. “Their jet injector costs more than a thousand dollars new–want to be that it was stolen? Arsenic or simple rat poison is easy to get. While not very toxic, it does ruin the meat. Arsenic is also cheap and available in liquid form.

“But let’s get back to your slave training. You have been naked for only 12 days–and you have just 78 days to go. Today is September 5th. This year has been a long hard one for me.”

“2001 has been a hard year for women,” Button quipped. “You men aren’t slaves–not yet.”

“Neville’s back,” Heather announced. “He’s here to sign the transfer papers.

We went to the formal conference room. I didn’t bother dressing–it was my house! The only clothed person in the room was Neville Champion, and it was warm enough for bare skin inside–too warm for a sport coat and tie. Shawna was telling Neville a story.

“When the Star Children descended, there was Man. Man was a shaggy beast and we Star Children were reproductively compatible with Man–a pleasant surprise. All Star Children were female. Males don’t tolerate interstellar travel well. The Goddess commanded that we take some of Man as our pets and create a new breed that was half Man and half Star Child. That was long ago, perhaps a hundred millennium. Something went wrong. Star Children became greedy because Man was a clever pet and the Man/Star Child hybrid resulted in fertile offspring. Star Children wanted men of their own. You see some of this in old murals, in Egyptian history–you call it myth. Eventually, the males of the half-man/half star child slightly outnumbered the females and took over the world. Woman has been complaining for over 20,000 years and it is in our genes now, but it was something that we brought down upon our own heads.” I had heard this story from other sources, so Shawna’s tale wasn’t new. Neville’s reaction was novel. Not the story. “After 200 centuries of struggle, women began to regain equality. The Goddess returned and mutated us so that the human female will outnumber the human male four -to-one at birth and five-to-one at maturity. She also made it possible for human male homosexuals to exist in large numbers. The reason for this was that women are supposed to outnumber men and share the men. That is how it was 50,000 years ago and that is how it will be at the end of this century. Then the Goddess will return and anoint Master Peter as Earth’s true Master.”

I hadn’t heard that before. I was aware that Button was staring at me.

“Mr. Champion, are your prepared to sign the transfer documents?”

“Please call me Neville,” the abolitionist begged. “Shawna was just telling me a most unbelievable tale.”

“I heard. I don’t believe that I’m destined to rule Earth–and I’m glad of it! I’d never be wise enough. Besides, one of my first acts might very well be radical depopulation. The Carl Mannings of the world have as much right to live as I have. If I had unlimited power, I’m apt to forget that.” I smiled at Shawna. “I don’t believe, Mother.”

“Mother?”

“It is an honorific, Master Neville,” Mercy was handling the legal aspects while undergoing her year-long drug-treatment program. She looked a lot better than that skeleton who volunteered for conversion when Norma Proctor was executed for murdering slaves. “Master Peter’s wives all address him as ‘Brother Master’ and he calls them his sister-wives.”

“That tradition goes all the way back to the Star Children,” Shawna explained, “when woman gave birth without man. You see traces of it in the surviving royal families. The Hindu, Chinese, Egyptian, Mayan and Aztec cultures all practiced intermarriage in order to keep their bloodlines untainted. Master Peter calls the high priestess ‘Mother’ because she is responsible for him. When it is my time to return to the stars, Master Peter will ritually snuff me and a new Mother will take over.”

“No, Master Neville,” Queenie interjected, “I am not becoming a priestess–no way will I be ‘Mother.’ I can see the attraction of having Master Peter snuff me, but my destiny is elsewhere. My destiny is by your side.”

“I’m not going to be ‘Mother’ to Master Brother Peter either,” Jane said. Jane was assisting Mercy, just as Heather was my assistant for today. “His sister-wives may not be the high priestess.”

Yup! You have confirmation, guys! Women are from outer space. No wonder we men don’t understand them–and vice versa!

“This school I’m going to, the Bates and Jackson Institute of Sexology,” Neville bit his lip, “what are they going to do to me?”

“It depends,” I said. “If you just audit the courses, you will just watch. Your slaves–well, partially your slaves–will be going through the entire course. They will participate in every sexual activity including snuffing another slave. I don’t like that part either, but Ms. Bates assures me that their snuff bunnies are terminal candidates. You don’t have to participate in ‘Pleasuring a Man’–and I would have trouble getting a passing grade in that course. The school is part-time and takes 24 to 30 months, mostly home study. Your lab partners are these three.”

Their slave names were Queenie, Rachel and Martha. DEV owned them, but Neville was going to lease them. Upon completion of the Bates and Jackson Institute of Sexology course and upon gaining his own white slaver license, Neville Champion would own half of each of those three slaves. That way, if anything happened to him, his girls would be taken care of as if they were my own family.

“Button, it is starting to get colder at night,” I observed. “You and Shawna will accompany Master Neville to his home and you will sexually service him. I need you two at the Bar BQ Ranch tomorrow night for Shawna’s religious service. Neville, I need you to service Shawna and Button both. Button needs to be naked in public as much as possible and Shawna shuns clothing. It would be kinder to these five women if you would keep them all naked together–but I can only suggest. You need to be trained in slave management.”

“Some abolitionist I turned out to be,” Neville grumbled as he initialed each page of the DEV owner’s contract. DEV slaves are jointly owned by the Trust and by their primary owner or owners–or are leased to their former husbands or parents. “Now I have three slaves and two on loan!”

“Neville, dear,” Queenie smiled at me, “it is for the best. I told you about the visions I’ve been having.”

“If you were still my wife I’d have you evaluated at the mental health clinic.” Neville looked up from his contracts. “I don’t really trust DEV doctors.”

“Actually, Summer and Lana are Castleman Trust Slaves number 031 and 030. They are not DEV.”

“What’s the difference, Peter?”

“Master Neville, may I explain later?” Shawna asked. “It is a long story and you have documents to sign.”

“Yes, Master Neville,” Mercy pleaded. “The quicker you sign those documents, the quicker I get fucked by Master Peter. It’s my turn!”

Heather waddled in. She was in her fourth month of pregnancy and it showed. Heather glowed. Yes, her belly swelled and her breast leaked milk, but Heather was rapturously happy. Mercy stared at Heather’s protruding abdomen and blinked hard, swallowed. Hidden tears? I wasn’t going to embarrass my slave lawyer. Instead I stood on Heather’s left and began rubbing her stomach and back. Heather moved my left hand to her vulva, pleading with puppy eyes. I complied.

“I’m beginning to wonder who is the slave and who is master,” Neville grumbled. “I don’t know why I let you talk me into this.”

“Because you love Queenie and Rachel and Martha,” I said. “You can save lives. DEV isn’t a success. There was a surge in conversions with the end of summer school and the beginning of the new term. DEV didn’t get much of that business. Not our market niche. I can’t save everyone–not by myself. Bates and Jackson is heavy on the psychology and mythology, followed by physical fitness, beauty, medical care–and sex is only about 16% of the course work. You will spend more time learning about nutrition that about blow jobs.”

“What next, space aliens?” Neville asked. “That’s right, already did the space aliens.”

“You will,” Shawna smiled and the other women giggled.

Castleman Trust Chapter 47 — Slave Rescue Society

August 27, 2001

His name was Neville Champion and he was livid. His sister had just been converted by a person of personal contact and sold to Hill’s Fine Meats. The one thing that saved Elizabeth Martha Champion’s life was the Hill’s policy on meat–unless delivered already dead, Hill’s would sell very young slaves to Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. If they were 18, they were adult and would be spitted or butchered or sent live on-site to be roasted while still screaming. Martha was in shock when I collected her from Hill’s. She had just seen three of her classmates run through with the stainless steel spitting rod on the Jessica automatic long-pig spitting machine. The event had been recorded and her sleazy ex-boyfriend Carl Manning had pocketed the video. Carl did object to not seeing Martha’s death, but he was told that Martha was going to be the guest of honor at the Bar BQ Ranch in Cougar County. The money was good.
I paid $2500 for Martha and accessed her records. I was reading them when this angry man invaded my sanctum.

“I’m Peter Foster,” I said, rising from my chair with a Taser held behind my back, “and who are you?”

“You’re naked!” he yelled.

“Happy to meet you, Mr. Naked,” I said obtusely. “What is it you wanted? I’m rather busy at the moment.”

“Where is my sister?”

“I can’t help you. There is no Ms. Naked here–or did she go by another name? I have Smith and Jones and Johnson and Johnston and even a Jonsen–”

“You slavers think you can get away with just anything! Well, you’re wrong! Now I want to see my sister!”

“Mr. Naked-”

“The name is Champion. My sister Martha was purchased by you just three hours ago. Carl said that if I hurried I could talk you out of sending her to the Bar BQ Ranch.”

“Unfortunate name. That ranch was named after twin brothers, Bartholomew and Quincy. The ‘bar’ was supposed to be a ‘bear,’ but literacy wasn’t universal in the 1890’s. Their totem was the bear and they were proud of their Indian heritage. They settled in Cougar County, but never married. When the last brother died–”

“I don’t want to hear some fairy tale about Native Americans! I want to buy my sister out of slavery.”

“What about your wife Victoria and your secretary Rachel? Would you care to purchase them as well?”

I walked around my desk and walked around Neville. His wife had filled me in — founder of the Oklahoma Abolitionist Party, successful investor, rich kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth–until both parents died in Europe during the Troubles. Europe! They had just finished dealing with Communism and with the IRA, now there were all those little independence movements to deal with. What they needed was their own White Slave Act–it would chop away the support base for those independence movements in no time. I kept the Taser out of sight as I led Neville downstairs. Lana was in the dungeon while Dawn finished up on grooming Rachel. When Neville saw that wife Victoria was naked and wearing chains, he roared and rushed over. Montana got in his way and was back-handed–but I had a momentarily stationary target and the Taser probes both found their marks. When the pulsing shocks stopped, Lana pushed a jet injector against Neville’s bare forearm and administered tranquilizers. Lana gave him three doses–which worried me.

“He’ll be okay,” Lana assured me. “He’s an athlete and it took three doses to get him under control.”

“Can you hear me?” I asked. “Neville, your women are safe. I’ll let Victoria explain things. Normally I have new slaves spend their first week in a cage until I think I can trust them to behave themselves, to not do something stupid. I’m putting you, your sister, your wife and Rachel in one room.”

Neville soon was sleeping. Victoria told him what had happened to sister Martha. Neville’s sister was called Martha because Neville’s mother was Elizabeth Lucille. Rachel was at the edge of tears and was alternately blushing and covering her breasts and crotch. Victoria was occupied with her ex-husband. Summer brought in Martha–the sister had retreated mentally. No wonder. Watching a woman die on a spitting machine is fun only for deviants. Summer and I had planned to bring Martha back using the same tools used to save Carla Connor–expressing unconditional love. Neville could help, if we could get past his vanity.

“I can’t believe that you talked me into being a slave,” Rachel said.

“You don’t have permission to masturbate and I specifically remember telling you that you are not permitted to cover up,” I replied. “Now do you believe? All you need to do is ask and I will permit you to stimulate yourself–”

“Bastard!” Rachel put her hand over her mouth. “It slipped out! Please…”

“I can take that a whole lot of different ways,” I said. “I forgive you. Can you forgive yourself? Anyway, the focus is on these two. Neville needs to know that you are safe. Tell him why you became a DEV slave. Martha escaped from an unbearable reality–that someone she trusted used her and then sold her as meat. That Carl wasn’t just another bum. All three of those women who were spitted this morning were relatives of members of the Oklahoma Abolitionist Party. They didn’t even register to vote, yet! Could have, but didn’t. Does that suggest something to you? It does to me–but I’ve been trained to suspect dark plots under every bed, in every closet, in every cupboard and drawer. Thank you for letting me convert you, Rachel. As soon as Neville recovers from being drugged and as soon as he calms down, I will conduct the slave marriage between the three of you.”

“Yes, that was the main reason,” Rachel said. “I want to have his children. Queenie said that I was welcome in their bed any time.”

“Queenie? Would that be Victoria?”

“Yes. I was named after Queen Victoria.”

“Elizabeth was a queen,” I observed. “Two families naming their children after royalty?”

“Different royalty,” Martha said. “I was named after Mommy and she was named after two movie stars.”

“You’re back,” I said. “It’s okay here. Slaves are human beings.”

“Peter Castleman?” Martha asked. “How do I address you?”

“In private, Peter is fine. By the way, I’m Peter Foster. Uma Castleman was my slave when she was murdered.”

Slaves can be murdered–but the crime is against the owner and not against the slave. A woman named Norma Proctor had killed four people–a free woman, two slaves and an unborn child. At Ms. Proctor’s sentencing, the judge told her that the horrifically brutal nature of the crime was enough for him to press for the death penalty on the murder of two good slaves who were only obeying the legal orders of their owners. The crime wasn’t against the two slaves–the crime was a capital offense against property. It might have been that Uma’s murderers would have gotten the death penalty as well, but they all died at the scene. I might have even killed them. I explained all that to Martha.

“Master,” she said, eyes glazing, “may I ask a favor?”

“Yes.”

“Unless I’ve done something truly terrible, may I be whipped next time you need to punish me? Have pity on me, Master Peter. Whip me instead of lecturing me. Please?”

Martha was going to be okay. I was called upstairs again–more visitors from the Oklahoma Abolitionist Party. There were two of them. Susan was telling them that if they weren’t nice to her master–me–she and the other slaves would not like it.

“You do think that we slaves are human,” Jane was with Susan and was speaking. “He is our master and my husband. He will marry my sister when she comes of age, too. We’re Castleman Trust slaves.”

“What do I owe the pleasure of your company, gentlemen?” I asked.

“You’re naked!” one exclaimed. The other just smiled.

“My house, my rules,” I explained. “I was expecting some bereaved parents. I’m glad that I don’t see them. I had enough grief with Martha losing her friends.”

“Can we see Martha?” the smile said. “Just to make sure that she is alright? I heard that Victoria and Rachel are here too.”

“Yes, they are. Martha is fragile at the moment. When Doctor Prince clears Martha for visitors, okay. Her brother is with her and they won’t be disturbed for now. I can get Victoria up here for a moment, but I need her and Rachel to help with the patients. Neville almost lost his sister today.”

“What do you mean, ‘almost?’ Is she still a slave?”

“Yes, sir, and she will remain a slave for at least ten years, or if she does something warranting immediate manumission. I’ll have someone explain the standard DEV contract to you.”

“Ten years is a long time.”

“Sir, how long do you plan to live? DEV slaves have a good forty or fifty years ahead of them. What part of almost died did you not understand? Three women did die because they were vulnerable to being enslaved and snuffed. Martha has a second chance at life and she will be with me 10 to 25 years. DEV slaves are slaves, but I’m taking care of their future. When they leave DEV as free women, I want them to be too valuable to enslave. They will have money, education, job skills, experience and DEV will make sure that they leave with a good job and a place to live. I’ve got a girls school that will produce the world’s best free women–but I plan for those girls to enter a shorter daughter program that enslaves them from age 18 to age 25. Laws are made by committees and WSA 2000 fills several functions.” I almost said ‘several fantasies,’ but caught myself. “Sorry for the sermon, gentlemen. In the future, most women will be slaves for part of their lives. You seek to end slavery. How do you plan to do that? Democracy is the tyranny of the majority. We have a representative democracy. WSA 2000 was imposed by Congress as a tax measure and was signed by President Carson. You saw what happened to Hellen Eastman-Carson? If it happened to her, no woman is safe. What are you doing to protect your women from bad slavery? I’ve warned you–today’s girls will be tomorrow’s slaves. Most of the girls Susan’s age will become slaves during the next ten years. I’ve seen projections that half will be converted before their 21st birthday–that would make it 2008. Do you see the implications? Let me spell it out–legal voting age in federal elections is 18. Women currently outnumber men by 20%, but in the last election women cast only 40% of the vote. Politically, women are marginalized. They will be enslaved because they don’t exercise their power. You can do far more to free women if you give organizations such as DEV time to train and educate the next generation of voters. Otherwise, I want to stay out of politics. Too many of the people I love have been killed. I lost my mother, Uma Castleman, Juanita and my son–”

Things are tough all over, I was told. I was using my victim power to establish credibility. Next I jumped into the number of lives that I had saved through DEV. My latest save was Martha Champion.

“Yes,” a slurred voice said from behind me. “I’m really flying high now, but I want to know what you are going to do with my sister, mister.”

Neville was naked, too. So were Summer (aka Doctor Prince) and the three new DEV slaves, Victoria, Rachel and Martha.

“You look much better, Martha,” I said. “You were saved because I have a contract with Hill’s–when the live meat isn’t old enough to vote, I buy her. Unfortunately for the others, they were of voting age. You got careless, all four of you. I have a recommendation, but you won’t like it. It is too late for Martha because now that she’s proven deficient in judgment I have the excuse I need to educate her. She’s my slave until either I am forced to manumit her by contract or until she proves to me that I won’t be sentencing her to death by manumission. If I released her today, Carl Manning could immediately re-enslave her. Read the law. Martha has had vaginal intercourse with Carl three times or more in the last 30 days. He had enough proof to enslave her. He could still have that proof and re-enslave her the next time he sees her–unless she is my property. “

“Are you going to keep her naked all of the time?”

“Sir, I think that naked is proper for a civilized society. We aren’t in a civilized society but Martha will be kept naked unless there are health or safety issues. She is a slave. She brought it on herself. I intend to give her the opportunity to become a valuable member of society by using her status as a slave to force her into things like studying hard, developing self-discipline–“

“What if she wants to marry and have kids?” from the dower man. Smiles just nodded.

“Martha, other than Carl, is there anyone you care enough about to want to spend the rest of your life with?” Martha just goggled at me. My next question provoked a response. “Who would you trust to manage your enslavement? If you had the choice, who do you want to be your owner? It is a trick question–I may require my slave to bear her owner’s children. I would only give up part ownership because that way I have legal leverage to make sure that you are well-treated and that you will finish the education program. I won’t free you if you can’t support yourself. If you have to be a slave, I will keep you–at least partially.”

“Him,” Martha pointed at her brother. “If I have the choice, I want to be Master Neville’s slave.”

“Martha,” Rachel said, “tell him the rest of it.”

“I want to be a slave wife with Queenie and Rachel,” Martha said. “I accept that I’m your property and that I have no say in the matter. I expect to be used by my owners–I expect both you and Master Neville to use me in every way. After what happened to my friends, I’ll take any love I can get.”

“Martha, you barely know the man,” Smiles said. “You were wrong about Carl.”

“Sir, we were all wrong about Carl. He netted more than $2000 for the four of us today. I thought I was going to die. I wished that I would die quickly when the other three died. It was horrible.” I was beaten to Martha’s side by five women. Poor Neville sank to the floor–Montana and I managed to keep his head from hitting the hard tile. I wanted to make up for Neville backhanding Montana. Meanwhile, Martha was making noises about helping her brother. When that was sorted out, Martha continued. “I don’t trust any men right now other than my brother Neville. He has always been there for me, my white knight in shining armor. There are two good things that will come out of this. I’ve always had the hots for Neville and now it is okay to act on my feelings–if Master Neville will have me.”

“That is one of the evils of slavery,” Dower snarled. “It promotes incest and breaks up families.”

“Non-sequitur,” I said, “It is very hard to have sex long-distance. If they break up, the families cannot play together. When they play together, they aren’t broken up. You can’t have it both ways.”

“It is unnatural!”

“Are we even using the same language? I suppose Carl Manning is your hero because three of the four women he enslaved today are dead,” I snarled back at Dower. “Plus, Carl did leave Martha to die as well. This is the price I’m exacting for saving her life–she will be educated and enter a career. If she wants to marry a man and the man is willing, I’ll accommodate her. Merely being alive is not enough. Life has to be worth living. Okay, her choice of men doesn’t meet with your approval. It doesn’t have to — she is DEV property. Go out and save some other woman from certain death!

“I propose that instead of attacking the victim you abolitionist do something productive. I’ve been rescuing slaves doomed to become meat since the Alternate Meat Source Inspection Act became law. How many lives have you saved? I’ve done it legally, and I make sure that those slaves stay saved. It isn’t easy, I’ve been at it less than six months, but that is several months more than the victims had before. I admit I didn’t save everybody. I don’t have the resources. I have implanted several free children with RFID tags and if any of those children grow up to be slaves, Hill’s has agreed to let me purchase them instead of letting them be processed. The original reason was to recover lost or kidnapped children and I’ve already saved a few of those, too. What have you done other than moan and complain? If you want to keep women free, educate the dumb broads! I recommend having them converted for the last two years of high school and for their college careers, and perhaps a year or two longer, so that they cannot be enslaved by someone who will mistreat them.”

“What about all those women we see on the snuff and torture channel?” Dower glowered.

“Pay TV? You have to pay for that–and your tax dollars support pro-slavery policies, not to mention where the rental fees go. Why are abolitionists watching snuff and torture shows?” Dower averted his gaze–Smile just beamed. “ Those are a small percentage of slaves. Most slave owners are husbands or mothers or fathers. They own about half of all slaves right now. There are educational incentives for enslaving daughters and it cuts out enslavement by magistrate or by boy friend. She also can’t volunteer to be enslaved–such as the new credit card scams, employment contracts and the like. In Oklahoma, a girl too young to vote can volunteer for enslavement. That is both good and bad–my other wife Heather would have been enslaved by her mother and spit-roasted if she couldn’t have volunteered for conversion. On the other hand, signing the wrong documents is fatal. No, the snuff bunnies and spit muffins are the minority. More common are the labor slaves. The worst-treated slaves aren’t the snuff and torture slaves, oddly enough. Look at agricultural slaves and those work slaves in the primary energy industries. Imagine sending a young girl into a nuclear reactor until she succumbs to radiation poisoning. Cheaper than a robot, easy to replace. If you are careful to prevent contamination, you can recoup your losses by selling slightly pre-cooked meat. Women have been declared to be surplus. How many do you want to save?”

“Slave rescue service,” Neville sang. He was really high. “Saving slaves since 2001. Save the slaves.”

“That’s the general idea. Unless your organization is generating atrocities, save what you can. Send your tame slavers to county auctions. Unfortunately, you can’t save everyone.” I hung my head. “I should know. Some of my slaves have been killed despite my best efforts. Several died while covering the news. Some died when another slave murdered them or when they committed suicide. I have had to kill more than a dozen. I can save only a handful of slaves myself. Even with help I can’t save everyone. I not only save their lives, but I give them a life worth living. Think about it. Invite me to your meeting. Better yet, I’ll send Heather.”

“Send me where, my master, husband and reason for living?” Heather and Carla were wearing only collars. Indoors there was little reason to wear shoes. “What do you want me to do?”

“These two gentlemen are from the Oklahoma Abolitionist Party. They came over to snarl at me for keeping Martha Champion a slave.”

“A new student?” Carla asked. Carla introduced herself as my school principal and explained how she had been rescued. “Rod Selfless is still on trial. He has admitted that even without the White Slave Act he was planning to murder me and take over my school. Master Peter saved my life because three of my teachers and staff were his slaves. I was critically injured and he nursed me back to health.”

I left the Oklahoma Abolitionist Party delegation behind and took Neville and his family to their private room.

“Dinner will be served. Do you prefer to dine here or meet more of my family at dinner?” I asked as the three maneuvered Neville into bed. Neville began snoring. “Oh, yes, Martha has my permission. And the rest of you have not been denied permission.”

“What do you mean?” Rachel asked.

“We’ll take care of it,” Queenie closed the door behind me. I guess that meant sending up a dinner tray.

Montana, Jane and Heather were waiting for me. We ducked into a room for a nooner. I wanted to make up to Montana for getting slapped–reward her for not removing Neville’s head from his shoulders.

“I understood, Master,” Montana writhed beneath me. “Oh, Master!”

Castleman Trust Chapter 46 — Eastlake Snuff Shop Gets Snuffed

Peter J. Foster

The meeting of the Castleman Trust Board began at nine in the morning on Saturday, August 25, 2001. In addition to the board, there were two federal law enforcement agents present. Color me paranoid, but having feds sit in on a meeting isn’t usually a good thing. I was accompanied by my two new slave-brides Jane and Heather, although they were both gagged. The gags were ceremonial–both women wore only those gags–no other bonds.

I had brought two more proposals to the table. After the minutes of the last meeting had been read and ‘old business’ cleared, I brought up two items of new business: a proposed slave retirement trust that I called R.E.S.T. and a status change for the slaves of MFS Det 46.

“Retired Elderly Slave Trust will be a means of caring for deserving slaves who cannot live as free women,” I said. I passed around copies of the proposed Trust.

“You aren’t trying to get out of snuffing my wife, are you?” Colonel Murphy asked.

“No, sir. I know when I’m licked. Shawna would quit living anyway or she would commit suicide. My killing her would make everybody happy.” Except me. Jane nuzzled my bare back and Heather squeezed my hand. The alternative to killing Shawna would create more unhappiness for me, but it was the best of several unpleasant options. “In the near term I will prepare her ritual sacrifice as she desires–and fill my part of the Castleman Trust contract. She does want to die on Halloween, a bit in advance of her 50th birthday.”

“What about the waste of resources used to keep useless old women alive?” Mr. Moses Rogers asked. “You have an obligation to use Trust funds productively.”

“Just because a woman is no longer physically able to work a 12 hour day doesn’t mean that she is useless,” I countered. It may seem silly that the entire board was naked, as was I–the only two clothed people in the place were those two federal agents, a man and a woman. I argued that the slaves would use their manumission funds for living expenses–they earned it! Their continued presence would encourage younger slaves to work harder because hard work would be rewarded. “Never make promises–but if you do, keep them.”

“To a slave? Slaves aren’t people anymore.” I knew that Dennis Marcus Harrington was merely needling me.

“Psychologist claim that animals have no feelings, despite evidence to the contrary,” I said. “Something is going on in those furry little minds. Are we masters or are we children? Let’s keep our promises–we will benefit. Slaves are intelligent. The retired slaves of R.E.S.T. can help smooth out relationships between us and the younger slaves. The retired slaves can help with teaching and with child care and even serve as our conscious–and if you are worried that R.E.S.T. will fill with useless mouths attached to vegetables, don’t. I’ve included the same snuff provisions in R.E.S.T. as in the Castleman Trust–with the exception of the 50th birthday snuff. Oh, yes, the R.E.S.T. slaves will decide if a retired slave will be laid to rest or will continue living according to objective criteria and with the slave under discussion involved in that decision. Some slaves will want to die. I find it hard to fathom, but some will die rather than live a useless existence. Some will obviously be incapable of making any decisions. The latter will be released from their flesh prisons with the safeguards I’ve built in. Penny told me that she wants no part of R.E.S.T. If I deem it necessary to retire her, Penny will ask for my permission to die instead of being warehoused or put out to pasture. R.E.S.T. will not be a warehouse! That will be a way for slaves who are not productive but still have something to offer to keep living. They will live off their past labor–true–but it will be their labor.”

“You over-complicate things,” Paul Paulson commented. “Simply free the slave. Retirement communities won’t be going away any time soon.”

“That is a point–but when all women are enslaved, then what? Kill them all off? When? At what point? Just age-based? This will provide for that eventuality.” I put my arm around Heather and Jane. “Besides, going from slave to resident of a retirement home is no promotion. Some women will never be free again. If being free puts them in danger of prosecution for acts committed as a free woman, she would be enslaved anyway.”

The second proposal was to effect manumission of the MFS Det 46 women, those Army slaves, but put them in a protected status that amounted to enslavement in all but name. There was justifiable concern about giving slaves the power of life and death over free citizens. Slave armies could revolt. Never mind that free armies also revolted–and rebelled in greater percentages than free armies–there was the perception that slave armies would be more prone to rebellion. I was concerned that free women were susceptible to being enslaved almost at a whim. By being in a semi-slave status and answerable only to their agency or to a higher authority, I thought that the female soldier would be more effective.

“Besides, in a semi-slave status the woman can still be used as if she were a full asset slave,” I said, “limited only by department policies and oversight mechanisms. She would be a slave–except for those elected positions. Members of Congress are exempt from most laws. A judge is exempt from almost all laws in his own court room–the checks and balances are the flaming hoops a lawyer must jump through in order to become a judge and the appeal process. In Texas, judges are elected officials, too.”

“The Castleman Trust Board doesn’t have anything to do with that,” Marcus Banks said.

“Not quite true,” I responded. “You can put bugs in ears. Caroline Umbermort is in such a semi-slave status right now. Formalizing that status will give me peace of mind and protect Caroline.”

“She would be classed as a non-productive asset if she were a Castleman Trust project asset,” Doctor Harrison Kennedy Granger commented. He was referring to the eugenics project intended to reverse the male/female imbalance created by the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918. I was producing sons already, if you could believe the ultrasound evidence. If a Castleman Trust project asset didn’t bear one of my children within ten years of being inducted into the program, I was obligated to snuff her–so that the Trust would not be loaded down with ’useless eaters.’

“But Caroline is productive in other ways,” I argued. “If her department put all of its women–except for the department head–in a ’slave in all but name’ status, they would be exempt from enslavement by other government agencies but could be converted in accordance with internal regulations at any time. As the departments are government agencies, I’d exempt them from paying the slave tax–unless, under approved guidelines, those agencies were to sell ’surplus slaves’ to the public. Transferring slaves between departments would be tax exempt.”

The meeting adjourned soon after. Colonel Murphy closeted me with the two agents. Heather and Jane were excluded from this post-board meeting. The man I will call Winston Smith after Orwell’s character. He had a decided British accent. The woman was to be called Button and she had the same Midland accent that Mr. Smith did. They might not even have been US citizens–their credentials may have been as phony as their names. First, I was shown a store surveillance video. It was silent and only took a few frames per second so that the VHS tape would last. The images were grainy and jerky–and black and white. I recognized Eastlake Snuff Shop, a slaver establishment specializing in immediate conversions to meat. There was an abattoir in back, and the surveillance videos showed that the place had expanded to include a torture chamber complete with helper slaves. They were naked and wore leather harnesses–and thick collars. What else could those women be? Business was booming at the Snuff Shop–there were several men in line with bound and naked women–and one clothed woman with a bound and naked woman. I didn’t hear any sound.

“There was another camera that recorded the actual transactions,” Mr. Smith said. “That video was taken. Watch now.”

Four people in Ninja get-ups poured into the shop, swords flashing. In seconds the clothed woman and all the men were on the floor, decapitated. A few more seconds passed and the helper slaves, those harnessed women, were also slain. After an argument or discussion, the rest of the helplessly bound women were killed. The bodies were searched and I watched as the safe was emptied.

“This isn’t just a robbery,” Colonel Murphy said. “We have no interest in presenting your comments as evidence, Lieutenant Foster. Just give me your impressions. It is intelligence work, not law enforcement.”

“That’s because of the graffiti left behind, Leftenant,” Button chimed in. “They used big markers and wrote Death to Slavers on the walls.”

Great. Well, at least this would be kept away from the media. Four people was two more than required to call it a conspiracy.

“I think I recognize all four of them,” I said. I was aware that I was pronouncing a death sentence on four innocent people if I were wrong. “They are Darcy Freedman, Darrel Hunterfield, Carman Lacy and Hamilton Bridgeport. I recognize Darcy from her costume, her missing left ring finger, her ornate Sai and that Wakizashi–not a Ninja sword, the hand guard is too small. The door has a height scale just for things like this and the suspects are a female 5 foot 4 and 110 pounds, a male 5 foot 6 and 170 pounds, a female 5 foot 10 at 130 pounds–I said that Darcy has a missing finger– and a male 6 foot 2 at 210 pounds. Darrel likes that Kama. Hamilton is enamored of the Shuriken. Carman prefers the axe–but the Wilson Shodokan Academy doesn’t consider that to be a ‘real’ martial arts weapon and she plays around with throwing spikes instead. You can see that they have used all their weapons–Darrel doesn’t throw very well. It hurt his football prospects.”

“We certainly can’t use that in your courts,” Winston said. “I take it that you know these people well?”

“Yes,” I said. “We were lab partners and I competed against them in karate tournaments. The Wilson Shodokan Academy has a ‘take no prisoners’ attitude that often gets them banned from competitions. Carman barely escaped being enslaved for assault. The witnesses vanished before her trial.”

“Sounds like a tough bunch.” Colonel Murphy commented. “Perhaps we should mobilize MFS Det 46.”

“No,” Winston said staring at my crotch. I’m pretty, but I’m not vain. He was just thinking deep thoughts and I was in his sight line. “I want to roll up their entire network.”

“They robbed the Eastlake Snuff Shop for a reason,” I said. “It would have been helpful to have that missing video tape.”

“Benny Halder kept those tapes on file to prove that his conversions and snuffs were legal,” Colonel Murphy informed me. “He was cheap or he could have had a better surveillance system. The good video equipment recorded the snuffings in the torture chamber. Mr. Halder was glutting the market with snuff videos.”

“It seems you yanks can’t get enough of snuffing pretty girls,” Button commented. I half expected a ‘what’ out of her–but that is Cockney, not Midland accent.

“You’ve been of great help, Leftenant Foster,” Winston said. “You wouldn’t happen to have the last known addresses of those four, would you?”

“I can do better than that.”

“Splendid!” Winston tore his eyes off my dick and turned towards Button. “Get your kit off. I’ll be in touch.”

“She will remain a free woman, Lieutenant,” my colonel was telling me, “unless you enslave her. Button had a choice–she would act as your slave and remain a free woman, or she would be enslaved.”

“A matter of several infractions,” Winston said as Button hesitantly disrobed. “It was up to Button, really–be enslaved or pretend to be your slave. She risks being really enslaved, of course. I think that the charge would be indecent exposure.”

“Section 21-1021 paragraph A. Every person who willfully either: subparagraph 1. Lewdly exposes his person or genitals in any public place, or in any place where there are other persons to be offended or annoyed thereby: subparagraph 2. Procures, counsels, or assists any person to expose such person, or to make any other exhibition of such person to public view or to the view of any number of persons, for the purpose of sexual stimulation of the viewer: Shall be guilty, upon conviction of a felony and shall be–”

“Enough! We get it!” Colonel Murphy raged./ “Forget about your nudists for a minute!”

“I have over four dozen slaves that just want to be naked,” I countered. “Enslavement allows them to.”

“Well!” Button huffed as she covered her breasts with her hands. She was still wearing panties and garter belt with stockings.

“Nobody will bother you, Lieutenant,” Colonel Murphy said. “You have a lot of slaves. One more naked woman won’t trigger any interest.”

“Luv,” Winston spoke to Button, “all the way. Don’t cover up or you’ll be wearing stripes too. I can still enslave you for your infractions. Or you can have the Leftenant enslave you. This way you will walk away a free woman. It is just for three months. Leftenant Foster will teach you everything he knows.”

Button pulled off her panties and blushed. She was about 5 foot 8 and 130 pounds with brown hair and eyes. She had small breasts and a full bush and her armpits were hairy. I would make her fit in with my own slaves even if she were a free woman.

“Are there any limits on my using Button?”

“You can kill her, if that’s what you mean,” Winston said carelessly. “Button will not survive long if she cannot please you. Killing her would be a merciful act.”

I wondered what Button had done to warrant such contempt.

“Your proposal to treat all government employees as if they were slaves has some merit,” Colonel Murphy said, “but for obvious reasons we cannot officially enact that right now. In the mean time, have fun with Button. Just e-mail me her tag number for reference purposes only.”

“If you get her pregnant,” Winston sneered, “you may keep her. She is not my cup of tea at all, but she does look like your Jane and Heather.”

After Winston and Colonel Murphy had departed, I was left with a sniffing Button.

“This is more difficult than I had imagined,” Button said. “Now what?”

“All my slaves have been depilated. Since you aren’t permanent, a wax job is in order.”

“You jest!”

“Look at me. I don’t like hairy bodies. I even did my own–permanently. Two wax jobs should do for your three months. The permanent solutions take about a year right now. Research is working on one-treatment permanent depilation but we don’t have FDA approval yet–except it doesn’t matter what one does to a slave. But you are not a slave.”

I processed her almost exactly as if she were a DEV slave–except no paperwork. Button was medically examined. She was photographed so much that Button had no more secrets–at least not from the camera. Her hair was done up in a pony tail–though she would have looked good with shorter hair, I could tell that she needed it longer. The wax job was painful for her, but she shed few tears. She balked at the RFID tag.

“I’ll plant it shallow and have it removed at the end of your time with me,” I said. “When the Slaver database is queried, you will come up as a slave. Colonel Murphy told me that he had fixed things.”

“I don’t recall that conversation. “

“”Just e-mail me her tag number for reference purposes only,’” I quoted. “He has the number. You will be identified as a MFS Det 46 military slave if anyone accesses the slaver data base. When your assignment is finished, we can burn out the tag or remove it. Or I can legally convert you. It isn’t any of my business, but you must have given your boss serious grief for him to treat you like this.”

“As you say, that isn’t your affair.”

“Your hands, please?” I felt the callus patterns on her palms and fingertips. “What Kung Fu school do you follow?”

“My instructor had no school,” Button quickly ran down the list of fighting styles taught to her. She wasn’t Kiki, but she was at least as proficient as I. “I do miss my revolver. It was a Wesley .380 with short barrel.”

“I think I have something that will work for you,” I said. I wondered what a Wesley .380 was. I thought I knew NATO small arms. “You’ve been groomed and the next step is sexual orientation. I will not only fuck you shortly, but you will be servicing women as well. You have no privacy. When you shit and piss, someone will be watching and will clean you up afterwards. You will do the same for others. Unless there is a health or safety issue, no clothes anytime. In a few hours I will take you out in public. Heather will see that you have something on your feet because the sidewalks would injure your soles. Kiki, my sensei, never wears shoes–but she and Bonnie have built up thick calluses. You don’t have them. You have shoe calluses.”

“I don’t suppose I have a choice in the matter,” Button said as I rubbed her vulva. “Girls don’t turn me on.”

“Then you’ll just have to fake orgasms,” I countered as I fingered her hard nipples. “You wouldn’t want your sister slave whipped for failing to pleasure you, would you?”
“Slaves are not human anymore,” Button said.

“I am authorized to conclusively demonstrate how false that is to you,” I countered. “I hope I can prove it to you without making you a slave in the process.”

Button shivered. I couldn’t tell if it was fear or if I were turning her on. It didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things anyway. I took Button by the hand and led her to the basement, to the bondage room. In a few minutes I had her strapped face-up on the massage table, thighs open.

“Your medical said that your hymen has been ruptured,” I commented. “Have you had sex before?”

“Yes,” Button hissed and arched her back, shivering as I slipped a finger in her vagina. That was the last articulate word from her for about an hour. Heather and Jane joined me after my first ejaculation. Jane was supposed to be exclusively lesbian in her sexual orientation–but since our wedding a few weeks ago, I had no evidence of that. Heather and Jane demonstrated enthusiasm for everything I suggested to them. Fake? I didn’t worry about it. Button finally came back down to Earth with Heather sucking her left nipple and Jane the right one. I was buried in Button’s cunt to the hilt. “How long will this go on–argh!”

A few moments later I released Button and left her with Jane and Heather for clean-up. Button was ordered to tongue Jane’s snatch from the time cleanup was completed until I returned.

“During clean-up you will lick Heather,” I said. Button’s expression suggested that she was ill.

A few minutes and a quick shower later I was in the kitchen wolfing down a sandwich. Penny brought me a phone. It was Sergeant First Class Archer.

“Sir, those people you talked about are still in town. The boss told me that you are to stay away from them unless they contact you, then you call him immediately.”

“Roger,” I acknowledged. “Anything else?”

“Not officially, but I’d like to fuck Olive Pitt,” Archer told me. “I know she’s pregnant, but I like them that way. I’ll be careful.”

“Sure. How long before you can be here?”

“I’m right here,” William Archer strode into the kitchen naked, his wife Heidi on his arm and also naked. Heidi was exempt from being enslaved because her children were too young–but I was encouraged to use her as if she were a slave. “I want a three-way with Heidi present.”

“Don’t hurt her. May I send in Ginger and a camera crew?”

“I won’t let Bill hurt her,” Heidi promised. “I wouldn’t mind being on video, but Bill is shy.”

“Just camera shy.”

“Master,” Olive Pitt was right behind them,” if I may suggest Ken? He prefers to watch anyway. Or Master Bill can use Ken.”

“No thanks!” Archer said.

“I like an audience,” Heidi pouted. “Besides, Ken can fuck me while you do Olive, and then we girls can 69 each other.”

I finished my sandwich after they had gone upstairs. Olive seemed eager. Was it hormones or was Olive faking enthusiasm? She was an award-winning actress. If there were parts for pregnant women, she would have had a role. That got me thinking–GVVN had the studio facilities. Ken wrote plays in his spare time…

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter 45: Wedding Belles for Peter

Jane Hanson turned 18 on August 9, 2001. It was a hot, sticky Thursday morning and I was glad that we were having the wedding in the morning—and in our birthday suits. I was more thankful that the past month was uneventful.

First, Hannibal Johnson’s death was ruled ‘justifiable homicide’ at the inquest and the case was closed. I had some questions but I knew better than to stir up trouble. All I needed to know was that the incident was officially over. My request for an autopsy was denied. Case closed—leave it alone. Why not? It wasn’t the Lincoln assassination, after all!

Second, the Castleman Trust Board of Directors unanimously approved purchase of the Bar BQ Ranch and its development. That meeting with the Cougar County Commission cinched the deal. Odd—the county sheriff had a total of nine part-time and full-time deputies and a jail with just twelve beds in three cells. The county seat in Howard was at the south end of the county. There was a clinic with three beds and a small surgery. The school system handled about 400 students. When the Castleman Trust moved to Cougar County, population about 4000, we’d bring more emergency services to the county. Much more. At least three times more—except for the fire engines. We’d only double that. The property had just cleared escrow and ‘Pre-fab City’ was being trucked in and assembled. “Pre-fab City’ was there to permit construction of the main projects. There were three: the new Susan B Anthony School for Gifted Girls, the relocated Castleman Trust Estates, and a slave training academy, the Ms. Perfection Slave Academy. All three projects were designed with security as the priority. I had several incidents already with people getting into the old Estate without being detected. I woke up with strange women in my bed. Had they been bent on mischief, had they been Hannibal Johnson, I’d be dead already. Without giving away too much and without boring the reader, there were five security zones. The outer zone had the fewest sensors—but there were video cameras. This would be handy—thousands of video hours showing the local fauna and my stable of naked slaves. The most-restricted zones included the arms room for my reaction team, the medical cabinets in the dispensaries, high value item safes, and the room housing my computer net, the router and main frame. I even had a local radar system that would detect airborne activities—not very good, but I was hoping that anything with a radar signature bigger than a bat would be monitored.

Parachute paparazzi, anybody?

There were more events. The Ellisia project was a resounding success and Ellisia’s Board of Directors were discussing my taking over the slave staff from the other slave management companies. Garret Motors was expanding with a new aircraft factory in Kansas. Olive Pitt had finished her movie and was going to teach at Eastlake Media Technology College while she had her baby.

Things were going so well that occasionally I’d worry.

But today, my full attention was on a ceremony formalizing my relationship to Jane Hanson—and to Heather Volt-Haute. Of course, slave marriages have no legal status. None. Not that it mattered. The wedding was for the three of us—and nobody else.

I had talked with Heather about her mother, Kitty. Katheryn Allison Darby Volt-Haute had managed to kill herself while a slave at the Castleman Estate by ingesting a lethal overdose of her tranquilizers.

“She was in pain and she made it go away,” Heather told me. “Summer and I talked about it. I’m sorry that Mom is gone, but I understand. She was trying to control me through threat of enslavement and a painful, humiliating death. I came to you and volunteered to be your slave, and I brought the rest of the school with me. Mother was enslaved by Daddy because she had to be—but being totally powerless was too painful for her to live with. Mom was a very bitter woman. She believed that she was cheated, that she should have been Queen of Eastlake. Her pain is over, now. Me? I have never been so happy.”

It had been decided that the ceremony would be held out at the Bar BQ Ranch. Shawna would preside. Yes, Shawna was a slave, but slave marriages were not legally recognized. If they were, I couldn’t do them because bigamy is still a crime. All I was accomplishing was recognizing that I expected more from some of my slaves.

“Walk with me, Peter,” Shawna told me as preparations were under way. I followed as Shawna led me out of earshot. I still had my life-saving escorts, but they simply formed a loose ring around Shawna and me. “Peter, I must tell you some things. You won’t believe me, but you need to be told.”

I nodded.

“The Goddess sent the Spanish Flu Pandemic of 1918 to restore the balance between men and women. The final straw was women’s suffrage and the 19th Amendment.”

“I don’t believe that the goddess is petty enough to worry about human politics,” I said. “Please explain.”

“Long ago, before there were books, there were many women and few men. Girls were prized and boys were expendable. All that men were good for was making babies. But women were not happy. They wanted men of their own. So in defiance of the Goddess, women let men get equal in number. The Goddess punished women by putting men in charge for the last 8,000 years. Men proved to be better at war than women, better at keeping power. Women were enslaved. That made most men surplus, unwanted and unneeded. Women slowly regained power and began acting like men.”

We humans live our myths. I was listening attentively.

“Until recently there have been too many men. We women were supposed to share a few men and the Earth would be in balance. So the Goddess intervened again and is reducing the excess of men. She is also redressing the balance by making most women submissive. There are normal women, there are manly women—aggressively dominating women. Some men are submissive. The end result will be a small number of owners controlling a large number of contented slaves.”

“So the Castleman Trust is an affront to the Goddess?”

Shawna smiled at me and shook her head.

“You’ve always been a good boy, Peter. Human time sense isn’t the Goddess’s time sense—a thousand years is an eye blink to Her. Individual human lives mean little to the Goddess. Life is a gift and life is not all there is to existence. You know that. What we are doing with the Castleman Trust is forming the just society that pleases the Goddess. You do not believe because the Goddess made man to rule with the head and woman to rule with the heart. You and your descendants will take over the world.”

“That seems unlikely,” I said. “There is only one of me. The world is a big place and there are a lot of people.”

Shawna laughed.

“Societies that fail to care for children and pregnant women doom themselves. You will set the standard, Peter. Those that follow your standard will inherit the future. The others will die out.”

I could easily die out, too. That’s why I was establishing a safer home for my family. The alternative was to plunge into politics. Political activism is all consuming. The quest for power requires giving up everything in order to have power. The stakes in the power game were so high that everybody cheated—everybody used the force shortcut to power. I was no exception.

“Thank you for enlightening me, Shawna. I’ll need time to process what I’ve learned.”

“You will do what you think is best.” Shawna squeezed my arm. “I’ve gabbed enough for one day. Let’s get you married off.”

Jane’s birthday was August 9th and she turned 18, she achieved adulthood. Heather had been 18 for a while, but I waited to have the ceremony because Jane was to be my first wife. As Shawna led me back to the pavilion, I speculated what my life would have been like if the White Slave Act of 2000 had never happened. Despite some thorns, WSA 2000 was good for me. Very good.

Jane and Heather were accompanied by Cheryl and Carla. In the old tradition of Shawna’s religion, mothers of the married couple went with them on the honeymoon—at least for the first week. Cheryl was Jane’s stepmother. Kitty, Heather’s mother, had killed herself. Heather was closer to her old school principal, Carla Conner, than she had been to her own biological mother anyway. I was an orphan as well, but orphaned as an adult and a free citizen—not a slave. Still, in keeping with tradition, Shawna would stand in for April Foster.

Shawna also presided as the priestess, a representative of her goddess. When we drew near, Shawna began the informal ceremony with a history lesson. When Woman ruled society, there were many women and few men, Shawna said. I realized that she had prepared me by telling me that prior to the ceremony. Shocked grooms sometimes faint—not the manly thing to do. Shawna went on to say that the problem throughout history had been too many men, that several women were intended to share a few men who would love the women and give them children. When men became the majority, Man took over and enslaved Woman. It wasn’t until the end of the 19th Century that woman regained political parity with man. It was a false parity—man ruled only because there were too many men. Too many men led to wars and to enslaving women. When Man was busy waging global conflict, some women here thought that the time was ripe to take control of civilization. History shows that women ran things as poorly as men—worse because recently Woman has failed to fill the obligation of power. The Suffragettes suffered for suffrage and during the last elections women cast only 40% of the vote despite outnumbering men by 20%. More than 80% of the voters supported the Congress that gave us the White Slave Act and elected President Shore on his WSA platform. If every ‘no’ vote was cast by a woman, the majority of voting women voted themselves into slavery. Those that didn’t vote allowed the slavers to put them in chains. This was the will of the Goddess and it will heal our civilization.

“The passage of the 19th Amendment was preceded by the Spanish Flu epidemic of 1918.” Shawna told the assembly. This was a good story—even if I thought it was just a