Dark Erotic Fiction

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES

Peter J. Foster

Chapter 41: Slave Sorority

Shelly had been depressed. No wonder. The year 2001 had been unkind to her. Shelly Clark had been converted by her father and sold to Uma Castleman. Shelly”s mother, Nancy, had been murdered by another slave, Nichole Murphy. Juanita had been an illegal immigrant housekeeper at the Clarks” for two years prior to WSA 2000, been converted, sold to Uma, and had died at the hands of Norma Proctor a few weeks ago. Juanita had become an older sister to Shelly—and a lover. On June 12, 2001 Shelly discovered Kitty”s dead body. Kitty had swallowed a lethal dose of sleeping pills. I found the bottle stuffed in her vagina—it had Kitty”s free-woman name, Katheryn Allison Darby Volt-Haute on it, an old prescription. The last straw was when “Buff” Clark, Shelly”s dad, had just finished enslaving his new wife and stepdaughter. The stepdaughter yelled, “I hope you die!” Buff had been sweating heavily in the June heat; he screamed that he couldn”t breath, vomited all over the floor, kept screaming and clawed at his chest. The ambulance was there in less than five minutes—but Cody “Buffalo” Clark had been a star football center during his college years and weighed in at 350 pounds. The Eastlake Mercy medical team took over from the DEV slave nurse and worked on him for several minutes before dragging the overloaded gurney out the door and to the hospital. “Buff” was declared dead an hour later—his heart just exploded. No wonder—he was obese, he had a BAC of .03 when he converted his last two women, and he had a history of heart problems. The stepdaughter and Shelly both spent the next two days catatonic.

I”ll get back to Brittany and her mother, Isabella, later.

Shelly and Summer had several long talks. Summer kept Shelly lightly sedated and under close observation. Friday was the 15th and I decided that Shelly needed a new purpose in life. Summer and Heather rode in back with Shelly. Jane was next to me. For this trip, everybody wore shoes and coveralls. When we arrived at the old Lantern Lighter Motel just a block away from the Eastlake University campus, I had the ladies don hard hats. Greg, the contractor, and his construction site manager Vic, were in the prefab that served as their office. I made the introductions. Vic led the girls on a tour.

“Twenty-four rooms upstairs, plus an office and a housekeeping supply room,” Greg said. “Downstairs, an indoor pool and fitness center. There is a second pool out back. We landscaped the parking lot—you don”t need it any more. There is a new four-car garage, too. We even installed the dispensary next to the office downstairs.”

“I saw. We can start moving in soon?”

“Today. We”re finished. The carpets just went in. This is a lot of trouble to go through for a bunch of slaves.”

“Sending them to school is a lot of trouble, Greg. You know that. Are you going to convert your daughter as planned?”

“Yes. Her mother too. The crew has a dozen women that they want to convert tomorrow.” Greg giggled. “At least half will be attending Eastlake University this fall.”

“They might have trouble seeing it,” I said carefully, “the benefits of being slaves. For example, your daughter”s grade point average was barely enough to get her in the community college. As a slave, I can get her into here easily enough. It is a partnership program between Eastlake U and Susan B. Anthony. Eastlake U is concerned that WSA 2000 will depress student enrollment.”

“No kidding! Most of college students are women!” In 1990 the ratio of women to men attending college tilted—more women than men were enrolled in college. Right now, women outnumber men by 5:4—and the percentage of women is increasing in the younger generations. It was beginning to affect football in the smaller colleges—not enough jocks for a full team. “Now if the girl doesn”t have a GPA of 3.75, she can”t get in.”

“Yes, and men only need 2.75—2.0 is enough if the man has a good athletic record,” I commented. “Elementary school isn”t friendly to boys. Catching up during high school is almost impossible—of course the girls out-score boys. Carrie”s 3.20 GPA means that she can do the work, and Eastlake U is happy to have slave students. DEV has something like 80 students enrolled as freshmen slave students and this is where they all will stay. Like it our not, America”s future will be enslaved women. We can educate our slaves and increase our lead over the rest of the world, or we can do like the Afghani and keep women barefoot, pregnant and in the kitchen.”

“Just like the Nazis,” Greg grumped.

“I believe their doctrine was Children, Kitchen, Church. The Afghani prohibit their women from attending church and don”t let them out in public without a male escort—even if it is a 12 year old boy.” A boy was considered a man at age 12 in Muslim countries. “We are going to do it differently here. Tomorrow we dedicate the first slave sorority in Oklahoma. The GVVN crew will be here tomorrow about six. Can you bring everyone by ten?”

“Sure! Tomorrow at this time, though, we”re going to say goodbye to our daughters,” Greg”s leer made me feel creepy. If you know me, you”d understand—my mother was my first slave and my sister is my second. I figured Greg would lose interest once the novelty wore off. “They”ll be back for the prep academy starting on Monday.”

Greg and I were going over the opening ceremonies for the other two houses when the girls returned. Vic looked shell-shocked. He wouldn”t meet my gaze. Shelly was smiling for the first time in days. Summer winked at me. It wouldn”t do to laugh at poor Vic. WSA 2000 was still young and sex between free persons and slaves had not yet descended to the same moral level as masturbation - something everybody did, don”t talk about it or do it in public.

“How do you like this place, Shelly?” I asked.

“I like it. Am I going to live here, now?”

“Yes, and you are going to attend classes at Eastlake U. I have a surprise for you. Tomorrow you will dedicate this sorority house.” I explained briefly that slaves needed support, too, that the sorority system began in 1874 and served as a family when the student left home for the first time. “There are two other sorority houses. On Wednesday the Eastlake Media Technology College will get its first sorority house, Uma Hall. Ginger will dedicate it. April Hall will be dedicated at the University of Oklahoma at Eastlake on Friday by Penny. Who do we name this house after?”

“Juanita,” Shelly said. “I want to name this place after my first lover.”

It was going to be on GVVN, a “free cable” channel. Strict FCC guidelines didn”t permit mentioning slavery. Those guidelines did allow euphemisms. It was okay to say “Person of Limited Rights” and Ginger of GVVN had coined “pearls” from the legal abbreviation PLR. The renovated motel was called the “Pearl Sorority House of Eastlake University” on the special. The Castleman Trust hour had run its course on GVVN and was being produced in an adult format on video, so the “College Pearl Show” was replacing it. There were three houses—Eastlake University, University of Oklahoma at Eastlake, and Eastlake Media Technology Center. They were not formally part of the Greek system, but the paperwork was in.

Because of the nature of the broadcasts, my slaves had to wear clothing during the presentation. They”d be wearing costumes during filming of the show segments, too. Carla Conner fidgeted in her dress. She glared at me, but lowered her gaze when I glanced at her.

“Uncomfortable, Carla?”

“You know it! I never thought that I”d say this, but I don”t want to wear clothes any more. Have you been brainwashing me?”

“Yes.”

“You naughty boy! Just for that, you owe me a spanking!” Carla laughed at my reaction. “I anticipate draping my naked body over your knees as soon as the cameras go away. Though if Master Peter wants Slave Carla to be spanked on camera, Slave Carla will be pleased.”

“Have you been talking to Gigi?” I suspected that the problem was Carla Conner”s near-fatal drug overdose—forced upon her when she was kidnapped by her board of directors. It had made Carla very tractable for a couple of weeks. I exploited that. “What has she been telling you?”

“I”m not sure,” Carla shook her head. “She is a cat! We tell each other things, but we don”t often get through to each other. All I know is that Gigi is my baby and that we love each other.”

Close enough for a truth check. I had determined that Carla wasn”t loopy today. Some hallucinogens give flashbacks long after the drug has left the body—these drugs may have permanently modified the brain.

The ceremony was brief. Shelly cut a ribbon. The video tour had been conducted earlier that morning. Yes, it was propaganda! I was bragging to the world how well these slaves lived. Yes, they lived four to a room and shared a queen-sized bed with another slave. The students in this sorority house would all be slaves.

The first 77 slave students quietly assembled in the landscaped playground that had been a parking lot. Only four vehicles were required—two passenger buses and two vans. There was parking out front for a handful of visitors. Most of the slave students and their slave mothers and sisters hadn”t yet been enslaved. About thirty naked slaves were assembled around the barbeque pit. They were a bit uneasy until I announced that the fatted calf was BEEF, not long pig. DEV doesn”t do the girl roast thing and we feel damned good about ourselves as a consequence!

Mr. Paulson had a mass conversion team supporting me.

“There is a valid request for conversion from free citizen to person of limited rights status for the following women,” I announced. I went down the list of 47 names—many were mother and daughter pairs. There was a set of twins—their mother wasn”t converted because she had a third daughter who was too young for conversion. As expected, many women objected to being enslaved. “You are required by state and federal law to follow my instructions. I am allowed to use the appropriate level of force to compel you to follow my instructions. Failure to follow my instructions is grounds for conversion by magistrate. At this time, you will provide me with urine samples. Do you understand my statement and your instructions?”

A few struggles broke out. Those women were quickly subdued. The drug screens were for statistical purposes only—the test that counted was the pregnancy screen. That screen uncovered just three pregnancies—and one of them was a woman who fought like a tiger until little Kiki slipped up behind her and subdued her. There was a magistrate standing by—the woman was isolated in the back. The other two pregnant women were 18 and 19—their fathers pledged to enslave their daughters as soon as the child was born. The other 44 women tested negative for pregnancy. Their fathers and husbands—and in two cases, their “person of personal contact”—had been tested earlier that morning.

“The following 44 women are persons of limited rights as of noon, Central Daylight Savings Time, this Saturday, June the Sixteenth in the year 2001 A. D.” I read off the names of the 44 women in alphabetical order, last name first. Reactions varied. A few were overjoyed. Most were in shock. One struggled futilely. “Slaves are to be naked at all times on these grounds. Get to it!”

One, two or even six newly enslaved women make for an interesting tale. Put four dozen women in chains and it becomes a fatiguing recital of minutia. I introduced the new house mother to the assembly, the slave formerly known as Isabella Clark. Isabella was in her mid-forties and still had tan lines. Her large, soft breasts sagged—Isabella was no teen hottie, though she had been. The woman was a red-head. Her flaming red bush was gone now. Freckles speckled her skin. She had light brown eyes, a narrow nose over a generous mouth, and was medium height and weight. Isabella had only been a slave for a few days.

“You won”t be allowed to fail,” I told her. “You”ve all the help you need. You have tools. I need you to run the day-to-day operations of a sorority house. You have had experience running a hotel. You belong to clubs. This won”t be a slave in name only position—I will use you in every way possible—but you will have purpose in life.”

“Purpose?” Isabella was still upset at the time. “What possible purpose? My life is over!”

“What about your daughter and your grandchildren?”

“I have no grandchildren! What about my daughter?”

“She was accepted at Eastlake University for their Medieval Studies program. I have been building a place for slave students to stay.”

Isabella wasn”t used to being naked. Her daughter, Brittany, was still gagged and still wore a full body harness. By contrast, the only thing Shelly wore was a smile. Isabella braved out her nudity as she issued instructions that the new slaves be fitted with their radio collars. These collars locked in place and had a number of features. One feature was being externally powered—as long as the slave remained on the grounds, the collar would tap into the wireless power grid. There was a battery-powered back-up to power the communications radio—giving it a range of nearly a mile if there wasn”t too much steel and concrete in the way. Anther feature was a shock function. Isabella buckled on her own collar and snapped the small padlock in place with her own hands.

“Hi,” the three pregnant women were brought before me. One was in her 20″s, a second wife. The other two were daughters of 18. “You are still free women. Well, not you, Erin. The judge told me that you will be converted even though you are pregnant. I just lost two court cases over that. Anyway, you don”t have to get naked and wear the collar right now. You will not be bothered for going naked in public if you wear that collar and nothing else. This is a private party.

“Leesha, you will be attending Eastlake University this fall. Yes, you only have a 3.6 GPA and you were rejected—but rejected as a free woman. Stay here for a while. Take the tutorials in the hall”s library. I will require that you give up wearing clothing until you begin working and attending class. We have another house for when your baby arrives—but right now, I”m inviting you to live here.”

“I want to live here,” the third woman was called Mattie. “I”d like to keep my dress, it”s my favorite—but I”ll go naked from now on. I think I know who the father of my baby is. Can I have him visit me? I didn”t even know I was pregnant!”

“Don”t lie to me! I”m a god-damned slave. The judge said so! I never want to see that son of a bitch again!” Hollie”s hands were zip-tied behind her. “Do what you want to me! I don”t care any more!”

Summer slipped up from behind the sobbing woman and began comforting her. Hollie was still angry, still tried to push Summer away.

I left the group because there were three more women to convert. A slaver”s work is never done!

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES
Peter J. Foster

Chapter 40: No Means NO!

I figured out something while processing the latest intake of Defensive Enslavement Volunteer slaves. I am a lightening rod—a trouble magnet. Things happen when I”m around. Things happen to me and to those around me. I needed to talk to Summer, to Shawna—and to my sister Penny and three other slave fiancés.

The latest intake was a pair of young twins and their mother. The twins had just finished with their birthday party. Happy birthday, kids—welcome to slavery! The twins were Cassandra and Dominique and belonged to Mr. John Stoner and his wife Leiluna.

“It”s the housing crunch,” John said. “I have two choices: I can file for bankruptcy and try living on the streets without means, or I can sell these three to DEV and pay for the girl”s birthday party. My mortgage is delinquent. I lost my job months ago. DEV will feed and protect my daughters. Perhaps in the future I can even visit them.”

The conversion went smoothly. Nobody was pregnant or on drugs. There were no red flags on the slaver data base. I did a quick credit check on John—he was unemployed, his unemployment was about to run out, and he was a few days away from being evicted from his home.

“Sir, don”t hurt yourself. I can”t stop your bankruptcy, but I can steer you to people who will help you. It will be a hard year, but you should be able to start over again.” I glanced at his wife and children. “In a year or two, perhaps you can rent them from me.”

John Stoner laughed. It was laughter born of pain.

“I”ll do that. I don”t want to own them because they might be taken from me. The girls need an education.”

“How did you find out about us?” I asked.

“I”m friends with Rachel Shipwright,” John said. “She told me what you were doing for Shelly Michaels and for Dillon Conway. Expect some more business soon—there are a lot of people losing their homes in my neighborhood.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I was an assembly line worker. I”ve been replaced by a slave.”

There was a lot of that going on. I pulled a card out of a holder on the desk.

“Call these people. You can use this phone. Set up a job interview. It is a temp agency, but I”m sure that they can find you something. The most important thing they offer is their career counseling program.”

“What”s the catch?” John asked.

“This company is staffed by slaves and their families,” I said. “DEV needed a way to find safe work for the newly converted women. It is a separate company, but it has to follow DEV guidelines when slaves are rented out. By the way, are you free for dinner tonight? I have a batch of new women that I want to parade in public naked. Your family will be there, too. We have taken over half of the restaurant at the Gusher Hotel. Nothing fancy, but I want DEV slaves to be used to nudity. Public nudity. They need to experience that being stared at and being naked is okay.”

“What does—”Leiluna began. She blushed and fell to her knees. “Master, this slave has erred and requests correction.”

“What did you want to say, Leiluna?” I asked.

“Yes, Master Peter. I was asking what is okay about being naked and stared at. I”m a slave, so I have no rights—”

“Stop!” I interrupted. Leiluna fell silent. “I see that you”ve some knowledge of good slave manners. Did you and your husband play master and slave girl?”

“I was the head of house, Mr. Foster.”

“Peter. My name is Peter. I”m prying into your affairs out of concern. What is best for the slaves?”

“We were going to wait until the girls graduated before Leiluna became my slave girl. She and I talked about getting more slaves and about enslaving Cassandra and Dominique if necessary—but the recession hit.” John stared at the card in his hand. “I can file for bankruptcy on Monday in good conscience now. Leiluna was a co-signer on the mortgage and I couldn”t risk her being enslaved by the bank. Peter, my daughters are good girls. Leiluna saw the DEV ads on television and talked to Rachel about it. I can”t afford to feed my family and I didn”t want Leiluna to wind up being meat.”

I called in the slaves assisting me in the office and directed that the new intake be processed immediately. As the six trooped out, I turned to John. He was reading the business card.

“You realize that they may not be able to offer you much more than room and board at first,” I said, gesturing to the card in John”s hand. “It will give you a place to sleep and keep your belly button separated from your backbone. What kind of assembly work did you do?”

“Computer electronics. I was a quality assurance inspector for Micro Quick, a custom computer company. The company changed owners and names. Now the entire work force for CompuSlave is slave. I”m glad that I got out of there, even now—because they are putting out inferior machines.”

“John, come with me for a moment. I think I have a project for you next week.”

Assisting me in the office were three slaves: Pam Harrington (Mr. Harrington”s ex-wife and Castleman Trust Eugenics Project Slave #004) was in charge. The other two slaves were recently-converted Billie Barton and Orene Rust. Yes, I had two escorts and there was a reaction team somewhere—but the three slaver office staff were Pam, Billie and Orene. In accordance with DEV policy, slave staff was naked except for an identity anklet that doubled as an electronic key. They had to connect the anklet”s tag to a wired reader and punch in their access code in order to gain computer access. That tag also locked and unlocked doors. Billie and Orene sported short hairdos as well as the DEV shield on their right buttock. Pam wore a Castleman Trust crest on her left shoulder blade—freshly tattooed. At the moment they were processing the new slaves. I have a record of all my slaves—and many free women as well. This record includes RFID tag information, tongue prints, finger prints (palm prints too), foot prints, close-up of their ears, DNA information, four-view photo spread (front, left, right and rear), plus other biographical and biometric information. There isn”t a database on whether a woman”s anus and vulva are reliable identification features as ear shape or fingerprints—but it will be fun finding out. Many of the free women balked at having their “privates” photographed in spite of posing for several full-frontal nude photos. They acquiesced after conversing with my brain trust—the senior Castleman Trust slaves and the highly skilled slave staffers such as Carla Connors or Doctor Kim “Summer” Prince (my psychologist). Now these free women reported once per month to the Castleman Estate to update their photo file. Men, learn which slaves you can trust, give them responsibility and then rely on them. It pays.

“We are trying to talk our master into permanent tattoos,” Pam was telling the new slaves. “As soon as we convince him that they can be removed without scarring, I”m sure we will—”

Pam stopped speaking, turned to face me, then lowered her eyes and blushed, hands behind her back.

“John used to quality check computers prior to shipment. Pam, you said that our computer system here needs upgrading. Let Billie and Orene continue the processing while we negotiate a consultation contract.”

After we left the others behind, Pam began to apologize.

“It”s okay, Pam. John, Pam was engaged in slave talk—it is like girl talk, but only between slaves. Us owners aren”t supposed to hear such talk. I am opposed to disfiguring my slaves. Pam and some of my other slaves want to be branded and tattooed. See how fresh that tattoo is? Pam and five others are test cases. If their tattoos can be applied and lifted without scars, I”ll approve them. Pam, you may present your top three arguments.”

“Yes Peter,” she said. Note that it wasn”t “yes master”—that is only for public consumption, to demonstrate that my slaves comply with proper slave etiquette. Some owners and some slaves DO need to adhere to strict behavioral codes. Pam continued, “Medical tattoo removal has progressed, but perfect removal isn”t common or cheap yet—we can remove tattoos and not leave a visible scar. We slaves do need to be permanently marked. We also need to be visibly marked when in public. Master Peter here sometimes cares for his girls a bit too much. That”s why we all love him.”

It took a few minutes for Pam to give John a run-down on the Castleman Trust—and the fact that Pam was scheduled for termination on her 50th birthday. That was going to be on September 28, 2008, unless I died first—then she was to be terminated as “excess property” under the terms of the Trust. John appeared as horrified as I felt the first time I read the provisions—provisions designed to blackmail me into accepting the contract. It worked. Occasionally, I had to be reminded that hostages depend upon my staying alive and behaving myself. This is all perfectly legal, of course.

“You agreed to that?”

“Yes, Master John. I belong to a goddess-worshipping religion,” Pam smiled at me. “I don”t expect you to approve or understand. Young Peter here doesn”t believe. Life doesn”t end at death—I look forward to several more cycles of birth and death on this planet. Anyway, this old woman has chattered on enough. If Master John has no further questions, this slave needs to supervise the new slaves. Billie and Orene are new—they snuck into Master Peter”s bed and volunteered for conversion. It seems that they were lesbians and their old-fashioned families didn”t approve. Rather than be converted for their souls” sake, both asked Master Peter to take them into DEV. Peter, is it Tuesday?”

“Yes, Tuesday,” I said. “June 25th, 2001. Billie and Orene have been slaves for two weeks. That reminds me, I need to go to court soon.”

Speak of the devil—Rachel flounced in and fetched me. Rachel was a free woman—yes, she submitted to RFID implant and photo series. Rachel Shipwright was also undergoing the entire battery of slave tests, including being scheduled for sex testing. All adult slaves—those 18 and over—are sex tested because it is important for a slave”s survival and happiness. Rachel said that she wanted to remain a free woman. She was undergoing the DEV slave processing because Rachel acknowledged that she might become a slave soon. Mrs. Shipwright agreed to pay for all of the tests out of her own pocket. She declared that she”d do anything to ensure the survival of her grandchildren—carried by Dillon Conway, and possibly by Shelly Michaels as well.

Oh, yes, the price DEV paid for three women was $374.22!

We went to the civil court in a bus. Shelly and Dillon were still free women, but they wore fetters in addition to their clothing. Rachel was the only other free woman present. The rest of the women were slaves, and in compliance with Eastlake County Civil Court regulations were naked and restrained. The restraints had to include wrist fetters, ankle cuffs, a collar with owner tag, and a gag at minimum. Shoes were permitted but not required. Jewelry was tolerated—many slaves have piercings. I was required to be armed at all times by Oklahoma”s Governor England and recent events mandated an escort—Sylvia and Addie, both Military Female Slave Detachment 46 assets. Addie”s main task in the event that I was attacked was to run interference—to die in place as a rear guard. Sylvia would hustle me to the safety of the reaction team. I thought that this was overkill, but I”m still a young pup. Anyway, there were three armed people in my party and that required special processing into court. Sylvia and Addie were naked—except for their required fetters (fakes!) and things that concealed their weapons. They were slaves. On the way to court, I was serviced by Sylvia in the back of the bus. WE cleaned up as the bus parked and went through the checkpoints.

We were the first case heard after lunch. Mr. Haddock was waiting for me with a bunch of papers in his hand just outside the courtroom.

“Mr. Foster,” Haddock squeaked formally, “you have been served.”

“Now what?” Paul Paulson, the attorney for the petition to immediately convert Shelly Michaels and Dillon Conway to persons of limited rights, took the summons from my hands. “Oh, criminal proceedings against that Mel guy. Good.”

“Good?” We were being escorted by Jeff, the court bailiff. It had to do with my carrying weapons. “Good? You really do need your own office here!”

The case concluded quickly. Judge Larkins called Kermit Michael to the bench and instructed him that he was to convert his daughter Shelly upon birth of the baby in accordance with the provisions of the White Slave Act.

“In the unlikely event that Shelly has a miscarriage; Mr. Foster is to immediately execute the conversion for default provision of his contract with Ms. Michaels. That way Mr. Michaels will not snuff her. Does anybody have anything to say about this? No? Good! Next up is Dillon Conway. Ms. Conway, upon birth of your child, you will be immediately converted by your guardian, Mrs. Rachel Shipwright and your child will be adopted by her. Should you fail to give birth, you will be in default of your contract with Mr. Foster and will be converted immediately. I have reviewed your cases carefully. This is best for your babies and for you. It is also best for the nation.” Judge Larkins looked at me. “I am essentially denying your petition for immediate conversion. There is no need for it. Your contracts with Mrs. Shipwright concerning her ward and with Ms. Michaels provide them with the necessities of life. One thing, Mr. Foster—they are free women. No drinking, no public nudity and no beatings or snuffings until they”ve been converted.”

“Yes, your honor,” I said. Snuffings? I was enslaving Shelly so she wouldn”t be snuffed. Beatings? I hoped that I could avoid that. I began to remove Shelly”s wrist cuffs.

“No need to do that, Mr. Foster,” Judge Larkins said. “The court ordered these two to comply with the law about drinking and public nudity. You are required to refrain from snuffing them or beating them. As free women, they can be kept chained. Shelly, do you want your chains removed?”

“No, your honor. I”d like to leave naked, too.”

“I won”t allow that, but you can wear your chains. How about you, Dillon?”

“Your honor, I am afraid of what people will think when I”m naked. I would like to remove my chains.”

“Do you regret that you will become a slave soon?”

“No, your honor—I”m just afraid.”

I wound up removing the chains from both women. We went outside and held a press conference. Shelly and Dillon and their attorney did most of the talking. Kermit was glad that his part was all but over. Rachel held onto Dillon”s and Shelly”s hands. Gracie and Justine, the biological mothers of Dillon and Shelly, were in compliance with Eastlake County Courthouse slave regulations—naked and gagged—so they didn”t say anything.

Court! It was preferable to the alternative, but it was still a bother. As I was leaving, the court clerk handed me a message. I was to meet Judge Larkins at the Gusher Hotel during my party this evening.

In the hours prior to the party, I had much to do. I kept busy. I wasn”t too busy to be serviced by Addie. If I sound cold-hearted, I plead fatigue. My days were getting longer. Mercifully, I was allowed to nap about an hour. I needed it!

The Gusher Hotel made a big deal about nearly a hundred naked DEV and Castleman Trust slaves in its main ballroom. We had been granted a steep discount in exchange for publicity. This party was also a trap for Mel and his drug gang.

Kermit was chatting with his two daughters and his wife. Shelly was wearing a pale blue dress and low-heeled metallic gold pumps—nothing else, except for her jewelry. At the Castleman Estate, nudity was the rule for slave and free people. Justine and Susan Michaels were naked except for a collar. Kermit, of course, wore slacks, shirt and shoes—unlike Shelly, I was ignorant and apathetic about Kermit”s undergarments. Judge Larkins arrived and waddled over to the family. I drifted closer.

“May I check your drink?” Judge Larkins asked Shelly. She handed him her glass. He sniffed it and handed it back.

“Check mine, too,” I extended the glass to Judge Larkins. “It is the same stuff my escorts are drinking. Dillon, too.”

“I have to check,” he replied. “It is for your own good.”

“I know, sir,” and it really was. Because I was in compliance, his spot checks were objective proof of compliance. “Besides, it isn”t good for the baby.”

“This is private property but open to the public,” the judge continued. “I”m glad that you are compliant with Oklahoma”s public indecency laws, too. I understand that you are a nudist, Mr. Foster.”

“True, your honor. That”s why I was careful to find out what was legal and what wasn”t. I can”t afford a felony conviction and I won”t expose Shelly to danger.” The latter was a lie. Shelly was as safe as I could make her—the Gusher Hotel was actually safer at the moment that the Castleman Estate. There were a lot of cops out there looking for Mel and his gang. “You wanted to see me about something, your honor?”

“Yes, let”s go someplace where we can talk in private.”

A few minutes later, I had to call Mr. Paulson—the primary point of contact for slave intake. I quickly explained the situation to him.

“There are six women who were busted for drug possession,” I said. “They”ve agreed to be converted rather than face trial. I need you to send in a sealed bid and get a DEV representative over to the auction on Thursday. The point of contact is Sergeant Lincoln at the county slave barn. There are some extenuating circumstances that I will explain in person. As for the purchase price, the women”s parents will reimburse DEV later.”

“God, Peter! We need a bigger house!”

“Thank you, Crusader Rabbit,” Judge Larkins told me. “I couldn”t ask in court. I didn”t want the appearance of impropriety.”

“Sir, you do realize that I will make full use of your daughter?” I looked the judge in the eye. “That means she will be a sexual plaything for me, just like the others.”

“I know. I don”t like it.” Judge Larkins wiped his eyes. “I believe that Kelsey is totally innocent, that she was set up to get to me. Oklahoma is a zero tolerance state concerning drug use. If Kelsey goes to trial, she will be convicted. I”d rather that she be your slave for the rest of her life than chance losing her forever. The other parents feel the same about their daughters.”

“What happened? How did they wind up with drug possession charges?”

“Their car was stopped and searched after the police received a tip that Kelsey was selling drugs to school children. They had illegal guns and over twenty pounds of meth in the back.”

“Oh,” I said, imagining that segments of the Eastlake Metro Police were part of the drug ring. “That is bad news. What did Kelsey say when she was confronted by the evidence?”

“She called me and said that she was in trouble,” Larkins glanced at the closed door of the borrowed office. “Kelsey said that she had been formally charged with drug possession, weapons possession, conspiracy and other felonies and that she was innocent, but needed someone to handle her conversion. She said that she was talking the others into conversion as well. Kelsey knows that she had to take the best path to survival. She listed you as one of her bidders.”

When I arrived back at the party, my cell phone rang. There was a car with four men sitting across the street from the exit. Police were moving in to arrest them.

I had nothing to do but to enjoy the party. This morning”s intake consisted of just the Stoner clan: mother Leiluna, twin daughters Cassandra and Dominique. They were naked with an earlier conversion, Slave Mercy, nee Betty M. Bucher. All four women were naked because it was part of the reason they were at the party—getting used to public nudity. Mercy still looked like a concentration camp inmate—she was a victim of long-term drug abuse. I ambled over to make small talk.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“I tingle all over,” Leiluna said.

“MOM!” both twins shrieked.

“Girls, don”t do that again,” Leiluna said sternly. “We are slaves. You can die of embarrassment or you can enjoy being the center of attention. Your choice. We will be naked in public. It is what slaves do. Look at the bright side: we are not the only naked women out here. Didn”t you notice? Our master is very careful to bring us out in groups instead of one at a time.”

The Michaels women drifted over during the exchange. Clothed Shelly and her naked sister and mother had linked arms.

“Master Peter, Pam said that you welcomed suggestions from your slaves,” Leiluna turned to her daughters and ordered them to remain silent. She faced me again. “I sent this request through the channels, but I”m told that it is okay to ask you directly. Master Peter, would you allow Master John to use Cassandra and Dominique for sex?”

“MOM!” Cassandra and Dominique shrieked again.

“Just like sluts,” grumbled Kermit Michaels. “No moral compass. Disgusting!”

“Sir, I”m curious,” I said to the angry man. “Why do us men condemn women who bring us pleasure? That kind of reaction ensures that women will never put out unless we enslave them. Unless you just don”t like having sex with women.”

“I will not commit incest!”

“There are a lot of things I won”t do either,” I said. “That way I can feel just swell about myself. I don”t eat human flesh. Silly prejudice of mine, I know.”

“I don”t expect you to understand!”

“I won”t understand if you don”t explain it. I suspect that you are just posturing before a crowd—trying to show them that you are one of them.”

“I”m not going to fuck my slut daughters!” Kermit”s veins bulged out and he spit all over me.

“Good!” I said. I was going to say more, but didn”t.

“Crusader Rabbit,” Judge Larkins said from behind me.

“Yes, sir. Your honor, who is Crusader Rabbit?”

After The Auction

Slave Bethany

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

I was conflicted. I was a slave. My husband had put me up for auction and my daughter had sold me to a stranger in a red sweater. My life was over. I would never see Mistress Tiffany again. My husband of 21 years had been my life, outside of Tiffany. That was all over. But there was Neville and his talented tongue. His slave Queenie really was Queen in the bedroom. I found out why—both had diplomas from Bates and Jackson Institute of Sexology. They weren”t licensed sex testers because the certification requirements were too much bother they said, but they gave me the best sex I ever had. I was trained with six other women that Saturday morning nearly a week ago. My F&S scores that afternoon were O40/A26/V53/40 (Oral/Anal/Vaginal/Average) - dismal, but Neville told me that I had improved from Friday night. My oral score was an average of my skill on cocks and cunts. Ooh, so deliciously nasty! I scored higher on cunts—I got only a 23 on cock sucking but a 56 on cunt lapping. There were other skills such as masturbating others, how chewable my tits were, my appearance and attitude. Queenie said that I was a lesbian. Neville said that I could be trained.

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

The man in the red sweater introduced himself as Master Bill Hanson. He paid the $3500 for me and led me to his car. There was a pregnant slave in the back seat. She hugged me when I entered and introduced herself as Cheryl. As Master Bill drove, Cheryl asked me to tell her my story. I finished as we arrived at a sorority house just off the Eastlake University campus. I had seen this house several times. It was a private trust sorority house for slaves. Cheryl happily hopped out barefoot on the cold pavement. I was thankful that I had shoes, even those uncomfortable black patent leather pumps with the two inch heels. Tiffany had me wear them for the auction because she said that men found them sexy. I take back my thought that the men could wear them if they liked them so much! I wished that I had some clothes. Yes, I had been naked for a week. That had rarely been in public. It was still cold outside. Master Bill and Cheryl didn”t keep me in the cold long. The house was two stories tall and seemed to be an old hotel, a cheap one at that. In the lobby a bright young thing sat at what would have been the check-in desk.

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

I got both a hug and a kiss.

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

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

Shock collar?

“No, Master Bill.”

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

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

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

“I got my brown belt three months ago, Master Bill,” Ellie said. “As long as I remain in condition orange, she can”t dish out anything I can”t handle.”

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

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

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

Cheryl kissed Ellie and left with Master Bill.

“You look lost.”

“I am. How do I address you?”

“Ellie. Just plain ole Ellie.”

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

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

“Are there any free women here?”

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

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

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

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

“You need to read the house rule book,” Ellie got me one. “Upstairs: no clothes, no visitors. Slaves should be naked as much as possible. Are you used to being naked, yet? Don”t answer that. It”s a trick question. If you aren”t comfortable being naked all the time, you need to stay naked so that you are. When you are used to being naked, you don”t need clothes. Most of us would work naked at our jobs if we could.

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

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

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

A loud noise made me flinch.

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

“What did you do to me?”

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

“I don”t know.”

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

“No.”

“Everybody takes a turn at housekeeping—that”s in addition to picking up after yourself. You saw the rooms. Right now, you don”t have one.”

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

“Four. I don”t like sleeping alone. Sometimes we just pile six in a room, but we are assigned four to a room. If you don”t have a place to sleep tonight—unlikely—just ask any girl here and she”ll find you a bed. I got off topic again. You are going to be testing for the next two weeks. You will learn how to be a good slave. After that we will place you in a job. Too bad that you didn”t already have one before you were converted. Everyone earns her keep here. Once you settle in, you can even go on dates—but you will have to follow some rules.”

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

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

My head was spinning. This wasn”t what I expected at all.

“Are we all slaves here?” I asked.

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

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

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

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

“But we”re off at four,” Tom said.

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

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

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

At Tiffany”s insistence, I had worn jewelry. I had a fake flower in my hair. I had a bracelet, two rings on each hand, and ornaments in my pierced ears. I wore one string of pearls around my waist and another around my neck. Tiffany had helped me bathe prior to the auction and had trimmed my pubic hair. It struck me that my daughter had tried to take care of me. Ben didn”t get to keep all of my worldly goods. The jewelry and my shoes were the only things I had from my old life.

“Coffee will be fine,” Hank said. “We”re here because we each have daughters that should graduate from high school in June. Tom and I want to convert them and leave them here over spring break. Tina”s grades will let her graduate, but she doesn”t have good enough grades to get into Eastlake U. Her mother really wants her to attend the same school that she did.”

“My daughter may need to complete a few credits to get her degree,” Tom said. “Unfortunately, she isn”t very smart. Her mother and I thought that she could get job training or something.”

“It”s really hard to get in contact with DEV now that you don”t have a main office,” Hank continued. “There”s the Cat”s Pajamas, but they are on the other side of town.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Dear,” Veronica rubbed my nipples and sent shivers down my spine, “I am delaying your interview for an hour. If Shelly doesn”t have something for you to do, just hang around and see how we do the educational thing.”

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

“Let Bethany call her daughter and tell Tiffany that everything is okay,” Veronica commanded. “Invite her to dinner here. Don”t take long, dear. There”s work to be done.”

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

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

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

“Mom, you don”t have to call me “mistress.” I”ll be there. I know where the slave sorority house is.”

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES
Peter J. Foster

Chapter 39: The End of Norma Proctor

Saturday, June 23rd, 2001, just a few minutes past midnight, the execution of Norma Kaye Proctor was carried out in the face of protests. Rant warning: all societies kill. Claiming to have “no death penalty” is a lie. Killing is part of exercising power. If there isn”t the right to kill, there is no right to rule. Case in point: the White Slave Act of 2000. General slaves can be killed at any time. There is an initial waiting period when the owner has to pay a meat tax for snuffing the slave girl, but otherwise an owner has the right to starve, torture and snuff his sex toy. Many do. Asset slaves may also be snuffed—there is a fine when an owner kills an asset slave without “reason,” but generally the discipline codes give the owner enough wiggle room to snuff a slave that is displeasing. With just a little effort, the owner can almost always justify killing even an asset slave. The easy way to avoid trouble is demoting the slave from asset status.

Note that these are owner”s rights: property rights. Just because I have the right to kill or abuse my own slave doesn”t give another the right to do so. Yes, a free person may discipline or restrain an unescorted slave—with reason. Because they are property and not considered legal human beings, slaves have no self-defense rights. However, the owner may sue the free person for damages to the slave. Think of the slave as if she was a horse—no, that”s not right. Animal cruelty laws won”t let a horse owner do the things to the horse that a slave owner may inflict on the slave. Oklahoma still has severe penalties for bestiality as well—no sexual intercourse with the cart horse! Perhaps an automobile would be a better analogy. I can heave a brick through the window of my car and slash my tires and that is okay. At most, I”m littering and disturbing the peace. I can paint my car pink and green and cuss it out. I can rip out its radio system and install an entertainment system that fills the trunk and rear seat. Another person cannot come up and scratch the paint on my car because it is my property. Stealing my car is “grand theft auto,” a felony.

Norma Kaye Proctor was sentenced to die several times over. Even the United States can only kill someone one time, so it seemed redundant—but Judge John Bruin was sending a message: murder and you will be executed. Norma killed four people with a weed sprayer that she filled with concentrated sulfuric acid.

Phyllis McGiver was a free woman running the petition booth. She was wearing clothes: a white tennis dress, sandals, and some jewelry. No underwear—that becomes important in a moment. Phyllis was 24 and was going to marry in two weeks.

Charlotte was a Defensive Enslavement Volunteer slave. She had ran to DEV and volunteered for conversion. Her family said “good riddance,” her boy friend abandoned her, but DEV kept her from being PPC”d and turned into meat by her school”s cheerleading squad. Ironic, but the cheerleading squad coach was male and he had six names on his computer for PPC. Charlotte ran to DEV, and immediately after conversion had called all five of the other girls. They ignored her and died as the cheerleading camp barbeques at the end of May—along with a replacement the coach scared up from someplace else. Charlotte had been wearing three things when she died: a DEV shield painted on her right buttocks, a collar locked around her throat and a chain padlocked to the collar and padlocked to the petition table. The DiscountMart store manager didn”t want any loose slaves around his store!

Juanita was a Castleman Trust slave—and pregnant, too. Her costume differed from Charlotte”s only in having a Castleman Trust device painted on instead of a DEV shield. Juanita was also locked to the table. Juanita”s belly was bulging with our baby—she called it Juan Peter.

Norma had sprayed down the three women. Eye witnesses reported Norma screaming “die bitch die” as she shoved the nozzle of her weed sprayer down Phyllis”s throat. Next, she poked the nozzle between Phyllis”s legs and cackled as the maimed woman thrashed. Norma did the same with both slaves. A Taser brought Norma down.

The trial took surprisingly little time. There was never any doubt that Norma Proctor was guilty. Norma was not a sympathetic figure, but I don”t think that mattered in her conviction—about five foot four, two hundred pounds, tiny eyes set wide apart in a round face, upturned nose featuring large nostrils, wide mouth with thick, pouting lips, stringy brown hair and a screechy speaking voice laced with profanities. The public defender was a young attorney named Betty Bucher, 28, an Oklahoma City resident. Ms. Bucher was watching the media vigil outside Death Row at Sherman, Oklahoma in the Castleman Trust living room, alternately embarrassed and disgusted. Bucher was on a conference line awaiting a last-minute pardon for her client, Norma. Betty was also completely naked. Paul Paulson stood by his computer ready to press one key and complete Betty”s conversion to a person of limited rights.

“There is time for a few more questions,” Paulson announced to the three members of the media pool. The pool would be vending videos of Ms. Bucher being processed into Slave Mercy—Bucher”s middle name. There was a broadcast representative from Channel 9, an adult cable representative and Ginger from GVVN. Ginger chose to appear naked except for a small orange GVVN collar and an orange wig. The “free television” editors would block out the FCC-objectionable parts and air just enough to advertise the video. Sales were estimated to be $500,000 gross. A percentage of the video”s profits were going to be donated to unnamed charities.

“Why are you doing this?” the Rainbow Union News broadcaster asked. He was a pretty man wearing the latest in pretty male apparel. “Becoming a Castleman Trust slave?”

“Sir, I am becoming Master Peter”s general slave. My legal career is over.” The lights played over Betty”s body. She kept her thin brown hair closely cropped. Brown eyes hid behind thick eyeglasses. Betty didn”t have a flat chest—it was sunken and ribs and vertebrae were easy to count. Betty”s hip bones protruded and her knee and elbow joints were knobby knots on her pipe-stem limbs. Betty had sparse body hair that wasn”t trimmed, but was barely there—her arm pits had mere shadows and her pubic fur was just a few long hairs that hid none of her Cleft of Venus from the front. “I did everything I could for my client, including a few things that earned me warnings for contempt of court. As her attorney of record, I will not criticize Norma Kaye Proctor. It wouldn”t be ethical. Norma wasn”t given the option of voluntary conversion because she was charged with multiple capital crimes.”

“How do you feel about being converted?” the adult cable channel reporter was a round, bald, sweating man in a bowling shirt. Red was not a flattering color for him.

“It is something I have to do. One of the questionable tactics I employed was attacking the character of Phyllis McGiver.” Betty sniffed and wiped a tear from her cheek. “I made much of how she was dressed, that she had no permanent boy friend but did have dozens of male acquaintances, and how if she was going to look like a slave slut she had to expect to be treated as such. I lined up the men who had enjoyed the late Ms. McGiver”s favors more than one time—never more than once in a month, but I found four that had been in her panties more than once over the course of a year. Judge John Bruin stopped me and issued a warning. Phyllis was engaged in legitimate political activism and was exercising protected speech.”

“My turn, masters,” Ginger smiled at Betty. “Mistress Betty, do you approve of the protests that took place at the capital this evening? Four women had themselves enslaved and then hung on the capital steps in front of news cameras protesting the death penalty.”

“I saw them on television. I pity them—volunteering for enslavement under an “immediate snuff” contract. They killed themselves protesting the death penalty.”

“Why not?” Ginger asked. “I”ve heard of people fighting for peace and fucking for virginity. Why not suicide in protest of capital punishment?”

“Ginger,” the FCC monitor said, “we have to bleep out most of that.”

“Oh, damn!”

“That too.”

“Master Peter, may I make restitution?”

“Which would you prefer, Ginger? A whipping or just dubbing the lines?”

“Whipping! Whipping! Whipping!”

“Wait a minute!” the FCC monitor interrupted. “She sounds too enthusiastic. That whipping is supposed to be punishment.”

“Hey, guys, something is happening in Sherman!” the adult channel guys shouted. “Our feed is cut off.”

On the screen there were twenty-three women clad only in body paint. They had letters painted on their bodies spelling out, “Naked Die-in! No More Death!” The linked arms and men chained and padlocked the women to the prison gate. They looked like choker chains and the women were just chained by the neck, leaving them free to move and gesture.

Sheriff Woodrow responded with his riot squad.

“We shall not have anybody upset the dignity of Norma Proctor”s execution!” Convicted felons on death row are permitted to keep their dignity. It is the law that slaves have no dignity—but Phyllis was no slave. Her death had nothing resembling dignity. The sheriff continued: “You have five minutes to disperse before we use the water cannon. If you”ll are still here in 15 minutes we shall arrest you for public indecency.”

The women responded by chanting obscenities.

“Master Peter,” Ginger was rubbing against me, “those women are really naughty. I am being whipped for saying “fuck.” I think they need to have their mouths washed out with soap.”

“Are you hinting that I should soap your mouth, Ginger?”

“Me, too!” the camera girl chirped. “Do me!”

I don”t understand women sometimes.

Ladies—don”t ever earn a “contempt of cop” citation. Those death penalty protestors were chained so that they could turn their bodies a bit. On their backs the women had written things too small to read on television.

Abruptly I had a premonition. I dialed 911 and asked for the Sherman fire/rescue for attempted mass suicide. That “die in” might be for real. Yes, it is an abuse of the emergency network. I managed to get the rescue squad”s phone number and the 911 operator was kind enough to connect me.

“Get a rescue saw down to the prison. There are 23 women who have rigged themselves out to hang when Norma Proctor dies. I don”t want any more people dead because of that woman!” I was babbling in the phone.

“Look at that!” shouted the adult channel man. “I wish I had a camera crew—I”ve got niche markets for that.”

“What”s happening?” the voice on the phone asked.

“Those women at Death Row are urinating in public. One of them just defecated into her hand. She is throwing her feces. “The water cannon”s knocking them down. They”re strangling!”

I heard the rescue alarm go off.

A short time later, fire rescue personnel were on the scene.

“Master Peter,” Betty said,” I request that you give me a whipping. I don”t normally criticize others, but those women were stupid!”

“And this whipping is because?” I asked.

“Slaves are not permitted to criticize free citizens,” Betty said. “I”m almost a slave now.”

Convicted felons are higher on the food chain than slaves, too. Norma”s last meal was a decided contrast to the three women she murdered. Norma had a feast. The catering was donated by a Canadian group opposed to America”s death penalty and included salmon, beef and chicken. Breads, vegetables, a fruit basket and other starchy dishes were included. An enormous dessert tray was sent in. Wine was served with each course. This was all televised. It was the best Canadian meal available outside Canada. I”m not sure what happened to the leftovers. At least girl roast wasn”t on the menu.

In contrast, Phyllis had skipped breakfast. I had traced her last hours. She had a tuna sub for lunch the day before and had gone clubbing with her posse. They reported only getting pretzels and beer. Phyllis did poach food off my slaves. Across the country, slaves were fed re-labeled dog food, porridge, table scraps—those were the normal. Some slaves were reduced to scavenging in the trash when their owners weren”t watching. My slaves at simple, healthy food, a balanced diet—with occasional treats. Juanita had packed enough for four people at my insistence: a pound of grapes, a quart of tea, several hard rolls, sliced cheese, bottled water, four hard boiled eggs in the shell and a “soft can” of tuna. I had snuck in a handful of Mexican candies and a packaged garlic pickle while Penny diverted Juanita”s attention. It was supposed to be a surprise. Charlotte and Juanita had a light breakfast—Charlotte was trying to lose weight and Juanita was suffering from morning sickness, so they had tea and a hard roll. Juanita wasn”t the type to let someone else go hungry. I gave her specific instructions to bring extra food so that she could share with her free-woman counterparts at the petition table. The surveillance video prior to the attack did show Phyllis eating a roll and an egg and the slaves passed their tea bottle between them. Phyllis even took a swig. Those same mouths and throats had been blistered shut by acid at about 10:40 AM Central Daylights Savings Time.

On the televised vigil, many commentators harped upon how cruel capital punishment was. Drawings showed a pretty woman in angel robes strapped to the table with her arms stretched out at 90 degrees from her body, evoking a crucifixion. There was a neat little band on one arm with a single thin little tube leading down under the table. Folks, the death chamber didn”t look anything like that! The convict wore a ratty hospital gown and a diaper—the chemical cocktail tends to make the executed void their bowels and most also regurgitate their last meal as they expire. While protecting the convict”s privacy and decency by keeping chest and legs covered, a range of medical probes are taped to the body to measure blood pressure, oxygenation, heart beat, respiration, and brainwave activity. The latter, free from “pain spikes,” are used to refute the “cruel death” by lethal injection. The way the prison officials gathered that EEG readings of pain was by hooking the electroencephalograph to slaves and torturing the women to death. Part of those experiments were carried out at Eastlake University a few weeks after WSA took effect—the girls who were killed in those experiments had been unpopular enough to be enslaved by their “boyfriends” within hours of First Lady Hellen Eastman-Carson”s death on the New Year. Those were some cruel deaths—too cruel to be used by the State of Oklahoma for executions. Boiled or burned alive. Dipped in acid. Frozen. Beaten.

Yes, Norma Proctor chose a comfortable, easy death and was given a celebrity”s send-off.

As the death clock ticked down, 23 women writhed at the end of their choke chains. Police and firefighters battled to save the protestors—knocked over by water cannon. It was an accident, but I imagined that brigades of ambulance chasers were suspending their “wrongful death” suits against Oklahoma for executing Norma Proctor in order to file excessive force suits against Sheriff Woodrow. The emergency truck with the saws arrived and women were being cut down. The casualty count was going to have to wait.

Betty”s cell phone rang. She picked it up.

“Yes. Thank you. I”ll hold.” Betty held her phone so that she could see the small screen. An image that was recognizably Norma on a table lay there. Norma had ripped Phyllis”s dress off with rubber-gloved hands before jamming the acid nozzle between Phyllis”s legs. The executioners had draped Norma”s body so that her modesty was intact. “Master Peter, Governor England signed the execution order. In a few minutes—there it goes now.”

The screen was too small to see Norma”s expression when the sedative was injected into her IV. Fifteen minutes crawled by as the announcers on the television switched between the protester rescue operation and Norma”s count-down. Television was excluded from the execution chamber despite various powerful media groups” protests. National Media Group, the up and coming torture and snuff cable network, protested live executions because they were anti-death penalty—it cuts into their bottom line! The usual Christian networks and the liberal elite moaned about the lost sheep being executed—but were silent about the thousands of slaves killed each week. Besides, what was there to see? The entertainment media had pretty girls stripped naked before brutalizing them. Homely Norma was fully dressed, though prison garb isn”t the latest fashion statement any more. The big-name women”s wear lines are promoting the slave hottie look!

Finally, Norma Kaye Proctor was declared dead. I felt nothing. I was glad that she wouldn”t kill again, but she was nothing.

Betty closed her phone and handed it to me. She took off her glasses and nodded at Paul Paulson. The Castleman Trust slaver pressed the “enter” key. A moment later, Mr. Paulson officially notified Slave Mercy that she was now a person of limited rights.

“Lana, take Mercy to the dispensary. Begin her detox program.”

The media sharks stared at me agape with astonishment.

“It wasn”t anorexia,” I told them. “Ms. Bucher has a drug problem. She was so keyed on success that she was using a slew of over-the-counter stimulants and had prescriptions for more pep pills. She did not break the law—only bent it a bit. It is why she is so emaciated. It explains her mood shifts in court. She barely passed the drug screen—but she did pass.”

“Not that it mattered, Peter,” Mr. Paulson said. “She signed an Intent to Enslave contract. When the contract conditions were met or when she was in default, she”d be enslaved. Drugs use wouldn”t save her in that case.”

“Does that work for pregnancy, too?”

“It could—but do you want to be a test case?”

“No,” I said, thinking of Juanita, Charlotte and the others. “No, I”m going to pick my battles more carefully. I don”t like getting my family killed.”

Betty Mercy Bucher was about to begin a painful and dangerous process of being brought back to health. If successful, Paul Paulson would see that she could practice law again—as a slave, but also as an officer of the court. It”s complicated, but Mercy wouldn”t be herself—she”d be an asset of a legal firm. And, in obedience to the court house rules, she would be naked and would wear chains n her wrists and ankles. If Mercy survived, that is. Amphetamine addiction will kill. Breaking addiction”s chains can kill.

“Mr. Paulson, I have a stupid request,” I glanced at the screen as the protestors were being carted off in ambulances and paddy wagons. “Let”s look into acquiring those anti-death penalty activists. Argue that we can avert an international crisis because DEV only kills when there is no other option under the law. Don”t get too far in hock, but look into the situation.”

“I”ll run it by the board.”

Not even that would bring back my dead slaves and slain son. Tough!

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES
Peter J. Foster

Chapter 38: Homesteading in Court

Thursday, June 21st, 2001. At 4 PM I arrived at the Eastlake County Courthouse. I complained about Tuesday”s media circus! Today”s was worse. Mr. Harrington was holding the press conference and Mr. Paulson would represent Shelly Michaels in her civil court petition for “Conversion to a Person of Limited Rights.”

A military axiom is that you don”t win the battle on the battlefield—you win the battle preparing the battlefield, yourself and by picking your battles. I had a “victory” earlier in June and I didn”t want to replicate it—I lost five Castleman Trust and DEV slaves, my unborn child, and had several slaves injured. One free woman was DOA from an acid bath. Another free woman was in a coma with a shattered skull until her weeping husband Bill had her converted, then turned off life support. I offered Bill Midfield a DEV slave to replace his wife. He hadn”t gotten back to me yet. The other woman, Phyllis McGiver, was unattached and seemed to be heading to slavery herself when she was murdered. The acid sprayer, Norma Proctor, had been convicted and was to be sentenced tomorrow morning. It felt like I was spending more time in court than at home!

I”d rather be in Ellisia, thank you!

At the last minute Dillon Conway was added to the court appearance. I don”t know the details except that the court clerk handles these things. Judge Larkins had a few surprises for me as well. When I showed up, I was told to wait at the security point until the bailiff could personally escort me and my party to the courtroom. Three bus loads of people were with me, approximately a third of them slaves. All of the slaves were naked, gagged and bound as required for their court room appearance.

Neither Shelly Michaels nor Dillon Conway was a Person of Limited Rights—not yet. The White Slave Act of 2000 had three conversion routes: voluntary, by relative or PPC and by magistrate. The restrictions included protection orders, age, drug use—and pregnancy. Shelly and Dillon were pregnant. It got more complicated. A daughter can be converted by her parent or her guardian until the age of 21, with a few other exceptions—pregnancy prevents conversion, as does having a child below the age of consent. Two exceptions to the “mother with child” prohibition exist—parents may enslave their minor daughter after the birth, and a magistrate may order a mother converted to a person of limited rights. Only one exception exists to the pregnant mother prohibition—judicial conversion.

Of course, a woman can abort her unborn child in order to qualify for conversion. Neither Dillon nor Shelly wanted to. Dillon was certain that her dead lover David had gotten her pregnant. Shelly thought David was the father of her baby. David Spearwright was only 19 when he was gunned down at a traffic light by persons unknown. David was quite the Casanova—he seemed to have bedded Shelly, Dillon and Shelly”s younger sister Susan as well. The three girls said that David had other girlfriends, too. The upshoot was that neither expectant mother wanted to lose their unborn child.

Dillon Conway had asked that mother Gracie enslave Dillon, permitting the younger woman to give up on life. Gracie couldn”t—Gracie Conway had been enslaved by her husband well before he died. There was a will, however, and Rachel Spearwright, David”s widowed mother, was named Dillon”s legal guardian. Dillon was still just 17 and couldn”t enter into contracts without Rachel”s permission. The reason that Dillon didn”t know that Gracie was now Rachel”s slave due to the late Mr. Conway”s will and that Rachel was also Dillon”s legal guardian is that Rachel decided that Dillon didn”t need that grief. Boy friend David had planned to take all three girls to a slave shop when he reached his own 18th birthday and could legally own slaves—but he died just a few days short.

Complicated enough?

Shelly was more straight-forward than Dillon”s situation. Shelly Michaels found out that she was pregnant when she was kidnapped from a restaurant with her family. It was a celebration of her younger sister”s 18th birthday. Shelly went to the bathroom and was kidnapped by Mel and his gang. Mel erupted in fury when Shelly turned out to be pregnant. Mel had collected several women and managed to PPC them—except for Shelly. When Kermit Michaels found out that Shelly was at a slaver and had NOT been converted by PPC because she was pregnant, he blew his top and issued an ultimatum: Shelly was going to be converted. If Shelly lost the baby, then Shelly was going to be converted and snuffed. If Shelly managed to give birth, then Kermit would let his daughter live, but he was going to sell her. Mother Justine talked Kermit into converting all three of them at Defensive Enslavement Volunteers. That”s how I got involved in this mess.

My psychiatrist, slave Summer, formerly Doctor Kimberly Prince, calls me a sheepdog. She voluntarily converted and is now a Castleman Trust slave in the eugenics program. Don”t ask me why I deserve a woman like Summer—I am lucky to have her. Summer was treating Kermit for stress—the man had money problems, his family life was falling apart and he had just been terminated from a sales position. I was trying to help Kermit because Shelly still needed her daddy—so would Shelly”s son after being born. From a cold-blooded viewpoint, I needed Kermit in order to convert Shelly after her son was born.

“You again!” The bailiff looked me over.

“Any way I can rent an office here?” I asked.

“You need a townhouse,” he looked over Dillon and Shelly. They wore school uniforms and had their hands cuffed behind their backs. I had gagged them as well.

“All slaves are supposed to be naked and gagged,” the bailiff said, pointing at the two clothed women.

“Sir, they aren”t slaves. I know that job seekers should dress for the job they want, but I won”t risk a criminal charge for indecent exposure. This is Shelly Michaels and this is Dillon Conway.”

“Hi!” Rachel said. Rachel wore a tight tube dress and heels. She had some jewelry on, but wasn”t dressed like a slave—or undressed like a slave. Human society is so complex! “I”m Dillon”s guardian.”

“I”m Shelly”s father,” Kermit said. “This is her mother and sister.”

Justine and Susan were nude, gagged and had their wrists tied behind their backs. Normally, slaves wear footwear—I opted to have all of the slaves show up barefoot except for my armed escort. The latter were still naked, but they had fake bonds and small weapons hidden in the luggage they carried for the legal team. Mr. Paulson was handling the legal stuff, as conversion to a person of limited rights was his legal specialty.

“Who are all of these people?” the bailiff asked.

“They”re evidence and witnesses,” Mr. Paulson said.

“We don”t have room for them all.” The bailiff thought for a moment. “I”ll line them up in the hallway.”

There was another surprise waiting in Judge Thomas Larkins” court– James F. Haddock, process server. Another summons?

“Peter J. Foster,” the court clerk announced. When I approached the bench, the case announced was Foster versus Haddock. Knock me over with a feather!

“Mr. Haddock, Mr. Foster,” Judge Larkins was a huge man, easily 350 pounds and taller than I. “You had a misunderstanding a couple of days ago. I want to get it settled. I”ve read your reports, Mr. Foster. I”ve heard you out, Mr. Haddock. I want to end the competing criminal charges and lawsuits right now. Mr. Haddock, this is more for your benefit. It is only an inconvenience for Mr. Foster because he and his lawyers write better. Now that I”ve seen you, I can see Mr. Foster had reason to fear for his life. You are very lucky that you are still alive, Mr. Haddock. On the other hand you were carrying out the important task of process serving. I won”t quibble over your methods. Getting Tasered is not fun. Mr. Foster was justified in shooting you under those conditions. His life is in danger, and he was visiting a family victimized by a drug gang.”

“Oh God!” Haddock muttered. Funny how many in liberal Eastlake are religious.

“As the court seems to be seeing more of Mr. Foster, I am designating Mr. Haddock the primary process server whenever we have a summons for Mr. Foster.” The judge looked at me. “Tell me what is on your mind, Mr. Foster. Your expression puzzles me.”

“Your honor, I just asked the bailiff about renting office space here. Too bad that the Homestead Act is not still in force. I”m afraid I”ll have to file for squatter”s rights.”

“I”ll crack the jokes in my courtroom,” the judge glared at me, “and you will laugh at my jokes.”

“Yes sir,” I chuckled. Judge Larkin”s face split into a wide grin.

“Now shake hands and let”s drop the matter.”

The court clerk announced the next cases, the final ones on the docket: Shelly and Dillon”s petitions for conversion.

“What is it that you want, exactly, Mr. Foster?”

“Conversion of these two women so that I can care for them and their unborn children, your honor,” I said.

“You have evidence?”

“Several hundred witnesses, your honor, police reports, medical reports, plans, contracts—”

“Stop! Why not simply wait until the babies are born and have their families convert them?”

“I could, your honor. Many pregnancies result in miscarriages through no fault of the mother, though, and Shelly is in danger of being snuffed by her father if she loses her baby.”

Kermit was called to the bench. He squirmed and sweated, but confirmed that he had promised to do exactly that.

“Shelly, approach the bench. What is the deal with the bondage gear?”

I explained that they were not slaves—yet—but under a contract that took complete control of their lives. I presented evidence that Shelly and Dillon were both submissive and that their submissive behavior had caused them trouble. I also had their notarized statements that both women wished to be enslaved at the earliest possible moment. The background check on Melvin Oscar Whitey got Judge Larkins” attention.

“This one? I know him. What happened to the women he converted?”

“DEV managed to buy them, your honor,” Mr. Paulson said. “We felt that they would be valuable as witnesses.”

“Slave statements are not admissible evidence in court,” the judge said. He and Mr. Paulson began speaking in tongues—that”s what legalese sounds like to us laymen. “I see. Let”s hear Shelly”s side, and then I want her gagged again.”

Shelly testified that she never wanted to get rid of her child—that her child had just saved Shelly”s life. Had Shelly not been pregnant, she could have wound up being meat. The other girls were slated to go to the butchers, but Mr. Paulson offered more.

Safari Slaves had submitted a disposition on Melvin and the events of Friday evening. Drug use didn”t matter for conversion by a person of personal contact—I think—just pregnancy. There was also something about contract violations—only pregnancy prevented conversion. All six women that Melvin Whitey brought in that night showed drug and alcohol in their bloodstreams. Five were now slaves—DEV slaves—and legally their voices were muted. They could no longer complain about being illegally converted. Even so, I had statements from them that they had either never had sex with Mel or that they had only engaged in sex once or twice. Two of the women could have been raped. Mel had statements from five other people, some photos, medical reports stating that the women were not virgins and even a couple of videos. Safari Slaves clearly wasn”t at fault. I had statements from other people giving all six girls alibis for several of the nights that Mel claimed to have been having sex with them.

“I will have to schedule a separate hearing for all five enslaved women. You realize, of course, that if they were kidnapped and illegally enslaved, you could lose them?”

In answer to that, the five slaves in question were permitted to give a brief statement. One slave said that being converted and sold to DEV was the best thing that could happen to her. Three didn”t want to be slaves, but said that it was best that they remain enslaved.
Only one wanted nothing to do with remaining a slave—her name was Charity Morgan.

“Your honor, my investigation indicates that Charity here was raped just prior to being taken to Safari Slaves. Medical report and all. DNA evidence. Charity”s parents disowned her,” I glared at Kermit. “All the information I had tells me that Charity was a virgin until Friday night that she was kidnapped from a babysitting assignment — there was no babysitting assignment. Her parents took the accusations of a stranger over their own daughter”s word, over their own eyes. At least two of the dates given to Safari Slaves were nights that Charity was babysitting in the neighborhood. One of those nights Charity was singing in choir in front of hundred of witnesses, including her parents. Charity wanted to become a nun.”

“Is that right, Charity?”

“Yes, your honor. Master Peter had a long talk with me. He is no believer. I honestly thought for a moment that God had forsaken me. I don”t want to be a slave. I don”t want to have sex. It must be God”s will.”

“If the court ordered that these five be freed immediately, what would you do, Mr. Foster?”

“Free them, your honor, then offer them jobs. They have no resources. They have no place to stay. If ordered to free them, I would have to, but I can”t just abandon them. I”d request that the court monitor their employment so that I don”t violate the court”s order, but this is what I plan to do with them as slaves.” I handed him eight spreadsheets from the bag—a summary sheet for all five slaves, Dillon and Shelly and individual spreadsheets on their education plan. “There is more. I have contracts with the two free women that give them a place to stay while they”re having their babies, educates them and gainfully employs them.”

Yeah, I”m becoming quite the socialist.

“Will you use them for sex?”

“Of course, your honor,” I said. “Especially after they are enslaved. It is in the contracts. Dillon”s contract is a little longer because I want to wait until after her 18th birthday before using her for sex. The baby”s safety comes first, so it may be years before I get to either.”

“Is Dillon”s mother in the room?”

“Yes, your honor,” Rachel said as she steered naked Gracie to the front of the court.

“Who are you?” Rachel introduced herself and Gracie to the judge, removed Gracie”s gag, and they both answered questions. Finally the judge had enough. “I see. So you are Dillon”s guardian and Gracie”s owner, Mrs. Shipwright? Your son is that infamous David?”

“Was, your honor,” Rachel”s tears spilled down her cheek. “Your honor, I will do anything it takes to protect my grandchildren. They are all I have left of my husband and my son. I am a dom, your honor, but I”ve offered to become Mr. Foster”s slave. I am in no way a sub. I will become one if that”s what it takes to protect my grandsons.”

“Court in recess for fifteen minutes.”

“All rise.”

It was a long 15 minutes. I unhitched a few slaves during the recess and had them go around rubbing slave limbs. Mostly, the owners present saw what I was doing and copied me. Dillon and Shelly were taken care of too. When the judge returned, we began refastening the bonds.

“This case is too convoluted to render judgment right now. Clerk, schedule another court date for Shelly Michaels and Dillon Conway. This time, Mr. Foster, bring just those two. Bring them in the same outfits because they will either be free women or converted when they leave. I need to study the case more before I decide. I will rule that these contracts are valid. Dillon Conway is not of age to sign a contract, but her guardian has signed for her. This report from the Child Welfare and Protection agency convinced me that the Castleman Estate is the best place for them right now. Shelly Michaels is over 18 and can sign her own damned contracts.” Judge Thomas Larkins stared at me for several long moments. He laughed. “We might have to give you an office here.”

“I can give him the desk beside mine,” the bailiff said.

“Or he can have mine,” the court clerk said with a grin.

“Court is adjourned!”

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES
Peter J. Foster

Chapter 37: Exceptions

It wasn”t long before Defensive Enslavement Volunteers received an answer to the petition to convert Shelly Michaels. It happened at the Michaels” residence on Tuesday morning, June 19, 2001.

Because of Hannibal Johnson, I had a heavily-armed escort at all times. I was visiting the Michaels” residence at 14985 West Fish Brook while Kermit Michaels was at work because he didn”t want to see his daughter Shelly. I was to meet with mother Justine and sister Susan and pick up the rest of Shelly”s clothing and stuff. Kermit said that he trusted me to take only what was Shelly”s and nothing else. Justine and Susan had been converted by Kermit yesterday. My escort today consisted of twin sisters Sonya and Tonya, slave sergeants in Detachment 46. I also was accompanied by Shelly and by my own slaves Penny and Susan. Yes, another Susan. Penny was my younger sister and she “married” Susan in a slave wedding so that they had each other. For that matter, Sonya and Tonya had also “married” each other in a slave wedding. Though these slave marriages were not legally recognized—slaves do not have the right to be married—these unions had deep meanings for the committed couples. Two more people were in the car—my slave and psychiatrist Summer and my slave doctor Lana. I had obtained Kermit”s permission to visit his two slaves once per week and have my medical people look them over—so long as the medical people were other slave women. Only two of us in the minivan were dressed: Shelly wore a brief slave shift, collar with “free woman device” and sandals and I was in a business suit. The escorts wore communications rigs, waist packs, and light-weight running shoes. The others opted for just a slave collar with a cell-phone attachment. Penny was driving. Penny parked us in the empty driveway and my escort deployed themselves to protect me.

I spotted a man on the porch. He was chunky and had bad acne and a scraggly beard—and thinning black hair. Despite the heat he wore a black leather bomber jacket, open. Tonya slipped into position and quietly pulled a compact 5.56mm submachine gun from the van, keeping it hidden. Sonya motioned me to stop as she interposed herself between me and the potential threat. The man was watching us has he pounded on the door.

“Open up you stupid slave bitches!” His voice was high-pitched.

“Sir, may I help you?” I asked loudly.

“Are you Peter J. Foster?” he demanded, glaring at me.

“Yes.”

Several things happened at once when the man thrust his hand inside his leather jacket. My escorts were a well-oiled machine. The man had made what police call a “furtive movement” when he reached inside his jacket—the movements were identical with drawing a handgun from a shoulder holster. He went down—Sonya shot him with a Taser. I had my own .45 clamped in trembling hands. Tonya covered our rear while Susan called for a GVVN camera crew. Penny was on the phone with Mr. Harrington for legal support. Summer phoned 911 for police and ambulance. Lana pulled out a medical kit and began to advance on the twitching man.

“Stop!” I commanded. Sonya”s Taser was on the ground, continuing to shock her victim—she had a 9mm in her hands and was advancing to secure him. “Form parameter. We don”t know—”

The door swung open and Slave Justine, the former Mrs. Michaels, peered out.

“I”m so glad that you arrived, Master Peter!” Justine said. “This awful man wouldn”t leave us alone.”

Within minutes the quiet neighborhood was a circus. I counted three police units, the ambulance, a GVVN news truck, two unmarked police cars, Sergeant First Class Archer arrived with a Detachment 46 quick reaction team and there were at least two helicopters overhead. I almost missed the fire truck in all the commotion.

The man was James F. Haddock, a process server for Eastlake County. I was supposed to appear in court on Thursday afternoon. Can you say “federal case?”

“You have been served,” Haddock groaned from the gurney. “You do look like Peter Castleman, by the way.”

There were scattered snickers.

“What?” Haddock demanded.

Ginger had arrived with the GVVN crew. She pointed at me.

“He gets that all of the time. He”s the star of the Castleman Trust Hour.”

Haddock was taken away in the ambulance. The never-ending paperwork began with a brief interview. I kept it short and simple. I had reason to be wary. The heavy jacket during hot weather and the hand thrusting under the concealing coat spelled gun attack. I was released.

“Looks as if this visit may be cut short,” I said as I dialed Mr. Michaels at work. He answered immediately, frantically demanding to know what he was seeing on televised news. “A misunderstanding, sir. I”ve been served with a court summons. I think you have one, too. Thursday at 4 PM, Eastlake County Courthouse. Judge Larkins. It concerns the conversion of Shelly Michaels from a free woman to a person of limited rights.”

“A misunderstanding? Wait a minute, I have a visitor. I”ll call you back.”

The police had better things to do with their time than appear on GVVN. Mr. Harrington arrived just as the police left. What a mess!

“Master Kermit is a good man,” Justine told me. “He has just been under a lot of pressure recently. His company is down-sizing. Kermit may not have a job soon.”

My cell phone rang. Normally, I”d rather let the caller leave a message and deal with the people who are face-to-face with me. I checked the “unlisted” number on my caller ID and answered anyway. It was Mr. Michaels.

“I”ve just been served with a summons,” he said.

“Sir, could you use a new job?” I offered. I didn”t know what I would do with him, but this was part of caring for Shelly—caring for her family. Was WSA 2000 turning me into the perfect socialist? “You can start immediately and hammer out the details later, or hammer out the details and start later. I”m still at your place getting the items we agreed upon.”

“I”ll be there in five minutes,” Kermit said.

“Take your time,” I said. “Get here alive.”

A crowd of neighbors was forming on West Fish Brook. Some of them were calling for Shelly. Some wanted Susan. A few adult women were chatting with Mr. Harrington. I hadn”t noticed, but Jane and Heather were with him—Caroline Umbermort, too. There was one more person crammed in the back of the car, but I didn”t get a good look at her because I was buried by two enthusiastic women. Jane and Heather wore their favorite outfits—nothing. Caroline was in her Child Welfare and Protection Agency uniform. The law enforcement officer was only a little less enthusiastic about hugging me. There were many cell phones in view.

Welcome to 21st Century America, land of instant communications.

Inside, Justine was rubbing Shelly”s bald crouch. I didn”t hear what they were saying because my phone rang.

“Lieutenant, where”s my incident report?” It was Colonel Murphy. I wondered why I was in his crosshairs this morning. Oh, yes, that Hannibal thing. I was about to tell him that I had already e-mailed the incident report when: “Wait—here it is now. Call me on my cell next time.”

“Yes, sir.” What was I going to say? That when there was a choice between guns and phones, the guns win? Mere excuses—I managed to call everyone else—with help.

Welcome to 21st Century America, land of instant communications.

I answered a few questions, and was told that his commander”s investigation was concluded. Every time one of America”s armed legions uses force, there is an investigation—somebody to Monday-morning quarterback the use and possible abuse of force. I was glad that it was a Taser and not a dozen bullets. Colonel Murphy ended the call with a warning to be careful.

I hung up and my phone rang again.

“Yes, sir?”

“It”s Jim,” I recognized the owner of Hill”s Fine Meats. “I have a pick-up for you. She”s really bad. Can you send someone over immediately?”

“Sure. What can you tell me?”

“Her name is Dillon Conway and she”d a two-fer no-go here,” Jim was making me wait for it. I waited. “She”s 17 and pregnant. Still want her?”

“Dillon Conway? Yes, let me phone home. Did she know that she was pregnant?”

“Yes.”

“I”ll send over some medical people and have Summer talk to her.” A woman with a stricken expression on her face approached me. What a fur-ball: non-stop fun and excitement for April”s little boy Peter! I closed my cell phone and addressed the woman.

“I”m Gracie Conway. Dillon is my daughter.”

“Yes, ma”am.”

“Please, I”m a slave. My daughter asked me to enslave her at her boyfriend”s funeral. I can”t because I”m a slave.”

“Yes, ma”am,” I am excessively polite. It is just one of many flaws. “May I speak with your owner?”

“Let me call her.” Gracie pulled out her cell phone. I stepped back to give her some privacy. A moment later, Gracie spoke and then offered me her phone. “My mistress, Master Peter.”

“This is Peter Foster.”

“Foster? You”re not Peter Castleman?” Am I going to have to write the book “I am not Peter Castleman” and then write the sequel “I am Peter Castleman” like that space opera actor? “Gracie said that you needed to speak with me about Dillon.”

“Yes, ma”am,” I said. “May I have your name, Ma”am?”

“Rachel.”

“Yes, ma”am. Hill”s Fine Meats called. Dillon tried to sell herself.”

“OH MY GOD!” shrieked the voice in my ear.

“Oh my God!” the woman in front of me said as she sank to the ground. I grabbed her before she fell as the voice on the phone babbled.

“I”ve got her,” Tanya took the limp woman from me and began first aid for shock. “Who is on the phone?”

“Gracie”s owner,” I nodded at the woman in Tanya”s bare arms, “Rachel.”

” - where is she? Oh my God!”

“Ma”am? Rachael? Dillon is alive and I”ve sent someone to pick her up. Where are you located? I”m over at the Michael”s place right now.”

“I”ll be there immediately. Oh that poor baby!” Before I could say anything else, Rachel hung up.

Summer calls me “sheepdog,” the protector of the flock. Today everything was flocked up.

“Master, she”s coming around,” Tanya said. “Ma”am, your daughter is okay. Master Peter sent someone to pick her up.”

Summer came out with Lana and the three naked women took the clothed woman inside the house. I followed. Tanya began undressing Gracie. Lana glanced at me before pitching in. Soon, Gracie was another naked body on the floor.

Speaking of naked bodies, Justine and Susan–the Michaels” daughter—now sported the Castleman Trust bald crouch. They approached, knelt and touched their foreheads to the floor—slave speak for “Master, may I talk to you?”

“Where did you learn that?” I asked.

“Master Peter, I asked your Susan.” Justine told me. “Master Peter, I request that you offer Master Kermit one of your slave girls for the night. Master Kermit will want to refuse, but tell him that we need some help. I tried to get my husband to convert us when the White Slave Act took effect, but he wouldn”t.”

How did Alice put it? Curiouser and curiouser, I think.

“Stand up, please. It is a long way to the floor for me.” I was rewarded with giggles as the two stood up. “What?”

“Penny said that you would say that.”

“Penny knows me better than any living person,” I said. “She”s known me her whole life.”

“Kermit isn”t interested in sex anymore,” Justine said. “I tried everything. I wanted him to take a mistress, visit a whore house—anything! I even offered him our daughters—and he slapped me! Master Kermit slept on the couch for a week and wouldn”t speak to me. I was going to bring both daughters to DEV and enslave us all on Susan”s birthday, but this came up.”

“El Tee, Mr. Michaels is here,” Sonya was observing through the living room window from a position of tactical advantage, her Colt Commando at low-port. “There is also a red sports coupe. A tall woman, red head, about 30 years old, possibly unarmed—”

“That”s my mistress,” Gracie said. When Gracie tried to rise, Lana held her down.

“What the holy hell is going on?” Kermit was feeling out of control again. “Who are all of those people?”

“Let me try something,” I stepped outside. I shouted for attention and got everyone around me. Both Sonya and Tanya were backing me up - standard operating procedure.
“Who knows the Michaels?”

Nearly every hand went up.

“Okay, I want my lawyer to interview you. If you are a slave, I need your owner”s permission before I interview you. On Thursday I”m going to court. Shelly wants to become a DEV slave, but there”s a complication. She”s pregnant with a child she wants to keep. I”ve got an appointment to plead her case for immediate conversion as a person of limited rights. If that fails, her father will convert her when the baby is born. I want to have her enslaved earlier so that I can better care for her and her unborn son. Come to think of it, I may have a second woman in the same situation. Mistress Rachel, can you explain for me?”

“You know that my son David died last week,” Rachel told the crows. “This afternoon, Dillon Conway tried to sell herself as meat. I don”t know why she didn&#