Dark Erotic Fiction

Thoughts in a suck club.

Some times, you look down a the young woman that is sucking you off, and you realize, she doesn’t want to be doing this. She probably had other dreams and hopes for her future. Hopes and dreams that had nothing to do with sucking off dozens of men a day, and praying that they wouldn’t want to snuff her as part of the experience. You can tell by the lost look in her face, what they used to call the 1000 mile stare.

As you think about this, it comes to you.     You don’t care.   Then you think about it a little more.   You do care.   But not the way that would help her.   The idea excites you.   Her hopes and dreams don’t matter.   What matters is that, for the moment, she is yours. to do with as you will.   You think about ordering a snuff, just to see what that would feel like.

As you blast into her mouth, you decide not to, but maybe next time…

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Robert Staub and his current “fiancee” had just pulled into one of the “Hill’s Fine Meat” Parking lot. Bob had told her that this would spice up their sex, add some “danger” to it.

“OK Bitch, this is your last chance. Do it good enough and I don’t take you in.”

Judy Fulford had little fear, Robert had always liked her giving head. She was sure that he was just doing this to show off his power Alpha male and all that..   She even smiled as she started to go do on Bob.

What Judy didn’t know is that Bob, her “loving boyfriend”, had started to really hate her.   She seemed so, well, clingy.   Plus loosing that bet on the Knicks games didn’t help. Needed 500 fast, and well, he didn’t need to make it look like he had to push for sales, might effect the promotion. So Judy Fuckface it was. Might as well make a game out of it and get one more blow job, then tell her it wasn’t good enough and take her into Hill’s Fine Meat.   Should get enough to pay off the loses, and still have some walking around money, even if she wasn’t Grade A Prime.

Judy started with enthusiasm and skill.   Robert soon felt that tell sign that he was about to cum.   He decided to dump into her throat, so he push her head down hard on his cock, loving the feeling of her gagging on his erupting cock.   It was, truth to be told a masterful blow job.   Possibly the best she had ever done.   Too bad this was all a charade, she was going to be sold regardless of her skills. Silly bitch had signed a “pre-nupt” that stated that they were already engaging in sex. That made him a Person of Personal contacts, even with out any films of them fucking. Best bit of shyster advice he got from his lawyer. Hell, with that paper, he might as well be a husband as far as the White Slave laws went.

She looked up at him “Well?”

“Is that the best you can do?   Fuck that.   I’m selling you by the pound.”

As he drove away, $750 richer, he thought.   “That was easy, wonder if I could pull that off with Audrey Albert over in Sales and Marketing. She seems like the type that would jump for (and on) a Sr. Account rep, who was on the short list for district VP.”

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(Following on from “The Whipping“, we return to George Page’s PoV)

I chatted briefly with Cov and Hun and didn’t rise to their semi-snide comparisons of the way we treated our respective Wheaton Heights Wives.

With Claire Winters looking on, I complimented them on the event so far, and thanked them for introducing me to Monsieur Avignon.

I let them go as they went over to Ernestine to join the camera crew for a more intimate interview.

All the while I’d ignored, as much as possible, the slave that I’d ordered to lick the ‘basting’ paste from my hand.   I’d noticed her movements slowing down, and an increasing warmth in my fingers, but I’d been determined to show the women that I could be as callous as they could.

I may have done better than I’d known, because as soon as they were out of earshot, two slaves hurried over to us.

“Master,” the first one to reach us said urgently, “That paste is mildly acidic, ah, it contains some chemicals that break down the skin to further tenderise the meat.   Ah, it can cause permanent damage if we don’t get it cleaned off quickly.”

I quickly held out my hand for her to wipe down with a wet towel, while the other one hovered nervously. If they were so concerned about my hand … Fuck!

“Can you neutralize it?   For her?”   I nodded at the slave who’d been licking my fingers.

“In the clinic, Master, can we?”   They looked over to the back corner of the courtyard, where one of the arms joined the cross at the kitchen.

“Lead on” I ordered, helping my slave to her feet. I nodded as one of the others had her rinse her mouth out before taking a long drink of water.

The ‘Clinic’ they lead me to was a well set up little facility in the back corner of the complex, almost a mini-hospital, with several treatment rooms as well as a couple of small ‘recovery’ type wards.

The thickness of the doors on the ‘treatment’ rooms should have been my first clue, but it wasn’t until I saw a slave - well, a presumed slave - strapped to the table in the last room, with what looked like a dozen surgical clamps attached to her breasts that I realised that this was as much of a torture facility as the courtyard or the dungeon I’d looked into.

Some of it may have been psychological, but by the time we reached the sluice area, my hand - my dominant left hand, of course - was beginning to sting quite badly.   I didn’t want to think about how the slave’s mouth and throat felt.

I very quickly had the paste washed off, and a cooling anesthetic (and antiseptic?) gel smeared over it.   When it was offered, I accepted a thin gauze glove as well.

Looking at my victim, I watched as she was made to rinse her mouth some more and then gargle a sharp smelling liquid.

“You’re both medics?” I asked as her attendant shone the expected device down her throat, looking for damage.

The one who treated me snorted.   “I’m an MD, and Kate’s a registered nurse, or she was.”

“Ah.   This place would keep you fairy busy, then.”   Another snort.

“How is she?” I went on as she didn’t offer any more information.

“Tongue and lips are the worst,” the other one - Kate - answered, “But then you’d expect that.   Throat’s inflamed, but I don’t think it’s too bad.   I doubt she swallowed very much.”

“Good.” I knelt next to my victim and took her hands.

“I’m sorry I did this to you,” I told her, very much to her surprise, I imagine.   “I didn’t mean to, but that’s my fault for leaping before I knew what I was putting my hand into.”   She nodded when I finished. “Is there anything I can do?”

“She’ll get points for this,” the MD said.   “Not many, because there wasn’t all that much damage, but I don’t think we’ve ever had anyone eat the paste before.   And her obedience was perfect, too.”

I pulled a card from my shirt pocket and handed it to her.   “If there’s ever anything, give me a call.”

***

Jesus, I thought as I wandered back out to the courtyard.   I’d thought that I was riding the rough edge of my personality when I beat on my Debbie, but half the things I’d seen here were giving my ideas.   I amble past some of the displays that had been set up while the queue basted poor Earnie.

Most of it was low key stuff - girls in whipping posts, or getting fucked in pillories, that sort of thing.   But there were a couple that stood out.   They were winding up before the main event, so I couldn’t watch them for too long.

One was a ‘human dartboard’:   A slave was strapped to a wheel like an old knife thrower’s assistant and the wheel was spun while the ‘players’ threw oversized darts.   When the board spun to a stop, I was surprised to see the slave wearing a hard plastic mask over her fast and throat.   I would have expected her to have to take her chances with getting a dart in the eye, but it soon occurred to me that it was Cov and Hun who weren’t taking any chances:   It wouldn’t do to have some mere slave upstage their show by dying by accident.

That explained some of the urgency of the two medics, as well, I supposed.

The other interesting exhibit was more complicated.   This time the slave was suspended by her feet from a gantry that extended out from the rooftree.   With her hair just sweeping the ground, the swing arm must have been something like twenty feet.   That part of it alone, I could see possibilities for - thank you Foucault - but it didn’t stop there:   on each swing, she swung between two large metal domes.   As she did so, fat, juicy sparks leapt out from the Van der Graff generators.

She must have been well gagged, or very well trained, because I didn’t hear anything over the Hummm-Zap! of the generators.

Like the dartboard, though, this one was also coming to an end.   The swinger was slowed till she hung still, directly between the domes!   The discharge rate went up dramatically until they were turned off.   She was left hanging, but the machines were quieted so as not to distract from the main event.

While I’d been away, Ernestine had been moved from her upright frame to the ‘kneeling supplicant’ restraints of a Jessica 3000, her neck and spine held rigidly in place, her arms stretched out in front of her.

I worked my way to the front of the onlookers, up by her head, almost despite myself.   I was damned sure I wasn’t going to enjoy this anywhere near as much as I’d thought I would.

There was absolutely no expression in Earnestine’s eyes as the tip of the shaft, the spit, was seated in her anus, and I wondered if I had hurt her more than I’d helped when I’d brought her back - if I’d brought her back - earlier.   If she’d found some place inside herself, I’d probably not done her a favour.

Still, I was hardly the demon of this piece.   The spit may have been ready, but Cov & Hun weren’t ready to let their Earnie go quite yet. They stepped up to where her hands were splayed against the metal frame of the Jessica and rapped the machine hard with bulb-headed metal rods.

Earnie blinked at the sudden noise, but that was it:   she didn’t track her tormenters the way I’d seen her do the night before, or even as recently as her whipping.   From the look of it, if they wanted a live spit roast, they’d better get on with it.

I was wrong.   Earnestine focused and started tracking again the instant Hun brought her baton down to smash one of her fingers.   Then it was Cov’s turn, and they alternated until her hands must have been shattered.

I could understand why they did it - it was like Winters had said earlier, there was no point tormenting someone who wasn’t aware of it - but there was something beyond callous in the way they did it.

Finally, they were done, and with a flourish, Cov pressed the button that started the machine.   Earnie didn’t react much for the first several inches, but I wasn’t surprised given they way she’d been reamed out the night before, starting with myself and graduating up to Cov’s fist. God only knew what they’d got up to after Tia and I left.

I could tell when it hit the first serious resistance by the way her eyes widened and the slight pause in the shaft before the sharpened point pushed through whatever membrane or intestinal wall it had hung up on and continued its remorseless inch-per-second progress.

Her breathing changed as it punctured her diaphragm, and then she spasmed - despite the rigid restraint - as the spit forced its way into her esophagus.

I watched her throat bulge at the end, just before it appeared between her teeth.

The shaft continued to come out until a full yard had passed completely through her before stopping.   Earnestine’s ragged heartbeat thumped out over the PA system as the MD slave I’d spoken with earlier held a microphone to her chest before bowing deeply to Cov and Hun and announcing solemnly “She is alive, Mistresses.”

The two Hosts grinned hugely as the whole compound burst into applause.   Bowing themselves, they reached forward and pressed the next button on the Jessica, causing the gutting blades to sweep out and disembowel their slave - their meal, now - in a gout of blood.

They walked hand in hand the length of the machine until they reached the offal tray at the end.   Hun reached in and picked up something - I figured that it was probably the liver - and cut a long slice.   She seared it quickly on a prepared hotplate and offered one end to Cov.   Taking the other end between her own teeth, they embraced and nibbled down the virtually raw slice of meat.

I could barely hold down my gorge as they met in the middle and sank into a deep soul-kiss to renewed applause and a couple of cat calls.

That was it, for me, I had had enough.   ‘Friend of Jamis’ I might have called myself, but at least Paul Atreides never had to watch the deathstill in action.

Earnestine Royal had expired, at last.   I reached out and closed her eyes, only to look up into the smirk on the face of Claire Winters.

“Staying for Dinner?” she asked.

I’m working it front desk today, the intake side. I’ve processed 7 or 8 women, girls, really, so far this morning. Mainly parental conversions, which is normal for this time of year.   Most of the ones I’ve seen to day have been Grade A, with only one given the “Live Roaster Endorsement”.   All but one were straight ahead sales, the other, Jami Mcneece, being a party package, which is to say that Jami, aka the meat course, would be kept here for 10 days, undergoing various forms of torture to release stress chemicals into her blood before she would be spitted and roasted for a block party. Jami is a hot red head, I was looking forward to helping with her torture, because, hey, it’s a redhead to torture, what’s not to love there?

Well, there was another processing that wasn’t technically a sale, even though the meat did get bought.   I did one of the Beta Gamma Delta sorority girls when they brought their pledge class through on a “fact finding tour”.   Cute little brunette girl.   She got on the Jessica 3000 when asked, but did start to throw a bit of fit when the president of the chapter signed her conversion invokement, then pushed the kill switch. I can’t believe that they got their whole pledge class to sign conversion papers and give the chapter president the right to invoke them at will.   I’d lay long odds that none a single member of that pledge class will make through the year alive, much less free.

I hear the door chime go off, so I look up from my work station, where the schedule of torture for Jami was listed to see a certified blond goddess, a prime roaster if I ever say one standing in front of me.

“My name is Samantha Kebert and I need to be snuffed like the pig I am.“

This is not what I normally hear from women that come here.

Well, OK, we can do that.   Do you have your conversion request paper work?

With out a word she hands them to me. All correct. I run her name and SSN through the database and she’s currently listed as a free woman, and not a mother, with no outstanding warrants. As far as the state of Oklahoma cares, she can volunteer to make her self into a spit roast if she wants. I hand her a urine sample cup.

“I need you to fill this to the red line, please. Use that ladies room.” She returns with the sample cup in a few minutes.   She’s clean and golden. Soon to be golden brown. I entered the data in the machine and Samantha Kebert just became a meat animal.

“You need to strip and to stand here, so I can grade you, oh, and for the record, you are a person of limited rights as of this time.“

The machine did it’s digital photo and laser scan of her body, and as expected it kicked back a grade of A-LRE*, which I went ahead and changed to A-Prime. I did a fast scan of outstanding bids for blond A-Primes and found 3.   I decided to be nice and ask her which one she wanted.

“So, pig, I’ve got 3 bids for a blond with your rating.   One’s a straight roast at the McPherson’s wedding, the next is a televised live oven roast on the Extreme Food Network and the last is a request for a terminal theatrical event slave from the Hellfire Group.“

What does a terminal theatrical event slave mean?”

“Well, in this case it means you will be slowly tortured to death over the course of a dinner theater show, mainly by whipping and being pulled apart a rack.   The shows normal go on for about 3 to 4 hours.” I checked the details of the bid. “It seems that the show is in 2 weeks, and that the slave will be used as a urinal slave until the show.”     I made a few more checks and found that they had bids for a total of 7 slaves for that event, all marked terminal.   I check the coding on the blond bid and determined that it was for a back ground death, not the center stage.   “Yeah, it looks like they are going to torture a blond to death in the back ground, it’s not the main drama.   So what it’s going to be?“

She looked at me. “So, I can be part of the happiest day of some woman’s life, have my death seen by maybe millions of TV viewers or I can be abused to 2 weeks, then die a painful, but mainly pointless death as part of some community theater group?“

“Yeah, pretty much.“

“Send me to the Hellfire Group then.“

“We have a pick up where?”

“Like I said, at the Rosemary College. It’s at 31st and Sherman, right by the expressway.”

“I know where it is, but, it’s a freaking beauty school! There is no way this is legit.”

“Why do you think I kicked this one up stairs to you? Mom Hayden didn’t raise too many fools.”

“Otto….”

“Boss, you want me to go?”

“No, I better, besides, I still need to get out more. I’ll find out what the hell is going on.”

Normally, when we get a call from a school of some sort, it’s an open and shut case, and I can send out any body. The public high schools have “School Court”, which is just an Eastlake municipal judge who comes out the the school once a month or so. Most of the private schools require a pre-approved conversion for female students of age, or at least the ones that I deal with, and of course Eastlake University has it’s own court system. But Rosemary ‘College’ is one of those more or less fly by night trade schools and has no legal standing to do conversions. Add in the fact that most of their ’students’ are over 21, meaning no parental conversions, and you can see my issue.

I arrive at the school, where I am directed to the ‘Dean of Admissions’ office. I note that there is a ‘Overview Cards Taken Here’ sign next to the ‘Dean of Admissions’ office. Yeah, rough admissions policy “Did your check clear? Yes, then you are good to go! Welcome to the class of July, 2008!” The door says “Pearlie Masden, Dean” on it. Any rate, I open the door and find 2 totally nude women sort of sit/standing on cheap chairs.

A middle aged women, dressed like you think the ‘Dean’ of a beauty school in Oklahoma would be dressed looks up from the papers on her desk.
“Are you from the slaving place?”

“Yes, I am. Mike West of Spellbook Slaves at your service”

“Good. Take Valene and Carry with you. If I may be bold, I suggest that they would make great roasts. Or use them to train fighting dogs. Maybe one of those slow hangs things I see on the TV some days. But that’s just me. I don’t deal well with stupid.”

“Ok, Ms. Masden, that may be what happens, but on what grounds?”

“Oh, well, I assumed that is what happens to dumb slaves. I mean could you use them for sex, but really, wouldn’t killing them be so much better? I mean, isn’t that what you really want to do?”

I’m starting to think that Ms. Masden has a bit of a fixation on snuffing slaves, or at least these two.
“Well, let’s not put the cart before the horse here. What I meant was what ground do I have to convert them?” I turn to the two nudes. “I assume you aren’t volunteering”

Carry, the one on the right, just sort of looks up at the ceiling, and rolls her eyes, Valene more or less snorts “Whatever. No, as if we would do that. Take her, I mean, really, she didn’t tells us that there her freaking school had books and test, I mean, like, when do we get to cool cosmetics tricks Huh?   They never did that, so it’s not like we got what we signed for any way…”

Carry adds in “Yeah, like it really matters what the skin HP is.”

Ms. Masden looks like she is going to blow a fuse. “It’s Skin Ph you twit. There is NO WAY I’m letting you out on the world to damage people’s skin and hair. NO WAY YOU HEAR ME! Cosmetics is a SCIENCE AND AN ART. A SCIENCE YOU HEAR ME!”

She turns to me “See! That’s why! Take them, take them both to their painful death!”

Yeah, got some issues here.
“Well, I’m sorry to tell you that not knowing what the Ph scale is, much less as applied to the human body, isn’t a convertible offense in this state. I don’t think it is in any state, actually.”

“But they FAILED THEIR TESTS!   They did NOT PASS the state boards!   UNDER 50%!   TWICE!   They lowered my schools average! ”

“Ah, well, that’s not a convertible offense either…”

“But they are on student aid! I’ve got their contracts right here!”

“OK, let me see them.”

She hands me a fairly thick contract. “Sections 7 through 9” I read the sections, noting that each section has a signature block. They boil down to that if you take the student aid package and don’t pass your Cosmetician board test at the end of your training, you could be converted and sold to pay off the loan. My first though on reading this was no one in their right mind would sign it, then I looked at Valene and Carry, and decided that “in their right mind” wasn’t really something I would every say about them. I flipped to the end of the stack, and sure enough there was a drug screen test result from a lab. All the ‘i’ were dotted and the ‘t’ crossed.
“Well, girls, should have read your books.
n

George and his Slaves - Keeping them occupied.

Driving my rental car back from Cov”s - Earnie”s Mistress - I glanced frequently at
Hillary in the seat next to me. She was nude, but I”d left her wrists unbound, instead of
cuffed behind the headrest like they”d been on the trip out. She”d been subdued the
whole day, since I accepted the group decision that she would be the one to accompany
me. She”d been compliant - that was the best word - in giving me some background on
her former friend, and then taking the part I”d instructed in the event itself.

She”d turned downright pensive afterwards, when she”d knelt beside me while I
discussed Earnie”s future with her owners, Cov and Hun. Earnie”s _short_ future.

“Talk to me,” I said, about halfway home. “What”s bothering you?”

“Nothing.” Her voice was flat, and she stared straight forward.

I checked the mirrors - I”d been doing so even more regularly than I”d been looking at
my slave: Driving on the wrong side of the road was going to take some getting used to -
for traffic before looking at her again. “Oh?”

“Nothing, _Master_” stressing the title.

I braced myself against the wheel and slammed on the brakes, throwing her forward into
her seatbelt, and then sped up again, throwing her back.

“Lying to me is bad,” I said as I steadied the car again. “I”ll punish you worse if I catch
you in a lie than if you say something I don”t like. Now what”s bothering you?”

“You”re going to eat her?” She still didn”t look at me, but at least her voice had some
emotion in it.

“Yes, a slice or two. Just to see what it”s like.”

“But that”s cannibalism,”

“Only technically. Legally, I suspect I”d cause more offence eating roast beef in a Hindu
temple.”

She was quiet for another couple of miles. But it was a different quiet to earlier.

“It”s real, isn”t it? You could to exactly the same to one of us,” she whispered very
quietly.

“Yes it is, and yes I could.”

***

Arriving home, I set Hillary to preparing dinner, and quickly padded down to the
basement to see how my other two slaves were getting on.

The basement of my new home was very much a product of the last seven or so years.
There were attachment points all over the place, and a movable pulley system like a
mechanic”s chain hoist on tracks from the ceiling. There was also a heavy diagonal
cross - a Saint Andrew”s, I think it”s called - built into the wall

Most of the fittings had been stripped by the previous owner, but the most permanent
installations had been left in place. I”d taken a couple of photos on our shopping trip the
day before, in order to get some advice in refitting everything, and the manager of the
local slave outfitters had recognised it instantly - he”d done most of the original
installation work.

With his help, I”d brought most of what I”d needed to bring my dungeon back up to
scratch, and had orders in for the rest. It was certainly enough to provide Noreen and Tia
with sufficient “entertainment” while I was out.

Tia was strapped tightly into the cross, cuffed ankles and wrists pulled out with ropes
threaded through pulleys at the tip of each arm. Most of her weight was being supported
by wide leather straps around her thighs and waist. Her breasts were squashed flat
between two balsawood boards. Not tightly, but enough so that she would feel it s
something tugged on them.

That something was a rope that passed down between he legs, behind the cross, up
through a series of guides to the ceiling, along to the hoist and down. To Noreen”s wrists.

Noreen was positioned in the middle of the room, her feet spread wide in a set of “ankle
stocks” and bent over at the hip because her arms were bound together behind her back
and lifted away from her in a classic strappado.

It was a nicely tuned little system. To avoid pulling on Tia”s breasts, Noreen had to lift
her arms above a point that she could hold for very long. Conversely, Tia could pull on
her wrist ropes and cause the cleverly built cross to sink on springs and create just enough
slack to give Noreen a respite. The tension in the springs could be adjusted, and I”d set it
- after some trial and error - so that she should hold it about the same length of time as
Noreen could raise her arms.

At neither extreme should the bondage seriously damage either woman, although I
expected Tia”s chest to be tender for a while.

To mix things up a little, both women wore ring gags and had electronic dildos inserted
that randomly varied from pain to pleasure.

As a last, and probably cruel, touch, I”d had them bring one of the new televisions
downstairs and it was looping a DVD that I”d quickly put together the previous night
from the promotional videos for some of the goods I”d brought from the slave outfitters
and some training movies.

As I arrived, the programme was just finishing “Basic Passive Sodomy” and beginning
the promotional spiel for the various lethal collars offered by the supplier. There were a
surprising number of ways to die from a collar around your neck and the video showed
all of them.

Everyone was familiar with the “greater” explosive collars that blew a slave”s head right
off, but there were also the “lesser” explosive collars that used a much smaller charge to
blow out the throat or spine. There were collars that used a fine wire to garrotte the
victim, and ones that used a broader metal band to choke them to death. Overcharged
electric shock collars could do the job, too, and there were poisons, venoms and even
acids for the more exotically inclined.

I”d had one of the store slaves explain them all in detail to my slaves, and they paled
when I chose one of the exotics. Tetrodotoxin - Puffer fish poison - was one of the more
painful and messy ways to go, the store slave explained, with the victim often remaining
conscious through increasing gastric distress and then paralysis over the course of four to
six hours. The promo showed a strongly sanitised version of this, but I had a full length
movie record from exposure to expiry that I was saving for a penultimate warning.

I checked my watch and decided that this was the third time they would have seen this, so
I reached for the remote that I”d left by the door.

The movement attracted Tia”s attention, and she called out an obvious, if
incomprehensible, plea to be let down.

That caught Noreen”s notice and she twisted to see who was there, which, of course
pulled on the rope. I laughed and slipped out of my clothes as Tia yelped and Noreen
groaned in frustration.

Naked, I wandered slowly across the room, paused for a rope-jerking slap on Noreen”s
ass and stopped in front of Tia. A quick examination reassured me that there didn”t seem
to be any significant damage and I unclipped the rope from the boards, letting it fall to the
ground.

“Nearly done,” I told her as I reached down between her legs to flip switch on the dildo
from random to pleasure. She shuddered as the toy began its gentle stimulation.

Noreen felt the tension release as the rope fell and was beginning to straighten up when I
picked up the rope and pulled it painfully taut again. “Not quite yet,” I called out to her.
“Hold position for a couple of minutes.”

I picked up the claw/hook that I”d used to thread the rope through the ceiling pulleys and
unthreaded it again, back to the last pulley above Noreen. I flipped her dildo to pleasure,
then grabbed to rope and pulled her wrists far enough up to force her to bend till her head
was at the level of my crotch.

My intent when I stepped in front of her was obvious, and she went to work immediately,
wiggling the opening of the ring gag to get it over the head of my penis, then laving her
tongue liberally over everything it could reach.

It was unfair, I suppose: Earnestine had left me drained. Still, I managed a stand, so I
pulled out and, stripping the rope down through the last pulley, undid the ankle stocks
and led her over and used it to secure her to one of the padded horses.

Out of perverse whim, I left the dildo in place as I lubed up her sphincter and forced my
way past. Yeesss, much more comfortable than the virginally tight Earnie.

I could feel the bulk of the toy filling her other orifice, but not its more subtle electrical
effects, as I started o saw in and out to the rhythm of Noreen”s grunts. Unless that was a
slight tingle, just at the sensitive spot on the underside of my cock?

Wow! I DID feel it when the dildo started vibrating! I started pounding harder and faster
and then lost all control when Noreen orgasmed and squeezed her asshole tight. I came
hard and shot what little semen I”d been able to regenerate into her colon.

“_That_, I liked,” I whispered in her ear as I undid all of her bondage and helped her
upright, and then made her squirm by running my tongue into her ear.

Releasing her with a playful slap on the butt, we proceeded to release her fellow slave.

“Si, thank you patron,” were her first words as I removed the gag. I waited until her
dildo brought her to another orgasm and then released the boards on her breasts at its
peak. Her moan started to turn into a gasp, but reverted to a moan as I licked, and then
gently sucked her right nipple. Motioning Noreen to join me, we spent a couple of
minutes soothing her abused flesh before continuing.

Bracing myself in front of her, I had Noreen undo the waist belt, and then release the arm
ropes so that she flopped down onto me, wrapping me in a tight embrace while Noreen
freed her legs. Tia leaned her whole weight on me briefly before getting her feet under
her. I used the opportunity to give her a good hug as I let her go.

“So, my pretties, did you learn anything?”

They both nodded and Noreen added “But you tied me down too tightly to try anything.”

“You”ll get another chance, but it”s Tia”s turn tonight. You”re in the pussy eating
hogtie.”

The Final Survivor

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The local and national news outlets were in full crisis mode; building up hysteria about other potential attacks by the Underground Railroad. Candace Walter”s head exploding in a spray of red gore was at the top of every news story. Marcelle knew that she was in serious trouble and feared that news rumors of a well-placed anti-slavery mole in Eastlake may been the reason her organization had been so easily wiped out. “A traitor,” she whispered cautiously. “Could a traitor have exposed us?” Marcelle decided it didn”t matter, her mission was now to survive. “I”ve already done my bit against slavery,” she told herself. “Now, I have to move on and try and make a new life.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hours later, she returned to her office and reviewed the computer-based security videos to remove any visual sign that tied her to the women or even that they”d been in the hotel at all. Discovering that two of the rooms were taken with false identities and that Marcelle had used a dead teammate”s credit card only as identification before paying cash had been a huge relief. “I don”t have to leave records that they even entered. Ah, here”s the piece showing Marcelle Fair leaving this morning.” Holly sighed and then deleted that entry as well.

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

The Aftermath - Part V

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

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

“Sorry, honey,” Sheila whispered to her former best friend in the world. “It”s only business, you know. The revolution must live on and you are the only remaining link that could bring me down.” She lovingly rubbed the quivering face of her lover. “You understand, - don”t you?”

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

Sheila picked up her discarded towel, wrapped it around her lush form, and picked up the phone. “Holly, honey,” she purred. “It”s that time. I want you to have my slavegirls picked up right now. Yes, - I know your concerns, - but we already covered this in great detail. Oh, - by the way, send a cart large enough for three. And, - I want them gutted and spitted within the hour, - after all, you know the consequences if you don”t get them roasting. You will follow my directions exactly if you don”t want to be linked to tonight”s events.”

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

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

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

“Holly doomed herself when she didn”t call for help after recognizing me. Plus, the camera that Gabrielle Crooks was running of the NMG headquarters clearly caught Holly”s look of recognition in the background behind where the tasered Mistress twitched on the sidewalk. Priceless!” Sheila muttered with real satisfaction. “We had to quickly get a program together to handle that huge Mistress, but it was well worth it. I hope to start releasing video clips of her humiliation soon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Normally,” Holly lectured to Sheila and Gabrielle as the Jessica 3000 sprang to life, beginning a merciless fucking motion into Gabrielle”s softly bucking form, “it”s recommended to let the machine fuck and shock the meat into prime tenderness for several cycles before triggering the pneumatic gutting and spitting process. Unfortunately, we”re in a hurry, so you and Gabrielle won”t get the full benefit of the torture you bitches so richly deserve. Instead, I”ll let Gabrielle feel the pain of an accelerated program where the cock expands bigger and harder and the shocks are much more intense. Plus, the nipple heaters and clit burner hurt like hell.”

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

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

Holly turned to Sheila, “Once I open the opposite shutters, anyone at this end of the lobby will see today”s dinner entrees cooking.” She smirked at her blackmailer and added dryly, “I hope you noticed that our dinner special is half off on a Chef”s Special.” She gestured toward the three bodies already on the roaster and continued, “We all know that alternate meat like this isn”t really live roasted despite the label of “live roaster”. However, if you carefully examined our Dinner Special advertisement, you”d have seen that today we prepare a real delicacy, although I don”t especially enjoy the pungent wild-meat taste.” Holly took Sheila”s chin in a tight squeeze and added, “It”s one hundred percent, live roasted, unprocessed girl, - Sheila-meat.”

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

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

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

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

Sheila came to full attention as something cold misted across her body. “Hmmph!” she cried. A little blood dribbled off her tongue where a skewer held it outside a ringgag locked behind her incisors. Holly didn”t want Sheila swallowing her tongue and dying any earlier than possible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A chill went down Holly”s spine at the news. “Who else knew the identities of the escapees from BEACON Team?” She sat sweating in fear. “I have to be sure the last surviving member, Marcelle, is found and accounted for if I want to severe the line of evidence leading back to Sheila and then myself,” Holly told herself fiercely. “The problem is, - why hasn”t her identity been released? And, what about the other three pigs cooking downstairs? Why aren”t the authorities looking for Gabrielle, Mary, and Shelly? Marcelle couldn”t have exposed the two escapees on her team; there simply wasn”t enough time for that. Or, - was if it was the Benefactor that set this whole thing up?”

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

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

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

“Mistress, I”m sorry. I didn”t hear you come in,” the slave wheedled. The kitchen seemed to lurch—the voice was that of Constance Remora! What was she doing here?

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

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

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

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

“Do that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The next slide said “WHAT A WASTE OF T&A” and showed close-ups of their massive breasts and tightly-packed butts. Slide Four was a photo of a woman roasting over the coals—one of the photos from Spellbook Slaves. I had a small copyright notice on the photo. No way Bethany”s little Tiffany was going to be converted for a little piracy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wheaton Heights Community Patrol Slave Sale details

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

SlaveBay and SlaveBay style auction rules

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

THE CASTLEMAN TRUST SERIES
Peter J. Foster

Chapter 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!