Went West - Part 2a

[dtrelsky]

(This is part one of two, covering the first week of obedience school. It's still a bit rough, so please let me know what you think.)

(The concluding portion will be ready Monday or Tuesday - I'm rewriting it a bit because I wasn't happy with it.)

(And I promise that all of the subplots will be resolved by the end of this series!)

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I awoke the next morning, completely unready for my first full day at the ol’ biscuit factory.

“Biscuit factory” - such a dumb term, but I can’t stop using it. I want to giggle every time I hear crabby Rhonda say it, but now I’m using it myself and have to stop myself from giggling whenever I think it. I think I’m going loopy from lack of caffeine.

Anyway, this is how it would go for the next week: we rolled out of our cages after the doors were unlocked remotely, and assumed the “present” position (kneeling, knees spread, with our hands clasped behind our heads) on the rubber matting, awaiting our trainer. She (it was always Mistress Stefania in the morning) would inspect us, then start in on our morning exercises: stand, inspect, back hands, front hands, down, present, collar, fours, stand, over, open, and on and on and on for what seemed like forever but was probably only an hour or two. From the first day the trainers added in mantras that we had to repeat as we performed each exercise: “I am a slave,” “I love my Master,” “I live to Serve,” “As You wish, Master” — you know, all the stuff you see on SlaveTV and probably read about in that mandatory class in high school.

Then we got a trough of water to drink, a hand-to-shoulder march to the toilets, then outside for more training, which is when Master David usually arrived.

I should explain what outside means: attached to the back of the main building was a large outdoor area with grass patches, gravel walkways, and concrete pads still showing marks from the canine training grounds it clearly used to be. The whole thing was surrounded by high chain-link fencings, and most of it was covered with the same corrugated metal roof as the main building, but the grassy areas were uncovered and sunny, as was the bleachers area that ran the length of one side.

Bleachers? I can hear you asking, and the answer is yes: bleachers. Several sets, arranged so that they could view every part of the outdoor training area, they were inside their own fenced area immediately adjacent to the parking lot.

The best part? There was a gate directly between the bleachers and the training area, closed with a padlock on the inside.

Once again, I thought, that does not bode well.

With Master David present we would begin more interactive drilling like, for example, leash training: Mistress Stefania would walk us around (on two or four legs) by a leash on our collars, with Master David providing critiques (and the occasional pop from his whip) to teach us how to walk the correct distance from our master, to match her pace, to walk with our gaze lowered, to predict when she would stop so we could stop without running into her, to kneel immediately when master gave a certain tug on the leash, etcetera. Turns out I’m something of a natural, and Master David used me to demonstrate some do’s and don’ts, so I guess I can put that on my LinkedIn profile.

One highlight of my first week: I got to pee outside like an animal. One patch of grass was reserved for slave relief, and I had to go, so Mistress Stefania walked me over there and pointed with her whip to a spot on the ground. I walked over to it, squatted down like I had seen the others do at the highway rest stops, and tried to hit the spot without getting too much on myself — all while Mistress Stefania corrected my posture with her words and her whip handle. It was thoroughly humiliating, to say the least; I tried to picture myself camping rough in the Australian Outback with one of the Hemsworth brothers. Okay, all of the Hemsworth brothers.

Did I mention that Master David paused the class so everyone could watch me? At least he praised my technique.

At some point around noon (I can’t say for sure - no clocks anywhere, like being in a Las Vegas casino) we would go inside for lunch (kibble) and water - now we had to kneel in “present” position while they passed out the bowls, and couldn’t move a muscle until one of the trainers gave us permission to feed (Tracy tried that the first day, picking up the bowl immediately, and got her butt popped with a whip for her trouble). We had to eat and drink without hands, like livestock, and when we were done we had to resume “present” to let the trainers know.

After a rest in our cages, line up for another session of mantras (“Without my Master, I am Worthless,” etc.) and back outside for some specialized training like, for instance, our introduction to bondage: mostly learning how to cooperate while being bound, and move while handcuffed, then handcuffed and shackled, then handcuffed and shackled and linked together in a coffle, and so on.

After a full day of training and more training, we went inside to perform our evening chores (I continued to pilot a dust mop), then we got to clean ourselves up.

Each shower area was out in the open, and had exactly two shower heads: so myself, Ariel and Vanessa usually found ourselves standing face-to-face under one shower head, our naked breasts and bellies touching as the hot water ran over us, trying to clean the sweat and dirt off ourselves with a single squirt each of gel soap doled out to us by Marta the house slave.

Then a quick rinse with cold water (wether we were ready or not) and a walk through the dryer frame (like those air dryers at automated car washes - it didn’t dry us worth a damn, but it got us through quickly… although to be honest, I kind of liked the blast of warm air on my freshly shaved regions), a few minutes with hair brushes to help keep us from looking entirely like circus clowns or lunatics, and off to stand in front of our cages to recite mantras some more (e.g. “All Free Men are my Superiors”) before we were finally put to bed. The last one in her cage got a pop on the bottom from Master David’s whip (which I fortunately managed to avoid) to encourage her not to dawdle.

So that’s how we spent our days.

Probably the first really interesting one was our first class on submissiveness practice: the idea was to have us experience basic submissive actions, then (though they didn’t tell us this part) perform them over and over until the acts became second nature. We were lined up side-by-side, kneeling on rubber pads on the concrete, facing Master David. He called out “F1!”: Ariel got on all fours and crawled to him, her head down the entire time, and at the proper distance assumed the down position (kneeing, back straight, chest out, knees far apart, hands upturned on thighs, head tilted down), and said “What is your wish, Master?”

“I watched you come over," Master David said, “So you don’t need to announce your presence or burden your Master with a question. Slaves are seen and not heard. Go back.” He glanced at Mistress Stefania, who flicked her whip at Ariel’s lovely bottom, causing her to jump and squeal. Ariel returned calmly but quickly to her place in line, retaining as much dignity as possible. Tough break being the first in line: she always got be the first to learn what the trainers wanted by making mistakes, so she got more than her fair share of being “corrected.”

“F2!”

I got on all fours and crawled to Master David. I had noticed two things: first, that he had stared at Ariel the entire time she crawled to him, and second, one of his feet was placed slightly ahead of the other. So when I reached him instead of immediately assuming down, I looked up into his face, then leaned forward and planted a kiss on the toe of his extended boot before moving into down, where I sat silently with my gaze lowered.

In my peripheral vision I could see David looking over at Stefania with raised eyebrows before looking back at me. “Good girl,” he said, took something out of his pocket and tossed it in front of me: it was a “biscuit,” a “Scooby snack,” a “nookie cookie,” — a slave treat.

I crossed my hands behind my back, leaned forward and scooped up the little cookie with the tip of my tongue, brought it into my mouth and turned it around so that it rested perpendicular with my tongue. I stuck out my tongue to display it, then brought it back into my mouth, swallowed it with a minimum of chewing, and stuck my tongue out again to show that I had eaten all of it.

I leaned forward again and touched my head to the ground, then leaned back up into down position.

Master David nodded. “Go back, and well done,” he said.

I should probably end the story of my first slave treat there, but I have to mention that when poor Vanessa went next, she tried to do the same thing I did but instead of a single kiss on the toe, she started polishing it with her tongue, running it all over the shiny boot leather. After a few passes, Master David stopped her, said, “Don’t overdo it. Go back,” and Vanessa got a stripe on her butt to match the one on Ariel.

I saw Vanessa shoot me a look of pure venom before regaining her composure.

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Another first: as soon as I went “outside” for the first time, my earpiece crackled to life and I had the chirpy voice I’d been waiting for filling my head.

“Miss Ontkean! It’s Amy! Can you hear me? Are you okay?”

I could communicate with her through my earpiece through some sort of “subvocalization” technology - if I speak with my mouth closed, it detects the vibrations and turns that into text that Amy can read.

Best to start this off on the right foot:

Where the fuck have you been? I subvocaled.

“I’m sorry Miss Ontkean,” Amy stammered, then went on to explain that for some eye-glazingly complex reason she could only “lock on” to me when I was outside the steel frame of the school. Meaning I’d only be able to upload my recordings - and communicate with my lifeline - for a few hours each day.

Any news? I asked.

No, she said, but she was grabbing my accumulated video now, she would update me when Marla had reviewed it, and did I need anything?

I actually was glad to hear from her, and to be in touch with the outside world again. But I had a reputation to protect…

First, a cup of coffee large enough to drown myself in, I replied.

Second, I continued, next time we talk, patch me through to that treacherous whore Marla.

Amy audibly gulped; I filed that away for the future.

Third, I concluded, find out whatever you can about these trainers - I looked at Stefania and David through the glasses - and let me know right away.

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The bleachers were occupied the next day.

Spectators started appearing in late morning. The very first group was a bunch of white high school boys: they were audibly disappointed that there were so few slaves on display, and those mostly “old ladies” — thanks, fellas — although one skinny little white kid with glasses told his friends that he thought the black chick was pretty cute. When they were done razzing him (nothing racial, more like “slaves aren’t cute, dingus”) they turned to us. I got a number of critiques, including my hair length (it apparently makes me a “big ol’ dyke” for some reason) and we all got called “grandma” while they compared our allegedly saggy tits and asses.

Do schools not employ truancy officers anymore? Sheesh.

The boys were actually easy to ignore, they were just boys after all; the adults, not so much.

Some of it was predictable: lots of office workers, mostly male, showed up after our noon break, and more blue-collar types, entirely male, later in the afternoon. The former watched us and laughed among themselves, while the latter would call out to us (reminding me of the truckers at rest stops - except that now I was one of the targets) and make crude suggestions or requests, and they gave some of us nicknames: Rhonda got “Chesty” (narrowly beating out “Junktrunk,” which was disappointing; it at least had the virtue of being somewhat creative), Vanessa was “Momma Red,” and Ariel was “Beyoncé” despite looking nothing at all like the celebrity. Maybe that’s the only black woman’s name they know?

Once again I felt like a gazelle before a pack of lions, or more accurately a hen in a coop surrounded by foxes.

I found the most interesting ones to be the soccer moms: early in the mornings - presumably after dropping off the kids at school - a number of middle-age, middle-class white ladies, mostly wearing athletic gear, often with their hair pulled back in pony tails or stuffed under ball caps, and carrying big containers of coffee (those bitches) would gather on the bleachers and talk quietly among themselves, while watching us closely. Sometimes they would take photos or videos with their phones, sometimes write in big journals, and other times they would all look at one of us and the conversation would increase followed by nodding or head shaking.

No idea what they’re up to.

The second morning we were practicing presentation positions - that is, positions to display our physical assets and provide ready access to our owners - mostly, I think, to get us used to being sexually available 24/7, advertising that availability out in public, and to respond to commands without hesitation.

So as you might imagine, it involved lots of spreading our legs, pulling open our butt cheeks, kneeling with our mouths open, and so forth. It was humiliating, which was the point, and we did it over and over and over.

I would sneak a look at the bleachers whenever I could, and I noticed more of that scribbling and photo taking and consulting of phones and tablets - except for one woman, a blonde white lady with a thin, athletic build but incongruously large boobs (probably fake). She had lowered her journal into her lap and was watching just me. Intensely.

Amy! I sub-voc’d. Find out what those women are doing.

“Um, sure,” she replied, “I’ll do a face scan on them and see if I can get their names, but I’m not sure how I’m going to find out—“

Ask them, I said.

“What?” She asked, sounding alarmed.

Come here in person, I said. Dress like them. Talk to them. Let them know you’re interested in whatever they’re doing. Make them think you could become part of their group.

A full minute of silence, then: “Seriously?”

Welcome to journalism, kiddo, I said, as I spread my butt cheeks apart for the thousandth time.

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You know what else is common in journalism? Not getting the answers you want…or expect.

During the next morning’s training, I heard from Amy.

Nothing surprising about the trainers: Master David was former military but had a number of years of experience as a trainer, most recently for HCI, first as a contractor then as a full-time regular. He’d been certified in New York state so he wasn’t a native, but his license and bond were current for New Mexico.

As I guessed, Stefania was the junior partner: associate’s degree in Non-voluntary Resource Management (that’s one of the polite terms for being a slave overseer), she had only been certified for a little over a year and HCI was her first real job as a trainer; apparently she had just passed through her probationary period.

No word yet on the Coffee Club. Face scan matches had turned up names for a few of the members, and surprise! they were all middle-class soccer moms from the suburbs of Albuquerque.

They have to be coordinating their meetings somehow, I subvocaled, there are too many for them to be doing it all by text message. Search Faceboard and other social media for a group calendar or contact info.

“Then what?” Amy asked.

For fuck’s sake, woman, I replied, then you go join them.

“Oh,” Amy stammered, “Oh yeah, that’s right. Hey, that reminds me: Marla said she wants to talk to you on Friday, when I come to visit, so you two can have a private conversation on my phone. She said to hang on until then.”

That disease-riddled skank, I subvocaled, I can’t wait, I need to talk to her NOW.

“I’ll tell her you insist, but I can’t make her do anything.” Amy said. “Sorry, Frankie. But it’s only two days away! Can I bring you anything?”

A gallon jug of Stone Mountain cold brew coffee, I replied, willing myself to get it together, And a cheeseburger as big as Marla’s fat ass.

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That afternoon I noticed that we had a larger audience for our training, and we quickly learned why: while we went over our mantras, Marta rolled out a large crate onto the strip between our exercise area and began unloading them. Mistress Stefania joined her, and when they were finished I saw a row of metal posts screwed into the ground, and onto each post they slid a metal ring, and onto the ring they stuck…a rubber penis.

“Oh, no,” Janet gasped, the first thing I’d heard from her in a while. She’d become very quiet over the past few days, to the point of being sullen, unlike her friends Rhonda (snarking whenever she could) and Tracy (always in a good mood, even in slave training).

One at a time, we were marched over to a post, told to kneel on the rubber pad in front of it (as if that wasn’t obvious), and rest our lips on the tip of the dildo while Mistress Stefania adjusted the ring up or down so we weren’t straining to reach it.

When we were all in place, Master David stopped next to each of us and ordered us to take the dildo in our mouths. As each one of us did so, the crowd murmured with interest.

Finally, Master David instructed us: “Bob your head up and down on the dildo, fast but not too fast, good healthy strokes, find a rhythm, but get as much in your mouth as you can on each insertion. These are small beginner’s dummies; I expect that by the time we’re finished today you will have the entire length in your mouth with each insertion; you will know because the little light-“ a small red LED wired to the ring, directly in front of and slightly above my nose, “-will come on when your nose touches the ring. Now begin,” and he blew a whistle.

I started bobbing, and I could see in my peripheral vision that Vanessa and Ariel were doing likewise. These rubber dicks were only about four inches long, and not very big around, so it shouldn’t take much doing to light up the red bulb.

The crowd got louder, commenting on our progress, technique, enthusiasm, and placing bets on who would be first; that’s when I learned that my nickname was “Bob” - I’m assuming because of my bobbed hair style?

Oh jeez, I just realized: it’s not because of my hair at all, is it?

I willed my throat to relax, timed my breathing to coincide with the back stroke, and before long my nose touched the ring. I was first! But the light didn’t come on, so I kept bobbing and hit the ring six times in a row: the light went on, Master David came up behind me and told me to sit back and rest.

The crowd cheered and applauded. For me. For deep-throating a rubber dong.

The things I do for a living…

I looked around: Vanessa was close behind me, and hit her six while I was catching my breath. The others were doing okay, except for Janet.

Mistress Stefania was standing beside her, a hand on her shoulder, as Janet slowly shook her head and shuddered from time to time - I noticed tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. Master David knelt in front of her and spoke quietly until she nodded, then he looked up at Stefania and jerked his head toward the school building; she clipped a leash to Janet’s collar and took her inside.

Would they beat her? I assumed she would be punished for not doing what she was told, for, well, disobedience. But if they were going to do that, wouldn’t they have done it on the spot, and publicly? Or at least in front of the five of us?

For that matter, why did I do what I was told? It suddenly hit me: I had knelt like a good little slave in front of a dildo and sucked it to “completion” in front of a cheering crowd without a moment’s hesitation. Not only that, but I actually put some effort into it. I was briefly proud when I finished first.

Y’know, I was once nominated for a news Emmy.

Now I suck rubber dongs.

I began to realize that the conditioning was more subtle than I gave it credit for; I had expected a lot more screaming and whipping and brainwashing, but none of that had happened. I still had my identity, I was just more… comfortable with performing like a slave.

Did that mean I was becoming more comfortable with being a slave?

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That evening I auto-piloted my dust mop as usual while turning over the day’s events in my mind.

No sign of Janet. Rhonda and Tracy were worried, and I could see their agitation even though I couldn’t speak to them (one of the rules - we could only speak to each other on our own time, which was after lights out).

On top of that, Vanessa was clearly upset about something; I should probably address that sooner rather than later.

She was wiping down some baseboards on the far end of the school, so I pushed the mop over to her and paused to re-attach the mop head to its metal frame.

“Hey Vanessa,” I murmured, not looking directly at her (and feeling like I was in an old prison escape movie), “You seem like you’re mad about something. Is everything okay?”

Vanessa glanced up at me, flashing a look of anger before resetting her expression. She continued wiping for a moment, ignoring me, then answered through gritted teeth: “I am angry that you are competing against me for the Diamond, and you are winning.”

I looked over at her, my mouth hanging open, then regained my composure and said “What? What the hell are you talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb,” Vanessa replied. "You’ve been scoring better than me in every class, you’re doing everything right, and today you beat me in the throating competition. Master David might think you’re perfect, but you’re not.”

“I don’t know anything about any competition or some dumb diamond,” I said. “I’m not trying to compete with you in any way, I promise.”

“I don’t believe you,” she said, almost whispering, “Well, I need it and you and your firm little titties don’t, so watch your back.” With that, she started scrubbing the baseboard section with all her might.

I moved away from Vanessa and sped up so that I was almost at a trot, pushing the dust mop hard and fast as I steered it for the toilet area where Master David stood, scrolling through his data pad.

I slammed the dust mop right into an unattended bucket full of dirty water and splashed it all over the floor, and all over Master David’s boots.

I stopped in my tracks, frozen in place and staring wide-eyed at Master David, while he raised up first one foot, then the other, examining the ruined shine of his boots.

“Dios mío!” Marta cried as she pushed past me and fell to her knees in front of him, wiping a cloth across his boots.

“Dammit, Marta,” Master David said, annoyed. “Where has your head been at lately? I swear you’re getting to be more trouble than you’re worth. I’m going to have to punish you for that, so get up-“

I immediately fell on my knees and bowed low, resting my outstretched arms on the floor. “Master, I am the one who ran into the bucket. It’s my fault, I wasn’t paying attention. I am very sorry,” I said.

Master David looked from me to Marta to me, then said “F2, up.” He clipped a leash to my collar, telling Marta to “stop wiping my boots and clean this mess up.”

He led me over to the cages, blew his whistle, and the other four students and Mistress Stefania hurried over.

“Down,” he said, and all of the students knelt in front of him.

“Ordinarily we don’t cover punishment protocol until week two, but since Little Miss Daydreamer here dirtied a perfectly clean floor and ruined the shine on my boots, we’re going to give you all a preview of next week’s curriculum. Stefania?”

Mistress Stefania took my leash, led me to one of the cages, and had me bend over it with my arms outstretched. She produced a set of shackles from her belt, locked one cuff around my wrist and ran the long connecting chain through one of the cage bars on the other side, then back to lock the other cuff around my remaining wrist. I felt my legs being kicked wide apart, then each ankle was secured to another cage bar with something thin that cut uncomfortably into my skin - probably a plastic cable tie.

So there I was: naked, cuffed and tied, bent over a cage, my ass offered up to the world, hadn’t even been a slave for a week and I was already facing my second punishment beating. I wondered if it would be as bad as the one Nicolaides gave me on the side of the highway? I guess I was about to find out.

“The most important principle of being a slave is obedience,” Master David lectured the others. “That must guide your every waking thought and action. You are slaves, you no longer get to daydream or lose yourself in thought: you have to pay attention to every single thing you do, and do it to the utmost of your ability, for that is how you demonstrate obedience to your master…”

Blah blah blah, I thought, Just get on with it.

Finally I felt a hand on the small of my back as Master David spoke quietly into my ear: “I’m going to give you four for not paying attention, and four more for disappointing me. It’s a damn shame, you were doing so well.”

He straightened up and said in a louder voice: “Eight lashes. F2, do not move or resist or I will double the amount, and I would prefer that you not make me because it’s been a long day and we’d all like to go to bed.”

A moment later I heard a sharp crack and felt a searing pain on my left butt cheek. I gasped out loud, but managed to stay still.

Another crack and another white-hot pain on my right butt cheek. I felt like I was being scalded, and tears formed in my eyes, but I managed to stay still and only let out a loud grunt.

Now that I knew what to expect, I thought maybe it would get easier, but no: three and four were just as bad. I started to cry in earnest, and let out a yelp with each blow.
I tensed my posterior muscles for number five, but it didn’t come. I started to count in my head: one thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three… but when I got to ten, still nothing. I eased up a little; maybe he had changed his mind?

Number five hit my unready ass, and I shrieked in pain and surprise.

The fucker had done that deliberately, waiting, watching for my muscles to relax.

Six and seven came quickly, and were just as bad. At this point I was shuddering with both pain and humiliation — I will never get used to being punished in front of an audience.

Number eight was the coup de grace: somehow Master David landed the tip of the whip right on the skin between my anus and my vagina, just below my ability to protect myself by clamping my cheeks together.

I think I must have howled. I don’t really remember, all I could see was a series of lightning flashes inside my eyelids.

What I do remember is Mistress Stefania cutting me loose, and I lowered my self to the floor. I couldn’t really kneel, so I did a half-kneeling, half-on-all-fours thing where I placed most of my weight on my arms.

Master David continued his lecture: “When your master disciplines you, he is taking valuable time out of his day, spending it to instruct you on how to avoid disappointing him and how to better serve him in the future. So therefore, you should thank him.”

He turned to me. “F2, what do you have to say?”

Go fuck yourself, you self-impressed little pile of dog shit—

“Thank you for instructing me, sir,” is what I actually said, and bowed my head.

Master David faced the others again, then held the coiled whip out away from his side.

I knew what he wanted, and I didn’t want to give it to him — but I also didn’t want another set of strokes.

So I crawled slowly over and came up beside him, did the half-kneeling thing, and closed my eyes while I kissed the fucking whip. He swapped whip hands and petted me on the head, saying, “Good girl.”

I lowered my head to the floor, stretching my arms out before me and raising my ass in the air as though inviting another round.

I guess I am a good girl.

I glanced up at him, tall and stern in his uniform, and felt a drop of moisture roll down my inner thigh.

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That evening I laid in my cage after lights out. My bottom was sore, and according to Tracy “red as a cherry.” Master David had not broken the skin - I didn’t know wether to be surprised or impressed - but I had some raised welts and would probably have bruises tomorrow.

When we all showered together afterward, Vanessa had taken my hand and given me a kiss on the cheek, apologizing for being a “stupid old woman” and said that my knocking over a bucket of dirty water was the “most selfless thing anyone had ever done for her.” Tears were forming in her eyes, so even though I felt like my ass was literally on fire I kissed her back and reassured her, telling her no problem and hoped she believed me now.

As I laid in the cage on my belly, Vanessa stroked my head through the bars, and Ariel likewise rubbed my feet; being a hero had its perks. But eventually I told them to stop so they could get some rest, and we all went to sleep.

A while later (couldn’t have been long after I went to sleep) I felt my cage door open and looked up to see Marta, the house slave, smiling at me, holding one of the key fobs that the trainers used to open the doors when they didn’t want to use their data pads. She put a finger to her lips, and gestured for me to follow her.

Why not, I thought, What’s another beating between friends? and followed her.

Marta led me to the supply room near the door to the trainer’s area. Once were inside, I looked around (crowded with shelves full of supplies, cleaning items, training equipment in rolling boxes, sacks of kibble, with Marta’s sleeping cage at the far end next to a door) while she rolled out something that looked like a yoga mat and spread a towel on it. She smiled and gestured for me to lay on it, touching her face and pointing down. So I laid on it face down, and a moment later felt something cold splat on my lower back.

“Okay?” I heard her ask.

“Sure,” I replied. What’s the worst that could happen?

She began rubbing something into the skin of lower back, butt cheeks, and upper thighs that made my skin tingle, like Biofreeze or something. It felt really good on my throbbing muscles, but what felt even better was when she rubbed a little on the spot that Master David had hit with his last stroke, between my cunt and my asshole (yes, I get more vulgar when I relax).

I sighed happily, and Marta continued to massage me, moving from my lower body to my upper back, shoulders and neck. It felt terrific - I had no idea how tense my muscles were.

Marta stopped, and we sat together in companionable silence for a moment.

“Eff Too,” Marta said, “Eres un reportera?” (“Are you a reporter?”)

I rolled over on my side and faced her - she was smarter than I gave her credit for, she figured out I was a journalist and that I spoke Spanish.

“Sí, reportera de investigación. Además, puedes llamarme Frankie, por favor.” (“Yes, an investigative reporter. Also, please call me Frankie.”)

Marta smiled again, went over to the bags of kibble and reached into the stacks, fishing out a data pad. It looked pretty beat-up, but Marta powered it on. She plugged earbuds into one of the ports, put one in her ear and handed the other one to me.

I sat beside her, our backs resting against the kibble sacks, as she pulled up video streams from the school’s surveillance system: lots of silent, black-and-white video showing the training areas, the showers, the sleeping areas, the front reception, and so forth.

I started to ask what she wanted to show me when Marta flipped the display to some color video feeds.

They largely covered the same areas as the black & white ones, with a few additions that I didn’t immediately recognize: one had to be the trainer’s day office, and the others had to be the trainer’s overnight quarters. A trainer was in the building with us at all times in case of emergency, including while we slept, but I noticed that Stefania had pulled every overnight shift so far. Rank has its privileges, I suppose.

Marta opened one video feed to full screen, and I discovered that I was more right than I knew: it was one of the night quarters, seated on a chair facing the camera at a three-quarter view was Master David in his full trainer uniform, and kneeling in front of him was Mistress Stefania.

Except that she wasn’t “Mistress” right now, but instead completely naked, and with her long hair pulled into a pony tail I could see the metal collar around her neck, making her “slave naked.”

Now that her body wasn’t hidden inside a baggy trainer uniform, I could see that she was quite a lovely young woman: light-tan skin, no fat on her at all but not thin enough to show ribs, narrow hips, a tight little ass, small perky breasts with largish nipples, toned legs, and (I must admit, to my surprise) a tattoo: located on the small of her back, the kind often called a “tramp stamp”, this one featuring intertwined roses and some words in gothic letters.

I pointed to the tattoo and whispered to Marta, “Que es eso?” (“What is this?”)

“Mi Vida Loca,” she replied (“My Crazy Life”), then turned on the sound:

“…no way it was an accident, she’s too smart for that,” Master David said. “I wonder what was going through her head?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Stefania replied. I realized now that she was polishing David’s boots back to their mirror-like shine.

“Eh, it doesn’t really matter. Let’s have a look,” he said, and she sat back on her heels while he raised his feet one after the other and admired her handiwork.

“Perfect as usual,” he said.

Stefania lowered her gaze. “Thank you, sir.”

“For sure you’re better at it than anyone I knew in the Air Force,” he said. “You really like that polishing, don’t you?” he asked, smiling.

“Yes, sir.”

“Is it the service aspect, or the submission, or the humiliation of performing a menial chore while naked in front of someone else?”

“All of those, sir,” she replied.

“How would you like to do it for the next Open House? I could put you in a hood so no one could see your face, chain your collar to the bleachers, and you could sit there with your little shoe shine box and polish to your heart’s content. Would you like that?” David asked.

Stefania shuddered. “Yes, sir, I would.”

“Well, I have something else I need polishing while I work through the details,” he said, and opened the fly of his pants. His penis was longer than I expected - maybe seven inches? - and a bit on the skinny side, uncircumcised, but on the whole not bad. “Get to it, I need to head home pretty soon.”

“I live to serve, sir,” Stefania said, as she placed her hands behind her back, leaned forward, and took the tip of his cock in her big, full lips, sucking it slightly then swirling it with her tongue before starting to slowly swallow its length.

“Of course, we’d leave the mouth cover off the hood so that you could do both kinds of polishing,” he mused, “Kind of a ‘full service’ situation. I could set a quota for you, and if you didn’t meet it I would string you up by your wrists and use you for the discipline demonstration-”

The pace of Stefania’s head bobbing quickened.

“Oh yeah, you like that, don’t you?” he continued. “You’d have liked to trade places with F2 tonight, wouldn’t you?” David laughed. “What would those bitches think if they knew that tough, hard-ass Mistress Stefania really wants to be naked in a cage right next to them? Dancing to the whip, then thanking and kissing the feet her supervisor? Being put through her paces in front of every construction worker and office drone in greater Albuquerque?”

Stefania’s head started twisting left and right, working David’s cock, and he let out a short moan.

“You’d probably like to have F2’s mouth on your pussy right now, huh? Or maybe you’d like to have your mouth on her? Don’t deny it, I’ve seen how you look at her. You’re so hot for the collar you’d serve a slave if I told you to.”

He suddenly stood and pulled out of her mouth. “In fact, I’ll bet you’re wet as the Rio Grande right now, aren’t you? Fours,” he commanded. Stefania got on her hands and knees with her legs spread wide, and David ran his hand over her vulva. I could see now that she was clean shaven.

“River’s overflowing its banks,” he said, laughing and shaking his head. He knelt behind her, still fully clothed, and unceremoniously thrust his cock into her vagina. Stefania let out a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, then closed her eyes and dropped her head to her chest, moaning with each of Master David’s thrusts.

“Nosotras tenemos que irnos ahora,” (“We have to go now”) Marta whispered, and closed the video. She stashed the data pad and quickly took me back to my cage.

I sat in the darkness, recalling my conversation with the treacherous Linda in the back of the HCI truck: “HCI is weirdly cheap when it comes to cameras; they only have black & white video, and they never have audio capabilities at all. I have no idea why, but you won’t find a single one in any HCI facility that can hear what you’re saying.”

So what had I been looking at?

------------------------

Conclusion of Part 2 coming soon!

[Hooked6]

FASCINATING! I love little mysteries. I also like the pacing and balance of your writing in this series. Many training stories get so bogged down in repetitive details or at the other end of the spectrum, gloss over things so fast the reader misses out on things. You have managed to create just the right mix of embarrassment, training rules, daily routine AND adding a little mystery at the end. What fun.

I am loving the story and look forward to more!

Hooked6

[gentlemanmariner]

FASCINATING! I love little mysteries. I also like the pacing and balance of your writing in this series. Many training stories get so bogged down in repetitive details or at the other end of the spectrum, gloss over things so fast the reader misses out on things. You have managed to create just the right mix of embarrassment, training rules, daily routine AND adding a little mystery at the end. What fun.

I am loving the story and look forward to more!

Hooked6

Thanks! I'm so glad you liked it, and especially that you picked up on things like my attempts to not make it too repetitive or filled with needless detail. Much appreciated!

[orflash64]

Wow, I can see you put a lot of thought into this story. It's not just the humiliation of Frankie, but a twisting plot of discoveries.

[r1co7]

very nice and rich story developement on the characters