Went West - Part 7

[Mr. Smith]

Greetings all! I'm not dead, it just seemed like it for a while there - I had a pretty rough couple of months dealing with a return of the health thing that completely poleaxed my ability to write creatively (or do much of anything else for that matter). I'm feeling much better now, got a thumbs up from the doc on Monday so here, at last is the next-to-last installment of Went West. It covers week three of obedience school, and this time around features lots of lesbian sex. Hope it's worth the wait!


Fuck this.

Seriously.

Fuck. This. Shit.

Let’s get a few things straight here:

First, I am not actually a slave, and never was one. I’m pretending to be an indentured servant (a slave with a time limit) for a story, because I’m a journalist. My indenture was entirely falsified by a real slave who engineered an escape, substituting myself for her to throw off suspicion long enough for her to get away. Any state agency, the federal USDIS, or non-crooked judge (assuming you can find one) would immediately free me if I presented myself to them. However, I went along with it: initially because I was naked and afraid and chained in a coffle, but later because I was convinced to do so by my employer. My cover story is adequately documented and can withstand casual scrutiny, but not determined digging.

Second, I have no desire to be a slave. I mean come on, nobody does. Well, except maybe Vanessa. So almost no one, anyway, and I don’t fit into that category as I am not sexually excited by being enslaved.

Third, I was supposed to be an observer, going through “Obedience School” to see what the typical slave experience was like and documenting it on video. Instead, I have been twice deliberately targeted for personal humiliation, first by an ex and second by that ex’s colleague. I did not want that, and did not agree to it beforehand.

Fourth, this is my story. I’m calling the shots in the field, although the overall direction of the story is decided in conjunction with Marla, my producer at CNS.

(CNS stands for “Central & Western News Service.” People ask me why they don’t abbreviate it “CWNS” or “C&WNS”? I have no idea, go ask them.)

Which means that my assistant, Amy, is exactly that, my assistant and technical support. Marla gave her an associate producer credit because she would be on-call for the whole month, and to make it easier for her to submit expenses, and probably as a nice bonus for a young woman still in college who’s not yet started her career.

But one of the hazards of work like this is the lack of communication (and that’s especially true of slavery - as you might imagine, I have no access to a phone much less the Internet), which means that your assistant can talk to your boss without you ever knowing about it, and get herself promoted to producer, giving her some authority over the project. And by extension, you.

I thought about all this and more as I waited in the small darkened bedroom. Master Adán (a.k.a. Beardy) had led me here after lights out, and I knelt next to the bed frame, completely naked except for a steel collar which was leashed to a nearby wall ring.

The door opened, and Master Green switched on a desk lamp while I prostrated myself to him like a proper slave.

“Up,” he said in his impossibly deep voice, “I would say there’s no need for that in private, but it’s probably best that you continue observing protocol,” he said, and I raised back up, a little reluctantly.

Maybe I should’ve made this my fifth “point,” but I’m not entirely sure what’s happening: I do not want to be a slave, but I’m learning that acting like a slave is… a turn-on. The kibble & kennels part sucks, and I don’t like performing in public at all, but I find the sexual submission aspects very arousing. That is, when I’m not being forcibly raped by men I detest.

For example, right now I’m kneeling in front of Master Green. He’s a reasonably good-looking guy, a little older than me but in good shape, lots of muscle, shaved head and nicely trimmed beard. To be honest, I’ve never really been attracted to black men. I know, I know, that makes me a terrible person but while I could look at a given black guy and think, “Yeah, he’s hot,” I couldn’t see myself dating or sleeping with him.

(In my defense, I blame my upbringing in Tennessee.)

But now? I’m completely naked, my knees spread wide to display my dampening vagina, my breasts sticking out with hardening nipples, and right now I want nothing more in the world than to find out how much of his cock I can fit down my throat before he rams it into my pussy while I repeat “Thank You, Master,” with each thrust.

Why the change? I have no idea.

“Do you have anything for me?” He asked, and I nodded.

“First, I need some help: I need to make a call,” I said.

Green raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, then got up and left the room.

Before I had a chance to break out in a cold sweat he returned with a data pad and set it on the table next to his chair. Taking a seat, he looked at me, his jaw set.

“Okay, I can do that,” he said. “But first, catch me up.”

I took a deep breath and started talking. I lined out my suspicions about what was going on, and who was responsible. As I went along, his stern expression began to soften.

“So,” I concluded, “I need to check on a couple of things to confirm what I’m thinking, then I suggest we can come up with a plan to wrap all this up.”

Green leaned back in his chair and let out a long, low whistle. “Damnation, girl,” he said.

He appeared to lose himself in thought, so I watched him quietly for a while, patiently resting my hands on my knees — I would have liked to fold them in my lap, but a slave must never cover herself in any way in the presence of her master. Besides, I like it when he looks.

“I think you’re on the right track,” he finally said. “Who do you need to call?”

“My producer, sir,” I replied.

“I can see that. Makes sense.” He unlocked the data pad and handed it to me, the messaging app already opened.

I started to tap in Marla’s number, then hesitated.

“Sir, could I possibly speak to her alone?”

Green shook his head, then stopped himself, looked to one side for a moment then returned his gaze to me. “You’ve trusted me so it’s my turn to trust you. I’ll be right outside, knock on the door when you’re done - knock hard, it’s soundproof from the outside.”

After Green shut the door I turned to the metal desk, opened the deepest drawer and put my glasses inside, then put the pillow from the bed on top of them and shut the drawer.

I dialed Marla’s work number; unsurprisingly she wasn’t there, but it forwarded me to her after-hours service. I left a message, hung up and waited.

Less than a minute later the app opened again, and I accepted the call from Marla. She was a bit disheveled and wearing a fuzzy bathrobe - I glanced at the clock on the pad, it was after midnight local time, she’s in Colorado so we should be in the same time zone - and, for the first time in my acquaintance, she was also wearing large, thick-rimmed eyeglasses.

“Frankie?” She asked, blinking. “Are you okay?”

“Not really, but we can discuss that later,” I replied. “How are the girls?”

Marla is a divorcee with no children. How are the girls is one of the phrases we use in the foreign correspondent game to indicate to each other that we’re not under duress.

“They’re fine,” Marla replied, thinking quickly - she is an old pro, after all - and said, “They’ll be happy to know you asked. How are you? Are you sleeping okay?”

That was a counter-question, meaning are you alone and can you speak freely?.

“Yes, thank you. Sleeping quite well,” I replied.

“Very glad to hear it,” Marla said, moving closer to the screen. “Glad to hear anything from you, Frankie. You missed your Friday check-in, and I’m having some trouble getting in touch with Amy. I also haven’t gotten any of the video from the past week. What’s going on over there?”

“Honestly, Marla,” I said, “I’m not quite sure. I need to ask you a few things. First, has the focus of the story changed?”

Marla raised an eyebrow. “No, at least not on my end. Why?”

“Second,” I continued, “What is your understanding of the purpose behind my investigation?”

“To go through a typical consumer-level obedience school and report on what it’s like from the viewpoint of a new slave. Additionally, we wanted you to learn as much as you could about the staff and how they conduct themselves, and to record the stories of your classmates and their experiences at the school; Amy should know all this too. Once you graduated, it would be packaged up as a sequel to your story on the slave transport and you would get paid. As far as I and CNS are concerned, all of that still stands.”

“Third,” I pressed on, “What is my status with you and CNS?”

Marla pursed her lips, I could almost see the wheels spinning in her brain.

“You are a contract journalist in the employ of CNS, and I am your producer. You are currently named on a fraudulent indenture contract, which you are using as cover during an investigatory report commissioned by CNS. But what I think you’re asking is, are you legally a slave?” Marla shook her head. “The answer is no, you are not.”

“I know it was a little unusual to handle it this way,” she continued, “But what happened to you was the equivalent of being knocked out then waking up to discover that your assailant had switched clothes with you to make good her escape. I believed, based on the video I had seen, that we had a great story on our hands with your time on the slave truck, and the phony enslavement made for a great hook so we took advantage of the situation to unobtrusively insert you into the system. I acted without asking you first under the assumption that you would go along with it, because of your penchant for risky assignments, and I made sure to extend your contract and increase your rate. Our communication over the phone and via Amy led me to believe I was correct.”

“Fourth,” I asked, not quite so sure of myself now, “Did you know that my ex-boyfriend, and almost ex-fiancee, Jared Fleischman traveled all the way from Florida to see me at both of the public field days held so far?”

Marla raised both eyebrows. “What?” she gasped.

“I have to know, Marla,” I said, putting as much urgency into my tone as I could, “Did you contact Jared and tell him where I am and what I’m doing?”

“Good heavens, Frankie, no!” she nearly shouted. “That would place you directly in danger. We both know that would also compromise the integrity of the story, and violate our professional ethics as journalists. Not to mention it would also be against CNS employment guidelines. What happened exactly?”

I told Marla about Jared and about Chet.

“Oh my god, Frankie,” Marla finally said. “I’m so sorry. This is not how things were supposed to go.”

Marla sat back and retrieved her laptop from off-camera, opening it before saying, almost as an afterthought: “I’m pulling you out.”

“Really?” I said. “What does that mean, exactly?”

Marla looked back at the camera and gave me an odd look.

“What do you think it means?” she said. “I’m contacting our legal team and telling them to end your phony indenture contract immediately, then I’m going to call someone local — maybe the state police? I know someone at the Albuquerque field office, if not then we have private security on retainer — and have them take you away from that horrible place within the hour. Once you’re safe I’ll have them go look for Amy and make sure she’s okay.”

“You’d do that?” I asked.

Another odd look from Marla.

“Of course, Frankie, and I would be doing it right now if you weren’t interrupting,” she replied.

Then Marla closed the laptop.

“You think I’m double-crossing you somehow.”

“Yes,” I sighed, “It was one of only a few possibilities, but yes. I don’t think so now.”

“Why?” Marla asked, quietly.

“Because your first impulse was to pull me out,” I replied.

“No — I mean, thank you for that — but no,” Marla said, “What I meant was, why would I double-cross you? Who would do that?”


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Instead of knocking, I tried just opening the door to let Master Green know I was done. To no one’s surprise it was locked, so I wound up knocking anyway.

He opened the door, and I scuttled back to my original position, kneeling on the floor, wearing my glasses.

“Did you get what you needed?” Green asked, retrieving his tablet from the table.

“Yes, sir,” I replied. “May I ask a question about slavery, sir?”

Green shrugged and took a seat in front of me.

“You know I have no real SRN, the one on my record is false, which means my indenture contract is false, too. I never appeared before a judge or anything. If I understand it correctly, I’m not actually a slave, er, indentured servant at all, and can leave at any time. Is that true?”

Green looked at me, grinned and started chuckling, then tilted his head back and started laughing hard, his deep voice making my skin vibrate. When he finished, he looked back at me with something like sympathy.

“Girl, you still have no idea how this all works,” he said.

“Sir?”

“That legal stuff is only for the courts, it’s just the dividing line between being free and being a slave. Once you cross that line, your freedom, your position in society, your life is entirely decided by other people — often bad people. You’re a slave until someone else says otherwise. That’s the reality of it.”

Green laced his fingers over his chest and continued. “If I had a dollar for every little white girl I’ve met who thought she had a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, I wouldn’t have to work here no more. Man, if I had another dollar for every one of those little white girls who ended up with my dick down her throat…” He chuckled again. “The truth is this: once you’re in the system, the system is in charge, and the system decides when you get out… or if you get out.”

Seeing my surprised expression, Green said, “Yes, they all had looks on their faces just like yours when I told ‘em. Do you all really think you can just stand up and say, Oh, I’m tired of playing slave, I want to go home now? What do you think would happen if we allowed slaves to do that?”

“No,” he continued, “I can guarantee that you will be here through the end of your class, minimum. Even if you have someone show up with a lawyer and a court order, HCI security will prevent it, and believe me - the local cops very much prefer not getting involved. You’d have to have some serious juice to make it happen.”

My mouth was dry, but I managed to ask: “So even with a court order they can keep me here?”

“Their incentive is the contract that someone signed to get you in here, and HCI doesn’t want to renege on a contract and risk losing the money. They employ lots of lawyers to make sure that doesn’t happen. Once you complete training and they get the balance of their payment out of escrow, they don’t give a fuck what happens to you. But until then? You’re an entry in the ledger.”

Wait a minute: “Money in escrow? As far as I know, nobody paid anything to have me here, this was set up with the knowledge and assistance of HCI corporate.”

Green shook his head. “When I was trying to figure out who you are, I looked in to that. Somebody, some company I couldn’t find out anything about, paid for you to be here. I assumed it was your news agency using an alias.”

“What you’re saying,” I said, choking a little, “Is that HCI will make sure I finish training, one way or another, so they can get paid, and if I cause problems they will recoup the lost fees by…?”

“They’ll recoup those fees AND cover up their problems by selling you as soon as you graduate,” Green replied.

I lowered my voice slightly to hide the strain: “How is that legal?”

“Y’ever heard that old saying, ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law’? All of the state slave laws specify something like that. Even if you aren’t technically, legally a slave, if you act like one in the company of other slaves then you are considered to be in the custody of whoever owns those slaves, and must obey their orders as if you were a slave until some natural ending point, like graduating from obedience school. That’s the big reason why pretending to be a slave is so damned dangerous.”

He raised a hand. “Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a gray area that hasn’t been tested too awful much, but take it from me, it does happen. The reality is that going up against a huge-ass corporation like HCI is not an option for most folks whose find family members in this situation. Assuming they could even find a lawyer willing to take the case, and could afford the legal fees, there’s also the problem that their loved one is in the hands of a slave dealer. You get what I’m saying?”

Now my tongue was dry too, and my stomach was tying itself into knots.

“All Sales Are Final?” I asked.

“All Sales Are Final,” he agreed, nodding. “New Mexico, like nearly every other state, is a third-party state when it comes to slave ownership, meaning that if only one of the parties - in this case the buyer - acts in good faith and is unaware of their purchase’s questionable status, then the sale is completely legal and that person is one-hundred-percent a slave, regardless of her previous status.”

“Hell, Frankie,” Green concluded, “Why do you think they devoice slaves during inspection?”

“So they can’t ask for help,” I said, quietly.

Green nodded. “It sure ain’t to preserve the ambience.”


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


I laid in my cage, wrapped in my blanket, curled up in a ball, so stressed out and demoralized there was no way I was going to sleep.

Green and I had come up with a basic plan, but there were still holes that needed to be plugged up. I’m not at all sure it was going to work; I figure at least Green will get what he needs out of it, so I’ll have someone who’s kind-of an ally when the SHTF. But I am definitely in danger here.

If you didn’t follow what Green was telling me, here it is in plain language: while I may not be a legal slave, since I look like a slave and act like a slave and am under contract to complete obedience school, I am for all intents and purposes a slave until I graduate. Which means that I am required to follow the orders of, and submit to, free persons during that time — which could include me being placed on an auction block and sold for keeps.

That’s one Hell of a catch.

So here I am, under the control of a greedy, uncaring system that can be manipulated by people who want me in a collar permanently.

Christ, I wish Lee was here.


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The new class of trainees came in this morning. Six of ‘em, going into the Dog section (the set of kennels located underneath the old “Dogs” sign from when the school was a pet supply store), they appeared to be three Latinas and three white girls, all young, fairly attractive, and in various states of fitness. Shuffling along in a coffle, the nude women were guided by two new (to me) trainers: an older, balding, medium-sized white guy and a middle-aged, short, white female with dark blonde hair cut in a severe bob with an undercut, the one sometimes called a “Karen” style. Her frowning face made it easy for me to imagine her demanding to see the manager everywhere she went.

The new slaves seemed subdued and fairly miserable; one of the white girls, a Rubenesque young lady with pale skin, long black hair and a number of large tattoos to go along with her large, heavy breasts, glanced around nervously. She saw me looking at her and locked her gaze on me. She dropped her mouth open and widened her eyes just before Karen lashed her ample bottom with a whip. Plus-size Vampirella yelped and looked back at her trainer, who pointed ahead saying “Eyes front, slave.” She quickly turned to look ahead of her, trying to rub the angry red streak on her cheeks with her manacled hands.

Then Karen looked at me: I saw a flash of… something in her eyes before she turned back to her charges.

Oh, swell. What’s going on now?


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


The genius of obedience school is that it’s so damned boring. I can’t scroll through my phone, I can’t sit in the back of the class and gossip with my friends, I can’t zone out and wait for the bell to ring. I’m here all day long, no distractions, with people waiting to literally whip my ass if my attention wanders too far. So I have to pay attention to what I’m doing, even if it means sitting perfectly still and waiting (a lot of a slave’s time is spent waiting around), I have to be present in the moment, if I miss something or screw it up I will be punished and/or humiliated. So perhaps it’s no surprise that “slave mind” (that’s what the submissive, servant slave personality that subsumes a woman’s free personality is called) is creeping over me. After all, it’s all I’ve got to do all day.

Despite all of my intentions to the contrary, I find myself falling easily into the role of a submissive service slave. During the day, I don’t find myself thinking about the story, or what I want to do when I get out, or anything at all other than the task at hand, and how I can do better.

I mean, have you noticed I haven’t mentioned coffee even once in the past week?

The others are feeling it, too: at night we don’t giggle and whisper like schoolgirls at a slumber party. We mostly just sleep, although we sleep with our hands through the bars, around the hands and arms of our sister slaves. We don’t have little conversations in the shower like we used to, either, and when we’re done we no longer just run a brush over our hair and get going - instead we’ve been granted body lotion, different types of hair product, and other grooming supplies to help each other look our best - but we don’t hang around messing around with makeovers, instead we’re genuinely trying to look our best and do it as quickly, efficiently, and quietly as possible. No one told us to do that: we took it entirely upon ourselves. We accomplish our evening tasks almost silently as well, and when we’re each done with our individual tasks we kneel silently in front of the trainers without being told. I even find myself mostly looking downwards during the course of the day.

The question that bothers me the most is this: once I leave here, will I shrug it off and return to normal?

What if I don’t?


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The theme of the next field day was revealed Wednesday morning when Marta began dragging out triangular chairs from the equipment room.

She lined them up facing the bleachers. I don’t think I’ve mentioned the change in crowd composition I’d noticed this week. Usually the audience is about 70% male and 30% female at most, and on some days more like 80-20. But as I looked at the bleachers that morning, the split was closer to 50-50, with many of the females being new (to me) faces.

No sign of Amy, Leslie, or the other members of the breakfast club.

Scores upon scores of women watched Marta set up six chairs and six sets of rubber mats before bowing toward Master David. To my surprise, Master Baldy and Master Beardy led Bird class over to the chairs and had them sit. There were only five of them, so the last chair was empty.

Once in the chairs, their wrists were cuffed to rings mounted at the top of the high backs, so that their arms were bound over their heads. Their ankles had thick neoprene bondage cuffs with D-rings wrapped around them, but the rings were not attached to anything. Instead, the slaves were instructed to keep their lower legs on either side of the seat, forcing her knees wide apart. Finally, the trainer would adjust a screw knob on the lower back of the chair that caused a section of the back to move forward (like the “Lumbar support” on a high-end office chair), forcing the slave to move her hips toward the front end of the chair until her genitals rested on the edge of the seat. It looked uncomfortable.

Master David turned to Mistress Stefania and said, “Bring ‘em out.”

The crowd began to murmur.

We were marched in front of the chairs. One at a time, we were ordered to turn and face the crowd, assume the Present position (legs spread, hands laced behind our heads) and wait while a short length of cable was attached to each of our collars.

When I turned to face the crowd, several camera flashes went off and I heard someone (couldn’t tell if it was male or female) shout, “There she is!”

Oh, there are the breakfast club ladies, they were off to one side today.

Stefania ordered me to kneel on the rubber mat in front of the second chair, then attached the collar cable to a ring underneath the chair.

I sat staring at the smooth-shaved pussy of one of the three Latina slaves from Bird school, while I listened to various members of the crowd speculate about my sexual proclivities and abilities, my face growing redder by the moment. My head buzzed and my ears roared from sheer humiliation and embarrassment.

You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? I’ve had public sex on at least two separate occasions since arriving here, so I should know what to expect. But each time it’s a little different - that’s another part of the genius of obedience school. The first two times I was the one who had the act performed on me (remember, I was chained to a pole for the blowjob one - it was more of a face-fucking than a real BJ), and both times I had to do it no matter what. This one is a further step down the road of obedience: performing a homosexual act in public. Having one performed on me (like being taken by a strap-on dildo) would not have the same impact because 1) I’d be tied down and could rationalize it as a form of rape for which I was not responsible, and 2) I’d already been fucked with multiple real penises last week, and strap-ons would be about the same.

No, this time I had to actively participate — and show some enthusiasm I’m sure! — in an act that many would consider shameful (though not as shameful as our grandparents generation would).

I worked to get a grip on myself as I pretended to marvel at how the skin color of the girl’s labia and her vulva in general were much darker than the rest of her skin. I looked up at her, and she was staring back at me, wide-eyed. She was very pretty, and looked impossibly young.

“They’re talking about you, aren’t they?” she said.

She sounded impossibly cheerful.

“I think so,” I said back.

“Are you a celebrity or something?” she asked, as quietly as she could while still being heard over the crowd.

“I have no idea,” I replied. “This is as much as mystery to me as it is to you.”

She sat considering for a moment. “The Internet must be involved somehow.”

I nodded. Nearly every bad thing today involves the Internet.

“I’m Micaela, by the way. Everyone calls me Kayla, though,” she said.

“I’m Frankie, short for Francesca.”

Kayla laughed. “I know!”

“You know?” I asked, surprised.

“Oh yeah, you’re popular with the sisters,” she said.

Before I could follow up, Master Beardy stopped behind Kayla, attached something to her collar, glanced at his data pad, and moved on. It looked like a large steel pendant; hanging down from her collar, it rested flat against her upper chest.

“Jeez,” Kayla said. “Those are the cheapest, crappiest body monitors money can buy.”

“Body monitors?”

“Probably to monitor my response to what they’re about to make you do. Relies on measuring electrical current on the skin, as well as pulse rate and body temperature,” she said. “Pretty basic, not especially sensitive, and easy to game. Basically a networked mood ring.”

I blinked at her. “How do you know that?” I asked.

“I like science,” she replied. “I want to be a doctor when this is all over, so I learn about these things whenever I can.”

“When this is all over?” I asked (I know I’m a journalist and I ask questions for living, but this was getting ridiculous).

“Yeah, when my indenture is over I get a free ride at college.”

“Seriously?”

“Oh yeah,” Kayla said. “New program at UNM, I’m spending two years fucking baseball players. They get controlled sex partners free of STDs and pregnancy and drama, and when it’s over I get four years of college and no debt.”

“The only downside,” she concluded, sticking her tongue out, “is I also have to fuck the coaches.”

“I would seriously love to talk more about everything you’ve said,” I hastened, “but real quick: what did you mean by ‘gaming’ the monitors?”


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


I was both right and wrong about what was happening. When the whistle sounded, I of course went down on Kayla, licking and sucking the silky-smooth skin around her vagina before moving on to her labia and teasing her clitoris. She clearly enjoyed it, getting nicely lubricated and at one point even moaning “Oh, Frankie.”

I kept the green LED in her monitor lit the entire time, but before I could bring her to orgasm (ahead of everyone else, I might add) the whistle blew. I sat back, puzzled.

Beardy came back in front this time and told Kayla to scoot forward a bit more, then lifted her legs off the ground and attached her ankle restraints to the same ring to which her hands were cuffed, using a short length of metal cable with a carabiner or something like it at the end.

Kayla was now bent in a “U” shape, presenting her tiny brown puckered anus to me.

Mistress Stefania ducked down next to me: “Analingus is next on the menu. Just do your best: remember, the point here is that you obey the order to lick her ass, not that you do it well. No hesitation,” she said. I felt her hand toying with one of my nipples: “But it would be better to do it well, and to show some enthusiasm. Good luck.”

“On the whistle,” I heard Master David say in a voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “You will begin performing analingus on the slave in front of you. You will start immediately, and you will continue without stopping until the whistle is blown. And I want to see green lights on all of these sluts. Understood?”

“Yes, master,” we all replied in unison.

The whistle blew, and I started licking Kayla’s neat little asshole like it was ice cream and I was starving to death. She let out a yelp, followed by a series of grunts and then a long moan. I pressed on, worming my tongue inside her, twisting it at times, at other times sucking on her brown eye like it was her pussy. I had no idea what I was doing, but I could improvise and see what worked.

So yeah, I licked another woman’s ass. Yet another item checked off on the ol’ bucket list, I guess.

Would you believe that I actually gave Kayla a little orgasm? It’s true.

But I nonetheless managed to get a red light at the very last moment.

Later that night, Ariel asked me how I handled the taste at first. She had a hard time, and retched within a few seconds of starting — which earned her a stripe across her ass and a cheer from the crowd.

Y’know, I think it was my long, deep stubborn streak that let me ignore the harsh, kind of metallic sensation in favor of concentrating on the task at hand. I didn’t notice the taste until the whistle blew and I could stop licking. Then, it was fairly bad, but we actually got antiseptic mouthwash afterwards, and spit it into a bucket carried by Marta, so I was able to handle it.

For the record, I don’t think the mouthwash was for our benefit so much as it was to prevent any possible disease transmission, because before we got our mouthwash, we each had our neck cables unhooked and we shifted one chair to the right.

I managed to talk to each of the Bird class slaves while we were waiting for the changeover to be completed. Seat number three (the one immediately to the right of Kayla) was another Latina named Leyda. She was fairly short (easy to gauge when she’s folded in half), her large boobs squished underneath her legs, and her round, angelic face looked nervous almost to the point of being terrified.

The problem: she spoke almost no English. She’s a refugee from Honduras, and wasn’t able to pay a smuggler to get her into a larger, more populated border crossing in Texas or California, so she wound up trying on her own in New Mexico. She had been caught by some border vigilantes, who kept her in a cage for a week before eventually selling her privately in a small market in Las Cruces. She had only a general idea what was happening to her, and was unclear on who had purchased her or the other women with whom she was traveling, but thought it might be a brothel. I explained what was going on right now, and did my best to calm her fears by outlining for her what to expect. I convinced her that all she needed to do right now was relax, lie back, and think of Tegucigalpa.

The next girl was Emma. She was white, with long brown hair in a braid, small breasts and a kind of stocky build that’s common in naturally strong people. She had a sort of rural/country demeanor, a horse tattooed on her lower leg, and to complete the stereotype she confirmed that she had sold herself to save her parent’s ranch. She didn’t talk much, and her outward reaction to getting her ass tongued was mild. I kept her green light on, though, until the last minute, when I got a red for her too.

The final slave girl to the right was Abigail, another young white girl, astonishingly pretty with blonde hair and full, perky breasts to match her full, perky lips. She, too, was a hard-luck case who was enslaved for medical debts incurred to save her father from cancer. Nervous, but according to her she had a very sheltered upbringing in a conservative religious family, and her nervousness was not from shame but rather excitement! She was used to doing chores, following orders, and waiting on other people so that was no big deal, but the sex - that was another thing entirely. Giving out blowjobs at the last Field Day was an eye-opening experience for her, and she was actually enjoying herself. Needless to say, she was very vocal when she reacted to my tongue in her sphincter. Of course, she too was a green light I managed to change to red.

Finally I moved to the last, unoccupied chair. The sixth slave in Bird class was taken out early on (apparently after a savage beating by Mistress Stefania - I’m not sure I believe that) so there were six of us Fish to just five Birds. Honestly, I was looking forward to a break.

Alas, that was not to be.

Instead, Master Green(!) appeared, escorting a middle-aged free white woman from the audience. Black hair in a messy bun, sunglasses balanced on top of her head, lots of turquoise jewelry, blousy-flowy top with a large, bright pattern, yoga pants, sandals. She wasn’t exactly fat, but for sure she was a big woman with big thighs and big hips, and a big personality to match.

“This is the one!” The woman exclaimed, turning her head from me to Green and back again. “Would it be possible…?”

“We don’t have any privacy screens today, Mrs. Metcalfe,” Green replied. “I’ll put you first on the list for Friday if you’d like. Otherwise—“

“Oh that’s okay, Roy,” the woman replied. “I’ll do something more Pee-Gee today. But do put me on that list! Thanks for your help, I’ll be sure to mention it to Richard!”

Green smiled, touched a finger to his forehead sort of like a salute, and left.

Mrs. Metcalfe fished around in her enormous handbag until she drew out a phone.

“First,” she said to me, “I need a selfie.”

She squatted down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder and held the phone up overhead, the lens aimed at us (her beaming face and my naked body). “Say cheese, Frankie!”

“Cheese?” I said, followed immediately by a flash.

The woman tapped on her phone a couple of times. “That was a good one. Gonna post it to Rapidgram right after we’re done. So, Frankie, how are you doing today?”

Finally it was my turn to give a double-take. Was she serious?

“Oh, you know,” I replied, “Reasonably well given the circumstances. How are you?”

“Well, I’m very pleased to meetcha, and my friends are going to be so jealous that I managed to get in!” She replied, standing up. “Now, aren’t you supposed to call me ‘Mistress,’ or at least ‘ma’am’?”

“Yes, ma’am. This slave is sorry, ma’am,” I said, my head bowed down.

Really, what else could I say? My face is so red it feels like it’s on fire.

Her pudgy face beamed at me again. “Much better!” She said, and plopped herself down on the sixth chair in front of me.

“What I would like,” she announced, aiming her camera at me, “Is a good old-fashioned foot massage and toe sucking. You can start with my right foot.”


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


Green sighed.

“We both know it’s the fate of slaves to serve free men and women,” he said. “But even so, and especially since you’re not actually a slave — at least not yet,” The fucker grinned at me, “— it was embarrassing, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I understand that when the boss’ wife wants something, it’s hard to say no.”

“She’s not a bad person, really, she’s just not very swift on the uptake, if you know what I mean. Shoot, why on earth she thought that Rich Metcalfe wouldn’t blow his stack if she posted that video is beyond me,” Green continued. “But at least we got that stopped before it started.”

“Seriously, thanks for making that phone call,” I said. “Do you know the manager well?”

Green shifted in his chair. As you’ve probably guessed, we were back in our super-secret meeting room, with me on my knees before him, in the middle of the frickin’ night while everybody else was blunting their humiliation with a full night’s sleep.

Green nodded. “He’s the first GM of HCI here in New Mexico. He recruited me from the El Paso store, made me chief handler. That was, what? Four years ago? Something like that. He’s pretty popular around here; HCI only wanted a transshipment center in New Mexico, he’s the one who convinced them to build an actual market with an O-school and everything. Earned a lot of good will with the state and the local business community, ‘Putting Albuquerque on the map,’ and so on.”

“Just out of curiosity, why?” I asked.

“To me it was obvious, but to corporate HQ back East it wasn’t. Outside of the ABQ, New Mexico is a poor state. The head office saw they wouldn’t move a lot of collars here, so they nixed the market. ABQ wanted a market, and was willing to hold up the permit for a transit center — which is all HCI wanted — until they got one. HCI was gonna walk away and just build up the El Paso center as their southern east-west transit hub but Mr. Metcalfe pointed out that while New Mexico might not be a great place to sell slaves, it was a great place to buy them, often below market rates. Since HCI’s transport system is almost as extensive as Amazon’s, they can arbitrage the price difference by, for example, just putting the new slave on a truck to a place with high demand like Los Angeles, and make a killing. So win-win.”

Green chuckled, that deep bass voice that I love rumbling in his chest. “The problem is PR. Buying local wives and daughters and shipping them off to Seattle or New England is not very popular for some reason,” he laughed a bit louder, “So Rich has to smooth things over with different groups constantly. Mayleen was likely about to embarrass HCI - wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time with a reporter - and cause him a headache, so he stopped her before she could. I just gave him a heads-up.”

“Huh,” I said. “Interesting. There’s a lot to this business I never knew. Also, what kind of name is Mayleen?”

Green shrugged. “A made up one?”

“Aren’t all names made up?”

Green laughed. “Stop that, Frankie, you’re gonna make me like you.”

I couldn’t help smiling a tiny bit.

“Seriously, though, why did she want me?”

“It was your little group of moms, the one you call ‘the breakfast club.’ Mayleen is friends with many of them, and was just showing off. I don’t think she’s especially interested in you for herself, more that others in her little club were interested in you. Dig?”

“I dig it,” I said. Just how old is Green, anyway? Maybe old slang is coming back, and he gets it from his niece. “Also, that confirms some of our suspicions. Looks like the plan is still on.”


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


I’ll mention in passing that I still haven’t heard from Amy, nor did she appear at Visitor’s Day on Friday.

Surprise, surprise.

Friday night I had another “training” session with Mistress Stefania. We followed the usual pattern, where I took off her boots and gave her a foot massage which turned into foot worship, which I liked much better with her than with Mayleen. Truth is, I was starting to look forward to our sessions.

After I finished her feet, I helped her off with the rest of the clothes and licked her to orgasm. After recovering she returned the favor with her hands, and then we cuddled a bit and chatted.

I asked her about what I could expect tomorrow. “You’ve probably guessed already, this is the female Field Day. All I can say for sure is that there is no sausage on the menu,” she said.

“Really?” I replied. “Not even the fake kind?”

“No, we don’t let randos wander in here and use instruments that might damage property for which we’re responsible. So expect to use your mouth a lot.”

“I’m surprised free women are willing to expose themselves in public just get free cunnilingus.”

“We use private tents,” Stefania said. “Adán is junior to me, so he gets to spend the night helping Marta set them up. Which means that I can spend the night showing you some of the finer points of pleasing a woman…”

She rolled me over on my back, pushed my knees up and apart, then started gently kissing my stomach from my belly button down, moving toward my vagina, then detoured to the insides of each of my thighs.

Stefania looked up at me. “Don’t go straight in, build up the anticipation first. Getting her skin to be extra sensitive will make her more responsive to what you do next.” Then she lowered her head again, and started running her tongue over my thighs from the crease where they connect to my body all the way up to my hip bones.

My goose bumps had goose bumps. This is some training I could get used to.


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


Saturday morning, time for Field Day Number Three.

What fresh hell awaits?

I saw a third female trainer today: Mistress Christine, a tall, thin white woman, muscle definition like a triathlete in training, walked like a man, reddish-brown hair almost in a buzz cut, tattoos peeking out of the cuff of her shirt sleeve.

Her, Mistress Karen, and Mistress Stefania gathered up the Fish class. The first thing they did was split us into pairs (me and Ariel, Vanessa and Rhonda, Tracy and Janet), attached a length of chain between our two collars, then handcuffed our hands behind our backs.

They marched us outside in side-by-side formation. On the far side of the training area were three square canvas tents, kinda tall, same color as the awnings of the obedience school. Reminded me of the kind you see at craft fairs, but a bit larger, with an actual wooden door on the front (they looked like they were in a frame, with the canvas tacked around the frame, but what do I know about tents?). Multiple extension cords ran to each tent.

Three tents, so we’d be sharing with someone else. At least that explained the pairing up.

But first: we had to be paraded past the crowd on the bleachers.

Of course, front and center was the breakfast club with Amy and Leslie looking at me and smiling, like I was their best friend walking down the runway at a fashion show and they were so proud of me! If I’d been close enough (and wasn’t afraid of being whipped in front of the crowd) I’d have tried to talk to Amy and get her tell me what the hell was going on with her. Unfortunately, I was not.

The other reason I couldn’t talk to her - aside from proximity - was that the crowd was unusually noisy. Not just cheering (I thought that was something guys did more then women - learned something new today), and this crowd was well over half female, maybe as high as two-thirds (largest percentage I’d seen so far). They were making loud “Oooh” and “Aaah” noises, shrieks of - well, something, lots of drunken “Woo-hoo”-ing, a great deal of commentary (“She looks like such a bitch, she deserves what’s coming”, “What a couple of skanks!”, “Your parents must be so proud”, “Whasamatter sweetie? Couldn’t get a man so you had to sell yourself?”, “Shouldn’t have bought so many Starbukk’s lattés!”, “You can tell that one’s gone full lez since she collared”, “Oh yeah, you just love eating at the Y, don’t you?”, “Enjoy the brothel! Maybe you can carpet munch between clients!”, “When is your mother joining you?”, “Are your cunts dripping yet?”, “YEAH LETS SEE THAT JUICE!”), and so much laughter.

I could smell the booze from here.

Mistress Stefania had Ariel and I stand next to each other in front of the crowd (we were first in line), eyes down, as she ran the tip of a long riding whip up and down our bodies, pausing on different places of interest like our nipples and vaginas. The crowd roared their approval when she had us turn around and bend over, but they really went wild when we knelt down, opened our mouths and stuck out our tongues on command. To demonstrate our slave heat, we kissed each other passionately, lots of tongue, running our hands over each other’s bodies. To demonstrate our submissiveness, we kissed the toes of Stefania’s boots. We even licked the tip of the whip, as theatrically as possible. While the crowd compared our tongue techniques (and Amy and Leslie took videos), Stefania stood us up and marched us to tent number one.

(Continued in Part B)

[Mr. Smith]

(Part B, which is the end of Part 7)


Inside it was exactly what you would think it looked like: a tent. But the floor was padded, and there were a number of benches and chairs, including a pair of large chairs that looked like recliners with part of the seat cut out.

I’m sure you can guess what they were for.

The lighting was soft and flattering, and there was a very quiet air conditioner running somewhere, making the inside remarkably comfortable.

Stefania had us kneel in front of each of the throne chairs (that’s what I’m calling them) then unhooked the chain from our collars. While she unhooked mine, she whispered, “All reds on the analingus test huh?” She snorted. “Nicely done. That may make this experience more… um, tolerable for you.”

Mistress turned to the two of us: “No cameras in here, per company policy; men will fuck in the middle of the Fiesta Bowl at halftime, but women need a little privacy. I’ll be in here keeping an eye on you both so you’ll be safe. But understand: the women who come here don’t want sex nearly as much as they want submission, someone to boss around, so be aware. I’ll skip the devoxer as long as you behave yourselves.”

I could hear the ding of a bell outside, and then Master Green’s deep voice speaking to the crowd. “I’ll go get your first clients,” Stefania said, and went outside.

I looked over at Ariel. “You gonna be okay?” I asked.

“Yes, I think so,” she replied, then smiled at me. “Thanks for checking.”

I smiled back.

Mistress Stefania ushered in four women. As I expected, one of them was Mayleen Metcalfe (wearing a knee-length peasant skirt today) and she was accompanied by another woman of around her same age and general appearance — a best friend maybe?

The other two were interesting: a young black woman and an older one, both dressed in middle-class casual wear (the younger in blacks and grays, the older in pastel knits) with stylish but neat hair and (I believe) genuine mid-to-upper range expensive purses and tasteful shoes.

“See, mom, I told you!” the younger one said. “She’s black, she’s young, she’s very pretty, and she’s been taught to obey — she’s perfect.”

“And she belongs to someone else?” The mother asked, with what sounded like a California accent. “So we won’t ever see her again?”

“I don’t know why that’s so important to you, but yes,” the daughter replied, sounding frustrated.

Ariel broke the ice: “Good morning, Mistresses. How may this slave be of service?”

“My mother is here to experience sex with a woman, in preparation for a party coming up next month,” the daughter replied, barely glancing at Ariel. “Make sure she cums, slut.”

“Okay, that’s enough Nora. Go wait outside,” mom interrupted. Nora started to reply, but mom gave her a harsh look and Nora turned and left.

Facing Ariel, she said: “Yes, I would like your assistance with, um, experiencing oral pleasure from a woman. I’d also like,” she hesitated, then lowered her voice, “to perform oral sex on a woman. But first,” she added, raising her voice back up and looking around, “Can we get a little privacy?”

“Certainly, ma’am,” Mistress Stefania said, and drew a thick privacy curtain (like one in a hospital exam room, but nicer, if that makes sense) around mom, Ariel and herself. A brief, quiet conversation, and Stefania stepped out of the curtain. Before she drew it closed again, I heard mom say, “Good lord, child, what happened to your hair?!”

Mayleen and mini-Mayleen had been watching and listening just like I was, so when Mistress Stefania spoke to them - “Would you ladies like a curtain as well?” - they both jumped a little.

“Oh, no,” Mayleen said, “I’m good. Thanks, though. To be honest, I came here wantin’ an audience anyway, since I can't post anything without Richard having a cow. Okay Raynella, get out your stick!”

Mini-Mayleen, whose name is apparently Raynella (sure, why not), dropped her large shoulder bag and started rummaging around in it.

“As for you,” she said, looking at me as she plopped down on the throne in front of where I knelt, “For starters, take off my shoes and give me a little more of that tongue stuff from the other day. Be sure you get in-between my littler toes real good. And don’t forget to call me ‘Mistress.’”


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


I finished gulping down another cup of water, swigged the antiseptic mouthwash for a second time, and swished it around in my mouth for a minute before spitting it into the bucket Marta had brought in after our “clients” had departed.

“I thought she was very nice,” Ariel said as she wiped her face clean with one of those packaged moistened towelettes. “She wasn’t mean or bossy, and spoke to me respectfully - no threats or anything. Her friends are throwing her a ‘Happy Divorce’ party complete with a hot tub and a poorly-concealed surprise orgy. She was just nervous because she knew at least one of her lady friends was going to want to have sex with her, and she’s afraid of saying no.”

I grunted. “Why would she be afraid of politely declining a sex act she doesn’t want?”

“She’s newly divorced. Do you know what that means?” Ariel replied.

“Not beyond the obvious,” I said. “Enlighten me.”

“She’s afraid. Do you have any idea how many divorcees end up in a collar? It’s a lot. I’ve read some research that shows it’s more likely to happen than not, and the deciding factors are money and a strong social network. She’s terrified of offending, and thus alienating, any of her friends right now.” Ariel crumpled up the towelette and tossed it in the spit bucket. “I could see it in her eyes: she was looking at me and thinking there but for the grace of God go I.”

I tore my packet open and started wiping my own face down; I saw Ariel wince.

“How was yours?” She asked.

“Could’ve been worse, but that’s a pretty low bar around here. She was reasonably clean, only a little sweaty from sitting in the bleachers, and she didn’t want analingus. Heck, she’d even managed to shave her enormous crotch, more or less. Her friend was a bit annoying, hovering around us like a Hollywood film director with her little camera on some sort of telescoping stick.”

“A selfie stick,” Ariel interjected.

“Yeah,” I said. “So that was my first ever supporting role in a porno movie.”

“She didn’t want analingus? I find that surprising, the way she was running you ragged out here.”

I laughed. “She said,” (here I did my best impression of Mayleen’s upper-Midwest accent), “You got an oh-point-two on the butt lickin’ test? Well sweetie, you best stay clear of my bunghole, I’ll tell ya that much.” Ariel giggled until she had to clamp a hand over her mouth. I giggled too, and reached out a hand to steady her.

Friendship makes a lot of bad situations more bearable.

The doorknob rattled. Ariel and I darted to our respective areas, kneeling in front of our “throne” chairs.


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


When the door opened it let in a burst of noise: loud talking, shouting, laughing, singing, camera shutters going off, ringtones and other phone sounds.

The next thing it let in was a cloud of alcohol fumes (strong enough to light on fire if we’d had an open flame - yes, that’s an exaggeration, but not by much), sweat, cigarette smoke, curdling perfume and fading deodorant, and, inexplicably, strawberry cheesecake.

The penultimate thing it let in was a gaggle of about a dozen jostling, swaying, red-faced women, all of them white but representing a number of shapes and sizes, their clothes and hair in varying states of disarray. One was wearing a tiara and a pink sash that had the word “Bride” printed in big white letters, while the others wore matching t-shirts proclaiming their membership in an “EPIC!” bachelorette party.

The last thing it let in was a small Asian woman with glasses holding a professional video camera, escorted by Mistress Stefania.

(Frankly I was surprised Stefania wasn’t also carrying a dustpan and broom, like the guy who follows behind the elephants in a parade.)

Initially not paying attention to us at all, the women stood around talking and laughing with each other until one of their number, a pale girl with brown hair in a bun and very wide hips barely contained by low-slung jeans, stopped short in front of us and said “Hey, here they are!”

The group fell silent as they looked over Ariel and me. Wide Hips pointed to one of the throne chairs and said, “That must be the place of honor!” Which resulted in a wave of giggling.

Well, fuck this — time to move things along. “Mistresses,” I said, looking from Wide Hips to the one with the tiara, “How can these slaves be of service?”

“First,” Wide Hips said, “Make a circle of benches, with that chair” - she pointed at a throne - “at the top.”

She clapped her hands together. “Quickly now, slaves!” she said, “We’d hate to start with paddling your behinds for laziness.” The group started laughing again.

Ariel and I jumped up and moved the benches and stools as directed. I noticed that the Asian woman was aiming her video camera at us. Its lens had an unusual shape — I recognized it as an attachment for shooting in low light conditions.

As we moved the benches, the women sat on them, talking among themselves but ogling us the whole time. Most of the conversations seemed innocuous enough, along the lines of I can’t believe we’re doing this and What if (insert name of friend/relative/loved one) found out?

When we were finished, Tiara Lady sat on the throne with her friends around her and Ariel and I kneeling in front of her.

It’s a strange sensation, being naked and submissive in front of a group of women. With men it seems more, I don’t know, natural? But with women - you never know exactly what they want from you. And like my mother once observed, men can be brutal but women are cruel.

The comments started off normally enough:

“I wonder how they got here?”

“Her skin looks amazing, I wish I knew what she uses.”

“I’ve never seen a black slave close up before.”

“I know, right? Her nipples are darker than I imagined.”

“What do you think, are they collar-dykes or the real thing?”

“Ha! You mean like LUM? Lesbian Until Manumission?”

“I thought it was LUCE, Lesbian Until Contract Expiration!”

“No way, dummy - that’s too much of a thinker.”

“Maybe they’re bisexual?”

“They’re out of luck if they’re not.”

But then Wide Hips broke in. “Slaves, you need to properly welcome your mistresses by kissing their feet, starting in the back and ending with the bride-to-be.”

“Yes, mistress,” Ariel and I replied in unison, then moved to the benches farthest from the throne and crouched down on our hands and knees, bestowing lavish kisses on the feet of each of the women in turn. I worked the side to the left of the throne, and Ariel worked the side to the right. Most of the women wore close-toed shoes, but some wore sandals or thongs: on them I lavished a bit more attention, hoping to make a good impression, because I was completely at their mercy.

I heard more electronic shutter sounds, this time behind me: I knew without looking that Wide Hips and Tiara Lady were taking photos not just of my naked ass, but also my pussy and asshole, which were exposed when I crouched all the way down.

Fantastic.

Ariel and I ended up at the throne of the bride-to-be; she took her left foot, and I took her right, and we not only kissed the toes of her shoes, we did some ostentatious licking - big swipes with fully extended tongues.

“Next,” said Wide Hips, “I want each of you to lie on your backs and juice yourselves up. No cumming of course! You, colored girl, face that way, and you, white girl, face that way.”

Ooookay; this is not going the way I expected, but whatever. I laid down on the floor and faced the throne, while Ariel faced the rear of the circle, and I started strumming my guitar.

“Open your legs wider, white girl,” Wide Hips said. “And raise your hips up a bit. The bride wants to see you work that bean!”

So I did, while my stomach started to tighten up and I could hear a rushing in my ears. It’s just embarrassment after embarrassment here. Masturbation is one of the most private, solitary acts a woman can engage in: being forced to do it in front of other people is mortifying to me as it is, but doing it while completely naked and wearing a slave collar in front of a bunch of clothed free women? It really slams you right in the gut with how much your position has changed — women who just a month ago would be handing me my morning coffee while I dropped some change in the tip jar, I was now groveling in front of, massaging their toes with my tongue in hopes that they wouldn’t complain and get me strung up for whipping in front of the entire bleacher audience.

Right now I felt like a cross between a waitress at a table full of unhappy customers and some sort of performing animal.

You know what makes it even better? Commentary.

So far the bride hadn’t said a word, but the “ladies” around the circle were not so shy.

“Look at that white girl go. It’s like she couldn’t wait to show off!”

“Yeah, a slave has no choice but only a slut is this enthusiastic.”

“Well I think she self-collared just so she could Jill off in public.”

“You can see how turned on she is, her nipples could cut glass!”

Derisive snort: “Skank.”

“Hey slave, do you spend all day thinking about dicks or about pussies?”

“Why not both?”

“Faster, slut, we haven’t got all day!”

“You’d think she’d be better at this.”

“Really! I mean, you just know she flicks her bean a dozen times a day. They’re all huge sluts.”

If you’re wondering, they said similar things about Ariel - at one point I glanced over at her and could see a tear rolling down one cheek. But she continued on, because she had no choice.

Finally I managed to get wet enough that it showed on my outer lips, and Wide Hips called a halt.

“That’s enough. Negro, you start at the back and ask each free woman what you can do for her, then do it. White girl, you come here.”

I got up on all fours and crawled toward her and the bride. As I did, I saw her give a look to one of the other women.

“Oh, shit,” the woman (a tall, dirty-blonde woman with huge tits and an ass to match) said. “I’m gonna be sick. Oh fuck, it’s coming up — where’s the lady’s room?”

Wide Hips stood up. “Hold on a minute, slaves. Tressa, do you need some help?” Dirty-Blonde McTits (who I guess is named Tressa, but like I give a shit) moaned and clutched her stomach.

“Ma’am?” Wide Hips said, looking toward Mistress Stefania. “Can you point my friend to the rest rooms?”

“Certainly, come this way,” Stefania replied, and gestured to McTits. For her part, McTits stood up (bent over a bit and holding her stomach) and staggered toward Stefania. Just as she reached her, she stumbled forward and barely caught herself by wrapping her arms around Stefania’s shoulders.

“Jeez,” Stefania said quietly, then louder: “Ladies, I’m going to help your friend to the private bathroom inside the trainer’s quarters. We’ll be back as quickly as we can.”

“Thank you, ma’am, we really appreciate it!” Wide Hips said, and several members of the party wished their friend good luck as Stefania put an arm around McTits and led her out of the tent.

Of course, no one went with her — now way were they missing out on what came next.

Wide Hips unslung her colorful drawstring backpack and started digging around in it. She produced a leash, clipped it to my collar, and handed the end to the bride.

“Come here, slut,” the bride said, tugging on my leash.

I crawled on all fours until I was directly in front of her, then looked up.

“On your knees,” Wide Hips ordered, her tone suddenly sounding quite harsh.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said, and knelt in front of the bride, placing my hands behind my back (which is the proper position when leashed), and casting my eyes down like a good little slave girl.

The bride looked at me for a long minute. I noticed that the other women had grown quiet.

That can’t be good.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” the bride said. “Well, I remember you, Francesca ‘Frankie’ Ontkean, CNN Miami Special Correspondent for Latin America.”

Of course: this had to be related to my ex-fiancee Jared. We lived together in Miami before I dumped him (rather suddenly and unceremoniously) and moved to Texas.

I should have seen this coming, I suppose, but the only dickheads from my past whom I could see showing up to humiliate me were Jared and his bloated, Cirrhosis-riddled sidekick Chet. I hadn’t thought of any women, because I didn’t think there were any who hated me enough to come all the way here.

Besides, I don’t remember her at all.

“Does this ring a bell?” The bride said. “Ahem, ‘Good morning Miss Ontkean, Mister Fleischman is waiting for you in the employee lounge on floor twelve’.”

I looked up at her: white woman, fair skin, younger than me, barely average height with a slight build, no tits to speak of, shoulder-length brownish hair in an unremarkable style, pretty but not remarkably so, small beady eyes (I’m being petty, I know - just give me this one, alright?), wearing loose mom jeans, white sneakers, and a truly God-awful M&S knockoff blouse she must have gotten at the Dress Barn, underneath a pink party sash. Not particularly memorable, but that voice…

“Sherry? Sherry the front desk receptionist?” I said.

“It’s Sheree, slut,” she snarled, her face turning a bright red - someone clearly isn’t handling her Mojitos very well.

“Say it with me,” she continued, “I want to hear you say it right: SHARE, EEE. Got it?”

“Yes, Mistress Sheree. This slave is very sorry, Mistress Sheree,” I said.

That wrong guess is going to cost me.

“I’m sure you are,” Share-eee said. “I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, you were always a bitch, couldn’t be bothered to learn anyone’s name, never spoke to us unless you had to, always looking down your nose at us because of your job and your lifestyle and your looks. I mean, why would you care about us? All the men in the building were falling all over themselves for you.”

Oh, boy. I have no idea what she’s talking about. I was never rude to anyone, was I? I don’t think so. I almost never went to Jared’s office, and the few times I did I just wanted to get the hell out as quick as I could before I ran into Chet or one of the other troglodytes who inhabited the firm.

“But enough of that — let’s catch up, shall we? After you broke Jared’s heart with your disappearing act, I was there to comfort him, help pick up the pieces, and once he understood you weren’t coming back he asked me out. We started dating, yada-yada-yada, and last week he told me about finding you here. I admit I was worried at first - I’ve wanted Jared to notice me for a looong time, but was that never gonna happen because a receptionist with a community college degree riding public transportation can’t compare to a big time journalist with a model’s body, flying all over the world and fucking the locals for stories.”

Snickering and muttered comments issued forth from the ladies.

“But turns out I didn’t need to worry,” Sheree continued, “He must finally be over you, because then he proposed! I said yes, of course, and we’re having the ceremony on a beach in Brazil. Look at what you missed out on, you dumb whore,” she finished, and held out her hand: on her ring finger was one hell of a diamond. It probably cost more than my parent’s house.

“So I won, and you lost. Hope it was worth it,” Sheree said. “I’m not surprised you ended up here like the slut you are.”

“This slave is very happy for you, Mistress,” I said, not liking where this was going.

Wide Hips snorted, then whispered to Sheree: “We need to keep moving along before her guard gets back.”

Sheree nodded, and Wide Hips handed her something from the drawstring backpack: a wooden paddle. A fraternity paddle, in fact, with the raised Greek letters.

Holy fuck, it’s Jared’s fraternity paddle.

“Yeah, you recognize it, slut? He keeps it in his bedroom, so only the three of us know about it. He doesn’t know I have it. In fact, he doesn’t know I’m here at all — I told him me and the girls were going to New Orleans for my bachelorette party. Oopsie!”

The women all laughed at that, especially Wide Hips.

“To make it up, this is going to be my wedding present to him: using his paddle to beat your skanky, bony ass,” Sheree said, her low-class Floridian Southerner accent starting to show through as the alcohol and excitement took hold, “And giving him a pro-fesh-sional video of the festivities, including all the ladies from the office!” She held the paddle over her tiara-ed head and let out a woo-hoo, the other women cheering and clapping and woo-hoo-ing back.

So these women are her co-workers from Jared’s office? I thought I recognized Wide Hips, she might be the office manager for Jared’s floor, I seem to remember seeing her in a pants suit at some point. I wonder how many of them I’ve seen before and don’t recognize in casual clothing? How many of them know me?

“But first,” Sheree said, tucking the paddle under her arm, “Let’s set expectations, as they say in the business world.” She reached forward, grasping my nipples between her thumbs and forefingers, and pulled.

Hard.

I groaned, gritting my teeth, but managed to keep from crying out, and even though I rocked forward I maintained my posture. Sheree watched me with a fierce grin on her face, her eyes narrowed to slits.

Then she started twisting.

I clamped my mouth shut and gritted my teeth harder, only letting out a low moan before she released my nipples.

“Not bad, slut,” Sheree said, a nasty edge to her voice. “Looks like slavery agrees with you.”

A low murmuring approval from the assembled ladies, and Wide Hips added, “She may have found her calling.”

Then Sheree slapped each of my breasts, hard, with her open hands.

I gasped and gritted harder.

“You, monkey girl,” Wide Hips said, pointing at Ariel, “drag over a bench and put it in the middle here.”

Ariel did so, her face blushing and her lips thin, then knelt at the end.

“You, skankarella,” — much laughter from the ladies — “bend over the bench, put your hands on the far end. Monkey, you hold her wrists, and if she gets an arm loose you’re taking her place. Got it?”

“Yes, Mistress,” Ariel said in an even tone.

I assumed the position, with my defenseless bottom sticking out and Ariel’s hands around my wrists. This couldn’t possibly get any worse, could it?

“Give me the bottle,” Sheree said from behind me. More bag-rustling noises, then I felt a warm liquid being poured over my butt cheeks, followed by the sound of someone snapping on latex gloves, then a pair of hands rubbing the liquid into my skin.

“Butcher block oil,” Wide Hips said. “It’s what Mister Fleischman uses to maintain his paddle. We figured we’d do the next round of treatment for him with your flat ass.” More laughter.

“Slave, after each one I want you to count it out, and thank me for it. And make it good. Nice and humble. Understand?” Sheree said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I replied.

The first smack came without warning. It was loud, and sounded a little wet from the oil.

And did it ever hurt.

I gasped, and rocked forward, but managed to say, “One. Thank you, Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

Another smack: “Two, ah. Thank you, Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

Another smack: “Three. Thank - erg - you, Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

I started to close my eyes, then immediately stopped, thinking better of it. Instead, I looked at Ariel. She was grimacing too, and I thought it was just sympathy — until I saw two of the partygoers pulling on her nipples in imitation of Sheree.

Another smack: “Four. Thank you, em, Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

“Look at how red her bottom is getting!” one of the ladies exclaimed.

Another smack: “Five. Thank you!, Mistress!, for punishing this slave.”

“Even better,” Wide Hips added, “You can see imprints of the Greek letters on her skin!”

Several of the ladies crowded around, “ooh”-ing and “aah”-ing, and taking photos with their phones.

Another smack: “Six. Tha-th-thank you, Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

Christ, this was really hurting. Between the raised letters and her hitting the same spots over and over, this was starting to compare to the whipping.

“My turn!” said one of the partygoers, a blonde woman of undeterminable age whose breasts rested on a shelf made by her belly.

“Not yet!” Sheree replied. “Still gotta oil up both sides of the paddle!”

With that, the ladies joined me in counting.

Another smack: “Seven-”

“SEVEN!”

Great. “Tha-ank you Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

My ass is really stinging now. She’s not holding back on the swings.

I heard a loud smack but didn’t feel anything. I looked up, and saw Shelf-Tits spanking Ariel - hard - with her hand. She followed up with several more, trying to catch up to me I guess.

More tears rolled down Ariel’s cheeks, and her teeth were clenched so hard I feared she was about to break a tooth, but she wasn’t making a sound.

I was so proud of my sister.

Another smack: “Eight-”

“EIGHT!”

“-Thank you Mistress, for punishing this slave.”

So went nine and ten. On eleven, I braced myself for the expected impact but when it didn’t come I flinched.

“Sike!” Sheree yelled, and the bachelorette party cracked up laughing.

(I’m assuming she meant “Psych,” as in “Psyched you out!”, but I wasn’t in a position to clarify.)

(Also, fuck her.)

In any event I received eleven and twelve, plus “One more for being a whore,” for a total of thirteen.

Sheree held up the newly-oiled paddle for all the see, and the ladies applauded and woo-hoo’ed.

At this point I was audibly panting, and I could feel the endorphin rush trying to counteract the pain.

“Lube check!” Sheree shouted, to much amusement, then nodded to Wide Hips, who plunged her fingers straight into my vagina.

I yelped and started to stand up, but Ariel’s hands kept me down and therefore avoiding another blow.

“As wet as the morning grass,” Wide Hips declared, holding up her fingers for all to see.

“I knew she’d be turned on by a paddling,” Sheree said. “Look at all that,“ - she pointed at the moisture on Wide Hips’ fingers - “So not just a whore, but a lezzie and a pain slut too. She’s drippin’ hot for the collar.”

Am I wet? My nerves are still overloaded, so I can’t quite tell… oh, yes, I’m wet.

I’m wet?!?!

…and my sore nipples are very erect, and the skin on my upper chest is flushed, and my stomach is squirming around with what seems like excitement.

What the fuck?

Wide Hips pulled her phone out of her back pocket and glanced at it. “Guard’s on her way back,” she said.

“Aaaaaaw,” the party complained. “Dammit, I wanted to slap her right on her pussy!” griped Shelf-Tits.

“Jungle bunny, let go of her wrists,” Wide Hips ordered. “Skankarella, face your mistress and kneel. Make sure your heels are on your ass cheeks.”

Sheree handed the paddle to Wide Hips who stashed it back in the bag, then took my chin in her hand, pulling my eyes up to look into hers. “Now that your butt is nice and red, you’re gonna lick my asshole. You’re gonna do a good job, inside and out, and I’m getting it all on video, too.”

“Yeah, if it ain’t good we’ll complain to the manager, and they’ll string you up in front of God and everybody and whip your skin off,” Shelf-Tits the Frustrated Sadist added.

“Yes, Mistress Sheree. This slave understands,” I said.

Sheree shucked off her pants (the wide legs went right over her shoes) and settled back on the throne. She took the leash and pulled me toward her.

I crawled up to her exposed crotch, face-to-face with her pussy. I wish I could say it was scraggly and stank like fish, but no: it was neatly trimmed (as is the privilege of a free woman) and had very little odor at all, and what it did have was not unpleasant.

“First, I want the Slave’s Kiss,” Sheree said.

“Yes, mistress,” I replied, and started licking her outer labia.

I don’t know why I thought the partygoers might be quiet and watch the show. I’m apparently a terrible judge of power-drunk (and just plain drunk) women.

“Look at that needy cunt!”

“You love this, don’t you whore?”

“She’s gone full collar lezzie, you hate to see it.”

“Well I don’t hate to see it,” said Wide Hips, then crooked a finger at Ariel. “Monkey girl, come here.”

Wide Hips moved out of my field of vision, but I could hear her moaning a minute later as Ariel - an excellent cunnilinguist, in my opinion - went to work on her.

I started tracing my tongue around Sheree’s clitoris, and she started moaning too.

Meanwhile, I was picturing myself: naked, barefoot, collared, leashed, my butt bright red and covered in Greek letters, kneeling in front of my ex-fiancee’s new fiancee, giving her top in preparation for tonguing her asshole, while her low-class friends called me a slut and a whore.

I was burning up inside with pain and humiliation.

And lust.

I was so hot it was unbelievable. I discretely rubbed my thighs together when I could. I mean, I hate this little bitch and in any other circumstance I would have slapped the shit out of her. But here, and now, with me a slave and her a freewoman who’d been given power over me? Holy shit, I was genuinely trying to do a good job going down on her — not to avoid the whip, but in hopes that she’d get me off, too.

Yeah, men aren’t the only ones who get dumb when they’re horny.

I felt her hand push my head back, and saw a phone pointed at my face. A shutter sound, and Sheree said, “Had to get one with my pussy juice all over your face, Jared will love that. Now,” she shifted in her seat, thrusting her hips forward and rolling her legs upward, “it’s time for you to take a trip down under.”

Steeling myself, I moved my head down and started to lick.

Sheree tried to hold up her phone to take a video, but couldn’t keep it up for long - she was breathing heavily within seconds of me starting - but I noticed in my peripheral vision that the Asian camera operator was aiming steadily at us, and she was starting to move in for a close-up.

“Oh, man!” Said one of the partygoers. “That’s crazy hot. Can I go next?”

“Yeah,” I heard Wide Hips say, “That does look pretty nice. Alright Nappy, switch to my other hole now.”

Ariel gave a muffled “Yes, mistress,” and Wide Hips started moaning again.

The partygoers were more subdued now, watching me and Ariel intently, but there was still a running commentary:

“She’s a natural ass licker.”

“You think she was born an ass-licker or learned to be one?”

“Damn, Jerry has never once done that to me.”

“You like that, don’t you slut? It’s what you were born for.”

“Yeah,” said Shelf-Tits, “Not so stuck up now, is she? Hard to look like you just stepped out a safari fashion shoot when you’ve got your tongue up another woman’s asshole!”

“Haha, yeah, she ain’t never wearing clothes ever again! Are you, slut?”

“Damn, she’s got good technique though.”

“Probably from rimming all those dictators in South America for stories.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised, she was always good at ignoring me - except when I had to run an errand for her - but those guys? Right onto her knees first thing.”

“I wonder if she ever did this for Mister Fleischman?”

“Who cares? I want her to do that for me, and when she’s done go scrub my bathroom!”

“Ah-hahaha, that’s a great idea! I wonder if she’s for sale?”

“Yeah, maybe we can pool our money and buy her as a time-share!”

“Bet you can’t wait to get back to your kennel and diddle yourself stupid after this, right, skank?”

“Oh yeah, sex is all her kind can think about.”

Maybe I am a bitch.

Maybe I deserve this.

Maybe I was born to be a slave.

I live to serve.

Without my master, I am nothing.

Maybe I should lick the asses of every woman here, all of whom I’ve apparently managed to demean or insult in some way. Hell, maybe Shelf-Tits should whip my pussy. I’d lick the toes of her shoes, then roll over and spread my legs as far as they’d go, and beg her for mercy—

I heard the door open, then Mistress Stefania say, “What the—“ and in a louder voice: “Alright ladies, that’s time. Please gather your belongings and exit the tent.”

“We still have time by my clock,” Wide Hips protested.

“You all agreed to the rules,” Stefania said, her voice taking on a hard edge, “and rule number one is no physical harm or punishment of the slaves. I can see F2’s posterior, and I know at least one of you broke the rules so you’re all out. F1, F2, heel.”

Ariel and I immediately stopped what we were doing and moved quickly to stand directly behind Mistress Stefania with our hands clasped behind our backs.

“I didn’t agree to anything like that,” one partygoer said.

“Besides,” another complained, “she was like that when we got here!”

“Now wait a minute!” Sheree said. “We were told we’d have-“

“This is bullshit!” shouted Shelf-Tits. “We paid good money to-“

“I need to see everyone moving toward the door right now, or I’m calling security,” Stefania said. “If all of you really want to spend the weekend in the slave kennels at the market next door, by all means keep talking.”

THAT shut them up, aside from a few muttered threats to talk to her supervisor, and they made their way unsteadily out of the tent.

Sheree and Wide Hips were the last to leave. As they passed us, Wide Hips blew a kiss to Ariel, and Sheree looked at me with a too-sweet smile and said, “I’ll be seeing you on my wedding day.”

[Mr. Smith]

Another great chapter. Just loved the LUM and LUCE acronyms, that is just the ex military in me.

It looks like Frankie's slave mind is making her slave stupid by not having Marla pull her out or at least try to pull her out of the school. Not sure what I am looking forward to more, Field Day Four, Frankie getting her anal sex training, or finding out who the puppet master is who is manipulating Frankie.

From the behavior of some of the slaves in the other classes it seems that Frankie is already a celebrity since they seem to recognize her from somewhere. I am looking forward to finding out Frankie's fate in the next chapter.

[katamaran789]

This is so great. Your characters are so well written, the plot so gripping, that I almost want to skip the sex scenes to see how the plot develops (just almost!). As someone who struggles with writing in a language thats simultaniously simple and unbelievably complex I really enjoy your style and pacing. Glad to see you back!

[Carl Bradford]

What can I say? That spanking scene was so vivid that it was ALMOST as painful and humiliating to read as it would have been to endure. As I hve remarked before, I really admire the glimpses you give us of Frankie's internal reasoning. At the beginning of Part 7, she does a remarkable job of recognizing reality--she's a journalist on assignment, not legally a slave--and yet she's sufficiently honest to admit that she actually enjoys the thought of sexual subjugation, at least with attractive masters. Too bad she's the constant target of vindictive people whose attitude would justify treating THEM in the same manner (which is saying something, because no one should have to suffer as she has). You've assured your loyal readers that she will escape and that some, at least, of these anal orifices will experience Karma. I just hope you can do it soon, with Frankie escaping with her mind and freedom intact (even though, I suspect, she would welcome PLAYING sub with the right partner.)

Sorry to hear you were having personal difficulties, but you almost demonstrate that old cliche about artists learning from and channelling their own personal experiences to create masterpieces. Well done, sir!

[Carl Bradford]

I don't mind a little pussy licking, but this was a little overboard.
With all this ass training, is Frankie gonna be trained for a cock up her ass next?
Sounds like there is a mole in the News office feeding Frankie's Ex info on her assignment.
Marla will have to pull some big favors to get Frankie out.
When Frankie phones Marla next, I think Amy is going to be fired or in a collar herself.

[orflash64]

I think the mole is Amy.

[Mr. Smith]

Orflash64 wrote,

I think the mole is Amy.

Amy is a pawn, being manipulated by one or more individuals, possibly with different motives. I do not see how she would know much about Frankie's past dating history since they seem to have just met. Maybe I missed something. Based on Marla's reaction to the news that Jared was on scene, why would Amy contact Jared? It also appears that Amy has not informed Marla of Jared's presence or Marla is a good actress. Someone else contacted Jared or he was looking for an opportunity to get back at Frankie for a long time and that possibility is concerning. I also do not see him having the resources to pull this off on his own. Maybe it is some individual hurt in one of Frankie's stories out for revenge? We also still have Green's investigation into the low graduation rate. Whoever is behind this plot Gentlemanmariner has done an excellent job of keeping all of us in suspense.

Rimming, more than most sex acts drives home the loss of status for our slave girls. I think most slave girls would prefer anal over eating someone's ass. The oral scenes in this chapter reinforce the evolution of each girls "Slave Mind" as they continue the transition into slavery. Great job.

Hopefully we get to follow Frankie through her pleasure slut training at her next school.

I hope you still have Brooke and Kenzie on your to write list.

[Carl Bradford]

An excellent chapter, as usual. My only complaint is the legal bits. The corrupt judges cliche is so 1970's, and the bit that the HCI won't obey a contract and ignore the fact that a woman isn't a slave. I always thought HCI was more bureaucratic than Big D's, so maybe more likely to follow rules. Businesses like skirting the law when they can, but governments and the law like clearly defined rules.
Its the only thing I dislike in an otherwise great story.

[Carl Bradford]

An excellent chapter, as usual. My only complaint is the legal bits. The corrupt judges cliche is so 1970's, and the bit that the HCI won't obey a contract and ignore the fact that a woman isn't a slave. I always thought HCI was more bureaucratic than Big D's, so maybe more likely to follow rules. Businesses like skirting the law when they can, but governments and the law like clearly defined rules.
Its the only thing I dislike in an otherwise great story.

Thanks gary!

I'm embarrassed to admit that I agree with your analysis.

The judge thing I left in because a) it's the Southern US, and b) corrupt officials are a traditional staple of slave peril fiction, but in the world within which I work here it seems like a truly crooked judge would be outed by the Internet sooner rather than later. So yeah, seems a bit out of place.

But the second part? You nailed it. I'll say in my defense that it is partly due to my idiosyncratic writing process: I tend to write scenes out of order, then rearrange them later and do any re-writing needed to stitch it all together. In this case, I missed on both counts (rearranging and rewriting). Green explaining about how the school operated was supposed to come before the scene where Frankie talks to Marla; she would have reminded Frankie that CNS was working with HCI so they were unlikely to do it even if they wanted to, then explained that CNS has the "juice" (resources, lawyers, etc.) to stand up to HCI, and besides Marla was going to call in a friend with the state police (Green was explicitly talking about the local police not getting involved), all of which was to comfort Frankie and which then led to Frankie realizing that Green doesn't know nearly as much as he thinks he does - at the very least, he assumes that all the workplace rumors/gossip/conspiracy theories he hears are true, which makes him an unreliable source. You can see that a lot of that is still present, but refocused.

All of that was in the service of a plot line that I abandoned early on (Green initially not in on the situation but joins it upon learning about it), but lived on in this vestige. I really should have edited it more carefully and dumped it, and if I edit this to post on Literotica I certainly will.

So good callout, thanks for bringing it up and I appreciate your criticism - especially coming from a fellow author!

(Glad you liked the rest of it, though!)

[gentlemanmariner]

Orflash64 wrote,

I think the mole is Amy.

Amy is a pawn, being manipulated by one or more individuals, possibly with different motives. I do not see how she would know much about Frankie's past dating history since they seem to have just met. Maybe I missed something. Based on Marla's reaction to the news that Jared was on scene, why would Amy contact Jared? It also appears that Amy has not informed Marla of Jared's presence or Marla is a good actress. Someone else contacted Jared or he was looking for an opportunity to get back at Frankie for a long time and that possibility is concerning. I also do not see him having the resources to pull this off on his own. Maybe it is some individual hurt in one of Frankie's stories out for revenge? We also still have Green's investigation into the low graduation rate. Whoever is behind this plot Gentlemanmariner has done an excellent job of keeping all of us in suspense.

Rimming, more than most sex acts drives home the loss of status for our slave girls. I think most slave girls would prefer anal over eating someone's ass. The oral scenes in this chapter reinforce the evolution of each girls "Slave Mind" as they continue the transition into slavery. Great job.

Hopefully we get to follow Frankie through her pleasure slut training at her next school.

I hope you still have Brooke and Kenzie on your to write list.

Good Lord, Mr. Smith, I can't really reply to most of this without letting all the cats out of their bags But let me say that as always, I appreciate and enjoy your analysis - I can't really get anything past you.

Thanks for pointing out the, well, point behind rimming. I should have mentioned that in the story but didn't (I will in the next version), but yes: a big part of it is the degrading reinforcement of the slave's new social status, and it's another step in testing how far their conditioning has progressed (note, for example, that Frankie did not refuse to do any rimming, an act she had never done before slavery).

Finally, let me say oh yes, I haven't forgotten about Brooke and Kenzie!

[Hooked6]

I really should have edited it more carefully and dumped it, and if I edit this to post on Literotica I certainly will.

Does that mean you'll be posting your preferred "final" edit here as well or will your fans here at Stripsearchfanatsy.com have to pop over to Literotica to see what should have been? Just want to be sure I don't miss anything.

Hooked6

[gentlemanmariner]

I really should have edited it more carefully and dumped it, and if I edit this to post on Literotica I certainly will.

Does that mean you'll be posting your preferred "final" edit here as well or will your fans here at Stripsearchfanatsy.com have to pop over to Literotica to see what should have been? Just want to be sure I don't miss anything.

Hooked6

I'll post it here too!

[Carl Bradford]

Thanks to the author for explaining/owning minor glitches in plot. To be frank, I thought all the discussion of crooked judges and employers wasa deliberate effort to maintain the sense of threat hanging over Frankie by obfuscating reality. As Gary knows, it's easy for a writer, however careful, to inadvertently cross his/her plot line up (I certainly did in "Adjusting My Attitude," and I suspect elsewhere, as well.) I (and I imagine Gary) would be overjoyed to act as Beta Readers if you need someone to double-check your excellent writing. Please keep going.

[gentlemanmariner]

Thanks to the author for explaining/owning minor glitches in plot. To be frank, I thought all the discussion of crooked judges and employers wasa deliberate effort to maintain the sense of threat hanging over Frankie by obfuscating reality. As Gary knows, it's easy for a writer, however careful, to inadvertently cross his/her plot line up (I certainly did in "Adjusting My Attitude," and I suspect elsewhere, as well.) I (and I imagine Gary) would be overjoyed to act as Beta Readers if you need someone to double-check your excellent writing. Please keep going.

Thanks for this Carl - you've picked up on my thinking process exactly, I wanted to leave a threat hanging over Frankie and thought a modified version of the earlier piece would do it, but I was WRONG Rushing and not thinking things through.

What's clear is that I need Beta Readers! I have your email address, Carl, so consider yourself recruited Gary, if you'd like to join in my email is gentlemanmariner at the g-mail place!

[Carl Bradford]

What can I say? That spanking scene was so vivid that it was ALMOST as painful and humiliating to read as it would have been to endure. As I hve remarked before, I really admire the glimpses you give us of Frankie's internal reasoning. At the beginning of Part 7, she does a remarkable job of recognizing reality--she's a journalist on assignment, not legally a slave--and yet she's sufficiently honest to admit that she actually enjoys the thought of sexual subjugation, at least with attractive masters. Too bad she's the constant target of vindictive people whose attitude would justify treating THEM in the same manner (which is saying something, because no one should have to suffer as she has). You've assured your loyal readers that she will escape and that some, at least, of these anal orifices will experience Karma. I just hope you can do it soon, with Frankie escaping with her mind and freedom intact (even though, I suspect, she would welcome PLAYING sub with the right partner.)

Sorry to hear you were having personal difficulties, but you almost demonstrate that old cliche about artists learning from and channelling their own personal experiences to create masterpieces. Well done, sir!

Carl, thank you (as always) for your comments, I always find them interesting. I've been using this story as an opportunity to try and show (without being explicit) the toll that being in o-school is having on Frankie, especially in terms of her sexuality. She's an educated, experienced, skeptical journalist and she's still succumbing to it.

Thanks for appreciating the brutality of the spanking scene - I kind of hated to write it, especially since some of it spilled over onto Ariel - but what made it bearable was the knowledge that the appropriate parties are going to get theirs

I have a certain thing in mind for Frankie after all this, I hope everyone (or most everyone) likes it!

[Carl Bradford]

With all the people that want revenge on Frankie, starting to think she might have it coming in the Karma department.
To Frankie's perspective she is the victim, but to other people she might deserve what she's getting. If she ever gets her clothes back, I think she will be respectful to even the lowest janitor.

[Mr. Smith]

Gentlemanmariner wrote:

I've been using this story as an opportunity to try and show (without being explicit) the toll that being in o-school is having on Frankie, especially in terms of her sexuality. She's an educated, experienced, skeptical journalist and she's still succumbing to it.

The following is right after the spanking:

“As wet as the morning grass,” Wide Hips declared, holding up her fingers for all to see.
“I knew she’d be turned on by a paddling,” Sheree said. “Look at all that,“ - she pointed at the moisture on Wide Hips’ fingers - “So not just a whore, but a lezzie and a pain slut too. She’s drippin’ hot for the collar.”
Am I wet? My nerves are still overloaded, so I can’t quite tell… oh, yes, I’m wet.
I’m wet?!?!
…and my sore nipples are very erect, and the skin on my upper chest is flushed, and my stomach is squirming around with what seems like excitement.
What the fuck?

This creates the question, is the O school transforming Frankie's sexuality, is it awakening her latent submissiveness or a combination of the two?  The now easy transition for Frankie into her "slave mind" due to her O school training would explain submitting sexually without hesitation.  The rimming is a good example along with getting aroused and orgasming during Field Show two when she was getting fucked  I believe she used the self-hypnosis technique there if I recall correctly.

My question is does the O school training explain the arousal from being spanked?  Put another way does the submissive, subservient slave mind personality that subsumes a slave's free personality explain Frankie's arousal from the rather painful paddling?  Is Frankie responding to the pain, the humiliation, the training or a combination of two or more?  Frankie enthusiastically services Sheree right after the spanking in the hope that she will allow Frankie to get off.  That is one hell of a training regimen or is the O school experience awakening a latent submissive hiding within Frankie?  Is Franke a submissive pain slut?  It could be a combination of the two.  I have not seen anything in the training that would indicate a slave would be sexually aroused by pain from a paddling or whipping.  Maybe I am missing something which I often do, at least according to my wife.

Based on the above comments I am now really curious who paid for the O school training.  Was it Frankie's employer working in concert with HCI or some other entity entirely?  Mr. Green could not determine who the company paying for the training was which mean it is well hidden or a comment on his competence.

I am looking forward to the next chapter when you let all of the cats out of the bag so to speak.

[Carl Bradford]

This creates the question, is the O school transforming Frankie's sexuality, is it awakening her latent submissiveness or a combination of the two? 

I think it's a little bit of both. Here's my conception of Frankie's sexuality (which I believe differs from others, which is pretty awesome):

While she likes sex, she's normally a low-sex-drive woman, mostly because she hasn't found her "thing" yet.

She found it in Central America, as mentioned in Westbound, which was the thrill of submission and being at the mercy of others. After her narrow escape, she went into a bit of a sexual frenzy of masturbation, and when Lee looked her up they fucked like rabbits because she could still see him in her head, standing over her naked, bound body, holding her fate in his hands.

On top of that, Frankie is a very practical person with a great deal of physical courage (hence her career choice), so it's easy for her to look at a situation and say to herself, "better do this without a fuss and get it over with." So for example while she's not gay, she has no problem going down on another woman if the alternative is drawing attention to herself and jeopardizing her identity as a journalist and therefore the story. That attitude means that she is not nearly as afraid of physical punishment as others are, hence her taking a whipping in order to let Vanessa pull ahead in the rankings.

My idea was that these aspects of her personality, when combined with her precarious situation and the atmosphere of the o-school, have both revved up her sex drive and brought out her dormant desire for submission. But Frankie is also in a bit of an exploratory phase, imagining that she would like certain things (like being pussy whipped by Shelf-Tits while apologizing abjectly and begging for mercy) which in reality she probably would not even though she likes the power-exchange and humiliation aspects.

It's also the case (as I believe Carl Bradford has pointed out) that on her own, Frankie is only truly aroused by submitting to people she finds attractive for some reason (Lee, Green, Stefania). But she's discovering that she can also be aroused in a given situation if she's forced into it (Sheree). She would never seek out Sheree in a way that she would, say, Green, but in the moment she can go along and derive some pleasure from it.

The now easy transition for Frankie into her "slave mind" due to her O school training would explain submitting sexually without hesitation.  The rimming is a good example along with getting aroused and orgasming during Field Show two when she was getting fucked  I believe she used the self-hypnosis technique there if I recall correctly.

Yep, slave mind has hit dear Frankie for sure (I've alluded to it hitting Vanessa and Tracie as well). Whether it's the result of the training, or her latent submissive desires, or situational, etc. I leave as an exercise for the reader I suspect that once she's sprung from o-school, she won't find herself transitioning to slave mind that often because she'll be out of that environment whereas Vanessa, who hopes to be an owned trophy pleasure slave, will probably find herself there on a regular basis.

As an aside, one thing I've tried to show, and I'm making more explicit in the next chapter, is that the trainers are more than mere sadists. They actually do try to help the slaves learn to cope with their new life situation, through encouragement or sending them to the slave psychologist ( to Carl Bradford) or teaching them self-hypnosis. Frankie and Ariel both used the self-hypnosis to calm themselves and it seemed to work out for them; I envision Frankie using it again in the future.

My question is does the O school training explain the arousal from being spanked?

Not by itself alone, it's more like the complete immersion of being a 24/7 service slave has effectively given her permission to discover and enjoy the aspects she finds arousing. For example, she has no choice but to sit around all day, no distractions, and concentrate on being a slave, which is pretty boring, so that when Field Day arrives (despite her trepidation) it's sort of a welcome break, and a chance to prove that she can take it and move on to the next week. She wouldn't ordinarily give a damn about "proving" herself to a corporate o-school in suburban New Mexico, but being immersed in it has made her look at things differently.

I suspect that if o-school was longer than four weeks it would threaten to open a Pandora's box for Frankie. As it is, I don't know how much of what's happening to Frankie will last beyond o-school - she's got a pretty strong will.

Put another way does the submissive, subservient slave mind personality that subsumes a slave's free personality explain Frankie's arousal from the rather painful paddling?  Is Frankie responding to the pain, the humiliation, the training or a combination of two or more?

She finds having someone do things to her that she has no choice but to accept to be very erotic. In her case, she likes the power exchange aspect primarily, and enjoys the consequences of her submission. She doesn't find paddling itself arousing, but enduring the pain and humiliation of being paddled by her ex's new fiancee while the fiancee's friends jeer at her is very arousing. She's also never going to find rimming to be arousing, but being ordered to do so by the woman who just paddled her ass she does find very arousing.

Frankie enthusiastically services Sheree right after the spanking in the hope that she will allow Frankie to get off.  That is one hell of a training regimen or is the O school experience awakening a latent submissive hiding within Frankie?  Is Franke a submissive pain slut?  It could be a combination of the two.  I have not seen anything in the training that would indicate a slave would be sexually aroused by pain from a paddling or whipping.

You're right about the training. I think I've mentioned in other posts that there are a number of different styles and philosophies in o-schools, this one is doing exactly what it says on the tin: teaching obedience, whatever the expected action might be. The school uses sex since that's the most deeply personal act a woman can perform (except perhaps childbirth) and therefore the most resistant to training; the idea is that if you can get the slaves to submit to being fucked by strangers, perform lesbian acts, and rim on command, then they'll do just about anything else you tell them to. I don't know if that's correct, but that's the philosophy that HCI follows (and I think it makes for a good story).

But they're not training sex slaves specifically, that specialization comes next at another school. The idea is that labor and domestic slaves can be trained here as well as women intended for pleasure slavery, then sent straight to work afterwards. Those women will also submit to sex, but whether or not they're any good at it is up to them, not the o-school. One thing I have not pointed out in the stories is that probably half (or more) of the women in the various classes are destined to be slaves other than pleasure slaves.

Maybe I am missing something which I often do, at least according to my wife.

You and me both, brother - we should form a club

Based on the above comments I am now really curious who paid for the O school training.  Was it Frankie's employer working in concert with HCI or some other entity entirely?  Mr. Green could not determine who the company paying for the training was which mean it is well hidden or a comment on his competence.

I am looking forward to the next chapter when you let all of the cats out of the bag so to speak.

I'm afraid that is the one cat that will remain in the bag in the next chapter, but it will not be kept in there for long...

Thanks for your extensive thoughts, it gave me a chance to bloviate at length. I hope I've managed to give some insights into your questions!

[orflash64]

How soon will we be seeing more of Frankie?

[gentlemanmariner]

How soon will we be seeing more of Frankie?

I'm writing it now - as (I think) you predicted, it's turning out reeeeeally long, and I may split it into two parts. Soon, although I hesitate to give an exact date.

[Mr. Smith]

In summary then Frankie is a submissive humiliation junkie.  Thanks for clearing that up.  She would be a perfect consort at Broadstone.  Once she figures this out about herself she likely can only be truly happy in a Texas FINO with a man that she finds attractive whether that is Lee Carter or some other individual.  This is turning into a erotic and kinky Nancy Drew Mystery with Frankie as the sleuth.

Oh, now that is an idea for a story, the Mystery of the Missing Ponygirl where Nancy, Bess Marvin and Georgia Fayne all go undercover in 180 voluntary indentures as ponygirls with Ned Nickerson selling them while they look for their friend Amber Anderson who turned up missing at a ponygirl training school.  Maybe Amber disappeared from the Venus Academy or Pearson Pussy Ranch in the Mystery of the Missing Cheerleader.  How does Nancy get the timid Bess Marvin to indenture as a slave?  Is there a submissive slut hiding under Bess's mild and meek veneer?  Or maybe the crew goes in search of their friends Brooke and Kenzie.  I digress.  

I am looking forward to the next two chapters of Frankie's adventures in obedience school.  We need to be patient as Gentlemanmariner sorts out all of the many cats in his bag as he completes this tale.  Hopefully Frankie follows her story for an additional four months at the Venus Academy (where she might reunite with Brooke and Kenzie).  I do believe CNS extended Frankie's contract six months.  Just think of the possibilities.

And yes, I do seem to have a Brooke and Kenzie fixation.

[Mr. Smith]

Just curious, are you thinking of the Nancy Drew books, or the CW TV Series?

[Mr. Smith]

Gary wrote:
Just curious, are you thinking of the Nancy Drew books, or the CW TV Series?

I am not familiar with the CW series and was thinking more along the lines of the books although I do recall watching the Nancy Drew TV series with Pamela Sue Martin in the role of Nancy. My thinking regarding Bess Marvin was from the books and the Pamela Sue Martin TV series. I mean who wouldn't want to see a young Pamela Sue Martin getting her first ponygirl tail while going undercover as Nancy Drew? And, she has posed nude. Maybe I am demonstrating my age.

I have been updating my Slave Society Fragment adding a number of things to it regarding the changing culture due to legal slavery going down a ponygirl rabbit hole describing the very popular live action "My Little Poneygirl" movie starring Brie Larson. The making of the movie where the actresses signed Texas FINOs and attending the Lona Oak for ponygirl training was almost as popular as the movie for some reason. How about a Slavery Wheel of Fortune where contestants put their freedom on the line for money? That could be another story. I digress.

In the new show the Bess Marvin character would really be a closeted BDSM slut who cannot get play partners because the BDSM community knows she will never use her safe word . Going undercover as a slave allows her to live her dream of being a sex slave. Maybe a series of movies with slave themes on the Lifetime channel would work in this society. I see an edit coming.

[Carl Bradford]

I just rereading the first paragraph of Westbound part one, there is a tell tale clue there. Marla contacted Frankie about the story, and not Frankie contacting Marla. Looks like the whole set was planned way in advance of what would befall Frankie in the future. Yeah sure there was chance circumstance with the escaping old slave, but everything else has a preplanned feel to it.

The old boyfriend, and the others that showed up extract retribution on Frankie and the whole situation seems conspiratorial.