A Second Answering Machine Message by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

Hello? This is Sarah Kensington Wellington, and I signed up for the VIP slave portrait package at The Big D. Next week my daughters and I are going to be photographed, and “painted” into a Roman Slave Auction oil painting at L'esclave Est Ee L'art Gallery at The Big D. I was at the slave mall on Saturday, to check things out before our session this Saturday. I guess Saturdays are a bit busy, and there was a bit of a backup, so some of the women had to wait to be painted.
The window facing the mall is glass, and right behind it is a support pillar. I was surprised to see that the girls waiting were… well, they were… how do I say this? They were humping the pole. There isn’t really a nice way to put it. I stood and watched for a good 20 minutes. There was a pretty good crowd watching through the window, mostly men, laughing and cheering the women on. The number of girls varied, depending on how many were waiting, but at one point there 6 girls, some on their backs, some on all fours, some standing, all rubbing themselves against the pole in the most shameful manner possible. What a tangle of arms and legs it was!
The worst part is that whenever one of them had an orgasm, this dreadful little troll of a boy who looked to be about 19 and totally gay, laughed and tinkled a little bell over the girl’s head, to make sure all the men could watch her slave-gasm. “Tinkle, tinkle, little slave girl. Show everyone what a slut you are!” I was shocked, but I couldn’t stop watching.
One of the men called it “painting the pole” and told me all the girls do it before their portraits. Supposedly it gets them in the mood, so they feel like real slave girls when their portrait is done. The pole was a swirl of colors, and you could see where the girls had rubbed off one color to leave another color behind it.
He said they call it Le pôle Esclave, and they auction if off for charity every Christmas, and start with a new pole. He said men pay thousands of dollars to buy the pole their wife humped, and put it in their home as a conversation piece, next to their wife’s slave portrait. I totally understood, as it was just the sort of thing my husband would do. He’s positively dreadful. But it was hard to believe the pole was only a few months old, since it looked so worn ! But the girls were really rubbing pretty hard.
I was very surprised when one of the women from my club – I think her name is Bianca – was led over to the pole. She complained very loudly, and said she wasn’t humping any pole in a slave mall, and that she was a very important person. But after a few well placed flicks of the slave whip across her big ass she was humping along with the best of them. She is SO stuck up, and thinks so much of herself. I loved watching her blush as she painted the pole, and she had 3 slave-gasms.
“Ah, what a collage of colors,” a well-dressed man said. “It’s quite wonderful how their slave grease makes the pole glisten. Every week, the pole is a little different, as each girl makes their contribution. Do you see how the little redhead on the end is changing the yellow to blue? They use special heat and friction sensitive paints. She is doing a wonderful job, but I bet you could do better.” He laughed, and I blushed twelve shades of crimson, and left.

The truth is I don't even want to do this, but the girls say their daddy will love it. He will, but I'm only going along with this to make sure they don't get in trouble. Anyway, when I called and asked for a private space to be photographed, the sales girl told me that I had nothing to worry about, as I would be treated “appropriately, for an auction block scene.” Now I’m wondering what that meant. My appointment is Saturday, and I really can’t reschedule since my daughter Christy won’t be home from Yale until Friday night and I want to get the painting in time for my husband’s birthday. I'm sorry for the long message, but could someone call me back and verify that my daughters and I won’t have to… how do I put this? … paint the pole? Please call me on the cell, and not at the house, as I don't want this on the answering machine. I don't want the maids and butlers to know where we'll be on Saturday. Thank you!

[Hooked6]

This whole answering message scene was wonderfully creative. I could just hear the "worry" and fear in the tone of her message. I especially liked the use of the French language to name the pole (Le pôle Esclave - or "The Slave Pole.") The French derivative here has a certain elegance and erotic connotation conjuring up mental images reminiscent of the old risque Moulin Rouge Cancan dancers performing to the delight of a loud and crude audience as they degraded themselves for the sole purpose of appealing to their baser instincts.

Brilliant addition to your fine collection of slave stories. Though this short contribution was marvelous as it is, I must admit to longing for a more complete story filled with all the stimulating details of what happened to Sara Kensington as she arrived for her photograph. WELL DONE, SIR, WELL DONE!

Hooked6

[imreadonly2]

“Hi, Mom? This is Christy. Sandy told me you’re all blush-face about Saturday at The Big D and you’ve gone totally mom-ager calling everyone, and trying to be slave-girl-in-charge. Well, like, forget-about-it, cuz that pole ayn’t gonna grease itself. Tyrone, that kid you wouldn’t let Sandy date cuz he was too gangster, got strap duty on Saturday and he is gonna tan your ass if you don’t paint that pole like it’s a Picasso, so you’d better get ready to get humpin!”

“And stop being Miss Modest, cuz you know Dad’s just gonna hang the portrait of us being auctioned in the front hallway, and get power-dad braggadocios and show all the pictures they take on Saturday to his buds. I’ve already invited Julio the pool guy and Stanley and Chrissy and the other maid whose name nobody can pronounce, plus the guys who work at the stable, to play the crowd that bids on us and inspects us. They say guys who know you do a super enthusiastic job on the squeeze-and-poke, so if Stanley is smiling at you when he’s driving you around this week now you know why. Get ready to bend-and-spread, and don’t forget to say cheese, ha-ha!

If you ruin this for Dad and me and Sandy, we are like, NEVER speaking again, so you better just grin and bare in on Saturday. I’ll be at the airport on Saturday at 7PM so tell Stanley not to be late. Gotta go – doing my slave yoga for Saturday. Bye and all my love!”