The Rest Safety Area by Joe Doe

[imreadonly2]

I haven't commented on Carl's latest additions, because as often happens with his stories, a throwaway line totally inspired me. Carl mentioned changing in the rest stop, which totally fired my imagination, and got me writing. The result was this story, inspired by Carl, with my thanks.

THE SAFETY REST AREA

I ordinarily don’t let my daughter Suzie drive my husband’s pickup truck, but the truth is, I was too nervous to drive. It’s not that Suzie’s a bad driver, but it’s a Ford F-150 Limited, and it cost $75,000. As we sped down the highway towards Dallas, my mind wasn’t on the ridiculously expensive truck, but on the old metal pet crate my husband used to transport his dogs when went hunting.

Suzie had secured the old cage well, but I could still hear it bumping slightly against the truck’s bed rug as the cruise control, set at the 75MPH speed limit, raced me towards my fate at The Big D. Every bump sent a little wave of panic through me, and I found myself sweating despite the air conditioning pouring on me.

“Are you sure that dog cage is properly secured? It seems like it’s bumping around a lot.”

Suzie, the definition of chill in her University of Texas at Austin crop top T-shirt, jean shorts, and sun glasses, was the picture of chill, not even bothering to look at me as she gave her reply. “Naw, it’s fine,” she said, brushing her long blonde hair back. “Slave kennels don’t bump around when they’re weighted down.”

I had called it a dog cage, but Suzie had slyly corrected me by referring to it as a slave kennel, it’s intended use for the day. We both knew how it was going to be weighted down, which accounted for the smug little smile on my daughter’s beautiful, 19-year-old face.

“How far are we from Dallas?” I asked, too anxious to make sense of the map on dash.

“Less than an hour,” she said casually. “I can pick up the pace if you want to,” she said, smiling. “Everybody’s passing us.”

“No, the speed limit is fine, young lady,” I said, exerting my control while I still had it.

“Fine, but if you want to get changed before we get there, you’d better do it soon,” she replied.

The carrier had been my idea, actually. I had taken Suzie to HCI to get graded before she left for college, and had insisted that she ride over naked and caged in the back of the truck, so she could get acclimated to the feeling of helplessness before arriving at the front desk. After all, you didn’t want to have a panic attack while you were being checked in. “First impressions are lasting impressions,” I had reminded her. I was just being a good mom, of course, as I wanted Suzie to get a good grade. We didn’t need it for financial aid, but there are bragging rights with the neighbors when your daughter hits Prime. It was for her own good, but I also enjoyed having my supercilious daughter naked and caged in the back of the truck. I even took a few detours, waiting in the long line at the drive through at Starbucks, stopping to get gas and going in for a long restroom break just to check my hair, enjoying the fact that my haughty and imperious teen daughter was naked and caged for anyone and everyone to see. When the guys in the car behind us at the drive through at McDonald’s hooted at her for 10 minutes, and described in graphic detail how they wanted to fuck her, I pretended not to notice. It was so much fun, that by the time I got to the window I simply paid the money and told them to keep their ice cream cone.

I was getting graded for my husband’s birthday, and I insisted it be done at The Big D, both because of the quality of the service there and because of its distance from our home town of Houston. I wanted a good grade, but I didn’t want to run into anyone I knew. I hadn’t been exactly excited when Suzie brought the dog cage up from the basement, but when she sternly reminded me of how much credit I gave myself for the pet carrier idea and her Prime Minus grade and how we had both agreed that she would have to be in charge this trip, I didn’t really have any arguments left to make.

Now we were speeding to my doom, with the empty cage bumping slightly on every highway seam. “That looks like a nice place,” I said, pointing out the window at a big stone structure with a wooden roof and a large Texas star above the door. “The Navarro County Texas Safety Rest Area.”

“It’ll work,” my daughter agreed. “Let’s get off the road, so we can get this show ON the road.”

At my insistence, we parked away from the cars, closer to the play area, so that no one hit our truck. As soon as the car was in park, I mumbled something about wanting to use the restroom, and hopped out. To help get me in the mood, I was wearing the barefoot sandals that Suzie had made for me back in grade school. She had made it for me when she was six, and I remember how excited she was when we picked out the cheap plastic beads and yellow yarn at the crafts store.

The barefoot sandals were adorable, and the perfect gift from my sweet, precious little girl. Cute as they were, it was a typical summer day in Texas, in the high 80’s, which meant that I ended up running across the hot cement in the sun to get into the building.

Shit! Why did we park so far away? It didn’t matter, I SPRINTED parking lot, ignoring Suzie’s laughter, and running not towards the door but towards the grass that would eventually lead me to the door. I got quite a few glances from the various males at the Safety Rest Area, the normal assortment of truckers parked in the big rigs trying to catch a bit of rest and dads and their teenage sons out on road trips. I’m definitely a MILF, and I’m often mistaken for my daughter’s sister, much to my delight.

I took a second to massage my feet as I stood on the relative comfort of the torn up front lawn. Out of the corner of the eye, I could see Suzie, arms folded, legs spread, watching with undisguised satisfaction as I got my first taste of what it meant to be a slave girl. I had made her go to school in barefoot sandals for a month before she was graded, and I had her take Slave Yoga in High School, following her progress closely to make sure she exceeded an excellent grade. “Universities like it, boys like it, and you never know when a good grade might come in handy,” I had said slyly. Her slave trainer / teacher had assured me during our weekly calls that Suzie would be prime, but that didn’t stop me from cracking the whip and training her at home, both for her sake, and for the sheer fun of it.

Suzie wasn’t convinced that being graded was so wonderful, and asked why, if it were so wonderful, I had never been registered and graded. I explained that I wanted to, but hadn’t gotten around to it, and probably would, for her father’s 40th birthday. It had seemed very far away then.

Shit! Literally. The lawn in front of the Safety Rest Area was squishy, and I was several steps in before I realized that I was walking barefoot in fresh dog poop. I tried to walk across the lawn, avoiding decades of doggie fertilizer, with limited success. Suzie couldn’t stop laughing, her main concern being that I had stained the yellow yarn on her 50-cent homemade barefoot sandals with dog poop.

I tried to wipe it on the grass, which reduced it to a dry brown cake, spread completely around my toes and the bottom of my foot. Suzie said my feet were “too dirty” to go inside, but I ignored her, and entered, making a beeline past the families towards the woman’s room. I would never have dreamed of walking barefoot through a Texas Safety Rest Area washroom, but under the circumstances the floor had more to fear from me than I did from the floor. I needed to pee, but I wanted to wash my feet first. I had just finished washing my hands when a young woman wearing a Texas Woman’s University T-shirt came in to check her makeup. She looked to be about Suzie’s age, and was very pretty, with long brown hair. I let down my own hair, which was as long as hers, and matched Suzie’s, and shook it out. Feeling a bit competitive, I didn’t want to wash my feet in front of her, so I killed time methodically washing my hands.

She was quickly joined by her a friend, another coed wearing a T-shirt that said, SEXY TEXAS COWGIRL, with a cartoon of a girl in a cowboy had riding a mechanical bull. The cowgirl whispered something to her friend, and she giggled. Seeing that I was looking at them, she smiled. “I like you dress. It’s very light.”

I was wearing a very inexpensive light blue scoop neck summer dress, which I had bought online. It was sleeveless, and cut short, and I had picked it because it resembled a slave tunic, and I thought it was sexy and would get me in the mood. “Thank you,” I replied. “It’s good for summer.”

It was indeed, as I was wearing nothing underneath it. Looking down, I could see my pokies, and with the light shining through the frosted glass behind me my dress had become quite translucent. I realized now that the girl’s “compliment” was actually a comment on the fact that my dress was basically see through, and they could see my naked body, and their smiles were anything but kindly. Embarrassed, I quickly exited the restroom as the two alpha mean girls laughed at me.

I wanted to make a beeline for the door, but that’s when I saw my daughter, leaning against the door, riding crop in hand. When she saw me, she smiled, and peered down at me over the top of her sunglasses. Then I remembered. I was there to “change.”

I looked around. There was a family, with a father and two children. The dad gave me an appreciative look as mom filled the kids water bottles. I stepped out of the light to end the show I was giving. As Dad took the kids out back to play on the swings, the mother turned to me, and held up several dollar bill. “Do you have change, or a credit card I can use for the vending machines? I left my purse in the car.”

I stared at her blankly. I had left my purse at home, and other than the single garment I was wearing, I had nothing. The Big D recommends that girls bring nothing to their grading, both for practical and psychological reasons. Slave girls, after all, own nothing.

I remembered the slave mantras I had made Suzie repeat, while I tapped the whip with her bottom during her Slave Yoga.

Slave girls own nothing.
Slave girls are nothing.
The only thing a slave girl has is the ability to work, and to give pleasure.

“I own nothing. Um… I mean, I don’t have anything,” I said, correcting the embarrassing slip.

“I could use your phone,” she suggested helpfully.

“I didn’t bring my phone,” I said.

The woman frowned. I don’t know if she thought I was lying, or just utterly useless, or both. She took a moment to look me up and down, in my little short blue mini-dress and dirty barefoot sandals, before leaving to join her husband and children outside.

I wanted to use the bathroom, but I could still hear the two harpies giggling inside as they fussed with their makeup. Bitches.

A part of me just wanted to leave. Glancing at the door, I saw my darling daughter was playing with the wicked little popper on the tip of the riding crop, running her fingers through the leather lashes. It was the same crop I had used when I had put her through her paces when I tested her to see if she was ready for her grading, and it really stung, judging from the little yelps she had given when I had snapped it across her cute little buns.

Trapped between the devil and the deep blue sea, I turned to look at the model of huge oil derrick that dominated the center of the interior. In May 1896, they struck oil in Navarro, and it yielded 22 barrels of oil a day. The country was named after Jose Antonio Navarro, some Mexican guy who fought for Texan independence, as if I cared.

Did you know there were over 3,000 sightings of Big Foot in the county?

My journey into the past was cut short by a cold reminder of the present. I jerked as Suzie impatiently tapped my bottom with her riding crop. “Let’s go. You don’t want to be late.”

“When we checked you in, there was a backlog, and you had to wait,” I reminded her.

“It was just after graduation, and all the senior girls were getting graded for college. Plus, it’s fine if they make you wait. If slave girls are late for their gradings, not so much.”

Suzie smiled, and rubbed the crop over the curves of my bottom, making her meaning clear. Biting my lip, I exited, avoiding the cement. I stood barefoot on the lawn in front of the car and watched as Suzie fetched my metal slave collar.

“Put it on,” she said, tossing it to me.

“Do you have the key for this?” I asked.

“Put it on,” she repeated.

I stared at her. She was leaning against the truck, her left foot raised and resting against the bumper. With her big sunglasses on, I couldn’t see her eyes, but she smiled as she toyed with the popper. We both have long blonde hair, and although people usually people think I’m her older sister, it was clear from her superior attitude who held the whip hand, literally.

Even though my fingers were trembling, it was easy to lock the metal collar around my neck. I swallowed hard as I felt the electrodes dig in. Slave collars go on easy. Getting them off can be another matter.

“Give me your dress,” Suzie said flatly.

“HERE?” I said, looking over at the row of trucks parked behind our car.

“I gotta get you caged, slave girl,” she said, smiling.

“I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Give me your dress,” she repeated, holding out her hand. Her tone was authoritative, and left no room for discussion. She was tapping the side of her leg gently but rhythmically with the crop, in a very impatient and, from my perspective, threatening manner.

As I was facing the sun, I couldn’t see through the windows to see if there were any truckers facing me. It didn’t matter. I’d be naked in the back of the truck in a few seconds anyway.

Reaching for the hem of my dress, I pulled it over my head in a single fluid motion. I handed it to her, and shook out my long, blonde hair.

Suzie smiled, and put my dress in the back of the truck. She returned to me, holding a leash and a plastic bottle, in addition to the ever-present crop.

Walking boldly up to me, she snapped the leash to my collar. “Get on all fours.”

“Why?”

“You said you needed to go to the bathroom. This is the pet rest area. Time for a walkee.”

As I looked at her with horror, a middle-aged man got out of a camper led his leashed dog over to the area directly behind us. The man smiled when he saw me, naked and leashed, but when I tried to cover myself, Suzie tapped my bottom with the crop. “Present”, she said.

I spread my legs, and put my hands on top of my head, giving the smiling fat man a good, long look as he walked past me. “Nice,” was all he said, but his leering grin showed he meant it.

His dog, a golden retriever, sniffed around a bit before selecting one of the rosemary bushes. Lifting her rear leg, she peed on the bush.

Suzie tapped my bottom with the crop. “Well, get on all fours, slave bitch, and water other side. Go on, get to it, slave girl,” she said.

“Suzie, I can’t…”

WHOOSH! The crop hit my bottom, hard. It’s said that slave trainers like to see a crop mark or two on an untrained slave girl during a grading, as it shows that someone tried to master them. At least that’s what I had told Suzie before her grading, ha-ha.

With no more encouragement needed, I quickly dropped to all fours and crawled across the grass, with Suzie holding my leash. The dog paid me no mind, so I lifted my left leg, closed my eyes, and concentrated. I had thought it would be impossible for me to do this in public, but my bladder was quite full, and when you have to go.

Suzied grinned down at me as I watered the bush.

“Hot day, isn’t it?” the middle-aged man said.

“A real scorcher,” Suzie agreed.

“Mark Twain said that if he had a house in hell, and a house in Texas, he’d live in hell and rent out Texas,” the man said.

Suzie laughed at the joke she’d heard a million times before. “Yeah, that’s a good one.”

“Wow, she’s pissing like a race horse!” the man said, admiring my forceful stream.

“More like a pony girl,” my daughter said, smiling.

At this point, the two harpies from the restroom, both carrying bottles of diet soda, came out. Seeing me naked and watering the bush, one whispered something to the other, and they both giggled.

The dog, who had a head start on me, finished, and began sniffing around.

“What’s her name?” Suzie asked.

“Sunflower,” the man said. “Because of her golden coat. What about yours?”

Suzie regarded me for a moment, thinking. “Honeypot,” because of her long hair, and hot, wet slave pussy.”

The two teenage girls giggled. Bitches!

“Well, have a nice day,” the man said, leading Sunflower back to the RV. We briefly rubbed noses before our parting.

Suzie dropped a bottle of slave oil on the ground in front of me. “It’s hot out, and you need sun protection. Put it on, everywhere.”

Suzie went back to the truck while I rubbed the slave oil on my body. It would provide me protection from the sun, but also make me glisten like a wet, juicy Pleasure Slut. Seeing that I was alone, the girls moved in like two hyenas to make the kill.

“Rub those tits, slave girl.”

“Yeah, you want to look your best on the auction block.”

“Kind of old to fetch a good price.”

“I don’t know. Slave brothels along the border like the experienced hos. They hump good, and can get in lots of fuck s per hour. Can you get in lots of fucks per hour, slave girl?”

I looked over to the truck. Suzie had torn my blue dress, and was spraying the windshield with a bottle of GUNK, using the torn dress as a rag to remove the bugs. There were lots of bugs on the windshield, hood, and grill, but as she’d finish a section she’d toss the used rag that used to be my dress onto the ground, and tear another section.

I hadn’t bought my purse of phone with me, as it’s common wisdom that leaving personal property at home is not only practical but psychologically beneficial to the girl being graded. The more I felt like a slave girl, the better my grade would be, which was doubtlessly why my darling daughter was making such a point of utterly destroying my only garment, and the one item that might allow me to transform myself back into the role of a free woman.

“She asked you a question, ho,” one of the girls said.

“Yeah, a free woman is talking to you, slut. Answer, or else.”

The two little bitches were scowling at me. I looked over to my daughter for help, but she was busy ripping a new section of my dress to clean the FORD logo on the grill of the truck.

“I’m sorry, Mistress. What was the question.”

“Can you get in a lot of fucks per hour, slave girl?”

“Yeah. Can you spread those long legs of yours, and hump all night, with 100 different dicks in that little cash box between your legs?”

“Do you want to suck on 100 dirty Mexican ding dongs a night, and taste their scum?”

Their taunts were cut short as a Black Chevy Tahoe with the markings of the Texas Highway patrol did a slow drive by, surveying the scene. The truck stopped, and a Texas state trooper got out, and put on his white cowboy hat. He spoke into his radio for a moment, then began to saunter over, doing the “cop walk”, with his fingers cuffed into his gun belt. With his mirrored sunglasses and tan uniform, the frowning figure looked lean-and-mean, and the two girls quickly beat a hasty exit.

Suzie, seeing that I was in trouble, threw the bottle of gunk into the truck and deposited the shards of what had once been my dress in the trash bin. The cops walk was slow and methodical, and Suzie reached me first.

“May I help you, officer?” Suzie said.

“This your slave girl?” the officer said.

It wasn’t until I spoke that I realized that the trooper was not a man, but a girl, sort of. Her name tag read LOPEZ, and she had muscular arms and short, slick backed hair, and her manner was macho enough for a dozen guys.

“Yes, she is,” Suzie said. Turning to me, Suzie snapped, “Present!”

I immediately dropped the bottle of oil and spread my legs widely, putting my hands on top of my head.

Trooper Lopez took off her sunglasses, and slowly looked me over, starting with my toes, moving up my legs to my shaved pussy, over my flat belly and breasts, and up to my face and hair. She said nothing, and didn’t smile, but it was obvious from the amount of time she spent on the visual inspection that she was liking what she saw.

I blushed, and looked down. Suzie used the tip of her riding crop to lift up my chin, making sure that Trooper Lopez could enjoy the embarrassed look on my face.

“She smells like dog shit,” Trooper Lopez observed.

“That’s her feet,” Suzie explained, “from walking barefoot on the lawn. I made her water the bush,” she said, indicating the rosemary bush I had peed on.

Trooper Lopez smiled in approval, then did a slow, appraising circle around me. “Not branded,” she noticed, checking out my ass. You got any paper on her?”

“No,” Suzie said. “She’s my mom. I’m taking her for a slave grading.”

“Your mom?” Lopez said. “She looks too young for that.”

“I look young,” I said, smiling slightly. Trooper Lopez frowned, and Suzie tapped my bottom with the riding crop, warning me not to talk.

“Does she got a SIN?” Trooper Lopez asked.

“No,” Suzie said.

“No SIN?” Trooper Lopez said, peeling back my lip and checking me out for herself. “You should get her tatted, and chipped. A fine piece of slave pussy like this should be registered.”

I didn’t resist as Trooper Lopez took too long inspecting my mouth. Walking around me she squeezed my ass cheek. “Personally, if I were you, I’d get her ass branded, too.”

“I’m thinking about it,” Suzie said. I gasped, uncertain about whether my daughter was bluffing or actually thinking about branding my ass.

“You got any ID for her, proving that she’s free?”

“No, we left it at home,” Suzie explained. “Is there a problem, officer?”

“There could be.” I gasped as Lopez reached between my legs and rubbed my pussy. “She’s slave wet.”

“She was oiling herself,” Suzie explained.

I went up on my toes and Lopez inserted her fingers into me and began fucking me with her hand. I gasped with shame and pleasure as the lesbian cop had her fun.

Withdrawing her hand, Lopez smelled her finger. “It’s slave oil, all right,” she agreed. “But it came out of her snatch, not the bottle.” I blushed.

“No crime in being slave hot,” Suzie said.

Lopez frowned. “Yeah, but there is a crime in trafficking in unregistered slave girls, and kidnapping, and about a dozen other things I can think of. Sure you don’t got ANYTHING proving she’s your mom?”

“I got the appointment, on my phone, at The Big D,” Suzie said. “I can show you on their app. Plus I have a confirmation e-mail.”

“Without a SIN that don’t prove nothing. What else ya’ got?”

Suzie thought for a moment. “We both have a birthmark. A little heart. See, it’s on the front of her pussy.”

Going into Inspector mode, Lopez knelt down, happy for the excuse to once again finger and closely examine my pussy. Cupping my pussy in her hand, the happy hunt began. “My, she is all wet and juicy. You really out to sell her, after you grade her. You’d get some good coin for a sweet pussy like this.”

“The birthmark is on the left, towards the bottom.”

“I’m the investigator, young lady,” Sheriff Lobo replied, “and I know how to handle slave pussy. Let’s see… Yeah, there it is,” she said, laughing for the first time. It’s tiny, but it’s like a little heart. You got one of those, too?” she said, turning to Suzie.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Suzie said, slightly embarrassed.

“Let’s see it.”

“What? I mean, I can’t. It’s on my… uh…”

“Don’t be shy, Princess,” Trooper Lopez said. “I used to work as a guard at County, and I’ve stuck my finger in more cream pies than Sara Lee and Marie Callender put together. You’re the one who brought up the idea of comparing pussies. Fine. Let’s compare.”

Suzie looked mortified. “Look, Officer, Lopez, I didn’t mean… It’s unfathomable that--”

“Unfatable? You a college girl?” she said, looking at Suzie’s crop-top.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Suzie replied. “University of Texas, Austin.”

“Well, la-dee-dah! I bet your mommy went to college, too. Well, I’ll tell ya’ what. I think stuck-up college girls make the best slave pussy. And I’m going to see if she’s really your mom, by seeing if your little snatch is as hot as hers.”

“Officer Lopez…” my daughter said. Her voice was unsure and whiny, but she still wanted to argue, rather than strip down for the lesbian cops groping. As Lopez was still fondling and finger fucking me, I understood her hesitation.

“You can call me Sam, sweet stuff, seeing as how my fingers are gonna-be-doing-the-walking through you little cha-cha. Of course, if you’d rather, I’ll take you both in. I’ll check your pussies down at the jail, then you both get a little trip to slave court. I might find some reefer or an open bottle in your truck, just to seal-the-deal. Trust me, you do not want to end up in the slave court at Navarro County Courthouse. The Judge gets a commission on every pussy he processes, and unless your daddy…”

“My husband is out of town,” I interjected, biting my lip as she freely fondled my bare, wet pussy. “That’s why we’re getting the grading done. Look, if there’s some sort of fine we can pay…”

“You trying to bribe me, slave girl?” she said, handling me a bit rougher. “If you want to get out of this, and don’t want to get a quick run-through before your husband has a chance to bail your ass out, I suggest you tell your daughter to take off her britches and fold them neatly on the lawn, then spread her legs and stand in the same pose next to you, so I can do palm-to-palm, pussy-to-pussy comparison.” As she spoke, Trooper Sam freely fondled my wet pussy, but held out his/her other hand, making identical finger gestures where she expected my daughter’s pussy to be.

My daughter looked at me like she was going to barf, but she knew the answer as well as I. The delicious vulnerability a woman feels on her way to the slave market had now captured her, and we were both swirling around the gravitation vortex of possible enslavement. It was no idle threat. With my husband out of town for the next few days, we’d be at the mercy of a system that would be happy to “accidentally” enslave us, then play the “sovereign immunity” card if my husband tried to sue. Sure, he might get damaged eventually, and he might be able to buy us back, assuming we weren’t exported to some hellhole by the time he arrived home. At the very least, our collars would be on for a lot longer than a weekend.

I nodded, and Suzie, scowling, unzipped her jean shorts and pushed them down to her ankles. Her panties were baby blue, and had a picture of Tweety Bird from the old cartoons, surrounded by little hearts.

“Oh, ayn’t those darlin’!” Trooper Lopez said. “I thought I saw a PUSSY Cat!” Trooper said, laughing as my daughter blushed. “Aren’t you the sweetest little girly girl. Now skin down yer’ underpants, young lady, so old Trooper Sam can have a nice long feel.”

Suzie obeyed, revealing her mound, which was populated by trimmed, light blonde hair. “A real golden honey pot,” Trooper Sam observed. “And the shade matches your moms. That’s a point in your favor, but the proof of the pudding is in the tasting!” she said, wiggling her fingers as Suzie blushed. “Okay, now stand behind your mom, and move behind her, so I can get your pussies side by side. Yeah, but spread your legs. PRESENT!”

Suzie snapped into position. I could feel her thigh pressed against mine as we formed a tight formation. Behind us, a bunch of the truckers had left their trucks to move in for a closer look. Dads and boyfriends tasked with relieving the dog kept their pets within easy viewpoint of the action. Most of the older women passed us quickly, ignoring us even as they made their disgust clear. A few college girls regarded us with amused curiosity. A couple of butch lesbians who could have been Lopez’s girlfriends stared directly between our legs. Suzie and I were both blushing hotly, but she remembering her training, Suzie OBEYED. When you’re a slave girl, you spread your legs, even if there are 25 men and women of various ages, sexual preferences, and sizes watching your humiliation.

“Might as well see the whole show,” Trooper Lopez said, skinning off Suzie’s crop top and pulling off her flip flops. “That’s better. College girls don’t look so stuck up when they’re slave naked.”

“All nice and shaved”, Lopez said, kneeling down to cup Suzie’s pussy in her hand. “And you’re getting wet, too. You all wet for me, slave girl? You lay in your fancy sorority house, dreaming of me fingering your twat? Let’s stroke that little button and get it to come out to play. A college girl in the streets, a Pleasure Slut in the sheets.”

Lopez continued to finger fuck me and rub my button even as she picked up the pace of Suzie’s molestation. Suzie began to grunt as Lopez worked her pussy, which only made me hotter.

“Oh, you’re a three-finger girl, just like mommy. What hot little pussies you both have. I’ll tell you what. I’m going to see which one of you I can get to come first, and the winner gets a piece of the slave licorice that’s in my truck. We’ll skip court, because I have a better idea about how to use that big-ass slave cage in your truck. It’s big enough for two sluts, and I think you and your mom would get a better grade if you checked into The Big D together. I gotta couple girlfriends there, and they love stuck up college girls. I can cage you both, then drive you up to Dallas, and get ya all checked in together. You and mommy can spend all weekend doing some lesbo action, kind of like a specialty act, which will make you PRIME, easy-peasy. They'll probably put you in the inspection pens, so the gropers can feel the merchandise, and put in some offers your daddy can review when he gets home, to decide if he wants to put you two on the block. After I put a little video of you & mommy cleanin' each other's snatches up on the web for all the neighbors to see, he very might decide it's time to clean house. How does that sound, college girl?”

My daughter and I answered, by both coming together on Trooper Lopez’s hand, with her laughing, and everyone watching us and applauding. I knew that Suzie and I were both in for a long weekend until my husband returned, and that for us, the Safety Rest Area was anything but.

http://www.lanabird.com/2013/03/13/nava ... Oo6ZhNKhBI

[Carl Bradford]

I have always enjoyed Joe's slave grading stories, such as the 2016 "Slave Grading Mom"; he is the master of the power exchange and humiliation of a MILF. This time, of course, he manages to surprise me yet again by diverting both the MILF and her daughter before they ever get to the slave market--and with a female, rather than male, authority figure to boot.
This is why stories by Joe and Gentleman Mariner are so superior to my efforts--they manage to infuse their plot lines with such a sense of impending doom that my heart rate actually accelerates when I read them. Joe has done it again, and I'm sure I'm not the only one thanking him for this story.

[jeepster]

Good story and nice Real life photos of the actual rest stop!

Carl don't sell yourself short !

[Hooked6]

Another example of why you are a master wordsmith in creating erotic stories.

Withdrawing her hand, Lopez smelled her finger. “It’s slave oil, all right,” she agreed. “But it came out of her snatch, not the bottle.” I blushed.

“You can call me Sam, sweet stuff, seeing as how my fingers are gonna-be-doing-the-walking through you little cha-cha. Of course, if you’d rather, I’ll take you both in. I’ll check your pussies down at the jail, then you both get a little trip to slave court. I might find some reefer or an open bottle in your truck, just to seal-the-deal. Trust me, you do not want to end up in the slave court at Navarro County Courthouse. The Judge gets a commission on every pussy he processes, and unless your daddy…”

“My husband is out of town,” I interjected, biting my lip as she freely fondled my bare, wet pussy. “That’s why we’re getting the grading done. Look, if there’s some sort of fine we can pay…”

“You trying to bribe me, slave girl?” she said, handling me a bit rougher. “If you want to get out of this, and don’t want to get a quick run-through before your husband has a chance to bail your ass out, I suggest you tell your daughter to take off her britches and fold them neatly on the lawn, then spread her legs and stand in the same pose next to you, so I can do palm-to-palm, pussy-to-pussy comparison.”

I just LOVED the realistic dialog and interaction between the girls and Officer Lopez. What a colorful character she is. Marvelous stuff!

I kind of wished she had the chance to wash her feet, though, before being Slave-handled by Officer Lopez. I still smelled the dog poop in my mind's nose that it was kind of hard to imagine the sweet smell of dueling slave pussies, so realistic was your writing. (That is a compliment, BTW, not a criticism.)

Hooked6

[lovethissite]

Excellent Joe Thank you.

[dtrelsky]

Nice! I know it doesn't tend to show up in stories here due to an apparent distaste for it but I think it makes a ton of sense that this sort of thing happens in this setting—slaves are treated as property not as a person who might be related to someone else. Especially since I've never seen any mention in any slave story I've read that involved prevention of ownership or use by their relations, in fact often the oppposite in that sometimes family will protectively enslave their children. I imagine it would be no surprise that some ne'erdowells might "protectively" enslave someone and once done they are just a SIN in the system as far as the government cares—of course powerful people have the ability flaut these rules by ensuring if some accident befell one of the people they cared about they could discretly deal with the matter rather than have to make a public fuss like a regular person.
I see the pair of them performing just like Trooper Lopez says and when her husband shows up to collect them after the weekend he'll find them putting on a show—as a smart fellow he'll see from the incident that while he may have thought he had his wife locked down with the ring on her finger, one around her neck will be a lot better at keeping her to himself. As for his daughter, she managed to get herself naked and caged at a slave market risking her and her mother, clearly her ability to get herself out of situations where people are pushing her towards slavery is weak. College will be a dangerous time for her, but if he chips the both of them he can rest easier knowing any attempts to enslave them will be prevented as they are already owned; he may feel a brand would help prevent people from getting the idea in the first place, though it would give them other ideas instead.
After seeing their performance live and getting a recording of some of what they got up to over the weekend—probably paid for by Trooper Lopez(more so she could have her own copy really)—his thoughts will likely start to be corrupted and their close similarity won't help when he makes the occasional mistake mixing them up around the house.

Random thought. Do slave owners have to pay a sort of property tax on their slaves? Do they instead get a deduction on their taxes like a dependent? I'm guessing they would have to pay taxes on income generated by the slave; wouldn't want a bunch of people finding loopholes to get out of paying taxes that rightfully belong to the government. Not particularily erotic details but they could cause events to unfold for people that they didn't expect. Like in the case of a protective enslavement, if a poorer family has to pay a high property tax on their daughter because of how high she was graded—maybe for a loan the family needed to buy a car after an accident totals their old one and the insurance won't cover a new one, possibly because she was at fault(insurance is a bit of a mystery to me, I just pay it and hope I never need it)—they may find they need to make the difficult choice to rent her out for a few weeks each year to afford to keep her. After a bit and with other expenses popping up it might just seem reasonable to rent her out for a bit longer, "Just this once" for the family!

I got a bit carried away. Great story and I look forward to whatever you end up working on next!

[Carl Bradford]

I love dtrelsky's comments about the husband thinking he had her ringed properly. "If you liked it you should have put a ring on it"--in this case "it" being a neck, followed by nipples.
I also want to applaud the idea of renting out the slave occasionally to pay taxes. In his(?) excellent series "Slave Camp" on Literotica, Gamblnluck argued, quite correctly, that the government would not only seek to tax anything a slave earned but also collect social security and medicare so that the slave had something to live on when finally freed in old age. Being lazy, I've suggested elsewhere that the IRS wouldn't bother tracking down slave taxes except for very high end, Sandy Foot Girl quality pleasure slaves. Still, it's a great idea to have a blue collar owner rent out a slave--perhaps even a daughter under protective enslavement? for several weeks a year to pay the taxes. Is anyone working on such a plot?

[jeepster]

Great job of painting a picture! Almost feel like I was there watching!

[imreadonly2]

I strongly disagree that Carl's stories are second to mine, or to anyone's, as he is always creatively pushing both his writing craft and the universe forward. The Joe Doe stories have a rather narrow focus on women who want to experience slavery, and those are my favorite stories, but Carl casts a much broader net. He also has a genius for throwing out a single line that totally fires my imagination and gets me writing, with The Rest Safety Area being the latest example. Your work is very much enjoyed and appreciates, and I am grateful for the inspiration, and the chance to enjoy your enormous talent!

Joe Doe