Story Fragment: A Dark Transformation

[imreadonly2]

A new story fragment, inspired by Gary's creative Twighlight Zone episode.

Alex had just checked into The Big D, and when she got to her grooming station she was surprised and a little alarmed to find Rebecca Cook, the accountant for The Big D, waiting for her.

“Hello, Rebecca,” she said, her voice betraying her concern. “Everything okay?”

“Relax, everything’s fine. Can you close the door, Alex? I wanted to ask you something.”

Alex closed the door and returned to stand in front of The Big D’s accountant. Alex didn’t report to Rebecca, at least not directly, but Rebecca reported directly to Jake, and was definitely the one who made her bosses tremble.

Alex knew Rebecca a bit. She actually cut Rebecca’s hair sometimes, and did her nails. The were friendly enough, but Alex was always painfully aware of the difference in their relative stations.

“I’m not in some sort of trouble, am I?” she asked warily.

“Not at all. Please, please sit down,” Rebecca said, indicating one of the barber chairs.

Alex sat in one of the barber chairs. It was a pretty normal chair, save for the arm and leg straps that were sometimes used to strap the Pleasure Sluts down when a head shaving was required, for lice or punishment.

Rebecca reached into her bag and extracted a bottle of Dr. Pepper. “I remember you liked Dr. Pepper. Here, let me get you some ice.”

A confused Alex watched Rebecca scurry over to the fridge to get a cup for her ice, and then do the pour. Alex couldn’t help but notice that the bent over executive had a sweet, tight ass on her, but the lesbian slave groomer was still too nervous to enjoy the view as much as might have if the thought of Rebecca Cook being enslaved wasn’t so absurd.

Alex thanked Rebecca as she was presented with her drink. It was odd to have Rebecca fetch her a drink, as she normally did that for Rebecca when she was cutting her hair. Alex’s timecard was on the table, and she was wearing her Big D coveralls, while the immaculately coiffed Rebecca in her blue business suit looked like she was ready to stride into a board room meeting.

“I have a question for you. Off the record,” Alex said. “Strictly confidential.”

“Of course. What’s said in my beauty shop stays in the beauty shop.”

“Good. I wanted to ask you, do you ever do extreme make overs for any of the Pleasure Sluts? I mean, extreme, so that no one recognizes them?”

Alex answered tentatively, anxious to please but confused by the question. “Yeah, but usually there’s not much point. Naked and collared, most girls look just the way guys want them. No point in enslaving a girl if you’re going to try to make her look like someone else. Just enslave someone else.”

Rebecca pressed. “But the point is, could you do it? Could you change her appearance so that her friends, or the people she worked with, didn’t recognize her? At least temporarily?”

“Sure, I guess. But… who is this for? I don’t see why you’d want to do it?”

“I have a friend who’d like to get processed through The Big D. Only she lives in Dallas, and she doesn’t want anyone to recognize her. Could you change here appearance? I mean, TOTALLY. It’s important that no one hear recognize her. NO ONE.”

“Is your friend famous, or something?” Alex asked, still confused.

Rebecca laughed. “No, but everyone here knows her, and she doesn’t want anyone to know it’s her.”

In her mind, Alex was already trying to guess who this mystery girl was. Was one of Jakes daughters looking to get graded? As a former slave, Jake’s wife had already been graded, but did she want to be trained, incognito? “I could probably work something out. What does she look like to start with?”

“Um… she looks a little like me. I mean, not exactly, but let’s use me as an example. Could you change my appearance so no one knows me?”

Alex tried to think of someone who everyone who worked at The Big D knew, that looked like Rebecca. The closest she could come was that slave consultant, PROFESSOR Sarah Hollister, but it wasn’t like she would ever get processed! Still confused, Alex tried to answer the question.

“Well, you have straight blonde hair, but you die it blonde, so for starters I’d probably die it black, and cut it, or tease it out, so it goes all curly. You have blue eyes, but 90 day contacts could make them brown or green or black. We might give you a temporary brand, or temporary tattoo. Combined with the normal changes, that would probably be enough to fool most people.”

“What do you mean, ‘normal changes?’ Be specific,” Rebecca pressed.

“Well, you wouldn’t be wearing jewelry, or makeup, or a business suit. You’d be slave naked, with a collar around your neck. That would change your appearance a LOT.”

Alex laughed, and Rebecca felt herself go flush as the lesbian allowed her eyes to run up and down her body. “You’re not a bad piece of slave meat, now that you mention it. No offense.”

“None taken,” Rebecca said, not wanting to end the conversation by reprimanding her subordinate. “What if I – my friend, I mean-- wanted more than a different haircut? Is that all you got? What about changing a girl’s features? Is there anyway of changing her face?”

“That’s a bit trickier,” Alex conceded. “I can get lip plumper which will last a few days, or a week. Maybe glue in braces, or a dental appliance that makes your teeth look different, and use a nose filler injection to change the shape of your nose. All of those things are temporary, and would last at least a week.”

“Why a week? I was thinking more of a weekend,” Rebecca said.

“If you’re going to go to all this trouble, you’ll want more than 48 hours, and you’ll need more, especially if we use the bronzer to change your friend’s complexion to something more exotic. Changing skin color is obviously the biggest change.

“Seriously. You can bronze a girl that much? I’m pretty fair.”

“Sure, and if you are trying to make your friend look different, the fairer the better. I mean the darker she is, the less chance anyone will recognize her, especially here, since white girls go for more.”

“You’ve done this?” Rebecca said, doubtfully.

“Sure. A couple of years ago I had a woman whose husband kept going to Mexican brothels, so for his birthday she bought him a puta. Only she dyed her hair and I gave her a total bronze, so when he fucked her he didn’t even recognize her. It wasn’t until she gave him a blow job, and he recognized her technique, that he caught on. She couldn’t stop laughing, but he was so turned on he made her finish, with me watching. It was quite the birthday gift.”

“You could make someone like me dark enough to look like another race?” Rebecca said, amazed.

“Sure. I could give you a little tan, or make you into Hallie Berry or Kerry Washington. Or we could a bit darker, and do Oprah. Or I can go really dark, and make you look like Lupita Nyong’o.”

“You can do that?” “I mean… you… you’ve actually done that? Turn a girl… black?”

Rebecca had actually taken a step or two back as they were talking, even as she leaned in closer. Rebecca was fidgeting, and playing with her hands, while Alex relaxed and sitting in her barber chair, holding forth. Alex was enjoying the commanding woman’s discomfort, and relaxed as she enjoyed the power shift between them.

“Shit, I’m doing it, girl,” Alex said, laughing. “Check your ledger. We’re getting $5 grand to turn a female white history Professor into a black slave for the Plantation Days celebration up at the Cotton Blossom Plantation. We got a bunch of blacks going to rent themselves for white people for a week, after a couple of days of training at The Big D. If you want to mix your friend in so no one notices, that’s the group to do it with.”

“When is that again?” Rebecca said.

“Next week,” Alex said. “So tell your friend to get ready for some nappy hair and big lips and the auction block, if she really wants to make her dreams come true. Now could you fetch me some more Dr. Pepper?” she said, jingling her glass to show it was empty.

Alex ogled Rebecca’s ass through her tight skirt as she submissively fetched her a refill. Although she wasn’t sure why, suddenly, the thought of Miss Rebecca Cook in a collar didn’t seem so absurd after all.

https://www.themakeupgallery.info/racia ... lackrw.htm

[Mr. Smith]

In the spirit of giving credit where credit is due the Twighlight Zone story is Gary's. I just commented on it. That being said I would love to read about Rebecca Cook experimenting with slavery. Especially as a lesbian. It would be interesting if she gave the haridressser the POA.

[jeepster]

Love the premise of this story! And I would really like to see Rebecca made a slave.

[imreadonly2]

My sincere apologies to Gary! I've wanted to do either a time travel, historic re-enactment, or race transformation story for awhile, but I should really finish the threads I already have going. If you did have a return to slavery, it would only be a matter of time until you had an ANTEBELLUM style theme park for rich white racists to relive the good old days.

[dtrelsky]

Nice fragment. As for the theme park idea, I've thought about the show Westworld for that. Southworld I guess? Rather than rewrite it out differently I'm going to try just pasting the train of thought I had here—it was meant to exorcise the thought and flesh it out so I could move on from thinking about it rather than be in a presentable form.

Westworld setup of Joe Doe's South
Main girl is quite rich and therefore can afford to visit the park for her amusement. Attending the balls and parties and various social functions is quite enjoyed by the
fashionable and rich. Dressing up and demonstrating your ability to practice old southern charm and manners affects your social life and status outside of the park as well.
Main girl excels at this and spends lots of time in the park. As one of the parks oldest customers and with her amazing role play, newcomers to the park often make the mistake of assuming she is one of the "hosts". While as stated before, a person's real life social status is affected by actions in the park—since its so big amongst the social elite—the main girl keeps a low profile outside. After the park has been around for a few months or so, minorities begin to complain about how they are often portrayed in less desirable roles, especially as slaves. Perhaps oddly, the park management decides to answer this criticism by introducing fancy girls, fancy girls being just as they are in the joe doe south. surprisingly this quieted the complaints from minorities and even if anyone else had been opposed to it they found themselves unable to say anything to that effect. They had been okay with the situation before after all and they didn't want to look bad. These changes were gradual at first, mostly the business of men. They started to come up in polite conversation, even in the rarefied airs that the main girl dwells. As a VIP client the main girl has her own plantation in the park, fully set up with servants, slaves, and even a husband—all "hosts". Hearing about fancy girls but not knowing the details about them she is curious. She can't get any clear answers from her "host" husband so she heads to the part of town where she hears they are, but she finds herself barred as by her dress she is clearly a lady. Not about to be stopped by such a silly thing, she heads to a store for normal folk and buys a regular dress and heads in, this time no one bars her way. She sees fancy girls being auctioned and the behavior of the crowd, she finds the whole affair strangely arousing. She also notices that there is not much separating her and the fancy girls, it is largely how they are dressed. As even the ones that have clothes on (the ones that came with their masters) are dressed differently. They have a red hankerchief sewn on their dresses. While some of their dresses are no different from ones she might wear, others are cut much more revealing. She finds herself returning again and again, she buys more dresses of a more common nature in order to facilitate this, on one such occasion she is in a different store and finds a selection of different dresses, they are meant for fancy girls the clerk explains, they also have a variety of red hankerchiefs for sale that they can sew onto a dress of the customer's choosing. She decides to have a couple dresses of a common style with the hankerchief added. she finds that as long as she moves about with purpose she seems to be running errands for her master but she still gets a thrill. She learns to mimic the role very well. One day she encounters some fellow guests while playing the fancy girl role and as her responses are so in character—and why would a guest be dressed as a fancy girl?—they believe her to be just another one of the hosts. They pull her aside into the entrance of an alley and take her right there where anyone who passes by can see, and many do though none find it strange. After they are done with her they leave her there half naked and exhausted. After she has collected herself she can't help but admit to herself she really got off on the experience. This incident leads to her taking more risks around guests. She learns that most gentlemen keep their fancy girls in their townhouses, away from their wives. Upon investigating she finds her host husband has a townhouse and a few fancy girls as well. As a VIP member she is allowed to make changes to her personal hosts and she does so by setting a condition that when she is dressed as the lady of the house, that is what she is. But when she is not, then she is a fancy girl. Whenever she is at the townhouse that is how she is treated, sometimes her host husband has visitors and makes her available to them out of hospitality. One day one of her host husbands guests asks how much she cost him, and as he didn't have to purchase her he can't answer, so the guest suggests that she be assessed so that her value can be known. In this situation she has no say and as the guest is a park guest, she isn't about to break character. They take her down to the assessor and put her through her paces, when she is resting from the humiliating ordeal, she is strapped down as the guest insists its only proper that the husbands brand be placed on her rear. Following the commands to treat her as a fancy girl, the host husband offers no objection and thinking her to be just another host, the guest brands her and then takes her from behind.

As for why the host would allow her to be branded despite it being a permanent form of harm, I was thinking that their medical technology makes it easy enough to heal a burn scar leaving her skin like new again. This could of course lead to rebrandings in the future though. The "main girl" would certainly have more adventures but I stopped there.


The red handkercheif denoting fancy girls was something that came up in a Tracey story I think.


I did try to add capitlization to the start of the sentences to make it look mildly better.

[jeepster]

Interesting story outline! Would be interested in reading the whole story!

[imreadonly2]

A bit of Dtrelsky's story, which I loved.

The Assessor's large, antebellum parlor was handsomely appointed, with a red carpet, red drapes, and a large marble fire place that held the blazing fire. The room had a large assortment of chairs and couches, but the center of attention at the moment was the large marble table on which I was kneeling, naked as the day I was born.

The assessors office was a popular place to conduct the business of slavery, and in the evenings park guests were often encouraged to accompany a host or simply show up, "to watch the show." The room was filled with wealthy Silicon Valley nerds, Wall Street Tycoons, and the idle rich, all looking quite stiff and uncomfortable in their fancy Victorian suits. I, of course, had no clothing to concern myself to with, but I nonetheless felt quite uncomfortable, particularly when the assessor tapped my bottom with the riding crop and ordered me to "show my flower" to the men looking at my naked behind.

Biting my lip, I obeyed, although not to the assessors satisfaction. "Wider" he said, tapping the insides of my thighs with his whip.

"Yes, let's have a more EXPANSIVE view," an older gentleman with white hair said. "As wide and spacious as the whole outdoors."

There was some chuckling at this, as I spread my knees to the very edge of the table, exposing all of my "assets" to their wicked "assessment."

"Two holes for the price of one," one of the gentleman said.

"Yes, for twice the fun," his compatriot added, laughing.

One of the programmer types examined my distressed facial expression closely. "I can't believe she's not real," he said, whispering to his friend. "Do you see the way she's panting?"

"Yes, her tits are bouncing nicely," his fat, drunken, nerdy friend observed, sipping his brandy.

"And look at the blush on her face, and the little beads of sweat on her brow. Talk about the uncanny valley," he said, his voice filled with wonder.

"If you REALLY want to experience the uncanny valley, put a finger up between her legs, and feel the merchandise," his friend suggested.

The guests could break character, although they were urged not to. The hosts were programmed to either disregard modern references or, if possible, work them into "show." The Assessor, hearing the exchange between the two tech geeks, stepped aside, and with a smile and a wave of his hand, offered the park guest free access to inspect the "uncanny valley" between my legs! Charles, my host/husband, stepped in, I thought to rescue me. But ever the gracious host he said, "Yes, by all means, feel free to inspect the merchandise."

"More like free feel," his fat friend snickered, drinking more brandy.

Undeterred, Charles continued. "She's not a virgin, so there are no worries there. But she's tight and saucy, and quite wet between the legs, randy bitch that she is."

I bit my lip as my programmer admirer moved in for a closer look, but when he saw my blushing face lip-biting countenance in the mirror he stopped. I was humiliated as much by Charles's attitude as my nakedness. When we were at the plantation he was a total Southern gentleman, and treated me like a delicate flower. But now that I was his naked fancy girl, he didn't hesitate to offer free feels to any guests who came along. I wasn't blushing because Charles had called me a randy wet bitch, I was blushing because it was true, as my admirer was about to find out.

"Go ahead," his fat friend whispered, nudging him forward with his shoulder. "It feels just like real pussy."

[dtrelsky]

I'm thrilled you liked it and even felt like writing a bit of it! I myself am not a writer so if you have any interest in doing more feel free. I'll just be happy to see life breathed into it. As it is already, its more than I could have hoped for.

[imreadonly2]

I certainly want to encourage anyone and everyone to write, but as you were so kind, here's a bit more. We haven't heard from Mr. Watcher in a while, so he's welcome to contribute!

I flinched when I felt him cup my pussy in his hand, but the assessor, using his whip to tap my flank, warned me that, "We'll have no nonsense from you, wench." Knowing the whip was no idle threat, I didn't resist as he felt up my pussy, rolling his fingers over it and weighing it in his hand like it was piece of fruit in a produce market. "Wow, you're right," he said, turning to his friend. "This is one sloppy wet otter pocket."

"Slip a couple of fingers up there," his friend suggested. "Who knows, maybe you wanna buy her. Got to spend all that money ya' got on something!"

I gasped with a combination of pleasure and shame as he easily slid, one, two, three fingers int my tight twat as he continued to molest me. Around me, the business of the world I was in ground on. A man sitting in the corner read the paper. Two other men, sitting by the fire, only occasionally looked away from their chess game to steal glances at my wet pussy and bouncing breasts. In the corner by the window two men bargained over the girl who had been assessed before me, a fine looking ebony wench with a rope around her neck. I noticed the man by the bar was watching her, not me, and I felt a twinge of jealousy.

I closed my eyes as the stranger's thumb found my clit. Pushing back against his hand I groaned in pleasure. "Oh, massa! MASSAH!"

At the front of the room the assessor's assistant signaled my host/husband that there was business to conduct. Charles, who had been watching my finger fucking with a cool, professional detachment, left me in the strangers grip, with his guest from England, the loathsome Mr. Watcher, in tow.

"It will be 50 cents for her assessment, Mr. Dubois," the clerk said. Mr. Watcher smirked at me as Charles reached into his pocket, amused that my humiliation was costing such a pittance. Charles dropped a single silver coin in the clerks hand, which ironically enough contained a picture of the Goddess of Liberty.

"You'll get the 50 cents back if you let us auction her. Oh, and by the way, that includes her branding fee, if you want to get her marked. I believe we have your branding head on file, if you want us to heat it up."

"By all means," Mr. Watcher said, answering for my husband. "You promised me a full tour, Charles, and I don't get to see many butt brandings back at my law office," he sniggered, slapping Charles on the back as he gave out a loud, gutteral laugh, as if burning the logo of my host husband's plantation on my backside was the very height of fun.

In mortified excitement, I pressed my wet pussy on my "guest's" hand. My humiliating 50 cent trifle would be REFUNDED, if Charles decided to auction me. And my almost forgotten branding would be thrown in as an afterthought, like a toy tossed into a Happy Meal box for Mr. Watcher.

"This sure is one hot pussy," the man finger fucking me observed. She feels like she's going to come on my hand."

"More real than real," his friend said, quoting the marketing poster as I rocked on his friends probing fingers. Reaching underneath me, he grabbed my breast and began to massage my nipple to hardness.

"Mind if I squeeze the melons?" he said, asking the assessor, and not me.

"Yes, I'm not interfering with your assessment, am I?" the man molesting my pussy asked the watching assessor.

"Not at all," the little bureaucrat replied, again deferring to the guest. "In testing her slave heat, you're doing my work for me."

"I'm a guest, too," I thought, "although no one knows it." I was certain none of the other guests knew, and the "hosts" were treating me like I was just another fancy wench. The assessor's calmness, and Charle's indifference, to the way my pussy was being massaged made me wonder if there was even a programatic difference to them between treating me as if I were a host and actually being a host. Looking around the room, I certainly received no hint that anyone saw anything amiss. I was simply another negress stripped buck naked for inspection!

I wondered if I even could stop this, if I tried. My clothes had been taken from me at the door, when Charles and Mr. Watcher had surrendered their hats. "You should really just burn that smelly old rag," Mr. Watcher said as I handed my sole garment over.

"As you wish, Sir," the black butler replied.

Mr Watcher had smirked at me, and given me a wink as I blushed as I tried to cover myself with my hands, at least until Charles grasped my wrists up behind my back and propelled me forward. Yes, thanks to Mr. Watcher's splendid sense of humor, my clothes were not only off, they were most likely GONE, as in up the chimney. It wasn't like I could go searching the townhouse for them. I could make a run for it, but even if I leapt out of the window it's not like a naked girl running down the street would get very far.

Could I identify myself as a guest? Possibly. One of the glitches was that under stress hosts sometimes broke program and claimed to be guests. I had seen it happen once with a negress who was hung upside-down for her paddling. She was gagged, and the paddling commenced. Not a big deal at all, really. I had often wondered about that incident, and mused over how they had been so certain she was lying. Her gagged screams and pleas during her "butt warming" certainly seemed real enough.

As if reading my mind, the assessor picked up the riding crop, and looking directly into my eyes, ran the lash through his fingers. I swallowed hard, and I saw the trace of a smile on his thin lips. "I'm glad she's so obedient," he observed to no one in particular, as he ran the wicked lash teasingly across the roundness of my naked bottom cheeks. It would be a pity to have to use the whip on such a nicely rounded backside."

"I don't think so," Mr. Watcher said. "I'd love to give the uppity little wench a good thrashing."

"Now these are nice jugs," the man fondling my breasts said. "You can tell she's got monkey blood in her. If she were mine, I'd milk these knockers everyday."

"Bids are always welcome, gentlemen," the assessor replied. "Selling monkey tail is what this room is for."

In front of me, the sale of the black girl - blacker than me, anyway, concluded with a handshake. My assessment would proceed. No big deal, really. All routine.

I was close to coming, and I tried not to watch as Mr. Watcher inspected the large Flor De Lis branding mark. "Oh, yes, this will make a splendid mark on that big rump of hers. Would you mind if I did the honors, Charles?"

"Anything for a guest, Mr. Watcher," Charles replied, suavely repeating a well rehearsed loop from his standard programming. "Anything for a guest."

[dtrelsky]

Huh, I didn't realize it was Christmas!

[bertrumm00057]

Another possibility for story line is a West World type park of a Antebellum theme with slave bots programmed to behave as slaves of the period. A female technician is have trouble with the bot assessor and stands in for the slave bot to work out the bugs.
Something goes wrong and she gets a control collar put on her and everytime she tries to tell anyone she is shocked or muted and made to perform sexually. At first she was amused but now she is trapped. Was it a glitch or was someone behind the programming?

[Citizen1069]

In the HBO show Westworld they had hand held computers that could change their programing. She could override his programing so he would only see her as a just another host under the right circumstances.

What if another Guest asked him to sell her? I does not matter to the Guest if he is a host or Guest, because he will think they are all part of the "show" or that she is just another toy to play with. To him the Guest orders come first, and she is seen by him as just another host.
The Guest likes her because she has "spirit" unlike the other hosts. She programed him with a story that she was a Southern bell who fell into hard times, and that is why she acts the way she does.

[imreadonly2]

I love the ideas about the female technician, and the references to WestWorld. Thank you for the inspiration, and here's a bit more, including a possible sale...


Charles took the branding head from Mr. Watcher. I chewed my lip nervously as I watched my host husband calmly take one of the wooden branding handles off the shelf and screw the branding head to the handle. With the strangers hand still humping my pussy, my breathing was rapid, and I could feel my nostrils flare as I watched my host husband calmly assemble the apparatus that would brand me like livestock. In contrast to my panic attack, Charles manner was calm to the point of being placid, and I watched helplessly as he prepared my branding iron with the aplomb of a man winding his pocket watch.

He held it up to admire it for a moment, and check the workmanship. Mr. Watcher held out his hand, and Charles, nodding graciously, handed him the branding stick. Smiling, Watcher examined the head again, then looking directly at me, gave me a little wink as he thrust the branding head deep into the fireplace for heating.

The assessor responded by discretely taking a jar of cream off the shelf and rubbing it onto my naked bottom cheeks. The cream would help assure the brand was was temporary, at the price of making it more painful. The action both alarmed and comforted me, as it meant that the brand would not be permanent, but, as much as I hoped that Charles might save me, it meant that the POSSIBILITY that I might get branded was most definitely on the table.

Satisfied that he had an iron in the fire, literally, Mr. Watcher put his fingers into the lapel jacket of his purple coat and casually sauntered over to where the two men were molesting me. Taking the whip from the assessor, Mr. Watcher used the popper to life my chin up so he could study my face more closely. "Please don't take offense, but what amazes me is how much she looks like your wife, Charles. I hope you don't mind my saying it, but they could really be twins."

"Oh, yes, you did meet my wife, didn't you?" Charles said. "At the ball at the Sugar Grove Plantation, as I recall. I believe I saw you two talking."

"Mocking is more like it," Watcher said, frowning as he ran his fingers through the lash. "I complimented her on her lovely figure, and said it was a pity she wasn't a slave, as I'd very much like to see her naked. I was drinking, I'll admit, but I did mean it as a compliment, and nothing more. After she slapped my face, she made fun of my weight, my accent, and my bald spot. Everyone laughed at me. She was quite insulting, actually."

"My darling wife can be quite forward," Charles said. "She's used to dealing with slaves, and is quite merciless with them, I'm afraid. Quick to use the whip! As for the resemblance, you are correct. The wench you see before you is actually her half sister, the product of her father fucking an octoroon who was his wive's half sister. So they are quite closely related, and are 3/4 sisters, although under the one drop rule, her racial classification is mustee, or 1/16 black."

"She's definitely a wench, with a pussy this wet!" the fat programmer said, bumping his friend aside so he could cop a quick feel of my wet sex. "Oh, isn't that the snappiest little love box a man could ask for? A honey pot all warm and willing and eager to please. Come on, stick you hand up her gash, and see what jolly old England is missing by not having slavery."

The two gentlemen backed away, and the portly Mr. Watcher waddled behind me. I started to close my legs to defend myself, but a quick tap of the whip on my naked bottom reminded me that modesty was not an option for a slave girl.

"Don't embarrass me in front of my guest, Honeypot," Charles admonished. "Looking white don't make ya' white!"

I gasped as Mr. Watcher cupped my sex in his hand. "Honeypot is the perfect name for her. A randy little slut, warm and sticky between the legs!" he snickered.

The explanation of our resemblance was a common one. The park often used the same "stamps" to create hosts, so it wasn't unusual to see a an old black footman who vaguely resembled the handsome white master who worked for him. Different hair, and aging, and skin tones, but the same face. Paradoxically, my close resemblance to my "sister" at the ball only cemented the fiction that I was a host, not a guest.

Mr. Watcher had been quite a bit more drunk and rude than he had told Charles, and his attempts to seduce me had been both crude and vulgar. I had played my part of the haughty Southern belle with great enthusiasm, to the point where I'm sure that most of the guests at the party thought I was a "host", and part of the show. It was a delicious, powerful feeling, and I enjoyed fooling them all. Of course, this meant that the drunken Mr. Watcher, idiot that he was, thought he was free to say anything that came to mind. And so he rather boldly remarked that the problem with the "Peculiar Institution" was that it placed too much stock on parentage, as opposed to a girl's fitness for the collar. "In that regard the Tripoli pirates are far advance, as if they encountered an American ship at sea they would take you off it, and strip you quite naked, and sell you in one of their open air markets like you were a pig or a horse. Your skin color and the ridiculous flag of your so-called "country" would not save you, and if I encountered you in such a place I would feel free to squeeze your ripe tities, and inspect the gash between your legs, which I imagine to be exquisitely tight. They know how to treat American 'ladies' in Tripoli, and i would feel much enjoy fingering you, my lady." Is it any wonder that I slapped his face?

I gasped as he freely fingered my wet pussy, tweaking my clit and laughing about my "randiness" and "fuckability" as he molested me. I wondered if his presence at my husband's townhouse was a mere coincidence, or if Master Story Control Program (MSCP), which monitored all of the conversations, had somehow routed him to me. Loathsome as he was, he was still a guest, and he had expressed a desire to finger my pussy, and squeeze my titties, which he was now doing. Shameful and humiliating as it was, I knew that his inspection of my naked body would mark the successful completion of a story arc, and would doubtlessly add "story points" to Mr. Watcher's guest profile.

"If you wish to place a bid on this wench, you may put a number in the bowl, gentlemen," the assessor said, indicating a pink finger bowl decorated with the figure of a lady with a parasol and bonnet. "Serious offers will help me make my assessment, and I am certain Mr. Dubois will entertain all offers made like the gentlemen he is."

Charles smiled and nodded graciously. I knew he had not come here planning to sell me, but as several guests I remembered from the party sauntered forward to drop their offers for my naked body into the bowl, I felt a fresh wave of nervousness wash over me.

The courtly old man with a Southern accent and large owl glasses had been at the party. He had called me, "young lady" and had told me that I "reminded him of his granddaughter." He let his eyes run up and own my naked body appreciatively as he dropped his offer in the bowl.

The two rich programmers made offers, as did a rather mean looking man with a silver tipped cane who never smiled, but had a noticeable bulge in his trousers. I had overheard him say how much he had enjoyed the "brightening up" the overseer had given one of the slave girls in the men's parlor before cocktails were served. A fat man with lisp remarked to the assessor that while he enjoyed looking at my sister at the party, he enjoy my "dress" even more, then put his bid into the bowl.

I could tell my "husband" Charles was proud of the numbers of offers he was getting, as having a desirable bed wench was considered a sign of status. As my pussy was fingered ever closer to orgasm, I was left to wonder how the MSCP might score this peculiar situation, as i had clearly indicated that I wanted to play at being a slave girl, and owning my body would doubtlessly be a dream come true for several of the men in the room.

I pressed back against Mr. Watcher's hand, enjoying the sensation of his fingers inside me. Such a reaction was not without risk, as the MSCP watched everything, and was doubtlessly taking my reaction into account as well. But the idea that my fate was in the hands of some cold, impersonal server up in the cloud was part of the turn on. It would decide whether or not my pussy should be sold as it was instructing the black butler to bring the more brandy, and adjusting the level of the fire to assure the comfort of the guests while making sure that the branding iron was heated to the perfect temperature for branding my bottom.

Mr. Watcher let go of my tits and picked up the whip, using it to caress my bottom. "I must compliment you, Charles, on having a bed wench that looks so much like your lovely wife. One for show, one for blow, as they say. And of course if your wife fails to please, this little bitch can pay the butcher bill!" he said, causing me to flinch as he tapped my defenseless bottom with the lash.

Mr. Watcher rubbled my bottom with the lash. "Would you mind if we put her through her paces, Charles, to see what she can do? No sense in having such a fine whip and not using it."

The gracious, accommodating smiled on Charles face told me that the MSCP had made its decision, and I was about to earn the vengeful Mr. Watcher some serious story points.

[jeepster]

Joe Doe, if you do another story variant with a female technician character in a Westworld type amusement park with a Old South theme, the Slave Assessor bot is malfunctioning and develops a glitch with examining slaves for sale. In particular undressing them, fingering them to orgasm and displaying them to a audience.
The technician first uses a female slave bot to test, but the glitch spreads to the female bot when repeating the routine over and over with the assessor not completing the exam, which causes a feedback loop with the slave bot.
The Tech stands in for the slave after making some adjustments so the assessor recognizes her as a pleasure slave.
After fixing a faulty sub-routine the Assessor completes the slave assessment of her, then collars and fucks her in every hole. It wasn't a regular human fuck but a bot doing her for a very long time.
After that many orgasms in a row the Tech wasn't entirely sure what her own name was.
As she recovered she noticed she was collared, cuffed and locked in a cage awaiting auction. The collar kept her from speaking. When ever she managed to attract attention from a human to get help, all they did was fuck her and pass her around to others that did the same.
She didn't mind so much with the good looking guys, but the old fat guys were a bit much. What really worried her was the usual branding just before he auction.
Did they really think she was a bot, or did they know and not care. She wished she could talk about this with the other female Tech she worked with, strange, she hasn't seen her in over a week.

[Carl Bradford]

I love all this play of a South World where the woman becomes a slave. That said, I was intrigued with the Joe Doe story that began this thread--the idea that the Big D's accountant wanted to change her appearance so she could masquerade as a slave. I hope that someday he will develop this idea further. It's particularly interesting that the woman who looked down her nose at the Sarah Hollister who was enslaved really wanted to experience the same thing herself! And of course, if she ended up "accidentally" sold to be a slave on a restored southern plantation . . . fascinating role reversals.

[jeepster]

Yes I am with Carl waiting to see Rebecca taken down!

[imreadonly2]

Rebecca Cook, everyone's favorite status hungry accountant, may find her dreams of echoing her mentor fulfilled in the close of the story.

I quite liked Orflash's idea of programming the assessor. I picture a programmer using voice commands to fine tune the programming of a slaver attempting to seduce her into the collar. It's sort of like she's writing her own romance novel, with the power to change her hero's level of aggression.

"It's quite a compliment that you think I'm beautiful, Marcus. You are surrounded by beautiful naked women all day long."

"They're merely inventory, Lady Julia," he said, waving his hand away. "You, however, are the very flower or Rome."

"You're a slaver," I said. "Everything has its price, even flowers. What do you think I would bring, if i were to be sold through your slaving house?"

"That is impossible to say. May I ask what brings you to our market today? Did you wish to buy a serving slave, or something for your husband perhaps?"

"STOP PROGRAM", I said. "I's obvious why I'm here. When you're trying to fit me for a collar, don't bring up my husband. RESTART."

"That is impossible for me to say. Beauty such as yours is beyond my ability to assess."

"You flatter me, Marcus. But you didn't seem to have any problems assessing a price on that naked flaxen haired beauty from Britain, with the SOLD tag hanging from her neck."

"Well, you're dressed quite differently," he said, smiling as he looked away. Was he blushing? Nice.

I smiled as I looked over at the naked, trembling slave girl. "She isn't dressed at all. Are you saying my tunic is in the way?"

[ZeeChromosome]

Redacted

[bertrumm00057]

If you don't like it, don't read it. But Don't Tell People What They Can and Can't Write!! You are welcome to leave!

[ZeeChromosome]

"If you don't like it, don't read it. But Don't Tell People What They Can and Can't Write!! You are welcome to leave!"

Sorry. It's redacted. I don't remember writing it. Thank you for bringing to my attention.