DixieLand - Honeypot's Story

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As my fragment inspired by Dtrelsky became quite long, I decided to finish off the Westworld idea and make it into a full story. The first segment was already posted, the ending is new.

Here is Dtrelsky's setup:

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.

Below, is the result story.


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 parlor 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 Assessor’s 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 snickered.

"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 my plantation he was a total Southern gentleman, and treated me like a delicate flower. After all, it was MY plantation in my story, as I inherited it from my father, and Charles now owned it through our marriage. It was a fact I never let him forget.

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."

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 stranger’s 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 clerk’s 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, guttural 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.

"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 Charles’s indifference, to the way my pussy was being massaged made me wonder if there was even a programmatic 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.

It was that simply, really. My clothes were not simply removed. My clothes were gone, gone, gone. 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 every single day."

“Yes, nothing like a little morning cream in one’s coffee. I could have her deliver my coffee in bed, then get the cream fresh from the udder,” Mr. Watcher said, enjoying my blush at the thought of being used as his morning milking cow. “Then she could suck my udder,” he added, laughing. “Moo-Moo!”

"Bids are always welcome, gentlemen," the assessor replied. "Selling property 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 Fleur 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."
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 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 rubbed 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 smile 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.

“Of course, my friend,” Charles replied. “My wench is your wench, perhaps literally, if you make a reasonable offer.”

And there it was. An offer to sell me was on the table, and so was I. As the “guest experience” was paramount, I knew that once a host made an offer to sell, any reasonable offer that wouldn’t detract from story would be accepted. I looked around the room at the smiling guests who licked their lips as they ogled me. Their bids were in, but would they be reasonable? In any event, my pussy was definitely on the market.

In truth, my time at the plantation had become a bit boring. The balls were fun, and I loved going into town to flirt with the men. But it was the secrets of what went on in the townhouses that intrigued me, and the nighttime activities of the Assessor’s office that had intrigued me most of all. I had told my hosts on electronic feedback survey that I very much wanted to see it, and apparently the computer had decided to make my wish come true.

“Let’s see how randy the little doxie really is,” Mr. Watcher said, causing me to gasp as he withdrew his fingers from my twat. Due to the wetness, the rapid withdrawal caused a little SLURPING sound, causing several of the men around us to smile, and me to blush even more.

“On your back, girl, legs apart, feet in the air. Finish off your diddling, and don’t stop until I see that hole of yours spasm and twitch for us. Make it a good show, so you fetch a good price for our friend Charles.”

The crowd around me had grown, and there were at least a dozen men gathered around the table to watch, many of whom I knew.

There was my host/husband Charles. He was now standing next to William, a host, his best friend, and the best man at our wedding. William had just strolled in off the street to watch the evening’s “entertainment,” only to find me naked on the table.

Mr. Robbins, a frequent “guest” who had earned his money in oil, and now like to spend his money at Dixieland fucking slave girls. We had both done a good job staying in character, but after a dozen or so encounters, surely he knew that I was a guest. Or did he?

There was Sam, a butch lesbian who liked to assume the role of a man for her Dixieland play. She actually looked quite mannish, with her fake mustache and sideburns, and was more macho than many of the other male guests. I had declined Sam’s offer to dance at the ball. Sam seemed a little irritated and confused, as she/he had assumed that I was a host. Whatever his/her aggravations were last night, he/she certainly seemed pleased to see me dance for him/her now.

With so many familiar eyes watching me, I turned to plead my case to my English barrister. “Please,” I whined. “Not in front of everyone. Be reasonable.”

WHOOSH!

Mr. Watcher’s whip was so fast I didn’t even have time to cover my bottom. The lashes cut across both cheeks, skinning my bottom as I let out a lustful scream.

“She felt that one!”

“Yes, hit her again!”

I made sure he didn’t have time. Throwing modesty aside, I quickly flipped onto my back, and scooted my freshly skinned bottom cheeks across the smooth mahogany table so that my pussy was hanging over the end. Spreading my legs wide and putting my feet in the air, I began to furiously row my little boat, while all the men moved in for a closer look.

“Look at her go!”

“She’s a wet one all right.”

“That’s the negro blood. Fair skin, but frisky between the legs. Typical for a mustefino.”

I blushed at the truth of his observation. I’d had one of those DNA tests, and was surprised to find that my German / English ancestry actually did contain .006% of DNA from Africa. Not uncommon, as my family had lived in the South. I had put it in my extensive biography and character background I had volunteered when I signed up at Dixieland. You were paying for your visit, so you could tell them as much as you wanted to, but they did encourage you to spill the tea, so they would have “the information necessary to enhance your experience.”

Of course, in the 21st century, the discovery of my 1/16th black blood had been little more than an amusing surprise, the result a $100 test a girlfriend had got me for my birthday. The tests results had been something I could giggle about with my girlfriends, an amusing anecdote for parties. It was an interesting bit of trivia, but it was a trifle of no real consequence.

However, under the laws of Dixieland, such a revelation was a life changing event. The one drop rule was in full force, and strictly enforced. In game, when I had revealed my shameful secret to my husband, Charles, he had been shocked, to the point where he actually kneeled down and quite nearly vomited.

“You’re a quintroon! You didn’t tell me? I should put you in a collar right now!” A skillful performance in bed that night, which I enjoyed enormously, convinced him otherwise, but that was when the game of him taking me to his townhouse as his negro bedwarmer began. It suited me well, for I loved playing slave girl, and the thrill of total submission.

“You said I should be reasonable,” Mr. Watcher said, leering down at me as I gasped and grunted with pleasure. “Let me give you the legal definition. Just. Ordinary. Fair. It’s only just that a randy piece of slave tail like you be made to spread her legs and perform for her betters. We have to know what you are, so that the assessor can assess you, and we can have a fit price for you. And the price that I have offered is quite fair, and reasonable, and so if Charles is a man of his word, and I believe that he is, you will be sold.”

As I paddled my little pink canoe for the men’s entertainment, the horrible little clerk was using a tape measure to measure the length of my arms, and legs. Pulling out a pad of paper, he even did a quick sketch of my face, which could be used if I attempted to do something foolish, like runaway.

I knew him, the little clerk, with his grubby little hands and sketchpad, measuring my breasts, and the length of my vaginal lips, and even taking a lock of my hair, both above and below, for his file. I had visited him in this office once, when I was buying a horse, and requested a title transfer. The little toady had been so ingratiating, so unctuous.

“Of course, Ma’am. Right away, Ma’am. I will have the transfer done this very day, and I will bring it out to your plantation for your review tomorrow. No, I will waive the fee, as I know of your reputation in our community, and it is truly my pleasure to be of service to you. Is there anything else I may help you with today?”

I knew him. I knew all of them. I gasped as I looked around the room at all the familiar faces, guests whom I had met, some recently, others several times.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Mr. Grassum. Where are you from, Sir? Iowa? Well, how delightful of you to visit us here at Dixieland. I hope our weather does not cause you any undo distress.”

“Oh, banking in New York sounds so fascinating, Irving, even if it causes my pretty little head to go all aflutter. Still, it’s always a pleasure to see you walking the streets, and enjoying the winter with the planters you help finance.”

“I understand why you paddle the girls with your hand, Sam, and I might forgo the paddle too, if I had your strength. But we agree that discipline of the wenches is far too important of a duty to delegate, and I always do give their dusky little bottoms a good feel, to make sure I am doing it right.”

“Personally, I think abolitionists should be stripped naked and sold in the slave market, Mr. Montgomery. There is no way one could have such wicked ideas without having negro blood, and under the law, just one drop will suffice.”

I was close to orgasm, and panting like a dog, my feet fluttering in the air, as the smiling men stared lustily between my widely splayed legs.

“Charles, did you tell William about my most particular little secret. No? Good. Perhaps I shall buy him a bed wench for this birthday, to keep him from looking at me so.”

“I must respectfully disagree with you, Mr. Watcher. I think slavery, far from being hypocrisy, is the ultimate expression of democracy. Wasn’t the first democracy, in Greece, built on the lash and the collar?”

“Oh, Mr. Randolph. Thank you, Sir. You are a silver-tongued devil, and if you keep complimenting my looks this way, you will make flush!”

My orgasm came in waves, and was soul crushing, as were the comments of the men around me.

“Look at all that cream.”

“Get a pan. She’s dripping on the rug.”

“Ha. I’m happy to use my hand.”

“I hope she doesn’t stain the table.”

“She should get the whip for that.”

“Don’t worry. Watcher seems more than ready.”

“I can even see her asshole twitching.”

“Yes, disgusting little beast, isn’t she?”

“I can’t believe it. She’s coming again.”

“Sir, the assessment forms are almost complete, I merely need to write in the name of her owner. Do you wish to check the bids?”

“I think we need to exercise the little bitch a bit first,” Watcher said. “If you have no objection, Charles?”

“None at all, Sir. Please, be my guest.”

I was still orgasming when Mr. Watcher grabbed me by the scruff of the neck and lifted me to my feet. “Let’s start with some jumping stars, girl!”

I didn’t know the term, as I always called them “jumping jacks”, but I learned quickly enough, after two flicks of the whip across my bottom.

The lash burned like fire, and my cries were so energetic that a leather bit was placed between my teeth, to prevent my screams from disturbing the assembled gentlemen. The shame of being bridled like a horse or a donkey also removed whatever tiny chance I might have had of stopping the proceedings by protesting my status as a “guest.” From now on, I had one choice: obey!

“Time for some toe touches, girl. Let’s get that bottom in the air!”

WHOOSH! I lifted my bottom higher, indeed, under the crack of his lash.

“Now run in place!” Knees up! I said UP!” WHOOSH!
“Roll the rug back. She’s dripping sweat on it.”

“Sweat and pussy juice.”

“Disgusting little piggy, isn’t she?”

“Time for your squats, girl. Let’s apart, and lower your rump to the floor on every squat, or I’ll lash it.”

My bad luck continued, as I discovered the merciless Mr. Watcher had the winning offer. There was much disappointment from the many who had failed to buy my flesh, leavened by Mr. Watcher’s kind and gracious offer to let anyone who cared to fuck me, now, or at his plantation, Windsor. He was also anxious for my branding to continue, as “the lovely Fleur De Lis that my friend Charles picked is actually on my family’s coat of arms.”

I was so exhausted from my whipping and my exercise that I didn’t resist as the men lifted me up and laid me face down on the table. There was no need for straps, as countless hands held me in position. There were hands on my hair, my back, and my legs, and my breasts. Between my legs, Sam leisurely diddled my pussy.

As he tossed his cigar in the fireplace and drew out the iron, Mr. Watcher remarked. “She does look quite a bit like your wife, Charles. In fact, I noticed a bruise on your wife’s hand, and this little slut has the same bruise, in the same place.”

“Yes, my wife was quite clumsy,” Charles said. “It wasn’t surprising when she fell down the stairs, although it did break my heart. Still, when I visit little Honeypot here at Windsor, I’m sure I will be able to remember the best part of her.”

“Indeed,” Mr. Watcher said, holding up the glowing, pulsing branding iron before my terrified eyes. “This will make a nice big mark on your rump, wench. There will be no more passing after this is applied, and your status will be clear for one and all to see.”

I orgasmed under Sam’s fingers as Mr. Watcher burned the shameful symbol of my bondage into my ass. Free from the need to switch identities, I knew that my story arc was now complete.

[dtrelsky]

This was great! I loved seeing the scene conclude with her sale and branding. The concept of story points was a great addition along with the MSCP behind the scenes making all the adjustments necessary to satisfy the guests. It seemed it even killed off her wife character with just a line or two. While her story arc may have reached an end I'm sure she will have plenty of opportunities to earn story points through interacting with all the guests coming to visit the Windsor plantation. If the MSCP finds her growing bored it could always introduce a new storyline to shake things up, like her getting sold at a public auction or rescued by abolitionists, though perhaps only tasting freedom long enough to feel the drop in status again when a new guest to the park comes along to put down the uprising and claim the spoils of victory by returning her to her proper position, serving a master.
DixieLand sure sounds like a fun time for everyone!

Maybe in order to request a specific story from the MSCP a guest has to spend their story points, her current story having burnt through her reserves she must now slowly collect them through the much lower valued interactions she has as a resident of Windsor plantation! Its interesting to think about.

[imreadonly2]

Joe, might be possible that Honey Pot gets stuck in her role as a Fancy Girl, longer than she anticipated?
Someone knows she's not a Host and and wants to keep her serving as a slave. Lots of Millionaire Geeks that know how to reprogram systems to keep her on her knees or on her back.

[imreadonly2]

Disney has actually patented software for their upcoming Star Wars hotel, which promises guests the chance to interact with characters on their own Star Wars adventure. It's sort of a 2 day role play, and the software is needed to coordinate timing and dispatch which characters will meet with which guests when, and what locations the interactions will take place at. If my interaction takes too long, or I react differently (betraying a character to the First Order) my story arc will change. So if you think of a more elaborate version of this, with multiple guests and hosts interacting together, story points would be the logical way for a computer to make the choices to satisfy the most experiences. If I have 1 guest who wants a pony girl race through town, and I have 12 guests who want to buy a slave girl at an auction, then I'm going to need to make sure that an auction is scheduled, pronto, to maximize the total story points, and thus the guest experience.

Yes, Orflash, I could see a scenario where after her 30 days are up she flips from being a guest to being a human host, under a 12 month contract. Her arc would then revolve around what gave pleasure to guests, to maximize their story points, rather than her own. And of course as guests left the park after their week, this could mean frequent sales, auctions, brief bursts of freedom, followed by humiliating re-enslavements. Oh, my!

[Johnny Lawrence]

I think she's putting a lot of trust in a Master Story Control Program that may not be deserved. After all, who knows how the computer makes decisions? She is entrusting her freedom to an algorithm designed to maximize guest enjoyment while staying within the boundaries of the program. She requested an authentic "slave" experience, and her orgasms indicate that she is clearly enjoying it. As long as she continues to be aroused by her enslavement, the computer has no reason to terminate the program.

It seems that as the fantasy progresses and her slavery becomes more restrictive, her orgasms intensify. She started cumming as she was sold at auction, and came even harder with a bit in her mouth while her ass was branded. This should leave little doubt for the computer that she really did want a real slave experience, particularly if she had been bored in the traditional "guest" role (the computer would know that too). Comparing her levels of enjoyment both pre- and post-enslavement clearly favors a slave role for her in all her future vacations in Dixieland. Eliminating the "wife" character completely seems to show that the computer has already reached this decision.

Of course, slaves can't claim to be guests. That might reduce somebody else's fun by making them question the simulation. That could result in a serious drop in story points for everyone else at the park. So some sort of precaution might need to be taken to keep Honeypot from making these sorts of statements. A chip in the back of her neck? Devoicing spray? Keeping her gagged while around other guests? And it sounds like any restriction on what she is allowed to say might just drive her even wilder with lust (which would ensure the computer would follow through with it).

[Johnny Lawrence]

A few more thoughts:

--The vacations are normally set for 30 days? Surely there's some method of extending that if guests are really enjoying themselves. Like maybe there's a check out time, and if you stay past it, the hosts ask you if you'd like to renew for another month. As long as you've got billing info on file, they can just charge your account and you don't have to leave. Of course if some dusky beauty is bent over your bed at that moment, or if you had just purchased a light-skinned slavegirl and you don't want to wait until next time before taking her back to the plantation and using her, there might be some serious temptation to stay longer. In fact, I'd bet that smart vacationers leave early in the morning on day 30, maybe even the night before, because the program gets really good at providing temptation. If a woman were chained up and not allowed to leave early, if she were mercilessly edged for most of the morning, when checkout time arrived, would she choose an orgasm if it meant 30 days of more slavery? If she were just one thrust away, would she violently nod her head up and down to the question of "do you want us to auto-bill you so you can continue?"

--Not every person is going to enjoy every minute of their vacations. That has to be factored into the algorithm somehow. A lady who goes horseback riding will probably be sore afterwards, that's to be expected. It's negative enjoyment, but it's factored into the equation. What if she slips and falls face-first into a pile of horse poop? It's a potential hazard of the activity, it doesn't mean people should be forbidden from riding horses. While activities should have high potential for enjoyment, the algorithm recognizes that you might have a bad experience. Perhaps horseback riding carries an average positive score of +30, but a bad day might have enjoyment of -50. They still let you ride horses. As long as your enjoyment doesn't dip below a certain hard floor, the algorithm lets it continue. So... what is the floor for slavery? Honeypot has shown she really enjoys it and wants it. It obviously carries a very high potential positive score. Is there a negative floor? If she stops enjoying it, does the algorithm take any corrective action? After all, it's slavery, and she knowingly signed up for it. If you get a hangover, they don't stop you from drinking the next day.

--I'm really curious about the black woman who claimed to be a guest. Perhaps Honeypot isn't the first person who was curious to try being enslaved. I'm imagining a very attractive college professor, someone who had written several books on the patriarchy and systemic racism in our society. Maybe she intended on doing research for her next book, or perhaps deep down some primal need compelled her to discover what enslavement was really like. Does she have the willpower to resist agreeing to extend her stay month after month after month? Do the profits from her book sales (required reading at all the best colleges) just get placed in the very bank account that funds her extended vacation?

[imreadonly2]

All interesting thoughts to consider. My thoughts are that it would be quite expensive, and you might come for a long weekend, and as with most resorts, if there is availability, stay longer.

One concept in park designs is 'levels of engagement'. So you might watch the fountain as you walk past, you might sit on the bench by the fountain, you might take off your shoes and wade into the fountain area, or you could go and get soaking wet. Your level of engagement might vary by experience, and master control program would be gauging your reaction and tailoring your experience to meet your needs. So if you go to a ball on your first night, you might meet a Southern belle who invites you for tea at her plantation the next morning, a planter who invites you to watch a slave breeding in the barn, someone else who invites you to a pony girl race, and yet another that invites you to watch an auction. You can decide which event you want to participate in, and at what level, and thus your adventure becomes tailor made for you.

If you decide you want to play slave girl, you may either become a slave directly or make the possibility of being enslaved part of your story arc. You can also set limits on what you want to experience, and the MCP can put guard rails on your experience, if you don't want to be sold, or experience a branding, for example. You can also setup safe words that might either limit or end your story participation, so for example an auction might be halted if the seller changes his mind. However, it should be noted that constant disruption of story arcs is frowned upon, as it can harm other guest's experiences. Just as Uber rates passengers as well as drivers, "disruptive behavior" that diminishes the enjoyment of your fellow guests may end with your vacation being terminated at Dixieland's discretion. Just like your not allowed to get out of your ride vehicle at Disneyland, your not allowed to repeatedly break character in a disruptive way at Dixieland.

Story points allow the MCP to make decisions that mathematically optimize situations to suit the maximum number of guests. For the sake of realism, there are some stakes, and you won't necessarily win every argument, or buy every slave girl you want, at least not on your first visit. Inadvertent injury (falling off your horse) is always possible, although steps are taken to try and minimize the dangers. If you are challenged to a duel, it will be with a host robot, and you are going to win. If you are a new attendee to the park, the slave girl you buy will be a robot, although on subsequent visits you might be pared with a guest who is playing the slave girl role.

The idea of a history professor or even a class participating to experience chattel slavery is an interesting one, and their experience might be tailored to include a more realistic experience built around the work life of the plantation, rather than fulfilling sexual fantasies, depending on the education requirements for the class. Of course the fancy girl option is available for white classmates who may wish to participate.

So many possibilities for story lines! I might build a Halloween story around a Roman World theme.

[Mr. Smith]

Will a guest be ablt to distinguish the difference between a guest in role and host? I confess it has been some time since I caught a Westworld episode but the hosts looked mighty realistic. I mean, a host can be programed to go out of role acting like a guest so how would a guest be able to make the distinction? Love the Roman themed park concept. I can only imagine a female like Anne and a few others being given to the gladiators as a prize after a good fight for one hell of a gangbang. A computer glitch catagorizing a guest as a host has all sorts of possibilities.

[imreadonly2]

There would be a very high ration of hosts to guests, about 20 to 1, which would allow the MCP to segregate as necessary, depending on your story arc. So if your fantasy is to be a Southern belle who beds a black buck, you might meet some other guests at a party or in town, but they would ensure that all the bucks you had private encounters with on your father's plantation were hosts. As the MCP got a better idea of what you were looking for, of course, it would be easier to group you with like minded guests who had a similar bent, but although you might witness a guest auctioned off as a slave in the town square, and you might bid on him/her, you wouldn't win the auction unless the MCP felt confident you had matching story arcs.

The MCP would also keep fire alarm hosts ready in case things got out of hand. For example, if you were in town, and you decided to strike a slave who ran into you, their master would be on hand to prevent this if you were about to strike a guest who didn't have discipline as part of their story arc. Hitting the slave might be story points for you, but not for the other guest, so another host slave might run up and admit it was their fault, and earn you the story points you wanted while sparing the other guest.

Of course this requires a very complex AI algorithm that is making thousands of decisions a second, and not every decision will be perfect. This is particularly true as the story arcs evolve, and a guest in Roman world becomes more comfortable with corporal punishment or public nudity. The MCP would constantly be gauging reactions and making adjustments -- although not always perfectly.

[Mr. Smith]

The whole time I was writing my last post I kept thinking about the guest being designated as a Christiaon who was gathered up in a group to go to the Petting Zoo at the colesseum in Rome to meet the lions. I like the story idea of a glitch in the system and a guest becomes a host slave to be used by other guests and hosts. The safe words do not work. The person submits to a certain amount of loss of control and loses any way to stop what is happening.

[imreadonly2]

As there would be male slave in Rome, guys who were into embarrassed nude male or clothed female, naked male fantasies could certainly have their every wish fulfilled. Having your meat inspected in the market by female guests who did not know you were a guest might be the cherry atop your humiliation Sunday. But as with your story about the Christians, you'd have to be careful, as slaves who failed to fulfill their Mistress might be punished in all sorts of novel ways, including gelding.

Perhaps you are given a safe phrase, which you are to use when things go too far. "Stop, I am a guest, not a host." However it is on a card, and it is in Latin, so you need to say, "Parce, precor, me hospitio, non hospes." Easy enough when you're a Senator to keep the phrase in your toga, but less easy in the slave market, when your buck naked and a bunch of giggling female guests are handling your erection.

[Johnny Lawrence]

All interesting thoughts to consider. My thoughts are that it would be quite expensive, and you might come for a long weekend, and as with most resorts, if there is availability, stay longer.

I wasn't sure how wealthy the characters involved were supposed to be in the real world. Of course, there are real people who spend their retirement just living on a cruise ship.

Perhaps the price depends on how important you are within the story. There are only so many plantations to go around. Being Scarlett O'Hara and having a mansion to yourself likely costs quite a bit more than someone who wants to be a visitor from up North and stays at a hotel in town. Staying in the slave pens might be worth a significant discount, especially if some of the host-bots are down for repair at the time.

The idea of a history professor or even a class participating to experience chattel slavery is an interesting one, and their experience might be tailored to include a more realistic experience built around the work life of the plantation, rather than fulfilling sexual fantasies, depending on the education requirements for the class. Of course the fancy girl option is available for white classmates who may wish to participate.

Oh, I like the idea of a whole college class of women finding themselves on the wrong end of a glitch. With the "one drop" rule, even the whitest of them could be designated as field slaves.

I could foresee a rather militant professor signing up her class to experience the realities of slavery after a few students (white and black) mention that the idea of visiting Dixieland excites them. "I know it wasn't actually like that in the old South, but the thought of being chained and helplessly serving a master..." one girl says. Several others nod their heads and get a dreamy look in their eyes. And that night after a bottle of wine, the professor decides those girls need to learn what slavery was all about, and arranges for a class trip through the Dixieland website. Of course, booking a large group isn't necessarily intuitive (especially after a bottle of wine), and the professor misses a check box somewhere, accidentally including herself in the group that is to be enslaved. And then maybe there's a mix-up in how long it is supposed to be. The professor had a week or two of enslavement in mind, that should be enough to teach those girls a lesson. But when the website asked about the length of the program, the professor said to herself "the class? Well it's a semester long, with an extended study that goes through the summer..." and filled it in.

As for who pays for it? It's an educational retreat through the school. That's exactly the kind of thing that the girls' student loans are for.

[Citizen1069]

Will a guest be ablt to distinguish the difference between a guest in role and host? I confess it has been some time since I caught a Westworld episode but the hosts looked mighty realistic. I mean, a host can be programed to go out of role acting like a guest so how would a guest be able to make the distinction? Love the Roman themed park concept. I can only imagine a female like Anne and a few others being given to the gladiators as a prize after a good fight for one hell of a gangbang. A computer glitch categorizing a guest as a host has all sorts of possibilities.

The "new" Guests had a hard time telling the difference, and some of the long time Guests as well. There was a woman whos status as a Guest or Host was in question, even by her own father. One of the main ways they could tell, is the Hosts would run the same Narrative over and over again or they would recognize their face in their new Narrative. The Main computer could keep track of all the Hosts and Guests, so is probably the only one who could really tell the difference. One of the ways to tell was a Host could be shot by the guns given to the Guests, and a Guest Could not. Only a few Hosts were modeled after real people and only in secrete because of the legal and moral problems that it would create.

All of the Guest were given the choice of a black or white hat. Inside the hat had sensors (unknow to the Guests) that would record all of their thoughts and memories for the Corp own agenda.

[imreadonly2]

I think the idea of paying a different amount for a character of different social status is very realistic. So being an overseer would be less expensive than being the plantation owner, as you said. I could also see scenarios where they might hire an actor to play host if for some reason a bot wasn't available. It would be cheaper for me to spend a weekend at my townhouse with 3 bed wenches than a fully functional plantation. And perhaps if I agreed to participate in other guests stories at some level, after I gained some experience, I might earn further points for myself. For example, I might earn points by guiding newcomers to destinations they might enjoy.

Perhaps you could earn additional guest points by allowing them to scan you -- use your likeness and thoughts to make the hosts more realistic. Of course the price of that is that they might end up creating a robot version of you, that could lead to all sorts of interesting scenarios.

I could see a scenario where a sorority required a weekend at Dixieland as part of the initiation. Perhaps the older sisters play Southern belles, while the pledges, freshly bronzed, play pleasure wenches. Of course when word gets out, it wouldn't be shocking if some Professors and male students decide to visit for the weekend, to take full advantage of the girl's unfortunate situation.

I think the idea of not knowing who is a guest and who is a host offers an interesting dimension as well, and I might feel a Halloween story for Literotica coming on! So many possibilities!

[imreadonly2]

That sounds like a interesting story plot.
Say a beautiful female resort worker or technician was asked to model for a new bot likeness. The Bot was very popular and used constantly. During a important visitor 's event the Bot breaks down and the Human model is asked to step in till the bot is fixed. So many possibilities.

[Mr. Smith]

How about the sorority sells FINO pledges for a weekend as hosts with specific use limitations such as no permenant damage unless negotiated with the sorority. So if you want to brand one you negotiate the price. Just imagine the poor girl secured in a branding bench listeningto her big sister negotiating how much the sorority gets for letting a guest burn her butt. It could be a Halloween fundraiser for some charity as part of the community service component of the sorority. The possibilities are endless.

[Johnny Lawrence]

I like the idea of a woman being scanned, mentally and physically, as the basis for a bot. She gets paid, or gets a big discount, or whatever the deal is. And when she visits the park, she is amazed at how much those particular hosts look, act, and sound like her. Other guests assume she is a host herself, since they can see the distinct resemblance. The woman is both a little creeped out and a little turned on at seeing her clone being sold at auction, or disciplined, or laboring away in the fields, or being forced to sexually service the guests.

But things really go haywire when another guest tries a "runaway slavegirl" adventure. Won't it be hoot to have one of the fancy girls steal some clothes and try to escape out of town? An electrical short leaves the actual host bot deactivated in a closet somewhere, with the master control computer searching everywhere for what it concludes is a bot with a faulty transmitter. Since the bot isn't emitting a location beacon, or responding to electronic signals, the only way to find the runaway slavegirl is through direct visual ID. Oh look, there it is now, walking toward the exit of the park! Better intercept it before it wanders away.

[imreadonly2]

"Butt branded? Seriously? Couldn't I just give them a donation, instead?" Tiffany asked.

"That wouldn't be the same," Taylor huffed. "You've got to make the sacrifice, for the cause. Plus we're going to send a picture of your branded butt to the Black Lives Matter protestors, so they know our sorority is an ally."

I'm not sure the computer would even have to make a "mistake" to enslave you as a fancy girl, if the Master Control Program thought you were getting off on it. Your friends or relatives might enjoy themselves a lot more with you, though, if they thought you were simply a host.

[Citizen1069]

That sounds like a interesting story plot.
Say a beautiful female resort worker or technician was asked to model for a new bot likeness. The Bot was very popular and used constantly. During a important visitor 's event the Bot breaks down and the Human model is asked to step in till the bot is fixed. So many possibilities.

Toy Bear in the Window by Jackie Rabbit on the GrometsPlaza net story site has the same idea.
The company is working on a life size interactive toy bear that breaks down and the tech has to become the bear for a demo party.

[jeepster]

This was so good! Loved the switching from a plantation owner to a pleasure slut! Sad that it seems to have ended but had to say I really liked the setup by dtrelsky and then the story by joe !