Buying Bad by Openmouth-Tongueflat

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Hello, this story is coming from a long time of reading stripsearch/slave stories, and wanting to add my piece to the party. This story may get a little darker, at times, than the standard fair but it will never get so dark that it's extreme. (No more extreme than the rest of you!!) I have an outline in mind but I'll be doing this chapter-by-chapter for convenience. This initial chapter is going to be a little shorter than the rest I think, just to gauge interest! There are two things you needn't read to enjoy the story, but which I will be upfront about here and now, if you need the warning:

I'm a trans woman, and this is a story involving trans slavery in a vaguely Katie Smith/Joe Doe/Carl Bradford/Gentlemanmariner/etc. world. I read so many of these stories and in the comments sections in other places (especially on the unfinished stories that start strong and then disappear) I often see people asking: how does this world work with trans people. And I would like this story to offer one set of ideas on that. If you find anything in it valuable enough to use in your own stories, please feel free! Ultimately I want this to be a good Stripsearched story more than anything else, and I hope it makes it there.

Second, while the point of this whole enterprise is in the objectification of a woman, I have excised hateful terms from this story even where they would more than likely be used in such a world as this. I prevail on the indulgence of your imagination, and I hope you can join me this far. Terms like "tranny", "shemale", etc.: I don't need to hear them in my fantasies with how often I hear them day-to-day. I don't object to a bit of transgression (again, that is where all of this gets exciting), and it's not like I fall to pieces upon hearing these things, but I didn't want to write them and so we shall have to pretend that fictional, brutal people would be a little kinder in their barbs.

Always open for comments, questions, or criticism and I hope you have a good day (and a long night).





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Part 1 - The Buying of a Leash / Snapping the Collar



Penina was her name, she had a red leather dog collar with a little silver tag that read "pebble". That little tag and a thin black leash were bought for her by Jack on their fourth date. It had only taken two dinners and a lunch for Jack to know how far he could push her, and how far she would willingly bend for him.

He walked her into the pet store like he was showing off the pride of his pack of bloodhounds. His strong tanned hand lay firmly across the back of her neck, holding her head and its blushing cheeks up high. "You find me a collar that you like, baby," he said.

Penina said, louder than she needed, "Y-You mean that-- that she would like, ha, ha!"

He looked down into her eyes and his smile never faded. "Your favorite color is red, right?"

"Uhm," she said. "Y-Yeah it's good... uh, it will help us see her if, uh... Like, in the dark!"

A pet store attendant, a fully dressed woman with short dark hair, thick black-framed glasses, and a professionally put-together courtesy, came to give them the company sales pitch. "Good Doggie-Meow Morning to you, is there anything I can help you find today?"

The clear nametag pinned awkwardly to her thin green apron read "MANAGER - Mary." Behind her was a life-sized cardboard cut-out advertising a new brand of dog treat, something like a meat yogurt in a disposable Go-gurt tube, that Mary had probably set up herself whenever the company sent its ad package for the month. The woman on the cut-out was totally nude, and her clear nametag attached neatly to a piercing in her left nipple. On her pubic mound was a Doggie-Meow paw print tattoo in the usual friendly yellow and blue. Although slavery hadn't been decided in their province yet, corporate seemed to know which way the wind was blowing. And soon it would be blowing Mary's apron off and using brand new shop equipment to pierce her left nipple just like the model on the cardboard. Penina thought that if they were allowed to stay as managers after slavery passed then short-haired Mary would have to assign herself a piercing time between the tagging of dogs and cats. Right between "Emperor Fluffs" and "Rosco" she would write "Mary (slave-manager)" in ballpoint pen.

Jack smiled wider. "Really we're here for my Penina. What would you like her to do for you, babe?"

She couldn't stop swallowing, she couldn't stop the stream of nervous laughter popping from her throat anymore than she stop holding her thighs so tightly together, or anymore than she could stop the sweet and stick leak very quickly soaking the flowery blue panties she had on beneath her canary yellow romper.

"No-- no thank you! We're just here, ha, ha, we're just looking for our dog. Uhm, a collar for her. That's all!"

Mary nodded. "Aisle 7 for dog collars. We do the tags once you get to the register. If you don't have a tag yet. What breed is she?"

Jack offered nothing but a patronizingly deferential look at Penina. "Oh," she said. "Oh we don't, uh, we don't know, uh--"

She struggled desperately to think of dogs. Marmaduke? Was that a breed or a name? What was the Frasier dog? Eddie, yes, but...

"A j-jack russel terrier, is what she is!!"

"Oh cute! My brother has a jack russel."

Jack cut in. "No, Pen, that collar is going to be way too small for us. A jack russel? They hunt mice, come on."

"Right, n-no, she's not a jack russel," Penina said. "Uh, we don't know, she's, uhm, kind of a mutt! But bigger, than uh, than that."

"Aw, well, every dog needs a home, purebred or street." Mary said. "What's her name?"

Fuck this bitch go stock some fucking tuna cans, Penina thought. "Marie. Marie the mutt!"

Jack laughed in his smooth smoky way. Even when she surprised him he never lost the butter in his manner. "Thank you Mary, I think we can find it from here," he said.

He nodded, and Mary nodded to him, and left. But Penina knew she had taken that insult and mentally noted that this guy's girlfriend was a huge bitch. She could already tell how the rest of their relationship would go: girls would always love Jack and hate her. But she hated them too! It wasn't easy getting Jack and it wouldn't be easy keeping him. She had been working overtime all week to keep their dates exciting and keep herself done up and beautiful and perfect for him. His dating profile had said he liked "casual girls" and this was an extra challenge, to be perfect in a casual way. Penina fancied herself a very extra girl: a full face of makeup to get convenience store ramen at 3am, painstaking hours practicing wings, perfecting the blend, matching her nails to her hair to her outfit and cool as a cucumber Jack wanted all that but casual? She could deliver. She learned to be extra, she could learn to be a fuckable hang-around girl. And either way, no bitch was going to out-do her at the game of adapting to her man's preferences. She would show them.

Jack's hand found it's way down to her ass. "Bad dog," he hissed into her ear and pinched as hard as he ever had.

An older couple were looking over dog brushes at one end of aisle 7, and at the other were rows of collars. Penina grabbed the first red one she found, it was a thick corrugated cloth with a black plastic snap and as soon as she yanked it off the shelf she turned into Jack's chest and said, quietly, "Got it!"

"Oh you've got it?" Jack said, not quietly. "I can tell you've put so much thought into it."

He pulled her off of his chest and took the collar. In his hand it looked very small. "Well let's see. Pull your hair up."

She glanced at the older couple only fifteen feet away. "Uh, J-Jack--"

"I'm not wasting money and I'm not buying two. Pull up your hair now. Don't waste my time, little Penina."

She pressed her thighs and pulled her long blond hair away from her neck, which she stretched without him needing to ask, and stared terrified at the old folks. "Hurry, please hurry," she whispered.

He measured the leash and her neck like a hangman. "I don't know if this red suits you," he said, pressing it to her throat.

"This is a little dark for your pale ass."

God he's talking so loud

"We-we could t-try another."

"No, don't be silly. You wanted this one, let's see."

He stepped around her and turned her shoulders before pulling the collar around her as if it were a diamond necklace. The black snap didn't reach past her ears on either side. "I don't know if this size works, babe, what do you think?"

"No I guess it doesn--"

He yanked the collar tightly together. It bit into her soft white neck under the cruel push of his fingers. She coughed, gagging under the pressure. The old folks looked over: little her with her pigeon-toed sneakers and slutty pointed manicure, bright glossy lips swung wide open in what would have been a moan if she could have made a sound, surely there was some instinctive understanding that she wasn't pulling away from the massive man smiling and hulking over her, but rather pushing into him. They were already physically comfortable like this, Jack had taken her in his position almost every night they saw each other. Only then she was naked, wet with sweat and red on every cheek not from blush but from Jack's fast hands, and his hard, slick cock crashing into her ass again, and again, and again. Thank god her tuck hadn't come loose or these old fogies would have seen a tiny bulge pressing out just between her bright, creamy thighs. "S-Sorry," she coughed. "Just a j-joke!! Sorry!"

The old man looked at the old woman and frowned. They left aisle 7. Jack gave her back the collar. "Put it back and pick another one."

She did put it back, but without even pretending to look she spun around and pushed back into his chest. "Please, please, this is so embarrassing. I just want to be your little dog in private, Jack. Fuck I want you right now please please. Take me back to the car I'll give you the best blowjob you've ever had, please, I'll suck you off from here to your garage I swear to God."

She gave him her fuck-me eyes, so long practiced, and bit her fat bottom lip like she knew he liked. She liked it too.

His hand returned to his little dog's neck. His voice got low and thick as blackstrap molasses. "You're going to do that anyway, little girl. And you're going to do it with your collar around your throat. And you're going to pick a collar now so that you never forget, in private or public, that you're my bitch, always, forever, signed, sealed, and delivered."

His thumb and finger found her nipple through the fabric of her romper. They squeezed and yanked more cruelly than he had pulled at the collar. "We need to get you kitted out, babe. Pretty soon I'll just have to buy you anyway, don't you think?"

Everything in her squeezed together all at once. "Oh god," she said.

"Think about being in court, trying to fight this," he laughed. "Did you knowingly buy slave gear, before we even passed a law, to submit to this man? And you'll be up there, tits out on the stand-- oh no, not even on the stand. I bet they'll have you kneeling before the judge, your legs spread wide where every slave girl keeps her legs spread, a very standardized distance, dangling there in front of this wise man who knows what to do with little submissive cunts like you."

She wished he would pull on her harder, meaner.

"Pick out your collar," he said. "And then you can get your little daily fix of my cock in your throat. Would you like that?"

She nodded, silently, desperately.

They walked up to the register with the thickest, most expensive collar she could find. It was heavy leather, meant for some vicious security dog. It seemed like it would never fray or rip or break. Penina like how it looked on her, which she saw in the pictures Jack took on his phone, how small and vulnerable it made her seem. She was like a slender flower strapped by chains to the hood of a MAC truck. To compliment how little force he would need to control her, Jack said, he picked out a slender little leash that hooked its rose gold clip to the blunt steel ring on the back of the blood red leather.

Mary was working the register, and she said hello again but only to Jack. "It looks like you found what you needed today?"

"Oh yes. Thanks to your help, Ms. Mary," he winked.

She smiled. "I'm so glad I could help you out. Oh my, this is a lot bigger than what you would need for a jack russel, isn't it? Did you still need a tag?"

Jack nodded. "I even have my eye on one. That one."

He pointed to the top left corner of the display, where there were tags shaped liked dogs, hotdogs, soccer shoes, fire hydrants (and Penina was overjoyed he hadn't picked that one), and all the other monopoly pieces you could want. He chose one shaped like a half-eaten bone. Mary got it instantly with a smile that said "Great choice, sir!" in what Penina thought was an increasingly less professional demeanor.

"And what will be the name?" She asked him, taking it over to their laser cutter.

Jack's smile turned to a handsome grin, he hadn't told a word of this to Penina. "Her name is Pebble."
Mary looked down at the little cartoon bone in her hands, then to the collar on her countertop, and finally dead into Penina's eyes.

"I thought it was Marie?"



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Pebble pulled herself under the sharp bramble of the campground hedges. Little green thorns bit her shoulders and scratched red lines down her ass as she wiggled it through and out. It hurt less than the hard stones in the soil felt, dragging under her breasts and their new piercings, but she didn't feel either very much. There was too much panic beating through her heart.

As soon as she could be on her feet she was. She ran through the forest, leaping over bigger logs and trenches, pulling herself forward by the hard, nasty bark of the pines she could reach. The slave braid Franco had bound her hair into kept the brush from yanking at her but branches still whipped over her head as she bolted recklessly forward.

In the distance the barking had just started. How did they find out I was gone so fast??

The awful hounds of the Boucher Brothers were winding up to a hunting frenzy. She could see Franco even in her fear, laughing and clapping in front of his purebreds, waving the tatters of her clothes over the pack.

Did she even smell like those anymore? Like perfume and girl? She probably reeked of sweat and pine sap, or the dirt they kept her staked too beneath the ugly blue tarp tent they kept the stock underneath.

She knew she couldn't outrun the dogs but if she could find campers, rangers, anyone connected to the city! Legal or not she didn't have a, a, a what??

A slave number, or a registration or whatever they use!!

She wasn't a legal slave even here she just needed someone to see that and save her!

Her black-bottomed feet took her to a hard earth wall that looked too large to go around in time. Without even thinking if she was strong enough she leapt for the tallest thing she could reach and started climbing. Her thighs could barely lift her, they were already shaking and crisscrossed with the red arabesques of the whip. "This is my hand writing," Franco Boucher laughed. "I sign this and I get a slave, no counterfeit needed!"

When she pulled her body over the lip and onto the cliff's edge she took a moment to gather her breath. Her mouth was thick with the taste of pussy, and she was grateful to any God around that made the flavour of pussy stronger than that of adrenaline in the back of the throat. She hadn't felt the thorns rake over her back yet, and she was wilfully ignoring the agony of her feet torn up by the forest floor. The swollen pain in her nipples was now a daily background noise. But what did bother her whilst running was the heavy metal pendulum slamming into her legs, back and forth, with every long stride of her gait. Franco's crude chastity cage was heavy in the worst spot. It was too small, pinching at the best of times, but the run had made it unbearable. Her balls were tugged with each sway of her hips, and an ugly metal point dug into the sensitive hairless valley between her mound and her leg. The metal ran up between the cheeks of her ass and around her waist before coming back to the jagged point. A hard steel circle kept her hole available for use. All of it made running harder, it made everything harder. And it was a hideous thing to wear, she thought. Even as ragged as this I can pull it off, but I deserve better.

She huffed and puffed and rubbed everywhere that was sore. The dogs barked in the distance and she had no idea if they were closer than before. There was a river that ran alongside her, but she didn't trust her swimming well enough to cross. Didn't the Mythbusters show that "people smell" for bloodhounds was... was...

Franco's insipid slave mantras were pushing at every thought, drowning out her mind like a radio playing all day at work.

...hydrophilic. I would drag my smell behind me even longer...

She wondered if the girl from that show was a slave yet. After only four weeks of the Boucher's methods, anytime she thought of womanhood she thought of slavery.

Her hand felt her heart and the swollen little breast overtop it. It was beating in a fast, steady rythm. Master's Tits. Master's Body. I am slave, make Master Money.

She hated Franco's voice. She hated her own, repeating his words. Leaving her tit she reached for the hard white metal locked around her neck. She didn't believe Franco that it was permanent. When she felt behind her neck she could feel an ugly sort of lump with a hole in it that she figured was a lock. Someone could open it up again. As soon as she got back to civilization this would all be cleared up. This could all be cleared up!

She wasn't a slave, she was Pebble, a free woman from a free province with a job and an apartment. She laughed. "Even if I don't have any savings," she croaked. "Or assets, or a-- or a car... I have to pay rent. They'll want me free for that, ha, ha..."

It wasn't the barking that cut her little joke short. "P-Penina," she said. "I picked that name."

I am obedient, I am driven, Master's Name is what I'm given.

She picked herself back up and ran

[ZeeChromosome]

Interesting. I see this story going lots of interesting places. I like it. It has potential.

I think I only have one named character who is transgender at the moment. In my vision of the legal slavery universe, pharmaceutical science has accelerated rapidly due to the sudden availability of human chattel that can be purchased in job lots and used for testing purposes.

Mistress Harriette, one of my main characters, runs a human pony ranch. Essentially, it's an open-air bordello. You rent the ponies, drive them to a picnic area, and then you fuck them. Harriette always has a number of "special project" ponies who are MTF transgender. Big Pharma has made huge progress, but not all of that progress is entirely... ethical. So, there are certain formulas that are approved for "livestock", but not for "humans". If you want the good stuff, you have to be sold as a slave first. Harriette signs her "special project" ponies up for 7-year indentures, spends 2-3 years transforming them, and then sells them to the highest bidder (that she approves of). Harriette will NOT sell you a slave if she doesn't approve of you. Most of her special project ponies end up as cherished houseboys, owned by wealthy gay couples. Harriette doesn't do bottom surgery, it's tits-and-dicks, or nothing.

Anyway, check out my story "Atonement Session". There is a character named Poppy. He's a transgender slave boy. He has tits, a penis, and uses male pronouns.

Zee

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Thank you for reading, Zee! I actually did see a part of your story I think (I will have to go back and peruse your whole catalogue here!), because I remember several of the pharmaceutical notions you bring up here. I think the inclusion of trans ppl in these stories has so many interesting jumping off points, like your constructed carrot-and-stick of "sell yourself for the best HRT possible", which is very, very hot lol

I'm not sure entirely what direction I'll be going with that yet. For convenience, or maybe elegance, pushing the advancement of drugs and medical science is very attractive, and not out of place in these sorts of stories. Even Katie Smith (was it her who coined this? Maybe not but I think it's where I encountered it first) and her devoicing collars has a bit of magical smell to it. But I think I'm more interested in the economics more than the realities of hormone therapies etc.

Anyway! I am looking forward to going through your work, and thank you again so much for commenting!

[Carl Bradford]

Dear Openmouth (nice name, suggestive of submission)
I agree with Zee that your writing has great potential; I hope future episodes will tell us how the female submissive goes from the pet store to fleeing abuse.
If you've read some of my stories, you may be aware that I find Transgender as an interesting plot device, especially MtoF transgender to place a character into a submissive role. (That does NOT imply that I consider submission to be a real life reason to take the enormous risks and stress of affirming a non-genetic gender. Just because one is female doesn't mean that one wants to be controlled by someone else.) That said, I have only a little real-life experience with TG, and don't identify myself as another gender, so I look forward to anything you feel comfortable sharing about this. Heaven knows we seem to have a paucity of politicians who understand gender identity!
Please keep writing,

Carl

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Thank you Mr. Bradford!! Yes, I have seen trans moments pop up in your work, I feel like you've been so prolific I lose track of the wheres and whens of what I've seen in your work. But I've loved a lot of it!

I hope what I can put forward (with trans additions or story devices) keeps your interest! I appreciate you taking the time to read it, thank you for that as well.

And thanks for the compliment on my username, lol, I'm quite a bit a submissive and I like to think I can shine up a username when needed. I'm really looking forward to putting out the chapters I've had in mind!

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Part 2 - Jack's Style / The Boucher Racket


It hadn't taken Jack long to make use of his purchase. He was kind enough to walk her around the building to the dumpsters in the back. They were shared with a cafe and an ice cream shop, and the dumpsters themselves were painted a bright new green. A happy grass green. Penina didn't understand why they were here when Jack had said he wanted a coffee. Then she thought she would be making good on that blowjob here, in this filthy place, and as much as she wanted to say to him I have more dignity than this the truth is her whole body was on fire with a need for him. Or for something. And as gross as it was to be sucking on someone's dick while swatting flies away she knew that she would do it in a second if he asked. Or told.

"Close your eyes and open your mouth, little Pebble."

She would do him even better. She popped her candy lips open, her tongue flat until it left her mouth where it bent wickedly down her chin, shut her light pastel eyelids and dropped with grace and fervor to her knees. The cement hurt but she was too concerned with how much spit was in her mouth to care. Jack laughed out loud.

He left her to wait a moment, on her knees by the trash, mouth agape like a gentleman's magazine discarded there on the pavement, flapping in the wind. And before she could start asking if he wanted her (perhaps playfully peak one eye open and act a little bratty for him) she felt something firm and claylike press onto her tongue. It was saltier than bacon grease. Jack's hand followed after, shutting her lips together with his palm. "Chew it. Chew it, baby."

God oh God

As solid as it was, somehow the thing in her mouth gave the sensation of melting, like a chocolate might. But there wasn't the slightest sweetness: it was savory and thick with wild, gamy flavors.

"It's not coming out, Pebble. You have to eat your treat. Most doggies find it encouraging!"

She couldn't muster even half the force needed to dislodge his hand from her mouth and each time she shook her head the treat rolled into her teeth and suddenly felt dusty and coarse. Neverthless her hands were around his wrist but they couldn't budge him in the slightest.

With tears of disgust and frustration in her big brown eyes she stared, begging, into his. But his were cruel and bright and told her what she would be doing.

She began to chew. Her molars squished and deformed it but couldn't break it. How is it this gummy when it's this hard? Each movement of her jaws brought more spit and more flavor washing across her tongue. She pushed the awful Salmon? Chicken? tidbit into her eye teeth and it began, mercifully, to break. The crumbs were smooth and rough at once, like play-do, and a strong taste of scrambled egg burst from the centre of the treat.

"This isn't just tasty, you know. It will keep your coat silky, and it says that these ingredients are organic, wow! What a lucky little doggy."

It went down in two swallows but she knew in the future Lord please not my future that she could get the bite-sized lump down in one swallow once chewed. Jack wrapped her hair behind her ear.

"Good girl!" he said.

She hated how good it made her feel to hear it. It cut through the taste of the dog treat to her limp wet dick and made her throb somewhere soft. But after that passed the wretched taste brought her back to herself.

"C-Can I have some wa--"

"Stand up."

He pulled her to her feet and cupped her chin. "I'm going to get a coffee. I'll see if they have any whipped cream for my poor doggy on this hot day, okay?"

The thought of that sugar in her mouth made her stomach churn. "N-No! Please, I'll, it will be my treat okay, Jack? And I'll just get, like, I'll just get some water. Please?"

His finger silenced that option. "I'll be the one giving treats here, little Pebble. Now I can't bring my doggy into the store, so I'll tie her up outside. I think you need to change."

She looked around, distressed. Not only was there no changing room around, there was nothing around. Just dumpsters and a fire hydrant. And change into what--

He pulled the collar from the Doggie-Meow bag. "Do you want to wear this for me?"

Her nipples stiffened and she hoped that she was blushing. She felt like she was blushing. And she did, indeed, want to wear it for him. More than anything.

Those big browns glanced up at him again, and then back to the hard red leather in his hands.

"Yes." She whispered.

He smiled. He knew. "Good girl. Get undressed."

"What?"

Jack lay the collar over her shoulder. It was heavy, and would be all the heavier on her throat. He grinned like a wolf. "Dogs don't wear anything but their collars, dummy. It would be wrong if they did. So get undressed."

He ripped the collar off her shoulder and down her body. She flinched. The sense of leather moving fast made her heart beat wildly. It felt like being pinned to the ground, like being bitten by something unseen.

Penina swallowed.

"But," she said, her voice dreamy as if hypnotized. "But we're... we're just out here. Jack, anyone could... could see me."

"Nobody's gonna get bent out of shape to see a little piece of ass like you naked on a summer day," he said.

His hand palmed her breast with room to spare. Even feeling the weight of his hand on her chest was a convincing argument. "Besides you're going to have to get used to this. Once I buy you you'll be naked all the time, little slave-to-be."

"Would you really buy me?"

"A little thing like you? I hope they sell you by the pound. As soon as it's legal, babe."

Her breathing was hard and deep. She wanted him, desperately, to feel her breasts rise and fall against his fingers. She wanted to straddle him right there, feel his hard cock take her owned ass. A cock that was everything to her and just another orgasm for him.

"Are you really going to buy me?"

"Only if you start listening. You're going to earn this collar."

She wanted to straddle him, but she didn't want anyone to see. And yet, she wanted everyone to know. But out here, behind the stores, what were the odds anyone would stroll by? On a slow and lazy Sunday, where the only thing out back were the dumpsters and a litter of short city trees. See, bitch? It's even hidden from the road.

The romper unbuttoned down the front and her quivering fingers found each button. It opened and she pushed her chest forward. There was a lacey bra she loved and wished he was seeing her in now, but, trying to stay casual, she had chosen instead a sleek one that matched her panties but in a darker shade of blue. She picked a shaking leg through one yellow leg hole and then her second leg. Her little blue flowers were out to see the sun.

Jack snatched the romper and wound it up in his fist. "The rest. Now, if you want any water."

She peeked over her naked shoulder: parking lot, trees, streets down the way that lead to the highway. The boring austere backs of the tiny strip of shops. Nothing but sun and asphalt.

Her fingers had lost their confidence with the buttons and she fumbled with her bra. Normally taking it off in front of men and letting her tits swing out, seeing the predator leap up from their groin to their face, was a moment of victory and power for her. No matter what they did to her afterwards. But she had never been unclothed out in the world. No swimming or flashing, no sorority dares, no drunken club nights... In fact when she locked the changing rooms in clothing stores she would always test the door right after to be sure it worked. But here was Jack, all 6'6 of Jack, and his desire. And his desire was her desire. The bra slipped down her shoulders and the sun lapped warmly at her exposed breasts. Her breath fluttered like a bird fleeing madly from the smoking barrel of an old black oven. Here she was. She felt truly unchained.

All for a collar, girl...

The bra disappeared into the ball of clothes in his hand. He rolled his wrist impatiently. "Anyone watching knows you're a little slut now, babe, just get the rest off."

This was the flipside of hooking up. Wiggling her panties down her hips and letting them drop past her knees, down her smooth calves, and hit the floor. It was always a nervous moment. She generally kept tucked for the reveal. She liked them to see her cute little mound first: hairy or smooth, however she guessed they would like it. And then either she would bounce her hips askew and smile or more often than not her suitor for the night would spread her legs, hungry, feeling stronger than he ever had before. They would part her thighs like it was the first time anyone had thought to do it. Like they were the only man to ever want to see every scrap of her. Penina could remember the first man who did so, and he had indeed wanted to see her spread open and weak under his touch.

But if there was a fear of being seen like this, out amongst the public, it wasn't from her tits it was the porcelain bauble of her dick. More sensitive than rough hands would imagine, despite their personal experience, and seeming like a soft, loaded pistol to anyone that would hate her regardless of what she had there. No one might care about a piece of ass, but calls would be made on account of the other piece.

She looked over her shoulder again and covered her nipples with one of her arms. Jack grabbed her wrist and wrung it away.

"I'm not going to do this for you. But if you're not going to follow instructions I'm leaving." He shook her clothes in front of her. "With these."

Well, she thought, we're all going to be following some Master's instructions soon aren't we? Isn't that what everyone wants? Whatever happens, it's not my fault.

She smiled a beaming smile and let it sour into brattiness. "Okay, Master Jack."
She swung her hips around, twirling slowly, lazily, like how she might drag her tongue across the side of a lollipop. Her red tresses tickled across the bare flesh of her back. She glanced at him from over her shoulder. "Just to earn your collar?" She giggled. "Sir?"

The arch of her back was a triumph, as it always was. Her workout routine was embarrassingly focused on how she could make her body look during sex, and vertical or horizontal she could bend her back as long and easily as a cat could. She offered Jack a sharp oscillation of her ass. How does it jump when you spank me, SIR?

Her panties came down slow. The sky blue waistband strained to make it over her cheeks. Penina wanted him to see the strain and think of how tight her ass could make anything feel. And then they came back up. "Oh, maybe I should just walk home topless, though? It's actually so nice out, isn't it, Master?"

Jack's rebuke may or may not have been confident but it was very swift. She felt his fingers catch under the thin cotton at her hip and then she felt his grip clench, and his arm shot up like he were starting a chainsaw. She yelped. Her ball of clothes hit the ground with a thwap. His other hand grabbed where the fabric separated to run down her valley and, with one of her legs still raised in the air from the force of his pull, he shredded her underwear in one quick, vicious RIP

She swung loose from between her own legs. Even as her other foot hit the ground Jack grabbed her there, her soft hot knot, and squeezed. She was forced with a squeak onto her toes. Soon enough her yelping was cut off by his other hand squeezing around her throat.

"Bad dog," he hissed.

He dropped her to her feet but she was immediately pushed to her knees by a strong force bearing down between her shoulders. The pavement was still hot, still rough. Hotter on her palms. Jack forced her head up and straight by the whole of her hair, Penina whimpering all the while, and slapped the collar around her neck. It was as heavy as she imagined it. When it was fastened and her hair swung down like curtains on either side of her face, she couldn't believe she was collared. A moment later Jack clipped and snugged the black tether they bought to the o-ring on the back of her neck, and she was leashed, too.

"There we go," he said, huffing his broad chest.

He stepped back to look at her. She peeked up at him with wide eyes between the mussed halves of her hair. Her mouth stayed open a little and he liked seeing her small pink tongue in the same daylight as her puffy pink nipples. There was only one thing he didn't like.

Her shoes joined the pile of clothes he had taken from her. The ass that never failed to grab his attention received a flat, half-hard slap while he was down there. Just hard enough to make her jiggle. He wondered if the noise she made was a cry or a moan. He didn't really care.

Penina realized a little too late that when Jack started walking, Pebble started too. The leash tugged sharply at her throat and she scrambled after him on her hands and knees. She had been so aroused for so long she wondered if there was a little trail of wet black spots following after her. At minimum she was getting hard, each shift of her hips told her that.

"Jack?"

He didn't look at her. "It was Master Jack a second ago wasn't it?"

"Where are we going?"

She prayed it wouldn't be next to the dumpsters and the flies and the garbage that didn't quite make it over the rim. It is shady over there, though, that might be nice.

But that was a dog's way of thinking and she shook her head to dispel it. Her new accessories jingled around her neck.

Jack lead her past the dumpsters and the shade and to a spot just at the end of the alleyway between buildings. There was a power meter there, cordoned off by a simple fence made from thick green tubes welded into a square. The meter hummed a little, and she wondered if Jack could hear it from up where he was. You couldn't ignore it if you were debased on the ground.

He wrapped the leash around one of the polls and pulled it into a neat little knot.

"Pebble: stay." He laughed. "Don't you move a muscle, babe."

On the other side of the alley he placed her clothes and shoes. "This will be like leaving a steak on the table for a bitch like you, won't it?"

He laughed and left for the cafe.

What does a dog do when its master leaves it? What would a slave do?

She tried sitting in a way that looked as obedient as she could manage. Kneeling, she eased back and squished her butt onto the hot concrete. It felt bad, and she loved it. Her ankles hurt so she spread them and sank into a kneeling seat. At least I'm built with a pillow she thought and laughed.

She sank a little deeper and her little sack and cock kissed the ground. Rough and delicate, both getting hotter, two surfaces that should never touch. A slave must get involved in so many new situations that aren't supposed to happen.

A breeze blew over her tits and through her hair. What did she want? Was it this?

She looked over at the leash knotted to the pole. A dog wouldn't understand how it was affixed but she and the dog both understood the same truth: master has put me here and I will be here until he gets me. It was humiliating, looking at the world from her knees. And it was worse knowing that if they were playing this at home she would be grinding into whatever she was kneeling on: the bed, the couch, the carpet. But the real world was too hard, and all she could do was wait and hope that her owner would satisfy that need for her.

She would have to earn it, she supposed.

Musing and dripping, the life of a slave. She was so involved in her own horny philosophizing that she hadn't noticed the group of men come around the other side of the pet store.

"Woah!"

There were five of them, all in black and three with skateboards. Their outfits were stupid, all band merch or ripped up normie things. Where there was a cap it was askew, where there was a belt it hung loose, and while each of them had a backpack not one of them wore both straps at once. They were all boys. The two without skateboards had beer cans sweating from the heat.

Gasping, Penina's arms raced to cover her breasts. She pulled her thighs together.

"Oh what the fuck, dude!"

They laughed a wolf pack laugh. A frat laugh, nervous but wowed. They got within a few few feet and stopped. No, no... just go! Go grind somewhere!!

They looked her up and down, and peeked around her back (she tightened her buns in response for all the good it did) and kept looking at each other.

"Dude is she, like, okay?"

One of the skateboarders laughed. "She's fine, guy. She's not cuffed there, right? You can just stand up, you know that?" He laughed. "Like, her shit's right there."

They weren't sure if they could pounce on her but they had no reservation about her clothes. They tore the pile apart like hyenas might take apart an antelope. She didn't see their noses twitch but she knew they could smell her perfume as it all unfolded. This was true except for her panties, which one of the beer drinkers immediately pulled open and gave a big, almost sarcastic sniff. It wasn't sarcastic.

His buddy laughed. "Sick, dude!"

He pulled her ripped panties apart to show the print. "Just smelling the flowers bro!"

He flung the panties at his friend's head and he ducked and caught them. They laughed but he smelled them afterwards too. Penina wondered if they had the same remnant of wetness that she did now.

"Christ, lady, are you some kind of freak?"

"Did that, like, slavery thing happen?" Another skateboarder asked.

"I don't know dude your mom uses the paper everyday 'cuz I won't get her a towel after."

He punched his shoulder.

"Maybe some European dude brought her over. Hey! Lady! Bon-joor!"

They all loved that. "Hey, yo habla clothes? Hey, hey, someone ask her what a blowjob is in euros."

"Amsterdam girl!" One shouted, and started singing something. The chorus said, repeatedly, "~Amsterdam girl, suck it n' blow it~"

The lead skateboarder had plopped himself down in front of her, his skateboard between his legs, rolling forward and back. "You're beautiful," he said.

Shoulders hunched, arm across her chest, her obedient posture was tensed, guarded. But even now some part of her mind was telling her to guard master's property, not her own body. She kept her big brown eyes on the ground.

"Could I see a little more, beautiful?" he asked softly.

His friends were holding up her bra, playing with her shoes. "You gonna sniff these, bro?"

The skateboarder leaned in. His eyes were blue and deep. A scar ran through his blonde eyebrow, the other had a piercing through it. "I promise if you show me I'll make them all leave. These guys are fucking dumb. They don't get it."

His fingers were filthy. Oil? Dirt? He touched her chin gently and pulled her face to his. She had to look at him now.

"I think you'll probably do it if I order you. Do you want that?"

Her lip trembled.

"Show me."

She lowered her arm, just enough to slip it under her tits and push them up a little. She hadn't meant to part her thighs but she did. Jack liked her shaved, and so there was no soft brown hair to hide her, just a dark afternoon shadow made even darker by the one cast by the skateboarder.

He grinned at her tits and eyed the shadow for a time. He grinned a little more. "You're just a dirty little thing, huh?"

She didn't know if she nodded or just thought it.

"Cover up. You're a slave right? Your master probably wants you for himself. Don't let these losers see."

He stood up and rounded the guys together with ease. "Put that shit back where you found it. Be responsible, man. I don't leave your mom bent over the dryer!"

They balked but tossed it back in a loose pile. The lead skateboarder said as they left, "that's why your dad calls me Mr. Erikson and not T.J."

All the other guys glanced back at her as they left. Two of them walked backwards staring the whole way. If the leader had looked back once she would have spread herself totally open for him without a second thought.

When Jack returned with his coffee he lead her to his car naked. She crawled into the passenger seat, which was hotter than the ground, and waited until they were driving to plunge violently on his cock. Just as promised, she lavished attention with her tongue until they reached his garage.

As he came down her throat (finally replacing the awful taste of the dog treat with a new saltiness) he couldn't help but bark out, "Doggy likes her bone!"


////////////////////////////////////////////////

Pebble didn't know the way to the road, only the way that made the dogs sound quieter. Deer run faster than me, how do they know the right way to go?

She thought that she should try and see what side of the trees the mushrooms were all growing on. And then what? What's fucking 'North'?

I own no decision I follow Master's vision.

What did she want?

A road. I need a road.

The dogs would chase her faster down a road, and maybe the Boucher's would know where the road was and head her off at the pass. But there were people on the road. That was the only shot. Who wouldn't pick up a scared cutie wearing the total filth of nature and nothing else?

Well, nothing but her bonds.

Pebble couldn't remember being in nature this long, ever. And she was never a runner. Even through the adrenaline she could feel the ache in her legs, deep under the scrapes and welts, the feeling of muscles reaching their end. Franco's knock-off slave training had been planned around keeping her still and statuesque, not making her a long distance runner. She was being re-designed to be an object. All her stamina was intended for small repetitive motions and maintaining strained positions. She supposed that the hours she had been forced to spend shaking her ass might be helping her gait, but that was probably it.

I bet you look fantastic from behind, girl.

She had to stop and catch her breath, and it was a thick breath to catch. Her breasts shook with every deep, ragged gasp. Would a passer-by find her beautiful? With the belt and the collar, she hoped that someone would see her as a lascivious nature goddess, or some female warrior who lost her sword and honor.

Suddenly she thought of Franco's uncut cock thrusting towards her. And with that the taste of his sweat in her mouth.

No more!

Master's Dick is daily gift, dick in throat, my spirits lift

"I'm not his property," she said.

Whose property then?

She wasn't property at all. Jack said he would sell and buy you back here, where it was legal.

Well he hadn't. There was no number written into her, no chip to track her, no paperwork. She wasn't a slave.

Yet.

What about the other girl in the Boucher campground? She had a number running down her right pussy lip.

You should know, you've spent enough time going down on her.

The most offensive part of Franco Boucher wasn't his cock but his boorishness. Whipping Pebble with his belt and tossing rye into the back of his throat, laughing while he pushed her head into the other girl's snatch. "Lick! Lick! You don't know who your master will be! Maybe you get mistress, get lucky, eh?"

The liquor poured down his chin onto the small of her back. Not the worst fluid he would land there before letting her collapse onto her hay in the dirt beneath the tarp.
"And you, better look like a hotter piece of cock bait getting your cunt ate'en! Master's cunt all wide and open, show your master your devotion," he slurred and laughed.

At the time she thought: That's not even the mantra on the recording you idiot

My cunt is his, my cunt is open, if my cunt comes, I show devotion

Franco hadn't given the girl the numbers on her pussy. It was too elegant for him. Maybe he had stolen her from a reputable seller. From a real master.

Pebble was shocked how her body swooned at the thought.

The road. Back home. Away from slave stealers and mantras and this stupid forest.

It was nearly ten minutes before her stroke of luck came down hard. A highway, and well maintained. There was even a speed sign right where she came out: cars would race down here at 100 km/h. That was enough time to see a beautiful naked girl and slam your breaks.

I'll do anything to get a ride to the city. I'll make it a fucking movie for them.

How heavy the chastity belt felt around her waist. For all the sex training she was doing she hadn't orgasmed more than once since being kidnapped.

The other girl's come so many times already.

Maybe she was just a better slave?

She is not a better slave.

She could get it cut off in civilization. And then she could fuck whoever did it. She had enough money for a bus ticket back home, province-to-province. She couldn't eat on her way and she couldn't afford new clothes, but surely they would give her new things to wear when they knew what had happened.

What would a slave be given?

Maybe she could call Jack.

To get your real collar back?

Pebble jogged as far as she could down the road, on the trimmed grass between the woods and the pavement. The grass was cold and wet and while the road would be dry it would still be cold. Mostly she didn't want to get run over.

The second stroke of luck broke over her: she recognized a sign. She had seen it when they took her, even though she wasn't supposed to see anything. A deer crossing sign with three bullet holes running corner to corner. She laughed out loud. She was on the right road! Forget a driver maybe she could just walk out of here! There hadn't been a bark or yelp from the dogs since before the highway: this could be it!

She passed backwards down a fork in the road. Her mind wandered back to being tied up in the van. Franco had her laying prone on her tummy in the back seat, her pants pulled down to her duct taped ankles, her panties pulled to the side. This was before she managed to shake a corner of her blindfold loose. With nothin to see all she could feel was the van swerving and turning and banging through potholes. That and Franco's huge mass around her. "Eh, haven't sold one with a little extra in a while," he laughed.

His fingers pinched her scrotum like it was her cheek. "Don't worry, we find someone. The best feature for selling a woman, this is simple. A tight hole."

His thumb found her asshole and with only a brief pause for the sound of a lick, it found its way in as she wiggled on her kidnapper's lap.

But right now: it appeared in front of her, way down the road but approaching fast. Her third swift stroke of luck, she figured. Rattling down the road was a red and silver pickup truck. It was clearly old but there was no rust anywhere that she could see, and only a little road grit over the chrome on the bumper and the runners.

There was just enough dignity left in her to cover herself with one hand before using the other to hail it down. Her voice was raspy from the amount of cock that had been down her throat but never before had she shouted so loud with such cheeriness.

You have to stop. Please please stop.

She thought about running into the road but didn't feel like pushing her good fortune too far. There was no need anyway. Behind the wheel was a kindly looking old man with big white eyebrows, both of which shot up when he saw her creamy white skin (albeit streaked with mud and spotted here and there with leaves stuck on her by sweat) pop against the earthy shadows of the forest. She liked to think that he looked her up and down before he stopped but it all happened too quick to be sure.

"Good heavens!" he said when she pulled herself into the cab.

The chrome stung her foot and so did the door handle. The man hadn't needed more explanation than "naked girl looking for a ride" to get the truck moving again.

"Are you alright, girly? What's your name?"

He caught her looking at his thermos in the cup holder. "You like coffee? You go and help yourself, girl."

On any other day she would be too grossed out to share a tongue slot with a stranger but her standards had been severely curtailed recently. His coffee was plain, black, and strong. Old grandpa, back from fishing, black coffee and a packed sandwich. I'm going to give you such a story to tell grandma if you get me out of here, old timer.

"You've got to help me," she said. "I've been kidnapped!"

"Oh lord!" He said.

The truck picked up speed.

"Are you doing alright, girly? You--"

He saw the metal lump between her thighs. Did his shoulders stiffen?

Are you fucking kidding me?

Of all times to find a guy who was going to be weird about it: here? Now?

She crossed her legs as best she could despite the jagged point that dug into her.

His aged, white-haired hand went up like a senator's. "No, no, don't you worry. I've seen a lot of, ah, your type. I've got no problem with it. We've gotten pretty accepting here recently, with the change in laws," he said, laughing.

With the taste of coffee still buzzing in her mouth, Pebble realized that they were heading the wrong direction down the road.

"Oh," she croaked. "Uhm, could we, could you take me to a, uh, to the police or something?"

They were coming to the fork. "I need to get this off of me," she said.

Grandpa nodded. "Well I'll bet you do! And honestly we don't see a lot of those belts here. I don't know myself, but I figure it's just for the neophytes."

The old man turned his truck down the fork. The wrong way down the fork.

"No," she said, panicked, "no that's back to the campsite!!"

He nodded. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Best to let the Boucher's know about this first and straighten it all out."

There wasn't a lock on her door and the handle was useless. The old man smiled sadly. "Don't you worry, we get a few girls like you down here. Well, ah, not like you but, ah, you know. Anyway, they all go to good homes."

No, no, no, no, no!!

"Last one, Tom up at the general store? Well, she comes in naked with a chain half around her neck, eating through a rotisserie chicken!" He laughed and slapped his thigh. "Anyway, the Boucher's figured it all out."

How little she had run. Already they passed the deer crossing sign and only a few moments later she saw a new sign planted in the dirt on the side of the highway, one with a skull wrapped in a beaver skin. "Boucher Bros." was written in yellow underneath, in fake stencil. Soon the chainlink fence would come into view. The junked cars, the bizarre, dirty buildings. And Franco.

She heard a quiet zip and had heard it often enough lately to know what it was. In the driver's seat, the old man was standing at the ready, grey and pale and full of old blue veins, barely big enough to stick out between the oversized flaps of his beaten beige slacks. "You don't have to, you know, suck it. But if we get there and you are, they'll take it as a sign that you know you did wrong."

His eyes glanced between the road and her, naked in his passenger seat.

You're worried about deer.

"Might save you a, ah, a punishment?"

They hit a bump and her tits bounced. She felt the barbells punched through her nipples, still stiff and sore from the piercing. The truck kept bouncing and speeding and the old man kept offering her his dick, like it was the best way he could help her out.

Look at you, bitch. Do you think there is any dignity left for you to be angry for?

She didn't want punishment, she really didn't.

It will be so bad for the other girl to watch. It's bad for you when you have to watch them punish her.

"Come on, girly. Don't be like that. I didn't put you here. And there are bears out this time of year, you know. It's dangerous, these woods. I haven't had my wife for a long while now, you know..."

He did give you that coffee.

And he wasn't Franco, whose cock she would be sucking before night fell anyway.

A slave doesn't choose, a slave is here to use.

She grabbed his thermos as swallowed down as much coffee as she could handle. The worst thing she could imagine was being dirty, disgusting, stinking of desperation and the harsh tang of running and still sucking off this gross old man who was taking her back to be an illegal slave for an even grosser fool. She could rationalize it any way she wanted. Franco will probably give him your ass as a reward if he can still get it up by the time you get there.

Sure. That was good enough.

The old man gave a foul groan as she leaned over his crotch. His hand slipped between her tits and the gear shifter.
"Don't you worry, girly. I'll get us there safe."

She hated him. And then she took his papery, silken skinned dick onto the flat of her tongue, and used the lessons Franco gave her.

It's almost as soft as mine.

Even with the bumps his dick was too small to trigger her gag reflex. And if his story was true about how long it had been--

Like this old bastard isn't using whatever kind of brothel they have out here

--it wouldn't be very long at all before he came.

It happened a while before she was returned to the Bouchers. At the exact moment his ejaculate seeped weakly down her throat she found herself thinking: I'm the brothel they have out here.

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Part 3 - The Romance / The Budding


It had been three months of "dating" for Jack and Penina. Whether they were going on dates technically was a matter of debate, outside of the first handful of times they had gone to dinner or a movie. After being collared a date could be as simple as Jack pulling up in the parking lot of her building, demanding she come down and suck his cock while he sat in the driver's seat of his car, and then sending her back up without another word after "Swallow." This had happened at different hours: around the lunch hour, just before Jack worked, or late into the night. In the latter case Jack would often smell strongly of liquor and his hand on the back of her head would feel much, much heavier. Once she would have sworn that his cock tasted distinctly of pussy, but he was so aggressive on that night that she didn't have time to make certain. It was hard to investigate your own senses when an enormous, slurring man with a fire behind his eyes and in his breath had decided to brutalize you. He ended that blowjob by pulling her off of his crotch by the back of her neck (earning a loud "pop" when his cum and her spit broke the seal of her lips.) Instead of wondering about the taste in her mouth she was suddenly much more concerned about which of her neighbors would be watching Jack rip her blouse open down the front (would they see the buttons littering the parking lot the next morning?) Instead of trying to decide if she should be mad at Jack "cheating" (after all, what were they, really?) she was blinded by the white flash of pain Jack's palm gave her as it slapped down on her breast so hard it bounced twice. She was terrified that one of the aforementioned neighbors would come to their window at 1:30 am and peer down at the running Jeep Renegade, lights on and exhaust flowing, and see the little barechested tramp serving the driver.

The relationship had been a blur of those moments. There had been rules imposed, first informally and then in a written letter posted on Penina's fridge. The first was simple and Jack wrote it as: 1) Pebble is NOT housetrained.

In effect when they were together Penina was not allowed to use the bathroom. She would have to ask Jack to take her for a walk (and after a while beg him to take her on a walk further than the small green patch of grass on the side of the building meant for dogs) and she would lower herself like a dog would and piss while Jack scrolled through his phone and held her leash. At first he hadn't required her to be nude and so she would put on a skirt before coming up to ask him. She could balance on three limbs and pull her panties to the side with no problem. But Jack thought it was slowing them down and so written in a different color pen than rule number one was rule number two: 2) Pebble wears panties on command only.

Rules came up and were written down and as they were written it seemed like they rarely left Penina's apartment when they met for "dates." She would come and let Jack into her building, and ask him how his day was and try to be his housewife whether he wanted that or not. She could show him what a good girl she could be. She could make him want that.

Eventually rule number 6 would read: 6) Pebble waits for Master with drool on her tits and her tongue OUT

This rule had been instituted after she gave him a key to the lobby and her door so that he could come and go as he pleased. When he knew she was in he would text her as he was coming out of the elevator, leaving her only moments to stop what she was doing, pull off her shirt and bra, and slide to her knees in front of her door beside her shoes with her mouth open and as much spit as she could summon running down her tongue and hopefully dropping off her chin. Jack wouldn't always be hard enough for a blowjob but she almost always ended up fishing his dick through his fly regardless of how hard he was and licking it from tip to base and back again. On rare occasion he would pull her face back by her hair and fondle her before letting her get a shirt back on.

Rule six lead to a problem with two, however. Jack's favorite way to be greeted was to find his girl topless, mouth open and knees spread, poured into a pair of crisp blue jeans and with nothing on her feet. He began demanding that she wear jeans before he arrived, and even toyed with it becoming a rule. But Penina whined about this. "If I can't wear panties it gets... uncomfortable, Jack."

Between the hard seam, the zipper, and the tight crush of the denim her little dick found itself mashed at hard angles, and her small tight scrotum felt pushed, and pressed, when she spread her knees. Jack slapped her when she complained about this (or anything else) and laughed. "Maybe I should get them cut off," he said and made snipping motions with his hand. "I don't use them anyway."

At this point it had been a long time since they had, as Penina had once considered it, "made love." Jack had never gone down on her and mostly seemed to see her cock as something to punish or pull her by. Although even when she was hard and he wanted something to slap he always went for her tits. She couldn't bring herself to complain about that. Whenever she thought about bringing it up, she could hear Jack's voice in her head, and feel his cock in her ass, chiding her. "You come from anal, don't you? Then what are you complaining about, Pebble?"

And she did come from anal sex with Jack. In fact she struggled to think of another cock that felt as perfect, that filled her so totally that her eyes rolled back in her head and she could perceive nothing but the next strong thrust he made into her. "You can't come every time anyway, that's my fault now?"

But the topic of her discomfort seemed to irritate him however gently she hinted at it and the jeans debate only lead to another rule: 8) Pebble has a clit. Pebble's cunt will remain hairless.

It hurt a little when she thought of it but she always bounced back by remembering the look he got on his face the first time he saw her naked in front of him. How his eyes sank down past her navel and stopped there. The triumph in his manly grunts when he reached down and felt her, hard and dripping, that very first time he conquered her. And he loved making her walk around with her little bump visible through her yoga pants, didn't he? At every opportunity he made her show off her clit while she hung off his arm.

Every time she started thhinking of herself as a blowjob machine for Jack he would do something that confused her but made her feel like it was a real relationship with a future together.

A future that might have been legally binding.

As slavery began to grow out of the legalized provinces and the popularity of it took off, he would tease her more and more about buying her up. Every night on the news gray-faced men would answer questions solemnly about the state of the economy and the changes that must be made for responsible governance. Manitoba Premier Cary Calvert of the new Progressive Evolution party was making huge waves by pushing to make legal slavery a federal mandate. There were critics, of course, people who shouted until they were blue in the face that he was ignoring his own province and its constituents to ride a PR high instead of meeting the needs of the voters. But the media ignored them and so did he. With the massive boost in Manitoba's economy that slavery was bringing he seemed like a proven mind and the single best man to preach its virtues. And it was working. PE candidates were coming like a wildfire all across Canada. Every week Calvert's picture would be in the newspaper, in front of a newly constructed slave sorting facility, or he would be giving tours of slave gradings and auction houses on the evening news. They weren't even pre-empting the footage with a parental advisory warning anymore.

With so much news infiltrating the infotainment sphere Jack was keen to remind Penina that he would be getting her graded and collared legally as soon as it made its way to them. And Penina, kneeling beside him, would feel her wetness on the back of her calves as she watched the shovel-faced Premier Calvert pull a scared woman's face to the camera. "Now honey, do you feel like you're being abused in this facility?"

The girl put on a half-learned attempt at what Penina called a slave expression, her owned face, a face that truly beamed pleasurable obedience when mastered, and said straight to the whole country, "No, Master, I'm so happy to help our province grow."

That was enough for chief news correspondent Peter Manstower, who thanked the premier and turned to his handsome, elegant co-anchor Lara LeBlazer with a patient, knowing smile.

Penina would run her vibrator every night that week to the thought of Manstower plucking LeBlazer's stern black jacket wide open on a Wednesday night, nothing special about it except the usual live audiences watching at home. No one on set would say anything, or could say anything. The first thing people would see when slavery was legalized nationally would be LeBlazer's silver hair wound around a wrinkled fist, and every bit of trusted authority conveyed by LeBlazer's thirty years of newscasting and strong, even-keeled tone of voice would melt in the historic broadcast image of her enormous breasts swinging free and hanging over the news desk, every bit as owned by the CBC as the desk itself.

Shamefully she would orgasm the hardest when she thought of the next night's program: Manstower's new co-anchor a 20-something bimbo, nude and trained to laugh at his jokes and agree with him with as much jiggling as possible. And poor LaBlazer still working the news desk, but underneath it. Her sweet strong voice, trained long ago to project, heard only as muffled gurgles and grunts. Her gorgeously sleek grey hair hidden to everyone but Peter himself whenever he looked down.

The promise of Jack turning her into a piece of property with a bill of sale was the perfect fantasy to run alongside her exhibitionism, her lust for being shown off by someone like him. But as weeks went on, Penina following her rules and seeing Jack almost exclusively in the cramped two rooms of her apartment, she was beginning to wonder if she was getting bored.

And that's when he showed off his romantic side.

One night during a routine cocksucking he pulled her head from his lap to look at the screen of her laptop. There was a banner image of a sunny strip of grass beside a tall row of pine trees. A man in hiking gear was looking up at the tree with a smile. Beside him in blue was the word "Québec" next to their provincial flag. Beneath this was a standard list of available campgrounds open for booking and the type of camping you could do there. All of them had a hastily-added line of text at the end of their usual descriptions reading: "Full slave use allowed. Trading prohibited."

Jack clicked on a site named "La Gueule de la Piéger." He looked it over and went to the website's open calendar. "We're going camping, little Pebble."

"I hate camping, Jack!"

He looked down and smiled. "Slaves don't choose where they go, mon petite Pébble."

Québec had made the plunge into slavery even sooner than Manitoba. The premier had still lost his seat to a PE candidate afterwards who had hastened the integration of slavery into every aspect of the province they could.

Penina wiped her mouth and tried to look at the details of their camping trip as Jack made them. "A-are we going to a, to a slave campground?"

He laughed. "We''re going camping and then you are going to a slave warehouse for a hot little brand on your ass."

She shifted her bottom without thinking. There was a blush rising on her cheeks and her heart was beating fast. "Jack!"

She knew that she would be naked for the whole trip. They wouldn't be taking such a long roadtrip to go camping if he wasn't going to get his money's worth. Her head was spinning. She tried to remember what the laws for becoming a slave were. Was being naked in a slave province enough? No, that couldn't be. It's just a game, right?
Jack wouldn't really make her... it's just a fantasy we share. I'm legally a free person, you have to sell yourself don't you? Or like, do a crime?

He pushed her head back onto his cock as his finger clicked through menus and decided on dates.

Why would he actually enslave me? What aren't I doing now that he could get by taking me as a slave?

With a little bitchiness, she wondered if he even had the money to buy her. Spending money he didn't have for a mouth that was already around his dick seemed like a very stupid prospect.

What if he's taking you there to make money?

She couldn't help but moan around Jack's thick member.


/////////////////////////////////////////////


Franco Boucher was laughing and his brother Bernard was not. Bernard was pacing with a drink in his hand, shaking his head. "You keep losing them, Franco!"

Franco waved his big paw. "Then how do we keep selling them, eh?"

"It only takes one, but one, making it out to ruin us!"

"When one gets out, then we talk about it."

Bernard swallowed his drink in a gulp. "When one gets out? If you are this lazy about keeping them how do we know they are broken, ah? Talk to one sympathetic wife about how they got bought by the husband, suddenly we are behind bars, you and me both!"

If Franco was lazy with his training he did not spare any brutality. Pebble was in the yard with them, on what Franco called the "fast practice machine." Pinned in a four-legged squat by wire and stake, Pebble's head was held by a metal cage that doubled as an open-mouthed gag. There were three tethers attached to the cage, one on the back of her head and one on either side above her ears. Each of them lead to a spinning mechanism run by a small generator that chugged and smoked with a foul-smelling exhaust. As the smell filled her nose, her throat was filled with a large oiled, wooden phallis dug into a small sand pit in the earth. The mechanisms yanked her head through the tethers straight to the ground and then released, just in time for the tether behind her to force her tight wet throat back up the wood and then, SNAP, back down by the ears. They could hear her choking gags even over the rumble of the generator. Franco enjoyed the sound, saying often how different it was from the gagging a girl got from a real man. "No man could make her head go so fast." He would say. "Here, see?"

She had been placed on the fast practice machine despite her graduation of that phase of Franco's training, and despite the old man's insistence that his road head had been of the highest quality, because Franco wanted "to keep her throat warmed up."

"You do not put the horse away from the field if it is going for a night of running, eh?"

The other slavegirl had been leashed off to the side to watch. She looked at Pebble with a sad, resigned smile and a deeper exhaustion in her eyes.

Franco slapped Bernard's shoulder. "No one is making it out of the trap. You think these two pouliche are going to talk?" He squawked a laugh. "You see them talking now? You worry too much, brother."

Bernard looked silently at his brother for a long while and shook his head. "This is how we got into this trade to begin with."

That took away Franco's smile. "You want them trained harder? I keep them another two weeks, we make them so scared they never say where they're from."

He shook his head. "No. We have debts to pay, Franco. Make sure they are ready and get them out of here. I make calls to the constable, tell him she is found."

Bernard's path to the house, which neither girl had ever been inside of, took him behind Pebble. He shook his head with his empty glass in hand and slid the toe of his polished brown oxford under the tiny metal pouch between her splayed thighs. "For a half-price slave anyway," he muttered.

His spit hit the small of her back.

Bernard looked over at the girl with the pussylip numbers and shook his head again. His brother's congenial salesmanship had made up for his dreadful eye for product so far, but for how much longer? He headed inside to refill his drink.

Franco stopped the generator and with a small spring-loaded knife he cut the wires around Pebble's body like they were string. He pulled her to her knees by the metal around her face. Like a river bursting through a hole in a dam, a stream of saliva and lubricant poured from her throat and past her open lips and into the sand. She coughed roughly between gasps while Franco held her in place, but the sudden ceasing of motion made her feel like she was spinning wildly. "You want to escape, stupid slave?" He shouted.

She tried to wheeze out a "No Master!" but had not found her voice yet.

In only a few quick, angry motions the cage was off her face and thrown onto the ground.

"You and that one want a walk? Franco will take you for a walk. But first you are going to clean the tool you used."

Franco's favorite detail of training when dealing with two or more slaves was what he called the clean-up rule. You train a girl on a dildo and then you train the next girl on the same dildo but you make sure they know to show respect to everything Master owns, even to an object. A slave does the work. And so, the rule: what goes in your pussy, you clean with your mouth. What goes in your mouth, you clean with your pussy.

Only with Pebble he got to use his favorite addendum: what goes in your ass you clean with your mouth, what goes in your mouth you clean with your ass. As a salesman he made sure his slaves' asses were always squeaky clean anyway, but the psychological toll of sucking deep and long and wet on a dildo you had just seen the last girl destroy her asshole with kept the slaves in their place: on the ground beneath everything else.

And so Pebble knew what he wanted. She crawled to the sand pit and drew her weary legs apart as wide as she could. Her ass was welted from Franco's belt, had been whipped with an angry arm upon her arrival. She couldn't feel it but Bernard's spit was still rolling down her back as she angled herself in the best position to get impaled on Franco's training tool. The dizziness was a bigger problem than how tired she was but her hope was that it would be easy to stay upright when the long wooden rod was keeping her anchored. She placed her hands on her head and managed to shake her tits like he had trained her to do. And then she lowered herself.

She was worried that the dildo, which had seemed as thick as a bat in her mouth, wouldn't fit through the metal ring that offered entrance to her hole. Indeed it did graze the sides as she went down and up, at least when it passed over the thick bulb carved into the wood just after the tip. But once she knew it would make it through she started pumping with passion: just as she was trained. I'm a good slave please, please just let me go back to the tarp.

Each pillowy cheek of her ass hugged the slick rod as she dropped them into the sand. It was a cold night and she didn't know if she was sweating or not but there had to be sand sticking to her as she touched the ground. And once at the bottom with every inch of bulging wooden pole inside of her she grinded her ass back, making sure to arch her back, pop her butt and jiggle her breasts for both the Master inside her and any Masters watching. Grip for Him, shake for Them. And then it was back up, smooth and smiling, always gyrating and making the line of her neck and back dance suggestively.

"Master works and slave cunt plays, I writhe on Master's dick all day," she croaked.

Down again, deep into her. She thanked God for how much of Franco's awful-tasting oil and her own spit had slicked the rod. It was moving as easily into and out of her as if it belonged to her one true love. Grind, pop, jiggle, up again. Smile.

"Master works and slave cunt plays, I writhe on Master's dick all day."

A furious, dry itch was planted in the back of her throat and Pebble found herself desperately planning a time when she could cough without losing "the look" of a slave. That was Franco's guiding principle. Nothing mattered more than having "the look": like God had built her with no other purpose than to be a proper and graceful slave. No talking out of turn, no pulling away from a stinging palm, no shirking the duties she had been given and no coughing when reciting mantra. Nothing inelegant and no mistakes.

The people Franco sold to weren't expecting the best slaves that money could buy, they expected the cheapest price they could spend for a reasonably well scouted piece of ass. Most of them hired tutors or bought private lessons to round out Franco's education anyway, so as he saw it he had two jobs as a monger: break them so that they were no longer free, and make sure they looked like a million dollar Prime Plus slave until money had changed hands.

Bernard had never processed a refund and Franco didn't expect that he ever would.

"Cleaner!" he barked. "You leave Master's things spotless from your whore mouth."

Despite her legs begging her to stop Pebble quickened her pace. She tried to clear her throat in as chipper and ladylike a voice as she could between bounces and between lines of her mantra. If he noticed she would pay for it that night she was sure. It would be added to his list of excuses to punish her.

If I don't fall if I just do it perfectly, he'll stop and let me sleep.

Faster and faster she went. But as she did her chastity cage hit the wood after each plunge. Whap, grind, pop, jiggle, up again, mantra, smile, whap. And as she went faster she dropped harder, smacked the sand louder. Each smack sent a tingling shock up her little sack and through her girl cock. She felt it in her tummy, as she had whenever she was aroused in Franco's cage. A heat that built up her back and licked the bottom of her breasts and soaked like a tide across her nipples and up her neck. A heat that made her stupid and made her want to feel stretched out and useful and yanked by hard hands in any direction.

I'm not getting off to this.

"Master w-works,"

I hate this

"and slave c-cunt plays,"

I'm not a slave.

"I w-writhe, I writhe,"

Whap, grind, pop, jiggle, smile.

"on Master's d-dick,"

Let me stop, let me stop! I'm good, I'm so good

"a-a-all,"

Let me stop, Master, before I--

Grind, slam, whap, pop, grind, grind, whap, down, grind.

Before I--

"a-a-all--"

The heat was a fire between her hips. Down her back. Her straining, shaking muscles felt red hot. The muscles between her legs started to twinge sweetly.

"all!!"

Franco removed her from the dildo like she weighed as much as a pinecone. With one hand in her hair and another wrapped around her well-worked throat he flung her to the ground. "You little slut," he growled.

His beat up tennis shoe pushed cruelly into her crotch. "You think you should be getting off, ah? You? Worthless little bad slave."

His massive hand came palm-first across her face.

"I'm s-sorry, Master," she yelped.

In truth Franco was pleased to see her near to orgasm during a punishment, and a punishment she must have been terrified to receive after trying to escape. It put him in better spirits after his talk with Bernard. His training did work. His slaves were broken. Maybe the failed escape was a good thing: one last setback to put her in her place.

The trans ones were a tricky bet, he thought. In everything. As product they were a curated sale, where wise salesmanship itself would make or break the whole effort. But even before the sale they tended to have a strange psychology about being trained. Hot for the collar, yes, but it was hard to break them all the way through because of it. They often kept a little version of themselves deep inside, with a neck thinner than the collar they yearned for: you had to be skilled enough to find that version of themselves and get a second, tighter collar for them. At least in his experience. He had collected a few trans ones in his career, that was the only reason he took this one. There was a little circuit he did to offload trans product. You couldn't run it all the time like his usual slave-selling routes, and that's what made the fruit along this route grow so fat. Of course it might have dried up, gone barren while he was away, but Franco liked the gamble. He thought of his great grandfathers having to gamble their livelihoods like that with fur over their shoulders and the sun against their backs.

As to the slave with the pussy, she would be easier to unload but at a potentially cheaper price. Buyers didn't mind tattoos or official branding. Most of them loved it. But the numbers on her cunt weren't registration numbers and the incongruity would bother a discerning buyer.

"Ah, nevermind it," he muttered.

Pebble was still whimpering apologies beneath him, trying to wrack her sleep-addled brain for a slave mantra that would get her off the hook.

He pulled her by her hair over to the other girl and zip-tied Pebble's wrists to the same restraint that held the girl's leash. "You two get ready for your walk. Not fair unless you both get a taste of the outside, eh?"

He laughed and left towards his shop. On his way he shouted something at the dogpen and they yelped and woofed for their owner as he passed.

When he disappeared and had been gone for a few minutes the girl with the pussylip numbers shuffled over to Pebble, who whimpered and moaned face-down in the grass between her bound wrists. The other girl was gagged and was similarly restrained at the wrists by a ziptie. She slid over Pebble's shivering back and pressed her weight over her, stretching to reach her hands which she squeezed and held.

The girl's breasts felt impossibly warm against Pebble's back. The air had chilled the runaway slave and the ground offered nothing but the theft of her own bodyheat, which drained away from her and into the sharp prickle of the ground underneath her own breasts. But the girl with the pussylip numbers was everything she could have wanted then: warmth, softness, support. They often managed to sleep like this underneath their tarp whenever the Boucher's had left them only loosely chained and it was the deepest comfort a pair of slaves could ask for.

Pebble tried to whisper her gratitude to the other girl. It was hard to think of words let alone force them out along the aching fleshlight that her mouth had been transformed into. The other girl wrapped her body like a blanket around her and seemed to whisper back through her ballgag.

It was hard to tell, but Pebble though she could feel a wetness where her new friend's legs met. A trickle of hotter warmth sighing down the gooseflesh length of her own back.

It might have been from the girl's cunt. It might have just been the Boucher's spit.

[openmouth-tongueflat]

Hi everyone. Sorry this has taken so long, I've been very busy. Even though it's been a while, I've felt very rushed, so I hope there are no egregious typos. I'm also trying out a slight formatting change with this chapter. Thanks to everyone tagging along!


Part 4 - The Line to the Ladies' Room

The windows were all the way down and Penina's bare, painted toes were splayed out against the inside of the windshield. Her hair whipped across her rose gold sunglasses and out the window and back over her face. Despite Jack's love for a casual girl she wanted to look good for the drive. I'll get more casual as the hours pass by whether I want to or not.

She had a bright green lip and yellow glitter across her eyelids. A sharp, dark green wing came off each eye with machine perfection. Every time she did this look, what she called her Sewer Punk look, she wondered how it would work with a pierced tongue. A big silver barbell to push and pull against the roof of her mouth. How would a guy look at her from the driver's seat if he caught sight of that playful little glint of metal winking behind her lips? She imagined that the piercing would be hint that lead him to notice every bump in the road they drove over, and of her tits bouncing each time under her lemon-lime tank top. He would be thinking of long stretches of highway and a busy mouth held over his crotch, a cool steel caress diligently keeping the summer heat off his mind.

And what about gas station stops and diners along their way?Would the other guys lean over their shoulders, coffee cups still pressed to their lips, and think I guess that guy's got a real modern girl in hand. A real modern girl and all her modern vices. The truth is Penina wanted to be a little scared in the car when Jack went inside to pay for the filled up tank and jaw with the guy behind the cashier. She wanted the greasy, long-haired dude working the pumps to lean against her rolled up window and try and catch her eye. Put his fingers in the loop of his jeans just so she knew how close his belt was to her face. Maybe he knocks on the glass and she has to meekly roll it down and look up, look up, at this stranger who has nothing to say but a lot he wants to do. And there she would be, with compulsory politeness, trying not to notice his eyes track the little barbell dancing around when she spoke.

But her tongue was empty right now. And on this second day of their road trip her mouth had yet to be filled with anything, even once. Jack hadn't wanted what he had previously called his "vacation alarm". When she had tried to rouse him with a gentle licking of his soft cock (and even flaccid it hung from between his thighs like a gorged, dead snake) he pushed her head off him and went into the motel bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. She comforted herself with the idea that he only wanted to make up time on the highway from their slow start the day before.

But Jack was in a bad mood. His face was made of stone behind his aviators but the fact that his hand was resting against his temple and not hanging in the wind outside his window told her everything she needed to know.

"Ja~a~a~ack?"

"Mmhm?"

She lowered her glasses with a fingernail and fluttered her eyelashes. "Are we there yet, Jack?"

His look back was cold, far too cold for how pretty she knew she looked that day, bouncing in her seat. "Yeah. Get the tent up." He said.

She pouted. "Ja~a~ack! I don't even know how the tent works, Jaaack."

"Guess you're sleeping outside then."

"Why couldn't I sleep in the car?"

He looked at her, then the road. After a pause he said: "No dogs in my car."

Penina frowned. "You're jokey-Jack today but you don't want to spend a night in the cold outdoors without your little bed warmer. I know that for sure!"

He shifted his shoulders. "Bed warmer, huh? I couldn't have bought a blanket from you last night."

"That blanket was like fucking burlap or paper or something." She said, crossing her legs and crossing her arms. "You should thank me."

"A selfish slave gets to spend her life outside, in a doghouse. Better remember that, babe."

"I'm not your slave. Girlfriends need more blankets than anyone."

He smiled wolfishly. "Yeah, keep talking."

So far the trip had not been to her liking. Penina had never been an outside girl and the idea of sleeping in rented rooms and spending whole days in the passenger seat just so that they could eventually stop and sleep outside was against her belief system. But on the first day of the trip he had made her orgasm during their drive with a confident mix of verbal bullying and expert use of his hands. Right then and there she thought she might like the camping life, or the roadtrip life, or any kind of life. She had gone down on him immediately after regaining her composure, with almost as much fervor as when he had pulled her into his car on a leash months before. But later that night he had demanded another blowjob which, despite her best efforts, he would not reach climax. Her own skill of self-degradation and possession of a mouth desperately coaxing his balls into action had done nothing. They had both gone to sleep poorly after a bad meal purchased from a connecting convenience store. And now, seemingly sick of her mouth, Jack was pissy for their hours of driving.

She felt all dressed up with no one to fuck, and more importantly, with no one around to eye fuck her.

And he won't unpack the collar.

She had even neglected to pack any necklaces or chokers before they left, and was making sure to keep her throat bared for him for the entire vacation. Easy access! A naked neck begging to be covered up with a lock. But he hadn't even put his hand there yet.

They passed another hour down an empty road with a field of crops on one side and a field of grass on the other. The radio played classic rock until Penina, with a furrowed brow, switched to a more contemporary station. Immediately they were listening to "My Thighs, My Eyes," by jenevieve. Each rollout of drums on the beat was began with a sharp series of whip cracks and a jingle of chains frequenty swept underneath the vocals. jenevieve, who a year ago had gone by Jenny Viva, was the world's first enslaved popstar. That's what her producer claimed, anyway. But there was a lot of talk about celebrities these days! The "gold rush" when legalization was initially sweeping over the world had driven a new renaissance of tabloid rags. Supermarket check-out racks were suddenly filled with the now-legally leaked nudes of the most well-regarded female starlets underneath lusty headlines claiming these "starlots" had been taken, bought, and sold. Sometimes to each other, sometimes to crooked producers.

Penina remembered one story like that in STAR, the cover had exclaimed a dozen stories about minor TV actresses and older women bringing a new meaning to the term "comeback". But the biggest headline and the cover photo was of Brie Larson. Right there, and not even hidden by a silver bag, was a photo of Brie hanging over the end of her couch with her phone held just beneath her eyes. Her tits were little bright swells beneath her muscular back, barely lit by some lamp out of frame. She was shooting into a mirror for some lover who turned out to value money above her privacy. Which Penina found insane! How a guy could look at that woman, at that firm trained ass so perfect that Brie had made a point of bending over so far that it rose up like a mountain peak in the dark behind her head and think about selling the picture left her completely confused. She made herself a slut for that thirst trap! You ingrate! But since the law had come around to the idea that a woman's naked body, even a free woman's, was public property once shared the celebrity nude economy had truly become a seller's market. The story, according to STAR, was that Brie's freedom had been bought out by Disney for 7 years. In addition to serving in whichever pictures they chose for her Brie would be spending her off time as an executive treat and even earning credit in the board rooms, as a suck slave. The editor, who must have been a brutal, sick person, wrote explicit speculation about how her 35-million-dollar knees would be so raw from carpet burn that Disney would have to spend another 40-million just to digitally un-redden them in her next film. The STAR was a waste of $12.50, but Penina had quickly pulled that rag underneath her groceries and looked away when the cashier rang it through.

But in the case of jenevieve whether she was officially the first wasn't even the question! The question was whether it was even true or just a play for publicity. When she was Jenny Viva, 22 year old red-haired indie "superstar", the highest she had managed to climb was a single summer of top ten radio play with her hit, "Your Sound." But jenevieve was outselling free women now almost two to one. Some were saying that it was a sly move from a cunning producer and no enslavement papers had ever been produced publically. jenevieve herself had never spoken about it. Her interviews since the "purchase" were given from between the big crisp sneakers of her producer DJ Philwhip who did the talking for jenevieve while she hid his cock from the camera with the back of her scarlet head. She would play into jokes, wiggle her bottom or give her interviewer a thumbs up between gags, which only endeared her to audiences even more. It was becoming cool to be a slave, if you weren't a bitch about it.

People said that the fact she was never used to go down on the interviewers, only her producer, was proof that she was a free woman putting on a costume. But if you said that on twitter her slave stans would have you eviscerated. The ones still free enough to have twitter, anyway. Many of her fans had sold themselves into slavery in support of their fav. Penina couldn't imagine that, giving it all up for a celebrity you would never meet who might not even be a slave at all! These young women were getting jenevieve tattoos right above where they thought their brand would sit: and the brand would sit exactly where the brand on jenevieve sat, centred on her left cheek. Philwhip's corporate logo, a microphone that turned into a bullwhip. Of course detractors would say it was a fake brand and maybe it was. A pretend brand for her real Brand. Rich girls would never give up their fortunes willingly for a thrill they could chase in private.

But then again, Penina hadn't seen Brie Larson in any films lately. Where had she gone?

"My Thighs, My Eyes" seemed to bring Jack into a social mood. He turned it up just as a whip cracked and jenevieve yelped in C major.

"This will be all of you soon enough," he said. "They're saying that this is the next new trend, companies saving costs with a one-time talent aquisition."

He looked down at her through his sunglasses. "A permanent aquisition."

jenevieve moaned.

Penina rolled her eyes. "Like any girl wouldn't give it up to be rich. Girls have always done that! And she's still famous! What's the difference between a company owning your music or owning you!" She said.

Jack laughed and it made Penina happy to make him laugh, even if it might have been at her. "It's always about owning women. Own what they make, own their rights, own them."

"She's still got a big pool in like Beverly Hills! Everyone loves her, she still has fans and stuff, like," Penina said. "I don't know what being free or enslaved matters."

"You think she's using that pool, now, babe?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's not swimming unless her master wants her to. And I'm betting that she has a little routine to keep her skin the committee-approved pale little white girl color, and a schedule down to the minute to keep her 95 pounds and hard at work making the company money. The pool is for parties, babe, for her owners. She'll be so busy attending to them that I bet she never dips a toe in that little pool she bought back when she was allowed to have a dream."

He smiled his wolfish grin again. "But she'll still be soaking wet at the end of the day."

Penina rolled her eyes even harder. "Celebrities are fucking all the time anyway. Her lawyers aren't going to give her money to her producer's lawyers just to get a poolside beej, Jack."

He shook his head, laughing. "You have no idea how men handle business, babe."

"My Thighs, My Eyes" ended and the radio hosts came on. Two crass men and one woman who mostly whined "C'mon, guys," when they went too far with their stupid jokes. They spent most of their segment talking about her tits. "If DJ Philwhip gets her augmented her next bit could be, uhhhh, My Tits my Bits."

"Boom!" the other guy shouted.

A droopy honking sound went off and the girl laughed pleasantly. "Oh come on!" she said.

"You guys can't see it right now but Wendy is looking down her shirt at her own bits--"

"Oh come on! I'm not! I was adjusting my pin."

"No no no no, Wendy, we left your pin on your seat, see!"

Wendy yelped.

"Boom!"

They came into the next town at 4 o'clock and Jack pulled into a diner called Don's across the street from the motel and a gas station. They had crossed provincial lines by this point and the change was shocking, sudden, and total. It was like a different world. Outside of Don's was a little wooden corral by the door, open on one side but shaded from the sun. Instead of the parking lot gravel which otherwise lead straight up to the wall of the restaurant there was a strip of astroturf in the shade of the corral. Inside of it was a massive wooden log with iron rings and attachments set into it. Onto these were various tethers and leads provided by the customers themselves, as at the end of whatever ropes and locks they brought were their slaves. Women without a stitch to their names and without any kind of modesty to try and hide anything. There was a little sign above the leash-log which read, in blocky black letters, "Don's Bitches," and there was a little cartoon man in an argyll apron.

With maybe twelve or fourteen women spread over the astroturf the corral was full but there was always room for more at Don's. Penina couldn't believe what she was seeing. The women were gorgeous. Some were kneeling or sitting, one was curled up asleep in the corner beneath a white dome camera, and some had their gaze averted to the ground, avoiding the gawking looks of every passing free person. But some of them looked at Penina and smiled. It was one thing to see women enslaved on advertisements or in magazines but another to see them, to smell them and hear them, in person, in their servitude. Her breath had been taken away. She was sure there was a blush on her cheeks and all she could do was grip her purse tightly to her side as Jack stopped to take in the sight with his big arm over her shoulder. None of the girls would look Jack in the eyes.

"Well would you look at that, babe," he said. "They were pretty quick to adopt the new law of the land here, werent they?"

She couldn't speak.

The corral attendent, a thick man in his early forties, leaned off his stool and came over. "Evenin', gent. Nice night out here, but they're all nice in our neck of the woods. Now it's house rules that all plunked slaves are naked for the duration. We've got a keeper box for its clothes if you want us to store them during your meal."

Jack's grin went from ear to ear. He looked at Penina and his hand snaked down her back. "Well! Do they eat out here, good sir? We're just in from a drive I would hate for her to go hungry."

Her mouth was agape in horror. "Jack, I am not--"

The man spoke over her. "We offer a kind of kibble at $6.50 per bowl, or $10.50 for the premium. Of course there's always water available."

He gestured to a troph on the far side of the corral. The water there bubbled like a fish tank's and the ground around it was soaked. The man continued. "But to be honest with you, fella, you strike me as out of towners and I don't think this beautiful little mouse is signed away to you just yet. Of course," he laughed and held up his ring finger. "I don't see any kind of collar on either of you. I expect you two will be dining inside, eh?"

Jack chuckled. "Well, I like to know my options."

He slapped her ass hard and loud. Her hips leapt as if electrified.

The other man shook his head. "If you want my advice, you ought to have her registered while you're in town. The owner, Don himself, wants to get a station set up here but the municipality has been slow on it. But for your use and information, sir, we got slave menus inside for owned cunt still allowed to hide itself. Or for curious little muffins."

He winked at Penina and she felt it hit her in the same spot Jack had planted his hand through the ripped up denim stretched over her ass.

Jack laughed. "Guess she's a cheap date tonight!"

The man sauntered back to his stool. "If you like, the owner's son had this suggestion, and I really am shocked how popular it's been. Just over yonder there is a nice little 'social media photo op', if you'd like to keep the memory of your first visit to a slave province."

He waved his hand to his left. Next to the corral was another stretch of astroturf leading to a well-lit wall repainted with a crisp crisp white coat of paint. There remained a triangle of bare, original brick for visual flavor but otherwise it was photo-ready and stark. To the right of the triangle was the little cartoon man in the apron again, and this time he was holding up a wooden pasta spoon with one hand and a leash in the other. At the end of it in the same cartoon style was a middle-aged woman painted cute, plump, and nude with a circle of curly black hair surrounding her face, thick coke-bottle glasses atop a button nose, and a big red ballgag where her mouth should have been. Mrs. Don Penina thought. Her butt was painted bright red with little heat waves radiating off of it.

Beneath that pair was the address and name of the restaurant and their social media handle: @Don'sDinerandDames

Placed in front of the wall was a wooden cutout for a man and a woman to stand behind and put their heads through. So tacky. This would be lame even at a county fair. Someone's girlfriend or wife would be putting her head into a life-sized image of a woman, kneeling and nude, holding her pussy lips open above 3 big white cartoon drips. It made Penina think of the sweat emoji. To her right they had painted a yellow fire hydrant for a splash of color but it was so tall that it towered over the hole where a woman would be putting her head. Both the hydrant and her male suitor would be well above the woman's face in any photo. The man's cutout to her right was a standard beach hunk figure except he was clad in a blue business suit, his chest bulging out a little behind a bright orange tie, and he held a scroll-like contract with a big wax seal and a gold ribbon hanging off the front. The text on the scroll read "Official OWNER" with a Texas star on either side.

Penina couldn't believe that any idiot would want a picture like that. And what self-respecting woman would kneel down next to him for that? At Don's, of all places. But Jack was over-the-moon. "Fantastic!" He shouted.

He was already dragging her towards it. "N-no, Jack we-- we c-can't! We can't!"

The man on the stool chuckled. "Don't blame her, son. That's the site of many a girl's last photo as a free woman. All it takes these days is a little taste of the proper order. You just let Chuck take care of you over there, and you can just imagine your options however you want to, sir."

Chuck was another old man, bald with no eyebrows and a wide mouth. He was sitting on another stool in front of the picture wall. "Take yer picture, sir? It's as free as punished pussy!"

Jack opened his phone and handed it to Chuck. "Very kind of you, Chuck. You boys doing this work for pay or pleasure?"

Chuck laughed like a horse. "Ah we're pals of Don. He can afford to hire us on now that he don't have to pay most of his waitresses."

Penina huddled into Jack's shoulder. "Please Jack," she whispered, "please, I really don't want to do this."

He looked down at her smiling. "Of course you do, little girl. Because I want it. And one of us has to get used to the new way of the world."

She shook her head. "Pleeeease."

Jack turned to Chuck. "She's a 'modern woman', she wasn't expecting this kind of fun. But she loves it, Chuck. In the sheets? You couldn't find a more desperate piece of slave ass across the border."

Chuck nodded. "Aw, don't worry sweety," he said, the first strange man of the day to acknowledge her at all. "I'm sure your little kitty's just as wet as that one's."

Jack bellowed laughter. He slapped her ass even harder and this time grasped on tight. He held on so strongly that the point of his middle finger was practically in her asshole even through her shorts. And with his big hand eclipsing not only the curve but the mass of her butt, he guided her irresistibly over to the wooden cutout where she miserably sank to her knees behind the painted woman and beneath the painted fire hydrant.

"What should your lil piece say for the photo, sir?" Chuck asked.

"Sold!"

Chuck smiled and held up Jack's phone. "Okay, girly. Say 'sold'!"

They entered the restaurant with Penina miserable and Jack admiring his new photo. "You're a lot paler than the cut-out but at least you're skinnier than Mrs. Don up there."

He laughed at his own joke.

Nothing much had changed in the decor of Don's since the new laws. There were still local sports teams up on the walls by the register, shaking Don's hand, and there was still an original, opening-day mural above the bar on a smooth slab of old, dark wood. Bruce Springsteen and Wayne Gretzky, Tte former in ecstacy behind an acoustic and Gretzky holding his stick triumphantly above his head. The booths were green vinyl and the tabletops hadn't been switched out since 1989, which was a year more recently than the salt and pepper shakers. But there were a few places that reflected the changing times. For instance, while the men's room had kept its framed, vintage pin-up girls above the urinals, Don had put up new pictures in between each standing white reservoir: slave girls with an open mouth and a heavy chain dangling down their necks, between their tits, and past their cunts. The old cheesecake girls seemed modest these days, even prudish.

Another change: the women's room had been shrunk at a reasonable cost, it now comprised two single stalls behind a loosely swinging door. There was a line, and there would always be a line. For free women who didn't want to wait there had been added to the men's room five new "female urinals," porcelain-lined holes in the ground with a modesty wall that would cover up to the neck of any squatting girl in too great of a need to pee to wait for a shutting door. There was a joke among the owners that the serving staff, which was mostly slaves, were the "private female urinals", but they didn't trot out that line until night when Don's was filled with only men and slaves.

The staff had been one of those changes too. A few girls from the pre-slavery days were still there but only one of them was free. She was the head waitress and 53-years-old with a smart mouth and an ass that filled out her short yellow skirt as well as any of the new blood. Her mouth had gotten a lot less smart lately. Don always talked about her loyalty, how she would always have a home there, no matter what, and how gracefully she had taken a pay cut just to stay on. The other girls still with him had to wear new name tags pinned to even newer piercings in their right nipples, but he was already forgetting their names from when they were free women.

The menu had changed a lot, too, but Don kept men in the kitchen to make sure of the new standards.

Penina and Jack were seated by a topless girl whose nametag read "Gag Pig." Jack pinched her free nipple as he sat and she giggled. She gave Jack two menus and, seeing the shabby, unlaminated edges of the second one, Penina knew which he would be ordering off of for her meal.

"Welcome, Master and Master's guest." She curtsied and her name tag bobbed wildly at the tip of her breast. "The specials tonight are the Great Northern Cheese Steak for the gentleman, and the No-Tip Special for ladies."

"And what is the no-tip special," Jack said, drawing out her name, "Gag Pig?"

"Well Master, if you order one of our most popular slave dishes for your guest, Master Don will generously forego your tip for this evening if you allow one of our Obedient Slave Staff to enjoy a rare table meal out the lady's own bowl!"

She looked around Don's.

"Oh!" she exclaimed, bouncing. "If you'll look at table 5, Master, my coworker Tightend is serving a No-Tip Special Plowgirl Stew!"

At table 5 Tightend had just placed a man's steak on the table, from her knees, before picking up his wife's dish from the floor beside her. She put it in front of a bored looking housewife in clothes that would have seemed too cliche for a movie from the 60's. The only thing out of place was a broad white napkin which she had tied expertly around her neck. Tightend looked at the man and asked if everything was satisfactory. When he said it was, she nodded, smiled, and gracefully bent over at the waist to put her face in the plain silver stew bowl. But Tightend would have to wait: the wife had plunged her face into it a moment before, the second her husband had answered. She had been forced to learn this game a long time ago. Tightend was no stranger to wives wise to the game, however. She was well trained and knew that she couldn't be aggressive, only persistent. She had a slave's cunning physicality, the sort of sly movements that a free woman would never know. The wife had gotten only two mouthfuls of slop before she found her messy face leaving the bowl. Even watching every second of it Penina couldn't figure out how Tightend had managed to eject her. It was like a dance, and she was leading with ease. The slave ate as gracefully as her hungry mouth could manage, never too fast to be gross but never too slow to waste the taste of real food. But the wife had an extra card to play. She was a higher status woman and ultimately the only one she had to answer to was her husband. She dabbed her cheeks with the napkin, quickly and curtly, before pointedly clearing her throat and crudely shouldering the slave out of her way. The wife was hungry, too.

As for Jack, Penina, and Gag Pig, they were transfixed on different sights. Jack on the well-named Tightend's behind, which he was genuinely considering whipping a quarter against to see if it would bounce. He thought that if he missed he might manage to land it in the nook of her bare, naked cunt which peaked out beneath her skirt. Gag Pig was watching the eating with a sharp envy. Despite this new special's popularity she had been on the night shift for more than a week, where liquor was the only thing ordered and rarely shared, and she had tasted only kibble for even longer than that. Neither the owners or the barflies were generous with treats. Play-fighting with free woman for restaurant dishes would be the highlight of her day.

As for Penina, all she could see was the husband. The way he casually cut his steak and plunged each red bite thoughtlessly into his smirking mouth. He watched two bitches fight for scraps as if he owned them. He doesn't own either of them. He wasn't even watching Tightend's dangling B-cups shake as her neck craned and swallowed. Tits were all around him, walking in yellow skirts and matching heels, but across the table from him were the efforts of women's worship. Lips smacking against each other to claim a tongueful of brown stew sauce, prideful cleaning up for one and careful shamelessness for another. Both of them beneath him. Without even taking his cock out he had control of both of them, just for being a man.

She glanced at Gag Pig. How would her beautiful blue eyes look from an inch away, close enough to smell each other. But they wouldn't smell each other, they would have their noses jammed into a bowl, smelling nothing but whatever Jack ordered, eating as a game to turn him on. She yearned to feel Gag Pig's tongue in her mouth, tasting something savoury and hot. Wet dragging licks across her cheek. She wanted to pull the waitress onto her lap right then and beg Jack to feed them both from his hand.

It almost made her forget about Jack's awful picture. A slave doesn't get to choose, she thought. Isn't that what you wanted on this trip?

But the ordering came and went and Jack ended up tipping after all. She didn't know why he hadn't taken Don up on any of his generous offers, Maybe he knows he fucked up with the picture, and he ordered Penina some kind of salad in a flatbread. She had been too busy staring at Gag Pig's cut muffin top poking out above her skirt to hear. It didn't matter anyway. It was clear that Jack would be making the choice. There was a gooey red sauce spilled over the salad and it was served in a plain metal tray without utensils and with a small plastic cup of water. Don's World Famous Cheeseburger had been served on a wooden plank atop a white towel and the fries came in a ridiculously small silver basket meant for one. If Jack had convinced Penina to eat topless his beer would have been free, but he had declined that offer also. Don was full of creative generosity.

Jack was three beers in by the time their meal was wrapping up. He gestured for Gag Pig to come over so he could get a fourth when Penina said, "I have to use washroom."

She looked over at the line to the ladies room, and it stretched down from the door, around a corner in the seating area, and terminated next to the cash register. A few of the out-of-towner women were clearly mad, some looked scared, but the locals were mostly on their phones. If they were used to it here Penina could only wonder how the rest of the town operated.

Jack swirled the last gulp in his glass. "What do you want me to do about it? We're on vacation, I'm not taking you for walkies here, babe." He chuckled. "Unless you ask real nice."

She rolled her eyes. He hadn't even been keeping track of their rules before vacation, and she wasn't expecting him to remember them now. She looked back. "Damn, that line looks long."

Jack finished his drink. "They've got some slave shit in the men's room for chicks, just go there."

She gave him a stare harder than her metal tray, which was still in front of her and covered with the red sauce. Gag Pig had taken Jack's during his second refill of beer. "Why the fuck would I go there, Jack."

He shook his head with the same annoyed smile he had on the drive over. "Everyone's fine with it. Just don't let some dude shake off in your mouth, I don't want my dick touching some other guy's piss droplets later."

"I am not using the fucking men's room."

He waved his hand and Gag Pig hurried her pace from across the dining hall. "Well get in line then. What do you want from me?"

As she left to find the start of the line Gag Pig's giggle sounded at her back. She wondered if the little slave waitress would be getting a "tip" after all and shook her head. Fuck her then, Jack. See if you're getting any road head the rest of this vacation.

At the back of the line she ran into a gorgeous strawberry blonde who introduced herself as Red. She was nearly middle-aged but her demeanor seemed like that of a much older woman. She had a little black clutch with pearls that matched the pearls around her soft, thick throat ("Real pearls, darling, maybe the only ones ever seen in this place.") She seemed like a different species entirely from Gag Pig, the other waitresses, or anyone else in Don's and she was not only aware but very proud of that fact.

"Honestly, dear, you're too young to realize it now but a house full of perky breasts and pert derrieres is the height of tackiness. Perhaps down south or in the dust bowl it would keep you ahead of the landlord for a while, but not up here. I would hazard, or more than hazard I shall tell you right now, there is no way that Don's little strategy has changed his numbers. It's a tourist trap with food scarcely better than the gas station next door. People will either stop or they won't, all of these perky little tits are no better advertisement than a highway billboard."

They stopped to watch waitress by the name of Bareback walking quickly from the bar to the kitchen. Her mascara was pouring down her face in fresh black tracks and a bright red smear was trailing off her lips toward her cheek bones. Her breasts were gleaming with something spilled across her collarbones. She had the prettiest nose Penina had ever seen.

Red put a manicured hand full of rings on the enormous stretch of her cleavage. She chuckled. "Frankly I hate to stop at this den of bad taste, myself. We're on a business trip to a cabin out here, I'm taking over some of my ex-husband's properties, cabin included. Drafty little place, a bit shabby for my liking. A lovely view across the lake, mind you."

Penina began to realize that she was taking a bullet for the woman just ahead of Red, who was typing too furiously into her phone for it to be anything but a ploy to be left alone. But she liked the conversation, and she liked this woman and her easy superiority over Don and his whole stupid town. "Was it easy to get divorced these days?" She asked. "I mean, like, you know. With the change in, uh, laws?"

Red placed the rings briefly on Penina's shoulder. What a sight they must have made, Penina in her raggedy edges and putrid greens and Red a foot and a half above her bundled up in an easy but regal dress the color of a summer peach. "Oh my dear," she said. "I didn't divorce Andy, the poor dear died. Although he is remembered tenderly, my beloved man. I'm presently engaged to his business partner, Harold."

She pointed over to a broad-shouldered man in what Penina could only describe as a boating jacket. He noticed his fiance and wiggled his fingers at her. She smiled a perfect smile.

I bet Red has never even sniffed food from a slave menu.

"Although it was a few new changes in property law that made this possible. Andy's family have been keeping his assets from me for nearly three years now. Can you believe that, dear? I'm sure the cabin will be ravaged when we arrive, they were never ardent supporters of little Red, you see. Thank god for Harold."

She winked at the old man and he mouthed back at her, "Wowza!"

The conversation continued with Red but the line had moved only a few spots throughout it all. Penina began to notice a certain nervous tremor running through every set of hips in line. Sometimes it took the form of a casual shift in weight, sometimes it was almost a short-lived dance. Four new women had joined the line and apparently there were precious few women at the front of the line who were desperate enough to try the men's room. But at least it was an option. There was no chance of opting for that at all for Penina, however. She would not be caught dead in the gentleman's bathroom. She was sure of that even as her own hips shimmied and her bare thighs squeezed together, and her panic started to grow. How the hell am I going to hold it in?

She remembered being on all fours in the grass outside her apartment building, Jack holding her leash. She had gotten pretty skilled at holding it, waiting for him, but it seemed worthless now. Maybe it was the second day of long car rides and no stops at all. Her resistance was worn down. She thought of the cool evening grass wet when the dew would brush against her skin. Back when they began their little game, and it was just a game, Pebble had trouble going on command. And so she turned that feeling of cold wet grass into a trigger for... well, she had to stop thinking about it.

But even if Jack had thrown away their rules she was still following them. And as per his instructions to never wear panties, there was nothing now between her and her little ripped up daisy dukes to catch anything if she lost control. Not even a thong.

You're losing it, girl. The line is moving. Just a little, li~ttle longer.

Even Red's calm conversationalism was beginning to strain under the length of their wait. "Really, what a nasty little man must have designed this. Foolish. What woman would come back to a place like this? I certainly won't." She laughed. "What woman would come inside a place like this? With those dogs out front."

"The- The women? The slave women?"

Red smiled and shook her head. "You'll have to get used to this, dear, legalized slavery isn't going to stay in one place, you know! Those aren't women out front, why they're no different from a row of bicycles. They're ridden enough for it. Even the so-called serving staff here are less than servants. They're more animated and a little more pricey than the meat pressed into the grill. But they share a shallow depth of personality." She laughed. "And they're just as wet when squeezed."

A commotion had started at the front of the line. It was easy to guess what had happened. An echoing shriek had come from one of the bathrooms. A moment later, a young woman in business shoes, a black knee-length skirt, and a subtle face of everyday makeup was running for the door with her naked chest hidden only by her crossed elbows. She bee-lined around the bathroom line and the grinning old men populating the bar and out through the jingling front door. The men cheered and laughed.

Red shook her head. "Serves her right, using the men's room. Some women are a little too quick and willing to bow to tramphood, don't you think?"

The line had not moved up or emptied.

How many women have just peed their pants right here on the floor? Penina thought.

She didn't know how Red was keeping her composure. And she wondered how Jack and Gag Pig were getting along without her. If I pissed right here I bet that bitch would have to double-time it over with a mop. Maybe she would be the mop.

But then it occurred to her. Where was the wait staff relieving themselves? Not in the bathrooms for free people. But they had to go somewhere didn't they?

She looked around. Plenty of waitresses were bent over at the waist, most of them with thick, hairy hands wrapped around an ass cheek or sliding up a thigh. A few were just walking around with dishes and food. None of them had time to lean. If there was a hidden bathroom door somewhere she couldn't see it. But she did see one woman in Don's yellow skirt, and she was the only woman in the whole building wearing a classic Don's yellow blouse to match, with a classic name tag pinned above a pocket.

As Penina was looking, the older woman caught her eyes. Sally, according to her nametag, had crystal blue irises and each of them was framed by a hard black eyeliner that dissapated into smoke all around the lid. There were a few hidden crow's feet that must have come out when she smiled, although she didn't look like a smiler, and there were similar almost-there wrinkles around the edges of her wine colored lips. She had a gorgeous greek nose that must have been cute in her young summer days but was beautiful now. Her hair was pulled up to be out of the way and she wore a plain set of small gold hoops in each ear. Her throat was long and like everything else it held on to a few lines whenever she turned her head.

Although she had Penina's eyes she was the only waitress in the place that didn't smile instantly at her attention. She observed the sewer punk girl in her braless tank top and her slutty cutoffs and didn't even nod before going back to a folder full of papers in her lap.

Penina turned to creamy, plump Red. "It was nice to meet you," she said. "I think I have an idea."

"You're not trying out the men's room, dear!" She grabbed her shoulder lightly.

"Never!"

Red looked at her with a stiff frown. "Don't have too many ideas in a place like this. And don't trust a single man to help you."

Penina left the line and went over to Sally. Despite mostly ignoring her approach she seemed bothered by the girl's presence. "Excuse me," Penina said.

Sally sighed under her breath but she raised her head and smiled joylessly. "Yes, missy?"

Her voice was low and steady.

"Um, I'm sorry to bother you. I was, uh, I just wanted to know if there was... another bathroom?"

Her smile curdled into a sour one. "Sorry, missy, there's just the two. You can use the gents' if you want to. They'll bother you in there but go quick and keep your head down and you'll be fine. You're a free woman, they're still every bit under the law as you are."

"No! No, thank you, I know that, but I-I can't."

She shook her head. "Then wait in line, honey. Those are your options." She went back to the papers in her lap.

Her bladder felt like a balloon filled with too much water and sailing through the air. All she could think of was a dark blue stain spreading over the denim between her legs. "Isn't there, like..." she looked around at Sally's staff. "Where do you go, uh, Ms. Sally?"

Now the older woman closed the folder and put her pen in her breast pocket. She looked hard at Penina. "You don't want either of the employee bathrooms, honey. You won't come out of the men's until tomorrow. And as for the rest of us," she smiled cruelly. "Well there's a reason it's employees only. Don't go into slave spaces if you're looking to keep your neck clean."

"But it's not just slaves right? You use it don't you?"

"Call it a perk of the job. A mandatory one. Listen missy, there's no reason for you to be in there. There's two running toilets right over there, you'll just have to be a good girl and wait your turn."

Hearing her talk down to her with such casual disdain sent a throb through Penina and she squeezed her legs together from a new need. She would have preferred to open them for Sally, in any other place and time.

"Please. I just, I just have to go. I can't use the men's room. Pleease."

It was an uncommon occurance for Sally to enounter anyone at work who spoke to her with unenforced deference. The women who could still come and go as they pleased treated her like a washed up, stupid wage slave, and the slaves obeyed every word and reminded her about her future job prospects. That and hate her boss for how he had tricked her younger friends into collars, or fired them. Here was a girl with a need and a sweet little pout. What the hell.

"Okay honey, but I'm not promising anything to you but a way in. Don't let any men see you in there, you hear? Or it will be trouble for both of us."

She lead Penina to a nondescript side door away from the bar and the kitchen. It opened with a push bar like a fire door, but it looked lighter and cheaper. Sally nodded towards it. "Through here is the bathroom for us working girls. It's exactly what you think it is. Past it is a little storage shack, don't go in there. The whole thing is fenced off, sometimes a few local boys are hanging around out there, just ignore 'em if you see 'em. If you see the owner, you and I never met, understand?"

"Yes! Yes, thank you so much, Ms. Sally."

She shook her head. "Just Sally, girl."

Penina pushed through. It was a dismal sight. A chainlink fence boxed in the entire area, all three sides and a roof. A plastic green cover was woven through the links of the roof but the sun still shone through the cracks. She could imagine a bunch of chilly naked slave girls sneaking out here in the rain, shivering, and it made her shiver even in the heat of the red evening sun. The storage shack was in the far corner and the fence looked presently empty of any male gawkers. And in between the shack and the door of Don's were the holes. In the centre of the yard, bolted into the asphalt, were four toilets facing away from each other. About three feet from each toilet was a tall cylinder with two thin faucets coming off the top.

Soap and water.

There were two slaves present and both of them jumped when they saw her. One was standing and one was sitting, peeing. Penina gave them a sheepish smile and hurried over to one of the unoccupied toilets. I can't belive I'm doing this... But if I can piss on the end of a leash I can piss in front of two other women.

The standing slave immediately took a step back and fell to her knees with a bowed head and her hands in front of her. The peeing slave jumped to her feet and did the same. They seemed confused, and their response to confusion was abject submission.

"No! No you don't need to, uh," Penina said.

"We're sorry, Mistress." They said, almost in unison.

"No! I'm not, ah--"

The slave who had stood, Cunny-breath, risked looking up at her. "Mistress? You... are a Mistress, right?"

The other slave, Slapsuck, perked her head up.

"I-- I'm sorry, I'll just be really quick," Penina said, trying to figure out how to turn and show as little of herself as possible.

"You think she's a slave?" Slapsuck whispered.

"Who else comes out here?" Cunny-breath said and stood up.

She sauntered over to Penina, whose eyes had grown larger than Cunny-breath's enormous breasts. They wobbled with each step like jello in an earthquake, the nametag in her right nipple was like a flag flapping in the wind. Slapsuck was fast behind her.

"Did your Master send you out here?" Cunny-breath asked.

"Better here than the stupid men's room B.S.," the other slave said.

"N-no! He-- I'm not with--"

Cunny-breath brushed Penina's hair off her shoulder. "You're pretty done up for a slave, aren't you?"

"Pretty cute."

Cunny-breath nodded quickly. "Really cute."

Slapsuck had sidled up beside Penina and placed her hand across her ribs, teasing towards the hem of her shirt. "Really overdressed. All we get is this skirt."

Her fingers are so soft, Penina thought. She wondered how well she had been trained to use them.

The bullying play of slaves outside of a Master's view was a fantasy Penina had indulged in many times already. But just like seeing the naked women chained in Don's corral, living it was a whole different world. She felt like a new animal put in the zoo.

"You should really get more loose, sis. Your Master won't mind, I'm sure," Cunny-breath said.

The urge to pee came back to her like a blaring alarm. She turned her pleading, furrowed brow to the taller slave. "Please-- I just, I'm just-- I have to pee so bad."

The slaves shared a slow quiet laugh. It sounded a little bit like a moan. Maybe they're taught to moan through everything.

"You can pee, sis. You're in the perfect place!"

A slave girl on either side, they hooked their fingers in the waist of her shorts and YANKED them down. They struggled briefly to slide the denim over her the soft round shelf of her ass, but it only held them up a moment. Their eyes filled with fire when they saw the little white flower waiting for them between her thighs.

"Oh my god," Slapsuck whispered with a smile.

Cunny-breath's hand slid down Penina's tummy immediately. "Ohh, we don't have anyone here like this!"

Penina shuddered. "Please, please I just need to-- to--"

Cunny-breath laughed and pushed her gently just under her breasts onto the seat of the toilet. "Go on little wayward slave. Don't let us common diner sluts stop you."

Slapsuck had kept hold of her shirt as she fell and now, with no underwear on at all, Penina's left tit was out for the open air. And the slavegirl's hand very quickly found the bottom curve of her breast, then the nipple. She pinched it fiendishly.

"Go on," Cunny-breath said, her hand sliding through her hair. She took control of her head to point it upwards at her face while her other hand slid down past Penina's navel and pressed hard in the yielding spot above her pubic mound. "Go."

Oh God.

Slapsuck giggled.

She couldn't hold it any more and her body was quickly losing all control under the fast hands of Don's slaves. It was so much more humiliating than Jack's little walks. With two beautiful, possessed women slithering over her it was truly the worst embarrassment. She felt disgraced in front of them. But as Cunny-breath's fingers spread open and went even lower to catch her little dick between her middle and ring fingers, she started peeing. Her piss rattled off the porcelain and Slapsuck had both her breasts now. She was teasing them, feeling their weight in her hands.

"Oh God."

Cunny-breath leaned down towards her face. "Good girl."

Penina felt a heat rising in her abdomen and up the back of her spine. "I-I'm f-free. I'm a free woman," she panted.

Cunny-breath bent a lock of hair behind her ear. "Oh yeah?"

She slipped her tongue past Penina's open lips and pressed against her so firmly that it smeared the free girl's green lipstick instantly. Her mouth tasted like an earthy umami and Penina couldn't tell if it was from kibble or slave food. She was so overwhelmed by the forceful lust of the other girl's busy pink tongue she couldn't focus on the taste. She could barely kiss her back. And oh, how she wanted to kiss her back.

Slapsuck positioned herself between Cunny-breath's arm and Penina's lap and was sucking in fast little flutters on her right tit.

Cunny-breath pulled her mouth away and a long string of spit kept them connected. "She's a free woman, did you hear?"

Slapsuck laughed through the breast. "She should get a job here."

"Yeah! You want that? We can put in a good reference for Master Don."

"No," Penina moaned weakly.

"I think you're perfect for it, girl," Cunny-breath said.

"She's perfect," Slapsuck said. "Can you imagine a cock in the slave pens? It would be so much fun!"

The taller slave laughed and adjusted her grip on Penina's head. Penina's mouth was still open from the kiss. "Master Don would lock her up. Remember when he got Sally locked up for a month?"

"N-no," Penina said.

"Oh no, looks like this little one might really need locking up," Cunny-breath laughed.

Between the V of her fingers Penina's cock had began to grow. It was softly pushing against the girl's knuckles now. She squeezed them together. "I think you're done peeing, girl."

She toed Slapsuck to the ground and, pulling Penina by the back of her neck like a kitten, directed her to stand. "Here, Slapsuck will clean you up. Be good to our new sister, Slap."

"No, I--"

Slap swirled the end of her cock with a tongue as wet as Penina's own. The taste of Cunny-breath in her mouth drove her into a heat as much as being sucked on. Her knees quivered above Slapsuck's shoulders. The slave was delighted to have a soft, hairless dick in her mouth for once, totally under her control. She was used to licking piss from the tip of a dick but after that familiar tang passed it all tasted of girl. There was the fragrant remnants of perfume, a constant scent when she found herself crawing into the nethers of free women, but also the desperate wet smell of girls when they lost control of themselves. A slave smell. And an umarred smoothness that pulsed in rhythm to a hasty heartbeat. There was the standard whining sighs sounding from somewhere above her head, too. Penina was too small to deepthroat but Slapsuck went as far as she liked towards the back of her throat, her cheeks sucked in and her lips fat against Penina's shaved snatch.

Cunny-breath's hand circled to her throat. "Cum in her mouth, be a slave, little girl. You're not a free girl you're dirty. You deserve to be a slave. You'll be sucking men's room cocks all day and at night we'll come and use you all together. You'll have your nose shoved into slave cunt like mine all the time. Don't you want that? Don't you want to be a toy like me? Little bitch?"

Her tits shook from the hard, full-body gasps wracking her chest. One slave nibbling over her ear and the other forcing her to hardness in her mouth, all she could hear were the promises of slave life. And she could imagine serving these two, feeding them with her sex, the unending exchange of slave sisters in the dark.

She felt Cunny-breath try to lift her shirt all the way off. Slapsuck was starting to search for the hot button of her asshole. And that's when she knew had one last chance to leave.

She broke away from Cunny-breath's mouth and slid out of Slapsuck's with a loud wet Pop. She stumbled around them both, her shorts still around her ankles, and tried to sort her clothes out.

"I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

The slaves stood watching her.

"I-- Th-Thanks! I have to, uh, I'm sorry I sh-should go."

Cunny-breath smiled. "You need to come back here, sister. It's where you belong."

She shoved her rigid cock almost uselessly between her thighs and yanked her cutoffs as high as she could. Still staring at her sisters -- The slaves. The waitresses. Not sisters. -- she fell back into the restaurant and found Jack.

Her panic subsided when Jack drove them to a motel for the night. He was loose from his beers and was delighted to hear about his girl's adventure. And his girl was too eager from the taste of Cunny-breath to keep herself from stripping down and attacking Jack in the deep hard ache of her need. He threw her around like a slavegirl never could. He was a true beast.

She came with Jack thrusting cruelly into her ass, her arm twisted into the small of her back as he slammed his weight against her, again and again. The tight spasm of her whole body encouraged him to quicken his pace, and he crushed her wrist in his hand. "You fucking cunt," was the last thing she heard before she disappeared in orgasm. She only knew that Jack had come himself afterwards, by the feel of his huffing against her neck and his semen dripping out of her.

He was calmed from the day after blowing off steam into his Pebble. But before nodding off he looked once more at their keepsake photo at Don's and seemed deep in thought before he shut off the motel bedside lamp.