The Seasoning House: Part 3

[Danicali299]

If you've read anything I've written before you know the drill. My slavery universe is dark, and you've been warned.

If you would like to enjoy part 2: viewtopic.php?t=1151

Also if you would like to know where this character was introduced into my universe, you will find her in this part of Anna's Story - viewtopic.php?t=1088

As usual, I would like to thank Zee, Carl Bradford, Mr. Smith, EroticStorySpinner, and Avvy for all the input and editing that you guys give me while I write these things.


The Seasoning House: Part 3


It killed me to admit the truth to Mistress Khatri, but for some reason, it felt a little liberating as well. I didn’t know if it was exhaustion speaking or some other repressed force deep in my brain, but it didn’t even feel wrong anymore to admit that I was a slave. I had been lying to myself from day one in some futile effort to hold onto the freedom I lost, and it was apparently holding me back from success in my new life.

Then, as if being forced to admit the truth once wasn’t hard enough, she decided to rub it in. I was forced to get on my knees in front of her and eat her out while she pushed my head into her crotch like last time. I didn’t care how clean she kept herself, I still hated the taste of another woman, but all I could do was keep going and ignore how much I hated it as I felt like I was suffocating on her.

In reality I wasn’t suffocating, but it felt like it while I was down there, and my only chance to taste air that wasn’t Mistress Khatri flavored was when I got her too close to an orgasm. In those moments she would grab me by the ponytail and force my head back until I was forced to look her in the eyes as she looked down at me with her signature look of disdain and superiority.

While she was doing this she would ask in a patronizing tone, “Now what are you, and what is your purpose?”

All I could say to avoid more punishment was a mix of what she wanted to hear and the shitty truth. So I repeatedly said, “I am a slave mistress. My only purpose is to make you happy by being a good whore for you.”

She would smile every time I said that, and with satisfaction, force my mouth into her pussy again and again until she had her fill. When she was done with me my face was covered with her juices, and my scalp hurt like hell from my hair being pulled like that so many times. I was too exhausted to care though, and I didn’t even have the energy to cry in that moment. I just wanted to make that woman happy so we could move on and get all of that training over with without all of the bullshit.

Then a thought occurred to me. Is this why my family’s housekeeper always seemed out of it on those days when my family was running her ragged? Was my family so horrible to her that she brainwashed herself into accepting the type of shit I was dealing with as normal and just didn’t care anymore? It was a mindfuck to think about it, but I now understood after that. It felt like my entire existence was at the mercy of others, and all I could do was go along for the ride and hope for the best. I couldn’t wait to get out of that place.

I still wasn’t looking forward to being a sex slave anymore, but it was my choice and I had to own it after I saw how bad things could really get for me if I didn’t play my role. I took the shortcut to avoid prison and being labeled as a felon, and my training in that shitty place showed me that working in a brothel was going to be more challenging than I thought. Luckily, it did get easier in the days after that morning.

Numbness to my situation took over after that, and all I cared about was doing whatever I had to do to get out of that place. Every morning I excelled at my anal training. Every morning I rode whatever they told me to mount, and every afternoon I put more bruises on the back of my throat while forgetting that the shock collar even hurt. I even intently paid attention to the lectures in class on every fetish known to mankind, like they were the classes I took in law school. It was hard to pull off, but all I could think to do was feel no emotion and forget who I was before I got turned into this cum-covered thing.

At the same time though, I knew that was exactly what my masters wanted me to feel. They wanted me to be their little flesh robot and do whatever they told me to do, no matter how bad it was for me. I hated the overseers and the trainers bossing me around and treating me like I was nothing and wished that they would respect the effort and work I put in for once. Unfortunately, slaves don’t get that luxury.

 I did have Amanda at least, and even though she was cold to me after Mistress Khatri’s speech outlining my punishment, she was nice enough to teach me the “culture” and rules that slaves had developed for themselves. It was relatively simple, and mostly consisted of rules about respect, but behind the faceless masses of slaves was a surprisingly large support network right below free people’s noses. I even learned where she came from when she was telling me how good we had it compared to other slaves out there.

 In Amanda’s case, she was born a slave in some tiny and fenced-off coal mining town built for slaves. The men were put on a shuttle to the mines every day, while the small number of women there made sure they had a hot meal and a clean bed to come home to when their shift was over. If Amanda was to be believed, it was like one big family that took care of each other and made sure everyone had as good a life as they could pull off with their limited resources. The women there even maintained gardens and captive rabbits they trapped and bred so the slaves had fresh food to supplement their rations. It sounded pretty nice for a slave compared to a brothel, and I was confused as hell when Amanda said that her mother was proud of her being sent away to be a sex slave instead of a what amounted to being a professional wife for dozens of miners who actually cared about her. Only when she mentioned the company did I realize why her mother considered sex slavery an upgrade.

It was owned by the Allen-Dixie Coal Company, and they happened to turn half of the county she came from into a wasteland. People’s wells were poisoned, forests were replaced with strip mining, and if you didn’t take the settlement my dad negotiated for the company and leave you were almost guaranteed to get cancer just living there. Even the soil was contaminated, and I already assumed that the food the slaves grew for themselves was tainted too.

He dragged me there once when he was visiting homeowners refusing to leave, and even as a kid it confused me as to why these holdouts were willing to risk their health over some stupid pride. The only thing left was piles of mine waste, small “towns” full of slaves, and private police keeping nosy reporters out of their little fiefdom. In short, she was born in hell, and sucking dick in a brothel was her ticket out of there. Even if I didn’t give a fuck about her before, it was interesting hearing her stories about growing up in a place like that.

In the end, I appreciated the lessons she gave me over those next few days, and even though I still had no idea what to think by that point I had to learn to blend in at least. For me, blending in was absolutely crucial to my quality of life. I found out the hard way that attention is bad, as my attention-getting antics had demonstrated to me since I was enslaved. At the same time, Mistress Khatri was still just as hard on me as before, and there was no pleasing that woman. She reminded me of my parents with her expectations, and even though I was new, she still expected me to do everything perfectly or else I would get woken up early and kept up late for extra training. She didn’t seem to realize, or care, that I could only take so much sex before my batteries were drained and there was no sexiness left to give. All she cared about was her slaves being the best compared to her colleagues so she could get some stupid bonus at the end of the week or something.

There had to be more to it than that, and during one of those early morning training sessions I risked another beating to satisfy my curiosity.

While I was grinding my hips with this annoyingly thick dildo inside me, I asked Mistress Khatri, “Mistress, may I ask you a question?”

She nodded silently at me and I asked, “Why would a former sex slave want to work at a place like this?”

I expected her to start shocking me or get angry but instead she knelt down to my eye level and said, “I’m from a very conservative family slave. My piece of shit father had too many daughters to pay the dowry for. So, When I turned 18 I was indentured for five years to pay for the other two girls and ended up in a shitty whorehouse the whole time.”

Then she started stroking my hair for some reason and said in a slightly defeated tone, “After I was free and he found out what I did as a slave, and I was disowned and shunned by my family. Luckily one of the girls I was with at the brothel got out before me and ended up as a Navy recruiter by the time I was free. She helped me get a good contract and gave me a place to stay while I waited to ship out. Then, once I did my time and got my benefits, I got out and put that discipline to good use teaching whores like you how to be good slaves. Now stop asking about me and focus on that thing inside you before I put a gag in that pretty little mouth of yours.”

I have her a quiet apology and a “Yes mistress”, and resumed my practice.

While I was grinding, however, all I could think about was how fucked up she was by parents that just threw her away. Were my parents going to do the same to me when they found out I was a sex slave too? My dad was already obsessed with his reputation my whole life, and I could already hear him yelling abut me bringing more embarrassment to him and my mom once his friends found out what happened to me. Luckily I didn’t have to think about it for too long that day. The exhaustion of all the extra training was already creeping in and I needed to focus.

I still didn’t get it though. Even sex slaves in brothels got breaks between customers and the time to rinse off before the next guy, and this woman just didn’t care about how beat I was. From 4 AM to 7 PM, it was constant sex and constant reminders that failing any part of my assessment would get me more time without food and more beatings. Even the other slaves who hated me started to feel a little bad for me after the 6th night in a row of me hobbling into the barracks covered in god knows what while I was leaking lube and juices everywhere.

I did get some good news on that front from Amanda at least. Apparently, that sociopath did that shit to everyone their first week or two in an effort to accelerate “bringing us up to her standard”, and that particular hell would hopefully end after I passed my first assessment. I also learned what those assessments entailed.

There was apparently a brothel that the seasoning house had a contract with, and every week we were taken there as a class for the whole day to put the skills we learned in class to the test. The concept seemed easy enough to grasp, but the prospect of pleasing actual customers scared me a bit once we were all loaded into the vans that would take us there. Those were real men, with expectations, and working the floor of an actual brothel for the first time freaked me out.

Once we arrived, I wasn’t too impressed by the dumpy-looking building, but I also assumed that any place contracting out to a seasoning house for cheap sex slaves didn’t have high standards to start with. I didn’t even recognize where we were and could clearly tell by all the trash and run-down buildings around me that we were in the fucking hood. 

Once we were led inside the back door, however, I was pleasantly surprised. The “employee” only areas were relatively clean and spacious, and the “dressing room” was surprisingly nice for a ghetto whorehouse. There were even a bunch of cosmetics left out for us to use before we had to get into the lineup. It was cheap and made me look like a whore, but I was one so I couldn’t really complain about being given dollar-store makeup to get dolled up with. Other than that, we were still nude except for a cheap sarong that we were given to leave something to the customer’s imagination.

Once I was done with the crappy makeup I was a little proud of myself. I looked relatively classy compared to the others and even found my “in” to getting the other slaves to like me as well. They didn’t like the rich girl privilege I apparently had, but they did like the beauty skills that came along with that “privilege” and were happy to have the spoiled scab teach them better makeup skills that came with the better products that I grew up with.

I could see Amanda struggling with a few of the products and said to her, “Let me show you an easier way to apply this honey.”

I didn’t know why I called her honey, but I guess I wanted to make her feel better about being the only one who didn’t seem to have any experience with makeup. I didn’t get why Mistress Khatri was wasting time trying to break me while one of her other charges could barely put on mascara and some lipstick. It made no sense.

I could see Mistress Khatri eyeing me while I was putting some eyeliner on Amanda, however, and for a moment she even cracked a smile at me when she saw me trying to teach her a few tricks. It wasn’t entirely altruistic, since I mostly did it to curry favor with them, but it did feel good to be part of the group for once as we were allowed to make our way to the lounge and start our “shift”.

Before I could leave the dressing room, however, Amanda stopped me and gave me a tight hug out of nowhere. It threw me off, but it did feel nice as she rested her head on my shoulder for a moment and gave me a heartfelt “Thank you” that made me feel good for a moment. Unfortunately, like most good moments slaves have, they were ruined by our boss bitching at us to get back to work. At least it was nice while it lasted.

The brothel wasn’t as tacky as I thought it would be, and it looked more like a dive bar with whores than a brothel for the most part. There weren’t even stages for us to dance on, just worn-out couches and chairs facing TVs playing sports on the black and gray walls decorated with grungy murals. It was a dump, but it was a trendy dump considering 90s grunge was making a comeback for some reason. Still, despite my reservations about the cleanliness of the place, I needed to pretend it was the greatest place in the world that day.

As I was taking my assigned place on the lineup, my nerves were killing me as I could do nothing but look at the door and hope someone picked me. We weren’t supposed to stare at the door, but it’s all any of us could do while we waited for customers. At the same time, Mistress Khatri was making her way up and down both sides of the lineup correcting our collective mistake and making sure all we were doing was looking at the poor girl across from us or the floor in front of us.

I swear that woman said, “eyes forward and on the floor” a thousand times in less than ten minutes. Then it finally happened.

A group of about five or six construction workers walked through the doors and greeted the man working the door. They were a bit dirty, and I immediately recognized the smell of sweat and dirt as soon as they walked in. I had no idea why someone would want to spend their lunch break having sex, but here they were walking up and down each side of the lineup gawking at us like they had never seen a sex slave before.

Luckily, they weren’t allowed to touch us until they picked us, but their hot cigarette-tainted breath could still reach us as each one of these men took their sweet time making us show them everything before picking one of us. As much as I wanted to succeed, I still hoped that they would pass me over so I could avoid having to find out what a sweaty construction worker’s cock tasted like.

Unfortunately for me, I was one of the “lucky” ladies these guys picked. The guy who got me was fat and sweaty, with unkempt hair and the smell of cheap beer on his breath. He wasn’t completely disgusting, but he was very unappealing to me, and I had no idea why some people thought it was appropriate to go to a brothel before they even bothered to shower. It was one thing being a piece of meat, it was another to fuck Pigpen all grown up.

He took one look at me and said to his buddy, “I haven’t had a Chinese one before. Might be fun to see what she can do.”

I had to fight the urge to correct him, since I wasn’t fucking Chinese, and I liked the idea of not getting beaten until the sweat stung my back all day. Ironically, the only person to recognize my actual ancestry, or even ask me, since I was enslaved was the woman who took joy in making me cry. Everyone else just gave me their own label and told me to shut up when I told them I was Malaysian. I hated it, but I also realized that I had to be whatever my masters told me to be so I could satisfy whatever fetish these losers had. That meant that if the customer wanted a Japanese woman, I was Japanese for the night. Not like most of those horny losers would even notice the difference.

Then before I could even greet him like the gracious host I was supposed to be, this guy had already put his hand around my ass and was leading me over to where his coworkers were sitting in the lounge. He wasn’t rough about it, but there was still a good squeeze or two underneath my sarong on our way over. The other girls were already on their knees sucking, and all I could do was wait as he slowly lowered himself down to the seat and beckoned for me to get him a beer before I could start.

As I went to the bar to grab his beer all I could do was look at all the bottles in front of me. It was the first time encountering alcohol since my arrest, and the drunken memories of all those parties came back. For a moment I was drunk and happy at some frat party instead of getting a piece of white trash a beer. I would’ve killed for one of those drinks too, but my john was getting impatient and I had to get back to him before I got in trouble. Still, despite slaves not technically being allowed to drink, I hoped that a customer would give me a little shot of hope later if I was lucky.

Once I was back over to my john I had no idea what to do for a moment. I distracted myself with my memories, and in doing so made the mistake of taking myself out of the moment when I needed to focus on my customer.

He looked at me for a moment and snidely said, “Well girl, are you gonna start sucking my dick or not? I only have an hour and I don’t need to waste it complaining to your manager.”

As soon as he threatened that, all my memories and previous thoughts flew out the window as I profusely apologized and dropped to my knees so fast that I knew there were going to be some fun bruises from that later. I couldn’t see it, but knowing my luck Mistress Khatri had already seen my fuckup and I needed to fix that quickly, I had an idea.

I saw one of the sex slaves at our parties do it, and it seemed simple enough. All I had to do was unbutton and unzip his pants with just my mouth while rubbing him down. In reality, it was a pain in the ass and required lesbian-level tongue skills to get the button out. Luckily it got easier once it was time for the zipper to go down, and I could tell by his bulge that my trick was working as he pulled his cock out and presented it to me like it was his pride and joy.

I didn’t know why he was proud of it, since it was only four inches at the most, but it was my job to treat him like he was the greatest stud alive so I made it work. I had already learned in my oral lessons and my college days that guys like that would respond to good tongue work more than anything, and as I worked my tongue around it I could feel him squirming a little bit. What I was doing was clearly working, and I had hoped that would salvage the situation and get me away from this slob as quickly as possible.

Then a moment later I could hear another slave bringing the men their lunch. A blowjob and hot dogs were an odd combination, but as usual, I was in no position to judge with a sweaty dick in my mouth. At the same time, my customer stopped acknowledging my existence as soon as his food came and started talking shop with another guy while they were eating lunch.

I was honestly insulted. The four other guys they were with were nice enough to give their slaves some attention and acknowledge their very presence. Instead, I got the guy who cared more about talking about lumber, and how good his hot dog was than the fact that a beautiful woman was sucking his tiny dicklette. Then, less than a minute after he got his lunch, he ended up spilling mustard on my hair and laughing about it like it was funny.

I wanted to bite his dick off right then and there, but I knew better. The last slave to do something like that in Philadelphia ended up on the news and in a slave prison for 20 years. Instead, I was forced to keep kneeling there while this slob kept dripping more on my hair and ignoring my presence until he finally came a few minutes later. I still had to clean him off, but I was just happy that it was over and I could go get the smell of mustard off of me.

Before I could go, however, he handed me the rest of his second hot dog as a “tip”. I didn’t want that shit, even if I was hungry, and was forced to look up at him and say, “Thank you for the kind gift sir. Unfortunately I am not allowed to take tips while I am training.”

He didn’t seem happy at my refusal, but he accepted it at least, and I was finally able to get away from him and make my way to the back so I could get cleaned up for the next guy. On my way back, however, Mistress Khatri intercepted me as soon as I passed through the doors and I already knew that I was in trouble. Shit.

Then in a surprising twist, I wasn’t grabbed by my hair and led into the dressing room. Nor was she mad at me by the looks of things. Instead, she put her hand on my lower back and led me over to a stool before she handed me a warm washcloth for my hair and some mouthwash for the blowjob breath. It was nice, but I still sensed a lecture incoming.

Instead, she smiled at me and said, “Not bad for your first customer, Slave. We could’ve done without the condiments dripping on you, but that’s just something you’ll have to get used to.”

Then she laughed a little and said, “At least it was only mustard. One time some asshole lost half of a meatball sub on my head. I was so pissed that I just walked away from the guy and took the punishment. At least you stuck around and finished the job.”

I gave her a nervous laugh while I was thanking her, but I was still guarded. It seemed like she was trying to relate to me for a moment, but at the same time, it felt like a test. Luckily that awkward moment was brief, and I could quickly return to the lineup once I was cleaned up.

The men after him weren’t much better. Most of them were clueless, one of them had a two-inch dick that made me want to laugh, and not a single one of them even felt good inside of me. Overall, it was disappointing and tedious to deal with. My only saving grace was the knowledge that Mistress Khatri seemed to recognize that I was doing well for my first time working the floor. I even got lucky most of the way through my shift and got a good one.

He wasn’t too bad looking compared to the men before him, even though he looked old enough to be my grandpa and smelled like dust for some reason. He was an elderly black man, and all he wanted for the most part, was company as he watched SportsCenter and drank his beer. It was actually kind of wholesome for some reason, and compared to the other guys, it was nice to curl up on the cheap couch next to him and let him feel me up a bit while he watched TV. He even played with my clit a little bit while he was down there.

After a short while of relaxing with him though, it was time to go upstairs and take care of business. The room was sparse, and the only furniture I could see was a cheap bed and a beat-up side table. It wasn’t even well decorated, and I had no idea how this would put anyone in the right mood to do anything sexual. Still, it was cleaner than some of the nightclub bathrooms I’d put out in before. I had that going for me at least.

He preferred that I did most of the work facing him, and judging by his age I agreed with him. The last thing I needed was an elderly man breaking a hip trying to mount me. I felt a little bad thinking that, but at the same time, I didn’t want to fuck anything up. They taught us about risky sex, and how to avoid hurting ourselves, but never taught us what to do if the customer was putting themselves at risk of injury either. Still, I was happy that he knew his limits and was willing to let me take the wheel and give him the best time I could with my limited experience.

He wasn’t half bad looking for an old man either once all his clothes were off. Everything still worked, and there was more than enough dick there for me to work with as I used my mouth to roll the condom down his shaft and get him ready for me. I was still a little awkward about it, but for some reason, he seemed happy that he was getting an amateur.

As I was awkwardly mounting him he even said in his gravelly voice, “Take your time and enjoy yourself honey. I’ve had all sorts in my life, and the ones that don’t enjoy themselves just don’t seem right to me.”

I didn’t entirely know what he meant, but I took it as an invitation to play with myself while I was worked his cock into me. I didn’t believe in dumbass stereotypes, but I did feel something comparable to the anal strapons entering me as I slowly went down and moaned a bit from it hitting me just right. I got lucky with that one, and I was going to get an orgasm out of him no matter how hard I had to work for it.

Luckily, he was accidentally cooperating in my quest for said orgasm and was content to lay back and play with my clit while I was grinding my hips and bouncing up and down with him inside of me. Stranger or not, it felt too good and I didn’t want it to stop as the muscles inside me contracted and a familiar wave of ecstasy washed over me as I kept riding the old man like he was a stallion. I didn’t even care that I was being loud, I just wanted to keep it rolling as long as I could.

I could also tell that the old man was enjoying my reaction as well, and I looked like he was getting off on my pleasure too. I liked guys who cared about the women they were with like that. I had too many college boys in me who only cared about themselves while I was stuck masturbating afterward. It was refreshing to hook up, even if I had no choice in the matter, with a man who cared about the woman’s pleasure too and I was sad when he finally came.

He wasn’t one of those young guys who could go again, and all I could do was take the condom off of him and tie it up as he put his clothes back on and sat on the bed next to my sweaty ass.

Then he put his hand on my hip and said, “Thank you sweetheart. Now, take this money and don’t go telling me that you’re not allowed to accept it. You earned it.”

I knew from my grandparents that refusing an old man’s money was a battle that I was never going to win, and after he let me go back downstairs to freshen up I made the mistake of giving Mistress Khatri the money.

She looked pissed and said, “You are not allowed to take tips when you’re in training slave. Why is this 20-dollar bill in my hand?”

I tried to explain that he refused to take it back, but for a minute she didn’t seem to get it and just wanted to bitch me out.

Luckily, after I was almost in tears she relented and said, “Congratulations slave. You just bought the whole class a little treat when we’re done today. Maybe they’ll even like you for more than those makeup skills.”

It sucked to lose my tip, and I still thought that I deserved to keep it for myself, but at the same time, I was happy that I was getting something out of it. Even if I was only getting a 1/20th share of whatever our treat was going to be.

After getting bitched out for no reason I was finally able to get a quick shower in, and by the time I was done, I got to spend the rest of the night running drinks and food to the customers in the lounge. I wasn’t exactly complaining, but I didn’t sign up to be a waitress and it threw me off that I was expected to be one when I wasn’t on the lineup. Then again, I didn’t sign up for anything once I thought about it. I was just along for the ride while some guy I saw once had the wheel.

In the end, it wasn’t the waitress part that was killing me. It was seeing all these drinks in my hand and not being able to enjoy a single drop of it. Contrary to what the courts thought, I didn’t have a drinking problem before I was a slave, but seeing the constant reminders of the parties I would never be able to go to again was just torture every time I ran some guy his drink. It still would’ve been nice to have even a sip though, even if it was illegal.

Luckily that torture didn’t last too long, and before I knew it we were cleaning off our makeup and throwing our sarongs into the hamper in preparation for our departure. It was even colder than earlier, and we were still fucking naked, so it was a mad dash to the passenger van where the heat that was awaiting us. Mistress Khatri thought that it was hilarious, but I wasn’t very amused. Then, as if karma actually existed, she got hit with a large chunk of wet snow falling off of the roof onto her head while she was talking with the manager.

We knew better than to laugh at her, but it was fucking hilarious watching her squeal as the snow went down her shirt and fucked up that military-style bun that she always had her hair in. It was nice seeing little miss prim and proper get messy for once. Still, I hoped that little incident didn’t sour her mood and make that 20 dollars go into her pocket instead of our treat. 

I also hoped that I passed my assessment. I could see customers filling out little cards that were supposed to rate our service all day, and I got paranoid every time one of mine was that survey. I thought I did well, but what if I fucked something else up and I had to worry about more than the construction worker from earlier or that tip? I didn’t want to think about it, but at the same time, I couldn’t get the thought of being punished again out of the back of my mind as we were being driven back to the seasoning house.

I did get some good news on our way back at least. Mistress Khatri had the van pull into the parking lot of some Walmart while she ran in to grab something, and less than ten minutes later she came out with a paper bag. I had no idea what was in there, but based on how she looked running back to the van I knew it wasn’t tampons and milk.

Once we got back the mood in our dorm was tense as we awaited the results of our assessment day, and you could hear heartbeats every time someone sounded like they got close to the door. I doubted that I passed, and by the time Mistress Khatri came back with the results, I was having a full-on anxiety attack. I didn’t want to get beaten or shocked like she threatened to do to me if I failed, and I definitely didn’t want to starve again. Even if it was only going to be for a day.

Amanda could tell that I was panicking as soon as we got into our dorm. Thankfully, despite me probably not deserving any help or kind words, she spent that time we were waiting sitting behind me playing with my hair and scratching my scalp with her nails.

I hadn’t felt anything like that since I was a kid and relaxed a little bit as Amanda softly said, “It’s gonna be fine scab. You’re only gonna get only a few good licks and a day without food. Won’t be nearly as bad as last time.”

Then, as Amanda was trying to help me avoid passing out from the stress of my upcoming punishment, Mistress Khatri entered the room with one of the kitchen slaves and a paper bag in her hand. She proceeded to clap her hands twice, and that was our signal to return to our “room” and wait on our knees for our reward or our punishment. 

She went from slave to slave, and as she moved along everyone was handed the “special” dinner given to the slaves who passed and a little paper bag with something inside of it. They were still dead silent apart from the obligatory “Thank you, Mistress”, but as she made her rounds the collective tension in the room started to dissipate. I was still freaking out inside though, and I was already holding back tears in anticipation of getting punished. 

When Mistress Khatri noticed this she questioned what was wrong with me, and I could barely register what she was saying. All I could do was close my eyes and hope that the shocks or the beating weren’t as bad as I was expecting.

The most I could muster when she pressed me for an answer was, “I’m sorry for failing and making you look bad Mistress. I’m Sorry”

Then, as I was on the verge of a breakdown, I was knocked out of my episode by a firm slap to the face. I had no idea what was going on, and could tell Mistress Khatri was mad as she just gave me that look she usually gave me when I fucked up.

Then she said in a very annoyed tone, “Shut the fuck up slave. You passed, and I have no reason to punish you this time. Now, take your dinner and calm down before I find a reason to hurt you.”

It was a relief to hear that, and I was happy that I passed and got the food that the others were getting. I didn’t even care that the “special” dinner everyone was so excited about was just a slice of frozen sheet pizza on top of our rice instead of the usual meat patty we got. I was just happy that I wasn’t in trouble for once, and I was even happier that I hopefully earned some freedom from the extra training that was running me ragged since I got there.

After she was done, Mistress Khatri made her way out of the room. Then she paused for a moment. We weren’t allowed to eat in front of our betters, and you could just feel the internal groans as she stuck around for a minute and just watched us for some reason.

We were counting the seconds until we could finally eat, and after a few seconds, she clapped her hands twice to get our attention and said, “You can thank Mei for your dessert tonight. The dumb bitch forgot that you’re not allowed to take tips and got lucky. Somehow every single one of you passed your assessment, and for that, you all get to eat the evidence of her fuck up so I don’t get in trouble. Now, show your mistress how much you appreciate her.”

Then, as if it was a command, the slaves around me started dumping the contents of the paper bag onto the floor. They were full of Hershey’s Kisses, and I could hear the others squeal with glee once they saw the handful of candy in front of them. Sweets were obviously a rare treat for slaves, and a haul like that was like Christmas morning to them. I was excited to have something sweet too, but I wasn’t going to put the low standards that slaves were conditioned to have on display for her. I was better than that, and I wasn’t going to fall into her trap and humiliate myself like the others. Still, once I started eating my share I may or may not have made orgasmic noises while eating the candy I was given. I didn’t care about appearances after that, and neither did the slaves next to me savoring their treat like it was first time they had experienced chocolate in months by the look of things.

Once our servile little display was over, we were left to our own devices and finally allowed to eat our dinner. The pizza was barely even warm by that, point and had no toppings that would qualify it as “real” pizza. It was predictably shitty, and the bulk of the meal was still rice and vegetables, but just being able to have shitty pizza and hot sauce scratched an itch that I hadn’t been able to scratch since I was arrested. I even got some gratitude from the other slaves for the candy, no matter how often I tried telling them I had no idea what she was doing with it.

It was a good night, and after I recovered from my panic attack all I could really do was cuddle with Amanda once we were done with our food. For a skinny white girl she was surprisingly warm, and even though we were in no mood for anymore sex that day, it felt nice to play with her hair while she kissed my chest. The girl even fell asleep in my arms by the time the overseer came around to lock us in for the night.

I didn’t want to wake her up as I put her down and placed her blanket over her naked body, but the overseer didn’t really care about gentle and woke her up when he locked the cable around her ankle. I was already back on my sleeping pad waiting for my turn, and the look she gave me before falling back asleep was priceless. She may have been just a chattel slave, but she was a good companion too, and I was going to miss her when we parted ways.

[kaylee36dd]

wonderful i felt l was having the panic attack with her

[Fixitman8267]

I like this series. In Gary's story "From Vacation to Slave Training" there is a bit of the story that describes Claire's time in "Roman House" the slave training facility. It was nothing compared to the detail of Mei's training. I look forward to reading part 4.