StripSearch

Inspired by Mr Smith's short story "Introducing the VagiVac 3000", I started writing this much much longer story that has only a little bit to do with the title. Apologies up front if you are really into vacuum cleaners.

Split into two parts because I tend to drone on too long.


VagiVac 3500 XL

Russell Collins responded to an unrelated email as the call with Todd Anderson dragged on. You just couldn't make some people happy. He had started a timer when the call began, and he was now on minute forty-seven on what should have been a thirty second phone call. The man on the other end raged on, repeating the same objections that Russell had answered the first several times they'd had the same conversation. Neither man was really listening any more. Russell merely had to grunt at the appropriate time and give a few verbal acknowledgements, and Anderson simply rambled on and on, not even waiting for a response. At least it was easy money. Anderson was a pain in the ass client, and this call was definitely getting added to his bill.

Russell wondered how the man kept speaking without pausing for air. It was one constant stream of blather. As Todd droned on, Russell's mind wandered back to an article he'd seen that morning before work. He opened a new page on his computer and began to search for it again. Perhaps this call would serve a purpose after all -- he might be able to kill two birds with one stone here.

After a few minutes he managed to find the site. *Hypno-Induction Training* it read. The company advertised what were supposedly the latest advancements in enslavement technology. He didn't know if their claims were true, but they had certainly identified a real problem. Hopefully they could fix it, and save him at least one headache today. He began to skim through the information, past the boasts and promises, to find out exactly what they promised and more importantly, how much it cost.

"I understand your position, Mr Anderson, I just don't think the judge will interpret it that way," he said almost by rote as he detected a pause on the other end. He became worried for just a moment, as he started to wonder if his absentminded response had fit whatever that idiot had just said. A second later that worry disappeared as Anderson launched right back into the same dull speech.



For men of Russell's income, owning a slave was almost expected. It went along with the corner office, the Mercedes, the heated pool, and the trophy wife. *Of course* you need a slave, people said. For those times when you just get tired of the same old thing every night, wink wink. Give your poor old wife a break, Becky the receptionist had said (sometimes it amazed Russell how some people could be so blase about legally owning another human being, particularly since women exactly like Becky made up most of the slave population). And so about five years ago, Russell had purchased a slave. His wife Stephanie had even helped pick her out.

Russell was 45, and Stephanie was just past 30. They met when she was barely out of college, working as a bartender. Stephanie was young and beautiful, tall and slender with sparkling blue eyes, long lustrous black hair, and had a degree in something absolutely useless. But she was pretty and flirty and made a great drink, and it wasn't long before they had fallen into bed together. Russell had thought himself quite the stud at the time, bringing home the hottest girl at the bar. She got her hooks in him early, before he had made partner at the firm, though it was obvious to Stephanie from the very beginning that he'd be quite wealthy someday. She could tell that immediately.

While they cared for one another (you might even call it love), to an extent their marriage was a business arrangement -- married men were seen as more stable and reliable by the old men with their names on the building. And it never hurt to have a young beautiful piece of eye candy on your arm at the Christmas party. In that sense they had been each other's meal ticket. The sex was fun at first, Stephanie was adventurous and had a high sexual appetite. But the last few years Russell had just been too busy at work to do anything about it. Part of the reason he'd even bought the slave is because he suspected that his wife needed more attention than he could give. Though she'd never said anything about having lesbian tendencies, he knew that free women often saw slaves as something different. "It's not gay if they have to do anything you say" or something like that.



Bridget was their slave. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Whereas Stephanie was by any objective measure a 9.5 out of 10, Bridget was maybe a solid 7. Blonde, nice breasts but not huge. Petite, maybe 5'3". Smart but not brilliant. Bridget had run up some significant student loans, and then made the problem worse by going to law school. Instead of getting a job with a large high-paying firm as Russell had done, Bridget took a job with a non-profit organization trying to help women who had been wrongfully or illegally enslaved. Noble work, but it doesn't really pay. She was aiming for a student loan forgiveness program with a career in public service.

One Friday two years after starting her job, Bridget had a bad night. She lost a big case she'd been working on. She knew she was in the right, and had case law on her side, but Judge Leroy Robertson was a chauvanist pig and smirked as he ruled against her. "Let the appeals court sort it out," he said. She almost exploded in the courtroom. Because of this judge, a young woman would spend the next several years of her life in a brothel. It would likely eventually be overturned on appeal, but appeals courts move slowly. She couldn't expect the case to be heard for at least two or three years. In that time the woman would suck a few thousand dicks, at least one of which would belong to Leroy Robertson.

Angry with the obviously biased rulings, Bridget went to a bar. Six hours and many drinks later, she tried to drive the mile and a half to her home. It was a mistake that would cost her severely. Trying to avoid the main roads where police were known to lurk, she cut through a very trendy and expensive neighborhood to reach her tiny efficiency apartment on the other side. Unfortunately she didn't see the black Porsche that was parked in a poorly lit part of the street around a curve in the road. No one was hurt, but the city councilman's new car was totalled.

Bridget was arrested for driving under the influence and spent the next three weeks in jail waiting for her initial hearing. Her heart sank when she saw her case was scheduled before the very same judge who had sentenced her client. During her first appearance in court, she also discovered that her crappy car insurance wasn't nearly enough to pay for the damage to a $200,000 Porsche. Normally a DUI, even with property damage, is not enough to trigger judicial enslavement. But with Bridget in jail, she was unable to make her monthly student loan payments, and the debt went into collections.

Judge Robertson smiled as he sentenced Bridget to 15 years of debt slavery. She would be stripped, graded, and sold to cover the cost of her student loans and the sports car. Her attorney, less than a month ago her colleague Erin, simply shrugged and told her she was sorry. "It's not even worth appealing, Bridget. He's totally within his rights on this one. You know that." The woman leaned in and gave Bridget a hug.

"This is your life now," Erin whispered in her ear. "Just learn to accept it. I'll be by after court to see you again." Bridget knew what that meant. With no appeal being filed, Bridget's enslavement was final and Erin's representation was at an end. She wasn't coming by to go over the case. Erin was coming by to get her pussy licked.

Erin moved away and motioned to the deputies. They came over and yanked the orange jailhouse jumpsuit off of Bridget's shoulders and pulled it down to her ankles. Her bra and panties were next, leaving the woman standing naked in the very courtroom she had practiced in for much of the last two years. Bridget knew how Judge Robertson liked to see slave girls processed in his courtroom. Even still she yelped when one of the deputies jabbed a large hypodermic needle in her left ass cheek. The cocktail of concentrated hormones began their work, and Bridget could already feel her pussy begin to moisten. As she opened her mouth and began to shout at the judge, another deputy grabbed her jaw and held her mouth open, before holding up a bottle of devoicing spray and sending a long, direct blast right down her throat.

She tried to pull back, to struggle, but with two deputies on her their grip was too strong. The judge watched what was obviously his favorite part with a leering grin. "How long are they going to spray me?" she wondered. "Too long too long too long!!!" screamed the panicked voice in her head. The man sprayed it right down her throat until the bottle sputtered and ran empty. It felt like an eternity, and Bridget desperately hoped that was an exaggeration.


Occasionally at parties, her coworker Erin had flirted with and playfully propositioned the very straight blonde. Once or twice she had even handed Bridget a drink, then winked as she whispered it might contain something to make her far more receptive. Not being interested in women, Bridget the lawyer had repeatedly but politely turned Erin down. That night, Bridget the slave reluctantly ate Erin's pussy for two long hours. It was the first time in her life she had tasted another woman, but it would be far from the last. When Erin was finally satisfied, she leaned in and sniffed her former colleague's face, smeared with her juices.

"Eww... you stink like my pussy." Then she grinned, pulled her panties up, and knocked on the cell door to be let out. Erin went back to her old life, and Bridget remained behind, trapped in her new one.

It was more a year before she could speak again.



Stephanie had selected Bridget at the auction house. While there were younger and prettier women, something about the ex-attorney appealed to Russell's wife. At the time, he wondered if Stephanie was jealous, and wanted a woman less attractive than herself so that Russell wouldn't fuck the slave girl. Now he suspected that his wife was indeed jealous, but of the woman's accomplishments before her enslavement. While beautiful, Stephanie held a worthless degree from a junior college and had never done anything more important than pouring drinks. Something about ordering the smarter woman around and forcing her to perform demeaning tasks excited his wife.

For the first couple of years, she encouraged Russell to sexually humiliate the woman. "Make her clean me out after you fuck me," or "I want her to lick my ass while you stick your cock in hers" were normal requests. Stephanie kept a supply of the "horny juice" hormone cocktail and was sure to give Bridget regular injections. The poor slave seemed desperate to cum all the time. Once the devoicing spray eventually wore off, Stephanie forced the woman to plead for sex, to beg for something the hormone injections made an overwhelming need. They gave that stuff to brothel slaves who serviced dozens of clients a day, so they would enthusiastically perform their work. Russell didn't see the point of giving it to a simple household slave with only two owners. He felt a little sorry for the girl, though he knew she was a lawful judicial enslavement, so she probably deserved it. He hadn't looked into her background nearly as closely as Stephanie had.

But eventually, Stephanie's interest in Bridget began to wane. You can only force a woman into oral sex so many times before it becomes stale and boring. This was the problem that Russell was looking to solve on his droning phone call.

The issue was that sex slaves are really only good at one thing -- sex. And as intelligent as Bridget might be, her only real training was as a lawyer. As soon as she was enslaved, her license to practice had been suspended for the duration of the enslavement, and when it was over she'd have to undergo a lengthy petition process to get it back. Realistically she was done with the practice of law forever. And while Bridget was pretty, and her now-permanently raised level of hormones kept her very much aroused almost all the time, there's only so much sex a master or mistress can take.

The problem was, Bridget lacked any other kind of skills. She couldn't cook, she couldn't clean (her own studio apartment before her enslavement had been a disaster), she couldn't even iron a shirt. If she wasn't arguing a case or eating a pussy/sucking a dick, she couldn't really do much.

Russell continued reading about hypno-induction training as Todd Anderson yakked on and on. Russell looked at the timer. An hour and 19 minutes. He sighed and returned to looking at the computer screen while holding the receiver of his office line at some distance from his ear.



In the last year, Stephanie had insisted they buy some slave equipment. One of the items she had selected was the Vagi-Vac 3500 XL. It was designed to clean out recently used slave pussies so they didn't drip all over the place. The one Stephanie picked was so large that Russell assumed it was designed for slave brothels. It could probably clean out a woman in 30 seconds and get her back in the bed earning money. It was certainly overkill for a slave that he rarely fucked. Stephanie seemed to hold the slave girl in great contempt, both wanting Russell to take the woman forcefully and also being angry when he did. Whatever jealousy she had of the slave girl clearly hadn't dulled with time. Perhaps the housewife was just bored, or perhaps her own sexual needs were still unfulfilled.

The device was a large cylinder about 3 feet long and eighteen inches in diameter that rested horizontally on the ground. A large hose came out of each end, with various attachments that fit on each side. It had everything, including an extended deep cleaning option and some kind of harness to lock it on a slave's body. When Russell paid for it he imagined that Bridget would probably experience that feature again and again at the whims of his acidic wife. But, whatever kept the peace...


In the last two years or so, Stephanie had suggested that they find something the slave girl was actually good at doing. She forced Bridget to perform menial tasks. Take out the garbage, mow the lawn, clean the bathroom, clean it again. She seemed to take joy in berating the girl. And to be fair, Bridget was a terrible cleaner, and not much better of a cook. What was the point of having a slave if you had to hire a maid to come in and clean up the house anyway? Once you'd tired of the sex, that is. After that, what was the point of a slave?

The website promised direct hypnotic training, bypassing conscious thought or awareness. Powerful computers and some kind of alpha-wave projector would implant cooking, cleaning, and other household skills directly into the slave's mind, without them having any ability to resist. For all the legal status of a slave, the women still retained their own minds. Yes, Bridget had been pumped full of so many horny drugs over the last few years that she'd happily let Russell use her at the drop of a hat. The poor thing desperately needed it, in fact. But in her head, she still thought of herself as a wrongfully-enslaved lawyer who might hopefully be freed of this imprisonment one day. Being a legal slave doesn't make you good at slave things any more than it makes you able to dance and sing.

But this... this might help. It cost a lot of money, but Russell had a lot of money. Slaves were a big investment anyway, so what's an extra 50 grand? If this call went on much longer it would be paid for already (not really, but it sure wouldn't hurt). They'd send a team to pick her up, take her to their treatment facility, and she'd be gone for about three months. That was a long time, but this treatment was supposedly permanent. And after the girl's enslavement period? Well, she probably won't be a lawyer again anyway, so at least she'll know how to cook and clean. More accurately, she'd be forced to cook, clean, and do any other maid activities if somebody so much as suggested they saw a speck of dust. She could always have a new career as a maid. And anyway, she's only a slave.

Russell clicked the link, and entered his payment information. They could begin the process today. He set the pickup time for 2:00 pm. He remembered his wife saying that she left Bridget connected to the Vagivac at that time, "to make sure the little whore's dirty pussy is nice and clean." He set the instructions for the workers to come in through the back door, and gave them the entry code. The Vagivac was kept with the cleaning supplies in the utility room, next to the washer and dryer, but he suspected that Stephanie brought it out into the house when she wanted to humiliate Bridget. More convenient to sit on the couch with a glass of wine and watch your slave cum her brains out. He told the workers to look around on the first floor of the house for the woman connected to the appliance. Also to handle the slave with care, and lock the door once they left. If they didn't see his wife, try not to disturb her, she was probably taking a nap.

As he input his payment information, the door to his office swung open. It was Mortensen. The man's eyes were wide as saucers. He had a stressed look on his face and made the hurry up signal with his hand. He was holding a very thick file. Something was happening.

"Mr Anderson, I assure you we'll take care of this. I've got to go now, one of the secretaries has just gone into labor. We'll send you the updated motions on this next week." And then he hung up the phone. Russell had an array of well-practiced lies to get off the phone quickly. They key was to just blurt it out and hang up. Also don't use the same one on the same client twice. He clicked the stop button on the timer. One hour fifty two minutes. He had a headache.

He looked at Mortensen. "What's up?"

"Big problem in Denver. Something went sideways in a federal court hearing. We need you to fly out there today and appease the client. This is an in-person kind of deal. Lotta money on this account."

"When's the plane leave?"

"You've gotta go to the airport now. We'll have somebody at the Denver office get you some other clothes. You don't have time to go home and pack. You'll be out there a few days. There's a cab on its way."

Russell stood up and began gathering up some papers to put in his briefcase. He made sure he had his wallet, his cell phone, and several pens and legal pads. Satisfied everything was together, he started for the door. Then, hesitating for just a moment, he reached over to the mouse and clicked "confirm purchase". Then he headed out the door, taking the file from Mortensen as he went.



Stephanie watched Bridget as the little slave-slut rubbed her pussy on the post at the bottom of the staircase. The woman's face was a contorted mask of desperation and need.

"Please Mistress... PLEASE!!! PLEASE MAY I CUM???" Bridget was ready to scream. Stephanie had given her yet another injection of the horny juice this morning. That stuff always drove her out of her mind with need. Her pussy flaming red and swollen, and it gaped open revealing inner walls slick with desire. It was wrong to think of it as a pussy. Bridget didn't have a pussy anymore. Free women with self-control had pussies. She had a giant aching cunt. Her aching cunt needed her Master's cock, but she knew that her Mistress wouldn't let her have it. Mistress would just torment her with humiliation and blinding arousal, and rarely let her have satisfaction.

Bridget knew that her Mistress loved making her suffer. The woman was jealous of her. Jealous that Bridget was smarter than her. Jealous that she'd had a real career, and wasn't just some slutty bartender who got lucky enough to grab a rich man. Jealous that Bridget understood what her Master was talking about when he would speak about things at work, while her Mistress would be lost.

And so Mistress would play these games to punish her. She would bind Bridget's arms behind her back, and then tell her to clean the kitchen. Of course when her time was up, Bridget had barely cleaned anything, which would earn her some kind of inventive punishment, as well as a spanking. Mistress liked to keep Bridget on the very edge of orgasm, and then deny her. On those nights Bridget would have to wait until she went to bed before she could finger-fuck herself silly. But if Mistress was feeling particularly petty, she would tie Bridget's hands to the headboard at night, leaving the poor slave to suffer without any chance of cumming.

Right now, Stephanie was sitting on a beautiful white leather couch in a black negligee, drinking what must have been her third glass of wine since lunch. She was casually stroking her crotch with one hand while the other held the wine. A strap hung off her left shoulder, and her tits were out. That was another thing that stirred Mistress' jealousy. Bridget had always had a cute little body, short and thin but with a nice pair of C cups up top. Mistress on the other hand, was tall and beautiful, but her breasts weren't even Bs. And ever since Mistress had taken to giving her these injections, Bridget had noticed her tits had gotten even bigger. She was probably close to a DD now, which just made her Mistress more determined to punish her.

When she wasn't distracted by the endless throbbing between her legs, Bridget wondered what those shots were doing to her long term. Even when Stephanie had left town on shopping trips or vacations, Bridget's arousal was higher than it had ever been as a free woman. Master worked so much that he barely had any time for either of them, but Bridget thought she could smell the man as soon as he walked in the door. Most nights she longed to just bury her face in his crotch and sniff his maleness. She wanted to take his cock into her mouth and slurp him up until he came and came. Bridget had given blowjobs before when she was free, but she'd never *needed* to give them like she did now.

"Stop rubbing that ugly little cunt on my stair railing, slave." Stephanie smirked at her. "No you may not cum. I haven't been satisfied yet. Once I cum, I will *consider* letting you have your pleasure. But not before I'm done. Now, get over here and help me get set up."

Bridget summoned all of her willpower to pull her pussy away from the hard curved wooden post. It was slick and smooth and smelled of her juices. She knew that Mistress would make her clean it with her tongue later. It was a normal punishment. Her legs trembled as she slowly stood up (she had been in an awkward crouch position for far too long) and then made her way over to her Mistress.

"Bring the vagi-vac out here," Stephanie ordered. "I know a horny little pussy that needs its treatment."

Bridget allowed herself just a glimmer of hope as she went to retrieve the device. There was no need.

As she returned, she noticed two things. First, Stephanie had removed her negligee and downed the last glass of wine. Second, there was an empty syringe sitting on the couch where Mistress had been.

'So she's started injecting herself with it too' she thought. 'Well, it gave me bigger boobs, so maybe it'll work on her.' Still, Bridget thought the woman hadn't fully considered the consequences of the act.

At Stephanie's instruction, Bridget set up the Vagivac 3500 XL in the floor. It was a large cylindrical device, with a big hose attachment on each end. It was for industrial strength slave snatch cleaning. It had something like 18 different modes, and every one of them resulted in a happy slave girl involuntarily cumming her brains out until someone disconnected her. Bridget had once tried to resist it, but the sucking and slurping and vibrations had her orgasming within just a few minutes, and she kept cumming the longer the program ran.

For a moment, Bridget thought Mistress would hook them up together. It was double-ended, after all. There were two hoses and two sets of adapters, and it would cost Mistress *nothing* to let Bridget have some orgasms too. But she learned it was just wishful thinking, as Stephanie directed Bridget to fit her with the harness that locked the hose directly onto a woman's pussy. Today Stephanie would let the machine fuck her senseless, and Bridget would be forced to watch, frustrated ad denied. The cruel woman set the timer for an hour and a half, and then cuffed Bridget's hands behind her back.

"Watch me cum, you dirty slave. This machine will soak up all my cum, all my cunt juice, and when this session is over I'm going to make you drink it! You know it makes me squirt, right? I'm going to squirt so fucking hard, and you're going to taste every bit of my pussy slime... it's going to ooze down your throat!"

Bridget knew that Stephanie squirted when her orgasms were particularly strong. The woman had made Bridget eat her out often enough that she'd had her face coated in her slime a number of times. She wasn't looking forward to it though. Despite her new heightened levels of arousal, she really disliked the taste of pussy.

Stephanie made Bridget watch her for the first half hour. The woman was covered in her own drool, and couldn't stop caressing her naked body as the machine sucked out orgasm after orgasm. Bridget was so horny she was ready to just climb on top of Mistress and hump her stupid bitchy little face. But she knew that would be a huge mistake. Slaves could be seriously punished for assaulting their owner. For almost 30 minutes, Stephanie leaned back against the wall, her naked body splayed out on the floor, moaning and groaning as the Vagivac slowly built her to another orgasm. She stared Bridget right in the eyes, smiling with malevolent glee, knowing the poor slave would do anything to trade places with her.

Bridget could hear the machine running, with its weird humming/vibrating/water sloshing/vacuuming cycles. It changed in tone and rhythm as it entered a different mode. This one must have been particularly good, as Stephanie's eyes rolled back in her head and her mouth dropped open. Her legs slid back and forth across the polished hardwood floor before her entire body began to tremble. A long string of drool ran out of her open mouth and down her chin before spilling onto her small little breasts, nipples as hard as bullets.

If her hands weren't cuffed behind her back, Bridget would have already plunged her fingers into herself. The vision before her was intoxicatingly hot.

Mistress' orgasm continued for quite some time, before eventually the machine shifted into a different cycle and she came down. Stephanie looked up at Bridget and grinned. "Now go and clean the bathroom. I want it spotless by the time I'm done here, or I'll whip your ass red. Don't complain, I just made part of your dinner." Bridget got up and hurried down the hallway and around the corner to the bathroom. Or at least it looked like she was headed to the bathroom. Once out of Mistress' sight, she turned and headed to one of the guest rooms. There was one spot in the house where the post at the foot of the bed was at just the right height. She learned long ago that if she was careful, she could straddle the footboard and ease her pussy on top of it so that the bedknob would sink into her. It was a tight fit, as it filled her completely. She didn't dare to do it when anyone might walk in on her -- Mistress took great care to prevent Bridget from masturbating, and if she knew about this she would certainly remove it. But Mistress was strapped to the Vagivac right now, and Bridget could hear the bitch's moans and screams echoing through the house as it changed settings once again. To quiet herself, Bridget dug under the bedroom dresser with her foot. There was a small spray can of devoicer under there that she had managed to hide away. As aroused as she was at this moment, she knew that her orgasm would make her scream. She couldn't chance it. Lowering herself to the ground, she managed to hold the can with her feet and bend over so that the nozzle pointed at her mouth. She opened wide and used her toes to push down on the spray nozzle. She had to try multiple times, and she got a pretty bad cramp in her foot, but eventually she managed a small spray. Not too much -- she could do a lot with her body language to avoid speaking to her Mistress, but eventually Stephanie would catch on if she demanded an answer and Bridget couldn't speak. The blast only lasted a couple of seconds, catching her right in the back of the throat, enough to knock out her voice for a while. How long would it last, three or four hours? She didn't know for sure, but it was too late to worry about it now.

She scrambled to her feet and ran over to the bottom corner of the bed. Lifting one leg, she eased her aching sex over the large round knob. It wasn't that high off the ground, but Bridget was only 5'3". She had to stand on her very tip-toes to get it into position. When she judged it was in the right spot, she dropped down so her feet were flat on the ground. The bed knob stretched her to her limits, and she felt a 'pop' as it lodged inside of her. Her orgasm hit her like a truck, her mouth wide open in a soundless scream, her hips bucking back and forth on the mahogany intruder. Another orgasm came, and then another, and another after that. Bridget fell forward so her face was on the blanket of the bed, her body arched in an obscene hump. She drifted in a state of half-sleep and half-fucking, her body still twitching and grinding against her inanimate lover, while her brain slowly attempted to reboot from a complete and utter overload.

It was twenty minutes before she could form almost-coherent thoughts again. When she finally was able to sit up, Bridget realized she had a new problem. Her legs were so weak and trembly, that with her hands still cuffed behind her as they were, the poor slave girl found that she was stuck. She didn't have the physical strength or the leverage to get that large wooden post out of her pussy. She tried to speak and was instantly reminded that she had lost that ability. She'd done that to herself. She'd done all of this to herself. That thought made her start to get wet again. As humiliating as being enslaved was, mentally she could justify herself as a victim. Someone else had done that to her. She didn't deserve it. But this... this time she had not only willingly done it to herself, she had very intentionally done it just because she knew she would love it and that it would make her cum. Moments like this drove home the indisputable fact that she was a slave. She had been a lawyer, a free woman, and now she was a slave. And slaves were fundamentally different than free people. She felt that in her core. At best now, once her 15 years were up, she could pretend that she was a free woman. But her slave cunt knew the truth.



Time went by, maybe another 15 minutes? Bridget couldn't see a clock from where she sat. The strength was beginning to return to her legs. Maybe she could get off this thing before Mistress' session ended. She wouldn't be able to get the bathroom clean, but she wouldn't have been able to do that anyway. The best she could hope for at this point was to free her trapped pussy, hurry to the bathroom, and knock over some cleaning supplies. She could spill some liquid soap on the ground and roll in it, then rub against the tile and make it look like she had tried and failed. That fit Mistress' image of her, so it would probably work to fool her. She would think Bridget had spent the last hour fumbling around the bathroom like a fool. Mistress intended her to fail anyway, so giving her what she wanted would probably work.

She had a little time, she could still hear Mistress' faint moans coming from the other room. They were low and incoherent now, meaning the spoiled rich woman was probably completely out of her head. Bridget wanted to see her like this. As much as she hated the woman, she knew her Mistress would look pussy-meltingly hot like this. And while free woman Bridget had been completely straight, slave girl Bridget sucked what she was told to suck.

That was when she heard movement in the house. Bridget froze. What was that sound? It sounded like men moving around. Her heart began to race. What could be happening? Were they being robbed?

Part 2 of 2


Chuck and Tony let themselves into the back of the house, per the instructions. The door code worked fine, just like the order form said. If ever there were two men who looked more like cartoon dock workers, then they must have stepped directly out of an animation cel. Chuck and Tony were large men, muscular brutes with perpetual 5 o'clock shadows and shaved bald heads. They wore shirts that were too tight and cargo pants with drab brown boots. They were the kind of men you'd expect to see unloading large wooden crates in a badly lit warehouse moments before Batman jumped down from a skylight.

"Says we're looking for a slave girl connected to some kinda vacuum machine," said Chuck as they walked into the back room.

"She vacuuming the carpet?" asked Tony.

"I guess so?" responded Chuck.

"How's do we know if she like, took a break or something? What if she's not vacuuming right now?"

Chuck shrugged. Seemed like a good question. "It says look around the house for her. So let's take a look."

The house was large, and the men didn't know where to go. But it didn't take long before they heard whimpering and groaning coming from one particular direction. Looking at each other, both shrugged and headed that way.

They walked into a huge living room. There was a large brick fireplace, currently unused since it was early summer. There was expensive-looking white leather furniture that all matched. The floor was beautiful polished wood. Fancy paintings were on the wall. And there, leaning up against one section of the wall, was a beautiful woman butt-ass naked. She was tall and thin, with long lustrous black hair. She sprawled across the floor, her head and shoulders propped up against the wall. The woman's eyes were half-lidded and her mouth hung open. Her entire chest glistened with drool. A low groaning sound came from her mouth, and the men could see little tremors of pleasure ripple through her body. There was some kind of machine on the floor a few feet away. It was a big cylinder thing with two hoses, one coming out of each end. One of the hoses was coiled up, unused. The other went directly to the woman's crotch, where it attached around her hips with some type of heavy duty strap system. The men could hear it whirring away.

They looked at each other. "I guess dat's da vacuum," said Tony.

"Yup, guess so," responded Chuck.

The two men walked over to the woman and spent a good five minutes figuring out how to disconnect her from the contraption. Eventually they got it free, unstrapping her and pulling the suction device away from her pussy. It made slurping sounds as they withdrew it. Chuck looked at the machine, then pushed a red button on top. The machine wound down and powered off. Tony walked behind her and slid his arms under her armpits. His large rough hands grabbed her tits and squeezed. He looked up at Chuck and grinned. Chuck grinned back, then grabbed hold of the woman's ankles. The two burly men lifted her off the ground like she weighed nothing.

They carried Stephanie's limp, semi-conscious body out the back door to their white panel van. As awareness began to return to her, she started to resist with mild struggles.

"Wha? Whas... what are you doin?" she began with a groggy murmur.

Chuck paused. "Hold on a sec. Dey don't want us makin' a scene. Dis is a nice neighborhood." He pulled a bottle of devoicer from his pocket. "Now open wide lady." He squeezed her jaw open and gave her a long burst from the bottle.

"She won't give us no trouble now. Don't want her disturbin' the neighbors." The large man then grabbed her ankles and hoisted her into the air again. Together the two workers carried the Mistress of the house out to the utility van and loaded her inside.

The men opened the back doors of the vehicle and then climbed inside, carrying Stephanie along. The girl looked down in confusion at the sight that greeted her. There were three long benches and six women inside. Each bench ran from the back of the van to the front, stopping right behind the front seats. They resembled gymnastics balance beams, but a little wider and just a few inches off the floor, and had padded areas like a weightlifting bench. The six women were straddling them on their hands and knees, two women per bench, one behind the other. There was room for two more on each beam.

Before Stephanie could process what she was seeing, her captors brought her to the bench on the left side of the van and straddled her over the third pad from the front, face down. Tony pushed on her back between the shoulders, firmly keeping her in place. Then he took her left arm and bent it so her elbow pointed down. As he did so, Chuck secured a leather cuff to her wrist, binding it to the bench. The men did the same with her right wrist, then moved behind her where she couldn't see. She felt strong arms grab her legs, bending them at the knee. Straps wrapped around her ankles and then those were connected to the padded bench somehow. A heavy strap was pulled across the small of her back, keeping her in place. She was trussed up like a turkey, her elbows and knees resting on the rubber flooring mat in the back of the van.

Then the men started to make adjustments to the padded bench that held her captive. Stephanie heard a ratcheting sound and felt the back part of it lift up a bit. The bottom of the pad reached right to her pelvis, and she felt it press against her and lift. Her hips raised into the air several inches, as did her feet. Stephanie's knees came away from the rubber mat, and her weight shifted slightly forward. The two men then moved up to her face. Tony placed his giant rough hands on each side of her head, carefully moving her into position until her chin rested in a deep indentation in the front of the soft leather padding. He wrapped a strap around the back of her neck, holding her firmly in position, before raising the chin pad up just a bit. She was now facing directly forward, head tilted up.

Stephanie had done a stretch like this in her yoga classes, called "cow pose". It wasn't too uncomfortable, even with her hips flared out as they were right now and her head leaning all the way back. She stared right into Tony's rough, craggy face. He knelt at her side and had his head directly in front of her, making sure she was aligned properly. Worried as she should have been, the horny juice she'd self-injected earlier had left her body tingling. The VagiVac had drained her of her orgasms and her energy, but it was hard to struggle too much or become too upset when her pussy was still so moist.

There was a tough, weathered masculinity in the men who had taken her. They weren't handsome, far from it. One of the men had a large scar across his forehead that appeared to have come from a broken bottle, probably received in some bar fight. Not handsome, no, but they were strong, and they were dirty, and they were brutish lower class *men*. And they had grabbed her out of her home in her gated community and they had *taken her*. She tried to moan as she felt a trickle of arousal leak from her pussy and slowly drip to the beam underneath her, but of course no sound came out. This man was nothing like her wealthy, white collar husband who spent all his time at the office. This ape-man would fuck her long and hard and with savage intensity, and when he came he would shove his cock in her mouth and she'd be forced to suck him clean. Her hips started to rock in the air as her arousal surged again. She had planned for an hour and a half with the VagiVac, and they had pulled her free with a good amount of time remaining. Then the thought came to her that one of these men might even shove his dick *up her ass*. Would she clean his cock with her tongue after he had butt-fucked her? She would *have to*, wouldn't she? Hardened criminals like this didn't take no for an answer, especially from a wealthy kidnapped beauty so far above them in class and dignity. The housewife stared at the man in front of her and thought of all the depraved ways in which he might force her to fuck him.

"Okay I think she's set up right," said Tony. He moved out from in front of the woman and stood up. Stephanie couldn't budge her head, but she tried to follow him with her eyes. He was an indistinct blur in her peripheral vision.

"K. Move her forward," said Chuck. He fiddled with a lever under the beam and then Stephanie's attention was grabbed as the entire padded bench she was secured to started sliding. Her eyes jerked straight ahead, and suddenly she saw what Tony's big craggy face had been blocking.

Two feet in front of her was the exposed pussy of the woman in the second row. Bound just as Stephanie was, with her hips raised and flared out, her open cunt was directly in line with Stephanie's face. Unable to squirm and unable to scream, Stephanie could only stare as the distance between beautiful face and hairy snatch closed to nothing.

Stephanie's world was enveloped by damp folds of flesh. For the first time in her life, all she could smell was the overpowering scent of another woman's pussy. Tightly secured as she was, she couldn't even turn away. With her head tilted back, she couldn't completely close her mouth either. Stephanie, for years the Mistress of the house, felt the juices of another woman flowing into her mouth and onto her tongue. Not just another woman, this was no experimental college phase. This was a slave. She was being forced to eat *slave pussy*.

The woman was clearly aroused, and used what little room she had to buck her hips up and down. This left a trail of slime all over Stephanie's delicate features. Stephanie opened her mouth wider to shout, to try and cry out for them to stop, and all she got for her troubles was a mouthful of girl cum as the woman in front of her began to juice.



"How many more pickups today, Chuck?" asked Tony as they shut the back of the van and walked around to the front doors.

"Just two more, but they ain't here. Gonna be a late night. Three hour drive, an hour to make the pickup, three hours back."

"We got extra room for more than two," Tony grunted.

"Yeah but this is all we're getting paid for."



From behind a row of bushes at the side of the house, Bridget watched the men. She had managed to remove herself from the bedpost just as they had gone outside. Curious, she followed out the back door and crept quietly behind them. She had watched as her owner was loaded into the back of the van and strapped down.

Intrigued, Bridget tiptoed from the cover of the bushes and had quietly come to within 20 feet of the van doors. Part of her thought about trying to save her owner. Might she be rewarded if she could get Stephanie out of this? Would her Mistress be grateful? 'No,' Bridget thought. 'I would be taken in her place.' The realization sent a tremor down her spine, and a tingling sensation surged in her cunt.

She smiled as Stephanie's bench was slid forward, shoving her face into a slave pussy and locking it there. Stephanie loved forcing Bridget to go down on her, even though she knew that Bridget had always been straight. Seeing the cruel bitch have a literal taste of her own medicine was sweet.

However, Bridget almost lingered too long. She had expected the two brutes to fuck the bound housewife, but they didn't. Once the men had finished with Stephanie's restraints, they turned around and hopped out of the back of the van. It was only by blind chance that they didn't see Bridget. Instead they were talking about the next pickup, and one looked over his shoulder at the other instead of straight ahead where he would have surely seen her.

She bolted towards the bushes, running as fast as she could. She made it behind her cover and froze. The sound of van doors closing reached her ears, but she didn't move until she heard the vehicle start and begin to pull away. "What would they have done if they saw me?" Bridget wondered. She was pretty sure she knew the answer to that. "They'd have packed you in too, strapped you down next to her, and you'd be spending the next 7 hours with your face full of a stranger's cunt." Cautiously she stuck her head out from her hiding place, and she watched the white van slowly drive off down the neighborhood streets.



"Honey, have to go to Denver. Be gone at least a week. Getting on plane now. Call you when I get there." Russell sent the text as he settled into his seat. He had tried to call her on the cab ride over, but got no answer. That wasn't unusual, Steph was less than reliable about answering calls. But she'd see the text whenever she got around to looking at her phone.



Russell got off the plane and went directly to the branch office. The client meeting took a long time, and it was well after midnight by the time he got to a hotel. Midnight Denver time, so later back home. He resolved to call her tomorrow, and sent a text instead. "Meeting long, just finished."

The next day his wife didn't answer either. She was probably punishing him for not coming home. He expected an unusually high credit card bill this month. Stephanie's form of spousal abuse was extended retail therapy.

The next several days involved numerous meetings, lots of massaging of egos, and heavy research. He worked through the weekend before they had a motion and brief to present to the court. On Tuesday he flew back.



Bridget stared at her owner's phone. Her male owner had called several times and sent five or six text messages. She didn't know what to do. If she responded to the text, he'd call immediately. She didn't sound anything like Stephanie. Should she lie to her owner? Say that Stephanie was out shopping? He'd find out eventually. Bridget had figured out that the men who came to the house must have been hired by him, and that they were coming for *her*. If her Mistress hadn't been attached to the VagiVac, they'd have taken the right woman.

Who were they? Where did they take her Mistress? If her Master found out, would he call them back and have them pick her up instead? Bridget didn't know for sure, but she suspected she knew the answer. She let the phone ring.




"Well shit." Russell rarely swore, but this occasion deserved it. After arriving home, he found his house in disarray. His wife was gone and his slave was petrified. He needed to visit the Hypno-Induction Training Center, but their office hours were already over. He had to catch up on everything he'd missed at work in the last week, so the earliest he could get in there would be Friday, more realistically next Monday. Calling the phone number proved to be little help, as did the website and e-mail contacts. He just got a damn automated system that didn't go anywhere.

Well, his wife may have to just wait a little while.



Stephanie sat naked in a swing, her arms tied behind her back and her knees raised high. The swing was really just a series of leather straps that held her naked body completely exposed. A strange helmet rested on her head, with a full face-shield that came down to the middle of her mouth. That mouth hung open and drool trickled out.

The flashing lights and swirling images projected on the inside of the face shield held the captive woman's rapt attention. Music and chanted messages were broadcast from speakers directly into her ears. She had resisted at first, struggling and kicking and shouting that this was all a mistake. Training like this might work on dirty slaves, but she was a free woman. She had a strong will, this certainly wouldn't work on *her*. She would beat this.

And still the images and the sounds played on. Within a day the hypno-induction technology had battered its way through her defenses. For the last two weeks it had simply poured its training and orders directly into her unprotected subconscious. Stephanie knew what was happening. She could feel it. That knowledge did little to help her though. The control went directly into the core of her mind, adding layer after layer of total obedience.

On the third day, a small green light had come on in the corner of the screen, and a whispered voice told her to lift her right leg and hold it high. Stephanie shouted "no!" Her right leg lifted. She struggled and strained to put it down. She marshalled every ounce of her will to force that leg down. It remained exactly where it was. She might as well try to control someone else's leg across the room. She could feel her leg, feel the muscles, feel the cool air as it blew across her foot. The leg just didn't listen to her. It listened to the machine. After a long time, the light went off and Stephanie's leg put itself down.

On day 17 of her training, Russell made it to the facility.




Russell was standing in a darkened room with the company rep. Three of the four walls sported large one-way mirrors. Through one of them he could see his wife Stephanie. She was naked, and pacing back and forth in a small cell. The other two looked into similar cells, each holding an attractive naked woman. In one of them, a small blue light flashed repeatedly, and a beautiful redhead sat there bewildered, legs spread wide as she slowly worked her thumb in and out of her ass. From the other, Russell could hear the recorded sounds of a bird singing. In that cell a small-breasted Asian woman knelt on the ground, furiously scrubbing at a toilet with a toothbrush she held in her mouth. Each woman appeared completely confused as to why she was performing such an action, yet continued to do it anyway.

Stephanie simply paced back and forth.

"What do you mean, you can't do anything about it?" he asked. His voice carried tones of mild irritation rather than absolute fury. "I thought this was a three month training program. It's only been two weeks."

"Sir, your wife has already gone through the hard part. We've broken through conscious barricades and are now directly inputting her training. It's just incomplete at the moment. She's already going to have three hundred or so automatic reactions to stimuli. These are the foundations."

"What sort of automatic reactions?" Russell asked.

"Lift her leg. Turn around. Kneel. Release her bladder. Stuff like that. She'll do these things automatically, without the slightest bit of conscious control, whenever the appropriate stimulus appears. Consciously she's still your wife, and she always will be. But if you don't want her pissing on the floor whenever she sees the color orange, we need to have time to replace those early cues. They are primarily used to prove to the subject the lack of control they have. Once the slave is convinced of her own powerlessness, they accept more advanced commands quite readily. We just... haven't got there yet."

"She pees when she sees the color orange?"

"Something like that," said the salesman. "We normally replace that with the need to give a blowjob whenever she sees a dick. Buyers seem to like that one. But loss of bladder control is easy to program first and doesn't require a partner."

"How long until she can come home," he asked flatly.

"It's a full twelve week training program, sir. We install the foundational ones and then replace them, one by one, with the specialized training. She's already got three hundred-plus commands in her head. It takes time to replace those with the ones people want. She'll need to be here for the whole program."

"Otherwise she'll just have a bunch of nonsense commands in her head?"

"That's right," the man nodded.

Russell turned to go, but paused before he walked out the door.

"Show me. I want to see her do something."

The salesman nodded, then turned to his computer. He paused for a moment, thinking, then typed in a command. In the cell, a beeping sound like the activation of a car keyfob rang out. Stephanie stopped in her tracks, then immediately sat on the cot against the far wall.

"What's going on!?!" she shouted. Her words were muffled but still clearly audible. "What are you doing to me???" Her face was a mixture of self-righteous anger with a healthy dose of arousal, and a trace of fear. She continued to shout as her right foot lifted off the ground. She stared straight into the mirror as her hands reached down and grabbed her foot and brought it directly up to her face.

"Why can't I sto..." and then her foot was in her mouth. Stephanie went to work sucking and slurping on her toes, tongue darting out and sliding between each one, curling around and leaving them glistening with drool. Her eyes were wide with shock, but her lips and tongue just continued slavering away at her own foot. After a few minutes she moved from her toes down to the ball of her foot.

Russell stared at his wife for a long time. "How long does this last?" he finally managed. His voice was heavy and thick.

"If you mean, in the immediate future? She'll work on one foot for about ten, fifteen minutes. Then she'll go to the other. If you mean, how long does the treatment last? Basically forever, until we replace it with something."

"...I... I want you to leave this one. Leave it in." There was a large bulge forming in his pants.

The salesman smiled. "We can do that. You know, on our website we've got some extra packages you can select. Since it's not on the expected subject, I thought you might want to make some modifications."

Russell continued to gaze at his wife. With her leg lifted up as it was, he could see her pussy. It was spread open, red and wet.

"The maid package is already in progress, so we can't really change that. But since our guys picked up the wrong girl, I can give you a 20% discount on any extras you might want. She'll need another week or two of treatment, depending on what you select."

"...I'll keep that in mind," Russell finally said, his voice thick and heavy. He turned and looked in the other windows. The redhead now had three fingers up her own ass, and was trying to squeeze in a fourth. The asian girl was on her back, scrubbing away at the underside of a sink. Her thighs were slick with her own juices, and she made little moans as she cleaned.

"Out of curiosity, tell me, how did she hold up? How long did it take her to break?"

"She never had a chance, sir. We've had Harvard graduates, top of their class in here. None of them hold out for more than a few days."

"And Stephanie? How long did she hold out?"

"She yelled for a while, but her body was obeying our signals after maybe a few hours, I think. Not really long at all, sir."



Russell's drive home was dangerously fast. He threw open the front door and strode inside, not bothering to close the door behind him. Bridget was trying to prepare dinner, some unappetizing muck that was half burned already.

He grabbed the slave by the arm. "My bedroom, right now," and pulled her away from the stove.

She meekly followed, unused to her male owner being so rough and forceful. Usually he came home very late and fell asleep in the recliner, too tired to pay her any attention. A knot of fear welled up in Bridget's throat. Was he furious? Was she going to be punished for allowing his wife to be taken? She knew that sometimes even seemingly nice owners would harshly beat their slaves.

She almost had to run as he pulled her down the hallway, his long strides making it difficult for her to keep up. When they reached the master bedroom, Russell turned to the naked woman, grabbed her by the hips, and lifted her into the air. For the first time, Bridget realized how immensely strong the large man was. Strong enough to really hurt her if he wanted to. He stepped over to the king size bed and tossed her into the center of it.

She landed softly on her back, laying across it. Russell then grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her to the edge, holding her legs wide. Bridget's heart was racing, the display of physical dominance stoking the fires of her needs. The hormone injections Stephanie had given her had proven to have a lasting effect -- sex was frequently all Bridget could think about. Her owner's strong arms spread her legs open, revealing a soaking wet slave pussy aching for attention.

He placed her ankles on his broad shoulders, then quickly unbuckled his belt. He jerked his slacks down without waiting further, and something sailed just past Bridget's vision as a button popped free. Her owner's cock was large and uncomfortably thick, and today he was hard as a rock. He took a moment for careful aim, and then he shoved into her with a powerful thrust.

Bridget moaned as waves of pleasure rolled through her body. Every stroke was strong and deep. His hands held her hips firmly, lifting her ass into the air and pulling her towards him even as his hips shot forward, burying himself inside of her. The first of her orgasms hit after only a few thrusts. Bridget cried out, gibberish and nonsense words mixed with vulgar profanities.

"You love it when I pound your pussy!" It wasn't a question, it was a statement of undeniable fact. The absolute truth of it left a mark on her soul. She did love it. She would always love it. Bridget came again.

His hands were on her shoulders now as he leaned over her. Her body was nearly bent in half, her knees in her chest and feet sticking into the air above her head. Bridget's hips tilted into the air as her owner fucked almost straight down into her cunt.

"Pound my pussy master! Pound my pussy! Oh fuck fuck FUCK!!! Pound my dirty little slave pussy with your giant cock!" Orgasms three and then four ripped through her body.

His pounding was a heavy bass drum reverberating through her body. Pound. Pound. Pound. Slow and powerful, a rhythm of fucking, a stroke falling once every two seconds. Bridget felt her hips shake with each thrust. She glanced down and saw her tits bouncing up and down from the power of his penetration. Her breast flesh rippled as waves of force went through her. A feeling of being very small overwhelmed her, like she was a tiny boat in the center of a hurricane. Hurricane Master had her in his grasp and she was powerless in the face of his might.

Equal parts fear and awe rose within her as she stared into his eyes. The man's face was a mask of fury and long-suppressed lust, finally unleashed.

"My. Wife. Is. A. Slave." Every word was driven home by a thrust of a cock that filled her beyond capacity. "My. Wife. Is. A. Brain. Fucked. Slave. Maid."

His pace began to increase. He was pounding her pussy faster now. Bridget's sense of panic began to rise, only to be subsumed by the growing wave of another orgasm. This one threatened to drown her, an explosive tsunami of cumming that rose above her and around her and made her feel like she was falling into an infinite abyss.

"Ir-re-ver-si-ble." Every syllable a pelvic thrust. Bridget was on the edge of the drop.

Her owner was a jackhammer now, a blur of motion that moved with such force that the room shook. In an almost out-of-body experience, Bridget noticed that the bed had moved several feet to the side. There were scraping sounds coming from the hardwood floor. He was thrusting so furiously that all she could do was cling to him as tightly as possible and ride it out. His eyes blazed. His teeth were clenched. Her owner put his mouth directly to her ear.

"My wife is our dirty little whore now."

*Our.* Bridget screamed as she plunged into infinite blackness, and an endless blinding light exploded in front of her eyes.




Russell Collins dabbed at his shoulder with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide. The slave was still unconscious, dead to the world since her collosal fuck-quake of an orgasm an hour ago.

He had blacked out for a moment himself as one of the strongest climaxes of his life had taken him. When he came to he was still inside her, though slowly softening. He had bent the poor girl like a pretzel, and he became worried when he saw that she didn't appear to be breathing.

Then Russell had seen the blood on her body, and a shiver of dread ran through him. It was smeared on her lip, with a trickle running down her stomach.

"Oh god, what did I do?"

Then another few splashes appeared, and Russell blinked. A momentary wave of relief flowed through him as he realized 'that's *my* blood'. He went into the bathroom and stared in the mirror.

In her throws of passion, Bridget had bitten him. The teeth marks in his left shoulder were so deep that he wondered if he might need stitches. He began rummaging through the cabinets, and then he caught a reflected glimpse of his back.

What appeared to be huge claw marks raked across his back. Angry red lines were everywhere, with a few particularly deep gashes where her fingernails had dug in deep at the end. He hadn't even felt it when it happened.

"Wow." He paused for several moments, staring at the damage. Then he looked back to the girl on the bed, who was now heavily snoring. He turned back to the mirror, craning his neck and trying to move his body around to get a better look.

"Wow," he said again. He went back to the medicine cabinet for the peroxide.




Stephanie Collins returned home on September 14th. The tall, beautiful woman was dressed in a heavily fetishized version of a French maid uniform. The skirt was so short that it failed to cover the bottom of her ass cheeks, and the front revealed the swollen wet lips of her pussy.

She walked into the house and looked around. For months she had dreamed of this day, when she was finally free. When she could escape from that horrible prison and return to her place of sanctuary. 'My home, where I am in charge, and everyone does what I want.'

There was a smudge of dirt on the floor. She made a mental note of it, then headed into the kitchen. 'I'm going to rip Russell a new asshole for leaving me in that place,' she thought. 'I'll divorce his ass and he'll be sleeping in the gutter. If he's lucky.'

She gasped as she entered the kitchen. There were heaps of dishes in the sink and on the countertops. Pizza boxes were strewn about the place. All that was missing was a pile of empty beer cans on the floor and she would think he'd sold the house to a fraternity. Stephanie stormed through the rest of the house, finding every room in the same state of disarray.

The bathroom sinks had soap residue and flecks of hair from where Russell had shaved and not rinsed it out. Globs of dried toothpaste sat on the counter. The mirrors were covered with little water spots. And the toilet paper rolls hadn't been replaced when they had run out, someone had just sat a new roll on top of the old cardboard tube.

Clothes lay where they had been dropped, on the floor of the bedroom and in the hallway. Shoes had been kicked off in the living room. Several mounds of dirty laundry had grown in different locations in her home -- by her bed, in front of the washing machine, and by the couch in the TV room. A large stack of clean, unfolded, wrinkled laundry sat on top of the dryer. It had to be at least two feet high. Her husband was a pig.

Worst of all, the laundry piles was made up not only of Russell's clothing, it had women's as well. Not hers, but someone else's. Lacy panties, socks, bras, and all sorts of lingerie. Stephanie's boiler was about to explode, and she just wanted to find her idiot husband or that stupid slut slave first so she had a proper target for her wrath.

She stomped down the hallway, looking in every room. It was mid-afternoon, so Russell was likely still at work. But the slave would be a good one to start with, as soon as she found that lazy bitch. She confirmed that every single room in the house was a mess, and would have to be cleaned top to bottom. There was only one place left to look, and Stephanie let a cruel smile form on her lips as she absentmindedly walked that direction.

The vengeful housewife reached up and gripped the last doorknob in the house, knowing that behind here she would find the target of her search. She knew it in her heart with absolute clarity. Stephanie swung open the door and stepped inside, thinking about how she would punish the stupid skank for every wrong she had suffered. Her fingertip flicked on the light, and then she froze.

Something wasn't right. Well, it *was*, but it wasn't. The slave girl Bridget wasn't in here. Stephanie looked around the small area. Bucket, mop, broom. This was the cleaning closet all right. Why had she come here? The slave girl didn't live in the cleaning closet. But she was a hundred percent sure this was where she was supposed to go. As she pondered this strange mystery, Stephanie bent over and picked up the mop and bucket, and placed several bottles of various cleaning solutions in it. Oh, a scouring pad, that goes in too. Rags and other important things joined the items already in the bucket. Then Stephanie stood back up and brought the bucket with her.

'What the fuck am I doing?' she wondered. Without any conscious effort or control, Russell's spoiled wife walked right down the hallway and headed for a bathroom sink. Her body turned on the faucet and began to organize the cleaning supplies on the cabinet. Moments later the mop bucket went into sink and she started to fill it halfway up. A squirt of soap later and she was headed for the entryway.



An hour later and Stephanie Collins had mopped the foyer. She was currently on her knees, using an old toothbrush to scrub the tiles. Any bit of grime or dirt must be removed. In her head the woman was screaming like a banshee, but when she opened her mouth she would only say things like "wee wee, I cleen zee house" and other nonsense fake French. Then the front door opened and a woman in a floral dress and large sunglasses walked in. Stephanie stayed on her knees, but looked up at the new arrival.

The visitor pulled off her sunglasses and looked down at the formerly wealthy maid. It was Bridget. It was the ungrateful fucking slave. Stephanie put every ounce of her willpower and rage into scowling and then screaming and the woman. Her face remained completely passive, eyes wide and lips pursed forward in a cute pout.

"May I help zoo, madame?" was all that came out.

Bridget looked down at her and smiled. "Carry my bags, girl. They are in my car. Get them and then follow me up to my bedroom."

"Wee wee, madame," the lady of the house said involuntarily. Then she rose to her feet and walked right out the front door. Mr Futterman across the street was out watering his lawn. The old retiree saw her and cackled, an obscene leer on his face. Stephanie walked out to the only car in front of the house, which she recognized as *her* new Mercedes. The back driver's side door was open, and she could see several bags in the back seat. She stepped off the sidewalk and out into the road, making her way to the other side of the car. Then her body simply bent 90 degrees at the waist so she could collect Bridget's goods. The tiny skirt and demeaning angle gave Mr Futterman a clear view of her own precious goods. Stephanie spent the next several minutes carefully arranging the packages in the back seat. They were from her favorite expensive clothing stores. Once everything was properly in order, she gathered the bags and stood back up.

The old pervert across the street gave out something between a frustrated sigh and a happy groan of relief. And then Stephanie closed the door of *her* car, and began walking back up to *her* house, where *her* slave was standing there impatiently tapping her foot.

"Took you long enough. You should learn, I won't tolerate dilly-dallying." The slave then smacked Stephanie on the ass with her hand, *hard*. The slap echoed through the entryway, and Steph couldn't help but yelp. The blonde in the summery dress simply turned and walked through the house as though she owned the place. Stephanie felt her feet begin to move and she silently followed.

Yet another indignity came when she realized that Bridget was leading her to her own bedroom. Or what had been her bedroom anyway. The blonde flopped on the big California King bed and simply pointed at the spacious walk-in closet. "Put the bags in there. I'll organize it later." When Stephanie opened the doors, she saw row after row of clothing that was not hers. Everything within was made for a shorter, curvier woman. She placed the bags on the floor and looked around in confusion.

"I suppose I should show you your quarters," said Bridget. "Here, follow me." She stood up and went out into the hallway. The two made their way to the other end of the house, to what Russell had once intended to be a small game room. Originally it held a pinball machine and a few old arcade games. Stephanie had relented on the issue as long as it was as far from her area of the house as possible, so she might avoid the embarrassment of her guests seeing or hearing her husband's ridiculous toys. By the end of the first year, the room had been filled to overflowing with boxes of her old shoes and other clothes. They were no longer in fashion, but she just couldn't bring herself to throw them away. So into the "game room" they went.

Now the room looked much different. A chest of drawers rested against one wall, with a vanity mirror on top. A hard wooden chair sat in front of a small writing desk. And a twin bed with a flat pillow and an old blanket was against the far wall.

"There's a guest bathroom with a toilet and a sink down the hall. You may use that. Of course you know the cleaning closet is right next to your room. Make yourself at home. You've got fifteen minutes to change clothes and tidy yourself up, and then I expect you to get back to cleaning this house. Start with the kitchen, because I want dinner on the table at 7:00 tonight." Bridget walked out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Stephanie walked over to the chest and slid open the top drawer. Then she checked the second, and the third, and then the fourth. All of it was the same, just different variations of slutty maid outfits.




Russell pulled into the driveway a little after 6:45 -- home early tonight. He got out of the car carrying two large cardboard boxes full of binders and paperwork. It was the Todd Anderson file. Frustrating as the client was, he generated a lot of business. Walking into the house, he noticed that something smelled really good. Italian-ey.

He set the boxes on the kitchen counter and saw the large pot with marinara sauce bubbling away. Looking about and seeing he was alone, he ventured to stick his finger in and taste it. *Delicious.* Oh wow, that was excellent. So freakin' good.

'So today must be the day,' he thought. 'Stephanie is home, and it looks like at least the cooking part of it worked.'

Russell walked through the house and saw no one, before going up the stairs to the master bedroom. He wanted to change out of his suit before dinner, because he would surely spill the tomato sauce on himself if he didn't. He opened the bedroom door and discovered where the ladies in his life had gotten to.

Bridget lay across the bed on her stomach, her eyes closed. She rested on two pillows providing support under her hips, and her hair was pulled back by a scrunchie. Other than that, she was competely naked.

Stephanie knelt on the bed behind her. She wore a ridiculous maid outfit that could only be described as "whorish". Plunging neckline, ultra short skirt, fishnet stockings and thigh high leather boots. The ensemble seemed to be made almost entirely of leather and black lace.

His wife's face was buried in the slave girl's ass. Her hands held each cheek spread apart, and obscene slurping filled the room. Russell had not been quiet as he walked through the door, but Stephanie did not look up. She *could not* look up, he realized. One of the bonus packages, no doubt. He idly wondered if it was his selection or Bridget's.



That night months ago when he saw his wife in the training center, helplessly obeying commands like one of Pavlov's dogs, Russell came home hornier than he had been in years. After fucking his slave girl to the point of exhaustion, he opened his laptop and began adding extra training features. Images of Stephanie sucking on her own toes danced in his head. He couldn't help himself, and bought an extra ten thousand worth of credits as he saw program after program that fulfilled fantasies he didn't even know he had. Two hours later and he had spent about half the credits and jerked off three times. He fell asleep with the laptop running.

When Russell woke up, Bridget was at his computer. All credits had been spent, and his wife's profile was locked. 'All selections complete. No further changes can be made,' the screen read.

"I want it to be a surprise for you," the slave said, a perverse gleam in her eyes. Russell gave the blonde girl a punishment fucking -- good, hard, and rough. He jerked her hair back and his other hand gripped her by the throat. He jackhammered into her pussy as a stream of the filthiest language poured out of her mouth. She came at least four times that morning before he violently climaxed within her. Then he fell asleep again for several more hours. Dutifully, Bridget called the office to tell them he couldn't make it in today.



The part of Stephanie's face that wasn't enveloped in slavegirl ass was flushed red from humiliation. His wife considered herself straight, which to her meant that of course slave women could suck *her* pussy, but only a nasty dyke would return the favor. Legally speaking, slaves were different. They had no choice but to obey. Legally speaking, she was a free woman and an owner, both of the house and of the slave. And free women didn't lick slave ass.

Russell walked behind his wife and looked up her skirt. As flushed red as her face was, Stephanie's cunt was even more so. Swollen and scarlet and dripping wet. He wondered if his wife's programming allowed her to masturbate. Somehow he doubted it.

"I hate to interrupt, ladies, but when is dinner?"

Bridget opened her eyes and grinned. "Your wife is having hers now. You and I eat at seven." She then squinted her eyes shut tight as her body began to shudder in another climax. Her body shook and trembled for about about sixty seconds before slumping to the bedcovers in a boneless pile. Through it all, his wife continued to wetly slurp and suck at the backside of the woman she had personally selected and legally owned.

A few minutes later Bridget regained enough strength to prop herself up and glance at the clock. "Alright Steffie, I think it's time you go down and finish preparing the pasta."

The slurping stopped, and Stephanie backed off the foot of the bed into a standing position. Russell looked at his wife. He hadn't seen her in almost three months. Her chest was heaving, her face smeared with another woman's juices. The red flush from her face went all the way down her neck to her breasts. Her mouth was agape and quivering. His wife trembled with need and sexual frustration.

She had never looked more beautiful.

"Wee wee, madame," Stephanie said in the fakest French accent Russell had ever heard. She scurried past him in those ridiculous thigh high boots, and he heard her footsteps as she went down the stairs.

Russell turned his gaze back to Bridget. She rolled over onto her back and spread her legs wide. "Please fuck me master. Your pretty little wifey just ate my ass, and now I need you inside me."

Russell didn't have to be asked twice.




Three months later...

This arrangement was working well, Russell mused. With Bridget's help he had gone through thirty-two full boxes of Todd Anderson's documents. Since she no longer had a law license, he couldn't bill out her time as an attorney. But he did bill a hundred and fifty an hour for "document analysis" and "expert review". The client didn't complain, because in the long run it actually saved him money. Bridget's time was cheaper than the five hundred an hour that Russell would have charged.

And it was good for Russell because he was home at a normal time. He sat in his recliner drinking homemade egg nog. It was really quite good, much better than the store-bought kind. On the television, little green monsters were running amok in a quiet American town. Outside his own window, snow was falling. He sighed in peace and contentment.

Russell turned and gazed happily at his wife and his slave. Bridget slouched on the couch, face illuminated by the glow of her laptop. She wore a white blouse and knee length gray skirt, though she had long ago removed her bra and kicked off her shoes. Her brow was slightly furrowed in concentration, but the rest of her face wore a pleasant smile. Every so often she would make a soft cooing sound, or a gentle grunt. Russell grinned as he noticed she had the computer balanced on her stomach and its growing baby bump.

Meanwhile Stephanie wore a crotchless red negligee with snow white fuzzy trim. Her breasts were coming in nicely, up to full C-cups now, though for some reason her nipples just refused to go down anymore. Permanent engorgement could be a side effect of the injections she took, but the doctor assured Russell that beyond the chronic aching sensitivity, it was otherwise harmless.

His wife knelt on the floor in front of Bridget, eyes glazed over and unfocused. She held the blonde's bare foot up to her face, sniffing deeply to inhale the woman's scent. Her tongue danced around between her toes, sending waves of pleasurable sensation through the blonde. It turned out that Bridget had a pretty powerful foot fetish she hadn't told anyone about. Mostly she enjoyed having her own feet worshipped, but Russell had caught her holding Stephanie's maid boots to her face a few times. He wondered what he should do about that. Ideas percolated in his head.

Finally the need grew too great, and Bridget closed the laptop and tossed it on the couch cushion beside her. She spread her legs apart and drew her knees up to her chest. In her right hand she held a small keyfob. 'Bweep-blip-brr-bweep' it signaled.

"No, please no..." his wife muttered before her body lurched forward, mashing her face into the slippery pussy. Every once in a while she broke character for just a moment when she transitioned between programs. Just last week, Russell had talked about sending her back to have it corrected, but then Bridget asked him not to.

"It's so much fucking hotter this way," she had whispered, before sinking to her knees and taking him into her mouth.

LOVED the plot twist and the original story idea. I must say you were wrong about the disclaimer at the beginning regarding the limited use of the VagiVac 3500 XL. I thought this story sucked plenty during the first chapter (KIDDING!!) This was a very entertaining story and my compliments to you on your creativity.

Hooked6

Interesting twist. What could go wrong?

I just love this story. Obviously the Stephanie didn't read or chose to ignore the warnings in the owner's manual about the addictive nature of the VagiVac 3500 XL. Then there is the free woman (9.5 on scale of 10 in the looks department) injecting herself with her slave's horny juice pushing herself into a self-induced sex coma demonstrating just how slave stupid she really is and then she is mistaken as the slave and whisked away for irreversible training. Karma is such an interesting thing when your slave has quadruple the brain power of the cruel mistress in a situation where the husband cannot stand his gold digging trophy wife. The baby bump at the end with Steffie trapped in her head watching the slave she despised replacing her is priceless, especially with the glitch in the system that reminds them she is still in there.

Thanks everyone! I wanted a story with a happy ending, and I think I got it. Russell gets some time to relax from a high stress job, and is starting to get his libido back. Bridget (who really didn't deserve enslavement) gets to live in a much bigger house than she could have ever afforded, and gets to work in her field. At least kinda. And Stephanie... well, sometimes people get what they have coming to them.

At some point I might go back and put in some chapter breaks. I just tend to space down several times when jumping to a new scene. Then again, I might just leave it like it is, unless it makes it too difficult to follow the story.

Great post! I'd figured out the twist as soon as he gave the instructions on the phone, but instead of spoiling it, that made it like the sort of train wreck that you just can't tear yourself away from watching. Karma, like Stephanie, is a bitch.