Marlon's Ghost, Pt. 02

[Carl Bradford]

(This story is set in a world where legalized, non-hereditary slavery is commonplace for serious crime, unredeemed debt, or voluntary self-indenture. All characters who are enslaved or have any intimate/sexual contact with slaves are 18 years of age or older. This is fiction; no one should ever be deprived of free will nor used sexually without his or her uncoerced permission.)

(Note: my colleagues and I had an extended discussion about the improbable resolution to this story, recognizing that the rules of evidence and courtroom procedure are stretched beyond all recognition. I think this makes the most literary and erotic if not legal sense.)

(Sylvia Maria’s viewpoint)

“DAMN, that stings!” I almost screamed in surprise at the sharp pain.

I’d just been rescued from a fate that was truly worse than death—in this case, the fate of spending ten years as a convicted felon sex slave, surrendering all of my openings to whatever pig had purchased me. Better still, I’d been rescued by the drug lord that the Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) had intended to find me—Manuel Hernandez, number two in the Hernandez Cartel, the scum who had murdered my parents and, separately, my godfather and DEA supervisor, Marlon James. The agency had planted me—a college-educated 22-year-old who looked and could talk like an over-ripe Mexican-American woman (my mother had been an incredibly gorgeous Latina)—as a young orphan, ostensibly convicted and enslaved as a drug smuggler who closely resembled Manuel’s previous girlfriend. But now the two DEA agents who knew of this plan were dead; even if I succeeded in my undercover role and brought the cartel leaders into American custody, my “reward” would be a return to sex slavery, undoubtedly extended in time because I had escaped.
The idea had been that I would infiltrate the cartel and bust it up. Unfortunately, the violent death of my godfather along with the other man involved in the project meant that I had no easy way of proving who I really was—the Slave identification number tattooed inside my lower lip, not to mention the still-painful circle star of a Texas felon on my ass, said that I was Maria Elena Aguilar.

Beginning twenty minutes ago when Manuel had hijacked me from shipment as a naked, caged slave, I was on the run, subject to an additional ten years of slavery when apprehended. The fact that my “escape” was involuntary was entirely irrelevant; I was technically a runaway slave who had zero chance of regaining my freedom in less than twenty years. My involuntary expression of pain came when Manuel and his guys halted briefly and someone forcibly, without anesthetic, removed the tracking chip that every slave carries just above the sternum in his or her chest. Now, they slapped a band aid onto my new wound and attached the still-bloody chip to the leg of what appeared to be a homing pigeon – not that I had ever seen one before. For a brief moment, as I watched it soar into the sky and wing its way northward, possibly to Canada, my soul was free. Then we were off again, zigging and zagging through back roads in South Texas. We changed cars several times, and the last vehicle was amphibious, taking us into Mexico in a way that told me they knew exactly when the Customs and Border Patrol agents were nearby. Having studied Mexican geography as part of my training, I calculated that we ended up somewhere in the northern hills of the state of Chihuahua, although the exact location didn’t seem important at the time. The entire governments of the U.S. and Texas, not to mention the company that had paid $105,000 to own my slave butt for the next ten years, were after that butt, so the only thing that mattered to me was that, for the moment, I was still free.

To be honest, I couldn’t help feeling grateful for my rescuers, even though I loathed the cartel that gave them their power and wealth. Besides that, Manuel was not only handsome but almost gallant in the old-fashioned sense, showing me the first elements of respect that I had experienced since allowing myself to be arrested as a supposed drug courier. Every man and almost every woman who had encountered me in the IN-judicial system of Texas had used me casually as a slave slut—a set of convenient holes, tongue, and boobs with no rights or brain, existing only to pleasure and serve free people for the next decade.

I would have been horrified but unsurprised if the drug prince and his men had used me the same way—in fact, since they hadn’t had to pay anything to grab me, they could have gang-banged me without any concern for my well-being before discarding me in the desert or selling me to a slave brothel south of the border. Instead, from the first moment he saw me, even though I was slave naked, gagged and bound in a dog cage, Manuel had addressed me and treated me as a free woman whom they were rescuing—which in the short run, at least, was true. As I said, it’s really hard NOT to feel a sense of gratitude and even a crush under the circumstances.

This treatment continued even after we arrived at a lavish (and carefully guarded) home on a hilltop. Manuel very politely asked me to come inside, where he showed me to a room with an attached bath. He urged me to shower and then choose any of the clothing I found in that room; a shadow crossed his face when he said that the previous occupant had died. I knew immediately that he was referring to his now-dead common-law wife; the DEA had set me up to be a designated replacement for that woman, but I had to pretend ignorance.

Half an hour later, I was clean and dressed, comfortable for the first time since being arrested on carefully-orchestrated drug charges three weeks earlier. I hesitantly went looking for someone in the mansion, being careful to announce my presence as I entered each room for fear I might be unwelcome somewhere. When Manuel saw me, his face lit up with a smile that almost demanded the same from me.

At this point, I had no idea if the original mission still applied. I didn’t know if the second, hidden, tracking chip was still active. I didn’t know if anyone was looking for it… and I didn’t know if my godfather’s assassination was a real event or not. The only thing I knew, the only straw I had to cling to in the raging torrent of an up-ended ship of fate, was the original mission that brought me here. I was a rescued dama de honor, and I was determined to play my role to the hilt.

In my mother’s Tex-Mex, being careful not to use too many educated words, I stammered (for at least the third time) my thanks for my rescue and asked him how I could repay his kindness. I wouldn’t have refused if he had just told me to strip down and suck his dick, but he continued to be a polite host, saying something graceful about how setting a beautiful lady free was its own reward. Without bragging, he gave the impression that he was a latter-day Elfego Baca, righting wrongs on the frontier, rather than the number two man in a murderous drug cartel. I knew better intellectually, but as I said I was so relieved and grateful that it seemed natural to go along with and even feel comfortable with him.

Part of what impressed me about him was that I was not the only slave he had broken free. There were three maids or cooks in the household, all modestly dressed and apparently well paid. No one openly abused or insulted them, but when I talked with them over the next few days I learned that they, too, were slaves whom the cartel had freed and employed as legitimate household staff. They may have been intimate with some of the men around, but were free women making their own decisions, not slaves of any variety.

*****
If you’ve read this far, you’re probably wondering what happened to my high principles about smashing the cartel that had destroyed my family and laid waste to two countries, the principles that had led me to voluntarily accept masquerading as a sex slave in Texas. Guilty as charged. I hadn’t given up my basic motivation, but when a good-looking, powerful guy rescues you from one of the worst situations imaginable, kisses your hand and treats you like a princess, it’s kinda difficult not to get a little crush on him. I’m ashamed to confess how easily I fell for him. For the next two weeks, he spent at least half his waking time talking with me, only excusing himself when, he said, he had to conduct a little business. I knew exactly what kind of business he was in, but his employees (or should I say henchmen?) were so obviously suspicious of me that I resisted the temptation to do any exploring—if he was busy, I just retired to “my” room and watched local television. Mexican soap operas are the most over-hyped stories I can imagine; It’s possible that Bollywood dramas surpass them, but only just.

Long story short, I was thrilled when he eventually made a pass at me. We had progressed to the stage where he sat beside me while talking, and one evening he “innocently” stretched his arm behind me on the sofa. That was my cue to kiss his cheek and curl up, half on his lap. Beforehand, I had thought that intimacy with one of the people responsible for three deaths in my family would have required Academy Award acting to overcome my revulsion, but in fact I had been waiting for the opportunity to bed this good-looking guy whose glance just turned me on. He was still very polite, being careful not to fondle me intimately, but eventually, I practically dragged him into my room before resuming a kiss while frantically unbuttoning first my blouse and then his shirt.

Despite the constant kissing, I managed to get most of our clothes off, but he was still hesitating—he didn’t quite know how experienced I was sexually, even though I couldn’t have gone through a slave market and remained a virgin. On the other hand, I suspected that he was afraid to “take advantage of me” in a way that might compromise his apparent intent to make me his long-term partner.

So, I decided to take the bull by the (singular) horn—and boy, did he have a big horn! I gently urged him to sit on the edge of the bed while I sank down on my knees and (with a big smile) inhaled as much of his dick as I could swallow without choking. I told you I had done some experimenting in college, so I knew that few if any hetero males would object to a smiling, naked woman who knelt before them and sucked their cocks! He looked surprised but pleased as I did my best imitation of a wet-vacuum cleaner. Only after his already-erect shaft grew farther did I gently pull back so that I could speak.
“Manuel, you’ve been a perfect gentleman, keeping your hands off me when you could have used me any way you wanted when you found me as a slave. I really appreciate your sense of honor, but on the other hand I’d appreciate it even more if you would let me thank you properly. I wasn’t a slave very long, so I don’t know how to act as a puta, but will you please teach me?”

I went back to licking him, but within a few seconds he apparently decided to take me at my word. Softly extracting his prick from my mouth, he helped me to my feet, walked me over to the bed, and urged me to climb onto my hands and knees. I had to show some hesitance because that position might mean he wanted to corn-hole me, but instead he donned a condom (now where did THAT come from? I wondered. Was he a Mexican boy scout (Bien preparadas or Be Prepared)? Before I could finish that thought, however, his very rigid member invaded my well-lubricated cunt. Damn, that felt even better than I had dreamed. He wrapped himself around me, hands toying with my nipples and clit while he firmly fucked me—that’s the only way I can describe it. Every thrust of his hips against my behind went all the way in and almost all the way out, moving slowly enough to maximize the stimulation for me (and I presume for him as well.) As I’ve said before, I’m not big into submission, but this was a marvelous experience.

I suddenly realized that I was mumbling, “fuck me, fuck me, Oh, yes, right there, harder, PLEASE,” and so on. I couldn’t be sure whether it was one or two climaxes that ripped through me within about a minute of each other, and as I collapsed afterwards, I heard him moaning and felt him frantically pounding my birth canal as he fondled my boobs.

We both panted, trying to get our breath back as he released my breasts and pulled me protectively into his arms. The difference between the judge and others using me as a slave and this guy bringing pleasure to both of us was indescribable. I remember thinking that, if this was the kind of sex I could expect as an “undercover” agent (pun intended), I would happily sign my life away for it. Of course, that brought back the thought of my slavery (I had already signed my life way!) but couldn’t quite obliterate the happiness I felt.

*****
Eventually, we showered together with him soaping and groping every inch of my body in a manner that kept me constantly excited, after which I knelt down to finish the fellatio I had begun an hour earlier. After that, of course, I needed to brush my teeth and rinse out my mouth, constantly distracted by his roaming hands and periodic kisses to my shoulder, neck, and cheek. Only then did we return to the disordered bed, where I happily cuddled with my new lover. For a long time, we fondled and necked and murmured little idiocies to each other. I couldn’t resist telling him—as if he might be uncertain—how fantastically he had aroused my body.

At one point, when his fingers were exploring the cleft between my buttocks, he very delicately asked me about my earlier hesitation when it seemed as if he wanted to take me back there. I knew that his culture would consider anal sodomy as something that dishonored the woman, but I didn’t have to pretend anger when I told him the story of the judge who packed my fudge and pretended he was just punishing a criminal. (As I’ve said before, with the right man I can enjoy being anally occupied like that, but nothing was right about that maldito judge.)

I could see that he was thunderstruck, and at first, I feared that I had permanently turned him off by confessing my shameful experience, but I soon realized that he had an old-fashioned desire to avenge “his woman” for that assault. Again, no acting ability was necessary when I begged him not to risk himself by crossing the border to kill the judge; I really didn’t want to be left behind in this strange land while my brand-new lover embarked on a vendetta that had nothing to do with stopping the cartel.

For the next two months, I forgot about my mission and just enjoyed life. I lost count of how many times in how many different ways we made love—the one thing that was off-limits was my anus. During this time, Manuel seemed to be as infatuated as I, even introducing me proudly (when I was fully clothed, of course) to his dour older brother Hector, the head of the clan. I could tell that Hector did NOT approve of importing some Tejana girl, so the next time we were alone I asked Manuel why.

“Don’t worry about it, chica,” he said. “Hector always gets cranky when he thinks I’m not taking care of the business.”

Time for a little damage control, beginning with an outright lie. “Mi amor, I don’t want to know ANYTHING about your business because I gather there are a lot of secrets. Nor do I want you to take risks, because I want to keep you safe. BUT, I also don’t want to be the cause of any unhappiness in your family. Please, don’t worry about me, but feel free to do what you have to do and I’ll do my best not to worry about you, OK?”

After a few minutes I wore him down until he promised to spend more time and effort doing what Hector needed done. He began to be absent one or more days a week, and I tried not to think about it. More than half of me DID worry about his safety, but in the back of my mind I still wanted to interfere with the drug trade.

Then it all came back together on one fatal day, about two months after my rescue. For the first time, Manuel had taken me outside of his guarded compound, spending several hours for lunch and shopping in Ciudad Juarez. (If you’re not familiar with Mexican geography, Juarez is a huge, sprawling city just across the Rio Grande from the West Texas city of El Paso.) I had a great time, including good food, good shopping, and more than a little necking and fondling in the back of an up-armored four by four. We had just exited the city proper, westbound on Carretera federal 2, the major highway in the region, when the driver (there were always two armed guys, a driver and a shotgun—no pun intended—in Manuel’s car, not to mention another car behind us, filled with bodyguards.)

We drove into a scene of carnage, where one gang—I later learned that it was the Hernandez Cartel of which Manuel was the number 2 leader—had ambushed two vehicles belonging to a rival gang. Those vehicles were bullet-riddled and banged up, with a number of dead and wounded young men surrounding them. The ambush must have just happened, as there were no emergency vehicles on the scene yet.
Burned into my memory is the image of a beat-up Volkswagen containing a woman and her two children, all three of them killed and brutally maimed by automatic weapons after they entered the ambush zone. I had to rush from the car and vomit at the side of the road, and even Manuel was angry about such innocent suffering. When his bodyguards told him that this slaughter was the work of his own brother, Manuel was visibly angry but said nothing in front of the men. That night I heard him arguing violently with his brother, but his outrage didn’t change the fact that he was part of this obscene system of violent drug warfare.

The next day, I tried to pretend that the ambush didn’t bother me, but in reality it had awakened me from my fantasy world of being a cartel leader’s lover who was somehow uninvolved in the system. After thinking about it carefully for several days, I finally decided that I had to finish my task as an undercover operative. I waited until the following Friday night, when I knew that Hector Henandez was expected to visit us—by which I mean his brother—that weekend for a conference of the cartel’s bosses. If I was going to risk my life, my lover’s life, and those of the servants at the house, I at least wanted to ensure that the cartel suffered a serious setback. Late at night, when my beloved was sleeping after another marathon love tryst (DAMN that man knew how to make a girl feel good!), I staggered into the bathroom. There I slowly, deliberately, and forcefully ground my teeth together as I had been taught, hoping to set off the beacon that would identify my location. I had no way of knowing whether Marlon’s plan was still in effect, but if so, then the US government was supposed to raid that location within 24 hours.

*****
I was so stressed out that I didn’t fall asleep until hours later, and all the next day I was nervous, jumping at any loud noise or sudden movement. In retrospect, I should have realized that it would take time for the DEA (or whichever 3-letter group in the government) to get imagery of the house and plan a raid.

It was about 4 p.m. the following afternoon, and the brothers had been closeted in Manuel’s home office, a place I carefully avoided so as not to be suspected. Then I heard the fluketa-fluketa of helicopters and froze. A moment later, I heard loud explosions (probably flash-bang stun grenades) and firearms shooting outside the building. I was in the living room at the time, and jumped up, uncertain what to do.

Hector and Manuel erupted from the office, pistols drawn. For a moment, I thought they had identified me as the leak, but Hector headed for the front door while Manuel urgently told me to hide in my bedroom, after which he followed his brother. A number of shots ensued as I scurried away, frantically looking for a place to conceal myself. I finally decided to hide behind the floor-length curtains by the bed.

The firing outside stopped abruptly. There were long minutes of silence, interrupted only by period banging noises. I recognized that noise only when it happened in my bedroom, as my door was suddenly thrown open. I shivered, knowing that someone was searching the room. Then I heard a teasing voice in American-accented English and then Spanish:

“Come out, come out, wherever you are. Actually, you behind the curtains, your shoes are showing so get out here.”

I hesitantly stepped out to find two heavily-armed guys wearing balaclavas and nondescript clothing whose only identifying marks were U.S. flags on their right shoulders. A gesture told me to kneel, and I automatically interlaced my fingers behind my head.

“Cover me,” one of the guys said, then reached forward to peel down my lower lip. He waved a reader in front of my face until it “beeped.” “Bingo—it’s a runaway slave,” He said.

For a moment, I thought that, somehow, they knew that I was an undercover agent. No such luck. I was tossed forward, face first onto the carpet. I felt a sharp metal object passing down my backbone from my collar to my waist then, after a brief sawing sensation on my belt, it continued down between my buttocks before more gently slicing each leg of my jeans. The cold air-conditioning on my skin confirmed that I was completely naked.

“Hands behind your back, slut,” growled the unknown guy, and a moment later a plastic band tightly cuffed my wrists. Someone tugged my hair upwards, and I felt the horrible sensation of leather cinched around my neck. I was once again a naked slave.

As if to confirm that, I felt a rough hand casually groping my butt, then invading the crack and dipping two fingers into my (admittedly moist) birth canal. I was terrified, not aroused. “Man, this bitch was born for the collar—she’s soaked,” he observed to the other guy.

“Yeah, yeah—maybe you’ll get to bang her after we get back. Right now, we’ve got a mission to finish.”

They picked me up, one holding each elbow, and dragged me out of the house, pausing only to look beyond each door before going forward.

Outside was, predictably, chaos. Three helicopters were standing with their rotors still turning slowly while a half-dozen men, almost identical to the two holding me, were searching a number of bodies, all of them visibly cartel bodyguards.

Two of the housemaids/ex-slaves had, like me, been restored to servitude, naked, gagged, and bound on their knees. Next to them was Hector Hernandez who, like me, had been shoved on his knees with his hands restrained behind his back, glowering angrily, but at least HE still had clothes on. And then I realized that two of the attackers were sliding the bloody and inanimate body of my erstwhile boyfriend into a large bag. I screamed.

One of the older armed men snapped at my captors. “Gag and blindfold her. Damn, you horndogs see a nice pair of tits and completely forget S-O-P.” I felt a large ball gag jerked deeply between my lips, and then a black cloth obscured my vision. They dragged me towards the sound of the rotors, and before I knew it, I was kneeling on hard metal as I felt something clipped to the back of my collar. Now, on top of everything else, I had to worry about being hung by the neck if I fell out of the copter. I couldn’t see anything but felt myself swaying upwards, periodically almost losing my lunch as the helicopter dipped unexpectedly.

The cool air caused my skin to break out in goose bumps and my nipples to become rigid, which (over the engine noise) I heard the soldiers commenting on. At least they had the kindness to wrap a blanket around me and push a straw past my gag so that I could sip water, although the guy doing so took advantage of the situation to mash my breasts for several minutes.

*****
Finally, the helicopter landed and my bare body was stuffed into another @#$%* poodle cage, and left in an open area where, apparently, everyone who walked by decided to stop and play with me through the wire. It seemed like hours later when someone extracted me from the cage and removed my blindfold—judging by his eyes, it was the same guy who had first tied me up, although I couldn’t be sure of his identity. He sat me down on a chair and, without any explanation to me, used a constricting band and a needle to draw blood into several tubes. It looked to me as if he were writing my slave ID number (SIN) on the labels. Another guy paused to toy with my hair, and asked the first one, whom he called Jim, what he was doing.

“Dunno; when we reported this little cunt back in custody, someone asked for a blood sample. You’d think the SIN was sufficient to ID her, but I guess without a tracking chip they want to be certain. Sure would suck to be the wrong girl who got put into a collar!”

The other soldier laughed. “You got that right—sucks to be her, literally.” As If I needed to be reminded that I had just returned to the lowliest possible status on the planet, a naked female sex toy in slave Texas. How could they check my blood type and not look for my tracking beacon?

I was re-introduced to slave status almost immediately, when Jim cut my wrists loose, then stuck his hand WAAYY up my butt crack to guide me into a locker room where a lot of guys, soon joined by Jim, were stripping naked. The two other re-enslaved women likewise found themselves with their wrists released but marched along with me. Cut to a steam-filled shower room, where first Jim and two other guys “helpfully” soaped me and the other girls all over, fondling breasts, crotch, and ass cheeks for what seemed like hours. Once they had rinsed me off, I got shoved down onto the hard tiled floor so that—you guessed it—I could suck at least four guys off, swallowing what seemed like gallons of cum. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw one of the maids providing a similar “service”—just slaves being put to one of their uses.

Once everyone was clean, the action adjourned to the locker room, where yours truly got the central role in an epic gang bang. I know I licked at least five more dicks, but I was distracted at the time by various other intrusions into my two lower openings, not to mention loud protests from the two other slaves being shafted beside me. I vividly recall that, at one point, I was made air tight—a muscular guy named Bob lay on his back on an exercise mat, then “helped” me to slide my outraged anus and colon down over his impossibly-long and thick shaft. Thank heavens he squirted a tube of water-soluble lube up me first! Because I was facing towards his feet, he firmly clutched my breasts and pulled me back onto his chest, thumbing my nipples while Jim unceremoniously spread my legs even farther so that his not-inconsiderable girth could finally penetrate me as nature intended. The sensation of those two dongs filling me at the same time, separated only by a few membranes, was overwhelming.

The result was a full-on orgy with three women being well and thoroughly shafted by a dozen men—I was just another piece of slave ass, any search for my beacon being pushed aside by sex drive. To be honest, after my first bout of fear it was intensely boring. Having once felt what it was like to be made love to, I found their animalistic thrusting and grunting to be just a painful exercise in endurance for me. Eventually, they got tired of fucking—or perhaps they emptied their balls. Either way, I welcomed their arrival at my metaphorical hilltop of boredom. All the while, Bob had been whispering dirty nothings in my ear, telling me how much I loved being double-rammed like this to the point where I started to believe him. A third guy, whose name I never heard, straddled my upturned face and T-bagged his warm scrotum into my mouth, warning me not to use any teeth. I did my best to stimulate him with my tongue, but apparently I did too good a job. After three minutes of this tongue-bath, he suddenly extracted his balls and ran a third rigid shaft into my overwhelmed body. Bob had incredible staying power, pumping gently in and out of my astonished rectum as he happily cuddled and fondled me, but the rest of the team rotated quickly through the other two “positions;” Some of them (the ones who didn’t wear condoms) blasted sticky stuff into my openings after what seemed like only half a dozen strokes, to be replaced by others or (eventually) by my earlier ravishers looking for sloppy seconds.

Needless to say, my mind was out of control. I had started out still numb from Manuel’s death and feeling guilty for my part in it. Part of those feelings were suppressed by the sudden sense of being a helpless animal with no control over my body. Some of what they did to me was actually enjoyable, which contributed to my guilt, but then I told myself to focus on the defenseless humiliation of it all, as if my suffering and embarrassment would make up for Manuel’s death. Of course, that also meant giving myself permission to ENJOY being used like that, telling myself I was just being a horrible little slut.
By the time all those guys had finished railing the other girl and me, I was exhausted and sticky, my face covered with cum and more jism leaking from both lower openings. Jim (who was a decent human being even if he enjoyed getting his rocks off) had to help me into the shower and wash me off again, this time with a lot less teasing and fondling. Jim practically forced me to eat an MRE instead of the slave kibble usually given to animals like me, as it had been almost 20 hours since I’d eaten. He even left off the gag, blindfold, and zip-ties when he put me back into my poodle cage. I was so bushed that despite the cramped conditions I fell asleep—or more accurately passed out—in two minutes flat.

I’d been “apprehended” on a Tuesday, and the next two days were slightly-gentler repetitions of that first day—fewer gangbangs, perhaps, but whenever one of the guys got horny, he would take me out of the cage, bend me over a nearby sofa, and pound my brains out. Like I said before, I just turned my brain off and told myself I was a bad slut who deserved whatever happened to me for helping kill my lover—all the while enjoying at least some of the sensations as a series of healthy, muscular young soldiers used me as their three-holed fuck toy. Jim, bless his heart, was the one who cleaned me up, fed me, and gave me some rest at the end of each marathon shafting.

Came Friday, and I had to be shipped back to the jail where I had originally been enslaved. This required full restraints, apparently because I was a dangerous “escaped slave” and therefore flight risk. Kneeling with a canvas gag tied tightly into my mouth, eyes blindfolded, wrists zip-tied first together behind my back and then with another strap to the center of the back wall of the cage, plus additional zip-ties securing my ankles to the back corners of the cage. Jim tried to make me as comfortable as possible by putting a foam pad on the bottom of the cage, but by the time he was done I couldn’t move anything except a few fingers. I wasn’t going anywhere except where the Texas legal system sent me. As an added bonus, I got rather large vibrators tied into both of my lower openings, timed to go off at random intervals—I guess they didn’t want me to be bored. I couldn’t see, but various noises and comments somehow gave me the impression that at least one of the other enslaved maids was in a cage loaded next to mine.

It was a long and uncomfortable ride in the dark, with no idea where I was or what was happening. I was very relieved to be finally released, only to find the same group of bailiffs who had such fun with my body a few months’ earlier. Only this time they claimed to be concerned that I might escape, so I spent most of my time in elaborate forms of bondage—bound spread-eagled on a jail bunk so that anyone could dip his wick in me, hog-tied on my knees, next to a bailiff, who would feed me a few mouthfuls of slave kibble intermixed with long sessions licking his dick—you get the picture. Once again, I was face-fucked, butt-fucked, and just plain fucked, only this time most of these “enjoyable trysts” occurred while I was Velcro-ed into a metal frame that held me in whatever position the bailiffs wanted. By this time, I had adjusted to being a slave slut so that I could get some pleasure out of such treatment, with slave mind about to set in. Overall, it was an uncomfortable and tiring weekend that left me bowlegged and leaking from every orifice. And no, I wasn’t alone—one again, one of the former housemaids, Maria, was being used as much as me. Once, the bastards had the two of us tongue each other in 69 position to arouse them for what was to follow—nothing like licking one guy’s balls as he thrusts into the woman above me at the same time I felt another cock invading MY lower openings. A nice, relaxing weekend—Not.

Tuesday morning, I was released briefly to talk to a public defender before my trial for “escaping slavery.” Shuffling down the hallway to that meeting, I wondered why I should even bother to explain that I had not escaped but rather had been kidnapped by a drug lord? But when we got to the room with the public defender, sitting beside her and beaming with her usual 1000-watt smile was Nikki Sheldon, the slave psychiatrist who had helped prepare me for this horrible new existence. I couldn’t help smiling back at her, even though I still thought the situation was hopeless—who would ever believe that escaped slave and convicted drug smuggler Maria Elena Aguilar was actually a persona super-imposed onto a DEA agent?

Because of the bailiff watching from the other end of the room, Nikki couldn’t give me the hug I really needed, but she assured me that things weren’t nearly as hopeless as I thought. For now, she asked me to recount the story of how the Hernandez Cartel had ambushed a van and broke me out of poodle transport. The public defender was skeptical, since there was no proof of my story and Texas courts automatically discounted the testimony of slaves.

Still, he agreed to make the pitch.

As a slave I had to appear in court naked and bound on my knees, so all I could do was pray. Even that seemed hopeless when the self-righteous, horny bastard Judge Corbett entered the courtroom. After recounting my kidnaping, the public defender next introduced into evidence the blood sample taken when I was recaptured. The prosecutor, who thought that this trial for an obvious case of slave escape was a waste of time, naturally questioned the relevance of such a sample, at which point the public defender turned the floor over to “Doctor Sheldon.”

“It is relevant, your honor,” said Nikki, very calmly, “because the woman kneeling before you is not, in fact, Maria Agular. Rather, she is a DEA Agent named Sylvia Connaught.” My favorite shrink then called a DNA expert who painstakingly compared my blood sample with those of my parents—how the heck she got access to their Defense Department genetic records, I’ll never know, but the upshot was that the court, reluctantly, recognized my identity.

“I’ve allowed this line of testimony because we’re only conducting an administrative hearing to confirm the increased sentence in this case. That gives me some discretion about the rules of evidence. This geneology is all very interesting, Doctor Sheldon,” continued Judge Corbett, “But, so what? You’re not trying to convince me that this slave, whose federal identification number matches that of the convicted drug smuggler Maria Aguilar, was not legally enslaved at the time she escaped—or was kidnapped, if you will—from custody, which makes her an escaped slave.”

“I beg your indulgence, your honor, in the interests of justice. I could walk you through a long explanation, but in the interests of time, I’d like to show you a videotape that has been in my possession for the past six months. Considering that the person speaking has since been murdered by a drug cartel, I ask that you consider it as a dying declaration.”

The prosecutor was understandably outraged by this development, but the judge agreed to consider it without, however, ruling on its admissibility.

I began crying quietly when the TV screen showed the face of the man who had raised me, Marlon James. Then he began talking.

“My name is Marlon A. James, Special Agent in Charge of the Drug Enforcement Agency office in San Antonio. The date today is ______ [he held up a newspaper] and here are my credentials [the screen showed a closeup of his badge and identification card.] This tape is a precaution, an attempt to protect the life of my godchild, Sylvia Connaught, whom I raised after her parents were murdered. She has undertaken a mission so risky that I want to ensure she doesn’t suffer if I’m not around to protect her.” This time the screen displayed my passport and a high-resolution photo of me taken seven months earlier.

Step by step, he walked through the process by which I had been recruited, trained, and inserted as the drug smuggler Maria Agular, identifying the guy who recruited her (Walt Steinberg), my instructors at the DEA orientation course, Nikki Sheldon as my trainer in slavery, and on and on. He also explained, with photos, and why the agency believed I could attract the attention of Manuel Hernandez. He even made mention of a special homing signal embedded painfully in my teeth (a government official later testified that they had received and triangulated a homing signal from the site of the raid. Apparently, no one followed up on that after the cartel was smashed. Naked slave girls tend to make males forget little details such as that.)

“The Chief U.S. District Court judge in Del Rio, Texas, the Honorable Orlando Torres, authorized us to insert Sylvia’s name, photos, and SIN into the federal slave record using an assumed name, and to set her up for a stop, search, and arrest by Texas police. I regret any deception of Texas officials, but we had to conduct this operation on a need-to-know basis to prevent any leaks to the cartel.”

The video continued until conclusion, at which time the public defender explained how Marlon and Walt had been murdered by a car bomb. The judge recessed court and summoned the prosecutor, defender, Nikki, and me (still naked and restrained) into his chambers to discuss the matter. The upshot was that I was released into Nikki’s custody with an ankle monitor while the government investigated and substantiated the story. Nikki gave me a robe—the first clothing I’d worn in ten days—and took me home. Eventually, the story was confirmed, link by link, and Judge Corbett even had the grace to apologize for being “so rough” on me in his chambers when I had “confessed” and been pounded in every opening.

*****
It took me a while to recover mentally and physically; I can never properly thank Nikki for her care, and she even declined to take part of the monetary reward I received for the apprehension of Hector Hernandez. I couldn’t bear to accept the reward for my deceased lover Manuel, but Nikki convinced me to claim it and then give it to an agency that helps recovering drug addicts.

Physically, the most painful part of my recovery was healing after my circle star criminal brand was surgically removed. I don’t recommend it no matter how much you may want your burned skin restored.

My story was so improbable, risky, and humiliating that it was (fortunately) never made public. The DEA gave me a desk job as an analyst, but I spend most of my free time trying to track down Jim, the special operator who had been so humane while caring for me—at least, when he wasn’t banging me. I do NOT hanker to be a slave ever again, but I do long to be held by the guy who treated me as far more than a collared fuck toy.

(The end)

[Mr. Smith]

Another delightful tale. I always look forward to reading a story where Carl inserts Dr. Nikki, one of my truly all time favorite characters that he graciously loans out for other authors use.

Regarding courtroom decorum, our justice system is one of the pillars our society is built upon and the business that takes place in court should always be respected. It is a place where deserving attractive women are stripped naked and collared. Using the Best Evidence Rule their slave heat is checked by the bailiff's probing fingers or having them kneel on counsel table over a piece of paper to capture the moisture (drips) from the future pleasure slut's honey pots as their nipples or stimulated. It is a place where courthouse staff routinely "sample" the new slaves before they are shipped to market. Yes, authors must always respect the sanctity of the courtroom.

[ZeeChromosome]

Now, they slapped a band aid onto my new wound and attached the still-bloody chip to the leg of what appeared to be a homing pigeon – not that I had ever seen one before. For a brief moment, as I watched it soar into the sky and wing its way northward, possibly to Canada, my soul was free.

Thank you .

[ZeeChromosome]

Yes, authors must always respect the sanctity of the courtroom.

Smith, I dunno what religion you practice, but please let me attend this Sunday service!