The slave waitress
Posted: Sun May 10, 2026 3:35 pm
Image inspiration chapter:
The slave waitress
Being a waitress at the restaurant is the worst. Why had she ranked it second on her list of preferred positions for the week?
Eleanor—known in the resort as Slave L#213—sighed inwardly. For three months she had eaten nothing but the tasteless slave gruel, a nutrient paste deliberately engineered to be hated no matter how long one consumed it.
For the past two days she had been assigned to the restaurant, serving exquisite meals to dominant guests. The aromas were pure torture. Right now, a decadent chocolate lava cake was being delivered to table three. What would I give for a single bite chocolate… she thought. Hell, I’d fuck every guest here just for one piece of sugar
She cut the thought off angrily. Torturing herself further served no purpose.
As usual for restaurant staff, she was almost completely naked. A delicate crown of tropical leaves rested in her long blonde hair, and a thin leaf skirt circled her waist—more ornament than clothing. It did nothing to hide her body.
Today the resort was busy with new arrivals. Since the start of her shift, she had felt the hungry gazes of dominant guests on her skin. As a Prime-grade blonde, she ranked at the top of the resort’s livestock. There had been a time when their stares filled her with shame and unwanted arousal. After four months here, being objectified felt almost normal.
Still battling the mouth-watering scents drifting around her, Eleanor moved to prepare a new table. She moved with deliberate sensuality, hips rolling, back arched, breasts proudly displayed. Guests rated the slaves constantly through the app; low scores brought harsh punishments.
She kept her lips softly parted, chin high, and her posture openly inviting. The “good news” was that after receiving last week with one particularily poor rating by some customer, she had been denied orgasms for five days and edged every morning.
As a result, her nipples stood painfully erect and her shaved pussy glistened with slick, shameful nectar. Exactly what high-paying guests wanted to see.
Her collar gave a soft, warm buzz against her throat. The gentle vibration traveled straight to her core, syncing with the aching throb between her legs. Perform. Be desired. Earn your points.
She turned toward the entrance as three new guests arrived.
Two men and one woman, all radiating natural authority. The first man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His younger companion had sharp cheekbones and amused eyes that lingered on her naked body. Between them walked a stunning raven-haired woman in a backless crimson dress. A thin silver collar circled her throat, but it was clearly decorative. She was no slave.
Eleanor lowered her gaze respectfully while keeping her posture perfect—shoulders back, breasts thrust forward, legs slightly parted. The leaf skirt swayed against her thighs, brushing teasingly over her swollen clit.
“Welcome, Masters and Mistress,” she murmured, her voice soft and husky. “May this humble slave serve you this evening?”
The dark-haired man checked his wrist device and smiled. “Prime-grade L#213. Formerly Eleanor Harrington. Yale graduate, marketing executive at Horizon Global. Quite the fall, slave.”
Eleanor’s cheeks burned, but fresh wetness trickled down her inner thigh. The app always did this—ripping open her old life for strangers’ amusement.
“Yes, Master. This slave signed the Contract two years ago. She has two years remaining.”
The younger man circled her slowly. “Two years and they still haven’t fully broken that spark in your eyes. Impressive.” He flicked her right nipple sharply, drawing a gasp. “Tell us how a corporate princess ends up as resort meat.”
Eleanor recited the story that had been drilled into her during re-education. “This slave was never meant to be free. Even as a free woman, she sought dangerous submissive situations—slave auctions, public grading events, slave yoga, roleplay with her boyfriends. By the time authorities activated her Contract, it was too late. They froze her accounts, collared her, and sent her serving her masters, here and elsewhere.”
The woman stepped closer, trailing a manicured nail down Eleanor’s flat stomach until it hovered just above her mound. “And now you serve chocolate lava cake to people who used to be your peers while your cunt drips on the floor. How does that feel, Eleanor?”
The sound of her old name hit like a slap.
“It humiliates this slave deeply, Mistress.” Her voice trembled. “Every night she remembers boardrooms and corner offices. Now she sleeps chained in a communal cage with twenty other Prime sluts, hosed down each morning like livestock.”
The guests exchanged satisfied glances. The dark-haired man—Dominic—gestured for her to lead them to their table. As she walked ahead, hips swaying with trained grace, she felt the envious eyes of other slaves on her.
Once seated, they ordered lavishly: seared foie gras, Wagyu ribeye, lobster thermidor, and the signature molten chocolate lava cake. Each name twisted like a knife in Eleanor’s stomach.
While they waited for the first course, the raven-haired woman beckoned her closer. “Present.”
Eleanor planted her feet wide, hands behind her head, thrusting her glistening sex forward. The leaf skirt parted obediently.
Dominic read from the app again. “Favorite hobby: singing opera. How charming. And here you are, naked and leaking for our entertainment.”
“Tell us about your daily life, slave,” he ordered, dragging a piece of warm bread through herb oil and holding it under her nose. The scent made her mouth flood.
She answered in the flat, obedient tone they preferred. “This slave wakes at 5 a.m. in the cages. We use the troughs, recite our mantras, then endure morning edging. Breakfast is gruel. Then we’re assigned our duties. Restaurant rotation is the hardest. The smells destroy us. If our weekly rating drops below 92, we lose orgasm privileges and are assigned as live furniture.”
“Live furniture?” the woman asked, sliding two fingers deep into Eleanor’s soaked pussy with an obscene wet sound.
“Yes, Mistress. We’re bound in stressful positions for hours—used as tables, footstools, lamp stands. Guests eat off our backs, rest their feet on us, use us as ashtrays… We’re not allowed to move or speak, no matter how much it hurts.”
The food arrived. Eleanor served with perfect poise, bending low so her heavy breasts swayed near their faces, pouring wine while her denied cunt continued to drip down her thighs.
Between courses they used her casually. Julian had her kneel beside his chair, cheek resting on his thigh, sucking tiny bites of risotto from his fingers. Dominic and the woman—named Vivienne—fingered her openly while they ate.
Later they moved her to the semi-private lounge overlooking the moonlit beach. They bound her wrists high to a post, legs spread wide by a spreader bar, and stripped away the leaf skirt completely.
They used her methodically and relentlessly.
Dominic fucked her first—deep, powerful strokes that ground against her cervix—while Julian fed her tiny bites of chocolate cake. Every thrust came with a question.
“Who are you now?”
“Just a resort slut, Master.”
“What is your purpose?”
“To be used. To earn points. To entertain.”
Vivienne straddled her face, grinding her wet pussy against Eleanor’s eager mouth while Dominic continued pounding her. The taste of another woman mixed with rich chocolate on her tongue. Julian filmed everything, narrating her fall for the app.
They edged her mercilessly, stopping every time she approached the edge, laughing at her broken sobs.
Finally, Dominic pulled out and stepped back.
“Beg for it, Eleanor Harrington.”
She shattered completely.
“Please, Masters and Mistress… This worthless resort slave begs to cum. Please let this dripping corporate failure cum like the pathetic whore she is. She’ll do anything—just please let her cum!”
The dominant woman smiled and triggered the permission through her collar.
“Cum. Loudly.”
The orgasm tore through Eleanor like lightning. She screamed, body convulsing violently as her pussy gushed onto the cushions. Wave after wave crashed over her until she hung limp in her bonds, tears and chocolate smearing her face.
When they finally untied her, she collapsed at their feet. Dominic stroked her damp hair almost tenderly.
“That was an entertaining first meal. I hope the other resort sluts are as fun as you.”
As they left, Eleanor remained kneeling on the stone floor, chest heaving. Across the restaurant, dozens of other beautiful, naked, desperate women continued their own cycles of service and denial.
She was nothing special. Just L#213. One more interchangeable Prime slave in the Corporation’s perfect machine.
Tomorrow she would wake in the cage again. Eat the gruel. Get edged. And return here to serve, to leak, to beg, and to gratefully accept whatever new degradations the guests devised.
Her collar buzzed warmly against her throat—highest marks of the night.
For the first time in weeks, the thought almost felt like comfort.
This story has been done starting with my own writing, and AI completing it
The slave waitress
Being a waitress at the restaurant is the worst. Why had she ranked it second on her list of preferred positions for the week?
Eleanor—known in the resort as Slave L#213—sighed inwardly. For three months she had eaten nothing but the tasteless slave gruel, a nutrient paste deliberately engineered to be hated no matter how long one consumed it.
For the past two days she had been assigned to the restaurant, serving exquisite meals to dominant guests. The aromas were pure torture. Right now, a decadent chocolate lava cake was being delivered to table three. What would I give for a single bite chocolate… she thought. Hell, I’d fuck every guest here just for one piece of sugar
She cut the thought off angrily. Torturing herself further served no purpose.
As usual for restaurant staff, she was almost completely naked. A delicate crown of tropical leaves rested in her long blonde hair, and a thin leaf skirt circled her waist—more ornament than clothing. It did nothing to hide her body.
Today the resort was busy with new arrivals. Since the start of her shift, she had felt the hungry gazes of dominant guests on her skin. As a Prime-grade blonde, she ranked at the top of the resort’s livestock. There had been a time when their stares filled her with shame and unwanted arousal. After four months here, being objectified felt almost normal.
Still battling the mouth-watering scents drifting around her, Eleanor moved to prepare a new table. She moved with deliberate sensuality, hips rolling, back arched, breasts proudly displayed. Guests rated the slaves constantly through the app; low scores brought harsh punishments.
She kept her lips softly parted, chin high, and her posture openly inviting. The “good news” was that after receiving last week with one particularily poor rating by some customer, she had been denied orgasms for five days and edged every morning.
As a result, her nipples stood painfully erect and her shaved pussy glistened with slick, shameful nectar. Exactly what high-paying guests wanted to see.
Her collar gave a soft, warm buzz against her throat. The gentle vibration traveled straight to her core, syncing with the aching throb between her legs. Perform. Be desired. Earn your points.
She turned toward the entrance as three new guests arrived.
Two men and one woman, all radiating natural authority. The first man was tall and broad-shouldered, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed beard. His younger companion had sharp cheekbones and amused eyes that lingered on her naked body. Between them walked a stunning raven-haired woman in a backless crimson dress. A thin silver collar circled her throat, but it was clearly decorative. She was no slave.
Eleanor lowered her gaze respectfully while keeping her posture perfect—shoulders back, breasts thrust forward, legs slightly parted. The leaf skirt swayed against her thighs, brushing teasingly over her swollen clit.
“Welcome, Masters and Mistress,” she murmured, her voice soft and husky. “May this humble slave serve you this evening?”
The dark-haired man checked his wrist device and smiled. “Prime-grade L#213. Formerly Eleanor Harrington. Yale graduate, marketing executive at Horizon Global. Quite the fall, slave.”
Eleanor’s cheeks burned, but fresh wetness trickled down her inner thigh. The app always did this—ripping open her old life for strangers’ amusement.
“Yes, Master. This slave signed the Contract two years ago. She has two years remaining.”
The younger man circled her slowly. “Two years and they still haven’t fully broken that spark in your eyes. Impressive.” He flicked her right nipple sharply, drawing a gasp. “Tell us how a corporate princess ends up as resort meat.”
Eleanor recited the story that had been drilled into her during re-education. “This slave was never meant to be free. Even as a free woman, she sought dangerous submissive situations—slave auctions, public grading events, slave yoga, roleplay with her boyfriends. By the time authorities activated her Contract, it was too late. They froze her accounts, collared her, and sent her serving her masters, here and elsewhere.”
The woman stepped closer, trailing a manicured nail down Eleanor’s flat stomach until it hovered just above her mound. “And now you serve chocolate lava cake to people who used to be your peers while your cunt drips on the floor. How does that feel, Eleanor?”
The sound of her old name hit like a slap.
“It humiliates this slave deeply, Mistress.” Her voice trembled. “Every night she remembers boardrooms and corner offices. Now she sleeps chained in a communal cage with twenty other Prime sluts, hosed down each morning like livestock.”
The guests exchanged satisfied glances. The dark-haired man—Dominic—gestured for her to lead them to their table. As she walked ahead, hips swaying with trained grace, she felt the envious eyes of other slaves on her.
Once seated, they ordered lavishly: seared foie gras, Wagyu ribeye, lobster thermidor, and the signature molten chocolate lava cake. Each name twisted like a knife in Eleanor’s stomach.
While they waited for the first course, the raven-haired woman beckoned her closer. “Present.”
Eleanor planted her feet wide, hands behind her head, thrusting her glistening sex forward. The leaf skirt parted obediently.
Dominic read from the app again. “Favorite hobby: singing opera. How charming. And here you are, naked and leaking for our entertainment.”
“Tell us about your daily life, slave,” he ordered, dragging a piece of warm bread through herb oil and holding it under her nose. The scent made her mouth flood.
She answered in the flat, obedient tone they preferred. “This slave wakes at 5 a.m. in the cages. We use the troughs, recite our mantras, then endure morning edging. Breakfast is gruel. Then we’re assigned our duties. Restaurant rotation is the hardest. The smells destroy us. If our weekly rating drops below 92, we lose orgasm privileges and are assigned as live furniture.”
“Live furniture?” the woman asked, sliding two fingers deep into Eleanor’s soaked pussy with an obscene wet sound.
“Yes, Mistress. We’re bound in stressful positions for hours—used as tables, footstools, lamp stands. Guests eat off our backs, rest their feet on us, use us as ashtrays… We’re not allowed to move or speak, no matter how much it hurts.”
The food arrived. Eleanor served with perfect poise, bending low so her heavy breasts swayed near their faces, pouring wine while her denied cunt continued to drip down her thighs.
Between courses they used her casually. Julian had her kneel beside his chair, cheek resting on his thigh, sucking tiny bites of risotto from his fingers. Dominic and the woman—named Vivienne—fingered her openly while they ate.
Later they moved her to the semi-private lounge overlooking the moonlit beach. They bound her wrists high to a post, legs spread wide by a spreader bar, and stripped away the leaf skirt completely.
They used her methodically and relentlessly.
Dominic fucked her first—deep, powerful strokes that ground against her cervix—while Julian fed her tiny bites of chocolate cake. Every thrust came with a question.
“Who are you now?”
“Just a resort slut, Master.”
“What is your purpose?”
“To be used. To earn points. To entertain.”
Vivienne straddled her face, grinding her wet pussy against Eleanor’s eager mouth while Dominic continued pounding her. The taste of another woman mixed with rich chocolate on her tongue. Julian filmed everything, narrating her fall for the app.
They edged her mercilessly, stopping every time she approached the edge, laughing at her broken sobs.
Finally, Dominic pulled out and stepped back.
“Beg for it, Eleanor Harrington.”
She shattered completely.
“Please, Masters and Mistress… This worthless resort slave begs to cum. Please let this dripping corporate failure cum like the pathetic whore she is. She’ll do anything—just please let her cum!”
The dominant woman smiled and triggered the permission through her collar.
“Cum. Loudly.”
The orgasm tore through Eleanor like lightning. She screamed, body convulsing violently as her pussy gushed onto the cushions. Wave after wave crashed over her until she hung limp in her bonds, tears and chocolate smearing her face.
When they finally untied her, she collapsed at their feet. Dominic stroked her damp hair almost tenderly.
“That was an entertaining first meal. I hope the other resort sluts are as fun as you.”
As they left, Eleanor remained kneeling on the stone floor, chest heaving. Across the restaurant, dozens of other beautiful, naked, desperate women continued their own cycles of service and denial.
She was nothing special. Just L#213. One more interchangeable Prime slave in the Corporation’s perfect machine.
Tomorrow she would wake in the cage again. Eat the gruel. Get edged. And return here to serve, to leak, to beg, and to gratefully accept whatever new degradations the guests devised.
Her collar buzzed warmly against her throat—highest marks of the night.
For the first time in weeks, the thought almost felt like comfort.
This story has been done starting with my own writing, and AI completing it