Went West - Part 3
Posted: Sat Oct 31, 2020 5:15 pm
Not as much sex in this one, but lots of plot exposition - as we will see, the next part will have plenty of sex
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I knelt on the floor in front of the cages, not paying attention to anything the trainers were saying.
Instead I was thinking about the things that my boss, Marla, had told me; developments in the “story” I was pursuing, or more accurately developments in the events that put me in a collar and landed me in obedience school. There was a lot, but the biggest thing —
“F2, now,” Mistress Stefania said in a raised voice, which is never a good thing when she has a whip and you have no clothes. I immediately dropped onto all fours and crawled quickly to her, reading her reaction and that of my four fellow trainee slaves as best I could, and when I reached her I prostrated myself: face down, arms outstretched, naked ass in the air.
“Up,” she said, and when I was back on my knees she threw a greyish-brown lump hard at my chest. I went oof but caught it; a blanket, much like the one I had used when traveling on the slave truck.
“Thank you, mistress,” I said, she dismissed me with a nod, and I crawled back to my place in line with as much grace as I could muster.
“Obedience is expected of a slave,” Master David said. “As the lowest of the low, It is your natural place to obey your betters. But sometimes obedience is rewarded; you can never be sure when or even if, and you must never expect it at all.”
“But as a reward for completing your first stage of training,” Mistress Stefania said, “Master David and I have decided to give you each a blanket to sleep with. When you awake each morning it must be immediately folded - neatly - into a triangle and placed in the corner nearest the hinges to your door. Any slave who fails to do so, or does so in a sloppy or careless manner, will lose not just its blanket but everyone’s blanket. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all said in unison.
“What is obedience?” Master David asked us.
“Obedience is my service,” we repeated back to him.
“What is your service?” he continued.
“My service is obedience,” we chanted.
“Put away your rewards, then line up for showers.”
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That evening I stood in front of my cage, waiting for the order to go inside so I could wrap myself in my new blanket.
It’s not that I was becoming comfortable with being naked all the time, but I was growing used to it, if that makes sense. Still, that blanket is the closest I’ve come to being able to cover myself up in… well, I’m not sure. Over a week, right? Two weeks? And I was looking forward to it, even if I could only wear it inside my cage.
“My” blanket. “My” cage.
My God, what the fuck is wrong with me.
When I’m on assignment in the field, I focus entirely on what’s happening around me, and not at all about what’s happening directly to me, much less how I feel about it — it’s a defense mechanism I developed to help keep my cool under pressure, among other things — but I have a lot of time to think now, and some things are starting to bother me.
For example: I can’t stand waiting, not even a little bit. Call me impatient, I just always have something better to do than to wait around for someone to find the time to talk to me, or give me what I need, or whatever. Not the greatest trait in a reporter I know, but it’s usually worked out okay for me. On the rare occasions that I was forced to wait around, my mood deteriorated to the point that when whomever I was waiting on finally got around to me they reeeeally wished they hadn’t kept me waiting.
But now? I can’t explain why, but I’m…
I can deal with it.
It’s still not easy, but I’m getting used to it. Actually, in the evenings when I’m tired from training all day, I’m getting to the point that I can clear my mind, sit still, and wait quite patiently. My mother would be amazed.
That’s the only serious, tangible change I’ve seen so far, at least the only one I can put my finger on, and I’m not entirely sure that it’s a change and not just adapting to my situation.
But since I’m sitting here thinking about it…
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t possess a particularly active sex drive. Under normal circumstances I don’t think much about sex, nor do I masturbate very often (like I told the ladies in the transport truck, typically about once a month). Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy sex, and with the right guy under the right circumstances I can enjoy a lot of sex, but it’s more of a situational thing than something I think about regularly.
But now? I find it creeping in to my thoughts throughout the day. Mostly I think about Lee, my Army officer boyfriend/lover/whatever we are. But after my whipping, I started having very explicit fantasies of being bent over my cage and having Master David roger me stupid, and the whole time I’m thanking him for punishing me. I even had another one yesterday about being back on the side of the road, sucking off complete strangers before taking that bastard Nicodemus’ fat, greasy cock in my mouth and sucking it like it was the greatest thing in the world while he slowly tapped his strap-whip on the side of his leg, chuckling, calling me a stupid slut. Then, if you can believe it, I turned around and offered up my bright red ass and dripping wet pussy to him, begging him to fuck me like one of his slave girls. That part was new. Where is it coming from? I mean, the truth is if I ever see Nicodemus again I will happily castrate him, so I have no idea.
Then there’s the women. I’m not gay at all, I’ve never had a sexual encounter with a woman (beyond one kissing incident while drunk in college), nor have I ever wanted to. But lately I’ve been surrounded by naked female sex slaves (let’s be honest, that’s what they — we — are) being trained to obey so that they can be better sex slaves. Each and every one of them jills off at night, while I lie in my cage listening to them. As I laid there last night I started thinking about Mistress Stefania, but not as a mistress: I was remembering her from the internal video I saw, naked and collared and kneeling before Master David with his cock in her mouth, the large nipples on her breasts hard as diamonds. I was kneeling next to her, my tongue running gently over Master’s tight, swollen balls as she bobbed, my bare leg touching hers, when he ordered us to pleasure each other for his amusement.
I looked at him, trying to convey without words that I didn’t want to do that, but he just smirked and nodded for me to get on with it.
We got into a sixty-nine position, with me on top as befits the junior slave, and I found my face inches away from her waxed vagina. I could feel the warmth radiating from it, and smell her arousal. Just as I was contemplating my first lesbian sex act, I felt her tongue run up and down my labia, her hands kneading my bottom and spreading out the cleft in my cheeks. It felt wonderful, and I had to reciprocate. I kissed the dark, smooth skin of her outer labia; I felt her flinch when the cold metal leash-ring dangling from my collar touched her skin. I started licking her folds methodically, outer-inner-up-down like we were taught on the plastic dummies. I heard a soft moan from Stefania, and felt a finger start to massage the area around my anus. I shuddered with, well, pleasure.
Of course, that’s when I shook awake.
I could still feel the last ripples of the pleasure from my dream, a warm feeling all over my body, my breathing a little ragged, and some drops of moisture running down the folds of my swollen vagina.
So there’s that.
One thing that hasn’t changed? Humiliation — I still hate it. We trainees were all standing in front of our cages, holding the Inspection pose: legs apart more than shoulder-width, hands behind our heads, fingers laced together behind our necks, chests thrust out to highlight our naked breasts, eyes straight ahead until addressed. When a trainer approached us, we had to change to Inspection-Attention, meaning we pushed our elbows back as far as they would go, lifted out chins up, and raised ourselves up on our toes so that our heels were off the floor.
If our heels touched the floor before the trainer left, we got a stripe across our bottom, and we kept getting them until we lifted our heels back up.
Mistress Stefania stepped away from Vanessa and stopped in front of me. I assumed the Inspection-Attention position and waited.
She stood looking at me, a slight smile on her lips, looking directly into my eyes even as I couldn’t look back into hers. Between my complete nudity, my wide-open legs displaying my hairless vagina, my breasts thrust out as though I were offering them to her, and my precarious balance — a slight push would knock me back on my heels and right into a painful, public strapping — I felt incredibly vulnerable. That vulnerability, reduced to a piece of property, no, a piece of ass, wearing a collar confirming my place at the bottom of society (the mentally-ill homeless were beneath a slave, but not by much), forced to act at the whims of a woman probably ten years my junior, my calves trembling both from fatigue and the fear of displeasing her, made me feel incredibly humiliated. Almost as much as I felt when I was first stripped and bound in Central America.
Stefania cupped my pussy with her free hand (the other held the punishment strap) and rubbed it, giving me a little electric charge that resulted in goosebumps and faster breathing while also making me wobble slightly. She raised up her fingers in front of my face: they were slick with wetness.
So there’s another data point.
“Open wide, F2, and stick out your tongue,” she said, and I obeyed without hesitating. She wiped her fingers, front and back and both sides, on my outstretched tongue. “Close and swallow,” she ordered, and I checked off “tasting my own vaginal lubricants” on my bucket list.
Mistress Stefania smirked, tweaked my erect left nipple, then moved on. I had just relaxed back down on my heels when I heard the front door open.
I didn’t dare turn to see who it was, but I heard two sets of footsteps and the clink of a light chain. A few moments later Master David appeared in front of us, leading a slave on a leash.
It was Janet! She had returned, looking decidedly relaxed and even refreshed — for a naked woman in a slave collar and shackles.
Janet smiled at us all while David removed her restraints, then meekly followed him as he led her to stand in position in front of her old cage. Mistress Stefania handed her a blanket, and quickly explained why she had it and her responsibility for this extravagant gift.
“Yes, mistress. I understand and will obey, mistress,” Janet said, bowing her head slightly.
Stefania smiled and nodded to Master David; as he turned away, she briefly placed a reassuring hand on Janet’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
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“Adjustment Disorder is what the doctor said,” Janet told us after lights-out.
“What is that?” Tracy interrupted.
“It’s Latin,” Rhonda growled at her, “For shut up and let her finish or I will pinch you until you squeal.”
“Geez,” Tracy whispered, and curled up in the corner of her cage farthest away from Rhonda.
“I don’t know, but I think it’s pretty much what it sounds like — having a hard time adjusting,” Janet continued. “She said it’s really common. They gave me some medication, let me rest, and I spent several days talking to a slave psychologist, doing exercises and learning how to think about what’s happening to me. I have to admit, I feel a lot better about what’s going on.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t beat the hell out you,” Ariel said. “Isn’t that what obedience school is about?”
“I asked the same thing,” Janet replied. “They told me that obedience school is about learning what is expected out of me as a slave, and getting into the right frame of mind so I can serve out my indenture as expected, without problems. Cooperation is much better than coercion, in their view, and they’d rather produce a calm, submissive, willingly obedient slave through help and instruction than a miserable, terrified slave cowed by torture. Those are not very valuable in the market, believe it or not. In fact, if that slave were to try and, say, poison her new master, the school would be held legally responsible.”
“I don’t get it,” Ariel said. “So the whips and chains and everything are just an act?”
“That can’t be true,” Vanessa interjected, “Not after what happened to Frankie.”
“What happened to Frankie?” Janet asked, and Vanessa told her.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry my dear,” Janet said, looking over at me, her face showing genuine concern.
“Eh, I lived,” I said. “But thanks.”
“Well, they made it clear that punishment and the threat of punishment are very much part of this. In fact, anyone who fails obedience school gets to go to a place they call The Shop, which is where they break the will of stubborn slaves with very unpleasant methods. Some slaves - like the ones with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which is untreatable - will need to go to the next step, which is being labeled UNCO so that the school is released from liability. UNCOs are only purchased by persons willing to take on the danger of having an uncontrollable slave. For instance, all of the male slaves in the penitentiary are UNCOs, as are many of the slaves in the really harsh places like mines and factories… and certain brothels. Oh, and an UNCO who’s enough of a troublemaker can get her indenture converted to a life term. What we’re getting here is some carrot with just a bit of stick: it can get much worse.”
There was a brief silence as everyone let this new knowledge sink in.
“How does knowing all that help you deal with this?” I asked, gesturing around us. “It seems to me like it underlines just how vulnerable we are.”
“At first I thought so too,” Janet replied. “But Dr. Fessenden told me something that made a lot of sense: everything in life is carrots and sticks. The key is to concentrate on the carrot and not the stick.”
“How so?”
“For example, look at how my friends are handling it. Tracy was our customer care wiz, so she’s a natural people-pleaser, as well as being the most, um, enthusiastically sexual person I’ve ever known. She’s up for nearly anything if she thinks there will be some pleasure at the end of it.”
“Hey!” Tracy squeaked.
“Which is great,” Janet said, “It’s a very healthy way to deal with the situation. Do what’s asked of you and you’re in for plenty of carrots. Rhonda, on the other hand, is an Eeyore, which is its own coping mechanism.”
“What?” Rhonda said, sounding surprised.
Janet held up a hand. “You know I love you both, I’m not saying this to be insulting. Being a gloom-and-doomer, Rhonda always expects the worst, so when bad things happen she’s not surprised and she gets to be right; likewise when they don’t she gets to say something snarky about it and everyone laughs. By being funny about it, she becomes more popular. Either way, she feels better about herself.”
Janet sighed. “As for me, my chief problem was the loss of status. I genuinely could not make myself take a rubber penis into my mouth in public, I just couldn’t, it was too degrading, a step too far. But now, I’ve told myself that I knew this was a possible outcome of the agreement I entered into, and as a result I need to comport myself like the professional that I am, a professional who is fulfilling her end of the contract. I don’t have to like it, but I can regain a certain amount of dignity by how I view situations, by how I behave, and by using my time to sharpen my own sales and customer service and maybe even leadership skills. Do some networking. Who knows, I might even spot some business opportunities.”
Janet looked at each of us. “What it comes down to is we all just need to get through this as best we can, using whatever tools we have available.”
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Saturday was pretty uneventful: more drilling, more practice with rubber genitalia, the usual, the only difference was that we were joined by two new trainers. Both were male, one a short, bald white guy, muscular like a bodybuilder, the other a younger, very tall, kind of lanky Latino guy with a full, well-groomed beard that actually looked pretty nice. I think shorty was the senior of the two, given that he kept pointing at us and talking quietly to beardy like he was explaining things, but neither joined in our training, they just watched us and occasionally spoke to Master David.
Which was fine by me, because it gave me time to check in with Amy, my outside contact. I relayed the news about the return of Janet, and Amy gave me what little information she had on the bombshell our producer Marla had dropped on me the day before.
I should probably explain that, shouldn’t I? The gist of it is that Linda, the woman responsible for landing me in this mess, is a big, fat liar, and now a wanted runaway.
If you recall, Linda (a life slave) told me that she had fallen in love with her master, who promised to free and marry her, and had placed her in his will. He had died suddenly, leaving Linda still a slave and at the mercy of her master’s children. As the executors of his estate, the kids quickly sent Linda away for sale before she could get anyone to act on the provisions in her late master’s will. So she engineered an escape (using me as her placeholder, hoping to delay any alarm long enough for her to get far away), planning to use her freedom (albeit as a fugitive) to contact friends and get her inheritance restored.
Like I said, turns out that none of that was actually true.
Hannelinde “Linda” Vanderberg was never a graduate of the University of Texas, nor did she work for the government of the State of Texas (although her parents did both). She dropped out of college at an early age due to mental and emotional problems, managed somehow to become licensed as a paralegal, and spent years working a number of clerical jobs probably obtained by friends of her family. Eventually she landed at an energy company in Oklahoma City, becoming the lover (more accurately, a lover) of the founder and CEO.
The part of her story where she finagled her way into his inner circle through her desire to act like a sex slave is probably true, but the rest — being gifted as a volunteer lifetime slave to a close friend of the CEO, complete with lavish ceremony — is not.
Instead, something bad happened. We don’t yet know exactly what (Marla has some people digging into it), but Linda was involuntarily enslaved in Oklahoma under the so-called “Exempt” section of their slave statutes, the one known as Section 8609 which provides for enslaving the mentally ill for their own safety and that of the public at large.
Amy told me that in slaver lingo it’s called “being eighty-sixed,” but it’s not common and most states (including Texas) do not have a similar law. We’re not yet sure exactly what form that enslavement took for Linda.
The news Amy had to pass along was that the Texas Rangers had already questioned Nicolaides and released him (the Feds aren’t involved yet). According to one of Marla’s sources in Austin, while officially he was released in return for his cooperation, in reality it was due to influence from HCI, who really wants to hush all this up. Marla told Amy that we now have some “leverage.”
“To do what?” I asked her.
“No idea, she didn’t say,” Amy replied.
“Any idea what it means for me?”
“Marla didn’t mention you specifically, but she did tell me that she loves the ’twist’ and is preparing to change the course of the series to reflect it. I have no idea how that will play out.”
“In other news,” Amy continued, “I have another meeting of the Coffee Club tomorrow morning — it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“So what is their deal, anyway?” I asked.
“The TL;DR version is that it’s a club for upwardly-mobile middle class ladies to get together and learn how to buy and own slaves. They go through a workbook, go to seminars, take online classes - honestly way more prep than I think is necessary, but all of the members were very good students in school so maybe it’s not surprising that they like that approach. It’s apparently a regional thing, just in the southwest for now, but it’s got a parent company in Boulder that makes and sells the books and classes, and the organizers sell the stuff on commission.”
“What are they doing out here? Watching the school, I mean.”
“Anxiety, I think. Most of them can’t afford a slave yet, but they really want one, and when they have enough to buy one they want to make the right purchase and be able to manage her efficiently. It reminds me of the Rise & Grind people you see on Instagram.”
Amy sighed audibly. “But there’s something else going on that doesn’t add up. All those women writing in their journals and taking photos aren’t doing homework, when I asked they said so but wouldn’t elaborate. And Leslie, the lady who invited me to sit with the group? She never does anything, just sits there drinking her coffee and watching.”
“Are you working on this Leslie person?”
“I will tonight, she’s taking me shopping.”
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The rest of the day was pretty much same ol’, same ol’. Marta dragged out the rubber dicks and we had the “pleasure” of getting on our knees and practicing blowjobs in front of the two new trainers. Shorty just watched silently, but beardy grinned as I started bobbing, clearly enjoying the sight. Mistress Stefania “helped” me by instructing me to pull my butt cheeks apart, exposing my bald pussy and anus to the world while I worked. I felt a knot in my stomach as I sat like a total whore, effectively inviting shorty and beardy to double team me. Beardy nodded in appreciation while my face grew a deep red.
The only really new thing was at shower time: Master David informed us that each morning from now on we were to begin performing enemas on ourselves, and this evening would be our instruction. Of course, Mistress Stefania chose me to be the guinea pig. Once again I got to face ten people (five slaves, plus four trainers and Marta the resident slave) and spread my ass open so that Stefania could show the proper technique for inserting a metal nozzle into my rectum and filling it up, followed by a hasty waddle to the squat toilet where I dumped out my lunch.
“Aww, look at her,” Mistress Stefania said. “She’s embarrassed! Her face is so red I think she might have a stroke. What do you think, Master Adán?”
“I think she’s due for a number of strokes,” Beardy replied.
Shorty spoke up, revealing a Deep South accent. “Yes, first with the punishment strap, and then with your cock, right?” They all had a good laugh at that one, but thankfully I was dismissed while others learned their new skill.
That night in my cage, I thought about Adán. He’s practically a kid, maybe ten years my junior. I wonder if he’s old enough to legally drink alcohol? The minimum age to own and handle slaves is eighteen in most states, so who knows.
Normally I prefer a man be clean-shaven, but I had to admit I was digging his bushy Hipster beard. It was a nice contrast to his sharply-parted and pomaded hair, which I normally don’t like either, but the beard really enhanced his masculinity. I also liked his height, especially when I’m on my knees and he’s close to me and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I’d have to raise myself up on my knees in order to reach his cock with my mouth—
I sat up. Where this hell is this coming from? Adán is not my type. So what was it about him that was turning me on?
What is happening to me?
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The next morning was either Saturday or Sunday. I’ll ask Amy about that later, because right now she was sitting in the bleachers just beyond the fence, next to the blonde lady with the bolted-on tits. Unlike last time, Amy was wearing a very nice (and expensive) matching set of athleisure wear, complete with Nikes and a big container of barista-brewed coffee that I swear I could friggin’ taste from here; she and bolt-ons (whom I’m assuming is Leslie) looked like two peas in a pod.
We went through our morning warm ups and mantras like usual. I caught glimpses of Marta hauling out equipment, and I could hear some of it scraping along the concrete when she dragged it.
I also noticed that the bleachers were starting to fill up. Lots of men, mostly in casual clothes as far as I could see, which made sense as it was the weekend (a word that didn’t have much meaning for slaves). The murmuring and quiet talking was starting to increase in volume as more of them came in.
I was glad of the tall chainlink fence.
A short while later Mistress Stefania halted our workout and had us stand at Present, facing away from the crowd. Marta appeared, carrying a bucket filled with bundles of rope, and she accompanied Stefania as she walked along behind each of us, tying our hands to our elbows behind our backs. When she was done, we turned around to face the large crowd.
The rubber-dong poles were there, and fastened into the ground, complete with the eponymous dongs. A number of plastic chairs had been arranged around the area, including one on an elevated platform, like a lifeguard stand but not as tall.
The double doors from the building swung open, and I saw the two new trainers (Shorty and Adán/Beardy) leading a coffle of six naked slaves.
Looking over them over, they appeared to be split evenly between Latinas and white girls. All of them were young; the Latinas all appeared to be barely over eighteen, and the Anglos (two blondes and a brunette) not much older. They were completely naked from head to toe except for their slave collars and restraints — their hands were cuffed behind them — and each had a large letter “B” followed by a number written on their chests. Interestingly, three of them (two Latinas and one of the blondes) wore what appeared to be a metal “girdle” around their waists with a metal plate between their legs. The girls’ eyes were wide and their lips trembling with fear and trepidation as they glanced from us to the poles to their trainers to the crowd and back.
Shorty halted them on a patch of rubber padding just inside the shade of the roofed area and ordered them to kneel, which they did, awkwardly.
Master David walked out of the building and stood in front of us.
“Today is your first Field Day,” he began. “Field Day is like an exam, where we test your ability to submit and obey. If you do what you are told without hesitation or resistance, you will pass and your training will continue. If you balk, if you freeze, if — God forbid — you refuse, you will be punished, and your stay here with us will be extended so that you can enjoy even more Field Days. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master,” we chanted.
David stepped closer to us and lowered his voice. “You all in Fish Class are older, better educated, and more experienced than the average who come through here. I want you to put on a good demonstration for the new slaves in Bird Class, show them how it’s done. If you all do well, I am prepared to reward you. Understood?”
“Yes, master,” we replied. But really, what else could we possibly say?
“Up,” came the command. We were marched over to the poles, each of us knelt on a piece of rubber matting next to a pole, and a length of chain was fastened from the pole to each of our collars.
The murmuring among the men and free women outside the fence started to grow louder.
I knelt there, naked and chained, my collar confirming my status as a slave, what little dignity I retained vanishing as I looked around at all the clothed people, free to hide their bodies from sight and come and go as they wished. I could tell that a number of men were pointing at me, or more specifically my shaved crotch, and grinning at each other.
I dropped my head momentarily, shutting my eyes as I was overwhelmed with humiliation.
Just a piece of meat, I thought.
When I looked back up, I spotted Amy and Leslie again. Leslie was cool as a cucumber, sipping her coffee with one knee crossed over the other, her elevated foot tapping to some unheard rhythm. Amy, on the other hand, was as wide-eyed as the members of Bird Troop over there, her face flushed pink, hunched over slightly — I couldn’t see her non-coffee hand, because that disappeared between her tightly-clamped thighs.
Terrific.
Mistress Stefania stopped next to each of us, adjusting the rubber dong to the right height. When she was done, she blew a whistle and the six of us started sucking rubber like we were putting on a show.
Or at least I assume so: our sides were turned to the audience, so I could only see Ariel on the post in front of me. She’s as enthusiastic a cocksucker as any of us; the one I was worried about was Janet. But I didn’t hear anything, so I assumed she did what she had to do.
The crowd got even louder. I could hear shouts and jeers, and even a chant break out at one point (“GO! GO! GO!”) that seemed to match Ariel’s rhythm. When Stefania blew the whistle again we stopped, un-swallowed the dongs and sat back on our heels.
A ragged round of applause congratulated us.
I glanced at Amy and Leslie: they were comparing photos or (more likely) videos on their phones.
Fantastic.
Stefania made another circuit of the suckers — to each of us she ordered “Open” and squirted a dose of devoxing spray down our throats.
I must have looked surprised, because when she finished with me she did a double-take and laughed. “Believe me,” she said, “This is a mercy.”
I started to ask her what she meant, but nothing came out.
Oh, right. Devoxing spray.
Marta scurried through and removed the rubber dongs from the poles, and I got to watch her scurry back to the equipment room with a bucket full o’dongs; another item checked off my bucket list.
No pun intended.
Mistress Stefania ordered us to turn left so that we were facing the crowd, then left again so that we were facing away from the poles and the crowd was to our right. She walked down the line and checked the chains connecting each of our collars to the posts — I saw her touch Janet on the shoulder and give her a little nod — then she waved at Master David, who was seated on the lifeguard chair where he could oversee us.
David, in turn, signaled to to someone by the fence. I looked over my shoulder and saw none other than Master Green(!) standing next to the gate leading to the bleachers. Green nodded and unlocked the heavy padlock securing the chain around the gate post, and open the gate.
Oh no.
Oh NO.
Green held up a data pad, then tapped a sign fastened to the fence (I couldn’t see what was written on it), instructing the crowd to finish entering their preferences on their phones because he was about to “spin the wheel.”
After a moment’s pause, he tapped his data pad, watched it, then called for the first six to line up at the gate with their phones ready.
Six men, mostly middle-aged and dressed in various types of casual or athletic clothing, got up from the bleachers. Green looked at the screen on each of their phones, tapped his data pad, then ushered them inside. Mistress Stefania directed them to their “assigned” slave.
Oh no, no, no.
Nicolaides and the side of the highway flashed before my eyes.
A broad-shouldered white guy in Wranglers and cowboy boots walked up to Tracy, an older Latino man with an impressive mustache walked up to Rhonda, a white dude in a golfing outfit walked up to Janet, while a youngish white guy in jeans and a tee-shirt and stupid-expensive sneakers got Vanessa. She looked surprised to see him - I wonder if they knew each other?
I head footsteps next to me, and I got some idea of how Vanessa felt, but multiplied by a million.
Here I was, naked, tied, mute, collared, kneeling, chained to a post in front of a hundred or more onlookers, my slave number scrawled on my chest, feeling as low as I ever have in my entire life, knowing that I was about to fellate a complete stranger like the obedient little slave girl I was being trained to become. What could possibly make this worse?
I looked up into the smug, smirking face of Jared, my estranged ex-boyfriend.
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I knelt on the floor in front of the cages, not paying attention to anything the trainers were saying.
Instead I was thinking about the things that my boss, Marla, had told me; developments in the “story” I was pursuing, or more accurately developments in the events that put me in a collar and landed me in obedience school. There was a lot, but the biggest thing —
“F2, now,” Mistress Stefania said in a raised voice, which is never a good thing when she has a whip and you have no clothes. I immediately dropped onto all fours and crawled quickly to her, reading her reaction and that of my four fellow trainee slaves as best I could, and when I reached her I prostrated myself: face down, arms outstretched, naked ass in the air.
“Up,” she said, and when I was back on my knees she threw a greyish-brown lump hard at my chest. I went oof but caught it; a blanket, much like the one I had used when traveling on the slave truck.
“Thank you, mistress,” I said, she dismissed me with a nod, and I crawled back to my place in line with as much grace as I could muster.
“Obedience is expected of a slave,” Master David said. “As the lowest of the low, It is your natural place to obey your betters. But sometimes obedience is rewarded; you can never be sure when or even if, and you must never expect it at all.”
“But as a reward for completing your first stage of training,” Mistress Stefania said, “Master David and I have decided to give you each a blanket to sleep with. When you awake each morning it must be immediately folded - neatly - into a triangle and placed in the corner nearest the hinges to your door. Any slave who fails to do so, or does so in a sloppy or careless manner, will lose not just its blanket but everyone’s blanket. Understood?”
“Yes, ma’am,” we all said in unison.
“What is obedience?” Master David asked us.
“Obedience is my service,” we repeated back to him.
“What is your service?” he continued.
“My service is obedience,” we chanted.
“Put away your rewards, then line up for showers.”
------------------------------------------------
That evening I stood in front of my cage, waiting for the order to go inside so I could wrap myself in my new blanket.
It’s not that I was becoming comfortable with being naked all the time, but I was growing used to it, if that makes sense. Still, that blanket is the closest I’ve come to being able to cover myself up in… well, I’m not sure. Over a week, right? Two weeks? And I was looking forward to it, even if I could only wear it inside my cage.
“My” blanket. “My” cage.
My God, what the fuck is wrong with me.
When I’m on assignment in the field, I focus entirely on what’s happening around me, and not at all about what’s happening directly to me, much less how I feel about it — it’s a defense mechanism I developed to help keep my cool under pressure, among other things — but I have a lot of time to think now, and some things are starting to bother me.
For example: I can’t stand waiting, not even a little bit. Call me impatient, I just always have something better to do than to wait around for someone to find the time to talk to me, or give me what I need, or whatever. Not the greatest trait in a reporter I know, but it’s usually worked out okay for me. On the rare occasions that I was forced to wait around, my mood deteriorated to the point that when whomever I was waiting on finally got around to me they reeeeally wished they hadn’t kept me waiting.
But now? I can’t explain why, but I’m…
I can deal with it.
It’s still not easy, but I’m getting used to it. Actually, in the evenings when I’m tired from training all day, I’m getting to the point that I can clear my mind, sit still, and wait quite patiently. My mother would be amazed.
That’s the only serious, tangible change I’ve seen so far, at least the only one I can put my finger on, and I’m not entirely sure that it’s a change and not just adapting to my situation.
But since I’m sitting here thinking about it…
I’ve mentioned before that I don’t possess a particularly active sex drive. Under normal circumstances I don’t think much about sex, nor do I masturbate very often (like I told the ladies in the transport truck, typically about once a month). Don’t get me wrong: I enjoy sex, and with the right guy under the right circumstances I can enjoy a lot of sex, but it’s more of a situational thing than something I think about regularly.
But now? I find it creeping in to my thoughts throughout the day. Mostly I think about Lee, my Army officer boyfriend/lover/whatever we are. But after my whipping, I started having very explicit fantasies of being bent over my cage and having Master David roger me stupid, and the whole time I’m thanking him for punishing me. I even had another one yesterday about being back on the side of the road, sucking off complete strangers before taking that bastard Nicodemus’ fat, greasy cock in my mouth and sucking it like it was the greatest thing in the world while he slowly tapped his strap-whip on the side of his leg, chuckling, calling me a stupid slut. Then, if you can believe it, I turned around and offered up my bright red ass and dripping wet pussy to him, begging him to fuck me like one of his slave girls. That part was new. Where is it coming from? I mean, the truth is if I ever see Nicodemus again I will happily castrate him, so I have no idea.
Then there’s the women. I’m not gay at all, I’ve never had a sexual encounter with a woman (beyond one kissing incident while drunk in college), nor have I ever wanted to. But lately I’ve been surrounded by naked female sex slaves (let’s be honest, that’s what they — we — are) being trained to obey so that they can be better sex slaves. Each and every one of them jills off at night, while I lie in my cage listening to them. As I laid there last night I started thinking about Mistress Stefania, but not as a mistress: I was remembering her from the internal video I saw, naked and collared and kneeling before Master David with his cock in her mouth, the large nipples on her breasts hard as diamonds. I was kneeling next to her, my tongue running gently over Master’s tight, swollen balls as she bobbed, my bare leg touching hers, when he ordered us to pleasure each other for his amusement.
I looked at him, trying to convey without words that I didn’t want to do that, but he just smirked and nodded for me to get on with it.
We got into a sixty-nine position, with me on top as befits the junior slave, and I found my face inches away from her waxed vagina. I could feel the warmth radiating from it, and smell her arousal. Just as I was contemplating my first lesbian sex act, I felt her tongue run up and down my labia, her hands kneading my bottom and spreading out the cleft in my cheeks. It felt wonderful, and I had to reciprocate. I kissed the dark, smooth skin of her outer labia; I felt her flinch when the cold metal leash-ring dangling from my collar touched her skin. I started licking her folds methodically, outer-inner-up-down like we were taught on the plastic dummies. I heard a soft moan from Stefania, and felt a finger start to massage the area around my anus. I shuddered with, well, pleasure.
Of course, that’s when I shook awake.
I could still feel the last ripples of the pleasure from my dream, a warm feeling all over my body, my breathing a little ragged, and some drops of moisture running down the folds of my swollen vagina.
So there’s that.
One thing that hasn’t changed? Humiliation — I still hate it. We trainees were all standing in front of our cages, holding the Inspection pose: legs apart more than shoulder-width, hands behind our heads, fingers laced together behind our necks, chests thrust out to highlight our naked breasts, eyes straight ahead until addressed. When a trainer approached us, we had to change to Inspection-Attention, meaning we pushed our elbows back as far as they would go, lifted out chins up, and raised ourselves up on our toes so that our heels were off the floor.
If our heels touched the floor before the trainer left, we got a stripe across our bottom, and we kept getting them until we lifted our heels back up.
Mistress Stefania stepped away from Vanessa and stopped in front of me. I assumed the Inspection-Attention position and waited.
She stood looking at me, a slight smile on her lips, looking directly into my eyes even as I couldn’t look back into hers. Between my complete nudity, my wide-open legs displaying my hairless vagina, my breasts thrust out as though I were offering them to her, and my precarious balance — a slight push would knock me back on my heels and right into a painful, public strapping — I felt incredibly vulnerable. That vulnerability, reduced to a piece of property, no, a piece of ass, wearing a collar confirming my place at the bottom of society (the mentally-ill homeless were beneath a slave, but not by much), forced to act at the whims of a woman probably ten years my junior, my calves trembling both from fatigue and the fear of displeasing her, made me feel incredibly humiliated. Almost as much as I felt when I was first stripped and bound in Central America.
Stefania cupped my pussy with her free hand (the other held the punishment strap) and rubbed it, giving me a little electric charge that resulted in goosebumps and faster breathing while also making me wobble slightly. She raised up her fingers in front of my face: they were slick with wetness.
So there’s another data point.
“Open wide, F2, and stick out your tongue,” she said, and I obeyed without hesitating. She wiped her fingers, front and back and both sides, on my outstretched tongue. “Close and swallow,” she ordered, and I checked off “tasting my own vaginal lubricants” on my bucket list.
Mistress Stefania smirked, tweaked my erect left nipple, then moved on. I had just relaxed back down on my heels when I heard the front door open.
I didn’t dare turn to see who it was, but I heard two sets of footsteps and the clink of a light chain. A few moments later Master David appeared in front of us, leading a slave on a leash.
It was Janet! She had returned, looking decidedly relaxed and even refreshed — for a naked woman in a slave collar and shackles.
Janet smiled at us all while David removed her restraints, then meekly followed him as he led her to stand in position in front of her old cage. Mistress Stefania handed her a blanket, and quickly explained why she had it and her responsibility for this extravagant gift.
“Yes, mistress. I understand and will obey, mistress,” Janet said, bowing her head slightly.
Stefania smiled and nodded to Master David; as he turned away, she briefly placed a reassuring hand on Janet’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.
------------------------------------------------
“Adjustment Disorder is what the doctor said,” Janet told us after lights-out.
“What is that?” Tracy interrupted.
“It’s Latin,” Rhonda growled at her, “For shut up and let her finish or I will pinch you until you squeal.”
“Geez,” Tracy whispered, and curled up in the corner of her cage farthest away from Rhonda.
“I don’t know, but I think it’s pretty much what it sounds like — having a hard time adjusting,” Janet continued. “She said it’s really common. They gave me some medication, let me rest, and I spent several days talking to a slave psychologist, doing exercises and learning how to think about what’s happening to me. I have to admit, I feel a lot better about what’s going on.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t beat the hell out you,” Ariel said. “Isn’t that what obedience school is about?”
“I asked the same thing,” Janet replied. “They told me that obedience school is about learning what is expected out of me as a slave, and getting into the right frame of mind so I can serve out my indenture as expected, without problems. Cooperation is much better than coercion, in their view, and they’d rather produce a calm, submissive, willingly obedient slave through help and instruction than a miserable, terrified slave cowed by torture. Those are not very valuable in the market, believe it or not. In fact, if that slave were to try and, say, poison her new master, the school would be held legally responsible.”
“I don’t get it,” Ariel said. “So the whips and chains and everything are just an act?”
“That can’t be true,” Vanessa interjected, “Not after what happened to Frankie.”
“What happened to Frankie?” Janet asked, and Vanessa told her.
“Oh no, I’m so sorry my dear,” Janet said, looking over at me, her face showing genuine concern.
“Eh, I lived,” I said. “But thanks.”
“Well, they made it clear that punishment and the threat of punishment are very much part of this. In fact, anyone who fails obedience school gets to go to a place they call The Shop, which is where they break the will of stubborn slaves with very unpleasant methods. Some slaves - like the ones with Oppositional Defiant Disorder, which is untreatable - will need to go to the next step, which is being labeled UNCO so that the school is released from liability. UNCOs are only purchased by persons willing to take on the danger of having an uncontrollable slave. For instance, all of the male slaves in the penitentiary are UNCOs, as are many of the slaves in the really harsh places like mines and factories… and certain brothels. Oh, and an UNCO who’s enough of a troublemaker can get her indenture converted to a life term. What we’re getting here is some carrot with just a bit of stick: it can get much worse.”
There was a brief silence as everyone let this new knowledge sink in.
“How does knowing all that help you deal with this?” I asked, gesturing around us. “It seems to me like it underlines just how vulnerable we are.”
“At first I thought so too,” Janet replied. “But Dr. Fessenden told me something that made a lot of sense: everything in life is carrots and sticks. The key is to concentrate on the carrot and not the stick.”
“How so?”
“For example, look at how my friends are handling it. Tracy was our customer care wiz, so she’s a natural people-pleaser, as well as being the most, um, enthusiastically sexual person I’ve ever known. She’s up for nearly anything if she thinks there will be some pleasure at the end of it.”
“Hey!” Tracy squeaked.
“Which is great,” Janet said, “It’s a very healthy way to deal with the situation. Do what’s asked of you and you’re in for plenty of carrots. Rhonda, on the other hand, is an Eeyore, which is its own coping mechanism.”
“What?” Rhonda said, sounding surprised.
Janet held up a hand. “You know I love you both, I’m not saying this to be insulting. Being a gloom-and-doomer, Rhonda always expects the worst, so when bad things happen she’s not surprised and she gets to be right; likewise when they don’t she gets to say something snarky about it and everyone laughs. By being funny about it, she becomes more popular. Either way, she feels better about herself.”
Janet sighed. “As for me, my chief problem was the loss of status. I genuinely could not make myself take a rubber penis into my mouth in public, I just couldn’t, it was too degrading, a step too far. But now, I’ve told myself that I knew this was a possible outcome of the agreement I entered into, and as a result I need to comport myself like the professional that I am, a professional who is fulfilling her end of the contract. I don’t have to like it, but I can regain a certain amount of dignity by how I view situations, by how I behave, and by using my time to sharpen my own sales and customer service and maybe even leadership skills. Do some networking. Who knows, I might even spot some business opportunities.”
Janet looked at each of us. “What it comes down to is we all just need to get through this as best we can, using whatever tools we have available.”
------------------------------------------------
Saturday was pretty uneventful: more drilling, more practice with rubber genitalia, the usual, the only difference was that we were joined by two new trainers. Both were male, one a short, bald white guy, muscular like a bodybuilder, the other a younger, very tall, kind of lanky Latino guy with a full, well-groomed beard that actually looked pretty nice. I think shorty was the senior of the two, given that he kept pointing at us and talking quietly to beardy like he was explaining things, but neither joined in our training, they just watched us and occasionally spoke to Master David.
Which was fine by me, because it gave me time to check in with Amy, my outside contact. I relayed the news about the return of Janet, and Amy gave me what little information she had on the bombshell our producer Marla had dropped on me the day before.
I should probably explain that, shouldn’t I? The gist of it is that Linda, the woman responsible for landing me in this mess, is a big, fat liar, and now a wanted runaway.
If you recall, Linda (a life slave) told me that she had fallen in love with her master, who promised to free and marry her, and had placed her in his will. He had died suddenly, leaving Linda still a slave and at the mercy of her master’s children. As the executors of his estate, the kids quickly sent Linda away for sale before she could get anyone to act on the provisions in her late master’s will. So she engineered an escape (using me as her placeholder, hoping to delay any alarm long enough for her to get far away), planning to use her freedom (albeit as a fugitive) to contact friends and get her inheritance restored.
Like I said, turns out that none of that was actually true.
Hannelinde “Linda” Vanderberg was never a graduate of the University of Texas, nor did she work for the government of the State of Texas (although her parents did both). She dropped out of college at an early age due to mental and emotional problems, managed somehow to become licensed as a paralegal, and spent years working a number of clerical jobs probably obtained by friends of her family. Eventually she landed at an energy company in Oklahoma City, becoming the lover (more accurately, a lover) of the founder and CEO.
The part of her story where she finagled her way into his inner circle through her desire to act like a sex slave is probably true, but the rest — being gifted as a volunteer lifetime slave to a close friend of the CEO, complete with lavish ceremony — is not.
Instead, something bad happened. We don’t yet know exactly what (Marla has some people digging into it), but Linda was involuntarily enslaved in Oklahoma under the so-called “Exempt” section of their slave statutes, the one known as Section 8609 which provides for enslaving the mentally ill for their own safety and that of the public at large.
Amy told me that in slaver lingo it’s called “being eighty-sixed,” but it’s not common and most states (including Texas) do not have a similar law. We’re not yet sure exactly what form that enslavement took for Linda.
The news Amy had to pass along was that the Texas Rangers had already questioned Nicolaides and released him (the Feds aren’t involved yet). According to one of Marla’s sources in Austin, while officially he was released in return for his cooperation, in reality it was due to influence from HCI, who really wants to hush all this up. Marla told Amy that we now have some “leverage.”
“To do what?” I asked her.
“No idea, she didn’t say,” Amy replied.
“Any idea what it means for me?”
“Marla didn’t mention you specifically, but she did tell me that she loves the ’twist’ and is preparing to change the course of the series to reflect it. I have no idea how that will play out.”
“In other news,” Amy continued, “I have another meeting of the Coffee Club tomorrow morning — it’s supposed to be pretty good.”
“So what is their deal, anyway?” I asked.
“The TL;DR version is that it’s a club for upwardly-mobile middle class ladies to get together and learn how to buy and own slaves. They go through a workbook, go to seminars, take online classes - honestly way more prep than I think is necessary, but all of the members were very good students in school so maybe it’s not surprising that they like that approach. It’s apparently a regional thing, just in the southwest for now, but it’s got a parent company in Boulder that makes and sells the books and classes, and the organizers sell the stuff on commission.”
“What are they doing out here? Watching the school, I mean.”
“Anxiety, I think. Most of them can’t afford a slave yet, but they really want one, and when they have enough to buy one they want to make the right purchase and be able to manage her efficiently. It reminds me of the Rise & Grind people you see on Instagram.”
Amy sighed audibly. “But there’s something else going on that doesn’t add up. All those women writing in their journals and taking photos aren’t doing homework, when I asked they said so but wouldn’t elaborate. And Leslie, the lady who invited me to sit with the group? She never does anything, just sits there drinking her coffee and watching.”
“Are you working on this Leslie person?”
“I will tonight, she’s taking me shopping.”
------------------------------------------------
The rest of the day was pretty much same ol’, same ol’. Marta dragged out the rubber dicks and we had the “pleasure” of getting on our knees and practicing blowjobs in front of the two new trainers. Shorty just watched silently, but beardy grinned as I started bobbing, clearly enjoying the sight. Mistress Stefania “helped” me by instructing me to pull my butt cheeks apart, exposing my bald pussy and anus to the world while I worked. I felt a knot in my stomach as I sat like a total whore, effectively inviting shorty and beardy to double team me. Beardy nodded in appreciation while my face grew a deep red.
The only really new thing was at shower time: Master David informed us that each morning from now on we were to begin performing enemas on ourselves, and this evening would be our instruction. Of course, Mistress Stefania chose me to be the guinea pig. Once again I got to face ten people (five slaves, plus four trainers and Marta the resident slave) and spread my ass open so that Stefania could show the proper technique for inserting a metal nozzle into my rectum and filling it up, followed by a hasty waddle to the squat toilet where I dumped out my lunch.
“Aww, look at her,” Mistress Stefania said. “She’s embarrassed! Her face is so red I think she might have a stroke. What do you think, Master Adán?”
“I think she’s due for a number of strokes,” Beardy replied.
Shorty spoke up, revealing a Deep South accent. “Yes, first with the punishment strap, and then with your cock, right?” They all had a good laugh at that one, but thankfully I was dismissed while others learned their new skill.
That night in my cage, I thought about Adán. He’s practically a kid, maybe ten years my junior. I wonder if he’s old enough to legally drink alcohol? The minimum age to own and handle slaves is eighteen in most states, so who knows.
Normally I prefer a man be clean-shaven, but I had to admit I was digging his bushy Hipster beard. It was a nice contrast to his sharply-parted and pomaded hair, which I normally don’t like either, but the beard really enhanced his masculinity. I also liked his height, especially when I’m on my knees and he’s close to me and I have to crane my neck to look up at him. I’d have to raise myself up on my knees in order to reach his cock with my mouth—
I sat up. Where this hell is this coming from? Adán is not my type. So what was it about him that was turning me on?
What is happening to me?
------------------------------------------------
The next morning was either Saturday or Sunday. I’ll ask Amy about that later, because right now she was sitting in the bleachers just beyond the fence, next to the blonde lady with the bolted-on tits. Unlike last time, Amy was wearing a very nice (and expensive) matching set of athleisure wear, complete with Nikes and a big container of barista-brewed coffee that I swear I could friggin’ taste from here; she and bolt-ons (whom I’m assuming is Leslie) looked like two peas in a pod.
We went through our morning warm ups and mantras like usual. I caught glimpses of Marta hauling out equipment, and I could hear some of it scraping along the concrete when she dragged it.
I also noticed that the bleachers were starting to fill up. Lots of men, mostly in casual clothes as far as I could see, which made sense as it was the weekend (a word that didn’t have much meaning for slaves). The murmuring and quiet talking was starting to increase in volume as more of them came in.
I was glad of the tall chainlink fence.
A short while later Mistress Stefania halted our workout and had us stand at Present, facing away from the crowd. Marta appeared, carrying a bucket filled with bundles of rope, and she accompanied Stefania as she walked along behind each of us, tying our hands to our elbows behind our backs. When she was done, we turned around to face the large crowd.
The rubber-dong poles were there, and fastened into the ground, complete with the eponymous dongs. A number of plastic chairs had been arranged around the area, including one on an elevated platform, like a lifeguard stand but not as tall.
The double doors from the building swung open, and I saw the two new trainers (Shorty and Adán/Beardy) leading a coffle of six naked slaves.
Looking over them over, they appeared to be split evenly between Latinas and white girls. All of them were young; the Latinas all appeared to be barely over eighteen, and the Anglos (two blondes and a brunette) not much older. They were completely naked from head to toe except for their slave collars and restraints — their hands were cuffed behind them — and each had a large letter “B” followed by a number written on their chests. Interestingly, three of them (two Latinas and one of the blondes) wore what appeared to be a metal “girdle” around their waists with a metal plate between their legs. The girls’ eyes were wide and their lips trembling with fear and trepidation as they glanced from us to the poles to their trainers to the crowd and back.
Shorty halted them on a patch of rubber padding just inside the shade of the roofed area and ordered them to kneel, which they did, awkwardly.
Master David walked out of the building and stood in front of us.
“Today is your first Field Day,” he began. “Field Day is like an exam, where we test your ability to submit and obey. If you do what you are told without hesitation or resistance, you will pass and your training will continue. If you balk, if you freeze, if — God forbid — you refuse, you will be punished, and your stay here with us will be extended so that you can enjoy even more Field Days. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master,” we chanted.
David stepped closer to us and lowered his voice. “You all in Fish Class are older, better educated, and more experienced than the average who come through here. I want you to put on a good demonstration for the new slaves in Bird Class, show them how it’s done. If you all do well, I am prepared to reward you. Understood?”
“Yes, master,” we replied. But really, what else could we possibly say?
“Up,” came the command. We were marched over to the poles, each of us knelt on a piece of rubber matting next to a pole, and a length of chain was fastened from the pole to each of our collars.
The murmuring among the men and free women outside the fence started to grow louder.
I knelt there, naked and chained, my collar confirming my status as a slave, what little dignity I retained vanishing as I looked around at all the clothed people, free to hide their bodies from sight and come and go as they wished. I could tell that a number of men were pointing at me, or more specifically my shaved crotch, and grinning at each other.
I dropped my head momentarily, shutting my eyes as I was overwhelmed with humiliation.
Just a piece of meat, I thought.
When I looked back up, I spotted Amy and Leslie again. Leslie was cool as a cucumber, sipping her coffee with one knee crossed over the other, her elevated foot tapping to some unheard rhythm. Amy, on the other hand, was as wide-eyed as the members of Bird Troop over there, her face flushed pink, hunched over slightly — I couldn’t see her non-coffee hand, because that disappeared between her tightly-clamped thighs.
Terrific.
Mistress Stefania stopped next to each of us, adjusting the rubber dong to the right height. When she was done, she blew a whistle and the six of us started sucking rubber like we were putting on a show.
Or at least I assume so: our sides were turned to the audience, so I could only see Ariel on the post in front of me. She’s as enthusiastic a cocksucker as any of us; the one I was worried about was Janet. But I didn’t hear anything, so I assumed she did what she had to do.
The crowd got even louder. I could hear shouts and jeers, and even a chant break out at one point (“GO! GO! GO!”) that seemed to match Ariel’s rhythm. When Stefania blew the whistle again we stopped, un-swallowed the dongs and sat back on our heels.
A ragged round of applause congratulated us.
I glanced at Amy and Leslie: they were comparing photos or (more likely) videos on their phones.
Fantastic.
Stefania made another circuit of the suckers — to each of us she ordered “Open” and squirted a dose of devoxing spray down our throats.
I must have looked surprised, because when she finished with me she did a double-take and laughed. “Believe me,” she said, “This is a mercy.”
I started to ask her what she meant, but nothing came out.
Oh, right. Devoxing spray.
Marta scurried through and removed the rubber dongs from the poles, and I got to watch her scurry back to the equipment room with a bucket full o’dongs; another item checked off my bucket list.
No pun intended.
Mistress Stefania ordered us to turn left so that we were facing the crowd, then left again so that we were facing away from the poles and the crowd was to our right. She walked down the line and checked the chains connecting each of our collars to the posts — I saw her touch Janet on the shoulder and give her a little nod — then she waved at Master David, who was seated on the lifeguard chair where he could oversee us.
David, in turn, signaled to to someone by the fence. I looked over my shoulder and saw none other than Master Green(!) standing next to the gate leading to the bleachers. Green nodded and unlocked the heavy padlock securing the chain around the gate post, and open the gate.
Oh no.
Oh NO.
Green held up a data pad, then tapped a sign fastened to the fence (I couldn’t see what was written on it), instructing the crowd to finish entering their preferences on their phones because he was about to “spin the wheel.”
After a moment’s pause, he tapped his data pad, watched it, then called for the first six to line up at the gate with their phones ready.
Six men, mostly middle-aged and dressed in various types of casual or athletic clothing, got up from the bleachers. Green looked at the screen on each of their phones, tapped his data pad, then ushered them inside. Mistress Stefania directed them to their “assigned” slave.
Oh no, no, no.
Nicolaides and the side of the highway flashed before my eyes.
A broad-shouldered white guy in Wranglers and cowboy boots walked up to Tracy, an older Latino man with an impressive mustache walked up to Rhonda, a white dude in a golfing outfit walked up to Janet, while a youngish white guy in jeans and a tee-shirt and stupid-expensive sneakers got Vanessa. She looked surprised to see him - I wonder if they knew each other?
I head footsteps next to me, and I got some idea of how Vanessa felt, but multiplied by a million.
Here I was, naked, tied, mute, collared, kneeling, chained to a post in front of a hundred or more onlookers, my slave number scrawled on my chest, feeling as low as I ever have in my entire life, knowing that I was about to fellate a complete stranger like the obedient little slave girl I was being trained to become. What could possibly make this worse?
I looked up into the smug, smirking face of Jared, my estranged ex-boyfriend.
