Went West - Part 6

[Carl Bradford]

This is the next-to-next-to-last part, effectively the end of Week 2 of O-school, so the last two parts will be weeks 3 and 4, respectively.
Hope you enjoy it!



Darkness fell, as it always does around here, and I was in my cage, wrapped in my blanket, looking forward to a full night’s sleep because Mistress Stefania was out tonight. Instead, the new trainer from Bird class, Master Adán (a.k.a. Beardy) was on overnight duty.

Needless to say I was surprised when, shortly after lights out, Master Adán appeared at my cage with leash in hand. I followed him to the trainer’s night quarters, figuring I would shortly be choking on his dick.

(Aaaand I might be okay with that.)

But we passed through the room I was familiar with, into the small door to the far left, then down a short hall with doors on either side (I recognized some of the rooms from watching the video feed with Marta). Through another door at the end and into a sparsely furnished room (single bed, table and two chairs, three-drawer dresser, clothes rack on the wall) that appeared to be unoccupied. It looked like the sort of place you see in government temporary quarters… except for the leash ring mounted on the wall next to the bed.

“Down,” Master Adán said. I knelt next to the bed, he looped my leash through the ring like tying a horse to a hitching post, then turned and left, switching off the light and closing the door behind him.

Apparently I didn’t need the light any more than the furniture did.

I knelt in the dark, waiting, my legs spread wide in waiting pose like a good little slave girl, even though no one was there to force me. What was I waiting for? Who was I waiting for? Obviously not for Master Adán, but beyond that I had no idea. Of course, I didn’t dare to ask - that would have invited punishment, and I wouldn’t have gotten an answer anyway.

Footsteps in the hallway, the knob rattled, and the door opened sending a flood of light into the room. A dark silhouette nearly filled the doorway, standing and looking at me, hands on hips. I couldn’t immediately place who it was until I heard the deep-chested chuckle.

Master Green closed the door and flicked on the lights. He stood before me, a big man seeming even more enormous to me right now, or maybe because I was kneeling, naked and leashed, in front of him I felt very small. Dressed in his usual uniform of dark jeans, boots, long-sleeved lighter denim shirt with the HCI logo stitched on the chest, and a coiled slaver’s whip hooked on his belt, Green looked me up and down, his gaze lingering on parts of my body that he liked.

My face grew hot with embarrassment. I felt like a prize sow being judged at the county fair.

He stood a moment longer, gazing and smiling, before finally speaking.

“Is this how you greet a master who’s just walked in to the room when you are leashed next to a bed?”

I snapped out of my reverie immediately. “I’m sorry, sir. Please forgive me,” I said, and leaned forward on all fours, kissed the toes of his boots, then prostrated myself before him.

“Better. As you were,” he said, pulling over a chair and sitting in it directly in front of me while I pushed back up onto my knees. He placed a small plastic box on the table to his right.

“When Theo Nicodemus told me you were a troublemaker, I assumed it was just because you were fresh meat who hadn’t been to O-school yet,” he said. “But that’s not it at all, is it? You’re doing very well here for someone who’s supposed to be a troublemaker. So instead I figured you had to be a tourist.”

I sat silently until I realized that, even though it was a rhetorical statement, he expected a response: “I don’t understand, sir—“

“I didn’t understand either, because some things with you don’t add up. For example, you’ve never been graded, have you?” he said, referring to the humiliating process where women are judged or “graded” like cattle, often prior to sale.

“No, sir.”

“Pull down your lip,” he commanded, and I did.

He rubbed a huge finger the side of his nose, squinting, his eyes searching my face. “Chipped, but not marked with an SRN. Very strange, and very unlike a tourist.”

He keeps using that term tourist; mental note to ask Amy to research that.

“Alright, you can let go.” Green leaned back. “I called Theo, or I should say I tried calling him but his phone’s out of service for some reason. So I asked around, looked into a few things, and do you know what I found?”

After a brief pause, I answered. “No, sir.”

“Your registration number is fake, that’s what.” Green leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees while he looked calmly into my face. He stared for a minute, then pulled a folded-up piece of paper out of his shirt pocket, unfolded it and snapped it taught, then turned it toward me.

It was a printout of a webpage from a site listing for sale my exact model of recording glasses, noting that they were commonly used by corporate inspectors, secret shoppers, and journalists.

Shit, he hadn’t been looking at my face, he’d been looking at my glasses.

I looked back up at him, his strong, bearded face very close to mine — I caught a faint whiff of his beard oil, very masculine, I think a bit on the sandalwood side. I held my face completely still, not wanting to betray any fear, but truthfully I was afraid, and I felt a chill run up my spine. Master Green is a big, powerful man — he could do anything he wanted to me, and I would be powerless to stop him.

Then I noticed a certain fluttering in my belly, and a — a warmth growing between my legs.

What I was doing wasn’t exactly a secret — HCI’s corporate office knew about me — but we purposely didn’t want anyone else to know, ostensibly because it might interfere with the story (people act differently when they know they’re being watched, especially by a reporter), but also to avoid placing me in danger from someone who might abuse their power over me in order to cover something up.

Like, for example, what was apparently happening right now.

After another long, uncomfortable silence, Green sat back in the chair and placed the paper on the table, never breaking eye contact with me.

“I’ve determined three things,” he said. “First, you’re not with the government. They wouldn’t use off-the-shelf stuff like this, stuff that might get them exposed.”

“Second, you’re not corporate. I would have been told about you unless you’re a goat, and I don’t think they would waste one of those friggin’ unicorns on a second-rate O-school.”

Another mental note: Amy, what’s a goat?

“Third, since you’re not a genuine slave, a tourist, a cop or a goat, I don’t know what you are. Which means I need to know what you are. So, Miss Francesca Ontkean, if that’s your name: what are you?”

Another silence; he really liked forcing people to respond to him, which is one of the oldest tricks in the interviewer book, and I wasn’t falling for it. I’m just a slave, right? So I sat there and acted dumb.

A short chuckle, and Green continued. “If you tell me, I might be able to help you.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“You’re here for a reason. That much is clear - why else would you go to all this trouble? As it happens,” Green spread his hands, “I’m here for a reason too.”

“Oh?” I said.

Green looked at me for a long moment, sizing me up like a mark at a poker game. Chuckling, he slapped his bear paw on his knee.

“Alright, I’ll go first. But then you tell me your story,” he said, “And if you don’t, I’m kicking you out of this school and right into something much worse. Deal?”

It was clear to me that he’d pretty much already guessed who I was, so giving him details wouldn’t make much difference. It’s a bit of a risk, but I’ve not kept my presence here a huge secret, and besides — right now I could use all the allies I can get.

I nodded. “Deal.”

Another one of his deep chuckles that made my eardrums twitch. I had to admit, while I love my soldier-boy Lee very much (and yes — I really do love him, I recognize that now), Master Green is one of the finest specimens of masculinity I’ve ever seen.

“Good. My story is that we’re having a problem. By “we” I mean HCI, and specifically this school. The regional office in Denver asked me to investigate, unofficial-like. They picked me because I’m a long time supervisor with a clean record, an experienced slaver, and I have no ties to the school or anyone who works here. But what I am not,” he sighed, “is a detective. I can’t quite figure out what’s going on here.”

Okay, I thought, now I’m really interested.

“The only metric that HCI cares about for a school like this is the graduation rate. Even the crappiest schools have something like a 85% ratio, and most HCI schools are in the high 90s. This one is currently running around 68%.”

I raised both eyebrows. “That’s… remarkable, sir,” I offered.

“It is,” he replied. “Low grad rates are caused by a few different things, but this one appears to be the default rate. The thing to understand is that most O-schools see around a handful of defaults each year, and the better schools never have any. This school had 20 defaults in the past quarter.”

“Defaults, sir?” I asked.

“Technically, they’re reversions. In slaver lingo we call them defaults, although in some places they’re called forfeits. Remember when you checked in here?” Green asked, grinning. “The trainers told your owners that any slaves remaining at the school after 6pm on the final Friday would be considered the property of HCI to — and I quote — ‘dispose of as they saw fit.’ That is a type of default. There are others.”

“Jesus,” I whispered.

Master Green chuckled. “I’m sure you understand that no one in their right mind willingly leaves something as valuable as a slave in the HCI lost & found,” he continued. “Officially, it does happen from time to time. But unofficially I could tell you all kinds of rumors about employees misstating times and dates, shutting down early, accidentally placing trainees in the wrong cages and shipping them somewhere, and so forth, all of which delayed pickup and so resulted in a contractual breach between the owner and HCI, reverting the slave’s ownership to the company.”

“Sir,” I asked, remembering my place, “Do any of the defaults have anything in common?”

“No, and that’s what’s so puzzling. A few were custody defaults like I explained, others were psych defaults, some were medical defaults, some were contractual defaults - all over the place. And no one trainer was responsible for significantly more than any other. All I know,” he concluded, grinning again, “Is that the trainers here are makin’ stacks offa lost pussy.”

“Sir?” I asked.

“The highest-ranking trainer of the slave’s class acts as sale agent and collects a fat fee, or in some cases even keeps the slave for themselves because, hey, free slave.”

Green’s grin disappeared.

“Normally the root cause is a personnel problem, and the company can deal with that. But as far as I can tell, none of the trainers are particularly bad, at least not enough to stand out, nor are they obviously crooked. HCI has shuffled a few around, and the default rate stays steady, so something else is going on here.”

I sat silently for a moment, thinking.

“What do you think I can do for you, sir?” I asked.

“I think you know, but lemme spell it out so we’re clear,” he said. “I can’t be everywhere all the time, and when I am here everyone knows it. I get along with most of the trainers, but if they’re up to something they’re not going to say or do anything in front of me. So, I need someone on the inside, and I’d prefer it be someone with some brains. I need you to tell me about anything you see or hear that might be of interest. Simple enough?”

“Yes, sir,” I said. “But why should I help you?”

“Hypothetically speaking,” Green said, grinning once again, “If your curvy little blond friend was delayed - or even, let’s say, detained - on a certain Friday and as a result you found yourself headed for the auction block, having a friend who’s a supervisor over in the HCI market would be priceless, wouldn’t you agree? Your indenture is real enough, I checked, you’ve got a bit more than five months left and any sale would be perfectly legal. Get my drift?”

I looked down at the floor. If that hypothetical happened, I’d have no doubt who would be responsible for “detaining” Amy, and no matter how much he grinned and chuckled I don’t think he’d be very friendly at all.

So it’s extortion disguised to look like a deal: give me what I want and nothing bad will happen to you but let’s dress this up to look like a voluntary exchange for our mutual benefit. Christ: Green may be old-school and unoriginal, but he knows what he’s doing.

I looked back up at him. “Sir,” I said, “if you’re right about my glasses, how do you know I’m not recording all of this right now?”

Green patted the plastic box he’d placed on the table. “My niece got this for me, says the kids call it a rat trap. In the army we called it an electronic jammer. Your glasses stopped working as soon as I opened the door.” His grin grew broader. “And before you ask, this is one of the only rooms in the building without a surveillance camera.”

That’s it, I’m screwed. Possibly literally.

(Aaaand I might be okay with that.)

“I understand, sir,” I heard myself say.

“Good,” he said, tipping his chair back and lacing his fingers on top of his stomach, “Now why don’t you tell me a little about yourself.”

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“I think that was a terrible decision,” Amy said.

We were talking on the sub-vocal link as usual the next morning, while I learned something new: Mistress Stefania was teaching us how to use a leash or a short length of rope to do different exercises that kept us very flexible, and reduced the pain from bending, twisting, and so forth; you can imagine why that would come in useful.

“Well, you weren’t there,” I said, “And besides that it was my call to make.”

“No, it’s not,” Amy shot back. “I’m your producer. We’re supposed to be a team. You can’t be making decisions like that without talking to me first!”

“You’re not a producer,” I reminded her. “Marla is my producer. You’re a technical liaison we’re giving an AP credit. I’m the one running this story in the field.”

“Not as of Monday,” Amy shot back, her voice growing more harsh. “Marla made me full producer, in recognition of how well everything is going. So now, Francesca, I’m running things in the field, and you work for me.”

I was stunned. One of the worst parts I’d discovered about slavery is how the world moves along without you.

“Bullshit,” I said.

“You can ask her yourself on Friday. In the meantime don’t do anything else that might jeopardize this story without checking with me first.” She took a deep breath. “You’d better hope this Green person doesn’t go around blabbing about you. If your stupid decision kills this opportunity for me…”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “What opportunity is that, exactly?”

“Never mind,” Amy retorted. “Oh, I forgot to tell you: that slave you asked about? The one from the other class? She got the shit whipped out of her by your little playmate, Stefania. She wound up in the infirmary, and apparently it’s so bad that she’s been invalided out of the class. So watch your back.”

“That’s pretty rich coming from you.”

Amy sighed. “Get it together, Ontkean.”

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“Hey ladies,” I shout-whispered to my cage-mates, just as the lights were going out. “Anyone know anything about defaults? Like a slave being defaulted from obedience school?”

“Sure,” Janet said. “In Texas they’re often called forfeits.”

“Up in Michigan and Illinois, they’re called reverts,” Rhonda offered.

“Yeah, I’ve heard that,” Janet said, then looked back at me. “Different names because it how it falls under each state’s contractual law.” She sighed. “You know, I was afraid that might happen to me.”

“Why?” I asked. “What would have happened?”

“When I had my little breakdown and had to go see the counselors, they could have given me a psychological forfeiture, saying that I was not suited for obedience training. It’s not as bad as an UNCO, but it would be entered into my record which would have been bad for my eventual sale. What usually happens is that the owner takes the slave out of the school, and trains them personally or hires a private trainer until they’re ready to try again.”

“But your owner isn’t a person, it’s a bank,” I pointed out. “How would that work?”

“The bank’s agent would probably enroll me in a more strict school — one that guarantees I’d pass, if you know what I mean. Or, they might work out a deal with the school and put me up for auction in return for not putting that notation in my record; the notation would kill my sale price, and that’s the only thing the bank is interested in.”

“Does that second thing happen very often?”

Janet paused for a minute, thinking. “Not very often, no. But now that I think about it, it’s more likely to happen at a school associated with a slave market.”

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About an hour later, I was awakened by Mistress Stefania, and once again I was led to the trainer’s quarters.

I knelt in the usual place. Stefania stood facing me, unbuckled her equipment belt and set it down, then bent over to unlace her boots.

“Mistress?” I said. “May I speak?”

Stefania looked up from her boots, one eyebrow arched, then straightened up.

“Next week we’re starting on slave speech, so you may as well get used to it now: the proper way to make that request would be Mistress, may this slave speak?” she said. “But yes, you may.”

“Mistress, may this slave have the privilege of removing your boots?”

Stefania cocked her head and smiled slightly.

“Yes, you may,” she said, and sat down on the couch.

I carefully unlaced the first boot and removed it from her foot, placing it neatly to one side, then removed the other and set it next to first one. I unrolled her socks one by one too, placing them in her boots, then picked up one foot in both hands and examined it.

“Mistress,” I said, “Your feet look tired. May this slave offer you a foot rub?”

“Never address your mistress directly, always refer to her as Mistress. And never presume to offer an opinion, just state what you’re asking permission for. Try again.”

“Mistress, may this slave offer Mistress a foot rub?”

“Better,” she said, “And yes, you may.”

I used to rub my father’s feet when I was a girl, so I’m fairly good at it. Stefania’s feet were smaller and smoother than his; before long I had her sighing with contentment.

When I finished the second foot, I said quietly, “Mistress, may this slave help Mistress off with her pants?”

“Mm-hmm,” Stefania replied, her eyes almost closed.

I unbuckled, unbuttoned, and unzipped her pants, rolling them carefully off of her hips, down under her butt and off of both legs simultaneously. I folded them neatly next to her equipment belt.

Taking one lower leg in both hands I lifted it gently and began kissing it, starting at the top of her foot and moving slowly upward to her knee before shifting to the other leg. When I reached her other knee, I leaned forward and started kissing the insides of her thighs while lightly stroking the outsides.

“Panties,” Stefania whispered.

I slo-o-o-owly pulled them down to her knees, then let gravity do the rest. I picked them up in a bunch, and held them up to my nose, taking a deep breath of her “fragrance.”

(I admit I’d read about that maneuver in some online erotica. I really didn’t want to do it, but…)

I looked back up at Stefania, and her slight smile was a bit bigger now.

(Note to self: the maneuver worked.)

I smiled back, spread her legs slightly, and licked and kissed my way up the upper parts of her inside thighs until I reached her vulva. I started lightly stroking her outer labia with my fingertips while deftly teasing her clitoris with the tip of my tongue. When I moved my fingers to her inner labia, I noted that she was well lubricated with desire, and started exploring her vagina with my fingers as I increased the tempo with my tongue.

Stefania shivered slightly and moaned, then started unbuttoning her shirt.

This is new, I thought.

She pulled her unbuttoned shirt open, revealing her small, firm breasts and large, dark aureolas. I lapped her pussy with my tongue while moving one finger in and out, then reached up with my other hand and lightly tweaked one of her nipples. I was rewarded with a gasp, followed by a long moan, then set about my work in earnest.

Before long she arched her back, shook a few times, and let out a longer, louder moan that she stifled before it became something else. We weren’t running the timer, but I think it was a new personal best.

I kissed my way up her belly to her chest, and started suckling on each nipple in turn.

Stefania grabbed the hair on the back of my head, pulling me away from her breasts. We stared at each other, and I swear it felt like something passed between us. Hesitatingly, she moved her face toward mine. When she got close enough I closed my eyes, and felt Stefania’s lips smashing desperately into mine.

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Several orgasms later, we spooned together on the couch, Stefania’s arms wrapped around my chest just under my breasts; she was absentmindedly kissing the back of my neck when I spoke.

“Mistress, may this slave ask a question?”

“Yes,” she murmured.

“Mistress, this slave honestly thought that mistress disliked this slave, even hated her.”

“Then I was doing my job correctly,” she replied.

“Mistress?” I asked, “I don’t understand—“

“This slave does not understand,” she corrected, pleasantly. “And try to avoid contractions.”

“Yes, mistress. Sorry, mistress.”

“I don’t hate you. I never hated you. A lot of what you see is me playing a role, putting on a face for the benefit of your training. In your case,” she sighed, “I had to add a little extra for other reasons.”

“Other reasons, Mistress?”

“Some other time. For now, just know that you shouldn’t believe everything you see, especially not here.”

“Yes, mistress.”

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The next morning Marta handed out rubber dildos to all of us Fish slaves, and we spent the morning rogering ourselves silly.

Seriously.

We all paired off (me and Ariel together, as usual — and going first, as usual), Ariel got on all fours on some rubber matting, and while four trainers, eleven slaves and a dozen or so onlookers in the bleachers watched, I took a good-sized black rubber dong into my mouth and covered it with my saliva while I massaged Ariel’s pussy lips into a state of arousal; it’s all about the lubricant, or so I’m told.

“Once you have the basic techniques down,” Master David told the group, “You will next learn how to juice yourselves quickly, both manually and mentally. A slave must be prepared to have sex at any time, under any circumstance, and natural lubrication is essential both for your master’s comfort and for his pleasure… “

Blah, blah, blah, I thought, I’m not listening because I’m too busy humiliating myself in public again.

For me as the “top” it was a largely mechanical exercise, although it was pretty cool to watch Ariel respond to my hand and then my dildo. When she came to a shuddering orgasm I had a genuine feeling of accomplishment.

We switched: I got to be the target and Ariel the bombardier. This time Mistress Stefania took a closer interest in what Ariel was doing and how she did it, giving bits of advice like “Faster,” “Slower,” “Angle the base downward a bit,” and observations like “This won’t take long, she’s dripping like a bitch in heat.”

Here’s the scary part: I wasn’t nearly as embarrassed as I thought I would be. On the contrary, I really got into it, panting and moaning and making little noises, moving my body to anticipate Ariel’s actions, rocking backward with each thrust of the dildo, spreading my legs even wider — both for Ariel and for the audience. As I felt myself reaching the edge of the cliff, I started begging Ariel to let me cum.

I have never done that before in my entire life.

When I opened my eyes after experiencing a massive orgasm, I saw Mistress Stefania smiling at me and shaking her head. “Get back in line, F2,” she said, sounding exasperated in a humorous way, “And try to make a little less noise next time.”

Master David was explaining that step one was getting accustomed to being fucked often, multiple times per day and at different times of the day, then we would focus on how to give our masters pleasure when they fucked us: first quantity, then quality, or something like that.

I wasn’t really paying attention, because I was trying to raise Amy on the subvoc link.

She wasn’t answering.

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You know what happened the next night?

Nothing!

Looks like Beardy is taking every-other-night duty with Stefania (because they’re the two most junior trainers, I think) so I got to get a full night’s sleep. Wrapped in a blanket. I haven’t felt this good in, well, I don’t know how long.

(Although last night with Mistress Stefania is a pretty close second…)

I needed a good sleep because I was going to see Amy at weekly visiting hours today to find out why the hell I didn’t hear from her at all yesterday, and I wanted my brain sharp so I could recall all of the choice profanity I planned to use.

The morning was spent with us “edging” ourselves (that is, masturbating until we were nearly at climax and then stopping) over and over, ostensibly to teach us how to get lubricated quickly for our masters when they wanted intercourse. Mostly it was just incredibly embarrassing, sitting in the grass with my knees spread wide and playing with myself while the trainers walked around and criticized our technique.

I wondered what my thirteen-year-old self would think of all this, had she known what was in store for her? Maybe she’d have become a free, sexual being, always comfortable with herself and her body? More likely she’d have become insanely self-conscious of her private fumbling and grown up to be a high-strung weirdo with an array of emotional and psychological complexes.

Honestly, I could still go either way.

After lunch we were brought to the visitor’s room, and like last time chained to the floor in front of a chair. Vanessa’s son visited her again and they had a pleasant chat (how sweet!), an older white lady wearing funky clothes, clunky jewelry and an elaborate scarf that screamed “liberal arts professor” for Ariel, and once again nobody for Janet, Rhonda, or Tracy.

This time there was no one for me, either.

That little bitch.

Master Green stuck his head into the room and looked around. I caught his eye and silently mouthed “We need to talk.”

Green returned a barely perceptible nod, and he mouthed “Tomorrow.”

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Ever heard that saying about denial being more than just a river in Egypt?

Well, I hadn’t until Rhonda used it Saturday morning.

We all knew what was coming, but I think we were in deep denial that it was actually going to happen.

Saturday morning we marched in our little coffle to the outside area; I could hear the crowd before the door opened.

Largest crowd yet. All the bleachers appeared to be full, with a few people standing or leaning in the aisles between. Had to be a couple of hundred people? At least it seemed that way. The din of conversation became a roaring of cheers and shouts when we appeared, and it had just started to die down when Bird class came out. They got their own cheer.

Marta had already set up the suck poles for Bird class, and their two trainers were busy tying the slave’s forearms together behind their backs, just like ours were a week ago.

We knelt on the grass on the opposite side of the training yard, facing the crowd. Marta was finishing the setup for us, and it wasn’t suck poles. Instead, it was a single long steel pipe, mounted horizontally about three feet off the ground. Stationary rings were welded to it every couple of feet, and I noticed a series of metal rings, screwed into rusty steel plates cemented into the ground, running parallel to the pipe.

It was pretty obvious what was about to happen.

Mistress Stefania went down the line fastening metal shackles (they looked like something out of a medieval dungeon) to our wrists and ankles. When she finished, she led Ariel by her collar to the pipe, had her stand in front of the first set of rings on the end of the pipe (facing the audience), fastened her wrist shackles to the pipe at waist level, and then fastened each ankle to a separate ring behind her, effectively forcing her legs apart and keeping her back slightly from the pipe so that she had to lean forward to rest on her forearms.

It didn’t look good for Ariel - she was shaking like a leaf.

I was next. While I was locked in place next to Ariel, I had a chance to look over the audience. So many people, so much movement, so much noise, it was hard to pick people out of the crowd.

Nonetheless I spotted them: Amy and Leslie, sitting side-by-side, wearing very nice (and expensive-looking) complementary tennis outfits. Amy’s hair looked like it had been styled that very morning. When she realized I had spotted her, she smiled and waved at me.

But I haven’t told you the best part: sitting next to them was my asshole ex-boyfriend Jared.

He had a sweater knotted around his shoulders, looking all preppy. I realized they had a picnic basket with them, and all three were drinking wine out of stemmed glasses.

My expression must have betrayed my surprise, because Leslie reached across Amy’s lap and patted Jared’s knee, then said something that made all three of them turn their gazes to me and start laughing. Then they raised their glasses to me.

I have never felt so naked and vulnerable in my entire life.

Next to me, I heard Ariel whimpering and starting to moan like something was seriously wrong. I looked at her face: she had gone pale.

“Are you okay?” I asked. It was a dumb question but it was the first one that came to mind.

Quick head shake from Ariel. “No,” she replied.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m not ready for this,” Ariel said. “I thought I would be, but I’m not.”

“Sweetheart,” I said, “What’s going through your head right now?”

“That this is a nightmare, and I can’t wake up,” she said. “I’m staked out like an animal, in front of this crowd shouting obscenities at me, I’m about to be raped - repeatedly - by random men. For entertainment! Horrible women laughing at me, taking videos, there’s nothing I can do to protect myself, I can’t run—“

“Listen to me,” I hissed, interrupting more forcefully than I intended. “If you’re going to make it through this you have got to pull yourself together. Repeat after me: I am going to be okay.”

Nothing, just Ariel whimpering. Her eyes were getting bigger - she was on the edge of a nervous breakdown.

I looked around and caught Mistress Stefania’s eye.

She walked over, took one look at Ariel and immediately took a knee on the opposite side of the pipe, facing us.

“F1, can you hear me?” she said.

“Y-yes, mistress,” Ariel stuttered, almost whispering. A tear rolled down one cheek.

“Then listen. You are a strong, beautiful woman, blossoming into her new life as a slave. I am your trainer mistress, so you can believe me — I know these things. You will soon be your master’s most prized possession. Right now, he expects you to be brave and to do everything I tell you. Do you understand?”

“Yes, m-mistress.” Ariel seemed to be listening.

“We have some time because Bird class is going first, so I’m going to teach you some of the things I taught F2 last night. They will help you get through this and come out the other side into the amazing servant you are destined to be,” Stefania said. “Are you ready?”

“Yes, mistress,” Ariel replied, sounding (understandably) surprised at Stefania’s apparent concern for her.

I won’t go into detail, but like she said it was a short version of what Mistress Stefania taught me last night — in between bouts of plowing me with strap-on dildo (“To help prepare you,” she said - yeah, right). Essentially a form of self-hypnosis, it includes specific sequences of mantras and affirmations and guided visualizations to get your brain into a place where it can deal with intensely stressful situations. Apparently it’s something originally developed for the military but repurposed and modified for slaves, and Stefania swears by it.

A familiar voice started calling out numbers over a loudspeaker; Master Green was on gate duty again, bringing in the guys for blowjobs from Bird class.

I followed along with Stefania’s crash course in my own mind. A short while later Ariel looked and sounded more calm, and I felt pretty damn relaxed myself.

“…and remember, no one is going to harm you, we will not permit it, so you have nothing to fear, nothing at all. On the contrary,” Mistress Stefania continued, “This could actually be a great deal of fun. Are either of you juiced yet?”

“No, mistress,” we replied in unison.

“Then what are you waiting for? Here, let me help,” she said, and walked around the pipe to stand behind us.

I can’t believe she missed a chance to say let me give you a hand. I mean c’mon, it was right there.

I felt a hand on my pussy, fingers working their way past my lips into my inner folds, then the familiar squick-squick sound of fingers running up and down my slit while covered with my own natural lube.

“You horny slut,” Mistress Stefania teased me. “You were already hot for a fucking!”

“As for you, F1, think about how good you’re going to feel once you have a nice fat cock slide into you, all hard and warm and wet, big strong hands grabbing your hips, hammering you good and fast while his balls slap against your pussy and his thighs hammer your ass cheeks, and—oh!” I heard a sucking sound as Stefania pulled her hand out of Ariel’s now-drenched vagina.

“Well, aren’t you daddy’s little whore?” Stefania laughed. “You almost squirted on me! Just keep that up for the main event and you’ll do fine.” Her voice lowered. “Are you going to be alright?”

“Yes, mistress,” Ariel replied, brightening. “Thank you, mistress.”

“You’ll be okay, you both will. Just remember what I told you.” Stefania straightened up. “Now I have to go check on your classmates.”

------------------------------------------------

We all know what was next on the schedule, so I’m not going to beat around the bush.

Um, so to speak. Not that any of us had bushes any more.

The first round of guys came through the gate just after we got our dose of Devox spray down our throats. Each went over to the slave they had been assigned in the drawing. It’s supposed to be random but after last time you know how that goes.

Each guy walked behind the pipe and to the side of their leaned-over, naked slave, pulled out their cocks for us, and we got to work sucking until they were nice and erect.

A couple of young cadets from the nearby Air Force base got Janet and Rhonda. A squat Mexican guy with an impressive beer belly had Tracy. A fit young man dressed like a cowboy but with long black hair and a strikingly handsome face - to my eye, he looked like a Native American right out of a movie - for Ariel (score!).

Vanessa’s first was not at all a surprise - it was Raine, the “social media influencer” kid and friend of her son who had been her first blowjob last weekend - but his companion was: an attractive but painfully thin young white girl, no collar, dressed in the height of casual-chic fashion and holding a video camera.

“Hey, Mrs. Detwiler,” he said. “Or do you still even go by that? How about if I call you Vanessa?”

The camera girl, looking through the viewfinder, said offhandedly: “She can’t talk, Raine, none of them can. It was on the sign outside.”

“Oh, RIGHT!” He laughed, exaggeratedly slapping his forehead. “Well, Vanessa, we’re back for round two, and Loryn here is going to do a high-def video for my Patronizer members. I’m going to get Brian to give us some old home videos of you and him we can splice in, and I think it’ll go down bazo. This is going to rock!”

He unzipped his pants, pulled out a cock of respectable size and shook it a few times.

“You ready Loryn?” She gave a thumbs up. “Welcome everyone! It’s ya boy Raine, and I’m here once again with my homegirl Vanessa—“

A throat cleared off to my right. I turned to see Jared standing next to me.

Except it wasn’t Jared. It was someone else.

Someone I also knew.

“Er, good morning Frankie,” he said. “Long time no see, huh?”

Instinctively, my hands moved quickly to cover myself - but were stopped, clanking, by the short chains.

Chesterton “Chet” Trescott, of the Massachusetts Trescotts, son of the Trescott in the white-shoe law firm Trescott, Stoddard & Rawlings, grandson of the Trescott in Marblehead Maritime Supply that became MMS Enterprises, the pre-war shipping and manufacturing conglomerate before it became just MMS, the logistics and defense giant we all know today.

Unlike his ancestors, Chet was a complete waste of skin.

Flunking out of prep school twice, his father managed to bribe his way into a lesser Ivy, and then barely drag him through a law degree at a state school (which must have wounded the old man, a Yalie, to no end). Chet had no aptitude for anything other than spending money. He and Jared were friends: Jared being the brains, and Chet (or at least his pedigree and connections) the front man. Between the two of them they’ve managed to make a decent career in corporate law.

Chet is flabby, slovenly, boorish, thinks he’s much smarter than he actually is, drinks like a fish, and wears very expensive clothing that fits him like a burlap sack. His bland pink face was positively beaming at me: starting with subtle hints and moving to drunken passes before graduating to straightforward propositions, he’s wanted to fuck me from the day we first met.

And now he was going to get his chance.

“I didn’t believe Jared when he told me you were here - what is it, I asked, some sort of weird fantasy camp? But then he sent me the video of you, um, servicing him, and said you would do the same for me, the same and more? Well, let me tell you I was on the next flight to ABQ!” Chet laughed.

“After all the times you shot me down, I can’t believe this is happening,” he continued. Hesitantly, he reached out and placed a hand on my bare back, stroking me like a kitten, then moved down to my ass.

“Oh my god,” he muttered as he gave my right cheek a squeeze, then tentatively probed my cleft.

“I remember that one time at the lake house weekend, when we were alone together in the kitchen and I tried to kiss you and touch your breasts,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me, “And you got so mad at me, you shouted and punched me right in the crotch. I couldn’t walk straight for the rest of our stay. But now?” Chet slapped my right breast hard, then took my left nipple and gave it a vicious twist.

I would have cried out in pain, except I couldn’t make a sound - I just winced and twisted in my shackles, helpless.

“What, no shouting? No punching? Is it possible you changed your mind about the old Chetster?” he sneered.

“Sir,” Mistress Stefania said, appearing in front of me but looking straight at Chet, “the rules clearly state there is to be no physical harm to the trainees. This is your only warning: if you abuse her again I will have you removed immediately and banned from all HCI properties for six months. Do you understand?”

Chet took a half-step back, flummoxed for a moment, his mouth hanging open - he wasn’t used to being admonished by the help. He looked from Stefania to me to her to me to her, then managed to come up with, “Oh, oh, I do apologize, ma’am. This is my first time at one of these things. What exactly am I permitted to do?”

“Up to five minutes of oral sex followed by vaginal intercourse to completion,” she said, sounding quite stern (I certainly knew that tone of voice). “Do you have the condom you were given at the gate?”

Chet fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out the red foil package, holding it up like a shield.

“Very good. Please remember to wear it before intercourse,” Stefania said, glancing at me before turning back to him. “You may continue, sir,” she said, and stepped away from us.

“Who the hell is that?” Chet muttered under his breath. “Fucking rule jockeys. Why does she care what I do to some slave?”

Good old cowardly Chet, beaten up by a girl and still afraid of them if they’re not in chains.

“I suppose we’d better get on with it before the Fun Police shuts us down,” he continued. “Now where was I? Oh yes…”

Chet unfastened the button on his Brooks Brothers blazer, fumbled for the zipper on his pleated pants, and pulled out his limp pink cock.

I have to admit, it wasn’t what I’d expected: it wasn’t unusually long - five, maybe six inches? - but his girth was… impressive. Even flaccid it looked as though erect it would be as big around as a soda can. Who knew ol’ Chet had it in (or on) him?

Although now that I look at it the head was not as large as the shaft. I wonder if he’s been using one of those penis enlargers? If so, I suppose I should be flattered.

But then I thought: when that thing gets hard, will it get stuck in my mouth? Will they have to pry my jaw open to release him?

I guess I’m about to find out.

Chet stepped forward and grabbed my nose between two fingers, guiding my head to his crotch. I opened my mouth, and twisted my head slightly so I could reach the head of his cock with my tongue. I lifted it until I got it between my lips, then started gently sucking.

When I felt him twitch, I took in a little more of the shaft and increased the suction a bit. That brought me closer to his body; I could really smell the stale booze on him now.

Chet put his left hand back on my ass again, running his fingers down the cleft of my cheeks and rubbing my sphincter.

I hate Chet. I hate everything about him. His unearned status, his snobbery, his wealth, his entitlement, all the way down to the dull, stupid look on his dull, stupid face. When I lived in Miami I couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. Even though he was my boyfriend’s partner, I couldn’t even be nice to the condescending windbag, snubbing and verbally humiliating him every chance I got. Just hearing his voice makes my skin crawl.

Now here I was, completely naked, collared, mute, chained to a pole, obediently sucking his cock in front of hundreds of spectators including my ex while he probes my asshole with his stubby pink fingers.

I was so turned on I couldn’t believe it.

As I sucked, I actually started moving my butt up and down, rubbing against his hand.

“Well well, Frankie,” he said, “I see this place has done you some good. About time, too.”

His cock was steadily growing stiffer, and fuller in my mouth. I swirled my tongue around his head, closing my eyes and concentrating, changing my rhythm according to his reactions, as he moved his hand slowly, inch by inch, toward my pussy.

Chet moaned. “Damn, you are one hell of a cocksucker. I always knew it was in you - you just needed the proper incentive. Too bad you spent so long with college and a career, when you could have been giving these out the whole time.” His free hand grasped the back of my head, forcing more of his penis into my mouth.

Then a finger from his other hand reached my slit. I flinched, like I’d received a small electric shock. Goosebumps ran across my skin.

“My goodness,” Chet whispered, “You are as wet as wet can be! To think that all those times we had dinner together with Jared, where you were calling me an ignoramus and making fun of my bald spot and all the rest, that the whole time you were secretly hot for the collar?”

I did not give a single damn about what he thought. The only thing running through my head were my mantras: My Service is Obedience, My Obedience is Submission, My Submission is my Duty, My Duty is to Serve my Master.

Otherwise there was no thinking, just feeling and acting.

I was a slave, a slut, a slave slut, a mouth and a pussy for my master or anyone else my master chose.

“Frankie, my dear little trollop,” he said, “It’s time for the main attraction.”

Chet slowly pulled his cock out of my mouth; I kept suction on it the whole way, so that when the head came out it did so with an audible pop.
Chet glanced to his right (probably toward Mistress Stefania), unwrapped the condom and rolled it onto his penis. It was colored red, and a tight fit, but his sock was wide and hard and I was so ready for it that I raised my hips up in anticipation.

Chet went around behind me, and I felt him rest a hand on my hip while he examined his long sought-after trophy. A moment later I felt the smallish head of his cock rubbing against my labia, and then he began to push. Master David had told us that the condoms were coated with some kind of lubricant, but I honestly did not need it at all: although Chet had to use some pressure to get my vagina to accommodate his beer-can girth, there was no other resistance - he slid right in on a coating of my own arousal.

I would have let out a moan if I could. As it was I threw my head back, and I gripped the horizontal pipe so hard my knuckles turned white.

Chet started a slow in-and-out rhythm. God, it felt so good! I lowered my head back to level and looked out at the crowd. My eyes fell on Amy, Leslie and Jared. Jared and Leslie were chatting with each other while watching me get railed, and Amy was videoing the whole thing with a professional camera. When they realized I was looking at them, Jared handed Leslie his glass, stood up and did a couple of hip thrusts complete with pumping fists, his tongue wagging from his mouth. Leslie started laughing so hard she doubled over and almost spilled her wine.

Just as he started to pantomime spanking my ass, I looked away. That motherfucker. Once I thought I loved him, and that he felt something for me.

My face was bright red, hot tears rolled down my face, and I had never felt so humiliated and betrayed and ashamed in my entire life.

Yet - and I can’t quite explain why - I felt physically and sexually amazing.

It was so dirty: being a fuck-hole for an aging drunken fathead, one who was never even close to being in my dating league, who I detested, but I had to do whatever he wanted, because that was now my position in life - a sex slave. When we met at office parties I always folded my arms over my chest and gave as much Go Away body language as I could muster. Now? I had opened my mouth for him like a good little slave girl, and spread my legs like a whore. My nipples were hard as diamonds, my breathing ragged, my skin hypersensitive, and I was a little lightheaded.

I think I was enjoying… submission.

Chet started thrusting faster.

He was no one’s idea of good at sex - all of his sexual experiences were with slaves, not even gold diggers could stand to be with him, which is just pathetic - but he was at least consistent. Good rhythm, and he went hard at it (for his own pleasure of course, not mine), and that was all I needed right now; I could feel an orgasm building up.

To my left, Vanessa was taking hard, fast strokes from Raine. With her eyes big and round she looked like she was nearly in a state of shock — but in a good way? The camera girl (Laura? Laurie? No, Loryn) had moved closer to capture the action; just before I looked away she stuck a finger in Vanessa’s mouth. When Vanessa started sucking it, I heard Loryn whisper “This is so awesome!”

To my right, Ariel was experiencing something quite the opposite: her eyes were closed, and she was breathing slowly, grooving on the experience (which pleased me, as far as anything could at the moment). Her back was arched downward, her hips tilted, and she was moving in time with her Apache warrior. He had unsnapped his cowboy shirt to reveal a chiseled chest and abs like a truck tire (yes, I was jealous of the man having nonconsensual sex with my friend); he was thrusting in and out with long, slow, intense strokes, concentrating on his work as a bead of sweat rolled down his neck and over his pectorals and oooooh my god.

I lowered my head down and concentrated on the fucking I was receiving.

SMACK.

A sharp pain on my butt cheek - Chet must have slapped it.

His pink little sausage fingers grabbed my hair and pulled my head back. He slowed his thrusts and leaned forward over my naked back, to whisper in my ear.

“You fucking bitch,” he hissed. “Who the fuck do you think you are? You’re nothing, just another climber who got above her station. Got it? My family buys and sells people like you ALL ” - thrust - “ THE ” - thrust - “ TIME ” - thrust, followed by another SMACK.

“Sir?” I heard Mistress Stefania say from some distance away. “Your behavior is bordering on abuse.”

“Sorry, got a little carried away in the excitement!” Chet schmoozed, releasing my hair.

Still leaning over me, he hissed: “Got a little present for you, skank. No need to thank me.”

Chet leaned back and reached down to his cock, ostensibly to reposition it so he could resume thrusting. Instead, revealing more subtlety and coordination than I’d ever have given him credit for he slipped off the condom and concealed it, then resumed my fucking.

My now bareback fucking.

I despise the sonofabitch, but at the same time skin-to-skin felt really, really good.

A few moments later his thrusting suddenly got faster. I raised up on my toes so his cock rubbed in just the right spot, and before long…

Stars everywhere. Blurry vision. I’d have screamed if I wasn’t devoxed.

Shaking, I quickly brought myself back to my senses, just in time to feel Chet’s fat dick start pumping hot semen waaay up inside of me.

Ew, gross, Chet spooge.

Also, very hot. I felt good and fucked.

Chet withdrew and moved back around to me, his semi-erect cock hanging out of his fly.

“I believe it is customary for the slave to clean her master’s cock, yes?” he asked, cheerfully, then lowered his voice. “So get to it, whore.”

What else could I do?

I opened my mouth and licked and sucked all of the cum (his and mine) off of his penis, swallowing it like a pleasure slave should.

“Good girl,” Chet said, stroking the hair on my head as if he was petting a dog. Come to think of it, I was panting like a dog, too.

Chet took my chin in his hand and raised my face up to look at him.

“I cannot wait for Jared to own you,” he said. “Oh, you and I will spend some time together, I can assure you of that. In fact, my family’s company has a private slave resort on an island in the Caribbean, well away from the prying eyes of government agencies and rights monitors and the news media. Once he’s had you to himself for a while, we’re going to go there, just you and I, and I’ll teach you some lessons you will never forget.” He straightened up, looking over at Mistress Stefania. “Maybe I’ll collar that bitch and bring her along so she can experience some real abuse. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“See you in a couple of weeks, Frankie,” Chet said as he patted my cheek a few times, then released my chin.

I watched him zip up, drop the condom in a trash bucket, and give a jaunty salute to Mistress Stefania, before waddling to the exit, whistling.

[Carl Bradford]

Fantastic! I thought you had developed a new low in humiliation when Frankie was staked out like a goat and face-fucked by Jared in front of an audience, but this was even more insidious. I now understand why you had written that you were having too much fun inventing ways to embarrass her. I also notice how realistically you have depicted Frankie slowly, gradually, falling under the influence of the school's brainwashing. As others have asked, how will she ever be able to resume her career (assuming, I pray, you free her at the end) after suffering such an XXX-rated public subjugation? I've said it before, but Frankie is such an admirable, stoic, long-suffering individual that she deserves to be freed from this somehow. It would be even better if Jared and the other douchebags suffer retribution, but I know that's not always possible.
This episode was well worth the wait, but I'm selfish enough to hope that the final two episodes emerge more rapidly! Meanwhile, thanks for such a fine Christmas present for all us perverts.

[Carl Bradford]

Wow, I don't know how you are going wrap this all up in just two more chapters, I have more questions than ever.
Glad to see Frankie finally got laid and enjoyed it, even to a fat slime of a asshole. Maybe the brainwashing is getting to her, making her think like a slave slut.
This is the Universe where slavery is at most 6 years of enslavement, right? Looks like Frankie might be getting a half dozen.
With this whole story together (Westbound and Went West) will make a great book.
So with the initial face fucking and pussy fucking initiated, does Frankie get plowed on regular basis from this point on?

Will Jared rip her a new asshole? Will Frankie have to do a public pussy licking like the others, and will Amy be the one getting the licking?or Marla?
At the very least have Amy spank Frankie very publicly.

[Hooked6]

Meanwhile, thanks for such a fine Christmas present for all us perverts.

Hey, speak for yourself, Sir. As for me, I'm not a pervert. I am a lover of fine literature. I only come to this site for the articles, ya know.

Outstanding job, Gentlemanmariner. The humiliation was superb!

Hooked6

[Mr. Smith]

As we observe the transformation of Amy the phrase "power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely" came to mind. Amy seems interestingly attached to Leslie who happens to be the wife of the local DA. I wonder if the smug Amy will be delayed in some manner that leaves the circle star felon brand on her right buttock leading to the default on Frankie. It is clear that Amy is being manipulated but that begs the question by whom and for what purpose?

I wonder why Marla is stepping back giving Amy more authority. The no show during visitor time Friday morning is ominous.

Is the self hypnosis that Stephanie taught Frankie (quoted below) something separate from slave yoga or a component of the slave yoga training. It sounds like some sort of sub-space that a slave can train themselves to go into inducing slave heat. Does it work only on submissives or all slaves? Is this a way for a character like Carl's Cindy (in the story he is three chapters into on Literotica) who does not have a submissive bone in her body can generate slave heat and learn to enjoy the sexual encounters? I have at least one character in a story that I am working on that is NOT submissive and I am grappling with how she successfully performs sexually.

"I won’t go into detail, but like she said it was a short version of what Mistress Stefania taught me last night — in between bouts of plowing me with strap-on dildo (“To help prepare you,” she said - yeah, right). Essentially a form of self-hypnosis, it includes specific sequences of mantras and affirmations and guided visualizations to get your brain into a place where it can deal with intensely stressful situations. Apparently it’s something originally developed for the military but repurposed and modified for slaves, and Stefania swears by it."

I am curious how Frankie could be sold with no valid SRN in the system and a forged indenture. A valid SRN would be needed to transfer title just like you need a valid VIN to transfer title of a vehicle. You cannot legally sell something that you do not own. An awful lot of people would need to conspire to sell her at this point but that brings me back to my quote about power corrupting.

Very entertaining and I look forward to the next chapter.

[Carl Bradford]

Fantastic! I thought you had developed a new low in humiliation when Frankie was staked out like a goat and face-fucked by Jared in front of an audience, but this was even more insidious. I now understand why you had written that you were having too much fun inventing ways to embarrass her.

Thanks Carl! I have to admit that I actually feel kind of bad about what I'm putting poor Frankie through, hopefully the ending will make it up to her (at least partly).

I also notice how realistically you have depicted Frankie slowly, gradually, falling under the influence of the school's brainwashing.

Thank you for noticing, that's what I was aiming for and I wasn't sure how successful I was After our own Joe Doe, I think you're the best at this sort of thing so I'm pretty pleased!

As others have asked, how will she ever be able to resume her career (assuming, I pray, you free her at the end) after suffering such an XXX-rated public subjugation? I've said it before, but Frankie is such an admirable, stoic, long-suffering individual that she deserves to be freed from this somehow. It would be even better if Jared and the other douchebags suffer retribution, but I know that's not always possible.

Initially I was afraid of this too, especially because Frankie is (and wants to continue being) a "serious" journalist. I wasn't sure how to do this, but I think I may have a solution that we'll see in the last chapter. You know I'm a sucker for happy endings!

As for Jared, he's got his coming.

This episode was well worth the wait, but I'm selfish enough to hope that the final two episodes emerge more rapidly! Meanwhile, thanks for such a fine Christmas present for all us perverts.

I'm working on Part 7 now, I'm pretty slow but I'd like to have it up by January 2nd. And from one pervert to another (and all you other filthy animals) I hope you had a great holiday!

[Carl Bradford]

Wow, I don't know how you are going wrap this all up in just two more chapters, I have more questions than ever.

Well, they're gonna be long chapters

Glad to see Frankie finally got laid and enjoyed it, even to a fat slime of a asshole. Maybe the brainwashing is getting to her, making her think like a slave slut.

Yep, she's doing a lot of thinking about that right now (in Part 7), the O-School is more effective than she realized.

This is the Universe where slavery is at most 6 years of enslavement, right? Looks like Frankie might be getting a half dozen.

There's both life slavery and indenture, but you're right 3-6 years indenture is the most common. That said, I'll spoil a bit of the next chapter by saying that Jared and company are scheming to put Frankie in life slavery.

With this whole story together (Westbound and Went West) will make a great book.

Thanks man!

So with the initial face fucking and pussy fucking initiated, does Frankie get plowed on regular basis from this point on?

Ooooooh yes, she does - plenty of that in Part 7

Will Jared rip her a new asshole? Will Frankie have to do a public pussy licking like the others, and will Amy be the one getting the licking?or Marla?
At the very least have Amy spank Frankie very publicly.

Can't comment on any of that just yet, but I will say that Amy and Frankie will have a very intense scene together at some point...

[gentlemanmariner]

Hey, speak for yourself, Sir. As for me, I'm not a pervert. I am a lover of fine literature. I only come to this site for the articles, ya know.

Outstanding job, Gentlemanmariner. The humiliation was superb!

Hooked6

Thank you, Sir!

[Mr. Smith]

As we observe the transformation of Amy the phrase "power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely" came to mind. Amy seems interestingly attached to Leslie who happens to be the wife of the local DA. I wonder if the smug Amy will be delayed in some manner that leaves the circle star felon brand on her right buttock leading to the default on Frankie. It is clear that Amy is being manipulated but that begs the question by whom and for what purpose?

I'm not going to comment on this, except to say that I clearly can't get anything past Mr. Smith

I wonder why Marla is stepping back giving Amy more authority. The no show during visitor time Friday morning is ominous.

Indeed it is. I'm addressing that first thing in Part 7.

Is the self hypnosis that Stephanie taught Frankie (quoted below) something separate from slave yoga or a component of the slave yoga training. It sounds like some sort of sub-space that a slave can train themselves to go into inducing slave heat. Does it work only on submissives or all slaves? Is this a way for a character like Carl's Cindy (in the story he is three chapters into on Literotica) who does not have a submissive bone in her body can generate slave heat and learn to enjoy the sexual encounters? I have at least one character in a story that I am working on that is NOT submissive and I am grappling with how she successfully performs sexually.

Great questions: I think the idea is that slave yoga, etc. incorporates aspects of the technique but it's not 100% effective in all cases (like when the slave comes up against something they REALLY do not want to do), so a more targeted/concentrated version was developed. It's only really intended for use with prospective pleasure slaves, to allow them to overcome reluctance in a given situation (to get them over the hump, as it were ) and eventually to derive pleasure from submission.

And if that doesn't work, send 'em to the breakers and beat the shit out of them.

In my not-so-little-anymore story my idea was that this o-school uses repetition and conditioning (e.g. slave yoga) to effect a form of brainwashing that works across many types of slaves (including ones that are not very bright, or ones from other cultures) and does not require specialized (and expensive) certification on the part of the trainers, nor does it take a lot of time and individual attention - they're in the business of volume, after all. When they run into reluctance (as with Janet early on), SOP is to just pull her out, send her to a shrink and give her counseling and meds, which is still cheaper and pushes the cost of long-term maintenance onto the owners. In this case, Mistress Stefania actually has some ambition so she learned this method on her own time (and - slight spoiler - wound up using it on herself at least once, with Master David), teaching it to Frankie and Ariel out of concern for their well-being.

I don't think it's effective for all slaves, since it requires the active, willing participation of the slave's brain; a labor slave might not be willing to use it, for example, especially since they are not likely to enjoy being a slave even if they get fucked regularly. The insidious thing about it, though, is that it's self-reinforcing: once a slave uses it successfully, it makes other conditioning more effective, and even subsequent usage of the technique more effective. It wears grooves in the brain.

I am curious how Frankie could be sold with no valid SRN in the system and a forged indenture.

WHY YES, THAT IS AN INTERESTING QUESTION, ISN'T IT?
Once again, I can't get anything past Mr. Smith...

Seriously, you're exactly right. In this case her legal situation was just authentic enough to provide cover for the escape of Linda, and ordinarily would have been cleared up with a call to the state Department of Agriculture or a comparable federal agency. Frankie went along with it, though, at the urging of Marla and her employer, because they knew it would make for compelling television. Until Green, no one at HCI had taken a close look at the SRN or any other aspect of Frankie's slavery, assuming if she didn't put up a fuss then it was legitimate.

Of course, there are problems with playing it fast and loose with slavery, and we're going to see some of them in Part 7.

Very entertaining and I look forward to the next chapter.

Thanks! Much appreciated

[Mr. Smith]

Initially I was afraid of this too, especially because Frankie is (and wants to continue being) a "serious" journalist. I wasn't sure how to do this, but I think I may have a solution that we'll see in the last chapter. You know I'm a sucker for happy endings!

Does this mean that Frankie will receive both a Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Reporting while also receiving an AVN for Best New Starlet?

[orflash64]

Happy Valentine's day! So what's happening with your story?

[Hooked6]

Gentlemanmariner, what's happening with Frankie? I anxiously await for the story to continue.
It so good instead of using Viagra I just re-read your story. After you are done with the story I hope you spin off more stories with these characters. The plot twists are just as good as the action.

[Carl Bradford]

Hi Orflash!

Thanks for your excellent words, and for sticking with me -- I've had a rough couple of months, more about that in the next post -- but Frankie is back, and there will be more stories of her and several others in the future!

--GM