Went West - Part 7
Posted: Fri Mar 12, 2021 12:49 am
Greetings all! I'm not dead, it just seemed like it for a while there - I had a pretty rough couple of months dealing with a return of the health thing that completely poleaxed my ability to write creatively (or do much of anything else for that matter). I'm feeling much better now, got a thumbs up from the doc on Monday so here, at last is the next-to-last installment of Went West. It covers week three of obedience school, and this time around features lots of lesbian sex. Hope it's worth the wait!
Fuck this.
Seriously.
Fuck. This. Shit.
Let’s get a few things straight here:
First, I am not actually a slave, and never was one. I’m pretending to be an indentured servant (a slave with a time limit) for a story, because I’m a journalist. My indenture was entirely falsified by a real slave who engineered an escape, substituting myself for her to throw off suspicion long enough for her to get away. Any state agency, the federal USDIS, or non-crooked judge (assuming you can find one) would immediately free me if I presented myself to them. However, I went along with it: initially because I was naked and afraid and chained in a coffle, but later because I was convinced to do so by my employer. My cover story is adequately documented and can withstand casual scrutiny, but not determined digging.
Second, I have no desire to be a slave. I mean come on, nobody does. Well, except maybe Vanessa. So almost no one, anyway, and I don’t fit into that category as I am not sexually excited by being enslaved.
Third, I was supposed to be an observer, going through “Obedience School” to see what the typical slave experience was like and documenting it on video. Instead, I have been twice deliberately targeted for personal humiliation, first by an ex and second by that ex’s colleague. I did not want that, and did not agree to it beforehand.
Fourth, this is my story. I’m calling the shots in the field, although the overall direction of the story is decided in conjunction with Marla, my producer at CNS.
(CNS stands for “Central & Western News Service.” People ask me why they don’t abbreviate it “CWNS” or “C&WNS”? I have no idea, go ask them.)
Which means that my assistant, Amy, is exactly that, my assistant and technical support. Marla gave her an associate producer credit because she would be on-call for the whole month, and to make it easier for her to submit expenses, and probably as a nice bonus for a young woman still in college who’s not yet started her career.
But one of the hazards of work like this is the lack of communication (and that’s especially true of slavery - as you might imagine, I have no access to a phone much less the Internet), which means that your assistant can talk to your boss without you ever knowing about it, and get herself promoted to producer, giving her some authority over the project. And by extension, you.
I thought about all this and more as I waited in the small darkened bedroom. Master Adán (a.k.a. Beardy) had led me here after lights out, and I knelt next to the bed frame, completely naked except for a steel collar which was leashed to a nearby wall ring.
The door opened, and Master Green switched on a desk lamp while I prostrated myself to him like a proper slave.
“Up,” he said in his impossibly deep voice, “I would say there’s no need for that in private, but it’s probably best that you continue observing protocol,” he said, and I raised back up, a little reluctantly.
Maybe I should’ve made this my fifth “point,” but I’m not entirely sure what’s happening: I do not want to be a slave, but I’m learning that acting like a slave is… a turn-on. The kibble & kennels part sucks, and I don’t like performing in public at all, but I find the sexual submission aspects very arousing. That is, when I’m not being forcibly raped by men I detest.
For example, right now I’m kneeling in front of Master Green. He’s a reasonably good-looking guy, a little older than me but in good shape, lots of muscle, shaved head and nicely trimmed beard. To be honest, I’ve never really been attracted to black men. I know, I know, that makes me a terrible person but while I could look at a given black guy and think, “Yeah, he’s hot,” I couldn’t see myself dating or sleeping with him.
(In my defense, I blame my upbringing in Tennessee.)
But now? I’m completely naked, my knees spread wide to display my dampening vagina, my breasts sticking out with hardening nipples, and right now I want nothing more in the world than to find out how much of his cock I can fit down my throat before he rams it into my pussy while I repeat “Thank You, Master,” with each thrust.
Why the change? I have no idea.
“Do you have anything for me?” He asked, and I nodded.
“First, I need some help: I need to make a call,” I said.
Green raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, then got up and left the room.
Before I had a chance to break out in a cold sweat he returned with a data pad and set it on the table next to his chair. Taking a seat, he looked at me, his jaw set.
“Okay, I can do that,” he said. “But first, catch me up.”
I took a deep breath and started talking. I lined out my suspicions about what was going on, and who was responsible. As I went along, his stern expression began to soften.
“So,” I concluded, “I need to check on a couple of things to confirm what I’m thinking, then I suggest we can come up with a plan to wrap all this up.”
Green leaned back in his chair and let out a long, low whistle. “Damnation, girl,” he said.
He appeared to lose himself in thought, so I watched him quietly for a while, patiently resting my hands on my knees — I would have liked to fold them in my lap, but a slave must never cover herself in any way in the presence of her master. Besides, I like it when he looks.
“I think you’re on the right track,” he finally said. “Who do you need to call?”
“My producer, sir,” I replied.
“I can see that. Makes sense.” He unlocked the data pad and handed it to me, the messaging app already opened.
I started to tap in Marla’s number, then hesitated.
“Sir, could I possibly speak to her alone?”
Green shook his head, then stopped himself, looked to one side for a moment then returned his gaze to me. “You’ve trusted me so it’s my turn to trust you. I’ll be right outside, knock on the door when you’re done - knock hard, it’s soundproof from the outside.”
After Green shut the door I turned to the metal desk, opened the deepest drawer and put my glasses inside, then put the pillow from the bed on top of them and shut the drawer.
I dialed Marla’s work number; unsurprisingly she wasn’t there, but it forwarded me to her after-hours service. I left a message, hung up and waited.
Less than a minute later the app opened again, and I accepted the call from Marla. She was a bit disheveled and wearing a fuzzy bathrobe - I glanced at the clock on the pad, it was after midnight local time, she’s in Colorado so we should be in the same time zone - and, for the first time in my acquaintance, she was also wearing large, thick-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Frankie?” She asked, blinking. “Are you okay?”
“Not really, but we can discuss that later,” I replied. “How are the girls?”
Marla is a divorcee with no children. How are the girls is one of the phrases we use in the foreign correspondent game to indicate to each other that we’re not under duress.
“They’re fine,” Marla replied, thinking quickly - she is an old pro, after all - and said, “They’ll be happy to know you asked. How are you? Are you sleeping okay?”
That was a counter-question, meaning are you alone and can you speak freely?.
“Yes, thank you. Sleeping quite well,” I replied.
“Very glad to hear it,” Marla said, moving closer to the screen. “Glad to hear anything from you, Frankie. You missed your Friday check-in, and I’m having some trouble getting in touch with Amy. I also haven’t gotten any of the video from the past week. What’s going on over there?”
“Honestly, Marla,” I said, “I’m not quite sure. I need to ask you a few things. First, has the focus of the story changed?”
Marla raised an eyebrow. “No, at least not on my end. Why?”
“Second,” I continued, “What is your understanding of the purpose behind my investigation?”
“To go through a typical consumer-level obedience school and report on what it’s like from the viewpoint of a new slave. Additionally, we wanted you to learn as much as you could about the staff and how they conduct themselves, and to record the stories of your classmates and their experiences at the school; Amy should know all this too. Once you graduated, it would be packaged up as a sequel to your story on the slave transport and you would get paid. As far as I and CNS are concerned, all of that still stands.”
“Third,” I pressed on, “What is my status with you and CNS?”
Marla pursed her lips, I could almost see the wheels spinning in her brain.
“You are a contract journalist in the employ of CNS, and I am your producer. You are currently named on a fraudulent indenture contract, which you are using as cover during an investigatory report commissioned by CNS. But what I think you’re asking is, are you legally a slave?” Marla shook her head. “The answer is no, you are not.”
“I know it was a little unusual to handle it this way,” she continued, “But what happened to you was the equivalent of being knocked out then waking up to discover that your assailant had switched clothes with you to make good her escape. I believed, based on the video I had seen, that we had a great story on our hands with your time on the slave truck, and the phony enslavement made for a great hook so we took advantage of the situation to unobtrusively insert you into the system. I acted without asking you first under the assumption that you would go along with it, because of your penchant for risky assignments, and I made sure to extend your contract and increase your rate. Our communication over the phone and via Amy led me to believe I was correct.”
“Fourth,” I asked, not quite so sure of myself now, “Did you know that my ex-boyfriend, and almost ex-fiancee, Jared Fleischman traveled all the way from Florida to see me at both of the public field days held so far?”
Marla raised both eyebrows. “What?” she gasped.
“I have to know, Marla,” I said, putting as much urgency into my tone as I could, “Did you contact Jared and tell him where I am and what I’m doing?”
“Good heavens, Frankie, no!” she nearly shouted. “That would place you directly in danger. We both know that would also compromise the integrity of the story, and violate our professional ethics as journalists. Not to mention it would also be against CNS employment guidelines. What happened exactly?”
I told Marla about Jared and about Chet.
“Oh my god, Frankie,” Marla finally said. “I’m so sorry. This is not how things were supposed to go.”
Marla sat back and retrieved her laptop from off-camera, opening it before saying, almost as an afterthought: “I’m pulling you out.”
“Really?” I said. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Marla looked back at the camera and gave me an odd look.
“What do you think it means?” she said. “I’m contacting our legal team and telling them to end your phony indenture contract immediately, then I’m going to call someone local — maybe the state police? I know someone at the Albuquerque field office, if not then we have private security on retainer — and have them take you away from that horrible place within the hour. Once you’re safe I’ll have them go look for Amy and make sure she’s okay.”
“You’d do that?” I asked.
Another odd look from Marla.
“Of course, Frankie, and I would be doing it right now if you weren’t interrupting,” she replied.
Then Marla closed the laptop.
“You think I’m double-crossing you somehow.”
“Yes,” I sighed, “It was one of only a few possibilities, but yes. I don’t think so now.”
“Why?” Marla asked, quietly.
“Because your first impulse was to pull me out,” I replied.
“No — I mean, thank you for that — but no,” Marla said, “What I meant was, why would I double-cross you? Who would do that?”
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Instead of knocking, I tried just opening the door to let Master Green know I was done. To no one’s surprise it was locked, so I wound up knocking anyway.
He opened the door, and I scuttled back to my original position, kneeling on the floor, wearing my glasses.
“Did you get what you needed?” Green asked, retrieving his tablet from the table.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “May I ask a question about slavery, sir?”
Green shrugged and took a seat in front of me.
“You know I have no real SRN, the one on my record is false, which means my indenture contract is false, too. I never appeared before a judge or anything. If I understand it correctly, I’m not actually a slave, er, indentured servant at all, and can leave at any time. Is that true?”
Green looked at me, grinned and started chuckling, then tilted his head back and started laughing hard, his deep voice making my skin vibrate. When he finished, he looked back at me with something like sympathy.
“Girl, you still have no idea how this all works,” he said.
“Sir?”
“That legal stuff is only for the courts, it’s just the dividing line between being free and being a slave. Once you cross that line, your freedom, your position in society, your life is entirely decided by other people — often bad people. You’re a slave until someone else says otherwise. That’s the reality of it.”
Green laced his fingers over his chest and continued. “If I had a dollar for every little white girl I’ve met who thought she had a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, I wouldn’t have to work here no more. Man, if I had another dollar for every one of those little white girls who ended up with my dick down her throat…” He chuckled again. “The truth is this: once you’re in the system, the system is in charge, and the system decides when you get out… or if you get out.”
Seeing my surprised expression, Green said, “Yes, they all had looks on their faces just like yours when I told ‘em. Do you all really think you can just stand up and say, Oh, I’m tired of playing slave, I want to go home now? What do you think would happen if we allowed slaves to do that?”
“No,” he continued, “I can guarantee that you will be here through the end of your class, minimum. Even if you have someone show up with a lawyer and a court order, HCI security will prevent it, and believe me - the local cops very much prefer not getting involved. You’d have to have some serious juice to make it happen.”
My mouth was dry, but I managed to ask: “So even with a court order they can keep me here?”
“Their incentive is the contract that someone signed to get you in here, and HCI doesn’t want to renege on a contract and risk losing the money. They employ lots of lawyers to make sure that doesn’t happen. Once you complete training and they get the balance of their payment out of escrow, they don’t give a fuck what happens to you. But until then? You’re an entry in the ledger.”
Wait a minute: “Money in escrow? As far as I know, nobody paid anything to have me here, this was set up with the knowledge and assistance of HCI corporate.”
Green shook his head. “When I was trying to figure out who you are, I looked in to that. Somebody, some company I couldn’t find out anything about, paid for you to be here. I assumed it was your news agency using an alias.”
“What you’re saying,” I said, choking a little, “Is that HCI will make sure I finish training, one way or another, so they can get paid, and if I cause problems they will recoup the lost fees by…?”
“They’ll recoup those fees AND cover up their problems by selling you as soon as you graduate,” Green replied.
I lowered my voice slightly to hide the strain: “How is that legal?”
“Y’ever heard that old saying, ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law’? All of the state slave laws specify something like that. Even if you aren’t technically, legally a slave, if you act like one in the company of other slaves then you are considered to be in the custody of whoever owns those slaves, and must obey their orders as if you were a slave until some natural ending point, like graduating from obedience school. That’s the big reason why pretending to be a slave is so damned dangerous.”
He raised a hand. “Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a gray area that hasn’t been tested too awful much, but take it from me, it does happen. The reality is that going up against a huge-ass corporation like HCI is not an option for most folks whose find family members in this situation. Assuming they could even find a lawyer willing to take the case, and could afford the legal fees, there’s also the problem that their loved one is in the hands of a slave dealer. You get what I’m saying?”
Now my tongue was dry too, and my stomach was tying itself into knots.
“All Sales Are Final?” I asked.
“All Sales Are Final,” he agreed, nodding. “New Mexico, like nearly every other state, is a third-party state when it comes to slave ownership, meaning that if only one of the parties - in this case the buyer - acts in good faith and is unaware of their purchase’s questionable status, then the sale is completely legal and that person is one-hundred-percent a slave, regardless of her previous status.”
“Hell, Frankie,” Green concluded, “Why do you think they devoice slaves during inspection?”
“So they can’t ask for help,” I said, quietly.
Green nodded. “It sure ain’t to preserve the ambience.”
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I laid in my cage, wrapped in my blanket, curled up in a ball, so stressed out and demoralized there was no way I was going to sleep.
Green and I had come up with a basic plan, but there were still holes that needed to be plugged up. I’m not at all sure it was going to work; I figure at least Green will get what he needs out of it, so I’ll have someone who’s kind-of an ally when the SHTF. But I am definitely in danger here.
If you didn’t follow what Green was telling me, here it is in plain language: while I may not be a legal slave, since I look like a slave and act like a slave and am under contract to complete obedience school, I am for all intents and purposes a slave until I graduate. Which means that I am required to follow the orders of, and submit to, free persons during that time — which could include me being placed on an auction block and sold for keeps.
That’s one Hell of a catch.
So here I am, under the control of a greedy, uncaring system that can be manipulated by people who want me in a collar permanently.
Christ, I wish Lee was here.
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The new class of trainees came in this morning. Six of ‘em, going into the Dog section (the set of kennels located underneath the old “Dogs” sign from when the school was a pet supply store), they appeared to be three Latinas and three white girls, all young, fairly attractive, and in various states of fitness. Shuffling along in a coffle, the nude women were guided by two new (to me) trainers: an older, balding, medium-sized white guy and a middle-aged, short, white female with dark blonde hair cut in a severe bob with an undercut, the one sometimes called a “Karen” style. Her frowning face made it easy for me to imagine her demanding to see the manager everywhere she went.
The new slaves seemed subdued and fairly miserable; one of the white girls, a Rubenesque young lady with pale skin, long black hair and a number of large tattoos to go along with her large, heavy breasts, glanced around nervously. She saw me looking at her and locked her gaze on me. She dropped her mouth open and widened her eyes just before Karen lashed her ample bottom with a whip. Plus-size Vampirella yelped and looked back at her trainer, who pointed ahead saying “Eyes front, slave.” She quickly turned to look ahead of her, trying to rub the angry red streak on her cheeks with her manacled hands.
Then Karen looked at me: I saw a flash of… something in her eyes before she turned back to her charges.
Oh, swell. What’s going on now?
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The genius of obedience school is that it’s so damned boring. I can’t scroll through my phone, I can’t sit in the back of the class and gossip with my friends, I can’t zone out and wait for the bell to ring. I’m here all day long, no distractions, with people waiting to literally whip my ass if my attention wanders too far. So I have to pay attention to what I’m doing, even if it means sitting perfectly still and waiting (a lot of a slave’s time is spent waiting around), I have to be present in the moment, if I miss something or screw it up I will be punished and/or humiliated. So perhaps it’s no surprise that “slave mind” (that’s what the submissive, servant slave personality that subsumes a woman’s free personality is called) is creeping over me. After all, it’s all I’ve got to do all day.
Despite all of my intentions to the contrary, I find myself falling easily into the role of a submissive service slave. During the day, I don’t find myself thinking about the story, or what I want to do when I get out, or anything at all other than the task at hand, and how I can do better.
I mean, have you noticed I haven’t mentioned coffee even once in the past week?
The others are feeling it, too: at night we don’t giggle and whisper like schoolgirls at a slumber party. We mostly just sleep, although we sleep with our hands through the bars, around the hands and arms of our sister slaves. We don’t have little conversations in the shower like we used to, either, and when we’re done we no longer just run a brush over our hair and get going - instead we’ve been granted body lotion, different types of hair product, and other grooming supplies to help each other look our best - but we don’t hang around messing around with makeovers, instead we’re genuinely trying to look our best and do it as quickly, efficiently, and quietly as possible. No one told us to do that: we took it entirely upon ourselves. We accomplish our evening tasks almost silently as well, and when we’re each done with our individual tasks we kneel silently in front of the trainers without being told. I even find myself mostly looking downwards during the course of the day.
The question that bothers me the most is this: once I leave here, will I shrug it off and return to normal?
What if I don’t?
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The theme of the next field day was revealed Wednesday morning when Marta began dragging out triangular chairs from the equipment room.
She lined them up facing the bleachers. I don’t think I’ve mentioned the change in crowd composition I’d noticed this week. Usually the audience is about 70% male and 30% female at most, and on some days more like 80-20. But as I looked at the bleachers that morning, the split was closer to 50-50, with many of the females being new (to me) faces.
No sign of Amy, Leslie, or the other members of the breakfast club.
Scores upon scores of women watched Marta set up six chairs and six sets of rubber mats before bowing toward Master David. To my surprise, Master Baldy and Master Beardy led Bird class over to the chairs and had them sit. There were only five of them, so the last chair was empty.
Once in the chairs, their wrists were cuffed to rings mounted at the top of the high backs, so that their arms were bound over their heads. Their ankles had thick neoprene bondage cuffs with D-rings wrapped around them, but the rings were not attached to anything. Instead, the slaves were instructed to keep their lower legs on either side of the seat, forcing her knees wide apart. Finally, the trainer would adjust a screw knob on the lower back of the chair that caused a section of the back to move forward (like the “Lumbar support” on a high-end office chair), forcing the slave to move her hips toward the front end of the chair until her genitals rested on the edge of the seat. It looked uncomfortable.
Master David turned to Mistress Stefania and said, “Bring ‘em out.”
The crowd began to murmur.
We were marched in front of the chairs. One at a time, we were ordered to turn and face the crowd, assume the Present position (legs spread, hands laced behind our heads) and wait while a short length of cable was attached to each of our collars.
When I turned to face the crowd, several camera flashes went off and I heard someone (couldn’t tell if it was male or female) shout, “There she is!”
Oh, there are the breakfast club ladies, they were off to one side today.
Stefania ordered me to kneel on the rubber mat in front of the second chair, then attached the collar cable to a ring underneath the chair.
I sat staring at the smooth-shaved pussy of one of the three Latina slaves from Bird school, while I listened to various members of the crowd speculate about my sexual proclivities and abilities, my face growing redder by the moment. My head buzzed and my ears roared from sheer humiliation and embarrassment.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? I’ve had public sex on at least two separate occasions since arriving here, so I should know what to expect. But each time it’s a little different - that’s another part of the genius of obedience school. The first two times I was the one who had the act performed on me (remember, I was chained to a pole for the blowjob one - it was more of a face-fucking than a real BJ), and both times I had to do it no matter what. This one is a further step down the road of obedience: performing a homosexual act in public. Having one performed on me (like being taken by a strap-on dildo) would not have the same impact because 1) I’d be tied down and could rationalize it as a form of rape for which I was not responsible, and 2) I’d already been fucked with multiple real penises last week, and strap-ons would be about the same.
No, this time I had to actively participate — and show some enthusiasm I’m sure! — in an act that many would consider shameful (though not as shameful as our grandparents generation would).
I worked to get a grip on myself as I pretended to marvel at how the skin color of the girl’s labia and her vulva in general were much darker than the rest of her skin. I looked up at her, and she was staring back at me, wide-eyed. She was very pretty, and looked impossibly young.
“They’re talking about you, aren’t they?” she said.
She sounded impossibly cheerful.
“I think so,” I said back.
“Are you a celebrity or something?” she asked, as quietly as she could while still being heard over the crowd.
“I have no idea,” I replied. “This is as much as mystery to me as it is to you.”
She sat considering for a moment. “The Internet must be involved somehow.”
I nodded. Nearly every bad thing today involves the Internet.
“I’m Micaela, by the way. Everyone calls me Kayla, though,” she said.
“I’m Frankie, short for Francesca.”
Kayla laughed. “I know!”
“You know?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh yeah, you’re popular with the sisters,” she said.
Before I could follow up, Master Beardy stopped behind Kayla, attached something to her collar, glanced at his data pad, and moved on. It looked like a large steel pendant; hanging down from her collar, it rested flat against her upper chest.
“Jeez,” Kayla said. “Those are the cheapest, crappiest body monitors money can buy.”
“Body monitors?”
“Probably to monitor my response to what they’re about to make you do. Relies on measuring electrical current on the skin, as well as pulse rate and body temperature,” she said. “Pretty basic, not especially sensitive, and easy to game. Basically a networked mood ring.”
I blinked at her. “How do you know that?” I asked.
“I like science,” she replied. “I want to be a doctor when this is all over, so I learn about these things whenever I can.”
“When this is all over?” I asked (I know I’m a journalist and I ask questions for living, but this was getting ridiculous).
“Yeah, when my indenture is over I get a free ride at college.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah,” Kayla said. “New program at UNM, I’m spending two years fucking baseball players. They get controlled sex partners free of STDs and pregnancy and drama, and when it’s over I get four years of college and no debt.”
“The only downside,” she concluded, sticking her tongue out, “is I also have to fuck the coaches.”
“I would seriously love to talk more about everything you’ve said,” I hastened, “but real quick: what did you mean by ‘gaming’ the monitors?”
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I was both right and wrong about what was happening. When the whistle sounded, I of course went down on Kayla, licking and sucking the silky-smooth skin around her vagina before moving on to her labia and teasing her clitoris. She clearly enjoyed it, getting nicely lubricated and at one point even moaning “Oh, Frankie.”
I kept the green LED in her monitor lit the entire time, but before I could bring her to orgasm (ahead of everyone else, I might add) the whistle blew. I sat back, puzzled.
Beardy came back in front this time and told Kayla to scoot forward a bit more, then lifted her legs off the ground and attached her ankle restraints to the same ring to which her hands were cuffed, using a short length of metal cable with a carabiner or something like it at the end.
Kayla was now bent in a “U” shape, presenting her tiny brown puckered anus to me.
Mistress Stefania ducked down next to me: “Analingus is next on the menu. Just do your best: remember, the point here is that you obey the order to lick her ass, not that you do it well. No hesitation,” she said. I felt her hand toying with one of my nipples: “But it would be better to do it well, and to show some enthusiasm. Good luck.”
“On the whistle,” I heard Master David say in a voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “You will begin performing analingus on the slave in front of you. You will start immediately, and you will continue without stopping until the whistle is blown. And I want to see green lights on all of these sluts. Understood?”
“Yes, master,” we all replied in unison.
The whistle blew, and I started licking Kayla’s neat little asshole like it was ice cream and I was starving to death. She let out a yelp, followed by a series of grunts and then a long moan. I pressed on, worming my tongue inside her, twisting it at times, at other times sucking on her brown eye like it was her pussy. I had no idea what I was doing, but I could improvise and see what worked.
So yeah, I licked another woman’s ass. Yet another item checked off on the ol’ bucket list, I guess.
Would you believe that I actually gave Kayla a little orgasm? It’s true.
But I nonetheless managed to get a red light at the very last moment.
Later that night, Ariel asked me how I handled the taste at first. She had a hard time, and retched within a few seconds of starting — which earned her a stripe across her ass and a cheer from the crowd.
Y’know, I think it was my long, deep stubborn streak that let me ignore the harsh, kind of metallic sensation in favor of concentrating on the task at hand. I didn’t notice the taste until the whistle blew and I could stop licking. Then, it was fairly bad, but we actually got antiseptic mouthwash afterwards, and spit it into a bucket carried by Marta, so I was able to handle it.
For the record, I don’t think the mouthwash was for our benefit so much as it was to prevent any possible disease transmission, because before we got our mouthwash, we each had our neck cables unhooked and we shifted one chair to the right.
I managed to talk to each of the Bird class slaves while we were waiting for the changeover to be completed. Seat number three (the one immediately to the right of Kayla) was another Latina named Leyda. She was fairly short (easy to gauge when she’s folded in half), her large boobs squished underneath her legs, and her round, angelic face looked nervous almost to the point of being terrified.
The problem: she spoke almost no English. She’s a refugee from Honduras, and wasn’t able to pay a smuggler to get her into a larger, more populated border crossing in Texas or California, so she wound up trying on her own in New Mexico. She had been caught by some border vigilantes, who kept her in a cage for a week before eventually selling her privately in a small market in Las Cruces. She had only a general idea what was happening to her, and was unclear on who had purchased her or the other women with whom she was traveling, but thought it might be a brothel. I explained what was going on right now, and did my best to calm her fears by outlining for her what to expect. I convinced her that all she needed to do right now was relax, lie back, and think of Tegucigalpa.
The next girl was Emma. She was white, with long brown hair in a braid, small breasts and a kind of stocky build that’s common in naturally strong people. She had a sort of rural/country demeanor, a horse tattooed on her lower leg, and to complete the stereotype she confirmed that she had sold herself to save her parent’s ranch. She didn’t talk much, and her outward reaction to getting her ass tongued was mild. I kept her green light on, though, until the last minute, when I got a red for her too.
The final slave girl to the right was Abigail, another young white girl, astonishingly pretty with blonde hair and full, perky breasts to match her full, perky lips. She, too, was a hard-luck case who was enslaved for medical debts incurred to save her father from cancer. Nervous, but according to her she had a very sheltered upbringing in a conservative religious family, and her nervousness was not from shame but rather excitement! She was used to doing chores, following orders, and waiting on other people so that was no big deal, but the sex - that was another thing entirely. Giving out blowjobs at the last Field Day was an eye-opening experience for her, and she was actually enjoying herself. Needless to say, she was very vocal when she reacted to my tongue in her sphincter. Of course, she too was a green light I managed to change to red.
Finally I moved to the last, unoccupied chair. The sixth slave in Bird class was taken out early on (apparently after a savage beating by Mistress Stefania - I’m not sure I believe that) so there were six of us Fish to just five Birds. Honestly, I was looking forward to a break.
Alas, that was not to be.
Instead, Master Green(!) appeared, escorting a middle-aged free white woman from the audience. Black hair in a messy bun, sunglasses balanced on top of her head, lots of turquoise jewelry, blousy-flowy top with a large, bright pattern, yoga pants, sandals. She wasn’t exactly fat, but for sure she was a big woman with big thighs and big hips, and a big personality to match.
“This is the one!” The woman exclaimed, turning her head from me to Green and back again. “Would it be possible…?”
“We don’t have any privacy screens today, Mrs. Metcalfe,” Green replied. “I’ll put you first on the list for Friday if you’d like. Otherwise—“
“Oh that’s okay, Roy,” the woman replied. “I’ll do something more Pee-Gee today. But do put me on that list! Thanks for your help, I’ll be sure to mention it to Richard!”
Green smiled, touched a finger to his forehead sort of like a salute, and left.
Mrs. Metcalfe fished around in her enormous handbag until she drew out a phone.
“First,” she said to me, “I need a selfie.”
She squatted down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder and held the phone up overhead, the lens aimed at us (her beaming face and my naked body). “Say cheese, Frankie!”
“Cheese?” I said, followed immediately by a flash.
The woman tapped on her phone a couple of times. “That was a good one. Gonna post it to Rapidgram right after we’re done. So, Frankie, how are you doing today?”
Finally it was my turn to give a double-take. Was she serious?
“Oh, you know,” I replied, “Reasonably well given the circumstances. How are you?”
“Well, I’m very pleased to meetcha, and my friends are going to be so jealous that I managed to get in!” She replied, standing up. “Now, aren’t you supposed to call me ‘Mistress,’ or at least ‘ma’am’?”
“Yes, ma’am. This slave is sorry, ma’am,” I said, my head bowed down.
Really, what else could I say? My face is so red it feels like it’s on fire.
Her pudgy face beamed at me again. “Much better!” She said, and plopped herself down on the sixth chair in front of me.
“What I would like,” she announced, aiming her camera at me, “Is a good old-fashioned foot massage and toe sucking. You can start with my right foot.”
------------------------------------------------
Green sighed.
“We both know it’s the fate of slaves to serve free men and women,” he said. “But even so, and especially since you’re not actually a slave — at least not yet,” The fucker grinned at me, “— it was embarrassing, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I understand that when the boss’ wife wants something, it’s hard to say no.”
“She’s not a bad person, really, she’s just not very swift on the uptake, if you know what I mean. Shoot, why on earth she thought that Rich Metcalfe wouldn’t blow his stack if she posted that video is beyond me,” Green continued. “But at least we got that stopped before it started.”
“Seriously, thanks for making that phone call,” I said. “Do you know the manager well?”
Green shifted in his chair. As you’ve probably guessed, we were back in our super-secret meeting room, with me on my knees before him, in the middle of the frickin’ night while everybody else was blunting their humiliation with a full night’s sleep.
Green nodded. “He’s the first GM of HCI here in New Mexico. He recruited me from the El Paso store, made me chief handler. That was, what? Four years ago? Something like that. He’s pretty popular around here; HCI only wanted a transshipment center in New Mexico, he’s the one who convinced them to build an actual market with an O-school and everything. Earned a lot of good will with the state and the local business community, ‘Putting Albuquerque on the map,’ and so on.”
“Just out of curiosity, why?” I asked.
“To me it was obvious, but to corporate HQ back East it wasn’t. Outside of the ABQ, New Mexico is a poor state. The head office saw they wouldn’t move a lot of collars here, so they nixed the market. ABQ wanted a market, and was willing to hold up the permit for a transit center — which is all HCI wanted — until they got one. HCI was gonna walk away and just build up the El Paso center as their southern east-west transit hub but Mr. Metcalfe pointed out that while New Mexico might not be a great place to sell slaves, it was a great place to buy them, often below market rates. Since HCI’s transport system is almost as extensive as Amazon’s, they can arbitrage the price difference by, for example, just putting the new slave on a truck to a place with high demand like Los Angeles, and make a killing. So win-win.”
Green chuckled, that deep bass voice that I love rumbling in his chest. “The problem is PR. Buying local wives and daughters and shipping them off to Seattle or New England is not very popular for some reason,” he laughed a bit louder, “So Rich has to smooth things over with different groups constantly. Mayleen was likely about to embarrass HCI - wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time with a reporter - and cause him a headache, so he stopped her before she could. I just gave him a heads-up.”
“Huh,” I said. “Interesting. There’s a lot to this business I never knew. Also, what kind of name is Mayleen?”
Green shrugged. “A made up one?”
“Aren’t all names made up?”
Green laughed. “Stop that, Frankie, you’re gonna make me like you.”
I couldn’t help smiling a tiny bit.
“Seriously, though, why did she want me?”
“It was your little group of moms, the one you call ‘the breakfast club.’ Mayleen is friends with many of them, and was just showing off. I don’t think she’s especially interested in you for herself, more that others in her little club were interested in you. Dig?”
“I dig it,” I said. Just how old is Green, anyway? Maybe old slang is coming back, and he gets it from his niece. “Also, that confirms some of our suspicions. Looks like the plan is still on.”
------------------------------------------------
I’ll mention in passing that I still haven’t heard from Amy, nor did she appear at Visitor’s Day on Friday.
Surprise, surprise.
Friday night I had another “training” session with Mistress Stefania. We followed the usual pattern, where I took off her boots and gave her a foot massage which turned into foot worship, which I liked much better with her than with Mayleen. Truth is, I was starting to look forward to our sessions.
After I finished her feet, I helped her off with the rest of the clothes and licked her to orgasm. After recovering she returned the favor with her hands, and then we cuddled a bit and chatted.
I asked her about what I could expect tomorrow. “You’ve probably guessed already, this is the female Field Day. All I can say for sure is that there is no sausage on the menu,” she said.
“Really?” I replied. “Not even the fake kind?”
“No, we don’t let randos wander in here and use instruments that might damage property for which we’re responsible. So expect to use your mouth a lot.”
“I’m surprised free women are willing to expose themselves in public just get free cunnilingus.”
“We use private tents,” Stefania said. “Adán is junior to me, so he gets to spend the night helping Marta set them up. Which means that I can spend the night showing you some of the finer points of pleasing a woman…”
She rolled me over on my back, pushed my knees up and apart, then started gently kissing my stomach from my belly button down, moving toward my vagina, then detoured to the insides of each of my thighs.
Stefania looked up at me. “Don’t go straight in, build up the anticipation first. Getting her skin to be extra sensitive will make her more responsive to what you do next.” Then she lowered her head again, and started running her tongue over my thighs from the crease where they connect to my body all the way up to my hip bones.
My goose bumps had goose bumps. This is some training I could get used to.
------------------------------------------------
Saturday morning, time for Field Day Number Three.
What fresh hell awaits?
I saw a third female trainer today: Mistress Christine, a tall, thin white woman, muscle definition like a triathlete in training, walked like a man, reddish-brown hair almost in a buzz cut, tattoos peeking out of the cuff of her shirt sleeve.
Her, Mistress Karen, and Mistress Stefania gathered up the Fish class. The first thing they did was split us into pairs (me and Ariel, Vanessa and Rhonda, Tracy and Janet), attached a length of chain between our two collars, then handcuffed our hands behind our backs.
They marched us outside in side-by-side formation. On the far side of the training area were three square canvas tents, kinda tall, same color as the awnings of the obedience school. Reminded me of the kind you see at craft fairs, but a bit larger, with an actual wooden door on the front (they looked like they were in a frame, with the canvas tacked around the frame, but what do I know about tents?). Multiple extension cords ran to each tent.
Three tents, so we’d be sharing with someone else. At least that explained the pairing up.
But first: we had to be paraded past the crowd on the bleachers.
Of course, front and center was the breakfast club with Amy and Leslie looking at me and smiling, like I was their best friend walking down the runway at a fashion show and they were so proud of me! If I’d been close enough (and wasn’t afraid of being whipped in front of the crowd) I’d have tried to talk to Amy and get her tell me what the hell was going on with her. Unfortunately, I was not.
The other reason I couldn’t talk to her - aside from proximity - was that the crowd was unusually noisy. Not just cheering (I thought that was something guys did more then women - learned something new today), and this crowd was well over half female, maybe as high as two-thirds (largest percentage I’d seen so far). They were making loud “Oooh” and “Aaah” noises, shrieks of - well, something, lots of drunken “Woo-hoo”-ing, a great deal of commentary (“She looks like such a bitch, she deserves what’s coming”, “What a couple of skanks!”, “Your parents must be so proud”, “Whasamatter sweetie? Couldn’t get a man so you had to sell yourself?”, “Shouldn’t have bought so many Starbukk’s lattés!”, “You can tell that one’s gone full lez since she collared”, “Oh yeah, you just love eating at the Y, don’t you?”, “Enjoy the brothel! Maybe you can carpet munch between clients!”, “When is your mother joining you?”, “Are your cunts dripping yet?”, “YEAH LETS SEE THAT JUICE!”), and so much laughter.
I could smell the booze from here.
Mistress Stefania had Ariel and I stand next to each other in front of the crowd (we were first in line), eyes down, as she ran the tip of a long riding whip up and down our bodies, pausing on different places of interest like our nipples and vaginas. The crowd roared their approval when she had us turn around and bend over, but they really went wild when we knelt down, opened our mouths and stuck out our tongues on command. To demonstrate our slave heat, we kissed each other passionately, lots of tongue, running our hands over each other’s bodies. To demonstrate our submissiveness, we kissed the toes of Stefania’s boots. We even licked the tip of the whip, as theatrically as possible. While the crowd compared our tongue techniques (and Amy and Leslie took videos), Stefania stood us up and marched us to tent number one.
(Continued in Part B)
Fuck this.
Seriously.
Fuck. This. Shit.
Let’s get a few things straight here:
First, I am not actually a slave, and never was one. I’m pretending to be an indentured servant (a slave with a time limit) for a story, because I’m a journalist. My indenture was entirely falsified by a real slave who engineered an escape, substituting myself for her to throw off suspicion long enough for her to get away. Any state agency, the federal USDIS, or non-crooked judge (assuming you can find one) would immediately free me if I presented myself to them. However, I went along with it: initially because I was naked and afraid and chained in a coffle, but later because I was convinced to do so by my employer. My cover story is adequately documented and can withstand casual scrutiny, but not determined digging.
Second, I have no desire to be a slave. I mean come on, nobody does. Well, except maybe Vanessa. So almost no one, anyway, and I don’t fit into that category as I am not sexually excited by being enslaved.
Third, I was supposed to be an observer, going through “Obedience School” to see what the typical slave experience was like and documenting it on video. Instead, I have been twice deliberately targeted for personal humiliation, first by an ex and second by that ex’s colleague. I did not want that, and did not agree to it beforehand.
Fourth, this is my story. I’m calling the shots in the field, although the overall direction of the story is decided in conjunction with Marla, my producer at CNS.
(CNS stands for “Central & Western News Service.” People ask me why they don’t abbreviate it “CWNS” or “C&WNS”? I have no idea, go ask them.)
Which means that my assistant, Amy, is exactly that, my assistant and technical support. Marla gave her an associate producer credit because she would be on-call for the whole month, and to make it easier for her to submit expenses, and probably as a nice bonus for a young woman still in college who’s not yet started her career.
But one of the hazards of work like this is the lack of communication (and that’s especially true of slavery - as you might imagine, I have no access to a phone much less the Internet), which means that your assistant can talk to your boss without you ever knowing about it, and get herself promoted to producer, giving her some authority over the project. And by extension, you.
I thought about all this and more as I waited in the small darkened bedroom. Master Adán (a.k.a. Beardy) had led me here after lights out, and I knelt next to the bed frame, completely naked except for a steel collar which was leashed to a nearby wall ring.
The door opened, and Master Green switched on a desk lamp while I prostrated myself to him like a proper slave.
“Up,” he said in his impossibly deep voice, “I would say there’s no need for that in private, but it’s probably best that you continue observing protocol,” he said, and I raised back up, a little reluctantly.
Maybe I should’ve made this my fifth “point,” but I’m not entirely sure what’s happening: I do not want to be a slave, but I’m learning that acting like a slave is… a turn-on. The kibble & kennels part sucks, and I don’t like performing in public at all, but I find the sexual submission aspects very arousing. That is, when I’m not being forcibly raped by men I detest.
For example, right now I’m kneeling in front of Master Green. He’s a reasonably good-looking guy, a little older than me but in good shape, lots of muscle, shaved head and nicely trimmed beard. To be honest, I’ve never really been attracted to black men. I know, I know, that makes me a terrible person but while I could look at a given black guy and think, “Yeah, he’s hot,” I couldn’t see myself dating or sleeping with him.
(In my defense, I blame my upbringing in Tennessee.)
But now? I’m completely naked, my knees spread wide to display my dampening vagina, my breasts sticking out with hardening nipples, and right now I want nothing more in the world than to find out how much of his cock I can fit down my throat before he rams it into my pussy while I repeat “Thank You, Master,” with each thrust.
Why the change? I have no idea.
“Do you have anything for me?” He asked, and I nodded.
“First, I need some help: I need to make a call,” I said.
Green raised an eyebrow but didn’t say anything, then got up and left the room.
Before I had a chance to break out in a cold sweat he returned with a data pad and set it on the table next to his chair. Taking a seat, he looked at me, his jaw set.
“Okay, I can do that,” he said. “But first, catch me up.”
I took a deep breath and started talking. I lined out my suspicions about what was going on, and who was responsible. As I went along, his stern expression began to soften.
“So,” I concluded, “I need to check on a couple of things to confirm what I’m thinking, then I suggest we can come up with a plan to wrap all this up.”
Green leaned back in his chair and let out a long, low whistle. “Damnation, girl,” he said.
He appeared to lose himself in thought, so I watched him quietly for a while, patiently resting my hands on my knees — I would have liked to fold them in my lap, but a slave must never cover herself in any way in the presence of her master. Besides, I like it when he looks.
“I think you’re on the right track,” he finally said. “Who do you need to call?”
“My producer, sir,” I replied.
“I can see that. Makes sense.” He unlocked the data pad and handed it to me, the messaging app already opened.
I started to tap in Marla’s number, then hesitated.
“Sir, could I possibly speak to her alone?”
Green shook his head, then stopped himself, looked to one side for a moment then returned his gaze to me. “You’ve trusted me so it’s my turn to trust you. I’ll be right outside, knock on the door when you’re done - knock hard, it’s soundproof from the outside.”
After Green shut the door I turned to the metal desk, opened the deepest drawer and put my glasses inside, then put the pillow from the bed on top of them and shut the drawer.
I dialed Marla’s work number; unsurprisingly she wasn’t there, but it forwarded me to her after-hours service. I left a message, hung up and waited.
Less than a minute later the app opened again, and I accepted the call from Marla. She was a bit disheveled and wearing a fuzzy bathrobe - I glanced at the clock on the pad, it was after midnight local time, she’s in Colorado so we should be in the same time zone - and, for the first time in my acquaintance, she was also wearing large, thick-rimmed eyeglasses.
“Frankie?” She asked, blinking. “Are you okay?”
“Not really, but we can discuss that later,” I replied. “How are the girls?”
Marla is a divorcee with no children. How are the girls is one of the phrases we use in the foreign correspondent game to indicate to each other that we’re not under duress.
“They’re fine,” Marla replied, thinking quickly - she is an old pro, after all - and said, “They’ll be happy to know you asked. How are you? Are you sleeping okay?”
That was a counter-question, meaning are you alone and can you speak freely?.
“Yes, thank you. Sleeping quite well,” I replied.
“Very glad to hear it,” Marla said, moving closer to the screen. “Glad to hear anything from you, Frankie. You missed your Friday check-in, and I’m having some trouble getting in touch with Amy. I also haven’t gotten any of the video from the past week. What’s going on over there?”
“Honestly, Marla,” I said, “I’m not quite sure. I need to ask you a few things. First, has the focus of the story changed?”
Marla raised an eyebrow. “No, at least not on my end. Why?”
“Second,” I continued, “What is your understanding of the purpose behind my investigation?”
“To go through a typical consumer-level obedience school and report on what it’s like from the viewpoint of a new slave. Additionally, we wanted you to learn as much as you could about the staff and how they conduct themselves, and to record the stories of your classmates and their experiences at the school; Amy should know all this too. Once you graduated, it would be packaged up as a sequel to your story on the slave transport and you would get paid. As far as I and CNS are concerned, all of that still stands.”
“Third,” I pressed on, “What is my status with you and CNS?”
Marla pursed her lips, I could almost see the wheels spinning in her brain.
“You are a contract journalist in the employ of CNS, and I am your producer. You are currently named on a fraudulent indenture contract, which you are using as cover during an investigatory report commissioned by CNS. But what I think you’re asking is, are you legally a slave?” Marla shook her head. “The answer is no, you are not.”
“I know it was a little unusual to handle it this way,” she continued, “But what happened to you was the equivalent of being knocked out then waking up to discover that your assailant had switched clothes with you to make good her escape. I believed, based on the video I had seen, that we had a great story on our hands with your time on the slave truck, and the phony enslavement made for a great hook so we took advantage of the situation to unobtrusively insert you into the system. I acted without asking you first under the assumption that you would go along with it, because of your penchant for risky assignments, and I made sure to extend your contract and increase your rate. Our communication over the phone and via Amy led me to believe I was correct.”
“Fourth,” I asked, not quite so sure of myself now, “Did you know that my ex-boyfriend, and almost ex-fiancee, Jared Fleischman traveled all the way from Florida to see me at both of the public field days held so far?”
Marla raised both eyebrows. “What?” she gasped.
“I have to know, Marla,” I said, putting as much urgency into my tone as I could, “Did you contact Jared and tell him where I am and what I’m doing?”
“Good heavens, Frankie, no!” she nearly shouted. “That would place you directly in danger. We both know that would also compromise the integrity of the story, and violate our professional ethics as journalists. Not to mention it would also be against CNS employment guidelines. What happened exactly?”
I told Marla about Jared and about Chet.
“Oh my god, Frankie,” Marla finally said. “I’m so sorry. This is not how things were supposed to go.”
Marla sat back and retrieved her laptop from off-camera, opening it before saying, almost as an afterthought: “I’m pulling you out.”
“Really?” I said. “What does that mean, exactly?”
Marla looked back at the camera and gave me an odd look.
“What do you think it means?” she said. “I’m contacting our legal team and telling them to end your phony indenture contract immediately, then I’m going to call someone local — maybe the state police? I know someone at the Albuquerque field office, if not then we have private security on retainer — and have them take you away from that horrible place within the hour. Once you’re safe I’ll have them go look for Amy and make sure she’s okay.”
“You’d do that?” I asked.
Another odd look from Marla.
“Of course, Frankie, and I would be doing it right now if you weren’t interrupting,” she replied.
Then Marla closed the laptop.
“You think I’m double-crossing you somehow.”
“Yes,” I sighed, “It was one of only a few possibilities, but yes. I don’t think so now.”
“Why?” Marla asked, quietly.
“Because your first impulse was to pull me out,” I replied.
“No — I mean, thank you for that — but no,” Marla said, “What I meant was, why would I double-cross you? Who would do that?”
------------------------------------------------
Instead of knocking, I tried just opening the door to let Master Green know I was done. To no one’s surprise it was locked, so I wound up knocking anyway.
He opened the door, and I scuttled back to my original position, kneeling on the floor, wearing my glasses.
“Did you get what you needed?” Green asked, retrieving his tablet from the table.
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “May I ask a question about slavery, sir?”
Green shrugged and took a seat in front of me.
“You know I have no real SRN, the one on my record is false, which means my indenture contract is false, too. I never appeared before a judge or anything. If I understand it correctly, I’m not actually a slave, er, indentured servant at all, and can leave at any time. Is that true?”
Green looked at me, grinned and started chuckling, then tilted his head back and started laughing hard, his deep voice making my skin vibrate. When he finished, he looked back at me with something like sympathy.
“Girl, you still have no idea how this all works,” he said.
“Sir?”
“That legal stuff is only for the courts, it’s just the dividing line between being free and being a slave. Once you cross that line, your freedom, your position in society, your life is entirely decided by other people — often bad people. You’re a slave until someone else says otherwise. That’s the reality of it.”
Green laced his fingers over his chest and continued. “If I had a dollar for every little white girl I’ve met who thought she had a Get-Out-of-Jail-Free card, I wouldn’t have to work here no more. Man, if I had another dollar for every one of those little white girls who ended up with my dick down her throat…” He chuckled again. “The truth is this: once you’re in the system, the system is in charge, and the system decides when you get out… or if you get out.”
Seeing my surprised expression, Green said, “Yes, they all had looks on their faces just like yours when I told ‘em. Do you all really think you can just stand up and say, Oh, I’m tired of playing slave, I want to go home now? What do you think would happen if we allowed slaves to do that?”
“No,” he continued, “I can guarantee that you will be here through the end of your class, minimum. Even if you have someone show up with a lawyer and a court order, HCI security will prevent it, and believe me - the local cops very much prefer not getting involved. You’d have to have some serious juice to make it happen.”
My mouth was dry, but I managed to ask: “So even with a court order they can keep me here?”
“Their incentive is the contract that someone signed to get you in here, and HCI doesn’t want to renege on a contract and risk losing the money. They employ lots of lawyers to make sure that doesn’t happen. Once you complete training and they get the balance of their payment out of escrow, they don’t give a fuck what happens to you. But until then? You’re an entry in the ledger.”
Wait a minute: “Money in escrow? As far as I know, nobody paid anything to have me here, this was set up with the knowledge and assistance of HCI corporate.”
Green shook his head. “When I was trying to figure out who you are, I looked in to that. Somebody, some company I couldn’t find out anything about, paid for you to be here. I assumed it was your news agency using an alias.”
“What you’re saying,” I said, choking a little, “Is that HCI will make sure I finish training, one way or another, so they can get paid, and if I cause problems they will recoup the lost fees by…?”
“They’ll recoup those fees AND cover up their problems by selling you as soon as you graduate,” Green replied.
I lowered my voice slightly to hide the strain: “How is that legal?”
“Y’ever heard that old saying, ‘Possession is nine-tenths of the law’? All of the state slave laws specify something like that. Even if you aren’t technically, legally a slave, if you act like one in the company of other slaves then you are considered to be in the custody of whoever owns those slaves, and must obey their orders as if you were a slave until some natural ending point, like graduating from obedience school. That’s the big reason why pretending to be a slave is so damned dangerous.”
He raised a hand. “Now don’t get me wrong, it’s a gray area that hasn’t been tested too awful much, but take it from me, it does happen. The reality is that going up against a huge-ass corporation like HCI is not an option for most folks whose find family members in this situation. Assuming they could even find a lawyer willing to take the case, and could afford the legal fees, there’s also the problem that their loved one is in the hands of a slave dealer. You get what I’m saying?”
Now my tongue was dry too, and my stomach was tying itself into knots.
“All Sales Are Final?” I asked.
“All Sales Are Final,” he agreed, nodding. “New Mexico, like nearly every other state, is a third-party state when it comes to slave ownership, meaning that if only one of the parties - in this case the buyer - acts in good faith and is unaware of their purchase’s questionable status, then the sale is completely legal and that person is one-hundred-percent a slave, regardless of her previous status.”
“Hell, Frankie,” Green concluded, “Why do you think they devoice slaves during inspection?”
“So they can’t ask for help,” I said, quietly.
Green nodded. “It sure ain’t to preserve the ambience.”
------------------------------------------------
I laid in my cage, wrapped in my blanket, curled up in a ball, so stressed out and demoralized there was no way I was going to sleep.
Green and I had come up with a basic plan, but there were still holes that needed to be plugged up. I’m not at all sure it was going to work; I figure at least Green will get what he needs out of it, so I’ll have someone who’s kind-of an ally when the SHTF. But I am definitely in danger here.
If you didn’t follow what Green was telling me, here it is in plain language: while I may not be a legal slave, since I look like a slave and act like a slave and am under contract to complete obedience school, I am for all intents and purposes a slave until I graduate. Which means that I am required to follow the orders of, and submit to, free persons during that time — which could include me being placed on an auction block and sold for keeps.
That’s one Hell of a catch.
So here I am, under the control of a greedy, uncaring system that can be manipulated by people who want me in a collar permanently.
Christ, I wish Lee was here.
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The new class of trainees came in this morning. Six of ‘em, going into the Dog section (the set of kennels located underneath the old “Dogs” sign from when the school was a pet supply store), they appeared to be three Latinas and three white girls, all young, fairly attractive, and in various states of fitness. Shuffling along in a coffle, the nude women were guided by two new (to me) trainers: an older, balding, medium-sized white guy and a middle-aged, short, white female with dark blonde hair cut in a severe bob with an undercut, the one sometimes called a “Karen” style. Her frowning face made it easy for me to imagine her demanding to see the manager everywhere she went.
The new slaves seemed subdued and fairly miserable; one of the white girls, a Rubenesque young lady with pale skin, long black hair and a number of large tattoos to go along with her large, heavy breasts, glanced around nervously. She saw me looking at her and locked her gaze on me. She dropped her mouth open and widened her eyes just before Karen lashed her ample bottom with a whip. Plus-size Vampirella yelped and looked back at her trainer, who pointed ahead saying “Eyes front, slave.” She quickly turned to look ahead of her, trying to rub the angry red streak on her cheeks with her manacled hands.
Then Karen looked at me: I saw a flash of… something in her eyes before she turned back to her charges.
Oh, swell. What’s going on now?
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The genius of obedience school is that it’s so damned boring. I can’t scroll through my phone, I can’t sit in the back of the class and gossip with my friends, I can’t zone out and wait for the bell to ring. I’m here all day long, no distractions, with people waiting to literally whip my ass if my attention wanders too far. So I have to pay attention to what I’m doing, even if it means sitting perfectly still and waiting (a lot of a slave’s time is spent waiting around), I have to be present in the moment, if I miss something or screw it up I will be punished and/or humiliated. So perhaps it’s no surprise that “slave mind” (that’s what the submissive, servant slave personality that subsumes a woman’s free personality is called) is creeping over me. After all, it’s all I’ve got to do all day.
Despite all of my intentions to the contrary, I find myself falling easily into the role of a submissive service slave. During the day, I don’t find myself thinking about the story, or what I want to do when I get out, or anything at all other than the task at hand, and how I can do better.
I mean, have you noticed I haven’t mentioned coffee even once in the past week?
The others are feeling it, too: at night we don’t giggle and whisper like schoolgirls at a slumber party. We mostly just sleep, although we sleep with our hands through the bars, around the hands and arms of our sister slaves. We don’t have little conversations in the shower like we used to, either, and when we’re done we no longer just run a brush over our hair and get going - instead we’ve been granted body lotion, different types of hair product, and other grooming supplies to help each other look our best - but we don’t hang around messing around with makeovers, instead we’re genuinely trying to look our best and do it as quickly, efficiently, and quietly as possible. No one told us to do that: we took it entirely upon ourselves. We accomplish our evening tasks almost silently as well, and when we’re each done with our individual tasks we kneel silently in front of the trainers without being told. I even find myself mostly looking downwards during the course of the day.
The question that bothers me the most is this: once I leave here, will I shrug it off and return to normal?
What if I don’t?
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The theme of the next field day was revealed Wednesday morning when Marta began dragging out triangular chairs from the equipment room.
She lined them up facing the bleachers. I don’t think I’ve mentioned the change in crowd composition I’d noticed this week. Usually the audience is about 70% male and 30% female at most, and on some days more like 80-20. But as I looked at the bleachers that morning, the split was closer to 50-50, with many of the females being new (to me) faces.
No sign of Amy, Leslie, or the other members of the breakfast club.
Scores upon scores of women watched Marta set up six chairs and six sets of rubber mats before bowing toward Master David. To my surprise, Master Baldy and Master Beardy led Bird class over to the chairs and had them sit. There were only five of them, so the last chair was empty.
Once in the chairs, their wrists were cuffed to rings mounted at the top of the high backs, so that their arms were bound over their heads. Their ankles had thick neoprene bondage cuffs with D-rings wrapped around them, but the rings were not attached to anything. Instead, the slaves were instructed to keep their lower legs on either side of the seat, forcing her knees wide apart. Finally, the trainer would adjust a screw knob on the lower back of the chair that caused a section of the back to move forward (like the “Lumbar support” on a high-end office chair), forcing the slave to move her hips toward the front end of the chair until her genitals rested on the edge of the seat. It looked uncomfortable.
Master David turned to Mistress Stefania and said, “Bring ‘em out.”
The crowd began to murmur.
We were marched in front of the chairs. One at a time, we were ordered to turn and face the crowd, assume the Present position (legs spread, hands laced behind our heads) and wait while a short length of cable was attached to each of our collars.
When I turned to face the crowd, several camera flashes went off and I heard someone (couldn’t tell if it was male or female) shout, “There she is!”
Oh, there are the breakfast club ladies, they were off to one side today.
Stefania ordered me to kneel on the rubber mat in front of the second chair, then attached the collar cable to a ring underneath the chair.
I sat staring at the smooth-shaved pussy of one of the three Latina slaves from Bird school, while I listened to various members of the crowd speculate about my sexual proclivities and abilities, my face growing redder by the moment. My head buzzed and my ears roared from sheer humiliation and embarrassment.
You’d think I’d be used to it by now, wouldn’t you? I’ve had public sex on at least two separate occasions since arriving here, so I should know what to expect. But each time it’s a little different - that’s another part of the genius of obedience school. The first two times I was the one who had the act performed on me (remember, I was chained to a pole for the blowjob one - it was more of a face-fucking than a real BJ), and both times I had to do it no matter what. This one is a further step down the road of obedience: performing a homosexual act in public. Having one performed on me (like being taken by a strap-on dildo) would not have the same impact because 1) I’d be tied down and could rationalize it as a form of rape for which I was not responsible, and 2) I’d already been fucked with multiple real penises last week, and strap-ons would be about the same.
No, this time I had to actively participate — and show some enthusiasm I’m sure! — in an act that many would consider shameful (though not as shameful as our grandparents generation would).
I worked to get a grip on myself as I pretended to marvel at how the skin color of the girl’s labia and her vulva in general were much darker than the rest of her skin. I looked up at her, and she was staring back at me, wide-eyed. She was very pretty, and looked impossibly young.
“They’re talking about you, aren’t they?” she said.
She sounded impossibly cheerful.
“I think so,” I said back.
“Are you a celebrity or something?” she asked, as quietly as she could while still being heard over the crowd.
“I have no idea,” I replied. “This is as much as mystery to me as it is to you.”
She sat considering for a moment. “The Internet must be involved somehow.”
I nodded. Nearly every bad thing today involves the Internet.
“I’m Micaela, by the way. Everyone calls me Kayla, though,” she said.
“I’m Frankie, short for Francesca.”
Kayla laughed. “I know!”
“You know?” I asked, surprised.
“Oh yeah, you’re popular with the sisters,” she said.
Before I could follow up, Master Beardy stopped behind Kayla, attached something to her collar, glanced at his data pad, and moved on. It looked like a large steel pendant; hanging down from her collar, it rested flat against her upper chest.
“Jeez,” Kayla said. “Those are the cheapest, crappiest body monitors money can buy.”
“Body monitors?”
“Probably to monitor my response to what they’re about to make you do. Relies on measuring electrical current on the skin, as well as pulse rate and body temperature,” she said. “Pretty basic, not especially sensitive, and easy to game. Basically a networked mood ring.”
I blinked at her. “How do you know that?” I asked.
“I like science,” she replied. “I want to be a doctor when this is all over, so I learn about these things whenever I can.”
“When this is all over?” I asked (I know I’m a journalist and I ask questions for living, but this was getting ridiculous).
“Yeah, when my indenture is over I get a free ride at college.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yeah,” Kayla said. “New program at UNM, I’m spending two years fucking baseball players. They get controlled sex partners free of STDs and pregnancy and drama, and when it’s over I get four years of college and no debt.”
“The only downside,” she concluded, sticking her tongue out, “is I also have to fuck the coaches.”
“I would seriously love to talk more about everything you’ve said,” I hastened, “but real quick: what did you mean by ‘gaming’ the monitors?”
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I was both right and wrong about what was happening. When the whistle sounded, I of course went down on Kayla, licking and sucking the silky-smooth skin around her vagina before moving on to her labia and teasing her clitoris. She clearly enjoyed it, getting nicely lubricated and at one point even moaning “Oh, Frankie.”
I kept the green LED in her monitor lit the entire time, but before I could bring her to orgasm (ahead of everyone else, I might add) the whistle blew. I sat back, puzzled.
Beardy came back in front this time and told Kayla to scoot forward a bit more, then lifted her legs off the ground and attached her ankle restraints to the same ring to which her hands were cuffed, using a short length of metal cable with a carabiner or something like it at the end.
Kayla was now bent in a “U” shape, presenting her tiny brown puckered anus to me.
Mistress Stefania ducked down next to me: “Analingus is next on the menu. Just do your best: remember, the point here is that you obey the order to lick her ass, not that you do it well. No hesitation,” she said. I felt her hand toying with one of my nipples: “But it would be better to do it well, and to show some enthusiasm. Good luck.”
“On the whistle,” I heard Master David say in a voice loud enough to be heard over the crowd, “You will begin performing analingus on the slave in front of you. You will start immediately, and you will continue without stopping until the whistle is blown. And I want to see green lights on all of these sluts. Understood?”
“Yes, master,” we all replied in unison.
The whistle blew, and I started licking Kayla’s neat little asshole like it was ice cream and I was starving to death. She let out a yelp, followed by a series of grunts and then a long moan. I pressed on, worming my tongue inside her, twisting it at times, at other times sucking on her brown eye like it was her pussy. I had no idea what I was doing, but I could improvise and see what worked.
So yeah, I licked another woman’s ass. Yet another item checked off on the ol’ bucket list, I guess.
Would you believe that I actually gave Kayla a little orgasm? It’s true.
But I nonetheless managed to get a red light at the very last moment.
Later that night, Ariel asked me how I handled the taste at first. She had a hard time, and retched within a few seconds of starting — which earned her a stripe across her ass and a cheer from the crowd.
Y’know, I think it was my long, deep stubborn streak that let me ignore the harsh, kind of metallic sensation in favor of concentrating on the task at hand. I didn’t notice the taste until the whistle blew and I could stop licking. Then, it was fairly bad, but we actually got antiseptic mouthwash afterwards, and spit it into a bucket carried by Marta, so I was able to handle it.
For the record, I don’t think the mouthwash was for our benefit so much as it was to prevent any possible disease transmission, because before we got our mouthwash, we each had our neck cables unhooked and we shifted one chair to the right.
I managed to talk to each of the Bird class slaves while we were waiting for the changeover to be completed. Seat number three (the one immediately to the right of Kayla) was another Latina named Leyda. She was fairly short (easy to gauge when she’s folded in half), her large boobs squished underneath her legs, and her round, angelic face looked nervous almost to the point of being terrified.
The problem: she spoke almost no English. She’s a refugee from Honduras, and wasn’t able to pay a smuggler to get her into a larger, more populated border crossing in Texas or California, so she wound up trying on her own in New Mexico. She had been caught by some border vigilantes, who kept her in a cage for a week before eventually selling her privately in a small market in Las Cruces. She had only a general idea what was happening to her, and was unclear on who had purchased her or the other women with whom she was traveling, but thought it might be a brothel. I explained what was going on right now, and did my best to calm her fears by outlining for her what to expect. I convinced her that all she needed to do right now was relax, lie back, and think of Tegucigalpa.
The next girl was Emma. She was white, with long brown hair in a braid, small breasts and a kind of stocky build that’s common in naturally strong people. She had a sort of rural/country demeanor, a horse tattooed on her lower leg, and to complete the stereotype she confirmed that she had sold herself to save her parent’s ranch. She didn’t talk much, and her outward reaction to getting her ass tongued was mild. I kept her green light on, though, until the last minute, when I got a red for her too.
The final slave girl to the right was Abigail, another young white girl, astonishingly pretty with blonde hair and full, perky breasts to match her full, perky lips. She, too, was a hard-luck case who was enslaved for medical debts incurred to save her father from cancer. Nervous, but according to her she had a very sheltered upbringing in a conservative religious family, and her nervousness was not from shame but rather excitement! She was used to doing chores, following orders, and waiting on other people so that was no big deal, but the sex - that was another thing entirely. Giving out blowjobs at the last Field Day was an eye-opening experience for her, and she was actually enjoying herself. Needless to say, she was very vocal when she reacted to my tongue in her sphincter. Of course, she too was a green light I managed to change to red.
Finally I moved to the last, unoccupied chair. The sixth slave in Bird class was taken out early on (apparently after a savage beating by Mistress Stefania - I’m not sure I believe that) so there were six of us Fish to just five Birds. Honestly, I was looking forward to a break.
Alas, that was not to be.
Instead, Master Green(!) appeared, escorting a middle-aged free white woman from the audience. Black hair in a messy bun, sunglasses balanced on top of her head, lots of turquoise jewelry, blousy-flowy top with a large, bright pattern, yoga pants, sandals. She wasn’t exactly fat, but for sure she was a big woman with big thighs and big hips, and a big personality to match.
“This is the one!” The woman exclaimed, turning her head from me to Green and back again. “Would it be possible…?”
“We don’t have any privacy screens today, Mrs. Metcalfe,” Green replied. “I’ll put you first on the list for Friday if you’d like. Otherwise—“
“Oh that’s okay, Roy,” the woman replied. “I’ll do something more Pee-Gee today. But do put me on that list! Thanks for your help, I’ll be sure to mention it to Richard!”
Green smiled, touched a finger to his forehead sort of like a salute, and left.
Mrs. Metcalfe fished around in her enormous handbag until she drew out a phone.
“First,” she said to me, “I need a selfie.”
She squatted down next to me, put an arm around my shoulder and held the phone up overhead, the lens aimed at us (her beaming face and my naked body). “Say cheese, Frankie!”
“Cheese?” I said, followed immediately by a flash.
The woman tapped on her phone a couple of times. “That was a good one. Gonna post it to Rapidgram right after we’re done. So, Frankie, how are you doing today?”
Finally it was my turn to give a double-take. Was she serious?
“Oh, you know,” I replied, “Reasonably well given the circumstances. How are you?”
“Well, I’m very pleased to meetcha, and my friends are going to be so jealous that I managed to get in!” She replied, standing up. “Now, aren’t you supposed to call me ‘Mistress,’ or at least ‘ma’am’?”
“Yes, ma’am. This slave is sorry, ma’am,” I said, my head bowed down.
Really, what else could I say? My face is so red it feels like it’s on fire.
Her pudgy face beamed at me again. “Much better!” She said, and plopped herself down on the sixth chair in front of me.
“What I would like,” she announced, aiming her camera at me, “Is a good old-fashioned foot massage and toe sucking. You can start with my right foot.”
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Green sighed.
“We both know it’s the fate of slaves to serve free men and women,” he said. “But even so, and especially since you’re not actually a slave — at least not yet,” The fucker grinned at me, “— it was embarrassing, and I’m sorry you had to go through that.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I understand that when the boss’ wife wants something, it’s hard to say no.”
“She’s not a bad person, really, she’s just not very swift on the uptake, if you know what I mean. Shoot, why on earth she thought that Rich Metcalfe wouldn’t blow his stack if she posted that video is beyond me,” Green continued. “But at least we got that stopped before it started.”
“Seriously, thanks for making that phone call,” I said. “Do you know the manager well?”
Green shifted in his chair. As you’ve probably guessed, we were back in our super-secret meeting room, with me on my knees before him, in the middle of the frickin’ night while everybody else was blunting their humiliation with a full night’s sleep.
Green nodded. “He’s the first GM of HCI here in New Mexico. He recruited me from the El Paso store, made me chief handler. That was, what? Four years ago? Something like that. He’s pretty popular around here; HCI only wanted a transshipment center in New Mexico, he’s the one who convinced them to build an actual market with an O-school and everything. Earned a lot of good will with the state and the local business community, ‘Putting Albuquerque on the map,’ and so on.”
“Just out of curiosity, why?” I asked.
“To me it was obvious, but to corporate HQ back East it wasn’t. Outside of the ABQ, New Mexico is a poor state. The head office saw they wouldn’t move a lot of collars here, so they nixed the market. ABQ wanted a market, and was willing to hold up the permit for a transit center — which is all HCI wanted — until they got one. HCI was gonna walk away and just build up the El Paso center as their southern east-west transit hub but Mr. Metcalfe pointed out that while New Mexico might not be a great place to sell slaves, it was a great place to buy them, often below market rates. Since HCI’s transport system is almost as extensive as Amazon’s, they can arbitrage the price difference by, for example, just putting the new slave on a truck to a place with high demand like Los Angeles, and make a killing. So win-win.”
Green chuckled, that deep bass voice that I love rumbling in his chest. “The problem is PR. Buying local wives and daughters and shipping them off to Seattle or New England is not very popular for some reason,” he laughed a bit louder, “So Rich has to smooth things over with different groups constantly. Mayleen was likely about to embarrass HCI - wouldn’t be the first time, but it would be the first time with a reporter - and cause him a headache, so he stopped her before she could. I just gave him a heads-up.”
“Huh,” I said. “Interesting. There’s a lot to this business I never knew. Also, what kind of name is Mayleen?”
Green shrugged. “A made up one?”
“Aren’t all names made up?”
Green laughed. “Stop that, Frankie, you’re gonna make me like you.”
I couldn’t help smiling a tiny bit.
“Seriously, though, why did she want me?”
“It was your little group of moms, the one you call ‘the breakfast club.’ Mayleen is friends with many of them, and was just showing off. I don’t think she’s especially interested in you for herself, more that others in her little club were interested in you. Dig?”
“I dig it,” I said. Just how old is Green, anyway? Maybe old slang is coming back, and he gets it from his niece. “Also, that confirms some of our suspicions. Looks like the plan is still on.”
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I’ll mention in passing that I still haven’t heard from Amy, nor did she appear at Visitor’s Day on Friday.
Surprise, surprise.
Friday night I had another “training” session with Mistress Stefania. We followed the usual pattern, where I took off her boots and gave her a foot massage which turned into foot worship, which I liked much better with her than with Mayleen. Truth is, I was starting to look forward to our sessions.
After I finished her feet, I helped her off with the rest of the clothes and licked her to orgasm. After recovering she returned the favor with her hands, and then we cuddled a bit and chatted.
I asked her about what I could expect tomorrow. “You’ve probably guessed already, this is the female Field Day. All I can say for sure is that there is no sausage on the menu,” she said.
“Really?” I replied. “Not even the fake kind?”
“No, we don’t let randos wander in here and use instruments that might damage property for which we’re responsible. So expect to use your mouth a lot.”
“I’m surprised free women are willing to expose themselves in public just get free cunnilingus.”
“We use private tents,” Stefania said. “Adán is junior to me, so he gets to spend the night helping Marta set them up. Which means that I can spend the night showing you some of the finer points of pleasing a woman…”
She rolled me over on my back, pushed my knees up and apart, then started gently kissing my stomach from my belly button down, moving toward my vagina, then detoured to the insides of each of my thighs.
Stefania looked up at me. “Don’t go straight in, build up the anticipation first. Getting her skin to be extra sensitive will make her more responsive to what you do next.” Then she lowered her head again, and started running her tongue over my thighs from the crease where they connect to my body all the way up to my hip bones.
My goose bumps had goose bumps. This is some training I could get used to.
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Saturday morning, time for Field Day Number Three.
What fresh hell awaits?
I saw a third female trainer today: Mistress Christine, a tall, thin white woman, muscle definition like a triathlete in training, walked like a man, reddish-brown hair almost in a buzz cut, tattoos peeking out of the cuff of her shirt sleeve.
Her, Mistress Karen, and Mistress Stefania gathered up the Fish class. The first thing they did was split us into pairs (me and Ariel, Vanessa and Rhonda, Tracy and Janet), attached a length of chain between our two collars, then handcuffed our hands behind our backs.
They marched us outside in side-by-side formation. On the far side of the training area were three square canvas tents, kinda tall, same color as the awnings of the obedience school. Reminded me of the kind you see at craft fairs, but a bit larger, with an actual wooden door on the front (they looked like they were in a frame, with the canvas tacked around the frame, but what do I know about tents?). Multiple extension cords ran to each tent.
Three tents, so we’d be sharing with someone else. At least that explained the pairing up.
But first: we had to be paraded past the crowd on the bleachers.
Of course, front and center was the breakfast club with Amy and Leslie looking at me and smiling, like I was their best friend walking down the runway at a fashion show and they were so proud of me! If I’d been close enough (and wasn’t afraid of being whipped in front of the crowd) I’d have tried to talk to Amy and get her tell me what the hell was going on with her. Unfortunately, I was not.
The other reason I couldn’t talk to her - aside from proximity - was that the crowd was unusually noisy. Not just cheering (I thought that was something guys did more then women - learned something new today), and this crowd was well over half female, maybe as high as two-thirds (largest percentage I’d seen so far). They were making loud “Oooh” and “Aaah” noises, shrieks of - well, something, lots of drunken “Woo-hoo”-ing, a great deal of commentary (“She looks like such a bitch, she deserves what’s coming”, “What a couple of skanks!”, “Your parents must be so proud”, “Whasamatter sweetie? Couldn’t get a man so you had to sell yourself?”, “Shouldn’t have bought so many Starbukk’s lattés!”, “You can tell that one’s gone full lez since she collared”, “Oh yeah, you just love eating at the Y, don’t you?”, “Enjoy the brothel! Maybe you can carpet munch between clients!”, “When is your mother joining you?”, “Are your cunts dripping yet?”, “YEAH LETS SEE THAT JUICE!”), and so much laughter.
I could smell the booze from here.
Mistress Stefania had Ariel and I stand next to each other in front of the crowd (we were first in line), eyes down, as she ran the tip of a long riding whip up and down our bodies, pausing on different places of interest like our nipples and vaginas. The crowd roared their approval when she had us turn around and bend over, but they really went wild when we knelt down, opened our mouths and stuck out our tongues on command. To demonstrate our slave heat, we kissed each other passionately, lots of tongue, running our hands over each other’s bodies. To demonstrate our submissiveness, we kissed the toes of Stefania’s boots. We even licked the tip of the whip, as theatrically as possible. While the crowd compared our tongue techniques (and Amy and Leslie took videos), Stefania stood us up and marched us to tent number one.
(Continued in Part B)
. Going undercover as a slave allows her to live her dream of being a sex slave. Maybe a series of movies with slave themes on the Lifetime channel would work in this society. I see an edit coming. 