by Pat Powers
“Mark told us you done a bad thing,” Lucinda said. “He said he is protecting you here, that's why you have to wear that hood all the time, there are people who might hurt you if they knew who you was. Did you do something terrible, honey?”
MacCammon shook her head “No” vigorously.
Lucinda laughed and swatted MacCammon's butt as she worked. “Sure you didn't honey, just like my cousin Janice never robbed a bank. She's in Ryford for three years over that one. And she's real sure she never did nothing terrible, neither, just like you. But don't worry, honey, maybe you'll find God or something. And in the meantime, at least you are getting lots of attention from guys, something that my cousin Janice does not get.”
And with these words, she finished up and left MacCammon swinging gently in the ropes that bound her with a lot of question marks in her head, but most of all a certain resentment of the way Lucinda had equated her with her bank-robbing cousin, mostly because she was bound with no choice in the matter and wearing a homouth, also without no choice.
But there was nothing she could do about it, any more than there was anything she could do about her bondage or her homouth. She was fully and truly a slave.
Very quickly, her days of being a bordello slave fell into a pattern. There was being fed, being taken to the bathroom, being used, and being put in her cage at night – well, more like the early morning as The Swinging Jungle kept the same hours as a bar and business often ran into the wee hours. She slept in a cage which was locked in Mark's office and very secure as it also contained the company safe where the cash was kept. There was just a standard padlock on the door to her cage, which was made of iron and was about the size of a queen bed.
She was not cuffed or chained in the cage, except her collar was chained to one of the cage's metal bars once again attached with a simple padlock. It was a large cage, about the size of a standard mattress, and indeed had a mattress inside it, along with a sheet, a bottle of water in case she got thirsty and a chamber pot in case she had to use the bathroom. She couldn't stand up in the cage but she could stretch out, and that felt luxurious after a day spent in bondage.
She actually liked being put in the cage, it meant no one would bother her. She would drift into reveries, or fall asleep, it didn't matter much which one. When she was dragged out of her cage they would first reach in and fasten the flaps over her eyes shut and drag her out and cuff her hands behind her back before they permitted her to rise to her feet. “Running for it” would not be an option for her.
They fed and watered her first thing after letting her out of the cage, in a tiny break room. They would push the gizmo on the outside of her hood and her homouth would go away, returning her face to normal. She knew not to speak at such times. She had been warned not to on pain of being whipped, and of course she'd tried it. She'd manage to blurt out “I am Ei …!” before a gag was shoved into her mouth and she'd been dragged into Mark's office where he'd whipped her until she passed out from the pain. After that, silence was observed.
After her mouth returned to normal, her eye flaps were opened and her hands were cuffed in front of her instead of behind her, and she was able to eat her eggs, flapjacks and bacon easily. She also ate the grits. She didn't really LIKE grits, they struck her as a tasteless gruel, even the pat of butter than came with them generally didn't help. And of course, the term “slave gruel” popped up in her mind the first time she tried to eat them. But eat the grits she did.. She didn't get ALL that much food, because that meant more bathroom-going and her current captors liked to keep that to a minimum.
She was expected to hold it in if she had to go during work time, but by keeping her food and water skimpy they made it easier for her. They were nice that way.
One day, well after the days had turned into a mush of routine and sex that left her unsure how long it had been at the Swinging Jungle, she was taken from her cell, but instead of the usual breakfast all she was given was a single piece of buttered toast and a small glass of water. It was enough to make her go to the bathroom an hour later.
Instead of chaining her up for any early customers after her bathroom visit, they took her someplace strange. Someplace outdoors. Her heart immediately began pounding in fear. She had not realized how safe her daily routine had made her feel. Now it was interrupted.
She was guided into a cage, but instead of opening her eyeflaps and uncuffing her after she was in it, she was left cuffed and blindfolded in the cage, which had a thin plastic mattress in it instead of her usual mattress. She made some distressed moans through the homouth as she felt the cage being lifted and slid into something up in the air to judge from the tilting and grunting that was involved.
She felt the place she was in shift in weight and she realized she must be in the back of a truck. Her panic jumped up another level.
She heard a metallic sliding sound and a whump! The door of the truck. Then she heard someone speaking to her.
“Well I bet you are wondering what's going on, girly,” Mark's voice came from the darkness beyond her hood. “You are probably scared pretty good, but there's no need. It's good news, actually. You been bought by one of your old friends. Can't say who, because he didn't want me to, but I can say he's rolling in the money cause he paid me a shitload of money for you. A hell of a lot more than five dollars, let me tell ya. He's probably just gonna free you, I guess, bein' as he's an old friend of yours – one of your old big-time Wall Street backers – I checked. You are the most profitable girl I ever had here, and that's saying something! Hope things go a little better for you now, girlie … I know it's a long way from President of the USA to bordello slave slut, even though we treated you as nice as we could under the circumstances and tried to protect you from your enemies as best we could. Lotta people fucked you, I know, but weren't nobody hatin' on you. But if this feller knows you were here at The Swinging Jungle, then other people are gonna figure it out sooner or later, too, and there'll maybe be another shootout to get ya, and I want no piece of that. So I mighta sold you to that guy for five bucks, but as it turns out … everyone wins! Now you just relax, girl, you're going to a better place.”
She heard the door open and then felt the vehicle rock as Mark stepped out, and then she felt someone else step into the van and heard the door closing again, and this time with some clattering afterward.
“Hello, I'm a paramedic, I'll be watching you during your journey to make sure you're OK, you can call me Andrew,” a professional sounding voice said. “If you are distressed at any time, bleat three times or shake your head “No.” Shake your head “Yes” if you understand.”
Eileen shook her head “Yes” then lay down on the mattress, immensely relieved. She had not dared to believe Mark's words, because hope was getting to be a painful thing for her to experience, due to all the dashing of hope that came immediately afterward. But the fact that they already had a paramedic on hand to keep an eye out for her argued that Mark was telling her the truth, and that she had been bought by a friend.
It bothered her though that she was being transported still hooded, bound and caged … but perhaps that was for her safety too. She clung to that thought as she traveled into the unknown future.
Chapter 3 - The Kennels
The trip in the truck was short, she lay in the cage and wondered where she was being taken and who owned her now. Her utter helplessness was what bothered her most. In her old life, before she had become a slave, she had been the one who decided the fate of others. Now she had no ability at all to control her own fate. She was being shipped, like baggage, hopefully to someone who was her friend and ally and would care about her, but she didn't KNOW … Mark could have been lying.
The weird thing was, even though she might be going to a rescue from bondage, she found herself missing the bordello. She had discovered, the hard way, an important truth: the absolute best way to find out whether a person is good or evil was to be absolutely at their mercy, with them having no consequence in how they
treated you, and then see how they treated you.
Most of the men who had been Eileen's “customers” at The Swinging Jungle had treated her decently. Sure, they'd fucked her while she was helplessly bound and wearing a homouth. But their voices and touch had been friendly and kind, they had mostly talked to her in low, soft tones, or in happy exuberant tones. They were having a good time, and she was it.
There had been a few who had treated her badly, who had pinched her and slapped her with real intent to hurt, whose speech had an undercurrent at anger and resentment … she had known them to be bad people, whoever they were. But she had also known that the slapping and pinching and yelling were aimed not at her, but at some other woman who had upset them, or were just products of their free-floating anger. She was just a naked, hooded animal to them, a surrogate their could vent their bad feelings on, and she knew it. But such men were a very small minority. Most enjoyed fucking her, and enjoyed her as well, and petted her and stroked her and even thanked her as they left the room.
Weirdly enough, the experience of being a chained, naked slave in a whorehouse had left her with a higher opinion of men generally than when she had entered it. But then, her opinion of men had been very low to start with.
She heard the truck stop and knew she was at an airport of some kind from the loud drone of aircraft taking off and landing nearby. Shortly afterward she felt her cage being pulled out of the truck and rolled a short distance, then carried by men up a very short flight of stairs. She heard voices as they worked. “Take it easy, Jake, the boss will raise hell if she's damaged,” was one slightly reassuring thing she heard .. it indicated that her new owner did not want her damaged.
For now, anyway. She was frightened, though not terrified. Mostly it was her helplessness that frightened her. It had been easy to forget once she had gotten into the rhythm of being a whorehouse slave, but now that she was traveling, it brought back vivid memories of the attempted hijacking of her that had landed her in The Swinging Jungle bordello.
She had been clothed and had the full use of her arms and legs, but when the cars boxed in the SUV she had been traveling in, and the bullets started flying, and her guards told her to run for it while they held off the attackers, she had done so. She remembered the stark terror of running in the dark in the woods with the sounds of gunfire and screaming behind her, not knowing if she would be shot and killed at any instant, not knowing if she would be captured at any instant.
Of course, the farmhouse she'd eventually found had been owned by people who hated her, and that's how she'd wound up at the Swinging Jungle. Apparently, if you ruin the lives of a few tens of millions of Americans, EVERYBODY hates you.
She had always understood that she was doing hard things to people, but had felt it was necessary to make America strong again, to make it a better place. She had never thought there would be the slightest negative consequence to her for doing so. In fact, she'd imagined that all Americans would eventually understand what she was doing, even the ones she had sent to prison, and applaud her efforts, because she believed that in their hearts the porn purveyors and clients must have known they were doing wrong.
She heard a roaring sound and realized she was on a jet. Shortly afterward, she felt a slight lurch and the jet began slowly moving. She could not see the motion but her inner ear sensed it. And when the pilot punched the engines to full and took off, she slid against the bars at one end of her cage and was pressed there for a time. She squirmed and strained uncomfortably, her hands still pinioned behind her back, until her relatively soft butt and legs were what was being pressed into the bars, instead of her arms.
It was a far cry from sitting in a plush, comfy seat on Air Force One with someone to attend to your every need and hang on your every word. This was a lot more like being an animal in a cage in the cargo hold, except since she could hear people talking occasionally around her, she knew she was not in a cargo hold.
There was not much talk, however, not nearly as much as the near constant chatter on Air Force One, with all those noisy staff people and journalists in tow. She did not think there were very many people on the jet, which was clearly a private jet, which meant Mark had been telling the truth about her having been purchased by someone wealthy. Maybe the other part Mark had said as well was true .. that she had been purchased by a friend.
But she could not help but notice that she was still naked, bound, hooded and caged, and she was clearly among her purchaser's people now. It was puzzling, if Mark had been telling the truth. If....
The flight was a long one, and despite her misgivings she found herself drifting into sleep. She awakened only when the plane landed, coming in at an angle steep enough to send her body slowly sliding to the other end of the cage. At touchdown there were a couple of mild jolts that were enough to make her body bounce slightly in the cage, something she would hardly have noticed if she had been seatbelted in a plush chair.
There was more carrying and clunking as her cage was again lifted and put in another truck. She imagined that her minder was still out there watching her vital signs on his device, but she didn't know. Her arms were cramped from being bound in one position for so long, but she was used to being in bondage by now and otherwise she felt fine physically … just anxious to know who owned her now, one way or the other.
After another long ride with a dreamy reverie in which she fondly remembered the day on which she signed the first of what they called the Morality Laws into law. She remembered the sad but determined press conference she'd given when the first American prostitute and some of her clients went to jail in violation of the first Morality Law, and she remembered the gleeful little dance she'd done with her staff afterward, celebrating sending the first of many sluts to jail, out of the prying eyes of journalists.
She awoke as the ride ended, gently rocking her cage as the driver(s) got out. It had been hours since she had had anything to drink or eat or had a chance to go to the bathroom. Now she knew why her food and water had been so skimpy at breakfast. She was glad of it, actually. Having to piss all over yourself was a miserable experience, she had found.
Her cage was carried a short distance and then set on some sort of wheeled cart, and she was rolled into an elevator. She could tell because here stomach told her the elevator was going down.
After a bit more trundling and traveling she felt her cage come to a halt and heard it opened. Hands pulled her out of the cage. She was surprised to feel hands fiddling with her collar, then to feel her whole hood being pulled off. She had to squeeze her eyes shut at the sudden blaze of light, then slowly let the light in to look at her surroundings. As she was doing so, she felt a sudden brief pain prick in her arm, and she looked reflexively to see a man putting away a needle and collecting a dot of blood from her upper arm on a slide. He was dressed in a tight black T-shirt and and baggy black shorts, as well as very nice tennis shoes. He was tall and powerful, his biceps bulging even when relaxed. He looked like a weight lifter, with a big jaw and alert brown eyes, in fact, he had a relaxed alertness to him that she instantly recognized … it had been present in the Secret Service agents who had guarded her when she was President. He even wore the standard earpiece and microphone set that Secret Service agents wore.
Standing before her was a striking redhead with almond eyes, a round, catlike face and luscious red lips. She was naked, except for a black leather harness set with rings at various places, and a thick leather collar with a ring at the throat. She had large projecting but natural looking breasts from which large nipple rings dangled. There was also a series of three small rings set in each of her inner labia. There were cuffs on her wrists with rings set in them and cuffs on her ankles with rings set in them. And incongruously, there was a cord running up from her collar to her ear, attached to an earpiece. A thin metal stalk ran from the earpiece to the front of her chin, terminating in a small black bit of fuzz. A microphone.
Looking more closely, MacCammon also saw the round reflecti
ve surface of a camera lens mounted on the woman's collar.
She was definitely a slave of some sort, but her body language did not convey subservience, the way she looked at MacCammon was definitely one of appraisal, the look of ownership. A scary thought.
“Welcome to the Grossinger Corporation slave kennels,” said the woman. “I am Talena, first girl of the kennels. You will address me, and every woman you see, as “Mistress” unless told to do otherwise. You will address every man you see as Master, unless told to do otherwise. Understand?”
Eileen nodded her understanding. Slave kennels. She was still a slave. Dammit. Mark had lied, or been lied to. She didn't know, and she didn't care, her heart was just broken because she was not free, she was still enslaved. Tears rolled down her cheeks and she started making snuffing, snorting sounds through her homouth, her composure broken. She had made the mistake of hoping. Some part of her believed she would be among friends, and safe, at the end of her journey, even though the conditions in which she had traveled argued against that.
“You are crying,” Talena said calmly. “Good. A real slave like yourself is entitled to tears. We expect our slaves to express their emotions. Just do not allow your emotions to keep you from obeying instantly, and fully, or you will be crying AND screaming shortly thereafter. Now, it's time for you to go to the restroom. I imagine you are ready to. Turn around and I will unfasten your hands.”
Eileen turned around, stifling her sniffles, and her cramped arms were freed. She slowly and carefully brought them in front of her, the muscles tight and painful.
“Heel, girl,” Talena said, and abruptly walked off. Eileen moved to follow her, and she noted that the muscular man who had pricked her with the needle to get a bit of her blood (Why? she wondered.) was following her. She realized then that she was physically free, she could actually attempt to run away without being hindered by ropes or chains. The muscular man was there to see that she did not escape if she tried to run away. She actually wondered why they didn't just keep her tied up.
