by Pat Powers
She noticed that the corridor they were in subtly implied money. It had track lighting along the floors, it was a wide smooth curve. There were paintings on the wall, abstracts of the sort that were designed to break up space visually without catching the eye too much by offering an image that actually represents something. The floor had a thick, rich carpeting designed to be pleasant to walk on rather than last forever. Everything was spotlessly clean. It spoke quietly of money, lots of it. MacCammon had been in a lot of spaces like that during her tenure as President. Whoever had designed this place had clearly not been thinking about designing for cheapness.
The restroom was a small one with four stalls in it. None of the stalls had partitions, the johns sat next to each other. She went in and Talena and the weight lifter stayed outside the door, where they could see in. Privacy was not something a slave was entitled to. Of course.
She went to the bathroom and was immensely relieved. Being watched did not bother her, her own body had not belonged to her for what seemed like months. Having her ass wiped several times a day between uses at the bordello had broken her of any embarrassment about her body functions.
She walked out of the bathroom when she was through.
“Heel, girl,” said Talena, as if she were a dog, and strode off again.
Eileen followed her to a section of the hallway that was lined with glass doors. Inside each was a cot with a commode next to it and a small drinking fountain. Set in the wall was a small aperture for trays.
“This will be your cell,” Talena said, pointing to one with the number “401” painted over the top of the door. “It is also your number, 401. Remember it.”
Eileen nodded. She was slave number 401 in the Grossinger Corporation kennels. She wondered if she would do her slaving in a cubicle. Somehow she doubted it.
“Into your cell, 401,” said Talena.
Eileen walked into the cell. For a moment she had thought about making a run for it, but she glimpsed the weightlifter – what the hell, call him what he almost certainly was, a guard – out of the corner of her eye, and decided not to bother.
“There's food in the feeding slot, eat a little, drink a little, get some rest if you need it,” Talena ordered.
Eileen nodded. Actually, she was hungry. She watched Talena shut the door to her cell and was surprised to see the glass was one-way … it was mirrored on her side. She could not see out, but her keepers could see inside.
She was drawn to the mirror. She walked over to it, looking at her naked body reflected there. Her breasts were wider, her hips were wider, but her waist remained narrow. Her nipples were large. But her face was the same, except of course for the homouth.
She stared at the homouth in a sort of fascinated dread, the wrinkly inner labia poking out from between her outer lips, obscene and wet. It looked so natural, not grafted on at all. This was how people saw her now. This was Eileen MacCammon. Wife, mother, President of the United States, naked slut with a vagina where her mouth should be. She closed her eyes and looked away. She couldn't stand it, seeing herself in the mirror like that.
Then she looked up to see the bubble of glass in the corner of the room where a camera sat, its lens protected behind the glass, the grills of a speaker beneath the glass bubble. Someone would be seeing her, apparently, whenever they liked.
There was a tray of food in the feeding slot. MacKammon took it out. It was plain fare ...some rice, some beans, a piece of chicken and a biscuit, but after gulping down some water she ate every bit of it. Plain or not, she was hungry, and it was better fare than what she had been accustomed to eating at The Swinging Jungle.
After her meal, she spent some time walking around her cell, swinging her arms freely, something she had had little or no chance to do over the months or weeks at the Swinging Jungle. But the novelty of being able to walk without her hands being cuffed soon wore off, and her stomach was full.
What's more, she was NOT among friends, she knew that now. She also had an ugly feeling that the large amount of money that Mark had said he'd gotten for her meant she was not going to just spend her days sucking cocks and getting fucked, which she had found surprisingly pleasant, perhaps because of the nanoset.
Not that she thought of the nanoset as something different from her any more. There was no line in her feelings between “my true feelings” and “nanoset-enhanced feelings,” it was all just one jumble of feelings. There was no “real Eileen” and “nanoset Eileen” there was just Eileen.
The real break in her mind was between President MacCammon and slavegirl Eileen. She was having more and more difficulty resolving those two people. They were not the same. There was something vaguely unreal about President MacCammon to her. And that frightened her, but like so many other aspects of her present life, there was nothing she could do about it.
Which is why after a few minutes of walking about and swinging her arms, she lay down on the cot and went back to a dreamy reverie of the time she had first been elected to the Senate from Ohio. All those people cheering her. So nice …
“Wake up, 401,” a firm but smooth female voice came into her reveries. “Wake up and nada.”
“Nada?” she asked sleepily.
“Kneel on the floor, facing the door, your knees wide apart, with your hands resting on your thighs, palm up, head down,' said the voice. “That is the nada position, you will assume it whenever you hear a free person say “nada” to you.”
MacCammon nodded reflexively and climbed out of her bed, kneeling on the floor as ordered, slowly and clumsily, her joints still a bit stiff.
“Spread your knees wider … no, wider ...” said the voice from the speaker. Someone was looking at her from a monitor, or perhaps from just outside the door. She had no way of knowing.
She spread her knees so wide it was a little like doing a split, very much feeling exposed as she did so. For a few moments she just sat there, and she was starting to get it … it was her lot to wait on others, literally.
Her knees were feeling a little pained despite the soft, deep carpet of her cell when the door opened and in came a very authoritative pair of naked feet with gold-plated shackles on them but no chain connecting the shackles, and also a pair of high-end sneakers with white crew socks and hairy, muscular legs above them.
“Rise and bend over with your hands crossed behind your back,” came the sound of Talena's voice.
MacCammon did as she was told.
“Spread your legs wide,” Talena ordered, and MacCammon did. She felt a little indignant, though. They didn't have her bound and they weren't holding her down. They were expecting her to obey them even though it was within her physical power not to. It felt like an indignity. They were not only treating her like a slave, they were expecting her to act like one. At least in her previous periods of captivity they had FORCED her to obey, there had been no opportunity to obey without coercion. Somehow she felt she had taken another step downward as she stood bent over with her legs spread wide.
MacCammon felt metal cuffs being attached to her wrists, and then felt them pulled together, and when the pulling was finished, her arms were pinioned behind her back. Well, so much for having control over her body.
Talena put shackles on her ankles next. Well they did go with wrist cuffs, she supposed.
Then she felt fingers daubing some kind of lotion onto her anus. She winced, waiting to feel a cock working its way in there. But it wasn't a cock. It was something hard that got larger and larger as it went in, forcing little grunts out of her homouth as she struggled to accommodate it. She felt the pain decrease suddenly and at the same time, the feel of something brushing against her butt cheeks and the back of her thighs. Looking between her legs, she saw a fluffy yellow tail, like a fox's only longer, dangling between her legs. She swayed her hips a little and it swayed in response. It was a tail, hanging out of her butt, attached to whatever it was that had been shoved into her butt. She could feel the bulbous thing in there, she could feel her anus pre
ssing against its hard surface, and the tail was like a huge flag signaling the fact that she had that thing stuck in her butt.
“Get in nadu now, 401,” said Talena, and she did, spreading her legs very wide this time and feeling the thing in her butt very powerfully in this new posture.
“Now look up at me, 401,” Talena ordered.
MacCammon did so. Talena was holding a thick black leather collar in front of her. “401, by the power vested in me as First Girl of the Grossinger Corporation kennels, I hereby take you as the property of the kennels, to have and to hold, to use and abuse, to bend, fold spindle and mutilate, until such time as we should find it profitable to sell you to another. You are hereby declared an animal, property, our beast to use. We own you, 401.”
With these words, Talena put the collar around Eileen's neck and closed it with a final-sounding “snick.”
“Your collar is not a simple piece of leather, 401,” Talena contnued. “It contains a camera, a microphone, a speaker, a GPS locator, and a taser. You will not be able to go anywhere and do anything without us being aware of it, and able to punish you for anything we don't like at the push of a button, so long as you wear this collar, which is locked on you. And that is appropriate, for it symbolizes our ownership and control of you. You are our property, 401, and we get full value from out property, and we keep it well maintained, as you shall learn.”
With these words, Talena clipped a leash onto MacCammon's collar and gave it a tug. “Rise and heel, 401.”
MaCammon, or 401 as she was apparently going to be called now, rose to her feet with her hands cuffed behind her back and followed Talena and the trainer as they left the room with her in tow.
Talena led MacCammon down the long hall to a door marked “prep room” which looked very much like a beauty salon, because in fact that was what it was. In the prep room, MacCammon's hands were uncuffed and she was ordered to sit down on a very comfy-looking lounge.
A woman dressed in a very normal-looking T-shirt and jeans walked over to Talena. “Is this the special?” she asked.
“Yes, this is 401. You have the photos?” Talena asked.
“Downloaded and on my pad,” the woman replied.
“Go to it, then, she's wanted in about two hours.”
“Should be plenty of time,” the T-shirt clad woman said, eyeing MacCammon carefully. “Her bush is nano-trimmed, that'll make the rest easier.”
“See you in 90 minutes, then,” said Talena, handing over a small device to the woman. “Remember, she is not here voluntarily, and she is not trained. If you have a problem, do not hesitate to use the alarm.”
“We'll be careful,” the woman said with a glance at MacCammon.
The woman in the salon turned to MacCammon and said, “Hello 401, my name is Tammy, I'll be fixing you up and taking care of you. So long as you do as we say, there will be no problem.”
Eileen nodded, but she was thoughtful. She was not bound, and none of these people looked all that formidable. Talena had said that there was a taser set in her collar, but she could have been lying. This could be a chance to escape. Her previous captors had kept her in physical bondage almost constantly. These people seemed to be more used to slavery as a kind of work environment.
The couch she was on faced a mirror, like any beauty salon seat. There was a whole bank of chairs with mirrors, and chairs with hair dryers, and of course shelving beneath the mirrors filled with lotions, unguents, conditioners, gels, sprays and outright goos, as well as various tools and applicators for using them.
She noticed some of the combs were the kinds that had long, straight handles with pointed ends. Then she saw the sharp, pointed scissors. Perhaps she might run with them.
“You've been in a salon before, this is basically a salon, just relax and let us take care of you, 401, and you'll be fine,” Tammy said.
MacCammon nodded her understanding and obedience, acting as subservient as she could, but her mind was fixed completely on the stainless steel scissors that were immersed point down in a jar of alcohol on the shelf opposite her couch.
She realized that she had to act now. At any moment this opportunity might vanish. Her whole being focused and and though her stomach was already a hard knot of fear, she leapt out of the chair, grabbed the scissors, and turned to face Tammy, who was fumbling to pull something out of her pants.
MacCammon leapt forward and grabbed Tammy by the neck, then pushed the point of the scissors directly to her jugular. She could not speak because of her homouth, but she growled and looked straight at Tammy.
Tammy, who was clearly terrified, raised her hands to indicate surrender. The other people in the salon turned to watch them and MacCammon saw several of them pushing buttons and muttering softly. She pushed Tammy toward the door that led out of the room. When they reached the door, MacCammon opened it with one hand and shoved Tammy hard back into the room, then turned and ran down the corridor at top speed.
MacCammon had not done any running and very little walking during her time at The Swinging Jungle bordello, but the nanotreatments of her youth had of course kept her in top physical condition, so her sprinting was quite vigorous. Door after door passed by her as she ran, she was really making progress. MacCammon had expected the salon staff to come boiling out in hot pursuit of her. No one did. It was working, she was getting away.
She saw a set of elevator doors looming ahead. Great, get in there, go to the lobby level and make a dash for it, she thought. Once she was on the street, naked and running frantically, it would be hard for the Grossinger people to discreetly recapture her. Escape was at hand.
A moment later, MacCammon's whole body convulsed in pain. She collapsed, blacking out momentarily, but despite the pain and the convulsions of her muscles, she still managed to pull herself to her feet and move forward. Her chance. She must take it.
A second jolt of intense, searing pain overwhelmed her, and she collapsed again. She might have been screaming, or trying to, she could not tell. All she knew was that this was her chance. Maybe her only chance. She crawled forward, desperately, in agonizing pain, her limbs shaking, until the third jolt hit her and she collapsed, her homouth emitting a despairing sluck as everything went black.
“Eileen! Eileen! Wake up!” a vaguely familiar voice came into her consciousness.
MacCammon roused reluctantly, as if her mind was aware that it was not going to like being awake even before she remembered what had happened before she blacked out.
The strange thing was, she felt good. There was no pain, and she felt, well … happy. Perhaps just having made the effort to escape had made her feel better about herself.
“How do you feel, Eileen?” a voice asked, and MacCammon now recognized it as Talena's.
“I feel good,” MacCammon responded, and was vaguely shocked. She had her real mouth back. She was not wearing the homouth. She licked her lips and was pleased with the clean feel of them, no obscene inner labia poking out of them.
“You should, 401,” said Talena. “We've got you pumped to the gills with pain killers and anti-depressants.”
“Why?” MacCammon asked.
“Why what?” Talena responded.
“Why are you giving me pain killers and anti-depressants?”
“To help with the pain and the depression, of course,” responded Talena cheerily. “The taser in your collar is designed to be strong enough to drop one of our trainers to the ground and leave him there, unable to do anything but groan in pain, with a single hit. It took three hits to drop you. One of our trainers volunteered to test your collar, it dropped him just fine in one hit. For you to fight your way through two hits means you must have been at a suicidal level of desperation. You might have killed Tammy .. .certainly, you weren't too concerned with her life when you were dragging her around with those scissors pressed into her throat.”
“I wanted out,” MacCammon said calmly. “This was my first chance to escape and I took it,” she said with a note of pride in her
voice.
“You had no chances to escape at The Swinging Jungle?” Talena asked, sounding surprised.
“No, they kept me chained up or caged all the time,” MacCammon said, “and whenever I traveled from room to room I was hooded and bound. I had to go to the bathroom hooded and bound. I learned to wipe myself with my hands cuffed and unable to see. It was surprisingly easy, actually.”
“Good to know,” Talena said silkily. “Well here's the thing. You are unique here. Everybody else here is an employee, even the slaves. We come in, we do our jobs as slaves and trainers and so forth, then after hours we go home and live our lives. We get paid for what we do, well paid. It's really a play-pretendy sort of kennel, though some have tried to argue that in this economy the slaves who work here are not doing so all that voluntarily, but really, if we thought some of our slaves felt that they had no choice about being here, we'd let them go.”
MacCammon nodded. Of course, if the slave employees knew they'd be fired for thinking they had no choice about being a slave there, they would NEVER express any sentiments along those lines. But that was their problem. MacCammon had a lot of experience ignoring other people's problems.
“Now my personal recommendation was that we release you to someone else with more experience handling involuntary guests, but someone at the top wants you here, so we're stuck with you,” Talena continued. “So I thought about your past experiences and realized the problem is, you have never been trained as a slave, or even given the chance to behave like one. You were constantly in bondage with your initial captors, then you were kept constantly in bondage at The Swinging Jungle. So the obvious thing for us to do is train you, and keep you constantly in bondage, for our safety, and yours, too, of course, until we are sure you are able to behave properly as a slave.”
