It is a mantra, playing over and over in my head, the endless circle of colors: purple for a hosing, red for getting fucked and fed, pretty blue, lick my shoe, show me yellow, make him a happy fellow, run, run white, such a horny sight. The only thing I can’t figure out, amidst all the sucking and fucking and fondling is what the amber light is for.
It’s never gone off once, except for now.
You can’t imagine how it discomfits me, the unfamiliar color, accompanying the pinging sound that doesn’t fit at all in the scheme of things. I run and roll and beg the unseen eyes and ears for mercy. What is amber?! Do they want my hole, my flesh, another bit of pride? What is a slut supposed to do to advertise herself, to get someone, anyone to open that door?
Fucking amber light! What kind of color is that anyway?
I am pressed against the door when it opens, whimpering, creaming, my juices dripping over gray metal, my thighs suctioned, my backside undulating, humping like a standing rabbit.
Fuck me, beat me, color me…
My tongue cold on the metal, my bullet nipples pressed, hot and huge, palms in place, as if this infernal door, this slab of metal is going to be some kind of lover…on tiptoes, curvy white body, keeper’s toy, sad little angel, pressed to metal, pressed to steel. The door opening…and someone, anyone on the other side.
Chapter Eight
One mystery at least is solved about SD 1 when next I open my eyes. The sign on the cinderblock wall reads ‘Special Detention Ahead—Units One to Three.’ I pull at my wrist. It is cuffed to a metal railing. I’m in a hospital bed, in some kind of infirmary. I’m wearing a light hospital gown, the tear-away kind and a light sheet covers me. My hair has been washed and I no longer stink. There’s a pressure at my loins, so I pull aside the sheet and that’s when I see the chastity belt, a triangular piece of metal, with a grating where, presumably I can piss.
“Hello?” I call out to the empty ward, coolly conditioned and sparkling white.
My arm itches, somewhere above the handcuff on my wrist. I have an IV; I’m getting fluids. My condition in SD 1 must have been worse than I’d imagined.
“Well, if it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”
I looked up and there was Reynolds, the sweetest sight you can imagine for a girl in my position.
“Johnny, how did you find me?” I wanted to hug him, but the cuff held me back.
“Find you?” he laughed. “What makes you think I ever lost you?”
I looked into his eyes; they were cold and distant. Not at all what I’d remembered. “Why, you lost me here,” I did my best to laugh. “I was trapped in this prison. Silvio Galentano put me here and now you’re rescuing me.”
I tried to make the last part of it a statement though it came out more like a question. The way he was looking at me, in condescending amusement, was doing little to reassure me.
“You don’t really think we’d let Silvio slip one of our operatives out from under our very noses do you? We intended to let him kidnap you all along. Getting him to traffic you over state lines and hold you hostage in one of his own people’s prisons was all the goods we needed to put him away. That and the fact that your appearance at the club managed to bring Jeremy Rich out of the wood work.”
“You—you caught him?” I asked, forgetting for the moment my own difficulties.
“The dumb bastard tried to sail up the coast from Mexico. You know I think he was actually in love with you.” Reynolds shrugged. “No one will know now, though. He resisted arrest and had to be taken down by one of our field units.”
A lump welled in my throat. “He’s…”
“Dead,” said the agent in his black suit, looking sharp and well rested. “Blown to smithereens, along with his yacht.”
A wall of sadness threatened to crash over me, that and a million other emotions. “He didn’t really have to die, did he?”
Reynolds winked. “That’s government business, baby. Better left to the experts. Let’s just say we do what we must to tie up loose ends.”
The chain clinked as I showed him my bond. “What about this? Am I a loose end, too?”
“The prettiest one I’ve seen in quite some time, actually.”
I studied him for some sign of humanity. Had I misjudged him that much? “At one point,” I confessed, having nothing to lose, “I thought you might have cared for me.”
“I’m a bachelor, Raven. I don’t see that changing. Although, in your case, I’ll admit there was a moment or two of weakness. All cleared up, though, I assure you.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Seeing the videotapes, actually.”
“Tapes?”
“From SD-1. They tape everything in there. You should have seen yourself, Raven. You put on quite a show. According to Pinton you’re one of the most responsive sluts they’ve had in a long time, if ever. He thinks you’re a natural slave, kiddo. Congratulations.”
My mouth was dry as cotton. I could feel the blood pounding in my ears. “They…made me do things…you don’t understand…”
“Oh, I understand just fine,” Reynolds tore aside the sheet to reveal my bare legs, terminating in the metal contraption just below the bunched up hem of the paper dress. “You’re a bona fide, trained sex slave and I’m about to try you out.”
I looked around at the empty ward. There was help nowhere in sight. I could scream, but what would be the point? Who would come running? My keepers? The porcine Warden Pinton? The chief maybe, with her stilettos and ten-inch dildo to lecture me on how I’ve single-handedly set the female gender back a hundred years?
Reynolds was fiddling with the lock on my nether cage. He’d had the key all along, in his pocket.
“I wanted this,” I told him. “Once.”
“You know,” he swung the hinges, removing the contraption. “Galentano told me something interesting before we locked him up. He said the one thing he really regretted about this whole business was that he hadn’t fucked you that night at the club. Isn’t that something? Quite a tribute from a man like him.”
The cool, vibrating air tingled on my bare pussy. I lay perfectly still, watching as he put the iron belt on the nightstand and began to rummage through the drawer.
“You don’t mind a little bondage, do you?” he waved a roll of white cloth tape.
I opened my legs wide, touching my ankles to the railing on either side of the roomy, crisp sheeted bed. “You could keep me,” I pointed out, “for yourself.”
Reynolds taped my ankles to the cold, bracing metal. “I don’t think so,” he shook his head, shredding the paper gown to reveal my quivering breasts and belly. “Owning a slave is more work than having a wife. Or a dog.”
I gave him my free wrist for binding. “You know I love you.”
Reynolds cinched it with a length of tape, wrapping the end round the railing over my head. “I know.”
“I’m yours,” I whispered, lifting my bound, spread-eagled body.
“Actually,” he unzipped his fly, mounting me fully clothed. “You’re government property.”
***
The auction was a clandestine affair, naturally. It would never do for government agencies or any other legitimate organizations, for that matter, to be seen as promoting or profiting from the sale of female flesh, even if that flesh is young and nubile and seems born to wear the collar and writhe beneath the lash.
A lot of the girls were runaways as young as eighteen. You could see in their eyes that even though they were scared, they were eager to please. It seemed to impress them very much, too, how much the men loved them, seeing their tight, firm bodies and wanting them enough to bid their hard earned dollars for the right to possess them. A girl, especially an insecure one like me, could get dizzy from all the ripe jiggling tits and cellulite-free asses parading about the hardwood stage under those burning theater lights. It was man’s country; the best femininity had to offer and them free to look and touch, and—for the right price—to own.
A little blonde was sold just ahead of me. Her name was Lori. She’d been brought in by a pimp named Geronimo who was downsizing his stable due to the recent economic downturns. She was a sweet kid, nineteen, from Seattle. Mom was an addict, step-daddy was a real shit heel. He was the one who eventually pawned her off on Geronimo, after taking some hefty samples of the merchandise for himself. She had a nice body, although she thought her tits were too small. In a different world she’d have met somebody nice and gone to a good college.
We were together naked in the pre-sale holding cage for about forty minutes, so we got to know each other pretty well. She was proud of the techniques she knew for pleasing men and wanted to share them like they were makeup tips. I told her the belly button ring was very hot and I loved her sexy eyes and bangs. She flipped her silky, yellow-gold hair over and over, prattling on for a while about hair conditioners, cute guys from the movies and how Geronimo used to tie her down and fuck her in the ass after using the cane on her.
She was pretty excited about the future, too, because apparently this Geronimo character, when he wasn’t sodomizing and caning her, had promised that when a man bought her as a slave, she would go to live in a harem in Arabia and wear silks and live in the lap of luxury.
Little Lori from Seattle did a pretty good job selling herself. I got a front row seat from the holding cage, where I was on deck, fashionably attired in a leather Doberman collar and a scribbled lot number, unceremoniously grease-penciled on my bare ass.
She knew a thing or two about female display; that was for sure. The auctioneer could hardly keep up with the bids, as the svelte, athletic blonde left nothing to the imagination as to what she was good for and in precisely what position. Crouching, rolling, sashaying, holding up her own tits, licking her nipples, plucking her cunt with her own finger and licking it, were just a few of the tricks employed to push her sale value up over the ten thousand dollar mark.
As they clipped the leash to her collar to lead her away, she gave me the thumbs up, though I did not think it very likely that the chiseled looking Russian mobsters who were new owners were going to be sending her to any Arabian palaces in the near future. More likely, after forking over that much cash for a pair of pretty tits and ass, they’d be putting her on her back in some dank day hotel room for eighteen hours at a stretch, seven days a week so she could turn them a profit.
It was my turn next, and I can tell you, if I could have thrown up without being beaten for it, I’d have done so, most likely on the stairs leading up to the stage.
“Move it, slut,” growled the man holding my leash.
I nearly fell as he yanked hard on the chain. At least they won’t whip me, I consoled myself. After all, who would buy a marked woman?
“Surplus Lot 450XCV,” the auctioneer drawled, doing little to enhance my attractiveness to the group of shadowy men standing about in the abandoned warehouse. “Government seizure. Newly collared. Gentlemen, this one’s a very hot piece of ass, unusually responsive. Some training, even. We’ll start the bidding at five hundred.”
I was turned over to the auctioneer’s assistant, a balding heavyset mustachioed man resplendent in a red shirt and black vest.
“Turn around, slut,” the assistant commanded, slashing at me with his small riding crop.
I leaped to obey. So much for my theory about not being whipped at an auction.
“The ass is decent. A little toning and you’ll have yourself a real showpiece. Do I have my bid?”
I had my back to them now. A hand pinched and slapped my tender skin as dozens of sleazy strangers, short, tall, fat, thin, domestic and foreign, assessed my shortcomings.
“Do I hear five hundred?” the auctioneer pressed. My heart was pounding. Terrible as it was to be sold, wouldn’t it be far worse if no one wanted me at all?
“Five,” called a man finally, indicating a willingness to have me as his property.
“Bend over,” the assistant snarled to me sotto voce. “Grab your ankles and don’t fucking move.”
The dildo went in hard and deep; the groan came as a reflex, as did the sudden, spasming waves. I hadn’t expected to be fucked on stage, obviously.
“Orgasms like a little pistol,” the auctioneer was singing my praises. “Gentleman, this one is prime stock. Grade ‘A’!”
“Five fifty,” yelled a man, and then, “six hundred.”
“And you haven’t even gotten a good look at the tits yet…”
The assistant pulled me up by the hair, forcing me to face the men. One by one he squeezed my nipples showing how responsive they were. He kissed me next, and I kissed him back, hot and helpless. I was panting when he bowed my neck, showing off my flanks, and the dildo that still hung dripping between my legs.
“Seven!”
“Seven fifty!”
The numbers came fast after that. I lost track of the crowd as the assistant opened his pants and gave me a chance to demonstrate my skill on his stubby member. I sucked him off well and then fell eagerly onto all fours to be fucked by another of the assistants, a man who bore the very inappropriate nickname of “Little John.”
My final price was six thousand five. A little more than half what they’d fetched for Lori, the blonde rocker runaway. I didn’t get to see who’d bought me. From what they’d said it was mostly agents and re-sellers that came to these kinds of auctions anyway.
“Congratulations, honey,” encouraged a tall thin man in overalls as he loaded me ten minutes later into a small packing crate. “You helped us make the quota this week.”
***
I was going by plane, that’s as much as I knew. The crate was its own little world, and except for the times the flight crew pried off the lid to feed, water and fuck me, I was left to my own dark thoughts. I’m not sure if they were supposed to be having intercourse with me, but when you’re a slave whose just been sold at auction, you don’t really feel in a position to ask many questions. Besides I was coming to need men’s touches more than I cared to admit. When they weren’t on me, I would lie in the crate, or lean my head against the door and listen, wondering when they would come for me.
It turned me on to no end thinking that naked and boxed, I was there for them, whenever they were horny. You can’t rape a slave, that’s the saying I kept hearing over and over. The men talked a little, at least to each other. There was a time when a man would say whatever I wanted to hear, when he would bend over backwards to please me. I suppose I should be missing that, but then we’d always worked so hard, Jenn-Jenn and I to engineer it differently. To contrive situations where men would be animals, treating us as animals, coming in us and on us for their sheer pleasure and theirs alone.
“How can you tell a boy is really into you?” Jennifer had once asked me during one of our all night bullshit fests. "If he isn’t doing to you exactly what he wants? They pick girlfriends for all kinds of reasons, Raven, but sex objects—that has to be pure desire. Don’t you want to be wanted like that? To have a man just have to have you, own you even?”
More than once I’d laughed to myself in my box, and then again I’d cried, too, thinking of Jennifer and all the things we’d done. How does one get so far from the innocence and idealism of the ivy-covered halls and white-columned sorority houses of youth?
Hope had died in me, and faith as well by the time the plane touched down. It was all the same, being hosed off, shackled and loaded into yet another container. The only thing I even thought halfway about was air holes, and these it had in abundance. There was newspaper down, too, in case I had any accidents. The temperature must have been a hundred and twenty in the fiberglass box, but it was dark and that’s all I cared about.
“You lucked out,” one of the drivers of the transport truck had told me, probably out of pity for how pathetic I looked. “You’ve been bought by a big shot.”
He probably thought I was sad about being a slave. In truth, I’d been sad for years. What I was now was lonely. It wasn’t enough to have a master, one ne
eded to be cared for. To feel at home. They took me down twisting roads, into the country if I judged my sense of smell right. Eventually we stopped. Unopened, my crate was carried down the ramp, and I think, inside of a house. A large one, judging by the echoes.
“Leave her here,” said a voice that was slightly familiar. It was cultured, English.
A moment later I heard the container being opened. In spite of myself, I was excited. Something told me it was going to be good.
“Rave, sweetie! It’s really you!” A pair of arms swallowed me, small eager kisses dotting my cheeks. “I can’t believe it. We were afraid you wouldn’t make it!”
I looked through a maze of yellow hair. “Jenn-Jenn?”
“Who else,” she chastised, pinching my cheek. “Your fairy slave mother?”
“But…but…”
“Come on, little motorboat,” she took my hand helping me shakily to my feet, “before you launch yourself into the lake.”
Stunned, feeling like a small child, I let my best good friend lead me down the corridor to one of the many bathrooms. We took a shower together, long and lingering and midway through, we did what we’d wanted to all these years, making love to each other, hot, deep and nasty.
“Come on,” she giggled, shaking out her spectacular, wet mane. “The master is waiting.”
I asked about a towel and clothes, but Jenn-Jenn told me he liked his slaves wet and nude—preferably with some nice little sins to confess. “He’s going to beat us,” her eyes lit up, “for playing with each other.”
I blinked. “Jenn-Jenn, did you say ‘slaves’, as in plural?”
She gave me a ‘duh’ look. “What did you think you’d be doing here? Working as governess for non-existent children?”
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