Txr-92u-2280 – Call Name: Sara

In a society that otherwise resembles our own, mass slavery has persisted into the 21st Century. It is a common and accepted feature of public and private life. Males and females of all ethnic backgrounds are held thrall, without status or legal rights. They are quite literally living property, and may be bought, sold and used for any purpose, including: hard labor, breeding, menial work and sexual servitude.

This series of stories, which is not presented in any particular order, explores the daily life of a prostitute-slave named Sara. Purchased at auction by a Las Vegas casino, she is tasked with fulfilling the sexual urges of its clientèle, who pay for her favors along with room service and Wi-Fi access. Subject to their every whim, she has known both anguish and delight, but most often casual exploitation.

When she is not engaged by a guest, Sara must contend with capricious and underpaid corporate overseers and occasionally vicious slave stable politics.

***

After her shower, the dom at the dispatch counter directed Sara to one of the overseer's shared offices -- number four. Inside, House Mistress Cruz was waiting behind a battered desk.

"Close the door," she said.

Sara obeyed.

"You put out for the house masters, don't you?" the overseer asked.

Sara did not answer. She put out -- like every other slut in the stable -- but she knew that the house masters themselves were technically breaking the rules by taking liberties. It was an open secret that none of the slaves ever spoke about, except among themselves. There was nothing to be gained by making trouble for a man who could send you to hell with a few keystrokes.

"You're not in trouble, Sara. We both know that you do, so just tell me the truth," Cruz said.

"Yes, Mistress," the slave replied.

"Good," said Cruz. "It's important that we be able to trust each other."

Sara felt a tremor of fear stirring in her gut. She did not understand the purpose of this conversation and, for a slave, uncertainty is the worst kind of danger.

"Since you service house masters, you will also service a house mistress -- right?" Cruz asked.

"Yes, mistress," said Sara, relieved to know the overseer's intentions.

However, that relief brought with it a vague sense of distaste. In spite of the rigorous training, the cruel mind games and the constant manipulation with drugs, Sara had never really felt anything but disgust at the thought of pleasuring a woman.

"Okay, then," said Cruz, sounding relieved herself. "Dress off. Thong off. Everything else stays where it is."

The slave quickly slid out of her dress and released the hooks that held her skimpy panties tight across her hips, leaving her black garter belt, stockings, high-heeled shoes and bra in place. Apart from the fact that house masters always wanted to see her breasts, this was quick becoming a typical encounter -- an "inspection" that would end up with Sara on her knees or bent over the desk after a few minutes.

"Lean back against the desk and spread," Cruz said.

Again, Sara obeyed. Then, Cruz knelt down in front of her, putting her face only inches from Sara's vulva. Fear sprang up inside the slave -- this was completely unexpected. She felt intensely vulnerable and fought back the urge to close her legs.

Cruz stuck out her tongue and drew it up along Sara's labia, finishing with a swirl around her clitoris. Sara froze, concentrating on her breathing to hold back the fear. The thing that was happening to her felt unreal. She did not know what to do.

The overseer continued, licking the slave up and down with growing intensity. Then, she paused.

"Say, 'Eat me,'" she said, looking up at Sara.

"Eat Sara," the slave responded automatically.

Cruz caught one of the soft, wet folds of Sara's labia between her thumbnail and the tip of her forefinger -- then squeezed. Sara winced, and looked down at her.

"Say, 'Eat me,'" Cruz repeated.

"Eat... me," Sara replied, forcing the unfamiliar word out past her lips.

Cruz resumed while the slave looked on, astonished.

"Make me do it," the overseer said after another minute.

Sara blinked.

"Make me do it," the overseer said again, taking the slave's hand and putting it on the back of her head.

Sara pushed the overseer's face back down between her legs and felt her start licking and sucking again. She continued to watch silently.

Pausing again, Cruz said, "Enjoy yourself."

The slave's bewilderment yielded to a new understanding: she was playing out a scenario for the house mistress -- that she herself was the "mistress" and the overseer kneeling in front of her was the "slave." Sara had never even conceived of such a scenario, but at least she understood how to make this experience end.

Pushing the overseer's mouth down onto her clit, the slave feigned a sigh of pleasure and then fell into a familiar pattern of moans and gasps as she pretended to build towards orgasm. A few minutes later, she was crying out in mock ecstasy, her back arched, her tits jutting out. Then, she shuttered and trembled through her well-rehearsed finale.

Afterward, Cruz got back to her feet, wiping her mouth with a square of white fabric.

"That was pretty good for the first time, Sara," she said. "As part of your lesbian conversion program, you learned how to actually get off with a woman, didn't you?"

"Yes, Mistress," said Sara, embarrassed that her performance had been so easily detected.

"That is something you will need to do better next time," said Cruz. "Even if you don't cum, I want to feel some real heat."

"Yes, Mistress," Sara nodded.

The truth was that she had felt nothing at all. The situation had come as such a bizarre shock that she only wanted it to end quickly -- the possibility of taking any pleasure in it had never even occurred to her.

"Also, I want you to think about your experiences with guests. You must get worked pretty hard sometimes -- maybe even by women. I want you to use some of those experiences next time. Make it like it is when you have kind of a rough night, understand?" asked Cruz.

"Yes, Mistress," said Sara.

Cruz continued, "Obviously, you're not to talk about this to anyone about this, or even any of the other sluts in the stable. You're all damn little gossips, and I'm not going to have this getting around.

"If you give me what I need, I'm going to do nice things for you -- good performance reviews, advanced training, maybe even less pills."

"Thank you, Mistress," said Sara.

With that, the overseer straightened her uniform, stepped behind the desk and sat down.

"You may dress yourself, Sara," she said.

"Thank you, Mistress," said the slave.

***

Standing under the shower, Sara was numb -- unable to understand what she had just experienced. She wondered if maybe it could have been a dream, but as the reality of the situation settled in on her, she became afraid. What if this was some kind of test? What would be the correct choice? Tell another house master about what happened? Will herself to a genuine sexual response?

And if it was a test, did she want to pass it? Would taking real pleasure from an encounter like that confirm the lesbian conversion program was a success, and condemn her to servicing only women?

Sara considered every possibility as she dried off, dressed, applied her cosmetics and reported to the dispatch desk to be escorted up to a guest room for the night.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, ready slip down into the kneeling slave girl posture at the sound of a key in the door, a new possibility occurred to her: she could do as she was told. The next time the house mistress knelt down in front of her, she could close her eyes, imagine a well-trained, cut young buck eating her out and drink in the pleasure.

She felt a stirring between her legs as she considered the possibility: actual pleasure, even an orgasm, with her in complete control. Not only had she been given permission to indulge herself -- she had been ordered to do it.

By the time the guest lifted her dress and slipped his hand under her thong, she was embarrassingly wet. He was delighted. It was a good night.

***

Three days later, Sara again found herself leaning back against the edge of the desk, her legs spread wide. House Mistress Cruz was on her knees, licking the slave's sex. Sara's first impulse was to deliver another theatrical orgasm, but the overseer was not as easy to trick as a testosterone-charged college athlete or a traveling businessman who wanted something he had seen in a porno that his wife wouldn't do for him.

For a moment, she ignored the tongue moving up and down her labia and teasing her clit. In her mind, she summoned up a buck to be her plaything. She imagined his short blond hair, his pretty blue eyes, his smile, his powerful arms and legs, his broad chest and his flat, firm tummy.

She could feel his breath as he leaned in close, stretching out his tongue to caress her vulva. She put her hands on the back of his head, pushing him down into her sex. He was well trained. He knew what she needed, and he gave it to her -- anxious to feel her twitch, to know that she was satisfied.

In her imagining, her gaze traveled down between his legs. His thick cock strained upward, hungry for stimulation -- her mouth, her vagina, her ass, even her hand -- but she had already decided its fate: it would starve to death and fall flaccid once she had taken her pleasure from him.

She had seen more cocks than she could count in her short life, and she had worked each one of them to orgasm, pumped them or been pumped by them until they sprayed their hot, bitter loads down her throat, onto her face and her breasts, or up into her guts or her barren womb. She had pleasured every single cock she had ever seen -- but not this one.

This young buck would get her off, and then he would look up at her, his face wet with her juices. He would thank her for giving him the opportunity to service her and then he would leave, his big cock sagging and unsatisfied.

"Eat it, bitch," Sara gasped, grinding her hips against the overseer's face.

The kneeling woman tried to speak, but Sara kept her head pressed down firmly between her legs.

"Eat it! Eat Sara! Make her cum on your face!"

The overseer tongued her clit, until Sara felt a powerful, shuddering orgasm overtake her. She cried out, holding the woman's head like a vise. Then, it was done. Sara collapsed onto the desk, and House Mistress Cruz fell back onto the floor, coughing.

When they had both recovered, Sara began to gather up her clothes and Cruz dropped heavily into the worn chair behind the desk, wiping her face.

"That was an acceptable performance, Sara," she croaked.

"Thank you, Mistress," the slave answered, eyes low.

"However, next time I expect you to speak properly -- not slavish. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"When you're finished getting dressed, you are dismissed."

"Thank you, Mistress."

***

Sara spent the next several days attempting to teach herself standard speech, not the self-effacing language of slaves. At first, she thought it would simply be a matter of replacing her name with "me." That worked in a few instances -- "Make me cum" -- but not others: "Me wants you to pleasure me." She sounded foolish to herself, especially when she spoke the words out loud to see how they felt in her mouth.

During that time, House Mistress Cruz made good on one of her promises: a pill disappeared from the slave's daily dose of psychotropic drugs. Sara felt more alert and, to her delight, she was better able to concentrate and remember.

She began listening closely to the house masters and the guests that she serviced, trying to puzzle out the rules. One morning, fresh from the shower, she started a conversation with House Master Jessup, just to listen to how he spoke.

So intent was she on her study of language that she failed to consider how the acne-scarred, greasy-haired house master would react to her interest. Ten minutes later, she was kneeling in front of him, her lips sliding up and down his short cock, which tasted bitterly of urine.

"I want to see it, before you swallow it down," he told her.

After he grunted out his seed, she pulled back, looking up at him for approval. Her jaw hung open, so he could see his own thick, milky cream pooling on her tongue. This was one of the most humiliating displays that she was required to perform.

"That's good, bitch -- real good," he said. "Now, make it disappear."

She closed her mouth and tried to get it all down in one gulp. When she was done, she opened her mouth again to show him.

"Fucking awesome," he said. "I wish I could get my girlfriend to do that. She doesn't even like to blow me. What a fucking cunt."

***

With the House Mistress Cruz once again once again on her knees, servicing her, Sara reflected on one essential difference between slaves and their masters. Slaves -- sluts, at least -- did their work quickly, anxious to provide satisfaction, but not necessarily pleasure. A mouth full of cum or the wet, sticky feeling of a man's load dripping down between your legs was absolute proof that he was satisfied.

Also, after having had an orgasm, a master was much less likely to require you to do something painful or humiliating. No limp, spent cock had ever been forced up into a slave girl's unprepared ass or choked her into unconsciousness.

Even during her previous encounter with Cruz, Sara had pushed herself to climax as quickly as possible, because it would end the uncertainty and fear of the situation -- but now she wondered how much more she might have taken from this woman. Unlike a slave, who wants to deliver satisfaction, a master wants to receive pleasure -- to prolong the experience, taking full advantage of the warm, wet, girl-shaped toy bouncing, bobbing and squirming on the end of his shaft.

Sara's thoughts were interrupted by a sense that the house mistress growing impatient between her legs.

"Just do your work, cunt," she said.

Cruz pulled away to warn the her, but the slave drew up her right leg and folded it across the back of the overseer's head, pushing her face back down into her sex.

"I said, 'Eat me,'" Sara told her, drawing on one of the phrases she had committed to memory.

With Cruz giving renewed attention to her clit, Sara closed her eyes let her head fall back with a sigh. She relaxed and let the pleasure wash over her, with no particular concern for channeling the rising heat into an orgasm.

"That's good, bitch -- real good," she said.

After another few minutes, the overseer's attentions began to wane again -- because of fatigue, Sara suspected. She reached down and put her left hand on her right ankle, pulling her leg back towards herself. Cruz, caught within its triangular embrace, looked up at the slave, her eyes wide. Sara regarded her coolly.

"Give me more," she said. "I need more."

Cruz rallied again, this time with a hint of desperation. Sara realized that she had probably taken about as much as the house mistress could give. She started moving her hips, deliberately grinding towards orgasm.

"Finish me, slut!" she snapped.

Then, Sara's words yielded to orgasmic cries. A moment later, she was done.

Afterward, Cruz sat behind the desk, breathing heavily, while she watched the slave gather up her clothes and dress herself.

"You performed well today, Sara," she said. "I expect you to maintain this level of intensity and also to determine the direction of these sessions yourself. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress."

***

After another week, Sara saw a big change in her daily pharmaceuticals, as she was switched over onto a training regimen. Within hours, she felt even more clear and alert. That evening, she was given a simple display assignment at the Scarab Club and put to bed before midnight in preparation for off-site training the next day.

That morning, House Master Crawford bound her wrists behind her back, then gagged and blindfolded her and loaded her into a cage in the back of a windowless van.

Sara was delighted. She had only been off-site a few times, and she was fascinated by the world beyond the tinted windows of Helios. On the nights that she was assigned to a guest with a room high up in the pyramid -- especially on the northern face -- she would gaze out across a wonderland of shining towers divided by a ribbon of traffic that stretched as far as she could see.

When she first saw it, she assumed that it went on forever: an endless, dazzling procession of sparkling jewels in the night. Then, during her basic cultural literacy training, she learned that this was just one of many cities, some separated by distances so vast that flying vehicles -- airplanes -- were necessary to travel between them. Her mind spun as she imagined city after city, each a glittering marvel of glass and steel.

Although her painted lips were stretched around the red rubber ball gag, she managed a small smile. She could see none of it, but she knew that she was out somewhere among those magical towers.

***

The classroom was almost full when Sara arrived. An attendant escorted her over to an empty seat in the front row. She looked up at the other slaves waiting for the class to begin. Immediately, she recognized that all of them wore the modest uniforms of guest service utilities from several major houses. The females dressed in flats with skirts below the knee and blouses or long dresses and the males wore shapeless pants and starchy, long-sleeved shirts.

In contrast, Sara's dress made an ample show of her modest cleavage. Her short, tight skirt perfectly displayed every subtle movement and curve of her ass, while each step she took offered a peek at the lacy tops of her stockings.

She could sense the eyes of every intact male in the room tracking her with unblinking stares, their heads swiveling like security cameras. The females also noticed her, sneaking quick glances as they whispered among themselves, their eyes burning with envy and hate.

Sara slid uneasily into her place, anxious for the lesson to begin. She noticed that the back and the seat of her chair were upholstered with a fine metal mesh. The attendant handed her a paddle with a video display, a four-way knob and a few buttons, attached to a cord that vanished back under her chair.

A bald man with a creased face stepped up to a console at the front of the room. Sara studied him, assuming he was to be their instructor. Aged and fat, she could still see strength and purpose in his movements. His eyes worked quickly behind his glasses as his hands brought the console to life. She sensed sadness in him, and she decided that he could be a very dangerous man.

A finger tickled her ear from behind, interrupting her thoughts.

"Hey," said a male voice. "This slave, name of Brad, has been at this school before. Brad knows where there is a little room where he and this little honey can go to during mealtime."

Sara did not answer.

"C'mon, baby" the slave continued. "Brad knows how to work her love button and everything. He will make her cum, not like the jerks that she spreads for every night. What does the sweetie say?"

She continued to ignore him. He leaned down next to her ear.

"Listen," he said. "This little slut is going to get Brad off, and she can either enjoy it, or..."

Brad abruptly yelped in pain.

"My name is Farnstrom," said the man standing at the console. "You have been enrolled in an advanced cultural literacy course. For the duration of this course, you will be subject to electrical correction, either for failing to master the knowledge that will be provided to you, or for behavior that I deem inappropriate.