Emmys Adventures Pt 01

Prologue: Grace Marie Flanagan

In the shadows there exists the Association. It is short for a much longer name that no one uses. The Association is a governing body for sex slaves. Submissive women are located and enticed to sign papers making them, in the eyes of the Association and its members, a slave. She could then be sold, like any other piece of property. The Association had strict rules about how slaves were to be treated, that they were, within the context of their role, safe. A woman signing slave papers knew she would not be murdered, whored out, or addicted to drugs. They prided themselves on a certain code of ethics and ruthlessly fought anyone intruding on their world. With many former military and intelligence among their members, the Association was willing and able to use force when it had to.

1-August 19, 1953

Tehran, Iran

Grace Marie Flanagan heard sporadic gunfire in the distance. It was less now than it had been throughout the day, but there were still pockets of fighting. She wished she knew what was going on, if their side was winning. The 23-year-old slave had not seen her owner Eddie or his best friend Chester Bradley since the 15th. That was when the shooting had started, and it had continued to some degree or another since then. The radio was no help, she could not find an English station and did not understand any of the local broadcasts She hoped they were all right. She hoped it would end soon.

Grace had been a slave for almost 4 years, but had only been Eddie's for a few months. He had bought her straight out of Warm Springs Canyon College, then promptly taken her to Iran. Her owner had arrived at the college in a big Cadillac, looking sharply dressed and urbane but with a hint of the wild in him. Grace was one of a handful of girls being sold after graduation and Eddie Maher sampled them all. There was something about the fair complected Irish lass from San Francisco that drew him back for a second round with her, and then an offer. She had been delighted to be sold to an up-and-coming, young, good-looking man, instead of some old creep who just had money.

Grace had driven away in his Cadillac feeling like she was a lucky girl. They took the train to New York and fucked the entire way. In New York she met Chester Bradley for the first time, and promptly was double penetrated by Eddie and Chester Bradley. In those first few weeks in New York, it seemed like she was constantly being fucked by one or both of them every second of the day. It had been heaven.

Then Chester Bradley had flown off to Iran, to attend to some company business. A week later, Eddie announced they were heading to Tehran, too. Since she did not have a passport or time to get one, Eddie had her flown in on an unlisted flight.

Tehran was a beautiful place, exotic and accessible at the same time. Grace loved the weather and the food and living rich (or owned by a rich man) in a strange land. Now, there were riots and revolution and she did not know where her owner was, or if he was even still alive. What would happen to her if he were dead? She did not have a passport or a visa, no legal papers of any kind. She would be alone with no one and no knowledge of the country, a stranger in a strange land.

They had to be okay: there really was no other option. She could not even think of what she would do if her owner never came back. Go to the American embassy? But where was that? How would she get there and then what would she do once she was there? No, they had to be okay, that was all there was to that.

The door to the apartment opened. Grace was hoping to see Eddie or Chester Bradley, but it was not them. The first man through was in a blood splattered Tudeh (Iranian communists) party uniform and held a Soviet made submachine gun at her. Grace froze and raised her hands. The second man through wore a western suit, a little dirty but no blood that she could see. He was tall, handsome in the aquiline way of the Iranians with a somewhat wild mustache.

Grace was not big and not strong. She was a petite strawberry blonde with big blue eyes who barely stood 5'3" and not an ounce over 105 pounds. She looked on in fear as the man in a suit approached her. She was aware of how alone and far from home she was.

He took out a length of rope.

"Put your hands together, Grace," he ordered.

Grace was surprised he knew her name, she had not met many locals since arriving in Iran. What worried her more was the man pointing a gun at her. She had been hearing gunfire for days and did not want to die as just another random burst of shots.

The lovely slave, trained to obey and afraid of dying alone here, put her hands together in front of her. The man in the suit smiled and quickly and expertly bound her wrists. He took a second to hold her hands, then turned to the man with the gun.

The man in the suit addressed his armed compatriot in Farsi. Grace was good with languages and would later become fluent, but then she knew almost nothing. The armed man nodded and left.

"Allow me to introduce myself, slave," he said and walked into the kitchen. "My name is Mostafa Maleki. Your owner is currently overthrowing the legally elected government of my country. Many of my friends and comrades are being arrested and killed." He put a kettle of water on the stove and rummaged around until he found the tea. "I could happily spend the next few hours torturing and killing you in revenge."

He strolled back into the living room while the water heated. Grace looked at him with fear as he came towards her.

"But I have other ideas," he said. Mostafa pulled Grace over to the couch and bent her over the end. The communist Iranian yanked her skirt up, exposing her bare ass to him. He caressed it with one hand while opening his pants with the other.

This was not what Grace wanted, but she was a slave, and her body was responding on its own. At some level, every submissive craved rape. By the time he had his cock out and against her lips, she was wet and ready.

"Obviously, there is this," he taunted from behind her.

She felt him kick her legs farther apart. Exposed, bound, and at his mercy, Grace hoped her submissive nature would get her through this. Her body was already responding, her lower lips swollen and wet, her nipples hard and her breath fast. There was fear, and the arousal that came with the fear and helplessness.

"English bitch," he cursed. Grace wanted to correct him and point out that she was American and more than that, she was of Irish descent, and no one hated the English more than the Irish. The sheer indignity of being called "English" just added a new layer of humiliation to the whole affair.

The bound slave cried out as Mostafa thrust into her. Any thought of the indignity of geographical ignorance was forced from her brain by the hard intrusion into her body. He roughly buried himself in her, his hips pushing her against the couch. He held her there, savoring the feeling of her, savoring his power over her. He pulled back, then slammed back into her.

Grace gasped as this man raped her. He stabbed her over and over with his cock, pausing only when burst of gunfire rang out somewhere else in the building.

The Iranian Red resumed thrusting into the helpless slave.

"Listen," he said. There was something in his tone, and, what felt like a push against her brain, and a place inside Grace opened up to him. She sought out his words, trying to capture each one, but she had no idea what those words were. They slid past her conscious mind and found their place deeper and stayed there. She could almost feel them seeping into her, changing and controlling her.

Grace stopped being able to hear the words he was saying. Was he speaking in Farsi? She was aware of her body, the pounding her pussy was taking, the feeling of the rope on her wrists, but could not for the life of her recall a single word he said. He said he was an enemy of her owner; would he steal her? Carry her off to be his own sex slave?

He was still talking, and she knew the words slid deeper into her mind, it was an almost physical feeling. It tickled her brain in a way, but that was lost in the thrusting of his hard cock inside her wet slit. What was going on her brain was being drown out by the pounding in her pussy. He was big and rough, and her submissive body craved this. She stopped worrying about what he was saying and lost herself in the building orgasm.

The intensity of the climax caught Grace by surprise. She had cum from rough sex before, and they were great orgasms, but this one seemed to radiate out strongly from her violated pussy and wash out to each tip of her fingers and toes. Her body knew it wanted more of this, more of him.

Relentless, with a loud sigh, the Iranian communist came in her tight, young pussy.

They were both panting, but at least he was no longer speaking. She began to be able to focus again. Another burst of gunfire, this time outside in the street.

"You are a great fuck, slave," Mostafa complimented, then pulled out of her. His cum began to drip down her leg as he stood her up and led her into the kitchen.

"Sit," he said and indicated the chair at the table.

Her rapist poured two cups of tea and sat opposite her.

The first sip of hot tea brought Grace out of her fog. She was sitting across from the man who had just raped her, came in her pussy. Even now, she could feel it leaking out of her. The tea in her cup was hot, she could throw it at him, scald him. Then what? She was still tied up, alone with a man with a machine gun in the building.

Grace's brain hurt. It was not a headache, more of the feeling of a sore muscle. She felt like she had overused her brain.

"I have been fighting this fight with your owner and his friend Chesty Besty, or whatever the fuck he calls himself, for years," he said and lit up a cigarette. "At least you Americans have better cigarettes. Soviet tobacco is horrible."

Grace flinched as another burst of gunfire came from one of the upper floors. There was a single shot from a slightly different location, then another burst of automatic. Things were quiet.

"Got him," Mostafa said happily. "Cyrus always does."

Grace took another sip. What had she been thrust into? She loved being the sex toy of Eddie and Chester Bradley, but had never imagined being in the middle of a revolution. Nor was getting raped as part of that revolution part of her life plans.

"We worked together back in '44 and '45, ferrying Lend-Lease material to the Soviets. We were all on the same side then, but they were already looking for ways to rape our country. Then, that war ended, and the Cold War began. They worked for the Imperialists, I for the Communists.

"It was all fun, cat and mouse games, that sort of thing. A few people got killed, but no one important. Some arrests, a few rapes, nothing serious. But this, this overthrow of Mossadegh, has gone too far. This is an affront and massacre beyond any game we played, an escalation of unprecedented scale."

Grace noted he certainly liked to give a speech, even with a captive audience. He continued monologuing while they drank their tea. His grievances were many, he cited an extensive list of wrongs perpetuated by the British and Americans (a few by the Germans and French were lumped in on the Anglo-American total) and he personalized all those wrongs in the form of Chester Bradley and Eddie Maher. He made it clear she would bear the brunt of those grievances.

"I would kill them right now if I could," he said and took his now empty and her half empty teacups to the sink. "But, I can't. So instead, I will make you into a tool I can use against them. Stand up."

Grace obeyed, she had to. Her captor untied her hands.

"Take off your dress," he ordered.

The well-trained slave quickly obeyed and stood naked before the man who just violated her.

"You are the rare kind of submissive that can be controlled," he said and grabbed one of her smooth butt cheeks. "I, and certain other special ones, can implant instructions in you if you are aroused and submissive enough. Like what happens when a slave gets raped. The more I fuck you, the more those instructions become set in your brain."

Mostafa Maleki pulled a bottle of olive oil down from the shelf. He walked back over to her and bent the submissive woman over the table.

"I am going to make you my informant in their camp," he said. The Iranian communist poured some oil into her buttcrack and began to work it into that tight ass with his fingers. "You will keep me informed about what they are doing, do little bits of sabotage. You will be as appealing as possible to your owner, so he wants to keep you forever. He may be your owner, but you will belong to me."

Grace was horrified by what she was hearing, what he was going to make her do.

"I won't do it," she protested.

"Oh yes you will," he said and rubbed more oil into her anus. "You will do it without thinking. You will remember all of this, but not be able to tell anyone about it."

Grace wanted to deny more, but her voice was taken away by her captor pushing his hard cock into her slightly oiled ass.

"Listen," he said to her in that tone and her brain shut off.

Grace was aware of the violation going on. Her ass burned and stretched as Mostafa Maleki pistoned away inside her. She knew he was talking, but could not hear the words as they slid deep into her brain. He was raping her ass and her soul, changing her to serve his wishes. She wanted to fight it, but all she could do was take the ass pounding and programming of her mind.

Mostafa Maleki left her that afternoon after he had finished with her. Grace was never the same after that. Outwardly, she was still her adoring, submissive slave self. Inside, though, she belonged to her rapist. She would send him messages about the business of her owner, and later husband, and his partner. She sent him several names that resulted in murders. Whenever her husband was away, she would contact him. Many times, nothing happened. Other times he was able to come to her or have her come to him. Those times he would take her and reinforce his programming on her.

Grace was grateful both of her children looked enough like her husband that there was no doubt he was father. Had either of them come out looking like Mostafa Maleki, there would have been questions that she could not answer.

Grace never spoke of what happened to her at the hands of the Iranian communist, not to her husband, not to Chester Bradley or any other person. Her instructions from Mostafa would not allow it. Neither her husband, nor Roper Chester Bradley suspected anything. Since Chester Bradley could also give instructions (what would later be called programming), she was afraid he might see something off about her "aura". Eddie asked him not to program her, so he never looked that way and saw the signs of Mostafa Maleki's tampering.

Grace could not hate herself; her programming did not allow that. She actually felt joy with each message she sent, each time she was taken by Mostafa Maleki; but she knew that was her programming and the joy was not real. She felt that she had to reject and fight that pleasure, or she really would be totally his.

When the strawberry blonde mother saw signs of submissiveness in her daughter, she wanted Emmy to be protected in a way that she had not been. If Grace could get her daughter enslaved and programmed before Mostafa Maleki got to her, then he would not be able to control Emmy like he did her mother.

Chester Bradley could do it. But she needed to get him to do that without giving away her betrayal. Most importantly, she wanted to keep her daughter away from Mostafa Maleki and she would do everything she could to do that.

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2-Growing Up Emmy

Emmeline Annette Maher was born on May 25, 1960, on Long Island, New York. The only times anyone called her Emmeline, she knew she was in trouble. Otherwise, she was Emmy. She quickly grew the long blonde hair that would offset her green eyes so lovely. Quick of eye, and, truth be told, a little sneaky, Emmy was reared by her somewhat distant and indifferent parents. She always preferred to sit and think (later read and draw) rather than run and play.

Emmy got her blonde hair from her mother's side, but not her mother's big blue eyes. The indelible mark of her father was her green eyes, but otherwise, Emmy took after her mother. Grace had a curvy figure that had been helped by two children. She was always loving with Emmy, but somehow Emmy felt her mother was afraid to get too attached.

Emmy had an older brother, Peter. Peter was five years older than her, but never seemed to play a big part in her life. While she was drawing and reading, he was off playing sports and getting involved in Boy Scouts, Junior AFROTC and a bunch of other activities that kept him away from home most of the time. When he left to go to the Air Force Academy, there was a big celebration, but her life did not change very much.

Her father, Eddie (no one ever called him Edward), had grown up in New York City, but like many of his generation and color, fled to the suburbs once he had made his fortune in the city. He wanted fresh air and low crime rates to bring up his family. Her father had done his stint in WWII in the Persian Gulf Service Command, come back to a booming economy and made his fortune partnering with his good friend from the army, Chester Bradley. They started by taking over a failing import company in the city. Using their contacts from the war, and some curious funding, they turned that around and made a profit. They continued to grow the company, specializing in Iranian import-export trade.

The hours were long, and her father was frequently away. When her father was rich enough, he sold out his share to Chester Bradley. Her father invested in and consulted for a number of businesses, but nothing full time. He was content to live with his beautiful wife and children.

Emmy learned to embrace her parents' hands-off parenting style. She quickly figured out that if she kept things mostly legal and away from boys, she was left entirely alone. The young blonde mostly just wanted to read books and steal the occasional candy bar from the grocery. She valued her free time and being able to find a new spot to read or draw pictures.

Chester Bradley had always been a regular presence in Emmy's life. Her father had sold out by the time she was five, but Chester Bradley was still a close friend. He travelled a lot and lived in the City when he wasn't, but visited them at least once a month. For their part, whenever they visited the City they would see Chester and stay at his Central Park apartment. He had been a mentor to Peter and helped get him the appointment to Colorado Springs. Emmy often wondered if he had any plans for her future, too.

As she grew older, Chester Bradley was away more, and the visits decreased. By the time she was a teen, they saw him only once or twice a year.

Emmy had a crush on Chester Bradley for as long as she could remember. When she was a little girl, she had fantasies of him riding in on a horse and taking her away to get married. And hold hands, that was what married people did, right? As she learned to draw better, she would sketch pictures of her and Chester Bradley sitting on the throne of her imaginary kingdom. She would always burn those pictures in the fireplace when she was done, but drawing them gave her a thrill.

----

Emmy was fifteen when she found The Box. The curious teen was out exploring a patch of trees in a utility right of way, (the closest thing to a forest they had around there) and found a metal ammo box in a hollow of a tree. Inside, instead of the ordinance she was hoping to find and use in some pyrotechnic experiment or another, was a copy of the Story of O wrapped with a couple of bondage porn magazines, and a stack of Hustlers, Penthouses and the like. Emmy knew she had to have some of this for her own, to read whenever she wanted and fuel her growing imagination. She only had so much room in her bookbag, so she had to choose wisely. Emmy did not normally consider herself a thief, but was not above doing so if it was the best way to get what she wanted. This was her only chance to acquire wonderful smut like this. She grabbed the book, flipped through, and read a few quick passages, decided that was a keeper and stuffed it in her bag. A paperback would be easy to keep hidden. What else? She wanted pictures, to be able to see and understand better what the book was talking about. She decided on the smallest of the bondage magazines, it would fit in one of her folders, grabbed that and left the rest.