It had been a busy morning for Bronx. As Chief Regional Handler for the Fabrication, Crafting & Display Organization, LLC, i.e. AKA, the Org, he was the glue that held all the different pieces of the organization together. Between the acquisition teams, trainers, surgeons and tattooists, researchers, sales reps, and everything else, there was always product that needed to be prepared, secured, supervised, or transported somewhere.
Bronx didn't mind — most days, he loved his job. Short, stocky, tough, and immaculately groomed, Bronx had the physical power and control built from a successful high school wrestling career and a short stint as a bouncer, combined with a physical and sexual confidence that served him well in his job.
He was upbeat and good-natured, too. He never took it personally when the girls didn't like him, and he seemed to have a calming and cheerful effect that made the process a little easier for both the product team and the product.
He was already putting the morning chaos behind him — at least starting to. Sure, between scheduling fuck-ups and a particularly troublesome girl, he was starting his morning workout a couple hours late, but he wouldn't let that stress him.
He supervised Squirt's workout, cleaned her, then set her up on a one-bar prison, her wrists and ankles cuffed to a metal frame to keep her stable, and some light vibration so she'd be nice and ready for him by the time he finished. Then, he started on the cardio section of his workout, Squirt's occasional gagged moans making a nice counterpoint to the upbeat 80's mix on the gym speakers.
But one thing that didn't roll off Bronx's back was having his workout interrupted. Not only did Mel page him to come straight to her training room to assist, she also stipulated that he not shower or change. That bothered him. For Bronx, staying cool and calm meant staying neat and groomed — especially when dealing with troublesome stock. And it just so happened that Mel was currently training the source of his earlier frustration: an ornery, half-completed brat named Peaches.
He felt a little bad for disrupting Squirt's schedule again. The trainers could call her a party girl and emphasize flexibility all they wanted; in his opinion, she was a slave, and structure was good for her. So he tried to at least make it feel like she was being disrupted for something serious and challenging.
After poking at his work tablet to figure out who was available, he ended up assigning her to Joey, who had a little time before his mission. He'd seen the two together before, and knew they had good chemistry, and that the big field agent knew how to make a girl feel well-used.
It wasn't ideal; a serious mistake by a picker could disrupt or destroy the whole operation, so he'd rather leave his friend and coworker with some extra time to prepare. But Joey was a professional; he'd know all the details of the operation by heart already.
Bronx dressed Squirt up, flipped her, chained her up, lubed her ass as a courtesy, and left her for Joey. Bronx knew how the man got when he was keyed up for a mission. The man was notorious for his sexual exploits in the field, and he'd seen the results in the unusually warn out and tractable product he delivered. Finding Squirt wrapped and placed in an unusual position with her damp, tasty little snatch at face level was guaranteed to provoke something predatory in Joey.
He even left a little "good luck" message on her ass so Joey would think about the mission again right about when he was getting ready to mount her. Bronx chucked to himself as he gave Squirt a farewell slap on the ass. Knowing Joey, she had an exciting day ahead of her.
If someone had to disrupt his routine, Bronx supposed it might as well be Mel. With sharp, androgynous features, a lean, strong physique, and orange hair which she normally fixed up in spikes, the trainer had intrigued him from the moment he joined the company.
Their friendship had had a rough start — the lesbian hadn't appreciated his ham-handed attempts to chat her up, just like he hadn't liked her sharp tongue — but they'd gone from rivals to friends pretty quickly. They even worked out together twice a week. So he put on his most good-natured smile, and poked his head into the little, make-believe school room.
"So you switching teams now, Mel, or what?"
"To what, monkey man? Team zoophile?" Mel smirked from behind the teacher's desk. Joey looked her over. She was immaculately dressed in a red blouse, a black blazer, and a black skirt, cinched with a white belt, her short hair slicked and immaculate.
Even her voice and the icy look in her eye was different. Mel was in full dominatrix mode. Bronx swallowed, feeling more intimidated than he'd like to admit. She gave him the barest nod to let him know that she saw it, and appreciated the complement.
"So you wanted me fresh from the gym as an air freshener, or what?" he joked. "Because if so, you are going to be disappointed."
"Oh, it's not for me," Mel said, nodding towards the girl in the corner. "My student is about to learn some new preferences."
Bronx tried to remember who Peaches had been when he'd first met her. He was pretty sure her original name had started with a B — that's why Donna had ruled out, "Bambi" — the obvious training name for the client spec.
When the field team brought her in, she'd been a moderately attractive, bottom-heavy teacher with dishwater hair, in her early twenties. And despite some major changes to her appearance and demeanor, she'd remained a continuous pain in his ass ever since.
She wasn't especially tough or dangerous. He'd never really had to go much further than an arm bar and a few swats to get her to comply. But for a basically compliant slave, her demeanor towards him had been remarkably bad.
Bronx was pretty sure she had been a teacher or admin at a private school, but Peaches had the attitude of a girl who came from money. He saw it immediately when he'd unpacked her the first night.
She must have pissed off the snatch team, because they hadn't sedated her as usual. Instead, they'd used the paralytic, bundled her extra tightly, stuffed her into the trunk of her own car, and left her there to think about her fate as they transported her across half the state on a flatbed tow truck .
She'd been too weak to stand when he'd untied her, but still somehow managed to kick him in the shin. That, he hadn't minded; she hadn't really hurt him, and anyway, he liked handling spirited girls — they kept him on his toes and made him feel useful.
The whithering stare she'd given him when he'd taken off the blindfold had been a little impressive too, in its own way. But he'd only really understood what he was dealing with when he removed the gag. Still half paralyzed, her voice barely strong enough to hear, she'd still managed to speak clearly: "Touch me again, you greasy little pimp, and I'll have you castrated."
In retrospect, it had been a mistake to let it slide. Bronx had a lot of discretion, but he didn't seen disciplining girls as his role — especially right off the truck.
When a shipment came in, the girls were stressed and the pickers were tired, so it was in everyone's best interest to get the new product checked in and settled for the night. And anyway, it had all seemed to be for show — a bluff to make her look tough.
To her credit, Peaches had quickly learned that there wasn't much she could do about her situation. The training program they'd had her on had been pretty extreme, the cosmetic one, even more so. And she'd seemed to develop a sort of fearful regard for her trainers — if not respect, at least a sort of deference.
So she'd focused her ire on the one person who, more than anyone, she felt superior to: Bronx. His complete disregard for her wishes was typical of the people she came in contact with inside the Org. But coupled with his low-class background, mild disciplinary attitude, and upbeat nature, she found it absolutely enraging.
No matter how many times he overpowered her, she seemed to see him as a weak link. So she'd run her mouth, push, kick, scratch, and generally let him know her mind.
Sure, he could get her to do what he wanted without much effort. A few whacks to the ass would usually do it, and the lesson would stick a little longer when he took further liberties. But the defiance never quite went away. Even at her meekest and most obedient, Peaches would find a way to make her utter disdain felt.
Her unusually foul mood this morning told him she'd gotten another procedure, although he couldn't say what. Cosmetic procedures were getting so popular and so extreme at the Org that Bronx had trouble keeping track of all the modifications to the stock.
Between the light, blond hair streaked with pink, the unnaturally plumped lips, and the tits that seemed to grow by the day, he couldn't say what was new about Peaches, but whatever it was, her attitude was the worst he'd seen it in days, if not weeks.
She'd seemed determined to waste his time, first dragging her feet during the morning workout, then putting on the wrong outfit for her training, requiring him to lead her back, change her manually after she stopped cooperating, and bring her back to Mel.
Her new look made it easier for him to let it go; immaculately groomed and neatly dressed in a fitted shirt, tailored pants, and a handler's tool belt, he wouldn't get rattled by the attitude of some fake-titted, duck-lipped bimbo tottering around on fetish heels with her arms tied behind her back — even if those heels did make her slightly taller than him. But in his sweaty gym clothes, with his hair a mess, he really didn't want anything to do with the recalcitrant girl.
"How's she behaving?" Bronx asked.
"Much calmer now," Mel smiled. "She's just finishing study hall."
"Calmer" was an understatement. Peaches was kneeling almost perfectly still in the corner with her nose against the wall. Now that she was no longer fighting him, Bronx could better appreciate her look.
She was wearing a plaid miniskirt that exposed half of her ass, a matching plaid tube top, and thin, pink, frilly panties, at least a size too small. Long, striped socks ran from her ultra-high-heel Mary Janes to mid-thigh, covering far more of her body than the little skirtlet.
Pink headphones delivered her lessons, and her long hair poked out in looped puppy dog ears on either side of her head. Even her bondage was cute: a harness disguised as a little pink backpack with straps to lock her wrists behind her back, and pockets to carry her accessories. If it weren't for the sound of her panting and mumbling something over and over again, the slow shifting of her hips, and a few fresh stripes from the crop visible where the underwear pulled up between her ass cheeks, Peaches could have passed for a moderately realistic sex doll.
"Drugs and subliminals?"
Mel smiled. "Just voice loops. No drugs. The change is in her upgrades — did you notice?"
Bronx didn't like guessing games, but he decided to humor her for the moment.
