All characters are 18 or older.
Naked dancers twirled on poles on a large central stage. Naked musicians played soft music. Naked servers carried steaming trays of food and drinks. Slaves were lying on tables, serving food from their bodies. Slaves were under the tables, giving oral to their finely dressed guests. One nearby slave woman was reciting the dessert specials while bent over her table, getting pumped full of cum by her guests one after the other. Some slaves wore black leather, and carried whips. A few guests looked like they were in the process of becoming slaves themselves. They were stripped and chained. Their fancy clothes were cut to ribbons with great ceremonial sheers, and then tossed into a cheery crackling fire. An old fashioned professional branding smith stood at his furnace and bellows, with rippling muscles and red hot branding irons at the ready. There were tattoo artists, piercing tools, sex toys, a huge bar, cages dangling from the ceiling, and what looked to be a full pharmacy. It was overwhelming.
While Elizabeth and her parents stood gawking, Sherri quickly shucked off her gown and fastened a steel collar around her own neck. Her body was shaved, but she had no tattoos or brands. She knelt before them.
"Masters welcome," Sherri said demurrely, "My slave name is CherryPie44. I beg you, may I service you this evening?"
Robert had tried to mentally prepare himself for this moment. He'd expected the dancers, the table slaves, the public sex. He was prepared for young naïve women, with plastic enhancements and forced smiles, putting on a show. He'd learned at church that sex slaves pretended to be happy, but they were lying. They looked beautiful, but it was all makeup and surgery. They pretended to love you, but how could a slave ever really love a master? He'd repeated these teachings to himself, and thought he was ready. Not even close.
The pretty neighbor lady from church who he knew -- who he trusted -- was naked, kneeling, begging to service him. Her body was beautiful in a different way than the younger slaves. She had stretch marks and scars. Her tits dangled like utters: like working tits that had done their job well. Every inch of her was proof that she had borne and nursed and raised a child; that she'd fought and survived and lived in the world. She wasn't even wearing much makeup. There was nothing about her that was fake. She was real, and really offering her body to service him.
Meanwhile, the dessert reciting slave getting fucked nearby chose that moment to cum loudly around her guest's bare cock, thanking him for breeding her, leaving no room for confusion about what they meant by 'service' here.
Brian too was speechless. He noticed a lot of the female slaves had visible baby bumps. He imagined a pregnant Elizabeth serving here, fucking dozens of strangers each day, wearing only a slave collar and Brian's wedding band, with no way to ever find out who the father of her baby was. Maybe Brian would have to stay at home, raising the babies while other men bred even more of them into his wife at work.
CherryPie waited patiently on her knees for someone to answer her question. Luckily Annabelle was not so easily enthralled. "Of course you can be our server Sherri. We'd be honored. Please stand up."
Immediately another slave girl approached and knelt beside CherryPie. She was much younger and likewise shaven and naked except for her collar. Unlike CherryPie, though, she had deep dark bruises across every inch of her young body. She'd been beaten, recently and severely. Suddenly Elizabeth recognized it was Clarissa.
"Masters welcome," the new slave said cheerfully, "I am CheerBreeder18. I beg you, may I service you this evening as well?"
"Oh Clarissa," Annabelle took the girl by the hands, lifting her to her feet. "Oh honey. What happened? Are you okay?"
CheerBreeder smiled. "I'm not allowed to speak without permission. May I speak freely?"
"Of course honey. Of course."
"It's good to see you Mrs. Winthrop. I'm good. I know it looks bad, and it hurts, but I can handle it. I'm proud of my bruises. I didn't have to come in today, but I wanted to when I heard you were coming. May I please service you tonight?"
Robert swallowed. He couldn't tell whether Sherri or her daughter was more attractive. Was his wife really going to accept their offer to service him? The nearby man pulled his cock from the dessert slave, and a stream of cum ran down her legs. Robert heard her say something about corking her cunt until she conceived for an extra fee.
"Of course you can service us," Annabelle said to CheerBreeder, "Poor dear. Who did this to you?"
CheerBreeder told a very brief version of the story of her coach beating and raping her freedom away in the auditorium, as she and CherryPie led them to their table. Robert noted the slave tattoos on her back, still red and healing. No brand though.
At the table waiting for them sat Damian. He was immaculately dressed. As they approached he stood and deeply bowed. "Mr and Mrs Winthrop. I'm so grateful you could come this evening. My name is Damian Grant. Brian, Elizabeth, it is wonderful to see you both again. Please, will you join me?" He pulled aside his chair and offered for them to sit.
"Well at least he has some manners," muttered Annabelle. She ignored the chair Damian offered and allowed her husband to pull one out for her. They all sat.
CherryPie gave them each a menu while CheerBreeder poured water for everyone. Robert bashfully looked away as CheerBreeder leaned over him to pour, her young bare breasts dangling inches from his face.
"Just let us know when your ready to order," said CherryPie, "You'll notice there's a lot more than food on the menu. No rush."
Everyone took a moment to settle in a bit. Elizabeth blushed a little as eyes turned to her. She bashfully covered her tits. How was she still so horny?
"I'll start shall I," said Damian, coming to her rescue, "Thank you all for coming. You must think I'm a terrible person. You'd never even heard of me, and out of the blue your only daughter announces she's getting slave trained and tattooed. You must think I've somehow brainwashed her, that I'm trying to enslave her for myself and take her away from you."
Annabelle shot a look at Robert. He shrugged. She did think exactly that. She'd told him so. But somehow it sounded less reasonable the way Damian said it. And she didn't want to admit the slaver was right about anything. "Well no," she said, "Gah. I don't know. Maybe you mean well Damian. It's just we'd never met you. Plus, Elizabeth has never once shown interest in slavery before. And we're very protective of her."
"Of course you are," Damian looked earnest, "You love her. I can see that clearly. And there are so many horror stories out there: young women getting seduced and sneaking off to enslave themselves to random men. How could you trust me with anything, much less your daughter's slave training, if you don't know me?"
Annabelle nodded. "Exactly. Yeah."
Damian continued. "Honestly, I think you're right to be protective. It's so easy to get enslaved these days. Those university enslavement classes especially can be intense. When I met Elizabeth the other day, she was ready to go down on stage and get branded that minute, weren't you? Brian was there too. He can confirm."
"Yeah," said Brian, "She had slave fever for sure."
That caught Robert's attention. "Is that true Pumpkin?" He thought they'd taught her better than that.
"Damian had to hold me back," said Elizabeth meekly, "I couldn't think of anything else. I kept wishing Clarissa...I mean CheerBreeder here would just hurry up and get enslaved, so I could have my turn." The chip pulsed in her, rewarding her for both telling the truth, and following the plan. She shivered. Telling the truth felt weirdly deceptive somehow.
