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SOLD
Last night, I dreamed of a black horse. Upon waking, I looked in the dictionary of dreams I keep in my bedside table, to see if there is any significance to this particular night time vision. It seems a dream of a black horse is a dream of passion. Considering all that has happened in the past weeks, I am not surprised. (bdsmlibrary.com)
Michelle (Witchie) Murray, 32, of Souris, Prince Edward Island, again thought she was dreaming. But the hot Sudan sun and smells of the burning sand floor of the ramshackle desert corral, converted for captive women instead of black stallions, told her differently.
‘These warm steel bands on my ankles, wrists and neck are sooo heavy,’ the young mother thought, reminding herself too graphically she was naked and harness-gagged under the hot desert sun, chained for the last 12 hours to her next-door neighbor, Betty Agnew, 30.
Passion was furthest from her mind just now; she was scared to death. Passion would come later, much later.
The attractive, 5-9, 42DD-28-38 Toronto university grad whose head-harnessed cockgag did little either to disguise her pretty face or dull her agile, witty mind, was about to be sold into slavery with best friend, Betty.
Michelle’s thoughts and intellect restored slowly and she opened her blue eyes gradually against the brilliant, white-hot sun: unable to speak, her inner voice described what she saw. She wanted to ease her mind from the bondage and future that lay ahead -- but she could not:
‘Buyers, circulating around Betty and me, and this gaggle of other white and black women, all of us chained together like cattle. Maybe if I close my eyes, they’ll all go away. And I’ll say to myself: "Witchie" it’s all just a dream.’
But it’s not!
‘I force my eyes open once again and all I see is this friggin’ head-harness that keeps this huge, India-rubber cock gag deep in my mouth. Oh, no!! If I gag once more I’m gonna call it quits. And that bright sunlight makes me wanna sneeze!! Oh, no!! Oh, noooo!! Acck!! Here it comes. . . . ’
"Ah, ah, ahhhh . . .ahh-feeef!!" ‘Now I can’t hear; my ears are blocked. Darn this gag!!’
"Gaa-aaahhh!"
‘Maybe if I close my eyes once again, it’ll all go away. But it won’t!! This bizarre chain of events that brought Betty and me to this strange place keeps coming back. Dammit!!
‘Here I am, naked as a jaybird, standing here, chained to Betty an’ the others, getting baked under this incredibly hot sun; they haven’t given me a stitch of clothing to wear. And that Betty there, she looks like she’s about ready to orgasm. Again!! Betty, for heaven’s sake!! Think of a broken arm, your ex-, or something!!’
‘I’ll just ignore her for the time being; she’s clearly off and away in subspace somewhere – lucky her -- and maybe, just maybe, if I smile at that cute electrician over there? Aww, he’s not lookin’!! He’s busy.
‘What’re those faint, electronic whirrings creeping into my ears again from the sides? Ohh, these shackles are aching on my neck and ankles!! I don’t wanna look!!’
Mrs. Michelle Murray’s sunburnt back, striped from a light lash she had received at dawn a few hours ago while straggling along in a long coffle of chained women, carefully corralled into the desert slavemarket, made Michelle realize she and Betty had to "escape or die."
‘I know I’m a registered slave, on a British registry, and ‘owned’ by ‘fuck friend,’ my Newfoundland Dom, but I never thought I could be bought,’ Michelle said to herself, her lips trying to adjust for the 141st time that morning to the huge, black cock strapped inside her mouth.
‘But I’ll just have to be silent, for now, as long as I have to continue wearing these chains and this darn gag. I’ll show ‘em; I’ll just stand here and look a little more defiant than they’ve bargained for. I can’t move without hauling Betty off this rickety, little stand but if I can’t speak, my body language will speak for me.
‘Hah. So there, you bastards!’
Michelle’s ice-blue eyes glared hot defiance out around her black head harness gag as she held her wrist chains in quaking hands, noticing her forearms reddening by the hour.
‘Betty, your mouth is free; why don’t you speak? Or is that big dildo getting to you again?’ Michelle’s eyes said to her African-Canadian friend -- she of the soft, slightly- pendulous breasts Michelle wished she had.
‘Those faint whirrings again. Those high-pitched, excited conversations, men’s and women’s voices gabbling English and Sudanese around us. Gosh, will they ever finish?
‘Even my wrist chains are getting warm under this sun. Maybe if I hold my neck chain this way it’ll ease the tension on my neck and poor Betty’s. Ohmigosh, there she goes again!!’
Michelle grasps for her neck chain to ease the tension on her neck, pausing to remember for a moment yesterday when she stood in the desert and tried not to look while Betty -- ‘my goodness, I never realized what a gorgeous bod. she had til then’ -- inserted a well-lubricated, 10-inch-long, three-inch-diameter steel dildo into her sex while that cute, young female Sudanese guard looked on, supervising.
Then, there were those sinister-looking, dark-skinned men with their mirror-finished polarized sun glasses, looking on appraisingly, getting hard while they did so. ‘Fuck them!’ Michelle thought.
‘Yeh, right, Betty; you probably enjoyed every minute as you wriggled your butt and waggled those 38C tits of yours, trying to ease that big intruder into yourself. Showstopper, all right.
‘Then, that young guard had so quickly strapped and locked it in place for you; I wonder what it feels like to have a steel cock strapped inside ya for a day! Probably better’n’ this darn gag!!
‘Betty, why don’t you talk to me? You know I can’t talk back. Or even fight back. Betty?
‘Golly, I think Mrs. Agnew is actually loving every minute out here!! Wait til I get you back in Souris, Betty Agnew; you’ll get a piece of my mind!!’
Betty’s mouth had been left ungagged by the crews but Michelle’s was securely gagged with a head-harness; but Betty’s furrow was penetrated by a locked-in steel column while Michelle’s was free and, more or less, available.
Steel gripped the two women at necks, wrists and ankles and both were bound to each other by a 10-foot sturdy chain between their locked collars.
The odd, faint whirrings continued and Michelle moaned softly listening to Betty’s soft groans as she tried inconspicuously to ease her vaginal lips around the big steel intruder.
The bidding continued as the whirrings buzzed in the background.
A desert sheikh, Tariq el-Assizes, known to his countrymen as ‘Tariq the Terrible’ and to Interpol as ‘Big El,’ made a bid of 500,000 British pounds for Michelle (Witchie) Murray and Elizabeth (Betty) Agnew, ordinary, pretty Canadian housewives from smalltown Atlantic Canada, duped into slavery by a ruse from that same Canadian sailor, Peter, whom Michelle had trusted so implicitly months ago.
Peter, the cad, took advantage of Michelle’s adventurous spirit and, to him, an apparent lack of forethought, as he arranged the terms of her contracted sale into slavery, along with Betty’s, through a series of business transactions with shady figures in the Middle Eastern underworld – and a group of disreputable moviemakers.
Michelle and Betty stood by, looking at one another with amazement and fear, as the bidding climbed and climbed until, finally, Sheikh el-Assizes silenced his competition with a bid of 850,000 pounds for the two Island women, sunburning under the bright, merciless desert sun, their normally pale skins turning lobster-red.
As the sale was closed and money exchanged out of sight, Michelle reaffirmed to herself her body could be bound, chained and sold as merchandise but her mind and spirit would always – always – be free.
That is until she could figure a way how she and her friend could escape captivity -- and that strange, whirring sound -- chained, gagged and dildo-ed as they were. She was stunned by the fact she and Betty were worth 850,000 British pounds on the slave market – or nearly $1,700,000(Cdn.).
Hours later, the two women, still chained together in the back of an old army truck parked in the late-afternoon shade outside a dusty corral in the middle of the Sudanese desert, pondered an unlikely escape.
"‘Witchie,’ that guy back there, the one with all the tools, said just now you’re a marked slave," Betty said, gasping as she tried again to ease her sex around the big, brutal steel dildo. Michelle looked at Betty through her head-harness gag, looked down and thought it would not be a really good idea to explain the barcode tattooed so recently on her neck, hidden under her one-inch-wide steel collar rivetted on her neck, which had made her ears ring for days afterward.
‘This is all a big misunderstanding,’ Michelle thought, as she shook her head in denial, making the three locks on her head harness clack idiotically in reply. ‘I’m a slave – in thought only -- but I’m having a whole lot of trouble with that concept right now.’
Betty, meanwhile, was just trying to get comfortable. Michelle sympathized but she could neither say nor do anything about her friend’s bondage or her big ‘intruder,’ just as Betty was powerless to do anything about Michelle’s.
Moments later, Betty wriggled over to Michelle’s side, put her head on Michelle’s sunburnt shoulder, whispered in her right ear, glancing at her best friend’s barcode, and said: "Mich., I hope you’re thinking like me to plan to get the hell out of here. We just need to find a way to get out of these chains, knock a guard on the head and drive this goddam truck outtahere. Gosh, Michelle, you do have a barcode on your neck! Witcheeeeee?!!"
"Mmmppphhh, Bttn," Michelle chided, shaking her head. She wanted to convey to Betty the idea that she would plan their escape, not her, and she would explain the barcode another time. Michelle Murray had a better idea.
Betty had been a hot-headed, impulsive youth and those traits had carried over into her 30s. A few months ago, she had even bound Michelle in a tight hogtie as a mid-winter Wednesday afternoon prank, leaving her that way until she came over to untie her about suppertime. But Betty’s rashness was slowly being replaced by something more, something more power-related, after she had read a book on D/s relationships and bisexuality.
‘I’m thirsty, naked, chained and sooo tired,’ Michelle groaned to herself as she leaned gingerly on Betty’s sunburnt shoulder. ‘How are we gonna get out of this fix? We’re in th’ middle of nowhere and nowhere to run to, fixed like this.’ Whirrr.
Michelle swore she would give Peter a piece of her mind when, or if, she got back to Prince Edward Island.
But that would not happen for another six weeks. Or more.
Meanwhile, Michelle’s cock-gagged throat was parched and she would give anything for a tall, ice-cold glass of icewater, just as she had read not long ago in Stephen’s King’s Gerald’s Game. Putting it to her lips and drinking it, like King’s heroine, would be another matter but the crew had already thought of that.
Suddenly, the rear canvas of the truck was pulled back, revealing to them the figure of a young, black woman in combat fatigues, carrying a submachinegun, big flashlight and a large, blue cordless drill. Other shady figures appeared in the dusky, dusty background as the sun began to set on the desert horizon.
It would be pitch dark, instantly, in five more minutes. Michelle and Betty had already witnessed the spectacular, fiery-orange African sunsets and were shocked at how suddenly the brilliant hues were changed to utter darkness so rapidly, only to be lit moments later by countless points of light above them in the big sky.
"You, Betty; eev you don’t want to zee your frand zuffocate, or die of thirst, or both, before tomorrow, take zis drill and bore a hole through her gag," she said. "That way, at least, she’ll be able to breathe and dreenk." A strange, soft, grey cylindrical object protruded near the woman’s head as she spoke.
The young guard, about the same age as Betty, tossed the heavy drill to Betty’s chained feet and she looked at it warily. She had never before used a power drill, much less on Michelle’s attractive face, and she did not even know how to turn it on. Her ex-husband had looked after all those sort of things around home.
Michelle thought it was better than the way she was presently and picked up the drill for Betty, squeezing the little trigger in her chained hands.
"Vrriiing, vrriinng," the 18-volt drill whined sharply. Michelle looked at the 5/8ths-inch, extra-long drill bit and, with a series of hand gestures and facial expressions, convinced her nervous neighbor to drill out a hole through her rubber gag.
"I dunno, Michelle, I don’t want it to slip and cut you," Betty said, holding the drill in her chained hands.
‘Mmmfffrrrrrmmm,’ Michelle replied, gesturing and glaring at Betty to drill a hole through the now-sopping gag.
Gingerly and awkwardly, Betty, kneeling in front of her naked, cross-legged friend, their chains tangling, placed the drill bit against the butt of the gag and slowly squeezed the trigger, scowling in concentration.
"Vrrrrrr, vrrrrrr, vrrrrrrrrrrnnnnngggg."
Michelle closed her eyes, hoping Betty’s hands would be steadier. Betty looked closely at her work and at her friend’s harnessed face and continued, more slowly, while Michelle sat patiently; then as Betty gained a little more confidence in her chore, pressed a little harder and deeper as the sharp drill bit ate away at the hard rubber inside her friend’s mouth.
Moments later, Michelle felt the bit poke through at the rear of her throat and she had a 5/8ths-inch hole that allowed her to breathe, although with an annoying whistle but, if someone assisted, she at least could drink some water. Eating was yet another challenge to be explored and overcome.
"Whew," Betty said, withdrawing the drill and bit carefully away from Michelle’s face. "Glad that’s over. Witchie, you all right?"
Michelle opened her eyes and nodded, softly whistling her thanks to her lovely, perspiring friend as the two heard soft applause from somewhere off in the night.
An hour later, the young guard returned to get the power tool, suspecting the two ‘slaves’ might have used it to drill off their chains. (Michelle and Betty had thought of that, tried but the bit slipped too easily off the circular steel surfaces of their shackles).
The guard, Amina Allenby, tossed in a canteen of tepid, dusty water to the pair.
Betty took the tin in her shackled hands and poured two cupfuls down her parched throat while Michelle looked on thirstily; then she carefully poured a small rivulet down Michelle’s pierced cock gag and Michelle, trying hard not to spit up, managed to get down a couple of cupfuls as well.
Whirrrr.
Michelle snuggled against her friend as night fell, wishing the ache in her jaw would subside as she tried once again to adjust her mouth around the big cockgag. Suddenly, both women were startled upright by a crisp, mature female voice:
"Cut. And that’s a wrap for tonight. Excellent work, Michelle and Betty. Sound, cine and lighting crews, Betty and Michelle, my trailer, 20 minutes. Discuss the midnight shots.
"Good work, people."
Michelle wondered if she was going to be able to speak at tonight’s director’s meeting.
"C’mon, gal; let’s get dressed," Betty said, tugging on her chain.
Michelle Murray and Betty Agnew had another six weeks of production to go and they were loving every minute. They looked forward to seeing their new, five-figure bank accounts back in Souris in a few weeks.
The 77-minute bondage movie Sold was well into production and Michelle and Betty were quietly pleased at their new-found stardom.
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