A Slaves Strength

A Slave's Strength

by

mechgogo

Tom Donovan knelt on the ground beside his owner - technically employer - in one of the public social areas of FanTan Naturists Resort. Tom was an indentured contract laborer - "indent" for short or ICL to the bureaucrats who oversaw the program - contracted for domestic service to the woman who sat in a lounge chair next to him reading a magazine and intermittently petting his belt-length chestnut hair. Stripping away the legalistic tap dancing what it boiled down to was that Tom was her property, legally bound to do anything his Mistress wanted within certain very broad limitations. Since the ICL's technically received payment for their work the system was able to side-step the anti-slavery laws.

The indent legislation had passed a few years ago as part of the former administrations attempt to deal with the growing problem of working poor and people who, for whatever reason, suddenly found themselves with more debts than liquid assets to keep apace with them. The fact that it also meant that teenaged kids as young as sixteen frequently found themselves the sexual slaves in all but name of people older than their parents because Mom and Dad defaulted on one loan too many or died up to their hairline in debt was just one unfortunate side affect. Unfortunate for the kids. For middle-aged men and women like the guy currently flogging his naked, barely pubescent concubine and cursing her out every second or third lick of the strap as she hung from a frame a few yards away, it was manna from heaven.

Tom's didn't consider his circumstances to be anywhere near as unfortunate as the girl's or God only knew how many of his fellow bond-servants. He was, in fact, one of the few in the system who was there of his own free will. But being unusual was pretty usual for Tom.

The whole thing had started a decade or so back. Two girls, fraternal twins, had met a young man in their early twenties and jointly fallen in love with him. The young man in question - Tom - had reciprocated but had expected the kind of sibling drama that typically followed when two sisters both fancied the same guy. What he hadn't counted on was how far from the mainstream way of doing things his loves, Angie and Nicki, were.

The twins had always been close. There had been fights over the years but when it came to anything important neither one had a closer or more devout ally than the other. They had also read more Robert A. Heinlein than was probably good for them though it ultimately wound up saving Nicki's ass in a very real and literal sense.

After working things out between them the sisters had taken Tom out for dinner and presented him with a very simple proposal; he could date both of them simultaneously or he could hit the road. They loved him but if it came down to a choice between some guy, however sweet and good looking, and the person they had shared a womb

with, guess who was going to lose? Tom, not being stupid, had agreed to the arrangement on two conditions. First, within the context of their relationship they were as close to monogamous as three people dating could be. Second, if it ever came time to get married they, not he, would decide whom he walked down the aisle with.

Ten years later the trio were still together. A game of rock paper scissors had put Angie's name on a marriage certificate next to Tom's but in the minds of all three there were two wives and one husband at the Donovan residence. Tom had taken the twins' last name for simplicity's sake. The legal prohibition against putting both girls' names on the license was seen as just one more example of governmental stupidity. To be sure, it was an odd little slice of domestic bliss and the target of a certain amount of loud-mouthed jackassery.

An amateur comedian at Tom's job had once and asked him which sister he'd screwed the night before to the amusement of several of his friends.

"Yours." Came the reply. "Chipped a tooth going down on her too. But at least now we know where that homeless guy left his shopping cart." But for all it's non-standard nature it worked and the little family considered themselves happier than most.

Then came the phone calls. And the registered letter on official stationary. And no small amount of dirty laundry and high drama getting aired. Nicki, it seemed had been less than forthcoming about her own personal finances and gotten in further over her head than the family could bail her out of. Their friends were all mostly broke and the twins' entire collection of blood kin had disowned them for their involvement in such an "unnatural" relationship.

Tom didn't have any people of his own. He was a former street kid who had somehow managed to avoid prison, serious drug addiction or any of the other pitfalls that threatened teenagers who got sick of the foster care system and took off on their own before they were old enough to drive. A job with a local freight handling company paid well enough to cover his share and a bit more of the household expenses but wasn't anywhere near enough to fill the hole his wife/sister-in-law had dug for herself. So when the screaming stopped and the broken dishes were swept up Tom did what he always did when his family was threatened, he took direct action.

When the nice people from the indenturement agency arrived one morning in early May they found Tom waiting for them on the front stoop dressed all in black. A pistol in shoulder leather camped out under one arm while a Remington pump action 12-gauge shotgun rested on his right thigh. As if he weren't heavily armed enough a large combat knife hung handle down from the opposite side of his harness and what looked like the business end of a medieval battle axe peeked out over that same shoulder.

"Morning!" Tom said. "Can I help you folks?"

The agents stopped about ten feet away and raised the nozzles of their high capacity mace dispensers, the kind riot cops favored for breaking up unruly mobs. "We're here to collect Nicollete Donovan. Please put the gun down and step aside, sir."

Tom nodded. "Happy to. Just as soon as we have a little chat."

"Sir," the agent on the right said, "we're here to serve a legal writ of indenturement. If you interfere with us in any way you will be subject to fine, arrest and possible indenturement yourself. Now, please, step aside and let us do our job."

"Are those vests fireproof?" Tom asked, twitching his chin at the body armor they had on. That confused the agents. Confrontation by armed friends, family and soon-to-be indents was an everyday part of their job. That particular question however was a new one.

While they were still puzzling out what the self-described husband of their target was talking about, Tom said, "Here, catch." And gently underhanded a small plastic and cardboard blister pack at them.

The collector who had spoken last glanced at her partner. He shrugged, and she bent to pick up the blister pack. The package was designed to hold three bright orange 12-gauge shotgun shells. It had been opened, had one removed and resealed. The words "Dragons breath shotgun loads!" screamed out from the package in big red and orange letters, as did "Turn your shotgun into a flamethrower!" The back contained a list of ingredients such as magnesium and phosphorous as well as some legalese that boiled down to "If you set yourself or anyone else on fire using these things it's your own fault and you can't sue us." Two more packs hit the sidewalk while they examined the first one. They were empty.

"Now, I understand you folks are just doing your job, and I'll be the first to admit this mess could have been avoided if my Nicki had just been a little bit more communicative with her sister and I. But I wouldn't be much of a man if I just let you waltz in and take her. So what say you hear me out? It won't take a minute or two and all you'll lose is the chance to find out just how effective those shells are."

Normally this would be the part where they either maced Tom, called his bluff or called for backup if not all three. The complication was that they neither believed Tom was bluffing nor that they could call for help or spray him before he pulled the trigger. As with every acquisition, research had been done on the principles involved. Neither agent had the slightest doubt that if the tall, leanly muscular man in front of them didn't get his say he would reduce them and as many of their colleagues as he could to the consistency of overdone bacon.

"We're listening." The one on the left said cautiously. "But no promises."

"Fair enough. No promises I won't smoke the pair of you if you things go badly. Nothin' personal. Just doing my job

."

Tom's proposition was simple, take him in Nicki's place. There was nothing in the law - he'd had a lawyer friend check to make sure - that expressly forbade him from serving as her proxy. The alternative involved a lot of needless drama and at least two charred corpses.

That was when Nicki came out, in high Irish temper, to complicate things. There was no way in Hell Tom was taking her place and that was the end of it. Or at least that was the gist of her position amid the tears and concrete-blistering profanity.

Tom sighed. "Excuse me a second."

Then he turned and, in a very businesslike manner, butt-stroked Nicki in the stomach with the shotgun. While she was still gasping for air he produced a stun gun purchased the night before and gave her a good zap to put her out. Another pocket of his cargo pants yielded up a pair of steel hinged handcuffs bought from the same law enforcement supply store as the Tazer and a roll of red bondage tape from a local adult toy store. The cuffs secured Nicki's wrists behind her back while several passes of the tape around her head and over her mouth promised to keep the noise down if she regained consciousness.

That little chore handled, Tom scooped his wife up onto one shoulder, careful not to cut her on the axe's ice-pick-sharp back spike. Then, with some help from Angie on the door he went inside.

"C'mon in." he said without looking behind him or giving any indication that he was inconvenienced by having the weight of a woman who weighed almost as much as he did balanced on one shoulder. The agents exchanged a glance and followed, propelled as much by curiosity as the need to complete their assignment.

They followed Angie and Tom down a hall where she was standing blocking his way into what they knew from their research on the dwelling to be the master bedroom. "You don't need to do this, sweetheart." Angie said.

"Bullshit. They," Tom twitched his head in the direction of their 'guests' "aren't leaving without somebody to put on the block. And what kind of a man stands by with his hand up his ass while the collectors make off with his wife, hm?"

Securing Nicki to the bed was the work of a moment. The agents had the good sense not to offer to help. Afterwards he went into the living room apparently unconcerned about how the next few minutes would play out. He had the collectors off their game plan. By yanking them out of their comfort zone for this particular run he had taken the initiative and was pretty sure he could get the results he wanted.

"Lets talk in the living room." Tom said. "I'd offer y'all something to eat or drink but you'd probably think it was poisoned."

When the agents were settled in on the couch, Tom took up station across from them, back to a wall, blinds drawn, shotgun cradled across his lap and went into his pitch. The collectors tried to sit in two widely spaced chairs but Tom asked them to sit together. Something about the way he wasn't quite pointing a pump action flamethrower at them inclined them to listen.

"Right," Tom said "so you've heard my offer. It's simple and it's fair and best of all nobody gets dead. And we all know that the unusual nature of this arrangement will make me a damn sight more marketable than some hot-tempered Irish girl who'll likely bite off the first piece of meat gets put in her mouth. "

The agents exchanged a look. "You'll come willingly? You'll submit to the entire orientation process?" a nice little euphemism for not giving them any grief over the next two weeks of medical exams, cavity searches and training on techniques for servicing male employers that stopped short of anal penetration. That last was a nod to the added value inherent in a potential servant with a virgin orifice.

Tom nodded. "You swap out Nicki's name for mine, I'll blow you right here and now."

A call was made and official permission to make the necessary changes was received. Tom's decision wasn't unprecedented but it put him in a group of only three or four people since the programs inception. Seven years of unpaid service as anything from somebody's bought and paid for fuck-toy to a human lab rat was more of a sacrifice than most people were willing to make. In a way that was good news. Rarity meant value. His contract would be priced accordingly with a percentage of the proceeds going into a trust fund to wait for his eventual release.

The next two weeks were among the more stressful of what had never been a very easy life. Separation from his family was the worst of it. In the ten years of their relationship Tom estimated they had spent less than one full week apart from one another. Being forced to submit to the attentions of some of the trainers ranged from unpleasant to downright disgusting.

In his years on the street Tom had never had to sell himself to get by. Theft, burglary and eventually an actual legit job had kept him in what he needed to get by. He'd puked his guts out the first time a male trainer had come in his mouth. The beating that followed hurt but the daily visitations - usually several a day - until he could swallow without complaint had tested him right to his limit

Then two months ago one of the more senior staffers had come to his cell. It was the end of the orientation period and he had been told to expect a visit from a potential employer the night before. Nerves had kept him up most of the night. His single greatest fear was being sold to a man. He knew the odds favored it. Something like eighty percent of all male indents who went into domestic service found themselves forced to spend the next seven years spreading themselves on command for a Master's enjoyment.

"We're going out." was all she said, as she secured his restraints.

Tom's hands were cuffed to his waist and leg irons hobbled his stride. For good measure a leash was run from the chain around his waist down and around the ankle chain. One good yank and Tom would slam face first into the ground or worse, crack the back of his skull. It all depended on his escort. A shock belt went on under his shirt for good measure in case he got froggy. He'd received a taste of one earlier in the process over refusal to screw a fellow trainee for the counselors' entertainment. In a life full of painful experiences that one ranked in the top five, right above the time he got shot in the chest. At least they gave you pain meds when some tweaker put a bullet in you.

Tom's escort, a fairly attractive and demanding woman named Marie, had taken him to the home of a friend of hers named Eleanor. Eleanor - Mistress now - was older, 45 to Tom's 32. Her hair was blond and her skin lightly tanned. One look at her and it was clear she was familiar with regular exercise and a proper diet.

His restraints had been removed and he'd obeyed when ordered to strip, allowing himself to be examined in every way possible. Questions about the unique nature of his circumstances had been asked. He'd gotten hard on command and did his best to keep still as both Marie and Eleanor played with his not-so-private-anymore parts. Fingers had petted his skin and hair and probed deep inside his anus. That had been… not unpleasant so much as unexpected.

More than that, it had been a trigger of a sort. Tom's life, both before and since meeting the twins had seldom if ever been easy. Simple survival had often meant being the most dominant, or at minimum most aggressive, person in the room with the willingness, if not always the ability to back it up if need be. Even at the center he hadn't really submitted. He had simply done as he was told - mostly - because that was the deal he had made to save a woman he loved.

There in Eleanor's living room, on display, her fingers sliding in and out of him Tom felt the need to be the junkyard dog slip away like someone pulling off a sheer cloth that had covered him for years. It was as relaxing in it's own way as slipping into a hot tub at the end of a particularly hard week on the job. All his defenses and wariness just evaporated. He felt genuinely helpless and for the first time - maybe ever -it didn't scare the crap out of him.

In the end, Marie had driven back to the center. Tom had stayed behind, a gift from his former trainer to her friend. The weeks that followed had been strenuous. Mistress was demanding both in and out of bed. She was patient up to a point with mistakes but still meted out consequences for anything that did not meet her extremely high standards.

Her patience for overt disobedience was nonexistent. Punishment for "willfulness" as she termed it was always painful, always fit the theme of the offense and always more harsh than it would have been for someone who had entered service by more usual means.

"You wanted this life so badly you committed at least three felonies to get it." She told him. "You're the last person on Earth with any right to rebel."

Despite the pain and the often humiliating, unpleasant things that were expected of him, Tom didn't see his life the past eight weeks as all that bad. Mistress kept him on a short leash - often literally - but she was good to him too. She was just as quick to reward good behavior as she was to punish bad. One of his standing orders was to keep within arms reach of Mistress at all times unless specifically told otherwise. Mistress was extremely tactile and a good bit of his idle time was spent having his head, face and shoulders caressed by her soft, strong hands.

Much of what was expected of him in bed was enjoyable or at least tolerable. Even the things he actively disliked had their own thrill. Laying back and meekly spreading himself, smiling up at her and urging her on the first time she took a strapon to him had been painful and degrading while it was going on. Remembering the helplessness of it later however had earned him a full day with his hands locked behind his back when he got caught doing something about the memory. All in all, life could have been significantly worse. And here he was about three seconds from making sure it would be for the foreseeable future.

Over at the frame the guy was still whaling away on his servant, not appearing to hold anything back. Welts and bruises were already blooming across her back and front. Some of them looked raw enough Tom was shocked not to see any blood. She was sobbing and begging her master to stop, crying that she was sorry. The master wasn't having it.

"Stop sniveling and shut up, you useless little bitch!" He hit her again so hard she couldn't breath for a second and Tom hit his enough point.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, enough already!" he snapped coming to his feet. Internally he began running a tab of all the hell he was buying himself from Mistress. Breaking position without permission, dropping an f-bomb in public. And that was just the beginning.

Everyone turned to stare at his outburst, which was half the point of it. The other half was to get the girls owner to stop what he was doing and focus on Tom for a bit. From the start of the beating Tom had been reading the guy. It was a lifetime habit, a survival tool still sharp years after he'd gone legit.

The Master, Tom didn't know his name and didn't care to, had short dark hair going gray along the outer edges. He was older, maybe in his mid-fifties. He might have taken care of himself once but those days were long gone. A sagging belly hung part-way over his groin. What might have once been pectorals were now flabby man-breasts and pouches of suet swung and jiggled under each arm. The guy was soft, a fat, middle-aged bully abusing a helpless kid for reasons that probably had more to do with his own impotence than any bad behavior on her part. Three months ago Tom would have knocked the jerk out with less thought than he spent on picking out a fresh pair of underwear. Now he had to find another way.

Ignoring Mistress' command to heel, Tom stalked towards his target. "Jesus Christ, pal, seriously! What'd she do that was so terrible? Laugh at that tiny little prick of yours? Like she's the first woman to do that since breakfast."

The guy turned red. "What did you say, boy?"

"You heard me, butter-butt. What in God's name could that poor kid have done to deserve the abuse you're dumping on her? What, you jealous her tits are getting more compliments than yours? They're called pushups, PoppinFresh! They're free and they're good for you. Try em sometime!" Around them people snickered. A couple laughed out loud.

By now they were just feet apart and closing. A familiar hand grabbed his hair at the base of his skull. Normally Tom's knees would have folded instantly. This time he kept going, ignoring the tearing noise and burning at his scalp.

Inside the clown's personal bubble now, provoking him, the undivided center of his attention. His and everybody else within earshot. Pushing it even further. Get the prick angry, keep him from thinking.

"Who do you think you are boy?"

"Me? Nobody. Just a guy fixing to puke at the sight of a gutless yellow coward taking out his own inadequacies on somebody who can't fight back!" Tom felt a presence behind him and knew without looking it was Her.

"Thomas! You will apologize and come away right now!"

Tom never took his eyes off the creep. "I will not Mistress." Fresh pain ignited the back of his head. "And unless you plan to rip the back of my skull off, I humbly suggest you let go. I'll take whatever you care to dish out later but right now me and this pig

have business."

Tom faced his target again. "You're pathetic, you know that? What, you couldn't get it up, so it's her fault? Three words, Flaccid Man. Vi-A-Gra!"

In front of him the guy was going purple. That's it sweetheart, get good and pissed. Don't use your brains. Don't notice the old knife scar lying on Tom's left arm like a sleeping nightcrawler or the way the red dot tattooed three fingers below his right collar bone with the words "Ring Bell For Service" inked below it looked suspiciously like the kind of scar a nine millimeter bullet would leave if you survived. Just focus on the uppity indent and completely ignore the junkyard dog straining his chain to get some teeth into you.

A hand blurred into his face, stinging and leaving a vivid imprint. Tom just smirked. "I'd say you hit like a girl, pal but I get hit all the time by a girl and I actually feel it when she does it."

Behind him Mistress was incandescent with rage. "Oh you have no idea…" she said. Her voice shook with the effort it took to maintain control.

Another shot rocked him, this one a backhand that split his lip. "You feel that, you mouthy little shit?"

There was blood in Tom's smile. "Feel what? You know, Susie, I'd ask you if you thought you were as good with that strap against another man as you are against a little girl, but that'd require you to be a man yourself. Face it jerk, on your best day you couldn't put me in my place. But if you'd like to prove me wrong you're welcome to try."

"Fine! Eleanor, let me borrow this little punk for an hour. After the disrespect I've been shown I'm entitled to punish him."

Tom never took his eyes off the stranger. "Yes, Mistress. Please, lend me to this loser. I'll do whatever he says and weep and wail and be the perfect little slave the whole time. But it'll only be because you wished it. And all it'll prove is what everybody here already knows; that while I'm your helpless little lapdog this walking turd needs a woman to do his fighting for him because he isn't man enough

to break me on his own!"

That did it. "I can break you anytime I try, you arrogant little sonouvabitch!"

"Then prove it, pissant! Beat a plea for mercy outta me in front of all these people without my owner telling me I have to pretend like you're something to be impressed by! Take down the kid and put me in her place! We'll see who calls off first. But if I'm puttin' my ass on the line for your insignificant little ego I want something when you fail."

"Name it!" Gotcha, jerk.

"The girl. I pass out or beg off before you get worn out or draw blood and you sign her over to me with Mistress here as my proxy since we both know one indent can't own another."

"I'm not just giving her to you! I paid seventy-five thousand for her!"

"I never said give, dipshit! Sell her to me. Mistress, by my math my remaining allowance for the entire duration of my service to you comes to just over seventy-two hundred dollars, am I right?" A domestic getting a few bucks pocket money each week wasn't unheard of but it was pretty rare, never more than ten or twenty dollars a week and always treated as a revocable privilege subject to the contract holder's whim.

"That implies you'll be getting an allowance after this but in theory, yes. Not that it matters, I've no need for a second servant and I'm certainly not about to have some little cheerleader around my home distracting you from seeing to my needs."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Pfft! Mistress is seriously underestimating herself if she honestly believes some half-grown little kid could distract me from her."

Despite herself, Eleanor blushed. "Then what did you have in mind?"

"I thought I'd send her to stay with the girls. We'd been thinking about starting a family before I entered service. This just avoids the morning sickness and dirty diapers."

"And what about when I break you?" Toms opponent demanded.

"Well," Tom said. "On the off chance that Hell should freeze over in the next few minutes we'll track how many stripes it takes. You win and every day at this time for the rest of our stay here I'll report to you for that number plus ten percent."

"Every other day. " Mistress said, "I don't want you crippled, Thomas."

"And ten percent isn't enough." The jerk added. "More like double. And since you're so unimpressed with the size of my dick, you won't mind bending over and servicing me afterwards. Dry."

The haggling went on for a few more minutes but finally the terms of the wager were set. Tom would take the girl's place on the frame. Her owner would take the same belt to Tom he'd been using on her. Anywhere but Tom's face, head and genitals was fair game. If Tom passed out or begged for mercy he would take the final number of strokes plus fifty percent every other day for the duration of his and Mistress' stay and serve the Master without any lubrication afterwards. If the Master drew blood or paused for longer than a count to three-one-thousand he would sign the girl over for seventy-two hundred dollars. He could switch hands if he got tired but only once.

The girl was taken down and Mistress took custody of her. She also bound Tom's hair up atop his head so it didn't shield him any. "You are so dead

when this is over, little puppy." She promised him.

A resort staffer secured Tom to the top of the frame. His ankles were locked to the uprights forcing his legs wide apart. Off to one side his opponent was whipping his arm back and forth, limbering up. The belt swished in the humid air.

With Tom in place the staffer stepped out of the way. "This is a legal wager!" he announced to the crowd.

In the frame, Tom was taking deep, slow breaths. He took a pinch of cheek between his teeth inside his mouth. No way was he going to let that prick win. A summoned memory of an especially vigorous night under Mistresses scourge got his endorphins started. Not very smart pal, taking a masochist up on a contest like this.

"All participants will adhere to the terms or face censure from the membership counsel for violation of the club ethics clause!" He raised the counter. "Go!"

The first strike blurred in hot and hard across his thighs. He bit down and stayed silent despite the pain like a hot wire across his legs. More blows followed, burning up his back. Tom tasted blood, swallowed it. He wasn't going to just beat this bastard. He was going to humiliate him.

As he was worked over Tom played a careful balancing act inside his head. The easiest way to deal with a serious flogging was to just go away. Find some happy place inside your head and live there while your body got the shit beat out of it. It was easy when you knew how. The next easiest was to ride the endorphins, let them wash over you and enjoy one of the cleanest highs known to man. The problem was, doing either could look a lot like losing consciousness even if you kept your eyes opened.

Instead, Tom found something to focus on. He let his biochemistry do its job but only enough to take the edge off, not send him sailing away. Disconnecting mentally while still being present enough to win was trickier. His eyes drifted around.

Mistress had taken up station in front of him. The girl knelt at her feet. One of Mistress' hands rested in her hair, petting her. Or maybe she was forcing the girl to watch what was being done on her behalf. It was hard to tell.

The girl and his owner. He'd found his armor. Mistress with her shiny blond hair and warm tan. Her build that came from lots of cardio and just enough strength training to make her muscles firm but not ripple like a man's. That mouth, quick to order him around but generous with a smile and exquisitely enjoyable on some lucky occasions. Her breasts, full and firm despite her age, so responsive under his mouth when she used him.

The delicious tuft of hair between her legs glistened with sweat or maybe other things. Almost every day for two months he'd knelt at that patch, earning his plate with her pleasure as Mistress put it before feeding him. Or sometimes cleaning her after she'd peed. Often just serving her because it pleased her to use his mouth to come.

The girl at her feet was a marked contrast. Her skin was pale, her hair hot coppery red. Welts marred the skin here and there on her thighs and small pert breasts. Her face was stained with tears. Tom felt his anger spike again. The law might give her asshole employer the right to use her as he liked but to abuse a beautiful young kid like that just for meanness was inexcusable.

Mistress grabbed him with her eyes, held him. He nodded. There was a level on which this had just stopped being about showing up some bloated bully and become about doing her proud. Tom gripped the chains holding his hands up and rode the whip.

He stopped paying attention to the hits after that. They hurt, but so what? They didn't hurt worse than a blade, or a broken bottle or one in the chest from some junkie's nine-millimeter.

The Master covered him with the belt. This wasn't about foreplay or disciplining a naughty indent. This was about breaking him. Tom felt a series land over his kidneys and another at the backs of his knees, two places Mistress, even at her most livid was always careful to avoid. He'd be pissing blood in the morning. Big. Fucking. Deal.

At some point the beating shifted to his front. A cut landed on his cock and despite his best efforts Tom screamed through clenched teeth. A cry of "Disqualification!" went up and there was a pause.

"What?" Toms playmate puffed. "It was…" gasp, pant "an accident."

The referee gave the guy a dirty look. "Thomas, you in there? Do you want to continue?"

Tom glared the bastard beating him. He'd stopped when DQ cry had sounded "One one-thousand!"

Half the crowd called the next one. "Two one-thousand!"

The ref stepped out of the way just in time and Tom took one across the chest that welted both his nipples. The Master was getting gassed. His face was red, his breathing labored. The hits were coming slower, less powerful. More than once the count went up as he rested. Part of Tom wondered if he might have a coronary. Finally he paused just that extra bit too long.

"Three one-thousand!" It seemed like the entire camp was there. Tom could feel the shout through his whole skeleton.

The ref and an assistant stepped in to let him down. Tom's legs buckled and they both reached for him. He was breathing hard. Every inch of skin was screaming at him. Despite that he shook his head, backing them off. He caught himself before his knees touched dirt. Slowly, painfully, he stood. Giving his hyperventilating tormentor a look of contempt, Tom walked to where Mistress stood with an easy, lupine grace that completely ignored the raw, ruined condition of his back. Around him people held up their phones. There was a chorus of chirps as pictures and video were taken. Apparently the club rules prohibiting photos in public areas were enjoying a brief suspension.

Tom reached his owner, flowed to his knees and bowed until his head touched her toes. "Mistress," he said, his voice pitched to carry "I have been profane and willful. I have broken position without permission. I have also actively resisted your touch. I humbly beg forgiveness or correction as you see fit to administer."

If people were going to watch, he was by God going to give them something to watch and send that ass behind him a clear message while he was at it.

Eleanor looked down at him. "Anna, dear, get his hair please." She said.

Despite all the trouble he was in, Tom felt a thrill go through him. Mistress wielded her authority like a katana master handling his blade. It was almost exclusively small, elegant gestures. Liquid silver grace backed by a focused strength that could cut you in half so cleanly you'd never even feel the strike. His knees were already bent but he still felt them wanting to buckle instinctively at the simple command.

Anna did as she was told. Once Tom's hair was back over his shoulders and down his back, stinging his welts where it clung to sweaty skin Eleanor lifted his face to look at her.

"You've had quite the workout, Thomas." She said. She held up her drink, iced tea, two sugars. "Thirsty?"

Tom nodded. "If it pleases you, Mistress."

She took a drink, got a hand in his hair and lifted him up, pulling him in for a kiss. Tom submitted, pressing his mouth to hers, swallowing when the cold, sweet tea was passed into his mouth and responding to her tongue. He felt himself start to get hard. He wanted to touch her but had too much sense to do so without orders under the circumstances.

Eleanor pushed Tom to his knees without asking if he wanted another drink. She petted his face. When the backs of her fingers passed over his mouth, they paused and he kissed them until they moved away.

Mistress took him under the jaw making him look up at her. She smiled. "What you did," she said "was very brave and very selfless." Around them people nodded. Even the strictest contract holder among them respected what had just happened.

The slap that followed made his ears ring. Even knowing it was coming, he cried out. His eyes filled up against his will. Before he could recover she had him by the hair, drawing out a whimper with her grip.

"It was also completely inappropriate! You made a public spectacle of yourself. You deliberately broke more rules than you have since I acquired you. Worst of all, you took liberties you had no right to take with one of my most prized possessions, badly damaging it in the process! You're even more stupid than you are willful if you think there aren't going to be any consequences, puppy!" She let go long enough to slap him a second time, grabbing him again while he was still rolling with it.

"I'm sorry Mistress," Tom whimpered. "It was never my intention to displease you."

"But we both know you'd do the exact same thing, if you could go back to the beginning don't we?"

Tom snapped his fingers. "Like that Mistress."

Eleanor just sighed. He was sweet and devoted to her but when Thomas decided to get up on his hind legs he could be impossible.

Tom read the approach of Anna's owner in hers and Mistress' shifting body language well before he opened his ignorant mouth.

"Anna! You useless little slut! Get your ass over here now

!" It really was like night and day, him and Mistress. Bastard's dominance had all the elegance of nail-studded baseball bat.

Mistress released Toms' hair. Her hand stopped Anna as the girl started to obey. "She doesn't belong to you anymore. We had a wager."

"Fuck that! She's mine and her instigating little ass is going to pay for humiliating me!"

"Mr. Halstead," the man who spoke up was head of the membership council and majority owner of the land the resort occupied. "If you refuse to honor the terms of the contest your membership will be forfeit without reimbursement and you will be permanently banned from FanTan. On a personal note, I will make it my business to have you blackballed from every other club in the country. You made a bet, sir. You lost. It's time to honor that."

"The bet said something about seventy-two hundred bucks, too. I don't see any money." Halstead snapped.

Eleanor never took her eyes off Halstead. "Thomas, checkbook and pen. Fetch."

Tom was already moving when her hand swatted him on the ass. "And those welts are no excuse to dawdle." Walking hurt. Running was like being beaten all over again as his injuries started to stiffen and bruised muscles were made to work when they least wanted to. None of that stopped him from taking off like he was sixteen with the cops chasing him again.

Tom returned a couple minutes later. When he got within five yards of Mistress he went to all fours, put the checkbook and pen in his mouth and started crawling. Mistress was just taking a pair of hundred dollar bills from a well-built man around her own age. Beside her, Anna was holding more money and at least two checks.

"You made quite an impression, little one." His owner said. "People seem to want to help you out. After supper tomorrow you'll be presenting yourself to Master Greg here for his enjoyment."

By the end of Thomas and Eleanor's two week stay a little over half of Anna's purchase price would be recouped. Two couples (one straight, one gay), a single bi man and four single women would all sweeten their contributions significantly in return for time alone with him. The most memorable one would prove to be the heavyset matron in her fifties who made him pretend to be a teenager and call her Mommy while he ate her out. She wound up making three different, increasingly lucrative offers to buy him.

Master Greg smiled at him. His cock stirred at the idea of using Tom. "Bungalow eight." He said. "And don't worry, you'll get your turn in the saddle after I come." He gave Tom's butt and privates a quick fondle before leaving.

Mistress looked at Tom, still patiently holding the checkbook in his mouth. "Very pretty." She said. "But it doesn't change anything. We're still going to discuss your bad behavior." She took the checkbook from him. "Stand, and bend at the waist."

When he obeyed, wincing at the way bending over caused a couple of his welts to break open, Mistress used his back as a writing desk. After she finished she handed him the check.

"Pay Mr. Halstead then go wait for me on your stomach in bed. We'll discuss your behavior when I join you."

Tom walked the check over to Halstead, handed it to him without a word.

"This doesn't change anything you know." Halstead told him. "I'm still a free man and you're still just a piece of indent trash."

Tom nodded at that. "And yet I still beat you." He said "What's that say about you, hm?" and with that he turned his back on the man and went jogging off to await his Mistress's judgment.