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.

Tom - The Beginning

by

mechgogo

"Are those vests fireproof?"

The question caused the two agents from the US Bureau of Indenturement to pull up short. They had come to serve a writ on one of the residents of the ranch-style home in front of them. Nicollette Donovoan, white, female 30 years old, Irish descent. Allegedly engaged for the past ten years in a relationship with her fraternal twin sister Angela and brother-in-law Thomas.

Tom Donovan had been waiting for them on the front porch of the family's rented home. Tom was a good-looking man, but not what most would call pretty. His features and coloring were a complimentary mix of gifts from a German mother and Irish father. A German nose, not too long and mostly straight, had been broken at least once in the past but had healed well. His cheekbones were high and angular, his jaw firm and similarly chiseled. His lips were thin but not overly so. His wives and others thought they served him well when he smiled. Faint scars around the cheeks spoke of past fistfights, some less distant than others. The pale line of a scar bisected his right eyebrow at a shallow angle, three quarters of the way towards his nose. One more souvenir of solving problems with his hands rather than his head.

Tom had a high forehead over green eyes. They had acquired a warmth of expression in recent years. But even now, when he let his mind just drift or when he was past the point of concern for consequences they held all the warmth of a hungry rattlesnake scoping out it's next meal. His hair was long and chestnut, tied back now in a ponytail. Hints of red spoke of at least one Highlander in the woodpile. His skin bore a slight swarthiness from dark Irish genes, possibly with the odd Spaniard or Gypsy rattling around the family tree. He tended to tan easily and could not remember his last serious sunburn.

Tom's personality – especially his temper – were a mix as well. He had a great love of stories, jokes and music. His voice was a warm baritone. It wasn’t uncommon for him to sing to himself, often without realizing he was doing it. Like most of Gaelic descent Tom's temper could run hot and hair-trigger. But he possessed a cold calculation too. More than one person had thought themselves free and clear only to learn otherwise days or weeks later.

When Tom stood he topped out at a bit over six feet tall. He was broad shouldered and possessed of the kind of leanly muscular build usually seen on runners, swimmers or middleweight MMA fighters. The raised welt of an old knife scar rode one forearm.

At the moment Tom was sitting down on the top step of the porch, planted between the collectors on his front walk and the front door to his home. He was dressed all in black, from his simple black t-shirt to his loose-fitting cargo pants, right down to the scuffed but well-maintained combat boots on his feet. Even the fingerless gloves on his hands were black. In fact, the only pieces of color in the whole ensemble were the walnut finish of the Remington, pump-action 12-gauge cradled in his hands and the silvery gleam of the knife-sharp, four pound medieval axe sticking up over his left shoulder.

While the two collectors were processing the question Tom reached into a pocket.

"Here," he said. "Catch." And gently underhanded a small plastic and cardboard blister-pack at them.

As was always the case in the service of these writs the collectors were a male/female team. It had been determined that this was the best combination for getting everyone involved to cooperate while still being able to handle any hostility or violence that might erupt. The agents exchanged a look. Then, while her partner kept a careful eye on Tom, the woman bent and picked up the package.

The pack was designed to hold three 12 gauge shotgun shell, bright orange in color. It had been opened, had one removed and then resealed with staples and clear scotch tape. Agent Comisky recognized the rounds from a recent visit to her favorite gun shop. The words "Dragon's breath shotgun loads!" shrieked out her in big red and orange letters, as did "Turn your shotgun into a flamethrower!" A list of incendiary chemicals and a legal disclaimer absolving the manufacturer of any liability in the event that someone was dumb enough to set themselves or someone else on fire with the specialty munitions took up the back. Two more similar packs hit the ground at her feet while she and her partner glanced at the one in her hand. They were empty.

Tom let his guests take a second to run the numbers on the significance of both the partial and the empties. It gave them a chance to fully grasp just how far outside normal mission specs they were. It also let him decide which one to shoot first if they wouldn't listen to reason. The woman, he concluded. She was the more dangerous of the two. Something about the way she carried herself told Tom he'd be better off with her out of the equation. Plus most guys tended to have instinctive chivalrous reactions to a woman screaming in agony that would buy him a few extra seconds if things went non-verbal. Not that he reckoned he'd need the extra time but every little edge in a fight helped.

For his part, Tom hoped the collectors were willing to listen to reason. Not because he cared one way or another if they lived or died but because he very much cared whether or not he and his family did. What the two slave-taking scum in front of him - and it didn't matter what kind of legalese you dressed it up in, the indenturement legislation that the previous administration had rammed through boiled down to a rebirth of the slave trade pure and simple - didn't realize just yet was that if they and their bosses didn't go along with his proposal they were dead.

Tom had no intention of letting these or any other representatives from the BOI get their filthy fucking hands on either of his girls. If they were willing to be reasonable he planned to take Nick's place. If not, he planned to ignite the two in front of him, go inside and put bullets into the heads of both his wives. Then he intended to send as many of the backup team currently casting a loose net around his home ahead of him to Hell before they took him down.

"He's bluffing." the male agent said.

The woman looked at Tom. "I don't think so, Mark."

"Listen to your partner, Mark." Tom said. "I know y'all got files on all three of us." He inclined his head behind him. "Y'know what I've done with this axe before. You don't listen to reason I will burn the both of you."

"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."

"We're listening." She 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."

"Take me instead. And don't try feeding me any crap about how you can't do that. Buddy of mine's a lawyer. Good one too. Says there's nothing in the law stopping me from taking Nick's place. Just not a lot of precedent for it on account of most people either got too much selfishness or too much good sense than to hand themselves over to you people if they don't absolutely have to. Me, I'm plenty selfish but not real sensible."

The door behind Tom burst open then, smacking into his back and nearly turning the negotiations to shit courtesy of an accidental discharge of the Remmington.

Nicki Donovan, the source of all the day's headaches came storming out in a fine, old school, Irish conniption fit. She was shorter than Tom with medium length black hair and hazel eyes. She wasn't fat but her curves were generous. Her hips were full and her breasts a little bit large for her otherwise athletic frame. She tipped the scales only a bit less than Tom's own two-hundred pounds, most of it muscle.

"You goddamned, stupid sonofabitch!" she screamed. Tom winced. He hated it when she called him stupid. Hated it so much he'd nearly left her over it once. "There's no fucking way in Hell you're taking my place! This was my mistake and you're not wiping my ass for me on this one! I don't give a fuck what kind of ignorant-assed bullshit scheme you've cooked up!"

Behind Tom the collectors just stared. This banshee was their target? No wonder the guy on the porch was sporting an arsenal. He probably needed the axe and shotgun just to keep her at bay long enough to give her morning coffee.

Nick had switched from English to Irish and was peeling the house paint with her rant. The agents couldn't understand a word of it but the spirit came through.

Tom sighed. "'Scuse me a sec." He said to them. Then he butt-stroked his Nick in the stomach with the shotgun. Tom caught her before she hit the ground. Tom produced a stun gun and zapped her to keep her down. Some steel hinged handcuffs secured her wrists behind her back and a few passes with a roll of bondage tape around her head would - hopefully- keep her quiet while they talked.

Tom heard the scuff of a footstep behind him. "Don't." he said, one handing the gun in their direction.

Tom bent, got his shoulder under his love's midsection and stood. By putting his right arm across her calves he was able to steady her and still maintain a two handed grip on the shotgun.

"Ang'!" Tom called out. "Little help with the door, please!" For all the strain he showed a person would think Tom was balancing a case of beer on his shoulder rather than a grown woman weighing nearly as much as he did.

Angie, Tom's legal spouse and Nicki's fraternal twin sister came to the door, held it open for her husband. She threw the agents behind him a glare that should have burned their shadows into the sidewalk.

"Thanks, love." Tom said smiling at her. "C'mon in." he told the agents without looking behind him. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. The only things to see by turning his head were a seven inch crescent of sharpened steel to one side and Nick's rather delectable ass to the other.

The agents exchanged a glance and followed, propelled as much by curiosity as the need to complete their assignment. The little troupe stopped part way down the house's main hallway. Angie stood between her husband and the door he was trying to reach.

"You don't have to do this." She told him.

"Bullshit." Tom said. " 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?"

Angie stood there another second or two, hating the circumstances they found themselves in, hating the Godawful choice of having to see either her husband or her sister taken away for seven years of who-knew-what by the bastards standing behind him. She even hated Tom a little. For a self-described former criminal and semi-reformed scumbag, he picked the damndest times to act like a superhero. She loved him for it but sometimes it made her want to kick his ass too.

Mostly though she hated her sister. It was Nicki's gambling problem that had gotten the family into this fix in the first place. And the hell of it was, this was the best solution they could find. She didn't care about the fact that going underground would mean leaving everything but, at most, one bag apiece behind. You could always buy more things. The prospect of spending every minute of their lives looking over their shoulders for the trackers was another matter. So was the very real fear of being caught and all three of them being put under contract. Several photos of each of them had come enclosed with the writ of intent to indenture. The message was clear - run and we'll catch you. She wiped her eyes, sniffled and stepped back before opening the door to Nicki's bedroom.

It only took Tom a minute to set Nick gently on the bed and secure her to the heavy iron headboard. He'd had a feeling this might happen so he'd stashed a length of chain in the room the other day along with a heavy-duty padlock. Even with the prep, things got challenging as Nicki came around and started thrashing about, cursing him out from behind the tape.

"I'm sorry for this leann‡n." He said, petting her hair and using the Irish for lover. The family had learned the language together years ago and it was as much - sometimes more - a part of the household speech as English. "But I can't let them have you. You're a chailin mo chroi. And I'll drown this block in blood before I allow that to happen."

He kissed her then and left, closing the door. Alone in her room with the knowledge of what her man was about to do on her behalf, Nicki screamed behind the tape and sobbed.

Out in the hallway Tom took a second to compose himself. Delays wouldn't make this any easier. "Lets talk in the living room." He told Mark and his partner. "I'd offer you something to eat or drink but you'd probably think it was poisoned."

Out in the living room, Tom took a seat. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." He said, motioning towards the couch with the shotgun.

The two agents tried to pick spots as far apart from one another as possible but Tom stopped them with a shake of his head.

"I'd really rather you sat next to one another." Something about the way he wasn't quite aiming a pump action flamethrower at them made them decide to sit side by side after that.

"Right," Tom said when everyone was settled in. "You've heard my offer. It's simple, 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. "

"You'll come willingly?" The female agent asked. You'll submit to the entire orientation process?"

Tom had to hand it to the bastards. Leave it to the government to come up with an inoffensive sounding euphemism for two weeks of strip searches, medical exams and training in the care and servicing of potential future "employers" that stopped just short - at least in the case of confirmed heteros like Tom - of anal penetration. There was more money in a male domestic with a virgin asshole and Tom knew the statistics. Better than eighty percent of all males who had their contracts bought for domestic or "entertainment service" - another darling little euphemism there - would wind up spending the next seven years spreading themselves for the enjoyment of other men whether they wanted to or not. Still, better him than either of his girls.

"You swap out Nick's name for mine, I'll blow you right here." He pointed to the coffee table in front of them. "Business card there is for my lawyer. Have the changes made, fax it to him and I'll come along quietly soon as I get confirmation.

A quick call was made then. Explanations were passed up and down the chain of command. Tom briefly took the phone and explained that yes, he was willing to take Nicki's place and that yes he was equally willing to kill a whole lot of people if he wasn't allowed to do so, starting with the two on his couch. Mark and his partner assured their superiors that they believed his sincerity on both counts. A few minutes after that conversation Tom's phone rang.

"It's me." His lawyer friend Rick said. "It's done. Congratulations you idiot, you won."

Tom nodded. "Right. Call the lads then. I won't have the twins here for what comes next."

To the collectors he said "There'll be a van coming round in a minute. Friends of mine here to pick up Nick and Ang'. Once they're clear we can settle up."

Not long after there was a knock on the door. It was Ted and Niles, two of Tom's friends. Their expressions were grim and they glared death at the two collectors. Tom may have been every bit as bad as he claimed once but he'd only ever been a friend to them. Tom tossed them the keys to Nicki's restraints.

"She's in her room. Get them both outta here quick." He could feel his control slipping. His throat felt tight and he could feel his eyes filling up. Once he'd made up his mind about this road he'd been past fear. Whatever happened would happen and being scared would just make it worse. Better to just roll with it. Saying goodbye to his girls, his beautiful twin angels, that was the real knife in the guts.

Ted and Niles came out with the twins. They were both crying openly. Tom held off as best he could. He wasn't some macho thug too hard to show his feelings to his women but he'd be damned if he gave the bastards waiting to take him the satisfaction.

His arms went around them, first Angie then Nick. "It's ok." He said to Angie. "Just a bump in the road, love. And don't be blaming Nick. This is me doing this. No one else. Stick together, always."

He took a chain from around his neck. His wedding rings were on it. He'd taken them off his hand earlier, not wanting them damaged if it came to a fight but still wanting them close if it did. "I'll be back for these."

They kissed and he turned to Nicki.

The lads had had the good sense to keep her cuffed. No telling what his little midnight haired psychopath would do if she could get free. "I forgive you, babe." He whispered into her hair. "Envelope in the gun case, under the padding, addressed to you both. Read it when you get back. Ta' me' mo'r sin ngra' leat. " He hugged her one last time and didn't give a damn by then about the tears.

The door closed with a click and Tom faced his captors. "Five minutes." He said.

While they waited Tom turned to his computer. Like a lot of people he had an online journal. He'd been up late the night before composing a pair of final entries, not sure which one would be needed. A few clicks and the following lines went out onto the web.

"It's done. I'm going away for a while. If you were ever my friend at all, look after my girls. Nick, Ang', this isn't forever. I'll be home before you know it. Tom."

"It's time, Mr. Donovan." The woman said at last.

Tom sighed. Fair enough. A deal was a deal and whatever happened next it was worth it. "You don't mind if I secure my weapons myself?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

"Thanks. Mighty decent of you. Never did get your name."

"I'm Agent Comisky. You can call me that or Mistress Beth."

He started with the axe. He'd designed the breakaway sheath himself, inspired by the holsters cops used for their ASP batons. The Japanese steel and hardwood-handled weapon went onto a rack on the living room wall. Scuffs in the paint showed where the head had bumped the wall over the years.

The shotgun and pistols - both agents looked surprised when he pulled a backup from a kidney holster - went into locked cases, the keys to the locks going in with the guns. The girls had their own copies. Tom had no intention of leaving them out where strangers could get them. He set his knives, one mounted on his combat harness, another at his belt and a third in his right boot, on his dresser. The gloves, weapons in their own right from the steel shot sewn into the knuckles went beside them.

"You need to strip now, Tom." Mistress Beth told him when the last of the gear was put aside.

Tom had been expecting the order. He got undressed, folding his clothes neatly and piling them on his bed.

"Quit dragging your feet!" Mark snapped. "Just leave it for your bitches to pick up!"

Tom's head snapped around at that and he almost went for the man. Not once in ten years had a remark like that ended well for the speaker. Mistress Beth got between them, one hand up in a warding gesture, the other on her tazer.

"Easy, Tom," she cautioned. "it's just words." Nice doggy, where's a bigger stick for me to bust you in the head with if I need to?

Tom looked at her and pushed the anger aside. He turned to Mistress Beth. Something about the title just made it easier for him to go along with her instructions. "What now, Mistress?"

"We need to do a cavity search and check your hair to make sure you aren't smuggling anything inside you. You've been to County before? It's just like that."

Tom held still while they checked his mouth and ears and ran fingers through his hair once it was taken out of the ponytail. It smarted a little when the latex of their gloves caught a few hairs, but he'd been through lots worse.

"You're doing just fine." Mistress Beth said gently. "Now, bend over and spread yourself, nice and wide. I'm afraid you'll have to wear the clothes we brought for Nicollete but the only real difference between male and female transport garb is the size."

Tom widened his stance, bent over until his chest was parallel to the floor.

"Reach back, Tom." Beth told him "We're almost done."

Tom tried not to let it bother him but he could still feel his face burning with shame as he reached behind himself and spread his cheeks. Without warning, Agent Mark shoved first one, then two unlubricated fingers up inside his anus.

"Not so tough without all the hardware, are you, faggot?" he asked when Tom grunted at the discomfort. "You like this?" he jammed his fingers in deeper, digging around. "Bet that little piece we were supposed to collect would've. Bet she'd have liked it even better when I gave her something else back at the center." He gave one last push and pulled out.

Some people just don't know when to shut up. Beth had been expecting Tom's response to her partner's smart mouth but he still got past her. The second Mark's fingers were out of him, Tom spun and went for the prick. The two men hit the floor, grappling and striking. Tom got past the bastard's guard; put an elbow into his eye that started closing it immediately. Mark went for his tazer but a strike to the base of the thumb made him drop it. Tom got a hand of his own onto his opponent's belt and Mark learned what the loudest sound in the world is. It is the sound of someone taking the safety off of a pistol jammed up under your jaw when they have nothing to lose by pulling the trigger.

"You really need to mind your fuckin' mouth, pal." Tom told him.

The metallic click from behind him came as no surprise. "Tom," he knew that calm, detached tone. It was the same one he used when giving someone who was right on the brink with him one final chance to avoid a trip to the ER "Nicki isn't in the clear yet. If you shoot Agent French I will open fire. Angie will be a widow, and Nicki will go into service despite everything you've done. Is that really what you want?"

She was right. The last third of his life had been dedicated to one thing; the well being of his girls. The second or two of satisfaction he'd enjoy from blowing French's head off before dying himself didn't come close to balancing out the harm he'd do the twins.

Tom safed the pistol and backed off from Agent French, holding the gun out to his side by two fingers. He set the weapon down carefully on the carpet and knelt with his hands behind his head. French came to his feet, his face a mask of bruising and anger. He looked like the only thing keeping him from putting a bullet in Tom's head was the value if his contract. Mistress Beth took control of Tom and Tom could feel the tension in the room drop.

"Good boy, Tom." She said to him. He bristled at that. As if he were some sort of dog. Still it was something he'd better get used to. "You did the right thing. But we can't let something like that go unanswered. Nice and easy, on your feet, hands at the small of your back."

When he complied she took a grip on his hair at the base of his skull and another on his wrists. She nodded to her partner. "His stomach. Don't touch his face or his groin. And keep away from the ribs. We need him healthy."

Tom was no stranger to violence. He'd been fighting his whole life and had long since learned how to take a punch. On top of that he was an extremely fit man with a very physical job and a rigorous daily workout routine. He didn't have the kind of ultra-cut abs you saw on a lot of male models or obsessive-compulsive gym-bunnies but his muscles down there were hard and strong. Still, when French hauled off on him he felt it. The bastard was, in Tom's opinion, an arrogant punk but he knew how to make a blow hurt.

The first shot took him under the ribs, paralyzing his diaphragm, making it impossible to breath. Tom gasped and tried to double over, rolling with the hit but Beth held him immobile.

"Two more." She said.

French grinned and stepped in close. The second punch landed right below the first. Pain exploded through him and he tasted vomit. He resisted the urge to spit it in Mark's face, swallowed instead, just in time for the final hit to land over his left kidney. French pulled back for a fourth strike but Mistress called him off.

"That enough!" She lowered Tom to the floor. "Mark, wait outside. I'll finish up in here."

"The regs say..."

"Out!"

Mark glared at them both. He took a handful of Tom's hair, pulling his head back. "I'll be right out in the hall, boy. Please give me an excuse to come back in." He left then, slamming the door behind him.

Beth gave Tom a moment to recover. "You alright?" she asked when he got to his feet.

He coughed, winced at the soreness. "Yeah." He said hoarsely. "I've had worse. What's next?"

"Now you pack up a few things, we dress and restrain you and we're off." She pulled a small nylon pack from her kit. "Fill this. No weapons, no non-prescription meds, no books or writing materials other than those of a religious nature. Jewelry is permitted but not recommended."

Packing didn't take long. Five pair of underwear, five pair of socks, his favorite pair of jeans, two of his best dress shirts and one pair of dress slacks went into the bag. The shirt he'd been wearing when Beth and Mark arrived was sold in packs of three. All three got packed along with one of the three solid black street kilts the girls had bought him. He swapped out the punch-dagger buckle on the Sam Brown belt for a more traditional one. Boots, polish, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and hairbrush. He would have packed the ankle length moccasins he liked to wear on runs sometimes but Beth said he could wear those. So instead he tossed in a pair of sweats he occasionally wore either for workouts or to sleep in.

Beth handed him his clothes next. It was a simple two piece garment, blaze orange with the letters BOI in big black letters on the front and back of the top and down the outside of each pant leg. He'd worn something similar a couple times while a guest of the local authorities. The clothes were at least two sizes two small in pretty much every dimension. The top cut him under the armpits and the pants rode up so high he might as well have been wearing capris.

"Interesting tattoo." Comisky said, smiling as he dressed.

"Thanks. Seemed appropriate at the time." The tattoo in question was a simple red button about three fingers width below his right collar bone. Underneath in simple block letters were the words "Ring Bell For Service."

"And what kind of service would I get if I rang?" she asked.

Tom gave her an appraising look. "You? Anything you like. Your partner? More of what he already got. No offense, but he's a fuckin' punk. Probably gonna get somebody killed with his bullshit one day."

"You shouldn't antagonize him, you know. He doesn't just do field work. He's a trainer at the center too. After today I'd be surprised if he didn't take a special interest in you."

Tom shrugged. Trash like French had never impressed him. They thought they were predators, hard men because they smacked around people who couldn't fight back. Bring an axe to a gunfight sometime, asshole. Take one in the chest from close enough that the muzzle flash ignites your shirt and redecorate your living room with the shooter. Then survive to tattoo a dumb joke over the entry scar. Then maybe Tom'd be impressed. Maybe.

"Doesn't change anything. A punk with power is still a punk."

She didn't say anything to that. The truth was she was inclined to agree. French had the wrong mentality for the job. One of these days Tom's prediction would probably come true. She just hoped she didn't get hurt in the process or, worse, have to ghost some innocent because of his nonsense.

Beth held up a set of restraints. "I need to put these on you."

Tom looked them over. The chains and shackles were pretty standard gear. Waist chain, wrist cuffs and ankle iron. A collar and leash completed the rig. "On the first date?" he asked grinning. "Kinky."

Beth laughed at that. "Oh this is nothing. Wait 'til the wedding night."

"I'm all a-quiver." Tom held out his hands. "Shall we?"

Beth put Tom into the binders without incident. With his wrists locked to his waist and his stride hobbled by the ankle cuffs and chain, she secured the collar around his neck before attaching the leash and running it down and around the foot-chain.

"I'll be right behind you in case you start to go down." She said. "Mark will have you by the arm and we'll both help you into the van. If you try to run I'll pull your feet out from under you and we'll use more extensive methods. They're less comfortable and I don't recommend the experience."

Tom went along passively. As they approached the door he almost stopped for a second. This had been his home for the last five years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left here without knowing he would be back with his girls again inside of a few hours. The anger, helplessness and fear flooded him. He took a deep breath, shoved it aside and kept walking. At his request, Mistress Beth locked up behind them and put his keys in through the mail slot.

The white van parked in front of the street could have been one of hundreds cruising the city streets. They were kept intentionally nondescript in order to help thwart interference from the more militant members of the abolitionist movement. The side door was open. A small step-stool had been placed in front of it. As promised, Beth and Mark helped him up and in. Beth put her hand between the top of his head and the door jam, sat him down on the unpadded seat, then closed the door with a bang. Tom jumped at the noise. The chain between Toms feet was secured to a bolt in the floor, the one at his waist to another in the wall of the van and a seatbelt was drawn across his chest and lap. Didn't want to damage the merchandise apparently. The van started with a faint vibration and pulled out, taking Tom to his new life.

A Slave's Strength:
Tom Arrives At The Center

by

mechgogo

Tom closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. He didn't bother looking around. The compartment he was in was a steel box designed for the shipping and containment of potentially dangerous live cargo. The only chance at a view was through the small square windows mounted in the back doors. Opaque shades currently covered them. What light there was came from an overhead dome lamp. The only other things to look at were Mistress Beth sitting beside him, her dipshit partner Mark French, and four plain steel walls. Yipee-ki-yi-yay. Better to just relax and get into the proper frame of mind for whatever came next.

They hadn't gone very far when Agent French felt the need to cock off again.

"Hey." Tom ignored him.

"Hey!" This one was punctuated with a nudge to Tom's shin that stopped just shy of being a kick. "I'm talkin' to you, boy!"

Tom opened one eye. "And?"

"You mind tellin' me what kind of sick fuck shacks up with two sisters, marries one and cheats on the one he's married to with the other one?"

Tom almost laughed. If he had a dollar for every time he'd heard some variant of French's latest bullshit they never would have met.

"Kind that doesn't need to go out and get a job where one of the perks is the legal right to rape sixteen year old kids in order to get laid." He closed his eye. If he wanted to look at a talking turd he'd put a Jeff Dunham CD under the toilet. "How's your eye by the way?"

French started to come out of his seat. "You mouthy little…"

Mistress Beth shoved him back down. "Mark, knock it off! Sooner or later those shackles are going to come off and when they do, I'd rather not have another incident. Tom, one more insubordinate word and you'll spend the rest of the ride with a bit gag in your mouth. Am I understood?"

"Yes, Mistress Beth."

"Yes, Mistress Beth, what?"

"Yes, Mistress Beth, I promise to be good."

She petted his hair. "Good boy. Now just relax. We'll be there soon. You've a busy day ahead of you."

The rest of the trip was uneventful. When the van pulled to a stop he was herded out into a garage filled with other vehicle, some of which were off-loading their human cargo. Tom looked around. The other new indents were a mix of old and young. Their apparent economic status ran the gamut as well. Everyone from the very clearly poor to the working class fucked by circumstances like him to the formerly affluent and now even more fucked by circumstances. Tom wondered how many of the shell-shocked looking, used-to-be rich pricks had owned indents themselves until recently. Every color of human skin was represented. Neither poverty nor the legislation that fed off it discriminated in that regard.

The next few minutes reminded Tom of the booking process at County. He was photographed, weighed, measured, printed and DNA-ID'd. That last part was different but it made sense. You can change your hair, your face, your clothes, even your height and weight to a degree. Your helix was written in rock.

His many scars and far less numerous tattoos were catalogued. The thick raised line of a blocked knife slash on the left bicep of his arm was only the most prominent souvenir of his younger, wilder days. Well, that and the cartoonish image of a beetle holding a lit match on his left bicep. He'd considered having the rather on-the-nose tribute to his street name - and tendency to solve interpersonal problems with a good firebombing - removed or covered up. He'd just never gotten around to it. The Celtic tribal phoenix climbing one leg, assorted other blade, bullet and burn scars - every torch had a couple - and image of Ireland in green, white and orange told the processors all had their own stories, most of which Tom would give ten years off his life to forget.

"This your voluntary, Beth?" the clerk who took his information asked. "Heard about that. He really pull a shotgun on you?" One thing never changed no matter where people worked, gossip traveled at warp speed.

"Not so much pulled as had it waiting with him when we arrived."

"Jesus Christ! Well, Mr. Donovan, welcome to Bureau of Indenturement Processing Center, Number 842. Follow the yellow line. Do as you're told and everything should run smoothly. Resist, disobey, or attempt to assault the staff in any way and you'll wish the transport van that brought you here had run you over instead. Have a nice day."

The new arrivals were herded into a central processing area and segregated by sex. People's reactions to their new circumstances were as varied as the specifics of how they got there. Some shuffled along in shock, others protested. A lot of the younger ones openly cried. So did a couple of men older than Tom. The ones who didn't move fast enough go shoved along. One or two tried to fight and got worked over with the guards' batons for their trouble. After that most of the crowd went along with the program.

The next couple hours were humiliating and dehumanizing but that was to be expected. The strip-searches, delousing and communal cold shower they were run through were all intended to break down the will, get the new indents into a properly submissive headspace. A couple of the younger kids, just barely over the sixteen-year-old legal limit started to struggle when they were bent over to be probed by latex-gloved guards. Before they nightsticks could come out, Tom got them under control.

"Just relax, little brother." He told them with a wink and a smile. "Hey, look at the bright side: this time next month you'll probably be nose-deep in some hot cougar's muff while these cac ar oineach are still pissin' it away here." The scumbags in question didn't speak Irish but they got the spirit of it. Tom got a shot across the thighs with a baton and a less than gentle touch from Dr. Jellyfinger, but it settled the kids down so it was worth it.

After that they were herded, still naked, through medical where they were given the most thorough and invasive physical Tom had ever received in his life. In addition to the usual round of tests, their teeth were checked, semen samples were drawn, and the males had their equipment measured while both flaccid and hard. The nurse didn't find Tom's request for a helping hand half as funny as he did. Everyone, male or female, had contraceptive implants installed in the outer thigh muscle. A tracking and control chip went in the back of the neck about a hands width beneath and behind the left ear. That was a little slice of Hell. The jolt they all took to demonstrate the chips effectiveness knocked a couple of them out and caused one poor bastard to shit himself.

They were photographed again too, this time from all angles both while soft and erect. Tom didn't understand the plastic smocks a couple of the medics donned during that part of the process until one or two of the other newbies had trouble rising under such public conditions. One of them, a teenager, unloaded in the course of getting himself "into a viewable state" as one of the staff put it. Their handlers gave him several good smacks and a verbal ass-chewing along with time on all fours cleaning up the mess for his trouble.

Psych tests, aptitude tests, placement interviews and a stack of forms the height of an Oompah-Loompah followed. The shrink he sat down with laughed when he answered the question about any history of mental illness with "What? You mean besides being crazy enough to volunteer for this shit?"

One of the more interesting sections involved being sat down in front of a screen with sensors attached to him and forced to look at a series of images from the mundane to the erotic to stuff straight out of the more extreme fringe aspects of the fetish scene. The test was intended to get an objective assessment of the new indents sexual orientation. ICL's didn't get a say in who they fucked or how once they were in the system but the official line was that it made things more humane as it helped ensure greater compatibility between "employer" and "employee." Unofficially, you didn't buy a car without looking under the hood. If the car didn't like the road it found itself driven down, too bad for the car.

It seemed to Tom that at every step in the process he found himself eyeballed and whispered about. Finally he asked one of the guards what all the fuss was about.

"You're that voluntary Comisky brought in right?" The guy asked. When Tom nodded he explained. "Part of it's how rare you are. You read comic books? Well you're the indent equivalent of a mint condition 1930s issue of Superman. The other part is how you set up the deal. Not a lot of people who bring a shotgun to the negotiating table get to walk away. Good news is, you can pretty much forget about a hard labor assignment. Word's probably already out about you. Some millionaire somewhere is gonna snatch you up as soon as you go public. That or one of the porn companies. Shit, I'd pay to watch you screw on-screen and I'm not even bi. You really jump French?" when Tom nodded he cautioned, "Watch your back. He's a vindictive little prick."

Eventually they were ushered into a common area and given a little speech about the rules of the center, the supreme inadvisability of breaking any of them and how, with a little luck and good behavior many of them might find themselves in better circumstances than they had enjoyed when they were free. Tom tuned out everything but the rules. Airy-fairy bullshit assurances didn't interest him. He'd heard similar noise before and knew it was nothing more than a head game intended to keep the population on their good behavior. It had about as much basis in reality as his cougar story to those kids did.

After the pep talk Tom and the others were sorted by probable assignment. General laborers followed the blue line. Skilled trades followed the white line. Domestic and entertainment - the category of Tom and almost all the youngest ICLs - followed the green.

The overseer in charge of Tom's group pointed him to a six by eight by ten-foot cell with a steel door painted to match the line. The only window in tiny room was the small viewing one at eye level in the cell door. Tom stepped in and tried not to flinch when it banged shut behind him.

The accommodations inside were spartan but nowhere near the worst he'd ever experienced. The walls were cinderblock, flat white. The furnishings were mostly stainless steel. The bunk, desk and "chair" (a solid concrete column in front of a desk not much bigger than a TV tray) were painted white. The mattress was clean but there was no pillow or bedding. A small shelf near the toilet was labeled "uniforms." Tom put the two spare sets of center-issue garb he'd been given on it and examined his new home.

The sink and commode were a single unit, plain silver stainless-steel in color. The sink occupied the space where the tank would be on a residential toilet. A polished metal mirror was built into the wall above the sink. It had a small shelf, just big enough for the bar of soap, plastic cup, toothpaste and soft plastic toothbrush they had all been issued. Calling the opening the water trickled out from a faucet was venturing into the realm of the grandiose. Tom hung up the washcloth and hand towel that, along with a roll of toilet paper constituted the rest of their hygiene kit on the two white plastic hooks attached to one edge of the shelf. One look was all he needed to know they were engineered to fold down if subjected to more than a few pounds of pressure. He wondered what the suicide rate had been in the early days of the program. For some reason that information hadn't been available. What a shock.

The desk and wall behind it doubled as a computer and keyboard. They used the same touch-screen tech as the better class of cell phones. A thick sheet of plexiglass protected the monitor. A prompt was waiting for him on the screen.

Before he could respond to it the feeding slot slid open, a voice said "Lunch!" and a tray slid through.

"Lunch" was a bologna sandwich on white bread, no cheese, apple, pint of milk and an oatmeal cookie. Tom set the tray on his bunk stripped to the waist and got down on the floor to do some pushups.

"Is there a problem, Mr. Donovan?" a voice asked from a speaker above the door.

"Nope." Tom said. "Just kinda a stressful day. Thought I'd get some exercise in before lunch. You guys get a lotta hunger strikes here?"

"You have 15 minutes to eat, Mr. Donovan. We suggest you make the most of it."

"Duly noted, Oh Great And Powerful Oz." Before the speaker clicked off Tom heard a snicker.

Tom burned off a fast fifty pushups, ate lunch and had the tray waiting with time to spare. He was already poking around the computer when they took it away. The first thing to come up was a ten-minute cac-fest about his wonderful new life as an indentured contract laborer. There were scenes of happy little slaves finding fulfillment and joy waiting hand and foot on their "employers."

Testimonials from real-live-we-swear-to-God indents and their contractors showed ICL's cuddled up to their so-called "betters." Arms were draped over shoulders, hands rested companionably on hips as frequently May/December couples stood side-by-side beaming at the camera. Tom took it with a shaker full of salt. He didn't doubt that some people found that kind of connection but reckoned the reality was usually more about folks making the best of a bad situation than finding a love match with some stranger who viewed them as property.

After the film, there was a rundown to the center's rules. They basically boiled down to "Do as you're told and you'll be treated well. Disobey and we'll beat or zap you into compliance. Lay one violent hand on any of the staff and you'll wish you'd never been born."

The laws covering Tom's new status required that all newcomers to the system be given two weeks for friends and family to raise the money for their contracts. The Bureau used this period to acclimate them to their new life. The first week would be orientation, getting used to an existence where refusal to obey any order, however personally repugnant or humiliating could get you flogged unconscious. Deportment, cooking and, of course "intimate service" tutorials were part of the program. A couple hours a day were assigned for fitness classes, which made sense. Not many people wanted to lay out the kind of money the average contract cost on somebody who was out of shape.

Week two was more of the same only with more fine-tuning. Additionally, inmates were confined to quarters for an hour before each meal. Clothing was prohibited during those periods as well as during any time spent in the prone position on one's bunk. They didn't say it outright but the reason why seemed obvious to Tom.

The biggest surprise was the food. He had expected their dining options to be what was put in front of them or hunger. Instead, every meal actually had three or four choices. Of course, all but one had a price tag attached to it. Not in dollars but in time. You could eat prime rib for dinner every night as long as you didn't mind an extra six months piled onto your contract. It made sense when you thought about it. Make the food good, keep the livestock happy and you've got something you can punish them by withholding if they got froggy.

Curious, Tom spoke up. "Excuse me, Oz? You there, Oh Great And Powerful One? Scarecrow's got a question if you got a sec."

"The scarecrow, Mr. Donovan? I would have had you pegged for the lion after your performance this morning."

Tom laughed at that. "I'm all kindsa brave, Oz. But let's face it, I had a lick of brains I wouldn't be here. Say, any chance of getting that dinner stir-fry for breakfast? Kinda got hooked on rice in the morning over the years. Leftovers are fine, no need to make it fresh."

"We'll look into it. Anything else?"

"Well, if you know any hot female contortionists looking for a houseboy and could put in a good word for me…"

E-mail was available to contact friends and family. A warning screen cautioned that all correspondence was monitored and censored for security reasons. Tom took the opportunity to fire off letters to the girls letting them know he'd arrived and was doing alright and reminding them to stick together. His contract would be up in due time and he'd be home before they got the stink of his farts out of the couch cushions. Letters also went off to a couple if his closer friends asking them to look out for his girls. He didn't waste time asking for money nobody had in the first place.

Not long after, a tone sounded from the speaker Oz had used to address him. A general announcement went out instructing all new arrivals to exit their quarters and follow the guards' instructions. Tom complied and the door closed behind him.

The group was still trying to figure out what they were supposed to do when Tom's best friend, Agent French came strutting down the tier, his asp baton spinning in a one-handed display of what Tom could only regard as douche'-fu.

"Off with those clothes, children!" he sang out. "No need to be bashful. We're going to get to know one another real well the next two weeks." There were a couple cries of pain as people who didn't strip fast enough got flicked across the thighs or butt with the collapsible steel weapon.

One member of the group tried to avoid getting naked at all. French solved that problem by calling for backup and having the kid's clothes ripped off his body. The guards made an example of the boy by pinning him spread eagle to the wall and making everyone watch while French gave him a half-dozen ringing cracks with a strap hanging off his belt.

"Next time I tell you to do something, you little shit, you fucking do it..." French growled into his ear, one hand taking a painful grip in the kid's hair. "...or I'll bend you over and take that ass of yours dry, you hear me?" He threw the kid to the floor. "Now, clean this shit up, and get back in line. And stop sniveling!" He slapped the boy across the back of the head "Wait till your contract gets bought and your new Daddy has you on all fours in front of him. Fuckin' little crybaby!" Oh yeah, Tom thought. A regular soop-er he-ro, triumphing over ev-vil, that was Frenchy alright. Ass.

Even though he was already nude by the time French reached him Tom still took a shot high across the outside of his right thigh. It stung but didn't do any real damage. Tom didn't give the prick the satisfaction of either crying out or mouthing off.

"Ok, kiddies!" French announced when everyone was stripped. "Line up and follow me."

The rest of the day was tiring, dehumanizing and humiliating. The novice slaves were kept in the buff until dinnertime. They were led around on all fours singly and in groups, sometimes directed by verbal commands sometimes lead on leashes. Anyone who resisted got the strap or shocked. One particularly stupid individual took a swing at one of the guards. After two solid minutes with his neck chip driving electric hellfire through his nerves the staff took turns working him over with their fists, batons and whatever else came to hand.

Just before dinner French zeroed in on Tom for a lesson in obedience. "Now, boys and girls, what you may not know is that we've got a celebrity among us. Mr. Donovan, front and center!" When Tom obediently crawled over, French started stalking around him.

"Mr. Donovan here is what we call a voluntary or proxy. Most of you are here against your will. In fact most of you indent scum system-wide are here against your will. Mr. Donovan, however, asked to join our little family. Isn't that right, Mr. Donovan?"

Tom resisted the urge to mouth off. "Sure is."

French smacked him across the face. Tom saw red but stopped himself from finishing what had been started back at his house. "Yes, Master French, I asked to come here. Try it again!"

"Yes, Master French, I asked to come here."

"I asked to come here because my degenerate gambling addict cunt of a sister-in-law conned me into taking her place."

"Is that how you got this job?" Tom asked. "And here I thought it was because you flunked outta Clown College." Even a couple of the other center staff laughed at that one.

French backhanded Tom for that. Two more open-palmed shots to the face followed. "You know, Tommy boy," he said when he stopped the beating. "I've got just the thing for that mouth of yours." He unzipped his pants and took out his cock. It was already hard. A few drops of pre-cum glistened at the tip.

"Now Tommy here is about as heterosexual as one man can be. In fact, he's so straight he was fucking two girls at the same time just last night."

"That reminds me, Master French, sir. Your sister and mom said to remind you, your grandma's birthday is next week."

Thirty seconds of shock therapy later, Tom was gasping on the floor on his side. "Any other funny jokes, Tommy?" French asked.

When Tom shook his head - fuck that hurt! - French pulled him back to his knees by his hair. "Now, like I was saying, our Tommy tested out as hetero like most of the rest of you. But the thing to remember is that it isn't what the indent likes that matters. It's what the contractor likes that matters. Tommy, I like blowjobs. Get to it."

Tom's gag reflex tripped at the idea of sucking French off. This was something he hadn't even done as a starving teenaged kid on the streets of Detroit. Still, he'd known this would be part of the deal when he made up his mind to stand in for Nick. Swallowing and closing his eyes he took the other man's shaft in his hand and bent his head to take the cock into his mouth.

"Open those eyes, Tommy-boy" French ordered.

Obedient, Tom forced his eyes open. He placed his lips on the head of French's organ and slid his mouth down towards the base. He barely made it halfway before he recoiled, reflexively pulling off. The slick, smooth texture of the skin triggered something in him and he couldn't bring himself to go any further.

French had been waiting for the reaction, hoping for it. One of the absolute worst things a domestic indent could do was resist their employer's sexual advances. The trainers were under orders to break their charges to the service and had significant leeway in what they could do to enforce compliance. He still had a hand in Tom's hair and locked down in a painful grip with it before Tom could retreat more than a few inches. He pulled Tom's head back, forcing him to look up.

"Dumb move, Tommy." French's other hand held a strap. He pushed Tom down on all fours and brought the belt down across his back. Half a dozen licks with the leather raised welts across Tom's back, ass and thighs before he stopped. When the beating finished French pulled him back into position.

"We're not going anywhere until you get me off, boy. And if that means the entire group has to miss dinner because of you, I'm ok with that. And, Tommy? You really don't want me to feel those teeth. We clear? Now, get on it!"

French forced Tom's face back into his crotch. It was easier this time but still disgusting. Tom gagged and coughed, got slapped for it. French bore down on his hair, forcing his head as far down onto his cock as he could without actually shoving it down his throat.

"Stroke the shaft, boy." French grunted, pumping his hips.

When Tom obeyed, he sped up. French's breathing got more rapid, shallower. His hips pumped faster and he dragged Tom's mouth up and down his organ in time to the thrusts. Inside Tom's mouth the cock was leaking more and more pre-cum. Unable to pull away, he had no choice but to swallow the sickening salty stuff.

"That's it, you little shit. That's right. Suck it, suck, unngghghg!" French came in Tom's mouth, filling it with the disgusting, thick fluid. He held the indent's head as far down onto his organ as he could, forcing him to swallow.

Tom gagged, choked, and tried not to vomit. Much of what French shot into his mouth ran down the length of his dick but enough got swallowed he was amazed he didn't hurl all over the bastard. Finally French pulled Tom back off his organ. He reached down, wiped up some of the spillage from along his length with a couple fingers and shoved them into Tom's mouth.

"Waste not want not, Tommy."

That did it. Tom blew breakfast, lunch and the recent contents of French's scrotum all over French's crotch and thighs. The other man recoiled, crying out in disgust. The small part of Tom's brain that wasn't occupied with vomiting onto the floor took a certain satisfaction from the sight of French, covered in puke standing paralyzed with a mix of rage and repulsion. His stomach was still spasming when two guards very carefully hoisted him to his feet and, at French's instruction bent him over a nearby table.

"You did that on purpose, you rotten little bastard!" French said before teeing off on Tom with the strap. Tom didn't struggle. It wouldn't have done any good. The jailers had him pinned, one on each arm and French had a death-grip on the back of his neck. The belt cracked and burned up and down the back of his lower half twice, covering it in burning red welts he'd feel for the rest of the day. When French finished, he threw Tom to the floor. A member of the maintenance staff had appeared with a bucket, mop and sawdust.

"Clean that shit up!" French snapped. "Sick little fucker! Lucky I can't kill you!" He stalked off to shower and change, leaving Tom to clean up the cooling mess on the floor.

A Slave's Strength (Part Four):

Dinner and A Show

by

mechgogo

Dinner was served in a cafeteria that could have come straight out of most prisons. Long communal tables with integral stools lined the room. Tables and seats were both built into the floor so they couldn't be used as weapons.

Tom went through the line, got his tray and found a seat as close to the wall opposite the serving line as he could. He'd never liked people sneaking up on him. A couple of the younger kids sat down with him.

"That was sweet the way you told that guy off, Tom." Billy, a brown haired youngster, whose parents had missed one house payment too many, said.

Tom nodded. "Thanks. Look guys, do yourselves a favor; be real careful how much of my bullshit you emulate, ok? You notice it's only Frenchy I fuck with, none of the others."

"Man, fuck them!" This from Aaron. His parents had made the fatal acquaintance of a drunk driver. "They don't scare me!"

"Then you're fuckin' stupid!" Tom snapped. "Look, I get up Frenchy's ass because he threatened my family and they're the reason I volunteered for this shit, ok? But even I..."

"All diners please stand, fully disrobe, and resume eating!" came the Voice of Oz over the loudspeakers.

There was some bitching which earned those doing it a variety of shocks, slaps and licks with the strap, whatever the staff handling it was in the mood for. Tom just shrugged, stripped off, put his folded clothes on his stool and sat back down. Billy and Aaron took one look at how some of the others were shivering their butts on the cold steel seats and followed his example.

"Like I was sayin'; I only push it so far. You see his eye?" Tom pointed to his own eye. "My doing. But you don't see me puttin' hands on the prick now we're here do ya?" He gestured with his plastic spoon. "Best thing the pair of you can do is keep your heads down, and 'Yes Master, No Mistress' this lot into the ground. You go gettin' too froggy there's perverts out there get off on breaking people. Especially loudmouthed kids from the suburbs who think beatin' up on chess club nerds makes them hard men. Piss off the wrong one of these mucs

you might find your file flagged. Then two weeks from now when they transfer you, you'll wind up goin' home with some leatherman, got his own private dungeon in his basement. Find out more'n you ever wanted to about hard men then."

The boys shared a horrified look. Much like with prison, the single greatest fear for most new indentured males was the prospect of getting fucked in the ass.

Tom dug into his pasta. Frenchy's little - well ok not that

little - deposit hadn't exactly stimulated his appetite but a couple years eating out of dumpsters taught you to eat when you could even if you weren't hungry at the time. He noticed a familiar figure coming down the aisle between the tables.

"Heads up, guys." He said twitching his chin. "Evening, Mistress Beth."

Beth smiled coolly at Tom. "Tom. The monitors tell me you need to work on your listening."

Tom frowned at that, confused. "No, Mistress. I've done everything I've been told today. Even cleaned Frenchy's pipes for him." He shrugged at that "Trashed his trousers after, but accidents happen."

"Our conversation back at your house about antagonizing him?"

"Oh yeah, that. Seem to recall you talking to him about running his mouth about my girls." He took another bite of his dinner " Hm, maybe that shot I laid upside his ear screwed his hearing."

Beth didn't say anything to that. Instead she took the spoon from him and tapped it empty on the side of his tray. Then she put the tray on the floor at her feet, leaving Tom's drink on the table but throwing the spoon into a nearby trash can.

"Finish your meal, Tom. Or are you and your friends all done eating until lunch tomorrow?"

Tom threw the boys a look. See what being froggy got you? He got down on the floor and reached for his dinner.

"No hands, Tom. And I want that tray spotless when you're done."

Tom got his face into the food. If Herself wanted to humiliate him a little he could handle it. And it wasn't like a tray on a cafeteria floor was the worst place he'd had his mouth recently. Reactions around him were mixed. Some people stared openly; others pointedly ignored the show or snuck peeks they didn't think anyone else caught.

After a few bites Beth nudged the tray with her foot, making him chase it a few inches. "Open your legs, Tom. And get your butt in the air. I like a show with dinner, don't you?"

Beth walked him in a circuit up one side of the row of tables and down the other on all fours by twitching the tray with her foot after every bite or two. At one point she walked behind him, took out her phone.

"You really do have a lovely little rear end." She said, taking a picture of his naked, spread ass and hanging genitals. "You're going to make some lucky man very happy when the time comes." Tom blushed and shivered at that.

When the tray was clean enough to suit Mistress Beth she patted him on the behind. Then she moistened her middle finger with her mouth and slipped it up inside him, pushing forward so that he had to either push himself back onto her or go face first into the floor.

"That's a good little doggy." She said. Tom's face burned with embarrassment. Chasing his meal around on all fours was one thing. This was something else. "Now go bus your tray and finish your drink. And don't let me see you using your hands or getting up on your hind legs until you're back at your seat"

Carrying his tray in his teeth was awkward and a bit uncomfortable but he managed ok. A couple of the guards watched him as he made his way back to his seat. One guy made him stop and submit to a fondling of his ass and groin before letting him by. When one of the other residents openly laughed at Tom, a passing female staffer upended his tray onto the floor and made him clean it up the same way Tom had eaten his dinner.

Lights out was at nine. Most of the residents went without complaint. A few fussed about the lack of pillows or bedding and caught hell for it. Billy and Aaron caught Tom's eye, curious how he'd handle the problem. Tom tugged at his shirt then tapped the back of his head and gave them an inquiring look. They both nodded, seeming to get it.

Tom stripped as soon as he was inside. The Eye of Oz was watching anyway so it wasn't like he had any real privacy. A quick check of his e-mail brought good news. Nic's debt was officially cleared. He smiled at that. Whatever hell waited for him - and God knew he'd done plenty to deserve worse than seven years as the pampered little fuck-toy of some rich stranger - it would be worth it. Plus now if Frenchy pushed it too far he could do the world a favor and ghost the bastard. Tom just hoped Nic' would smarten up and get some help for her problem. It'd be a long time before he could bail her out again.

******************************************************************

A Slave's Strength (Part Five):

Perks of the Job

by

mechgogo

A tone sounded five minutes before rack time. Tom brushed his teeth and hair, piled both clean and dirty uniforms at one end of the bed and lay down, using his clothes as a pillow. It wasn't much but it would do.

It took some time to drift off. He'd never been a very deep sleeper. Too much of the wrong kind of excitement over the years had seen to that. Added to the strange surroundings and stress it made for a pretty wakeful mix. Still, with a little help from some relaxation techniques he'd picked up, Tom was able to turn in.

It seemed like he had just gotten asleep when the lights blazed on and the door to his cell slid open. Tom's instincts kicked in. He rolled off the bed, backed away towards the far wall in a combat crouch. His eyes weren't even open. It was all lizard-brain reflex.

"Tom, relax!" Mistress Beth's voice brought him the rest of the way to the surface.

Tom blinked, forced himself to calm down. He opened his eyes. "Mistress? What's going on?"

Through the door he spotted other guards entering cells, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, some of it highly fetishized. Screams came from a couple of the rooms. The wheels turned, gears clicked and Tom made the connection. Perks of the job.

"Oh." He said. He sank to his knees. "You're here for me."

Beth nodded. Like a few of her colleagues she had changed out of her work clothes. She wore a white silk blouse that accentuated her breasts without showing off. Her skirt, black and also silk, rode her hips and thighs closely enough to flatter but not so much as to bind. She wore four inch heels on her feet that brought out the best in her already fit and muscular legs. Her hair and makeup were understated, relying more on her own significant natural good looks than artifice. In one hand she carried a small nylon gym bag.

Beth snapped her fingers and pointed to her feet. Tom crawled over until he was nearly touching her. She took him by the hair, firmly but not painful the way her partner had earlier. She eased his head back, tightened her grip just enough that his scalp complained a little without screaming at him. Tom felt something inside himself relax even as other, more external parts began to tense up.

"You're mine tonight, Tom." She said. "Anything I want, short of deflowering your pretty little rear end, is mine to take. Understood?"

Tom tried to nod but her grip stopped him. "Yes, Mistress Beth." He said. "I'm yours to use however you like."

Beth smiled and ran a caressing hand through his hair. Tom felt himself pushing his head against her hand like a cat as her fingers ran through the growth. "Good boy. Now, show me how happy you are to have me here."

Tom glanced down between his legs. Despite the unusual circumstances and the fact that he'd never once cheated on his girls, Beth's attentions had him harder than Chinese algebra. "I thought I was, Mistress."

She laughed at that. "No silly. Though that's nice too." She pointed at her feet, tapped her left shoe on the floor.

Tom got it. "Oh! Sorry, Mistress."

"Just shut up and get started." The words weren't meant cruelly. They were just a reminder of his place in the food chain.

Tom backed off a foot or so and bent his head. He began kissing Beth's feet, starting with the left one. At one point she sidestepped, forcing him to turn with her so that they were both in profile to the door and, more importantly, the camera above it.

"Your tongue." Mistress said after he'd been down there for a bit. "Just the tip. I don't want any of your drool on me."

"At least not on that part of you anyway, Mistress?" Tom asked grinning.

That earned him a hard, painful smack across the back with the palm of her hand. He winced as the bloom of the strike spread out. It wasn't the worst he'd endured that day by a long road but it still stung.

"Anything else on your mind, doggy?" she asked. Tom shook his head. Message received. He dutifully lapped at Beth's shoes with the tip of his tongue. His mouth began to ache and his neck and shoulders started to burn from the unusual position but he kept at it until told to stop.

"Turn to face away from the door." She said. "Face down, butt nice and high, just like at dinner. And close your eyes. I've got some things to get ready." She sighed. "Of all the people here to be an ass virgin. Oh well, I hear a couple of the teenagers aren't. Maybe I'll visit one of them tomorrow, let someone else have you."

Tom waited patiently in the dark behind his closed eyes. He tried to work out what was going on by the limited sound coming from the bed there was nothing distinctive enough to really work with.

"Get over here, Tom." Mistress Beth said after what Tom's internal count told him was only a minute or two. "And no peeking."

Tom scooted blindly over to the bed. He could sense Beth a few inches away. He knelt, legs open, head bowed. A hand caressed his head, fingers in his hair. It drifted down across his cheek, petting him. He remembered times when the girls had touched him like that and felt a stab of pain.

Fingers cupped and lifted his chin. "Eyes open, Tom."

Tom looked at her. While he had been kneeling on the floor Beth had laid several items out on his bunk on the side of her nearest the door. A small rectangular leather flogger lay on the mattress next to a hexagonal plastic cane the length of his arm. Tom would bet three more months in service it had started out life as the tilt mechanism on a set of venetian blinds. Beside that lay a wooden paddle that put him in mind of a larger serving spoon if you were to flatten out the bowl of the spoon. There was a leather paddle as well with some kind of fur on one side and, most disconcerting for Tom, a bottle of lubricant. A box of sanitary wipes stood close by next to a box of larger sized condoms.

"I'm going to hurt you, Tom." Beth said. "I'm going to beat you with every one of these items no matter how well behaved you are. When I'm done I'm going to use you in other ways. And if you do a good job I'll let you come. But no promises. Any questions?"

He shook his head as much as her grip would allow. "No, Mistress."

She tugged on his chin. "Then get on your stomach across my lap. And none of your tough-guy nonsense. Understood?"

In answer, Tom crawled into Beth's lap. When he was positioned to her liking, hands under his face, crotch in her lap, ass slightly elevated she began. Her hand came first, caressing him in slow easy circles, relaxing him. Then the first shot cracked down, stinging but not unpleasant. More blows followed the first and he didn't hide his responses. He didn't make a big production out of it either but the little gasps as Beth's hand came down again and again onto his increasingly red and tender cheeks were genuine. In between swats she petted him, sometimes in little circles, sometimes like you would a dog or a pony's rump. The sensations produced a combination of physical and emotional comfort and embarrassment Tom never would make sense of.

"Turn around." She said eventually. "Ass to the door. Reach back and spread yourself."

"You know," she said picking up the lube and dribbling a little on his exposed anus when he obeyed "it's a funny thing. We've had to redefine what a virgin is since the indentured laws were passed." Beth spread the cold, slippery stuff around, making sure to get her finger nice and slick " For instance, you've been in a committed relationship with two women most of your adult life. But until you get sold to some lucky man or woman you're still considered enough of a virgin that I can't do everything I'd like to you." Tom knew what was coming, tried to relax. It wasn't easy and he felt his face burning.

A finger slipped inside him. "I can do this and you're still pure." She said working her finger in and out of him. When Tom held still Beth swatted him. "Don't just lay there, Tom, move those hips, nice and slow. Pretend your new master is in you right now and you're trying to show him a good time."

Tom pumped his hips, pushing himself back onto the uncomfortable intruding finger inside him. Before long two more joined it. He found himself wincing. Mistress took a grip on the back of his neck, right where his chip was implanted.

"That's nice, isn't it?" she asked, giving him a warning squeeze. Tom got the hint.

"Yes Mistress, it's nice. I like it when you finger my ass." Of all the lies he had told over the years, that one was hands down the most confusing mix of truth and bullshit ever to leave his mouth.

"I like it too. I just wish I could take you for a proper ride, put a strapon on and force you to come for me that way."

Tom whimpered in response. While she'd been talking Beth had sped up the pace of her thrusts, occasionally turning her hand so the fingers rotated inside him. It was uncomfortable, unpleasant and easily the most degrading thing he'd ever done. And God help him if he wasn't getting a little hard as he humped away against her fingers.

Beth teased him about that, reaching down and stroking him, commenting on how happy he was going to make some future - probably male - contractor with a response like that. She pulled out after a bit, cleaned her hand with the wipes. The next couple of hours were...educational. Mistress proved as good as her word, working him over with every single one of her toys.

The leather flogger stung - they all stung to one degree or another - but wasn't much worse than her hand. The wooden paddle was more of a thud, the extra mass making it push against him more as it lit up his ass and thighs. He decided almost immediately he hated

the cane. The damned thing bit in, raising welts and bruising his ass and thighs. Mistress played with him with it, alternately tapping for a few little nips at his skin then hauling off to land one with a swing that made it whistle before the strike.

The big leather paddle was his favorite. Beth played with both sides, alternately petting him and then firing up his back or butt or legs with a crack that made his ears ring and his skin scream. The simple fact that he enjoyed any of it at all - and looking back later Tom would admit to himself that, apart from that bualadh craicinn

cane much of what she did to him was fun in a weird and confusing way - was an eye opener. It was painful and humiliating but there was a rush to it that almost reminded him of all the fights he'd been in over the years.

Beth made him change position periodically as she played with him. Sometimes he was over her lap. He enjoyed that. There was an intimacy to it that made giving in easier somehow. At other intervals, he lay on the bunk or bent over it. Sometimes she would have him facing the door and the camera above it recording everything, sometimes facing away so the audience could see the affect of the beating on his skin. At one point she went back to fingering him, this time working over his back with the strikers and dancing the nails of her free hand across the welts while she humped him with her hand.

The urge to fight back was there of course but he pushed it aside. The former street thug who had once paid a friend to blowtorch a swastika tat off him wanted to rise up and block out the pain, not give Beth, or the people their session was intended for, the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. Instead he opened himself up to the pain, let it roll over him and his reactions show through. He found himself, at one point, shuddering and crying in Mistress Beth's lap as the endorphins took him for a ride cleaner than any street high.

Mistress rocked him and petted him. "Ssshhhhh. It's ok, little one. You did fine. But we're not done yet. That was just foreplay." Tom felt a surge of fear go through him. The usual accompanying rage followed fast behind but he deflected it. He was there of his own choice. Whatever happened to him, he had asked for it in the most literal sense.

Beth kissed him and he responded, opening his mouth to her, tilting his head back and relaxing into the arm supporting his back the way his girls had done with him thousands of times over the years.

"Kneel." She said after the kiss was finished. "Help me out of these clothes so we can see what else you're good at."

Less than a minute later Mistress was nude, sitting on the bunk with her legs open. Tom knelt between her knees. She was gorgeous. Everything was firm and strong looking; muscular but still feminine. Her breasts were somewhere between Nicki's and Angie's in size. Some guys reckoned bigger was better but Tom had always preferred a woman whose curves fit her frame. Beth's breasts, firm, full and natural with their hard brown nipples and aureoles were magnificent. She had shaved her legs and hadn't stopped there. What should have been a patch of hair between her legs was as smooth as the skin of her stomach. He could smell her need for him. Part of his brain started gibbering at the realization that, for the first time in ten years

he was about to have sex with a woman who wasn't Nick or Ang'.

A hand pressed the back of his head as Beth settled back and opened her legs wider. "Go on, Tom. Get your face in there."

Tom bent his head, kissing and licking his way to his trainer's vagina. Her breath sped up and she moaned slightly as his tongue found her. That same gibbering part of his brain tried to make him pull back, tried to tell him he was cheating his ass off on his women. He ignored it. This wasn't adultery. It was him keeping to the deal he'd made to save his Nicki from seven years on her back under some degenerate bastard like Frenchy.

"Don't rush, honey." He was told. "We've got all night if we need it."

Tom just nodded, not stopping in his attention to her wetness. He shut out the fact that he was fucking a complete stranger for the entertainment of God knew how many other complete strangers and focused on making Mistress feel good. It wasn't difficult. He liked her and honestly wanted to please her. She tasted different from his girls, more sour but not unpleasantly so. Her reactions were different too but it didn't take long to learn what she liked. Part of that was due to Beth not being shy about instructing him. Partly it was just an extension of the skills that had kept him alive on the streets for so long. Listen to a person with all five senses, read the cues and it wasn't that big a deal to peg most folks.

Gradually things got more intense. Mistress's reactions became more overt and Tom pushed into her vagina harder, more urgently. Sometimes he lapped at her, finding and teasing her clit and g-spot with his tongue. At others he buried his face in her, shaking himself back and forth or suckling on her clit. That provoked a response that nearly broke his nose when she bucked and thrashed against him, thighs clamping down so hard he couldn't breathe for a bit.

At one point, Tom found his hands guided up to her breasts. Up til then he had contented himself with petting her thighs and stomach. An experiment with digging his nails in while he ate her had gotten the back of his hair gripped painfully and his face shoved even harder against her slit.

Tom smiled between Beth's legs. His hands took her breasts. They were just as firm and smooth as they had looked to be. He petted the soft skin, drifted his fingers across the nipples. Then he decided to try something that had driven the girls nuts more than a few times over the years. He pulled back slightly from lapping at Mistress. Not so much that she could accuse him of disobedience and certainly not enough to stop serving her with his mouth. Instead he became more tentative down there and focused his attentions more on her breasts.

Skilled fingers caressed and tweaked Beth's nipples. She moved under him, chest and pelvis rocking. He petted and pinched, scratched with his nails across the nipples and aureoles. At one point he even scrubbed the calluses built up along the top of his palm from a lifetime of hard work with his hands across the sensitive skin. It didn't take long to get the result he was looking for. When you knew what you were doing it was perfectly possible to make a woman come simply from stimulating her breasts. And Tom had a decade of experience keeping two very active young women happy in bed.

His attention on Beth's breasts became more urgent, more demanding even as he backed off from what he was doing between her legs more and more. At one point she tried to force his face into her and he flatly refused, locking his neck and shoulder muscles and shaking his head slightly, tongue playing across her clit as he did so. Beth's breathing came faster and faster. Tom's fingers pinched and pulled, rolling the sensitive nipples between them.

"You willful little..." Beth gasped. Tom smiled. She was right on the brink. Perfect.

He clamped down on her nipples with his fingers, pinching hard. Her saturated crotch received similar attention. Covering his teeth with his lips so as not to injure his Mistress, Tom bit down on her little bud and shoved his face against her as hard as he could. He shook his head like a dog with a rat and Beth nearly hit the ceiling.

Strong, muscular legs vise-gripped his head. Mistress Beth arched her back and her pelvis spasmed like an epileptic in a strobe light factory. Her supporting hand gripped the mattress until the knuckles went white. Aaron, asleep in the next cell, heard her scream through the supposedly soundproofed wall.

When she finally stopped thrashing and unclenched her legs from around his head Beth looked down at him, panting. "Up here, on your back, now!"

Tom got into position. He was already hard. His new status didn't change his love or fidelity for his girls in the least. But he was still a man, and Mistress Beth was still a damned fine looking woman. His welts stung as she pushed his shoulders down.

"I should cane you raw for pulling back like that, you know." She said sticking a finger in his face.

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress. I was just trying to make you feel good. I'm sorry."

"You succeeded. It's the only reason you're not getting beaten for real right now." She straddled his face, thighs on either side of his head, wet, musky slit brushing his lips and nose. "No hands this time. And if you try to get cute again I will

take the cane to you. Clear?"

Before he could answer she lowered herself the rest of the way onto his mouth. In the new position it was easier for Mistress to control the pace and she forced him to take his time. More than once she took herself up to the very edge with Tom's mouth then backed off. Tom's jaw and neck ached. His tongue was going numb from the exertion. It felt at times like he was drowning from the wetness covering his face and making its way into his breathing passage. Still, he didn't try to pull his face away. Mistress let him breathe enough to do what she wanted. She just didn't make it very easy.

Finally after what seemed to Tom like the better part of an hour she pressed herself painfully hard against his mouth. Hips rocked hard, bruising his lips against her pelvis. He pushed back with equal strength, trying to lift her off the mattress with just his neck muscles. His tongue dug deep inside her, looking for her g-spot. Lips teased her clit and he thrashed his head. Beth took his hair in both hands, forced the back of his head against the mattress with implacable strength. She bit back a scream her hips jackknifed atop him and she came. Clear fluid flooded Tom's mouth and nose. He coughed, choked, swallowed as best he could but it still felt like he was being waterboarded. Part Tom's brain wondered if Mistress hadn't just peed on him.

Beth looked down at him, breathing heavy, hair completely disheveled. Her body was slick with sweat. Her thighs were slippery with her cum. She smiled at him, ran a caressing hand over his hair.

"That's my good boy." She positioned herself lower on his body and bent to kiss him. He responded, pushing back and opening his mouth to her tongue.

After a few kisses she reversed herself. Her sex lowered to his face again and he felt warm, soft moistness envelop his shaft. He gasped and started to thrust in Beth's mouth. A sharp smack across the thigh curbed that quick enough. Long before he was ready to have her stop Tom's trainer took her mouth off him. There was a crinkle of foil and the familiar sensation of a condom going on.

Beth faced him again, guided his hands to her hips. "Not until I say, Tom." She told him and eased herself down onto his shaft.

Tom nodded. His face contorted. Even through the latex Mistress felt amazing. Tight and wet, gripping him with her inner muscles she rode him. Slowly at first, all the way down until she was pushing down on the base of his organ then back up to the point he nearly left her. He matched her rhythm, kissed her neck and mouth and breasts as ordered. His hands wandered her body, petting the soft skin and delighting in the strength of the muscles beneath. Maybe in the morning he'd feel guilty about enjoying himself so much. Maybe later he'd feel dirty or debased at being used as little more than a particularly complex masturbatory device by a complete stranger. At the moment he was too busy losing himself in the simple pleasure of good sex with a woman he was genuinely attracted to. He didn't reckon the next seven years held much of that for him and life had long ago taught him to revel in the pleasant moments when and as you could. Things would turn back to shit plenty soon enough.

Beth used her time on top to pay him back for his little stunt from earlier. She brought him to the precipice repeatedly and then held him there, backing off just enough to keep him from coming without making it easy to do. She leaned down, kissing him, letting her breasts brush against his face. Occasionally a nipple would drift across his mouth and he would kiss or suckle it for a few seconds. All the while he read her, listening to what her body was telling him as much as her voice, using what he learned to heighten the experience for her.

Eventually Beth climbed off him. For a few seconds he was confused. Then she ordered him off the bed long enough to lie down on her back with the top of her head towards the door.

Beth opened her legs. Her skin was gleaming with sweat. The space between her legs was visibly damp. Tom's balls ached with the need to come. She motioned him towards her with one hand.

"Come on, little one." The improbable term of endearment resonated in Tom. Responding to it just felt right

. "You've earned it."

Tom mounted her then. He was gentle going in. He liked Beth. She was one of the better people on her side of the leash that he had met that day. He took it slow at first. No need to imitate a jackrabbit trying to wear a hole in its mate's back. That only lasted a handful or so of strokes before she scolded him, told him she wouldn't break Goddamnit and to just fuck her already

. So he did. He pinned her to the mattress by the upper arms and pushed himself up. He dropped his control and let his desire take over. Strong tanned legs wrapped around him and encouragement was panted as he pounded away. The metal shelf that made up the bunk creaked and shifted under them. Beth moaned, got loose of his grip, moved under him. His tempo built, harder, faster, less and less in control.

Pressure built and finally peaked. When he came his lower half spasmed as if he were being electrocuted from the waist down. Where Beth's orgasmic vocalization was a scream, his own was somewhere between a roar and a howl. It bounced off the concrete walls of the cell, making Mistress's ears ring. It startled the staffer having his way with the resident of the adjacent cell so badly he checked with the control center to make sure the crazy bastard voluntary next door wasn't murdering his colleague.

They lay there for a bit after that. Tom and Beth were in better than average physical shape but it had been a strenuous night for both of them. Beth ran her hand down Tom's back, petting the sweat-slick skin. Tom smiled at her through the damp dangle of his hair.

"So," he said "I hope I wasn't too boring a ride."

She laughed at that. "Honey, if there was any way I could afford you, you'd be coming home with me tonight and to Hell with the regs."

Tom thought about that. He reckoned he'd actually enjoy serving Mistress Beth despite some of the things she said she liked. He said as much, earning another smile and a deep kiss.

She pushed him off her then. "This was nice, but we've both got work in the morning. Here." She took a bottle of aspirin from her bag, gave him four of them. "These will help with the soreness. Drink a couple glasses of water before you go back to bed, too."

Beth got dressed and policed up her things. Tom flushed the condom. He took the aspirin, drank until his stomach felt full and wiped as much of himself down with a wet washcloth as he could reach. If he was at home this would be the part where he and whichever of the girls he had just made love to, cuddled in bed, taking comfort in the warmth of their bodies, falling asleep in each other's arms. But this wasn't home and Beth wasn't one of his loves. Sure, she was sweet and good looking. She seemed to be a decent enough sort as collectors went. But at day's end she was still a collector and he was just one more indent among God knew how many she'd taken over the years. The lights turned off just as he flipped the mattress. He lay down, closed his eyes and, eventually, drifted off to sleep.

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A Slave's Strength (Part Six):

Little Tommy's Tale

by

mechgogo

Tom woke before the morning alarm. He'd always been an early riser and the previous night had not been restful. No great surprise there; strange surroundings combined with a back full of welts didn't make for the best night's sleep. By the time his cell door slid open he had already blown through the series of stretches, hundred-odd pushups and similar number of sit-ups that he had been doing for years at home. The concrete floor wasn't as pleasant a surface as his living room carpet-especially for the twenty-five fingertip pushups he always ended with - but you worked with what you had.

When the alarm sounded, he used the five minute interval to brush his hair and have a cup of water. His muscles were still sore from Mistress Beth's attentions of the previous night but nothing he couldn't handle. The exercise had helped, working out kinks and flushing toxins built up under the various toys.

He spent the trip to morning chow scoping out his fellow detainees. It wasn't hard to work out who had gotten a visit the previous night. Bruised skin, limping walks and dazed, shocked expressions told him plenty. A couple of the younger kids were trying not to cry too obviously. At least one newbie older than himself shuffled along like a zombie, body on autopilot because the brain was not up to facing what had happened to them the night before. Several of the guards preened in a way that made Toms hand itch for his axe or the solid weight of a ball peen hammer.

Breakfast was a treat. Oz came through for him on the stir-fry. There was even some soy sauce in little packets. It wasn't the same recipe he had been eating for breakfast five, six days a week since his early twenties, but it was close enough his body wouldn't rebel at the sudden change in diet. He thanked the server and took his tray to the same seat he had used the night before at dinner.

Billy and Aaron joined him again. Aaron was all talk, jabbering on, wanting to know what happened to Tom the night before. Billy was just the opposite. He just sat there, picking at his eggs and toast, staring a hole in the table. The wince when he took his seat hadn't escaped Tom.

Tom nudged him. "C'mon Billy-man. Eat up. You need your strength." He took his own advice and dug in. He looked around. How long before a screw noticed the kid not eating and decided he was a potential hunger striker?

Aaron didn't get it. "What's wrong, Billy?"

"Leave it." Tom told him. "Man's in a quiet place. Let him be." He leaned across the table, lowered his voice "Billy, if you don't get that spoon moving, sure as Hell a guard is gonna flag you for a hunger striker and drag your ass off to the infirmary to be force-fed. I know last night was bad but trust me, these pricks can make it a lot worse."

Billy glared at him. "Oh, you know all about it, huh? You ever been raped?" his voice spiked at the end, drawing stares. Sure enough, a staffer was coming over.

"There a problem?" the guard asked when he arrived.

Tom shook his head. "No, sir, officer. Just a little conversation over breakfast."

The guy glared at Billy, dropped a meaningful hand to his baton. "Well, keep it down. We don't like disturbances."

Tom nodded. "Duly noted." When the kids nodded their assent the guard moved on down the aisle.

"See what I mean?" Tom asked when he reckoned they had the space to talk again. "And in answer to your question, no, I haven't. But I got six kinds of dogshit beat outta me last night and Comisky spent half the night damned near wrist deep in my ass."

"Oh, so because you got fucked by the hot lady collector that brought you in you what? You feel my pain?" You could have carved the bitterness and sarcasm in Billy's tone into blocks and sold it by the pound.

Tom shook his head, took a drink. "No I don't. Your pain's your pain. Same as mine's mine and Aaron's is Aaron's. If I could take yours onto me I would but I can't. I can listen though. Sometimes it helps. Your call. And just so you know: I never got raped but I was younger'n you when my best friend tried to end me. Younger still when my junkie prick of an old man tried to turn me out to his heroin connection."

Both boys just stared at him. Sometimes hearing about other people's horrible shit distracted from your own if only for a few seconds.

"Get the fuck out." Aaron said wonderingly.

"Your dad?" Billy asked. Even with what he had been through the night before Tom's revelation was a shock. "What the hell

?"

Tom nodded, took another bite. "You eat, I'll talk. Spoon stops the story stops. Deal?"

Both boys tucked into their food, Billy a bit more listlessly than Aaron but at least he was eating.

"My parents were both addicts." Tom began. "Mom OD'd when I was little. Maybe seven or eight years old. Dad - the prick - he hung around a few more years. Bastard had a real love affair with the needle, know what I mean? But he kept it together well enough the state never took me which I kinda regret lookin' back. Maybe if he'd fucked up real bad when I was young enough I wouldn't have had such a jacked up life."

Tom thought about that a second. If he'd had a more normal childhood he'd probably still be back east. He'd have never met the twins and right now his beautiful, precious Nicki would be coming to terms with her first experience being raped as a slave. He shook his head. For better or worse the choices his parents made, and the ones he made after they ceased to be a factor in his life, had lead him to this point. Wishing it had gone otherwise was stupid and pointless.

"So one night, Dad, he gets sick. And I don't mean flu or cold sick, you know? Needs a fix. But he's overdrawn with his dealer. So he works a little barter out. Couple hours with me in return for enough smack to make it through the weekend. Course I don't know this at the time. I just know he wants me to come over to his house, have something to eat, maybe play some Nintendo, you know? I knew what he did for a living but so what? I was actually stupid enough to think he felt sorry

for me, the prick."

"So we get over there and just like he promised, he hooks me up. Sits me down, fries up a couple pork chops, and some French fries. Even finds some Oreos for dessert. Tells me he needs me to do him a favor, take something home with me for the old man. But first, there's somethin' else

he needs me to do."

Tom stopped talking for a minute then. He stared at his tray. He wasn't seeing it or the table or anything else in the cafeteria. Instead he was fourteen again, back in that East Detroit apartment with the freezing winter wind screaming through the streets outside and his dad's dealer on the couch, starting to paw at him.

"Cho-mo motherfucker takes me by the hair with one hand and tries to shove the other down my pants." Tom's eyes went lizard-cold and his voice was arctic in a murderous rage as he revisited the nearly twenty year old memory.

"Holy shit

!" Billy said. "So what happened? Your dad change his mind and show up to pull him off you?"

"I bet he beat the guy's ass." Aaron said. "Probably shot him"

Tom laughed at that, spooned up some more rice. "I wish. I got myself out of it and fuck-you-very-much daddy dearest for getting me into it in the first goddamned place. I cut my way clear of him and hauled ass. Didn't go home for two days."

Billy's face fell at how the story ended. "See? Least you fought back. And you won too. And you were younger than me."

"And I nearly got my damned head blown off!" Tom told him. "Went out a second story bathroom window into the middle of a Detroit winter in nothing but jeans and a raggedy-assed sweatshirt. Ran off into the dark, rounds poppin' off all around me. Damned near froze to death too. And here, check this out."

He showed them a shiny discolored spot about the width of one finger where the muscles of his left shoulder sloped up to meet his neck. "Near miss. Couple inches in a couple different directions," Tom snapped his fingers. "No more Tommy O'Neill."

"I thought your last name was Donovan." Aaron said.

"It is. Took my wife's name when we married. O'Neill didn't mean shit to me so I dropped it. And as for me fighting back, I was a different person than you under different circumstances. I damned sure wasn't locked up in a place like this with a chip in my neck and some fucking pervert trained in restraining people and expecting a fight comin' at me with me naked, and half asleep in a concrete room."

As if on cue the order to strip came over the speakers. Tom rolled his eyes and shucked off, muttering a few choice words in Irish as he did. When the boys looked at him inquiringly he explained what language it was, and how it was nothing they wanted to say around someone who knew the language. Before sitting down he handed his folded clothes to Billy to sit on. The metal stool wouldn't be pleasant under the circumstances but he had a higher threshold than the boy. Aaron followed his example, earning a nod and smile of respect. You looked out for your own as best you could.

"What did your dad do when you came home?"

"Beat the shit outta me. After his boy got stitched up he sent some muscle around to pay Pops a visit. They stomped his ass and cut him off cold. He couldn't buy a gram with the keys to Fort Knox after that. Had to find a new dealer. Wasn't long after, dumb bastard nodded off with a lit cigarette in his hand. Woke up on fire, screaming like something out of a horror movie. Died from his burns a little while later. I was in foster care by then. I didn't even go to the funeral." Tom suppressed a smile at the true memory of the carefully edited story.

"So what?" Billy demanded. "That makes what happened to me all better? Your dad died horribly but you came out on top and it's supposed to make what that sick fuck did to me last night not mean as much?"

Tom shook his head. "Never said that. Point is, everyone's got pain. Everyone gets into corners they can't get out of and fights they can't win. No shame in that. What defines a man is how he handles it. Does he curl up and quit? Or does he say 'Yeah, this is a steamin' pile of shit I'm in, but it'll pass. All I gotta do is keep my eyes open for the way to something better and not give the universe the satisfaction of curling up in the meantime."

And I never said I came out on top. The foster family I went to? Their eldest had the same tastes as the old bastard's connection had. Tried a similar run of bullshit on me his first visit home from college."

"You cut him too?" Aaron asked, fascinated. Like a lot of suburban boys his age he had an unhealthy and unrealistic enthrallment with life in 'Da Hood.' Tom was like something out of a movie or TV show to him.

Tom shook his head. "Nope. Him, I busted in the head with a clock radio. Think he lost an eye from it. Beat him with a hockey stick til I got tired and then robbed the hell out of the place. Took all the cash, jewelry, even his car. Sold it all to a couple guys my dad used to know and started livin' on the street. Figured if that was what the straight world had to offer me, piss on it."

Memories of terrified nights freezing in abandoned buildings, eating out of dumpsters, running from the local gangers until he hooked up with a set of his own, rose up. He wouldn't wish those days on somebody who had set his girls on fire.

"Ok, so fine. You had a messed up childhood." Billy said. Tom focused on his food. Kid if you had even half a clue. "How's that help either of us? We're still stuck here and you said it yourself; it's not like fighting back's an option for us."

"There's more ways to cope with a bad stretch than your fists or a blade." He pointed at them with his spoon. "Look, this is gonna sound sick as hell but it's still the truth. You two are better positioned to have an easy time of it than me in a lotta ways. Biggest ace in my hand is being a voluntary. That whole rarity, high-end collector thing. But I'm older and a damned sight more intimidating than both of you put together." He laughed a little. "Shit, I'm almost exactly your combined ages."

"Now you two: you're young, you're good looking and you're likeable. Use that

. Man or woman, whoever buys you there's gonna be opportunities. Not many things in this world as accommodating as some middle aged old bear or cougar afterglowin' with their teenaged sex toy. "

Billy looked like he wanted to throw up. Aaron at least had the brains to consider it. "So, what?" Billy asked. "We just let them use us and cash in on it after? What's that make us then?"

"Somebody doing what he has to to survive." Tom answered. "It's gonna happen either way. Might as well make the best of it."

The two boys didn't say anything to that. They just finished their meal in contemplative silence. Tom did the same. They were thinking now and that had been the whole point to the conversation. Much as he would have liked to he knew he couldn't protect his young friends from what was to come - in Billy's case what already had the night before - but with a little luck on his part and a little brains on theirs maybe he could help take the edge off things. What was the point of having lived and survived a life like his if you couldn't use what you'd learned along the way to ease smooth the road for the people following behind?

The next two weeks passed quickly enough. Life settled into it's own pattern as it does no matter where a person finds themselves. Tom threw himself into excelling at the various classes. Most of it was already second nature to him. A lifetime on his own had taught him more than most about many of the skills needed by a good domestic. Good manners were second nature to him unless provoked. And a decade satisfying the needs of Nicki and Angie had honed his abilities in the bedroom until they were sharp enough to shave with. Oddly enough that was one of the more stressful parts of his education. It seemed like half the men and most of the women on staff made a run at him at some point or other. Part of it was the realities of the training program. Domestic indents were expected to perform where, as and how their so-called betters demanded. Not that Tom was likely to ever acknowledge most damned degenerate slavers as his superior in anything but depravity.

Part of it, he knew, was simple human nature. Rarity was, by definition a sought after quality. Gold was less common than copper so naturally people fought wars over gold and threw copper into fountains. The same principle was at work in Tom's life. The average staffer at the center might, if they were lucky, be able to afford a lower end ICL of their own. Somebody like Tom, destined for service in a millionaires bedroom or the stable of one of the porn companies that took advantage of the sudden massive influx of no-limits talent available was completely outside their reach under normal circumstances. So naturally it was rare if he went more than a couple hours at a time most days without being ordered onto his knees by one of the males or into any of a number of positions by the various ladies working there. Everyone wanted to get a piece of the voluntary while the getting was good. For someone who preferred his personal space it made for some painfully tense times.

Only two serious incidents marred his time at the center. The first occurred a few hours after his conversation with Billy and Aaron the morning after Mistress Beth's first visit to his cell. He was along the second floor tier his way to a fitness class before lunch when Frenchy's familiar voice rang out from the first floor.

"Hey! Tommy Boy!"

Tom tried to ignore the asshole. If he let Frenchy get to him his control was bound to snap. Then, instead of seven years as some rich person's hopefully pampered status symbol he'd be spending the rest of his life in the federal pen on a murder beef.

"I said freeze your ass, boy! I'm talkin' to you!"

Tom stopped and looked down at where his playmate was standing. "Something I can do for you, Master French, sir?" He asked. His words were correct and his tone properly respectful yet somehow they still sounded like Tom had said something rude about Frenchy's mom.

"Hell of a performance with my partner last night. Very impressive. Y'know, I figured we got off on the wrong foot. All that hostility between us and whatnot. So I did you a little favor. Sent those women of yours proof of just how well you were doing here. Wonder how many of the moves you used with them they'll recognize in the show you put on with Beth."

Tom laughed at him. "Talk's cheap, Frenchy. You got some proof or you just fartin' out your mouth again?"

The agent pulled out his phone. "How's this for proof?" He tossed it up to Tom who caught it with ease.

Tom looked at the screen. A sent email was on the screen. Below two addresses he knew by heart was a video thumbnail with a play icon in the middle. Tom felt a mix of nausea and rage swirl through him. As an added twist of the blade the evil little shit had routed the email through the same address he used to send his letters of the previous day. Tom pushed play.

It only took a few seconds to confirm the reality of French's sick, cruel stunt. Tom's first instinct was to whip the phone as hard as he could into the center of the gloating bastard's smug grin. Then leap the rail and see how many times he could bash the base of his skull against the concrete floor before a zap from Oz ended the party. Instead he did something worse.

Tom resumed walking in the direction he had been going. His fingers flew over the phones controls. How long did he have? Thirty seconds? A minute? Plenty of time. Hit the forward function, scan through Dipshit's address book. Hi, Mistress Beth! So is that your private email or your work one? No matter. And look at this! What d'you reckon the odds were that C.Harris@BOI842 was Mr. Charles Harris, the nice man who had welcomed them to the center just the day before? Better than average Tom thought.

"Hey, Mistress Beth." he typed as he walked. "Check out the bull's-eye your idiot partner just drew on the back of your head with my girls. Tom."

Down below it was occurring to Mark French that he might have erred in handing his phone off to Tom. He followed along parallel to the wiry voluntary's course, looking up at him.

"Hey! What do you think you're doing with my phone? Give it back damnit! That's an order!"

Tom ignored him. What other kinda mayhem could he cause? Hey, just for fun why not add the address of Rick, his lawyer to the list? Something like this might just be actionable, lawsuit worthy. There were laws in place protecting both the indentured and the free. Tom could think of a few Frenchy had just danced a bulldozer over. Hit the send key and off you go. Privately he started a clock running in his head. Six years, three hundred sixty-three days, Mr. Agent French, Sir. Make the most of 'em.

"Here's your phone back, Master French, Sir." Tom said, never breaking stride. He tossed the expensive communications device over the rail with a casual sideways flick of wrist and forearm. Mark French watched in horror as his brand new phone that he had stood in line two hours

to get arced out over the open space below the second tier. It reached the top of its trajectory and plummeted to Earth to explode into a million glittering pieces of expensive garbage.

Up on the top second floor that uppity little shit Donovan was sitting with his back against the wall. "I'm waiting!" he called with a grin and cocky laugh. The cocky smile disappeared when French activated his chip but the way Tom kept laughing even as he screamed against the pain would haunt the agent's sleep for years.

******************************************************************

A Slave's Strength (Chapter Seven):
Settlement

by

mechgogo

Beth Comisky was on the toilet when her phone chirped at her, announcing the arrival of a new email. She had been remembering the previous night with Tom. Thoughts of his mouth between her legs warmed her, made her moist. The teasing way he had held back almost to the point of overt refusal once she put him to work on her breasts had been exquisite. She mentally ran through her finances, wondering if there was any way at all she could swing the necessary moves to afford his contract. She'd have to look into it. The idea of that beautiful, strong body spread out underneath her as she took him with a strapon....her hand drifted down between her legs.

That was when the damned phone bleeped at her. She would have ignored it but she recognized Mark's personal alert. She sighed. What now? He really was turning into a Grade A pain in the ass.

When Beth opened the email, she frowned. Why was Mr. Harris's address on this? For that matter what was Mark doing emailing Tom Donovan's lawyer? Then she read the body of the email and, horrified, hit the play button on the attached video.

Beth pushed 'stop' thirty seconds into the show. She sat there, shaking with rage. That idiot! What in Christ's name had he been thinking?!? Had he not been present when Tom Donovan threatened to burn them both alive barely twenty-four hours earlier? Or when Nicki Donovan had to be beaten with a shotgun butt to keep her from going with them? She went into her directory, intent on calling her now-former-as-far-as-she-was-concerned partner and tearing a wide strip off his ignorant ass. An incoming call stopped her. Mr. Harris, head of the center, and her boss. His name among the email's addressees didn't leave much doubt as to why he was calling.

Five minutes later Beth was in her car bombing down the road to the center. She tried to keep the speed down but her anger kept making her foot heavy. Not getting pulled over was more a matter of luck than anything else. She got through the security checkpoints and stalked to Harris's office. Several residents saw her, started to greet her – she was one of the more well liked IA's – and scurried out of her way when they saw her expression.

The meeting that followed took more than an hour. Her position was simple: she and Mark were done, period. Your partner was supposed to watch your back. They were not, as Tom Donovan had put it, supposed to draw a bull's-eye on it for a pair of half-crazy Irish banshees to use as target practice.

Mark tried to downplay things with little success. When that didn't work he tried blaming Tom. That proved even less effective.

"I was just trying to put him in his place." He said."Show him how helpless he is. That's what we do here isn't it?"

"By attacking his family?" Beth demanded."Are you insane? The man almost shot you over an offhand remark about Nicollete and you really think something like this is going to garner a passive response? And that's just him. God only knows what his women are cooking up. You do remember Tom speaking to an attorney before we took him into custody, don't you? What do you think is going to happen when Angela and Nicollete sit down with him? Assuming they aren't in his office right now?"

Eventually Tom was summoned. He shook Harris's hand, gave Frenchy a smile that stopped just short of his eyes and accepted an offer of a cup of coffee. Funny how breakfast time's chattel was lunchtime's respected guest.

With the pleasantries over, Harris got right to the point. "Mr. Donovan, first off, I just want to apologize for Agent French's behavior. I try to run a humane facility here and I can assure you I don't condone what he did. That being said, I'm sure you can understand that I can't have the residents making threats against my trainers."

"It wasn't a threat, Mr. Harris." Tom told him. "It was more of a warning than I'd give anyone else working here." He thought for a second and nodded to himself. "And the best way I could think of to pay Frenchy back for his bullshit without spending the rest of my life in jail. But we both know you didn't ask me here to slap my wrist for sending that email. You asked me here to help assess just how much trouble this bualadh craicinn amadán has gotten you into."

"What did you call me?" French demanded.

"Sorry." Tom said."I forgot. I'm the one with the ninth grade education but you're the ignorant one in this conversation. It means fucking idiot, you fucking idiot."

French went for him and once again Beth had to put herself between the two men. Things settled down before security had to be brought in but not without Beth going into Mistress Mode on Tom.

"You wanna know the threat level you're looking at, Mr. Harris?" Tom asked when things had settled down. On the far side of Beth from him, Frenchy was massaging a sore wrist and a fat lip that now kept his black eye company. For all of that, Tom's voice held no more stress than if he was discussing the best way to change the oil in a motorcycle.

"You're talking about two women who have kept me in line for the past ten years with nothing but the force of their will. You're talking about two women married to a guy who's street name used to be Bug. As in fire bug. Be surprised the kinds of things married people share with one another, you know? What ratio of Styrofoam packing peanuts to one gallon of gas makes the best napalm for instance."

"You're talking about them both wracked with pain and misery and, in the case of my Nicki, a world of guilt. And all of it looking for a focus. And this unprofessional asshole over here," he inclined his head in Mark's direction, "gives them just that. Oh and let's not forget the whole Irish thing. Two thousand years of genetics that don't hold a grudge so much as breast-feed the fuckin' thing."

Tom turned to Beth. "Lemme ask you something, Mistress Beth." He said."You really think it's so improbable that amid all my other plans for yesterday, I didn't take the time to string a few nanny cams or the odd microphone, hm? You think my girls didn't know about 'em and got your name from 'em? And what exactly d'you reckon the odds are on my sweet little Nicki focusing all her guilt and anger and gambling addict's obsessive tendencies on finding out where you live and paying you back for making her big strong husband who sacrificed himself for her cry like a little baby, hm?" He gave her exactly the kind of smile you'd expect from a little boy who had come down Christmas morning to find a brand new puppy waiting for him under the tree. And promptly skinned the thing alive.

"We've dealt with threats against our staff before, Mr. Donovan." Harris said.

Tom nodded."I know. I follow the news." And occasionally make it." Thing is, we both know the average person who starts banging their dick about all the terrible shit they're gonna do to somebody tends to be all talk. My girls aren't. And neither am I. And they wouldn't be acting alone or all that precipitously either. Just because they were stupid enough to marry me doesn't mean they're too stupid to plan things out. I'd be shocked as hell if they weren't in a bar full of witnesses miles away when the anvil lands. And it will land, Mr Harris. Unless I intervene. The will-you of which I'm guessing is another reason I'm here."

"And if I asked, what would your answer be?" Harris asked.

Tom shrugged."Of course, I will. For a price."

"Tom!" Beth exclaimed."I thought you liked me!"

"I do like you Mistress Beth. Fact is, if you could afford me, I'd crawl out of here at the end of your leash and mark myself a lucky man. And I didn't name my terms before you spoke up. You and Mr. Harris want my help, you pull Frenchy off the training rotation. Ignorant bastard's proved he's unfit. And I mean I don't see his face anywhere in this facility the rest of my stay. Frenchy hand-writes a separate letter of apology to each of my girls taking full responsibility for what he did, begging their forgiveness and including his full legal name at the bottom. You let me call home and have a conversation with my girls. In Irish. Only way they'll even half consider what I have to say. And a pillow for my bunk'd be nice. Something nice and firm. I must be getting soft in my old age. Time was I could sleep on concrete and be ok."

"That's it?" Beth and Harris asked in unison.

Tom shrugged."Ten minutes alone in a locked room with no cameras, weapons, witnesses or chip with Frenchy would be nice too but I'll settle for a marker I can cash in later. Nothing huge, just a get outta trouble free card I can burn later if I need to. Let's face it. I'm a willful bastard. Be nice to have a little insurance policy, you know?"

Harris looked over at Beth. They had already discussed the threat level posed by Tom's wives and known associates. In her opinion the girls were even more dangerous than he was. And at least a couple of Tom's friends were persons of interest in on-going investigations into the local militant movement. She nodded.

"We can do that. I have to say, Mr. Donovan, I appreciate how reasonable you're being. Given how you came to be here, I expected a more extreme response."

Tom shrugged."It isn't Mistress Beth's fault her partner's a retard. And I never said that made me and Agent French square." He looked across Agent Comisky at French. "I can wait to settle up." He said glaring death at the man. "You put the deal in writing, fax it to my lawyer and I'll write up what I plan to tell my wives so you know I'm being straight with you."

Harris nodded."Marie, can he use the computer in your office?" This to an older, silver haired woman who had been introduced as the deputy administrator for the facility.

"Of course." She said and stood."If you'll just follow me, Thomas?"

"Just a minute, Marie." Harris said."Mr. Donovan, there's still the small matter of you destroying Agent French's phone. Unless you'd like to use your marker now, I'm afraid I'll have to fine you a six month extension on your contract for that."

Tom shrugged. "That's fair. I'll keep the marker for now. Long as we're discussing small matters, can I ask how you plan to deal with the lawsuit?"

"Lawsuit?" Harris looked confused.

Tom gave a predatory grin. "The one, I absolutely promise you, my girls are talking to my lawyer about bringing against this place. The one that will be like a giant chum slick in shark infested water for the abolitionists and probably have you personally as a named defendant. Price of command, Mr. Harris. Your asshole employee violated the law and caused serious pain and suffering to two civilians. Might not be your fault but it's damned sure your responsibility. Unless I intervene."

"For a price." The 'You mercenary little bastard' went unspoken but was still louder than three feet from the stage at an Ozzy Osbourne concert.

Tom nodded. "Just so. Helping out somebody I like, that's one thing. Helping out an institution I hated even before I got caught up in it, that's another."

Harris sighed and ran a hand over his balding head. "What do you want, Mr. Donovan? Agent French's job? Your contract nullified? A settlement for your family? And bear in mind I can't promise anything on this matter. It has to go through our legal department."

Tom gave French an appraising look."Be a certain justice in having you fire Frenchy. How long you reckon it'd be before the van pulled up at your place, hm?" He took real pleasure in French's horrified expression and let his own face show it.

"You do what you want with the little shit." Tom told Harris. "I wouldn't shed any tears if I heard he wound up in the system but I won't pull the trigger myself. Far as what I want? Billy and Aaron, to start."

"Who?" Harris asked

"Tom has been sort of looking out for two of the younger newcomers who were in-processed at the same time he was." Beth explained."How exactly did you mean that, Tom?"

"Not like it might sound. You find them good homes. As free people and not in the foster care system. They've gotta have somebody can take them in, aunt, uncle, grandparents. My guess is the biggest barrier is an inability to buy out their contract. You get your bosses to overlook that and I'm your man."

"And your own contract?"

"How many more kids d'you reckon I'm worth, Mr. Harris, hm?" Tom asked him "How much would you say it'd be worth to your bosses to avoid a big messy media shitstorm and expensive settlement? Because you know they've as good as lost already. Find me a number we can both agree on. Add in, say, what I made last year before taxes so my girls got something to show for their suffering – tax free mind – and I'll do what I can. Meantime, while things are in motion the male staffers keep their hands off Billy and Aaron. Bare minimum contact needed to ensure compliance with the rules. But no intimate work, you know? And I mean not so much as a goose on the ass. Oh, and none of the kids I buy free learn of my involvement. Cook up whatever story you want. My name comes up, deal's off."

Harris thought for a moment. The offer was a good one. The media was sure to have a field day when they got wind of this incident and the little he knew of the Donovan family convinced him that was inevitable without Tom's help. He nodded.

"I'll talk to my superiors. But no promises."

"Fair enough."

Tom was sent to wait in the reception are while the wheels got in motion then. He sat in a chair, looking around, singing to himself. Mr Harris' receptionist smiled at him.

"Someone's in a good mood."

"It's been a good day, mostly. Promises to be better before we're done. Anything I can do for you while I'm waiting? Idleness doesn't really set well with me."

"It's kind of you to offer, but I'm all caught up on my work at the moment."

Tom gave her a frank stare. "Then I'd say that means you've earned a break. Which brings us back to me doing anything for you."

She got the hint, gave a surprised little laugh and blushed. "I'm old enough to be your mother!"

"And?"

She looked him over. She had seen the video of his performance the previous night and wondered what it would be like to spend some time with Tom. Generally though that was a trainer's prerogative even if any non-indentured staff could make use of the residents at will. She glanced around, put a do not disturb on her phone and took some keys from a desk drawer.

"There's a supply closet just down the hall." She said standing up.

Tom was already in motion. The truth was he wasn't particularly attracted to the woman. She was a bit old for his tastes and the whole random-sex-with-total-strangers thing was still taking some getting used to. But it never hurt to get in good with the boss's assistant and the best way to get used to something was to do it a lot.

Once inside the closet, the receptionist locked the door, ordered Tom out of his shirt and told him to set up some boxes so she could sit on them. While he was going that she kicked off her shoes and slipped out of her hose and panties.

"I can't believe I'm doing this." She muttered, sitting down. She opened her legs and put a hand on the back of Tom's head. Obedient, he got his face between her thighs and went to work.

It was a little surreal. Like most teenaged boys Tom had screwed pretty much anything attractive and willing. Living as he had without a home or limits beyond what he set on himself there had been plenty of chances to have sex without the other person being willing or necessarily conscious at the time too. He'd passed on those. Even being the vicious little bastard he was well into his twenties and still could be with the proper motivation, that was a line he refused to cross. It was a principle that had nearly gotten him killed at one point but he reckoned you needed to have standards.

Since getting serious with the twins though Tom had never once strayed. And here he was, offering himself to a woman whose first name he didn't even know in a closet surrounded by paper clips and printer paper. He used his fingers to spread her open a little. She was hairier than his girls. They didn't shave but they kept things trimmed down there. Harris' assistant looked as if her bush had never even seen a picture of a razor. The hair was dark, with gray and white mixed in. It was kind of interesting that. He'd never been down on a woman with gray hair anywhere on her body, let alone on her sex.

The scent of her was heavy and musky, clean. He'd expected a woman her age to be a bit dry but when he found her clit with his tongue she was already damp. He worked quickly. His tongue, a little dry and raspy – Angie had once compared it to a cat's – lapped at her, concentrating on the clitoris. There wasn't time to tease and play like he preferred.

Her hand pressed on the back of his head, pushing him against her triangle harder. Tom burrowed in, licking inside of her, tasting her juices and trying to reach her G-spot with his tongue. Her legs wrapped around his shoulders. Nails dug into the sore skin of his upper back, covered with rapidly fading welts. He'd always been a fast healer. He whimpered and pressed in harder. His fingers danced over her clitoris, rubbing in little circles. Her hips were moving now. Without looking up Tom knew his temporary Mistress was biting her lip, getting close. He worked his way out of her, went back to lapping and sucking hungrily on the little button between her legs. Fingers found the G-spot at the same time. Strong, calloused hands kneaded and rubbed with gentle firmness even as his lips and tongue worked their will higher up.

Two hands gripped his hair then. A muffled scream sounded from behind clenched jaws and Maryanne, the fifty-five year old assistant with a son five years Tom's senior bucked and thrashed. She shoved his face hard against her slippery wet opening, forcing him to lap and swallow as she came in his mouth. Tom gagged a little. It was hard to breath and Maryanne was one of the few women he'd ever been with who came white. Still, he didn't pull back. He kept his jaws and tongue moving until she pulled him back by the hair.

Tom smiled up at Maryanne. She was winded. Her face was flushed. A sheen of sweat gave her skin a little glow. The whole closet smelled of sex and pheromones. Tom couldn't help but wonder if anyone had heard them or what the next person needing staples or correction fluid would think. The possible reaction gave him a little thrill. Looking deeper into himself he realized he'd enjoyed the experience. That didn't surprise him. He'd always enjoyed getting women off. It was an ego thing and he wasn't ashamed to admit it.

Maryanne stroked his hair."Oh my." She said."That was...very nice."

Tom smiled at her."For both of us, Miss. I'm glad you had a good time. But we should probably get back out there before we're both missed." He kissed her thigh and looked around for something to clean up with.

One shelf held paper several rolls of paper towels. Not exactly ideal but they'd do. A few minutes later Tom was back in his chair and Maryanne was behind her desk again. They were both grinning to themselves when Harris called Tom back into his office.

******************************************************************

A Slave’s Strength (Chapter Eight):
Coming To Terms

by

mechgogo

The BOI legal department had moved with breakneck speed in this instance. Apparently by the time he had been brought in Rick, the family’s lawyer friend had raised six kinds of hell with the Bureau. Rick had been an ardent abolitionist from day one and could quote the relevant laws from memory. A six-figure lawsuit was being threatened along with all manner of bad media drama. Harris’s superiors naturally wanted the matter settled quietly and, preferably cheaply. But above all quickly. And quietly.

Tom and the Bureau higher ups did a bit of dickering via video conference. Terms were worked out with the understanding that the deal was conditional upon his family playing ball. Rick was brought in on the matter and went ballistic in the manner unique to attorneys who are convinced they’ve got the other side by the short hairs. He thought Tom was an idiot for trying to make the deal and said as much. He could be home by the end of the week with more money in the family account than they’d made in their entire time together, and he wanted to just piss it away over some random kids he didn’t even know? What the hell?

“You just go right ahead and buy my freedom by feeding a bunch of innocent kids to the chains, Rick.” Tom warned, using not particularly polite abolitionist term for indentured contract holders. “You go on ahead and see what happens. I fucking dare you!”

Rick backed off after that. At least one person that he knew of had pushed matters after hearing that phrase from Tom only to later make the acquaintance of a two-pound ball peen hammer. Tom was his friend but he was not above admitting the man scared the piss out of him sometimes.

Angie and Nicki had their say in things as well. Tom had enough experience with the criminal justice system to be certain a couple of Nick’s comments constituted felonies. There was screaming and tears on both ends in English and Irish alike. In the end though, Tom had his way. That wasn’t always the case at his house. He was a single man living with two Irish women after all, both of whom he loved in no small part for how much steel they had in them.

The terms were simple. To begin with, Agent Mark French went on ninety days unpaid administrative leave. The family wanted his job. Well, Rick wanted his job. Nicki and Angie wanted his balls and liver respectively. But they agreed to the suspension. During that time he would hand write in simple print handwriting separate letters of apology to both sisters with his full legal name printed clearly at the bottom. It was amazing the amount of grief you could commence for a person with just their name. When he got back he would be restricted to collection duty indefinitely. Training responsibilities would cease to be part of his job description for as long as he worked for the Bureau.

Fifty thousand dollars would be deposited into a separate account and doled out in two week allotments for the next year. An additional amount was agreed upon based on the average cost of contract per current resident at the center. This money would go to buying the freedom of whichever trainees Tom saw fit to select. By his own reckoning it amounted to freedom for Billy, Aaron and maybe three or four other kids if he was careful.

In return the girls would not pursue legal action. They would sign a gag agreement and not discuss the matter with anyone anywhere under any circumstances or be liable for damages sufficient to make indentured servitude a family-wide career path. Tom would remain in service for the duration of his contract. When Nicki found out about the fine he was expected to pay, she snapped all over again. You could buy a crate of cell phones for the amount of money those additional six months represented. So the fine got waived with the understanding that Tom was not to pull another stunt like that again.

Papers were signed and faxed back and forth. Minor points were dickered over but ultimately resolved. In the end both sides left the table feeling just a bit corn-holed. To Tom’s way of thinking that made it a win-win.

After saying good-bye to his girls for the second time in two days Tom was led off to Marie’s office. They had offered to let him make his selections in the morning but he didn’t want to waste any time.

“Thanks for letting me use your space to work Mistress Marie.” He said when they got to the tastefully decorated office. “I could’ve done it in my cell though. I mean, it couldn’t have been that hard to give the computer in there access could it?”

“I wanted to talk to you.” She said. She poured herself some coffee, offered Tom a cup.

“I’m actually more partial to hot chocolate.” He admitted. “But thanks.” His stomach grumbled and he ignored it. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. He could afford to wait.

Marie made a call to the cafeteria. A pot of hot chocolate was sent up along the lasagna option for dinner. Tom tried to refuse, explaining he was trying to minimize the amount of extra time he bought himself.

“It’s on me.” Marie said “You’re very intriguing Tom. I’ve seen a lot of residents come through here but you’re my first voluntary. And I don’t think you’re normal even for them. You fold like silk on some things. You’re unfailingly polite to most of the staff. You fawn over Agent Comisky even though it’s obvious you’re in love with your wife and sister-in-law.”

“Wives, Mistress Marie.” Tom said absently. His fingers were flying over the keyboard, setting search parameters. Cost of contract, age, gender, sexual experience, number and financial stability of relatives on the outside. He’d be damned if he’d free some kid only to have them fighting for their lives out on the street.

“Excuse me?” Marie asked. She wasn’t used to being corrected by indents. She considered ordering Tom over the arm of her couch for some correction of his own.

“You said wife and sister-in-law.” Tom said. “Nicki’s my wife no different than Angie. Doesn’t matter what the law says. That’s just a piece of paper and financial bullshit so the government can get its cut. Marriage is in your heart and head; what you agree to commit to with somebody else. Not what some asshole politician who’s half the time screaming about family values with the right side of his mouth, and using the left side to place an order for underage hookers and a kilo of coke, has to say. No offense. It’s just how I see it is all.”

Marie thought about that. From anyone else that little speech would have been hugely insubordinate. From Tom, it was just how he saw the world. She decided she might still take a strap to Tom later but for entertainment purposes rather than disciplinary.

“Alright. Your wives. Where was I?”

“I fawn over Mistress Beth, but Helen Keller could see I’m devoted to my wives.”

“Right. At the same time I’m convinced if things had continued between you and Agent French, you would have tried to kill him before your transfer date. Or if we tried to push you in the wrong direction we’d have to risk an accident with you to get compliance.”

“Right, on both counts.” Tom said.

Ok, so eliminate anyone currently 18 or older. It was an arbitrary number to be sure you had to set the bar somewhere. Organize by cost of contract first with age and financial solvency of remaining family members second and third. It made him a little sick, deciding peoples fates based on best-value-per-dollar but the goal was to unshackle as many kids as possible using an entirely-too-limited-for-his-taste budget.

“So why stay?” she asked. “I can understand – just barely – acting as your sis...your wife Nicollete’s proxy. But you had a chance to walk out of here and you’re throwing it away for nothing. Why?”

There was a knock on the door. One of the residents who was toward the end of their training pushed a cart with two meal settings into the room. At Marie’s gesture, they set it up in front of where she sat on the couch and crawled out on all fours.

“Hold your answer until after dinner.” Marie told Tom. She snapped her fingers and pointed at her feet. “On your knees within easy reach of my hands. Hands behind your back. Oh, and you’re a bit overdressed for my taste.”

When Tom was stripped and arranged the way she wanted him, Marie started in on her dinner. Periodically she fed Tom using the second serving and silverware that she had ordered just for him. In between bites they talked. After the second or third horrifying answer relating to his childhood Marie switched to more innocuous matters. She asked about his hobbies, tastes in music, why he wore his hair so long when almost no one his age did any more. Tom’s answer to that question rang false with her. It was too practiced and generic, not so much an actual as something he thought would satisfy most people.

The contents of the cart included two slices of chocolate cake for dessert and, for Tom, a glass of plain white milk. The first time Mistress Marie held out the glass to him, he instinctively reached for it with his hand. Marie pulled the glass back and slapped his hand hard enough to make him wince and hiss at the pain.

“Do that again when I’m feeding you and I’ll stripe your butt and thighs.” She warned.

“Sorry, Mistress.” Tom said, dropping his eyes submissively.

Marie held out the glass again. This time Tom leaned forward and let her give him a drink without touching it. Most of the milk went in his mouth but he wasn’t used to having someone else make him drink like that. A thin stream ran down his chin and onto his chest, eliciting a sigh of frustration from Marie.

“Little slob.” She muttered. She picked up a napkin. “Come here.”

The rest of the meal was pleasant enough. By the time Marie decided Tom was ready for dessert, he was able to take a drink from her without spilling any. This earned him a smile and “Good boy” which he found oddly warming. The chocolate cake was a treat. One of Tom’s biggest vices was a savage sweet tooth that he had to keep a constant eye on. He found himself smiling with genuine pleasure as she forked little bites of cake into his mouth.

After they were both finished Marie had Tom remove her shoes and took her hose off. He gave a pointed look to the space just below her navel. She shook her head at the unspoken inquiry.

“Maybe later.” She extended one foot and wiggled her toes at him. “Kiss and massage. First the left then the right.”

Tom got to work. Kissing and licking at Marie’s toes and instep while he massaged her feet. He knew part of the point of the service was to humiliate him but he wasn’t bothered. It actually reminded him of being at home. The twins had loved how strong his hands were and looking after them had always been a pleasure. They didn’t play any of the Mistress/slave games that formed the constant social background noise at the center. That sort of thing had never appealed to any of them. But using his strength and smarts in the capacity of a caregiver rather than a predator had been a source of real fulfillment. Even if Marie was a chain it was nice to be able to do so again.

On the couch, Marie stretched and luxuriated in Tom’s handiwork. His hands were strong and slightly calloused. His fingers seemed to know exactly where to press to ease away the day’s considerable tension. And he looked so cute with his head bowed and the tip of his tongue delicately tapping at her toes.

“Mmmmm.” She purred. “That’s my good boy. So, my question from earlier?”

Tom had hoped she’d forget. Uh-huh and maybe he’d wake up and find the whole legislation issue had just been a bad dream brought on by his subconscious wanting to punish him for all the God-awful things he’d done over the years. Right.

“Can I have some hot chocolate before I answer, Mistress?” he asked, trying to stall. “This gets into some stuff it’s hard to talk about.”

“If you can remember your manners, you can.”

Tom blushed. More than one person had described him as the most polite person they’d ever met. It was a source of genuine embarrassment to slip, however minimally.

“Mistress Marie, may I please have some hot chocolate before I answer?”

“That’s better. Pour yourself a cup and take a drink. But don’t neglect your task while you talk.”

“The thing with Mistress Beth, and my girls, is pretty straightforward.” Tom said after he’d had a drink. The chocolate was passable at best. He’d made better at home using an instant mix. Still it was warming and a comfort. “I’d never so much as kiss Mistress Beth if I were free and could be with Nick and Ang’ . But I’m not and I can’t. And Mistress Beth is alright. I meant what I said in Mr. Harris’s office about serving her. If I could have worked out a way to include my contract going to her as part of my deal I would have done it like that.” He snapped his fingers.

“That wouldn’t have been possible.” Marie said. “Not without putting her at risk of residency.”

Tom nodded “What I thought. So I make the best of a bad situation. I enjoy myself with somebody who’s pretty and strong and reminds me of my girls and along the way pay her back for being nice to me. Pick up some good memories to take the edge off things down the road you know? Doesn’t mean I love the twins any less. No more than blowing Frenchy means I suddenly turned gay.”

“As for buying those kids free when I could go home instead...” He took a drink from his cup and thought. Some things were easier to face or discuss than others.

“I have done a lot of horrible stuff in my time.” Tom said quietly. “Kinda stuff you don’t confess to anyone. Especially not in a place as wired as this. Kinda stuff makes you not like going to sleep at night because it’s waiting for you when you close your eyes.”

“So this is atonement for your past.”

Tom glared at her. His eyes were blazing with cold rage. Marie suddenly understood why Agent Comisky, a dangerous woman by most standards, was so careful in her handling of him. “There is no fucking atonement for some of the shit I did.” He ground out. “Ever.” She could feel him shaking as he spoke.

Marie swallowed nervously. Her throat was suddenly dry and her mind was very much aware of how far away her control unit was. “You were a runaway, Thomas.” She said. “You were only doing what you had to in order to survive.”

Tom shook his head. He gave it a curious little rotation as if he were drawing a circle in the air with his chin and visibly forced himself out of whatever awful place he had briefly visited.

“Not always. Maybe about half the time. Rest of the time it was just me being a vicious little bastard gettin’ off on being able to hurt people.” Old memories swelled up and with them the emotions he tried to keep in check. There were nights when the guilt and sickness at some of his actions kept him up until dawn.

“Thing is, the last few years I’ve tried to be a better person, you know? Don’t get me wrong; I still don’t have what most would call a normal morality. And I’m ok with that, you know? I see so much damned hypocrisy in the world; so many people talking out of both sides of their mouth at once it makes me sick. And the fact is sometimes the best way to handle a situation is to just act like a shark or a spider that learned how to walk on two feet and wear clothes.

“But here’s the thing; what about when it isn’t those times, hm? What about when the choice is between you and some innocent kid who not only never hurt you, he actually looks up to you for some reason? What about when you’re sittin’ there looking at this soft, sheltered little puppy just barely holding it together and there’s you across the table from him; bigger, stronger, a million times tougher. And what’s waiting down the road for both of you is pretty much the same thing but you know you can handle it because you handled way worse by the time you were his age.”

“How do you look that kid in the eye and tell him ‘Guess what? I’m gonna throw your ass to the piranha just so I can dodge out of something I got myself into in the first place.’ ? More important how do you go home to your wives and your friends and your abolitionist politics and look yourself in the eye, hm?”

Tom shook his head, did that odd little rotational tick again. “I’m a sonofabitch, Mistress. But it’s been a long time since I’ve been a goddamned sonofabitch. Just as soon not go back there if I can avoid it.”

Marie didn’t say anything to that. She just stared at Tom with a slightly dread-filled fascination. Part of her wondered what other solutions to his “wife’s” financial problem he had considered and discarded before settling on the one that brought him here to kneel naked and obedient at her feet. She abandoned that line of exploration quickly. Nightmares seldom troubled her sleep and she suspected that would change if she did not.

Marie eventually released Tom from his task. He gave her feet one final kiss each and went back to making his selections. In the end a total of five teenaged newcomers were chosen including Billy and Aaron. All were between sixteen and eighteen years old. Two were girls, the last one a boy. Tom flipped a coin to decide the gender of the final exonerated teen. It might have seemed arbitrary but it was the fairest way he could think of to pick. One of the girls was a virgin. The other was not. That was a conscious decision. It didn’t seem right to punish someone just for not keeping their legs together at a young age.

There was some money left over at the end. Not enough to completely emancipate somebody but enough to make a dent. A third girl, seventeen years old and sexually experienced got a year of her service expunged.

Tom showed Mistress Marie his choices. She nodded and forwarded them on to the relevant parties in the Bureau. All five kids would be home by the end of the week. That done Marie pointed to the office couch.

“That folds out into a bed Thomas.” She said. “Please see to it, and then lay down on your left side.”

While Tom did as she said, Marie pushed the cart out into the hallway. Then she locked the office door and undressed, careful to keep herself out of Tom’s line of sight. She lay down her side behind him, moved his hair off the back of his neck and spent some time kissing him there. Tom stirred, but held still at her instruction. Her hands wandered over him, petting and exploring. Nails danced over his skin, making him bite his lip at the teasing sensation. His cock reacted to her caresses and she made a little pleased sound in her throat at the response.

In time, Marie pulled him gently to his back. She turned his face in her hand, making him look up at her. Mouths found one another and Tom’s arms went around the older woman. There was no toys, no beatings. The welts and bruises of the previous night were not renewed. There was just a man, helpless and submissive, and a woman, older, in charge and comfortable in her power. She used Tom thoroughly, imposing her will on him with body and voice. Strong, gentle touches and murmured commands guided Tom through his service. He smiled, relaxing into it, letting her will steer him.

The pleasure was mutual, Marie made sure of it. At the end, she straddled Tom riding him to a shared orgasm. Her body shared wiriness with Toms own. Her breasts were smaller than most of the women he had been with, no more than a B-cup. A light tan covered every inch of supple skin and the muscles of her thighs stood out in diamond relief as she worked herself up and down. When they finally came together – his first and only her third or fourth – she lay atop him and kissed him on the mouth.

“Good boy, Tom.” She said. She lay full-length atop him, letting her weight pin him to the mattress.

After a few minutes rest Marie dismounted and sent Tom to his cell after having him straighten up the office. The promised pillow waited for him on his bunk. He cleaned himself up as best he could, lay down and went to sleep.

A Slave's Strength (Chapter 9):
A Shocking Development

by

mechgogo

The second major incident that marred Tom's training occurred two days later. Things had been going fairly well. Billy and Aaron had left earlier that day. Tom got a chance to say goodbye to them. Apparently Billy's grandparents had cashed in some old investments and been able to buy him clear. Aaron's uncle in Nebraska had done some fast maneuvering with a loan against the garage he owned. That, plus a little help from a local abolitionist group had been enough to swing the needed funds.

The day was winding down. Tom's group – smaller now with the absence of the boys and a few other lucky ones – had been brought into the gym for a post-dinner intimate services lesson. The trainer was a female staffer, not Mistress Beth, to Tom's regret. She was out on a collection run.

"Now," the lady said. She had introduced herself as Mistress Roche and did not recommend puns on her name that ended in the word 'Motel.' "As you all are aware you will be expected to serve your new employers sexually as well in other, more traditional ways. What you need to remember is that there is more to that kind of service than simply having sex with your contractors or their non-indentured friends. Some people like to watch and it is almost certain that each and every one of you will be expected to perform with another ICL for the entertainment of your betters at some point. Form a circle, everyone."

She looked around the group once they had repositioned themselves. "Let's see. Debbie, front and center, please."

Debbie obediently crawled forward. She was a cute little thing – a slightly chubby, brunette, engineering student who had let her college loans get the better of her. She knelt in the middle of the group at Mistress Roche's feet. Her legs were open and her expression a little nervous.

"Good girl, Debbie." Mistress Roche said, patting her on the head. Debbie beamed and pushed her head against the caressing hand like a cat. Tom had wondered more than once if the girl's financial troubles were as much an accident as she insisted.

"And..., Tom. Please join us."

Tom didn't move. "Just so we're clear, Mistress Roche," he said, "you expect me to have sex with Debbie here. Debbie the involuntary indent. Is that what you're after?"

"Yes, Tom." Roche said letting her slightly strained patience show in her tone. "Is there a problem?"

Tom shook his head. "Not at all, Mistress Roche. I'm just afraid I'll have to respectfully decline."

Roche let a hint of anger show in her face. "I wasn't offering you a choice, Tom. Now take your position and do as you're told."

Tom's voice lost none of its properly submissive and respectful tone. His face was a polite, passive mask that showed none of his disgust at the idea of engaging in what he considered to be an act of rape.

"I will not, Mistress Roche." He said. Then he turned to the other students kneeling around him "Y'all might wanna back off a bit. I don't want you to get hit if I flail around when she zaps me."

Tom turned back to the trainer. "Is there something I can do for you?" he asked.

Sure enough, the control unit was in her hand. "Yes," she said. "you can show the other students why it's such a bad idea to disobey a direct order."

Roche's thumb depressed the button and a surge of electricity hit Tom in the neck. He didn't try to tough it out. The effect was like being hit with a tazer. Unless you were whacked out of your mind on coke, crank or PCP the only thing you could do was scream and fall down.

Roche gave him a thirty second burst. When she let up she allowed Tom a few seconds to catch his breath. "Tom, take your position and do as you're told."

He cleared his throat and looked up at her. "I will not." He said calmly.

The next surge lasted forty-five seconds and the one after that a full minute. Tom had to spend a few seconds blinking away little silvery floaty things from his vision. He wondered if it was a bad sign that he smelled burnt bacon.

"I can do this all night, Mr. Donovan."

"So can I, Mistress."

As it turned out he was only able to do it for another half hour. That was how long it took for him to pass out. By the end of it there was a substantial betting pool going in the control center. No one was betting on Tom to give in. Instead, all the action was on how long it would take him to pass out. Agent Paul Brenneman won a hundred and fifty dollars for his bet of 27 minutes.

When Tom regained consciousness, he was being strung up to one of the pull-up bar frames. They made convenient flogging frames for when somebody like himself decided to get up on their hind legs in a way the trainers didn't like. The male IO who had warned Tom about Frenchy's vindictive nature secured his wrists over his head. He took a strap off his belt and stepped back. Before he did he whispered in Tom's ear.

"Dude, just do what she says, man. The entire staff knows what you did for Beth and those kids. Nobody wants to hurt you."

Tom shook his head. "Sorry." He said quietly. "Gotta stick to your principles."

The guard shook his head. Tom gave him a headache. The guy had no problem killing a bunch of people, but he wouldn't screw some hot little coed who probably wanted it anyhow. It made no sense.

Mistress Roche had directed the rest of the class to reposition themselves around where Tom hung waiting to be beaten. "Mr. Donovan, I don't know what your problem is, but I don't take defiance from my students. I'm going to give you one last chance to perform with Debbie here. If you don't comply, Officer Hengel will beat you until you do or we need to take you to the infirmary."

Tom took a deep breath and dug around in his skull for a good memory to lose himself in. This was really gonna hurt. "I'm sorry, Mistress Roche." He said "I'm not trying to disrespect you. But I will not have sex with any indent I don't know for a fact is a voluntary."

He turned to Hengel then. "What's your first name, man?" he asked.

Hengel blinked. "Umm. It's Ed."

"You do what you have to do, Ed. I know it's not personal. Just do me a favor? Switch off hands now and again. I don't wanna get all lopsided you know?" There was no defiance in his words. They were just the calm declaration of a man who had accepted the consequences of his choice.

Roche nodded to Hengel. Tom took a deep breath, set his jaw and threw himself into a memory of his wedding day. The rest of the class just looked on with a mix of emotions. Some admired Tom for his choice. Some were repulsed at what was about to happen. On some level, most of them didn't understand why he didn't just go along with the program. The whole center knew he was there of his own free will and he led most of the classes. Half the instructors held him up as an example of how to behave if you wanted to win favor with your employer when your contract was bought. What was up with the iron-man routine?

The first strike burned in across Tom's ass. It was painful and embarrassing but he could handle it. More rapidly followed all up and down his back. Hengel was careful to avoid his kidneys and the backs of his knees. You could cripple a person or do permanent organ damage hitting them there.

Tom hung in the cuffs. Old combat instincts came online. Adrenaline flooded his body pushing the pain back. Endorphins started flowing. The body's natural painkiller began to give him a familiar buzz.

Inside his mind it was his wedding day. The sun was shining. The march was playing. All their friends were present. The ceremony was outside and you could smell the green of the warm spring day. He stood there in his best shirt and suit jacket. A plaid kilt hung around his waist, the light wool just a little bit itchy. God, he was nervous. He was actually doing it. Tom Donovan, scumbag, street rat, arsonist and worse was getting married to not one but two of the most gorgeous, fun, all around amazing women God had ever made. It didn't make sense. They could both do so much better, but they both wanted him. His chest felt about three sizes too small with the intensity of the emotion. Somebody must be wearing some nasty-assed perfume or the pollen count must be up because his eyes were itching, wanting to water.

His girls came down the aisle. Angie, red haired and statuesque. Nicki, shorter and all warm, welcoming curves. The girls wore matching wedding dresses. Nothing elaborate, just simple white cotton affairs. Their hair had been done to match too. Each wore it in a simple French braid down the back topped by a garland of flowers. He had never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

There was some vague disturbance happening the periphery. Somebody off in the distance was being beaten on. The cracks of the leather on flesh were distracting. He felt his own skin light up in sympathy. It didn't matter. He was a survivor. He had inflicted worse on himself as a matter of principle. And really, how could he let anything get the tiniest piece of his attention on such a day?

"Tom? Tom!"

Tom blinked and shook his head. He was back in the center, still strung up, still naked. It wasn't the first time he had disassociated under stress. Usually it happened during fights, the product of his anger overriding his intellect like some old-time Norse berserker. There were advantages to it. You could take punishment you'd never be able to absorb normally. You were fast and mean, and the other guy had to kill or cripple you to stop you.

The problem was, there was a price to be paid for that. In the first place, a guy who kept who his wits about him could cream your ass simply by out-thinking you. In the second, you didn't negate the suffering so much as defer it. All the pain he hadn't allowed himself to fully experience came crashing in then. Everything hurt. From his shoulders to just above his kidneys, from his ass to his knees and his calves to his ankles, it all hurt!

Hot pain throbbed all up and down his rear arc. Tom bit the inside of his cheek. He was still a little buzzed on the endorphins. Everything felt vaguely floaty but his abused skin still pulsed angry heat at him.

Hengel and Roche were trying to get his attention. Both of them had looks of concern on their faces.

"You in there, Tom?" Hengel asked.

Tom nodded. "What happened?"

"We stopped. You...went away is the only way to put it. There's limits to how far we can go. Your back is bleeding."

Tom thought. Mixed in with the memory of his wedding day there were other, distorted moments as well. He remembered watching himself get beaten on. He remembered his body crying out with the pain but feeling it only in a detached sort of way. They had asked him, again and again if he would obey the order to perform with Debbie. At first he had said he would not comply. Then, as things got more intense, he had just shaken his head. His face was wet and his eyes felt puffy. He must have been crying. No surprise that.

A team arrived with a gurney. Ed and Roche took him down. His knees started to give, but he caught himself. His legs felt wobbly. He was starting to shiver. The adrenaline and endorphins were fading and the crash was looming like a miles-high tidal wave in some bad disaster movie.

The staffers started to guide him to the gurney, but he shook them off. He had his pride, damn it. He steeled himself walked the couple steps to the rolling bed. Pulling himself up to lie face-down on the mattress was more a matter of overcoming the screaming conniption fit his nerves endings were having than anything else.

Tom spent the night in the infirmary secured to his bed. There wasn't much to be done for the minor cuts from Hengel's belt apart from cleaning them and dabbing them with a little antiseptic ointment. His welts were massaged and Icy-Hot applied to help what promised to be some serious bruising. Tom fell asleep on his stomach sore but not regretting his choice.

The next day after breakfast, Tom's class was brought into the gym again. Everyone was staring at him. The center was its own small community and his behavior of the previous night had made the rounds. His back, ass and thighs hurt but he had endured worse. The welts had mostly faded and the bruises weren't as bad as the staff had expected. Tom could have told them that would be the case. All the fights he'd been in over the years had toughened his skin and he had always been a fast healer.

Mistress Beth was present. Apparently somebody thought she could get him to listen where Officer Roche could not. He gave a mental shrug at that. People thought a lot of foolish things.

"Last night," Mistress Beth announced "Tom here was supposed to give us all a demonstration in how to perform publicly with a fellow ICL. Instead he gave us a demonstration in defiance and why that is such a bad idea. Today he is going to get a second chance. Tom?"

Tom sighed. This promised to suck. Doubly so because he genuinely did not like upsetting Mistress Beth. But there were things in this world that even a predator like him had to refuse on principle. He hadn't put himself in the system twice now to save various people from being sexually assaulted only to dive into the sewer and become a perp himself.

"I'm sorry, Mistress Beth, but I can't do as you ask."

Beth picked something up off the floor. Tom had seen it, recognized it and felt a rush of genuine fear. The object was a belt similar to the ones that went around the middle of especially difficult prisoners. It was made of heavy-duty ballistic nylon and was about six inches wide at all the way around. Wrist restraints were mounted on the sides. A series of Velcro closures were used to close it around the waist of the wearer. A seat-belt style buckle secured it to the wearer and it was possible to lock the device in place. A battery pack sat on the back of the belt right about where the base of the wearer's spine would be. Two electrodes were clearly visible.

Beth showed the stun belt to the class. "This," she said "is a stun belt. We use it when transporting particularly dangerous residents or when someone poses a continued threat to the staff. The chips in your necks deliver a thirty-five thousand volt shock. This delivers fifty-thousand volts."

She held up a remote and pressed the button. A loud warning tone sounded. After three seconds there was a loud snap! and a bright blue spark jumped between the two electrodes. Everyone winced.

"The battery pack is rechargeable and is good for 900 bursts at one second each or two hours of continuous operation. We have lots and lots of replacement batteries here at the center."

Mistress Beth looked at Tom "You know I'll use this, Tom."

He nodded. His voice was calm, level. He took real pride in the way it didn't reveal how he close he was to pissing himself at the idea of a session with that thing.

"Yes, Mistress, and you should know you're going to have to. So with all due respect, why don't we quit wasting everyone's time and get to the part where I'm screaming myself hoarse, hm?"

Beth gestured and two gaurds put the belt on him. He didn't resist. When ordered into the middle of the circle he obeyed, kneeling in front of her.

Beth held up the belts remote. "Tom," she said. "I am giving you a direct order. Pick a trainee to perform with and follow the instructions given by the rest of the class."

Tom looked her in the eye. "I will not compl...aaaiiiieeeee!" His response turned into a scream as the belt went live.

Over the years Tom Donovan had endured more than his share of physical suffering. He had been punched, kicked, shot, stabbed and hit with a warehouse full of improvised weapons. He had laid down two different motorcycles and a lifetime love affair with pyromania had left its mark on his skin. At age fifteen years, six months, he had paid a friend to burn a swastika tattoo the size of a post-it note off his right shoulder blade with a propane torch. None of that compared to the belt.

Fifty thousand volts of electricity surged through him. White hot fire seized his nerves and everything became one massive wash of agony. Tom screamed and fell over, thrashing uncontrollably. Only the mats on the floor prevented him from bashing his skull open.

After what seemed like forever, but what couldn't have been more than five seconds, the misery stopped. Mistress Beth stood over him. She held up the controller and gave him an inquiring look. Tom shook his head. Beth sighed, pressed the button and Hell's own revolving door spun him back into Lucifer's lobby.

The next two hours passed in that fashion. Beth would give Tom a burst then offer him the chance to obey. Tom would refuse. Beth would hit him again and the cycle would continue. Along the way, Tom screamed his throat raw. He pissed and shat himself in front of the entire class. At one point he lay there on the floor covered in his own filth sobbing uncontrollably.

Beth offered him yet another chance to obey at that point. "Tom, please." She said "Be reasonable. No one wants to hurt you. Just do as you're told and the pain can stop."

He lay there gasping. More than once he had wondered what it would be like to be all the way on fire. Now he had a pretty good idea. He wanted to say yes. It would be so easy. Just pick a pretty girl. Follow instructions no different from those he had been given by Mistress Beth or Melanie or Harris' receptionist. How bad would it be? He opened his mouth to speak. And that's when the memory came back.

Eighteen years ago he had been a runaway scrambling to survive on the streets of Detroit. Like a lot of kids he had fallen in with a gang, this one a pack of skinheads. They had treated him better than his own family ever had. He had had food, and a place to stay. He had belonged to something bigger than himself. His friends had watched his back and he had watched theirs. It had been a great time.

Then one night they had all gathered at one of the city's many abandoned buildings. Some of the guys had been out cruising around and spotted an interracial couple: white female, black male. The pair had been snatched up and brought to the derelict house in a neighborhood where screams were generally ignored.

A much younger and stupider Tom had participated in gang-stomping the guy. Then, at the instruction of the senior man present, he had soaked the man in lighter fluid. The girl had been given a choice: take on the entire crew or watch her boyfriend burn.

Tom had thought it was all a bluff, a mind-fuck until she stripped and lay down. There had been jokes and laughter among his friends. Some good natured arguing had gone on over who went first. A couple guys thought Tom should take the first turn. He was still a virgin then and it was high time he became a man.

Tom just felt sick. Beating people or robbing them or starting fires was one thing. Rape? Especially the rape of a white woman, even a race traitor? His hands knew he'd made a choice before his conscious mind did.

The bottle of fluid had come up from his side. His Zippo, the one with the SS lightning on it that had been a present from one of the guys was in his free hand. A squeeze of the bottle, a flick of the wheel. Liquid flame splashed out over the men in front of him. There had been screams and confusion and a mad rush out of the building with his former friends in hot pursuit. The man and the woman had run off into the night, going one way. Tom went the other.

Over the years that followed, Tom would hurt a lot of people. He would rob and steal and deal drugs and do all manner of criminal things to get by. People would die in fires he set. But he never crossed that line. And on some level he had made up his mind that he'd die before he did.

Tom looked up at Mistress Beth, back in the present now. He wanted to please her. More than that, he wanted the pain to stop. But if you wanted to call yourself a human being there had to be places you wouldn't go. Ever.

Talking hurt by then. His throat was raw, his voice broken. He still managed to make himself heard. "I. Will. NOT!" The vehemence of the response startled Beth back a step. The controller came up again. The pain slammed into him and this time he blacked out.

The next thing Tom knew he was in the infirmary – again. Once again, he lay, naked and restrained using the big soft crazy-people wrist and foot cuffs. He gave a soft, painful chuckle. It was getting to where he spent more time there than his cell. A pitcher of water and cup sat on the bedside table. And his good friend Mr. Harris was there along with Mistress Beth.

Harris did not look pleased to be dealing with yet another piece of Tom Donovan-centered drama. Tom couldn't blame the man. But he wasn't backing down either. If somebody somehow managed to get him to screw a resident – and he could think of a couple ways to make it happen with ease – it would only be a matter of time before the dying started.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Donovan." Harris said. "How are you feeling?"

Tom tried to answer but his throat felt like it had been scrubbed razor blades and then packed with rock salt.

"Can I get some water, please?" he managed to croak. Just because he'd been recently tortured was no excuse for bad manners.

Beth gave him a drink. He nodded gratefully at her. "I feel like I've been hit by a truck, Mr. Harris." He said. "How're you doing?"

"I'd be doing better if I didn't have to take time out of my day to deal a crisis that had you in the middle of it every other day. Tell me, Tom, do you think your voluntary status makes you special?"

Tom laughed at that. "Oh, I'm feelin' all kinds of special, sir." He launched into his best Rain Man impression. "Eighty-two, eighty-two, eighty-two thousand volts up my spine. Yeah. Gotta go to K-Mart and get twinkle bulbs. Gonna be a Christmas tree. Definitely a tree, yeah."

Beth bit back a smile at the joke. Harris did too. "That would be a lot funnier, if you weren't being such a problem for my staff, Mr. Donovan. I'm sure you can appreciate that I can't tolerate any rebellion among the residents."

Tom nodded. "And I'm sure you can appreciate that theres things every person won't do, Mr. Harris. Well guess what? Rape is one of mine."

"It's not rape."

Tom glared at him. His strength was coming back. He strained against his cuffs. "Yes. It fucking is, Mr. Harris." He bulldozed ahead before the other man could continue. "When you fuck someone who can't say no. Or when you use force or the threat of force to get them to say yes, that is rape. When you commit rape you become a ra-pist. And before I become that I will become a cor-pse. Are we clear, sir? I will suck and fuck every free person working here. Hell, bus staffers in from other centers. I'll take em on six at a time. But I will not. Fucking. Screw a fellow indent. Ever. "

"You're not the first willful resident we've had, Tom." Harris said. "Do you honestly thing we can't break you?"

"Anybody can be broken." Tom answered. "Anyone thinks they can't is kidding themselves. " He laughed, a sound like a silent cough. "Shit, a couple roofies in the water there," he twitched his head towards the pitcher. "and a pretty little thing waiting out of sight 'til they kick in are all you'd need."

Tom snapped his fingers "Hey presto, you got me to go with the program after all. Thing is, what happens then?"

Harris gave him a confused look. The scenario Tom had described was exactly what he intended, if he couldn't get the stiff-necked voluntary to see reason.

"What do you mean, what then? Then you finish your training, you get transferred to another facility and your contract gets purchased."

Tom shook his head. "No, Mr. Harris, then you've got to worry about what I do next. We both know I don't care if any of your staff live or die." He thought about that. "Well, Mistress Beth, I suppose. But I damn sure don't care if I live. Especially after something like that. God knows I never planned to survive if things went non-verbal the day Mistress Beth and I met."

"Way I see it, you keeping me under control while I'm here will be easy. All your resources and all of it intended to keep people like me in line. Well, indentured people anyhow. But what about out in the real world, hm? What about the very first time some poor dumb bastard gets complacent with me?"

"You really think it'd be hard for me to ghost some citizen? Or to drop off the map once I dug that chip from my neck? Ten minutes and fifty dollars, Mr. Harris. That's all I need in a hardware store to make national headlines. And don't forget: this is America. You can damned near buy guns out of vending machines. You honestly believe a guy with my past has to go to a gun store to arm himself?" He laughed at that.

"Look, I'm not trying to be a hardass, ok? I honestly want to go with the program, get myself set up being the pampered little lapdog for some rich Mommy or Daddy and in seven years get back to my family. But there's places I just won't go. Period. And if you force me into them I will find a way to kill a shitload of people before I get taken out myself. I won't fucking care anymore at that point, ok? What do you do then, Mr. Harris, hm? What's your explanation to your bosses when the nice man that you personally locked into the mindset of an Al Qaeda suicide bomber goes on a spree after mentioning you by name to the media as the reason all those dead bodies are all over the news, hm?" By the time Tom finished talking he was glaring at Harris. His lips were pressed together in a thin white line and the frame of the bed was flexing as he strained towards the other man.

Tom lay back, closed his eyes. "You do what you have to do, Mr. Harris." He said "I'll do the same. Now if you don't mind, I've had a rough couple days and could use a nap."

In the end, Tom never did have relations with any of the other trainees. Instead he lost most of the few privileges he had. His uniforms were permanently confiscated apart from a pair of shower shoes and small, hand-sized towel for sitting on. His email privileges were revoked and he was put on administrative rationing. All of these were subject to reversal the minute he agreed to perform sexually with a fellow resident.

Tom burned his marker on the food issue. Administrative rationing was a fancy way of saying three meals a day of prison loaf for the next ten days straight. "The loaf" as it was commonly known had been the subject of lawsuits by prison inmates in several states. It was a dense, compact food substance roughly the size, shape and weight of a pound cake. The loaf was normally used to punish prisoners who were habitual staff assaulters or throwers of their own bodily waste. It had all the nutrition of a typical prison meal. And all the flavor of a typical prison tube sock.

Harris dug in his heels. In the grand scheme of things, being naked 24/7 wasn't that big a deal at the center. It certainly didn't bother Tom any. The loss of email stung but it wasn't exactly visible. Part of the point was to show the other residents that defiance would not be tolerated. So the two worked out a compromise.

Tom agreed to go on ad-rats for half his remaining stay. Each day a small, but increasingly larger amount of laxative or purgative would be added to his food. This would simulate a previously undiagnosed food allergy that would justify his ultimate return to normal dining. It would also make for a very graphic example of why it didn't pay to get too far up on one's hind legs. The sight of Tom either puking or shitting his guts out towards the end of his time on the loaf would make the rest of the ICLs extremely reluctant to do anything that got them put on it. Spending his last five days back on normal meals would give him time to recover so that he could actually be of some use to whoever ultimately bought his contract.

The rest of his stay was fairly uneventful. He continued to excel at most of his classes. That was a combination of personal pride and enlightened self-interest. If he was going to do something for a living it only made sense to be good at it. And demonstrating himself to be ahead of the curve in the skills sought after by those wanting a tame domestic, increased his chances of not winding up at a brothel or porn studio.

He sat in quiet passivity as he fellow students were forced to pair off in various combinations and with varying degrees of willingness. He refrained from calling out suggestions during those times, but the staff didn't push it. And he learned that it was possible for a cafeteria worker to hide three slices of bacon inside a single serving of loaf if they knew what they were doing. He never did work out whose idea that was.

Mistress Marie made regular use of his body. They talked repeatedly at other times as well. One day she instructed him to write down the recipe he used at home for making his breakfast rice as well as some other personal information. That was a bit confusing but he didn't reckon he needed to understand.

Mistress Beth came to him on his second to last night at the center. She didn't use him except to enjoy his mouth. Word had come down that a prospective buyer wanted to interview him immediately upon transfer. They also wanted him with several rounds in the chamber if they decided he was a keeper. It was frustrating for Tom, but he was a commodity and the customer was always right.

Beth took Tom over her knee one last time. He'd grown to enjoy that. There was an intimacy in being spanked that way which was a significant turn-on. They talked as well. Tom apologized for being so difficult at times. Beth forgave him. She expressed regrets that she had not been able to pull the financial strings needed to take him home with her.

It was a shared regret. Indents never wound up serving in their home towns. The temptations and risks for escape or familial reprisal were just too great. But if it could have been swung he would have gone along gladly. He said as much, making her beam with pleasure. He also warned her to be careful. Nicki and Angie would probably honor his request to not come after her but you never knew.

After lights out on his final night at the center Tom lay on his bunk staring up into the dark for what seemed like hours. His nerves were jumping off worse than they had since his arrival. The center was nowhere any sane person wanted to live, but it wasn't any worse than a stretch in county. If nothing else it was familiar by now. God only knew where he'd be in a few days.

Still, he wouldn't do himself any favors tossing and turning all night. He closed his eyes, slowed his breathing. He found something pleasant to think about: how he would settle up with Frenchy when the time came. A cheese grater, extension cord and poison ivy plant all featured prominently. The officer working nighttime monitor duty checked the feed from Tom's cell a little later. He saw Tom was fast asleep and wondered what he was dreaming about that put such a smile on his face.

******************************************************************

A Slave's Strength (Chapter 10):
Transfer Day

by

mechgogo

Morning of Transfer Day found Tom where most mornings did: on his face on the floor doing his usual round of pushups and sit-ups. The cell's cramped quarters made some of his routine tricky, but he had always been adaptable. Ed Hengel, the guard who had helped work him over when he refused to screw a fellow trainee, took him to the showers. Tom frowned in confusion. He knew that there should have been dozens of others undergoing out-processing with him, but here he was flying solo. When he asked what was going on, Ed just shrugged and said it had to do with the mystery buyer that was interested in him.

Ed had come for Tom at six in the morning. By seven-thirty, he was back in his cell. Out-processing had been pretty boring. A final medical check, an exit interview with one of the counselors. They actually had him fill out a survey about his stay at the center. One of the questions had related to how he felt the accommodations could be improved. The counselor had read his answer, asked for clarification and not been amused when he explained what Semtex was.

When Tom returned to his cell there was a fresh uniform waiting for him. A note rested atop it. "Good luck in your new life. Try to behave yourself for a change. ;) Beth"

He smiled at that. She was still a chain, and he hated what she did for a living with a passion. But if you could look past it, Beth was alright. It wasn't as if he was in any position to claim the moral high ground on anybody. He dressed and knelt on the floor facing the door as instructed. Nobody had said he had to kill his knees on the concrete so he took down the mattress, folded it, and waited on that.

At eight o'clock, the door opened. It was Mistress Marie. She was carrying his property bag, a set of transport shackles and a stun belt.

"Good morning, Tom." She said, putting everything but the belt on the bare metal shelf of the bunk. "Strip and put your hands behind your head."

"What's going on?" he asked as obeyed. "I thought..."

"We're going out." Marie said. She buckled the belt around his waist, and he fought to keep his breathing under control. Just because he was willing to force the IOs to burn out a battery on him rather than do it with a resident didn't mean he enjoyed the fuckin' thing.

"I've set this for a ten foot proximity activation." Marie told him. "Don't make me use it."

She allowed him to get dressed after the belt was secure. He submitted to the shackles and walked meekly along as she lead him from the cell. Tom looked around as they left. The second breakfast shift was in the cafeteria, but it was still the usual mix of noise and bustling, often suffering, humanity. He didn't know if what was waiting for him would be better or worse, but it would be different. Whatever cage he found himself in next, at least there'd be fresh air and, hopefully, fewer people packed into one place. With any luck at all, there'd be an opportunity for escape as well. One phone call and the ball would commence to rolling on him and the girls being reunited in one of the countries that didn't extradite runaway indents.

Marie led Tom outside. He blinked at the bright sunlight. There were windows in the center but not many. He turned his face up to the early morning sun. It was already getting warm out. If he were at home, he'd probably be out on the porch in his kilt with a glass of lemonade and book on such a morning. He smiled. It had been two weeks since he had been outdoors, and the sensations of wind and sun had been missed.

Tom followed Marie into the staff parking lot. He was confused but getting less by the second. He knew for a fact that this wasn't how Transfer Day was supposed to go. He was supposed to be in a van with several other indents headed for an airplane that would take him and all the others from around the state whose training was up at least one state away. A ride in a private vehicle was not supposed to be part of the equation. Was Marie his mystery buyer? Was that why she had spent so much time with him and asked him all that stuff? It certainly explained the thing with the rice.

Marie's car was an Audi Cabriolet, the previous year's model – sleek and bright red. Tom quirked an eyebrow at that. Somehow, he hadn't seen her driving something like that. Silver maybe, with a hard top. As elegant as she was, how the hell did she afford a car that cost such a significant portion of his contract on a government salary? Hm, obviously slaving paid better than anyone in the Movement knew.

They drove in silence with the top down. Marie had secured him to the seat before pulling out. She rested a hand on his thigh for much of the drive. Tom smiled at her, opened his legs little wider. A guy could do a lot worse than seven years in her bed.

Even as he enjoyed the feel of the wind and the warmth of the sun, Tom kept his wits about him. Working at the freight company had given him a good grasp of local geography. Before long, he was able to get an inkling of where they were headed. There were only so many places within driving distance that someone who could afford his contract was likely to live.

The car's clock read 8:45 when Marie pulled into a parking lot and removed most of his restraints. By then, Tom was sure of where they were headed. They were deep in the suburbs at that point. Everything had that carefully planned look of communities built by and for people who needed to work in the city but damned sure didn't want to live there.

The stun belt stayed on, as did the cuffs. One bracelet went around his right wrist, the other around the passenger door's inside handle. The keys went with Marie's purse in the trunk. Even if he were stupid enough to overpower her, he wouldn't get far.

Marie took his chin in her hand. "I had to pull quite a few strings to make this happen, Tom." She told him. "We're going to meet a good friend of mine. Her name is Eleanor, and she has been following your progress with interest. Do I have to tell you how I expect the day to end?"

Tom shook his head. "No, Mistress Marie. I'll be on my best behavior."

She stroked his cheek and kissed him. "Good boy."

Ten minutes later they were pulling up in front of the security gates to the Bridgewood gated community. Tom knew the place from work and his involvement with the local cells. It was the sort of place where the neighbors had to vote you in. Big expensive lots with homes that started at half a mil, and in-ground pools as standard a feature as wheels on a motorcycle, nestled within the walls. There was a community center, two parks and a fitness center. Plus, shops so that the locals didn't have to mingle with the common folk unless they wanted to. Twenty-four hour armed private security watched over the luxury homes and the people who lived in them. Odds were the jerk rent-a-cop that checked Marie's ID, despite recognizing her on sight, made more than he had when he was free.

They pulled into a driveway that led up to a house nicer than anything Tom had ever spent more than a few minutes inside of without burglary tools. The two-story structure had big bay windows all around the ground floor and blond wood siding. An attached garage was snuggled up to the house. A privacy fence went around one half of the property. The whole thing sat in the middle of an acre of carefully tended lawn with decorative flowerbeds here and there.

A woman greeted them at the door. She was nearly a head shorter than Tom. Her blond hair looked natural, as did the light tan of her skin. She had on a pretty green and blue sundress that flattered her figure and open-toed sandals. Tom put her age at a very well taken care of forty-something. The play of muscle under her skin wasn't as obvious as it was with Marie, but there was strength there. And not just physical, either. This was somebody used to being in charge. Tom felt the full-body relaxation that had claimed him during his times with Mistress Beth or Marie come over him.

The owner of the house greeted Marie with a smile. Her teeth were the kind of perfect you normally only saw in magazines or the mouths of the very rich. No surprise there, given her address.

"Marie! Good of you to come." The two women hugged. She turned to Tom. "And you must be Thomas." She said, still beaming.

Tom resisted the urge to correct her about his name. Instead he bowed his head, lowered his eyes. "Hello, Mistress Eleanor. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Eleanor patted the air in front of him. "Just Mistress, dear." She turned and motioned them inside. "Please, come in. Can I offer you some coffee?"

"We stopped on the way." Marie said as she removed her shoes and took a seat on the couch. "If you have any iced tea though, I'd love a glass."

"Of course." Eleanor said. "Thomas, the kitchen is that way." She pointed. "There is a pitcher of iced tea in the refrigerator. Glasses are in the cupboard above the counter opposite the refrigerator. Two glasses, dear." She waved her fingers and turned to talk to Marie, Tom clearly as good as forgotten for the moment.

Tom gauged the distance to the kitchen and cleared his throat. The stun belt still hugged his waist full of the promise of more bad drama than he felt like getting into so early.

"Is there a problem, dear?" Eleanor asked. Her tone was conversational, but it was clear that there had better not be.

Tom shook his head. "Not exactly, Mistress. More like a speed bump is all."

He turned to Marie. "Mistress Marie, if I go into the kitchen the belt is going to go off."

She just looked at him. "And?" That confused him. This sort of gratuitous cruelty wasn't usually Marie's style.

"Perhaps if you asked nicely instead of sounding like you're making a demand, Mistress Marie could take the belt off for you." Eleanor said.

Tom nodded. "Of course, Mistress, thank you for the advice. Mistress Marie, would you please take the belt off me so that I can attend to my task?" A moment's thought. It never hurt to go that extra little step. "I promise to be a good boy."

That was apparently all she had been waiting for. The belt came off and, at a word from Eleanor, Tom's clothes as well. He gave her a few seconds to admire the view then turned and went toward the kitchen.

Eleanor allowed him to get to the kitchen-side living room doorway. "Thomas."

Tom stopped, turned to face her. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Did anyone say you could use your hind legs to leave the room?"

"No Mistress, they didn't. I'm sorry if I was being rude." He went to all fours and started to crawl to the kitchen when her voice caught him again.

"Ah!"

This time when Tom turned she snapped her fingers and patted the air above her feet with one index finger. Tom crawled to her, knelt at her feet. A hand gently pressed his head down until he was looking at his own thighs. She held him that way for several seconds before lifting his chin in her hand.

"When we are home together, you will leave and enter my presence on all fours unless I say otherwise or the nature of your task makes it unpractical. Understood?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress. I promise to do better." Inside he was seething. If she wanted things done a particular way why not just tell him the first time rather than play all this back and forth tarbhshite?

She smiled and gave him a kiss. Her lips were soft and she wasn't wearing any lipstick. It was nice. "I believe you, dear. Now get moving." She flicked her fingers dismissively.

A thought stopped him. "Mistress, if you have anything that could do for a serving tray, I could bring the pitcher in with me. Then you and Mistress Marie wouldn't have to wait when you wanted your drinks freshened."

"That's a very good idea, dear. Look in the cupboard below where you find the glasses."

A few minutes later, he was back. The kitchen had been impressive. Granite counters and hardwood cupboards. The fridge and freezer were stainless steel. The stove was about as high-end as you could get without buying from a restaurant supplier. It matched the refrigerator's finish and had a griddle/grill combo sitting between four gas burners. He had probably stolen cars that cost less in his day.

"You didn't say if the tea was already sweetened, Mistress, so I brought the sugar bowl." Tom said, placing the tray on the coffee table.

"He's very detail oriented, isn't he?" Eleanor asked Marie. There was a clear note of approval in her voice. To Tom, she said. "Company first, dear."

When Tom had served them the women spent a few minutes chatting, before Eleanor began interviewing Tom. She examined him intimately, petting his skin and running her fingers through his hair. He got hard on command and she expressed appreciation for his size. A soft, strong hand caressed his shaft and fondled his balls. Tom shuddered a little and tried to maintain his composure.

"And so responsive!" Eleanor ran a finger up the underside of his cock and over the head, pausing to trace a small circle in the drop or two of pre-cum that was leaking out.

Tom was examined internally as well. His face burned as he was bent over and his ass lubricated. Eleanor donned a latex glove and gently worked the first three fingers of one hand into his anus one at a time. She kept him like that for what seemed like several minutes, sodomizing him manually while her other hand alternated between petting his body and stroking his cock. Skilled fingers found his prostate and he shuddered in involuntary pleasure. After she was done, she wiped him down with a cloth and allowed him to kneel at her feet again once he had put the glove in the garbage.

The matter of Frenchy's little prank came up. "Why did you insist on anonymity when you bought those other trainees free, Thomas?" Eleanor asked. "It was a very selfless act. Don't you want people knowing the kind of person you are?"

"It would have cheapened it, Mistress." Tom explained. "You don't do something like that to get seen as a hero. You do it because it's right."

"But my understanding is that two of the boys you rescued looked up to you. If they knew what you had done for them, they might have followed your example and dedicated themselves to the abolitionist cause. Obviously I don't share those views, but wouldn't you want them to be inspired to help achieve repeal?"

It was a good question. Tom had asked it of himself a few times. "Billy and Aaron were good kids, Mistress. But they were young and sheltered. It's a good bet that at least one of them would have hooked up with a militant faction and gotten over their heads in some criminal nonsense. Then they'd either be dead or in an even worse jam than I bought them out of." He shook his head. "If they're meant to know what I did, they'll find out. They don't need me takin' out a billboard."

Eleanor raised an eyebrow at that. It was interesting. For all his claims of sociopathic self-interest, Thomas seemed to consistently go further out of his way to advance other people's best interests than he did to further his own.

Questions about Tom's past were asked, particularly his relationship with the twins. The inevitable one about if the three of them ever shared a bed came up. He answered honestly even as he silently fumed about being asked. Once in a great while they would, in fact, all make love together but the girls never did anything with each other. They never did anything with each other when he wasn't there either. The whole idea was a little repugnant.

Eleanor produced a copy of his file at one point. "Thomas, do you have any idea how exceptional you are?" She asked.

A confused look passed over Tom's face. "Not really, Mistress. I mean, I know voluntaries are rare and I can understand why. But I don't see what the big deal is. You protect your family however you can. That's all I did really." He shrugged.

"But not everyone thinks that way, dear. Many people would have let...Nicollette, is it... be taken away. After all it's not like you're really married to her."

Tom felt himself flush at that. He got so sick of people trivializing what he and Nick' had just because they didn't have a streachailt leathair marriage license. "With respect, Mistress, it is exactly like I'm really married to her. A marriage license is just a piece of paper. Without commitment and loyalty, the only place it's of any use is the bathroom. And I couldn't very well spend the rest of my life with Angie knowing I could have saved her twin sister and did nothing instead."

"And that is part of what makes you so exceptional, dear. That degree of loyalty. Especially in someone with your past." She opened his file and started paging through it.

"Impoverished childhood, family history of drug addiction. Did you use narcotics when you were free?"

Tom shook his head. "Little weed every now and again, but even that was a rarity. I've seen what that garbage does to people. No, thanks."

Eleanor nodded, her eyes never leaving the file. "Very wise. Though I do find it interesting that your parents were addicts, and you married one. Well, they do say we marry our mothers and fathers. Let's see. Both parents died early on in your life, a brief stay in the foster care system. You left school at age 14 but returned at age 17 and graduated the same year you would have, had you never interrupted your education. How did that come to pass?"

"Has Mistress ever heard of Rafferty's Meats?" Tom asked. When she shook her head that she hadn't, Tom explained. "Rafferty's is a mom and pop butcher shop and grocery store not far from where I lived with Nicki and Angie. They've won several awards and got a couple solid write-ups in the papers. Mr. and Mrs. Rafferty, they took me under their wing. Got me off the streets and back into school. I took some tutoring and sat some exams to see what grade I needed to be in after so long away. Happened I was able to enroll at the start of what would have been my senior year. Graduated nine months later." Tom's voice was full of pride and he sat up straighter as he said that.

Mistress nodded. "Tenth in your class according to this. That is quite an accomplishment, dear. I must say, I'm surprised you never went on to college. I'm sure you had your reasons. IQ 175. Very impressive. Strong aptitude for languages, music and chemistry. Kinesthetic learning seems to be your strong suit. What sort of chemistry? Drugs?"

"I dealt some, Mistress." Tom admitted. "But I was never a cooker. Too high risk. And if it seems hypocritical that I barely use personally, but I sold it," he shrugged. "Using your own product leads to nothing but grief. I never dealt to kids and I always reckoned if an adult wants to poison themselves, it's their affair."

"Then what was your expertise?"

"Explosives." He took a certain perverse pride in the shocked look on her face. "Like I told Mistress Marie's boss: fifty dollars and ten minutes in a hardware store and I can make national headlines." There was no braggadocio in his voice, only the calm confidence of a man who knew he was an expert at his craft. He had done just that five years ago.

"Is that how you got those scars on your hands?" The backs of both Tom's hands were covered in the slick, pinched tissue of healed burn scars.

Tom nodded. "Batch of napalm got away from me. It could have been lots worse. I've still got full use of my hands and don't look like a horror movie special affect. That was a long time ago though. " That last was pure bullshit but Mistress didn't need to know about the little plastique and napalm party favors he had rigged around the house the day the collectors came, never mind all the work he'd done for The Cause over the years.

"I'm glad to hear that." Eleanor said. She took him by the chin. "There is no place in this house for that kind of behavior. Am I clear?" when he nodded, she patted his cheek.

Eleanor turned back to the file. "Where were we? Ah yes, multi-lingual: Spanish and Irish. You claim – and demonstrate – a much greater fluency in Irish than Spanish. Why is that?"

"The girls and I learned it together. They're all about the hardcore Irish pride. It was a bonding experience. You know, something we had for ourselves that most others don't. Came in handy a few times that way. It's a beautiful language. Music, poetry, writing. You can't listen to it and not be swept up by it. Least I can't anyhow."

"Interesting. I expect English to be your primary language in this house, however."

Tom bowed his head. "Of course, Mistress."

"You have a history of violence as well. Yet, your behavior was usually exemplary at the center. Several arrests and one or two convictions for assault. No lengthy jail time though. No felony convictions of any kind in fact. Nothing in the past four years apart from some disorderly conduct charges here and there. Then, of course, there's the matter of your behavior towards one of your trainers. An Agent French?"

Tom nodded. "I've been trying to go straight since before I met the girls, Mistress. Playtime stops when you turn eighteen. The assaults and disorderly conduct beefs were stupid street nonsense. Some idiot thinking the long hair and the kilt meant I was an easy mark and putting hands on me or getting froggy with my wives."

Eleanor got a confused look on her face at that. "Kilt, dear?"

"There's a couple companies that make street kilts, Mistress. Modern versions of what the Celts wore without the clan colors. The twins got me a couple and I wore them when and as I could." He shrugged. "They were more comfortable a lot of the time than pants, and Nick' and Ang' loved the sight of me in 'em, so why not? I've got one in my property bag."

"Interesting. And did you wear anything underneath?"

Ah yes, the eternal question. Tom took a calculated risk. "Little lipstick now and again if the twins were feelin' frisky." He said with a grin and a twitch of one eyebrow. Both women laughed aloud at that. "Winter and fall I'd go trad. It was too sticky during the summer. "

"Frenchy...sorry...Agent French was another matter. He kept bringing my family into what should have been between him and I." Tom felt his face harden at the recent memory. "He shouldn't have done that."

"I can respect that." Eleanor said. "And I want you to know that I will never use your family to hurt you, Thomas. At the same time, I do not tolerate that level of defiance. My last domestic lost his temper and struck me. I subleased his contract to a brothel with an exclusively male clientele. Do we understand one another?"

"Perfectly, Mistress."

She smiled. "Good boy." Eleanor closed the file. "You're a very interesting case, dear. And very rare. I don't mean for all the obstacles you have overcome, though that is certainly very impressive in its own right. Tell me, Thomas, do you know how many voluntaries there are in the system, including yourself?"

Tom shook his head. "I couldn't find anything on that when I was doing my research, Mistress. Can't be a very big number or they'd likely be screaming it all over the media to shut up the abolitionists."

Eleanor held up four fingers. "There are four, dear. Including you."

The news hit like a glass of ice water to the crotch. Tom sat up straighter and blinked. "You're shitting me!"

The smack that blurred into the side of his face made his ears ring and stars dance across his vision. Tom shook his head. Mac de bitseach! Whoever had coined the phrase "hit like a girl" had never taken a shot from Mistress Eleanor.

Eleanor grabbed his hair and pulled his head back painfully. She glared at him. "You will never use that kind of language in this house, Thomas!" she scolded him, shaking a finger in his face. "It is ignorant and low-class, and you are neither. Am I understood, puppy?" She gave his head a sharp jerk for emphasis.

Tom whimpered. He could take a hit better than a lot of guys but that had hurt. "Yes, Mistress. I'm sorry."

"I believe you, dear. But you have to learn."

She released Tom's hair. "My bedroom is the third door on the left when you turn right at the top of the stairs. Inside the door of the closet, you will find a green nylon gym bag hanging on a hook. Behind the bag is a black men's leather belt. Fetch. And no dawdling!"

A few minutes later Tom crawled back into the living room with the belt in one hand. He crawled to Mistress's feet and held it out to her. She looked down at him for a moment, took the strap and held it up to look at it.

"Thomas," she asked. "What did I call you after I said you were neither low-class nor ignorant?"

"You called me 'puppy,' Mistress."

She nodded. "And when puppies fetch, do they carry what they fetch with their paws or do they use their mouths?"

Tom blushed. She could have told him this in the first place. "They use their mouths, Mistress."

"Just so." Eleanor tossed the belt across the room with a flick of her wrist. "Pick it up properly, return it where you found it, then come back and fetch correctly."

Tom tried not to let his frustration show, but a little sigh escaped and his hands clenched on his thighs for a second. Eleanor caught it and gave him an inquiring look.

"Yes, Mistress." Tom said and went to obey.

As Tom crawled from the room with the instrument of his punishment hanging from his mouth, he heard Eleanor talking to Marie.

"It's just like with any other animal." She was saying. "If you use a little patience and repetition with them, along with a firm hand, they can be taught almost anything."

******************************************************************

Tom Chapter 11

The second time Tom presented the strap to Eleanor she pointed to the table. “Stand up facing the couch with your hands as flat as you can on the coffee table. Legs together.” This last when he tried to stand with his legs open.

One of Eleanor’s hands ran up and down his back. It was an oddly gentle gesture under the circumstances. “Why are you being punished Thomas?” She asked.

“I’m being punished because I swore Mistress.”

“True. But the proper response is ‘Mistress I have been profane. I humbly beg forgiveness or correction as you see fit to administer.’. Why are you being punished?”

The hair hanging down over his face his Toms blush. He understood the reasons behind the ritualized humiliation apart from what he suspected was Mistress’ own personal enjoyment. But it didn’t change the embarrassment that came with it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the way his body and psyche both responded with such instinctive submission to  her either.

“Mistress I have been profane. I humbly beg forgiveness or correction as you see fit to administer.” He said.

“This is a first offense and I already struck you once so you will receive two stripes from the belt. You will count and you will thank me when I release you.”

Tom nodded. “Yes Mistress.”

The punishment was over in seconds. Two hard, painful cracks burned across Toms ass one right after the other. He knelt and thanked Mistress as instructed and waited for what came next.

Eleanor looped the belt around Tom’s neck and used it to pull his face up towards her. “I don’t enjoy using this Thomas.” She said. “You saw the toys hanging inside the closet door?” A collection of floggers, paddles and multi-strand whips rested on a portable high-gauge wire frame that hung hooks and bolts inside Eleanor’s walk-in closet.

Tom tried to nod but the leather strap kept his head from moving very much. “I prefer to use those on my pets. You understand the difference?”

“Yes Mistress.” Tom choked out. He could breathe but the belt was pressing on his larynx enough to make speech difficult.

“Tell me.” Eleanor eased up enough to let him speak.

“The toys are foreplay Mistress. They’re all meant to cause pain but in the context of you using me for sex. I don’t want to tell you what you’re thinking but I’m guessing you’re going to train me to enjoy being worked over with them.”

Eleanor nodded. “Just so. And this?” she tugged the belt.

“The belt is different. It’s nothing like anything else I saw in your collection. I’m betting you bought it specifically to discipline your last houseboy. If you tell me ‘Thomas fetch the green paddle with the black fur.’ I know you want to play and I’m probably going to get some affection along with the welts. If you tell me ‘Thomas, fetch the strap.’,” he chuckled at that “I think we both know what that means.”

“Enlighten me dear.”

“It means I’ve broken a rule or done something else to actually upset you and any kindness I get afterwards will be because you don’t seem the sort to ride a matter into the ground. See the problem, correct the problem, move on.”

“Very perceptive.”

Eleanor made him go through his entire morning exercise routine while she watched, adding little comments here and there. She pushed him a little too, telling him ‘Five more dear.’ repeatedly throughout the routine. By the time he was allowed to stop she had bumped up the regimen by a good twenty-five percent.

“If you stay, the numbers you just did will be your new levels Thomas.” She said as he knelt sweating and slightly winded. “Your work here will be much more sedentary than at your last job.” She gave him a proprietary smile. “We don’t want you getting out of shape now do we?”

Tom shook his head. “No Mistress. That’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Thank you dear.” She held up her glass. “Thirsty?”

“Yes please Mistress.”

Eleanor took a drink and motioned Tom towards her. It was obvious she was holding the tea in her mouth. When he said he didn’t understand Melanie explained that he was to kiss her and take the tea that way. Tom felt his eyebrows quirk up in surprise. That was a new one.

He stepped into Mistresses arms, put his around her. She took him gently by the hair and pressed her mouth to his. He nervously opened his mouth, afraid of what would happen if he let anything spill on the expensive beige carpet. Mistress kissed him, passing the drink into his mouth as she did. Tom coughed a little as some tried to go down the wrong pipe but he swallowed and nothing spilled. Mistress’ tongue played in his mouth and he returned the kiss. He felt himself getting hard. His hands wandered up and down her back as she petted him. He took a swat when one hand drifted a bit too low.

Eleanor pulled back eventually. She kissed his lips and guided his mouth down to her neck. Tom kissed and licked the soft, tan skin. He was tempted to use his teeth but didn’t want to get hit again. He noticed that Mistress wasn’t one of those women who went in for a lot of perfume. Mostly she smelled of soap and desire. There was something there, a little musky but not overpowering. He decided he liked it and relaxed into her.

“That was….very nice.” Eleanor said when she pushed him back to his knees. She was flushed and there was a faint sheen of sweat on her skin.

Tom smiled and bowed his head. “Thank you Mistress. I enjoyed it too.”

“I can see that.” She said. Tom blushed.

Eleanor gave him a considering look. “I have to tell you Thomas; I’m very interested in you. My only concerns are your tendencies for violence and willfulness. I don’t tolerate either one. If you stay I would expect you leave both behind you. Do you think you can do that?”

Tom gave that some thought. “I think Mistress might be seeing more than is really there.” He said at length. “I’m a violent person. I don’t deny that. But as I’m sure Mistress Marie will tell you I never once raised a hand to anyone at the center. After Agent French pulled his sick, sadistic little prank on my wives I could have killed him before anyone stopped me. I chose not to. And just so we’re clear I’ve never once hit a woman I was in a relationship with. The fact that I’ll be your property doesn’t change things. A man does not strike the woman he’s with. Ever.”

God knew Nici had inspired him plenty of times. If he could keep his hands to himself under her influence he figured Mistress would be easy.

“As for my willfulness; it’s selective. Everyone in this world has things they just won’t do. Mine happens to be anything involving non-consensual sex.”

“It isn’t non-consensual if the contract holder consents on the servants behalf dear.”

  Tom rolled his eyes. “Mistress knows as well as I do that’s a load of legal tap dancing. And you said it yourself Mistress; there’s only three other people in the system who genuinely consented to be here. Everyone else got dragged kicking and screaming. Often literally. And as much as I’d like to stay and serve you I won’t do it if that’s the price.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry but I’ve enough on my conscience as it is.”

Eleanor thought about that. The idea of a servant, free or not, dictating terms to her set her temper on edge. At the same time, Thomas really was a prime specimen. He was intelligent and charming and had made her laugh repeatedly during the interview. The play of his muscles under his skin as he exercised had been exquisite to watch. And for all his stubbornness there was a submissive core that rose to the surface at the slightest provocation. The idea of having that kind of strength and beauty at her beck and call might just be worth a small compromise.

“If I agree to that one point what would I get in return dear?” She asked.

“You’d get me Mistress. All of me. I’m sure there’s stuff I’d probably dig my heels in over but I’d do my best to push past it. May I please make an observation?”

When Eleanor nodded Tom went on. “You used some canine terminology earlier. Running with that it sounds to me like what happened was you went to the puppy mill and got yourself some high-strung, over-bred little toy breed that was so inbred it was practically it’s own brother or sister. And the mental little thing went and bit you.

Let me guess, your last houseboy was a teenager? I’m guessing a product of the suburbs, probably spoiled and overindulged. Then one day Mommy and Daddy either get themselves dead or overextended financially. The collectors come and little Johnny-what’s-his-name winds up in the system. I’m betting Mistress Marie set that one up too. Probably saw some kid who buckled like a belt under the first real discipline he’s ever known. Figured he’d be the perfect little lapdog for you. Only he gets here and old instincts, old habits resurface. He gets too far up on his hind legs and things go to…well someplace I’m not sure I can say without getting hit. Am I about right?”

When Eleanor nodded he pressed on. “Right. So now you’re at the shelter looking at this kinda scruffy looking rescue dog. Thing looks like a stray, a mutt. Odds are they picked it up off the street eating out of a dumpster. Which I’ve done by the way. You know he’s been knocked around and he sure isn’t going to fit in your handbag like the last one did. But he knows better than to bite the hand that feeds him and will probably chew the balls right off anyone who raises a hand to you. He’s a biter but he’s smart enough to know when to bite and when to show his belly. Question is; do you roll the dice on the mutt or do you take home the yappy little thing in the next kennel? Because hey, the last toy breed you picked up worked out so well for you.”

He made a good point, even if he did skirt the edge of insubordination. Eleanor thought a moment, tapping her right indeed finger on her lower lip.

“I don’t tolerate my dogs biting anyone I don’t set them on dear.”

Tom clicked his tongue against the side of his teeth. “That’s a real shame Mistress.” He said. He cut a glance to Mistress Marie. “Mistress Marie there seemed to enjoy it when I used my teeth.” He gave an impish grin, almost daring her to hit him. Marie blushed deep red at the remark.

“Thomas! You really are incorrigible aren’t you?’

Tom shrugged. “Laugh when you can Mistress. I learned that a long time ago.”

“Good advice dear. But you understood what I meant.”

Tom bowed his head. “Perfectly Mistress. If I stay with you I’ll keep my hands to myself unless you specifically tell me otherwise.”

“It won’t be as easy a life as you seem to think you know.” Eleanor said. “The toys in my bedroom are only a fraction of my collection. There is a large room downstairs devoted to that kind of play. You and I will be spending a lot of time down there and you will probably cry yourself to sleep after some of our sessions.”

The frankness of the statement shook Tom a little. Here was someone who was as matter of fact about who they were as he was. And here was him on the brink of seven years helpless under her. Still, a guy could do way worse.

“I can accept that Mistress. Provided you can accept my position on sex with other indents.”

After a moments tense silence Eleanor said “My office is across the hall from my bedroom. There is a laptop on the desk and a carry-case beside the desk. You may use your hind legs coming back down the stairs. And fetch the bag the strap was hanging behind as well dear.” Tom practically flew out of the room.

When Tom returned he put the gym bag on the couch beside Mistress and set up the laptop, placing it in her lap. The errand had been a challenge. It was tricky holding the handles of both bags in his mouth at once. Something had kept making an odd chink chink noise in the gym bag. It was almost as if there was a handful of loose change rattling around in there. Mistress kicked off her sandals and wiggled her toes at Tom as she started doing something on the computer. Tom obeyed the unspoken command, taking hold of first one foot then the other, kissing and licking while he massaged them. She giggled and twitched a couple times when his  tongue tickled the sole of her foot.

“Read the highlighted section dear.” Mistress said when she was finished. “I will be sending a copy of this to your lawyer. No doubt your girls will have it by the end of the day.”

Tom looked at the screen. The section mentioned was a new addition to his contract. It was entitled ‘Right of Refusal.’ . The wording was very simple and straightforward. ‘Thomas shall enjoy the right of refusal in regard to intimate service with fellow indentured servants or anyone he has cause to believe is not a willing participant. Intimate services that fall under this description may not be coerced by use of force, threat of force, restraint, chemicals or deception. Violation of this clause shall constitute grounds for termination of the contract. The party or parties responsible shall be liable for monetary damages in the amount of the full initial value of Thomas’ contract irrespective of the amount of time served on the contract at the time of violation.’

Tom looked up at her. “That’s….very generous of you Mistress.”

“Yes,” she said looking down at him. “it is. I expect your behavior to reflect it.”

Tom bowed his head. “You have my word Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now go back upstairs to the office. I printed out a set of the house rules as well as your responsibilities and privileges. Do not read them until I hand them to you.”

This time when Tom came back held the folded papers out for Mistress to take from his mouth. She made him wait a moment while she talked to Mistress Marie about nothing in particular. When she did take the printout she paged through it briefly before handing it to him.

Tom read the document quickly. Most of it was about what he was expecting. There whole thing really boiled down to ‘Do as you’re told or you’ll wish you had and by the way here’s your list of household chores to do when I’m not fucking you.’ . There were sections on manners, proper terms of address, basic rules and the proper term for violations of each. The two things that caught Toms eye both fell under the heading of “privileges” . The first was labeled ‘Allowance: Thomas shall receive $20 each week allowance to spend as he sees fit subject to the following restrictions; no weapons of any kind. No cigarettes or illegal narcotics. No incendiary devices or chemicals of any description.’ . That was a pleasant little surprise even though Tom had no doubt Mistress tipped more than twenty bucks during an average week of lunches.

The second one was such a shock he had to re-read it to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Mistress,” he asked. His voice was getting tight and his eyes wanted to fill up. “is this for real?” He showed her the section.

Eleanor barely gave it a glance. “Yes Thomas it is. Is there a problem?”

He shook his head. “Not at all. That’s….that’s,” he cleared his throat. “more than anything I’d hoped for when I set out on this road.”

“I thought as much dear. Just remember; that is a privilege not a right. If you misbehave it goes away.”

“Fair.” Tom said simply.

The section that had hit him so hard read ‘Visitation: Thomas shall be allowed one unsupervised visit home per month and one monitored phone call with his family subject to rules outlined separately elsewhere. The visit shall be no less than eight hours and no more than fourteen hours in duration. The phone call shall be no less than five minutes and no more than ten minutes in duration. Thomas will remember at all times that this privilege may be expanded or curtailed at Mistress’ discretion based upon the needs of his service and his behavior.’

A hand pressed the pages down away from Toms face. His chin was cupped and a thumb brushed across one eye, coming away damp with unshed tears.

“Look at me puppy.” Eleanor said. Her voice was soft, gentle but left no question as to who was the alpha. Tom locked eyes with his new owner. “I will never try to supplant your wives in your heart Thomas. I don’t think it’s possible for anyone to do that. But I will” her grip tightened until it almost hurt. “be joining them there. The sooner you let me in, the easier things will be for you here. I can accept that you will always be their husband. But you are my dog . Are we clear?”

When Tom opened his mouth to answer Mistress put her thumb over his lips. She pulled back her hand and held it in from Tom’s mouth, fingers separated ever so slightly. Tom went to kiss her hand only to have it withdrawn with a slight shake of Mistresses head. She put her hand back in front of his mouth again and gave him a questioning look.

Tom thought about what he had just been told. He opened his mouth and extended the tip of his tongue. When the proffered hand wasn’t pulled away again he licked the fingers delicately, looking up at Mistress to gauge her reaction. She was smiling. Tom felt his face burn in a blush as his rear end seemed to wiggle of its own volition in the closest thing he could manage to a wag.

After a few licks Mistress stopped him with a gesture. She raised her hand slightly. It took Tom a few seconds to work out what she wanted but when he thought he understood he pushed his head under her hand, petting himself with it. He whimpered quietly, just a hint of sound.

Mistress held still while Tom rubbed his head a few times against her hand. Then she began petting him of her own volition.

“That’s my good boy.” She said, caressing his hair.

At her feet, Eleanor’s new dog all but glowed under his owners praise.

A Slave's Strength (Chapter 12):
Breakfast of Champions

by

mechgogo

"It's all here, Mistress." Tom said, putting the last of his things back in the property bag. He signed the form Mistress Marie gave him and too his new ID. She taken the liberty of printing up one that had information relevant to his new owner's name and address on it before they left the center.

Mistress signed off on the receiving paperwork for Tom. "Thank you so much for bringing him to my attention." She said to her friend. "I'll have the funds transferred by lunchtime."

Marie waved off the idea of payment. "It's on me. I owe you for the fiasco with Simon. I really can't apologize enough for that."

"It was hardly your fault, dear."

"I feel responsible." Marie said. "If it makes you feel any better think of it as an early birthday present."

"My birthday is in February, Marie." Mistress said.

"I never said how early, did I?" Marie asked with a grin.

The two women hugged then. Tom kissed Marie's feet and thanked her for pulling the necessary strings to get him into Mistress' service.

Marie took him by the chin. "We'll be seeing one another again soon, Thomas." She said "Your Mistress is one of my closest friends. I expect to hear good things when I visit."

Tom nodded. "Nothing but, Mistress Marie."

"Good boy."

She left then. Mistress closed the door and turned to Tom. He felt his adrenaline start to flow. Up until now the idea of being an indentured servant had just been a hypothetical. Even his time at the center hadn't really made it seem real. Now things were different. Now it was just him and a woman who had the legal right to do almost anything she wanted with him. A woman who had told him right to his face she was going to spend significant amounts of time hurting him for no better reason than that it turned her on.

Mistress gave Tom a proprietary smile. She pointed to the couch. "Over there, dear." She said. "We need to prep you for the day and begin your training. Have you had breakfast yet?"

Tom shook his head as he crawled over to the couch. "No, Mistress, not yet."

"Good. I made up some of the rice you normally eat. You can have it in a little while. First things first, though."

Mistress opened the green gym bag Tom had brought down earlier and began taking items from it. There was a mirror in a stand-alone picture frame, a leather paddle, some latex gloves, a bottle of lubricant, a leash, a collar with a large round sleigh bell on it and a four inch butt plug with a several strands of upholstery cord clipped to it. The cords had little tiny jingle bells on them. That explained the chinking noise he had heard when he had carried the bag down his teeth a little while ago. What it didn't explain was, what the hell was up with female slavers and girl-on-guy ass play.

Tom gave a mental shrug. He had put himself in this position. No one had laid a gun to his head. And it wasn't as if he didn't know his rear end would be seeing attention from whoever bought him. At least the person doing it would be a good looking woman instead of some hairy guy who was almost as wide as he was tall.

"I understand you are a virgin, dear?" Mistress asked. "Anally, I mean."

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress."

"Unusual given your past. But not for much longer." She smiled as she said the last part.

Mistress picked the plug up off the table. She gave it a little shake making the bells sing. "This is going inside you, Thomas. It will serve to keep you mindful of your new status and stretch you out so that I don't tear you, when I take you later. Do you need to use the restroom before we begin?

Tom indicated he did, and Mistress let him use the downstairs bathroom. When he tried to wipe himself she scolded him and bent him over the sink. A glove went on her hand and she scrubbed him with a warm wash cloth.

"I want you nice and clean for me, dear." She said, patting his bottom.

Back in the living room, Mistress sat on the couch. She patted her lap "Face down, puppy." She said. She set the mirror up to her left on the couch cushions.

Tom lay across his owner's lap facing the mirror. He felt his cock start to harden. It was getting so that this sort of thing was downright normal. The fact that he kept getting turned on by getting his ass warmed was taking a bit more getting used to but if you didn't have a say in something happening at least you could enjoy it.

"Hands under your face, Thomas." Mistress ordered.

One hand was petting his hair. The other caressed his rear in slow, gentle circles. Tom could feel his fight or flight instincts wanting to kick in. He forced them down, made himself relax. This wasn't some stranger out to mug him or hurt his girls. This was his Mistress exercising her right to enjoy his body.

The first shot landed without warning. One second he was being petted, the next a sharp smack rang across his butt. He jerked in surprise. Mistress' hand clamped down on his neck, pinning his face to the couch.

"Hold still, little one." She warned. "You only move the parts I'm hitting and then only in response to my blows."

More swats followed. Mistress covered him from the top of his rump to just above the back of his knees. She alternated her touch, sometimes petting him, sometimes raining hard, stinging smacks onto his skin. Her nails danced over the welts, making him twitch. Tom didn't bother to count the hits. It wouldn't matter if he did. Mistress would hit him as many times as it pleased her to and there was nothing he could do about it. He let the pain roll over him, sinking into Mistress' lap and submitting himself to her completely. By the time she switched to the paddle Tom was shaking and sobbing silently.

"You're doing very well, Thomas." Mistress said, running the paddle over his tender skin. The stiff leather felt oddly cool and comforting against his reddened butt.

"Thank you, Mistress. I'm trying to be good for you."

"And you are, dear. You should feel how wet I am."

Tom perked up at that, coming out of the gray, floaty place he was in. "Please, Mistress?" he asked eagerly.

"Soon enough, puppy, soon enough. We have more to do here first."

And with that she brought the paddle down with a hard crack across both his thighs. The strikes which followed that one came in rapid succession. Tom tried to let the pain from the paddle sweep him up the way Mistress' hand had done but it was too intense. The pain grabbed him, made him cry out. It burned and stung. He bit his hand to try and distract himself only to get cuffed across the back of the head when Mistress caught him.

"Bad dog!" She snapped.

He understood what she wanted then. It wasn't just his pain or the power rush that came from having someone as dangerous as he was helpless under her. It was his reaction she craved. Knowing that, Tom dropped his usual defenses. Suffering is at least half mental. If you know what you're doing you can put a lit cigarette out on the palm of your own hand without flinching. Tom had spent a lifetime building walls in his head between himself and physical discomfort. There on Mistress' couch he went inside his skull and methodically kicked them all down.

Leather cracked against already reddened, welted skin. The edge of the paddle scrapped across the raised and throbbing areas making him squirm. He cried out and more than once screamed between clenched teeth at an especially sharp strike to his ass or thighs. Finally it stopped. He was panting and sweating as if he had just worked out. His face was wet with tears. That was bizarre enough in its own right. He almost never cried from physical pain.

The places Mistress had hit him strobbed out angry red complaints to his nerves. There was a familiar buoyant feeling to everything that reminded him of the aftermath of getting tattooed. Weirdest of all, his dick was rigid with desire. You'd think to look between his legs that Mistress had spent the last who-knew-how-long blowing him not beating him.

The paddle was put aside and Mistress was petting him again. Her voice was as gentle as her touch.

"Easy, little one." She said. "We're all done for now. Nice slow deep breaths for Mistress. That's a good boy."

When Tom regained his composure, Mistress ordered him onto his back. He rolled over and winced. Mistress cradled him in one arm. She ran her fingers down his torso, trailing them over the hard muscles of his stomach and chest. Short, well manicured nails combed through his pubic hair. Without being told, he spread his legs, earning a smile.

"Such a good little doggy." She told him, stroking his cock lightly. Tom rocked his hips a little increasing the contact. Mistress didn't seem to mind but he stopped when she gave him a warning squeeze.

"Such a sweet, submissive puppy." She danced her nails along the underside of his shaft and he whimpered.

Tom could have stayed like that all day. One of the things he had missed most about separation from the twins was the time they spent cuddling. The sex was fantastic between them, better than anything he had experienced previously. But you can only screw so much before things commence to chafe. Every day at home had been an endless round of little touches in passing. A hand across the back as someone went from the living room to the kitchen. A hug during an encounter in the hallway. Constant tactile reminders that here were people who loved one another without stint or condition. He had no clue how intrinsic to his daily life those moments were until they were gone. Lying in Mistress' arms with her hands playing over his skin was almost like being home again.

Unfortunately, Mistress had other plans. Much sooner than he would have liked she gave him a final kiss and ordered him to kneel on the floor in front of her.

"And no touching your welts." She warned.

"Do you know how many times I hit you, Thomas?" She asked when he was in position.

Tom shook his head. "No, Mistress. I wasn't counting."

"Why not?"

He shrugged. "It didn't seem relevant. It wasn't like you were disciplining me. It felt more like play. I figured you'd finish when you were finished and it didn't matter how many shots it took to get there. Did I do something wrong by not counting?"

Mistress shook her head. "Not at all. I will always let you know when I want you to count. I was just curious to see if you had been keeping track. What would you say if I told you you received sixty-four spanks in total?"

Tom frowned at that. It seemed a weird number but it didn't take him long to work out the significance. "You gave me two spanks for every year I've been alive, Mistress?"

"Every year you spent not serving me dear, yes. Think of it as nailing the door shut on your past. You're still Thomas. You still have all the skills and quirks and memories of the young man that Mistress Melanie brought here. But you are my Thomas now. You understand?"

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress I understand."

"Yes, Mistress I understand what?"

"Yes, Mistress I understand I'm your Thomas now. I don't belong to myself anymore."

"Good boy. Are you ready to be fitted with your tail and be fed your breakfast?"

Ifreann, no. Tom bowed his head. "Yes, Mistress, if you're ready to feed me and give me my tail I'm ready when you are."

She gestured to the table. "On your back, legs in the air, and spread nice and wide for me."

Tom gave the table a dubious look. "Are you sure it'll hold me, Mistress? I'm not exactly tiny."

"That table has born the combined weight of myself and at least one indentured who was heavier than you, Thomas. Now move."

Tom lay on his back with his rear end on the edge of the table. He lifted his legs and spread himself, gripping the backs of his knees with his hands. It was an embarrassing, uncomfortable position that left him feeling completely exposed.

Mistress stood over him for a moment enjoying the view. "Very nice." She said. She took her phone from her post and, to Tom's mortification snapped a picture.

"See how lovely you look, dear?" She asked, showing him the photo.

Tom blushed. The sight of himself spread out like that was humiliating. "Yes, Mistress." He said quietly. "I can see how you'd like looking at me that way."

Mistress knelt between his legs then. She donned a glove and generously lubed his anus before inserting the plug.

"I don't want to damage you, darling." She said as she worked her fingers in and out of him. She held her fingers at waist height and pumped her hips in time with the thrusts, simulating what she would be doing to him later.

Before the insertion, Mistress held the plug up for Tom to see. It was four inches long and as thick around as three of her fingers at its widest point. The base flared out almost like a suction cup and the area connecting the base to the body of the plug narrowed to about the width of Tom's pinky finger. A little D-ring was attached to the base. The strands of what would be Tom's tail, with their little jingle bells hung from the clip. It glistened with a coating of lubricant. Tom fought to control his breathing. There was a time and a place for fear and anger and a there was a time to just relax and make the best of the inevitable, however unpleasant it might be. This was the latter.

"You saw the strapon hanging in the closet, Thomas?" She asked.

Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress." The thing had hung on its harness amid the other toys on the wire rack. Seven inches long and a bit thicker than the plug Mistress was holding, it had easily been the scariest piece of equipment in the collection.

"After dinner, I will be deflowering you with that. You will lay on your back in my bed just like you are now. You will wrap your legs around me and urge me on as I sodomize you. And the first orgasm you have in this house will be while I use that toy on you. Are we clear?"

Tom swallowed nervously. His throat was painfully dry. "Yes, Mistress, I'll be a good boy while you use me."

That earned him a smile. "Of course you will, darling. Now just relax and breathe. The more relaxed you are the less painful this will be."

The tip of the plug pressed against Tom's anus. He did his best to relax, taking slow, deep breaths as Mistress worked it slowly but inexorably deeper inside him. He could feel the blush igniting his cheeks with the embarrassment and violation of the sensation. At one point he whimpered and bit his lip. Mistress swatted him for that.

"Hush!" she said. "You're going to have something much larger inside you tonight. You should be grateful I don't use one of my spare strapons to prep you instead of this."

When the plug finally went all the way in it left him feeling like he needed to use the restroom again. The slightly full, slightly stretched sensation was uncomfortable but not quite painful. Tom tried to remember the last time he had felt so helpless or personally invaded and drew a blank.

"There." Mistress said, giving him a gentle pat between the cheeks. "That's not so bad is it?"

"No, Mistress. It..." Tom lowered his eyes "...it feels nice."

She smiled at him. "You are such a little liar. But it shows you know your place." Mistress stood up and motioned him to kneel in front of the couch.

"I will be right back with your breakfast, dear. Have you had any caffeine today? I understand you take a soda most mornings?"

"Mistress Marie treated me to a hot chocolate on the way in, Mistress. But I am starting to get a withdrawal headache."

"Well we can't have that, now can we?"

Tom waited patiently for Mistress to return. Crockery rattled and the microwave beeped. The air filled with the familiar smell of his usual breakfast. Years ago he had worked out that rice was a damn sight cheaper per serving than cereal to say nothing of sticking with you longer, especially if you loaded it up with vegetables and whatever leftover meat had the least amount of fur on it. Even from the living room the scent made his mouth water.

Mistress returned with a steaming bowl resting on a plate in one hand and a can of his favorite soda in the other. She held up the can.

"Your brand, I believe?" She asked.

Tom nodded. He had spotted a dozen cans of the stuff in the fridge when he had been getting the tea earlier but hadn't said anything.

"Good." Mistress set the soda on the table under a coaster. She held the bowl under his nose and let him smell the food. Tom's stomach rumbled. It had been longer than he wanted to think about since his last meal. He looked at her expectantly.

"Not just yet, dear." Mistress set the food beside the soda. She lifted her skirt and sat down on the couch. Tan, muscular legs opened and Tom could see her bush. It glistened from his spanking and from prepping him with the plug.

Mistress gestured to him. "Time to earn your plate, little one." She said.

Tom didn't need to be told twice. Even before entering service he had enjoyed going down on women. He pushed his face between his owner's legs and began licking her moist, blond haired slit.

Mistress leaned back further into the couch. She lifted her legs and rested them on his shoulders.

Mmmm, good boy." She murmured.

Tom grinned. It was nice getting that kind of reaction from a good looking woman, even one who saw him as a cross between a housepet and walking marital aid.

A hand gripped the back of his hair. Hips bucked against his face. "No need to be so tentative, Thomas." Came the order. "Show, Mistress how much you like her."

Tom pressed his face in deeper. His tongue and lips worked quickly, lapping and sucking at the musky wetness. Most of his mind focused on his task but part of him was keeping a mental clock running. One one-thousand, two one-thousand.

Mistress bucked and thrashed for the first time within the first two minutes of his mouth's attention. She squealed and arched her back, thrashing her pelvis against his face. Tom didn't back off. He increased his efforts and she went off again within seconds, still riding the wave of her first orgasm.

"One more, darling." Mistress gasped.

Tom obeyed gladly. He tried to bring his hands into play and got smacked across the shoulder.

"No! Mouth only!"

He nodded, not saying anything. His tongue dove into his owner's vagina, licking as deep as he could. He closed his mouth over her, sucking while his tongue lapped away inside. The tempo increased, Mistress' breathing peaked again and she filled his mouth one last time with her cum. The gripping hand petted him affectionately as she lay there regaining her composure. Tom kept his position but slacked off the pace. His jaw was starting to ache and as much as he enjoyed pleasing Mistress, he didn't want to be down there all day.

Mistress lifted her legs off him and gently pushed him back. He snuck one last little kiss of her privates before sitting back on his heels.

"It seems I was wrong." She said.

Tom frowned. "I don't understand, Mistress. Did I do something to displease you?"

Her laugh filled the room. "Not at all, Thomas. Very much the opposite in fact. I was wrong in my assumption that Agent Comisky was exaggerating her reactions in the video of you two together."

"Oh! I'm glad you enjoyed yourself, Mistress. I really do want to please you."

"I know dear heart. It shows in your behavior. And I expect it to always do so. Are we clear?"

Tom bowed. "Mistress has her puppy's word."

"Good boy." She set his breakfast on the floor in front of him. "There you go. Not one grain of rice on my carpet. And we do not waste food in this house. I want that bowl to gleam when you finish."

Tom let his actions answer for him. He went down on all fours and ate his first meal as Eleanor's property using only his mouth. Mistress stood above him and smiled at how easy it had been to bring him to heel.

******************************************************************

A Slave’s Strength

Chapter 13

The Tour

By     

Mechgogo

“Thomas, what do you suppose Angela and Nicolette are doing right now?” Mistress asked.

Tom knelt in front of her. He had finished his breakfast without getting anything on the carpet and been allowed to have his morning soda. Having to drink it on all fours from his breakfast bowl was a new experience but one he suspected he’d have plenty of opportunity to get used to. Mistress had collared him as well. The leather dog collar sat snugly around his neck but not so tight it restricted his breathing or blood flow. The bell on it jingled a little as he spoke.

He glanced at the clock on the wall . “If things are going like normal Mistress, I’d say they’re both at work right now. Nic’s probably just opened up the store and Angie should be getting ready for her first break. She usually grabs a coffee and a snack around this time.”

“So she would be available to talk on the phone?”

Tom nodded. “Most like, yes Mistress.”

Eleanor passed him her phone. “Call her.”

Tom took the phone and started writing a text instead. He just hoped Angie understood it. You’d think something so high end would have a translator ap but nnnoooooo.

“Thomas!” Mistress snapped. “What did I say.”

“I heard you Mistress but if you want her to answer you need to trust me. We screen our calls. She wouldn’t answer a voice call from a number she didn’t recognize in a timely fashion. And after Agent French’s little stunt I wouldn’t bet on her trusting a normal text either. This is the only way we’re bound to get a response.”

He passed her the phone. The words “Glaoigh Tom ag an uimhir ASAP! Ta' me' mo'r sin ngra' leat ” waited on the screen to be sent. “It means ‘Call Tom at this number. I love you so much.’ Last thing I said to them before I went away. If that doesn’t get a call back nothing will.”

“And you expect me to just trust you on this?”

“There’s a couple online translators you can check. Would you like the addresses?”

“That won’t be necessary. But I want you to limit your use of the language Thomas. At least until I have a better grasp of it.  I don’t like you having the means to keep things from me so easily.”

Tom bowed his head. “Of course Mistress.”

The phone rang within minutes of the text being sent. “This is Tom.”

Angie was normally the more imperturbable of the twins. Still, she could wig out with the best of them when she wanted to. A stream of excited babble, most of it in Gaelic assaulted Toms ear.

“Tom honey?!? Omigod didyouescape? Where are you? No, wait! Don’t tell me. They’ve probably got the phone bugged. What happened, how’d you get away? Are they chasing you? Of course they are! They always chase escapees. Come meet me at …no don’t! They’ll be expecting that. I’ll meet you. No wait! They’ll be following me. I’ll talk to our friends in the movement. Shit! Now they know we have ties to the underground fuck!”

Tom winced and tried to get a word. “Love, Angie, An’ Ang….” He sighed. Only one thing worked when she got like this.

       Tom held the phone about six inches from his face and whistled sharply into it. “Oi!” He barked.

On the couch, Mistress glared at him. He covered the phone with his hand and mouthed ‘Sorry’ at her.

       Angie had paused in her jabber, briefly stunned by the outburst. “Angie,” Tom said with exaggerated calm. “I need you to listen ok? I haven’t long to talk. I did not escape. My contract has been bought by a local woman. She is very pretty and seems very nice. There’s something she wants to talk to you about. I need you to listen to her and work things out with her. And for God’s sake when Nic’ hears about this keep her from having one of her little episodes ok? I’m passing the phone over now. My employers name is Eleanor. Say hello.”

He handed the phone off to Mistress then. “Hello, Mrs. Donovan? Eleanor Isebrand, Thomas’ employer. How are you this morning? That’s good to hear. I’m doing well myself. And please, call me Eleanor. What? Yes, it is rather unusual but a friend of mine works at the center where Thomas received his training and she thought he would be well suited for service in my home. I’m sorry? No he just arrived. But he seems very sweet. I’m sure we’ll get along fine. Mrs. Donovan, pardon? Of course, Angie.

Angie, the reason I had Thomas contact you is I was wondering if you and your sister were free tomorrow. It seems needlessly cruel to Thomas to have him so close to home but not allow him occasional contact with you. I had hoped to get together and arrange a visitation schedule.”

Mistress winced and pulled the phone away at Angie’s response. Tom bit his lip and tried to hide a smile. He chuckled a little. That was his girl. An island of calm. Until she decided not to me. Then look out.

“Would this time tomorrow be good for you? What? I’m afraid I can’t do that at the moment. Perhaps later when Thomas has had some time to settle in. I was thinking we could meet at your home instead. I’m sure Thomas would enjoy being home for a little while and it would give me a better insight into who he is if I could see where he lived before we met.” 

There was a pause while Mistress listened to something Angie said. “That’s very kind of you to offer but we won’t be staying that long. The center hardly sends them with more than the clothes on their backs and I can’t very well have him wearing those awful uniforms they issue. Tomorrow then, this time? That sounds wonderful. I look forward to meeting you. What? Of course! But only briefly. Thomas has some chores that need his attention. You as well. Goodbye.”

Mistress handed the phone back to Tom and held up two fingers. He nodded and spent the next two minutes talking to Angie. Mostly it came down to assurances that he was fine and that yes, Mistress really did seem nice. She didn’t need to know about the beating he had taken or the fact that he had been told point blank how Mistress planned to de-virginize his asshole later on that day.

“I gotta go love.” He said when Mistress tapped her wrist where a person would wear a watch.

“I love you petal. Give Nic my love. See you tomorrow.” When he hung up Tom’s grin was probably visible from orbit.

“I really can’t thank you enough for this Mistress.” He said putting the phone in her purse for her.”

“You have seven years to show your gratitude dear. I’m sure you’ll your appreciation known.” She took a drink and then clapped her hands once. “Now, how about a fashion show?”

Mistress made Tom try on everything in his property bag in varying combinations. She had the usual reaction to the kilt; a speculative smile and a hand up under the fabric for a quick grope. Actually the grope was neither usual nor quick. He had had to pull Angie off the last woman who reached up under his kilt when he was free. But he didn’t mind being touched by Mistress and if he had it wouldn’t have done any good.

“You say there are a number of companies that make these?” She asked as she fondled him.

He nodded. “Yes Mistress.” His voice was tight. Having a good looking woman play with your gear or manipulate four inch ass plug while she talked to you tended to  distract a mite.

“I think I have some shopping to do. You will give me the websites before you begin your chores.”

“Yes Mistress.”

The absence of two items in the bag confused her. “What do you mean you don’t have a tie? And where are your dress shoes? Or your tennis shoes for that matter?”

“I’m not a tie guy Mistress.” He explained. “Heck, the one or two times a year I wore them, the girls would tie them for me. And I usually left them tied. Some reason I never got the knack.”

“ As for the dress shoes,” he shrugged “good coat of polish and the boots gleam nicer than any dress shoes. They’re more comfortable and more durable. So no need. And I haven’t worn sneakers in years. Last pair I put on killed my feet. I wanna wear something besides the boots I wear the moc’s. Or I go barefoot. You saw how calloused my feet are.”

Eleanor shook her head. “Unbelievable. You are going to become a ‘tie guy’ Thomas. And you will learn to tie them without my assistance. I am your owner, not your mommy. And we will be looking into tennis shoes for you. Your boots are fine in their place but they would be completely inappropriate some of the places I’ll be showing you off. That sort of thing may not have mattered in your old life but it does now. Clear?”

Tom nodded. “Chrystal Mistress.”

After the fashion show Mistress took him on a tour of the house. She clipped the leash to his collar and ordered him down on all fours. Then she sat down on his back and placed the middle part of the leash between his teeth, holding the two ends like a horses reins.

“Hup.” She said, nudging his thigh with one heel. Crawling on his hands and knees with a grown woman riding his back was a challenge but Tom managed. She steered him with the leash and the occasional nudge of her foot or light swat.

Most of it was pretty standard stuff. A hallway is a hallway no matter how nicely decorated. The house had Mistress’ bedroom, her office and two guest rooms between the ground and second floors. There was another bedroom in the basement but Mistress informed him that was more for play sessions than anything else. In a pinch the office couch could fold out as well.

Book cases occupied every room that didn’t have a faucet in it. Mistress made no attempt to hide her pleasure at the reverent way he approached the expensive leather bound volumes. Tom was a voracious reader and had always treated books with respect. He had lost count of the number of days he had kept warm hunkered down in a public library as a kid lost among the stacks, escaping his shitty, desperate existence for a few hours in the worlds of Turtledove, Pratchett and Heinlein. A lot of what Mistress kept around wasn’t really to his taste but just as an alcoholic would drink rubbing alcohol in a pinch so too Tom reckoned he’d find something to feed his own personal addiction among the shelves.

Mistress’ room was easily the nicest of the lot. The furniture was all blond stained oak, heavy, expensive and made to last. The walls were painted a complimentary color and Tom had personally slept in beds less comfortable than the deep pile of the expensive beige carpeting. The California King sized bed was the largest sleeping platform he had ever seen, never mind slept in. Her walk-in closet was actually bigger than his cell at the center.

“And you lived there for two weeks?” she asked in disbelief when he said as much. “How?”

Tom shrugged. “It’s all about what you’re used to Mistress. And if you’re not used to it you get used to it quick enough. Wasn’t so bad really. One of my misdemeanor beefs I had to share a cell that size with another guy. Not. Fun.”

One thing that Tom noticed about the room and which he quickly worked out was a standard feature throughout the house was a series of eyebolts secured at various points on the bed frame, ceiling, walls and floor. The closet also had a couple. The purpose of the bolts wasn’t hard to work out given what he knew about his owner.

The master-so to speak- bath was another departure from the norm for Tom. The tub and shower were separate units. At least two people could bathe in the tub comfortably. The fixtures were silver and there was a shower head on an extendable hose in addition to the faucets.

The shower was a walk-in unit the size of what Tom considered a normal-sized closet. Three sides were done up in expensive tile that matched the white-with-green-accents flooring and had multiple shower heads, creating the affect of being inside a car wash for people. There was a waist-height bar ostensibly to keep from falling but Tom suspected he wouldn’t be the first male indent to spend time bent over in front of Mistress, gripping the bar while she used him anally. Both the tub and the shower had the additional feature of-surprise!- at least one hardpoint for bondage play in the ceiling above.

“Do you swim dear?” Mistress asked him when she showed him the pool.

“Not as often as I’d like Mistress. There was a community pool in the neighborhood but it was mostly for the kids. The girls and I would go to the lake when we could or try to hit the water park a couple times a year.”

Tom sniffed the air. Something was off. The pool didn’t smell like a proper pool. There was none of that eye-bleeding chlorine stench that made him so reluctant to swim in anything that wasn’t made by nature.

“It’s salt water dear.” Mistress explained. “Much better for you.”

Tom perked up at that. “Sweet! I’d read about those. Will I be allowed to use it and the hot tub or is it just for free people?”

Mistress laughed. “Of course you will little one! I was thinking of including a few laps each day in your exercise regimen. We’ll see what the consultant has to say. And of course you will be spending time out here working on your tan as well.”

She patted his bottom making the bells on his tail jingle “You are far too pale in places.”  She tugged on his leash. “Back inside, mouth open for your reins. That’s a good doggy.”

The basement proved to be the only part of the house that actually made Tom nervous. He had never been claustrophobic or the sort of person to be creeped out by basements. Mistress’ basement had a feature unique among the ones he had been in.

The below-ground portion of the house was divided into a number of sections. Most obvious was the public entertainment area .A well-stocked wetbar ran along part of one wall. A sixty-five inch flat screen dominated another. The sound system would shame a few of the live venues he and the girls had gone to. Mistress had an extensive collection of music and movies, a surprising amount of it overlapping with Tom’s own preferences.

There weren’t any proper Irish CDs among the mix. No Wolfe Tones or Avenrye or even any Gaelic Storm but he didn’t think it would be that hard to wheedle a few presents out his owner. Mistress kept him constantly mindful of who was in charge but she didn’t make a big deal out of it. And there was a kindness underlying a lot of the humiliating treatment. Getting little extras from her shouldn’t be that big a challenge.

A laundry room is a laundry room is a laundry room, no matter how expensive the washer and dryer are. The multi-station home gym and treadmill off in one part of the room weren’t even that far outside what Tom considered the norm for a home to have.

“Those will be mostly for you dear.” Mistress told him when she pointed the weight machine and treadmill out. “I have a health club membership and there is a fitness facility here in the community.”

Tom nodded at that. “I know Mistress, I’ve driven past it.”

“When?”

Tom twitched his head to the side. “My last job as a free person. You know Nate’s Freight? The one with the blue and white trucks? I finished as a shift supervisor but I did my share of time on deliveries. They make pretty regular runs out here.”

“Interesting.” Was all she said.

If Tom were to guess she’d be on the phone to the community rent-a-cops to have them pay close attention to any interactions he had with the Nate’s crew. Let her. Baring something truly horrendous he didn’t plan on doing anything to screw up what could be a relatively sweet arrangement if he worked things right.

The room that triggered Toms flight reflex was the one Mistress called “The Play Room”. The play room shared a wall with the entertainment area, which seemed appropriate. Based on the dimensions of the ground floor Tom was willing to bet it took up at least half, if not two-thirds of the basements useable space. A simple wooden door with a key-lock deadbolt allowed entry.

Mistress hit a light switch, opened the door and gestured him through. “You can use your hind legs and hands in here.” She said. “Mind the stairs.”

Tom went down the steps on the other side of the door. The floor of the playroom was actually four feet lower than the rest of the basement. He supposed it added to the rooms soundproofing as well as giving people extra room to do…whatever it was they did down here. He looked around, taking it in. A hand touched his shoulder, making him jump.

“Go on, Thomas.” Mistress nudged him, not quite pushing him. “Go explore.” She stood back and watched as he went deeper into the room.

***************************************************************************

A Slaves Strength Chapter 14

The Playroom

by mechgogo

It was always such fun to observe a newcomers reactions. Poor sheltered little Simon-the ungrateful little snot- had almost wet himself his first time through the door. Thomas was much older and more experienced. But it was clear he had never explored this aspect of human sexuality. It would be very intriguing to see how he took to this portion of his new life.

While Eleanor sat back and watched, Tom was taking a tour of the playroom. He walked straight to the middle of the room, seeming to ignore everything and turned in a slow circle. This was the one room of the house where light colors did not predominate. The walls were covered in dark oak paneling, the ceiling painted a deep forest green. Only the floor was a light color. It was covered in the same sort of terrazzo material as the kitchen. After taking a look around, he went for a stroll.

There were numerous stations around the room. There was a bench that looked like something you’d see in a doctors examination room. Of course none of the exam tables Tom had ever been on were covered with what looked like leather or possibly high-end vinyl the same color as the ceiling. Nor did they generally feature places along their edges where you could tie somebody down.

There was a platform that looked like a giant capital letter Y. The base of the Y was oriented away from the playroom door. Heavy leather straps were built into the device making it possible to render someone virtually immobile on it.

Part of one wall was covered with a series of padded panels. Each one was distinct and separate from the others with a hardwood border around it. D-rings were spaced every six inches or so around the borders. A spherical cage hung from the ceiling in one corner, matte black in color and made of inch-thick pipes Tom doubted he could bend without special tools. He wondered how much time he would spend in that little contraption given Mistresses canine kink.

Some normal furniture occupied the room as well. There was a comfortable looking couch with an end table in front of it positioned where anyone sitting in it could best observe the action. A water cooler with little drinking cones sat nearby. Mounted on the wall above the cooler was a shelf with a paramedic-grade first-aid kit and what looked like a portable defibrillator. It took Tom a few seconds to realize that the coffee table in front of the couch as well as the side tables flanking it were engineered to serve first as cages.

Other devices in the play room included a seven foot tall wooded X with rings at key points, two stocks-one adjustable to waist-height and one clearly designed to be used exclusively while sitting on the floor and something that put Tom in mind of a gymnasts horse at first. Of course, Tom didn’t recall ever seeing one of those with extensions the width of the arms on the X-shaped device to either side or a series of hardpoints placed around it.

There was also a large, nearly ceiling-height wooden frame standing on four sturdy pillar-like legs with X-shaped feet at the bottom for stability. A leather sling currently hungin the middle of the frame. Tom had no doubt that he would be hanging there from time to time.

The playroom was well equipped in other ways. Racks along the walls held a store full of toys. Everything was organized by type. There were floggers and paddles and various spins on the cat o’ nine tail.

He fingered the leather on a couple of the cats. Some of it was incredibly soft and didn’t seem the kind of thing that would do any real damage. A selection of riding crops and buggy whips got his attention. He hoped like hell that the buggy whips weren’t among Mistresses favorites.

“You’re going to beat me with a bullwhip Mistress?” Tom asked in alarm coming to an assortment of single strand whips.

Eleanor nodded. “From time to time. But not right away. We’ll work up to that.” She smiled at Toms shudder and the sudden crawl of goose bumps over his skin.

Ropes in various lengths, color and material bundled up neatly waiting to be used.. Cuffs ,shackles and other restraints had their place as did mounting hardware. A selection of gags shared space with several types of blindfold. The load bearing support columns located around the room had all been fitted with bondage points and Tom quickly worked out that the lighting at each station could be controlled at it’s location or from a master set of adjustable switches near the door. The breathalyzer on the other side of the master light controls was a nice touch. No possible way things could get tragic in a hurry when people were screwing around with whips and rope while drunk. And hot coals were fun to hug. Right!

“Be careful with that dear.” Mistress cautioned him when when he examined a metal carry-case that put him in mind of one of his pistol cases at home. “It’s fragile and very expensive.”

Tom set the case on the exam table and opened it. Mistress appeared at his side, one hand on his shoulder. Inside the case was a selection of glass wands in various shapes. They ranged from a little flat disc to a simple straightforward rod shape to one that looked like a miniature rake. There were several light bulbs in the case. A set of metal finger talons were nestled among the foam as well as a something that looked like a miniature cat-o-nine tails only made of some metallic looking substance. Foil? Tinsel?

“It’s Mylar dear.” Mistress explained when he asked.

The purpose of the device became clear when he found the part the wands plugged into. It was a hand-held electrical unit similar in size and shape to the handle of an electric toothbrush. An electrical cord and plug went into one end and the wands-electrodes he realized- went into the other. A black dial at the base turned it on or off and seemed to allow a range of charges to pass through the unit and into the ‘trodes.

Mistress took the device from him. She plugged in the little disc shaped electrode so he he could see how it went together.

“Have you ever experienced something like this Thomas?” She asked

Tom shook his head. “I never went in for this kind of play,” he gestured to the playroom in general. “when I was free Mistress.”

“You certainly seemed to enjoy your spanking upstairs dear.”

Tom blushed. “Let’s just say the last two weeks have been a learning experience Mistress.”

“As will the next seven years.” Mistress said.

She patted the table. “On your tummy, Legs nice and wide.”

“Hands at your side, palms up.” She said when Tom tried to pillow his face under his hands.

Mistress moved Toms hair off his back and unclipped the tail from his butt plug. She ran her fingers gently across the skin of his back and rump. Her nails played over him teasingly. Tom closed his eyes and sank into the sensation.

“Do you know the difference between hurt and harm Thomas?” She asked.

“I thought they were the same thing Mistress.”

“Not always. And not between you and I when you behave. Hurting is simply causing pain. Harming is doing damage. I am going to spend more hours than you can imagine hurting you dear. I am going to see more tears from you than you may have shed in your entire time with Angela and Nicollete. But I will never intentionally harm you. Not even when you misbehave, because the pain I cause you then will be to make you more mindful, not to break you. But I need your help with it. You want to help Mistress don’t you puppy?”

Tom nodded. “Very much Mistress, yes.”

“Good boy.” She pinched his butt and gave it a light slap. “Then here is how it will be when we play. You will let me know how what I am doing is affecting you. Since you will often be gagged or in too much pain to speak or even think clearly we will use hand signals.

Holding up one finger from one hand will mean ‘Mistress I am enjoying myself.’ . Two fingers will mean ‘Mistress you are hurting me in ways I don’t like.’ . And three fingers will mean ‘Mistress you are harming me.’ . Do you understand?”

“Yes Mistress. It seems simple enough.”

“As it is meant to be. Show me what my hand on your bottom did for you dear.”

Tom held up one finger.

“And the leather paddle?”

Still one finger.

That got Mistress’ attention. “Interesting. What about…when I slapped your face for being profane?”

Two fingers.

“I thought so. And when they used the shock belt on you?”

Tom held up three fingers and banged the back of his hand emphatically on the tables padded surface.

Mistress just nodded. She had seen the video of his sessions with the belt. “ Before I use the wand on you Thomas we need to warm up your skin, get the nerves ready. Did you see anything you especially liked among the toys?”

Tom swallowed nervously. “That red wooden paddle looked fun Mistress.”

“It can be. But it lacks a certain…versatility. I could damage you if I used that on your back. You don’t mind if I make a selection do you?”

As if he had a choice. “Not at all Mistress. I trust you.”

“As well you should dear.” She said and went over to the rack that held the riding crops.

“No peeking puppy.” He was warned when Mistress caught him looking at her. He closed his eyes obediently.

“Look at me Thomas.” Mistress said when she came back.

In his owners hand was a crop different from most of the others. It was flatter and broader in the body. The head was more square in cross section and was comprised of two pieces one atop the other, like a person placing the palm of their right hand on the palm of their left without allowing the fingers of the top hand to touch those of the bottom.

“This is one of my favorites. It is called a batting crop. I got this one at an equestrian store.” She told him. “It has a lovely sting and I can beat every inch of you without harm. It’s fun to tease with as well.”

Mistress swished the crop across his back then, just letting the edge of the head make contact. It was a scratchy sensation more than a painful one. The two leather pieces made little clicking sounds when they connected with each other. The contact stung a little when she took it to his but and thighs but still didn’t hurt. He yipped and jumped when she danced the head over the soles of his feet.

“Someone is ticklish.” Mistress observed with a smile.

It didn’t tickle when she started paddling him with the crop. Little stinging pats rained down first across his back and and butt, thighs and calves. Gradually the tempo and force increased. Soon Tom was shaking as the crop cracked into him. The impacts were loud and they stung like Mistress' belt but with a heavier thud behind them.

He could feel his skin reddening and getting the tight hot feeling like it did on the rare occasions he got a mild sunburn. Still, he kept one finger visible. The crop hurt but Mistress Beth had given him worse their first night together.

“That should do.” Mistress said at last. She set the crop between Toms legs in case she decided to use it again and plugged the small disc-shaped electrode into the wand. After plugging the wand into a nearby outlet she turned it on with a click and a hum.

“Now don’t forget your signals little one.” She said. “And remember; I decide if you are really being harmed or not. Those fingers are just your opinion. And we both know how insignificant that is compared to mine don’t we?”

Tom nodded and tried to relax. It was hard not to tense up. The last two weeks had taught him to fear and hate electric shocks with a passion. The idea of being shocked for fun made him want to leap off the table and run from the room. Still, he lay where he was and calmly waited to Mistress to use him.

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Mistress said suddenly. She turned off the wand and placed it in his hand. “Be a lamb and hold that for me will you dear? I’ll be right back.”

Mistress disappeared from his view then. Her steps clicked across the floor and suddenly all the lights in the room died. He heard her return and adjust the illumination above the exam table. The lights dialed up just enough to see by but not enough to read by. Mistress reactivated the wand. It lit up with a deep neon green glow.

Despite his best efforts Tom jumped at the first contact from the wand. It hadn’t hurt and that was the real surprise. It was more like a prickly sensation as if someone were dancing a series of needles over his skin without actually drawing blood. Mistress picked up the crop and brought it down sharply across his thighs.

“Lie still!”

She ran the wand up and down his back for a bit then, making little comments about how responsive his skin was, how pretty the light of the wand was against him. The hot spiny feeling crackled over him for awhile. He yelped when Mistress passed it between his legs but more from the unexpected nature of getting his balls stimulated that way.

“Rise up a little for me dear.” He was told.

When he obeyed, Mistress ran the wand directly over his scrotum. The hot needles jabbed into the sensitive skin and he bit his lip. His cock began to respond and Mistress played the electrical toy across his stiffening shaft. That actually stung. He raised a second finger.

“Duly noted darling.” Mistress said. She still played the toy up and down his length some more but concentrated mostly on his sack and inner thighs before pressing him back down flat on his belly.

Mistress turned off the wand after a bit. By that time Tom was oddly relaxed. The wand had hurt in p-laces but mostly it reminded him of getting massaged. “That was nice but I think we can try something a little more intense. You don’t mind do you little one?”

“Well I did have that luncheon with the President today Mistress. And I’d planned to climb Everest right after. Might make make for some tight timing.”

She pressed her lips together and swatted him on the bum. “Cute.” Tom wiggled his butt. That earned him several hard shots across hit cheeks, leaving raised welts in the shape of the crop on his ass. They throbbed in time with his pulse.

“Are we done being clever?” Mistress asked after the fifth or six stroke. Tom nodded and she setthe crop back down.

“I think you’ll enjoy this one.” He was told as Mistress fitted the little rake-looking ‘trode into the wand. “It is more intense but you seem to have a rather high threshold. I wonder what it would take to break you if you actually chose to not let the pain affect you.”

The rake was definitely more intense than the disc had been. The little points concentrated the charge more making for sharper sensations. By then his skin was getting sensitive as well.

Mistress played the glass device all up and down his back. His skin twitched and more than once muscles jumped of their own accord. He pressed his face into the surface of the table and gave a muffled little scream when she ran it over his feet. Holding still and not kicking the wand was one of the hardest acts of self control he had ever had to perform. Mistress noticed it and petted his hair.

“That’s a good boy.”. She said. The pressing of his head against her hand as she caressed him was becoming a reflex with frightening rapidity.

Back and forth across the welts on his ass and thighs went the rake. Up one calf and down the inside of the opposite thigh. Hot blue snapping needles reached out from the points of the toy and lit up his nerves. As Mistress worked him over he began to sweat. The sweat increased the conductivity of his skin which made the wand that much more affective. Endorphins kicked in and Tom rolled with them. This was exactly the kind of thing that made tattoos so addictive. The high lifted him up, floated him over the table. God it was clean.

“Are we enjoying ourselves dear?” Mistress asked.

Tom nodded muzzily. “Mmm hmm.”

The sharp crack of a hand across his butt focused his thoughts.

“Manners puppy.” The voice was gentle but you could stand on the steel beneath.

“Yes Mistress, your little doggy is enjoying himself very much.” Tom said.

“Good. We are almost done but not before you experience the best part of this attachment.”

Mistress turned off the wand for a moment and went away. When she returned she had a roll of red bondage tape. Tom wondered if it was coincidence that she had chosen the same color he had used to gag Nic with the day he left home.

“Up on you elbows.” She ordered.

When Tom rose up Mistress meticulously moved his hair off his back and neck making sure not a single strand was anywhere but hanging in front of him. She took the tape and, with the utmost care wrapped several passes around his neck, paying particular attention to the patch of skin over his chip. When there was a good thickness of the latex tape covering his skin she pressed him back down and put his hair back as it had been.

The wand started again with a hum and a crackle. Mistress took the rake and ran it through the very ends of Toms hair. The strands conducted electricity to his scalp, making it tingle. Slowly, inexorably she worked her way up his hair combing it in longer and longer swaths with the rake. The toy got closer and closer to his scalp until the tines were conducting their charge directly into the skin of Toms head. The sensation was amazing, painful but exhilarating and oddly relaxing. At one point the outer edge of one of the rakes teeth caught the tip of his ear. He screamed between his teeth and banged two fingers on the table for a second. Other than that he kept one finger clearly visible where Mistress could see it at all times.

Tom lost track of time. He just floated and let Mistress play with him, letting his reactions come as they would. When she finally turned off the wand he blinked a little.

“Mmm?” He asked. “You’re done Mistress?”

“For now dear.” She said, running her nails over his back. His skin sang with odd mix of pain and pleasure. “I could play with you all day. But we both have work to do. Thirsty?”

He nodded. “If it pleases Mistress.”

She went over to the water cooler and drew a cone of water. When she returned, Mistress sat him up and took half the contents into her mouth. Tom knew what was expected of him and when the kiss came he drank down the water without choking or spilling. Mistress held the kiss for a few beats after the drink. Her hand clenched in his hair lighting up the already enlivened nerves of his scalp. Her tongue probed his mouth and he responded. He kissed her back and opened his legs, lifting them around her. Her free hand ran down his chest and between his legs, petting his privates. When he got hard almost immediately she gave him a firm squeeze and a little flick of one finger across the shaft.

Mistress pulled back and drained the cone, dropping it on the floor. Another drink. Another kiss. Another few moments having his pain/pleasure compass confused as he was alternately petted and gently clawed across his back.

The kiss ended. The taped came off from around Toms neck, the collar going back on in it’s place. He bent and spread like a good boy for the return of his tail. Mistress made him tidy up, including wiping down the table with sanitary wipes from a large canister kept for the purpose. She lead him back out of the playroom and locked the door.

Back upstairs Mistress put the earpiece in his ear. “You did very well downstairs Thomas.” She said. “But I hope you understand that not every session will as pleasant for you.”

When he nodded she went on. “Now you have chores to tend to. Dinner is at six and you need to be bathed and have the table set by then.

There are two chicken breasts in the refrigerator. You will make the entrée from that using any ingredients you like from my kitchen. Make whatever side you like. I want this house immaculate before dinner, including fresh linens on my bed. In the meantime if you hear my voice in your ear you will stop what you are doing, kneel and say ‘Yes Mistress how may I serve you?’ . If I summon you you will attend me immediately, remembering what we discussed earlier. Do you have any questions?”

Tom shook his head. “No Mistress. I understand what’s expected of me.”

She gave him one last kiss before shoving his shoulder lightly. “Then get moving puppy.”

Tom didn’t say anything. He was already crawling from the room to begin obeying his owners command.

Inconthieveable

A Slave’s Strength Chapter 30

By

Mechgogo

The rest of the day passed quickly. It was the most normal, homelike interval he has spent since asking Mistress Beth and that asshole Frenchy if their vests were fireproof. Tom was no stranger to housework. Before moving in with the girls if he wanted a clean home it was get off his ass and clean or live in filth. Afterwards; hey he’d made at least a third of the mess. It was only fair to do his part.

During the tour Mistress showed him the cleaning supplies and he put them to good use.  When he had gotten his first real home that wasn’t a squat with roaches running rampant and some  junkie using one corner for a toilet he had developed tidy habits. There was no shame to being poor he reckoned but there was also no excuse for being a slob. Soap was cheap and if you worked at anything-even crime- to pay for a place it only made sense to take some pride in it.

One of the items had taken some figuring out. It looked like a mop but was only about two feet long. Instead of a normal handle this one ended with a little clamshell device that worked the ringer when the halves of the shell were compressed together. Heavy vinyl straps and a buckle were mounted on either side. There were also what looked like a scrub brush and little broom in similar configuration.

Mistress had seen him puzzling it out, a process that didn’t take long. She made him open his mouth and put the end piece between his teeth.

“Mind your tongue dear.” She said smiling at him. “I have plans for it later.” He had blushed at that.

As Tom had suspected the mop wasn’t meant to be operated manually but rather held in the mouth and used on all fours. Mistress explained that he would be cleaning the house with it and it’s companion pieces from time to time either when he did a poor job using the normal tools available or when she just decided she wanted him to. Since Mistress didn’t insist on their use that particular day he avoided them.

He started prepping for dinner first. Good food was another passion of his. A lifetime of subsisting on crap had given Tom a real appreciation for good cooking when it was available. Just because you could survive on garbage didn’t mean you should avoid quality when you could get it. He whipped up a citrus marinade for the chicken, set the meat to doing its thing and got busy elsewhere in the house. A pasta side and salad would take minutes. The longer he let the meat set the better it would be.

Mistress interrupted his work periodically throughout the day. Sometimes she wanted her drink refilled or to have her mouth or feet kissed or rubbed. He was happy to oblige even if it did leave him with a set of blue balls you could see from orbit.

He asked for and received permission to polish his boots. He wanted to look his best for the visit home and they were pretty scruffy looking. That had been a gray area to his mind since it wasn’t technically part of the housecleaning process . Normally it would have been filed under “Better to ask forgiveness than permission” but he was trying to keep on Mistress’ good side. Then Mistress promptly yelled at him for doing it inside though how she could possibly smell the polish from clear down in the laundry room was a mystery. He got told off again for kneeling on the patio without a pad under him while he worked on the boots out there.

“Do you think I want those knees scraped up and arthritic from kneeling on granite?” Mistress demanded. “You need to take better care of my property you thoughtless little stray! And don’t you dare let me catch you tracking polish into my home either! You wash up at the faucet outside before coming back in.”

Apparently the fact that she had spent some quality time applying a household electrical current to the scrotum of the same property he was getting yelled at for being careless with did not strike Herself as all that contradictory.

At one point Mistress had him bring down a stationary set from her office. She dismissed him only to summon him later, this time to put an envelope sealed with wax between his lips. The envelope was addressed to him and Tom was told to place it on the night stand beside her bed but not to open it until instructed.

As was often the case when he did anything that didn’t require his full attention Tom found himself singing. He was in a good mood and with what he considered to be plenty of just cause. He was out of the center. That little shit Frenchy had caught the anvil with both hands and a promise of more to come down the road. He was working in a nice house for a good looking woman, albeit one with a taste for sodomy.

That part wasn’t such a big deal. If he had to chose between getting cornholed by Mistress and some of the landasaurus rexes he’d observed leading houseboys around when he was free it wasn’t exactly a tough call. Best of all he was going to get to see his girls again! The thought made him a bit manic with happiness.

Of course it also meant he wasn’t paying as close attention to other things as he should have and he caught a spot of hell for it.

“Thomas!” Mistresses voice cracked in his ear. Tom went to his knees, nervously. She’d barely sounded that pissed when she slapped him for swearing during the interview.

“Yes Mistress how may…”

“Living room immediately!”

When Tom scrambled into Mistresses presence on his hands and knees he felt a rush of fear go through him. She was glaring at him even before he was properly in the room Worse yet, she was holding the belt he had been whipped with for being profane earlier.

“Would you care to explain why you are talking to yourself in Irish after our conversation earlier?” She demanded. “Or why you were doing so at such a volume that it was echoing through my entire house? I heard you all the way from upstairs!”

Tom felt his face flush. God damnit ! He’d been doing it again! “I wasn’t talking to myself Mistress. I was singing. I’m very sorry if it disturbed you. I’ll keep it down.”

She looked at him dubiously, clearly trying to figure out just how big a lie he was telling. “You were singing. In Irish.”

Tom nodded. “Yes Mistress.”

“I thought all Irish music was in English and about blowing up British people or getting drunk.”

Stereotype much boss? “No Mistress, that’s mostly the rebel tunes. Relatively recent stuff that. This was an older, piece.” He thought for a second. “You know I’m not really sure how far back that one goes.”

“And the songs name?”

“Beidh Aonach Amarach Mistress.” Tom said  “It’s about a girl who wants to go to a fair and would rather marry a poor cobbler than a wealthy soldier.” He looked down at his lap. “I’ve always liked it because it’s a really pretty song and the theme kinda resonates with me. My in-laws wanted the girls to marry someone they reckoned had decent future ahead of him. Not some lowlife who was probably headed for prison.”

“Why do you do that?” she asked.

Tom was confused. “Do what Mistress?”

“Constantly denigrate yourself. Why do you seem incapable of opening your mouth without saying something derogatory about yourself? Do you like being called bad names? Is that why you don’t seem to mind when I talk to you as if you were a dog?”

Tom shook his head. “It’s not that Mistress. It’s just…” he stopped, thinking about his past, all the stuff in it he was ashamed of. And all the stuff he wasn’t ashamed of but was smart enough to know should have made him a bit sick to think about. “I’ve done…”

“Yes yes,” Mistress said in exasperation “horrible things. I understand. But that does not mean that you are a bad person now Thomas. And I will not have you speaking of yourself in that manner any more. It is discourteous to more than just you. It calls into question the judgment of your wives and Mistress Melanie for bringing you to my attention and myself for taking you into my service. Tell me, have you seen anything in this house you would consider to be trashy or low class?”

Tom shook his head. “Not at all Mistress.”

“Then what on Earth gives you the right to speak as if I surround myself with rubbish?”

Tom lowered his eyes. “Nothing Mistress. I’m sorry if I was being disrespectful. Should I present myself for discipline?”

“Do you want the belt?”

“No Mistress. But I don’t want you upset with me either. That does bring up a question though. What about when I misbehave and you scold me? Like when I went to polish my boots downstairs?”

“Being a naughty dog is not the same as being a bad person Thomas. You may not allow yourself to admit it but there is a core of integrity in you that anyone can see from a considerable distance. You will begin acknowledging it or we will discuss your willful refusal to do so. Am I clear?”

“Yes Mistress.”

“Good boy. Now, the song.”

Tom frowned. “I don’t understand Mistress. What about it?”

She gave an impatient sigh. Why were people with genius IQ’s so painfully thick in some ways? “Sing it for me. Now.”

“Oh! Of course.”

Tom closed his eyes and called the song up in his mind. He let himself move to the rhythm, getting into it and readying his breathing. He opened his mouth and sang, letting his voice fill the room and the emotions the song inspired in him power come out in his rendition.

“Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir

Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir

Beidh aonach amárach i gContae an Chláir

Cé mhaith dom é, ní bheidh mé ann?

A mháithrín, an ligfidh tú chun aonaigh mé?

A mháithrín, an ligfidh tú chun aonaigh mé?

A mháithrín, an ligfidh tú chun aonaigh mé?

A mhuirnín ó, ná héiligh é.

Níl tú a deich ná a haon déag fós

Níl tú a deich ná a haon déag fós

Níl tú a deich ná a haon déag fós

Nuair a bheidh tú trí déag beidh tú mór.

B'fhearr liom féin mo ghréasaí bróg

B'fhearr liom féin mo ghréasaí bróg

B'fhearr liom féin mo ghréasaí bróg

Ná oifigeach airm faoi lásaí óir.”

Tom never left his knees as he sang but he bobbed and shifted with the music from his position at Mistress’s feet . He kept time by clapping his hands. By the second verse she was clapping along with him, nodding to the beat and smiling. Tom felt a little thrill go through him. The song always lifted his mood. Sharing it with someone else and learning they liked it too was a good feeling. Especially in this case. Any common ground he could establish with Mistress-hopefuly- make his time in her service that much less stressful. You treated an appliance with indifference. You treated a person or a house pet with kindness.

When he finished Tom looked at Mistress expectantly. Hre reaction did not disappoint. She clapped her hands and beamed at him.

“That was lovely dear. You really do have an exquisite voice. Do you know any other songs?”

Toms ears almost met behind his head he grinned so big. He tapped his temple with two fingers. “I’ve got a library of music up here Mistress. Most of it’s Irish though. I like a lot of the older rock songs but I haven’t put as much time into memorizing or mastering them.”

“Sing me another dear. And keep singing until I tell you to stop.”

Tom bowed deeply. “Gladly Mistress.”

One of Toms many concerns when he was at the center was whether or not whoever bought his contract would allow high lighter side to ever come out of if they’d expect an endless line of bowing and scraping. It was a relief to see that while Mistress expected good manners and a submissive attitude she knew how to lighten up as well. He decided to take a chance and sing a couple of his other favorites.

‘Donald Where’s Your Trousers’ seemed appropriate on a number of levels given his fondness for the kilt and current lack of anything at all on below the waist. He glanced down at his own unclad lap at one point in the song and gave a little ‘What are ya gonna do?’ shrug earning a laugh .

After that Tom sang ‘The Scotsman’, a song about a drunken, kilt-clad Scot who passes out one night on the way home from from the pub only to have a pair of curious girls happen by while he’s sleeping it off. Mistress pressed a handover her mouth and giggled when he sang the line ‘As a gift they left a blue silk ribbon tied into a bow/a-round the bonny star the Scots kilt did lift and show.’ . She burst out laughing on the final line ‘Lad I don’t know where ye been but I see ya won first prize!’

After Mistress composed herself she told him to stop. “That was delightful dear. Thank you for that.” Tom could almost see the lightbulb materialize over her head a second later. “Oh! And I just had the most wonderful idea. Be a lamb and stand up for me Thomas. Legs wide apart and your eyes closed.”

Mistress got off the couch and started from the room. “Hands behind your head as well. Good boy.”

A few minutes later he heard her re-enter the room. Mistress ran a hand over him, reaching between his legs and petting his package. He whimpered at that. If she kept doing that he just knew he’d get the shit beat out of himself for coming without permission. And she obviously delighted in the affect she had on him. When he got hard under her touch Tom felt a delicate firm wetness dabbing at his cock. He groaned. He didn’t need to open his eyes to know his owner was very methodically lapping away at the head of his erection.

“Mistress please !” He begged.

The licking stopped. Tom didn’t know whether to be relieved or heartbroken. Relieved he decided. Another fifteen seconds of that and he’d have cut loose a two-day load directly onto his owners face without her say-so. Then he suspected he’d be less heartbroken and a damned sight more ass broken.

“Please what dear?” Mistress asked.

“I haven’t had an orgasm in two days Mistress. If you keep doing that, I’m going to come.”

She patted his shaft and giggled a little at the way it bounced around. “That would be very naughty Thomas and you know it. You don’t want to be a naughty dog for Mistress do you dear?”

Tom shook his head. “No Mistress. I want to be good for you.”

She swatted him on the thigh. “No Mistress I want to be a good little doggy for you.” Mistress corrected gently. “Answer properly.”

“No Mistress I want to be a good little doggy for you.”

“Good boy. Now hold still and don’t you dare come.”

Tom whimpered and bit his lip as he felt her mouth go back to work on him. Mistresses tongue traced long slow slines up and down his shaft. It wandered lazily around the head of his cock . He fought to control his breathing and detach himself enough from the action to keep from losing it. Then he felt the warm wetness of her mouth completely engulf him. Tom tasted blood as he bit his cheek trying to maintain his control. He screamed between his teeth a little as he felt the tip of his penis press against the back of her throat.Despite his best efforts he felt his hips move. A wash of fear rushed through him. He was so going to get his ass handed to him.

Surprisingly Mistress didn’t punish him. She just placed one hand on his leg and steadied him, giving her head a little warning shake while still sucking him. It seemed to go on for hours but Tom knew Mistress only stayed down him a dozen strokes or so. When she pulled off, she finished by kissing the head of his cock and giving it one last teasing lick.

“That was nice. Did you enjoy yourself as well puppy?”

Tom couldn’t speak. He could barely stand.

“Thomas,” Mistress said with a warning tone in her voice. “Mistress asked you a question.”

Tom nodded vigorously. “Yes Mistress.” He answered. “Your little doggy enjoyed himself very very much.”

“Good boy. Mistress has a present for you now dear. Hold nice and still.”

There was a whisper of cloth and the snick of a pair of scissors. Something went around the base of his genitals. It was long and flexible and felt about the width of his first two fingers. Tom started to get an inkling and hoped like hell he was wrong.  In some ways being the property of someone with a playful sense of humor could promise to be a lot of fun. In other ways it promised to be humiliating beyond belief.

Mistress wrapped the whatever-it-was around his parts several times. Then began tying a knot. He could feel her fingers moving against his skin. It let him draw a mental picture he hope was inaccurate. When she was done Mistress sat back and patted his once again flaccid organ.

“Smile nice and pretty for me dear.”  She said. Tom obeyed and there was a chirp as her phone took a picture.

“Open your eyes Thomas. Take a look at your present and tell me how much you like it.”

Tom opened his eyes, looked down and nearly died. O ar son feis! She’d gone and turned his gear into a bloody punchline! Just as he’d feared, Mistress had gotten her hands on some bright blue ribbon and tied it into a bow around the base of his not-so-private-anymores. She sat there smiling broadly.

“Do you like it dear?”

Tom lowered his eyes. “Yes Mistress. It’s very nice. Thank you very much for my present.” He tried to remember the last time he felt so embarrassed and drew a blank.

“You’re welcome Thomas. If it comes off for any reason before your bath my feelings will be hurt. Is that something you want?”

“No Mistress. Your little doggy only wants to make you happy.”

“And you have done a wonderful job so far. Now down on all fours. I need to use the restroom.”

Tom carried Mistress on his back to the one of the houses ground floor bathrooms. He averted his eyes while she peed. It wasn’t the first time he had been in the room with a urinating woman. Living in a house with three adults all living as husband and wife and only two bathrooms meant that sometimes you did your business with an audience. It was just the first time he had knelt at eye level with the crotch of the person doing it while they did.

Another first came as soon as Mistress finished. She lifted her skirt, opened her opened her legs and beckoned Tom to her.

“Clean me Thomas.” She said. “No.” she told him when he mistakenly reached for some paper. “Not like that. Like a good puppy .” a hand on the back of his head made it clear what she expected.

Tom froze for a second. Not long, just long enough for Mistress to catch the hint of resistance. She slapped the top of his head.

“Are we being willful?”

“No Mistress.” Tom assured her. “I’m a good puppy. I’ve just never done this before is all.”

“You will get used to it little one. You are going to do this most times that I urinate when we are home together. Now do as your told!”

Tom swallowed nervously and obey. He pressed his face to Mistresses spread vagina, lapping at the wetness and nearly soiling himself in fear of what would happen if he got sick on her. His first couple of licks were tentative, earning him another swat, gentler than the first but still enough to get the message across.

  As with most things that didn’t seem pleasant on paper the idea in Toms mind of how bad it would be to clean his owner was worse than the reality. Mistress guided him with commands. First he licked the outside of her parts, starting as far down towards the crack of her ass as he could reach. Carefuly and methodically he lapped his way  up into her bush, cleaning her pubic hair with hos mouth as well. Then down the other side, careful to get any little droplets that might have remained behind. The taste wasn’t so bad. It was slightly salty but not much more than so than when he had earned his plate earlier in the day. He realized his disgust was all in his head and decided to focus on the fact that for the second time that day he was going down on good looking woman. The fact that she had just peed was incidental. It wasn’t as if she were on her period or something truly disgusting like that.

Mistress made him clean her inside as well. He did that gladly playing his tongue in her delicious wet folds. Her legs went around his back and she leaned back against the toilet presenting her pussy for better attention than it had received when she was sitting up. She moaned a little and her hands went into his hair. Her hips rocked  as he dragged his tongue slowly across her clit again and again. If Mistress wanted a dog to clean her privates he would bloody well clean them like a dog.

To Toms considerable disappointment Mistress pushed him away before she came. She flushed, washed her hands and made Tom dry them with a towel. Then she took him by the chin as she had throughout the rest of the day.

“You did very well Thomas.” Mistress said. “Any time you are not engaged in a task you will be my little shadow. You will enter and leave the room at my heel like the devoted little dog you are. If you see me go to the restroom and I do not specifically instruct otherwise you will clean me. And you will never discuss this aspect of your service or any other detail of your intimate duties with anyone unless I give you a direct order to the contrary. Especially your wives.”

Yeah, because telling your wife all about the freaky fetish toilet sex you regularly have with another woman is the ultimate recipe for marital tranquility. Sure. “Yes Mistress. Your doggy understands his instructions. May I please ask a question though?”

When Mistress nodded Tom asked “Will I be expected to clean you after you…” he gagged a little at the idea “after you defecate as well Mistress? Or when you’re on your period?”

The look of disgust on her face was a huge relief. “Absoloutely not !” she snapped. “The very idea is repugnant! And you will not submit to any service of any kind that puts you in contact with anyone elses blood or feces either. Is that clear?”

“Yes Mistress. And thank you. I don’t know that I could avoid getting sick from that.”

“Well you are not to allow yourself to ever find out little one. Now, take me back to the livingroom. We both have things to do.”

After Tom returned Mistress to the couch and refilled her tea he finished his chores. At quarter to five he presented himself for his bath. Luckily, the ribbon hadn’t come off his cock and balls by then. That earned him a pat on the head and a ‘good doggy’ . The little internal glow that bloomed every time Mistress said or did something like that wierded him out some but he decided to roll with it. There were a lot worse things an indent could hear from their owner.

Mistress toured the house with Tom crawling along at her heel. She inspected his work in each room, praising where he had met her standards and pointing out exactly what he had done wrong where it didn’t. On those occaisions he got the belt but it was only a few licks for the entire house. Overall Mistress informed Tom that he had met her expectations but that she expected better in the future.

“You strike me as someone who is well above average at most things they decide to excel at Thomas. You are going to become the servant the other contractors in the community scold their own staff for not emulating or we will discuss why that isn’t so.”

Tom bowed his head and promised that wouldn’t be neccassary. He had already worked out that “We will discuss…” was Mistress Speak for “Your ass and thighs are going to get tenderized.”

Mistress ended the inspection in the main bathroom. She removed his plug and tail, gave him an enema-a degrading experience he never would fully get used to-  and had him kneel beside the tub until she returned.   When Mistress came back she was wearing a black one piece bathing suit and her hair was up in a bun. She was carrying a length of rope run through a carabineer. She chuckled musically at the way Toms face went from expectant to crestfallen at the sight of her outfit.

“Whats wrong dear?” she asked. “Was someone hoping for a better look at me?”

Tom looked her in the eye. Maybe it was insubordinate. He didn’t care. He hadn’t had an orgasm in two days. He had spent all day engaging in on again/off again sex play with a good looking woman including a tortuous session with her mouth on his cock and no release. He was horny damnit !

“Yes Mistress, very much so.”

She tapped the tip of his nose with one finger. “Soon enough pet. Now get in the tub. Attach this to the ring overhead and do not let go of the rope without permission.”

Being bathed was a new experience but one Tom rapidly got used to, even look forward to. Over the years that followed Mistress would make a regular habit of it. She shampooed and conditioned his hair with products he was informed had been bought specially for him.

“What you brought with you is good quality given the resources you had in your old life dear but I can afford better and I take good care of my possessions.’ She said.

Every inch of him was wash from his hairline to his the soles of his feet. Mistress talked at him as she worked. She made comments on thw quality of his housework and how good she thought he looked standing there in the tub covered in suds. She teased him a little as well. A strong, soft hand “washed” his cock and balls as Mistress watched his reactions. Tom suspected that if Mistress ever caught him washing himself quite like that there would be a discussion about the no-masturbation rule. He whimpered and shuddered as she played with him. Things got even more challenging when she decided he was dirty inside. Three fingers were covered in soap and slipped up inside him while the other hand stayed around his erection.

“Pump your hips Thomas.” He was ordered after a few strokes. “And no pretending you aren’t enjoying yourself.” She gave him a squeeze to emphasize his obvious enjoyment of being fingered.

Privately Toms mind was going in fifty directions at once. During his relatively few, brief stays as a quest of the DOC he had fought some vicious, bloody battles to keep his asshole untouched. And now here he was struggling not to drain his balls onto the chest of someone who was fingering him and had told him bluntly he would coming while used him that way. He should have been sick, enraged, terrified, actively in the process of assaulting Mistress to keep it from happening. Instead he was wishing she had returned with the strapon and harness and bent him over before his bath.  

After the bath Mistress toweled him off and brushed his hair while he knelt at her feet. The soft gentle pull of the brush-his own but Mistress said they would be buying a new one the next day.- relaxed him. He leaned back into her legs until she scolded him a little. The twins had done the same thing for him countless times over the years. It was one of those little gestures that reaffirmed their bond and one he had missed with painful intensity. Having Mistress do it gave her what Tom suspected she knew was a back door around his defenses. Her earlier declaration that she would be joining the girls in his heart promised to come true by the end of his first year at this rate.

Mistress also brushed his teeth for him, a process that he found even more invasive than the enema. His ribbon was re-tied and Mistress put his collar and tail back on. The plug she used to hold the tail was larger than the original by at least an inch in length and a half inch in width.

“I want tears when I deflower you darling,” Mistress said. “not screams.”

As an added final touch Mistress put scent on him. In his free life Tom had never been one for cologne or even deodorant. Perfume was for women. Men smelled like soap unless they were into other men. Still, that was then. Mistress held the bottle under his nose. It smelled nice; sort of spicy and cinnamony with a bite he couldn’t identify at the back end. He decided he liked it. Mistress used the stuff sparingly. One drop on her finger did the trick for the space under and just behind both sides of his lower jaw hinge. Another was dabbed on his right wrist and both wrists rubbed together. Having a final drop rubbed into his pubes was a bit odd but it was Mistresses world. He was just living in it.

There was a spot of drama when Mistress produced a hair dryer. Tom hated the things. They were loud, tangled your hair and he personally believed-granted without a shred of evidence but so what?- they caused cancer. He got scolded and took a swat to the face before submitting with poor grace to the damned noisy death-device. Mistress just shook her head. It was clear she was undergoing one of those ice-cream-headache-without-the-ice-cream moments that people who spent a lot of time with Tom tended to experience.

“You barely make a wimper when told to taste my urine but something this normal you actively resist me on. Unbelieveable.

“Sorry Mistress.” Bullshit he was. Drinking pee was one thing. A fucking hairdryer was another.

In an attempt to lighten the mood Tom piped up in his best Inigo Montoya impression “You keep using thet word. I do not think it eh-means what you eh-think it eh-means.”

Mistress just stared blankly at him, trying to figure out if he was being insubordinate or having some sort of hallucinatory drug flashback.

“The Princess Bride, Mistress?” He asked. “One of the great classics of books and film?”

A cow looking at a supercollider would have shown more comprehension in its expression than Mistress did. “The what dear?”

“Mistress honestly means to tell me that with all her money, all the movies downstairs and all the books in this house she has never seen or read The Princess Bride?”

“I have never even heard of it Thomas.”

Tom just shook his head. “Inconthieveable.”

A Slave’s Strength

Chapter 16

By Mechgogo

Dinner With Mistress

When Mistress finally pronounced him fit to dine with she ordered him from the room.

“Downstairs. I have my own preparations to make. When I enter the dining room I expect dinner to be on the table and a certain little stray waiting to pull out my chair for me. Now move!” She swatted his butt as he crawled from her presence.

Mistress joined Tom some time later. As instructed, dinner was ready and waiting for her on the table. Chicken, a salad and simple dish of noodles, butter, and garlic all sat in their serving dishes needing only the lady of the house to enjoy them. A bottle of white wine waited to be opened and there were candles in case Mistress wanted to dine by their light instead of the sun still coming in the windows or the light fixture above the table. A glass office water sat near Mistresses plate with more waiting for her in a glass pitcher. Light classical music played over the sound system. Tom had also placed a bowl on the floor near Mistresses chair and a thick kneeling pad near the bowl.

Tom was waiting on his knees on the pad when Mistress entered the room. She stopped and allowed him a look at her before approaching the table. Tom felt his throat go a little dry at her appearance. Mistress had changed from her sun dress into a form fitting simple black dress. The neckline was low but not overly revealing. The hem stopped  just below her knees and there was enough give in the skirt to allow her to walk with ease.

Her shoes were simple black pumps with four inch heels. She walked with an ease grace, her steps clicking on the hardwood floor in a manner that reminded Tom of someone slowly turning the cylinder on a revolver. His leash and the belt swung in her hand in time with her stride.

Mistress had put on jewelry  and makeup and done her hair as well.  Her hair was held back in a simple clasp at the base of her neck. She had darkened her eyes and put on some lipstick but neither was overdone to Toms way of thinking. Her earrings were diamonds set around pear cut emeralds in what looked like white gold. A matching necklace, also of white gold hung from her neck. A ring on her left hand completed the ensemble; diamonds resting in white gold in two rows, one up and one down between the points of five square cut emeralds. Tom estimated his owner was wearing almost as much in jewels as he had paid for his Harley Springer Softtail . And that was just to have dinner with her dog.

Before Mistress reached the table, Tom was on his feet and the chair was pulled out. He bowed his head and gave  her a smile. Mistress looked at him, drifted a hand down his side and sat. He poured the wine, filled Mistresses plate , placed her napkin in her lap and knelt at her feet, patiently waiting for her next demand.

       Without looking at him, Mistress tasted each of the items he had prepared. She kept her face carefully neutral. Tom looked at her expectantly. After swallowing the last bite she gave him an approving look.

       “This is all very good Thomas. I see I was right about you.” She said, reaching to pet him. When she couldn’t quite reach him a snapped finger brought him closer.

       “You will keep yourself within easy arms reach of me at all times unless engaged in a task  or specifically told otherwise Thomas. I do not like having to stretch to touch you.”

       Dinner was a quiet affair. Mistress fed Tom from her own fork. From time to time she offered him little sips of water or wine, sometimes letting him drink from her glass, other times pouring the drink into his bowl and making him consume it that way. He kept his hands at his sides or behind his back throughout the meal. They chatted a little, mostly about some of the more innocuous aspects of Toms old life. He learned a little about Mistress as well, how she had never been married and didn’t ever see the need to. Her money was partly inherited but mostly from her position as an insurance actuary. Tom was familiar with her employer; they handled the policies on all three of the family vehicles. It wasn’t that huge a coincidence though. The company had branches in most states and cast a long shadow.

        At one point, when a bit over three quarters of the food was consumed Mistress put about half what was left onto her plate, cut it up and put the plate on the floor in front of Tom. He bent his head without instruction and ate his dinner like a good dog, polishing the plate with his tongue before Mistress took it away from him.

       “I’m sorry there isn’t any dessert Mistress.” He said. He wanted to explain that if he’d had more time he could have made something but it sounded like an excuse.

       “That’s quite alright dear. There is some strawberry ice cream in the freezer.” She held up two fingers.  “Two scoops.”

       Tom hustled from the room and hurried back with the ice cream pausing only to clear away some of the plates and refill Mistresses wine glass. He resumed his place at her feet after he served her. When her hand found his hair he rolled his neck, enjoying the caress.

       At one point, Mistress offered him some of her dessert. Tom flinched away and took a warning smack to the cheek.

       “Refusing my kindness is willful Thomas.” Mistress said. “You know better than that.”

       Tom nodded. “Yes Mistress. No excuse. It’s just… I’m sorry Mistress but I don’t like that flavor. I saw some mint-chip in the freezer. May I please have some of that instead?”

       “What you like is irrelevant little one and you know it. As for the other ice cream, if you’re a good boy tonight and tomorrow we will see. Right now you will open your mouth and take the spoon like a good doggy.”

       Tom obeyed, working to keep his face carefully neutral as Mistress shared her dessert with him. As an added reminder she put the empty bowl on the floor in front of him. He cleaned the bowl without complaint and hurried to clear the table. When he was done Mistress clipped his leash to his collar and walked him to the basement door. The light tug at his neck as she took her first step was unnecessary. He had been watching carefully, looking to anticipate Mistresses movements and was in motion as barely a second behind her. Eleanor noticed but didn’t let on. Inside, she felt a little swell of pleasure at how hard Tom was working to embrace his new station.

       “We are going to perform a trust exercise.” Eleanor said when they reached the basement door.

She took Tom by the hair and lifted. He came off his knees willingly. When he tried to stand all the way up, Mistress stopped him, keeping his head level with her right hip. She opened the door and turned on the lights.

“Take a good look little one.” Mistress said, pulling his hair so he was staring down the stairs. From his position it was like looking over a cliff; scary and vertiginous. Even though his intellect knew he couldn’t get seriously hurt his lizard brain was screaming at him. He slowed his breathing and tried to calm himself.

“Now, close your eyes and place your hands at your sides palms outward. If your eyes open or your hands come away from your body for even an instant you will be punished for disobedience and insubordination.”

As soon as he was positioned properly, Mistress began walking down the stairs. Her grip on his hair left Tom with no choice but to follow. As they went down the stairs Tom felt himself on the verge of freaking out. His position at Mistresses side put his center of gravity too far forward and he kept feeling like he was going to go fall headfirst down to the bottom. Not being able to see made it worse which he was sure was the intent. Still, Mistress had spoken. He focused on counting the steps as they walked downwards.

Toms adrenaline was redlining but he pushed it down. This was a mindfuck, nothing more. Mistress might be a sadistic little pervert but she wasn’t stupid. Letting him come to harm under the current circumstances would give him all the grounds in the world for a termination suit with a nice fat pain and suffering payday sweetening the deal.  He forced himself to relax fully and walk at his owners side, trusting her to see him safely to the bottom. Mistress didn’t say a word as they made the walk.

Once downstairs Tom was lead in the direction of the entertainment center and playroom. His nerves leapt up again. The only real reason to take him that way was for a session in the playroom. He had resigned himself to spending time there and even to being used anally by Mistress but for some reason he had hoped that when she deflowered him it would be in her bed. He couldn’t say why that would make it better, it just would was all.

Mistress steered him through the entertainment area. His scalp was throbbing from the prolonged grip in his hair but he didn’t fuss. The map in his mind traced a path between the coffee table and couch over to one of the easy chairs. She lowered him to his knees and stroked his head. Tom knew better than to open his eyes until told. There was a crinkle of plastic and Mistress pressed her thumb down on his chin, opening his mouth with gentle strength. Two fingers entered his mouth and he tasted delicious sweetness over the light salt of Mistresses skin.

When Mistress tried to take her fingers back Tom rolled the dice. He slid the butterscotch candy off to one side and followed her hand, sucking gently. When Mistress didn’t smack him he continued, bobbing his head up and down on the fingers more eagerly than he ever had any of the trainers cocks at the center.  Mistress began to respond, pushing back. Her breathing accelerated. It was clear she hadn’t expected this but was enjoying it. At one point the tips of her nails touched the back of his throat and he smiled around the pressing fingers.

Mistress allowed Tom to play like that for a minute or two before pulling her fingers from his mouth. She caressed his cheek, drying her fingers on his face. Tom kissed her fingers and made as if to nip at them. Mistress flicked his nose for the teeth and shook a finger in his face. Message received and duly noted oh great and powerful boss.

“That was….unexpected.” Mistress said.

There was color on her cheeks that had nothing to do with cosmetics. Tom could smell the increase in her desire behind the vanilla scented perfume she was wearing. Tom didn’t know if the fragrance had a name or not but  personally thought any vanilla-smelling perfume worn by anyone as perved-out as Mistress should be called “Irony” just on principle.

“But pleasant Mistress?” He asked. The candy clicked against his teeth as he talked.

A nod. “Very much so.” She pointed to a spot a couple feet in front of her chair. “Elbows and knees, side-on to me.”

After he got into position Mistress sat down and put her feet up on his back. “In the future when I say ‘footstool’ you will assume this position unless I point to an actual footstool Thomas.”

She hit the TV remote without acknowledging his response. Tom watched out of the corner of his eye until she settled on one of those Godawful reality shows featuring people with an overinflated sense of their own vocal talent. He resisted the urge to shake his head. Really? All this money and obvious elegance and this was the kind of crap she watched? Un-be-lieveable. 

       Tom did his best to tune the show out. The performers ranged from adequate to guilty of crimes against music rivaling any he had ever committed against humanity. And he had once set a fire with the specific intent of killing twenty people. Got most of the fuckers too. At one point in the show he couldn’t help but look at the screen in order to confirm that an actual human voice was making those sounds. As opposed to, say, a cat with a car battery wired to its asshole.

       Not long after Electro-Kitty Mistress took her feet off Tom. “Bedroom Thomas.” She said. “Read the letter I gave you earlier and follow the instructions it contains. I will join you after my program.”

       Tom kissed his owners feet and crawled out of the room. As soon as he was out of sight he stood and jogged the rest of the way to the bedroom. He broke the seal on the envelope and read the letter.

       “Thomas,” it began in his owners neat, flowing script “below is a list of preparations you will make in anticipation of serving my pleasure for the first time. Follow them to the letter in whatever order is most intuitive to you. As I write this I am very pleased with you. Continue being as obedient and conscientious as you have been and I promise that however painful and degrading some of what you experience tonight will be you will also enjoy yourself. Resist my advances, or fail to do your best to please me tonight or any other time we are together and there will be consequences. Remember little one; you wanted this life so badly you committed at least three felonies to get it. You are the last person on Earth with any right to rebel. Read the list, follow the instructions and wait for me to join you like a good boy.

Mistress.

Hair and teeth freshly brushed

All bed covers except for the fitted sheet removed and placed, neatly folded at the foot of the bed.

The iced tea pitcher and a fresh glass waiting on the dressing table. We will both be working up a thirst tonight.

Restraints secured to the four corners of the bed as well as the ceiling ring located between the foot of the bed and the bedroom door.

The rack of toys taken out and hung from the handles of the top drawer on the tall dresser.

Three striking toys of your choice laid out in the order of appeal on the bed. Only one may be a paddle.

Lubricant bottle placed in easy reach on the nightstand.

Vibrators taken from the nightstand drawer and placed beside the lubricant

Strapon and harness taken from the toy rack and placed atop the folded bedding.

Any clocks or other time-telling devices turned around so that their faces may not be seen.

Yourself kneeling facing the door with a smile on your lovely face when I enter, visibly ready to be used.

You have your instructions puppy. Get moving.

       Tom hurried to get everything ready. If he was right he maybe had half an hour before Mistress joined him. Less if that insipid program bored her half as much as it did him. He did everything on the list, moving with an efficiency of movement learned from working several jobs where lots to do and little time to do it were often the rule.

The biggest challenge was which toys to select. The first one was easy; the green paddle with the black fur. That was just a no-brainer . Mistress Beth had used a similar one on him at the center and it had been more fun than he liked to admit. A cat o’ nine tails with a flexible handle- and nine strands that started out an eighth of an inch across at the base tapering to half that at their knotted ends was next. The handle of the cat was black, the strands alternated dark green and black. Tom had long since noticed the trend in Mistresses plaything. He wondered what on him she’d dye green and decided it was best not to think about it. Last in line was a brown leather strap slit down the middle to make two pieces with a red leather handle. The whole thing was two feet long about as wide as his fingers minus the thumb and as this as his middle and index fingers combined. It looked old and more than a little intimidating. He placed it beside the cat’ and knelt patiently facing the door. Getting hard was a little challenging. He wasn’t ashamed to admit he was nervous about what would happen to him when Mistress closed the bedroom door behind her. Hopefuly if she caught him using his hand she’d understand he was playing with himself in order to be obedient to her letter, not because he was stupid enough to break the house no-masturbation rule this close to getting used for the first time.

While he waited Tom thought about the last several weeks. He had been a militant from the minute the legislation had passed. He had marched and protested and been involved in several violent incidents against the system and various contractors. He believed right down to his balls that if repeal didn’t come from the ballot box and that right soon it’d come from the ammunition box. And here he was waiting-eagerly if he were honest with himself- to serve the pleasure of a contractor who had bragged about punishing a teenaged kid by sending him to work out the rest of his contract in a male-clientele-only bordello. It just showed that life was never as straightforward a matter as people liked to think.

He didn’t have long to think about the recent past. A few minutes after the preparations had been finalized there was the faintest shifting of the inside doorknob, exactly as if someone were outside, placing their hand on the outer knob. Tom perked up. He glanced down at himself, decided Mistress would be pleased with his appearance , put his hand on his thigh and a smile on his face. The knob turned and the door began to open.