This is a story. It never happened and never will. The General Disclaimer is incorporated herein by reference.

BR&T date: Wednesday, 19 April 1995

In the early twilight, two cars and a van arrived separately, from three different directions, at nearly the same minute, all parking near a wooden sign declaring State Arboretum. Three men exited the van, and two from each car, exchanging quick but friendly greetings. One man pulled a temporary sign from a trunk and, with assistance, hung it obscuring the main sign. The new sign declared "Sorry, State Arboretum Closed For Grounds Maintenance" in rough but legible lettering. "That always makes me laugh," one man said while proving his own words. "Closed like hell! It's the only time it's really open!"

Named for the nearby university, the arboretum had had its budget cut but guaranteed indefinitely by a bill years before. No one cared about trees and flowers enough to support the bill, but since no one cared about trees and flowers enough to oppose it, either, the bill passed unanimously in the state legislature. Quickly signed by the governor, it was as quickly forgotten. But the arboretum was not forgotten. Not by everyone, at any rate. And not by anyone who had ever been there on the third wednesday of the month. Which it was.

A witness to their arrival would assume the men were the grounds maintenance crew. But there were no witnesses, and thus no one to wonder how, with so little funding, did the arboretum get a grounds crew of seven, let alone a double electrified fence topped with barbed wire?

One man unlocked the gate. One car and two men remained, parking their car by the gate. The white van and the other car entered the arboretum together on the winding narrow roadway through the neatly-trimmed weeping willow trees. No, wait, ... perhaps excessively-trimmed would be a better description, especially for those nearest the garden within. The roadway ended in a large parking lot, providing parking for a much larger crowd than the arboretum had ever drawn when it was open. The men began unloading equipment and boxes, with carts to carry it.

A visitor to the arboretum during normal hours would have parked alone in the parking lot, walked alone through a gate in an inner fence also topped with barbed wire, followed a long straight section along the fence, bordered by thick hedge, and finally reached an inner garden devoted to flowers of many varieties, from roses to ivy vines to lilacs and more. Alone, the visitor would have probably looked at the flowers, rather than the arched trellises supporting them. Nine rows of a dozen arches of many designs stretched across a well-maintained grassy field, each row bearing a number, and each arch bearing a letter on a post beside it. By reading cards on the posts, the lone visitor would have learned the full names and origins of the beautiful specimens bound to the corresponding trellises, and details such as their habitat, lifespans, uses, and limitations. Most arches stood separate, but several formed pairs or triples or quadruples in each row, making broader arches. Tall posts divided those into smaller spaces, presumably to support the weight of the flowers above.

Between the rows of trellises stood rows of short... platforms? In ten rows of twelve, each had a barrel-like base and a domed glass top, like a robot. Or an observatory, for a better analogy. Each arch had one domed platform before and one behind. The few visitors to the arboretum may have wondered, but never discovered, the purpose of those strange platforms.

A man from the van set up a table just inside the inner gate, but outside the hedge that surrounded the garden. Another hurried to the control center hidden behind another hedge, powered up the monitors, and began testing the cameras and microphones under the domes. One unloaded and arranged chairs, another set up displays of merchandise in a clearing deep in the garden: racks of videos, magazines, posters, and a very odd assortment of hardware. One had the task of setting up a tent and arranging half a dozen life-size dolls within, not for sale but solely for taking orders. One man had the fun of actually doing the grounds maintenance for twenty minutes, on a two-hundred-horsepower riding mower moving forty miles-per-hour around and through all of the trellises. (How else could the other man test the microphones so quickly?) With all else ready, two men hung a large banner over the gate.

Meanwhile, one of the men watched the rest, giving commands and solving problems as they came up. The rest all called him Robert, or Bob, or else Mr. Blackrock. He smiled. He loved these events as much as anyone. He looked forward to an awesome and successful day.

A rusty beat-up chevy pulled into the second parking space, beside a sharp well-maintained BMW. The driver shut it off, got out, locked it, and walked back to the trunk. He smiled at the muffled screams as he inserted his key in the lock.

The man pulled Melissa from his car, stark naked except for the cords that had pinched and hurt her wrists and ankles during the entire long terrifying trip from the abandoned storehouse. He cut the cords from her ankles and forced her to her feet. He'd kept the girl for the past month, repeatedly raping her whenever the whim took him, which was often. Now, he forced her to walk with him, through a gate, under a banner that said Swat Meet today. With her wrists tied together behind her back, the girl's futile resistance only made him smile. He approached a wooden folding table and made her stand in line beside him. He was the second one there, or fourth, depending on how you counted.

A man in a smart business suit stood by the table, with two lovely twin five-year-olds, their long brown hair in pigtails, tied with shiny ribbons in bows. One girl had white, the other pink, and each ribbon gave her name in stylish flowing golden script. The girls timidly fidgeted in their places. They softly cried and shivered as they waited. Their collars and leashes didn't hide anything that mattered, and their hands stayed behind their backs, held tightly by child-sized handcuffs of an impressively elegant design, matching except for engraved names, as both Melissa and her captor could see.

"Morning," the man holding the other ends of the leashes greeted cheerfully. "Looks like it'll be clear and sunny today," he added with a smile, "even if it's still a bit brisk this morning."

The other man glanced at the brightening sky. "Will be soon, and I'm sure it'll warm up. Nice to see you, Clark," he greeted back, without taking his hand off Melissa's elbow. His breath also fogged slightly as he spoke. He eyed the twins curiously from his position behind them. "Are you going to sell them this time? At least one of them?"

"No. The wife would have a stroke if they went missing."

"Then dump her. Who needs a wife, anyway?"

"A banker does, for social purposes. Besides, you can't get all of them just when you want them. Someone has to raise them to usable age. Are you going to do it?" No one responded to the rhetorical question. "Wives are good for that, if not much else."

The man at the desk gazed appreciatively at Melissa, then turned at last back to his work. "Got yer card right here, Stella! And yers, Mary!" he chuckled, holding up two yellow cards. Any changes?" he asked the banker, while holding the corners of the cards and raising an eyebrow.

"No."

"Yer choice," he sighed. To the girls, he grinned and added, "It's gonna be a real fun day, won't it? Ah'll be sure ta come by with my 'little friend' and say 'hello' ta ya both a few times!"

The twins cringed, tears welling up in their eyes already. Mary whimpered and shook her head in protest, shaking her pigtails, but didn't speak.

"Oh, looky!" he said. "Ya just turned five last week! Let me fix those cards first. You sweeties looking forward ta school in the fall? Bet ya are! Bet school is looking forward ta you, too! Ah know the principal will be happy ta see a lot more of ya both. If ya're around that long."

"I think I might have them home-schooled, Rod, if I can find the right teacher," the banker stated.

Melissa's captor snickered. "You could get a dozen volunteers right here who would pay to get the job! Even more, if you'd switch to pink cards, at the least."

"They'd be bidding against Curt," Rod laughed, "and us backing him. Ah expect come fall these two'll be his little toys ta play with, and share, and lotsa guys'll be grateful Bunnytail got 'em."

"Only if they're cheerleaders," the banker insisted, "and that doesn't mean it's a done deal yet. But we'll talk."

This time, Stella whimpered and shook her head.

"Row two, best Ah can give ya, even for these little dolls," the registrar declared, "since ya're still not selling and sticking with yellow. First two on the left," he told the man, handing him the corrected cards and two small badges reading 2A and 2B. "Don't wait too long," he withheld his unwanted advice until after the banker departed with the pretty twins. "Nice little bottoms," he sighed, "and fantastic screams ta be sure, but Ah hope he doesn't let the rest go ta waste! Those two are just begging for lavender. Not literally them doing the begging, though, which is the problem."

"Hell yeah!" the second man agreed. "If he doesn't want them fucked when they're in their prime, he could at least switch to red and let people have some fun that way. I brought some things I'd love to use on those beauties. You can have the back, I'll take the front. Think he'd let us?"

"He won't. Believe me, lots of others have urged him, even made amazing offers. Ah can still hope, though."

Melissa stood speechless, trying to understand what was happening. The man pushed her forward with him as he stepped up to the table.

The seated man got back to business. "Buying today?"

"Nah. I'm pretty lucky at getting my own for free."

"Hafta admit that! But if ya change yer mind, ya got enough credit ta take yer pick, Ah'd say, 'specially after the sweet sixer ya brought in last time! Good gahhhd what a beaut!! Selling this'n, Ah assume?" he asked, picking up a lavender card automatically. He knew this guy never went with anything less, and never needed anything more.

"Yep. Done with her."

That answered his next question, so he skipped it, and ripped the upper right corner off the card. "Name?" the man at the table asked while looking up and down, especially down, at the crying naked girl before him.

She stared at him blankly.

"Melissa," the man answered for her. "Melissa Collier."

"Middle name?"

"Oh, right. I didn't ask." To the helpless girl he held, he demanded, "Tell him your middle name." He squeezed her elbow to enforce the order.

"Eeeuie! Leanne!" she squealed.

"E, U, Y... never mind. Spell that, ta make sure Ah have it right," the man at the desk said, "and yer last name, too."

"L, E, A, N, N, E," she answered. "C, O, L, L, I, E, R. Why do you need my name?"

"For the sign next ta ya," he smiled. "Age? And birthday while ya're going."

"Why do you- aaahhww!" She screamed as her captor squeezed her elbow again, even harder. "I'm e- eight," she stammered. "Uh, November eighth."

"She's little Courtney Beeler's friend," the man stated. "I know she isn't front-row material at her age, but she's as good a cocksucker as Courtney was. Aren't you, Melissa? I'd like a spot near the front if I could get it, and could you save a place beside her in case Courtney gets brought back in today?"

"She's pretty enough for third row," Rod said, still admiring Melissa, "even though she's past her prime. Ah'll make a note of her skill here. No doubt she'll hafta prove it. Ya might wanta use one of our adjustable frames so she can be switched from her knees ta standing and back without all the trouble of retying her each time. Ask Bob ta have someone get one out of the van for ya. Ah'll save a spot for awhile, but it's doubtful Courtney will be back. She's hot as hell - ya remember how the bidding went - and the guy who got her has a lot of connections. If he's tired of her already, which Ah doubt, she could be anywhere from Aberdeen ta Zyzykstan by now."

"Wha- what does he mean?" Melissa cried. "Where's Courtney??"

"He means that your cute little friend, Courtney Kayla Beeler, is probably getting raped by a band of camel herders halfway around the world at this very moment, or sucking off their camels, and you're not likely to ever see her again!" he laughed. "But who knows? Maybe you'll end up in the same tent some night, if they keep her long enough for you to make the rounds!" he teased.

"Take her ta 3 L," Rod interrupted, all business-like, while holding out a completed card and the associated owner's badge. "Need any ropes?"

He turned and took the card. "Brought my own. Nice thin cords. Don't I always?" he smirked.

"Ah still hafta offer. Implements?"

"Got some good ones," he answered, indicating a canvas bag slung over his shoulder, "and I'm sure there will be others free to borrow, as usual."

"What are you going to do?" Melissa sobbed.

"You'll see," he grinned. "Ohhhhhhhh how you'll see! I hope he does bring Courtney back here today, so she can tell you how her past month has been. It would also be a lot of fun seeing you two together, side by side. And hearing you two together!"

"What are you going to doooooo to meeee??" Melissa wailed, but all she got in answer was another yank on her elbow as the man led her away.

'Another nice bottom!' the registrar thought as he stared. 'Especially for an eight-year-old. Gonna show her why they call me Rod!'

He turned his attention to the gate and waved cheerfully as a teenager entered with a pair of crying girls half his height. The girls were both equally gorgeous. Indeed, as far as he could tell, they were identical. Both girls had long dark red hair, slightly wavy, very fine. Tears trickled slowly from two pairs of green eyes, down freckled cheeks, past a couple of perfectly pert noses, and gathered on two sweet mouths, both contorted in misery and fear as the teenager pulled the two cute twins with him by their arms.

The registrar grinned when he noticed the pair both wore BR&T collars, though he saw no trace of any associated restraints. No trace of any other clothes, either, but that was nothing unusual. 'I need a step-stool for the little ones to stand on during registration,' he suddenly realised, cursing the height of the table. He resolved to bring a couple the next time, on realising that two step-stools would be ninety degrees better than one.

"Hi, Rod!" the approaching teen called.

"Hey there, Harris. Looky what ya got this time! Wow! Have 'em stand back a bit, okay? Unless ya wanta put 'em up on the table for me. Any chance they're virgin?"

"Fuck no!" the younger man laughed loudly. "Have I ever brought in a fucking virgin? No way, never have and never will, either, no more than you will ever take one away from here. But I'm glad you like them. They're a couple months past five, but you probably already guessed that. This one's Brianna Roberts, the other's her sister, Brandi. With an I, not Y."

"How can ya tell 'em apart?"

"I've known them a while. They're Shannon's friend's little sisters. Nice and sweet, eh? Not selling, not buying, got my own stuff, thanks. We're just here for playtime, so other guys can have some fun with them too, then I'm taking them home. No one's been keeping count, but I'm sure they've both been fucked at least forty times by now, fifty to sixty is a better guess, only around half of those times by me. I'm hoping to double that today, and naturally more would be even better, not that we'll keep count. Give us a pair in the middle, don't care what row. I'm sure plenty of guys will find them from their screams."

"Mark! Please, oh pleeease, don't hurt us," one of the girls whined.

"Please, please take us home now!" the other begged.

Mark slapped her. "Eager for me to get started on you, huh, Brandi? No!? Then shut the hell up until someone tells you to open up! And then you better open up wide!" He slapped her again. She lowered her head and stood almost silent.

"Any limitations this time, Mark?" Rod asked.

"No more than usual. Just leave them awake and uninjured," Mark answered. "Not that anyone you let in here wouldn't do that automatically. Otherwise, do whatever the hell you like to them. Preferably what they hate the most or what makes the best footage, but I'll leave that up to you guys."

"M- Maaarrk, ple-AAAWwww!! Aaawww aawwh."

"I said shut up, and that goes for you, too, Brianna!"

"Are they here for punishment, or just ta play with?" Rod asked, tapping a short stack of blue cards.

"I'll pass this time, but I might the next time." Mark turned to the twins and threatened, "Hear that, bitches? If I give the word, you'll get blue cards, then you'll find out exactly what that means. So you better fucking do everything you're told."

The girls didn't answer except to whimper and stare fearfully at the blue cards under Rod's hand.

"Ya said ya got yer own stuff, but Ah see they're not tied, cuffed, or even leashed. Would ya be interested in a coupla hoops for these two cuties?" Rod offered. "Long as they're under yer control, that can be extra fun for anyone playing with 'em or watching 'em, anyway."

"No thanks," the teen waved the offer aside. "The hoops are different, I'll admit, but my kind of restraint is strong and thin and hurts like hell, and I brought plenty. No, not cord, this time," he laughed. He pulled a twisted coil of 16-gauge steel wire from his pocket, and showed it. "Two bits buys enough for one, and it does the job as good as anything costing twenty times that, as long as you get it damned tight where it matters most. I'll admit BR&T's pink wrist and ankle cuffs are as cute as the collars they gave me," he nodded at the only items the girls wore, "but cute isn't what makes me come here." He returned the wire to his pocket.

"We have a new design for those collars, by the way," Rod told him, "though they're not in mass production yet, so we haven't mentioned 'em in the magazine. 'Course there'll be wrist and ankle cuffs ta match. We expect 'em ta be in high demand. Everyone'll want two or more sets." Then he grimaced in disgust. 'All except for that misfit,' he thought to himself, 'who wanted ta use onyx cards ta indicate consensual happy torture.' Rod spat. 'Thinking we'd mildly inconvenience the girls he brought here, and stop there.' He spat again. 'Bob was way too merciful, merely throwing him outa here and grey-carding the girls. I woulda given 'em all blue cards, him included, and see if he was inconvenienced by it.'

No reason to tell Mark about it and piss him off, too, he decided. Instead, he reached into a box and pulled out a couple of the new collars, samples for some of the VIPs. No one seeing Brianna and Brandi in the new collars would fault him for it, he was sure. "Wanta try 'em out?" he offered slyly, carefully holding them out to Mark.

"They look the same as the ones I already have," Mark said skeptically.

"Look closer."

"One extra ring, so what?" Mark took the collars, flinched, looked closer, and grinned. "Nice touch," he smirked. The five-year-olds cried harder, whined, and whimpered as he replaced the collars they'd worn on the way in, but they knew better than to resist or protest. To get best use of them, he tightened them down more one notch, enjoying the twin squeals of anguish and pain.

He handed the old ones back to Rod, who dropped them in a trash bag. The last thing that had gone in there had been a nice comfortable shiny metal collar, no better than a pretty necklace, that a girl had actually wanted to put on. Rod reconsidered, retrieved them, and set them aside, in case anyone wanted them later. At least BR&T's pink leather collars made a girl look like a girl, instead of a Spartacus impersonator. He spat a third time, then put the misfit out of mind.

Rod picked up a couple of lavender cards, ripped the corners off, and filled them out. "Here ya go," he said. "Take 'em ta E-F or G-H, row 4, and pick out the two ya want. Ah'll assume ya took E and F. If not, when ya got 'em secured, come back and exchange yer badges. Give 'em middle names on the cards if ya want, but it ain't all that important for play. Speaking of... ya here ta play, too, or just ta watch these two get it? A coupla sweet little kitties came in already, twin barely-fivers just for play, same as yers, but yellow cards. Row two, A and B, if ya wanta see 'em. Nice tender little bottoms, speakin' from experience. Ya'd love 'em. Figuratively, of course. Stella and Mary Clark, the banker's kids, or maybe ya already seen 'em previously."

"I'll go check them out, but I'm not so keen on the yellow cards," Mark replied. "Practically a waste of time bringing them in just for that, in my opinion. Hell, you could do that to them on the street corner anywhere in the country and the only objection you'd hear would be from someone upset by the noise, or some ugly old prude demanding that any girl who's still pretty shouldn't show it."

"Sure," Rod nodded, "but would there be a hundred other guys who all wanta use 'em next, whatever color the cards are?"

"Good point, but yellow's still too fucking tame for me. I might change my mind about selling these, though, once I see if there's any competition."

Rod grinned. "Auction's at three, as ya know, and the gold auction cards hafta go up twenty minutes before, but ya'll still have more'n eight hours ta think about it."

"Maybe I ought to sell them," he agreed. "I'll decide later."

Rod raised his hand and waved to two more guys entering the gate with a pair of absolutely lovely golden-haired dolls Rod knew to be Alana Mae and Leah Lily Andrews. Their lavender cards were the top two on the stack of regular attendees. He admired the pretty white dresses, sandals, and hairbows the girls wore, imagining what condition they'd be in twenty minutes later. He thought he might put in a bid on Leah's panties this time, just for kicks. Assuming she had any on.

Several more men entered close behind them, some with girls in tow, others with girls in chains, naturally with all the girls in tears - and not much else. More guys entered after them, most with only money or credit to spend. 'Rush hour's here,' Rod thought, looking forward to seeing them (the girls, that is) much closer, but he turned his attention back to the Roberts twins and their owner.

"If ya do sell 'em," he said, "Ah'll have ya move 'em ta front row. Paired or separate, even with their prior mileage, they're just what a lotta guys are hoping ta get, Ah guarantee it!"

"Bet they'd fetch a good price," Mark admitted. "Wouldn't you, Brandi? You too, Brianna. I'd bet some guy would pay a lot to take you two home and let all of his friends rape you all day and all night for the rest of your sweet little lives! I wonder which would get me the most, selling you two to two different guys, or both to the same guy? Should I find out how much you two are worth as caged fuckbirds?" He grinned and pushed them toward the inner garden.

"Maaaark, nooooo," Brandi pleaded, then Brianna joined in, then they meekly followed him away, both girls softly crying.

"I probably won't, as long as I have fun with you myself. But keep up and do as you're told," Mark demanded, "or I'll get Julie and your mom and sell them here." Strictly an empty threat, Mark knew, since they wouldn't fetch a nickel bid. At eleven years old, and unfortunately looking every bit of it, Julie would likely get grey-carded, if they even let him bring her in, and the mother would be turned away at the gate for sure. The twins didn't know that, and hurried to his side.

Bound by his threats, neither of them were restrained in any other way. Yet. Putting on the wires that would hold them spread, one wire at a time while they stood and cried and let him do it, would be a lot of fun. He'd make sure those wires would hurt like hell, then he and the rest of the guys at the swat meet would make the pretty little dolls forget all about the wires. For sure, cute wasn't what made him come, and he knew that plenty of like-minded guys would use Brianna and Brandi in ways he was going to love to watch.

Mark glanced down, smirking, imagining what was going to happen to the cute little bitches in the next few hours. They'd have to watch him watching it all... right up until he walked away. By then, Brianna and Brandi would know that any guy who saw them could do anything to them he wanted to do, and no one would even raise an eyebrow. Least of all, him.

Credit where it's due: the characters Melissa Collier, Courtney Beeler, the man from the abandoned storehouse, Brianna and Brandi Roberts, their sister Julie, and Mark Harris and his sister Shannon, are all from stories by Blackwind. See links but be warned that his stories are always much more violent than mine ever are. In a way, I rescued those girls by taking them to the Swat Meet instead.