By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 21 - Movin' In West

The relief I felt when Mr. West finally led me back out of the horror chamber was intense and uplifting. Mr. West followed a business suited executive out into the labyrinth of dimly lit brick passageways and I followed along a short distance behind him. I had lost all sense of direction in the subterranean wilderness. Eventually the narrowness opened into a larger vestibule I didn't remember passing on the way in but it brought us to our destination -- a solid oak door with the words Torture Channel embossed in gold leaf lettering. The executive opened the door and walked in ahead of us.

It was an office, richly appointed with somber antique furnishings all standing on the largest Persian rug I think I'd ever seen. The dark wood paneled walls were lined with colorful framed prints which, from a distance I thought were from comic books. Closer inspection revealed them to be original pen and ink drawings -- almost absurdist art drawings of scenes not unlike the ones enacted with real people back in the horror chamber. I noticed the artist's name -- Dolcett -- but it meant nothing to me. Mr. West told me to stand next to an elephant's foot that had been hollowed out, tanned and converted into a flower pot with a large, lush palm growing up out of it. I stood there and watched as he then went over to the large mahogany office desk and read through some papers handed to him by the executive. He seemed very pleased after he signed the papers. The executive had handed him a check and Mr. West waved it with a little flourish before folding it neatly and pushing it into his wallet.

Outside, the mid-afternoon sunshine and light breeze was a refreshing change to the austerity and sheer oppressiveness of the cavern we emerged from. Mr. West led me a short distance to his car and opened the passenger side door. I found it a bit of a struggle to climb into the seat with my hands cuffed behind my back, but once seated, I felt immediately comfortable, even with my hands behind my back. I sighed softly to myself and stared absently out of my side window while Mr. West climbed into the driver seat.

Before he started the engine, he reached across to the headrest of my seat and retrieved a ball gag, which I passively allowed him to insert in my mouth and strap tightly in place. I then watched silently as he reached for a switch under the dash. I didn't feel at all comfortable with the explanation he volunteered, which was to tell me a large and dangerous metal spike had been fitted in the place where an airbag should be on my side and if I did anything to force an accident, I'd be as surely killed as any of the poor, misfortunate souls who had perished in the horror chamber.

Once we finally got underway, I relaxed a little bit and watched as the buildings of the city/county area gave way to the inner loop and we headed north.

"OK, let me start off with I'm not going to lie to you and tell you that you're safe now. You will never be safe again," Mr. West said. He continued to talk, and I looked over at him and listened as he spoke, but those last six words resounded over and over in my ears and I really didn't follow much else of what he said to me.

"I read the National Confessor article about you. Is it true that you were the office manager at your store?" Mr. West asked.

I stared mutely at him. I think I knew what he asked, but I was unsure and felt suddenly worried about what could happen if he thought I wasn't listening to him. "Mmmm" I mumbled from behind the gag.

"Fuck, let me pop that out," he said, referring to my gag. It suddenly sprang free from my mouth. "So, were you the office manager?"

I thanked the heavens silently for my luck in guessing the question. "Yes, I was"

"OK great then. Let me explain what your duties are going to be. You are going to act as my office manager. As a federally warranted white slaver I get random audits. If they find errors in the books you will be punished. Harshly. There are some oddness of the slave business that you might not be aware of, being a woman of quality and all, for example,"

I felt a twinge of something in the pit of my stomach. The thought of having to be responsible for his accounting wasn't something I felt comfortable with. As an office manager in the bookstore, my responsibilities were more along the lines of keeping up to date with all the new releases and dealing with sales reps from the various publishing houses. The tin-tacks of the day-to-day accounting, banking and book-keeping was done by Nelson's PA and when audit time came, he handed everything over to a firm that specialized in this type of accounting. In fact, I remember him once telling me the reason he did this was so he wasn't directly liable for any accounting errors and that if anybody got sued, it would be the accounting firm and not us. Mr. West continued to speak while I was thinking about the weight of the responsibility he was assigning as one of my duties.

"I have a freaking huge amount of bed clothing that need to be washed. You would think that having a house full of slaves would make that easy, but not so much. Part of your job will be to insure clean a sanitary living conditions for the slaves, unless I tell you otherwise. You can do it yourself, have it hired out, make the slave girls in stock do it ... I don't care. However, I do care if my profit margin starts to slip."

I nodded slowly. It's a priority I was familiar with and understood. He continued speaking.

"Another area that is going to be your problem is food, both for me and the slaves. I'm a good cook, but I'm getting tired of being the main cook in the house. I belong to a food co-op that supplied meat and veggies for a family of 3.5 for a week, but that's not going to feed me and all the slaves with out some other stuff. I don't like dealing with it."

The thought I might have to cook for Mr. West sent me into a mental spin. I was a terrible cook, and this was no secret to anybody who knew me. It was a skill I never learned growing up because my parents always had cooks and maids to do those things. When I got married, I tried to learn but it quickly became apparent I was a disaster waiting to happen in there. On more than one occasion I nearly burned down our house. One time it was frozen Pita bread which I popped into the toaster and promptly forgot about until I noticed the glow of an unusual colored light coming from the kitchen and found the toaster with flames leaping from it. If the toaster hadn't been on a metal crumb catching tray, I wouldn't have been able to pick up the fireball to throw it out the kitchen door into the back yard. Then there was the time in another house we lived in where I needed to melt some butter for a cookie recipe I was trying to master. The melted butter caught fire when I absentmindedly left the pot sitting on a hot flame on the stove. It was only the smoke detectors that saved the whole house from burning down as the flames were already licking the ceiling and scorching the paint from it. In this case, it was sheer luck my husband came running when he'd heard the alarm, because I'd probably have thrown water on the fire which, I later learned, could have caused an explosion. My god! The dread I felt at the prospect of cooking was palpable.

"Shopping. Yeah, I'm going to let you out of the house. Of course you will be wearing a snuff collar the will go off if you get more than a given number of miles from the house, or if it's been more that a selected number of hours that it's been on your neck. Clothing while shopping will be based on the weather, not how you feel about it. If it's not raining and it's above say 70, nude will be fine," Mr. West said.

I just sort of blinked at him. He expects me to go shopping nude? In public? Where I might be seen by my former neighbors? This too was an alarming thought, and I quickly tried to put it to the back of my mind.

"Sex. I like to be woken up in the morning with a blow job. Your job will be to insure I get one. You ... one of the stock slaves ... I don't care. However if the stock slave doesn't do it, you're the one that gets punished."

This seemed relatively easy, given the exponential learning curve of my cock-sucking experiences of the past week. I nodded and waited for him to continue.

"Helping me break in the new slaves. I don't expect or want you to be a mistress, but there are some tedious parts of breaking in a new slave that I will delegate to you," Mr. West said.

This duty went right over my head, so I just nodded and hoped it would be explained more fully at a later date. Mr. West then resumed his outline of my duties.

"Of course, all of this is going to be on camera for how ever long the Torture Channel does this show. Part of the show contract says you have to be tortured at least 3 times a week, so part of your office managers duties is to make sure I don't forget to torture you."

The thought of being watched by who knows how many faceless strangers, even without the prospect of the torturing part, filled me with dread. I had always studiously avoided watching reality shows of any description and considered people who volunteered to appear on them to be even more stupid than nature had probably intended. I stridently condemned these shows and the trailer park trash I knew were drawn to them. And now, here I was, not about to be forced to watch one but to actually appear in one. The name of the production -- The Torture Channel -- did little to make me feel any better, either.

Mr. West turned the car through a corner and into the driveway of a modest but comfortable looking suburban home.

"OK, I'm going to give you a choice. This might be the last choice of this sort you get."

I was beginning to hate choices. Why can't he just say -- this is what you have to do -- and be done with it. I listened as he stressed the gravity of the decision I was about to be asked to make.

"You can take my position as housekeeper, office manager and sex slave or ... "

The words "sex slave" rang loudly in my ears. Not just a slave -- a sex slave. What could possibly be worse than that?

"... or I can take you back down town and return you to the slave pens. Which is it going to be?"

I wanted to jump right in with my answer even before he finished asking.

"I want to be your sex ..." I started to speak and realized I was already bungling my answer. "I accept the position as your housekeeper, office manager and sex slave, Mr. West," I said. I even tried to give him a small smile of gratitude for being so kind to give me the choice.

"Good call," he responded; a pleasant tone of finality in his voice.

Mr. West got out and rounded the back of the car. He opened the trunk and then moved to my to my door. As I sat in my seat quietly waiting, I looked again at the house I'd been brought to. Outwardly it appeared as ordinary as any ordinary suburban house I could imagine. It even felt inviting -- a word I had never used to describe my own home back closer to the center of town in one of the older, established inner suburbs.

The door was opened for me. I swiveled in my seat to get my feet out first and then struggled to my feet. To stand there in such plain, leafy surroundings felt odd though Mr. West seemed unconcerned I might be seen by any of his neighbors. In fact, he seemed entirely relaxed as if there wasn't anything unusual at all about having a naked, restrained woman standing in one's drive in the front yard. The sound of a lawnmower somewhere down the street -- such a common sound for a Saturday afternoon -- added to the surreal nature of the moment.

"You'll see a black bag in the trunk. I want you to get it for me," Mr. West said. "You're not to use your hands to pick it up. Do you understand?"

I didn't, but I nodded anyway and hoped I'd be able to decipher the cryptic instruction when I saw the bag. It was a black canvas duffle bag with leather strap handles on each side. I leaned over into the trunk and started to nuzzle one of the straps with my chin until it was close enough to the other that I could bite the two of them together. The leather tasted more or less like I expected: like old leather, with a slightly sweet, slightly acrid taste if I swallowed. I bobbed there for a moment and made sure I could lift its weight with my mouth before I straightened myself and returned to Mr. West, like a puppy retrieves a stick. He smiled and then stepped off in the direction of the front door.