By Kinkabella
Archived Here With Her Kind Permission

Part 28 - The Spellbook Half Hour

Sunday afternoon passed quietly and without incident. The peace and quiet allowed me to work through about twenty of the case files, and by the end of the afternoon I was feeling quite satisfied I had made a good start in my new life as Mr. West's personal assistant and house slave. That evening, I was allowed to sit at his feet while he watched some television.

I felt quite exhausted and enjoyed the opportunity to relax in such a semi-ordinary way, just like I might have back in my own home, except I wouldn't have been sitting there, completely nude and watching a bizarre little news-type of program called The Stock Report. It was like a financial report but instead of reporting on figures like the Dow Index and fluctuations in the prices of gold and oil, it was a report on the current state of affairs in the slave trading world. In spite of the amount of nudity and images of women young and old in all manner of distress, I yawned and began to find the program as dull as any regular stock report.

The Stock Report was briefly followed by more news, including an item about some kind of electronic chip that was about to go into its final testing stage. There were graphic images of a slave girl in what looked like some kind of medical or scientific operating theater. She had her legs spread high in stirrups and a surgeon was performing some kind of operation on her vagina. The voiceover explained that this chip (the name of which I think he said was the Clita-Satra) was inserted into the fleshy hood protecting her clitoris. It was only microscopic in size and barely visibly to the human eye, but it contained circuitry (something - the geek-speak went right over my head) that allowed slavers and slave owners to track their slaves anywhere in the world.

"This is the slut collar of the future," one of the white smock-coated inventors was proudly boasting. "Not only will it allow you to track your slaves, but signals can be transmitted to it from anywhere in the world which allow you to stimulate her with pleasure or torture her as your heart desires."

"Does science know no bounds?" Mr. West chuckled to himself behind me.

After the news, there were a number of commercial breaks including several sponsored by the Eastlake Country Club. They weren't actually advertising the club, but it was clear the club was promoting the slavers' business. Whether or not this was a purely commercial arrangement wasn't clear, but I was beginning to suspect there was much more to it than met the eye.

The early evening's entertainment schedule began with a program called The Spellbook Half Hour. It opened with a thirty second blizzard of frenetic, fast cuts between scenes of naked women bound, tortured and even possibly snuffed. It all blinked on the screen like a strobe, so it was impossible to tell exactly what I had seen but one thing was clear: the show was about Mr. West's house and the slaves living in it!

There was a brief introduction recorded by the business suited executive I remembered from my first afternoon enslaved to Mr. West. He was identified on the screen as Hugh Jorgan, Executive Producer for The Torture Channel network. He then spoke briefly about his latest pet-project which was, it transpired, the 'reality television' program Mr. West had mentioned was soon to be filmed in his house. After the man finished speaking about his enthusiasm for the project, he proudly introduced the rest of the program. It opened with a sequence of stills taken from every camera in our house; a slide show flipping from one empty room to the next until at last it stopped on the slave dorm.

It wasn't possible to determine exactly when the filming had been done, but I guessed from the sunlight streaming in through the window that it was early morning. Neither Belinda nor Tracey were in the television room to see, although I presumed they could see it on the television in their room, but the camera had them framed on one of the beds. Tracey was on her back on the bed with her legs widely spread and Belinda kneel on the mattress between them; her red hair spilling out over Tracey's thighs as he face buried itself between the timid, young girl's legs.

The camera lingered on the scene for a long moment before switching ahead on its silent, voyeuristic journey through the house. It stopped in Mr. West's office, right above the desk. I could see all the files I had worked on during the day spread out all over the desktop, but my chair beside the desk was empty. It hovered above the scene for a moment before it switched to another camera in the office which revealed me standing in front of the television, remote in hand as I watched the screen. There was still no voiceover commentary or anything. Just an eerie silence. The camera watched from overhead for a few minutes, maybe two, and then blinked its way on to the next room.

It was a darkened room and the camera might not have captured any images at all if it hadn't been for the night-vision it apparently was equipped with. I stared into the murky green image and could see a naked girl, shackled and sitting curled up in one of the corners of the room. She just sat there without appearing to move at all. And then the camera flipped on to another location.

There wasn't any image to see; just a blinding flash of white light accompanied by the most blood-curdling sounds of screeching music. I almost jumped clear out of my skin! "Shit!" I gasped.

I clung tightly to Mr. West's leg and tried to recapture my breath, which had totally disappeared from my lungs.

The camera passed slowly from one room to the next again before finally returning to the scene of Belinda and Tracey. I watched closely, listening for signs of any reaction from Mr. West as we watched Belinda's head squirming between Tracey's thighs. Tracey appeared to be in the throes of ecstasy; her hands up behind her head and her elbows clamped tightly against the sides of her face. After a few minutes of this, Belinda started to reposition herself. She kept her face buried in Tracey's crotch, but she slowly inched herself around until she could straddle Tracey's face with her thighs. I could see Tracey's small hands slip around Belinda's legs and then her face bobbing up to meet Belinda's pussy. Belinda squirmed on her Tracey's face as she ate her pussy. Her elbows pressed under Tracey's legs and scooped them up off the mattress so she could grab hold on the back of them and upend her onto her shoulders. Belinda then sat squarely on Tracey's face. I couldn't see much because of Belinda's wild mane of red hair everywhere, but the animated movements of her head left nothing to the imagination.

The scene quickly cut back to the office and, as I had been expecting but hoping Mr. West might not see, was me sitting in the office chair and masturbating. It must have been toward the end because I already had my feet spread against the edge of the desktop while my hands groped and played with my pussy. The scene only lasted thirty second or so and it ended with me throwing my head back and looking straight up into the camera with one of those 'oh no!' sorts of looks on my face. There was a sudden cackle of canned laughter, and the show cut straight to black. I blushed deeply and I heard Mr. West laugh behind me, but he made no comment about what he'd seen. In many ways, I wish he had said something, just so I knew what he was thinking, and his absence of comment made me feel even more guilty and embarrassed.