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Message-ID: <41788asstr$1050199803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: creole_noire@prodigy.net (Mazora)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 12 Apr 2003 19:31:40 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} STORY: Acquisitions (M,f Future Erotic Slavery)
Date: Sat, 12 Apr 2003 22:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Hello to all,
 
I'm a new arrival on this list and not at all certain that this piece is 
appropriate, but I hope that it is not too far out side the pale. The 
subject is a future world where slavery has become a matter of 
pleasure. For those who do not find such a possibility distasteful, I 
hope you enjoy.
 
And the M in P.E.M. Davis is for...
 
Mazora :-)
 
The world is a strange place, often shaped by a turn in the road. Once 
upon a time that road was heavily dictated by slavery, indentured, 
conscripted or out and out ownership. In the here and now, while there 
are still pockets, we've  turned away from it on the whole. But what if 
it had never gone away? With our technology and know-how today ~ 
what might it be in 2050?
 
Acquisitions
 
Part 1 ~ A Return to the Beginning
 
Paul sat quietly in the darkness of his study and let the rings of his 
cigarette smoke rise as his fingers ran over the computer keys. There 
was no need to read the legal document on the screen. It didn't matter 
how much he and his father hated each other, the law was the law in 
the end, it was all his - she was his. The clock chimed loud through 
the silence; three o'clock in the morning. In another dozen hours she 
would be under his roof and finally after years of wanting, in his 
control. He closed his eyes and remembered glimpses of her as the 
brandy trickled down his throat.
 
He had been seventeen, on that winter afternoon. Some infraction had 
banished him once again from school and he had been sentenced to his 
room until his father was able to speak of it. His mother had 
whispered after him on the stair; out of sight is always out of mind. 
But he seriously doubted it. So he roamed the halls of the upper floors 
where he knew no one would look for him. And finally he came to 
rest on the window seat at the end of a corridor in the East wing. He 
gazed down at the courtyard below and wondered if this would be that 
final straw, and bring the break that would separate he and the father 
he had hated for far too long.
 
Suddenly he noticed a black car pull up to the front door. It was a 
collector's piece now and required a special permit to be used on the 
old roads. God how he hated his father's little rituals. A man he knew 
all too well climbed out of the driver's side and went around to the 
rear door. Hatcher had been in his father's employ since Paul was nine. 
He was a quiet man who did precisely what he was told and seldom 
disappointed. A reserved man to those who met him at dinner, but 
Paul had seen how his quiet reserve could turn bitter cold, if not a 
touch cruel when needed.
 
Reaching in Hatcher pulled a woman from the car. Paul remembered 
how his hand grabbed her still. There was a heavy cape over her frame 
but her face plainly shown. Her flesh was the color of deep amber and 
her face moon shaped in the afternoon sun. There were serpentine 
tattoos across each cheek and down one side of her neck. Arabic, yes 
it was Arabic calligraphy. Done by a master of the art and just barely 
seen through the long thick braids that fell over her shoulders. The 
thought of her thrilled him anew. He had seen many men and women 
arrive in the hands of this man, but she had been the first of her kind. 
And never had he quite seen the likes of her before.
 
Watching them until they were in side, Paul ran quickly to the stairs 
and as quietly as he could, descended the long stairs. Half way down 
he heard voices and stopped. It was his father talking to the man; they 
stood just outside his fathers' library door. He crouched down to watch 
between the banisters and listen. His father clicked through screen 
after screen of the DocuPalm Hatcher had given him and finally 
asked.
 
" Is it all in order?"
 
" As always Mr. Belfair."
 
" No last minute squabbling over price?"
 
" There's always that with them. But I think you will be pleased."
 
His father returned to the machine in his hand and linked on until the 
bottom line was found.
 
" Yes Hatcher! I'm very pleased. I've waited a long time for the likes 
of her."
 
Paul watched as his father gave the device back to Hatcher and walked 
around the woman. Paul had finally out grown him, but his father was 
a tall man. And this woman stood almost his equal. He circled slowly 
until he stood in front of her once more and spoke.
 
"My God you're a proud one, aren't you? Lower your eyes at once."
 
Paul watched as she dropped her gaze. His father smiled and 
unlatched the clasp at her throat. All at once the cape fell away from 
her and to the floor. It was like a heavy veil, the sweet scent that rose 
up from her body and through the hall. Paul had watched many of his 
fathers' acquisitions arrive over the years, when no one knew he was 
near. That she wore little under the cape did not surprise him, but the 
impact of her standing there, deep in the knowledge of her own worth 
did. There was nothing but the torn bit of cloth at her hips, separating 
her from the men who took pleasure at the site of her. But that rag had 
nothing to do with her, of that Paul was certain. And then he saw 
Hatcher's face and in one quick moment he knew.
 
Her breasts were heavy yet high. Her nipples stood thick and long 
from persistent use. The curve of her flesh fell down from her waist 
and flared out once more into her hips and the cloth that seemed hard 
pressed to hold. The hem barely covered her sex and her thighs were 
thick and perfectly curved down to her knees and the equally 
impressive calves below.
 
The sight of her stopped the breath from moving through Paul's lungs. 
Around her left ankle there was a bracelet, a solid bangle of gold. And 
when Paul's father suddenly reached into her sex, the dozen small 
bells that hung from it, rang through the stone hall.
 
" I have paid a considerable price for you and your skills, do not make 
me sorry I have done so."
 
The woman shook on the hand churning in her, as she tried to 
maintain her calm.
 
" There are fifteen properties in my harem for the moment, nine 
females and six males. They are there for my amusement and I expect 
them to be where I wish them, ready for why I wish them, the moment 
I call. I am a busy man and I keep them for my amusement. There are 
even those who say my entire household is here for nothing more than 
my amusement, right Hatcher?
 
Paul knew that he would say nothing. As long as he did not break the 
energy of this moment, he would be allowed to watch. And Hatcher 
enjoyed watching greatly.
 
"And when they no longer amuse, they are gone. Yes, you are a wet 
one - Good." Her bottom lip trembled and her ankles wobbled, ready 
to give way.
 
He withdrew his hand as quickly as he had shoved it inside her, and 
watched. Under the surface of her dusky hue the color had risen 
scarlet at his hand, and still lingered over her cheeks and throat as she 
strove to quickly clear her head.
 
" I have been told that you have been trained in all manners of 
pleasure and are exceptional at training, and watching over others who 
have been trained. Do this well for me."
 
As suddenly as Paul's father had drawn his hands from the woman, 
both his hands forced her to her knees. He rapidly opened his trousers 
and freed his manhood. Then with a calm that Paul had come to hate 
in him, he stroked his cock with one hand, as he demanded she clean 
the other with her tongue.
 
" All of my toys are kept in the west wing, my private pleasure 
chamber is there as well. My rules are in your room - Learn them by 
heart. You use your tongue well, what of your mouth."
 
His hard flesh choked her now as he held her by her braids and thrust. 
He spoke no more but grunted through closed lips until he was 
overwhelmed by his need, and Paul watched and was hardened by it, 
as the proof of it overflowed her mouth.
 
"Now."
 
His speech and been slowed.
 
"Helen will show you to your room and to mine when I want you - be 
ready for me."
 
Paul had widened his gaze that afternoon and realized that the 
housekeeper had been present as always, in the shadows where she 
most enjoyed.
 
Yes Paul recalled that afternoon very well. His father fastened his 
trousers and turned to walk away, never thinking a second thought 
about the woman on her knees until he opened his library door and 
stopped.
 
" What were you named?"
 
She was rising from the floor when she heard his question.
 
" I am Sienna, My Lord."
 
"Yes - My Lord will do nicely."
 
He had walked on, having never turned back.
 
Helen led Sienna by the arm as Hatcher walked behind.  Paul had 
watched that day, until they turned up the opposite stair case and were 
gone.
 
The images rushed back. He tried to stop them but they flooded over 
him the way naughty bits of a novel came back after under-lined, to 
quicken the heart again and again. He was watching her again, Sienna 
on her knees before countless strangers, Sienna dangling by her wrists 
from a courtyard wall. The smell of her after his father had left her 
chamber. The strap-on she used when teaching new arrivals male and 
female alike, to surrender all. Under his closed lids, she was there 
behind him, with him now. Her warm quick fingers ran over his 
nipples as he stroked and stroked.
 
His fingers, still shaking dropped away. How long ago it had all 
seemed until his father's death three weeks before. Paul looked at the 
clock once more; it was almost five. There was time now, plenty of 
time to remember and still more, to forgive what had been done. He 
would go to bed and sleep well. It was his household now and 
tomorrow Sienna would finally be ~ his new acquisition.
 
This story is a part of "Mazora's World"; a free Erotic exploration of 
one person's mind.
 
http:/mazorasworld.com/ 
 
Written by P.E.M.Davis Copyright (C) October 2002, January 2003, 
April 2003 P.E.M.Davis and Mazora's World. All rights reserved. Not 
to be distributed reproduced, transmitted, posted or used, in any 
manner or portion without the express written permission, from the 
author.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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