Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: After the Revolution, Part 1
Summary: In a post-apocalypse America, a horny businessman buys a
teen-age girl as a sex slave.  100% fiction, of course, and don't read if
you are not of legal age.
Codes: Mg, slave.
   By A.Muller
   OK, I'll acknowledge the obvious.  When the revolution came, I came out
on top.  Discreetly, of course.  That's why I'm sitting here in my living
room, waiting for "the package" to arrive from Pennsylvania.
   This time I've ordered a 15-year-old blonde from the countryside between
State College and Pittsburgh.  That's the nice feature of the Girl of the
Month club: You can choose where your girls are harvested.
   Other clubs are a bit less expensive, but you can't predict what you'll
get.  One guy I know ordered a blonde who, it turned out, was actually a
brunette who had dyed her hair -- and she was from Brooklyn!  Jesus, who
the hell wants to put up with the shit an urban bitch can sling?
   I like my girls cornfed and pliable.  You would think that five years in
a "re-education" camp would teach anyone that, hey, your soft life is over
and you gotta move on and suck some cock.
   But no, urban bitches never seem to lose that big city attitude.  They
get all righteous and start yelling, and then you've gotta choose: Do you
resell them to a tamer, or do you attempt to tame them yourself?  I tried
the latter not just once but twice.  Never again.  Ever.  The last girl I
attempted to tame was a cunt from Chicago.  She not only broke my nose, but
she also kicked me in the nuts.  That's when I sold her to Joey for half
what she'd cost me.
   I actually saw her a few weeks ago.  She was working a booth at a street
fair, giving quickie blow jobs for a half-piece of silver and stand-up
fucks for two pieces.  She was totally nude, of course, and cum was
dripping down her chest and legs.  Joey had tattooed her forehead with the
word "Whore." Her right tit was tattooed "Fuck" and her left tit said "Me."
She was still pretty, though, and guys were stopping to sample her wares.
   They had to pay Joey first, of course.  Given the way Joey looks, no one
argued with him.  A few years ago I saw a guy try to argue with Joey.  He
was a stupid fuck.  A stupid dead fuck.  It had taken Joey maybe five
seconds to overpower the guy, twist him around, and break his neck.  One of
the guy's eyeballs had popped out when his limp head hit the curb.  He was
already dead, of course.
   Gotta hand it to Joey: He'll double his money in no time on the Chicago
cunt, and then I expect he'll sell her for a few pieces of silver to some
weirdo who'll fuck her a few times and then maybe strangle her for fun when
he's had a few too many beers.
   Me, I don't get my kicks from strangling girls.  Usually I just fuck 'em
for a few months till they get pregnant and start puking from morning
sickness, and then I sell 'em to guys who like to fuck cows.  You'd be
amazed at how many guys really enjoy climbing up a pregnant belly.  Not me.
I like 'em at the threshold of womanhood, when their faces are wrinkle
free, their tits are a nice handful, and their cunts are tight and juicy.
   Damn, I wish the delivery service would deliver my "package" soon.  I'm
getting horny thinking about her.  Oh well, she'll be here soon.  What was
I telling you?  Oh yeah, I was talking about how the revolution was good to
me.  No shit, Sherlock.  It was really good to me.
   No one really knows how the revolution started, of course, but I heard
that it probably began in Newark, New Jersey.  Seems some rich white bitch
driving a hot red Mercedes gunned her car out of a parking space and ran
over a brother.  Some bros nearby pulled her out of the car, beat the crap
out of her, and then torched the car.  And then they did the same to a few
other drivers of high-priced wheels.
   Fast forward a few days, and guys all over the country were pulling rich
bitches out of cars and killing them.  That's all it took: One bitch in a
red car, one mob scene, a few TV cameras from the media capital of America
sitting across the Hudson in Manhattan, and -- bingo!  -- the mayhem spread
across the country.  Hell, it spread across the damn globe.  Mobs and gangs
soon moved into the suburbs, and ad hoc "leaders" declared war on the
twenty percenters.  You know, the twenty percent of the population who have
most of the money.  A lot of oldsters and retirees bought the farm, but so
did a lot of doctors.  Healthcare hasn't been the same since, but it
doesn't really matter to me.  I got a buddy who's a doctor, so I'm OK.
   The old government didn't know what to do when the rioting spread.  Did
you ever see a congressman or senator who looked poor?  The government
tried to stop the mobs, but some of the young troops mutinied -- the bros
and the Latins, at first, but then the poor whites joined in -- and began
killing the officers.  Pretty soon the guys in D.C.  were powerless, as
there was nobody at the other end of the phone.  Except for one guy, and he
saw his chance to take control.
   That's where we are today.  The guy in charge is kinda like Joey.  He
was a sergeant in the old Marine Corps, which is why even today he's called
Sarge.  He lives in Denver, smokes a lot of weed, and keeps a harem.  You
should see the girls.  Christ, they are something!  Once in a while he'll
issue a decree, but mainly he just lets us survivors do our own thing.
   Like I said, the revolution was good to me.  I had some money before
things got out of control, but unlike that rich bitch in Newark, I was
careful to live quietly and discreetly.  So when the initial killings
stopped, I stepped in and quietly set up my own "re-education" camps for
the survivors.  Yeah, right.  They were -- and remain -- work camps.  My
happy campers make a lot of crap that my guys sell in the marketplace, plus
they grow some crops so my food bill for feeding everyone ain't too damn
high.
   Unfortunately, I wasn't able to snag much pussy when I was setting up
the camps.  Just about anything with a cunt was claimed before I felt it
was safe enough to venture outdoors.  Which is why I find myself ordering
packages from Pennsylvania.
   Before the package arrives, I should tell you how come girls are
available for harvesting.  It's like this: The bros, Latins, and guys felt
no remorse slaughtering the richies and the politicians, but most of 'em
drew the line at killing kids.
   So guys like me -- well situated and ready to do business -- set up
camps for the young kids.  As the kids grew up, so did the profits.  A
10-year-old boy, once castrated, can be a good worker who ain't distracted
by sex.
   A 10-year-old girl, provided she's kept acne-free once she enters
puberty, can fetch a lot of money.  How much money?  Well, 1,000 pieces of
silver is what the Girl of the Month club charges at the moment for a honey
of 14 or 15.  A castrato of the same age fetches about 100 pieces of silver
unless he's really, really pretty, and then he might fetch 150 pieces.
   Yeah, eunuchs aren't quite a dime a dozen, but they are a heck of lot
cheaper than girls.  If blow jobs are all you want, they are definitely the
way to go.  Ditto for ass fucking.  And in case the kid's dick bothers you,
it's easy to find doctors who have a side-speciality of cutting off
eunuchs' dicks.  They can even give him a fake vagina, if you're into that
or can't afford a girl.  The snip-snip operations are cheap, only 10 pieces
of silver at most.  A teen-ager boy with balls isn't worth much at all,
usually just 20 or 25 pieces of silver.  Hell, they are rebellious and
don't know jack.  After they learn a skill, and start behaving themselves,
they can fetch up to 50 pieces of silver, but strong young men are
dangerous.  In my opinion, it's better to have women working for you.  I'm
just saying.
   Just so you know, initially there were a lot of people in the
"re-education" camps.  I'd guess that by the time the killing spree was
over, close to a fourth of the population was dead, and 30 percent of the
living were in the camps, getting used to a much different "lifestyle." The
economy had crashed and came damn close to a complete halt, and by the time
it had revived somewhat a lot of the people in the camps had starved to
death.  It was a vicious 18 months that I hope to never see again.  And,
yeah, the attacks on the richies had morphed far beyond the top twenty
percent.  If you looked or acted middle-class or rich, you were fair game.
   But eventually Sarge and his forces gained control, and most of the
rioters were lined up against the nearest wall and shot.  That's when I
decided it was safe to resume doing business.
   As you've gathered, I like fresh meat, which is another way of saying
that I don't have a harem and don't intend to start one.  A roomful of
bitches is just too bitchy for my taste.  I'd rather fuck, say, six or
seven girls in the course of year, one at a time, than have twenty of them
yakking away while I'm trying to fuck one of 'em.  Sure, it's nice to have
a bitch licking your anus while you're getting a blow job, and another
tonguing your ear, but that's a high maintenance situation, believe me! 
Don't get me wrong.  Sometimes I've owned two or three girls at a time, and
one time I had four, but that was a weird moment, and I don't intend to
repeat it.
   Ah, I hear the delivery trucking pulling up.  Yep, here it is, and the
slaves are carrying the package to my front door.  "Thanks, guys, just set
it down here, by the door."
   She's been delivered in a standard package container -- a coffin-sized
box with inlet and outlet ports for the battery-operated air pump inside. I
open the lid, after keying in the code I purchased two days ago, and there
she is: To my eyes, she's damn near perfect.  She'll look better when I
remove her travel diaper.
   "Where am I?" she asks.
   "None of your business, Sweets," I reply.  "What's your name?"
   "Katie, Katie Maddox," she replies.  Her eyes are adjusting to the
light, and her arms are straining against the manacles holding them to the
sides of the container.  She's trying to cover her milky white tits, but
there's not enough slack in the manacles.  She's not used to being topless
before a man.
   Wow!  That's a rare quality these days.  The Girl of the Month club must
have bought her from a woman-run camp.  Usually the proprietors are men,
and they like to enjoy the view of hundreds of tits before selling them off
to distributors.
   "Please don't hurt me," she says.  "Please."
   "I won't, Katie," I reply.  "I bought you to love you, not to hurt you."
Of course, by "love" I mean fuck and fuck and fuck again, but there's no
need to upset her by telling her the blunt truth.  She might be naive
enough to think that I bought her to marry here, and protect her, and live
happily ever after.  As if.
   I know better than to trust a new girl, so I rig safety lines to the
carbon fiber bands around her wrists before undoing the manacles.  She's
been lying in the package for hours, maybe up to 36 hours, but I suspect
she's been in there for only six hours, as I paid for priority delivery. 
She seems quite limber as she sits up.
   "Raise your arms," I say, and she obediently raises them.  I take the
slack out of the safety lines, and then undo the manacles holding her legs
to the side of the container.  "You can climb out now," I say, and she does
as she's told, using the safety lines for leverage.
   She's now standing up with her hands roughly even with her head.  I
tighten the safety lines some more, so her arms are straight up.  Girls are
shipped wearing adult diapers, and hers are soaked.  I take them off, put
'em in a plastic bag, and toss it in the trash.  Then I get a pail of warm,
soapy water, a washcloth, and give her nether region and legs a quick scrub
down.  I then towel her off.  So far, so good.
   I stand back and look at her.  She's a true blonde, as the wisps on her
mons venus demonstrate.  Her tits would barely fill a B-cup bra, but they
are nice and pert -- not a hint of sagging.  Her hair is almost straight,
and it balls about six inches below her shoulders.  She has blue eyes. 
"Spread your legs and keep 'em apart," I tell her.
   She's crying now, but she spreads her legs.  I walk over to her and
immediately reach for her cunt.  Yeah, I'm not subtle.  I could stroke her
face -- and risk getting bit -- or tickle her breasts and nipples, but why
should I?  At the end of the day, I bought her for her cunt, so I'm going
to explore it.
   I massage her clit until some juice forms at the lips of her tunnel. 
She's cries out when I slip the tip of a finger inside, searching for her
hymen.  It is intact, which stuns me.  I've only had one other virgin in
all the time I've been buying packages, and that one was a certified vestal
for which I paid 1,500 pieces of silver.  The girls I buy are technical
virgins, meaning they've never been fucked, but until now they've all been
popped by some dyke or their own hairbrush handle before I got to them.
   "You're a virgin," I say.
   She nods and cries some more.  I can barely understand her pleas through
the sobbing: "Please, mister, don't hurt me.  Please, please, please."
   I can't wait.  I haven't been laid for six days, since selling the last
girl at the slave market to a guy who liked her looks and her baby bump. 
He was a buyer for a breeding farm.  If the bump conceals a boy, he'll pay
for an abortion, and then re-breed her.  If the bump is a girl, there will
be no abortion.  Instead, it'll be allowed to grow into a bouncing baby
girl and then carefully trained as a courtesan.  Some are sold very young,
say at age 4, but most are being kept from the market until their teen
years.  At least, that's the theory.
   There's a lot of profit potential, but who knows whether the investment
will pay off?  Hell, there could be another revolution before the first
girl reaches age 13, and you could lose all your money.  To me, it's an
extremely risky business, one that I would never invest in.
   Instant pussy, now that's the kind of investment I like.  And Katie
what's-her-name is about to become just that.  I grab my persuader and
start loosening the safety lines.
   I made the persuader myself.  It looks like a double-barreled pistol. 
One "barrel" is actually a high-powered cattle prod, while the other barrel
is the business end of a stun gun.  If Katie gets any ideas of escape or
resistance, I'll give her a taste of the prod.  If she attacks me, I'll
fire the stun gun, which'll knock her to the floor and leave her quivering
like a bowl of Jello.
   I've had to use the persuader a number of times, and it has never failed
me.  One time a girl wrenched it out of my hand, but I touched my Bluetooth
"wristwatch" and deactivated it.  Then I beat the crap out of her.
   "Come on, Katie," I say, and point to the hallway.
   "Please, mister --" she begins, but I cut her short.
   "Start walking," I say, and motion with the persuader.  She starts
walking.
   "Wiggle your ass." She cries, but she wiggles her ass as she slowly
walks down the hall.  It's somewhat sexy, and my dick, which is already
hard, gets even harder.


   
  
After the Revolution part 1