Box Office

by Cobalt Jade  3/97



She woke in darkness. Where was she? She tried to cry out, but whoever had drugged her gagged her with a piece of duct tape over her mouth. "Mph, mph, mmm..." Her little whimpers sounded strangled and pathetic.

It was useless. She let her head flop back on the foam rubber cushion that formed a concavity for it. From her neck down, her body had been tightly baled in a thick sheet of urethane which had been strapped, then locked, around her. She was a woman-sized piece of sushi, a snugly rolled hors douvre. The pressure was soft, but very firm. She could breathe, but not much else. At the center of the foam rubber, she was quite naked. Her captors had seen to that, too.

Like any other rare and precious object she had been crated, and through the layers of foam, plastic and insulation she heard the deep thrumming roar of jet engines. The pressure in her ears told her she was flying...for how long already? When had she left Chicago? The engines vibrated through the crate into her bones, making her sex vibrate too. Familiar juices seeped from between her sealed legs, betraying her excitement. No hope of rescue for her now. Even if she was able to scream no one would hear her in the cargo hold. No one would know this particular crate contained a woman and not a chandelier or collection of porcelain.

Helpless, she whimpered in equal parts fear and excitement. Why had she brought this on herself? 

#

The role-playing had been so much fun. She was the perfect weekend slave. The choke collar, the chains, the training in submission made her day job as a systems analyst stale and meaningless. She only felt alive when being dominated. 

"How would you like to be auctioned off, m'dear?" Larry said cheerfully as he whalloped her with a paddle. The whipping block shook with blow, and her buttocks swelled. Her juices slid down her thighs in fat beads of moisture. "Think of the price a well-trained slave like you will fetch. Buck naked on the block, spreading your pussy lips with your fingers. Then you'll bend over so the audience can get a good look at your asshole." Another crack, and she groaned, her buttocks jerking. But oh, it felt so good.

"Then what happens?" she whispered hoarsely. They had played these fantasy games before. Her arms were stretched taut in front of her, wrists tied to a hook in the wood, and her ankles and knees were strapped to the legs of the block so her rump was high in the air. But the rest of her body was free to quake and shiver. 

"What do you think?"

She grew wet as each possibility pulled an answer out of her. She knew her talk excited him because the paddling grew more rapid, as if in punishment. WHAP! WHAP! The stinging blows fell as swiftly as rain. Her body entered the familiar solo dance, that electric tingling and jerking she and the ones she called master loved. When she began to wail, he took out the gag, thrust it over her tongue, and buckled it firmly.

Delicious scenes of torments and pleasures came to her in flashes.

After that particular session, she obediently followed him on her hands and knees out of the dungeon (actually a disused storeroom off his garage) to the bedroom. Kneeling at the side of the bed, she spread her knees, rested her hands on her thighs, and took his thick cock in her mouth. She sucked it to the root, feeling it bump the back of her throat. Yes, she was the perfect slave. Sometimes she wished all the world could see. When he came in her mouth she swallowed it like honey. She didn't need him to tell her to lick him clean.

He jabbed her between the legs, feeling her slickness. He pulled on her clit, making her moan, then vibrated the tip with his index finger. "Damn, you're still wet."

"Ah...yes...master..." She tried not to wriggle. God, was she creaming! But a slave's pleasure was at the whim of the master's. Always. There would be no relief for her until he decided it.

That was why she came back, week after week.

She flinched as Larry came to squat close beside her, his breath a warm whisper in her ear. She did not want tenderness from him; she craved the strap. "If you really want to commit to this lifestyle," he said seriously, "I know some people. But the commitment is a permanent one. Once you accept your role as a slave, you can never go back, because they destroy your old records and erase your identity. They have a small army of computer hackers on call who do those things for them. Once you're in, you stay in."

"Tell me more," she said as his hand began to stroke her slit again, his other hand pulling on her nipples as if they were taffy. She purred and rubbed her cheek against his forearm.

They were called the Nexus, he said. They were slave traders, brokers and agents; such people still existed in the world. Their victims, willing or not, went to Bangkok and Tokyo, Kuwait and Brazil. Some went to shadowy organizations that operated underground sex clubs and private resorts. Some went to individuals. She could imagine herself serving a rich sheik, a Mafia crime boss, a drug lord in Colombia...his slave and plaything, a snug collar at her throat as she knelt at his ankles. His to command. Permanently.

She fucked Larry with a new intensity that night, and in the morning it was back to the normal world. She left in the early morning to shower and change at her condo before leaving for work. They grabbed her as she fumbling with her keys to lock her front door.

She yipped in outrage, but they were experts and knew what they were doing. They bundled her into a van which sped off with a wicked squeal of rubber.

Four men grinned at her, the fifth holding her from behind. They were so ordinary she wouldn't have given them a second glance on the street. Her business suit was disheveled and her silk blouse had slipped off one shoulder, exposing the black lace of her bra. Her briefcase had been thrown aside on the street. 

Their leader had a thin, boyish face and was dressed as a student, a college kid on route to the university she might have passed dozens of times a day without noticing. But he was older than he looked and had the sharp eyes of a former FBI agent. "Ms Torgerson, you know why you're here, don't you?"

They carried guns. She swallowed, glancing around the van. No windows, and the walls were thick with the plastic panels that soundproofed it. She saw a coffin-sized box, cuffs and rope, a medical kit, a large leather sack with many buckles. She felt herself grow moist. No! That was only a fantasy! This couldn't possibly be real...could it?

"Some of your friends told us about you," the leader continued. "They thought you would be a good candidate for our organization. You're a sub; you've had training, and you like it."

Candidate; what irony. She felt like laughing hysterically, but nothing came out. "Why not say slave?"

"This is the twentieth century," he explained. "Perhaps the proper word is...product?"

The hands of the man holding her felt like steel pincers. Her eyes fastened on a tangle of leather restraints lying on the floor. "You've heard of us before, Ms. Torgerson? I trust this wasn't unexpected?"

"IÉI said I had an interest." Why weren't the men doing anything to her? They simply stared like cops on a drug raid. One of them busied himself at a laptop. Paper poured out of a portable dot-matrix printer, and he gave the printouts to the leader.

The leader skimmed them over. "Ah yes. A good candidate indeed. Kris Beverly Torgerson, age 28, systems analyst for Midwest Bank. Also an enthusiastic slave, going by your purchases of these sex toys and articles of clothing, memberships to certain clubs, email testimonials..." Laughing, he waved the papers in her face. Her jaw slackened with shock. "With the touch of a key we can erase all these records, you know. We will stop the van and you will walk out of here. Or we can erase Kris Torgerson from the data banks, and human memory will soon afterwards. And this van drives on. Well?"

The man behind her released her. No force would be used, no drugs, or coercion. She would make the choice and make it of her own free will. 

"Take me," she said clearly.

#

The pressure change in her ears told her the airplane was descending. Where was she going? Was it a modern city, a secluded country estate, or a third world fortress? The trickle between her legs became a maddening itch, but she couldn't rub her thighs to relieve it. She also had to piss, which didn't help matters any. Her full bladder teased her further. She had always had secret fantasies of being bound and helpless like this, totally subject to the whims of whoever had bound her.

But the fantasies had become real. Suppose the plane crashed. She'd fry like a wonton in this thick case of flammable foam. What if the cargo door accidentally flew open and she was swept to her doom? What if there was a mixup with customs, and she waited for days or weeks in cargo claim? Panic set in. Her head thrashed, her legs kicked and thrust. She tried to arch her back, and her shoulders jerked. "Mmramlya! Mng, mphmÉmrrm!" But her cries were as muffled as before, and the sturdy crate did not even shake. The foam held her back quite firmly. She was secure as a grub holed up in a tree trunk.

A few fat tears rolled down her face, though whether they were of happiness or terror, she couldn't say. Probably a mixture of both.

The steel collar she wore curved snugly around her throat. On it was engraved a number: 21186.

#

She'd passed a pleasant time in the van. When she gave her consent the men did not harm her, though they took her purse and all her ID. They entertained her with tales of similar kidnaps. All but one had worked for the CIA, FBI or other paramilitary organizations. They kept a supply of restraints and drugs in the van because some of the kidnapees could get dangerous. "See this?" one man had said, pointing to a boxer's nose. "Sixteen year old kid smashed it with his head."

How could they do this for a living, she thought. Someone's son, daughter, wife. The normalcy of it all was bizarre, and the fact it existed alongside the normal world of bills, family obligations, and television was even more bizarre. The van pulled into a building and she heard an electric door roll up to admit them, then close. The mechanical noise aroused her, bringing to mind electric motors, conveyer belts, and other potential instruments of torture. 

They let her walk out on her own to the loading dock of the warehouse and brought her to a small, brightly lit room, where they left her alone. "See you in the Ginza," one of them joked, and they laughed. All in a day's work. The door shut. Even without testing it she knew it was locked.

"Remove your clothes," a disembodied voice said.

She looked around, startled, to see where it had it come from.

"Remove your clothes," the voice repeated. "You are a consensual, are you not? Don't play games and make us force you. We don't have the time, and we don't like to be brutal. Take them off. Now."

The voice commanded her like the lashes she loved. Quickly she took off her jacket, skirt and blouse, then peeled off her garter belt and stockings. She never wore pantyhose or tights since becoming a sub. Then the bra. Her naked breasts burst free, the nipples hard little nubs by now. The panties followed. To her shock (but not surprise) they were quite wet.

"Your jewelry too." Off came her earrings, rings and watch. Naked, she stood until directed further. After two years as a sub she had the sense not to cross her arms over breasts or try to hide herself. She'd been naked in front of many strangers before, and in many positions. But this cold bare room was unnerving her. 

"Now go through that door."

She entered the next room. She registered briefly that it was an office and that six men and women were present before her wrists were seized and strapped behind her. Her unseen jailer pushed her towards a steel examining table. 

The examination was brief but humiliating: vagina, anus, mouth, and every other part of her body. Her captors did not speak to her but they did to each other, medical talk she only half understood. It was sprinkled with strange terms she didn't understand at all, even with all the BDSM lingo she'd picked up in the course of her adventures. Some of the words were foreign. One of the examiners looked Chinese, and two were German. 

They gave her inoculations, and one of the women finally spoke to her. "We had access to all your medical records, of course, before we took you, so this examination is only a formality. We wouldn't have snatched you if you weren't physically healthy."

"As for mentally healthy..." the big, bearded German joked.

"Don't dismiss the subs; they *are* our bread and butter." The woman roughly pulled Kris's hair into a high ponytail and fastened it, then locked a heavy metal collar around her throat. Kris grunted in surprise, even though she had been expecting it. It cradled her chin, tipping it up slightly, and the base of it rested on her shoulders. It was much heavier and constraining than anything she'd worn before, and she realized she could turn her head only with some difficulty. "What are you--"

"Be quiet." The woman's coldness halted her fidgeting. "Get the arc unit over here."

Suddenly afraid, Kris struggled as her captors unceremoniously bent her over the examination table so its edge dug into her midsection.  They snapped the ring in her collar to a chain, then fastened that to a ring in the table and pulled it tight. She was splayed flat across the surface, her buttocks in the air. She heard the stretch and rip of heavy packing tape, then felt them taping her ankles to the legs of the table. Her breathing quickened as she heard gas hissing from a canister, and the soft, sinister sound as it ignited. Her legs and buttocks jerk spasmodically in an effort to get free. "No, please! What are you--"

The woman's hand forced a gag in her mouth, a hard rubber ball that cut off her cries, though her legs still furiously struggled to kick. "I already told you once to be quiet. The gag stays until you learn your place. We're not here to indulge your perverted little sub desires, we're here to run a business, and you are our export. Product has no voice and doesn't object to how it is treated. That is all you are now--*product*."

The woman then roughly turned Kris's head to the side so her cheek rested against the cold metal. Kris whimpered as the torch grew closer. She felt its heat on her scalp and tears squeezed from her eyes. No, they couldn't torture like this, please God...

Then the smell of hot metal told her they were soldering the collar shut. That meant they never intended to remove it. Why had she done this!

The torch moved away and she sobbed in relief, then sobbed again as she heard them taking out fresh tools. 

"That's it, take it out of the autoclave."

"What color ink?"

"Cheng specified blue."

A light piece of paper was pressed against her left buttock, then peeled away. A transfer. They were marking her skin to receive a tattoo.

No! She had always been disgusted by tattoos. They brought to mind bikers, body-piercing weirdoes, and drug-addicted hookers. But she had no choice in it now. She groaned in her throat when she heard the low whine of the needle then flinched as it bit her skin. She was being marked with a brand of ownership. And below that, her new name.

"You're number 21186 now," the woman said. "Get used to it."

It was the longest twenty minutes she'd ever spent. And she had plenty of time to think about it as the needle pumped drop after drop ink into her flesh.

#

The plane touched down, and Kris breathed a sigh of relief. The whine of its engines drew down as it taxied slowly down the runway to the cargo terminal. She tried to squirm, but couldn't move a centimeter. The air grew hot. Sounds were muffled outside her crate but she heard the cargo door flip open. Ignorant, indifferent hands lifted her box and placed her with a thud on a slowly moving conveyer. Queen Nefertiti being readied for burial, she thought, a shaky attempt at humor. She gasped as her crate suddenly slid down an incline, then righted itself and began its slow travel on. Her stomach wrenched. This ride was worse than a roller coaster because she couldn't see what was coming. Now she distinctly felt strong, hot sunlight on her prison, and smelled jet fuel, hot tarmac and...something else?

She traveled slowly from jet to the inside of the terminal, then felt her crate bump something ahead of her. Another piece of baggage bumped her from behind. She sat there for several long minutes, terrified of being forgotten, before she heard a forklift approaching. Two strong metal prongs slid under the base of her crate and she was lifted with a wheezing hydraulic whine. The lift scooted away. Her apprehension and excitement returned. Why did machines have to sound so damned sexy? She'd had fantasies she'd never told anyone, even Larry, about, about being fucked to exhaustion by gearshafts and pistons.

The forklift set her down. After a few minutes the top of her crate suddenly opened. She blinked in the full sunlight, startled by the shiny brown face staring down at her. Her eyes were too dazzled to make out the features, or even if it was male or female. But she saw the lips in a very white smile. A hand quickly reached in and plucked her delivery papers from a pocket inside the crate. The lid slammed shut, was refastened. 

Several voices talked excitedly as they examined the bill of sale. "ÉAmerican pussy!" she heard.

#

The truck ride lasted for hours. She couldn't hear anything from outside because of the noise of the engine, and had no way of knowing if they traveled across city or countryside, highway or gravel road. The diesel fumes made her sick, so it was a relief when they finally stopped. They lifted her crate, and carried out of the truck and inside a building. 

New sounds, indistinct voices, rock music. The smack of whips, the rattle of chains.

The lid opened. Two pairs of arms lifted her out and stood her on end, an albino tootsie roll with her head poking out. She shivered when she realized what a vulnerable victim of abuse and fellatio it made. 

She was in a large office, resting on an expensive middle eastern carpet. Pots of tropical palms and strange cacti dotted the room. A row of wide windows were to her right, slatted with blinds. Wherever she was, it was sunny. But the thick glass kept out sounds from outside, and the semi-opaque blinds showed nothing of her new surroundings. From the ethnicity of her owners, however, she guessed she was in Malaysia. They looked at her from behind a lacquered Chinese desk and a row of comfortable chairs. Some Caucasians were with them, Australians by the accent.

"Let's unwrap the pretty package, and see what we have, eh mate?"

Kris flinched as the Australian unlocked the straps that held her and peeled away the foam. After a day or so on the airplane she smelled quite ripe, but the Australian laughed. "Been stewing in your own juices, haven't you?" He thrust his fingers up Kris's crotch and peered at the moisture. Oh god. What was he going to do..."You subs are all alike. Your mind talks you down a path your instincts tell you not to follow. But here's the truth. Betrayed by your pussy! Happens every time." He wiped his fingers nonchalantly across her belly. Amused, but not interested enough to do anything cruel or sadistic.

One of the Malaysians looked up from the computer screen the rest of the men were staring at and said something in Chinese. The comment was routine, but they all laughed. Kris flushed, realizing these men must see hundreds of naked slaves everyday. Their indifference told her she was not exceptional. 

The Australian idly fingered her nipples. "Should be on baby bottles, girl. Here now, escort to her new job."

Two girls came out from either side. No, women--Asian, and so delicately beautiful Kris felt immediately like a dowdy cow. One was Malaysian and wore an emerald green chongsam. Her hair was cut in a pageboy so black and shiny it looked the pelt of a wet otter. The other was Chinese and wore loose silk tunic and trousers. Her hair was braided back and ornamented with orchids, and her scarlet nails were three inches long. "I'm Mistress Liu," the Chinese woman said in perfect Hong British.

"And I Mistress Sangthangbisan," said the other in more fractured English. "You call me Miss Sang for short. We your welcome committee for today!"

"That's right," said Mistress Liu with a tight smile that made her face into a porcelain mask. Her skin was tight and flawless. "Number 21186, you do exactly what we say, or you go off to the organ bank. Black market corneas and kidneys are very much in demand in this part of the world."

"But so is pussy," Miss Sang said. "You be good, you work here fifteen year or more. Club Cheng is the best. Get tourist from all over the world. They like American girls. As long as they like you, you stay."

"And in case you're wondering what happens after those fifteen years," Mistress Liu said with an unpleasant smile, "you leave this place, but you still work for us. No one wants a stretched piece of leather. When your looks and body go, you will work in one of our factories. We make baseball mitts and tennis shoes."

"And condoms!" Miss Sang said excitedly.

"And because former slaves can be troublesome, we'll take out your clit and pussy lips before you go, and close off your cunt with a couple of staples. Can't have you fucking chair legs and giving the male workers blowjobs. Good for morale maybe, but bad for production." She ripped off Kris's gag with a jerk. Kris squealed. "Say yes if you understand."

"Yes," Kris said faintly, feeling ill. Organ banks. Sweat shops. Why had she done this?

Miss Sang clamped a chain to Kris's collar and ran in it between her legs to connect to the restraints Mistress Liu fastened to her wrists. The chain was very short and she was forced to bend over, buttocks out. Miss Sang fastened a second chain to her collar to act as a leash. "Come along, 21186! You very lucky. You work in box office!"

"Yes, come along," Mistress Liu laughed wickedly, shocking Kris's buttock with a taser she kept at her belt. Kris yelped, then followed Miss Sang at a hobbled crouch.

They made their way down the halls of the club, Mistress Liu shocking her every once in a while for no other reason than she liked to hear Kris squeal. Once or twice she shocked the chain, sending pain shooting through Kris's hands and throat. No one bothered to glance at them. Kris felt a wild terror grow within her. She thought she'd be valued for her servitude, not mocked for it. 

She soon realized that here she was as insignificant as a drop of water in the ocean. Nude girls stood on display in hallway niches, chained with their legs apart, decorated with gems and flowers, straps and clamps. Others dangled from the ceiling. They passed a room where dinner was being served by exquisite Japanese slaves, naked but for geisha makeup, ornamented wigs, and garter belts. A club where dancers gyrated and spread their legs, then bent over and spread their buttocks. They passed other slaves, some so exotically bound they could proceed along only at a shuffle. Kris stared at weights like jawbreakers hanging from one slave's pear-shaped, pendulous breasts, the nipples so long and erect Kris thought she could fuck with them. Another slave was being pushed along by the butt plug protruding from her anus, which sported a curved handle. Straps and whips flew constantly. Everywhere there was naked flesh, torture, and the idle titillation of free men and women who eyed them amusedly but did not give them special attention.

"Your shift is eight hours long, "Mistress Liu said. "After that you are bathed and groomed. We have handlers who take of that. Off shift, you wear a belt so you don't hork off that tight little box of yours. We like our girls hot, and for slaves, that means horny as hell, and unsatisfied as hell. The better for business. We decide when and where you fuck." Another sting from the taser, and Kris sobbed. The chain rubbed her sex but brought no relief. She realized was totally helpless, totally subject to whatever her captors had in store for her. 

"You will sleep in a dorm with the other common-use slaves. We chain you to your bunk before we turn out the lights. It wouldn't do for you to be wandering around at night, giving tongue and finger fucks to each other. Don't try to talk to anyone either; they probably won't understand you."

Things were becoming worse by the minute. They came to bathing area where attendants scrubbed Kris from head to toe and washed her hair. The attendants looked to be locals, Malaysian woman who were tiny and capable. From time to time they tweaked Kris's nipples or labia, laughing at some joke in their own language. "Don't even think about getting back at them," Mistress Liu warned.  "They can report you." Kris ground her teeth.

Next she was arranged on all fours on a table so she could be groomed. It was in fact a dog-groomer's table, with an L-shaped arm that extended overhead to which Kris's collar was snapped. She flushed furiously as her two mistresses gleefully shaved her, then waxed her public and anal regions free of hair. She knew enough of the taser by now not to struggle. "You start with a clean slate!" Miss Sang giggled. Then the infuriating little Asian women applied makeup to her face and styled her hair. 

Kris submitted dully. This was not what she expected. Other slaves were being groomed, and they too had the blank, dull look of female dogs. On each and every buttock was the seal of Cheng and the number they were called now. It probably made it easier to keep track of them. Looking closer, Kris saw with shock that under each number was a bar code.

"Zap! You dead," Miss Sang giggled, holding up a barcode reader. She aimed a line of red laser light at Kris's ass.

Mistress Liu smacked Kris with a paddle and told her to get down. She snapped on the leash. "Where am I going to be working?" Kris asked.

"We try to assign every new slave a job commensurate with their abilities," Mistress Liu said. "But in truth you, like most of the slaves that come here, are unremarkable. We don't have the time to draw your talents out. So we assign new arrivals to wherever we have an opening. Call it the luck of the draw. You stay in that position until retirement, or until you manifest some special ability that will place you elsewhere."

"But I was trained slave back in America--" Kris blurted, then flinched as Mistress Liu raised her taser.

"That means nothing here. You subs are all alike; you think you're special. Well, I'm afraid you are not. Untrained slaves are far more entertaining for the customers because they can participate in the process. But willing slaves? No. You accept where you're placed, Number 21186, and keep your mouth shut...or you leave this club...in several pieces instead of one."

Kris had several long minutes to absorb that. They walked past a skylit courtyard with a beautiful bronze fountain in the center. The basin was decorated with life-sized bronze statues of naked girls in positions that made Kris blush. Water jetted from their nipples and mouths and from between their legs. Despite the moisture no green verdigris marred the statues, which was odd.

Then Kris looked closer and saw they were not statues at all but living women that had been encased in waterproof bronze body paint. The water spouted from thin, almost undetectable tubes taped on their bodies that were painted the same color.

Miss Sang paused, mischievous, and took a deep drink of water from a shiny bronze nipple. She grinned like a child at a water fountain. "I so thirsty!" She tongued the nipple, making sure Kris saw. The poor slave, sensitized no doubt by long sexual deprivation, began to groan. "See that? You be that way, in two week! Customer like!"

Mistress Liu dragged her on.

They came to marquee and a life-sized neon sign. A nude woman performed endless backflips, springing with her legs apart to display her genitals to the viewer. Signs in Chinese and Japanese flashed in lurid hues, announcing the name of the club and its specialties. They were repeated below in mistranslated English: NICE PUSSY. CUM INTO OUR CUNNICES. BONDAGE AND DISCIPLES.

They marched Kris into the lobby, empty save for a long table in the center, which faced the wall. Kris got a glimpse of what went on inside, and her knees went weak. Here were all the wild experiences she craved, and then some. 

Mistress Liu made her stop and applied two clamps to Kris's nipples, which made her gasp. From each hung a heavy, expensive Chinese bell. Mistress Liu then gestured at the table. "Climb up there."

Kris hesitated. 

"Number 21186," Mistress Liu said sharply. "Listen to me. You will cooperate with us, or you will not. Neither makes a difference. You will do the job you have been sent here to do, or you won't eat and won't drink. It's that simple. If you think we are going to go into elaborate punishments for you we haven't got the time. We run a business here."

"Yes mistress." Sullenly.

"Stop the mistress crap. You aren't a spoiled little sub anymore, you're a piece of furniture for this club. A simple yes will suffice."

Kris climbed on to the platform and the two Asians arranged her on her hands and knees. They handled her like they had done this hundreds of times before. There were straps on the table at the lower edge at each corner, and they quickly strapped down Kris's ankles and knees. They strapped her wrists together and fastened them to a hook in front of her, and snapped the collar ring on the same hook. She was in her favorite position: forehead low, buttocks high, legs spread. "The lickable ass" position, Larry called it. The licking meant either beating or tonguing.

Why wasn't she being let inside, to do what she liked best, was so good at? Her stomach grew queasy. Though she knew the position well, had done it hundreds of times before, a real fear began to grow.

The fear was confirmed when, with a shock, she felt a thick metal tube enter her anus. Miss Sang giggled as her muscles tried to expel it. "No, no, you naughty girl! Tube stays in. It go in every day. You get used to holding it with your asshole muscles. We give you butt plug at night, so you can practice." Kris ground her teeth as Miss Sang placed her palm against it, keeping it inside. It was at least eight inches long and two inches wide. "We make you go poopy before you go on shift too. Two times!"

"Don't make me shock it," Mistress Liu warned. 

Kris whimpered again as even larger tube was forced into her vagina. It butted against the edge of her cervix and felt very heavy. She had never liked dildoes. Mistress Liu strapped them both to her tightly. "In future, you must hold them in yourself," she warned. "Learn quickly. There are other slaves who would be happy to replace you."

When she was strapped and plugged humiliatingly both Asians stepped back, admiring their work. Kris caught a glimpse of herself in the mirrored wall that stood opposite. She saw a slim blonde woman with her ass in the air, two frightfully huge dildoes sticking out of her creamy buttocks.

"Number 21186, this is what you will do." Mistress Liu's  voice was cold and businesslike. "This is the entrance to the Playroom, our BDSM room. Customers pay a chit in the top slot to enter." With one red-clawed fingernail she  waggled the tube embedded in Kris's backside. "When the chit goes in, you give your Kegel muscles a good hard squeeze and pop a ticket out of your cunt." Mistress Liu roughly waggled the bottom tube that contained the ticket dispenser, and Kris moaned. "Try it, give it a squeeze."

Kris did, feeling shamefully exposed. She felt like she was squirting juice out of her pussy or pushing out a bowl movement. But she was rewarded with a tiny spasm of pleasure when the dispensor vibrated popping out a fresh ticket. But the pleasure was designed more to tease her than satisfy her. It didn't last. The dispenser sat inertly in her twat like a lump of cold metal, not even touching her clit. With a shock, Kris realized that would be the extent of her sensual pleasure from then on. With another shock, that her masters didn't care. They just wanted a novel device to expel tickets.

"Now, when the chits go in, you give those buns a good hard shake to make them rattle in the tube, and say, 'Thank you for your patronage, master. The entrance is at your right. Enjoy the show.' Try it."

Nearly sobbing with indignity, Kriss waggled her impaled buttocks and said, "Thank you for your patronage, master. The entrance is at your right. Enjoy the show."

A paddle suddenly stung her bottom. "Not good enough. You shake your buttocks harder next time and speak more clearly. You girls are flowers here. You should be bright and cheerful no matter what happens to you. This paddle will stay chained between your legs, and if any patron feels insulted they have the right to punish you with it. Try to enjoy your job. You'll have it for long, long time."

Kris's heart sank in despair. This was to be her job day after day, night after night. She couldn't live like this. She would go crazy. After months or years, her looks and energy faded, there was the organ bank. Or a different kind of slavery in those hellish factories. Why had she done this! Tears of frustration spilled down her face.

"Oh, and if you're lucky...very lucky...you might move up in the ranks, become a tongue-cleaner. That means you lick the cocks and pussies clean of everyone who's enjoying themselves in there." Kris squealed as Mistress Liu smacked her with the paddle again, making the bells on her nipples ring loudly.

This was real torture. To see and hear what went on, yet be unable to participate.

"Your shift begins now."

A spotlight lit her from above, and soft, breezy jazz music began to fill the lobby. Kris heard the doors open behind her. Men and women began to stroll inside. Their laughter had that special ring she was familiar with, the one of impending carnal pleasure. That she faced the wall and couldn't look at them was a torment. What did they think of her, this degradingly bound American woman who was nothing more than an automatic ticket dispenser?

Nothing, probably. They disregarded her the same way they disregarded the poor slaves who decorated the halls. What was she, the former Kris Torgerson, among these hundreds of other slaves? She thought she would merit special attention, but she'd been wrong. No one cared what happened to one anonymous slave. Just as no one cared what happened to Kris Torgerson.

She felt a token spiral into her anus, the slight movement jarring the metal phallus and sending a unwilling thrill through her. Obeying her instructions, she clenched the tube tightly and wagged her buttocks. Her nipple bells rang sweetly. "Thank you for your patronage, master. The entrance is at your right. Enjoy the show." Another chit slid inside her, and another. "Thank you for your patronage, master.."  "Thank you... thank you..." 

WHOP! The stinging blow brought tears to her eyes, but she did not falter. Her rectum grew heavy with the metal chits, making it an agony to move her hips. Her pussy throbbed and ached, clutching at the tube that did not satisfy it. Music and laughter came from inside the arena. "...enjoy the show master...enjoy the show..."


END

This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade (Cobaltjade@aol.com). This work may be be freely distributed over electronic media provided no fee is charged for its use.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing without author credit or this notice violates my copyright.


