Blackmailed Into Servitude Ch. 01-04

Author's Note:

Hey, everyone! I'm back! Sorry for neglecting you all for so long! Life has been kinda crazy, and I've been struggling to write one book every 60 days like I used to. As such, the Yoni Flower sequels and the Amazonian Uteroboscis sequel were delayed by several months (though I am finally working on them now!). During my several-month-long hiatus, I have been slowly working on this Sentenced to Glory sequel that I'd like to present to you today, the recently published Blackmailed into Servitude (Free Use, blackmail, twisted love story)! There's also an accidental taboo tale I finished late last year called The MasqueRave that I'll be uploading here next month or so, so keep an eye out!

This story of reluctance and forced free use submission is a direct sequel to gloryhole romp that was Sentenced to Glory, so it'll refer back to the first few chapters of that book, touching on how the recently initiated Sigma Lambda Tau (SLUT) Olivia (Taylor's roommate) landed in this predicament. If you'd like to know exactly how Olivia ended up being blackmailed into being a free use fuck doll, please read chapters 1-6 of Sentenced to Glory here on Literotica. Since Olivia doesn't have all the details of how Taylor really got out of her predicament without going to jail, you don't have to finish the entire Sentenced to Glory book before this to avoid getting anything spoiled.

Chapters 1-3 are essentially an intro to the story, so if all you're looking for is naughty stuff, there's some naughtiness for ya in chapter 4. From chapter 5 onward, this 35-chapter novel is filled with scene after scene of a free use sex slave reluctantly enduring an onslaught of rough, unprotected fucking. And in the midst of all the sex, a dark story unfolds into something unexpected for both master and sex slave.

Per usual, I'll be doing weekly releases, so please check out either my bio or the comments for updates! Now, enjoy the read!

Chapter 1 :

Repercussions

Olivia 'Liv' Hartman | 18

Friday, September 30 ^th

Only three questions remain for this psychology exam, and this panic attack I've had since the test began is getting even worse—my heart is throttling, my hand is trembling on a scale rivaling Parkinson's, and I'm so sickeningly nervous that I'm on the verge of puking.

The reason I'm freaking out worse than I ever have isn't because I think I'm completely bombing this exam. Actually, even though I'm stressed beyond measure, this test hasn't been that hard because I studied my ass off these last few days. The reason for my current mental breakdown is that, right before the tests were handed out, the call from my R.A. that I ignored was followed by a text that shook me to my core—a text that read:

Sabrina Ealy: Hey, Liv. Um... Just a heads up, a Detective Jonathan Brady came by saying that he needs to speak with you after your class... He didn't say what it was regarding, he just said he'd be waiting around campus to speak with you and that you needed to call him "as soon as" you're free..." Here's a pic of his calling card.

Though Sabrina didn't specify why this detective is looking for me, I know exactly what his investigation is about.

Last week Friday, me, Taylor Lawrence—my roommate and best friend here at FSU—and three other sorority pledges from Sigma Lambda Tau stole well over $3,000 worth of these $500 realistic dildos plus another $2,000 worth of vibrators from a premium adult sex shop called Boudoir Plus. That stupid sorority initiation challenge that we did would've been a felony worth 5 years in prison had we been caught. Well, one of us was caught. Right as she was about to crawl out of the store's back-office window, Taylor got grabbed. Fortunately for her, the owner let her go later that day since her family reimbursed him for his losses. That and the cameras somehow didn't catch her stealing anything. But now that a detective is looking for me, that can only mean one thing...

The cameras got a good look at my face, I think, staring blankly at the completed test before me while I wait for the professor to announce that time is up. And since the store owner has Taylor's name, the police probably found me tagged in her social media accounts or something. Which means I'm going to fucking jail... I'm only one month into my freshman year of college and I'm going to jail... After Taylor got caught, I should've known we weren't just gonna walk away without facing repercussions...

The second I read Sabrina's text, my first thought was that I needed to run to the Sigma Lambda Tau sorority house and hide out until my accomplices—Taylor, Faith Hanson, CeCe Cohan, Emmy Morgan, and Taylor's Big sister Stella Bennet, our getaway driver—and I have a chance to get our stories straight. I needed to wait for the president of Sig-Lam-Tau's lawyer mother to get there before I could meet with this detective. Right as I was getting ready to go show my professor Sabrina's message and ask to be excused from the test, it dawned on me that the detective might be waiting outside this lecture hall. Then I thought about texting the girls only to realize that texts saying that 'we all need to meet' could be used as evidence to prove we're guilty. Calling anyone was also out of the question too since I got paranoid and thought that my phone was tapped or something.

"Alright, time's up," Professor Kern announces from the front of the lecture room in that high-pitch voice of hers.

Oh crap, I think while grabbing my backpack and test. What do I do? Should I call the guy right away so I seem cooperative? That might help me come off as innocent.... Or maybe I should take the long way around to our sorority house and see if any cops are parked out front. If it's clear, I can borrow someone's phone and call the girls to figure out what to do.

No cops or any undercover-looking types are waiting outside the lecture hall when I walk out the door. Thankfully, that seems to be the case when I exit the social sciences building too. Feeling confident that I'm not about to be ambushed, I go left in the direction of the sorority house instead of heading straight toward my residence hall. Once the crowd of students thins enough for me to walk without bumping into someone, I check the phone clutched in my sweaty hand for missed messages from my sorority sisters.

Odd... None of the girls texted me in the last hour, which means they've either all been arrested or the detective hasn't contacted them. Yet. The moment I lower my phone, it vibrates the way it only does when I'm getting a call. Crap, I think, staring at the unknown number on the screen. An 850 number... that's a Tallahassee area code.

Because I'm paranoid that the detective just saw me leaving the building, I don't frantically look around or let the panic show on my face, I just take a deep breath and swipe to answer the call. "Hello?" I say calmly as the phone touches my ear.

"Olivia Marie Hartman?" a gruff-voiced man responds.

"Um... May I ask who's speaking?" I answer with that slight Georgian drawl of mine, my voice cracking toward the end.

"This is Detective Jonathan Brady," he says, putting emphasis on his title in a way that makes my stomach sour and twist into a knot. "I'm not sure if your resident assistant got in touch with you yet, but I'm currently at the FSU campus because I need to speak with you in regard to an ongoing investigation. Sabrina said that you'd be back at your dorm around 2:15—2:20 following your final class of the day, so I figured you'd be here by now. Unless you're on the way to Sigma Lambda Tau sorority house, in which case I could meet you there instead, if you prefer."

I stop dead in my tracks, my vision pulsing with each rapid throb of my heart, my legs turning into noodles. Is he watching me? I scan the area for any cop-looking types in shades, but I don't see anyone. "No, sir," I say, turning around and doubling back across the northern edge of Landis Green. "My R.A. left a voicemail about you stopping by, so I'm on the way to my dorm right now. My psychology test ran a little long, that's all."

"Excellent. Well, I'm right out front of Magnolia Hall. If you're not here in five minutes, I'm going to assume you're guilty," he says in a more playful tone that still makes my entire body tremble.

The call abruptly ends, and my eyes immediately start burning.

Holy shit! Holy shit! Holy shit! This is actually happening! I'm about to get arrested for a stupid sorority hazing challenge... Also, how the hell does he know it usually takes me 5 minutes to walk from Bellamy Building to my dorm? As that thought leaves my mind, a single tear starts rolling down my cheek. Maybe I should just tell him everything. Maybe I should throw Cindy and Stella under the bus for pressuring us into committing a crime. I can say that Cindy threatened to release whatever blackmail they claimed to have on us if we didn't go through with the heist.

Suddenly, what Cindy Prescott told us the day of the heist initiation challenge pops into my head. "Worst case scenario," she said to the twenty of us girls in the charter room last Friday, "my lawyer mom will come down and get any unlucky pledges out of the jam, just like she did for me and Skylar our freshman year."

On second thought, blaming them means Cindy won't have her mom represent me in court... So, I guess I'll just have to act innocent and try not to incriminate myself until I can call Mrs. Prescott at the station...

The dread plaguing me on this walk down Collegiate Loop is unlike anything I've ever felt before. Like, it's only been a minute since I left the air-conditioned Bellamy Building and I'm already sweating like crazy even though it's not that hot out for an early September afternoon in Tallahassee. Thankfully, I haven't sweat through my gray top yet. The closer I get to my dorm building, the more I tremble, the faster my heart races, and the dizzier I become. I've had panic attacks before, but it legit feels like I'm about to black out and die any second.

You need to pull yourself together before the detective sees you freaking out, I think, wiping the sweat off my face with my hand. Calm down, Olivia. Take a few deep breaths and just calm the hell down. I breathe the way I do during yoga on the quad that I'm currently passing—in slow, out slow. In slow, out slow. Everything's gonna be fine. Another round of breathwork follows.

By the time the edge of the Magnolia Hall's brown-bricked exterior comes into view two minutes later, I've somehow managed to regain my composure just enough to not look like I'm guilty of committing a felony seven days ago. And it's a good thing I calmed down when I did because, a few feet from the crosswalk, I spot the detective standing under a tree right across the street from me, staring right in my direction. Even though he's not in uniform, I know the forty- or fifty-something-year-old Caucasian man ahead is the Jonathan Brady guy who just called me. I know it's him not just because he's the only old man lurking near the dorms but because this bearded guy with a headful of salt-and-pepper hair is wearing the same aviator-style sunglasses all cops seem to wear, and his outfit—a grey long-sleeve button-down with dark pants and black dress shoes—screams 'undercover officer.'

The image of Jonathan Brady suddenly vanishes behind the pack of tall guys who are crossing the street in the opposite direction of me. The moment they pass—the moment they're no longer obscuring my view of him, the detective removes his sunglasses and gestures at me with a subtle, two-finger wave.

Oh crap, I think while offering him a slight smile and a nod. If he recognized me that quickly, it must mean he knows my face from the adult store's security footage. I mindlessly tug down on my backpack's straps to pull my bag higher up on my back—a thing I used to do all the time when I was an anxiety-ridden high school freshman. No... maybe he just pulled my license at the station... But he wouldn't know what license to pull if he didn't run facial recognition on the security camera footage, right? Fuck!

During his approach, he pulls out something black from his back pocket. "Good afternoon, Olivia," the gruff-voiced man says while flipping open a wallet, revealing a Tallahassee Police Department Badge and an ID that displays his name and a much younger photo of him. "I'm Jonathan Brady. We spoke on the phone just now."

I nod and, as he lowers the badge wallet, my gaze snaps back to his steely blue eyes. "Good afternoon, sir," I reply calmly while scanning his expressionless, unreadable face. "How may I help you? Did something happen in the dorm or on campus?"

Crap, am I trying too hard to play dumb?

Detective Brady shakes his head, his unblinking eyes burning into mine while he returns his badge wallet to his back pocket. "No. I'm currently investigating an off-campus matter," he grumbles, pulling his phone out of his front pocket. "Mind telling me where you were last week Friday around this time?"

I briefly avert my gaze. "Oh... Uh... I was... I was at my sorority house that afternoon—all afternoon. Until about five, then I went back to my dorm to get ready for a party."

"You sure?"

"Mm-hm!" I hum, trying not to break eye-contact this time. "My sorority sisters can vouch for me if you'd like to go ask them."

"Alrighty then..." he says though an exasperated sigh while looking down at his smartphone. After silently tapping away at the screen for a few tense moments, Detective Brady glances back up at me. "Before we go verify your alibi, would you mind checking out this video and telling me if you recognize anyone?"

A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to swallow. "Sure thing."

In an almost robotic fashion, the stocky man raises the smartphone to my face with the screen facing me, and my eyes immediately widen in horror at the sight. Playing on his Samsung Galaxy is HD security footage of two girls standing face-to-face between a rack of multi-colored dildos and the shelved wall stocked with boxes of the hyper-realistic RealCock 2 dildos. The five-foot-four blonde with her back to the camera is standing before a slightly taller girl who is positioned in such a way that her face is obscured from view by the girl in front of her. From this angle, the only visible defining detail about the taller girl other than her clothes and fair skin is the mane of curly brown hair not being eclipsed by the other girl's head.

The petite blonde with long, straight hair who's dressed in a burgundy tank top, a light-blue denim miniskirt, and white sneakers? That's my roommate Taylor Lawrence. And the curly-haired brunette dressed in a red tank top and a skimpy, red-and-black, pleated skirt? That's me...

Oh crap... I'm screwed...

Chapter 2:

A Car Ride with Me or Jail

Olivia 'Liv' Hartman | 18

Friday, Sept 30 ^th

Moments after my gaze falls back on Detective Brady's phone screen, the footage shows Taylor turning and removing a RealCock 2 Jones dildo off the shelf, her face obscured by her curtain of blonde locks the entire time. As she does so, the camera gets an irrefutable shot of my face and my panicked eyes while I'm subtly dropping a large tote purse on the floor between us. Like, it's such a clear shot that I can almost make out the starburst pattern in my topaz-blue irises.

Oh fuck, I think as my body begins trembling.

For six long minutes, I watch the surveillance footage of last Friday's heist transpire on the detective's phone. Two different POVs show us stealing dildos. Another POV shows the store owner chasing after CeCe and Faith after catching them stealing vibrators. And when they jump in the getaway car before he catches them, the footage shows him turning and chasing me and Taylor through the back of the store. The incriminating video ends with a surveillance video from a camera overlooking the back-alley showing me falling out of the window and scrambling to the getaway car as I'm watching Taylor get yanked back into the back office by the owner. With the exception of Taylor who somehow avoided having her face in frame at any point in all those POVs, the video shows all of our faces as clear as day.

With wide, tear-flooded eyes, I hesitantly look up from the phone and meet the detective's stern gaze.

"So, Ms. Olivia Hartman," Jonathan Brady says before I can speak, "would you like to revise your alibi after watching all that?"

I don't speak. My head doesn't shake side-to-side like I want it to. All I do is stare at him with unblinking eyes while my body trembles and sweats profusely.

"Because there's footage of you walking into Boudoir Plus too," he continues after a short pause. "And... I don't know if you noticed, but that alley camera got a damn good shot of your getaway driver's license plate at the end there, which is how I pulled Stella Bennett's info and tracked you all down to FSU—or, more specifically, to the Sigma Lambda Tau sorority house. Given all those clear shots of your face in the video, it wasn't hard to ID you once I figured that out. And because I was able to get that shot of Ms. Bennett's license plate, I was able to acquire CCTV footage of her vehicle pulling out of the sorority's parking lot eighteen-minutes prior to the robbery along with footage of her cleverly dropping off you and your four sorority sisters across the street and one block down from Boudoir Plus."

"So..." I croak, subtly looking around to see whose about to witness me be cuffed. "Am I—am I under arrest?" That's all I can think to say to not admit my guilt.

Detective Brady smirks. "No. Not yet, anyway... Despite the substantial evidence I have against you, as a private detective, I'm not legally allowed to arrest you, Ms. Hartman. But should you and my client—Mr. Scott Bonham—not settle on a way for you to make things right after I bring you to him today, the evidence of the felony you committed will be submitted to my friends at Tallahassee P.D., and you will be arrested before the day is over."

My eyes narrow into a partial squint as my gut twists into a knot. "Wait, wait... you're a private detective? Like... a private investigator?"

"That's right. Mr. Bonham—the owner of Boudoir Plus who you saw dragging your blonde friend away from the window in that last part of the video—didn't want to ruin your life over a matter that could lead to you getting up to five years in prison without first giving you a chance to figure out a way to remedy his losses, so he hired me to ID you, track you down, and bring you in."

Hearing that I might be given a way to clear my name gives me a bit of relief, but the revelation that this guy isn't a real detective leaves me feeling uneasy. "Oh... I don't remember you disclosing that you're a private detective or P.I. or whatever?"

"But I did," he says with emphasis while pulling out his wallet again. Instead of flipping it open and showing it to me this time, he pulls out the ID and holds it up to my face. "The identification I showed you before says so right at the top." Using the index finger of the other hand, he taps the edge of the blue stripe at the top of the card that has the words Private Investigator License right above the words State of Florida.