Buying Bad Ch. 03

In only a few quick, angry motions the cage was off her face and thrown onto the ground.

"You and that one want a walk? Franco will take you for a walk. But first you are going to clean the tool you used."

Franco's favorite detail of training when dealing with two or more slaves was what he called the clean-up rule. You train a girl on a dildo and then you train the next girl on the same dildo but you make sure they know to show respect to everything Master owns, even to an object. A slave does the work. And so, the rule: what goes in your pussy, you clean with your mouth. What goes in your mouth, you clean with your pussy.

Only with Pebble he got to use his favorite addendum: what goes in your ass you clean with your mouth, what goes in your mouth you clean with your ass. As a salseman he made sure his slaves' asses were always squeaky clean anyway, but the psychological toll of sucking deep and long and wet on a dildo you had just seen the last girl destroy her asshole with kept the slaves in their place: on the ground beneath everything else.

And so Pebble knew what he wanted. She crawled to the sand pit and drew her weary legs apart as wide as she could. Her ass was welted from Franco's belt, had been whipped with an angry arm upon her arrival. She couldn't feel it but Bernard's spit was still rolling down her back as she angled herself in the best position to get impaled on Franco's training tool. The dizziness was a bigger problem than how tired she was but her hope was that it would be easy to stay upright when the long wooden rod was keeping her anchored. She placed her hands on her head and managed to shake her tits like he had trained her to do. And then she lowered herself.

She was worried that the dildo, which had seemed as thick as a bat in her mouth, wouldn't fit through the metal ring that offered entrance to her hole. Indeed it did graze the sides as she went down and up, at least when it passed over the thick bulb carved into the wood just after the tip. But once she knew it would make it through she started pumping with passion: just as she was trained. I'm a good slave please, please just let me go back to the tarp.

Each pillowy cheek of her ass hugged the slick rod as she dropped them into the sand. It was a cold night and she didn't know if she was sweating or not but there had to be sand sticking to her as she touched the ground. And once at the bottom with every inch of bulging wooden pole inside of her she grinded her ass back, making sure to arch her back, pop her butt and jiggle her breasts for both the Master inside her and any Masters watching. Grip for Him, shake for Them. And then it was back up, smooth and smiling, always gyrating and making the line of her neck and back dance suggestively.

"Master works and slave cunt plays, I writhe on Master's dick all day," she croaked.

Down again, deep into her. She thanked God for how much of Franco's awful-tasting oil and her own spit had slicked the rod. It was moving as easily into and out of her as if it belonged to her one true love. Grind, pop, jiggle, up again. Smile.

"Master works and slave cunt plays, I writhe on Master's dick all day."

A furious, dry itch was planted in the back of her throat and Pebble found herself desperately planning a time when she could cough without losing "the look" of a slave. That was Franco's guiding principle. Nothing mattered more than having "the look": like God had built her with no other purpose than to be a proper and graceful slave. No talking out of turn, no pulling away from a stinging palm, no shirking the duties she had been given and no coughing when reciting mantra. Nothing inelegant and no mistakes.

The people Franco sold to weren't expecting the best slaves that money could buy, they expected the cheapest price they could spend for a reasonably well scouted piece of ass. Most of them hired tutors or bought private lessons to round out Franco's education anyway, so as he saw it he had two jobs as a monger: break them so that they were no longer free, and make sure they looked like a million dollar Prime Plus slave until money had changed hands.

Bernard had never processed a refund and Franco didn't expect that he ever would.

"Cleaner!" he barked. "You leave Master's things spotless from your whore mouth."

Despite her legs begging her to stop Pebble quickened her pace. She tried to clear her throat in as chipper and ladylike a voice as she could between bounces and between lines of her mantra. If he noticed she would pay for it that night she was sure. It would be added to his list of excuses to punish her.

If I don't fall if I just do it perfectly, he'll stop and let me sleep.

Faster and faster she went. But as she did her chastity cage hit the wood after each plunge. Whap, grind, pop, jiggle, up again, mantra, smile, whap. And as she went faster she dropped harder, smacked the sand louder. Each smack sent a tingling shock up her little sack and through her girl cock. She felt it in her tummy, as she had whenever she was aroused in Franco's cage. A heat that built up her back and licked the bottom of her breasts and soaked like a tide across her nipples and up her neck. A heat that made her stupid and made her want to feel stretched out and useful and yanked by hard hands in any direction.

I'm not getting off to this.

"Master w-works,"

I hate this

"and slave c-cunt plays,"

I'm not a slave.

"I w-writhe, I writhe,"

Whap, grind, pop, jiggle, smile.

"on Master's d-dick,"

Let me stop, let me stop! I'm good, I'm so good

"a-a-all,"

Let me stop, Master, before I--

Grind, slam, whap, pop, grind, grind, whap, down, grind.

Before I--

"a-a-all--"

The heat was a fire between her hips. Down her back. Her straining, shaking muscles felt red hot. The muscles between her legs started to twinge sweetly.

"all!!"

Franco removed her from the dildo like she weighed as much as a pinecone. With one hand in her hair and another wrapped around her well-worked throat he flung her to the ground. "You little slut," he growled.

His beat up tennis shoe pushed cruelly into her crotch. "You think you should be getting off, ah? You? Worthless little bad slave."

His massive hand came palm-first across her face.

"I'm s-sorry, Master," she yelped.

In truth Franco was pleased to see her near to orgasm during a punishment, and a punishment she must have been terrified to receive after trying to escape. It put him in better spirits after his talk with Bernard. His training did work. His slaves were broken. Maybe the failed escape was a good thing: one last setback to put her in her place.

The trans ones were a tricky bet, he thought. In everything. As product they were a curated sale, where wise salesmanship itself would make or break the whole effort. But even before the sale they tended to have a strange psychology about being trained. Hot for the collar, yes, but it was hard to break them all the way through because of it. They often kept a little version of themselves deep inside, with a neck thinner than the collar they yearned for: you had to be skilled enough to find that version of themselves and get a second, tighter collar for them. At least in his experience. He had collected a few trans ones in his career, that was the only reason he took this one. There was a little circuit he did to offload trans product. You couldn't run it all the time like his usual slave-selling routes, and that's what made the fruit along this route grow so fat. Of course it might have dried up, gone barren while he was away, but Franco liked the gamble. He thought of his great grandfathers having to gamble their livelihoods like that with fur over their shoulders and the sun against their backs.

As to the slave with the pussy, she would be easier to unload but at a potentially cheaper price. Buyers didn't mind tattoos or official branding. Most of them loved it. But the numbers on her cunt weren't registration numbers and the incongruity would bother a discerning buyer.

"Ah, nevermind it," he muttered.

Pebble was still whimpering apologies beneath him, trying to wrack her sleep-addled brain for a slave mantra that would get her off the hook.

He pulled her by her hair over to the other girl and zip-tied Pebble's wrists to the same restraint that held the girl's leash. "You two get ready for your walk. Not fair unless you both get a taste of the outside, eh?"

He laughed and left towards his shop. On his way he shouted something at the dogpen and they yelped and woofed for their owner as he passed.

When he disappeared and had been gone for a few minutes the girl with the pussylip numbers shuffled over to Pebble, who whimpered and moaned face-down in the grass between her bound wrists. The other girl was gagged and was similarly restrained at the wrists by a ziptie. She slid over Pebble's shivering back and pressed her weight over her, stretching to reach her hands which she squeezed and held.

The girl's breasts felt impossibly warm against Pebble's back. The air had chilled the runaway slave and the ground offered nothing but the theft of her own bodyheat, which drained away from her and into the sharp prickle of the ground underneath her own breasts. But the girl with the pussylip numbers was everything she could have wanted then: warmth, softness, support. They often managed to sleep like this underneath their tarp whenever the Boucher's had left them only loosely chained and it was the deepest comfort a pair of slaves could ask for.

Pebble tried to whisper her gratitude to the other girl. It was hard to think of words let alone force them out along the aching fleshlight that her mouth had been transformed into. The other girl wrapped her body like a blanket around her and seemed to whisper back through her ballgag.

It was hard to tell, but Pebble though she could feel a wetness where her new friend's legs met. A trickle of hotter warmth sighing down the gooseflesh length of her own back.

It might have been from the girl's cunt. It might have just been the Boucher's spit.

Franco came back ten minutes later and grunted with laughter when he saw them. "Eh, horned up slaves, maybe I train you too good, maybe I train you not so good."

He fastened a harness around each girl's head that attached to the chunky white collars around their throats. He fiddled with something on the back of each collar and then attached thick leather tethers to them each.

They were dragged down the length of the yard on their hands and knees. Pebble's head was spinning. The only break she had gotten from exertion or pain came in the old man's car. Crawling through the Boucher's yard where only maybe a day before she had been running to freedom on her own two feet was embarassing. What a failure escape had been. The other girl's hug was the only thing that kept her conscious. Her flesh was covered in belt welts, bruises and scrapes from the forest, dried layers of sweat, and in every one of her crevices on top and bottom the slick squish of the Bouchers' homemade lube. But strangely all she could think was I bet I smell terrible.

She couldn't even smell herself, her palate having been pulverized by the machine the only thing her mouth or nose could give her was the distant taste of semen mixed with adrenaline and coffee. But she knew she had not smelled good since she had been taken here and she was humilated to smell as bad as she was sure she did next to the other girl.

Franco kept the girls in front of him at a distance through the use of a long thin crop he would swipe whenever an upright ass was in range. The worst part was the knowledge that the crop was coming even before the whistle of its movement, knowing it would come down when they felt their leash start to fall slack and gently tickle between their shoulders. And sure enough WH-PP and a chuckle from the Quebecker.

Their first stop was the dog cage. He drew them up by their necks and held them each four or five inches from the chainlink of the pen. "You want to run, eh? You want to meet the dogs, bitches?"

They both shook their heads.

"Boys! Slave run!" Franco shouted.

The dogs immediately jumped to attention. Noses out and fangs bared, they began to bark and circle their small confines. There was a whole pack for sure, at least ten broad-backed, dangerous looking dogs. Franco shouted again. "Find! Find!"

One dog leapt, barking, at the chainlink and smashed into it so hard it bent. When one did the others followed. They snapped their jaws and howled at the two terrified girls.

"Find!"

Each time the pack would rebound and try a new means of getting to them. Many were pacing behind the most aggressive ones but each time a fence-crasher would shake themselves off and back away a pacer would take its place.

"You want to meet them?" Franco shouted down onto the girls' heads.

"No, master!" They shouted back through their gags and bindings.

They would flinch and jump everytime a dog leapt towards them with its jaws wide open and its eyes shining. By the time Franco pulled them away and set them back on their crawl they were shaking with sobs.

"You run away again, slavegirl. You as well!" WH-PP "Everyone has dogs for runaways! They'll get you! You were too stupid getting a ride back to us, slave! Ah, but you are lucky. The dogs would have got you otherwise."

He drove them past their cage and the tarp they slept underneath, and past the four cement-blocked cars that sat beside the main entrance. They were pushed over the gravel of the driveway, which was pain enough to rouse Pebble's mind after the physical horror of the dog pen, and out past the tall, motorized fence surrounding the Boucher campground.

They were heading towards the same forest Pebble had only recently escaped through, although now the sun had come out to dry much of the dirt and shine a hard yellow light onto everything unshaded. It was almost evening again.

"This was going to be a reward," Franco laughed. "A little taste of our good nature, eh? On your last day here. Now, it is a punishment. But don't listen to my brother. You are ready for sale! One last walk and then you go!"

They couldn't see his gesture but Pebble was already looking in the right direction. It had been one of the first things she saw of the Boucher brothers and their awful business, and it scared her as much then and when she had seen it the first time. The Boucher company truck, some monster built for purpose, broken down and re-made with a bizarre trailer that she never wanted to see the inside of.

"Yes yes!" He shouted. "A roadtrip but do not worry! You will not be lonely, ha ha ha, you will be meeting friends!"