Buying Bad Ch. 04

Part 4 - The Line to the Ladies' Room

The windows were all the way down and Penina's bare, painted toes were splayed out against the inside of the windshield. Her hair whipped across her rose gold sunglasses and out the window and back over her face. Despite Jack's love for a casual girl she wanted to look good for the drive. I'll get more casual as the hours pass by whether I want to or not.

She had a bright green lip and yellow glitter across her eyelids. A sharp, dark green wing came off each eye with machine perfection. Every time she did this look, what she called her Sewer Punk look, she wondered how it would work with a pierced tongue. A big silver barbell to push and pull against the roof of her mouth. How would a guy look at her from the driver's seat if he caught sight of that playful little glint of metal winking behind her lips? She imagined that the piercing would be hint that lead him to notice every bump in the road they drove over, and of her tits bouncing each time under her lemon-lime tank top. He would be thinking of long stretches of highway and a busy mouth held over his crotch, a cool steel caress diligently keeping the summer heat off his mind.

And what about gas station stops and diners along their way?Would the other guys lean over their shoulders, coffee cups still pressed to their lips, and think I guess that guy's got a real modern girl in hand. A real modern girl and all her modern vices. The truth is Penina wanted to be a little scared in the car when Jack went inside to pay for the filled up tank and jaw with the guy behind the cashier. She wanted the greasy, long-haired dude working the pumps to lean against her rolled up window and try and catch her eye. Put his fingers in the loop of his jeans just so she knew how close his belt was to her face. Maybe he knocks on the glass and she has to meekly roll it down and look up, [i]look up[/i], at this stranger who has nothing to say but a lot he wants to do. And there she would be, with compulsory politeness, trying not to notice his eyes track the little barbell dancing around when she spoke.

But her tongue was empty right now. And on this second day of their road trip her mouth had yet to be filled with anything, even once. Jack hadn't wanted what he had previously called his "vacation alarm". When she had tried to rouse him with a gentle licking of his soft cock (and even flaccid it hung from between his thighs like a gorged, dead snake) he pushed her head off him and went into the motel bathroom to piss and brush his teeth. She comforted herself with the idea that he only wanted to make up time on the highway from their slow start the day before.

But Jack was in a bad mood. His face was made of stone behind his aviators but the fact that his hand was resting against his temple and not hanging in the wind outside his window told her everything she needed to know.

"Ja~a~a~ack?"

"Mmhm?"

She lowered her glasses with a fingernail and fluttered her eyelashes. "Are we there yet, Jack?"

His look back was cold, far too cold for how pretty she knew she looked that day, bouncing in her seat. "Yeah. Get the tent up." He said.

She pouted. "Ja~a~ack! I don't even know how the tent works, Jaaack."

"Guess you're sleeping outside then."

"Why couldn't I sleep in the car?"

He looked at her, then the road. After a pause he said: "No dogs in my car."

Penina frowned. "You're jokey-Jack today but you don't want to spend a night in the cold outdoors without your little bed warmer. I know that for sure!"

He shifted his shoulders. "Bed warmer, huh? I couldn't have bought a blanket from you last night."

"That blanket was like fucking burlap or paper or something." She said, crossing her legs and crossing her arms. "You should thank me."

"A selfish slave gets to spend her life outside, in a doghouse. Better remember that, babe."

"I'm not your slave. Girlfriends need more blankets than anyone."

He smiled wolfishly. "Yeah, keep talking."

So far the trip had not been to her liking. Penina had never been an outside girl and the idea of sleeping in rented rooms and spending whole days in the passenger seat just so that they could eventually stop and sleep outside was against her belief system. But on the first day of the trip he had made her orgasm during their drive with a confident mix of verbal bullying and expert use of his hands. Right then and there she thought she might like the camping life, or the roadtrip life, or any kind of life. She had gone down on him immediately after regaining her composure, with almost as much fervor as when he had pulled her into his car on a leash months before. But later that night he had demanded another blowjob which, despite her best efforts, he would not reach climax. Her own skill of self-degradation and possession of a mouth desperately coaxing his balls into action had done nothing. They had both gone to sleep poorly after a bad meal purchased from a connecting convenience store. And now, seemingly sick of her mouth, Jack was pissy for their hours of driving.

She felt all dressed up with no one to fuck, and more importantly, with no one around to eye fuck her.

And he won't unpack the collar.

She had even neglected to pack any necklaces or chokers before they left, and was making sure to keep her throat bared for him for the entire vacation. Easy access! A naked neck begging to be covered up with a lock. But he hadn't even put his hand there yet.

They passed another hour down an empty road with a field of crops on one side and a field of grass on the other. The radio played classic rock until Penina, with a furrowed brow, switched to a more contemporary station. Immediately they were listening to "My Thighs, My Eyes," by jenevieve. Each rollout of drums on the beat was began with a sharp series of whip cracks and a jingle of chains frequenty swept underneath the vocals. jenevieve, who a year ago had gone by Jenny Viva, was the world's first enslaved popstar. That's what her producer claimed, anyway. But there was a lot of talk about celebrities these days! The "gold rush" when legalization was initially sweeping over the world had driven a new renaissance of tabloid rags. Supermarket check-out racks were suddenly filled with the now-legally leaked nudes of the most well-regarded female starlets underneath lusty headlines claiming these "starlots" had been taken, bought, and sold. Sometimes to each other, sometimes to crooked producers.

Penina remembered one story like that in STAR, the cover had exclaimed a dozen stories about minor TV actresses and older women bringing a new meaning to the term "comeback". But the biggest headline and the cover photo was of Brie Larson. Right there, and not even hidden by a silver bag, was a photo of Brie hanging over the end of her couch with her phone held just beneath her eyes. Her tits were little bright swells beneath her muscular back, barely lit by some lamp out of frame. She was shooting into a mirror for some lover who turned out to value money above her privacy. Which Penina found insane! How a guy could look at that woman, at that firm trained ass so perfect that Brie had made a point of bending over so far that it rose up like a mountain peak in the dark behind her head and think about selling the picture left her completely confused. She made herself a slut for that thirst trap! You ingrate! But since the law had come around to the idea that a woman's naked body, even a free woman's, was public property once shared the celebrity nude economy had truly become a seller's market. The story, according to STAR, was that Brie's freedom had been bought out by Disney for 7 years. In addition to serving in whichever pictures they chose for her Brie would be spending her off time as an executive treat and even earning credit in the board rooms, as a suck slave. The editor, who must have been a brutal, sick person, wrote explicit speculation about how her 35-million-dollar knees would be so raw from carpet burn that Disney would have to spend another 40-million just to digitally un-redden them in her next film. The STAR was a waste of $12.50, but Penina had quickly pulled that rag underneath her groceries and looked away when the cashier rang it through.

But in the case of jenevieve whether she was officially the first wasn't even the question! The question was whether it was even true or just a play for publicity. When she was Jenny Viva, 22 year old red-haired indie "superstar", the highest she had managed to climb was a single summer of top ten radio play with her hit, "Your Sound." But jenevieve was outselling free women now almost two to one. Some were saying that it was a sly move from a cunning producer and no enslavement papers had ever been produced publically. jenevieve herself had never spoken about it. Her interviews since the "purchase" were given from between the big crisp sneakers of her producer DJ Philwhip who did the talking for jenevieve while she hid his cock from the camera with the back of her scarlet head. She would play into jokes, wiggle her bottom or give her interviewer a thumbs up between gags, which only endeared her to audiences even more. It was becoming cool to be a slave, if you weren't a bitch about it.

People said that the fact she was never used to go down on the interviewers, only her producer, was proof that she was a free woman putting on a costume. But if you said that on twitter her slave stans would have you eviscerated. The ones still free enough to have twitter, anyway. Many of her fans had sold themselves into slavery in support of their fav. Penina couldn't imagine that, giving it all up for a celebrity you would never meet who might not even be a slave at all! These young women were getting jenevieve tattoos right above where they thought their brand would sit: and the brand would sit exactly where the brand on jenevieve sat, centred on her left cheek. Philwhip's corporate logo, a microphone that turned into a bullwhip. Of course detractors would say it was a fake brand and maybe it was. A pretend brand for her real Brand. Rich girls would never give up their fortunes willingly for a thrill they could chase in private.

But then again, Penina hadn't seen Brie Larson in any films lately. Where had she gone?

"My Thighs, My Eyes" seemed to bring Jack into a social mood. He turned it up just as a whip cracked and jenevieve yelped in C major.

"This will be all of you soon enough," he said. "They're saying that this is the next new trend, companies saving costs with a one-time talent aquisition."

He looked down at her through his sunglasses. "A permanent aquisition."

jenevieve moaned.

Penina rolled her eyes. "Like any girl wouldn't give it up to be rich. Girls have always done that! And she's still famous! What's the difference between a company owning your music or owning you!" She said.

Jack laughed and it made Penina happy to make him laugh, even if it might have been at her. "It's always about owning women. Own what they make, own their rights, own them."

"She's still got a big pool in like Beverly Hills! Everyone loves her, she still has fans and stuff, like," Penina said. "I don't know what being free or enslaved matters."

"You think she's using that pool, now, babe?"

"What do you mean?"

"She's not swimming unless her master wants her to. And I'm betting that she has a little routine to keep her skin the committee-approved pale little white girl color, and a schedule down to the minute to keep her 95 pounds and hard at work making the company money. The pool is for parties, babe, for her owners. She'll be so busy attending to them that I bet she never dips a toe in that little pool she bought back when she was allowed to have a dream."

He smiled his wolfish grin again. "But she'll still be soaking wet at the end of the day."

Penina rolled her eyes even harder. "Celebrities are fucking all the time anyway. Her lawyers aren't going to give her money to her producer's lawyers just to get a poolside beej, Jack."

He shook his head, laughing. "You have no idea how men handle business, babe."

"My Thighs, My Eyes" ended and the radio hosts came on. Two crass men and one woman who mostly whined "C'mon, guys," when they went too far with their stupid jokes. They spent most of their segment talking about her tits. "If DJ Philwhip gets her augmented her next bit could be, uhhhh, My Tits my Bits."

"Boom!" the other guy shouted.

A droopy honking sound went off and the girl laughed pleasantly. "Oh come on!" she said.

"You guys can't see it right now but Wendy is looking down her shirt at her own bits--"

"Oh come on! I'm not! I was adjusting my pin."

"No no no no, Wendy, we left your pin on your seat, see!"

Wendy yelped.

"Boom!"

They came into the next town at 4 o'clock and Jack pulled into a diner called Don's across the street from the motel and a gas station. They had crossed provincial lines by this point and the change was shocking, sudden, and total. It was like a different world. Outside of Don's was a little wooden corral by the door, open on one side but shaded from the sun. Instead of the parking lot gravel which otherwise lead straight up to the wall of the restaurant there was a strip of astroturf in the shade of the corral. Inside of it was a massive wooden log with iron rings and attachments set into it. Onto these were various tethers and leads provided by the customers themselves, as at the end of whatever ropes and locks they brought were their slaves. Women without a stitch to their names and without any kind of modesty to try and hide anything. There was a little sign above the leash-log which read, in blocky black letters, "Don's Bitches," and there was a little cartoon man in an argyll apron.

With maybe twelve or fourteen women spread over the astroturf the corral was full but there was always room for more at Don's. Penina couldn't believe what she was seeing. The women were gorgeous. Some were kneeling or sitting, one was curled up asleep in the corner beneath a white dome camera, and some had their gaze averted to the ground, avoiding the gawking looks of every passing free person. But some of them looked at Penina and smiled. It was one thing to see women enslaved on advertisements or in magazines but another to see them, to smell them and hear them, in person, in their servitude. Her breath had been taken away. She was sure there was a blush on her cheeks and all she could do was grip her purse tightly to her side as Jack stopped to take in the sight with his big arm over her shoulder. None of the girls would look Jack in the eyes.

"Well would you look at that, babe," he said. "They were pretty quick to adopt the new law of the land here, werent they?"

She couldn't speak.

The corral attendent, a thick man in his early forties, leaned off his stool and came over. "Evenin', gent. Nice night out here, but they're all nice in our neck of the woods. Now it's house rules that all plunked slaves are naked for the duration. We've got a keeper box for its clothes if you want us to store them during your meal."

Jack's grin went from ear to ear. He looked at Penina and his hand snaked down her back. "Well! Do they eat out here, good sir? We're just in from a drive I would hate for her to go hungry."

Her mouth was agape in horror. "Jack, I am not--"

The man spoke over her. "We offer a kind of kibble at $6.50 per bowl, or $10.50 for the premium. Of course there's always water available."

He gestured to a troph on the far side of the corral. The water there bubbled like a fish tank's and the ground around it was soaked. The man continued. "But to be honest with you, fella, you strike me as out of towners and I don't think this beautiful little mouse is signed away to you just yet. Of course," he laughed and held up his ring finger. "I don't see any kind of collar on either of you. I expect you two will be dining inside, eh?"

Jack chuckled. "Well, I like to know my options."

He slapped her ass hard and loud. Her hips leapt as if electrified.

The other man shook his head. "If you want my advice, you ought to have her registered while you're in town. The owner, Don himself, wants to get a station set up here but the municipality has been slow on it. But for your use and information, sir, we got slave menus inside for owned cunt still allowed to hide itself. Or for curious little muffins."

He winked at Penina and she felt it hit her in the same spot Jack had planted his hand through the ripped up denim stretched over her ass.

Jack laughed. "Guess she's a cheap date tonight!"

The man sauntered back to his stool. "If you like, the owner's son had this suggestion, and I really am shocked how popular it's been. Just over yonder there is a nice little 'social media photo op', if you'd like to keep the memory of your first visit to a slave province."

He waved his hand to his left. Next to the corral was another stretch of astroturf leading to a well-lit wall repainted with a crisp crisp white coat of paint. There remained a triangle of bare, original brick for visual flavor but otherwise it was photo-ready and stark. To the right of the triangle was the little cartoon man in the apron again, and this time he was holding up a wooden pasta spoon with one hand and a leash in the other. At the end of it in the same cartoon style was a middle-aged woman painted cute, plump, and nude with a circle of curly black hair surrounding her face, thick coke-bottle glasses atop a button nose, and a big red ballgag where her mouth should have been. Mrs. Don Penina thought. Her butt was painted bright red with little heat waves radiating off of it.

Beneath that pair was the address and name of the restaurant and their social media handle: @Don'sDinerandDames

Placed in front of the wall was a wooden cutout for a man and a woman to stand behind and put their heads through. So tacky. This would be lame even at a county fair. Someone's girlfriend or wife would be putting her head into a life-sized image of a woman, kneeling and nude, holding her pussy lips open above 3 big white cartoon drips. It made Penina think of the sweat emoji. To her right they had painted a yellow fire hydrant for a splash of color but it was so tall that it towered over the hole where a woman would be putting her head. Both the hydrant and her male suitor would be well above the woman's face in any photo. The man's cutout to her right was a standard beach hunk figure except he was clad in a blue business suit, his chest bulging out a little behind a bright orange tie, and he held a scroll-like contract with a big wax seal and a gold ribbon hanging off the front. The text on the scroll read "Official OWNER" with a Texas star on either side.

Penina couldn't believe that any idiot would want a picture like that. And what self-respecting woman would kneel down next to him for that? At Don's, of all places. But Jack was over-the-moon. "Fantastic!" He shouted.

He was already dragging her towards it. "N-no, Jack we-- we c-can't! We can't!"

The man on the stool chuckled. "Don't blame her, son. That's the site of many a girl's last photo as a free woman. All it takes these days is a little taste of the proper order. You just let Chuck take care of you over there, and you can just imagine your options however you want to, sir."

Chuck was another old man, bald with no eyebrows and a wide mouth. He was sitting on another stool in front of the picture wall. "Take yer picture, sir? It's as free as punished pussy!"

Jack opened his phone and handed it to Chuck. "Very kind of you, Chuck. You boys doing this work for pay or pleasure?"

Chuck laughed like a horse. "Ah we're pals of Don. He can afford to hire us on now that he don't have to pay most of his waitresses."