Byker Slave

Zoé stifled a yawn as she stared out of the windshield of the bright yellow Camero. She was beginning to regret the decision to leave the ninety for the hick road she was on now. The ninety had been flat and straight and boring. Zoé had left the interstate in the hope that the back roads would have enough features to engage her and help keep her awake. But no. It seemed the great state of South Dakota was flat straight and boring.

The trip had been a spectacular success so far though and Zoé was not going to be put off by one dull road. She was travelling east to visit her big sister and her family. A student in Seatle Zoé was having a blast driving 'Bumblebee' across the country to Chicago and actually getting paid to do it.

Her co-driver, Mindy, had bailed at the last moment. But, the owner of the car, a guy called Rod, had said he was not in a rush so long as she arrived safely. So instead of a continuous non-stop drive, Zoé had laid over in a variety of motels and actually seen a bit of the country.

She'd picked up a couple of hitchers on the way. A real gearhead in Montana had waxed lyrical about the car. Zoé didn't care about it other than it was Bumblebee, so was glad to offload the guy in Billings. The other was an ex-hippy school teacher type who had been fascinated first in Zoé's studies and then been quite useful in explaining the geography they were driving through. He'd talked her into dropping him off in Newcastle Wyoming, as it was a better route to Mount Rushmore. Something she'd not seen before.

She was missing the trees and hills of the west now though. As it was beginning to look like all South Dakota had to offer was a big statue of four dead presidents.

Three yawns and a stretch later she was startled almost to the point of crashing when a motorcycle roared by. Sitting up straight and tightening her grasp on the wheel Zoé checked her mirror. There was a whole gang of them behind. Zoé shivered in fear. She knew there were many law-abiding clubs, but what if these were Hell Angels or some other criminal gang?

Another bike overtook and the tight leather-clad thigh of the rider caught her attention. The rider was a woman?

With no oncoming traffic, the rest of the gang started to pass. They all seemed to be women. Several riders slowed and looked in at Zoé as they passed. But with tinted visors or goggles and bandannas hiding their faces Zoé got no idea what these women looked like.

Once all clear the first rider to pass her, who had also been passed by the rest, gave a thumbs up and sped off to catch up with the rest of the group.

Relieved that her fears had been imaginary Zoé re-tuned the radio to find something upbeat and laughed at her paranoia. About fifteen minutes further down the road though she had to slow to a stop as there had clearly been an accident. The pavement was full of parked motorbikes and their riders. A long black skid on the tarmac disappeared into their midst.

One of the bikers noted Zoé's arrival and walked towards her. Devoid of her helmet Zoé could finally make out the rider's features. Long black hair with bangs framed an attractive face that was made prettier by the smile she was wearing. Zoé guessed she was in her late thirties, perhaps early forties. She was very tall and her outfit did not seem suitable for biking at all. She was wearing a leather jacket that hung open to reveal a medium bust under a red vest supported by a black leather corset. Her nipped-in waist accentuated her hips, also clad in black leather, this time with a tight mini skirt slit at the side. There was a couple of inches of bare thigh below the hem before the tops of black leather boots, that sheathed her legs tightly, completed the ensemble.

Zoé lowered her window as the biker approached.

"Is everything okay?" Inquired Zoé.

"Sure. Midge caught a blowout is all. Put her on the deck but she's okay. We're just fixing the tyre now."

"Oh my god, are you sure? I could give her a lift to a hospital?"

"That's kind of you to offer but Midge is good. There's a diner about two miles on and we'll stop there for a break."

"Far to go?"

"Nope, we're almost home. Been to Sturgis though, some of the girls are a bit worse for wear if you get my drift. Those are some nice wheels for someone so young?"

Zoé smiled at the question in the woman's voice. It was not the first time on the journey that the question had been asked. "Not my car. I'm just a poor student driving this to its owner. I'm studying in Seattle but on my way to visit my big sister in Chicago. This way I get paid to travel home rather than fork out for tickets."

"Chicago from Washington, surely you can fly that for under a hundred bucks?"

"Probably, but my student debt is horrendous. Plus I've seen Washington, Idaho, Montana, Wyoming and now South Dakota."

"Did you visit Yellow Stone?"

"No, but I did see Mount Rushmore."

"Well good for you, getting out and seeing the world. I'll get these reprobates to move over so you can get past."

"There's no need really, I'm not in a rush."

"I'm sure, but they could be some time." She twisted and put her fingers in her mouth before giving a powerful whistle that turned the heads of the other bikers. "Make room for the traffic you lugs," she bellowed. "You'll be giving us a bad name around here."

People scurried and bikes were moved and soon a path through the crowd opened.

"Thanks," Zoé shouted at the woman in the boots and slowly drove the car through the crowd of motorcyclists. Once clear she opened up the throttle making 'Bumblebee' growl and soon the bikers were lost behind her.

A few miles on and she saw the sign for the diner the biker had mentioned. Hungry and needing gas Zoé pulled over and parked in the lot out front.

Stepping into the airconditioned diner Zoé was momentarily hit with a sense of wrongness. Something was off. She looked around and then the penny dropped; there were no men. There was a booth filled with four giggling young women. Two other women, probably in their thirties were chatting at the bar. In another booth, two bored housewives picked over their food, but no men were present.

Just then a waitress with a name badge proclaiming her to be Jessie bustled up, "You want a booth or to sit at the bar, Honey. We've room at both."

"Why are there no men here?"

The waitress smiled, "Well Wayne and Cletus are away at Sturgis and the rest are either Vikings or Cheeseheads and down the sports bar getting drunk and being stupid. Which is kind of nice for all us ladies."

"Of course, I'm losing track of which day of the week it is. Uh, I'll eat at the bar if that's okay. Umm, I've been in the car all day can I use the restroom first?"

"On your left, Honey, I'll have a coffee waiting."

"Thank you, I like it black."

Just then the roar of many motorbikes filtered in from the parking lot. Zoé turned to see the women had caught her up. Here no doubt to rest the injured Midge.

"Oh, heavens," exclaimed Jessie looking aghast at the Harley's pouring in off the road.

"Don't panic, I met them a few miles back. They're all women. Seemed a nice crowd."

"Women?" The fear was replaced with a flash of avarice. Jessie was hoping for a few extra tips on a slow day.

Zoé headed off to the restroom, her need too urgent to wait for the bikers to settle. Doubtless, Jessie would save her a spot at the bar.

Her spell on the john took longer than anticipated with yesterday's Mexican meal exacting its revenge. By the time she was washed up and feeling fresh a good fifteen minutes had passed.

When Zoé stepped out into the diner she could not believe her eyes. Two butch bikers had Jessie pinned up against the bar. The only clue it was Jessie though was her torn uniform on the floor, and the small portion of her tear-streaked face still visible, as the bikers forced a thick rubber hood over her head. The rest of her had been squeezed into a black rubber suit. Her feet had been forced into the most insane boots Zoé had ever seen. They had long stiletto heels and the toes pointed straight down. Or should that be up? As Jessie's captors had folded one leg up and strapped her ankle to her thigh with two leather belts, so her foot pointed at the ceiling. Around Jessie's waist was a corset and her arms were bound together behind her back in some sort of vee-shaped leather sleeve. Also Jessie's mouth, her whole lower face actually, was encased in some kind of rubber gag. Yet most disturbingly of all, as if the rest of it were not nightmarish enough, around her throat a broad leather collar had been strapped. As if Jessie were some kind of animal or a slave.

Zoé wildly looked around. All the customers were gone. Each was replaced with a leering butch biker. Outside other figures, trussed just as poor Jessie was, were being roped onto the backs of the motorbikes.

Just then the tall biker she had spoken to entered the diner, "Ahh, Camero, saw the car in the lot, knew you had to be about somewhere."

"What the fuck is going on here?" Shrieked Zoé.

"Well, we made a mistake on a shipment for a customer who does not tolerate mistakes. He demanded some warm bodies. I was not prepared to supply his need from within the club's ranks. So these young ladies," she gestured vaguely at the bound forms, "have been volunteered to help out."

"You can't do this!"

"Well, clearly you are wrong, as we already have. Unfortunately for you, we can't have loose ends, so you're coming too."

"What!" Screeched Zoé to no avail because as she did an unseen biker grabbed her from behind. Thrashing and struggling she was picked up bodily and slammed into the counter next to the now-encased Jessie. A hard strong hand grasped her neck and slammed her face down on the counter.

"Keep still and stop struggling, Camero, or we make this hurt a lot more than it has to. Understand?"

Recognising the futility of fighting this many people Zoé capitulated. Though her stinging face made her wonder how much worse the 'hurt' could be.

"Okay, get it over with, Bitch," snarled Zoé trying to sound defiant.

"You need to be careful, Camero. Your fate is not decided yet. The others are going to foreign climes but I'm thinking of keeping you. Put me off the idea and we will dispose of you some other, less pleasant, way. So, my crew call me Mother, you, little girl, will be calling me Mistress."

As this was said a knife was inserted at the base of Zoé's jeans and pulled up to her waistband. It must have been sharp as it cut almost silently. A second cut and her jeans fell away. Her knickers were ripped straight off her, before the hand on her neck pulled her back upright, to have her jacket and shirt pulled over her head. Her bra straps were cut from behind and the thing fell onto the counter before her.

She was pushed forward again and her sneakers and socks were pulled off. Naked and afraid Zoé looked at the poor Jessie beside her. A mixture of snot and tears were spraying out of two small holes for her nostrils. Her hair, long and blonde like Zoé's, had been pulled through a hole in the top of the hood. One of the bikers was roughly plaiting it while another was pulling some kind of leather harness over her head. The hood was already so tight you could practically make out Jessie's features. What was the harness for? As she thought this the answer was supplied as the harness was tightened and the gag in Jessie's mouth forced even deeper. A muffled wail of despair escaped the sealed-in captive.

Zoé was suddenly chilled as some sort of fluid or gel was poured over her back. Rough hands set to smearing it all over her. Down her legs and arms, over her ass and even her tits and crotch got the same cool casual abuse. One after another her ankles were grasped and lifted as her feet were guided into the legs of a rubber suit of her own. The tight restrictive garment was hastily pulled up her legs. Before she was stood once more to discover there was no zip. The neck of the thing was around her waist with the arms sticking out from above her hips. The suit was pulled away from her waist and Zoé's wrist was grabbed and posted into the top of the sleeve. The neck was pulled up over her shoulder and her slick arm was encased in latex.

The collar of the suit was now hard up in the pit of her free arm, with one tit inside and the other still out. But the collar was pulled away again and her arm was forcefully posted inside. The collar of the catsuit now rolled up Zoé's throat, surprisingly tight given she had just climbed in through it.

"Put your hands on your head, Camero," barked Mother. Zoé startled by the order unthinkingly obeyed. A black leather corset was wrapped around her waist and instantly Mother started hauling the laces tight. Powerful tugs betrayed the older woman's strength as Zoé felt her waist constricted. Mother stopped lacing the corset short of pain but restricting Zoé's breathing.

"You can take them down now, girl. Hold them palm to palm behind your back." Again Zoé obeyed and felt one of those sleeve things being slid over her arms. Straps were passed up across her chest and over her shoulders. There must have been laces on this too as the thing started compressing her arms pushing her elbows towards each other. Her shoulders were screaming as they were pulled back and suddenly agony erupted in her elbows too. Zoé squealed in pain.

"Sissy," admonished Mother but she stopped lacing the thing tighter. Then to her utter horror and humiliation, a collar like the one Jessie was wearing was wrapped around her neck too. Mother pulled the buckles tight squeezing her throat. While it did not choke Zoé was dismayed at how tight and restrictive it was.

"There, Camero, you're a slave now," hissed Mother in her ear. The loud click of a closing padlock at the back of the collar made Zoé jump. "No need to worry about that student debt now, slave. Your only purpose now, girl, is keeping me, your owner, happy. But don't worry about that, as I'm really looking forward to teaching you exactly how to please me. Now open your mouth, slave girl."

Zoé briefly considered refusing but her fear of Mother's wrath won out and she opened her mouth. Zoé gagged as some cloth was roughly stuffed in her mouth. Before she could spit it out though, a gag like Jessie's was forced upon her. As well as covering her lower face a large red ball on a short post was thrust between her teeth. It pushed the cloth deeper in and pressed her tongue down.

"Just in case you were unsure," sneered Mother, "they're your own panties, slave. Hope you were clean in the washroom."

She was lifted up then and sat on the counter. In turn, her feet were slid into a pair of the weird boots. Zoé frowned at Mother as she watched her lace them tight. The biker clearly understood informing, "They're called ballet boots, slave. They keep you en pointe all the time which stops naughty slaves from trying to run away. We've had a blast trying them out before we came down here. They're agony to stand up in. I'm gonna have fun making you learn to walk in them."

Boots on and laced tight Zoé was pulled off the counter. She squealed in pain into her gag at her entire weight bearing down on the tips of her toes. "See," gloated Mother who spun her around before she could fall and bent her over the counter once more.

At that moment an exceptionally burly woman picked up the now completely trussed-up Jessie. Knowing that she was seeing her own fate Zoé watched as the encased waitress was thrown over a shoulder and carried out the door.

Mother folded Zoé's left leg up and smartly strapped it in place. Just as quickly her other leg was bound identically. Leaving Zoé's weight entirely on her chest and corseted stomach.

Despair overtook Zoé and tears started to flow as she felt her hair being gathered and pulled through her own rubber hood. Darkness soon enveloped her as the smothering cloying thing was pulled over her head. Panic nearly overtook her until the nostril holes were aligned. At least she knew the tugging at her hair was them plaiting it and she was ready for the face harness and the gag going deeper. Though she still nearly retched when her panties hit the back of her throat.

She was then quickly hoisted up and grunted in pain as her stomach landed on her carrier's shoulder. Sounds were deadened but the heat of the sun on the rubber was intense. She knew they were outside.

Unexpectedly a zip at her crotch was opened letting cool air chill her privates. She was then lowered slowly onto two phalli that must have been attached to the saddle of the bike. Trussed as tightly as she was Zoé could not even squirm as the intruders impaled her. Ignomy was heaped further upon her as she felt ropes being passed around her and she was lashed in place.

Dimly, through the thick rubber, she heard Mother issuing instructions, "Right, you two torch the place. Give it a good chance to burn hot before you call it in. Stay here to talk to the authorities, clear?"

An even fainter, "Yes, Mother," was heard. Then the bike roared into life. To Zoé's horror, the throbbing vibrations were carried deep within her sex. Powerful waves of arousal swept through her. Mother gunned her engine and Zoé wailed into her gag. A lurch forward drove the anal plug in deep and sent pulses of power to Zoé's G-spot. Less than a mile up the road and Zoé shuddered into the first of many orgasms on her journey into slavery. Relentlessly raped by her Mistress' motorcycle Zoé wondered if she would survive the ride to Mother's home.

-o-

Zoé teetered around the clubhouse bar. Going from table to table getting orders and serving drinks. Three weeks now she had been held captive by the bikers and it looked like it was going to be a life sentence.

She was still required to wear the rubber catsuit and corset. They had delighted in forcing her to learn to walk in the ballet boots too. Some woman they called Spanners had fashioned a stainless steel collar to replace the leather one. It had been welded in place with, she had to admit, quite some skill. Polished bright with a large ring at the front it was a constant reminder of her station. On those occasions Mother allowed her to remove the suit a large tattoo on her rump proclaimed her the property of Mother too. Just in case the collar was not reminder enough.

Mother had re-named her Cammy, and that was what she answered to, when they didn't call her slave. Not once had she dared protest her name was Zoé. She was being good. Enduring. Waiting for a chance. Escape had to be possible. She had to have hope.

"Cammy, get in here," barked Mother from the office adjacent to the barroom. Zoé made as fast as she could in the boots to obey.

"Kneel, slave," ordered Mother, "It's education time, Cammy."

Zoé knelt, responding with a quick, "Yes, Mistress," as she did. She knelt with her knees spread wide and her arms behind her. Why? Because Mother said that was the way she had to kneel. Zoé did not argue the point.

The last education had been early on in her captivity. She'd been forced to watch as the other prisoners were loaded into a crate and then into a lorry. Jessie and the others were never released from their rubber prisons. Instead, they were plumbed in with catheters and feeding tubes up their noses. Before being hung by their shoulders in crates bound for who knows where. The point was clear. Behave or follow the rest.

"You've been a good slave, Cammy."

"Thank you, Mistress."

"You're keen to obey. You've worked hard at every task and you are getting pretty good with your tongue now."

"I want to please, Mistress."

"I want to believe you, Cammy. I really do. But you know, I think you might still think you're really Zoé McClusky."

Zoé started at hearing her name from Mother. Camero had become Cammy. Never had she even hinted she knew Zoé's name.