Chasing Paradise Ch. 07

Chapter 7 - Loyal Hounds

Private Flight to Yorotani Island (Two Days Before the Hunt)

Pussyhound gazed out of the plane window across the ocean. She'd flown across the sea plenty of times in her role as a Slave-Agent before, but she never dreamed that after retirement she'd still be flying around and largely carrying on with her old day job for private clients. Furthermore she never dreamed she'd be flying in something as luxurious as this jet, the sole purpose of which was to bring people and slaves to and from the hotel's very own island.

She was used to being strapped into a seat, or secured kneeling so she could suck off a Master-Agent while they made their way somewhere. Her seat for today was definitely a cut above. The plane's passenger deck was divided into cabins, all gorgeous wood veneer panelling, gold accents, and cream leather.

She sat back and took another sip of the cocktail she'd been given. It was strong, strong enough most people would have been coughing their guts up drinking it. As a former Slavecop she'd not only been exposed to more foul substances than she could remember. Even basic Slavecop training required her to build resistances to a range of mind-altering chemicals for those times she was sent undercover to infiltrate illegal slave sales, Fluffer operations, or even exfiltrate escaped slaves from other nations who thought themselves beyond the vindictive arms of the Androcracy, and the BFA.

She glanced across the cabin at her client, Benedict Malavar. It wasn't the first time he'd hired Pussyhound, not even the first time he'd hired her for hunting purposes. His cock was hilt deep in a kneeling slave's mouth, and she could hear the horrific gagging noises as the slave desperately tried to breathe around his girth. She thought about the slave for a second, trying to place a face to a registry entry she'd probably seen only once, and even then likely on a Master-Agent's data pad while one of her own holes was being used. Eventually it came to her as the girl's raven twintails were yanked hard towards his crotch. This was "Chokeybitch".

It took her a little while to think about her days as a Slave-Agent but she remembered when Chokeybitch was simple little Shofu Yukiko. Pussyhound didn't know how but Malavar had gotten her around the Yamatese export ban and into Pussiana. Clearly the little slut hadn't known what was going on and that's where Pussyhound had come in. Yukiko had made a run for it but before she could be banded, it was every Slavecop's worst nightmare. There was a cunt on the run, but she had zero tracking capability, and no option to activate the collar and immobilise her. She'd wondered at the time why an extra sub-dermal tracker hadn't been placed in the import's head when she arrived in the country, it was only later that she realised a less than legal entry may have been used.

That particular piece of tracking work could have been a terrible time, and seen Pussyhound chained outside the BFA building for free use if she'd failed. The location was all open country, rolling hills, forests, and an array of outbuildings on Malavar's estate that seemed to stretch for miles. She'd gotten lucky, spotted tracks and found the poor thing shivering and hungry in some bushes. Yukiko had tried to back away from the towering Slavecop, of course, but Pussyhound was faster, stronger, and absolutely in control of the situation. Pussyhound had pinned Yukiko to the floor, gotten her nice and secure, then began a rapid fisting technique Slavecops were taught to disable women. She didn't know if it had technically disabled Yukiko but the mixture of screaming, orgasm, and the fact Yukiko had to be carried back while crying told Pussyhound that her will was certainly broken.

Malavar hadn't taken well to Yukiko running it seemed. Now a thick ring pierced her septum, and off it came a chain leash. Pussyhound had watched the slave be dragged around by her nose while boarding the plane, and Malavar was anything but gentle with her. The other modification he had made was somewhat more drastic. Both Yukiko's arms ended an inch or two above where the elbow ought to have been, and were fitted with golden metal caps. The caps themselves had a protruding metal loop and a single chain ran through each one as well as a pair of nipple rings to encircle her body; a thick padlock hung between her breasts to link the two ends of the chain, and probably served as an effective and continuous reminder of Chokeybitch's current status.

Pussyhound did not envy the woman, but she had tried to run while a Master owned her, and that meant he could discipline her in any way he so chose. Many Masters simply wouldn't have tolerated the defiance and given her over to the BFA for disposal but Malavar was cut from a different cloth. He wanted Chokeybitch to suffer, and the sounds she was making right now certainly implied suffering.

Finally the choking sounds stopped, Pussyhound knew what came next.

"You may swallow" said Malavar, and the Pussyhound watched from the corner of her eye as the obedient little Yamatese girl stopped displaying her "treat" for her Master and swallowed amidst heavy breathing and tears streaming from her eyes. This was when the slapping began. He varied his strength and direction, open hand and backhand across the girl's face. Rapidly her face went from its normal pale colour to a more reddened shade.

One thing Pussyhound noticed was that the poor cunt didn't scream. She couldn't tell from here if it was stubbornness, anger, or the fact she was just so used to this routine that even the brain shaking force of Malavar's hand causing her head to snap one way then the other was no longer enough to drive her over the edge. Pussyhound had seen it in a lot of slaves over her time at the BFA, to her mind they were weak. The girls in the SEFR endured just as much if not worse, and they were relatively rarely, if ever, broken.

It was at moments like this that she wondered what it was that she was doing with her life, why she was complicit in so much further suffering and hurt. Every time she wondered this she came back with the same answer: Survival. She'd been an ideologue once. Believed in the superior gender, that women were best served when their trade and ownership was regulated. It had been drilled into her from birth, every single day. She came from a family of Fisters, committed to the idea men were born to rule, and women to serve. She'd volunteered her life to the state to keep things that way with her Father's blessing. She hadn't realised then what that meant.

She remembered her first day. She'd turned 18 just three weeks before, her PI had been conducted by a high quality Fem-Vet on her birthday, and unlike the inspections in the BFA her father had paid to have her treated with as much respect as the process allowed, she may not be male but by his reckoning Slavecops were above normal women. Then as her limited exemption from slavery had expired she'd been picked up by two Master-Agents from her home one evening. Her heart had raced as she'd stripped down to nothing, kneeled, and held her hair in a surrender position so her slaveband could be fitted, her father's face so proud as she was leashed and led out of the door to the waiting SEFR marked van outside.

She knew it meant the surrender of all she was to become a dog of the state, she hadn't realised the van would stop just around the corner so the two agents could sample her straight away. On arrival at the training facility she heard her new name for the first time: "Pussyhound" she knew no one would ever call her Gemma again unless she survived to reclaim her name. That was a joke too, she thought, she'd doen more than enough to earn her name back but after 12 years as Pussyhound that seemed more like her than Gemma Chaser ever had been. Even now she rarely used her legal name, and her clients seemed to much prefer her servonym too. Men always were more comfortable with the legally mandated denigrations they chose, than the names assigned to women at birth.

Banded, named, newly minted as a slave she'd of course been introduced to one more new concept, the Bapjism, a ritualised humiliation where the slave's face was covered in the cum of their new master. But that was the thing, the state owned her, so what was to be done? Apparently the done thing was for every Master-Agent, or MA for short, in the local office to give her a taste of their cum as it saved a little on cleanup.

Two days she'd spent in a pillory outside the dining hall. More than once she'd woken up to find herself impaled from in front and behind before every single MA had had their way with her. She was so innocent back then, she thought that was hazing, the worst that it would ever be. How wrong she'd been. On shift she'd been worked off her feet, whether that was years in the field, filling out her MA's paperwork, or being used for her MA's pleasure whenever he felt like it. Off her shift she was either chained outside the dining hall for free use, going through the rigorous training all female Slavecops required, or getting snatches of sleep interrupted by whichever MAs were active at the time grabbing her for some "female pacification training". She didn't want to think how many times a pair of them had dragged her to an interrogation suite, told her to struggle, and then laughed as they inevitably got her bent over the interrogation table, slammed shut the iron bands at neck and waist then cuffed her wriggling hands and feet.

She could see the bastards now. Casually chatting as one facefucked her, and the other had picked a hole and used her like the sex toy she was. The worst part was that after retirement she'd grown to miss it. Her sleep was fitful now, like she expected a rapist to grab her by the hair at any moment. She didn't have her usual 10am, or 4pm blowjob to perform on her MA. She had food that wasn't either the godsawful girlfodder, or slathered with cum. The blue band at her neck meant she was free from that life now, she thought, but it also meant that most men avoided her. She could see it in their eyes, they wanted to rip her clothes off, force her to her knees and have their way with her but that little blue band meant she was not only free but essentially untouchable. Rape a slave, and the law might tell a man off, maybe make him pay a few bucks in compensation. Rape a bareneck, and if her CMR found out a man might have to either buy her for a BFA set price, or compensate her CMR for a loss of value. Rape a blueneck? It happened, she knew. The fines were high, do it repeatedly and you might even wind up in jail. Not that the jails meant much to men, sure they were confined but they were confined with a restrained female jail population. It was a rapist's paradise.

Out of the window Pussyhound watched as the glorious glittering blue of the ocean was at last broken by a distant verdant green dot, and the speakers in their cabin crackled to life. "Gentlemen and Sluts this is your Captain speaking. We will shortly be landing at Yorotani Airfield, please return to your seats, and fasten your seatbelts. You'll see that for your safety we have illuminated the 'No Fellatio' sign although please feel free to continue using any other holes. Crew Slaves return to your cages."

As the plane began its descent Pussyhound readied herself for whatever the next few days were going to bring. Hopefully a nice fat bonus for her Freedom Fund, she knew she couldn't keep chasing barenecks around forever. All that mattered now was to build up as much money as she could before she hit 35 and that little blue safety net dropped off her neck, and put her back on the open market.

The Hotel Yorotani Bar (Two Days Before the Hunt)

Pussyhound knew the drill for the Showcase. It was fairly simple. Everyone who was hunting would gather in the hotel bar, there'd be some drinks, one or two of the serving slaves would be "borrowed" for a while, and the hotel staff would find them, untie them, and send them for hosing off after the main party had gone.

Malavar had apparently had other plans, though. He'd got chatting with a few more of the men who'd wandered around, drinks in hand and they had absolutely noticed her and Glimmerslut. Contractually the pair of former Slavecops weren't required to tail him at all times, it was more out of habit than anything. They were always a step and a half behind him, lead Agent Slave on his dominant side, secondary on the opposite.

Naturally a few drinks had turned into some boasts, and the odd doubt over just how good a "Bluepuss" genuinely was. She'd had her doubts right there, twelve years at the beckon call of the most corrupt and sexually depraved gang known to humanity, law enforcement, had given her a fine sense for when something bad was about to happen.

While raping a former slavecop in their private life was something most men thought better of she and Glimmerslut were "on the job" and her contract included Malavar having complete control of the pair while they were working.

It hadn't taken long for the group to find a few appropriate pieces of furniture and have Pussyhound and Glimmerslut with their hands tied between their backs, their legs spread wide, and a rope around the throat to really immobilise them, their clothes casually tossed to one side. One woman in the audience who was idly chatting had been surprised as the man she accompanied pushed her out to the front of the group and volunteered her for one of two empty chairs that were near the pair.

Pussyhound had enjoyed the look of fury on the bitch's face as she'd been stripped and tied down, her expensive dress torn to shreds for use as a gag. The one empty chair left was finally filled by another woman who simply looked at her partner, downed her cocktail, and walked out in front of the crowd. Pussyhound recognised her. The bitch who'd cost her a bonus last time by making it to the end of the hunt just in front of her. She looked on with a mixture of hate and respect as the woman demurely surrendered but revelled in the merciless treatment she got. She practically seemed to be begging for whatever came next as she was tied to the chair, a look of playful helplessness dancing across her face, but Pussyhound already knew what was about to happen. Four slaves were dragged in by their hair, wincing and crying all the way, their faces shoved in each of the women's crotches, and the show was on.

The girl parked between Pussyhound's thighs was decently trained, but new. Her tongue was technically aimed in all the right spots, but without the finess or care of an experienced slave. Still, she thought, this was probably going to be the best thing that would happen this weekend, she might as well enjoy it. Glimmerslut clearly had a more experienced slave, thought Pussyhound, as she heard her breathing quicken in reaction to the slave's tongue lashing. The two other women, though, it was almost funny. The raven haired one was trying to decide whether to be angry, struggle, or just give in. The look on her face was priceless, switching emotions every few seconds. The volunteer was smirking, it seemed this was her idea of a good time.

It didn't take long before some belts were removed and the slaves were encouraged to pick up the pace. The woman with the raven hair didn't stand a chance. The slave's assault on her pussy drove her from anger to acceptance to moaning bliss. Pussyhound smiled as the belts turned their attention from the slave to the woman's tits long enough for a muffled scream to come from her. Her face turned an angry crimson as it snarled behind the impromptu gag. There was a laugh amongst the crowd from this impotent rage and another round of belt lashings left their mark on her breasts.

The barenecks didn't know it, but the game was to deny and interrupt their orgasms for as long as possible. First slave to get a woman all the way there got to walk away....the rest would be in for a much rougher time.

The slave between her thighs finally found the right spot and Pussyhound shuddered. There was instant regret as a belt lashed out and caught her hard on the underside of her breasts. She winced but realised quickly that the whipping had been amateurish, unfocussed. She was used to BFA Master-Agents whose daily work involved quite literally whipping new Slave-Agents into shape.

Eventually tiring of the whipping the men started to take it in turns to fuck the slaves from behind, forcing their tongues deeper into the restrained women. Clearly they didn't know that giving a cunny was all about style, poise, accuracy, and responding to the subject's weakness. Pussyhound had given more than one cunny to the senior Slave-Agents on her way through her so-called career. It was strictly forbidden but top level Slave-Agents often picked junior Slave-Agents as their own personal fucktoys. Master-Agents were meant to forbid it, but more often than not they got their kicks "accidentally interrupting" and "vigorously punishing" the Slave-Agents, usually until they couldn't walk properly and needed several showers.

The girl between Pussyhound's thighs was really getting into it now, having finally located her clit she was circling it with her tongue as gently as she could given the rapid anal pounding she was taking. Pussyhound could see the tears in her eyes. She looked young enough to still feel the shame. That would change, she thought. Either she'd go dead inside or they'd have a whipmaster who could reprogramme the cunt into something closer to more accepting fuckmeat. Until then, however, she'd hate herself more every day as men picked her up like a plaything, had their way with her, and more than likely sent her for punishment afterwards.

Sadly for this slave, Pussyhound thought, the game was almost up. The black haired woman was straining against her bonds, the mix of pain from whipping and urge to orgasm was beyond her. With a movement that strained the frame of her chair she arched her back screwed up her eyes, and squirted right into the slave's mouth while screaming into her gag before falling back limp and cross-eyed, with a thin stream of drool dripping off her chin and between her pale thighs.

Cheers erupted and the successful slave was sent packing to wherever it was they kept them in this hotel. The slavecops, the volunteer, and the black haired woman were all loosed as the crowd closed on the the three unsuccessful slaves.

The black haired woman undid her gag, a look of ardent fury reddening her near porcelain coloured face. Pussyhound was more than a little amused that this look was being given by someone who stood buck naked in a hotel bar, sweat plastering her forehead, her pussy slowly leaking fluids down her inner thigh.

"James, for the love of fuck, what was that, that dress co--" her words were interrupted by his sharp slap of her face, knocking on her ass, sprawled on the cold checkboard stone of the floor. The crowd turned and looked on with amusement sipping drinks as if this were simply another act in a show.

"I know very well what that dress cost, you little whore." he grabbed her hair and twisted viciously so the woman was dragged from her reclined position and up onto her tip-toes, her head wrenched at a painful angle. "Generally when I want you to entertain people I expect you to try a bit more than that too. Couldn't even stop yourself cumming for five whole minutes. You cost me an eight grand bet with Dick Eimer on that one you slut." He pushed her forwards towards the slaves and the crowd parted as she fell naked amongst them.

"Perhaps it might be best if you got to see how slave life would treat you if you continue to be of such paltry amusement."

"Wait...no...please...James...I'm sorry...please..."

He walked up to her and crouched, cradling her chin in his hand as she sat, tears rising unbidden to her eyes. "Sorry just doesn't cut it my dear. Not even in the slightest. Hopefully some of these fine gents will give you good ratings in the registry once they're done otherwise I might be hunting for more than just a new slave." horror flashed across her face as she sat there, he'd hurt her more than any physical assault ever could. He stood up, dusted down his suit and went to walk away. "There you go boys. A free use bareneck. Do what you like as long as she can still make it back to the room sometime before the hunt." he said as he walked away.