Sausages for the Slave Ch. 09

I'm on a Greyhound Bus heading south, sitting right down at the back at the outside window. It's the appropriate place for a runaway slave; soon to be an ex-slave if everything goes to plan. Every few minutes I can't help craning my neck around to squint back along the road as best I can. I'm half expecting to see the blue and red flashing lights of the local sheriff's patrol car closing up rapidly.

No sign of any pursuit yet and the county line is only about fifteen minutes away.

"You're mighty nervous, white boy," this from the very large black lady sitting between me and the centre aisle. "You're liable to sprain your neck the way you keep looking back out that window. You musta' robbed a bank or somethin'. You expectin' to see a posse riding out to git ye?" She was in her early fifty's, wearing a full length long-sleeved floral cotton dress that buttoned up to her neck and went all the way to her ankles. A large travel bag sat on her very generous lap, and on top of that a book, large-print edition. A lurid romance from the few words I'd glanced sideways at. She wore glasses and had a small dark hat pinned to her greying hair. Looked like a cross between an aging black Mary Poppins and your average God-fearing southern lady on her way to the Baptist chapel.

"No, Ma'am, just lookin' at the view."

She looked harder at me through her thick glasses. "Hey, ain't you that white slaveboy that is in them podcasts?" I kept looking out straight ahead. If I turned to meet her eye, she'd know for certain. But she knew anyway and wasn't going to let it go. Clearly she doesn't spend all her time praying in chapel. Finds time for the occasional naughty podcast.

"Hey Martha, guess what? We got a runaway slave on the bus," she shouted loudly to the woman sitting on the seat in front, tapping her on the shoulder vigorously. "It's the white guy, Dan the slaveman, isn't it," she whooped. Martha, and everybody in the next three rows of seats, turned around and looked straight at me. I gave a little smile and a small wave of my hand; the price of fame. I was the only white person, the only white slave for that matter, in the back of the bus. I felt a certain kinship with Rosa Parks just then. It could have been me on that bus in Alabama back in 1955. Only this time round there was nobody trying to get me off the bus, not yet anyway.

The afternoon had started out normally enough. I was almost finishing up tidying the kitchen and setting the table for dinner when the shock collar gave me a repeated buzz and a low intensity zap, more of a tickle, as the doorbell sounded. My afternoon date had arrived. I opened the door to our neighbour, Tom, and stood to one side, all dressed up in my French maid's outfit, as he came into the hall.

My wife had arranged that Tom Berovich would have his wicked way with me that afternoon. He is an accountant she uses for her various little ventures on the side of her paid job. I suppose it's a way of buying his silence. It also keeps Mary, Tom's wife, happy. She prefers to deflect Tom's physical urges where possible. I only have dealings with Mary when she comes to our house for my wife's book club. As you might guess I am one of the perks that make book club night special when my wife is hosting. Mary seems to feel a need to take it out on me during those book club nights.

I couldn't help nervously tugging at the tight black skirt of my French maid's uniform as Tom shouldered past me. He was big, much bigger than me, about six-four and heavy. His collage-boy rugby playing muscle was largely gone to fat. But he was still strong and gave off an air of menace, his breathing already heavy from the minor exertion of walking down his driveway, up ours and climbing three steps to our front door.

"Do come in, Tom," I said, with as nice a breathy female voice as I could manage, a bit like Alexa's come-on voice, while I closed the door, all friendly and ignoring the fact that he had already come in like I wasn't there. I had decided to try and keep this as civilised as possible. Tom had other plans. He turned to face me as I came away from the door and quickly slapped me with his open palm on the side of my head.

"Call me Sir, you stupid slut," he said, his other hand gripping me under my chin and forcing my face up to look into his, my left ear hot and ringing from the sudden blow.

"Yes, Sir. Sorry Sir," I quickly got out. "Would you like me to make some coffee, Sir?"

"Make the coffee, slut, and bring it in here." He looked angry now and fairly red in the face as he went into the lounge. He sprawled down into one corner of the couch, one leg stretched along the cushions. He wore his usual blue jeans, loafers and a turtle neck sweater that was probably intended to disguise his rapidly thickening neck and multiple chins. I suspected the heavy breathing was as much to do with the evil thoughts he was entertaining as actual exertion. He openly rubbed his crotch with one hand while the other lay along the back of the couch. His eyes roved hungrily over me, the French maid he was about to ravish. Clearly, Tom hadn't been getting any for some time.

I sashayed away into the kitchen doing my best baby doll walk, kicking my butt over and back with each step like a model on a catwalk. My wife wanted Tom to have a good show so it was in my interest to please him. I quickly got the coffee things together and brought it all in on a tray, just one mug. I came around to the side of the coffee table and bent over low to place the tray on the table pushing my ass in his direction, my tight elastic black skirt riding up dangerously high at the back. I felt his hand slide up inside my skirt, over my black nylon stocking tops and between my thighs as I asked him about milk and sugar, staying bent over. He'd have it black, no sugar. His hand roved over my frilly white crotchless panties. They were crotchless at the back with a strong elastic front which kept my man equipment tight and out of sight. His other hand continued to massage his own crotch which was now bulging alarmingly.

As he squeezed my ass he slid his thumb in through the slit in the crotch and stroked the bud of my anus. I jumped upright and skipped away from him. "Oh, Sir, I'm shocked," I pretended, all girly high pitched voice. "That's not the behaviour I'd expect of a gentleman," I lisped.

He heaved himself off the couch, making a grab for me, with me just staying out of range. "I'll show you the behaviour a slut like you can expect from a gentleman," he wheezed, as we began the 'catch me if you can' game around the couch. It was like being on stage in a third rate English farce. I forced myself not to say, 'Oh no you don't,' as we completed a circuit of the couch, a sizable three-seater on which I'm sure my wife regularly has had herself a good time with various males, me not included.

And then he caught me. The sooner I let him catch me the less angry and vengeful he would be, but it had to be enough of a chase for him to feel he had hunted me down, captured his prey fair and square, and had earned the right to take his just reward. Nothing like the thrill of the chase to get a red blooded male in the mood. He looked pretty red in the face and sounded fairly worked up, so I reckoned he was ready. He grabbed me by the hair with one hand and slapped me on the face again with his other hand as he dragged me back to the side of the couch. Still holding me by the hair, he bent me over the arm of the couch and pressed my face hard into the warm cushion where he had been sitting a few moments before.

I felt him drag my skirt up over my waist with his other hand while positioning his feet between mine and forcing my legs apart. I was about to be butt fucked hard and I knew it. I just hoped Tom was enjoying the moment as much as I was not. Releasing his hold on my hair, he grabbed my French maid's dress with his two hands and dragged it right to my shoulders then pulled with the skirt up and over my head. My head and arms were trapped in a black stretchy elastic inside out dress. I was naked below the shoulders, save for my frilly lace knickers and black suspenders and stockings. That was all Tom wanted or needed to see. I squirmed and struggled a bit to give him the full benefit of the rear view he so desired.

He had one hand pressing firmly on my neck, pushing me down into the couch while his other hand guided his cock through the gap in my frilly panties and into my ass. I had made sure to lubricate my asshole as part of my preparations for Tom's visit. He grunted with the effort of the hard first push as he forced himself past my sphincter. 'Ouch.' Then his thick cock slid in fairly easily, even if stretching me severely. His jeans scratching against the tops of my sore thighs as he sank to his full length. I couldn't help gasping as the full size of his manhood widened me out.

"This is the treatment a slut deserves, and you should be grateful for it," he rasped out between breaths as he thumped into me repeatedly, his two hands now pressing down on my arms as he leaned over me from behind.

"Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir," I lisped through the dark gloom inside of the black skirt covering my head. I could see only blurry blobs of light through the black nylon that was stretched tight by his hands pressing on my arms on either side of my head to hold me down. Not that I was going to make a run for it. I was glad of the soft cushion of the couch as my head bounced repeatedly in time with his powerful thrusts deep into my ass. The tops of my thighs were red and sore from my punishment whipping earlier, but Tom did not seem or notice. Just as well.

I tried to squeeze my sphincter tight around him with each thrust of his penis and pushed back into him at the same time to give him maximum satisfaction. Alexa has been programmed to like it that way, and I could tell that Tom did too. I listened to the wheezing gasps of his breath as he shoved himself into me. His weight pressed down ever more on my back. He let his breath out in a long final throaty 'aaaaggghhh' which I presumed to coincide with his big reveal, though I didn't feel much happening.

He lay still right on top of me, a heavy deadweight. I felt his thick cock soften and shrink. His hands went slack and released my wrists. His breathing eased. I silently wished him the joy of his post-coital moment of peace but hoped he'd get his 260 pounds of flab off me before I suffocated.

It is never wise to break the spell and move before Tom is completely done with me, so I tried to wait him out, panting short breaths under the dead weight of him. I felt his shrivelled penis slide damply out of me. I wondered if Tom had fallen asleep. I stayed very still, not wanting to provoke him. He could be aggressive in the immediate aftermath of his good time, probably a guilt/homophobe thing,

All was quiet. I was being slowly squashed. Time to get brave. Gently getting my arms under me, I pushed up off the couch a little. Without a further sound, Tom slowly slid sideways off me, crashed against the coffee table, sending the tray and coffee flying, and continued down onto the floor beside the table. He didn't move. I knew the instant I looked at him that he was dead. His face was puce and his purple tongue hung long and obscenely out of the side of his open mouth. Game changer.

Everything remained quiet. Not a sound from the road. Even Alexa was quiet. Clearly she has allotted some more time for this job than Tom needed. My thoughts immediately moved into 'what next' mode. It seemed I had no difficulty accepting what had just happened. I was moving on. No three phases of grief for me over the sudden passing of Tom. I tried to imagine my wife coming home and how things might play out; the police, his wife Mary, the neighbours, what exactly we were doing etc. etc. I couldn't see any positive outcome for me. Right then, on impulse, I decided to run.

Looking back, having Tom die - actually in me - was the trigger, but it was probably a combination of things overall. For one, the outlook for me was not good anyway, aside from this. The life I had committed to; that of a slave to my wife, was disappearing. She seemed determined to place me ever more under the control of Alexa - an electronic box. She was steadily removing herself from interaction with me. All the signs were that a life in service to Alexa would one of grim industrial slavery.

The second factor was that I now had the opportunity. Tom's wallet was sitting there in the back pocket of his Jeans. Alexa was away filing her nails electronically or whatever, assuming I was still busy providing aftercare for Tom. I had the means and the opportunity, so I went for it.

I left Tom lying there. Adios Tom Berovich, we shared some ass-kicking times, but all good things must end. He had a reasonable amount of cash in his wallet. I took that. I wondered about taking his car keys and decided against it. Mary, his goody-good wife, might be at home and see me taking his car. Grand theft auto would have nasty consequences. Before you know it, my wife would be selling my body in twenty minute slots to the inmates of the county jail, like she was managing a timeshare. Probably design an app for it: pay your money, pick your time slot, bend over Dan, thank you Ma'am. Do it again tomorrow.

No point in taking his phone either. It would be traceable and who was I going to call anyway? Slavebusters? I put on my respectable street trousers and shoes. I took Tom's roll neck sweater, big as it was, to cover my shock collar and tip-toed out past Alexa in the hall. She didn't object as I let myself out the door. Alexa probably thought I was showing Tom out and ticked off that box on her long list of jobs for the slave to complete.

I half expected the shock collar to zap me as I stepped out onto the road. It could easily be set up so as to shock you for crossing the boundary unless prior permission was granted, say for a scheduled shopping trip. Clearly the wife hadn't got around to that level of control yet. That might be planned for the next scheduled upgrade of her connected house system. The woman across the street that I also 'service' now and then was sitting working in her front window. She glanced at me as I moved away. It will dawn on her later, when she's making a statement to the police no doubt, that I did not have my shopping trolley with me, and that I was wearing Tom Berovich's sweater. I waited till the gate security guy was busy with an incoming delivery truck and skipped out to freedom.

I made my way to the bus station and asked for the next bus going south. Paid for my ticket with Tom's cash. End of the line I said, feeling all Jack Reacher-ish. Heading south seemed appropriate, counter-intuitive, deep into traditional slave country.

"I think we got company, boy." My neighbour brought me back to the now with a bang. I looked out the window of the bus. Sure enough the red and blue flashing lights of the local sheriff's patrol car were sliding past on the outside lane. I felt quick flutter in my stomach. But I didn't panic. The sheriff could be responding to any emergency. He could drive straight on by. A little bit of a coincidence though.

I didn't have to wonder either way for long, because he drew in front of the bus, slowed, and indicated to the driver to pull over. As we moved into the hard shoulder and rolled to a halt, I felt a little sad that my pathetic dash for freedom had only lasted a few hours. I wouldn't earn as much as a footnote in the annals of runaway slaves, not even the white ones and there can't be many of them.

"I know you're running, Boy, and I can hide you," whispered my neighbour, leaning her mouth towards my ear. "You don't have to give up yet. I can get you into the underground and away to a foreign country. I know people. If you are up for it, Boy, just do what I tell you now."

I didn't hesitate. "I'm up for it Ma'am." The little flame of hope that died as the bus stopped, flickered back into life. Anything had to be better than being dragged back in handcuffs by the Sheriff to my wife. Just sitting on the bus seat was sore enough with my ass still tender from this morning's beating, and I could only image how much worse things would be. I would probably be given to the Enforcer for a month of on-site punishment.

"Well, you just got real lucky, white boy. Us people here know just how to hide somebody that wants to stay hid. So you get yourself hunkered down in between my legs. We'll sort out the rest later," said my new best friend. She lifted the big bag off her lap, pulled her generous dress up and spread her knees wide apart. I scooted down off my seat and wriggled between the lady's legs as the bus door hissed open to admit the sheriff. She lifted her dress over my head and the settled it again over her knees. I was completely covered as I crouched between her thighs.

She had pull up nylon socks that came to below her knees. Her thighs were bare and smooth. She tugged the dress down so that it touched the ground forming a small floral print tent with me inside it. A gloom descended as her big carpet bag landed back on her lap and pressed on my head forcing me to crouch lower. Her sensible knickers formed a dull white triangle two inches in front of my nose. Those warm substantial thighs pressed in on either side of my head. I closed my eyes and kept very still; breathing in that warm moist fug that can only mean your head is high up between a woman's legs. I felt myself getting hard.

An exchange of muttered words came from the front of the bus, muffled by my saviour's thighs pressing on my ears. I could feel as much as hear the slow ponderous footsteps of the sheriff as he moved carefully down the length of the bus, no doubt looking left and right for a guilty white slave type runaway who would give himself away by his nervous shivering and sweating. The footsteps came to a stop just short of the back seat.

"Any of you good folks seen a white boy get on or off this bus?" I'm forty for God's sake -- who is he calling a white boy.

"No, Sir. No white boy came down here," said my lady in a strong righteous voice to an accompanying chorus of agreement from the back of the bus congregation. I was lucky enough to have boarded the bus while the driver was having his comfort break, as they say. So he never actually saw me get on and was unlikely to be able to confirm either way for the sheriff that there was or was not a particular white boy on board at any point.

"Mighty strange," grunted the sheriff, probably grunting with the strain of bending his considerable bulk to glance under the seats. Nothing to see there. Nothing white anyway. I heard his footsteps move slowly away up towards the front, a puzzled man with a mystery on his hands. It was supposed to be an easy collar. Now the trail had gone cold.

Soon we moved off again and a gentle buzz of conversation got going at the back of the bus. Before long I knew that the thighs of Delores hid me, that Martha in front of her was her sister-in-law, and that most of the three back rows knew each other or were related in some way. They talked about me a bit. Delores was clearly a senior figure in the group and they deferred to her. Apparently I was to be brought to some uncle's farm down south. They laughed about having me get some experience picking cotton. Ha, bloody ha.

Enough time has passed for the bus to be well over the county line and I felt it unlikely that a State wide alert would be out for me. After all Tom had died of natural causes. Though they could say the death was suspicious and I was wanted to 'assist them in their enquiries.' That would be enough for them to get out an all points alert. But the sheriff would have no real interest in making a public fuss about this embarrassing death. Especially as it occurred in the high rent part of town that contributed the bulk of the taxes that paid his salary.