Slave Girls of Earth

"So when do you think we'll get one?"

Asher Brown ran a hand through his hair. Despite the pounding, everything still appeared attached correctly. Fucking wine. He looked at his wife, waiting expectantly. Somehow he managed to croak out "Get one what?"

"A slave girl, of course."

Of course. He was never drinking again. Remembering anything proved exceedingly difficult. Their conversation wasn't coming back. Only the sex. Wild. Raw. Uninhibited. Danielle practically attacked him. What the hell had gotten into her? That question, Asher realized, answered itself. Slave girls. She'd been insatiable since... well, that answered itself too.

As for last night? Normal he thought. Meaning the new normal. Coming home for dinner. Telling Danielle about his day while she sat there listening, enraptured. Seriously. Eyes wide and everything. It felt intoxicating. As did, his headache reminded him, the Bordeaux, which Danielle poured liberally. Unsure what to say, Asher defaulted on the truth. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

"But you promised."

Is that true? Surely a few drinks and a good screw wouldn't get him talking recklessly? Yeesh. He didn't want to make a habit of disappointing her. Entangling himself with the Atoderians, though, genuinely lacked appeal. Well, getting any more entangled than he already was. "Look, I don't think it's possible. Not allowed."

"Allowed by who? The government? What would they even do?" Danielle asked incredulously.

She had a point. Whatever the law of the land was these days, it sure as hell wasn't the Constitution. No elected official so much as acknowledged the existence of a connection between the alien presence on Earth and spate of mass kidnappings which proceeded it. Just ignore the ever growing number of women disappearing without a trace. Nothing to see here. There's politicians for you. But that's not who Asher worried about.

"My... employers want quiet. People don't really know the details, just how the Atoderians like it. They'd hate some naked girl in a collar giving the neighbor a heart attack when he sees her bending over to water the plants. Can you imagine the shitstorm that would cause? Things have to stay below the radar. Anything else hurts business."

"But everyone who works there has their own, right? They must keep them somewhere. Surely one measly girl wouldn't be a problem?"

"The Atoderians have their own," Asher acknowledged, "but no humans do. Not anywhere."

"So we'll be the first."

Asher took a moment to admire the determination. When Danielle set her mind on something... He'd always wondered if she would be better off with a hobby. Something to put her energy into. This, however, hadn't been what he meant. "I shouldn't stick my neck out too far. This draws attention. You don't want these guys noticing you anymore than necessary. Much safer that way."

"They love you, though. You said you always joked around. How you were the only human they..."

"Even if they'd agree," Asher interrupted, "would you really want a slave girl?" Danielle smiled, or more accurately, bore her teeth in a facial expression previously witnessed only by seals upon meeting a killer whale. "It's another person, someone's daughter, you know?"

"Someone's submissive daughter. Isn't that the whole point? It only happens to girls who love it. Deserve it. Women who want to be slaves"

"Yeah, they all seem thrilled about it too," Asher jabbed. Allegedly the Atoderians took only submissive women, but their definition of submissive tended toward the... expansive. If Danielle was bothered by his sarcasm, though, she gave no sign.

"I've given it a lot of thought, and decided it's the best option. For everyone. The poor thing will be a slave regardless. She'll already have been taken. Collared. Maybe even stripped. Do they do that? Take their clothes away? So they know their place from the very start?" Danielle asked, suddenly distracted. Visions of helpless girls having their dresses ripped off practically dancing in her eyes. Asher admired how quickly she managed to compose herself. Woman on a mission.

His wife, libido evidently under control, plowed ahead. "The point being, there's no freeing the little bitch. Obviously. So what's better? That she should be sent to some distant planet, to serve perverted alien masters, or, to stay on Earth? It'll be so much easier for a slave girl to be here. With me. So I can look after her."

Asher swallowed the wise crack this time. God, he'd never seen Danielle so fixated. Had he already missed his chance to sway her from this idiocy? She might just be too far gone on the whole thing. It occurred to Asher, somewhat shockingly, that he was actually considering agreeing. This hangover must be worse than he realized.

"We'll own her together. She'll belong to both of us. I think it would definitely take our relationship to another level. At least ask for me, please. What's the worst that could happen?"

*

Tap. Tap. Tap. Lauren Hoover scowled at the shoe heel bouncing on the floor. As if compelled, she appraised the body attached to the foot. Long legs. Slim waist. Nice tits. Say what you want about the girl, Izzy was quite a piece of ass. Even when Lauren felt like strangling her. Tap. Tap. Tap.

A tingle in Lauren's sex caused her eyes to go wide. Oh God. Not again. She'd only broke discipline for a second. But of course, that was all it took. Lauren began to stroke herself. One hand, seemingly showing a mind of its own, playing with a nipple, fingers gently tweaking, while the other hand worked its way between her legs.

"Urgh," Lauren sighed hungrily, catching Izzy's attention. Settling in to watch the show, she smiled. Someone had been a bad slave girl. Tomur didn't like his concubines getting upset. He preferred a trusting, docile attitude. And the pair of collars, wrapped around Izzy and Lauren's respective necks, ensured that's what he got. Eventually. One way or the other. A girl could try to fight the conditioning, but... Any elevated stress caused a reaction, complete with all the familiar sensations: light head, shallow breath and, obviously, arousal. Lauren had named it the wave. Pretty good as monikers go, though, admittedly she wasn't capable of appreciating anything too intellectual at the moment.

Moaning, Lauren touched herself in earnest. Lost in pleasure. She started panting, not that she noticed her own ragged little exhales. Defensible really, thinking about anything during the wave posed a problem. That was, of course, the whole point. Suddenly unsteady on her feet, Lauren began to wobble. Considering the towering heels the girl sported, however, maybe that didn't make for any great surprise.

She wore them all the time now. Izzy too. Enduring the discomfort to put on a better show. Tits thrust out. Ass pushed up. So degrading. And she should know. The heels had been her idea in the first place. "Oh," she cried out, shuddering as the orgasm struck. With a quiver, she placed a hand on the wall, regaining her balance.

Lauren remained hunched there for a while. Inhaling deeply, desperate for air. She'd made it. Her brain still felt wrapped in cotton candy, but she could recognize her own thoughts and memories in there. The real Lauren Hoover, not the... well, whatever Tomur was trying to form her into. Unless she stopped him. It was, Lauren reminded herself, a question of willpower. She merely needed to stay strong. Focused. Now what the hell had she been doing?

Tap. Tap. Tap. Ah, yes. There it was. As Lauren thought about it now, however, the sound itself wasn't particularly offensive. And as for Izzy? She didn't mean any harm. The girl was just excited. Unable to contain herself. Lauren used to have a dog that did the same thing. Every night, right before dinner. But that was her old life. Not this new version, where Izzy was the one wearing a collar. Along with Lauren.

As always, she felt it snug against her neck. Taunting her. The ultimate status reminder on this strange planet. It was so unfair. All the perverse, awful things she'd done. Been made to enjoy doing. And to top it all off, yet again ordered into this stupid room with a one woman percussion section for company.

Fucking Izzy. That was her actual name. Her family and friends honestly called her that. At least they used to. She'd already been here when Lauren was brought from Earth. Back then, she'd assumed their mutual captor had assigned Izzy a pet name for the purpose of breaking her spirit. Nope, just an Elizabeth diminutive. Like someone had a premonition for her future, and gave her a good slave girl name from the start.

Lucky bitch, Lauren thought spitefully. This seemed so easy for her. Lauren wasn't like that. Which wouldn't be changing. Ever. She hated Atoderia. Despised her life here. "Liar, liar," her conscience practically screamed back. Lauren ignored it. She was getting used to that. So what? Just add it to the list for the psychiatrist after this was over. Lauren could survive some self-doubt as long as she battled with everything she had against becoming another Izzy.

All the alien technology in the universe wouldn't turn her into a plaything. No matter what, Lauren swore. Her sex throbbed in response. Too late, she realized her stress level had elevated past the collar's threshold. Keep fighting, Lauren thought, keep fighting. She repeated it to herself as long as she could. The wave, however, didn't care what you wanted, and her soft moans soon filled the room, joining the sound of Izzy's heel against the floor, still tapping away.

*

"This has to be the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

"That's not true." Tiley offered indignantly. "This place needs brightening. Not that I don't enjoy the whole dark cave motif you have going here. Besides, I've had plenty of worse ideas. Remember a while back when that big fucker started making trouble, so I decided to fight him? You know, scars and tattoos. What was his name again? Martan? Moron?"

"Ugly Morkan?" Caria recalled, smiling in spite of herself. "Good point. That was stupider."

"You got that right. My jaw still hurts when it rains."

"Well you shouldn't have led with your face then."

"But that's my best part."

"If you say so."

"Hey, I was defending your honor."

Caria rolled her eyes. "I can take care of myself just fine, thank you. Ugly Morkan or no."

"Maybe so, but he also disrespected the bar."

"I thought it was a dark cave."

"Well..." "Relax, I don't care. Incidentally, I know it's really not that nice of a place. As an inanimate object, though, it's not particularly susceptible to emotional trauma, so fighting for its respect..."

"You never appreciate anything."

"I appreciate lots of things. Like how our exceedingly humid climate leaves local dining and entertainment options particularly ill-suited for large open air areas. Plus I can appreciate paying people to help run my business. As opposed to, say, wasting my time with preposterous, if novel, redecorating advice."

Out came Tiley's biggest, saddest eyes. She almost felt bad for him. Almost. Tiley would get over it. He always did. Caria knew he had a thing for her. He'd professed his undying love. Two days after she hired him. She'd attempted to... disabuse him of the notion. As bluntly as she could manage. Tiley had accepted the ruling, but even after all this time, his feelings seemed the same. Some dreams die hard. Tough break for him. Caria wasn't about to start fraternizing with the help. Bad for business. And she had enough problems on that front anyway.

Speaking of which... "Shouldn't you be doing something?"

"Yeah," Tiley agreed, "I guess so."

Caria watched his back as he ambled off. An uncovered terrace. On the edge of a rainforest. For this dingy, booze soaked hole in the wall. Unbelievable. Shaking her head, she turned her attention back to inventory. No use in getting too worked up over Tiley's latest flight of fancy. Who had the time? Besides, he was a decent enough employee all things considered. As long as the occasional moonstruck stare didn't bother you. Easy enough for Caria to tolerate. On Poerv, you learned to take what you could get.

*

Heather Olson startled at the knock. She wasn't expecting anyone. Further inspection, through the peephole, revealed a woman. Brown hair. Nondescript. The face didn't register. Maybe another tenant in the building? Heather doubted she would recognize them all. Only one way to find out.

Unlatch the chain. Open the deadbolt. Finally the door lock itself. Somewhat of an ordeal, sure, but anything for peace of mind. Especially these days. You didn't have to be a nubile blonde to know that. Although it helped.

Not that even the best precautions in the world always mattered. Take Heather, for example, when she opened the door to the woman she was expecting, along with two burly men she was not. They'd already pushed their way inside before she realized what happened. "Miss Olson," the brunette said, "you need to come with us."

Polite manner, but... that didn't sound like a request. Plus they knew her name. Was this actually how it happened? No warning, just a knock on your door? Another woman too. That was the most grating part. What kind of heartless bitch could... she didn't, Heather realized with horror, have time for this. Ignoring the heart pounding like it wanted to jump from her body, she tried to figure a way out.

"Miss Olson?"

Great. Definitely getting impatient. Think of something. Fight the two gorillas standing between her and the door? Shit, think of something better. The window. Yes! Thank God for second floor apartments. She'd only need a moment alone. Composing herself, Heather took a stab at getting one. "Umm, sure. No problem. I'll grab something real quick, then we can go."

She took her slowest, least threatening stride back. Seemingly not slow enough, though, since the goons stepped forward after her, eyes locked on their prey. She wasn't, Heather realized with a sickening thud, going to make it to that window. The blonde turned on her heels, preparing to try and dash for it anyway. Strong hands snaked out, gripping her at each arm, before she even managed an inch. "You've got everything you're going to need," the woman insisted. Heather would have found that comment more reassuring were it directed somewhere other than at her chest. The brunette, still implacable, just continued: "Now come on, don't make this harder than necessary."

Heaven forbid, Heather thought bitterly. Wouldn't do to put anyone out. Least of all her own fucking kidnappers. She examined them closely for the first time. A rather motley lot. Lady Dead Eyes and her meathead assistants. Quite the commando team. Though, good enough, apparently, to capture Heather. She shivered. Terror was starting to replace adrenaline.

Maybe she could appeal to their mercy? Make them feel bad? Lord knows she felt bad enough for herself. Conveniently, it didn't take much effort to summon tears. Any attempt to keep them controlled, though... Heather sprinted past crying and straight into bawling. "Please," she somehow managed to blubber in between sobs, "you don't have to do this. You could still let me go. Please."

Did she hear a snort? Despite her watery eyes, Heather finally made out a facial expression, as a wan smile creased the woman's face. That bitch WAS laughing at her. Heather only stared back, dumbfounded, in response. The sheer hatefulness striking at her like a physical blow. She couldn't breathe. What a nightmare.

Her first instinct, lifetime of religious indifference notwithstanding, involved praying for deliverance. If anyone up there was listening, though, they gave no sign. Heather, it seemed, was on her own out here. Attempting to stave off the sense of dread growing in the pit of her stomach, she searched for something to hold her attention. Only one thing could. The animals causing all this misery. Especially one of them.

Was she an actual alien, the blonde wondered, or just some local collaborator. If there was a skill for distinguishing based on appearance, Heather hadn't mastered it yet. Not that she'd gotten all that much practice. She had, of course, seen Atoderians. Well in pictures or on television. Attending fancy parties, meeting the Prime Minister of Whateveristan, that kind of thing. These three didn't exactly look like cocktail circuit types, but who knew for sure. Instead she could only ask. "Are you human beings too?"

None of her unwelcome house guests even bothered responding. Heather supposed that gave her all the answer she needed. Shooting an accusatory stare at the brunette, Heather spoke her mind. "So why are you doing this then? Helping them, I mean."

"A girl has to make a living," she shrugged, already back to neutral.

"How do you even sleep at night?"

"In a big ass condo," the brunette deadpanned. "Those bastards pay a lot." One of the galoots grunted in agreement. Like the woman, who gestured towards them to get moving, they didn't appear to be suffering from any deep moral crisis. "C'mon blondie," she said, full ice queen, "time to start your new life."

As the muscle pulled her forward, Heather began struggling in earnest. Kicking and flailing, she ranted: "You'll never get away with this. I have friends. Family. People who won't take this lying down. They'll do anything it takes to stop you. Anything. I just can't wait to see you pay for your crimes." The woman remained nonplussed. She didn't believe that would happen. And neither did Heather.

*

Marek stared at the door, looking for answers. None seemed forthcoming. It was supposed to open, though, that much he was sure about. Instead the local system wouldn't even identify him. Shaking his head, Marek sighed. It figured. That kind of night. How many ruvuzos had he lost? Certainly more than he had to spare. Granted that wasn't much of a feat, but still...

He'd started well too. A legitimate hot streak. So perhaps he'd chased the action. A little. He didn't know, however, it would end like this. How could he, Marek asked himself, lacking any semblance of a desire to know the answer. The recalcitrant door, on the other hand, was a puzzle worth solving. And Marek knew just the piece he needed. Hopefully the old fossil was still around.

Gratton's office suite was on the other side of the structure. Marek smiled at the sight of an open door His luck must be turning. About time. Upon letting himself inside, though, he received a surprise. No sight of Gratton. Maybe he was working. Marek chuckled at the thought. Even he wouldn't bet on that. Wait... were those voices? Marek headed in their direction, where he was greeted by some good news and some bad news.

His search was over. One of the voices did in fact belong to the man he needed. Unfortunately, however, Marek found more of him than he intended. Pants around his ankles, the doughy businessman gripped the hips of a comely woman, bent over a table, naked but for her collar. Based on the rate and tenor of his huffing and puffing, Marek imagined he'd probably just finished. Not that he was trying to imagine that. The actual view was bad enough. Well not all of it, he admitted, enjoying his first good look at the girl's face as she put her hair back in order and made to straighten up.

"What the hell?" Gratton bellowed, finally noticing Marek's presence.

"Bad time?"

"Of course it's a... ah, fuck it." He said, pulling his pants up. "Give me a moment."

"Veronica," the businessman addressed the woman who had turned to face him, "who told you to stand up?" The girl's eyes went wide. Frightened maybe, Marek thought. "Well?"

"We weren't... finished?" She asked, her voice small.

Gratton grabbed her nipples between his thumbs and forefingers, twisting hard, causing the girl to let out a yip. "Only when I decide. Not a moment sooner. Now get back down there."