Tracey's Slave Shop Pt. 04

Within easy walking distance of my slave shop is a women's health club, whose facilities I let from time to time. The owner liked doing business with me, partly because I always paid my bill on time (which is more than could be said for many of his clients), but mostly because he enjoyed having slave girls around his club. Honestly, the man was a bit of a pervert. But most men are.

From time to time, in the largest gymnasium of the health club, I host a Slavery Wrestling competition. The health club sells tickets, and we split the money, but the big prize for me is what happens in the aftermath. Two girls wrestle on a mat in the middle of the gym, with spectators cheering them on, and the loser becomes a slave to the loser. Normally, that meant I got to process and sell the girl who loses, and split the profits with the er.

Occasionally, a girl would approach me with an open challenge, willing to wrestle the girl I choose to compete against her. In those cases, I nearly always put the challenger in a ring with either Betty or Maxine, and the girl would invariably lose. For that reason, open challenges were rare, and the girls who did them tended to be extreme submissives who wanted to make a big public spectacle of their submission.

Far more often were situations where two girls had a grievance against one-another, and each of them wanted to see her enemy nude, in a cage, with a bar-code on her bum. In either case, the true ers of every match were the audience.

And, of course, me.

I was not surprised when Beatrice Wilson challenged Emily to a Slavery Wrestling match. Emily had been responsible for enslaving her mother, and Beatrice had the traumatic experience of seeing her own mother nude, high on Titalin, with her wrists shackled to chains I had hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by a crowd of people taunting her, making lewd comments, and throwing water balloons at her. The fact that Beatrice's mother Diana would be in for even more humiliating treatment later did not help matters. Beatrice wanted revenge, and defeating Emily in a Slavery Wrestling match would fit the bill nicely.

No, I was not surprised that Beatrice had made the challenge. What surprised me was that Emily did not hesitate for a moment before she accepted.

So, there they stood, on the mat, each wearing a pair of tight spandex gym shorts and a sports bra, and each glaring at one another with determination. Beatrice was decidedly the bigger of the two, and my guess was that she would make easy work of Emily. That suited me fine -- it would give Beatrice the revenge she was seeking (and get her off my back) while, at the same time, ridding me of a slave hunter whose eagerness has proven troublesome.

I stood between them in the ring, and the microphone was lowered from the ceiling. I spoke.

"We have a wonderful match for you today, gentlemen. In this corner, Beatrice Wilson!" The crowd cheered. As was customary, I gave Beatrice a moment to speak into the microphone.

"That bitch over there thought she could make my mother a slave and get away with it, and she had no idea who she was messing with. She's going down, and I'm gonna be the girl who does it. She won't be making any more girls into slaves ever again!"

I took the microphone from her and introduced Emily, "In this corner, Emily Williams!"

Emily's speech had a different theme: "I made your mom my bitch, and you're next. If you know what's good for you, you'd better get down on your knees right now, take off your clothes, and beg me to let you lick my feet. Then I might go easy on you. But either way, you're about to join your mom, and I'll keep on taking any girl I want."

The crowd cheered that speech far more boisterously than Beatrice's.

"Okay girls," I said into the microphone, "you know the rules. The first girl to rip all the clothes off her opponent, and pin her to the ground, will be declared the er. Get ready."

I counted down "Three, two, one, wrestle!"

Beatrice rushed into Emily at full speed and knocked her onto her back, pinning her shoulders onto the mat. As soon as she was on her back, Emily drew her knees toward her, in a simi-fetal position, putting them in a perfect position to knee Beatrice in the stomach and throw her off. The maneuver only partially worked -- Beatrice was not kicked away, but the blow did disrupt her balance enough to enable Emily to roll her over.

Now, Beatrice was on her back, but as she rolled over she managed to grab one of the shoulder straps of Emily's sports bras, tearing it. Emily drew up her fore-arm, and placed Beatrice in a choke-hold, which startled her. She tried to grab Emily's arm, but she had far too much leverage for that to be effective.

Beatrice did manage to escape by slipping her shoulders in a direction opposite Emily's elbow, but her escape was incomplete, as Emily grabbed a handful of Beatrice's hair. That didn't stop Beatrice from reaching up and grabbing the loose strap from Emily's sports bra. Now, it was torn further, and one of Emily's breasts was now exposed.

Keeping her hands entangled in Beatrice's hair, Emily stood up and pivoted behind Beatrice so that she was not out of reach of Beatrice's hands.

Beatrice stood up and, at the cost of some pain as Emily's grip on her hair tightened, she reached forward for Emily's exposed nipple. She dug her nails in, and Emily yelled in pain. It was enough to get her to release Beatrice's hair. That gave Beatrice enough freedom of movement to squat down. With one hand still occupied with torturing Emily's nipple, the other hand reached down to Emily's shorts, grabbing for the waist.

Emily aimed a kick at Beatrice's face, but she dodged it so that it caught her right below her chin. That knocked her onto her back, which gave Emily the opening she needed jump forward and sit on top of her.

Surprisingly, she did not try to pin her simply by sitting on her, as some other girls might do, but instead she used one knee to place her into a choke hold, and the other to pin one of her arms. The other arm was free, but all Beatrice was able to do with it was grab for Emily's legs, which were firmly in place. Emily, on the other hand, was able to reach down to Beatrice's waist and pull down her shorts. She did not pull them down all the way, just down to her knees so that they partially restrained her. Beatrice grabbed for Emily's writs with her free hand and was able to grasp it, which let her pull Emily down on top of her. That released some of the pressure on her other hand, which let her slip away from that grip.

Emily got up, releasing Beatrice from the choke hold, which instinctively prompted Beatrice to do the same. That was a mistake, as Beatrice's shorts were still pulled down to her knees, and it caused her to fall forward onto the mat. This time, Emily sat on top of the small of her back, and one-by-one managed to get each of Beatrice's wrists pinned under one of her knees. Now, Beatrice's arms were immobilized, as were her legs. She was in trouble.

She was able to lift her shoulders up, but that did nothing to interfere with Emily grabbing the back of Beatrice's sports bra and tearing it with both hands, so that it fell onto the mat below her. The only piece of clothing Beatrice had remaining was now her shorts, which were halfway pulled down. Emily tried to turn around to reach them, but in doing so she had to release her grip on Emily's arms. That gave Beatrice an opening to twist her torso, just enough to let Beatrice grab Emily's hair and pull in the direction opposite Emily's turn.

The sharp tug on Emily's hair knocked her onto her back, and Beatrice lifted herself up enough to be in a position to pivot on top of her, but that left the area between Beatrice's hips and the top of her shorts in reach of Emily's feet. Emily used her feet, to push Beatrice's shorts down to her ankles, where they restricted her movement even further. Realizing that her shorts were, at this point, a liability, Beatrice stepped out of them.

A now-nude Beatrice sat on top of Emily, and pinned her shoulders to the ground, but as Emily was not yet nude, this did not win her the match. Instead, it prompted Emily to grab for Beatrice's wrist and pull at it just enough to throw her off balance, enabling Emily to roll over on top of Beatrice.

As Emily was not nearly heavy enough to pin Beatrice's shoulders to the mat with her hands, she had to pivot her knees on top of her shoulders. That made the weight difference between them irrelevant -- with her shoulders pinned to the mat, Beatrice was defeated.

I took Emily's hand and lifted it up, and the crowd roared. I then took a tie-wrap I had with me and, with Emily's help, used it to secure Beatrice's hands behind her back. Then, I handed Emily a very special device that represented the prize given to the er of these competitions: A dildo. This particular dildo had a handle with a trigger that, when pressed, would inject Titalin from a reservoir within the device. Emily accepted it, forced Beatrice's thighs apart, and shoved it into her pussy. Beatrice orgasmed very visibly, and very loudly, which made the crowd go wild.

Later I pulled Emily aside and asked her the question that I had me wondering ever since the match began.

"Why did you accept her challenge anyway?" I asked. "You didn't need to, and she's bigger than you."

"I've been taking lessons from Maxine and Betty," said Emily. "I wanted to practice my skills on a real-life slave."

"Based on your performance today," I said, "I think you should have a few more lessons before you try something like this again."

She couldn't dispute that.

The following morning, on the the day Titalin Club was to take place, I was in my office, and my intercom buzzed.

"Rhonda Patil is on the line for you, Mistress."

"Put her through," I replied. This was a call I was going to have to take.

"Tracey Smith speaking," I said into the handset.

"Hey Tracey, it's Rhonda. Listen, I have another package on its way to you." It was understandable that Rhonda always wanted to be extra careful, but sometimes her codes could be tedious.

"I'm sorry Rhonda, I cannot accept delivery at this time. You will have to route your package to an alternate location." I would actually prefer NEVER to accept any of Rhonda's "packages," but today certainly wasn't a good time.

"Very well," said Rhonda, "On another matter, I just wanted to let you know that I checked our calender, and I can see your inspection is scheduled for this coming Tuesday."

And that was what she had over me, and she knew it.

"I may be able to accept one package, but it will be a tight squeeze," I said.

"I do not want this to be treated like your usual cargo," said Rhonda, as if she needed to remind me of that.

"Certainly," I said, "I am fully apprised of your requirements.

"Excellent," said Rhonda. "The package will arrive this afternoon."

"We will be waiting," I agreed, reluctantly. "By the way, when did you say our next inspection was scheduled?"

"Let me check," Rhonda replied. After a brief, and completely unnecessary pause, she replied with, "I do not believe you have an inspection scheduled for at least six months."

"All right, goodbye," I terminated the call.

Everybody knows that when the Female Slavery Act passed there were protests. Those protests may have become substantially less frequent when the police started rounding up protestors wholesale and sending them to shops like mine, but there was still a resistance. The resistance simply operated underground.

Rhonda Patil, who was heavily involved in the Resistance, was, ironically, essential to my ability to continue running my shop. Strictly speaking, it was illegal for a woman to own her own business. I got around that restriction by fudging some of the paperwork, but any official inspection would quickly reveal that the paperwork I have submitted does not match the reality. The Ministry for Female Affairs was responsible for inspecting slave shops, and Rhonda was the personal assistant to the local inspector. She had once held a far more responsible position within the Civil Service, but like most women she was required to surrender her executive responsibilities and accept a position serving a man who had once been her subordinate. One of her duties as his personal assistant was to schedule the inspections and, as long as I remained in her good graces, she continued repeatedly postponing the scheduled inspections of my shop so they never actually took place.

In return for this, from time to time Rhonda required me to do her a favor. Oftentimes, that favor took the form of sheltering a woman who was running away from someone. I don't ask questions in these situations, so I don't know precisely WHO these women are running away from. Perhaps it is her parents, her husband, or some other man in her life who is looking to put a barcode on her bum. Ironically, these are exactly the types of cases where I would be helping turn the woman into a slavegirl, but whenever Rhonda chooses to put a particular woman under her protection, for whatever reason, I have to play along if I want her to keep the inspector at bay.

This would be a job that would require someone who would keep her mouth shut, and follow my orders, exactly, without mentioning anything, even to my other slaves. For that, there was one obvious choice: Belinda.

I pressed a button on my desk and scant moments later a woman in her early 20s with long, curly blonde hair and firm, ample breasts with light pink nipples came scurrying into my office. She entered without knocking, shut the door behind her, and curtseyed. She was completely nude save for the device that was shackled to her left wrist, which enabled me to summon her.

Belinda had been both deaf and mute since birth, which literally made her the perfect slave for this assignment. I started giving her my orders in sign language.

"Rhonda is sending another girl to us this afternoon," I signed. "House her in the dormitory, take care of her, and give her everything she needs. Remember, she is a free woman, not a slave. Understand?"

"Yes Mistress," signed Belinda in reply.

I glanced at Belinda for a moment.

"Come here," I signed.

She approached me and I grabbed her left wrist to inspect the device I had attached to it. It was the vibrating pager that I used to summon her. I inspected it, and saw that it had some sort of liquid on it. And, yes, it was exactly what I suspected.

"Have you been touching yourself with your pager?" I asked in signs.

She hesitated, appearing reluctant to reply.

"Answer me!" I signed.

She held up her fist and bent her wrist slightly downward -- the sign for "yes." She did so sluggishly that she might have been lifting a 500 pound weight rather than her fist.

"Bend over," I signed. She bent over the desk, knowing what to expect.

I gave her ten swats on each ass cheek with by bare open hands, and then grabbed her shoulders and pulled her up. Then, she stood there, perfectly still, while I wrote down a note, folded it, and handed it to Belinda.

"Give this to Maxine," I signed. Belinda curtseyed and left. She knew perfectly well that the note contained instructions for further discipline, and that Maxine would be far harsher than I was, but she also knew that her predicament would be all the worse if she did not deliver the note immediately.

Once that was done, I left the office and went out onto the Floor, where I found Diana lying prone on a table, surrounded by a group of girls, led by Winifred. Some of what they had wanted to do to her involved shaving her head, tattooing her, or piercing her, but I told them no permanent damage, so instead they used grease pencils to write on her things like "tart," "whore," or "cock slut." The markings would eventually come off, but it would most likely be the result of the next session with water balloons. A few of the girls rubbed oil onto her breasts, and compared one another's ability to squeeze them. I could see they were all having a great time.

Nancy and Debbie had arrived in the shop early. The shop was fairly crowded (thanks to the show the girls were putting on by torturing Diana), so I was able to blend in with the other customers and listen in on part of their conversation unnoticed.

"... going to be fine," said Nancy, "I've got the whole thing sewn up. This week it's gonna be Alicia. And next week probably Gretchen if she doesn't get on board. You have nothing to worry about."

"I hope not," replied Debbie, "Susan is my niece, and my sister will be awfully cross if I lose her."

"Well you can tell your sister that your good friend Nancy is taking care of everything."

"What about Tracey?" asked Debbie, "I don't get the impression she'd be that thrilled about fixing the game. I hear she has a reputation for being fair."

"Tracey's my bitch. She does what I tell her," said Nancy. Typical Nancy -- always the loud mouth, trying to impress her peers by bragging about how much "pull" she supposedly has.

I slipped away, and moments later approached Nancy more visibly. "Hello Nancy, Debbie. You're early today."

"We wanted to talk to you, in order to avoid any misunderstandings," said Debbie.

"I am sure I have no idea what you mean," I replied.

"We need to confirm that you will honor our agreement," said Nancy.

"Perhaps we should discuss this in my office," I replied, and Nancy and Debbie followed me.

Once we were safely out of earshot of any passers-by, I leveled with them.

"I am reluctant to do this," I said, "as it will compromise the integrity of Titalin Club, and risk its very existence, to say nothing of the reputation of this shop, but we did have a deal, and I will honor it. However, there is one additional stipulation."

"A deal's a deal," protested Nancy, "I've already done what you asked. You can't change the deal now."

"When you first joined Titalin club," I said, "you agreed -- all of you did -- to a single, simple principle: 'what happens in Titalin Club stays in Titalin Club.' With this shop's reputation on the line, it is now all the more important that you honor that commitment. That is my stipulation. I will fix the results, as you asked, but you cannot discuss it with others. Otherwise, I'll just cancel Titalin Club right now."

"Don't be so dramatic," said Nancy. "Nobody is going to say anything. You have my word."

"Also," I continued, "neither of you can identify Alicia as the girl who took the spiked drink. That would be a dead giveaway that you fixed it."

Debbie looked visibly disappointed at that. "But I want that bitch to be mine!" said Debbie.

"Then you can buy her once she has been processed," I replied. "Perhaps Nancy can help you out. I am told she has a bit of extra money these days."

"Fine," Nancy said, "I will help you buy her Debbie, and you can have all the fun with her you want. Now, unless there is anything further... "

"Nothing at all," I interjected. "Let's go. It's time to join the others."

We left the office, and I could see the other members of the Titalin Club filing into their designated room in the back with their dishes. I let Nancy and Debbie go in ahead of me, and waited a few minutes before entering myself. There, I found the usual group, making their usual small talk and gossiping. Their most common topic of conversation was, of course, nasty comments about other women who were not in the room.

They ate the food they had each brought to share, and I carefully poured the wine, making sure nobody saw me. I passed it out carefully, making sure to reserve the glass in the rear corner of the tray, on the left, for Alicia. Nancy noticed this, and silently nodded her approval.

I took the head of the table and borrowed Gretchen's wine glass, so I could lift it and tap it for attention.