TXR-92U-2280 – Call Name: Sara Pt. 02

"Your results from the final exam will be reported back to your respective houses, and I suspect that you will face additional correction if you fail to demonstrate that you made good use of this opportunity.

"We will begin this morning with a study of the major cities of the C.A.S. and their unique features. This will be useful to you in establishing a rapport with the guests that you serve -- or service," he added, winking at Sara.

"As all of you should remember from your previous training, 'C.A.S.' is an acronym for the name of the nation-state where you are held thrall. Look down at your screen. You will see four different possible names that correspond with the letters C.A.S. You have eight seconds to identify the right one using the knob, or you will receive a correction."

Sara lifted the paddle. It read:

1) Congress of American States 2) Charter of Absolute Sovereignty 3) Confederation of American States 4) Coalition of Appropriate Status

She twisted the knob around until it pointed at number three and watched the timer count down the last few seconds. When it reached zero, she heard Brad and several other slaves cry out behind her.

"I can already see this is going to be a long day for some of you," said Farnstrom. "We will start close to home. Use your paddle to select the name of this city. You have seven seconds."

Sara dialed in "2) Las Vegas." Only three slaves cried out when time expired.

"For most of you, Las Vegas is the only city you have ever known, so you probably think every other city is pretty much like this one. Well, you're wrong.

"Basically, what makes one city different from any other city is how it gets money out of people. Vegas does it the old-fashioned way: gambling, booze and tail like this fine specimen we've got sitting right here in the front row."

Behind him, three huge screens sprang to life, flashing vibrant scenes from around the city: towering casinos, tumbling dice, a well-stocked bar, a winning blackjack hand, swimming pools, stacks of chips, a couple dancing, golf courses, a spinning roulette wheel and two half-naked, pouting house sluts -- looking like they had been caught having sex with each other.

"Vegas sells illusions -- lies, basically -- to win its bread. It tells people that, if you come here, you can get rich off one spin of the wheel, you will be happy if you drink enough, and the pretty girl wants to suck your dick, no matter how old and fat you are," Farnstrom said, his gaze settling on Sara. "We've got a volcano and a pirate ship and all kinds of shit, and people come from all over the world to see it -- but none of it is real."

***

Five days later, Sara sat quietly in her seat, using the paddle to review the week's lessons. Around her, the other slaves were likewise engaged, taking advantage of two hours of study time that Farnstrom had granted them before the final exam.

Sara focused her attention on the first day's subject -- geography. The nearest major city to Las Vegas was Los Angeles -- about 250 miles away, five hours by car or one hour in an airplane. She took note of the difference in spelling -- "Los" versus "Las" -- and closed her eyes to test her memory before reading further.

The city had a population of 9 million people and 4 million held thrall. Its best-known industry was the production of movies and TV shows, centered in a district called "Hollywood." A famous local landmark was a huge sign built on a hillside that identified the district.

Farnstrom had said, "Los Angeles is kind of like Las Vegas -- in that they make and sell illusions. But, unlike Las Vegas, they let you know what they are up to right from the get-go."

Many other industries also operated in Los Angeles: recreation and tourism -- another parallel with Las Vegas -- but also aerospace, shipping, technology and fashion. The small screen showed a gritty, sprawling city beneath brown hills.

For Sara, it had been a good week. She had enjoyed discovering new vistas to explore, if only in her own mind, and also the clarity that came with the study drugs. However, there had been moments she would have preferred to avoid.

Every male slave that had not been castrated -- and a few that she suspected had -- hit on her at least once, their come-ons ranging from crude demands to sweet, selfless pleas. The female slaves watched her from a wary distance, standing together in tight clusters during breaks, muttering words like "bitch," "cunt" and "slut" when she walked past.

Her estimate of Farnstrom had become more nuanced. She still believed he was a dangerous man. There was no hesitation when he burned a slave, no trace of compassion on his face while he watched them twitch and scream. Sara herself had endured corrections when she failed to grasp details or remember facts.

However, she came to appreciate his straight-forward style. He was not a sadist. He never administered a correction unfairly or capriciously. He explained the rules and then he followed them. Sara believed that a slave that was smart enough and diligent enough could make it through the entire class without a single correction.

No doubt Farnstrom had compounded her difficult relationship with the other slaves by continuing to call attention to her throughout the week. He commented on her looks, her skimpy clothes, her legs, her breasts, her ass, her mouth, her intact clitoris, her tasking as a house girl or any other attribute he could find a way to tie into his lesson with a crude joke -- but there was no malice in it. In fact, it struck Sara as playful teasing -- perhaps even something that resembled affection.

At the end of the first day, Sara had expected him to bluntly tell her which parts of her body he wanted to see wrapped around his cock. He did not. Indeed, not once did he even hint at the possibility of exploiting her.

During the ride back to Helios at the end of the fourth day, she found herself wishing that he would. He was no chiseled young buck trained to make her toes curl, but she trusted him and felt a measure of caring for this sad, plain-spoken man.

"That's time," said Farnstrom, ending the study session. "You will have three hours to complete the test. Unless you misbehave, you will not be subject to corrections during the testing period.

"However, I know that your houses have expectations with regards to your performance. They paid cash money to send you here, and I wouldn't want to be in your skin when you get back if you don't measure up."

***

Cruz lay on her back on the desk, with Sara kneeling over her, straddling her face. The overseer was frantic, desperately working Sara's clit with her tongue while the slave swayed on top of her, eyes closed.

Sara remembered a guest -- a woman -- who had casually explained that she was going to smother her. Fear rising, Sara had described her training, her experience with women, but the guest silenced her.

"I know all that, dear," she said. "That's why I picked you. The simple truth is that you can't give me what I want just because I tell you. Your body will only provide the level of intensity I need if I get your adrenaline flowing, and that takes something extra. Some people use pain -- I prefer asphyxiation.

"I'm sure that knowing this won't make it any easier for you, but all I'm really doing is pressing buttons to get what I want -- like on a vending machine."

At the time, she simply took the woman for a sadist -- and she did suffer that night. However, Cruz and her peculiar demands gave Sara an opportunity to test the woman's claim.

She was right.

Sara could tell that Cruz had experience with women, although she was not as skilled as a slave that had completed the lesbian conversion program. However, after half a minute without any air, the overseer provided the best oral service Sara had ever received. Also, when her attentions began to lapse because of fatigue, smothering her provided a burst of new energy.

Trapped beneath her sex, Cruz seemed less like a woman, or even a slave, and more like an organic vibrator -- press the button, receive pleasure. It was simple, effective and intoxicating.

Sara opened her eyes and looked down. Cruz was bright red. She was covered in sweat. Tears were streaming down the sides of her face. Her eyes were wild and unseeing. Sara could feel her body starting to spasm.

She lifted herself up a few inches, allowing Cruz to urgently suck in a few deep, ragged breaths.

"If you want to get me off, you need to get me off," said Sara, recalling the words of the woman who had smothered her.

Then, the slave pressed her labia back down onto the overseer's mouth, muffling her scream.

***

After another few weeks, Sara became convinced that this entire experience was some type of training -- an elaborate mind-fuck that would somehow make her more pleasing to guests. It all made sense: less psychotropic drugs so she could remember the lesson, as well as the inexplicable way that Cruz behaved.

She had begun to suspect that Cruz was actually a slave herself, highly trained to play the part of a house mistress and then to make these strange demands. She could not imagine a woman allowing herself to be so thoroughly used, most especially by a slave.

Additional evidence arrived with House Master Gabriel, who stopped her in the hall as she was leaving her daily Pilates session. He was carrying a tablet.

"Hey, Sara," he began. "Remember that guest you were with for two nights, starting on Friday? Uh, Martin?"

"Yes, master," she nodded.

"Well, it turns out he was a Pharaoh's Club member -- forgot to check the box when he made his reservation, I guess. Anyway, he got pulled for a customer satisfaction survey. He gave you tens, all the way down -- and look what he wrote under comments," he said, holding out the tablet for her to see.

It was a single sentence: "This bitch just gets it."

For Sara, that came as confirmation that her mind was once again being reshaped to "optimize the guest experience," but she didn't care. She didn't care if it was a new mind game, or if she was truly being transformed into a lesbian. She was being offered pleasure and she was taking it, hungrily, like a food service drone swallowing down half-eaten scraps left over on a guest's plate.

Even without Cruz, these had been good days for Sara. She had passed the advanced cultural literacy class, scoring 94.8 percent on the final exam -- more than enough to spare her a correction when she returned to Helios. Only a few guests had abused her at all, and one in particular, a fat woman, had allowed her to pleasure herself with a vibrator while she was out playing the slots.

All that ended one morning at the dispatch desk. She felt her throat begin to tighten as she looked up at the assignment board. All of the spaces to the right of "2280" were blank -- no room number, no guest name, no display station, no assigned training -- no tasking at all. A gnawing fear settled into her gut.

"Sara is to see House Mistress Cruz, office seven," said the dom at the desk, bringing her some relief.

The slave nodded and presented herself to the overseer, who instructed her to shut the door.

"I have been very pleased by your performance during the last few sessions," she said.

"Thank you, mistress," Sara answered, eyes low.

"We're going to do something different today," Cruz continued. "We will be off-site for the whole night. You will make this as much like a real guest experience as you can. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Go up to the toy store. You have been authorized to check out whatever you want. You should think about the bad nights you've had with with women, about the things they used and what they did to you with them."

"Yes, mistress."

"When you have everything, meet me at the north maintenance elevator. Do you know where that is?"

"Yes, mistress."

***

Sara had never been inside a maintenance elevator before. It was worn and dented, and much larger than a typical elevator. The overseer had to use a plastic card she carried on a lanyard around her neck before the door would close and it began its ascent.

It brought Cruz and the slave to another unfamiliar space, with a high ceiling and bare, concrete walls. Pipes, some large enough for Sara to crawl through, ran out of sight in both directions.

The slave followed Cruz a short distance to a metal door set into the concrete wall.

The overseer unlocked it and ushered Sara inside. The space was no larger than a closet. One wall had been given over to pipes and gauges and valves. A black, square-bottom shopping bag with the Helios logo embossed in gold foil hung from a valve stem.

"Listen to me, Sara," Cruz said, raising her voice to be heard over the hissing pipes. "I am going to leave you behind for a few minutes. There are clothes and shoes for you in that bag. Put them on in here.

"Also, there is a key for a room at Camelot. It's the next casino up on The Strip. You know the one I'm talking about, right? You've seen it -- it looks like a castle."

"Yes, mistress."

"Good, I will be there waiting for you over there: tower four, room 528 -- it's written on the key.

"When you're ready, go the rest of the way down the maintenance corridor. There will be an elevator off to your right that will take you up to the skybridge over Reno Street. Do you understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

With that, Cruz was gone. Sara stood alone for a moment, trying to absorb her unprecedented instructions. Then, with nothing to do but obey, she took down the bag and began to strip out of her skimpy uniform.

To Be Continued...