Westbound Pt. 03

"That's when the whips really come out," Nicolaides chuckled.

Fuck you, Nicolaides, you're not funny at all.

"Then you will be sent to one of my former, and soon-to-be-again, businesses, The Venus Academy. There you will learn all about how to be a superior slave, an elite companion to the rich and powerful, and an expert at the art of sensual pleasure."

"When you're done there," Linda continued, "You'll spend a month serving at an exclusive resort in Taos. Think of it as a combination apprenticeship and finishing school. After that, you will be free to go."

Nicolaides stood so that Linda could move in front of me. "When you are free, I would very much like you to come find me in Dallas. I think we would have a lot to talk about." She placed a hand on the side of my face, a sweet gesture that was completely at odds with the fact that she had just sentenced me to six months of sexual humiliation.

"I think I know your soldier's family: the Carters, they're good people. They have a beautiful spread outside of Alpine, where they raise horses. You should give some thought to keeping him; I could see his family purchasing Ruzanna, you and her could learn to pull carts as a team."

All of us noticed simultaneously the blue light cutting off: the DPS cruiser pulled back on to the highway, the trooper waving goodbye to Chuy. A moment later, a white passenger van pulled in where the police car had been, and a rig identical to the crippled one we had left rolled up behind it.

"Well," Linda said with a wink, "I think my ride is here." She stood and pulled on a cap Nicolaides handed to her; in the darkness she looked like a mechanic.

"Was it four buzzes?" she asked me. I stared back at her, wide-eyed.

"W-what? How did-," I said. "What does-"

"It means your employer has terminated the account and the beacon deactivated," Nicolaides said, laughing at my crestfallen look. "No one's coming. You may as well swallow it."

"I almost forgot," Linda said. "Theo, please draw a line under this conversation."

Nicolaides strode forward and grasped my right ear, twisting it. When I cried out in pain and surprise, he sprayed something down my throat from a small aerosol can in his other hand. I coughed and choked slightly, and asked what that was for.

Except I couldn't. No sound came out of my mouth: I was mute. I had never felt so helpless in my entire life.

"That was not done out of cruelty," Linda said, "but to keep you from saying something stupid while you're being transported by a new crew. Something stupid that might get you hurt."

"Ladies," she said, turning to Ruzanna and Janet, the next two in the coffle who had been studiously pretending to not hear our conversation, "Please look after her as best you can." Both nodded, and Ruzanna smiled at me.

"See you in the spring," Linda said. She and Nicolaides strolled down the slight grassy incline to the highway shoulder. Linda climbed into the van along with Chuy, and Nicolaides greeted the transport crew of the replacement truck. The driver was a short thin white guy, but the supercargo was a tall black man with a stern look on his face, hands on his hips, muscular but starting to go to seed, like a former high school football player reaching middle age. He and Nicolaides talked, and Nicolaides pointed directly back at me. When the new supercargo turned to look, I noticed he wore a coiled leather whip on his belt, a true slaver's whip, the first one I'd ever seen. My stomach knot tightened and my naked, vulnerable skin started to tingle all over.

————————

"And the next thing I know, I'm here," I said.

"Wow, Miss Ontkean, that's an amazing story," Amy the tech said.

We were in a covered area outside the HCI Albuquerque building. I had arrived not long ago, and Amy met me with a claim ticket. It was a bright, sunny day, with a few white puffy clouds in the bright blue New Mexico sky.

Amy looked pretty much like she had when I first met her, wearing jeans and athletic shoes and a CNS-branded polo shirt, big glasses, blonde ponytail, no makeup, chubby but not fat, curvy, busty, and far too enthusiastic; she kept squirming in her chair with nervous energy.

As for me, I was naked, collared, and kneeling on the ground at her feet, holding a bottle of water with both hands, relaying my story — at least I could speak again. Periodically I would put one or the other cool, wet hands on my red-striped bottom: I'd been a little slow getting off the truck this morning and Master Green's whip let me know it.

Was I humiliated? I'm almost ten years this girl's senior, and a respected journalist too, but as far as the world is concerned I'm just a slave, and she is my mistress. Of course I was humiliated. And it was just going to get worse. At least I had my recording glasses back.

"I'm so excited to be doing this!" Amy exclaimed. "I really want to be a journalist like you, Miss Ontkean, and being your handler for your story is a huge opportunity for me!"

"I'm glad that's working out for you," I said, keeping my voice neutral. "But please remember, mistress" — I couldn't help but choke a bit on that word — "I'm not Miss Ontkean, I'm either Frankie or just slave."

Her dimpled little cheeks tinged red. "Of course, uh, Frankie. Thanks for reminding me," she said. I wondered where else she might have dimples? I hoped I wouldn't have to find out.

Amy's phone buzzed. While she looked at it, I watched her and realized that she had stopped squirming. Then I figured out that nervous energy wasn't the reason she was squirming: her jeans were very tight in the crotch, she had been rubbing herself against the denim and now there was a tiny wet spot. She was getting turned on by my story! Fantastic.

"That's us, um, Frankie," she said. "Our shuttle to the obedience school is ready." She picked up the leash on the seat next to her and fastened it on to my collar while I slugged down the rest of the water. When I was done, I tossed the bottle in a trash can and we talked toward the parking lot, her leading the way. She kept glancing back at me; I realized I was several inches taller than her. What a sight we must have made.

"You know, er, Frankie, out of those baggy clothes you really are a very beautiful woman. Oh, and, uh," she stammered, "Would you really mind if I called you slave from here on out?"

"Whatever mistress wants," I said, stifling a sigh, "I live to serve."