Amy\'s Story

Amy ground her teeth against the ball gag as the truck trundled down the bumpy road. Once again, she was forced to keep her eyes squeezed shut as the sand and dust flew in her face from under the tires, and it was all she could do to keep her precarious balance on her knees, terrified that if she fell over, the carrier would roll right off the bed of the truck.  Of course, this was actually quite impossible, since the carrier was firmly strapped to the truck and there was a man seated comfortably behind it to catch it should the heavy nylon straps fail. Nevertheless,as the carrier tipped and swayed with the truck, it gave Amy an anxiety attack every time the driver took another corner.

In her mind's eye, Amy could still see the impaled girl squirming.  Terror filled her at the thought of being forced to suffer the same fate. But then, how could she accept the idea of being a pleasure slave? A living plaything for another person, never allowed to have her own thoughts and ideas, always subject to another's desires.  She had always been so independent. Now she no longer had any say in the direction of her life, she barely even got to choose when to take a shit.  However, Amy was smart enough to understand that there were two choices before her: Life as a plaything or an agonizingly slow death.

While she was mulling these choices, the truck pulled up in front of a long, concrete wall.  The driver punched in a code on a keypad and the heavy iron gates swung open. Though Amy saw none of this, she could hear the electronic beeping followed by a sybilant voice murmuring "Welcome" in a falsely cheery tone.

Amy watched the heavy gates swing shut behind the truck, despairing as she studied them. They were simply solid pieces of iron, no bars, no windows, nothing but chunks of metal that would be impossible to crawl under or squeeze around. 

The wall was even more formidible, reminding her of walls that surrounded prisons in the movies. Ten feet tall, five feet thick, solid concrete with another three feet of razor wire on top, as icing on the cake she supposed.  Escape would be impossible from this place, even if she could somehow squirm out of the leather straps binding her in a fetal position, open the locked carrier, elude the four men and pickup truck and actually get to the wall. Then, of course, there was miles of travel - naked travel - on foot in the desert, she would wind up a bleached skeleton in the sun.

The truck swung around, then backed up to a loading dock. Amy got only a glimpse of the building. It was low and flat, and made of more thick concrete, ostensibly to keep cool during the day and warm at night, of course, it also added to the formidibility of the place.

Though it was called The Farm, the Burrow would have been a more accurate term, as the exterior effectively disguised the labyrinth of tunnels and rooms hidden below the surface of the sand. Most of the rooms were clinics, each devoted to the training or betterment of a single slave. However, there were dormitories, a kitchen and cafeteria, lounges and a few other areas for the personnel who made their living training pleasure slaves or as part of the administrative, janitorial or cooking staffs. Amy knew none of this, though.  She saw only her doom looming ever closer as the truck backed carefully into one of three loading docks.

Once the truck came to a stop, the man seated behind Amy's carrier slid off the back of the truck and lifted up a steel garage door.  The other men exited the front of the pickup, where they had to have been crammed in like sardines in a can, and together they hefted Amy, carrier and all, off the truck and into the cool, dark interior of the building.

Dropping the carrier on a wheeled cart with an unceremonious thud, the three who had been in the front of the truck wandered away, calling a friendly goodbye to their companion while he began to push the cart down a long corridor.  There were no people in the halls, and the only doors Amy saw appeared to be elevators of some sort.  Eventually, the cart came to a stop inside an elevator marked with the number 712, and Amy felt herself descending deep underground.  It felt like she was slowly descending into her own personal hell.

The doors slid open silently and Amy found herself in an enormous room, painted an obnoxious shade of turquoise blue and lined with counters and cupboards.  There were several desks with wheeled stools tucked neatly beneath them, but the main feature of the room was the large, round platform, located roughly in the center of the room.  There were two leather manacles hanging above it, and a second pair laying on the floor. At all four compass points were tall metal posts. Amy shivered as she wondered what those might be used for, and again she visualized the poor impaled girl on the platform.  Aside from the elevator, there was only two other doors in the room, one labeled with the universal symbol for a restroom, the other appeared to be a closet door of some sort. On the far end of the room, there were several kinds of medical tables, all equipped with leather or canvas restraints, and a couple of small cubicles were tucked in the far corners, one contained a cot, lamp and nightstand, the other appeared to be an office area.

Amy's carrier was wheeled across the room and stopped in front of the large circular platform.  "Alright, I've got a new one from Mr. Johnson, Miss Ames." The calm, authoritative voice of the man who had spoken to her at the execution.

"Name?" A impersonal female voice.  She sounded like a secretary or receptionist to Amy.

"Fucktoy, for now.  She'll get a new name when she submits."

"Mm-hmm. Age?"

"19, here's her file - that will save you some time."

"Thank you.  Has she been processed yet?"

"No, we just arrived."

There was the sound of high heels clicking across a tile floor, followed by a faint buzzing.  "Alright, I've paged your crew, sir."

"Thank you Miss Ames, that will be all."

Again, the sound of high heels clicking as Miss Ames moved across the room and took a seat at her desk.

There was the sound of latches being flipped and locks being released, then the top of the pet carrier was lifted away and Amy, for the first time, got a good look at the face behind the voice.  "Hello, Fucktoy.  You may call me Sir, when you are allowed to speak.  I will be training you, but first, you have to be processed.  Once my crew gets here, we'll get started."

His eyes were dark, his face was hard and unreadable. Amy looked at him with wide blue eyes, fear filling her heart as he began to lower the chains dangling from the ceiling using a switch on the wall.

To her left, the elevator dinged and nearly a dozen burly men, some wearing desert caftans, some in jeans and T-shirts, entered, gathering around Amy's cart.  "This her, Sir?"  An obvious question asked by a particulary large man, covered in tattoos.

"Yes, get her unpacked and we'll strap her up so we can get started."

Muttering and talking amongst themselves, the men lifted her out of the carrier and set her on the ground in the middle of the platform, taking care not to harm her, but causing significant chafing on her still tender ass. There was the sound of straps being undone and locks being released, and suddenly, Amy was free to stretch out and relax her neck. 

Heedless of the appraising eyes of the men taking in her nude body, she did just that, rolling on her back and stretching out all her cramped muscles, wiggling her toes and fingers and cracking her aching neck by rolling her head back and forth.

Laughing, the men caught her arms and pulled her into a standing position. Amy wavered and caught tattoo-guy for balance.  He simply grabbed her arm and raised it up, snapping a leather restraint around it with ease of long practice.  Her other arm was similarly strapped, elbows bent so she had some freedom of movement. This kept her from falling over, thankfully, but suddenly made her feel terribly vulnerable, especially since all the men suddenly backed away and stood looking at her.  Tattoo-guy even had the nerve to grab his crotch and making a masturbating motion at her. Snarling, Amy lunged at him, suddenly wanting to take a large chunk out of the ugly tattoo on his neck.

Sir simply laughed and flipped another switch on the wall, causing the chains attached to her arms to slowly wind up on a winch located somewhere in the ceiling until she was pulled up taut, her toes barely touching the floor.

Suppressing a whimper, Amy tugged on the restraints, seeking some sort of give in the chains or a way to wriggle her hands loose, but there was no such luck.

Tattoo-guy knelt down in front of her, locking the cuffs on the floor to her ankle, then slid a hand up her calf, behind her knee, then inside her thigh.  The caress was not at unpleasant, quite the opposite, and irritated by the pleasure she received from his unwanted touch, Amy attempted to kick him and he caught her free ankle in his other hand and clicked the final restraint around it.

Sliding his hand ever upward until he cupped her sex right in the palm of his hand, Tattoo-guy looked up at her face with a wicked grin on his face.  Then, without losing contact with her soft skin, he slid his hand up her abdomen, stopping to flick her belly button, then continued up until he was cupping one of her breasts.  He gave it a gentle squeeze, flicked the nipple, then stepped back and released her ankle with an obnoxious wink.

"Let's get it over with, boys." He called in a voice with a heavy Australian accent.

Ignoring her obvious ire, the men gathered their supplies and got down to work.  Her arms and underarms were quickly and efficiently waxed, followed by a several men meticulously going over her upper body and yanking each stray hair out with a pair of tweezers. 

Cursing the men loudly with every yank, Amy grew only more angry when they ignored her very vocal protests. "Hey!  You assholes, let me down!  I swear to God I'll kick all your asses! OUCH!"  She shrieked as Sir calmly stood in front of her and gave her nipple a vicious twist.

Glowering, she snapped her mouth shut and glared right at him.

Time to establish his authority, Sir decided.  He reached up and wound his fingers through her silky hair, then pulled her head forward with a cruel yank.  "You will be quiet unless you are given permission to make noise, Fucktoy."

"My name is Amy!" She growled back, effectively hiding her growing fear of this man.

Sir simply released her head and waved the workers away. 

The men gathered at the edge of the round platform and watched with anticipation shining in their eyes.

Sir disappeared behind Amy and she heard a few clicks and clatters as he gathered some object from a cupboard behind her.  "My name is Amy!" She repeated, staring defiantly at the men in front of her.

Amy opened her mouth to repeat the phrase again, but what came out instead was an agonized wail as pain exploded between her shoulder blades. There was a whooshing sound as something thin and flexible cut through the air, followed by another explosion of pain on her back.

Sir calmly walked around Amy, circling her helpless form like a vulture going in for the kill.  She could see a length of slender bamboo in his hand, obviously, this was the source of her pain.  "You will answer to Fucktoy until further notice, do you understand?"

Sniffling back her pain and humiliation, Amy shook her head. "No. My name is Amy."

Again, Sir swung the cane, this time connecting with the tender flesh just under the curve of her ass.  Amy cried out again, tears running freely down her face.

"From this moment on, you will receive 50 of those for every time you argue with me, understand?"

Amy nodded mutely.

"Good. Now, what is your name?"

Amy moaned and hid her face in her arm, not wanting to respond.

Rather than wait, Sir grabbed her chin in his free hand and turned her face toward his.  "Do I need to repeat that?"

Sniffling, Amy shook her head and whispered, "Fucktoy."

Sir looked behind him at Tattoo-guy, "Did you hear that?"

Tattoo-guy laughed and shook his head, "Sure didn't!"

Releasing her face, Sir walked behind Amy and flipped a switch on the wall.  A mechanism beneath the platform sprang to life and the cuffs strapped around Amy's ankles began to spread apart, taking her legs with them. The cuffs on her wrists lowered slightly, and Amy gasped and struggled, but in the end, found herself with the soles of her feet flat on the floor, legs spread wider than she thought possible and her arms stretched out over her head.  In this position, it was utterly impossible for her to move even an inch and it put all her most private parts on display.

Ignoring her moans of humiliation, Sir walked around in front of Amy once again and caught her chin, turning her face toward the watching workers.  "What is your name, slave?"

Amy tried to shake her head, tears of pain and humiliation running down her cheeks.

When she didn't respond immediately, Sir flicked his wrist and the bamboo cane cracked against the tender skin on her inner thighs, making her muscles spasm helplessly and Amy squeal in pain.

"What is your name, slave?" He released her chin and stood back, watching her.

Amy shook her head again, looking at the floor and sobbing helplessly.

Again, the cane cracked between her tender thighs, this time leaving a long, red welt running parallel to her naked sex. Once again, Amy howled in pain and shook her head violently.

"What is your name, slave?" Sir pressed the cane against her pubic mound hard, not hitting, but reminding her of the pain it could inflict.

Amy sobbed, then blurted out, "Fucktoy!"

Tears and snot mingled on her face, and she rubbed her face on her arm awkwardly.

"Repeat that, slut."

Mortified, Amy did as she was told, her face turning a brilliant red and her eyes cast down at the floor.

"Now, tell these men here what your name is, so they know what to call you."

Moaning in protest, Amy muttered, "My name is Fucktoy."

Smack! The cane cracked against her calf, just hard enough to sting, and Sir said, "Is that the proper way to introduce yourself?  Look at them them and speak so they can hear you!"

Choking on her tears, Amy raised her head and looked right at Tattoo-guy. "My name is Fucktoy."

Sir cracked his cane across her helpless breasts twice, leaving two matching welts across the pale skin, "Do not ever make me repeat a request again, Fucktoy!"

Amy sobbed helplessly as Sir then applied the cane twice more across her breasts, each burning welt a reminder of the result of any misbehaviour.

Turning around, Sir tossed the cane to Tattoo-guy.  "Put Fucktoy," he heavily emphasized her new name, "on the table and finish getting rid of all that ghastly hair.  Make sure to put on the proper cream when you're done, then you can put her in her room. I'm going to take a break, Miss Ames will supervise while I'm gone."

The men all nodded in assent and watched while Sir walked to the elevator.  "Remember, this is Mr. Johnson's property, so she's off-limits for awhile."

The men all let out exaggerated groans as Sir left, then started immediately to work.

Several hours later, Amy found herself lying on the floor in a tiny cell. Well, it was more of a closet really.  It was dark, the only light came from a small vent near the ceiling.  On one wall was a toilet, across from it was a sink with just enough floor space to stand between them.  The only space to lie down was underneath the sink, and that was where Amy had curled up, wrapped in a thin blanket.

Her skin still burned from the waxing.  The "proper cream" had turned out to be a thick, greyish substance that killed the hair follicles once the hair was removed from them.  In other words, the hair would never grow back.  The moment the vile-smelling concoction touched her skin, it burned like fire and didn't stop for hours. In retrospect, Amy thought that if the burning sensation of that cream could be abated somehow, there were women all over the world who would pay out their noses to use it. That is, if they didn't have to have it applied the way Amy had.

She had been forced to lie on her back, strapped to a gynecological table with her legs in the air, while strange men meticulously ripped every hair from her body, then applied that horrible cream.  It had been humiliating and agonizing, but not nearly so bad as the beating.

Later, she would think of it as her first whipping.  But now as she rubbed the painful welts on her breasts, legs and backside, she could only whimper in humiliation at how quickly she capitulated to Sir's wishes.

She was not bound in this tiny room, except for the iron collar that was chained to the wall, which would prevent her from bursting out and attempting to escape when the door was opened. There was about six feet of chain that ran from her neck to the wall, and given that the room was only about four feet square, there was more than enough for her to move freely about in the tiny space and get fairly comfortable.

She'd been shoved in rather unceremoniously by Tattoo-guy who pinned her against the wall with his body while he clicked the collar in place. Once done, he had cupped her breasts in his hands and gave them a vicious squeeze.  "Remember this, Fucktoy: You are still untrained in the sexual arts, but once you have learned all the basic niceties of slave behaviour, your true training will begin.  When that day comes, I will be first in line and you gladly will suck my cock dry."

Amy instinctively raised her hands and grabbed his wrists, trying to free her already sore breasts from his vise-like grip.  After the abuse that had been heaped upon her tender flesh today, she did not argue with him, but turned her face away from his, her eyes squeezed shut.

Releasing her breasts, Tattoo-guy pinched one nipple lightly and then left her alone in the dark, locking the door behind him.

Standing alone in the dark, Amy had cried for several minutes with her back pressed against the wall and her face in her hands, trying to muffle her sobs.  Eventually, hunger and exhausting overcame her and she sank slowly to the floor, groping around in the dim light for a place to curl up.  On the floor under the sink, she found a neatly folded sheet.  It was thin, so thin she could see right through it when she held it up to the faint light, but it was better than nothing.

Amy wrapped the sheet around herself, then laid down on her side and curled up, her head pillowed on her arm.  She cried softly for a while longer, tears running down her face as she stared at the dim outline of the door.

Alone in the dark, Amy could hear nothing aside from her own sobs echoing off the tiled walls and floor. As sleep overtook her, Amy sighed softly and drew her knees closer to her chest. Tomorrow was another day.  Perhaps she could still make these men see that a terrible mistake had been made, and they would take her home.

As she slept, Amy dreamed of her dorm room, only instead of her pot-smoking roommate lying on the top bunk, it was Mr. Johnson, and he beckoned her with kind eyes and gentle words. She climbed into the bunk where he tormented her endlessly with soft caresses and tender kisses.