Amy walked down the sidewalk quickly, her long blonde ponytail swishing in time with her steps.  A backpack with textbooks, a change of clothing, and a few other odds and ends was slung over her shoulder.

Her white nursing shoes made hardly any sound on the pavement as she rushed along.  However, her work uniform, a white knee-length skirt, white blouse, white sweater, and, yes, white socks, made her stand out in the dark like a sore thumb. 

Amy's shift at the nursing home, where she worked as a nurses aide, had been a long one, and she was anxious to get back to her dorm room to study for a big test she had the next day. 'So much for sleep,' she thought wryly as she glanced at her watch.

There was hardly any traffic on the street at this time of night, and she felt nervous being alone in the dark in an unfamiliar city. Well, it was hardly a city, just a little town of 20,000 centered around one of the best nursing schools in the nation. Amy had been delighted to be accepted, but the workload was more than she had anticipated. But she was used to working hard; having been raised in foster home after foster home, Amy knew that the only way she was going to have a stable life was if she worked for it.

As she jogged down the sidewalk toward the college, Amy ran over everything she needed to know for her anatomy test the next day. 'Let's see...atrium, ventricle, aorta...what's the other valve called? ..um...' She was so involved in her own thoughts that she didn't pay any attention when a big delivery van pulled over beside her.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Amy jumped, startled out of her revery. "Yes?" She replied nervously, taking a step away from the van.

A friendly-looking young man leaned out the window. He was wearing a white shirt with thin blue stripes and a blue hat, both were marked, "Polar Ice."  "I'm a little confused," he said.  "I'm trying to find Shepherd's Gas Station on Highway 35, but I think I missed it."

"Yeah, you sure did," Amy replied with a smile. He just wanted directions, and she even knew where Shepherd's Gas Station was!  She went there once with a group of girls from her dorm to buy beer - the owner didn't card college students.

Her shoes made a soft little squeak as she walked toward the van so the guy could hear her.  "You need to go down about a block further, there's a side street there. Turn right, take it to Cottage Street, turn right again.  Then you MMPH!"

The rest of her directions were lost as a strong arm snaked around her waist and a hand clamped over her mouth.  She was bodily lifted off the ground and tossed headfirst into the van, where she landed roughly on her stomach. Amy reacted quickly, trying to push herself up, but a heavy weight settled onto her shoulder blades, followed by a second weight on her calves. With her face pushed into some sort of shag carpeting, Amy could barely breathe, much less scream.

She tried anyways, twisting around and trying to work her arms free so she could pinch, poke, slap or claw the fleshy weights on her body. It was all useless, of course.  There was the sound of the van door closing, then she felt the vehicle shift into gear and get moving. Panic started to settle in and she struggled even more furiously, almost dislodging the man sitting on her shoulders. 

He laughed and settled back down, delivering a sharp slap to her ass which startled her enough to make her be still a moment.  In that moment, she felt her skirt being shoved upward toward her ass and the prick of a needle in the back of her thigh.

As the world started to turn dark around her, it occurred to Amy that there was really no one to miss her. She had a room to herself, no family, no close friends. She could be murdered and no one would ever know about it.  This thought inspired one last burst of adrenaline and a few more weak struggles before the drug-induced darkness claimed her.

Cain laughed as he slid off the girl's legs, "Boy, she put up one hell of a fight. Are you sure they want a hellcat like this?"

"She'll be trained and obedient as a dog before you know it, pal," replied Evan, Cain's older brother.  " The bosses wanted this girl, they get this girl."

Evan and Cain quickly undressed her, though they did take a moment to admire her undergarments, lacy white panties and matching bra.  With full, firm tits, hips that flared gracefully into an ass that seemed to be made for grabbing, long legs that went on for miles, and a face that would make a model jealous, this girl would sell for a small fortune, naturally submissive or not.

After zipping a black body bag around her, they each hefted an end and plopped it into a hidden compartment in the floor of the van, just big enough to hold the body of some helpless girl.  They, together with their youngest brother, James, the driver, they made decent money snatching girls like this one off the streets for an anonymous group of men they only knew as "the Bosses."  They were given information on the marks, and told where to deliver the girls.  The rest was up to them.

Hours later, the brothers arrived at the docks and backed the van up to a large ship on the end pier.  The proceeded to unload all the ice, as well as several full bodybags into the storage compartment. They tossed two backpacks, several sets of clothing and shoes and a laptop computer into the bay, where it all sank quickly to bottom. Then they collected their fee and were on their way to the next city.

When Amy awoke, she was lying flat on her back in a small, dark space.  Groggily, she twitched her leg and it made a soft thumping noise against the side of her tiny prison.  Immediately, a lid above her face was lifted and hands came in and held her flat on her back. Blinded by the light, Amy couldn't see a thing. Again, she felt a sharp prick, this time in her shoulder. Then the hands withdrew and the lid was closed. Moments later, she was unconscious again.

This series of events repeated itself several times over the next few days, Amy would awake and make some small movement which alerted her captors who drugged her back into unconsciousness again.

When she was finally allowed to awake fully, about two weeks later, though she had no way of knowing how long it had been, Amy found herself propped up against a wall with her wrists bound together, completely naked. She shook her head to rid it of the cobwebs and took stock of her surroundings. She was in a small room, about four feet square. The only window was up high on an iron door to her right, and it was just barely big enough to let a bit of light in the dark room. The walls were made of concrete blocks painted an antiseptic green color, giving the room an institutional feel.  In fact, if it weren't for the leather restraints locked onto her arms, she would have thought she was in some kind of mental ward. Beneath her bare ass, the floor was ice cold, probably some form of institutional tile.

Slowly, Amy stood up, her legs wobbly beneath her from long disuse. "Heaven alone knows how long I've been unconscious," she murmured. The sound of her own voice was reassuring and she continued to carry on a whispering conversation with herself as she took stock of her situation.

"No clothes, no shoes, no furniture..." She muttered as she turned slowly. There was a chain running from her wrists to the wall that allowed her to move to the middle of the room, no further. Trying to get some sensation back in her feet, she stamped them briskly, and pressed her bound hands beneath her collarbone, covering her breasts with her elbows.

Just as she was getting ready to start yelling for help, the door opened and a large masculine figure appeared.  With the light behind him, she couldn't make out his features, only a rough silhouette of his body. 

"Who are you?  Where am I?  Let me go!" She issued the series of demands as though she were a queen in her throneroom, not a naked girl chained up alone in a cell.

The figure remained silent, and Amy moved back against the wall and crouched down, hiding her crotch with her thighs and keeping her breasts covered.  "W-what do you want?"  Her voice wavered a bit this time.

"Slaves are silent unless they are asked to speak."  His voice was deep, but the tone was not menacing. Nonetheless, the simple phrase carried more force than a shouted order.

Amy glared at him, "I'm no slave. I will speak when I want to!"

With surprising quickness for a man of his size, the stranger stepped into the room, and pulled Amy up by her hair, causing her mouth to pop open wide in shock and pain.  While her mouth was hanging open, he shoved a rubber ball into it, then strapped it in place behind her head.

All of this happened in a matter of seconds, so quickly that Amy's head practically reeled.  Suddenly, she could not articulate a single word, not with that ball shoved between her teeth, pressing down on her tongue.  All she could do was make indignant moans and shrieks that were almost completely muffled by the gag.

Still holding her by the hair, the stranger lifted her up until they were eye to eye. "You are my property until I sell you. They told me you are a virgin, I will confirm this now."

He abruptly let her go and Amy landed with a thump on her backside, her head snapping backwards and cracking against the wall.

Dazed, she could do nothing while the stranger shoved her legs apart and stuck two fingers inside her cunt, which was indeed virginal.

Satisfied, he gave each of her breasts a quick squeeze, then her buttocks and thighs.  With a soft grunt he rose up to his full height, which had to be over six feet tall, and walked back to the door.  "You will make me a pretty penny indeed, girl.  Now be silent until they come for you."

Amy watched him go with tears of humiliation and fear forming in her eyes. A slave? How could this have happened?

Sniffling, she curled back up against the wall, covering herself as best she could with her arms and legs. Her silky hair hung unbound around her body, creating a sort of curtain, which made her feel just a bit more secure.

Time passed slowly. Eventually, her tears dried up and she started fiddling with the straps that held the ball securely in her mouth. It was virtually impossible to undo the latch without being able to see what she was doing, and the problem was compounded by the leather straps locked around her wrists. After trying for a bit, she gave up and stared silently at the door.

The ball gag was uncomfortable in the extreme, causing her jaw to ache and drool to puddle beneath her tongue, leaking out around the ball.  She wiped it off on her arm and continued watching the door.

Amy was on the verge of dozing off when the door abruptly opened and two men stepped in. "Now don't give us any trouble and we won't use this on you." A wicked-looking leather strap was held in front of her face.

While the first man was issuing this warning, the second unlocked the chain from the wall and gave it a sharp tug. "Walk." It was a simple statement issued in a tone that brooked no argument. So Amy rose to her feet and did as she was told, doing her best to keep her breasts covered with her arms as she did so.

They led her out of the cell and down a series of maze-like corridors, all lined with doors identical to the one she had just emerged from. Occasionally, she heard soft, feminine moaning from behind the doors and sympathized with her fellow prisoners. "What sort of world is this?" She wondered silently, picking up her pace just a bit to keep up with the guard.

The second guard walked behind her, swatting her backside lightly with the strap from time to time, just to remind her it was there.

The two men made no conversation as they led her through the halls, making it seem like this was very routine for them.

Just as Amy was beginning to wonder if they would ever reach their destination, they stopped in front of a pair of double doors and she was yanked through.

She seemed to be in the backstage of some sort of theater. Though Amy couldn't see beyond the heavy black curtains around the stage, she could hear the murmur of a large crowd and a voice speaking through a microphone. "Going once, twice, sold!" The voice called out. A series of thumps and grinds accompanied this statement, followed by light applause, then footsteps on a wooden stage. As the footsteps stopped, all sound in the theater ceased. Amy pulled back against the chain, wanting to run back to her little room where at least she was alone in her misery.

The guard behind her pinched her bare ass sharply, then pressed the leather strap against her flesh and she immediately stilled.

Amy strained to hear any sound at all in the theater, wondering what was going on. After a moment she heard metal scraping against metal, then a hiss and a muffled scream.

"There she is, gentlemen, newly purchased stock by Mr. Earl." The amplifed voice carried through the silent theater, and was again followed by applause. The more thumping and grinding, this time accompanied by pitiful female sobs.

Amy looked around at the dark stage, trying to cover herself as best she could, hoping to find a hiding spot of some sort. While she was preoccupied with this thought guard number one yanked her forward. Amy followed instinctively, until she realized that they were dragging her right toward those black curtains.

Instantly, she balked, locking her knees and leaning back against the chain, shaking her head wildly, begging with wide blue eyes not to be taken out on that stage.

The guard behind her gave her ass a sharp crack, and though she squeezed her eyes shut in pain, she did not move.

Over the loudspeaker, she could hear the announcer speaking again. "Our next girl is a stunning beauty, blonde hair, blue eyes, great body, 19 years old, and a virgin! Gentlemen, you can't do any better than this!"

Amy realized that he was describing her and struggled even harder against the guards, grunting when the strap again cracked over her backside.

With a wicked smile,the first guard released the chain and Amy immediately fell backwards into the second guard who grabbed her by the nape of her neck and held on, tight. "Walk. Now." He hissed in her ear.

Then he shoved his thumb right into her asshole, hard. Amy had never had anything put up her ass in her entire life, not even an enema, so this action was so shocking, so appalling, and so painful that she immediately started walking forward, and before she knew it, those black curtains were being shoved aside and she was being pushed out onto a wide stage.

Bright lights shone in her eyes, making it virtually impossible to see beyond the edge of the stage, and for that, she was extremely grateful. However, the pleased murmurs and applause was more humiliating than anything she had ever felt in her life and she did her best to cover herself with her arms as she was pushed toward a platform in the center of the stage.

The first guard attached his end of the chain to a second chain with a padlock, while the second yanked his thumb out of her ass and bent over to attach leather straps around her ankles. Then the switch was activated and the chain around her wrists became shorter and shorter until her arms were pulled over her head, baring her breasts and the rest of her body to the appreciative crowd. With her ankles strapped to the platform, she couldn't do a thing about it and so she hid her face in her arm, hoping the humiliation would go away.

The announcer stood behind a podium to her left, and he began the auction immediately. "What will you gentlemen bid for this fine young slave? She is unmarked, untrained, and untouched by any other man! Make of her what you will, she will be completely yours."

Amy moaned in humiliation but peeked out around her arm at the crowd while men started to call out bids.

It seemed to last forever, the bids going higher and higher, until the sums were simply astronomical. One by one, the bidders dropped out, until it was between two men. One was a small, slender man with a sparse goatee and glasses. The other, a huge black man, even bigger than the man who had gagged her, with no hair at all.

The smaller man was wearing a fine suit with a fancy tie and made his bids by raising his arm in a completely arrogant manner, as though he owned the world. Amy took an instant dislike to him.

The second man, big as he was, only had to nod once to make his bids. He regarded the world through an impassive visage, but when she looked at his eyes, she could see that he didn't miss anything. It was like looking at the eyes of a hawk.

Higher and higher the two men drove the price, until finally the arrogant little man shook his head and leaned back in his seat, defeated.

"Going once, going twice, sold, to Mr. Johnson.  Congratulations, why don't you come take a closer look at your prize."

Mr. Johnson did so. He approached the stage amid thunderous applause in a leisurely manner. As he ascended the short staircase, his shoes made soft, rhythmic thuds on the wooden floor.

Stopping about three feet away from her, the huge man just stood and studied her for a moment, then he moved in closer and ran his hands down her body, rather like the way she had seen farmers run their hands over horses they had recently purchased. His warm hands felt rather nice against her chilled skin, that is until he slid one right between her thighs.

Amy tried to clamp her legs together, but it was useless, he slid one finger right up into her cunt and she squeezed her eyes shut in humiliation.

The room became utterly silent as a metal brazier came into view, 'so that was the whirring and grinding,' she thought absently.

Mr. Johnson stepped behind her and she heard liquid splashing onto a cloth, then felt something cool being rubbed on her left buttock. He then undid her gag, which she promptly spit out and watched quietly as it bounced across the floor and off the stage.

Mr. Johnson grabbed what appeared to be a poker in the burning coals on the brazier and again stepped behind her, his footsteps making small echoes in the hollow floor beneath the stage. "Hold her still."

It was the first words she ever heard him speak, and later she would recall that moment, how her heart pounded in anticipation and fear, how her cunt was wet from his hand, and how the crowd seemed as anxious as she was.

Suddenly pain exploded in her ass and she let out a keening, agonized wail, then promptly passed out.

When Amy awoke, she was lying on a concrete floor in what appeared to be some sort of basement.  The room was small and rather damp, to her left was a rickety wooden staircase that led to an old-fashioned wooden door. There were no other doors or windows that she could see, and the only furnishing in the room was a heavy stone counter lining one wall.

Amy was lying sprawled on her stomach, as though someone had simply dropped her on the floor - considering her recent treatment, she had an inkling that was exactly what had happened. Bracing her palms on the rough concrete, Amy pushed herself up to her knees and gasped as pain flared to life in her bare ass. Automatically reaching behind her with her left hand, she felt a strange pattern of ridges just above her left butt cheek.  Gingerly, she traced the marks until she made out a circle with some sort of pattern inside it. 'A brand?' she thought as she quickly took her fingers away and rolled on her back to press her aching ass against the cool, soothing stone.

Lying on her back, Amy raised her palms in front of her and studied her wrists.  They were swollen and bruised from being chained, her ankles felt like they were in the same condition. "Still no clothes," she muttered, laying her sore arms over her bare breasts and staring at the concrete ceiling. Tears welled up in her eyes and she angrily brushed them away.  She needed to take stock of her situation and see if she could find a way to escape.  She could always have the brand lasered off once she was free and had these creeps convicted for kidnapping.

Sighing, Amy pushed herself to her feet, stopping to brace herself against a wall when her vision blurred and the room swam before her eyes. Slowly, she took first one step, then another, wobbling back and forth like a drunk as her head cleared from her earlier collapse.

Never one to dwell on a tough situation, Amy had long ago learned that when there's a problem, one must simply deal with it rather than wait for something else to happen. So she made her way slowly to the steps, then crawled up them. Everytime her left leg moved, fire shot down from her ass to her toes and she whimpered softly, but kept going. Just as she reached the door, it opened abruptly outward.

Startled, Amy leaned back and would have fallen headfirst down the stairs had the figure in the doorway not shot out an arm and caught her by her right arm.  Instead, she found herself yanked forward from certain death into strong arms that scooped her up as though she were a little bit of nothing.

Mr. Johnson carried her back down the stairs, shutting the door quietly behind him, and gently set Amy on the ground, then seated himself on the bottom step and regarded her through veiled eyes.

Wishing she could read his expression, Amy crossed her arms over her bare breasts and scooted back into a corner, then pressed her thighs tightly together and drew her knees up to her chest.

That sat like that for a full minute, staring at one another, neither making a sound.

Finally Amy whispered, "say something, please."

Mr. Johnson continued to study her for a moment, then commented, "You spoke without permission."  It wasn't really an accusation, just a comment, and Amy nodded in response.

"You shouldn't do that again, it will get you into trouble."

Amy nodded again, pressing her lips tightly together.

Mr. Johnson rose and moved until he was standing in front of her, his hips less than a foot from her face. "I bought you at the auction, do you understand?"

Amy nodded mutely, keeping her eyes carefully on the floor.

"That means you are now my property, my pleasure slave, do you understand?"

Amy's head shot up, glaring right at his face. "Yeah, I got that. But you should understand that you won't be getting any pleasure from me, so you wasted your money."

Mr. Johnson grinned from ear to ear, so the rumors had been true, this one was really a spitfire.  He was going to enjoy taming her.

His grin was so intense, it was actually quite disturbing, and Amy returned her gaze to the floor, studiously avoiding looking at the bulge that was so obvious right in front of her face.

"Do you have a name?" His voice was deep and sensuous, it sent strange vibrations through her body, causing her nipples to harden and moisture to form in her sex.

"Of course I have a name," she snapped.  "It's Amy."

"Not anymore.  For now, you will respond to Fucktoy.  When you have proven yourself to be a good slave, you will be given a new slave-name."

"No. I will respond to Amy." She growled in reply, glaring all her fury and frustration at the floor.

"No, you will not." His voice was calm, he didn't seem at all concerned that she was directly defying his orders.

"You will answer to Fucktoy until further notice. I will not call you anything else."

"Then you will not get a response from me, because I will only answer to Amy." She replied, mocking his tone in a way that no proper slave would ever have dreamed of using, especially toward their master.

Because she was not trained and had no idea of what standards she would be held to, Mr. Johnson simply reached down and grabbed her firmly by the nape of her neck, forcing her head back until she was looking right at the rather large bulge in his pants.

Stubbornly, Amy focused on the texture of the blue jeans rather than what was obviously beneath them.

Reaching down with his free hand, Mr. Johnson unzipped his fly and pulled out his cock.  It was still soft, but even soft it was simply enormous.

"Every time we meet, you will greet me by kissing my cock. If we are at home, you will unzip my fly and kiss it directly, if we are in public, you will kiss it through my pants, understand?"

"I understand that if you bring that thing any closer I'll bite it off," Amy snarled, fighting for any semblance of control over the situation.

"I don't think so," Mr. Johnson replied calmly. Then, leaving his cock dangling, he hoisted Amy up by the nape of her neck again until she was standing. Once she was on her feet, it was frighteningly easy for him to snatch her off the ground and sling her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Amy was certainly not a tiny woman, at 5'10", she was taller than most women.  Yet, Mr. Johnson carried her as though she were nothing, it was an unsettling feeling for a woman who was entirely used to being in control.

Ignoring her struggles, Mr. Johnson carried her across the small room and slowly, almost gently, lowered Amy down until she was lying on her back on the counter, looking up at him.

Amy stopped struggling as he lowered her, the pain in her ass was warning enough, and she didn't want to know what else he would do to her if she started kicking and hitting. It took her a moment to regain her equilibrium - she had already been slightly off-balance and being carried with her head hanging upside down did not help matters at all. By the time her vision had focused again, Mr. Johnson had gathered a couple of items from the cupboards below the countertop and was standing at the end of the counter, carefully arranging them beside her hips.

Once the bottles were arranged to his satisfaction, he abruptly grabbed her legs just above the knees and pulled her toward him, until her ass was dangling off the edge of the counter, her legs on either of his hips. He leaned in and she could feel the soft skin on his cock brushing her bare cunt.

Normally, Mr. Johnson would have had the girl shaved bald and numerous other modifications made, but there were time requirements on virgins.  If her virginity had not been claimed within 24 hours of being branded, his claim to her would be forfeit, his money returned and she would be re-auctioned to someone else. Only an idiot would want to lose a beautiful hellion like this one, so he would claim her virginity, then begin her training and modification.

Amy struggled as she was yanked down the counter, yelping as the raw flesh on her butt was dragged across the countertop. It was useless, of course.  As soon as he had her in position, he leaned over her and pinned her flat by pressing a firm hand onto her neck, briefly cutting off her oxygen.  "Hold still, or I will strangle you."

Faced with that choice, Amy stilled.

"Listen carefully, I'm only going to say this once." Mr. Johnson spoke calmly as he squirted something cold onto the soft mound between Amy's thighs.  "Normally, I wouldn't do it like this, but things are different because you're a virgin.  I recommend you relax as much as possible."

Amy began to sob openly and tried to push his hands away from her pussy.  "Please, no, don't..."  When confronted with rape and death, she suddenly became amazingly obedient.  "I'll do whatever you want, just don't rape me...please..."

Mr. Johnson said nothing, instead he calmly caught her wrists and fastened the to a set of soft restraints built into the counter so they were stretched out above her head.  They were made of simple cotton, soft to the abraded skin on her wrists.

Amy tugged on them, then tried to scoot away from him.

Again, Mr. Johnson did not scold, he simply grabbed her hips and tugged her back into position again, then continued rubbing lubricant onto his rapidly hardening cock, making certain that both his new fucktoy and himself were well greased.

When Amy raised her head and saw what he had for her, she almost passed out again.  It was so big around, she wasn't sure her fingers would meet if she wrapped her hand around it, and looked to be close to a foot long. "No, it won't fit!  Please, it's too big!" She whimpered, trying to squirm away from him yet again.

Mr. Johnson put an end to the struggle with a weighty sigh by simply looping his arms under her knees and bracing his hands on the counter, pinning her in that position, which had the added benefit of opening her up as wide as possible.  "Relax as much as you can, it will fit,  I promise."

Amy squeezed her eyes shut and began to cry, digging her nails into her palms and almost screaming when she felt the strange sensation of his cock against her tight slit.

Keeping her legs in position with his left hand and right shoulder, Mr. Johnson used his right hand to guide his cock to the tiny entrance, pressing in slowly, until the head had just popped in.

Amy cried and tossed her head around, feeling as though he were shoving a bowling ball between her legs.

Slowly, steadily, Mr. Johnson slid his cock into her body, his eyes closed in concentration as her muscles contracted spasmodically around his swollen member.  She felt like a tiny fist squeezing around his organ, so good he almost blew his load right there. Gritting his teeth, he continued pushing forward slowly, until finally, he felt the slight resistance of her hymen and pulled back a bit.

Amy felt as though he had shoved his whole arm up her cunt, and though he wasn't even halfway in, it felt like his cock might pop out of her mouth any second. When he withdrew ever so slightly, she gasped, feeling a strange contraction in her privates - it almost felt...good. Squeezing her eyes shut, she vowed to not enjoy this rape, and gritted her teeth together tightly.

Taking a deep breath, Mr. Johnson opened his eyes and studied her set features, almost smiling at the expression of determination on her face.  She was so willful, so stubborn.   It was almost a shame to break her, but if she were sold to someone else, it would be a million times worse. He waited patiently, taking deep breaths, not moving until she began to relax around his cock a bit, making more room for him in her untouched cunt. He then thrust forward abruptly, popping through her hymen effortlessly and stopping when he was buried to the hilt in her cunt, shocked that she could actually accomodate all of him.

Amy felt as though she were being split in half.  Screaming and kicking she sunk her teeth into his shoulder, "Get off...let go...." She sobbed as she tried to squirm free.

Her struggles only heightened Mr. Johnson's arousal, and he grunted, burying his face in her ample bosom as he fought for control.

Eventually, her pain passed and Amy's fighting subsided into pitiful tears. Raising his head, Mr. Johnson sucked her nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue around it.

Amy gasped as pleasure mingled with the remaining pain, and arched her back instinctively to bring her nipple closer to his mouth.

Mr. Johnson took his mouth from the first nipple and turned his attention to the next one, sucking the rosy flesh into his mouth hard. With his left hand still braced on the countertop, he slid his right hand between their bodies and began to lightly rub her clit. After years of experience, he had learned that pleasure slaves who had an orgasm in their first experience with a new master made better, more ardent lovers.

Amy arched her back even harder, all thought of rape, slavery, brands and imprisonment left her mind, there was only the hot mouth on her tit and the insistant fingers between her thighs.

As Amy started to squirm and moan more and more, Mr. Johnson began to slowly slide his cock in and out of her tight sex. He raised his head from her breast and caught her luscious lips in a passionate kiss, his tongue tangling with hers.

Amy's hands fisted above her head and her legs wound around his hips as she clung to him, pleasure warring with pain as she moaned and whimpered into his mouth.

Mr. Johnson pulled away from her lips, looking into her eyes as he watched her pleasure grow and grow until her cunt tightened even more around his cock and her entire body arched upward with a shriek of pleasure, eliciting a matching roar from him, his cum spilling into her body in torrents.

After a moment, both bodies relaxed and Mr. Johnson gently pulled his cock out of her dripping cunt. He reached for a paper towel from the roll he had set nearby and wiped his cock clean before returning it to his pants and zipping up his fly.

Turning around, he saw Amy laying flat on her back, limp as a rag and red as a beet. Saying nothing, he simply nudged her thighs apart and gently washed her cunt clean with another paper towel.

Tears trickled out of Amy's eyes and down her temples into her hair, but the aftermath of sex left her too exhausted to fight him anymore.

Mr. Johnson got a new paper towel and got it wet with some water from the bottle beside the lube, and gently wiped her face clean, then her breasts and stomach.  Getting another towel, he wet it again and washed her ass and legs, then finished with her arms and hands, undoing the cotton restraints in the process.

Amy's palms were cut where her nails had dug in, and he carefully cleaned the cuts with peroxide, then rolled her onto her stomach without the slightest hint of resistance and cleaned the brand with soap and water which earned him a hiss of pain and a warning growl from his new slave, making him think of a stray kitten.  With a smile on his face, he rubbed soothing silvadine cream on the burn then eased her off the counter and onto the floor.

Amy settled onto her knees, studying him through reddened eyes, "..why..?"

"Because a good master takes care of his slaves," Mr. Johnson replied quietly as he sank back onto the lowest step and studied her.  "I don't know what you imagine the life of a pleasure slave is like, but it's probably not what you think."

"You mean I won't be raped and abused?" She asked in a slightly sarcastic tone of voice, a half-smile gracing her face for a moment.

"Not if you behave properly, you won't," he replied.  "Understand that this is the only conversation you and I will ever have as equals. Like it or not, you are my property, and you are so far from home, even if you could manage to escape, which is doubtful, you will never make your way there again.  I will give you half an hour of my time to answer any questions you may have, and then your training will begin and you will address me only as Master and I will call you Fucktoy until I think of a more suitable name."

Amy winced at the name. "Must it be Fucktoy?" She whispered, looking up at him beseechingly.

"Yes. Now, ask your questions," he replied with a smile, for he already knew what he would call her.  Must of his girls he named after flowers or precious gems and metals, like Rose, Jade and Sapphire, but this girl was neither a blossom nor a jewel, and so he would call her Kitten.

 

 

Warning ---this particular chapter is very gory and not for the faint of heart. :-)
 

 

 

 

 

Amy regarded her new Master through tear-reddened eyes.  "I'm far from home?  How far?"

Mr. Johnson smiled grimly, "I don't suppose it will hurt for you to know your physical location.  You are on my private estate in Egypt, and you will most likely spend the rest of your life here."

Sniffling, Amy leaned back against the wall and covered her breasts with her arms once again.  "And how long will that be?  Until you get tired of me?  Then what? You have some hired goons shoot me and bury me in the desert?"

Mr. Johnson shook his head, "No, that's not how it works at all.  There are several international organizations dedicated to the keeping of pleasure slaves, and each has their own rules.  The society I'm a member of, The Black Dragon, is one of the most elite, and has stringent rules regarding the keeping of pleasure slaves."

"It does?" Amy sniffled again.

"Yes.  All slaves kept by the members must be kept in good health. That means nutritious meals, free access to bathroom and shower facilities, and proper healthcare.  There are two ways a slave meets her end as a ward of The Black Dragon, barring accidents, of course. A slave that has reached the end of her usefulness - either as a pleasure slave or a trainer of pleasure slaves - will be euthanized, much the same way animals are euthanized, with a painless injection.  The other way is to be snuffed, that is, to basically be tortured to death for public amusement.  This is a punishment for slaves that commit the gravest of crimes, such as repeated refusal to obey her master despite numerous training sessions and punishments, attempting (or succeeding) to hurt her fellow slaves or her master, or repeated escape attempts.  There is a sort of fair each month, in a different location each time to protect our secrecy, for these slaves to be snuffed."

Amy's eyes were wide with horror, "You're lying..." she whispered.

Mr. Johnson simply shook his head, "You've seen the evidence of the power this society wields for yourself. Were you not snatched off the streets of your own town only to first find yourself in France, then Egypt.  You saw-"

"Wait!" Amy interupted, "When was I in France?"

"The auction." Mr. Johnson replied, slightly grated by the interuption, but ever aware of the fact that she was not yet trained and this sort of thing was to be expected.

"I was in France at the auction?  And now I'm in Egypt! How do you people move me around so quickly?" She whispered, clutching herself even tighter, seeking some sort of comfort.

"You've been drugged quite a lot over the past few weeks. According to your file-"

"I have a file?! Let me see it!" Amy demanded, jumping to her feet, then bracing herself against the counter as the room spun wildly around her for a moment.

"No. I will tell you what you need to know: From what I read, you were taken by three professional slave-snatchers (as the society calls them.) They were three brothers named Evan, Cain and James. These slave-snatchers are given specific targets, usually young, attractive girls with naturally submissive tendancies and no family connections so that there is no one to really kick up a fuss when they suddenly vanish without a trace.  You met two of three criteria, and so it was decided to take you as well."

"Two of three?" Amy asked, leaning against the wall.

"You're not a natural submissive, but that's quite alright.  From what I read, you're very intelligent and will learn quickly.  At any rate, all slaves taken from any nation, be it China, Germany, Australia, America or wherever, are transported to the auction house hidden in a private estate in the south of France.  The means of transportation varies. You, I believe, were kept heavily drugged and packed in ice inside a coffin, so customs officials would believe you were a corpse being returned to Europe for burial. Obviously, it worked. So, do you have any other questions?"

Amy sank back to the floor slowly, absorbing all the information she'd just been given.  "What happens if I get pregnant? Abortion?"

Again, Mr. Johnson shook his head. He always hated to be the one to tell new slaves this part. "I'm afraid you won't get pregnant. Ever.  Prior your arrival in France, you underwent a brief surgery called a tubal ligation which-"

"I know what it is." Amy snapped, tears welling up in her eyes.  "And I don't believe you, if I had a tubal ligation, there would be at least some lingering soreness and a scar or something, and I haven't had any of that."

"It was more than four weeks ago, and according to your file, your surgery was done with a laser.  If you feel your abdomen, you'll find two tiny scars, less than an inch long."

Amy put her hand to her belly automatically, and sure enough, there they were.  "Why wasn't there any pain?" She whispered.

"Like I've said, you've been kept drugged from the moment of your kidnapping, that's why you're so dizzy now, your body is becoming accustomed to not being drugged any longer.  Now, do you have any other questions?"

Amy shook her head mutely, tears running down her cheeks as she pressed a hand to her abdomen.

Mr. Johnson stood quietly, knowing it was best to leave his Kitten alone until she'd adjusted to the facts of her new life.  "You'll find blankets in the cupboards, and the bathroom facilities are under the stairs.  Someone will be down with some supper for you later.  Tomorrow you will be offered the chance to submit of your own free will, and be trained as a slave that way.  I recommend you take it, the alternative is not an easy path."

With those final words, Mr. Johnson padded up the stairs.

"Wait!" called Amy, holding up hand to stop him.  "I have one more question."

Mr. Johnson turned around, raising his eyebrows.

"How did your society find me?" She asked, looking him directly in the eye for the first time since they'd met.

"That, I do not know." He replied. "We have members all over the world, several in the American foster care system, perhaps that's how you were discovered.  It really does not matter now, though.  Take tonight to mourn your past life, tomorrow, a new life begins." With that, he stepped out of the room and softly closed the door behind him.

Amy heard the lock click, then crawled over to the cupboards, too exhausted to stand up and walk, and did indeed find] several soft blankets and a pillow.

Making a little nest for herself in the corner by the counter, Amy curled up in a tiny ball and sobbed, mourning the children she would never have and the life she would never lead. 

Hours later, one of Mr. Johnson's former slaves, now a trainer and housekeeper, brought Amy down a warm meal, and found her sound asleep.  Leaving the meal on the counter, the kindly woman turned off most off of the lights in the room, leaving only the warm glow of a nightlight by the toilet.

In the morning, Amy was abruptly awakened by the lights being snapped on and a brisque patting on her backside.

"Come on now, girl, it's time to get up!"

Amy moaned and covered her face with her arm and was rewarded with a sharp pinch.

"Now!" The voice carried the musical lilt of Ireland, belonged to an older woman, and had a parental tone that impossible to refuse.

Rolling over, Amy squinted at the bright light and made out a fuzzy figure bustling about the room. "Wh-what's going on?" She sat up and winced as the painful brand on her backside protested.

The woman handed Amy a bar of soap and a washcloth. "The Master will be down shortly, you'd best wash up."

Too sleepy to argue, Amy pushed herself to her feet and made her way to the little sink under the stairs and started washing. "Who are you?"

"Master named me Emerald, but everyone just calls me Emmy." Emmy offered Amy a bright smile.   "Now then, Master is going to come down and offer you his collar, he's very particular about his slaves accepting the collar of their own free will, if you won't, then he'll have to train you the hard way." She bustled around the room, folding Amy's blankets and stowing them back under the counter, wiping up seemingly invisible dirt and generally tidying the room.

"Master?" Amy echoed groggily as she scrubbed her armpits.

"Yes, you know, the large black man that spent a good portion of his time down here with you last night, trying to help you adjust to your new life. Oh, and I recommend you take the collar immediately rather than doing it the hard way, or you'll wind up with more than a sore backside."

Amy huffed indignantly, then started scrubbing her breasts.  Her sleepiness was starting to wear off now, and all the revelations of the previous day were coming back to her. Somehow, in the light of a new day (that being a figurative term as there were no windows in this tiny room), things didn't seem so bad, though. "I'm surprised he's even giving me a choice."

"Now don't be bad-mouthing him, you couldn't have a better master if you'd chosen yourself."  Emmy was dressed in a peach-colored knee-length skirt with a matching blouse, and though she appeared to be in her fifties, age had not diminished her loveliness. Her snow white hair was pulled into a neat bun, and her face was tastefully made up to bring out her brilliant green eyes. It was clear that in her youth, Emmy had been a real beauty.  Demonstrating the efficiency that kept her still valuable to her master, Emmy pulled a comb from her pocket and began working a month's worth of tangles from Amy's hair.

Though she winced and occasionally gasped as her hair was ruthlessly put in order, Amy stood did not protest. In truth, Emmy reminded Amy of her biological grandmother in many ways, right up to the slightly gruff manner hiding an obviously kind heart.

Through a hint of an Irish brogue, Emmy explained the procedure to Amy, "Once you're cleaned up and ready, you're to kneel in the middle of the room and wait quietly for him to arrive.  I'll stay here until he arrives, then you're on your own.  He'll make a little speech and offer you a silver collar, if you accept it, you're to take it from his hands and put around your neck yourself. If-"

"Wait, a collar as in a dog collar?" Amy spun around in shock.

Firmly, Emmy turned Amy back towards the sink and continued combing her hair, "yes, it's similar a dog collar.  And don't interupt, it's rude!"

"Sorry..." Amy murmured as her heart sank and the true reality of her situation sank in.  She was a slave.  There seemed to be no escape from this life that had been thrust upon her, and all her dreams of a life of her own were gone like so much mist on a windy day.

Ignoring her sudden melancholy, Emmy tied Amy's baby-fine blonde hair back in a long braid, then examined her for any lingering dirt.

"Alright, you look ready, lass.  Now, kneel in the middle of the room there, good.  I'll signal the Master that you're ready for him."  Emmy bustled across the room and rapped twice on the door, then came back to stand behind Amy.  "It's really not so bad, I've been Master's slave for 50 years, since I was 19, and though he doesn't keep me as a pleasure slave anymore I wouldn't change a moment of my life.  You have a good, long, purpose-filled life ahead of you, child.  Don't worry."

Amy nodded quietly, tears forming in her eyes as the door slowly swung open and Mr. Johnson entered carrying an ornate wooden box in his hands, followed by two muscular men dressed in flowing white caftans.

Jogging up the stairs with surprising ease for a woman of her age, Emmy stopped long enough to press an affectionate kiss on Mr. Johnson's cheek, then disappeared out of sight.

"Amy, henceforth known as Fucktoy, you are today being offered my collar.  It is an honor bestowed only upon a select few. Do you accept?"  He opened the case and revealed a plain, silver collar with "Fucktoy" inscribed on the front and held it out towards her.

Amy looked at the collar, then up into his eyes, unsure of what she should do. Biting her lip, she thought hard, mulling  over all the possibilities and finally decided she had to be true to herself.  "I do not."  She replied, her voice wavering slightly as he snapped the case shut and stepped back.  "I want to go home.  Look, if you just let me go, I won't tell anyone, I'll be quiet, I'll mmph!" 

Amy's voice was abruptly cut off as the men on either side of Mr. Johnson stepped forward and shoved a ball gag into her mouth without a moment's warning. Her arms were grabbed from either side and twisted roughly behind her back, causing her to grunt in pain through the gag.

"That is not an option, Fucktoy."  Mr. Johnson's voice was calm, but tinged with sadness.  "You will go to the Farm, a reeducation center nearby, where you will be trained to behave as a proper slave. I'm sorry you chose this path, but the choice has been made and there is no turning back now."

Turning around, he tucked the wooden case under his arm and walked up the stairs.  "Gentlemen, you all know the rules, do what you have to do." 

The men nodded at him, then held Amy still while two others joined them, one carrying what appeared to be a pile of leather straps, the other something resembling the plastic pet carriers used on planes.

Between the four of them, they pinned Amy onto her stomach and began putting the leather straps in place, all without a word.

As her arms were were strapped tightly together behind her, fingers to elbow, Amy watched the door close quietly behind Mr. Johnson, wondering why his obvious disappointment made her feel so guilty.

Once her arms were strapped firmly into place, one of the men kept Amy pinned down on the ground by pressing his knees onto her shoulders and his hands on her bare ass. Her legs were grabbed by one man each and bent so her heel was almost pressed against her bare ass, and the remaining man wound a leather strap around her ankle and thigh, she they were firmly pinned that way.

The men worked so quickly and in such perfect harmony with each other, all without speaking a word, there was really no opportunity for Amy to struggle.  Once her arms and legs were bound tightly, there was little she could do except twist a little, and all that did was earn her a sharp twist of one nipple.

Tears burning at the searing pan from the twisted nipple and the ache of the brand, Amy lost sight of what was going on for a moment. When her vision cleared, a leather harness had been buckled around her torso.  It consisted of a long strap running down the center of her body, right over her pubic mound and between her thighs, handily covering her cunt. The vertical strap was bisected horizontally with four other straps, one over her breasts, one under, one over her belly button and one over her hips that just so happened to rub her already sore brand, forcing her to hold as still as possible to keep from irritating the still-healing flesh.

Finally, a black leather collar with a silver dog tag dangling from it was buckled around her neck and the ball gag was attached to it, forcing her to keep her head tilted back at a distinctly uncomfortable angle.

Now firmly trussed to the point where she could barely move an inch, and feeling rather like a piece of meat, Amy watched as the top of the pet carrier was lifted off and set aside. 

The four men hoisted her inside the bottom half by each grabbing a random strap on the harness, then setting her down on her knees.  The leather straps forced her to kneel bent over at the waist with her head pulled back so she could see out the front metal door of the carrier while her full breasts pressed into her knees. 

As tears trickled down the helpless girl's cheeks, the top of the carrier was returned and bolted in place, then a lock placed on the metal door, making escape from the carrier virtually impossible, even if she could somehow manage to squirm out of the straps holding her in position. The carrier was hefted up to the shoulders of the four men and carried out of the room, reminding Amy of the pallbearers at her parents' funeral years ago. 

Amy watched through the cage door as they passed through a series of large, airy rooms, including a set of rooms apparently dedicated to Mr. Johnson's harem of pleasure slaves, all of them richly curvaceous and glowing with health, lounging naked or almost naked around the room while they chatted idly, played in the clear water of several fountains or simply munched on fresh fruit.

This was done, obviously, to show her exactly what she had just given up.

Amy sobbed pitifully, snot and drool running down her chin, as the carrier was taken outside and strapped into the back of a pickup truck. The truck was put into gear and headed down the road, forcing Amy to squeeze her eyes shut as dirt and dust flew up from the road beneath the tires.  Though she couldn't see him, she knew one of the men was behind the carrier, making sure it didn't fly off the bed of the truck on the various sharp turns and curves the driver negotiated at speeds that would have made a NASCAR driver nervous. The sun above was hotter than Amy had ever known possible, and she felt the beginnings of a nasty sunburn on the parts of her fair skin that the sun could reach through the ventilation holes in the top of the carrier.

The truck came to an abrupt stop, then turned around and backed up so that Amy was facing the exact direction the driver had just been facing.  All she could see was a hilltop dotted with grass and a few shrubs. At the top was a small platform with a crying girl being dragged atop it.

The man sitting in the bed of the truck scooted up so he sat beside the carrier, then spoke in fluent English accented with a hint of the Middle East.  "This is an official snuffing. This girl was at the Farm for six months and never did accept her training. If you do not give in in that time, you will share her fate."

Amy was forced to watch in silent, wide-eyed horror as the naked girl was forced to her knees on the platform.  All around her, Amy could hear feminine sobbing and occasionally she saw a flash of bare flesh, and she realized that there were many women at the Farm, all of them being trained to be pleasure slaves, and all being forced to witness this cruel execution.  Though she could not see it, some of the women were new like she was and bound in the same position, trapped in carriers on the back of pickup trucks or the trunks of cars.  Others simply stood calmly on leashes, watching as their sister in slavery faced her ultimate fate.

All were marked with various tattoos and piercings, and none had any hair below their eyebrows - some did not have any above, either.

The girl on the platform was pushed so her shoulders and chest were pressed to the platform, her head dangling over the edge, her ass high in the air. Several men clad only in the loose, flowing robes Amy associated with Arab nomads held the girl in this position while one stood behind the girl bearing a long metal pole with a point at one end.

Calmly, the man slid the pole into the wide-open, vulnerable sex of his quivering victim and made a few adjustments for alignment, all while the girl flexed her muscles uselessly and begged for another chance.

Ignoring her cries, the man with the pole gave it a sudden shove and almost all of the pole disappeared into the girls cunt, the end reappearing out her mouth along with a splash of blood and saliva, leaving her helplessly impaled.

Flipping her on her back with her head still hanging over the edge of the platform, and her arms and legs flailing helplessly, one of the men made a quick incision in her vulnerable throat and inserted a tracheotomy, enabling her to breathe, thus prolonging her death.

She was then brought to her feet and the pole locked in a vertical position, forcing the girl upright with her head tilted back, eyes to the sky.

Amy looked in horror at the sight, a young woman standing on her own two legs, impaled on a pole from her cunt to her mouth. The snuff victim was unbound, and theoretically she could have pushed herself up off the top of the pole; however, in reality, it was quite impossible. Shock from the sudden impalement made her weak, and the pole kept her from movign around enough to escape. Nonetheless, her arms were over her head, hands gripping the pole over her face as she tried to pull herself up and free of it.

Impalement was one of the slowest forms of snuffing, and the method of choice at the farm.  The metal pole did not harm any vital organs, instead pushing them aside as it followed the victim's spine up past the diaphragm, then sliding into the esophogus and the mouth.  Providing the victim was able to breathe, she would stand there for days, unable to escape, until she was either killed by a wild animal or died of dehydration and exposure.

Amy bore silent witness as the girl clutched at the pole, then waved her arms in the air, struggling helplessly, blood trickling down her thighs and cheeks.

The truck pulled away as the crowd dispersed, and Amy watched the helpless victim fade into the distance, still struggling helplessly against the pole holding her in place. 

As soon as the the crowd was gone and the girl was alone, a group of wild dogs appeared, seemingly from nowhere, and began to circle the platform.  Occasionally, one would get brave and dart forward, nipping at the tender flesh spread out before them.

The girl kicked out each time, sometimes connecting, sometimes missing, always keeping the dogs at bay despite her inability to see them.  Finally, as the sun set and the moon rose, hunger overwhelmed the animals and they began to ignore her kicks.  The biggest dog of the pack lunged in and sunk his teeth into her thigh, mere inches from her naked sex growling as he ripped out large chunk of her tender flesh. Unable to scream, the girl flailed helplessly as the rest of the dogs leapt on her, their combined weight snapping the pole at the base and slamming her down flat on her back while flesh was cruelly ripped from her still living body.  Ferociously, she fought back, her arms and legs swinging around madly as she tried to squirm off the pole.  The pack was too strong for her, though. It didn't lake long for her struggles to slow, and then cease. Her eyes closed forever as the largest dog grabbed her arm by the wrist and yanked it forcefully from her body.

When the pack dispersed, there was nothing left but her head still impaled upon the pole and a few bloody, mangled bones.

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.

Amy was lost in a pleasantly erotic dream when she was rudely awakened by Tattoo-guy dumping a bucket of ice cold water over her prone body.  She jerked awake, groaning as her various aches and pains awakened with her.

Rolling over, Amy looked up at Tattoo-guy silhouetted in the doorway, blinking at the bright light from the room beyond.

"Time to get up, Fucktoy." He said, leaning forward and pressing his thumb to the lock on her collar.  The high-tech lock sprung open and Tattoo-guy tossed the collar aside, then dragged her out of the cell by one arm.  Amy stumbled behind him, groggy and disoriented.

Tattoo-guy released her arm and while she rubbed her face in confusion, he bend over and snapped a leather cuff around her ankle.

Amy looked up at him in confusion, tugging on the short length of chain with her leg, then sighed in resignation and folded her arms defensively over her bruised and swollen breasts.

Tattoo-guy thrust a bowl of oatmeal in her hands, "Eat." She complied, her stomach growling as the now-familiar scent reached her nostrils.  She gobbled it down using her fingers, completely ignoring basic etiquette and manners.  Emily Post would be horrified, she thought absently as she licked the bowl clean.

When she was finished, Tattoo-guy took the bowl and used a rough cloth to wash her face and hands, as though she were a child incapable of doing it for herself.  Amy did not protest, seeing the futility in such a gesture. After he finished, Amy reached up and tossed her long hair behind her back.  It had been quite awhile since it had been washed, and she disliked the feeling of the dirty hair on her skin.  While she was preoccupied with this gesture, Tattoo-guy kicked her behind her knees, causing them to buckle and Amy to fall gracelessly, landing with a thud on her kneecaps. She winced and rubbed them, adjusting her position, but did not get up.  After yesterday's caning, she had decided to simply obey until she could come up with an escape plan.  She figured it would probably be easier to escape from Mr. Johnson's house than this place, so she would try to trick them into thinking she was a trained slave, and hope she would be returned to Mr. Johnson, not sold to someone else...or worse.

Footsteps echoed in the room, signalling the arrival of another tormenter.  Amy shifted her position a bit more, then straightened her back and folded her hands neatly on her thighs and looked up at the new arrival.

Sir stood in front of her holding a whip in his hands.  It was basically a wooden handle, worn smooth and shiny, with a metal ring at one end; attached to the metal ring were half a dozen wide leather straps.  Beyond that, the implement was unadorned.

"This is a slave whip, Fucktoy." Sir's voice was calm and authoritative, and he offered nothing by way of a greeting.  Amy figured that slaves did not typically merit a proper greeting.

"You will receive much information today on the way a slave should behave.  These are instructions you will not receive again, so pay attention.  If you forget anything I tell you from here on out," Sir waved the whip in the air in front of Amy's face, "This will be your punishment. Understand?"

Crossing her arms in front of her breasts in a defensive pose, Amy nodded silently. 

"Good, lesson one: When you are spoken to by a man, you reply 'yes Sir' or 'no Sir.'  If it is your master, then 'yes Master' or 'no Master.'  All women who are not slaves are referred to as 'ma'am' unless you are told otherwise.  Understand so far?"

Amy nodded again.

"Apparently not, because I didn't hear anything."

Tattoo-guy pushed Amy abruptly forward so her face was on the ground, since she was on her knees, this put her ass right up in the air, and with her arms crossed over her chest, she didn't have a chance to slow her fall, so her cheek hit the tile with a loud smack.

"This position, Fucktoy, is called the slave's kiss, and is one of several traditional positions of punishment.  When you think you are about to be punished, you should assume this position as quickly as possible."

"Yes Sir," Amy replied, though her words were muffled by the cold tile floor and garbled by whimpers of pain and humiliation.  With her ass up like this, her privates were put on vivid display, not to mention the vulnerability of her ass, already sore from whippings and a brand.

Sir gave each luscious globe four strikes with the slave whip, and Amy cried out every time the leather made contact with her flesh. She had no way of knowing that this punishment was light, and that far worse was to come.

After the whipping, Tattoo-guy pulled her back up into a kneeling position by her hair.  Tears streaked her pale cheeks and her nose was red from crying.

"Now, do you understand, Fucktoy?"

Amy sobbed out loud, but managed to say, "Yes Sir."

"Good girl. Now, let's continue."

The lessons went on for hours, Sir and Tattoo-guy instructing Amy on the different positions she should stand, sit, kneel and even sleep in.  She learned that every motion she made should be beautiful, for she was to become a living work of art.  A thing of beauty to be admired and used by men as they pleased.  Every time she didn't respond to a command or instruction with a prompt "yes sir" she was flogged, and by the end of the session, Amy was completely exhausted and her ass glowed a brilliant red, especially around the still-healing brand.

"That's it for now, Fucktoy.  Make sure you thank me properly for teaching you how to be a proper slave," Sir said calmly, standing a few feet away and absently toying with the whip.

With a defeated sigh, Amy put her hands on the floor and crawled over towards Sir, then forced herself to press a kiss to his shoe, "Thank you, Sir, for training a poor, stupid slave-girl how she should act."

"Good girl. I'd say you have earned your supper tonight." Sir gestured to Tattoo-guy, who went over to a microwave on the counter and warmed up yet another bowl of nourishing oatmeal.

When Tattoo-guy set the bowl in front of her, Amy kissed his foot and thanked him without having to be told, then ate the meal as she'd been instructed.  Kneeling on the floor, she held the bowl in both hands, and drank the oatmeal from the edge, making the action as beautiful as possible.  None of the gobbling she'd succumbed to earlier.

"Good girl!  Now, you may rest." Sir set the whip aside and actually petted her on the head like she was a dog.

"Thank you, Sir."  Amy replied, too tired and sore to make even a token protest.

Tattoo-guy freed her ankle, led her to her cell, locked the collar around her neck and shut the door behind him, leaving Amy once again alone in the dark.

Her blanket was still damp from it's earlier soaking, but Amy didn't mind.  Frankly, the cool, wet fabric felt fabulous against the fiery pain in her buttocks.  Curling up in the soggy material, Amy dropped off to sleep almost immediately.

When she awoke, Amy had a throbbing headache.  Sitting up, she gingerly took stock of her various injuries. She had a nasty-looking bruise on her cheekbone, but it didn't really pain her.  The rest of her body was covered in welts from the caning and vigorous application of the slave whip.  The brand was healing well, though, and didn't really bother her much anymore.

Gathering her courage, Amy pushed herself up off the floor, grabbing the sink for balance.  After making good use of the toilet, Amy used the bar of soap and wash cloth on the sink to wash up from head to toe, even lathering her hair, then folded her sheet neatly and sat down on it beneath the sink.

Feeling clean and refreshed, Amy began to contemplate the events of the previous day while she finger-combed her hair into some semblance of order.

She'd been taught so much, she wasn't sure if she could remember it all. But Amy knew, now, that her very survival depended on her complete obedience.  Sometime between the lost argument with Sir during her waxing and the evening's lessons, a wall somewhere inside Amy had crumbled, and she had lost the will to resist these men.

They were all bigger and stronger than she, and it had been clearly demonstrated to her that they could end her life at any moment, should they deem it appropriate.

No, until she could formulate an escape plan, it was better to just go with the flow, and pray she could keep her sanity.

With her hair straightened, she braided it so it would be out of the way for the day's humiliations.  There was really no point in doing otherwise.  Amy didn't have anything to tie the end with, so she left it loose and hoped for the best.

Though the cell had thick walls and had originally seemed soundproofed, but Amy was beginning to be able to detect when people were in the room outside. The floor would subtly vibrate with footsteps, and Amy felt those vibrations now, gradually growing stronger.  Instinctively, Amy moved into the corner farthest from the door and watched apprehensively.

She didn't have long to wait, Tattoo-guy opened the door and made the hand signal for Amy to kneel in front of him.

Quickly, though something inside her still protested loudly, Amy did so.  She knelt before Tattoo-guy with her back straight, eyes to the floor submissively, knees properly spread and her hands clasped behind her back.

With a small sound of approvaly, Tattoo-guy unlocked the collar. "Come." 

It was a firm order, and Amy obeyed, crawling behind him on her hands and knees.

She was lead to a pair of stools, one low to the ground, the other up higher.  They were of such a height that the person on the lower stool would have their face in the crotch of the person on the higher stool

Amy hesitated, filled with apprehension when she remembered Tattoo-guy's promise of the previous day.  Was she to begin this sexual training so soon?  She'd hoped to come up with an escape plan before then!

However, Tattoo-guy grabbed Amy firmly about the waist and plopped her down on the higher stool.  He pushed her knees so they spread wide, then strapped her ankles to either side of the stool, making it impossible for Amy to close her knees and protect her suddenly vulnerable sex.  Without her pubic hair, she felt even more naked, and she whimpered in fear.

Ignoring her, Tattoo-guy grabbed Amy's wrists, holding them firmly in one hand while he cuffed them together in a single leather strap with the other.  He then attached the strap to a metal hook hanging from the ceiling and flicked a switch that slowly shortened the chain until Amy's body was stretched taut.  Finally, he attached a soft leather belt around her waist, making sure it was very snug.  The belt had two long chains coming from either side, and those were pulled down, so her butt was firmly seated on the stool, and locked to the floor.  After making a few adjustments, Amy was firmly strapped to the stool, her breasts and pussy bare and vulnerable. Groaning in frustration and fear, she could only watch as Tattoo-guy wheeled over a small tray that held a variety of needles and machinery.

Sitting himself on the lower stool in front of her, Tattoo-guy began to clean Amy's tender sex with several alcohol swabs.  As he worked, he talked.  "This shouldn't be as painful as I can already tell you're thinking it will be.  But, if you want to scream go for it, there's no one else here right now.  I prefer to work alone, you know.  If you get too loud, I'll just turn on the radio."

He gave Amy an almost charming grin while pulling on a pair of latex gloves, then began sorting through the sterile needles on the tray.  Selecting one, he bent over so his face was between her wide spread thighs.  His warm breath on her most sensitive skin caused a most embarrassing reaction on Amy's part, and her cheeks turned bright red as moisture began to accumulate on the stool beneath her sex.

Tattoo-guy began to gently probe Amy's pussy, moving it this way and that, then he grabbed her clit firmly between his thumb and forefinger, and Amy squealed as he suddenly punched the needle right through. The squeal, though, had been more of surprise than pain, because Tattoo-guy had been right.  It really hadn't been all that painful, not compared to the caning she'd gotten the previous morning.

"See?  Not so bad, now keep keep still, quit clenching your muscles so I can do this properly."

Amy did her best to comply, wincing when he pushed a metal bar through the fresh wound. After screwing the balls on either end, Tattoo-guy leaned back to survey his work, smiling in approval. The whole operation took only a few minutes, and the pain was minimal. He clearly knew what he was doing.

Stripping off the latex gloves, he put on a pair of fresh ones and began swabbing Amy's nipples.

"Please...no..."  Amy whispered, watching helplessly as he selected two slightly larger needles and stood up so he could see better.

Tattoo-guy didn't comment, he had after all given her permission to make noise.  Pinching the nipple on her right breast between his thumb and forefinger, he rolled it gently back and forth, causing it to shrivel into a hard little knot. 

More fluid collected on the stool between Amy's thighs, and she tried to squirm free so she could close her legs.

She was so tightly restrained, Amy's struggles only amounted to some tensed muscles, and Tattoo-guy ignored her as he calmly jabbed the needle right through her nipple.

Amy gasped but it didn't really hurt all that badly.  Just a little prick, a pulling sensation as he slid the ring in, and it was over.  No blood whatsoever.

He repeated the procedure on the other side, and her clit and nipples now decorated with pretty silver jewels, Tattoo-guy again stripped off his gloves.

This time, he picked up a marker from the tray and began to draw a design around her thighs.  It was two simple bands made up of feminine lines and curves that went all the way around her thighs midway between her sex and her knees. Amy studied the design on her thighs, then raised her eyes to Tattoo-guy.  "What are you doing?"

He gave her freshly pierced nipple a vicious twist and Amy shrieked.  "What do you call a man who is not your master?"

Sobbing at the pain that lanced through her chest, Amy corrected herself. "I'm sorry, Sir.  What are you doing, Sir?"

Nodding in satisfaction, he returned to his artwork.  "I'm designing your tattoos."

"Tattoos?" Amy echoed, half in fascination, half in horror.

"Yes, tattoos.  All slaves have tattoos."

Moving around her back, he drew another design on her ass, opposite the brand. Moving up higher, he drew another, much larger design between her shoulder blades, then drew bands around her upper arms that matched the ones around her thighs.

On her back he'd designed a round, stained glass window.  In it was her master's name, the name of this training facility, the tattoo-artist and the men who were responsible for training her - a sort of advertisement for their services. Most training facilities did this, some tattoos were large, some were small.  Amy's was about six inches wide, average for an expensive pleasure slave.

The little drawing on her lower back had been requested by  Mr. Johnson, a kitten stretching with it's front paws way out in front, tail and butt high in the air.  The design was used to signify her slave-name, common for pleasure slaves, not to mention it was an artistic representation of the feline version of the posture of punishment.

Other tattoos would follow, on her arms and shoulders, probably her stomach and lower back, these used by her master to keep a record of her service, both the bad deeds and the good would be written on her skin for all to see. Slaves do not have secrets.

Having finished his design work, Tattoo-guy released Amy from the chains and stool, then led her by the hand to a padded table nearby. "Lay on your stomach," he instructed.

Obediently, for disobedience would mean more pain, Amy climbed on the table and settled onto her stomach, her head pillowed on her arms, thighs pressed together.

"Comfortable?"  He asked, running a hand along the silky soft skin above the back of her knee.

"Yes sir."  Amy replied quietly, burying her face in her arms and fighting the urge to slap that unwanted hand away from her body.

"Good, you're going to be in this position for awhile."

Tattoo-guy tugged Amy's arms out from under her head, then cuffed them to the table beside her body, so she lay in the position that is commonly used for back massages.  He lay a pillow beneath her cheek so her neck would not strain, then cuffed her ankles to the table.  Finally, to keep her from squirming too much, he secured a strap over her neck, one over her waist, and two over her legs.

Tattoo-guy prepared his equipment efficiently before starting first on the kitten tattoo.  "I'm going to start now, Fucktoy, so be prepared, it will sting a little.  Try not to jerk your muscles around or you'll ruin the design."

Amy bit her lip and steeled herself.

Tattoo-guy watched every muscle in her body tense up and rolled his eyes.  Instead of pressing the needle to her ass, he gave it a sharp slap and her muscles jerked, then relaxed in response.  "Just relax, the more still you are, the better it will look and the sooner it will be done."

"yes sir."  Amy replied meekly, all the while seething inside.

The tattoos on her back took hours.  The one of the kitten was quick, about half an hour total, and it really didnt' hurt all that badly. The large one between her shoulder blades, however, made her groan and bite the pillow as Tattoo-guy mercilessly traced his design.  Once he had outlined everything in black, he took a break and had a snack, resting his tired arms and eyes. 

Amy could smell his heated up soup and the sandwich, and her stomach growled, reminding her she had not eaten since that morning.

Tattoo-guy ignored her completely while he ate, then unstrapped her and led her by the hand back to her cell.  "Thank me for making you more beautiful, Fucktoy." He ordered.

Amy squeezed her eyes shut, biting her lip and took a deep breath.  "Thank you Sir, for making me a more beautiful slave."  She said, her tone and posture completely that of an obedient slave.

"You're not showing me your gratitude."  He commented.

Amy immediately dropped to her hands and knees and kissed the toe of his dirty shoe, then assumed the position of a slave, kneeling with her hands clasped behind her back, thighs spread, back straight, eyes to the ground.

"Good girl, you're starting to remember.  And you were pretty good for all the piercings and tattoo work today, so I think you've earned a little treat." 

On the floor in front of Amy he set a bowl with several carrot sticks, a couple slices of cheese, a couple of apple slices, two rolled up slices of turkey and a peppermint candy.  Beside it he set a small glass of water.

For days now, Amy had eaten only oatmeal twice a day, and those fresh fruits and vegetables looked so delicious, she almost dug in right away.  Instead, she leaned over the plate and glass, careful not to disturb them, and again kissed Tattoo-guy's shoe.  "Thank you Sir."

"Eat so I can put you away and go take my nap."

Amy thanked him again, then dug in, taking care to make every bite beautiful, chewing everything thoroughly.

When she was done, she drank the water, then handed Tattoo-guy the empty dishes, thanking him again.

"Remember this, Fucktoy.  Bad behaviour is punished, but good behaviour is rewarded.  Now, go on in and get some rest."

As the days stretched into a week they became almost routine. Every morning, Tattoo-guy would come and fetch her.  First, she ate a bowl of oatmeal, then she brushed her teeth and showered, all under his supervision, of course.  Once she was finished, he would inspect her for cleanliness, then he would begin to work on her tattoos. 

Painstakingly he colored in the circular tattoo between her shoulder blades until it resembled the Rose Window at Notre Dame cathedral.  Then he moved on to the designs around her arms and thighs. It took the entire week, working four or five hours at a time, for him to complete original designs.

Amy grew used to the burning sensation of the tattoo equipment, and held still without having to be strapped down by the end of the first week. Most of the time, anyways.

After he was done working on her tattoos for the day, he would give her a treat if she had behaved, or her regular oatmeal if she was naughty, then she went in her cell to rest for a few hours.  Amy quickly caught on that Tattoo-guy was easy to please, and simply holding still and not making too much noise while he worked was usually enough to earn her a treat.  There was only one day that she did not earn a treat, when Tattoo-guy was working on the band around her right leg and hit a fresh welt.  Though she had tried desperately to hold still, her muscles bunched and her entire leg jerked, leaving a long line that Tattoo-guy had had to work into his design on both legs and earning her a flogging.

After an afternoon nap, Tattoo-guy again fetched her and she was put through her paces, learning all the postures and positions.  There was a great deal of etiqette involved in being a slave, and it took awhile to learn and remember everything she needed to know.

After several hours of training under Sir, Amy was given another bowl of oatmeal, then it was in her cell to sleep for the night.

Though she strove to obey to avoid any more floggings, occasionally she would not obey quickly enough or not adopt a posture properly and earn a stripe or two from the whip.

As the week progressed, though, she received fewer and fewer floggings.

Amy counted ten days since she had arrived, though she wasn't sure how accurate that was, since there were no windows, no day or night. 

She was even beginning to think of herself as "Fucktoy," not Amy.  Her mind was now divided, half finding a strange contentment in submission, the other half, the half that was still Amy from America, the foster child and student nurse, rebelled constantly.  That voice, that had been so loud when she first arrived, was growing quieter by the day, though.

Amy/Fucktoy's life had become wonderfully simple and she was finding less and less to hate about it.  No longer did she find crawling on the floor or kissing shoes degrading, it was simply part of her life now.  Something that was proper and kept her ass welt-free.  And, Amy/Fucktoy found a great deal of joy in making every motion she made beautiful.  It made her feel deeply feminine, more like a woman than anything ever had.

No longer did she mourn the children she would never have, the nurse she would never become or the plans she had made for her life.  No longer did Amy/Fucktoy dream of escaping slavery, though she did still dream of escaping this place of training.  Now her dreams centered around that halcyon room she had seen through the bars of a pet carrier where those beautiful women had lounged and around an enormous black man before whose feet she found herself longing to kneel and accept his collar.