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A leather bound journal lies on a desk……
I know that
quite a few people think that I have an easy life but I’m just going to say
that I’ve worked for this and I sure aim to take every advantage of the
opportunity. Anyway it’s not all that
it’s cracked up to be. And just think about the risks, will you? Being the
girlfriend of a criminal master mind has got its down sides too, you know.
It was a
real shock when I found out that’s what I was, let me tell you. I’d been
brought up to be a law abiding girl. Nice. Polite. My parents had a strict
moral code. Stay inside the law, daddy taught me. Well apart from speeding
tickets and parking fines and skidding around the tax system and, well, all
those little, sort of don’t-quite-count laws that seem just to be in the way
when you run your own business. And mummy was very clear that nice girls are
there to be good, supportive, wives and it just wasn’t nice to ask your man
about what he got up to when you weren’t around. Nor was it nice to cause your
man unnecessary stress by letting him find out what you were up to when he
wasn’t around. She was very pleased when I hooked up with the boyfriend and she
didn’t even mind too much when we told her we weren’t going to get married just
yet. “So modern,” she’d said.
My
boyfriend seemed a fine, upstanding, fellow. He was well respected at the local
country club (we met at one of those unbelievably tedious dinners that daddy
used to drag me along to so I’d meet the “right” people), a pillar of the local
business community (though in just what line of business I was never very
clear), and an all round good sort with a rather preppy dress sense and a
closet full of neckties that looked as if they lived a life of debauchery all
on their own.
He thought
I was cute, he said. He liked that I was smart. He liked that I played sports
and had a good bod – I’ve always found it easier to exercise than diet. He was
always pretty keen on my legs and, if I say so myself, they aren’t bad. He
didn’t seem worried that I don’t have too much at the front but I make the best
of what there is. He’s always been very flattering about how I look; paid me compliments
in front of his friends, stuff like that.
And, I
mean, he was nice and everything but maybe a bit dull. Well - too much talk
about business, I thought. But Daddy liked him and at least he was clean and he
had the money to keep me amused. Like there was this rather nice yacht which
let me work on my tan in the summer with this rather nice speedboat that meant
I could water-ski when I wanted. And there was the rather nice jet that let me
get up to Aspen for the skiing in the winter. And the rather nice cabin while I
was up there.
So it was
quite a disappointment at first when I found out there was another girl in his
life. Well, quite a lot of girls actually.
I’d had
suspicions for a while. The odd blonde hair on the jacket. The occasional, “sorry
honey I can’t get home tonight after all”. But, hey, as long as he was
discreet, didn’t catch anything and he came back suitably grateful plus my
allowance got paid and he didn’t ask too much about what I was up to. Well, why
should I worry?
He’d always
been a bit vague about what his company did. Import and export he said.
Livestock. The only thing was he never said what it was he was importing and
exporting, and just how lively the livestock could be.
I never did
work out why he decided to tell me. I mean, I’m not curious and I was quite
happy enjoying the lifestyle. Still for some folk they say that confession is
good for the soul. I guess that included him.
“Honey,” he
says, “I’ve got something to tell you.”
Well at
this point I’m thinking he’s about to own up to the fact that he’s gay (in
spite of the fact that we’d been at it like rabbits); or he’s suffering from
some sinister and incurable disease; or, worse than that, he’s suddenly caught
poverty.
“It’s about
the business,” he says.
Now I’m
certain he’s broke. But as it turns out, no. Quite the reverse in fact. There’s
plenty of cash coming in, he says. But he wants to tell me is where it comes
from. In case anything should happen to him. So, I’m back thinking it’s the
incurable disease after all. But no, it’s just that his business isn’t quite
legitimate and that always has its risks, he says. So what’s not legitimate about livestock, I
says and that’s when he explains that the livestock involved is female, and
human, and none too willing.
I’m pretty
angry. I mean not about what he’s doing – I scarcely believe that any way. Well
who believes that sort of thing goes on for real? And anyway there’s plenty of
worse stuff that goes on. Isn’t there? No mainly I’m mad at him for not telling
me and keeping it a secret. Somehow just what the secret was gets forgotten in
the shouting and tears.
So then he
gives me his bashful little boy look and I can’t stay mad at him. And he says
I’m sweet and how could he have ever thought I’d mind and hey, look at what
I’ve brought you.
That’s when
he clapped his hands and my very first slave girl appeared.
Like I said
he clapped his hands and this very well built guy (no offence to boyfriend but
muscles aren’t really his thing) comes in with a naked girl over his shoulder.
Hunky guy puts girl down on the ground in front of me. Nods to boyfriend and
disappears.
Now nobody
teaches you how to deal with this; which I guess is not surprising. If I’d been
born the daughter of a plantation owner in Deep South the 1800’s, I suppose I’d
have known all about it by the time I was grown. But what with slavery being
(a) illegal and (b) not really the done thing in polite society, what chance
was there that I’d have any idea of how to deal with what lover boy presented
me with? I mean after “Beulah, peel me a grape,” what do you say to them?
So there
she is on the floor and she’s like wrapped up in rope with the stuff around her
wrists and her ankles and her arms and her knees and her body. And she’s
obviously not happy with what’s happened to her from the way she’s trying to
wriggle around. But she can’t make much noise ‘cos there are strips of sticky
tape across her mouth. I had a boyfriend once who was into this stuff and we
tried it. I wasn’t keen. Like it hurt for a start and it took so long to do.
(He was real picky about getting all the knots just right.) And then it took so
long to undo when he was finished and I just got bored. I guessed though that
the complaints that my present was making weren’t really because she had
reservations about this as a new form of sexual experience.
The
boyfriend says, “What do you think?”
Mainly what
I think is, “This is too weird for words.” What I say is, “What do I do with
her?”
“That’s the
great thing,” says the boyfriend with the biggest grin you could imagine.
“She’s a slave. You can do anything you want. Look at her collar.”
Well, I
look at her collar and it’s got my name on it, so I guess that makes it
official. Still, I’m confused, but of course, I’m quite relieved that boyfriend
hasn’t got the plague or anything worse (like poverty). I like to think I can
adapt to new situations so I guess, I’ll go with it.
Still, like
I say, nobody teaches you how to deal with this. Nobody tells you how
reasonable or unreasonable to be, how much punishment they need, how much you
should let them get away with. So I really didn’t know what I was supposed to
do and I was worried that I’d do something to embarrass the boyfriend. Even
then I knew enough about the criminal world to know that you don’t piss off the
guys in charge.
I thought
about getting the inside track from one of his customers. I mean, I guess his
clients had plenty of experience but I couldn’t see that he’d want to wheel me
out to one of them saying, “Hey, here’s my girlfriend, she knows diddly squat
about all this, why don’t you fill her in on how to look after her first
slave.” Oh no, he wanted me to make like I’m an old hand at this. “Got to keep
up appearances for the sake of the business,” he says.
So I sort
of had to work it out for myself. Had to find out how to keep them in order.
How to make sure they behave. How to make sure they don’t go wandering off and
how to make sure they keep fit enough to go on doing whatever it is you want
them to do. There aren’t any books – well none that are any use. There’s plenty
of fantasy out there about how to treat your slaves but none of it seemed to
relate to the problems of having them around twenty four hours a day, totally
reliant on you. Besides most of it seemed to involve me spending more time on
managing the slaves than I ever wanted to. My take on this was that a slave’s
there for my convenience and if they’re more trouble than benefit, what’s the
point?
Well, it
took a bit of work and I guess I left a few bruises on some of the girls but,
hey, that’s what they’re there for, like the boyfriend tells me. I guess I’ve
got it sorted out now. It doesn’t take too much effort and there are some real
benefits.
Once I’d
got used to the idea of this whole “lets kidnap women; train ’em to do whatever
we want and sell them” thing and got used to actually managing them, I can tell
you that there is a whole heap of good stuff that comes out of it.
Firstly,
like, I don’t have to do a thing. One finger click and I’ve got pool side
drinks; the place is neat and tidy; my stuff gets cleaned and ironed. I’ve never
been a fan of the whole housework bit and it’s great not to have to bother. I
mean sure we had maids and butlers and things at home but slaves are a whole
lot less trouble once you get the security stuff all sorted out. I mean there’s
no “Gee, can I have the afternoon off ‘cos my boyfriend gets back from his trip
tonight,” and all that. And of course they are really attentive to detail once
they get the idea that zero-defect performance is much kinder to their perky
little butts.
Plus
there’s none of that, “be nice to the staff to keep them motivated” crap. And
no having to make idle chit-chat either – most of the time they’ve got their
mouths filled up with a chunk of rubber or taped over or something. Which also
means they ain’t gonna be gossiping about any of the stuff they see going on
around the place.
I saw the
guard that brought my first slave in the other day. He really does look fit
and, since boyfriend’s not always around, I get to thinking, “that might be
nice”. I know I can use any of the girls when I like – in fact boyfriend quite
likes it when I do (what a surprise, only him and every other man on the
planet!) - but it’s not the same. Girl on girl sex is a bit too much like going
back to the college dorm, if you ask me. Been there, done that, fumbled around
under the other girl’s tee-shirt.
Getting
back to the slaves – “product” boyfriend calls them. One thing I have found is
that some of the chicks that the boyfriend collects have really great
wardrobes. I reckon that they’re not going to need their stuff any more since
most of their time around here is spent buck naked. So now there’s a standing
instruction for the snatch teams that if the girl is my size they bring in any
clothes they find. ‘Course most of the time the stuff is useless – like the
goons we have around her have any idea of style? But occasionally there’ll be
some designer gear that’s worth hanging on to. Plus sometimes it just pisses
off the poor little victim when they see their best frock on the back of their
captor’s girl. (Maybe I’m getting into this criminal master mind’s girlfriend
bit, after all.)
Take last
week – we’d picked up a hip young lady who’d been quite friendly with a couple
of footballers. They decided she’d be better off somewhere where she wouldn’t
be chatting to the press about their taste in recreational substances so they
ask boyfriend to take her away from her life of care. She came in with a hot
collection. Versace, D&G, Manolo Blanik, Jimmy Choo’s, mwuhh! Plus some
very nice jewellery to go with it. Jack – he’s the rather cute guy that brought
in my first slave girl – had done the pick up and he dropped the stuff off for
me. He said, “Thought you might like these. They’ll look better on you than
they do on her.” And, like I’m thinking, “Whoa, cute and friendly!”
The girl
did not look happy when she saw me there. A couple of the guards had got her to
strip off and, I mean, she’d obviously hoped that would be a chance for her to
exercise a bit of undue influence with the goons – she didn’t understand their
incentive plan, I guess – so she wasn’t keen on the fact that another girl was
there. Then when I picked up the dress and tried it against me, she got real
cross. One of the guards had to hang onto her while I gave her a slap. That
calmed her down enough. I took her necklace and rings at the same time. She was
not happy when we finished, but Jack whispered, “Hey I like how you did that.”
I ended up feeling pretty pleased with myself; most of the time I feel that the
goons give me a sort of mildly amused tolerant attitude. The girl was even less
happy when the goons came back with the straps and the ball gag and took her
underwear off her.
I’m not
real keen on the violence and thuggery but you have to let the girls know who’s
boss. And, well, I need to make the boyfriend look good don’t I? Leastways,
that’s what he says. It’s hardly a good thing if the international slave trader
turns out to have a wimp for his main squeeze, is it? So, I’ve learned how to
handle a whip when I need to and I’ve certainly mastered the whole “Take her
down to the cells!” snarl to the guards which usually has a suitably
intimidating effect on our guests. The boyfriend has got a whole heap of toys
down in the playrooms and I’m starting to get interested in some of them,
especially for one little slut that’s been giving me some trouble. Boyfriend’s
been away on business – something about a big auction somewhere, he said - but
Jack’s been helping me out.
He’s been
great. Not like most of the goons. He seems to actually have a brain for one
thing. I mean some of the kit is really complicated and there’s like straps and
buckles and catches and adjusters and, well, it would have taken me forever to
work it out. But Jack just knows. He sat me down and said, “What are you trying
to do?”
“Make sure,
this little slut has a really uncomfortable evening after what she did to me,”
I said.
And Jack
grinned. He’s got as cute a grin as
boyfriend has. He pulls out this pole with straps at either end and says, “How
about the spreader?” The girl gives a shrug to try to escape his grip but he
just cuffs her. No real force but somehow it puts her off struggling any more.
I nod
enthusiastically. He holds up a leather hood. “And this?” he says and I nod.
So he shows
me how to strap the spreader on her so her legs are really aching and she’s
whimpering quite a bit which is a result already as far I’m concerned. And then
he helps me fit the hood and get it real tight. Then he asks me, “I guess
you’ll want a gag for her? How about this?”
He pulls out
this rubber penis gag. And I say, “Oh yes, put that on her. I’m really going to
enjoy her choking on that.”
So Jack
pushes the gag in her mouth and girly is struggling a bit so I grab hold of her
to make it a bit easier for Jack and his hand brushes against mine as he
fastens the strap.
And that’s
when he says, really casually like, “I sure wish you were sucking on mine like
she’s sucking on that.”
© Freddie Clegg 2007
Not to be reproduced or reposted without permission. All characters and events fictitious.
Email: freddie_clegg@yahoo.com
Find PDF’s of my stories at my web group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/freddies_tales/
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