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vandalsandvagrants · 6 years

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Tom Donovan knelt on the ground beside his owner - technically employer - in one of the public social areas of FanTan Naturists Resort. Tom was an indentured contract laborer - "indent" for short or ICL to the bureaucrats who oversaw the program - contracted for domestic service to the woman who sat in a lounge chair next to him reading a magazine and intermittently petting his belt-length chestnut hair. Stripping away the legalistic tap dancing what it boiled down to was that Tom was her property, legally bound to do anything his Mistress wanted within certain very broad limitations. Since the ICL's technically received payment for their work the system was able to side-step the anti-slavery laws. The indent legislation had passed a few years ago as part of the former administrations attempt to deal with the growing problem of working poor and people who, for whatever reason, suddenly found themselves with more debts than liquid assets to keep apace with them. The fact that it also meant that teenaged kids as young as sixteen frequently found themselves the sexual slaves in all but name of people older than their parents because Mom and Dad defaulted on one loan too many or died up to their hairline in debt was just one unfortunate side affect. Unfortunate for the kids. For middle-aged men and women like the guy currently flogging his naked, barely pubescent concubine and cursing her out every second or third lick of the strap as she hung from a frame a few yards away, it was manna from heaven. Tom's didn't consider his circumstances to be anywhere near as unfortunate as the girl's or God only knew how many of his fellow bond-servants. He was, in fact, one of the few in the system who was there of his own free will. But being unusual was pretty usual for Tom. The whole thing had started a decade or so back. Two girls, fraternal twins, had met a young man in their early twenties and jointly fallen in love with him. The young man in question - Tom - had reciprocated but had expected the kind of sibling drama that typically followed when two sisters both fancied the same guy. What he hadn't counted on was how far from the mainstream way of doing things his loves, Angie and Nicki, were. The twins had always been close. There had been fights over the years but when it came to anything important neither one had a closer or more devout ally than the other. They had also read more Robert A. Heinlein than was probably good for them though it ultimately wound up saving Nicki's ass in a very real and literal sense. After working things out between them the sisters had taken Tom out for dinner and presented him with a very simple proposal; he could date both of them simultaneously or he could hit the road. They loved him but if it came down to a choice between some guy, however sweet and good looking, and the person they had shared a womb with, guess who was going to lose? Tom, not being stupid, had agreed to the arrangement on two conditions. First, within the context of their relationship they were as close to monogamous as three people dating could be. Second, if it ever came time to get married they, not he, would decide whom he walked down the aisle with. Ten years later the trio were still together. A game of rock paper scissors had put Angie's name on a marriage certificate next to Tom's but in the minds of all three there were two wives and one husband at the Donovan residence. Tom had taken the twins' last name for simplicity's sake. The legal prohibition against putting both girls' names on the license was seen as just one more example of governmental stupidity. To be sure, it was an odd little slice of domestic bliss and the target of a certain amount of loud-mouthed jackassery. An amateur comedian at Tom's job had once and asked him which sister he'd screwed the night before to the amusement of several of his friends. "Yours." Came the reply. "Chipped a tooth going down on her too. But at least now we know where that homeless guy left his shopping cart." But for all it's non-standard nature it worked and the little family considered themselves happier than most. Then came the phone calls. And the registered letter on official stationary. And no small amount of dirty laundry and high drama getting aired. Nicki, it seemed had been less than forthcoming about her own personal finances and gotten in further over her head than the family could bail her out of. Their friends were all mostly broke and the twins' entire collection of blood kin had disowned them for their involvement in such an "unnatural" relationship. Tom didn't have any people of his own. He was a former street kid who had somehow managed to avoid prison, serious drug addiction or any of the other pitfalls that threatened teenagers who got sick of the foster care system and took off on their own before they were old enough to drive. A job with a local freight handling company paid well enough to cover his share and a bit more of the household expenses but wasn't anywhere near enough to fill the hole his wife/sister-in-law had dug for herself. So when the screaming stopped and the broken dishes were swept up Tom did what he always did when his family was threatened, he took direct action. When the nice people from the indenturement agency arrived one morning in early May they found Tom waiting for them on the front stoop dressed all in black. A pistol in shoulder leather camped out under one arm while a Remington pump action 12-gauge shotgun rested on his right thigh. As if he weren't heavily armed enough a large combat knife hung handle down from the opposite side of his harness and what looked like the business end of a medieval battle axe peeked out over that same shoulder. "Morning!" Tom said. "Can I help you folks?" The agents stopped about ten feet away and raised the nozzles of their high capacity mace dispensers, the kind riot cops favored for breaking up unruly mobs. "We're here to collect Nicollete Donovan. Please put the gun down and step aside, sir." Tom nodded. "Happy to. Just as soon as we have a little chat." "Sir," the agent on the right said, "we're here to serve a legal writ of indenturement. If you interfere with us in any way you will be subject to fine, arrest and possible indenturement yourself. Now, please, step aside and let us do our job." "Are those vests fireproof?" Tom asked, twitching his chin at the body armor they had on. That confused the agents. Confrontation by armed friends, family and soon-to-be indents was an everyday part of their job. That particular question however was a new one. While they were still puzzling out what the self-described husband of their target was talking about, Tom said, "Here, catch." And gently underhanded a small plastic and cardboard blister pack at them. The collector who had spoken last glanced at her partner. He shrugged, and she bent to pick up the blister pack. The package was designed to hold three bright orange 12-gauge shotgun shells. It had been opened, had one removed and resealed. The words "Dragons breath shotgun loads!" screamed out from the package in big red and orange letters, as did "Turn your shotgun into a flamethrower!" The back contained a list of ingredients such as magnesium and phosphorous as well as some legalese that boiled down to "If you set yourself or anyone else on fire using these things it's your own fault and you can't sue us." Two more packs hit the sidewalk while they examined the first one. They were empty. "Now, I understand you folks are just doing your job, and I'll be the first to admit this mess could have been avoided if my Nicki had just been a little bit more communicative with her sister and I. But I wouldn't be much of a man if I just let you waltz in and take her. So what say you hear me out? It won't take a minute or two and all you'll lose is the chance to find out just how effective those shells are." Normally this would be the part where they either maced Tom, called his bluff or called for backup if not all three. The complication was that they neither believed Tom was bluffing nor that they could call for help or spray him before he pulled the trigger. As with every acquisition, research had been done on the principles involved. Neither agent had the slightest doubt that if the tall, leanly muscular man in front of them didn't get his say he would reduce them and as many of their colleagues as he could to the consistency of overdone bacon. "We're listening." The one on the left said cautiously. "But no promises." "Fair enough. No promises I won't smoke the pair of you if you things go badly. Nothin' personal. Just doing my job ." Tom's proposition was simple, take him in Nicki's place. There was nothing in the law - he'd had a lawyer friend check to make sure - that expressly forbade him from serving as her proxy. The alternative involved a lot of needless drama and at least two charred corpses. That was when Nicki came out, in high Irish temper, to complicate things. There was no way in Hell Tom was taking her place and that was the end of it. Or at least that was the gist of her position amid the tears and concrete-blistering profanity. Tom sighed. "Excuse me a second." Then he turned and, in a very businesslike manner, butt-stroked Nicki in the stomach with the shotgun. While she was still gasping for air he produced a stun gun purchased the night before and gave her a good zap to put her out. Another pocket of his cargo pants yielded up a pair of steel hinged handcuffs bought from the same law enforcement supply store as the Tazer and a roll of red bondage tape from a local adult toy store. The cuffs secured Nicki's wrists behind her back while several passes of the tape around her head and over her mouth promised to keep the noise down if she regained consciousness. That little chore handled, Tom scooped his wife up onto one shoulder, careful not to cut her on the axe's ice-pick-sharp back spike. Then, with some help from Angie on the door he went inside. "C'mon in." he said without looking behind him or giving any indication that he was inconvenienced by having the weight of a woman who weighed almost as much as he did balanced on one shoulder. The agents exchanged a glance and followed, propelled as much by curiosity as the need to complete their assignment. They followed Angie and Tom down a hall where she was standing blocking his way into what they knew from their research on the dwelling to be the master bedroom. "You don't need to do this, sweetheart." Angie said. "Bullshit. They," Tom twitched his head in the direction of their 'guests' "aren't leaving without somebody to put on the block. And what kind of a man stands by with his hand up his ass while the collectors make off with his wife, hm?" Securing Nicki to the bed was the work of a moment. The agents had the good sense not to offer to help. Afterwards he went into the living room apparently unconcerned about how the next few minutes would play out. He had the collectors off their game plan. By yanking them out of their comfort zone for this particular run he had taken the initiative and was pretty sure he could get the results he wanted. "Lets talk in the living room." Tom said. "I'd offer y'all something to eat or drink but you'd probably think it was poisoned." When the agents were settled in on the couch, Tom took up station across from them, back to a wall, blinds drawn, shotgun cradled across his lap and went into his pitch. The collectors tried to sit in two widely spaced chairs but Tom asked them to sit together. Something about the way he wasn't quite pointing a pump action flamethrower at them inclined them to listen. "Right," Tom said "so you've heard my offer. It's simple and it's fair and best of all nobody gets dead. And we all know that the unusual nature of this arrangement will make me a damn sight more marketable than some hot-tempered Irish girl who'll likely bite off the first piece of meat gets put in her mouth. " The agents exchanged a look. "You'll come willingly? You'll submit to the entire orientation process?" a nice little euphemism for not giving them any grief over the next two weeks of medical exams, cavity searches and training on techniques for servicing male employers that stopped short of anal penetration. That last was a nod to the added value inherent in a potential servant with a virgin orifice. Tom nodded. "You swap out Nicki's name for mine, I'll blow you right here and now." A call was made and official permission to make the necessary changes was received. Tom's decision wasn't unprecedented but it put him in a group of only three or four people since the programs inception. Seven years of unpaid service as anything from somebody's bought and paid for fuck-toy to a human lab rat was more of a sacrifice than most people were willing to make. In a way that was good news. Rarity meant value. His contract would be priced accordingly with a percentage of the proceeds going into a trust fund to wait for his eventual release. The next two weeks were among the more stressful of what had never been a very easy life. Separation from his family was the worst of it. In the ten years of their relationship Tom estimated they had spent less than one full week apart from one another. Being forced to submit to the attentions of some of the trainers ranged from unpleasant to downright disgusting. In his years on the street Tom had never had to sell himself to get by. Theft, burglary and eventually an actual legit job had kept him in what he needed to get by. He'd puked his guts out the first time a male trainer had come in his mouth. The beating that followed hurt but the daily visitations - usually several a day - until he could swallow without complaint had tested him right to his limit Then two months ago one of the more senior staffers had come to his cell. It was the end of the orientation period and he had been told to expect a visit from a potential employer the night before. Nerves had kept him up most of the night. His single greatest fear was being sold to a man. He knew the odds favored it. Something like eighty percent of all male indents who went into domestic service found themselves forced to spend the next seven years spreading themselves on command for a Master's enjoyment. "We're going out." was all she said, as she secured his restraints. Tom's hands were cuffed to his waist and leg irons hobbled his stride. For good measure a leash was run from the chain around his waist down and around the ankle chain. One good yank and Tom would slam face first into the ground or worse, crack the back of his skull. It all depended on his escort. A shock belt went on under his shirt for good measure in case he got froggy. He'd received a taste of one earlier in the process over refusal to screw a fellow trainee for the counselors' entertainment. In a life full of painful experiences that one ranked in the top five, right above the time he got shot in the chest. At least they gave you pain meds when some tweaker put a bullet in you. Tom's escort, a fairly attractive and demanding woman named Marie, had taken him to the home of a friend of hers named Eleanor. Eleanor - Mistress now - was older, 45 to Tom's 32. Her hair was blond and her skin lightly tanned. One look at her and it was clear she was familiar with regular exercise and a proper diet. His restraints had been removed and he'd obeyed when ordered to strip, allowing himself to be examined in every way possible. Questions about the unique nature of his circumstances had been asked. He'd gotten hard on command and did his best to keep still as both Marie and Eleanor played with his not-so-private-anymore parts. Fingers had petted his skin and hair and probed deep inside his anus. That had been… not unpleasant so much as unexpected. More than that, it had been a trigger of a sort. Tom's life, both before and since meeting the twins had seldom if ever been easy. Simple survival had often meant being the most dominant, or at minimum most aggressive, person in the room with the willingness, if not always the ability to back it up if need be. Even at the center he hadn't really submitted. He had simply done as he was told - mostly - because that was the deal he had made to save a woman he loved. There in Eleanor's living room, on display, her fingers sliding in and out of him Tom felt the need to be the junkyard dog slip away like someone pulling off a sheer cloth that had covered him for years. It was as relaxing in it's own way as slipping into a hot tub at the end of a particularly hard week on the job. All his defenses and wariness just evaporated. He felt genuinely helpless and for the first time - maybe ever -it didn't scare the crap out of him. In the end, Marie had driven back to the center. Tom had stayed behind, a gift from his former trainer to her friend. The weeks that followed had been strenuous. Mistress was demanding both in and out of bed. She was patient up to a point with mistakes but still meted out consequences for anything that did not meet her extremely high standards. Her patience for overt disobedience was nonexistent. Punishment for "willfulness" as she termed it was always painful, always fit the theme of the offense and always more harsh than it would have been for someone who had entered service by more usual means. "You wanted this life so badly you committed at least three felonies to get it." She told him. "You're the last person on Earth with any right to rebel." Despite the pain and the often humiliating, unpleasant things that were expected of him, Tom didn't see his life the past eight weeks as all that bad. Mistress kept him on a short leash - often literally - but she was good to him too. She was just as quick to reward good behavior as she was to punish bad. One of his standing orders was to keep within arms reach of Mistress at all times unless specifically told otherwise. Mistress was extremely tactile and a good bit of his idle time was spent having his head, face and shoulders caressed by her soft, strong hands. Much of what was expected of him in bed was enjoyable or at least tolerable. Even the things he actively disliked had their own thrill. Laying back and meekly spreading himself, smiling up at her and urging her on the first time she took a strapon to him had been painful and degrading while it was going on. Remembering the helplessness of it later however had earned him a full day with his hands locked behind his back when he got caught doing something about the memory. All in all, life could have been significantly worse. And here he was about three seconds from making sure it would be for the foreseeable future. Over at the frame the guy was still whaling away on his servant, not appearing to hold anything back. Welts and bruises were already blooming across her back and front. Some of them looked raw enough Tom was shocked not to see any blood. She was sobbing and begging her master to stop, crying that she was sorry. The master wasn't having it. "Stop sniveling and shut up, you useless little bitch!" He hit her again so hard she couldn't breath for a second and Tom hit his enough point. "Oh, for fuck's sake, enough already!" he snapped coming to his feet. Internally he began running a tab of all the hell he was buying himself from Mistress. Breaking position without permission, dropping an f-bomb in public. And that was just the beginning. Everyone turned to stare at his outburst, which was half the point of it. The other half was to get the girls owner to stop what he was doing and focus on Tom for a bit. From the start of the beating Tom had been reading the guy. It was a lifetime habit, a survival tool still sharp years after he'd gone legit. The Master, Tom didn't know his name and didn't care to, had short dark hair going gray along the outer edges. He was older, maybe in his mid-fifties. He might have taken care of himself once but those days were long gone. A sagging belly hung part-way over his groin. What might have once been pectorals were now flabby man-breasts and pouches of suet swung and jiggled under each arm. The guy was soft, a fat, middle-aged bully abusing a helpless kid for reasons that probably had more to do with his own impotence than any bad behavior on her part. Three months ago Tom would have knocked the jerk out with less thought than he spent on picking out a fresh pair of underwear. Now he had to find another way. Ignoring Mistress' command to heel, Tom stalked towards his target. "Jesus Christ, pal, seriously! What'd she do that was so terrible? Laugh at that tiny little prick of yours? Like she's the first woman to do that since breakfast." The guy turned red. "What did you say, boy?" "You heard me, butter-butt. What in God's name could that poor kid have done to deserve the abuse you're dumping on her? What, you jealous her tits are getting more compliments than yours? They're called pushups, PoppinFresh! They're free and they're good for you. Try em sometime!" Around them people snickered. A couple laughed out loud. By now they were just feet apart and closing. A familiar hand grabbed his hair at the base of his skull. Normally Tom's knees would have folded instantly. This time he kept going, ignoring the tearing noise and burning at his scalp. Inside the clown's personal bubble now, provoking him, the undivided center of his attention. His and everybody else within earshot. Pushing it even further. Get the prick angry, keep him from thinking. "Who do you think you are boy?" "Me? Nobody. Just a guy fixing to puke at the sight of a gutless yellow coward taking out his own inadequacies on somebody who can't fight back!" Tom felt a presence behind him and knew without looking it was Her. "Thomas! You will apologize and come away right now!" Tom never took his eyes off the creep. "I will not Mistress." Fresh pain ignited the back of his head. "And unless you plan to rip the back of my skull off, I humbly suggest you let go. I'll take whatever you care to dish out later but right now me and this pig have business." Tom faced his target again. "You're pathetic, you know that? What, you couldn't get it up, so it's her fault? Three words, Flaccid Man. Vi-A-Gra!" In front of him the guy was going purple. That's it sweetheart, get good and pissed. Don't use your brains. Don't notice the old knife scar lying on Tom's left arm like a sleeping nightcrawler or the way the red dot tattooed three fingers below his right collar bone with the words "Ring Bell For Service" inked below it looked suspiciously like the kind of scar a nine millimeter bullet would leave if you survived. Just focus on the uppity indent and completely ignore the junkyard dog straining his chain to get some teeth into you. A hand blurred into his face, stinging and leaving a vivid imprint. Tom just smirked. "I'd say you hit like a girl, pal but I get hit all the time by a girl and I actually feel it when she does it." Behind him Mistress was incandescent with rage. "Oh you have no idea…" she said. Her voice shook with the effort it took to maintain control. Another shot rocked him, this one a backhand that split his lip. "You feel that, you mouthy little shit?" There was blood in Tom's smile. "Feel what? You know, Susie, I'd ask you if you thought you were as good with that strap against another man as you are against a little girl, but that'd require you to be a man yourself. Face it jerk, on your best day you couldn't put me in my place. But if you'd like to prove me wrong you're welcome to try." "Fine! Eleanor, let me borrow this little punk for an hour. After the disrespect I've been shown I'm entitled to punish him." Tom never took his eyes off the stranger. "Yes, Mistress. Please, lend me to this loser. I'll do whatever he says and weep and wail and be the perfect little slave the whole time. But it'll only be because you wished it. And all it'll prove is what everybody here already knows; that while I'm your helpless little lapdog this walking turd needs awoman to do his fighting for him because he isn't man enough to break me on his own!" That did it. "I can break you anytime I try, you arrogant little sonouvabitch!" "Then prove it, pissant! Beat a plea for mercy outta me in front of all these people without my owner telling me I have to pretend like you're something to be impressed by! Take down the kid and put me in her place! We'll see who calls off first. But if I'm puttin' my ass on the line for your insignificant little ego I want something when you fail." "Name it!" Gotcha, jerk. "The girl. I pass out or beg off before you get worn out or draw blood and you sign her over to me with Mistress here as my proxy since we both know one indent can't own another." "I'm not just giving her to you! I paid seventy-five thousand for her!" "I never said give, dipshit! Sell her to me. Mistress, by my math my remaining allowance for the entire duration of my service to you comes to just over seventy-two hundred dollars, am I right?" A domestic getting a few bucks pocket money each week wasn't unheard of but it was pretty rare, never more than ten or twenty dollars a week and always treated as a revocable privilege subject to the contract holder's whim. "That implies you'll be getting an allowance after this but in theory, yes. Not that it matters, I've no need for a second servant and I'm certainly not about to have some little cheerleader around my home distracting you from seeing to my needs." Tom rolled his eyes. "Pfft! Mistress is seriously underestimating herself if she honestly believes some half-grown little kid could distract me from her." Despite herself, Eleanor blushed. "Then what did you have in mind?" "I thought I'd send her to stay with the girls. We'd been thinking about starting a family before I entered service. This just avoids the morning sickness and dirty diapers." "And what about when I break you?" Toms opponent demanded. "Well," Tom said. "On the off chance that Hell should freeze over in the next few minutes we'll track how many stripes it takes. You win and every day at this time for the rest of our stay here I'll report to you for that number plus ten percent." "Every other day. " Mistress said, "I don't want you crippled, Thomas." "And ten percent isn't enough." The jerk added. "More like double. And since you're so unimpressed with the size of my dick, you won't mind bending over and servicing me afterwards. Dry." The haggling went on for a few more minutes but finally the terms of the wager were set. Tom would take the girl's place on the frame. Her owner would take the same belt to Tom he'd been using on her. Anywhere but Tom's face, head and genitals was fair game. If Tom passed out or begged for mercy he would take the final number of strokes plus fifty percent every other day for the duration of his and Mistress' stay and serve the Master without any lubrication afterwards. If the Master drew blood or paused for longer than a count to three-one-thousand he would sign the girl over for seventy-two hundred dollars. He could switch hands if he got tired but only once. The girl was taken down and Mistress took custody of her. She also bound Tom's hair up atop his head so it didn't shield him any. "You are so dead when this is over, little puppy." She promised him. A resort staffer secured Tom to the top of the frame. His ankles were locked to the uprights forcing his legs wide apart. Off to one side his opponent was whipping his arm back and forth, limbering up. The belt swished in the humid air. With Tom in place the staffer stepped out of the way. "This is a legal wager!" he announced to the crowd. In the frame, Tom was taking deep, slow breaths. He took a pinch of cheek between his teeth inside his mouth. No way was he going to let that prick win. A summoned memory of an especially vigorous night under Mistresses scourge got his endorphins started. Not very smart pal, taking a masochist up on a contest like this. "All participants will adhere to the terms or face censure from the membership counsel for violation of the club ethics clause!" He raised the counter. "Go!" The first strike blurred in hot and hard across his thighs. He bit down and stayed silent despite the pain like a hot wire across his legs. More blows followed, burning up his back. Tom tasted blood, swallowed it. He wasn't going to just beat this bastard. He was going to humiliate him. As he was worked over Tom played a careful balancing act inside his head. The easiest way to deal with a serious flogging was to just go away. Find some happy place inside your head and live there while your body got the shit beat out of it. It was easy when you knew how. The next easiest was to ride the endorphins, let them wash over you and enjoy one of the cleanest highs known to man. The problem was, doing either could look a lot like losing consciousness even if you kept your eyes opened. Instead, Tom found something to focus on. He let his biochemistry do its job but only enough to take the edge off, not send him sailing away. Disconnecting mentally while still being present enough to win was trickier. His eyes drifted around. Mistress had taken up station in front of him. The girl knelt at her feet. One of Mistress' hands rested in her hair, petting her. Or maybe she was forcing the girl to watch what was being done on her behalf. It was hard to tell. The girl and his owner. He'd found his armor. Mistress with her shiny blond hair and warm tan. Her build that came from lots of cardio and just enough strength training to make her muscles firm but not ripple like a man's. That mouth, quick to order him around but generous with a smile and exquisitely enjoyable on some lucky occasions. Her breasts, full and firm despite her age, so responsive under his mouth when she used him. The delicious tuft of hair between her legs glistened with sweat or maybe other things. Almost every day for two months he'd knelt at that patch, earning his plate with her pleasure as Mistress put it before feeding him. Or sometimes cleaning her after she'd peed. Often just serving her because it pleased her to use his mouth to come. The girl at her feet was a marked contrast. Her skin was pale, her hair hot coppery red. Welts marred the skin here and there on her thighs and small pert breasts. Her face was stained with tears. Tom felt his anger spike again. The law might give her asshole employer the right to use her as he liked but to abuse a beautiful young kid like that just for meanness was inexcusable. Mistress grabbed him with her eyes, held him. He nodded. There was a level on which this had just stopped being about showing up some bloated bully and become about doing her proud. Tom gripped the chains holding his hands up and rode the whip. He stopped paying attention to the hits after that. They hurt, but so what? They didn't hurt worse than a blade, or a broken bottle or one in the chest from some junkie's nine-millimeter. The Master covered him with the belt. This wasn't about foreplay or disciplining a naughty indent. This was about breaking him. Tom felt a series land over his kidneys and another at the backs of his knees, two places Mistress, even at her most livid was always careful to avoid. He'd be pissing blood in the morning. Big. Fucking. Deal. At some point the beating shifted to his front. A cut landed on his cock and despite his best efforts Tom screamed through clenched teeth. A cry of "Disqualification!" went up and there was a pause. "What?" Toms playmate puffed. "It was…" gasp, pant "an accident." The referee gave the guy a dirty look. "Thomas, you in there? Do you want to continue?" Tom glared the bastard beating him. He'd stopped when DQ cry had sounded "One one-thousand!" Half the crowd called the next one. "Two one-thousand!" The ref stepped out of the way just in time and Tom took one across the chest that welted both his nipples. The Master was getting gassed. His face was red, his breathing labored. The hits were coming slower, less powerful. More than once the count went up as he rested. Part of Tom wondered if he might have a coronary. Finally he paused just that extra bit too long. "Three one-thousand!" It seemed like the entire camp was there. Tom could feel the shout through his whole skeleton. The ref and an assistant stepped in to let him down. Tom's legs buckled and they both reached for him. He was breathing hard. Every inch of skin was screaming at him. Despite that he shook his head, backing them off. He caught himself before his knees touched dirt. Slowly, painfully, he stood. Giving his hyperventilating tormentor a look of contempt, Tom walked to where Mistress stood with an easy, lupine grace that completely ignored the raw, ruined condition of his back. Around him people held up their phones. There was a chorus of chirps as pictures and video were taken. Apparently the club rules prohibiting photos in public areas were enjoying a brief suspension. Tom reached his owner, flowed to his knees and bowed until his head touched her toes. "Mistress," he said, his voice pitched to carry "I have been profane and willful. I have broken position without permission. I have also actively resisted your touch. I humbly beg forgiveness or correction as you see fit to administer." If people were going to watch, he was by God going to give them something to watch and send that ass behind him a clear message while he was at it. Eleanor looked down at him. "Anna, dear, get his hair please." She said. Despite all the trouble he was in, Tom felt a thrill go through him. Mistress wielded her authority like a katana master handling his blade. It was almost exclusively small, elegant gestures. Liquid silver grace backed by a focused strength that could cut you in half so cleanly you'd never even feel the strike. His knees were already bent but he still felt them wanting to buckle instinctively at the simple command. Anna did as she was told. Once Tom's hair was back over his shoulders and down his back, stinging his welts where it clung to sweaty skin Eleanor lifted his face to look at her. "You've had quite the workout, Thomas." She said. She held up her drink, iced tea, two sugars. "Thirsty?" Tom nodded. "If it pleases you, Mistress." She took a drink, got a hand in his hair and lifted him up, pulling him in for a kiss. Tom submitted, pressing his mouth to hers, swallowing when the cold, sweet tea was passed into his mouth and responding to her tongue. He felt himself start to get hard. He wanted to touch her but had too much sense to do so without orders under the circumstances. Eleanor pushed Tom to his knees without asking if he wanted another drink. She petted his face. When the backs of her fingers passed over his mouth, they paused and he kissed them until they moved away. Mistress took him under the jaw making him look up at her. She smiled. "What you did," she said "was very brave and very selfless." Around them people nodded. Even the strictest contract holder among them respected what had just happened. The slap that followed made his ears ring. Even knowing it was coming, he cried out. His eyes filled up against his will. Before he could recover she had him by the hair, drawing out a whimper with her grip. "It was also completely inappropriate! You made a public spectacle of yourself. You deliberately broke more rules than you have since I acquired you. Worst of all, you took liberties you had no right to take with one of my most prized possessions, badly damaging it in the process! You're even more stupid than you are willful if you think there aren't going to be any consequences, puppy!" She let go long enough to slap him a second time, grabbing him again while he was still rolling with it. "I'm sorry Mistress," Tom whimpered. "It was never my intention to displease you." "But we both know you'd do the exact same thing, if you could go back to the beginning don't we?" Tom snapped his fingers. "Like that Mistress." Eleanor just sighed. He was sweet and devoted to her but when Thomas decided to get up on his hind legs he could be impossible. Tom read the approach of Anna's owner in hers and Mistress' shifting body language well before he opened his ignorant mouth. "Anna! You useless little slut! Get your ass over here now !" It really was like night and day, him and Mistress. Bastard's dominance had all the elegance of nail-studded baseball bat. Mistress released Toms' hair. Her hand stopped Anna as the girl started to obey. "She doesn't belong to you anymore. We had a wager." "Fuck that! She's mine and her instigating little ass is going to pay for humiliating me!" "Mr. Halstead," the man who spoke up was head of the membership council and majority owner of the land the resort occupied. "If you refuse to honor the terms of the contest your membership will be forfeit without reimbursement and you will be permanently banned from FanTan. On a personal note, I will make it my business to have you blackballed from every other club in the country. You made a bet, sir. You lost. It's time to honor that." "The bet said something about seventy-two hundred bucks, too. I don't see any money." Halstead snapped. Eleanor never took her eyes off Halstead. "Thomas, checkbook and pen. Fetch." Tom was already moving when her hand swatted him on the ass. "And those welts are no excuse to dawdle." Walking hurt. Running was like being beaten all over again as his injuries started to stiffen and bruised muscles were made to work when they least wanted to. None of that stopped him from taking off like he was sixteen with the cops chasing him again. Tom returned a couple minutes later. When he got within five yards of Mistress he went to all fours, put the checkbook and pen in his mouth and started crawling. Mistress was just taking a pair of hundred dollar bills from a well-built man around her own age. Beside her, Anna was holding more money and at least two checks. "You made quite an impression, little one." His owner said. "People seem to want to help you out. After supper tomorrow you'll be presenting yourself to Master Greg here for his enjoyment." By the end of Thomas and Eleanor's two week stay a little over half of Anna's purchase price would be recouped. Two couples (one straight, one gay), a single bi man and four single women would all sweeten their contributions significantly in return for time alone with him. The most memorable one would prove to be the heavyset matron in her fifties who made him pretend to be a teenager and call her Mommy while he ate her out. She wound up making three different, increasingly lucrative offers to buy him. Master Greg smiled at him. His cock stirred at the idea of using Tom. "Bungalow eight." He said. "And don't worry, you'll get your turn in the saddle after I come." He gave Tom's butt and privates a quick fondle before leaving. Mistress looked at Tom, still patiently holding the checkbook in his mouth. "Very pretty." She said. "But it doesn't change anything. We're still going to discuss your bad behavior." She took the checkbook from him. "Stand, and bend at the waist." When he obeyed, wincing at the way bending over caused a couple of his welts to break open, Mistress used his back as a writing desk. After she finished she handed him the check. "Pay Mr. Halstead then go wait for me on your stomach in bed. We'll discuss your behavior when I join you." Tom walked the check over to Halstead, handed it to him without a word. "This doesn't change anything you know." Halstead told him. "I'm still a free man and you're still just a piece of indent trash." Tom nodded at that. "And yet I still beat you." He said "What's that say about you, hm?" and with that he turned his back on the man and went jogging off to await his Mistress's judgment. Are those vests fireproof?" The question caused the two agents from the US Bureau of Indenturement to pull up short. They had come to serve a writ on one of the residents of the ranch-style home in front of them. Nicollette Donovoan, white, female 30 years old, Irish descent. Allegedly engaged for the past ten years in a relationship with her fraternal twin sister Angela and brother-in-law Thomas. Tom Donovan had been waiting for them on the front porch of the family's rented home. Tom was a good-looking man, but not what most would call pretty. His features and coloring were a complimentary mix of gifts from a German mother and Irish father. A German nose, not too long and mostly straight, had been broken at least once in the past but had healed well. His cheekbones were high and angular, his jaw firm and similarly chiseled. His lips were thin but not overly so. His wives and others thought they served him well when he smiled. Faint scars around the cheeks spoke of past fistfights, some less distant than others. The pale line of a scar bisected his right eyebrow at a shallow angle, three quarters of the way towards his nose. One more souvenir of solving problems with his hands rather than his head. Tom had a high forehead over green eyes. They had acquired a warmth of expression in recent years. But even now, when he let his mind just drift or when he was past the point of concern for consequences they held all the warmth of a hungry rattlesnake scoping out it's next meal. His hair was long and chestnut, tied back now in a ponytail. Hints of red spoke of at least one Highlander in the woodpile. His skin bore a slight swarthiness from dark Irish genes, possibly with the odd Spaniard or Gypsy rattling around the family tree. He tended to tan easily and could not remember his last serious sunburn. Tom's personality – especially his temper – were a mix as well. He had a great love of stories, jokes and music. His voice was a warm baritone. It wasn’t uncommon for him to sing to himself, often without realizing he was doing it. Like most of Gaelic descent Tom's temper could run hot and hair-trigger. But he possessed a cold calculation too. More than one person had thought themselves free and clear only to learn otherwise days or weeks later. When Tom stood he topped out at a bit over six feet tall. He was broad shouldered and possessed of the kind of leanly muscular build usually seen on runners, swimmers or middleweight MMA fighters. The raised welt of an old knife scar rode one forearm. At the moment Tom was sitting down on the top step of the porch, planted between the collectors on his front walk and the front door to his home. He was dressed all in black, from his simple black t-shirt to his loose-fitting cargo pants, right down to the scuffed but well-maintained combat boots on his feet. Even the fingerless gloves on his hands were black. In fact, the only pieces of color in the whole ensemble were the walnut finish of the Remington, pump-action 12-gauge cradled in his hands and the silvery gleam of the knife-sharp, four pound medieval axe sticking up over his left shoulder. While the two collectors were processing the question Tom reached into a pocket. "Here," he said. "Catch." And gently underhanded a small plastic and cardboard blister-pack at them. As was always the case in the service of these writs the collectors were a male/female team. It had been determined that this was the best combination for getting everyone involved to cooperate while still being able to handle any hostility or violence that might erupt. The agents exchanged a look. Then, while her partner kept a careful eye on Tom, the woman bent and picked up the package. The pack was designed to hold three 12 gauge shotgun shell, bright orange in color. It had been opened, had one removed and then resealed with staples and clear scotch tape. Agent Comisky recognized the rounds from a recent visit to her favorite gun shop. The words "Dragon's breath shotgun loads!" shrieked out her in big red and orange letters, as did "Turn your shotgun into a flamethrower!" A list of incendiary chemicals and a legal disclaimer absolving the manufacturer of any liability in the event that someone was dumb enough to set themselves or someone else on fire with the specialty munitions took up the back. Two more similar packs hit the ground at her feet while she and her partner glanced at the one in her hand. They were empty. Tom let his guests take a second to run the numbers on the significance of both the partial and the empties. It gave them a chance to fully grasp just how far outside normal mission specs they were. It also let him decide which one to shoot first if they wouldn't listen to reason. The woman, he concluded. She was the more dangerous of the two. Something about the way she carried herself told Tom he'd be better off with her out of the equation. Plus most guys tended to have instinctive chivalrous reactions to a woman screaming in agony that would buy him a few extra seconds if things went non-verbal. Not that he reckoned he'd need the extra time but every little edge in a fight helped. For his part, Tom hoped the collectors were willing to listen to reason. Not because he cared one way or another if they lived or died but because he very much cared whether or not he and his family did. What the two slave-taking scum in front of him - and it didn't matter what kind of legalese you dressed it up in, the indenturement legislation that the previous administration had rammed through boiled down to a rebirth of the slave trade pure and simple - didn't realize just yet was that if they and their bosses didn't go along with his proposal they were dead. Tom had no intention of letting these or any other representatives from the BOI get their filthy fucking hands on either of his girls. If they were willing to be reasonable he planned to take Nick's place. If not, he planned to ignite the two in front of him, go inside and put bullets into the heads of both his wives. Then he intended to send as many of the backup team currently casting a loose net around his home ahead of him to Hell before they took him down. "He's bluffing." the male agent said. The woman looked at Tom. "I don't think so, Mark." "Listen to your partner, Mark." Tom said. "I know y'all got files on all three of us." He inclined his head behind him. "Y'know what I've done with this axe before. You don't listen to reason I will burn the both of you." "Now, I understand you folks are just doing your job and I'll be the first to admit this mess could have been avoided if my Nicki had just been a little bit more communicative with her sister and I. But I wouldn't be much of a man if I just let you waltz in and take her. So what say you hear me out? It won't take a minute or two and all you'll lose is the chance to find out just how effective those shells are." "We're listening." She said cautiously. "But no promises." "Fair enough. No promises I won't smoke the pair of you if you things go badly. Nothin' personal. Just doing my job." "Take me instead. And don't try feeding me any crap about how you can't do that. Buddy of mine's a lawyer. Good one too. Says there's nothing in the law stopping me from taking Nick's place. Just not a lot of precedent for it on account of most people either got too much selfishness or too much good sense than to hand themselves over to you people if they don't absolutely have to. Me, I'm plenty selfish but not real sensible." The door behind Tom burst open then, smacking into his back and nearly turning the negotiations to shit courtesy of an accidental discharge of the Remmington. Nicki Donovan, the source of all the day's headaches came storming out in a fine, old school, Irish conniption fit. She was shorter than Tom with medium length black hair and hazel eyes. She wasn't fat but her curves were generous. Her hips were full and her breasts a little bit large for her otherwise athletic frame. She tipped the scales only a bit less than Tom's own two-hundred pounds, most of it muscle. "You goddamned, stupid sonofabitch!" she screamed. Tom winced. He hated it when she called him stupid. Hated it so much he'd nearly left her over it once. "There's no fucking way in Hell you're taking my place! This was my mistake and you're not wiping my ass for me on this one! I don't give a fuck what kind of ignorant-assed bullshit scheme you've cooked up!" Behind Tom the collectors just stared. This banshee was their target? No wonder the guy on the porch was sporting an arsenal. He probably needed the axe and shotgun just to keep her at bay long enough to give her morning coffee. Nick had switched from English to Irish and was peeling the house paint with her rant. The agents couldn't understand a word of it but the spirit came through. Tom sighed. "'Scuse me a sec." He said to them. Then he butt-stroked his Nick in the stomach with the shotgun. Tom caught her before she hit the ground. Tom produced a stun gun and zapped her to keep her down. Some steel hinged handcuffs secured her wrists behind her back and a few passes with a roll of bondage tape around her head would - hopefully- keep her quiet while they talked. Tom heard the scuff of a footstep behind him. "Don't." he said, one handing the gun in their direction. Tom bent, got his shoulder under his love's midsection and stood. By putting his right arm across her calves he was able to steady her and still maintain a two handed grip on the shotgun. "Ang'!" Tom called out. "Little help with the door, please!" For all the strain he showed a person would think Tom was balancing a case of beer on his shoulder rather than a grown woman weighing nearly as much as he did. Angie, Tom's legal spouse and Nicki's fraternal twin sister came to the door, held it open for her husband. She threw the agents behind him a glare that should have burned their shadows into the sidewalk. "Thanks, love." Tom said smiling at her. "C'mon in." he told the agents without looking behind him. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. The only things to see by turning his head were a seven inch crescent of sharpened steel to one side and Nick's rather delectable ass to the other. The agents exchanged a glance and followed, propelled as much by curiosity as the need to complete their assignment. The little troupe stopped part way down the house's main hallway. Angie stood between her husband and the door he was trying to reach. "You don't have to do this." She told him. "Bullshit." Tom said. " They..." Tom twitched his head in the direction of their 'guests' "...aren't leaving without somebody to put on the block. And what kind of a man stands by with his hand up his ass while the collectors make off with his wife, hm?" Angie stood there another second or two, hating the circumstances they found themselves in, hating the God-awful choice of having to see either her husband or her sister taken away for seven years of who-knew-what by the bastards standing behind him. She even hated Tom a little. For a self-described former criminal and semi-reformed scumbag, he picked the damndest times to act like a superhero. She loved him for it but sometimes it made her want to kick his ass too. Mostly though she hated her sister. It was Nicki's gambling problem that had gotten the family into this fix in the first place. And the hell of it was, this was the best solution they could find. She didn't care about the fact that going underground would mean leaving everything but, at most, one bag apiece behind. You could always buy more things. The prospect of spending every minute of their lives looking over their shoulders for the trackers was another matter. So was the very real fear of being caught and all three of them being put under contract. Several photos of each of them had come enclosed with the writ of intent to indenture. The message was clear - run and we'll catch you. She wiped her eyes, sniffled and stepped back before opening the door to Nicki's bedroom. It only took Tom a minute to set Nick gently on the bed and secure her to the heavy iron headboard. He'd had a feeling this might happen so he'd stashed a length of chain in the room the other day along with a heavy-duty padlock. Even with the prep, things got challenging as Nicki came around and started thrashing about, cursing him out from behind the tape. "I'm sorry for this leaning." He said, petting her hair and using the Irish for lover. The family had learned the language together years ago and it was as much - sometimes more - a part of the household speech as English. "But I can't let them have you. You're a chailin mo chroi. And I'll drown this block in blood before I allow that to happen." He kissed her then and left, closing the door. Alone in her room with the knowledge of what her man was about to do on her behalf, Nicki screamed behind the tape and sobbed. Out in the hallway Tom took a second to compose himself. Delays wouldn't make this any easier. "Lets talk in the living room." He told Mark and his partner. "I'd offer you something to eat or drink but you'd probably think it was poisoned." Out in the living room, Tom took a seat. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." He said, motioning towards the couch with the shotgun. The two agents tried to pick spots as far apart from one another as possible but Tom stopped them with a shake of his head. "I'd really rather you sat next to one another." Something about the way he wasn't quite aiming a pump action flamethrower at them made them decide to sit side by side after that. "Right," Tom said when everyone was settled in. "You've heard my offer. It's simple, it's fair and best of all, nobody gets dead. And we all know that the unusual nature of this arrangement will make me a damn sight more marketable than some hot-tempered Irish girl who'll likely bite off the first piece of meat gets put in her mouth. " "You'll come willingly?" The female agent asked. You'll submit to the entire orientation process?" Tom had to hand it to the bastards. Leave it to the government to come up with an inoffensive sounding euphemism for two weeks of strip searches, medical exams and training in the care and servicing of potential future "employers" that stopped just short - at least in the case of confirmed heteros like Tom - of anal penetration. There was more money in a male domestic with a virgin asshole and Tom knew the statistics. Better than eighty percent of all males who had their contracts bought for domestic or "entertainment service" - another darling little euphemism there - would wind up spending the next seven years spreading themselves for the enjoyment of other men whether they wanted to or not. Still, better him than either of his girls. "You swap out Nick's name for mine, I'll blow you right here." He pointed to the coffee table in front of them. "Business card there is for my lawyer. Have the changes made, fax it to him and I'll come along quietly soon as I get confirmation. A quick call was made then. Explanations were passed up and down the chain of command. Tom briefly took the phone and explained that yes, he was willing to take Nicki's place and that yes he was equally willing to kill a whole lot of people if he wasn't allowed to do so, starting with the two on his couch. Mark and his partner assured their superiors that they believed his sincerity on both counts. A few minutes after that conversation Tom's phone rang. "It's me." His lawyer friend Rick said. "It's done. Congratulations you idiot, you won." Tom nodded. "Right. Call the lads then. I won't have the twins here for what comes next." To the collectors he said "There'll be a van coming round in a minute. Friends of mine here to pick up Nick and Ang'. Once they're clear we can settle up." Not long after there was a knock on the door. It was Ted and Niles, two of Tom's friends. Their expressions were grim and they glared death at the two collectors. Tom may have been every bit as bad as he claimed once but he'd only ever been a friend to them. Tom tossed them the keys to Nicki's restraints. "She's in her room. Get them both outta here quick." He could feel his control slipping. His throat felt tight and he could feel his eyes filling up. Once he'd made up his mind about this road he'd been past fear. Whatever happened would happen and being scared would just make it worse. Better to just roll with it. Saying goodbye to his girls, his beautiful twin angels, that was the real knife in the guts. Ted and Niles came out with the twins. They were both crying openly. Tom held off as best he could. He wasn't some macho thug too hard to show his feelings to his women but he'd be damned if he gave the bastards waiting to take him the satisfaction. His arms went around them, first Angie then Nick. "It's ok." He said to Angie. "Just a bump in the road, love. And don't be blaming Nick. This is me doing this. No one else. Stick together, always." He took a chain from around his neck. His wedding rings were on it. He'd taken them off his hand earlier, not wanting them damaged if it came to a fight but still wanting them close if it did. "I'll be back for these." They kissed and he turned to Nicki. The lads had had the good sense to keep her cuffed. No telling what his little midnight haired psychopath would do if she could get free. "I forgive you, babe." He whispered into her hair. "Envelope in the gun case, under the padding, addressed to you both. Read it when you get back. Ta' me' mo'r sin ngra' leat. " He hugged her one last time and didn't give a damn by then about the tears. The door closed with a click and Tom faced his captors. "Five minutes." He said. While they waited Tom turned to his computer. Like a lot of people he had an online journal. He'd been up late the night before composing a pair of final entries, not sure which one would be needed. A few clicks and the following lines went out onto the web. "It's done. I'm going away for a while. If you were ever my friend at all, look after my girls. Nick, Ang', this isn't forever. I'll be home before you know it. Tom." "It's time, Mr. Donovan." The woman said at last. Tom sighed. Fair enough. A deal was a deal and whatever happened next it was worth it. "You don't mind if I secure my weapons myself?" She shook her head. "Not at all." "Thanks. Mighty decent of you. Never did get your name." "I'm Agent Comisky. You can call me that or Mistress Beth." He started with the axe. He'd designed the breakaway sheath himself, inspired by the holsters cops used for their ASP batons. The Japanese steel and hardwood-handled weapon went onto a rack on the living room wall. Scuffs in the paint showed where the head had bumped the wall over the years. The shotgun and pistols - both agents looked surprised when he pulled a backup from a kidney holster - went into locked cases, the keys to the locks going in with the guns. The girls had their own copies. Tom had no intention of leaving them out where strangers could get them. He set his knives, one mounted on his combat harness, another at his belt and a third in his right boot, on his dresser. The gloves, weapons in their own right from the steel shot sewn into the knuckles went beside them. "You need to strip now, Tom." Mistress Beth told him when the last of the gear was put aside. Tom had been expecting the order. He got undressed, folding his clothes neatly and piling them on his bed. "Quit dragging your feet!" Mark snapped. "Just leave it for your bitches to pick up!" Tom's head snapped around at that and he almost went for the man. Not once in ten years had a remark like that ended well for the speaker. Mistress Beth got between them, one hand up in a warding gesture, the other on her tazer. "Easy, Tom," she cautioned. "it's just words." Nice doggy, where's a bigger stick for me to bust you in the head with if I need to? Tom looked at her and pushed the anger aside. He turned to Mistress Beth. Something about the title just made it easier for him to go along with her instructions. "What now, Mistress?" "We need to do a cavity search and check your hair to make sure you aren't smuggling anything inside you. You've been to County before? It's just like that." Tom held still while they checked his mouth and ears and ran fingers through his hair once it was taken out of the ponytail. It smarted a little when the latex of their gloves caught a few hairs, but he'd been through lots worse. "You're doing just fine." Mistress Beth said gently. "Now, bend over and spread yourself, nice and wide. I'm afraid you'll have to wear the clothes we brought for Nicollete but the only real difference between male and female transport garb is the size." Tom widened his stance, bent over until his chest was parallel to the floor. "Reach back, Tom." Beth told him "We're almost done." Tom tried not to let it bother him but he could still feel his face burning with shame as he reached behind himself and spread his cheeks. Without warning, Agent Mark shoved first one, then two unlubricated fingers up inside his anus. "Not so tough without all the hardware, are you, faggot?" he asked when Tom grunted at the discomfort. "You like this?" he jammed his fingers in deeper, digging around. "Bet that little piece we were supposed to collect would've. Bet she'd have liked it even better when I gave her something else back at the center." He gave one last push and pulled out. Some people just don't know when to shut up. Beth had been expecting Tom's response to her partner's smart mouth but he still got past her. The second Mark's fingers were out of him, Tom spun and went for the prick. The two men hit the floor, grappling and striking. Tom got past the bastard's guard; put an elbow into his eye that started closing it immediately. Mark went for his tazer but a strike to the base of the thumb made him drop it. Tom got a hand of his own onto his opponent's belt and Mark learned what the loudest sound in the world is. It is the sound of someone taking the safety off of a pistol jammed up under your jaw when they have nothing to lose by pulling the trigger. "You really need to mind your fuckin' mouth, pal." Tom told him. The metallic click from behind him came as no surprise. "Tom," he knew that calm, detached tone. It was the same one he used when giving someone who was right on the brink with him one final chance to avoid a trip to the ER "Nicki isn't in the clear yet. If you shoot Agent French I will open fire. Angie will be a widow, and Nicki will go into service despite everything you've done. Is that really what you want?" She was right. The last third of his life had been dedicated to one thing; the well being of his girls. The second or two of satisfaction he'd enjoy from blowing French's head off before dying himself didn't come close to balancing out the harm he'd do the twins. Tom safed the pistol and backed off from Agent French, holding the gun out to his side by two fingers. He set the weapon down carefully on the carpet and knelt with his hands behind his head. French came to his feet, his face a mask of bruising and anger. He looked like the only thing keeping him from putting a bullet in Tom's head was the value if his contract. Mistress Beth took control of Tom and Tom could feel the tension in the room drop. "Good boy, Tom." She said to him. He bristled at that. As if he were some sort of dog. Still it was something he'd better get used to. "You did the right thing. But we can't let something like that go unanswered. Nice and easy, on your feet, hands at the small of your back." When he complied she took a grip on his hair at the base of his skull and another on his wrists. She nodded to her partner. "His stomach. Don't touch his face or his groin. And keep away from the ribs. We need him healthy." Tom was no stranger to violence. He'd been fighting his whole life and had long since learned how to take a punch. On top of that he was an extremely fit man with a very physical job and a rigorous daily workout routine. He didn't have the kind of ultra-cut abs you saw on a lot of male models or obsessive-compulsive gym-bunnies but his muscles down there were hard and strong. Still, when French hauled off on him he felt it. The bastard was, in Tom's opinion, an arrogant punk but he knew how to make a blow hurt. The first shot took him under the ribs, paralyzing his diaphragm, making it impossible to breath. Tom gasped and tried to double over, rolling with the hit but Beth held him immobile. "Two more." She said. French grinned and stepped in close. The second punch landed right below the first. Pain exploded through him and he tasted vomit. He resisted the urge to spit it in Mark's face, swallowed instead, just in time for the final hit to land over his left kidney. French pulled back for a fourth strike but Mistress called him off. "That enough!" She lowered Tom to the floor. "Mark, wait outside. I'll finish up in here." "The regs say..." "Out!" Mark glared at them both. He took a handful of Tom's hair, pulling his head back. "I'll be right out in the hall, boy. Please give me an excuse to come back in." He left then, slamming the door behind him. Beth gave Tom a moment to recover. "You alright?" she asked when he got to his feet. He coughed, winced at the soreness. "Yeah." He said hoarsely. "I've had worse. What's next?" "Now you pack up a few things, we dress and restrain you and we're off." She pulled a small nylon pack from her kit. "Fill this. No weapons, no non-prescription meds, no books or writing materials other than those of a religious nature. Jewelry is permitted but not recommended." Packing didn't take long. Five pair of underwear, five pair of socks, his favorite pair of jeans, two of his best dress shirts and one pair of dress slacks went into the bag. The shirt he'd been wearing when Beth and Mark arrived was sold in packs of three. All three got packed along with one of the three solid black street kilts the girls had bought him. He swapped out the punch-dagger buckle on the Sam Brown belt for a more traditional one. Boots, polish, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and hairbrush. He would have packed the ankle length moccasins he liked to wear on runs sometimes but Beth said he could wear those. So instead he tossed in a pair of sweats he occasionally wore either for workouts or to sleep in. Beth handed him his clothes next. It was a simple two piece garment, blaze orange with the letters BOI in big black letters on the front and back of the top and down the outside of each pant leg. He'd worn something similar a couple times while a guest of the local authorities. The clothes were at least two sizes two small in pretty much every dimension. The top cut him under the armpits and the pants rode up so high he might as well have been wearing capris. "Interesting tattoo." Comisky said, smiling as he dressed. "Thanks. Seemed appropriate at the time." The tattoo in question was a simple red button about three fingers width below his right collar bone. Underneath in simple block letters were the words "Ring Bell For Service." "And what kind of service would I get if I rang?" she asked. Tom gave her an appraising look. "You? Anything you like. Your partner? More of what he already got. No offense, but he's a fuckin' punk. Probably gonna get somebody killed with his bullshit one day." "You shouldn't antagonize him, you know. He doesn't just do field work. He's a trainer at the center too. After today I'd be surprised if he didn't take a special interest in you." Tom shrugged. Trash like French had never impressed him. They thought they were predators, hard men because they smacked around people who couldn't fight back. Bring an axe to a gunfight sometime, asshole. Take one in the chest from close enough that the muzzle flash ignites your shirt and redecorate your living room with the shooter. Then survive to tattoo a dumb joke over the entry scar. Then maybe Tom'd be impressed. Maybe. "Doesn't change anything. A punk with power is still a punk." She didn't say anything to that. The truth was she was inclined to agree. French had the wrong mentality for the job. One of these days Tom's prediction would probably come true. She just hoped she didn't get hurt in the process or, worse, have to ghost some innocent because of his nonsense. Beth held up a set of restraints. "I need to put these on you." Tom looked them over. The chains and shackles were pretty standard gear. Waist chain, wrist cuffs and ankle iron. A collar and leash completed the rig. "On the first date?" he asked grinning. "Kinky." Beth laughed at that. "Oh this is nothing. Wait 'til the wedding night." "I'm all a-quiver." Tom held out his hands. "Shall we?" Beth put Tom into the binders without incident. With his wrists locked to his waist and his stride hobbled by the ankle cuffs and chain, she secured the collar around his neck before attaching the leash and running it down and around the foot-chain. "I'll be right behind you in case you start to go down." She said. "Mark will have you by the arm and we'll both help you into the van. If you try to run I'll pull your feet out from under you and we'll use more extensive methods. They're less comfortable and I don't recommend the experience." Tom went along passively. As they approached the door he almost stopped for a second. This had been his home for the last five years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left here without knowing he would be back with his girls again inside of a few hours. The anger, helplessness and fear flooded him. He took a deep breath, shoved it aside and kept walking. At his request, Mistress Beth locked up behind them and put his keys in through the mail slot. The white van parked in front of the street could have been one of hundreds cruising the city streets. They were kept intentionally nondescript in order to help thwart interference from the more militant members of the abolitionist movement. The side door was open. A small step-stool had been placed in front of it. As promised, Beth and Mark helped him up and in. Beth put her hand between the top of his head and the door jam, sat him down on the unpadded seat, then closed the door with a bang. Tom jumped at the noise. The chain between Toms feet was secured to a bolt in the floor, the one at his waist to another in the wall of the van and a seatbelt was drawn across his chest and lap. Didn't want to damage the merchandise apparently. The van started with a faint vibration and pulled out, taking Tom to his new life.

Tom closed his eyes and rested his head against the wall behind him. He didn't bother looking around. The compartment he was in was a steel box designed for the shipping and containment of potentially dangerous live cargo. The only chance at a view was through the small square windows mounted in the back doors. Opaque shades currently covered them. What light there was came from an overhead dome lamp. The only other things to look at were Mistress Beth sitting beside him, her dipshit partner Mark French, and four plain steel walls. Yipee-ki-yi-yay. Better to just relax and get into the proper frame of mind for whatever came next. They hadn't gone very far when Agent French felt the need to cock off again. "Hey." Tom ignored him. "Hey!" This one was punctuated with a nudge to Tom's shin that stopped just shy of being a kick. "I'm talkin' to you, boy!" Tom opened one eye. "And?" "You mind tellin' me what kind of sick fuck shacks up with two sisters, marries one and cheats on the one he's married to with the other one?" Tom almost laughed. If he had a dollar for every time he'd heard some variant of French's latest bullshit they never would have met. "Kind that doesn't need to go out and get a job where one of the perks is the legal right to rape sixteen year old kids in order to get laid." He closed his eye. If he wanted to look at a talking turd he'd put a Jeff Dunham CD under the toilet. "How's your eye by the way?" French started to come out of his seat. "You mouthy little…" Mistress Beth shoved him back down. "Mark, knock it off! Sooner or later those shackles are going to come off and when they do, I'd rather not have another incident. Tom, one more insubordinate word and you'll spend the rest of the ride with a bit gag in your mouth. Am I understood?" "Yes, Mistress Beth." "Yes, Mistress Beth, what?" "Yes, Mistress Beth, I promise to be good." She petted his hair. "Good boy. Now just relax. We'll be there soon. You've a busy day ahead of you." The rest of the trip was uneventful. When the van pulled to a stop he was herded out into a garage filled with other vehicle, some of which were off-loading their human cargo. Tom looked around. The other new indents were a mix of old and young. Their apparent economic status ran the gamut as well. Everyone from the very clearly poor to the working class fucked by circumstances like him to the formerly affluent and now even more fucked by circumstances. Tom wondered how many of the shell-shocked looking, used-to-be rich pricks had owned indents themselves until recently. Every color of human skin was represented. Neither poverty nor the legislation that fed off it discriminated in that regard. The next few minutes reminded Tom of the booking process at County. He was photographed, weighed, measured, printed and DNA-ID'd. That last part was different but it made sense. You can change your hair, your face, your clothes, even your height and weight to a degree. Your helix was written in rock. His many scars and far less numerous tattoos were catalogued. The thick raised line of a blocked knife slash on the left bicep of his arm was only the most prominent souvenir of his younger, wilder days. Well, that and the cartoonish image of a beetle holding a lit match on his left bicep. He'd considered having the rather on-the-nose tribute to his street name - and tendency to solve interpersonal problems with a good firebombing - removed or covered up. He'd just never gotten around to it. The Celtic tribal phoenix climbing one leg, assorted other blade, bullet and burn scars - every torch had a couple - and image of Ireland in green, white and orange told the processors all had their own stories, most of which Tom would give ten years off his life to forget. "This your voluntary, Beth?" the clerk who took his information asked. "Heard about that. He really pull a shotgun on you?" One thing never changed no matter where people worked, gossip traveled at warp speed. "Not so much pulled as had it waiting with him when we arrived." "Jesus Christ! Well, Mr. Donovan, welcome to Bureau of Indenturement Processing Center, Number 842. Follow the yellow line. Do as you're told and everything should run smoothly. Resist, disobey, or attempt to assault the staff in any way and you'll wish the transport van that brought you here had run you over instead. Have a nice day." The new arrivals were herded into a central processing area and segregated by sex. People's reactions to their new circumstances were as varied as the specifics of how they got there. Some shuffled along in shock, others protested. A lot of the younger ones openly cried. So did a couple of men older than Tom. The ones who didn't move fast enough go shoved along. One or two tried to fight and got worked over with the guards' batons for their trouble. After that most of the crowd went along with the program. The next couple hours were humiliating and dehumanizing but that was to be expected. The strip-searches, delousing and communal cold shower they were run through were all intended to break down the will, get the new indents into a properly submissive headspace. A couple of the younger kids, just barely over the sixteen-year-old legal limit started to struggle when they were bent over to be probed by latex-gloved guards. Before they nightsticks could come out, Tom got them under control. "Just relax, little brother." He told them with a wink and a smile. "Hey, look at the bright side: this time next month you'll probably be nose-deep in some hot cougar's muff while these cac ar oineach are still pissin' it away here." The scumbags in question didn't speak Irish but they got the spirit of it. Tom got a shot across the thighs with a baton and a less than gentle touch from Dr. Jellyfinger, but it settled the kids down so it was worth it. After that they were herded, still naked, through medical where they were given the most thorough and invasive physical Tom had ever received in his life. In addition to the usual round of tests, their teeth were checked, semen samples were drawn, and the males had their equipment measured while both flaccid and hard. The nurse didn't find Tom's request for a helping hand half as funny as he did. Everyone, male or female, had contraceptive implants installed in the outer thigh muscle. A tracking and control chip went in the back of the neck about a hands width beneath and behind the left ear. That was a little slice of Hell. The jolt they all took to demonstrate the chips effectiveness knocked a couple of them out and caused one poor bastard to shit himself. They were photographed again too, this time from all angles both while soft and erect. Tom didn't understand the plastic smocks a couple of the medics donned during that part of the process until one or two of the other newbies had trouble rising under such public conditions. One of them, a teenager, unloaded in the course of getting himself "into a viewable state" as one of the staff put it. Their handlers gave him several good smacks and a verbal ass-chewing along with time on all fours cleaning up the mess for his trouble. Psych tests, aptitude tests, placement interviews and a stack of forms the height of an Oompah-Loompah followed. The shrink he sat down with laughed when he answered the question about any history of mental illness with "What? You mean besides being crazy enough to volunteer for this shit?" One of the more interesting sections involved being sat down in front of a screen with sensors attached to him and forced to look at a series of images from the mundane to the erotic to stuff straight out of the more extreme fringe aspects of the fetish scene. The test was intended to get an objective assessment of the new indents sexual orientation. ICL's didn't get a say in who they fucked or how once they were in the system but the official line was that it made things more humane as it helped ensure greater compatibility between "employer" and "employee." Unofficially, you didn't buy a car without looking under the hood. If the car didn't like the road it found itself driven down, too bad for the car. It seemed to Tom that at every step in the process he found himself eyeballed and whispered about. Finally he asked one of the guards what all the fuss was about. "You're that voluntary Comisky brought in right?" The guy asked. When Tom nodded he explained. "Part of it's how rare you are. You read comic books? Well you're the indent equivalent of a mint condition 1930s issue of Superman. The other part is how you set up the deal. Not a lot of people who bring a shotgun to the negotiating table get to walk away. Good news is, you can pretty much forget about a hard labor assignment. Word's probably already out about you. Some millionaire somewhere is gonna snatch you up as soon as you go public. That or one of the porn companies. Shit, I'd pay to watch you screw on-screen and I'm not even bi. You really jump French?" when Tom nodded he cautioned, "Watch your back. He's a vindictive little prick." Eventually they were ushered into a common area and given a little speech about the rules of the center, the supreme inadvisability of breaking any of them and how, with a little luck and good behavior many of them might find themselves in better circumstances than they had enjoyed when they were free. Tom tuned out everything but the rules. Airy-fairy bullshit assurances didn't interest him. He'd heard similar noise before and knew it was nothing more than a head game intended to keep the population on their good behavior. It had about as much basis in reality as his cougar story to those kids did. After the pep talk Tom and the others were sorted by probable assignment. General laborers followed the blue line. Skilled trades followed the white line. Domestic and entertainment - the category of Tom and almost all the youngest ICLs - followed the green. The overseer in charge of Tom's group pointed him to a six by eight by ten-foot cell with a steel door painted to match the line. The only window in tiny room was the small viewing one at eye level in the cell door. Tom stepped in and tried not to flinch when it banged shut behind him. The accommodations inside were spartan but nowhere near the worst he'd ever experienced. The walls were cinderblock, flat white. The furnishings were mostly stainless steel. The bunk, desk and "chair" (a solid concrete column in front of a desk not much bigger than a TV tray) were painted white. The mattress was clean but there was no pillow or bedding. A small shelf near the toilet was labeled "uniforms." Tom put the two spare sets of center-issue garb he'd been given on it and examined his new home. The sink and commode were a single unit, plain silver stainless-steel in color. The sink occupied the space where the tank would be on a residential toilet. A polished metal mirror was built into the wall above the sink. It had a small shelf, just big enough for the bar of soap, plastic cup, toothpaste and soft plastic toothbrush they had all been issued. Calling the opening the water trickled out from a faucet was venturing into the realm of the grandiose. Tom hung up the washcloth and hand towel that, along with a roll of toilet paper constituted the rest of their hygiene kit on the two white plastic hooks attached to one edge of the shelf. One look was all he needed to know they were engineered to fold down if subjected to more than a few pounds of pressure. He wondered what the suicide rate had been in the early days of the program. For some reason that information hadn't been available. What a shock. The desk and wall behind it doubled as a computer and keyboard. They used the same touch-screen tech as the better class of cell phones. A thick sheet of plexiglass protected the monitor. A prompt was waiting for him on the screen. Before he could respond to it the feeding slot slid open, a voice said "Lunch!" and a tray slid through. "Lunch" was a bologna sandwich on white bread, no cheese, apple, pint of milk and an oatmeal cookie. Tom set the tray on his bunk stripped to the waist and got down on the floor to do some pushups. "Is there a problem, Mr. Donovan?" a voice asked from a speaker above the door. "Nope." Tom said. "Just kinda a stressful day. Thought I'd get some exercise in before lunch. You guys get a lotta hunger strikes here?" "You have 15 minutes to eat, Mr. Donovan. We suggest you make the most of it." "Duly noted, Oh Great And Powerful Oz." Before the speaker clicked off Tom heard a snicker. Tom burned off a fast fifty pushups, ate lunch and had the tray waiting with time to spare. He was already poking around the computer when they took it away. The first thing to come up was a ten-minute cac-fest about his wonderful new life as an indentured contract laborer. There were scenes of happy little slaves finding fulfillment and joy waiting hand and foot on their "employers." Testimonials from real-live-we-swear-to-God indents and their contractors showed ICL's cuddled up to their so-called "betters." Arms were draped over shoulders, hands rested companionably on hips as frequently May/December couples stood side-by-side beaming at the camera. Tom took it with a shaker full of salt. He didn't doubt that some people found that kind of connection but reckoned the reality was usually more about folks making the best of a bad situation than finding a love match with some stranger who viewed them as property. After the film, there was a rundown to the center's rules. They basically boiled down to "Do as you're told and you'll be treated well. Disobey and we'll beat or zap you into compliance. Lay one violent hand on any of the staff and you'll wish you'd never been born." The laws covering Tom's new status required that all newcomers to the system be given two weeks for friends and family to raise the money for their contracts. The Bureau used this period to acclimate them to their new life. The first week would be orientation, getting used to an existence where refusal to obey any order, however personally repugnant or humiliating could get you flogged unconscious. Deportment, cooking and, of course "intimate service" tutorials were part of the program. A couple hours a day were assigned for fitness classes, which made sense. Not many people wanted to lay out the kind of money the average contract cost on somebody who was out of shape. Week two was more of the same only with more fine-tuning. Additionally, inmates were confined to quarters for an hour before each meal. Clothing was prohibited during those periods as well as during any time spent in the prone position on one's bunk. They didn't say it outright but the reason why seemed obvious to Tom. The biggest surprise was the food. He had expected their dining options to be what was put in front of them or hunger. Instead, every meal actually had three or four choices. Of course, all but one had a price tag attached to it. Not in dollars but in time. You could eat prime rib for dinner every night as long as you didn't mind an extra six months piled onto your contract. It made sense when you thought about it. Make the food good, keep the livestock happy and you've got something you can punish them by withholding if they got froggy. Curious, Tom spoke up. "Excuse me, Oz? You there, Oh Great And Powerful One? Scarecrow's got a question if you got a sec." "The scarecrow, Mr. Donovan? I would have had you pegged for the lion after your performance this morning." Tom laughed at that. "I'm all kindsa brave, Oz. But let's face it, I had a lick of brains I wouldn't be here. Say, any chance of getting that dinner stir-fry for breakfast? Kinda got hooked on rice in the morning over the years. Leftovers are fine, no need to make it fresh." "We'll look into it. Anything else?" "Well, if you know any hot female contortionists looking for a houseboy and could put in a good word for me…" E-mail was available to contact friends and family. A warning screen cautioned that all correspondence was monitored and censored for security reasons. Tom took the opportunity to fire off letters to the girls letting them know he'd arrived and was doing alright and reminding them to stick together. His contract would be up in due time and he'd be home before they got the stink of his farts out of the couch cushions. Letters also went off to a couple if his closer friends asking them to look out for his girls. He didn't waste time asking for money nobody had in the first place. Not long after, a tone sounded from the speaker Oz had used to address him. A general announcement went out instructing all new arrivals to exit their quarters and follow the guards' instructions. Tom complied and the door closed behind him. The group was still trying to figure out what they were supposed to do when Tom's best friend, Agent French came strutting down the tier, his asp baton spinning in a one-handed display of what Tom could only regard as douche'-fu. "Off with those clothes, children!" he sang out. "No need to be bashful. We're going to get to know one another real well the next two weeks." There were a couple cries of pain as people who didn't strip fast enough got flicked across the thighs or butt with the collapsible steel weapon. One member of the group tried to avoid getting naked at all. French solved that problem by calling for backup and having the kid's clothes ripped off his body. The guards made an example of the boy by pinning him spread eagle to the wall and making everyone watch while French gave him a half-dozen ringing cracks with a strap hanging off his belt. "Next time I tell you to do something, you little shit, you fucking do it..." French growled into his ear, one hand taking a painful grip in the kid's hair. "...or I'll bend you over and take that ass of yours dry, you hear me?" He threw the kid to the floor. "Now, clean this shit up, and get back in line. And stop sniveling!" He slapped the boy across the back of the head "Wait till your contract gets bought and your new Daddy has you on all fours in front of him. Fuckin' little crybaby!" Oh yeah, Tom thought. A regular soop-er he-ro, triumphing over ev-vil, that was Frenchy alright. Ass. Even though he was already nude by the time French reached him Tom still took a shot high across the outside of his right thigh. It stung but didn't do any real damage. Tom didn't give the prick the satisfaction of either crying out or mouthing off. "Ok, kiddies!" French announced when everyone was stripped. "Line up and follow me." The rest of the day was tiring, dehumanizing and humiliating. The novice slaves were kept in the buff until dinnertime. They were led around on all fours singly and in groups, sometimes directed by verbal commands sometimes lead on leashes. Anyone who resisted got the strap or shocked. One particularly stupid individual took a swing at one of the guards. After two solid minutes with his neck chip driving electric hellfire through his nerves the staff took turns working him over with their fists, batons and whatever else came to hand. Just before dinner French zeroed in on Tom for a lesson in obedience. "Now, boys and girls, what you may not know is that we've got a celebrity among us. Mr. Donovan, front and center!" When Tom obediently crawled over, French started stalking around him. "Mr. Donovan here is what we call a voluntary or proxy. Most of you are here against your will. In fact most of you indent scum system-wide are here against your will. Mr. Donovan, however, asked to join our little family. Isn't that right, Mr. Donovan?" Tom resisted the urge to mouth off. "Sure is." French smacked him across the face. Tom saw red but stopped himself from finishing what had been started back at his house. "Yes, Master French, I asked to come here. Try it again!" "Yes, Master French, I asked to come here." "I asked to come here because my degenerate gambling addict cunt of a sister-in-law conned me into taking her place." "Is that how you got this job?" Tom asked. "And here I thought it was because you flunked outta Clown College." Even a couple of the other center staff laughed at that one. French backhanded Tom for that. Two more open-palmed shots to the face followed. "You know, Tommy boy," he said when he stopped the beating. "I've got just the thing for that mouth of yours." He unzipped his pants and took out his cock. It was already hard. A few drops of pre-cum glistened at the tip. "Now Tommy here is about as heterosexual as one man can be. In fact, he's so straight he was fucking two girls at the same time just last night." "That reminds me, Master French, sir. Your sister and mom said to remind you, your grandma's birthday is next week." Thirty seconds of shock therapy later, Tom was gasping on the floor on his side. "Any other funny jokes, Tommy?" French asked. When Tom shook his head - fuck that hurt! - French pulled him back to his knees by his hair. "Now, like I was saying, our Tommy tested out as hetero like most of the rest of you. But the thing to remember is that it isn't what the indent likes that matters. It's what the contractor likes that matters. Tommy, I like blowjobs. Get to it." Tom's gag reflex tripped at the idea of sucking French off. This was something he hadn't even done as a starving teenaged kid on the streets of Detroit. Still, he'd known this would be part of the deal when he made up his mind to stand in for Nick. Swallowing and closing his eyes he took the other man's shaft in his hand and bent his head to take the cock into his mouth. "Open those eyes, Tommy-boy" French ordered. Obedient, Tom forced his eyes open. He placed his lips on the head of French's organ and slid his mouth down towards the base. He barely made it halfway before he recoiled, reflexively pulling off. The slick, smooth texture of the skin triggered something in him and he couldn't bring himself to go any further. French had been waiting for the reaction, hoping for it. One of the absolute worst things a domestic indent could do was resist their employer's sexual advances. The trainers were under orders to break their charges to the service and had significant leeway in what they could do to enforce compliance. He still had a hand in Tom's hair and locked down in a painful grip with it before Tom could retreat more than a few inches. He pulled Tom's head back, forcing him to look up. "Dumb move, Tommy." French's other hand held a strap. He pushed Tom down on all fours and brought the belt down across his back. Half a dozen licks with the leather raised welts across Tom's back, ass and thighs before he stopped. When the beating finished French pulled him back into position. "We're not going anywhere until you get me off, boy. And if that means the entire group has to miss dinner because of you, I'm ok with that. And, Tommy? You really don't want me to feel those teeth. We clear? Now, get on it!" French forced Tom's face back into his crotch. It was easier this time but still disgusting. Tom gagged and coughed, got slapped for it. French bore down on his hair, forcing his head as far down onto his cock as he could without actually shoving it down his throat. "Stroke the shaft, boy." French grunted, pumping his hips. When Tom obeyed, he sped up. French's breathing got more rapid, shallower. His hips pumped faster and he dragged Tom's mouth up and down his organ in time to the thrusts. Inside Tom's mouth the cock was leaking more and more pre-cum. Unable to pull away, he had no choice but to swallow the sickening salty stuff. "That's it, you little shit. That's right. Suck it, suck, unngghghg!" French came in Tom's mouth, filling it with the disgusting, thick fluid. He held the indent's head as far down onto his organ as he could, forcing him to swallow. Tom gagged, choked, and tried not to vomit. Much of what French shot into his mouth ran down the length of his dick but enough got swallowed he was amazed he didn't hurl all over the bastard. Finally French pulled Tom back off his organ. He reached down, wiped up some of the spillage from along his length with a couple fingers and shoved them into Tom's mouth. "Waste not want not, Tommy." That did it. Tom blew breakfast, lunch and the recent contents of French's scrotum all over French's crotch and thighs. The other man recoiled, crying out in disgust. The small part of Tom's brain that wasn't occupied with vomiting onto the floor took a certain satisfaction from the sight of French, covered in puke standing paralyzed with a mix of rage and repulsion. His stomach was still spasming when two guards very carefully hoisted him to his feet and, at French's instruction bent him over a nearby table. "You did that on purpose, you rotten little bastard!" French said before teeing off on Tom with the strap. Tom didn't struggle. It wouldn't have done any good. The jailers had him pinned, one on each arm and French had a death-grip on the back of his neck. The belt cracked and burned up and down the back of his lower half twice, covering it in burning red welts he'd feel for the rest of the day. When French finished, he threw Tom to the floor. A member of the maintenance staff had appeared with a bucket, mop and sawdust. "Clean that shit up!" French snapped. "Sick little fucker! Lucky I can't kill you!" He stalked off to shower and change, leaving Tom to clean up the cooling mess on the floor. Dinner was served in a cafeteria that could have come straight out of most prisons. Long communal tables with integral stools lined the room. Tables and seats were both built into the floor so they couldn't be used as weapons. Tom went through the line, got his tray and found a seat as close to the wall opposite the serving line as he could. He'd never liked people sneaking up on him. A couple of the younger kids sat down with him. "That was sweet the way you told that guy off, Tom." Billy, a brown haired youngster, whose parents had missed one house payment too many, said. Tom nodded. "Thanks. Look guys, do yourselves a favor; be real careful how much of my bullshit you emulate, ok? You notice it's only Frenchy I fuck with, none of the others." "Man, fuck them!" This from Aaron. His parents had made the fatal acquaintance of a drunk driver. "They don't scare me!" "Then you're fuckin' stupid!" Tom snapped. "Look, I get up Frenchy's ass because he threatened my family and they're the reason I volunteered for this shit, ok? But even I..." "All diners please stand, fully disrobe, and resume eating!" came the Voice of Oz over the loudspeakers. There was some bitching which earned those doing it a variety of shocks, slaps and licks with the strap, whatever the staff handling it was in the mood for. Tom just shrugged, stripped off, put his folded clothes on his stool and sat back down. Billy and Aaron took one look at how some of the others were shivering their butts on the cold steel seats and followed his example. "Like I was sayin'; I only push it so far. You see his eye?" Tom pointed to his own eye. "My doing. But you don't see me puttin' hands on the prick now we're here do ya?" He gestured with his plastic spoon. "Best thing the pair of you can do is keep your heads down, and 'Yes Master, No Mistress' this lot into the ground. You go gettin' too froggy there's perverts out there get off on breaking people. Especially loudmouthed kids from the suburbs who think beatin' up on chess club nerds makes them hard men. Piss off the wrong one of these mucs you might find your file flagged. Then two weeks from now when they transfer you, you'll wind up goin' home with some leatherman, got his own private dungeon in his basement. Find out more'n you ever wanted to about hard men then." The boys shared a horrified look. Much like with prison, the single greatest fear for most new indentured males was the prospect of getting fucked in the ass. Tom dug into his pasta. Frenchy's little - well ok not that little - deposit hadn't exactly stimulated his appetite but a couple years eating out of dumpsters taught you to eat when you could even if you weren't hungry at the time. He noticed a familiar figure coming down the aisle between the tables. "Heads up, guys." He said twitching his chin. "Evening, Mistress Beth." Beth smiled coolly at Tom. "Tom. The monitors tell me you need to work on your listening." Tom frowned at that, confused. "No, Mistress. I've done everything I've been told today. Even cleaned Frenchy's pipes for him." He shrugged at that "Trashed his trousers after, but accidents happen." "Our conversation back at your house about antagonizing him?" "Oh yeah, that. Seem to recall you talking to him about running his mouth about my girls." He took another bite of his dinner " Hm, maybe that shot I laid upside his ear screwed his hearing." Beth didn't say anything to that. Instead she took the spoon from him and tapped it empty on the side of his tray. Then she put the tray on the floor at her feet, leaving Tom's drink on the table but throwing the spoon into a nearby trash can. "Finish your meal, Tom. Or are you and your friends all done eating until lunch tomorrow?" Tom threw the boys a look. See what being froggy got you? He got down on the floor and reached for his dinner. "No hands, Tom. And I want that tray spotless when you're done." Tom got his face into the food. If Herself wanted to humiliate him a little he could handle it. And it wasn't like a tray on a cafeteria floor was the worst place he'd had his mouth recently. Reactions around him were mixed. Some people stared openly; others pointedly ignored the show or snuck peeks they didn't think anyone else caught. After a few bites Beth nudged the tray with her foot, making him chase it a few inches. "Open your legs, Tom. And get your butt in the air. I like a show with dinner, don't you?" Beth walked him in a circuit up one side of the row of tables and down the other on all fours by twitching the tray with her foot after every bite or two. At one point she walked behind him, took out her phone. "You really do have a lovely little rear end." She said, taking a picture of his naked, spread ass and hanging genitals. "You're going to make some lucky man very happy when the time comes." Tom blushed and shivered at that. When the tray was clean enough to suit Mistress Beth she patted him on the behind. Then she moistened her middle finger with her mouth and slipped it up inside him, pushing forward so that he had to either push himself back onto her or go face first into the floor. "That's a good little doggy." She said. Tom's face burned with embarrassment. Chasing his meal around on all fours was one thing. This was something else. "Now go bus your tray and finish your drink. And don't let me see you using your hands or getting up on your hind legs until you're back at your seat" Carrying his tray in his teeth was awkward and a bit uncomfortable but he managed ok. A couple of the guards watched him as he made his way back to his seat. One guy made him stop and submit to a fondling of his ass and groin before letting him by. When one of the other residents openly laughed at Tom, a passing female staffer upended his tray onto the floor and made him clean it up the same way Tom had eaten his dinner. Lights out was at nine. Most of the residents went without complaint. A few fussed about the lack of pillows or bedding and caught hell for it. Billy and Aaron caught Tom's eye, curious how he'd handle the problem. Tom tugged at his shirt then tapped the back of his head and gave them an inquiring look. They both nodded, seeming to get it. Tom stripped as soon as he was inside. The Eye of Oz was watching anyway so it wasn't like he had any real privacy. A quick check of his e-mail brought good news. Nic's debt was officially cleared. He smiled at that. Whatever hell waited for him - and God knew he'd done plenty to deserve worse than seven years as the pampered little fuck-toy of some rich stranger - it would be worth it. Plus now if Frenchy pushed it too far he could do the world a favor and ghost the bastard. Tom just hoped Nic' would smarten up and get some help for her problem. It'd be a long time before he could bail her out again. A tone sounded five minutes before rack time. Tom brushed his teeth and hair, piled both clean and dirty uniforms at one end of the bed and lay down, using his clothes as a pillow. It wasn't much but it would do. It took some time to drift off. He'd never been a very deep sleeper. Too much of the wrong kind of excitement over the years had seen to that. Added to the strange surroundings and stress it made for a pretty wakeful mix. Still, with a little help from some relaxation techniques he'd picked up, Tom was able to turn in. It seemed like he had just gotten asleep when the lights blazed on and the door to his cell slid open. Tom's instincts kicked in. He rolled off the bed, backed away towards the far wall in a combat crouch. His eyes weren't even open. It was all lizard-brain reflex. "Tom, relax!" Mistress Beth's voice brought him the rest of the way to the surface. Tom blinked, forced himself to calm down. He opened his eyes. "Mistress? What's going on?" Through the door he spotted other guards entering cells, some in uniform, some in civilian clothes, some of it highly fetishized. Screams came from a couple of the rooms. The wheels turned, gears clicked and Tom made the connection. Perks of the job. "Oh." He said. He sank to his knees. "You're here for me." Beth nodded. Like a few of her colleagues she had changed out of her work clothes. She wore a white silk blouse that accentuated her breasts without showing off. Her skirt, black and also silk, rode her hips and thighs closely enough to flatter but not so much as to bind. She wore four inch heels on her feet that brought out the best in her already fit and muscular legs. Her hair and makeup were understated, relying more on her own significant natural good looks than artifice. In one hand she carried a small nylon gym bag. Beth snapped her fingers and pointed to her feet. Tom crawled over until he was nearly touching her. She took him by the hair, firmly but not painful the way her partner had earlier. She eased his head back, tightened her grip just enough that his scalp complained a little without screaming at him. Tom felt something inside himself relax even as other, more external parts began to tense up. "You're mine tonight, Tom." She said. "Anything I want, short of deflowering your pretty little rear end, is mine to take. Understood?" Tom tried to nod but her grip stopped him. "Yes, Mistress Beth." He said. "I'm yours to use however you like." Beth smiled and ran a caressing hand through his hair. Tom felt himself pushing his head against her hand like a cat as her fingers ran through the growth. "Good boy. Now, show me how happy you are to have me here." Tom glanced down between his legs. Despite the unusual circumstances and the fact that he'd never once cheated on his girls, Beth's attentions had him harder than Chinese algebra. "I thought I was, Mistress." She laughed at that. "No silly. Though that's nice too." She pointed at her feet, tapped her left shoe on the floor. Tom got it. "Oh! Sorry, Mistress." "Just shut up and get started." The words weren't meant cruelly. They were just a reminder of his place in the food chain. Tom backed off a foot or so and bent his head. He began kissing Beth's feet, starting with the left one. At one point she sidestepped, forcing him to turn with her so that they were both in profile to the door and, more importantly, the camera above it. "Your tongue." Mistress said after he'd been down there for a bit. "Just the tip. I don't want any of your drool on me." "At least not on that part of you anyway, Mistress?" Tom asked grinning. That earned him a hard, painful smack across the back with the palm of her hand. He winced as the bloom of the strike spread out. It wasn't the worst he'd endured that day by a long road but it still stung. "Anything else on your mind, doggy?" she asked. Tom shook his head. Message received. He dutifully lapped at Beth's shoes with the tip of his tongue. His mouth began to ache and his neck and shoulders started to burn from the unusual position but he kept at it until told to stop. "Turn to face away from the door." She said. "Face down, butt nice and high, just like at dinner. And close your eyes. I've got some things to get ready." She sighed. "Of all the people here to be an ass virgin. Oh well, I hear a couple of the teenagers aren't. Maybe I'll visit one of them tomorrow, let someone else have you." Tom waited patiently in the dark behind his closed eyes. He tried to work out what was going on by the limited sound coming from the bed there was nothing distinctive enough to really work with. "Get over here, Tom." Mistress Beth said after what Tom's internal count told him was only a minute or two. "And no peeking." Tom scooted blindly over to the bed. He could sense Beth a few inches away. He knelt, legs open, head bowed. A hand caressed his head, fingers in his hair. It drifted down across his cheek, petting him. He remembered times when the girls had touched him like that and felt a stab of pain. Fingers cupped and lifted his chin. "Eyes open, Tom." Tom looked at her. While he had been kneeling on the floor Beth had laid several items out on his bunk on the side of her nearest the door. A small rectangular leather flogger lay on the mattress next to a hexagonal plastic cane the length of his arm. Tom would bet three more months in service it had started out life as the tilt mechanism on a set of venetian blinds. Beside that lay a wooden paddle that put him in mind of a larger serving spoon if you were to flatten out the bowl of the spoon. There was a leather paddle as well with some kind of fur on one side and, most disconcerting for Tom, a bottle of lubricant. A box of sanitary wipes stood close by next to a box of larger sized condoms. "I'm going to hurt you, Tom." Beth said. "I'm going to beat you with every one of these items no matter how well behaved you are. When I'm done I'm going to use you in other ways. And if you do a good job I'll let you come. But no promises. Any questions?" He shook his head as much as her grip would allow. "No, Mistress." She tugged on his chin. "Then get on your stomach across my lap. And none of your tough-guy nonsense. Understood?" In answer, Tom crawled into Beth's lap. When he was positioned to her liking, hands under his face, crotch in her lap, ass slightly elevated she began. Her hand came first, caressing him in slow easy circles, relaxing him. Then the first shot cracked down, stinging but not unpleasant. More blows followed the first and he didn't hide his responses. He didn't make a big production out of it either but the little gasps as Beth's hand came down again and again onto his increasingly red and tender cheeks were genuine. In between swats she petted him, sometimes in little circles, sometimes like you would a dog or a pony's rump. The sensations produced a combination of physical and emotional comfort and embarrassment Tom never would make sense of. "Turn around." She said eventually. "Ass to the door. Reach back and spread yourself." "You know," she said picking up the lube and dribbling a little on his exposed anus when he obeyed "it's a funny thing. We've had to redefine what a virgin is since the indentured laws were passed." Beth spread the cold, slippery stuff around, making sure to get her finger nice and slick " For instance, you've been in a committed relationship with two women most of your adult life. But until you get sold to some lucky man or woman you're still considered enough of a virgin that I can't do everything I'd like to you." Tom knew what was coming, tried to relax. It wasn't easy and he felt his face burning. A finger slipped inside him. "I can do this and you're still pure." She said working her finger in and out of him. When Tom held still Beth swatted him. "Don't just lay there, Tom, move those hips, nice and slow. Pretend your new master is in you right now and you're trying to show him a good time." Tom pumped his hips, pushing himself back onto the uncomfortable intruding finger inside him. Before long two more joined it. He found himself wincing. Mistress took a grip on the back of his neck, right where his chip was implanted. "That's nice, isn't it?" she asked, giving him a warning squeeze. Tom got the hint. "Yes Mistress, it's nice. I like it when you finger my ass." Of all the lies he had told over the years, that one was hands down the most confusing mix of truth and bullshit ever to leave his mouth. "I like it too. I just wish I could take you for a proper ride, put a strapon on and force you to come for me that way." Tom whimpered in response. While she'd been talking Beth had sped up the pace of her thrusts, occasionally turning her hand so the fingers rotated inside him. It was uncomfortable, unpleasant and easily the most degrading thing he'd ever done. And God help him if he wasn't getting a little hard as he humped away against her fingers. Beth teased him about that, reaching down and stroking him, commenting on how happy he was going to make some future - probably male - contractor with a response like that. She pulled out after a bit, cleaned her hand with the wipes. The next couple of hours were...educational. Mistress proved as good as her word, working him over with every single one of her toys. The leather flogger stung - they all stung to one degree or another - but wasn't much worse than her hand. The wooden paddle was more of a thud, the extra mass making it push against him more as it lit up his ass and thighs. He decided almost immediately he hated the cane. The damned thing bit in, raising welts and bruising his ass and thighs. Mistress played with him with it, alternately tapping for a few little nips at his skin then hauling off to land one with a swing that made it whistle before the strike. The big leather paddle was his favorite. Beth played with both sides, alternately petting him and then firing up his back or butt or legs with a crack that made his ears ring and his skin scream. The simple fact that he enjoyed any of it at all - and looking back later Tom would admit to himself that, apart from that bualadh craicinn cane much of what she did to him was fun in a weird and confusing way - was an eye opener. It was painful and humiliating but there was a rush to it that almost reminded him of all the fights he'd been in over the years. Beth made him change position periodically as she played with him. Sometimes he was over her lap. He enjoyed that. There was an intimacy to it that made giving in easier somehow. At other intervals, he lay on the bunk or bent over it. Sometimes she would have him facing the door and the camera above it recording everything, sometimes facing away so the audience could see the affect of the beating on his skin. At one point she went back to fingering him, this time working over his back with the strikers and dancing the nails of her free hand across the welts while she humped him with her hand. The urge to fight back was there of course but he pushed it aside. The former street thug who had once paid a friend to blowtorch a swastika tat off him wanted to rise up and block out the pain, not give Beth, or the people their session was intended for, the satisfaction of seeing him flinch. Instead he opened himself up to the pain, let it roll over him and his reactions show through. He found himself, at one point, shuddering and crying in Mistress Beth's lap as the endorphins took him for a ride cleaner than any street high. Mistress rocked him and petted him. "Ssshhhhh. It's ok, little one. You did fine. But we're not done yet. That was just foreplay." Tom felt a surge of fear go through him. The usual accompanying rage followed fast behind but he deflected it. He was there of his own choice. Whatever happened to him, he had asked for it in the most literal sense. Beth kissed him and he responded, opening his mouth to her, tilting his head back and relaxing into the arm supporting his back the way his girls had done with him thousands of times over the years. "Kneel." She said after the kiss was finished. "Help me out of these clothes so we can see what else you're good at." Less than a minute later Mistress was nude, sitting on the bunk with her legs open. Tom knelt between her knees. She was gorgeous. Everything was firm and strong looking; muscular but still feminine. Her breasts were somewhere between Nicki's and Angie's in size. Some guys reckoned bigger was better but Tom had always preferred a woman whose curves fit her frame. Beth's breasts, firm, full and natural with their hard brown nipples and aureoles were magnificent. She had shaved her legs and hadn't stopped there. What should have been a patch of hair between her legs was as smooth as the skin of her stomach. He could smell her need for him. Part of his brain started gibbering at the realization that, for the first time in ten years he was about to have sex with a woman who wasn't Nick or Ang'. A hand pressed the back of his head as Beth settled back and opened her legs wider. "Go on, Tom. Get your face in there." Tom bent his head, kissing and licking his way to his trainer's vagina. Her breath sped up and she moaned slightly as his tongue found her. That same gibbering part of his brain tried to make him pull back, tried to tell him he was cheating his ass off on his women. He ignored it. This wasn't adultery. It was him keeping to the deal he'd made to save his Nicki from seven years on her back under some degenerate bastard like Frenchy. "Don't rush, honey." He was told. "We've got all night if we need it." Tom just nodded, not stopping in his attention to her wetness. He shut out the fact that he was fucking a complete stranger for the entertainment of God knew how many other complete strangers and focused on making Mistress feel good. It wasn't difficult. He liked her and honestly wanted to please her. She tasted different from his girls, more sour but not unpleasantly so. Her reactions were different too but it didn't take long to learn what she liked. Part of that was due to Beth not being shy about instructing him. Partly it was just an extension of the skills that had kept him alive on the streets for so long. Listen to a person with all five senses, read the cues and it wasn't that big a deal to peg most folks. Gradually things got more intense. Mistress's reactions became more overt and Tom pushed into her vagina harder, more urgently. Sometimes he lapped at her, finding and teasing her clit and g-spot with his tongue. At others he buried his face in her, shaking himself back and forth or suckling on her clit. That provoked a response that nearly broke his nose when she bucked and thrashed against him, thighs clamping down so hard he couldn't breathe for a bit. At one point, Tom found his hands guided up to her breasts. Up til then he had contented himself with petting her thighs and stomach. An experiment with digging his nails in while he ate her had gotten the back of his hair gripped painfully and his face shoved even harder against her slit. Tom smiled between Beth's legs. His hands took her breasts. They were just as firm and smooth as they had looked to be. He petted the soft skin, drifted his fingers across the nipples. Then he decided to try something that had driven the girls nuts more than a few times over the years. He pulled back slightly from lapping at Mistress. Not so much that she could accuse him of disobedience and certainly not enough to stop serving her with his mouth. Instead he became more tentative down there and focused his attentions more on her breasts. Skilled fingers caressed and tweaked Beth's nipples. She moved under him, chest and pelvis rocking. He petted and pinched, scratched with his nails across the nipples and aureoles. At one point he even scrubbed the calluses built up along the top of his palm from a lifetime of hard work with his hands across the sensitive skin. It didn't take long to get the result he was looking for. When you knew what you were doing it was perfectly possible to make a woman come simply from stimulating her breasts. And Tom had a decade of experience keeping two very active young women happy in bed. His attention on Beth's breasts became more urgent, more demanding even as he backed off from what he was doing between her legs more and more. At one point she tried to force his face into her and he flatly refused, locking his neck and shoulder muscles and shaking his head slightly, tongue playing across her clit as he did so. Beth's breathing came faster and faster. Tom's fingers pinched and pulled, rolling the sensitive nipples between them. "You willful little..." Beth gasped. Tom smiled. She was right on the brink. Perfect. He clamped down on her nipples with his fingers, pinching hard. Her saturated crotch received similar attention. Covering his teeth with his lips so as not to injure his Mistress, Tom bit down on her little bud and shoved his face against her as hard as he could. He shook his head like a dog with a rat and Beth nearly hit the ceiling. Strong, muscular legs vise-gripped his head. Mistress Beth arched her back and her pelvis spasmed like an epileptic in a strobe light factory. Her supporting hand gripped the mattress until the knuckles went white. Aaron, asleep in the next cell, heard her scream through the supposedly soundproofed wall. When she finally stopped thrashing and unclenched her legs from around his head Beth looked down at him, panting. "Up here, on your back, now!" Tom got into position. He was already hard. His new status didn't change his love or fidelity for his girls in the least. But he was still a man, and Mistress Beth was still a damned fine looking woman. His welts stung as she pushed his shoulders down. "I should cane you raw for pulling back like that, you know." She said sticking a finger in his face. Tom nodded. "Yes, Mistress. I was just trying to make you feel good. I'm sorry." "You succeeded. It's the only reason you're not getting beaten for real right now." She straddled his face, thighs on either side of his head, wet, musky slit brushing his lips and nose. "No hands this time. And if you try to get cute again I will take the cane to you. Clear?" Before he could answer she lowered herself the rest of the way onto his mouth. In the new position it was easier for Mistress to control the pace and she forced him to take his time. More than once she took herself up to the very edge with Tom's mouth then backed off. Tom's jaw and neck ached. His tongue was going numb from the exertion. It felt at times like he was drowning from the wetness covering his face and making its way into his breathing passage. Still, he didn't try to pull his face away. Mistress let him breathe enough to do what she wanted. She just didn't make it very easy. Finally after what seemed to Tom like the better part of an hour she pressed herself painfully hard against his mouth. Hips rocked hard, bruising his lips against her pelvis. He pushed back with equal strength, trying to lift her off the mattress with just his neck muscles. His tongue dug deep inside her, looking for her g-spot. Lips teased her clit and he thrashed his head. Beth took his hair in both hands, forced the back of his head against the mattress with implacable strength. She bit back a scream her hips jackknifed atop him and she came. Clear fluid flooded Tom's mouth and nose. He coughed, choked, swallowed as best he could but it still felt like he was being waterboarded. Part Tom's brain wondered if Mistress hadn't just peed on him. Beth looked down at him, breathing heavy, hair completely disheveled. Her body was slick with sweat. Her thighs were slippery with her cum. She smiled at him, ran a caressing hand over his hair. "That's my good boy." She positioned herself lower on his body and bent to kiss him. He responded, pushing back and opening his mouth to her tongue. After a few kisses she reversed herself. Her sex lowered to his face again and he felt warm, soft moistness envelop his shaft. He gasped and started to thrust in Beth's mouth. A sharp smack across the thigh curbed that quick enough. Long before he was ready to have her stop Tom's trainer took her mouth off him. There was a crinkle of foil and the familiar sensation of a condom going on. Beth faced him again, guided his hands to her hips. "Not until I say, Tom." She told him and eased herself down onto his shaft. Tom nodded. His face contorted. Even through the latex Mistress felt amazing. Tight and wet, gripping him with her inner muscles she rode him. Slowly at first, all the way down until she was pushing down on the base of his organ then back up to the point he nearly left her. He matched her rhythm, kissed her neck and mouth and breasts as ordered. His hands wandered her body, petting the soft skin and delighting in the strength of the muscles beneath. Maybe in the morning he'd feel guilty about enjoying himself so much. Maybe later he'd feel dirty or debased at being used as little more than a particularly complex masturbatory device by a complete stranger. At the moment he was too busy losing himself in the simple pleasure of good sex with a woman he was genuinely attracted to. He didn't reckon the next seven years held much of that for him and life had long ago taught him to revel in the pleasant moments when and as you could. Things would turn back to shit plenty soon enough. Beth used her time on top to pay him back for his little stunt from earlier. She brought him to the precipice repeatedly and then held him there, backing off just enough to keep him from coming without making it easy to do. She leaned down, kissing him, letting her breasts brush against his face. Occasionally a nipple would drift across his mouth and he would kiss or suckle it for a few seconds. All the while he read her, listening to what her body was telling him as much as her voice, using what he learned to heighten the experience for her. Eventually Beth climbed off him. For a few seconds he was confused. Then she ordered him off the bed long enough to lie down on her back with the top of her head towards the door. Beth opened her legs. Her skin was gleaming with sweat. The space between her legs was visibly damp. Tom's balls ached with the need to come. She motioned him towards her with one hand. "Come on, little one." The improbable term of endearment resonated in Tom. Responding to it just felt right . "You've earned it." Tom mounted her then. He was gentle going in. He liked Beth. She was one of the better people on her side of the leash that he had met that day. He took it slow at first. No need to imitate a jackrabbit trying to wear a hole in its mate's back. That only lasted a handful or so of strokes before she scolded him, told him she wouldn't break Goddamnit and to just fuck her already . So he did. He pinned her to the mattress by the upper arms and pushed himself up. He dropped his control and let his desire take over. Strong tanned legs wrapped around him and encouragement was panted as he pounded away. The metal shelf that made up the bunk creaked and shifted under them. Beth moaned, got loose of his grip, moved under him. His tempo built, harder, faster, less and less in control. Pressure built and finally peaked. When he came his lower half spasmed as if he were being electrocuted from the waist down. Where Beth's orgasmic vocalization was a scream, his own was somewhere between a roar and a howl. It bounced off the concrete walls of the cell, making Mistress's ears ring. It startled the staffer having his way with the resident of the adjacent cell so badly he checked with the control center to make sure the crazy bastard voluntary next door wasn't murdering his colleague. They lay there for a bit after that. Tom and Beth were in better than average physical shape but it had been a strenuous night for both of them. Beth ran her hand down Tom's back, petting the sweat-slick skin. Tom smiled at her through the damp dangle of his hair. "So," he said "I hope I wasn't too boring a ride." She laughed at that. "Honey, if there was any way I could afford you, you'd be coming home with me tonight and to Hell with the regs." Tom thought about that. He reckoned he'd actually enjoy serving Mistress Beth despite some of the things she said she liked. He said as much, earning another smile and a deep kiss. She pushed him off her then. "This was nice, but we've both got work in the morning. Here." She took a bottle of aspirin from her bag, gave him four of them. "These will help with the soreness. Drink a couple glasses of water before you go back to bed, too." Beth got dressed and policed up her things. Tom flushed the condom. He took the aspirin, drank until his stomach felt full and wiped as much of himself down with a wet washcloth as he could reach. If he was at home this would be the part where he and whichever of the girls he had just made love to, cuddled in bed, taking comfort in the warmth of their bodies, falling asleep in each other's arms. But this wasn't home and Beth wasn't one of his loves. Sure, she was sweet and good looking. She seemed to be a decent enough sort as collectors went. But at day's end she was still a collector and he was just one more indent among God knew how many she'd taken over the years. The lights turned off just as he flipped the mattress. He lay down, closed his eyes and, eventually, drifted off to sleep. Tom woke before the morning alarm. He'd always been an early riser and the previous night had not been restful. No great surprise there; strange surroundings combined with a back full of welts didn't make for the best night's sleep. By the time his cell door slid open he had already blown through the series of stretches, hundred-odd pushups and similar number of sit-ups that he had been doing for years at home. The concrete floor wasn't as pleasant a surface as his living room carpet-especially for the twenty-five fingertip pushups he always ended with - but you worked with what you had. When the alarm sounded, he used the five minute interval to brush his hair and have a cup of water. His muscles were still sore from Mistress Beth's attentions of the previous night but nothing he couldn't handle. The exercise had helped, working out kinks and flushing toxins built up under the various toys. He spent the trip to morning chow scoping out his fellow detainees. It wasn't hard to work out who had gotten a visit the previous night. Bruised skin, limping walks and dazed, shocked expressions told him plenty. A couple of the younger kids were trying not to cry too obviously. At least one newbie older than himself shuffled along like a zombie, body on autopilot because the brain was not up to facing what had happened to them the night before. Several of the guards preened in a way that made Toms hand itch for his axe or the solid weight of a ball peen hammer. Breakfast was a treat. Oz came through for him on the stir-fry. There was even some soy sauce in little packets. It wasn't the same recipe he had been eating for breakfast five, six days a week since his early twenties, but it was close enough his body wouldn't rebel at the sudden change in diet. He thanked the server and took his tray to the same seat he had used the night before at dinner. Billy and Aaron joined him again. Aaron was all talk, jabbering on, wanting to know what happened to Tom the night before. Billy was just the opposite. He just sat there, picking at his eggs and toast, staring a hole in the table. The wince when he took his seat hadn't escaped Tom. Tom nudged him. "C'mon Billy-man. Eat up. You need your strength." He took his own advice and dug in. He looked around. How long before a screw noticed the kid not eating and decided he was a potential hunger striker? Aaron didn't get it. "What's wrong, Billy?" "Leave it." Tom told him. "Man's in a quiet place. Let him be." He leaned across the table, lowered his voice "Billy, if you don't get that spoon moving, sure as Hell a guard is gonna flag you for a hunger striker and drag your ass off to the infirmary to be force-fed. I know last night was bad but trust me, these pricks can make it a lot worse." Billy glared at him. "Oh, you know all about it, huh? You ever been raped?" his voice spiked at the end, drawing stares. Sure enough, a staffer was coming over. "There a problem?" the guard asked when he arrived. Tom shook his head. "No, sir, officer. Just a little conversation over breakfast." The guy glared at Billy, dropped a meaningful hand to his baton. "Well, keep it down. We don't like disturbances." Tom nodded. "Duly noted." When the kids nodded their assent the guard moved on down the aisle. "See what I mean?" Tom asked when he reckoned they had the space to talk again. "And in answer to your question, no, I haven't. But I got six kinds of dogshit beat outta me last night and Comisky spent half the night damned near wrist deep in my ass." "Oh, so because you got fucked by the hot lady collector that brought you in you what? You feel my pain?" You could have carved the bitterness and sarcasm in Billy's tone into blocks and sold it by the pound. Tom shook his head, took a drink. "No I don't. Your pain's your pain. Same as mine's mine and Aaron's is Aaron's. If I could take yours onto me I would but I can't. I can listen though. Sometimes it helps. Your call. And just so you know: I never got raped but I was younger'n you when my best friend tried to end me. Younger still when my junkie prick of an old man tried to turn me out to his heroin connection." Both boys just stared at him. Sometimes hearing about other people's horrible shit distracted from your own if only for a few seconds. "Get the fuck out." Aaron said wonderingly. "Your dad?" Billy asked. Even with what he had been through the night before Tom's revelation was a shock. "What the hell ?" Tom nodded, took another bite. "You eat, I'll talk. Spoon stops the story stops. Deal?" Both boys tucked into their food, Billy a bit more listlessly than Aaron but at least he was eating. "My parents were both addicts." Tom began. "Mom OD'd when I was little. Maybe seven or eight years old. Dad - the prick - he hung around a few more years. Bastard had a real love affair with the needle, know what I mean? But he kept it together well enough the state never took me which I kinda regret lookin' back. Maybe if he'd fucked up real bad when I was young enough I wouldn't have had such a jacked up life." Tom thought about that a second. If he'd had a more normal childhood he'd probably still be back east. He'd have never met the twins and right now his beautiful, precious Nicki would be coming to terms with her first experience being raped as a slave. He shook his head. For better or worse the choices his parents made, and the ones he made after they ceased to be a factor in his life, had lead him to this point. Wishing it had gone otherwise was stupid and pointless. "So one night, Dad, he gets sick. And I don't mean flu or cold sick, you know? Needs a fix. But he's overdrawn with his dealer. So he works a little barter out. Couple hours with me in return for enough smack to make it through the weekend. Course I don't know this at the time. I just know he wants me to come over to his house, have something to eat, maybe play some Nintendo, you know? I knew what he did for a living but so what? I was actually stupid enough to think he felt sorry for me, the prick." "So we get over there and just like he promised, he hooks me up. Sits me down, fries up a couple pork chops, and some French fries. Even finds some Oreos for dessert. Tells me he needs me to do him a favor, take something home with me for the old man. But first, there's somethin' else he needs me to do." Tom stopped talking for a minute then. He stared at his tray. He wasn't seeing it or the table or anything else in the cafeteria. Instead he was fourteen again, back in that East Detroit apartment with the freezing winter wind screaming through the streets outside and his dad's dealer on the couch, starting to paw at him. "Cho-mo motherfucker takes me by the hair with one hand and tries to shove the other down my pants." Tom's eyes went lizard-cold and his voice was arctic in a murderous rage as he revisited the nearly twenty year old memory. "Holy shit !" Billy said. "So what happened? Your dad change his mind and show up to pull him off you?" "I bet he beat the guy's ass." Aaron said. "Probably shot him" Tom laughed at that, spooned up some more rice. "I wish. I got myself out of it and fuck-you-very-much daddy dearest for getting me into it in the first goddamned place. I cut my way clear of him and hauled ass. Didn't go home for two days." Billy's face fell at how the story ended. "See? Least you fought back. And you won too. And you were younger than me." "And I nearly got my damned head blown off!" Tom told him. "Went out a second story bathroom window into the middle of a Detroit winter in nothing but jeans and a raggedy-assed sweatshirt. Ran off into the dark, rounds poppin' off all around me. Damned near froze to death too. And here, check this out." He showed them a shiny discolored spot about the width of one finger where the muscles of his left shoulder sloped up to meet his neck. "Near miss. Couple inches in a couple different directions," Tom snapped his fingers. "No more Tommy O'Neill." "I thought your last name was Donovan." Aaron said. "It is. Took my wife's name when we married. O'Neill didn't mean shit to me so I dropped it. And as for me fighting back, I was a different person than you under different circumstances. I damned sure wasn't locked up in a place like this with a chip in my neck and some fucking pervert trained in restraining people and expecting a fight comin' at me with me naked, and half asleep in a concrete room." As if on cue the order to strip came over the speakers. Tom rolled his eyes and shucked off, muttering a few choice words in Irish as he did. When the boys looked at him inquiringly he explained what language it was, and how it was nothing they wanted to say around someone who knew the language. Before sitting down he handed his folded clothes to Billy to sit on. The metal stool wouldn't be pleasant under the circumstances but he had a higher threshold than the boy. Aaron followed his example, earning a nod and smile of respect. You looked out for your own as best you could. "What did your dad do when you came home?" "Beat the shit outta me. After his boy got stitched up he sent some muscle around to pay Pops a visit. They stomped his ass and cut him off cold. He couldn't buy a gram with the keys to Fort Knox after that. Had to find a new dealer. Wasn't long after, dumb bastard nodded off with a lit cigarette in his hand. Woke up on fire, screaming like something out of a horror movie. Died from his burns a little while later. I was in foster care by then. I didn't even go to the funeral." Tom suppressed a smile at the true memory of the carefully edited story. "So what?" Billy demanded. "That makes what happened to me all better? Your dad died horribly but you came out on top and it's supposed to make what that sick fuck did to me last night not mean as much?" Tom shook his head. "Never said that. Point is, everyone's got pain. Everyone gets into corners they can't get out of and fights they can't win. No shame in that. What defines a man is how he handles it. Does he curl up and quit? Or does he say 'Yeah, this is a steamin' pile of shit I'm in, but it'll pass. All I gotta do is keep my eyes open for the way to something better and not give the universe the satisfaction of curling up in the meantime." And I never said I came out on top. The foster family I went to? Their eldest had the same tastes as the old bastard's connection had. Tried a similar run of bullshit on me his first visit home from college." "You cut him too?" Aaron asked, fascinated. Like a lot of suburban boys his age he had an unhealthy and unrealistic enthrallment with life in 'Da Hood.' Tom was like something out of a movie or TV show to him. Tom shook his head. "Nope. Him, I busted in the head with a clock radio. Think he lost an eye from it. Beat him with a hockey stick til I got tired and then robbed the hell out of the place. Took all the cash, jewelry, even his car. Sold it all to a couple guys my dad used to know and started livin' on the street. Figured if that was what the straight world had to offer me, piss on it." Memories of terrified nights freezing in abandoned buildings, eating out of dumpsters, running from the local gangers until he hooked up with a set of his own, rose up. He wouldn't wish those days on somebody who had set his girls on fire. "Ok, so fine. You had a messed up childhood." Billy said. Tom focused on his food. Kid if you had even half a clue. "How's that help either of us? We're still stuck here and you said it yourself; it's not like fighting back's an option for us." "There's more ways to cope with a bad stretch than your fists or a blade." He pointed at them with his spoon. "Look, this is gonna sound sick as hell but it's still the truth. You two are better positioned to have an easy time of it than me in a lotta ways. Biggest ace in my hand is being a voluntary. That whole rarity, high-end collector thing. But I'm older and a damned sight more intimidating than both of you put together." He laughed a little. "Shit, I'm almost exactly your combined ages." "Now you two: you're young, you're good looking and you're likeable. Use that . Man or woman, whoever buys you there's gonna be opportunities. Not many things in this world as accommodating as some middle aged old bear or cougar afterglowin' with their teenaged sex toy. " Billy looked like he wanted to throw up. Aaron at least had the brains to consider it. "So, what?" Billy asked. "We just let them use us and cash in on it after? What's that make us then?" "Somebody doing what he has to to survive." Tom answered. "It's gonna happen either way. Might as well make the best of it." The two boys didn't say anything to that. They just finished their meal in contemplative silence. Tom did the same. They were thinking now and that had been the whole point to the conversation. Much as he would have liked to he knew he couldn't protect his young friends from what was to come - in Billy's case what already had the night before - but with a little luck on his part and a little brains on theirs maybe he could help take the edge off things. What was the point of having lived and survived a life like his if you couldn't use what you'd learned along the way to ease smooth the road for the people following behind? The next two weeks passed quickly enough. Life settled into it's own pattern as it does no matter where a person finds themselves. Tom threw himself into excelling at the various classes. Most of it was already second nature to him. A lifetime on his own had taught him more than most about many of the skills needed by a good domestic. Good manners were second nature to him unless provoked. And a decade satisfying the needs of Nicki and Angie had honed his abilities in the bedroom until they were sharp enough to shave with. Oddly enough that was one of the more stressful parts of his education. It seemed like half the men and most of the women on staff made a run at him at some point or other. Part of it was the realities of the training program. Domestic indents were expected to perform where, as and how their so-called betters demanded. Not that Tom was likely to ever acknowledge most damned degenerate slavers as his superior in anything but depravity. Part of it, he knew, was simple human nature. Rarity was, by definition a sought after quality. Gold was less common than copper so naturally people fought wars over gold and threw copper into fountains. The same principle was at work in Tom's life. The average staffer at the center might, if they were lucky, be able to afford a lower end ICL of their own. Somebody like Tom, destined for service in a millionaires bedroom or the stable of one of the porn companies that took advantage of the sudden massive influx of no-limits talent available was completely outside their reach under normal circumstances. So naturally it was rare if he went more than a couple hours at a time most days without being ordered onto his knees by one of the males or into any of a number of positions by the various ladies working there. Everyone wanted to get a piece of the voluntary while the getting was good. For someone who preferred his personal space it made for some painfully tense times. Only two serious incidents marred his time at the center. The first occurred a few hours after his conversation with Billy and Aaron the morning after Mistress Beth's first visit to his cell. He was along the second floor tier his way to a fitness class before lunch when Frenchy's familiar voice rang out from the first floor. "Hey! Tommy Boy!" Tom tried to ignore the asshole. If he let Frenchy get to him his control was bound to snap. Then, instead of seven years as some rich person's hopefully pampered status symbol he'd be spending the rest of his life in the federal pen on a murder beef. "I said freeze your ass, boy! I'm talkin' to you!" Tom stopped and looked down at where his playmate was standing. "Something I can do for you, Master French, sir?" He asked. His words were correct and his tone properly respectful yet somehow they still sounded like Tom had said something rude about Frenchy's mom. "Hell of a performance with my partner last night. Very impressive. Y'know, I figured we got off on the wrong foot. All that hostility between us and whatnot. So I did you a little favor. Sent those women of yours proof of just how well you were doing here. Wonder how many of the moves you used with them they'll recognize in the show you put on with Beth." Tom laughed at him. "Talk's cheap, Frenchy. You got some proof or you just fartin' out your mouth again?" The agent pulled out his phone. "How's this for proof?" He tossed it up to Tom who caught it with ease. Tom looked at the screen. A sent email was on the screen. Below two addresses he knew by heart was a video thumbnail with a play icon in the middle. Tom felt a mix of nausea and rage swirl through him. As an added twist of the blade the evil little shit had routed the email through the same address he used to send his letters of the previous day. Tom pushed play. It only took a few seconds to confirm the reality of French's sick, cruel stunt. Tom's first instinct was to whip the phone as hard as he could into the center of the gloating bastard's smug grin. Then leap the rail and see how many times he could bash the base of his skull against the concrete floor before a zap from Oz ended the party. Instead he did something worse. Tom resumed walking in the direction he had been going. His fingers flew over the phones controls. How long did he have? Thirty seconds? A minute? Plenty of time. Hit the forward function, scan through Dipshit's address book. Hi, Mistress Beth! So is that your private email or your work one? No matter. And look at this! What d'you reckon the odds were that C.Harris@BOI842 was Mr. Charles Harris, the nice man who had welcomed them to the center just the day before? Better than average Tom thought. "Hey, Mistress Beth." he typed as he walked. "Check out the bull's-eye your idiot partner just drew on the back of your head with my girls. Tom." Down below it was occurring to Mark French that he might have erred in handing his phone off to Tom. He followed along parallel to the wiry voluntary's course, looking up at him. "Hey! What do you think you're doing with my phone? Give it back damnit! That's an order!" Tom ignored him. What other kinda mayhem could he cause? Hey, just for fun why not add the address of Rick, his lawyer to the list? Something like this might just be actionable, lawsuit worthy. There were laws in place protecting both the indentured and the free. Tom could think of a few Frenchy had just danced a bulldozer over. Hit the send key and off you go. Privately he started a clock running in his head. Six years, three hundred sixty-three days, Mr. Agent French, Sir. Make the most of 'em. "Here's your phone back, Master French, Sir." Tom said, never breaking stride. He tossed the expensive communications device over the rail with a casual sideways flick of wrist and forearm. Mark French watched in horror as his brand new phone that he had stood in line two hours to get arced out over the open space below the second tier. It reached the top of its trajectory and plummeted to Earth to explode into a million glittering pieces of expensive garbage. Up on the top second floor that uppity little shit Donovan was sitting with his back against the wall. "I'm waiting!" he called with a grin and cocky laugh. The cocky smile disappeared when French activated his chip but the way Tom kept laughing even as he screamed against the pain would haunt the agent's sleep for years. Beth Comisky was on the toilet when her phone chirped at her, announcing the arrival of a new email. She had been remembering the previous night with Tom. Thoughts of his mouth between her legs warmed her, made her moist. The teasing way he had held back almost to the point of overt refusal once she put him to work on her breasts had been exquisite. She mentally ran through her finances, wondering if there was any way at all she could swing the necessary moves to afford his contract. She'd have to look into it. The idea of that beautiful, strong body spread out underneath her as she took him with a strapon....her hand drifted down between her legs. That was when the damned phone bleeped at her. She would have ignored it but she recognized Mark's personal alert. She sighed. What now? He really was turning into a Grade A pain in the ass. When Beth opened the email, she frowned. Why was Mr. Harris's address on this? For that matter what was Mark doing emailing Tom Donovan's lawyer? Then she read the body of the email and, horrified, hit the play button on the attached video. Beth pushed 'stop' thirty seconds into the show. She sat there, shaking with rage. That idiot! What in Christ's name had he been thinking?!? Had he not been present when Tom Donovan threatened to burn them both alive barely twenty-four hours earlier? Or when Nicki Donovan had to be beaten with a shotgun butt to keep her from going with them? She went into her directory, intent on calling her now-former-as-far-as-she-was-concerned partner and tearing a wide strip off his ignorant ass. An incoming call stopped her. Mr. Harris, head of the center, and her boss. His name among the email's addressees didn't leave much doubt as to why he was calling. Five minutes later Beth was in her car bombing down the road to the center. She tried to keep the speed down but her anger kept making her foot heavy. Not getting pulled over was more a matter of luck than anything else. She got through the security checkpoints and stalked to Harris's office. Several residents saw her, started to greet her – she was one of the more well liked IA's – and scurried out of her way when they saw her expression. The meeting that followed took more than an hour. Her position was simple: she and Mark were done, period. Your partner was supposed to watch your back. They were not, as Tom Donovan had put it, supposed to draw a bull's-eye on it for a pair of half-crazy Irish banshees to use as target practice. Mark tried to downplay things with little success. When that didn't work he tried blaming Tom. That proved even less effective. "I was just trying to put him in his place." He said."Show him how helpless he is. That's what we do here isn't it?" "By attacking his family?" Beth demanded."Are you insane? The man almost shot you over an offhand remark about Nicollete and you really think something like this is going to garner a passive response? And that's just him. God only knows what his women are cooking up. You do remember Tom speaking to an attorney before we took him into custody, don't you? What do you think is going to happen when Angela and Nicollete sit down with him? Assuming they aren't in his office right now?" Eventually Tom was summoned. He shook Harris's hand, gave Frenchy a smile that stopped just short of his eyes and accepted an offer of a cup of coffee. Funny how breakfast time's chattel was lunchtime's respected guest. With the pleasantries over, Harris got right to the point. "Mr. Donovan, first off, I just want to apologize for Agent French's behavior. I try to run a humane facility here and I can assure you I don't condone what he did. That being said, I'm sure you can understand that I can't have the residents making threats against my trainers." "It wasn't a threat, Mr. Harris." Tom told him. "It was more of a warning than I'd give anyone else working here." He thought for a second and nodded to himself. "And the best way I could think of to pay Frenchy back for his bullshit without spending the rest of my life in jail. But we both know you didn't ask me here to slap my wrist for sending that email. You asked me here to help assess just how much trouble this bualadh craicinn amad�n has gotten you into." "What did you call me?" French demanded. "Sorry." Tom said."I forgot. I'm the one with the ninth grade education but you're the ignorant one in this conversation. It means fucking idiot, you fucking idiot." French went for him and once again Beth had to put herself between the two men. Things settled down before security had to be brought in but not without Beth going into Mistress Mode on Tom. "You wanna know the threat level you're looking at, Mr. Harris?" Tom asked when things had settled down. On the far side of Beth from him, Frenchy was massaging a sore wrist and a fat lip that now kept his black eye company. For all of that, Tom's voice held no more stress than if he was discussing the best way to change the oil in a motorcycle. "You're talking about two women who have kept me in line for the past ten years with nothing but the force of their will. You're talking about two women married to a guy who's street name used to be Bug. As in fire bug. Be surprised the kinds of things married people share with one another, you know? What ratio of Styrofoam packing peanuts to one gallon of gas makes the best napalm for instance." "You're talking about them both wracked with pain and misery and, in the case of my Nicki, a world of guilt. And all of it looking for a focus. And this unprofessional asshole over here," he inclined his head in Mark's direction, "gives them just that. Oh and let's not forget the whole Irish thing. Two thousand years of genetics that don't hold a grudge so much as breast-feed the fuckin' thing." Tom turned to Beth. "Lemme ask you something, Mistress Beth." He said."You really think it's so improbable that amid all my other plans for yesterday, I didn't take the time to string a few nanny cams or the odd microphone, hm? You think my girls didn't know about 'em and got your name from 'em? And what exactly d'you reckon the odds are on my sweet little Nicki focusing all her guilt and anger and gambling addict's obsessive tendencies on finding out where you live and paying you back for making her big strong husband who sacrificed himself for her cry like a little baby, hm?" He gave her exactly the kind of smile you'd expect from a little boy who had come down Christmas morning to find a brand new puppy waiting for him under the tree. And promptly skinned the thing alive. "We've dealt with threats against our staff before, Mr. Donovan." Harris said. Tom nodded."I know. I follow the news." And occasionally make it." Thing is, we both know the average person who starts banging their dick about all the terrible shit they're gonna do to somebody tends to be all talk. My girls aren't. And neither am I. And they wouldn't be acting alone or all that precipitously either. Just because they were stupid enough to marry me doesn't mean they're too stupid to plan things out. I'd be shocked as hell if they weren't in a bar full of witnesses miles away when the anvil lands. And it will land, Mr Harris. Unless I intervene. The will-you of which I'm guessing is another reason I'm here." "And if I asked, what would your answer be?" Harris asked. Tom shrugged."Of course, I will. For a price." "Tom!" Beth exclaimed."I thought you liked me!" "I do like you Mistress Beth. Fact is, if you could afford me, I'd crawl out of here at the end of your leash and mark myself a lucky man. And I didn't name my terms before you spoke up. You and Mr. Harris want my help, you pull Frenchy off the training rotation. Ignorant bastard's proved he's unfit. And I mean I don't see his face anywhere in this facility the rest of my stay. Frenchy hand-writes a separate letter of apology to each of my girls taking full responsibility for what he did, begging their forgiveness and including his full legal name at the bottom. You let me call home and have a conversation with my girls. In Irish. Only way they'll even half consider what I have to say. And a pillow for my bunk'd be nice. Something nice and firm. I must be getting soft in my old age. Time was I could sleep on concrete and be ok." "That's it?" Beth and Harris asked in unison. Tom shrugged."Ten minutes alone in a locked room with no cameras, weapons, witnesses or chip with Frenchy would be nice too but I'll settle for a marker I can cash in later. Nothing huge, just a get outta trouble free card I can burn later if I need to. Let's face it. I'm a willful bastard. Be nice to have a little insurance policy, you know?" Harris looked over at Beth. They had already discussed the threat level posed by Tom's wives and known associates. In her opinion the girls were even more dangerous than he was. And at least a couple of Tom's friends were persons of interest in on-going investigations into the local militant movement. She nodded. "We can do that. I have to say, Mr. Donovan, I appreciate how reasonable you're being. Given how you came to be here, I expected a more extreme response." Tom shrugged."It isn't Mistress Beth's fault her partner's a retard. And I never said that made me and Agent French square." He looked across Agent Comisky at French. "I can wait to settle up." He said glaring death at the man. "You put the deal in writing, fax it to my lawyer and I'll write up what I plan to tell my wives so you know I'm being straight with you." Harris nodded."Marie, can he use the computer in your office?" This to an older, silver haired woman who had been introduced as the deputy administrator for the facility. "Of course." She said and stood."If you'll just follow me, Thomas?" "Just a minute, Marie." Harris said."Mr. Donovan, there's still the small matter of you destroying Agent French's phone. Unless you'd like to use your marker now, I'm afraid I'll have to fine you a six month extension on your contract for that." Tom shrugged. "That's fair. I'll keep the marker for now. Long as we're discussing small matters, can I ask how you plan to deal with the lawsuit?" "Lawsuit?" Harris looked confused. Tom gave a predatory grin. "The one, I absolutely promise you, my girls are talking to my lawyer about bringing against this place. The one that will be like a giant chum slick in shark infested water for the abolitionists and probably have you personally as a named defendant. Price of command, Mr. Harris. Your asshole employee violated the law and caused serious pain and suffering to two civilians. Might not be your fault but it's damned sure your responsibility. Unless I intervene." "For a price." The 'You mercenary little bastard' went unspoken but was still louder than three feet from the stage at an Ozzy Osbourne concert. Tom nodded. "Just so. Helping out somebody I like, that's one thing. Helping out an institution I hated even before I got caught up in it, that's another." Harris sighed and ran a hand over his balding head. "What do you want, Mr. Donovan? Agent French's job? Your contract nullified? A settlement for your family? And bear in mind I can't promise anything on this matter. It has to go through our legal department." Tom gave French an appraising look."Be a certain justice in having you fire Frenchy. How long you reckon it'd be before the van pulled up at your place, hm?" He took real pleasure in French's horrified expression and let his own face show it. "You do what you want with the little shit." Tom told Harris. "I wouldn't shed any tears if I heard he wound up in the system but I won't pull the trigger myself. Far as what I want? Billy and Aaron, to start." "Who?" Harris asked "Tom has been sort of looking out for two of the younger newcomers who were in-processed at the same time he was." Beth explained."How exactly did you mean that, Tom?" "Not like it might sound. You find them good homes. As free people and not in the foster care system. They've gotta have somebody can take them in, aunt, uncle, grandparents. My guess is the biggest barrier is an inability to buy out their contract. You get your bosses to overlook that and I'm your man." "And your own contract?" "How many more kids d'you reckon I'm worth, Mr. Harris, hm?" Tom asked him "How much would you say it'd be worth to your bosses to avoid a big messy media shitstorm and expensive settlement? Because you know they've as good as lost already. Find me a number we can both agree on. Add in, say, what I made last year before taxes so my girls got something to show for their suffering – tax free mind – and I'll do what I can. Meantime, while things are in motion the male staffers keep their hands off Billy and Aaron. Bare minimum contact needed to ensure compliance with the rules. But no intimate work, you know? And I mean not so much as a goose on the ass. Oh, and none of the kids I buy free learn of my involvement. Cook up whatever story you want. My name comes up, deal's off." Harris thought for a moment. The offer was a good one. The media was sure to have a field day when they got wind of this incident and the little he knew of the Donovan family convinced him that was inevitable without Tom's help. He nodded. "I'll talk to my superiors. But no promises." "Fair enough." Tom was sent to wait in the reception are while the wheels got in motion then. He sat in a chair, looking around, singing to himself. Mr Harris' receptionist smiled at him. "Someone's in a good mood." "It's been a good day, mostly. Promises to be better before we're done. Anything I can do for you while I'm waiting? Idleness doesn't really set well with me." "It's kind of you to offer, but I'm all caught up on my work at the moment." Tom gave her a frank stare. "Then I'd say that means you've earned a break. Which brings us back to me doing anything for you." She got the hint, gave a surprised little laugh and blushed. "I'm old enough to be your mother!" "And?" She looked him over. She had seen the video of his performance the previous night and wondered what it would be like to spend some time with Tom. Generally though that was a trainer's prerogative even if any non-indentured staff could make use of the residents at will. She glanced around, put a do not disturb on her phone and took some keys from a desk drawer. "There's a supply closet just down the hall." She said standing up. Tom was already in motion. The truth was he wasn't particularly attracted to the woman. She was a bit old for his tastes and the whole random-sex-with-total-strangers thing was still taking some getting used to. But it never hurt to get in good with the boss's assistant and the best way to get used to something was to do it a lot. Once inside the closet, the receptionist locked the door, ordered Tom out of his shirt and told him to set up some boxes so she could sit on them. While he was going that she kicked off her shoes and slipped out of her hose and panties. "I can't believe I'm doing this." She muttered, sitting down. She opened her legs and put a hand on the back of Tom's head. Obedient, he got his face between her thighs and went to work. It was a little surreal. Like most teenaged boys Tom had screwed pretty much anything attractive and willing. Living as he had without a home or limits beyond what he set on himself there had been plenty of chances to have sex without the other person being willing or necessarily conscious at the time too. He'd passed on those. Even being the vicious little bastard he was well into his twenties and still could be with the proper motivation, that was a line he refused to cross. It was a principle that had nearly gotten him killed at one point but he reckoned you needed to have standards. Since getting serious with the twins though Tom had never once strayed. And here he was, offering himself to a woman whose first name he didn't even know in a closet surrounded by paper clips and printer paper. He used his fingers to spread her open a little. She was hairier than his girls. They didn't shave but they kept things trimmed down there. Harris' assistant looked as if her bush had never even seen a picture of a razor. The hair was dark, with gray and white mixed in. It was kind of interesting that. He'd never been down on a woman with gray hair anywhere on her body, let alone on her sex. The scent of her was heavy and musky, clean. He'd expected a woman her age to be a bit dry but when he found her clit with his tongue she was already damp. He worked quickly. His tongue, a little dry and raspy – Angie had once compared it to a cat's – lapped at her, concentrating on the clitoris. There wasn't time to tease and play like he preferred. Her hand pressed on the back of his head, pushing him against her triangle harder. Tom burrowed in, licking inside of her, tasting her juices and trying to reach her G-spot with his tongue. Her legs wrapped around his shoulders. Nails dug into the sore skin of his upper back, covered with rapidly fading welts. He'd always been a fast healer. He whimpered and pressed in harder. His fingers danced over her clitoris, rubbing in little circles. Her hips were moving now. Without looking up Tom knew his temporary Mistress was biting her lip, getting close. He worked his way out of her, went back to lapping and sucking hungrily on the little button between her legs. Fingers found the G-spot at the same time. Strong, calloused hands kneaded and rubbed with gentle firmness even as his lips and tongue worked their will higher up. Two hands gripped his hair then. A muffled scream sounded from behind clenched jaws and Maryanne, the fifty-five year old assistant with a son five years Tom's senior bucked and thrashed. She shoved his face hard against her slippery wet opening, forcing him to lap and swallow as she came in his mouth. Tom gagged a little. It was hard to breath and Maryanne was one of the few women he'd ever been with who came white. Still, he didn't pull back. He kept his jaws and tongue moving until she pulled him back by the hair. Tom smiled up at Maryanne. She was winded. Her face was flushed. A sheen of sweat gave her skin a little glow. The whole closet smelled of sex and pheromones. Tom couldn't help but wonder if anyone had heard them or what the next person needing staples or correction fluid would think. The possible reaction gave him a little thrill. Looking deeper into himself he realized he'd enjoyed the experience. That didn't surprise him. He'd always enjoyed getting women off. It was an ego thing and he wasn't ashamed to admit it. Maryanne stroked his hair."Oh my." She said."That was...very nice." Tom smiled at her."For both of us, Miss. I'm glad you had a good time. But we should probably get back out there before we're both missed." He kissed her thigh and looked around for something to clean up with. One shelf held paper several rolls of paper towels. Not exactly ideal but they'd do. A few minutes later Tom was back in his chair and Maryanne was behind her desk again. They were both grinning to themselves when Harris called Tom back into his office. The BOI legal department had moved with breakneck speed in this instance. Apparently by the time he had been brought in Rick, the family’s lawyer friend had raised six kinds of hell with the Bureau. Rick had been an ardent abolitionist from day one and could quote the relevant laws from memory. A six-figure lawsuit was being threatened along with all manner of bad media drama. Harris’s superiors naturally wanted the matter settled quietly and, preferably cheaply. But above all quickly. And quietly. Tom and the Bureau higher ups did a bit of dickering via video conference. Terms were worked out with the understanding that the deal was conditional upon his family playing ball. Rick was brought in on the matter and went ballistic in the manner unique to attorneys who are convinced they’ve got the other side by the short hairs. He thought Tom was an idiot for trying to make the deal and said as much. He could be home by the end of the week with more money in the family account than they’d made in their entire time together, and he wanted to just piss it away over some random kids he didn’t even know? What the hell? �You just go right ahead and buy my freedom by feeding a bunch of innocent kids to the chains, Rick.� Tom warned, using not particularly polite abolitionist term for indentured contract holders. �You go on ahead and see what happens. I fucking dare you!� Rick backed off after that. At least one person that he knew of had pushed matters after hearing that phrase from Tom only to later make the acquaintance of a two-pound ball peen hammer. Tom was his friend but he was not above admitting the man scared the piss out of him sometimes. Angie and Nicki had their say in things as well. Tom had enough experience with the criminal justice system to be certain a couple of Nick’s comments constituted felonies. There was screaming and tears on both ends in English and Irish alike. In the end though, Tom had his way. That wasn’t always the case at his house. He was a single man living with two Irish women after all, both of whom he loved in no small part for how much steel they had in them. The terms were simple. To begin with, Agent Mark French went on ninety days unpaid administrative leave. The family wanted his job. Well, Rick wanted his job. Nicki and Angie wanted his balls and liver respectively. But they agreed to the suspension. During that time he would hand write in simple print handwriting separate letters of apology to both sisters with his full legal name printed clearly at the bottom. It was amazing the amount of grief you could commence for a person with just their name. When he got back he would be restricted to collection duty indefinitely. Training responsibilities would cease to be part of his job description for as long as he worked for the Bureau. Fifty thousand dollars would be deposited into a separate account and doled out in two week allotments for the next year. An additional amount was agreed upon based on the average cost of contract per current resident at the center. This money would go to buying the freedom of whichever trainees Tom saw fit to select. By his own reckoning it amounted to freedom for Billy, Aaron and maybe three or four other kids if he was careful. In return the girls would not pursue legal action. They would sign a gag agreement and not discuss the matter with anyone anywhere under any circumstances or be liable for damages sufficient to make indentured servitude a family-wide career path. Tom would remain in service for the duration of his contract. When Nicki found out about the fine he was expected to pay, she snapped all over again. You could buy a crate of cell phones for the amount of money those additional six months represented. So the fine got waived with the understanding that Tom was not to pull another stunt like that again. Papers were signed and faxed back and forth. Minor points were dickered over but ultimately resolved. In the end both sides left the table feeling just a bit corn-holed. To Tom’s way of thinking that made it a win-win. After saying good-bye to his girls for the second time in two days Tom was led off to Marie’s office. They had offered to let him make his selections in the morning but he didn’t want to waste any time. thanks for letting me use your space to work Mistress Marie’s He said when they got to the tastefully decorated office. �I could’ve done it in my cell though. I mean, it couldn’t have been that hard to give the computer in their access could it �I wanted to talk to you’d She said. She poured herself some coffee, offered Tom a cup. I’m actually more partial to hot chocolate’s He admitted. but thanks’ His stomach grumbled and he ignored it. It wasn’t like he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from. He could afford to wait. Marie made a call to the cafeteria. A pot of hot chocolate was sent up along the lasagna option for dinner. Tom tried to refuse, explaining he was trying to minimize the amount of extra time he bought himself. it’s on me’s Marie said you’re very intriguing Tom. I’ve seen a lot of residents come through here but you’re my first voluntary. And I don’t think you’re normal even for them. You fold like silk on some things. You’re unfailingly polite to most of the staff. You fawn over Agent Chomsky even though it’s obvious you’re in love with your wife and sister-in-law’s wives, Mistress Marie’s Tom said absently. His fingers were flying over the keyboard, setting search parameters. Cost of contract, age, gender, sexual experience, number and financial stability of relatives on the outside. He’d be damned if he’d free some kid only to have them fighting for their lives out on the street. excuse me Marie asked. She wasn’t used to being corrected by indents. She considered ordering Tom over the arm of her couch for some correction of his own. you said wife and sister-in-law’s Tom said. Nicky’s my wife no different than Angie. Doesn’t matter what the law says. That’s just a piece of paper and financial bullshit so the government can get its cut. Marriage is in your heart and head; what you agree to commit to with somebody else. Not what some asshole politician who’s half the time screaming about family values with the right side of his mouth, and using the left side to place an order for underage hookers and a kilo of coke, has to say. No offense. It’s just how I see it is all’s Marie thought about that. From anyone else that little speech would have been hugely insubordinate. From Tom, it was just how he saw the world. She decided she might still take a strap to Tom later but for entertainment purposes rather than disciplinary. Albright. Your wives. Where was I?� �I fawn over Mistress Beth, but Helen Keller could see I’m devoted to my wives’ right. At the same time I’m convinced if things had continued between you and Agent French, you would have tried to kill him before your transfer date. Or if we tried to push you in the wrong direction we’d have to risk an accident with you to get compliance’s right, on both counts’ Tom said. Ok, so eliminate anyone currently 18 or older. It was an arbitrary number to be sure you had to set the bar somewhere. Organize by cost of contract first with age and financial solvency of remaining family members second and third. It made him a little sick, deciding peoples fates based on best-value-per-dollar but the goal was to unshackle as many kids as possible using an entirely-too-limited-for-his-taste budget. so why stay she asked. �I can understand – just barely – acting as your sis...your wife Nicolette’s proxy. But you had a chance to walk out of here and you’re throwing it away for nothing. Why There was a knock on the door. One of the residents who was toward the end of their training pushed a cart with two meal settings into the room. At Marie’s gesture, they set it up in front of where she sat on the couch and crawled out on all fours. hold your answer until after dinner’s Marie told Tom. She snapped her fingers and pointed at her feet. on your knees within easy reach of my hands. Hands behind your back. Oh, and you’re a bit overdressed for my taste’s When Tom was stripped and arranged the way she wanted him, Marie started in on her dinner. Periodically she fed Tom using the second serving and silverware that she had ordered just for him. In between bites they talked. After the second or third horrifying answer relating to his childhood Marie switched to more innocuous matters. She asked about his hobbies, tastes in music, why he wore his hair so long when almost no one his age did any more. Tom’s answer to that question rang false with her. It was too practiced and generic, not so much an actual as something he thought would satisfy most people. The contents of the cart included two slices of chocolate cake for dessert and, for Tom, a glass of plain white milk. The first time Mistress Marie held out the glass to him, he instinctively reached for it with his hand. Marie pulled the glass back and slapped his hand hard enough to make him wince and hiss at the pain. do that again when I’m feeding you and I’ll stripe your butt and thighs’ She warned. sorry, Mistress’s Tom said, dropping his eyes submissively. Marie held out the glass again. This time Tom leaned forward and let her give him a drink without touching it. Most of the milk went in his mouth but he wasn’t used to having someone else make him drink like that. A thin stream ran down his chin and onto his chest, eliciting a sigh of frustration from Marie. little slob’s She muttered. She picked up a napkin. come here’d The rest of the meal was pleasant enough. By the time Marie decided Tom was ready for dessert, he was able to take a drink from her without spilling any. This earned him a smile and good boy, which he found oddly warming. The chocolate cake was a treat. One of Tom’s biggest vices was a savage sweet tooth that he had to keep a constant eye on. He found himself smiling with genuine pleasure as she forked little bites of cake into his mouth. After they were both finished Marie had Tom remove her shoes and took her hose off. He gave a pointed look to the space just below her navel. She shook her head at the unspoken inquiry. maybe latter’s She extended one foot and wiggled her toes at him. kiss and massage. First the left then the right’s Tom got to work. Kissing and licking at Marie’s toes and instep while he massaged her feet. He knew part of the point of the service was to humiliate him but he wasn’t bothered. It actually reminded him of being at home. The twins had loved how strong his hands were and looking after them had always been a pleasure. They didn’t play any of the Mistress/slave games that formed the constant social background noise at the center. That sort of thing had never appealed to any of them. But using his strength and smarts in the capacity of a caregiver rather than a predator had been a source of real fulfillment. Even if Marie was a chain it was nice to be able to do so again. On the couch, Marie stretched and luxuriated in Tom’s handiwork. His hands were strong and slightly calloused. His fingers seemed to know exactly where to press to ease away the day’s considerable tension. And he looked so cute with his head bowed and the tip of his tongue delicately tapping at her toes. �Mmmmm.� She purred. that’s my good boy. So, my question from earlier Tom had hoped she’d forget. Uh-huh and maybe he’d wake up and find the whole legislation issue had just been a bad dream brought on by his subconscious wanting to punish him for all the God-awful things he’d done over the years. Right. can I have some hot chocolate before I answer, Mistress he asked, trying to stall. this gets into some stuff it’s hard to talk about if you can remember your manners, you can’t Tom blushed. More than one person had described him as the most polite person they’d ever met. It was a source of genuine embarrassment to slip, however minimally. mistress Marie, may I please have some hot chocolate before I answer that’s better. Pour yourself a cup and take a drink. But don’t neglect your task while you talk’s the thing with Mistress Beth, and my girls, is pretty straightforward Tom said after he’d had a drink. The chocolate was passable at best. He’d made better at home using an instant mix. Still it was warming and a comfort. I’d never so much as kiss Mistress Beth if I were free and could be with Nick and Ang’ . But I’m not and I can’t. And Mistress Beth is alright. I meant what I said in Mr. Harris’s office about serving her. If I could have worked out a way to include my contract going to her as part of my deal I would have done it like that’s He snapped his fingers. that wouldn’t have been possible Marie said. not without putting her at risk of residency’s Tom nodded what I thought. So I make the best of a bad situation. I enjoy myself with somebody who’s pretty and strong and reminds me of my girls and along the way pay her back for being nice to me. Pick up some good memories to take the edge off things down the road you know? Doesn’t mean I love the twins any less. No more than blowing French means I suddenly turned gay’s as for buying those kids free when I could go home instead...� He took a drink from his cup and thought. Some things were easier to face or discuss than others. �I have done a lot of horrible stuff in my time’s Tom said quietly. kind stuff you don’t confess to anyone. Especially not in a place as wired as this. Kind of stuff makes you not like going to sleep at night because it’s waiting for you when you close your eyes’ so this is atonement for your past’s Tom glared at her. His eyes were blazing with cold rage. Marie suddenly understood why Agent Chomsky, a dangerous woman by most standards, was so careful in her handling of him. there is no fucking atonement for some of the shit I did He ground out. ever She could feel him shaking as he spoke. Marie swallowed nervously. Her throat was suddenly dry and her mind was very much aware of how far away her control unit was. you were a runaway, Thomas’s She said. you were only doing what you had to in order to survive Tom shook his head. He gave it a curious little rotation as if he were drawing a circle in the air with his chin and visibly forced himself out of whatever awful place he had briefly visited. not always. Maybe about half the time. Rest of the time it was just me being a vicious little bastard getting’ off on being able to hurt people’s Old memories swelled up and with them the emotions he tried to keep in check. There were nights when the guilt and sickness at some of his actions kept him up until dawn. thing is, the last few years I’ve tried to be a better person, you know? Don’t get me wrong; I still don’t have what most would call a normal morality. And I’m ok with that, you know? I see so much damned hypocrisy in the world; so many people talking out of both sides of their mouth at once it makes me sick. And the fact is sometimes the best way to handle a situation is to just act like a shark or a spider that learned how to walk on two feet and wear clothes. but here’s the thing; what about when it isn’t those times, hm? What about when the choice is between you and some innocent kid who not only never hurt you, he actually looks up to you for some reason? What about when you’re sitting’ there looking at this soft, sheltered little puppy just barely holding it together and there’s you across the table from him; bigger, stronger, a million times tougher. And what’s waiting down the road for both of you is pretty much the same thing but you know you can handle it because you handled way worse by the time you were his age’s how do you look that kid in the eye and tell him ‘Guess what? I’m going to throw your ass to the piranha just so I can dodge out of something I got myself into in the first place.’ ? More important how do you go home to your wives and your friends and your abolitionist politics and look yourself in the eye, him Tom shook his head, did that odd little rotational tick again. I’m a sonofabitch, Mistress. But it’s been a long time since I’ve been a goddamned sonofabitch. Just as soon not go back there if I can avoid it’s Marie didn’t say anything to that. She just stared at Tom with a slightly dread-filled fascination. Part of her wondered what other solutions to his wife’s financial problem he had considered and discarded before settling on the one that brought him here to kneel naked and obedient at her feet. She abandoned that line of exploration quickly. Nightmares seldom troubled her sleep and she suspected that would change if she did not. Marie eventually released Tom from his task. He gave her feet one final kiss each and went back to making his selections. In the end a total of five teenaged newcomers were chosen including Billy and Aaron. All were between sixteen and eighteen years old. Two were girls, the last one a boy. Tom flipped a coin to decide the gender of the final exonerated teen. It might have seemed arbitrary but it was the fairest way he could think of to pick. One of the girls was a virgin. The other was not. That was a conscious decision. It didn’t seem right to punish someone just for not keeping their legs together at a young age. There was some money left over at the end. Not enough to completely emancipate somebody but enough to make a dent. A third girl, seventeen years old and sexually experienced got a year of her service expunged. Tom showed Mistress Marie his choices. She nodded and forwarded them on to the relevant parties in the Bureau. All five kids would be home by the end of the week. That done Marie pointed to the office couch. that folds out into a bed Thomas’s She said. please see to it, and then lay down on your left side’s While Tom did as she said, Marie pushed the cart out into the hallway. Then she locked the office door and undressed, careful to keep herself out of Tom’s line of sight. She lay down her side behind him, moved his hair off the back of his neck and spent some time kissing him there. Tom stirred, but held still at her instruction. Her hands wandered over him, petting and exploring. Nails danced over his skin, making him bite his lip at the teasing sensation. His cock reacted to her caresses and she made a little pleased sound in her throat at the response. In time, Marie pulled him gently to his back. She turned his face in her hand, making him look up at her. Mouths found one another and Tom’s arms went around the older woman. There was no toys, no beatings. The welts and bruises of the previous night were not renewed. There was just a man, helpless and submissive, and a woman, older, in charge and comfortable in her power. She used Tom thoroughly, imposing her will on him with body and voice. Strong, gentle touches and murmured commands guided Tom through his service. He smiled, relaxing into it, letting her will steer him. The pleasure was mutual, Marie made sure of it. At the end, she straddled Tom riding him to a shared orgasm. Her body shared wiriness with Toms own. Her breasts were smaller than most of the women he had been with, no more than a B-cup. A light tan covered every inch of supple skin and the muscles of her thighs stood out in diamond relief as she worked herself up and down. When they finally came together – his first and only her third or fourth – she lay atop him and kissed him on the mouth. good boy, Tom’s She said. She lay full-length atop him, letting her weight pin him to the mattress. After a few minutes rest Marie dismounted and sent Tom to his cell after having him straighten up the office. The promised pillow waited for him on his bunk. He cleaned himself up as best he could, lay down and went to sleep.

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