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From: CobaltJade@aol.com
Subject: [REPOST] Box Office by Cobalt Jade

The following is a work of fiction.  It contains descriptions of adult 
sexual fantasies.  It is intended for those over the age of 21. If you are a 
minor, you have no business reading this, and are breaking the law in 
some states.

This work is copyrighted 1997 by Cobalt Jade. Archiving and reposting 
of this work is permitted provided that no fee is charged for the use of 
the archival or posting site.  Charging a fee for this story, or publishing 
without this preface or tagline violates my copyright.

Now on to the show.

This story gives a new meaning to the term "box office..."




Box Office

by Cobalt Jade




She woke in darkness. Where was she? She tried to cry out, but whoever 
had drugged her gagged her with a piece of duct tape over her mouth. 
"Mph, mph, mmm..." Her little whimpers sounded strangled and 
pathetic.

It was useless. She let her head flop back on the foam rubber cushion 
that formed a concavity for it. From her neck down, her body had been 
tightly baled in a thick sheet of urethane which had been strapped, 
then locked, around her. She was a woman-sized piece of sushi, a snugly 
rolled hors doevre. The pressure was soft, but very firm. She could 
breathe, but not much else. At the center of the foam rubber, she was 
quite naked. Her captors had seen to that, too.

Like any other rare and precious object she had been crated, and 
through the layers of foam, plastic and insulation she heard the deep 
thrumming roar of jet engines. The pressure in her ears told her she 
was flying...for how long already? When had she left Chicago? The 
engines vibrated through the crate into her bones, making her sex 
vibrate too. Familiar juices seeped from between her sealed legs, 
betraying her excitement. No hope of rescue for her now. Even if she 
was able to scream no one would hear her in the cargo hold. No one 
would know this particular crate contained a woman and not a 
chandelier or collection of porcelain.

Helpless, she whimpered in equal parts fear and excitement. Why had 
she brought this on herself? 

                                                            *          *          *

The role-playing had been so much fun. She was the perfect weekend 
slave. The choke collar, the chains, the training in submission made her 
day job as a systems analyst stale and meaningless. She only felt alive 
when being dominated. 

"How would you like to be auctioned off, m'dear?" Larry said cheerfully 
as he whalloped her with a paddle. The whipping block shook with blow, 
and her buttocks swelled. Her juices slid down her thighs in fat beads of 
moisture. "Think of the price a well-trained slave like you will fetch. 
Buck naked on the block, spreading your pussy lips with your fingers. 
Then you'll bend over so the audience can get a good look at your 
asshole." Another crack, and she groaned, her buttocks jerking. But oh, 
it felt so good.

"Then what happens?" she whispered hoarsely. They had played these 
fantasy games before. Her arms were stretched taut in front of her, 
wrists tied to a hook in the wood, and her ankles and knees were 
strapped to the legs of the block so her rump was high in the air. But 
the rest of her body was free to quake and shiver. 

"What do you think?"

She grew wet as each possibility pulled an answer out of her. She knew 
her talk excited him because the paddling grew more rapid, as if 
punishment. WHAP! WHAP! The stinging blows fell as swiftly as rain. 
Her body entered the familiar solo dance, that electric tingling and 
jerking she and ones she called master loved. When she began to wail, 
he took out the gag, thrust it over her tongue, and buckled it firmly.

Delicious scenes of torments and pleasures came to her in flashes.

After that particular session, she obediently followed him on her hands 
and knees out of the dungeon (actually a disused storeroom off his 
garage) to the bedroom. Kneeling at the side of the bed, she spread her 
knees, rested her hands on her thighs, and took his thick cock in her 
mouth. She sucked it to the root, feeling it bump the back of her throat. 
Yes, she was the perfect slave. Sometimes she wished all the world could 
see. When he came in her mouth she swallowed it like honey. She didn't 
need him to tell her to lick him clean.

He jabbed her between the legs, feeling her slickness. He pulled on her 
clit, making her moan, then vibrated the tip with his index finger. 
"Damn, you're still wet."

"Ah...yes...master..." She tried not to wriggle. God, was she creaming! But 
a slave's pleasure was at the whim of the master's. Always. There would 
be no relief for her until he decided it.

That was why she came back, week after week.

She flinched as Larry came to squat close beside her, his breath a warm 
whisper in her ear. She did not want tenderness from him; she craved 
the strap. "If you really want to commit to this lifestyle," he said 
seriously, "I know some people. But the commitment is a permanent one. 
Once you accept your role as a slave, you can never go back, because 
they destroy your old records and erase your identity. They have a small 
army of computer hackers on call who do those things for them. Once 
you're in, you stay in."

"Tell me more," she said as his hand began to stroke her slit again, his 
other hand pulling on her nipples as if they were taffy. She purred and 
rubbed her cheek against his forearm.

They were called the Nexus, he said. They were slave traders, brokers 
and agents; such people still existed in the world. Their victims, willing 
or not, went to Bangkok and Tokyo, Kuwait and Brazil. Some went to 
shadowy organizations that operated underground sex clubs and private 
resorts. Some went to individuals. She could imagine herself serving a 
rich sheik, a Mafia crime boss, a drug lord in Colombia...his slave and 
plaything, a snug collar at her throat as she knelt at his ankles. His to 
command. Permanently.

She fucked Larry with a new intensity that night, and in the morning it 
was back to the normal world. She left in the early morning to shower 
and change at her condo before leaving for work. They grabbed her as 
she fumbling with her keys to lock her front door.

She yipped in outrage, but they were experts and knew what they were 
doing. They bundled her into a van (the workhorse of perverted 
abductors, she thought cynically in her urethane mummy wrap...Jeez, 
couldn't they drive a Winnebago for once?) which sped off with a 
wicked squeal of rubber.

Four men grinned at her, the fifth holding her from behind. They were 
so ordinary she wouldn't have given them a second glance on the street. 
Her business suit was disheveled and her silk blouse had slipped off one 
shoulder, exposing the black lace of her bra. Her briefcase had been 
thrown aside on the street. 

Their leader had a thin, boyish face and was dressed as a student, a 
college kid on route to the university she might have passed dozens of 
times a day without noticing. But he was older than he looked and had 
the sharp eyes of a former FBI agent. "Ms Torgerson, you know why 
you're here, don't you?"

They carried guns. She swallowed, glancing around the van. No 
windows, and the walls were thick with plastic panels that soundproofed 
it. She saw a coffin-sized box, cuffs and rope, a medical kit, a large 
leather sack with many buckles. She felt herself grow moist. No! That 
was only a fantasy! This couldn't possibly be real...could it?

"Some of your friends told us about you," the leader continued. "They 
thought you would be a good candidate for our organization. You're a 
sub; you've had training, and you like it."

Candidate; what irony. She felt like laughing hysterically, but nothing 
came out. "Why not say slave?"

"This is the twentieth century," he explained. "Perhaps the proper word 
is...product?"

The hands of the man holding her felt like steel pincers. Her eyes 
fastened on a tangle of leather restraints lying on the floor. "You've 
heard of us before, Ms. Torgerson? I trust this wasn't unexpected?"

"I...I said I had an interest." Why weren't the men doing anything to 
her? They simply stared like cops on a drug raid. One of them busied 
himself at a laptop. Paper poured out of a portable dot-matrix printer, 
and he gave the printouts to the leader.

The leader skimmed them over. "Ah yes. A good candidate indeed. Kris 
Beverly Torgerson, age 28, systems analyst for Midwest Bank. Also an 
enthusiastic slave, going by your purchases of these sex toys and 
articles of clothing, memberships to certain clubs, email testimonials..." 
Laughing, he waved the papers in her face. Her jaw slackened with 
shock. "With the touch of a key we can erase all these records, you 
know. We will stop the van and you will walk out of here. Or we can 
erase Kris Torgerson from the data banks, and human memory will soon 
afterwards. And this van drives on. Well?"

The man behind her released her. No force would be used, no drugs, or 
coercion. She would make the choice and make it of her own free will. 

"Take me," she said clearly.

                                                            *          *          *

The pressure change in her ears told her the airplane was descending. 
Where was she going? Was it a modern city, a secluded country estate, or 
a third world fortress? The trickle between her legs became a 
maddening itch, but she couldn't rub her thighs to relieve it. She also 
had to piss, which didn't help matters any. Her full bladder teased her 
further. She had always had secret fantasies of being bound and 
helpless like this, totally subject to the whims of whoever had bound 
her.

But the fantasies had become real. Suppose the plane crashed. She'd fry 
like a wonton in this thick case of flammable foam. What if the cargo 
door accidentally flew open and she was swept to her doom? What if 
there was a mixup with customs, and she waited for days or weeks in 
cargo claim? Panic set in. Her head thrashed, her legs kicked and 
thrust. She tried to arch her back, and her shoulders jerked. 
"Mmramlya! Mng, mphm...mrrm!" But her cries were as muffled as 
before, and the sturdy crate did not even shake. The foam held her back 
quite firmly. She was secure as a grub holed up in a tree trunk.

A few fat tears rolled down her face, though whether they were of 
happiness or terror, she couldn't say. Probably a mixture of both.

The steel collar she wore curved snugly around her throat. On it was 
engraved a number: 21186.

                                                            *          *          *

She'd passed a pleasant time in the van. When she gave her consent the 
men did not harm her, though they took her purse and all her ID. They 
entertained her with tales of similar kidnaps. All but one had worked 
for the CIA, FBI or other paramilitary organizations. They kept a supply 
of restraints and drugs in the van because some of the kidnapees could 
get dangerous. "See this?" one man had said, pointing to a boxer's nose. 
"Sixteen year old kid smashed it with his head."

How could they do this for a living, she thought. Someone's son, 
daughter, wife. The normalcy of it all was bizarre, and the fact it existed 
alongside the normal world of bills, family obligations, and television 
was even more bizarre. The van pulled into a building and she heard an 
electric door roll up to admit them, then close. The mechanical noise 
aroused her, bringing to mind electric motors, conveyer belts, and 
other potential instruments of torture. 

They let her walk out on her own to the loading dock of the warehouse 
and brought her to a small, brightly lit room, where they left her alone. 
"See you in the Ginza," one of them joked, and they laughed. All in a 
day's work. The door shut. Even without testing it she knew it was 
locked.

"Remove your clothes," a disembodied voice said.

She looked around, startled, to see where it had it come from.

"Remove your clothes," the voice repeated. "You are a consensual, are 
you not? Don't play games and make us force you. We don't have the 
time, and we don't like to be brutal. Take them off. Now."

The voice commanded her like the lashes she loved. Quickly she took off 
her jacket, skirt and blouse, then peeled off her garter belt and 
stockings. She never wore pantyhose or tights since becoming a sub. 
Then the bra. Her naked breasts burst free, the nipples hard little nubs 
by now. The panties followed. To her shock (but not surprise) they were 
quite wet.

"Your jewelry too." Off came her earrings, rings and watch. Naked, she 
stood until directed further. After two years as a sub she had the sense 
not to cross her arms over breasts or try to hide herself. She'd been 
naked in front of many strangers before, and in many positions. But 
this cold bare room was unnerving her. 

"Now go through that door."

She entered the next room. She registered briefly that it was an office 
and that six men and women were present before her wrists were seized 
and strapped behind her. Her unseen jailer pushed her towards a steel 
examining table. 

The examination was brief but humiliating: vagina, anus, mouth, and 
every other part of her body. Her captors did not speak to her but they 
did to each other, medical talk she only half understood. It was sprinkled 
with strange terms she didn't understand at all, even with all the BDSM 
lingo she'd picked up in the course of her adventures. Some of the words 
were foreign. One of the examiners looked Chinese, and two were 
German. 

They gave her inoculations, and one of the women finally spoke to her. 
"We had access to all your medical records, of course, before we took 
you, so this examination is only a formality. We wouldn't have snatched 
you if you weren't physically healthy."

"As for mentally healthy..." the big, bearded German joked.

"Don't dismiss the subs; they *are* our bread and butter." The woman 
roughly pulled Kris's hair into a high ponytail and fastened it, then 
locked a heavy metal collar around her throat. Kris grunted in surprise, 
even though she had been expecting it. It cradled her chin, tipping it 
up slightly, and the base of it rested on her shoulders. It was much 
heavier and constraining than anything she'd worn before, and she 
realized she could turn her head only with some difficulty. "What are 
you--"

"Be quiet." The woman's coldness halted her fidgeting. "Get the arc unit 
over here."

Suddenly afraid, Kris struggled as her captors unceremoniously bent 
her over the examination table so its edge dug into her midsection.  
They snapped the ring in her collar to a chain, then fastened that to a 
ring in the table and pulled it tight. She was splayed flat across the 
surface, her buttocks in the air. She heard the stretch and rip of heavy 
packing tape, then felt their taping her ankles to the legs of the table. 
Her breathing quickened as she heard gas hissing from a canister, and 
the soft, sinister sound as it ignited. Her legs and buttocks jerked 
spasmodically in an effort to get free. "No, please! What are you--"

The woman's hand forced a gag in her mouth, a hard rubber ball that 
cut off her cries, though her legs still furiously struggled to kick. "I 
already told you once to be quiet. The gag stays until you learn your 
place. We're not here to indulge your perverted little sub desires, we're 
here to run a business, and you are our export. Product has no voice and 
doesn't object to how it is treated. That is all you are now--*product*."

The woman then roughly turned Kris's head to the side so her cheek 
rested against the cold metal. Kris whimpered as the torch grew closer. 
She felt its heat on her scalp and tears squeezed from her eyes. No, they 
couldn't torture like this, please God...

Then the smell of hot metal told her they were soldering the collar shut. 
That meant they never intended to remove it. Why had she done this!

The torch moved away and she sobbed in relief, then sobbed again as 
she heard them taking out fresh tools. 

"That's it, take it out of the autoclave."

"What color ink?"

"Cheng specified blue."

A light piece of paper was pressed against her left buttock, then peeled 
away. A transfer. They were marking her skin to receive a tattoo.

No! She had always been disgusted by tattoos. They brought to mind 
bikers, body-piercing weirdoes, and drug-addicted hookers. But she had 
no choice in it now. She groaned in her throat when she heard the low 
whine of the needle then flinched as it bit her skin. She was being 
marked with a brand of ownership. And below that, her new name.

"You're number 21186 now," the woman said. "Get used to it."

It was the longest twenty minutes she'd ever spent. And she had plenty 
of time to think about it as the needle pumped drop after drop ink into 
her flesh.

                                                            *          *          *

The plane touched down, and Kris breathed a sigh of relief. The whine 
of its engines drew down as it taxied slowly down the runway to the 
cargo terminal. She tried to squirm, but couldn't move a centimeter. The 
air grew hot. Sounds were muffled outside her crate but she heard the 
cargo door flip open. Ignorant, indifferent hands lifted her box and 
placed her with a thud on a slowly moving conveyer. Queen Nefertiti 
being readied for burial, she thought, a shaky attempt at humor. She 
gasped as her crate suddenly slid down an incline, then righted itself 
and began its slow travel on. Her stomach wrenched. This ride was 
worse than a roller coaster because she couldn't see what was coming. 
Now she distinctly felt strong, hot sunlight on her prison, and smelled 
jet fuel, hot tarmac and...something else?

She traveled slowly from jet to the inside of the terminal, then felt her 
crate bump something ahead of her. Another piece of baggage bumped 
her from behind. She sat there for several long minutes, terrified of 
being forgotten, before she heard a forklift approaching. Two strong 
metal prongs slid under the base of her crate and she was lifted with a 
wheezing hydraulic whine. The lift scooted away. Her apprehension and 
excitement returned. Why did machines have to sound so damned sexy? 
She'd had fantasies she'd never told anyone, even Larry, about, about 
being fucked to exhaustion by gearshafts and pistons.

The forklift set her down. After a few minutes the top of her crate 
suddenly opened. She blinked in the full sunlight, startled by the shiny 
brown face staring down at her. Her eyes were too dazzled to make out 
the features, or even if it was male or female. But she saw the lips open in a 
very white smile. A hand quickly reached in and plucked her delivery 
papers from a pocket inside the crate. The lid slammed shut, was 
refastened. 

Several voices talked excitedly as they examined the bill of sale. 
"...American pussy!" she heard.

                                                            *          *          *

The truck ride lasted for hours. She couldn't hear anything from outside 
because of the noise of the engine, and had no way of knowing if they 
traveled across city or countryside, highway or gravel road. The diesel 
fumes made her sick, so it was a relief when they finally stopped. They 
lifted her crate, carried her out of the truck and inside. 

New sounds, indistinct voices, rock music. The smack of whips, the rattle 
of chains.

The lid opened. Two pairs of arms lifted her out and stood her on end, an 
albino tootsie roll with her head poking out. She shivered when she 
realized what a vulnerable victim of abuse and fellatio it made. 

She was in a large office, resting on an expensive middle eastern carpet. 
Pots of tropical palms and strange cacti dotted the room. A row of wide 
windows were to her right, slatted with blinds. Wherever she was, it was 
sunny. But the thick glass kept out sounds from outside, and the semi-
opaque blinds showed nothing of her new surroundings. From the 
ethnicity of her owners, however, she guessed she was in Malaysia. 
They looked at her from behind a lacquered Chinese desk and a row of 
comfortable chairs. Some Caucasians were with them, Australians by the 
accent.

"Let's unwrap the pretty package, and see what we have, eh mate?"

Kris flinched as the Australian unlocked the straps that held her and 
peeled away the foam. After a day or so on the airplane she smelled 
quite ripe, but the Australian laughed. "Been stewing in your own 
juices, haven't you?" He thrust his fingers up Kris's crotch and peered 
at the moisture. Oh god. What was he going to do..."You subs are all alike. 
Your mind talks you down a path your instincts tell you not to follow. 
But here's the truth. Betrayed by your pussy! Happens every time." He 
wiped his fingers nonchalantly across her belly. Amused, but not 
interested enough to do anything cruel or sadistic.

One of the Malaysians looked up from the computer screen the rest of 
the men were staring at and said something in Chinese. The comment 
was routine, but they all laughed. Kris flushed, realizing these men 
must see hundreds of naked slaves everyday. Their indifference told her 
she was not exceptional. 

The Australian idly fingered her nipples. "Should be on baby bottles, 
girl. Here now, escort to her new job."

Two girls came out from either side. No, women--Asian, and so delicately 
beautiful Kris felt immediately like a dowdy cow. One was Malaysian and 
wore an emerald green chongsam. Her hair was cut in a pageboy so 
black and shiny it looked the pelt of a wet otter. The other was Chinese 
and wore loose silk tunic and trousers. Her hair was braided back and 
ornamented with orchids, and her scarlet nails were three inches long. 
"I'm Mistress Liu," the Chinese woman said in perfect Hong Kong British.

"And I Mistress Sangthangbisan," said the other in more fractured 
English. "You call me Miss Sang for short. We your welcome committee 
for today!"

"That's right," said Mistress Liu with a tight smile that made her face 
into a porcelain mask. Her skin was tight and flawless. "Number 21186, 
you do exactly what we say, or you go off to the organ bank. Black 
market corneas and kidneys are very much in demand in this part of 
the world."

"But so is pussy," Miss Sang said. "You be good, you work here fifteen 
year or more. Club Cheng is the best. Get tourist from all over the world. 
They like American girls. As long as they like you, you stay."

"And in case you're wondering what happens after those fifteen years," 
Mistress Liu said with an unpleasant smile, "you leave this place, but 
you still work for us. No one wants a stretched piece of leather. When 
your looks and body go, you will work in one of our factories. We make 
baseball mitts and tennis shoes."

"And condoms!" Miss Sang said excitedly.

"And because former slaves can be troublesome, we'll take out your clit 
and pussy lips before you go, and close off your cunt with a couple of 
staples. Can't have you fucking chair legs and giving the male workers 
blowjobs. Good for morale maybe, but bad for production." She ripped 
off Kris's gag with a jerk. Kris squealed. "Say yes if you understand."

"Yes," Kris said faintly, feeling ill. Organ banks. Sweat shops. Why had 
she done this?

Miss Sang clamped a chain to Kris's collar and ran in it between her 
legs to connect to the restraints Mistress Liu fastened to her wrists. The 
chain was very short and she was forced to bend over, buttocks out. Miss 
Sang fastened a second chain to her collar to act as a leash. "Come along, 
21186! You very lucky. You work in box office!"

"Yes, come along," Mistress Liu laughed wickedly, shocking Kris's 
buttock with a taser she kept at her belt. Kris yelped, then followed 
Miss Sang at a hobbled crouch.

They made their way down the halls of the club, Mistress Liu shocking 
her every once in a while for no other reason than she liked to hear 
Kris squeal. Once or twice she shocked the chain, sending pain shooting 
through Kris's hands and throat. No one bothered to glance at them. 
Kris felt a wild terror grow within her. She thought she'd be valued for 
her servitude, not mocked for it. 

She soon realized that here she was as insignificant as a drop of water 
in the ocean. Nude girls stood on display in hallway niches, chained 
with their legs apart, decorated with gems and flowers, straps and 
clamps. Others dangled from the ceiling. They passed a room where 
dinner was being served by exquisite Japanese slaves, naked but for 
geisha makeup, ornamented wigs, and garter belts. A club where 
dancers gyrated and spread their legs, then bent over and spread their 
buttocks. They passed other slaves, some so exotically bound they could 
proceed along only at a shuffle. Kris stared at weights like jawbreakers 
hanging from one slave's pear-shaped, pendulous breasts, the nipples 
so long and erect Kris thought she could fuck with them. Another slave 
was being pushed along by the butt plug protruding from her anus, 
which sported a curved handle. Straps and whips flew constantly. 
Everywhere there was naked flesh, torture, and the idle titillation of 
free men and women who eyed them amusedly but did not give them 
special attention.

"Your shift is eight hours long, "Mistress Liu said. "After that you are 
bathed and groomed. We have handlers who take of that. Off shift, you 
wear a belt so you don't hork off that tight little box of yours. We like 
our girls hot, and for slaves, that means horny as hell, and unsatisfied 
as hell. The better for business. We decide when and where you fuck." 
Another sting from the taser, and Kris sobbed. The chain rubbed her sex 
but brought no relief. She realized was totally helpless, totally subject to 
whatever her captors had in store for her. 

"You will sleep in a dorm with the other common-use slaves. We chain 
you to your bunk before we turn out the lights. It wouldn't do for you to 
be wandering around at night, giving tongue and finger fucks to each 
other. Don't try to talk to anyone either; they probably won't 
understand you."

Things were becoming worse by the minute. They came to bathing area 
where attendants scrubbed Kris from head to toe and washed her hair. 
The attendants looked to be locals, Malaysian woman who were tiny and 
capable. From time to time they tweaked Kris's nipples or labia, 
laughing at some joke in their own language. "Don't even think about 
getting back at them," Mistress Liu warned.  "They can report you." Kris 
ground her teeth.

Next she was arranged on all fours on a table so she could be groomed. It 
was in fact a dog-groomer's table, with an L-shaped arm that extended 
overhead to which Kris's collar was snapped. She flushed furiously as 
her two mistresses gleefully shaved her, then waxed her pubic and 
anal regions free of hair. She knew enough of the taser by now not to 
struggle. "You start with a clean slate!" Miss Sang giggled. Then the 
infuriating little Asian women applied makeup to her face and styled 
her hair. 

Kris submitted dully. This was not what she expected. Other slaves were 
being groomed, and they too had the blank, dull look of female dogs. On 
each and every buttock was the seal of Cheng and the number they 
were called now. It probably made it easier to keep track of them. 
Looking closer, Kris saw with shock that under each number was a bar 
code.

"Zap! You dead," Miss Sang giggled, holding up a barcode reader. She 
aimed a line of red laser light at Kris's ass.

Mistress Liu smacked Kris with a paddle and told her to get down. She 
snapped on the leash. "Where am I going to be working?" Kris asked.

"We try to assign every new slave a job commensurate with their 
abilities," Mistress Liu said. "But in truth you, like most of the slaves that 
come here, are unremarkable. We don't have the time to draw your 
talents out. So we assign new arrivals to wherever we have an opening. 
Call it the luck of the draw. You stay in that position until retirement, or 
until you manifest some special ability that will place you elsewhere."

"But I was trained slave back in America--" Kris blurted, then flinched 
as Mistress Liu raised her taser.

"That means nothing here. You subs are all alike; you think you're 
special. Well, I'm afraid you are not. Untrained slaves are far more 
entertaining for the customers because they can participate in the 
process. But willing slaves? No. You accept where you're placed, Number 
21186, and keep your mouth shut...or you leave this club...in several 
pieces instead of one."

Kris had several long minutes to absorb that. They walked past a skylit 
courtyard with a beautiful bronze fountain in the center. The basin was 
decorated with life-sized bronze statues of naked girls in positions that 
made Kris blush. Water jetted from their nipples and mouths and from 
between their legs. Despite the moisture no green verdigris marred the 
statues, which was odd.

Then Kris looked closer and saw they were not statues at all but living 
women that had been encased in waterproof bronze body paint. The 
water spouted from thin, almost undetectable tubes taped on their bodies 
that were painted the same color.

Miss Sang paused, mischievous, and took a deep drink of water from a 
shiny bronze nipple. She grinned like a child at a water fountain. "I so 
thirsty!" She tongued the nipple, making sure Kris saw. The poor slave, 
sensitized no doubt by long sexual deprivation, began to groan. "See 
that? You be that way, in two week! Customer like!"

Mistress Liu dragged her on.

They came to marquee and a life-sized neon sign. A nude woman 
performed endless backflips, springing with her legs apart to display 
her genitals to the viewer. Signs in Chinese and Japanese flashed in 
lurid hues, announcing the name of the club and its specialties. They 
were repeated below in mistranslated English: NICE PUSSY. CUM INTO 
OUR CUNNICES. BONDAGE AND DISCIPLES.

They marched Kris into the lobby, empty save for a long table in the 
center, which faced the wall. Kris got a glimpse of what went on inside, 
and her knees went weak. Here were all the wild experiences she 
craved, and then some. 

Mistress Liu made her stop and applied two clamps to Kris's nipples, 
which made her gasp. From each hung a heavy, expensive Chinese bell. 
Mistress Liu then gestured at the table. "Climb up there."

Kris hesitated. 

"Number 21186," Mistress Liu said sharply. "Listen to me. You will 
cooperate with us, or you will not. Neither makes a difference. You will 
do the job you have been sent here to do, or you won't eat and won't 
drink. It's that simple. If you think we are going to go into elaborate 
punishments for you we haven't got the time. We run a business here."

"Yes mistress." Sullenly.

"Stop the mistress crap. You aren't a spoiled little sub anymore, you're a 
piece of furniture for this club. A simple yes will suffice."

Kris climbed on to the platform and the two Asians arranged her on her 
hands and knees. They handled her like they had done this hundreds of 
times before. There were straps on the table at the lower edge at each 
corner, and they quickly strapped down Kris's ankles and knees. They 
strapped her wrists together and fastened them to a hook in front of 
her, and snapped the collar ring on the same hook. She was in her 
favorite position: forehead low, buttocks high, legs spread. "The lickable 
ass" position, Larry called it. The licking meant either beating or 
tonguing.

Why wasn't she being let inside, to do what she liked best, was so good 
at? Her stomach grew queasy. Though she knew the position well, had 
done it hundreds of times before, a real fear began to grow.

The fear was confirmed when, with a shock, she felt a thick metal tube 
enter her anus. Miss Sang giggled as her muscles tried to expel it. "No, 
no, you naughty girl! Tube stays in. It go in every day. You get used to 
holding it with your asshole muscles. We give you butt plug at night, so 
you can practice." Kris ground her teeth as Miss Sang placed her palm 
against it, keeping it inside. It was at least eight inches long and two 
inches wide. "We make you go poopy before you go on shift too. Two 
times!"

"Don't make me shock it," Mistress Liu warned. 

Kris whimpered again as even larger tube was forced into her vagina. It 
butted against the edge of her cervix and felt very heavy. She had 
never liked dildoes. Mistress Liu strapped them both to her tightly. "In 
future, you must hold them in yourself," she warned. "Learn quickly. 
There are other slaves who would be happy to replace you."

When she was strapped and plugged humiliatingly both Asians stepped 
back, admiring their work. Kris caught a glimpse of herself in the 
mirrored wall that stood opposite. She saw a slim blonde woman with her 
ass in the air, two frightfully huge dildoes sticking out of her creamy 
buttocks.

"Number 21186, this is what you will do." Mistress Liu's  voice was cold 
and businesslike. "This is the entrance to the Playroom, our BDSM room. 
Customers pay a chit in the top slot to enter." With one red-clawed 
fingernail she  waggled the tube embedded in Kris's backside. "When 
the chit goes in, you give your Kegel muscles a good hard squeeze and 
pop a ticket out of your cunt." Mistress Liu roughly waggled the bottom 
tube that contained the ticket dispenser, and Kris moaned. "Try it, give it 
a squeeze."

Kris did, feeling shamefully exposed. She felt like she was squirting 
juice out of her pussy or pushing out a bowl movement. But she was 
rewarded with a tiny spasm of pleasure when the dispensor vibrated, 
popping out a fresh ticket. But the pleasure was designed more to tease 
her than satisfy her. It didn't last. The dispenser sat inertly in her twat 
like a lump of cold metal, not even touching her clit. With a shock, Kris 
realized that would be the extent of her sensual pleasure from then on. 
With another shock, that her masters didn't care. They just wanted a 
novel device to expel tickets.

"Now, when the chits go in, you give those buns a good hard shake to 
make them rattle in the tube, and say, 'Thank you for your patronage, 
master. The entrance is at your right. Enjoy the show.' Try it."

Nearly sobbing with indignity, Kriss waggled her impaled buttocks and 
said, "Thank you for your patronage, master. The entrance is at your 
right. Enjoy the show."

A paddle suddenly stung her bottom. "Not good enough. You shake your 
buttocks harder next time and speak more clearly. You girls are flowers 
here. You should be bright and cheerful no matter what happens to you. 
This paddle will stay chained between your legs, and if any patron feels 
insulted they have the right to punish you with it. Try to enjoy your job. 
You'll have it for long, long time."

Kris's heart sank in despair. This was to be her job day after day, night 
after night. She couldn't live like this. She would go crazy. After months 
or years, her looks and energy faded, there was the organ bank. Or a 
different kind of slavery in those hellish factories. Why had she done 
this! Tears of frustration spilled down her face.

"Oh, and if you're lucky...very lucky...you might move up in the ranks, 
become a tongue-cleaner. That means you lick the cocks and pussies 
clean of everyone who's enjoying themselves in there." Kris squealed as 
Mistress Liu smacked her with the paddle again, making the bells on 
her nipples ring loudly.

This was real torture. To see and hear what went on, yet be unable to 
participate.

"Your shift begins now."

A spotlight lit her from above, and soft, breezy jazz music began to fill 
the lobby. Kris heard the doors open behind her. Men and women began 
to stroll inside. Their laughter had that special ring she was familiar 
with, the one of impending carnal pleasure. That she faced the wall and 
couldn't look at them was a torment. What did they think of her, this 
degradingly bound American woman who was nothing more than an 
automatic ticket dispenser?

Nothing, probably. They disregarded her the same way they disregarded 
the poor slaves who decorated the halls. What was she, the former Kris 
Torgerson, among these hundreds of other slaves? She thought she 
would merit special attention, but she'd been wrong. No one cared what 
happened to one anonymous slave. Just as no one cared what happened 
to Kris Torgerson.

She felt a token spiral into her anus, the slight movement jarring the 
metal phallus and sending a unwilling thrill through her. Obeying her 
instructions, she clenched the tube tightly and wagged her buttocks. 
Her nipple bells rang sweetly. "Thank you for your patronage, master. 
The entrance is at your right. Enjoy the show." Another chit slid inside 
her, and another. "Thank you for your patronage, master.."  "Thank 
you... thank you..." 

WHOP! The stinging blow brought tears to her eyes, but she did not 
falter. Her rectum grew heavy with the metal chits, making it an agony 
to move her hips. Her pussy throbbed and ached, clutching at the tube 
that did not satisfy it. Music and laughter came from inside the arena. 
"...enjoy the show master...enjoy the show..."



END




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