by Peter Loaf



It starts out to be just another endless Thursday on the assembly line, making a living and getting yet another night shift older.  While my hands assemble widgets, my mind wanders, trying to solve the puzzle that is my life.
I’m more than a little depressed tonight, partly because Johnny, my lover, roommate and best friend, just dumped me.  Last Sunday he moved out of my place and into that rich bitch’s penthouse.  That was after deserting me at the Phish concert, high as a kite, drunk as a lord and without even cab fare in my pocket.
It cost me a blowjob to get home.
And, without his extra paycheck I will soon lose my condo, my home, my only asset.
Also, it’s been five days since I last had sex so I’m horny.  I’m never at my best when I’m horny.
About nine-forty-five the plant foreman, Mr. Jackson, comes up and taps me on the shoulder.  “Come with me Vicky.” He shouts, barely audible over the din of the machinery.
I turn and see he’s brought Harry to take my place on the line.  “What’s up?” I shout, glancing at the clock.  “I’m not due for a break for ninety minutes yet.”
“Mr. Halverson wants to talk to you.” He shouts back, reaching out and taking my elbow into his vice-like grip.
There is a sudden ball of lead in the pit of my stomach.  In the six months I have worked here these words and this grip have always meant someone was about to be fired.
One hand gripping my elbow in an almost hurtful way, he begins walking me down the line, toward the door that leads into the plant office tower.  I try to meet the gazes of my co-workers but find them all suddenly seeing right through me, afraid the foreman will fire them next.
“What is this all about?”  I shout, trying to pull my elbow out of his grip.
He hangs on, gripping even tighter and shouting to be heard.  “Mr. Halverson just wants you to answer a few questions.”
“Mr. Halverson’s title is Vice President for Human Resources.  I have been told that he makes 345 times as much per hour as I do, even though he spends most of his time at the country club.
As we walk out through the shop door it is like I have suddenly gone deaf as the noise level drops away.  The company offices are heavily soundproofed and after two hours in that din I know my ears will be ringing for several hours yet.
Pushing me along in front of him, his grip on my elbow slightly hurtful and intentionally demeaning, the foreman doesn’t say a word as we walk down a long empty hallway.  The building is darkened and deserted, all the white-collar workers having gone home hours ago.  Pressing the up button of an elevator while turning a key in a lock, the foreman whistles tunelessly as the small car comes down and opens.  Shoving me inside, he turns the key again and the doors close, leaving me all alone in the rising car.  What the Hell? I think, rubbing my elbow as I ride up to the executive office suite.  The walls do not answer my questions.
I try to make myself look presentable, but dressed in coveralls, steel-toe boots and a hair net; there isn’t much I can do.
I try to think why I am being fired.  And come up with several possible reasons.  The company has a rulebook half the size of the LA county phone book.  It just depends on which of my transgressions Mr. Halverson has found out about.  Or, it could be nothing I have done.  After all, sales have been off by twenty percent since 9-11.  I could simply be laid off.
I need the paycheck that comes with this job.  Need it bad.
The car stops.  I wait for the doors to open.  Instead, the lights go out, leaving me blind as well as half deaf.  “Oh Shit!” I say, reaching out to the wall for support.
I’m trapped in this thing, like a frog under a coffee can.  The darkness is complete.  It’s that kind of inky blackness you get in deep caves.  I hold my hand up in front of my face but cannot see it, even though I can feel its heat.
I’ve always loved the dark.  Ever since I was a little girl and my daddy locked me in a closet for stealing cookies.  The darkness has always been so full of delicious monsters, boogiemen, and other sexually stimulating ideas.
Fumbling in the dark, I find the emergency phone and pick it up.  There is a click and a man’s voice says, “Hello Vicky, welcome to your new life.  My name is Master Halverson and from this moment on, you are my sex slave.”


I stand there in complete darkness, wondering if I’m having a flashback from that LSD I took last Saturday night at the Phish concert.  I say, “Pardon me?”
“I said you are now my sex slave.”  The voice says, in a cool tone of complete confidence.
“What, you’re going to chain me up and use me in various sexual ways?”
“Are you crazy?”
“Slaves who insult their Masters seldom prosper.” He intones, his voice under tight control.
I think about it for a few seconds.  I am in no position to be making enemies.  “And if I resist you’ll whip me and punish me until I do what you want?”
“Who told you I might like that?”
“It doesn’t matter if you like it or not.”
I feel the cold/hot/heavy knot in my belly.  And at the same time feel my slave lust awakening within my libido.  I think about how many people have been “fired” in just this way, how many times I’ve seen the foreman come and escort someone away, his grip on his or her elbow declaring the company’s sudden distrust.
After another moment the voice says, “You will now strip completely naked and take off that hair net.”
“And if I refuse?” I ask.
“You get six cuts of the cane just for asking the question.” The voice says.  “Imagine how many you’ll get for actual disobedience.”
“Well I’ll be damned if I’ll strip for you.”  I say, backing into a corner of the tiny cage.
“You’ll be punished until you do. And, by the way, that little unauthorized speech will cost you an additional six welts across that fine white ass of yours.
I too well remember how cane welts feel.  My first boyfriend was an English foreign exchange student from Eaton.  I shut my mouth and begin to strip.  When I am completely naked I hear, “Drop your clothes to the floor, step to the doors and face the rear of the car.”
Again, fumbling in the darkness, I comply.
“Interlace your fingers behind your back and hold perfectly still.  Be warned, I can see you and I have a fully charged cattle prod in my hand.”
Again I comply.  Behind me I hear the doors open just a few inches and I feel police style handcuffs being closed around my wrists, linking them together behind my back.  Still in complete darkness, I wonder how he can work so quickly and efficiently.
Buck-naked and wrist shackled, I am forced to walk, the hand on my elbow my only guide, down another hallway and into what feels like an office with deep carpeting under foot.
Suddenly the lights come back on and, as soon as my eyes adjust, I see the man who claims to be my Master.  I see that hanging around his neck are a pair of infrared night-vision goggles.  He is tall, dark and balding.  He is smiling like Bert Parks.  “Welcome Vicky, I’m Ben Halverson, your new Master.”


I say nothing, afraid of earning more cane welts.  I wonder if I am glad that he is fully dressed.  I wonder how long he will remain so.
“If you have any questions you may ask them now.” He says, touching a gentle finger to my cheek.  “But remember your place or I will remind you.”
“This slave girl has more questions than she dares ask.” I say, letting him know that I too am a fan of John Norman.
“Then ask the ones you need answered the most.” He says, pushing me through a vault door and closing it with an ear-popping whoosh that tells me we are now truly sealed off from the rest of the world.
“Why did you pick me?” I ask, watching his eyes as they take an approving inventory of my naked body.  Proud of my body I straighten up and pose for him.  I’m still young enough that my big tits haven’t begun to sag and my skinny waist and long legs make the full, womanly curve of my ass all the more noticeable.
He grins, reaches down and tugs on my blond pubes, cut short and bikini waxed into a small Hitler mustache.  “We have been watching you for several months now, Vicky, both here at the plant and at other times, away from the factory floor.”  He says, running his palms lightly over my suddenly sweaty breasts, bringing my nipples up into tighter erection.
I think about how nearly all the other “fired” men and women have simply vanished from the city, never to be seen again.  Oh there have been postcards and notes from a few of them, explaining how this wonderful job opportunity had come along and there had been no time to say goodbye.  To tell you the truth I’d never thought too much about it.  In these days of economic chaos, people move around a lot.
“How long do you think you can get away with this?” I ask, the huskiness in my voice betraying my rising libido.
“This company has been training and selling sex slaves for 150 years.  We have developed certain methods and procedures for avoiding trouble.”  He says, walking me to a contraption bolted down in the middle of the vault floor.  It consists of a heavy steel box about a foot square and five or six inches tall.  Cut into its top are two side-by-side holes, about three inches in diameter.  They do not touch but are separated only by an inch of steel.    At first I don’t understand that it is a pair of ankle stocks until he steps on a button and the heavy steel top splits across the middle of the holes and slides open, revealing foot treads within.  Seconds later I am trapped, standing naked in the middle of a sound proof vault, my feet locked in a box, my wrists shackled together behind my back.
“I believe the total was twelve?”  He says, attaching a dangling chain to the link between my wrist cuffs.
“Yes Master.”  I say, knowing I am totally at his mercy.
“Good girl.”  He says with approval, shortening the chain to draw my wrists high up between my shoulder blades.  “The quicker you learn these lessons the better.”
I feel his hands taking inventory of my naked body and shudder in rising fear/anticipation/need.
I have been into bondage and discipline for several years, having found the thrills and pleasures simply irresistible.  But this is something very, very different, very scary.  For me, B&D has always been a voluntary act of trust on my part.  But there is no element of trust here.  There is nothing I can do to control my future.  My feet are locked in a box that has been bolted to the floor.  My wrists are shackled up behind my back, forcing me to bend forward to ease the pressure on my shoulders.  My naked body is suspended and posed, my bare bottom sticking out like a target.
Halverson selects a whippy, brass tipped, bamboo barker’s cane from an elephant’s foot umbrella stand and takes position behind me and off to one side.
I stare at the vault wall and hold my breath.
He waits, knowing I will have to let my breath out, sometime.


Five orgasms and a sore throat later, I begin to understand.  I am nothing but a slave, his to do with as he pleases.  This idea occurs to me, as I am being taken, closely hobbled and completely helpless, down to the sub-basement dock to be loaded into what smells and feels like a steel floored cargo van.  As I am left lying on my bare front, my tightly harnessed body unable to go anywhere, do anything, I know the utter peace of hopelessness.
Let me describe the company traveling harness.  It is a series of nine horizontal leather straps suspended from a high, motion-restricting slave collar.  The first three straps weld my already shackled arms to my back, forcing my big breasts out like guns on a battleship.  The second three fix my thighs tight together, emphasizing the roundness of my bottom.  The final three circle my lower legs, but not so tight as the others in order to allow me to hobble.
Only when all nine of the body straps were buckled did my new Master show me the gag and blindfold ensemble.  Completely helpless, I could do nothing to fight having it strapped to my face, the dildo gag tickling the back of my throat, the blindfold returning me to the inky blackness of the elevator.
Then I discovered that the gag dildo was inflatable as with a puka-puka noise my jaws were suddenly stretched painfully wide, my mouth filled, my cheeks stretched tight around its sudden, jaw-breaking bulk.
Fixed thus, my feet were released from the box and quickly forced into very high-heeled pumps, making me totter around like a drunk.  I was then brought, still sobbing from the pain in my ass, still shuddering from my five incredibly intense orgasms, down to this van parked at the sub-basement dock.
I find that I have been left all alone.  I try to feel around with my still shackled hands only to discover that both my collar and the lower end of the harness have been closely attached to two rings in the van floor.  The metal is cold against my bare breasts, tummy and thighs and I know it’s only going to get worse if we go out into the cool April night.  My cane-welted nipples rub against the floor, hurting, yet still hard as diamonds.  My Master’s cum taste is mixing with the taste of the rubber gag stretching my mouth wide.  I want to scream in fear and frustration but know I will be punished for it, so I refrain.
I hear someone approaching and the sounds of a second prisoner being placed on the floor beside me.  I snort a greeting to this newcomer and receive a slap to my cane-welted butt that tells me I have transgressed yet again.  So many rules, so little time to learn.
When the truck motor starts and I feel myself being driven away, I know a kind of inner peace.  I know myself taken, looted and therefore treasured.
Lying on the cold steel beside me, the other prisoner is fighting her restraints, her gag muffled protests growing more and more desperate with every passing mile.
I figure she must have someone to go home to.
I don’t.  My boyfriend packed his bags and moved out of my apartment last weekend, after he met that rich witch at the Phish concert.
I’ve been wondering where I was going find a new roommate and sex partner.  Halverson may have strange ways of doing it, but he shows a girl a good time, in the end.
He told me that I will be moved out of my condo tomorrow and that my things will be put into long-term storage.  He said that everyone who asks about me will be told that I have been sent to train operators at the company’s new assembly plant in Bhopal India.
I guess I’ll lose my condo.  I certainly won’t be able to keep up the payments.  Not on a sex slave’s wages.
I realize with a sense of shock that money is no longer of any concern to me.  Sex slaves have no use for money.  They are the ultimate “kept” women.
Suddenly the van slows from the highway speed it has been traveling, turns a corner and comes to a stop.
The struggling woman beside me redoubles her efforts to scream around the inflated penis in her mouth, thrashing her harnessed body back and forth against the shackles that attach her to the floor at throat and ankles.  I sense our driver coming to stand over us, then hear the sound of a short, multi-thonged whip whistling through the air and impacting soft flesh several times until the muffled screams of my companion cut off, as if by magic.
He speaks, “Slave girls who displease their Master do not prosper.”  It is Jackson's voice, not Halverson’s.
I find myself considering earning a little attention as well.  Then feel his hand on my welt-covered bottom, caressing the tender, freshly injured flesh, probing, finding, evaluating.
I react by relaxing and opening myself to the invading fingers, trying to get him to give me the attention I suddenly need.
He chuckles, and then goes back up to the driver’s seat.  Soon we are back on the highway, the sounds of Billie Holliday filling both the van and our heads with slave lust.

All Of Me
All of me
Why not take all of me
Can’t you see
I’m no good without you
Take my lips
I want to lose them
Take my arms
I’ll never use them
Your goodbye
Left me with eyes that cry
How can I
Go on dear without you
You took the part
That once was my heart
So why not take all of me

All of me
Why not take all of me
Can’t you see
I’m no good without you
Take my lips
I want to lose them
Take my arms
I’ll never use them
Your goodbye
Left me with eyes that cry
How can I
Go on dear without you
You took the best
Why not take the rest
Baby, take all of me

As the music plays on, I wonder who is laying here beside me, harnessed and helpless, her sobbing gag muffled and now quietly hopeless.  I want to comfort her but am harnessed too tightly to even touch her.  Meanwhile the van’s sound system plays a continuous mix of Billie Holiday torch songs that seem to have been selected for their slave-girl themes.

Fine And Mellow

My man don’t love me
Treats me oh so mean
My man he don’t love me
Treats me awful mean
He’s the lowest man
That I’ve ever seen
He wares char-gray pants
Stripes are really yellow
He wares char-gray pants
Stripes are really yellow
But when he starts into love me
He’s so fine and mellow

I don’t know what it is about Billie Holiday.  She sings songs I’ve heard in a thousand elevators, but she sings them with such style that she makes me feel as if she is singing it to me alone.  Her delivery of the words moves something deep within me, within my libido.

I love you Porgy

I love you Porgy
Don’t let him take me
Don’t let him handle me
And drive me mad
If you can keep me
I want to stay here
With you forever
And I’ll be glad

I love you Porgy
Don’t let him take me
Don’t let him handle me
With his hot hands
If you can’t keep me
I want to stay here
With you forever
I’ve got my man

Someday I know he is coming
Back to call me
He’s going to handle me
And hold me so
It’s going to be like dying
Porgy when he calls me
But when he calls, I know
I’ll have to go

I love you Porgy
Don’t let him take me
Don’t let him handle me
And drive me mad
If you can keep me
I want to stay here
With you forever
I’ve got my man

I realize it is all part of our training but find the music hypnotic and relaxing.  The unknown woman lying beside me seems to feel it as well as she slowly becomes quiet; her gag muffled sobs trailing away with the passing miles.
I don’t know where we are going but suspect it might not be the nicest place to be helpless and naked.

* * *

With a sudden start I become aware I’ve been asleep.  I don’t remember it happening but realize that the truck has stopped again.  I feel the cool rush of air as the van’s back doors are opened then feel the snap-hook that attaches my ankles to the truck floor being released.
Beside me I hear the van’s side door being opened and then feel my collar being released from its hook.  Dragged out of the truck and stood up on my too-high heels, I stagger around blindly, trying to find my balance.  I hear a metal clink and feel the tug of a leash being attached to my slave collar.
“Welcome to Halverson Manor ladies.” Comes a woman’s voice from behind me.  I turn to face that way, trying to show willing.  Beside me I hear my fellow slave hopping up and down in urgency, her gag muffled pleadings loud in the quiet morning.
Ignoring the helpless woman’s pleadings, the voice continues.  “My name is Mistress Delight.  I will be your trainer for this phase.
Suddenly I feel something wet and hot spraying against my lower legs and feet.  I realize that my fellow slave is pissing all over herself, and splattering me as well!
I try to hobble away, but am stopped by a hand between my breasts.  “Go on Vicky, you might as well empty your bladder out here as in your stall.”
Stall! I think. Oh shit, pony training!
I can’t just let go, can I?  But it has been hours since I last urinated and I am getting desperate.  I stagger-turn around so that I won’t piss on my new Mistress and let it flow, its hot sharp smell rising to engulf my head as the warn wetness covers my legs.
The icy cold water is straight from a snowmelt stream. It hits my naked body in a high-pressure blast with enough force that I stagger, nearly losing my precious balance.  The hose plays on me, wets me, chills me, rinses me and then stimulates me into what quickly becomes a surprisingly intense orgasm that leaves me lying on my side in the grass, my harnessed body curled up in a fetal position.
Then as I listen I hear my fellow slave being hosed off as well, her bath ending with an orgasm as intense as mine had been.
When it is over we are stood up, quickly rinsed off, and led into what feels and smells like a stable.  Behind us, I hear a small round of applause; as if ten or fifteen people had stood watching the two new slaves break toilet training.
This shit could become habit forming. I think, following the dictates of my leash.

The Beginning.

This work may or may not be continued, it all depends on any of you sending me more samples of this artist’s work.