Hostage Corp · Part 3 (3/3)
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Marci felt for the open hatch to her own chamber. She sensed Elizabeth shivering beside her. “Slave Elizabeth,” Onocol’s voice called soothingly from above. “Breathe deeply. Let the fear flow out of you like water.”
“Yes, master!” Elizabeth’s voice shook, and Marci suddenly felt sorry for the ebony woman. This was as much a trial for her as the harem dress had been for Marci.
“Slave Marci?” Elizabeth asked. “You enjoy this; you’ve always enjoyed this. How do you do it?”
Marci considered how to answer. The blue-furred alienness of the bisnik had never bothered her. Even the nastiness of the Language Troll had been a generic nastiness, rather than anything specifically bisniki. How could she answer, about something that had just seemed so natural? “They’re men, Slave Elizabeth,” she said at last. “You’re not scared of Master Onocol, are you?”
“The other bisnik males are the same. They’re men. Even when they’re not real.”
“Oh.” The monosyllable had a thoughtful tone, amplified in Marci’s ear by the way her blindness shifted her concentration to her sense of hearing. Marci could also hear the small sounds of the other women crawling into the VR chamber, and of the hatch clicking and latching behind her.
Marci crawled into her own VR chamber. The hatch closed and latched behind her, and she caught the pleasantly musky scent of a male bisnik. Synthetic, of course; part of the virtual reality just like the hands that caught and restrained her. This time they used fabric-cuffs, soft and flexible, fastening her in a sitting position with her legs spread. She couldn’t see it, but she could imagine the grinning, leering face of the virtual bisnik master watching her as she squirmed, testing her bonds. She felt a broad bisnik hand brush lightly over her breasts, and then even more lightly over the fur of her pussy.
She smiled and squirmed some more. This was what bothered many of the slave-trainees. Not the bondage. Women who didn’t ‘take’ to bondage weren’t accepted into the Hostage Corp. But helplessness at the hands of a blue-furred alien did disturb many of the women, at least until time and experience wore away the sharp edge of alienness.
Marci felt her nipples harden as those virtual hands continued to tease her. In her case, it had taken no more than three seconds to lose any apprehension over the sight, scent, or touch of a bisnik male. Now she was developing a creeping dislike of those blankity blank bisnik harem outfits, and their blankity blank blank bisnik-style knots. But this… she arched, attempting to maintain contact, as the virtual hand brushed its fur-covered back over her belly. In response, her virtual master fastened a band around her waist, making her even more helpless.
This was the opposite of the Language Troll; the best part of each day of training. Even if she was being disciplined by her blindfold.
That blindfold came off at the end of the VR session, and the first thing Marci saw on exiting her chamber was the huge grin on Elizabeth’s face.
“It worked!” the dark woman said. “Thank you, Slave Marci.”
“You’re welcome, Slave Elizabeth,” Marci answered automatically through her puzzlement.
Elizabeth responded to her unspoken bafflement. “Your advice, and Master Onocol’s. It felt good in there.” She nodded toward the VR chamber.
“That’s good,” Master Onocol said, suddenly coming up. “But now it time for a ‘free’ exercise. Run, Slave Women, Run!” He grinned and waved his arms at them, and they groaned as they turned to run for the gym and yet another aerobics session. #
The transport’s arrival at the bisnik homeworld of Ustan was celebrated with a parade of sorts. Each of the thirty-five slave trainers arranged the women under their control into coffles and marched them out to their ground-side quarters past an appreciative audience of potential buyers.
Master Onocol had ‘his’ women dress in scant, gauzy wisps of cloth, and locked them in a neck-ring-and-handcuff arrangement: The handcuffs that locked each woman’s hands behind her had a chain attached, leading to a neck ring that locked on the next woman in line. The last woman had her hands locked in a simple pair of cuffs, and the first woman in line – Marci – had the chain from her neck ring held in the firm hand of Master Onocol.
In addition, each woman had an anklet, ornamented with flashing electronic lights and jingling steel bells, locked around her right ankle. These bells had a cultural meaning. Although bisnik females, like humans, could have sex at any time, the bells signaled an increased willingness and desire for sex. “In other words,” one of the slave trainees had said back when the bells were first introduced, “If you put aside the sociological B. S, they’re ‘Fuck Me’ bells.”
“That was crudely put, Slave Annalee,” Master Onocol had said. “Truthful, but crudely put.” And then, as a discipline to ensure his words were not forgotten, he had fastened Annalee to the deck and forced her to orgasm, expertly arousing her with fur-tipped slave goad.
Master Onocol now brandished that slave goad as his other hand tugged on the chain leading Marci and the other human women forward. They walked slowly down a long, long carpet, passing between two ragged lines of bisnik men who watched them with smiling eyes. The captive’s feet were bare, in the thick shag of the carpet, their skimpy costumes left practically nothing to the imagination, and the ‘Fuck Me’ bells locked on their ankles jingled merrily. Proud and excited, they smiled back at the blue-furred alien men who soon would own them.
Near the end, a bisnik stepped out to embrace Master Onocol. “Welcome home, brother,” he said.
“I am glad to be home, brother,” Master Onocol returned. “And I am glad to see you. We must talk latter Tiim, but right now I have business to finish.”
“Of course,” Tiim stepped aside, allowing Master Onocol and his chain of beauties to continue forward. Marci smiled at him, and shivered inside at the long, frank look of evaluation he gave in return. He was, Marci realized, looking at the captive alien beauty that was first on his brother’s chain.
Marci had very pleasant dreams that night. #
The next morning was rather less pleasant, even though Marci no longer had to face the Language Troll. She had received an e-mail, and after struggling through the alien alphabet she found herself wishing that she could have a remedial lesson with the Troll, instead.
A bisnik group had taken up her ‘cause’ – or rather her sister Jane’s cause. Marci didn’t want anything to do with it. But ignoring her wishes, the Unified Peace and Purity Associations had taken the issue of her ransom to the bisnik courts. The auction house had been temporarily blocked from selling her, as a result, and the UPPA representative was confident that the delay would keep her from being sold at all. In that happy event, Marci was informed, she soon would find herself returned to her home.
“Damn damn damn damn. Damn Jane, and damn all do-gooders!” Marci sat fuming until the alarm sounded, warning her to prepare for the first round of auctions. She made herself smile as she dressed carefully in a bisnik harem confection, this one a pale blue. If the block on her sale was overturned, and then no one bought her because of her sullenness, then that would be her own damn fault.
The auction-master looked rather sour when Marci presented herself. “You should choose your relatives better, Slave Marci.” He smiled briefly, bisnik-style. “That’s a joke.” But then his expression turned sour again; this turn of events did not please him at all. “We will have to put you on Station Zero.”
“Yes, Sir,” Marci said, and she soon found herself naked again, bound hand and foot on a padded circular platform.
There she squirmed, an attraction if not the center of attention. The bisnik men attending the auctions, dressed in their brightly colored pants and mesh shirts, stopped to look her over. Most of them paused only briefly, but some lingered. These drank her in with their eyes and encouraged her to keep squirming. Even the lingerers, however, eventually left for the auction chamber where they could put in their bids for a human slave woman of their own.
The last to depart was Tiim, Master Onocol’s brother. “You squirm well, Slave Marci,” he told her when the others had left.
“Thank you, my lord,” Marci answered. The Auction Master had made it clear that he preferred ‘Sir’ but ‘my lord’ was the more usual form to a bisnik man who was not the human woman’s master.
“You are a good choice for Station Zero. Are they saving you for the last?”
“I hope so, my lord,” Marci said. She’d been told that the auctioneers put their best women on the block at the beginning and end of the auctions. And since she could not now be sold at the beginning… She added, a bit reluctantly, “The UPPA has had a block put on my sale.”
“Ah.” Tiim’s blue-furred arm rose to make a bisnik gesture of annoyance. “Them. Well, we must hope that their plans for you fail, Slave Marci.” Then he followed the other bisnik into the auction chamber.
The auctions were set to run for three days, with three sessions the first two days, and two on the final day. As each session ended, that first day, Marci found herself once again being watched and encouraged to struggle by several bisnik men, with Tiim always being among them. The auction master checked on her frequently, changing her bindings, but with all the smiling and squirming and futile struggles, she was left exhausted by the end of the day.
“You did well, Slave Marci,” the Auction Master told her as he released her from the final hogtie. Looking rather less sour than he had that morning, he knelt over her, as she lay flat on her belly, and rubbed her down with a towel.
“Thank you, Sir.” Her hand drifted over to gently touch his ankle.
He chuckled. “You are an affectionate one. I should put you on Station Zero again, tomorrow. With the block on your sale lifted, you should be an even more effective lure. For now, though, you must shower, and eat, and sleep.”
The next morning, Marci did find herself bound once again at Station Zero. The Auction Master’s words, however, had proven optimistic: The block on her sale still had not been released, despite the appeals filed. Marci had received a copy of the gloating UPPA e-mail that morning, and the Auction Master looked sour once again as he fastened her arms.
Her first position of the day was kneeling, with her arms out and lashed to a crossbar. For good measure, a fleece-lined cuff was locked on her left ankle and attached to a heavy chain that ran to an equally heavy staple set in the side of the circular platform. As she knelt there the auction’s patrons came in, pausing to admire her helplessly displayed body before entering the auction chamber for the first session of the day. Some of them traded quips with her, among them Tiim, who had shown up once again.
“I understand that you are an affectionate one,” Tiim said.
“So I am told, my lord,” Marci answered.
“You don’t look very affectionate. That position is traditionally used for the most dangerous and violent of captives,” he told her, deadpan.
Marci pulled at the straps holding her arms to the crossbar, without, of course, having the slightest chance of breaking free. Her bare breasts bounced as she struggled. “But I am violent, my lord. Violently affectionate.”
“Ha! I see!” Tiim could no longer maintain his serious expression as he watched Marci squirm. In fact, the expression of glee on his face seemed to run a kilometer in each direction. But eventually he followed the other bisnik into the auction chamber as the day’s first session began.
The rest of the day ran much as the previous one had, except for being more frustrating. And worrying. If the block against her sale wasn’t removed by tomorrow, she’d be sent back to Earth. Even if it was removed tomorrow, it might still be so late that she wouldn’t get sold – and again, she’d be sent back to Earth.
At the end of the day, she was bound hand and foot, much as she had been at the beginning of the day before. But she was chilled, shivering as well as worn out. Tiim appeared to wrap a blanket around her. “Be warm, Slave Marci. Be warm,” he told her. It was good, for the moment, to relax as those alien, masculine, arms held her tight.
The next morning, however, was absolutely miserable for Marci. The block against her sale still hadn’t been removed, and the Auction Master’s expression was as sour as ever as he secured her to Station Zero. This was the last day of the auctions, with only two sessions, and after the second session ended, it would be all over. “Damn Jane and damn the UPPA,” she muttered. “And I can’t even say that this whole miserable situation is my own fucking fault.”
The usual group of bisnik men came to ogle Marci before the first session, but this time Tiim wasn’t among them. She found herself missing him, and she sternly told herself to be pleasant to the others. If the block was somehow lifted at the last minute, but these men didn’t bid on her, then that would be her fault.
The men departed for the next session in the auction chamber, leaving Marci alone. She drooped, and blinked back tears. The Auction Master came and put her in a new binding: Heavy chains leashing her wrists and ankles, but allowing a lot of slack. She assured him that she was all right, and he left again.
She curled into a ball, and then uncurled again. She would carry through to the bitter end, she told herself. And if she were sent back, she’d… she’d spit in Jane’s face, the first chance she got.
The auction session ended, and the bisnik drifted out of the auction chamber once more. The Auction Master came over to put Marci into another restrictive binding; one last display before the three-day set of auctions ended. “Hallo!” a voice called. “Auctioneer!”
Tiim came up, waving a soft-sided carrybag, face beaming. “Hallo!” he called again.
“Yes Sir? Tell me you have good news,” the Auction Master said. “Tell me this popular one can be put on the block for the last session.”
“No,” Tiim answered. He pulled an envelope from his carrybag. Old-fashioned physical paper. “I have here a writ, allowing me to purchase one of your slave women from Station Zero. And here is an opinion from High Judge Skaala, affirming that Judge Miir’s block only applies to selling this one at auction.” He gestured at Marci. “I will give you fifteen thousand Rings for her.”
A ‘Ring’ Marci knew, was one of the standard bisnik measures of currency, much like the ‘dollar’ and ‘yen’ of humans. She felt smug at having remembered this bit of trivia, and then her heart began to beat fast and hard as the implications finally sunk in.
“Unfair,” one of the other bisnik snorted. He turned to the Auction Master. “I will give you sixteen thousand for this one.”
“No auctions,” Tiim told the other with gentle smugness. “I have a writ; you don’t.” He turned back to the Auction Master. “Well?”
“I could not possibly let her go for less than twenty thousand,” the Auction Master answered. “You’ve seen how affectionate and popular she is; she’d bring at least that much at auction, if not more.” Everyone could tell, however, that his heart wasn’t in his bargaining. In the end, he managed to talk Tiim up to 16,500 Rings, but only because Tiim was allowing him to save face.
“Here you are then,” Tiim handed off his credit slip, and received a retro-style physical key in return. This key fit the equally retro locks that fastened Marci’s chains on her. Physical locks, rather than the more usual thumb-locks.
Marci sat very still, trying to take in the enormity of it. She had been sold. As a slave. To a blue-furred alien. Of a species at war with her own. Even though she’d been working toward this, hoping for it, training for it for the past month, it was still a shock. Her new master sat beside her on the platform, looming large and very masculine as he unlocked her chains.
“Kiss me, my slave,” he commanded her, grinning.
It was a warm and happy shock inside, Marci decided. “Yes master!” she said. She licked his horns – an intimate and seriously slutty gesture, among the bisnik – then kissed him full on the mouth. Her arms, temporarily free, reach around him to press herself against his body. His own hands, large and strong, pressed against her bare skin from behind, holding her in place.
When the kiss finally ended, Master Tiim looked both amused and enormously pleased. “You are very affectionate, my slave,” he told her. “But now your are to go into the sack.” Once more Marci found her hands locked together before her body. Her ankles, freed from the chains attaching them to the platform, were locked together as well, and Master Tiim slid her into the slave sack that was traditional for a newly purchased slave woman. This sack was soft and warm inside, Marci found, and Master Tiim stayed very close to her as he tied it in place so that only her head showed. Then he added a gag. A purple gag of that new design, chewy and mouth-filling and exceptionally effective.
Now Marci was completely helpless. Unable to speak, unable to make any sound louder than a faint mew, unable to move more than a wiggle, she was the happy captive of the blue-furred alien who now owned her. And who stayed close beside her as he took her to his home. #
Master Tiim’s home was a house in the suburbs, an alien analog to the earthly stereotype. The lawns were not-quite-grass, the trees were neither deciduous nor evergreen, and the sizes and proportions of everything was different. Marci found herself carried through rooms with white-and-black rugs, and placed on a large square bed with heavy corner-posts of an alien wood. A traditional bisnik ‘slaver’s bed,’ it had a fully-functional set of steel securement points set into the wooden posts.
The gag came out. “Are you hungry or thirsty, my slave?”
Marci swallowed. “Thirsty, master,” she said.
“Ah.” Master Tiim apparently expected this, for he had a water bottle right at hand. He gave her a drink, then stepped back and stripped off the mesh shirt and bright red pants of the bisnik business suit, tossing them aside for the household robots to deal with, later. “Ahh, better. We will eat first,” he told Marci. Then he visibly changed his mind. “No, we will eat second.”
His strong hands pulled Marci from her slave sack, released her wrists and ankles from the leather cuffs, and massaged her bare-skinned body. Her own hands reached up to touch the blue fur of her master, to run her fingers through that fur, briefly, until he took her wrists and secured them again.
Ropes wrapped around her wrists held her arms above her head and out to the sides, as she lay on her back, the ends of the ropes being secured to the steel fittings set in the bedposts for exactly that purpose. More ropes wrapped around her ankles held her legs apart – but not in a spread-eagle with the other ends attached to the foot of the bed. No, for this first time Master Tiim pulled her ankles up and back, with the ropes being attached to the same bedposts as the ones from her wrists. Then, to make her bondage even more secure, he added further ropes to her thighs, leaving her held well in place: Nude, open, and vulnerable.
“There,” Master Tiim said. “That should tame you, my wild little slave.” Somewhere along the way he had lost the remainder of his clothing, and now he knelt beside her in only his blue coat. His penis stood stiff and erect, ready for use; a tool of the same size as a human male’s, but different in detail. He did not yet begin to use it, however.
Instead, he applied his blunt fingers, and his lips and tongue, and the fur on his arms and legs to her nude human skin. She watched as he bent over her, to kiss her lips and forehead and the base of her throat, to tease her breasts, and her belly, to caress her arms and legs. She felt him stroke the insteps of her feet and behind her knees. She lay there, bound and unable to resist as he applied a bellows to her arousal, touching her here and there, daring her to attempt to struggle.
Marci began to squirm. She knew that struggles were futile, that she could not escape, that fighting her bonds would serve only to increase her arousal and to drive her to struggle harder. She struggled anyway, as Master Tiim watched and touched. His grin told her that he knew exactly what he was doing to her, exactly where he was driving her with those gentle, unavoidable touches of his. “Yes,” he whispered. “Yes.”
Marci whimpered. She pulled at the ropes binding her, hard, as if desperate to escape his touch. But she knew that if he stopped, she would beg desperately for him to continue.
And now Master Tiim moved over her. He stroked her inside as well as outside. He put his tool, until now denied, into use. “Slave! Slave! Slave!” he chanted with each thrust.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” Marci cried as each stroke of her master’s tool sent a jolt of pleasure through her, a pleasure that radiated out to the bonds on her limbs and was reflected back by them to the center of her being. It was coming. It was coming. It was coming.
It came. The orgasm welled up, huge and round. Explosively joyful, it went on, and on, and on. “Master!” Marci screamed. “Master!” And still the pleasure continued to fill her, sweet and loud. #
Marci came to herself blissfully relaxed. Master Tiim had released the ropes holding her, but had also thumb-locked a padded cuff to her ankle, with a generous run of chain to one of the lower bedposts. She could not escape, ankle-leashed as she was. Nor did she want to. She snuggled closer to the blue-furred master who owned her, and smiled as she felt his arms tighten possessively around her.
Bliss.
(The End)
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Hostage Corp · Part 3 (3/3)
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