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Victims Of The Revolution
by Catalingus (address withheld)

***

When the revolution comes, one married couple expects 
their hard work to be rewarded. Instead, they find 
themselves at the mercy of someone they thought to be a 
trusted friend. (MF, nc, oral)

***

When the revolution came, I saw in my naïve way a world 
painted in blues and in yellows. Colors of the new, 
lone party drifted off the massive flags that spread 
like raindrops through the city. I watched them dance 
in the sky as the coated the earth. They melted into 
the faces of passersby, ran through the streets and 
alleys. They dipped into the water we drank. No: they 
were the water we drank.

I knew the revolution must surely have wonderful things 
in store for me. I was a fervent, vocal party man, and 
always had been. When the recession had crushed many 
businesses and taken food from the mouths of babes, I 
had taken to the streets to put posters up. When the 
government's efforts to restore order failed, I staged 
rallies. When the troops were sent in, I fought. I 
deserved my place among the heroes of the revolution.

It had been difficult, too. For a great while there had 
been no response. Culture had been drifting back 
towards older times already, but some of the views we 
espoused were still too radical. His Excellency had 
confided in me then, bunkered in an old warehouse and 
living with rats, that it was all a part of his plan. 

"The people will respond," he had smiled as he tapped 
his sternum, "when the people need to eat." Until then, 
we had to be prepared.

Sure enough, when the time came to move we were able to 
move faster and more efficiently than our enemies, and 
had swiftly gained power. 

And now His Excellency was excellent, indeed.

Having served at his side early on, and been a foot 
soldier to the end, I expected my due rewards. Enemies 
of the revolution were being eliminated, but a great 
many less aggressive peoples were being taken for 
slaves. This, I knew, was where the real wealth would 
be found. Slaves were invaluable, if expensive. And 
their potential trades, from programming to 
metalworking to sexual servitude, were without measure. 
Allison and I made love often in those early weeks, 
expressing our optimistic vision in the only way we 
knew how. 

Until Michael came to talk to me. 

Michael had been my closest friend since grade school, 
and had actually been my introduction to the 
revolution. He had been one of the first to sign up, 
one of the loudest to preach, and had commanded troops 
in the brief fighting. If I was a laudable foot soldier 
then he was a short step down from being a general. And 
he was an important person now.

When his motorcade pulled up, Allison excitedly went to 
make tea. When he arrived, sans bodyguards in a display 
of trust, she hugged him. She'd known him almost as 
long as I. Besides, we were excited to see him. This 
must be the news we were waiting for. The news we'd 
dreamed of.

"I have," he frowned, "some bad news."

Bad news, indeed. It was the worst possible. Apparently 
(he told us), information had been leaked by somebody 
who wished to destroy us that we had attempted sabotage 
on several occasions and had been foiled but unreported 
due to our good standing with the venerable Michael. It 
was false, of course, and Michael knew that, but the 
damage was done. Orders had come down from the top that 
we were to be split up and sold as slaves. Immediately.

Allison broke into tears, and I held her. My guts 
liquefied.

"Can't you do anything about this?" I asked.

He sighed, looking above us at the picture on the 
cabinet that featured him and us on a vacation, some 
seven years back. "I've already done what little I can, 
all things considered. I delayed the sale for some 
time, to give you the opportunity to..." he blinked 
back tears.

I couldn't breath. "There's nothing...?"

He stared at me hard, and then wiped his eyes. "Jesus, 
Pete, it hurt me bad to do as much as I have. Every 
measure of good will towards you now is destructive to 
me. I..." he looked down, silent for some time. 
Fighting. "The truth is, I can save you."

"You can?" Allison looked up hopefully.

"Yes." He swallowed, hard. "It will be the end of me, 
to be sure. It will cost me everything I've worked for. 
And it will not be all that wonderful for you, either."

"Anything," she whispered. His eye twitched at that 
word.

"I hope you mean that, because I love you both... but 
you're asking more of me than any friend has the right 
to ask. More than I would ask of you."

"What will happen to us?" I asked.

"You'll still be sold as slaves," he admitted, "but for 
the sake of my position, power, opportunities and 
dreams, I can have you both as my property."

I smiled. "You can do that? We would live with you?"

"You would."

"And you can afford it?"

"I will still have a great deal of money, yes. And 
friends." He waved a hand dismissively. "There are some 
things that cannot be taken back, once given."

"Then this is great news! You had..." I stood up.

"Sit down," he stated flatly. 

"What?" I sat.

He sighed, a darker look coming over him than before. 
"Your transference to my estate will destroy more than 
a decade of my life's work. I will not agree to this 
without stipulations."

Allison blinked. "But, you're our friend..."

"I am," he nodded, "or we wouldn't be having this 
discussion at all. But this is not just a matter of 
friends, I'm afraid. If I take you as slaves, I get no 
others. If I accept ownership of you, I have little 
else." Fear crept across my shoulders, again. Michael 
had always been an ambitious, calculating, and lonely 
man. A good friend with a passion for what could be a 
strong nation, but above all ambitious and lonely. "In 
return," he continued, "you must know that the 
following will be fact: Peter, you will have numerous 
obligations and chores dependent upon my needs and 
whim. Basic housekeep, manual labor, whatever may be 
necessary. The jobs I might otherwise have been able to 
rely on other slaves doing." 

"Oh s-sure..." I stammered.

"Allison," he kept his eyes locked on mine, "will 
assist with my needs and will sleep in my bed."

"Wait just a goddamn minute!" I leapt up, fists tight.

"Michael!" Allison went wide-eyed with indignant shock.

"Shut up!" he roared, and we faltered. I had never 
heard him yell, even in the heat of battle. "You are 
friends, and I'm no monster. I will not require sex of 
you, Allison. Not in so many words. You have...other 
ways...of assisting me. Soft hands. A warm mouth. I'm 
sure you can handle such chores. So long as you can 
accomplish these tasks to my satisfaction, you have no 
worries. You spending nights in my bed will have dual 
purposes: first, it will provide me with comfort and a 
feeling of intimacy. Secondly, if I should require your 
assistance during sleeping hours you will be available 
to me."

"But why..." Allison moaned. "Why would you do this?"

I already knew the answer. Michael had always been a 
lonely man, unable to approach women in an equal 
playing ground. Although of large frame and strong he 
was a nondescript man who bordered on ugly. A large gut 
stretched his midriff in spite of his physical 
exertions. He had counted on having multiple slaves to 
quench his desires, but was prepared to adjust in order 
to save us. I still wanted to hit him.

"Why?" Allison whispered again, leaning back while 
taking in the truth of her fate.

"Allie," he whispered, "there are some things we simply 
cannot do without." He looked so pained, then, that 
neither of us spoke.

We had to agree, really. It was either that or be split 
up forever. So agree is exactly what we did. Michael 
informed us that we would be "collected and appraised" 
before delivery, and that we should be ready to go 
within the hour. We spent the time looking through our 
possessions... a lifetime of memory. Allison cried the 
whole time.

We were collected, indeed. Placed in separate vans, we 
were taken to a large building downtown. I don't know 
what Allison's experience was, but for me it was little 
more than a routine physical. Insignificant, but it 
still managed to make me feel like an animal to be 
evaluated for my ability to serve and survive.

Afterwards, I was left to sit in the evaluation room 
for nearly two hours before I was told to get dressed 
and be ready to leave shortly.

I was taken to a large compound just outside the city. 
Wide open fields of tall grasses gave way to a sizable 
front yard and a massive Victorian-style mansion. This, 
I figured, must be Michael's new place. I noticed the 
black van that had taken Allison was already parked 
outside, and nobody was in it. My pulse quickened...I'd 
never been so eager to see and hold her. It must have 
been the humiliation and terseness of the examination, 
but it seemed like a lifetime since I'd held her. 

I didn't get the chance then, either. Having been lead 
by large thugs to the front door, I was signed for by a 
well-suited assistant of Michael's and lead to a small 
bedroom in the far side of the house. 

"This will be your quarters," the man said briefly. His 
crisp suit was a poor match for the creased, greasy, 
porous skin that was his face, or the gnarled blocks 
that were his hands. "You will change into uniform 
immediately, and deliver your garments to the 
incinerator."

"The... the what?"

The loose, folded skin of his cheeks stretched into a 
smile. "Incinerator. Slave garments are required to 
prevent confusion on the part of visitors."

I looked down at my clothes...the only thing that 
remained of all of my possessions. "Oh. Okay."

"Upon completing this task," he went on as though he 
had never been interrupted, "you will report to the 
main kitchen for instructions on helping to prepare 
supper. Work will typically last you most of the day, 
as you alone are available to do the work that was 
meant for half a dozen. You will be allowed thirty 
minutes downtime at the end of each night, confined to 
your room, whereupon you may listen to music or watch 
television. Work ends at eleven, and lights are turned 
out at eleven-thirty."

"Wait a minute. Half an hour downtime? Confined? What's 
going on here. I'm Michael's friend!"

He looked down his nose at me. "You are a slave, and 
you are going to want to get used to that."

"Why would Michael give me a bed time, like a child?"

He wrinkled his eye-brows. "Your MASTER may well have 
been a friend, and may still be one, but he's also a 
man with a large estate to care for and a great deal 
fewer slaves than previously expected. You will have a 
lot of work to do. Understood?"

I looked around at the small, bare room. "Yes," I 
sighed.

"Then you have your orders." He turned to leave.

"Wait!"

"What is it, slave?"

I ignored the sneer on his face. "My wife..."

The sneer grew. "Your wife, slave, is with your master 
in his suites, and has been ever since she arrived some 
two hours ago."

He left.

The work was exhausting. There was not a moment to 
pause, to relax, or hardly even to eat or use the 
restroom. Nothing but perfection was good enough. My 
slave's attire, loose grey pants and a matching tank 
top that had a large red "S" on the front and back, was 
clearly made with this kind of brutal schedule in mind. 
I sweated nonstop. 

By the end of the day, I had made supper and cleaned up 
afterwards, thoroughly cleaned several large rooms, 
moved some furniture into storage to make way for new 
purchases, and scrubbed every toilet in the large 
mansion.

Every toilet, that is, save for the ones in Michael's 
suites. Those doors remained shut and locked, and 
nobody came out all evening.

In fact, nobody came out all that week. My nervousness 
and jealousy were at first calmed by exhaustion and 
nonstop work, but soon grew to eat at me like a cancer. 
I slept poorly, which was a bad thing in my line of 
work. What was going on? Why didn't they ever come out? 
Was my wife alright? What was she doing?

What was he forcing her to do?

I asked the suit-clad assistant (who would only allow 
me to call him "sir") about my wife. When would I see 
her? Was she okay? Could he get her a message for me? 
He always gave the same type of answer: "She is with 
your master right now," or "You have your jobs to do 
and she has hers." This last line stung especially 
hard, so he used it often.

I could do nothing but wait, and dream of her each 
night.

Finally, after a week of anguish, the doors opened.

Michael emerged, alone, fully dressed and smiling. I 
was kneeling on the floor, scrubbing the marble 
hallway, and he stopped to watch. From my perspective, 
he towered above me. He smiled. 

"Peter, hello."

"Michael..." I started, and he frowned. 

"I'm sorry, Peter, but you know that's not appropriate. 
I'll have a lot of important guests come through here, 
and I don't want a slip-up like that with them here. 
We'd best stick to 'Master' just to make sure it 
becomes habit." He straightened his tie.

"My friend's name is Michael," I glared at him.

"Which is why you are here, Peter, and not hundreds of 
miles away from a woman that you will never see again. 
I'm afraid the term 'Master' is appropriate now, and 
nothing else will do."

"Master. M-my wife..."

Again a frown. "Call her Allison."

My mood was quickly darkening. "Allison..." 

"...is a wonderful woman, and is a useful acquisition. 
I promise to give you two a chance to see each other 
soon. I feel that, in general, you two need to be kept 
apart for a few weeks so that you can each grow 
accustomed to your new roles. After that, I will be out 
and around in the mansion fairly often when not 
working, and during my leisure time Allison will always 
accompany me. So you'll be sure to see a lot more of 
each other then!" He smiled, like he was doing me a 
favor.

"This is all wrong. It wasn't supposed to be this way." 
It sounded so futile and silly that I almost started to 
cry just from saying it.

He reached down and placed a hand on my head, as though 
comforting a child. "I know. It wasn't supposed to be 
this way for any of us. But we adapt, Peter."

"I suppose." I felt less lonely, then. It helped to 
remember that he had given up so much for us.

"I have to go," he turned away, and said over his 
shoulder, "make sure that hallway is as clean as can 
be, Peter!"

***

The next evening, he let me see my wife. At 11:00, when 
I went off-duty, his assistant led me to a large table, 
and had me sit at one end. Michael then led Allison in 
and set her across from me. Her hair was pinned up in a 
way that was surprisingly sexy, and she wore a long 
grey pajama evening gown. I was surprised to see that 
she had lipstick on, though subtlety applied, at this 
late hour. 

As Michael led her in, his hand absentmindedly wrapped 
around one tiny wrist, she kept her head bowed in a way 
that looked at once submissive and adoring. After she 
sat, Michael explained the ground rules. Stay in your 
seats, no touching, no disrespect to the master of the 
household and yes you will be monitored. Break these 
fundamental rules, and you may not see each other for 
some time. He stood behind Allison as he spoke, and she 
kept her head lowered. He rested one massive hand on 
her shoulder, giving the back of her neck a soft 
squeeze. 

"Hey, you two enjoy, alright? Soon you'll be able to 
see each other more, but for now this is really just 
how it has to be. Be grateful for this time. You have 
ten minutes."

He left, and Allison raised her eyes to look at me. The 
time apart left me struck by the absolute nature of her 
beauty. She looked hurt, alone. I wanted to comfort 
her. I had to remain seated. No touching.

"Love..." I offered.

She sniffed. "Love," it was less than a whisper, more 
than a groan.

"Are you okay? Nobody's... hurt you..."

She shook her head. "I'm okay. I miss you."

"I miss you too. I can't wait until we can spend more 
time together."

She nodded. Her eyes were tearing up, so I tried to 
take the conversation away from this dwelling on pain.

"They've got me working pretty hard. You'd think I was 
a robot!" I smiled. "There's this assistant who is 
always giving me orders..."

"John," she nodded, wincing as she said it.

"John?"

"That's his name. Don't you know that?" She seemed 
surprised.

"No. They don't let me learn the names."

"Hm." She looked away.

I had to know more about her situation. It was tearing 
me up not to. "Do...do you..."

She shook her head, sniffing again.

"I need to know, Allison."

A soft sigh, a ragged breath drawn in. "I do my job. I 
do what we knew I would have to do."

"How do you..."

"With my hands, usually. He says more will come later. 
He wants to go slow, for my sake."

"For your sake."

She returned her gaze to me, looking me in the eye. 
"Yes. That is nice of him, really. He doesn't have to."

"How often?"

A shrug. "Three times a day, maybe. When I'm not... 
assisting... him, he has me reading about and watching 
footage of... of it. So I can be better. I'm learning 
about other things, too...so I'm ready when it's time."

Each new sentence made me hurt more, made the whole 
thing worse, and yet I could not stop needing to know 
more. "Do you use a tissue to... to clean?"

"No." She said it quietly.

"Then how do you...?"

"I use my hands to collect it. I wash them afterwards."

"That seems like it's un..."

"He doesn't like the barrier to contact. He says he 
feels that a slave and her master's seed should be like 
good friends. Like lovers."

"Oh."

"I, uh," she looked down at the table. He face was red 
and tear-streaked. She chewed her lip for a moment. "I 
guess there's more. He came on my face today."

I sat immobile, broken. I heard air leaving my lungs 
like a long, great death sigh. 

"He cums... a lot," she whispered.

My guts twisted at this silently divulged tidbit, until 
I thought they must surely tear apart inside me. Why 
would she tell me that? 

It pulled me out of my paralytic melancholy, though. 
"He doesn't hurt you."

"No."

"He doesn't..."

"He likes to see my body. All of it. He doesn't touch 
it. But he will, I think."

"Allison."

She looked up. "Yes?"

"I'm so sorry it had to be this way."

"I know." 

"Please remember..." I was interrupted by the door 
opening and Michael striding through. He nodded to us.

"Time's up, you two. But only for now, only for now. 
More in the future, right?"

"Michael..." I started. He turned on me quickly, 
angrily.

"What did I tell you about that!" He shook his head, 
collected himself. He straightened his pajamas in that 
obnoxious habit he had recently picked up on doing with 
his increasingly expensive suits. "Obviously this was a 
mistake. I have done favors for friends," he raised an 
eyebrow as he stressed the last word, "and I have 
suffered by them. I will not do favors for ungrateful 
slaves." 

He snapped his fingers, and pointed at the ground 
before him. Allison swiftly rose out of her chair, 
approached him, and knelt at his feet facing him. Her 
eyes stayed on the ground, and he placed one large hand 
atop her head as he had with me. Allison was facing 
away from me, and her graceful neck and small frame 
were accented by the silky dress, which also hugged the 
curves of her lower body when she knelt. Michael looked 
enormous above her.

"Master," I said quickly, "it was a mistake..."

"Agreed," he nodded, stroking my wife's head 
absentmindedly, like a pet. "In a few weeks time, you 
will see each other again. Make sure there are no more 
mistakes to be had."

"Yes, master," I muttered. John came into the room from 
the other side, and pointed to me. 

"Time for sleeping, slave," he thumbed the dark hallway 
behind me, and I stood. 

As I walked towards the door, Michael said something 
softly to Allison. In the large mirror that hung on the 
wall, I could see her reach up and pull the straps of 
her gown so that it fell and puddled around her waist. 
She knelt there, looking down, with him above her 
leering at her body. The small, feline form beneath him 
made him smile, and his breath became louder. I felt 
sick to my stomach, but not as sick as I did when, just 
as I passed the mirror, her tiny arms lifted up and 
reached for the zipper of his pants. 

John laughed once, a quick bark, as he locked the door 
to my room that night.

***

The weeks passed painfully, emptily. I became locked 
into my routine, thoughtlessly completing task after 
task in the dull habit of repetition. I tried to think 
of Allison as I had always known her...a smart, 
confident, beautiful creature whose features softened 
with her devotion for me. Instead, all I could see was 
that tiny creature reaching up to service the needs of 
the massive brute above her. At night, I cried.

I thought a lot about what she had said. I wondered 
what was going on...was he releasing himself on her 
face, or worse, in her mouth? Was she now providing 
blowjobs on demand for her new master? What skills had 
he required that she learn? 

Did they cuddle at night?

It was too much to stand, and so I pushed it away and 
tried to focus on making the most of this new life.

That is, until the great oaken doors again opened, and 
Michael and my wife began spending time around the rest 
of the house.

Michael seemed never to need to work. He spent his time 
swimming, watching movies, reading books, and talking 
on the phone with important people. He entertained 
guests often, but during the day he was rarely fully 
clothed. His large, hairy frame could be seen moving 
from place to place, followed directly by the small 
form of a shapely woman. She had long hair, wonderful 
breasts, a submissive demeanor, and a seductive figure. 

She was my wife.

When he swam, she lay on a towel and watched. Under 
orders, she watched him, and nothing else. When I would 
walk by to deliver towels or drinks, she wouldn't take 
her eyes off him to even look at me. She wasn't allowed 
to. Her bikini was a tiny thing, but it was more than 
he wore. He swam nude, and afterwards she would towel 
him off gently. He liked her to be very thorough at 
this, and it would often lead to other needs arising. 

When he talked on the phone, she sat on the arm of the 
chair or knelt at his feet. If he had clothes on, he 
liked her to arch her back and wait patiently. 
Sometimes he would reach up and feel a breast as he 
talked. If he were nude, he liked her to kneel between 
his legs and keep her vision locked on his member. Her 
true master.

Important, longer calls were often taken in his office, 
so that she could move beneath the large desk and 
assist him if he wished. He hated to have to wait until 
the call was over.

When he went into the restroom, she always followed him 
in. I never knew why, or dared to guess.

When they weren't in the swimming area, my wife was 
usually partially clad. This might involve lingerie, a 
silk nighty, or attractive underwear. She always had 
lipstick on, and looked fit and well-groomed. I only 
occasionally had to see her please him.

It was a heartbreaking thing to see. If I'd had to see 
it often, I might have gone mad. Michael made no amends 
about taking his pleasure where it struck him, and once 
even gave me a long, drawn out list of orders while my 
wife's head bobbed in his lap. The slurping sounds 
served as a backdrop to the commanding of my chores for 
the day. He smoked a cigar, rambled off the list, and 
gripped the back of her head. He finally let me go when 
she began lavishing wet kisses upon his massive 
testicles. 

His pleasure became more complicated, too. He expected, 
and got, more. He liked to finger her pussy and make 
her lick the juice off his fingers. He always came in 
her mouth. Always. It never stopped making me nauseous 
to think about.

It was a sight to see, the pair of them. Michael stood 
at least fourteen inches taller than her, and 
outweighed her by a tremendous amount. He was muscled, 
but not fit and with that thick gut hanging over her 
when she knelt. He was covered in hair. His manhood 
dangled thick when it was soft, and looked grotesque 
and massive when engorged. She learned well how to deep 
throat it. 

When guests came over, Michael would dress up and clean 
up. Allison was relegated to lingerie, and would follow 
him around the house being commented upon and 
occasionally groped by important people. At one party I 
was serving drinks, and I saw an old wrinkled man 
talking in depth with Michael about some business deal. 
After some discussion, he pointed to my wife. Michael 
shrugged, nodded, and patted her ass. 

To my amazement, the old man walked away from the part 
and up the stairs. My wife followed meekly behind, eyes 
to the floor, her ass almost visible in the short silk 
dress. He could easily have been her grandfather. They 
returned twenty minutes later and Michael made a lot of 
money later that week.

Worst of all was when Michael would be gone and I would 
see my wife dutifully following the lackey, John, 
around the house. I don't know why she was made to do 
this or what she did beyond follow him, but he spent 
long periods of time in his offices when she was with 
him. I thought of his creased, greasy face and slimy 
smile and wanted to kill him.

Don't think that this just all happened, either. The 
situation grew like a weed, slow but certain. The more 
agonizing experience I had with her servitude of my 
former friend, the more depressed and angry I became. 
It grew slowly, with each day bringing some new 
nightmarishly erotic adventure. I tried to find excuses 
to be near them, but Allie was not allowed to speak to 
me. Not allowed even to look at me. 

Michael rarely spoke to me, but occasionally he would 
offer a friendly hello as I waited on him and cleaned 
his house. I didn't mind not talking to him...it was 
hard to have him speaking to you as you knelt there, 
with his veiny cock limp before you. 

His older sister visited once, bringing her daughter. 
The fat brat was a tyrant at the age of 16, and was 
delighted to hear that Allison and I were husband and 
wife.

"Oh, that's so awful Uncle Mike!" She laughed. "Do you, 
like, fuck her a lot?"

He shook his head. My wife knelt at his side. "They 
were my friends, before they were slaves, and I do not 
require that of her."

She scoffed. "Then why keep her?"

"She assists my needs in more..." he reached down and 
slid two fingers completely into my wife's mouth. She 
sucked at them. "...enjoyable ways."

The girls' eyes went wide. "Does she do girls, too?"

Mike laughed. "She hasn't yet, but I've had her 
studying. Why don't you go give her a try?"

From where I stood, I could see Allie's eyes widen in 
fear.

"Aw, hell yeah!" The girl jumped up and walked over to 
Allie. "Hey, bitch!" She gripped my wife's hair and 
yanked her head back, so that she was looking up at 
her. She put one leg up on the chair and pumped her 
thick, disgusting hips suggestively at my wife's face. 
"Ready to eat some pussy?" She slapped her, once, hard. 
"Huh? Ready to get your face rode?" He traced one 
chubby thumb across my wife's lips. "Aw, yeah, you are. 
Don't worry... if'n you ain't too good we got all night 
to get it right."

Michael chuckled again, but his eyes narrowed slightly. 
"She learns fast. But take all night, anyway. She's 
thorough, Tanya. Let her be." He winked. 

She grinned, standing there with my wife's hair in one 
hand and her fat hips directly in my wife's face. 

"Don't hurt her, though, Tanya," he warned sternly. 
"Nothing too painful or long-lasting."

"Uncle Mike!"

"Your mother told me all about the games you play with 
slaves. That's not to happen with mine."

She pouted, then shrugged. "Whatever. Let's go, bitch, 
you've got a whole lotta body to taste!"

I stared, the last of my will leaving me, as this fat 
teenager stomped up the massive staircase with my meek 
wife in tow. I was for some reason struck by how small 
my wife's face looked, contrasted with the ass swaying 
before it. I hoped she would be alright.

"Slave," a voice said from behind. I turned to face 
Michael, fearing I was in trouble for not attending to 
my duties.

"Master," I offered.

He smiled. "Come, sit with me. Let's talk."

"Are you okay?" 

I could have laughed, he sounded so sincere. He watched 
me a moment, looking surprisingly tired and pained. I 
didn't answer.

"I suppose not," he leaned back. "I really did mean for 
this to help you. To save you, Peter." He sighed.

"I never get to talk to her," I whispered.

"I know."

"I love her."

He looked at his hands. "I know."

"Do you?"

He looked up. "Love her? No. No, I suppose not. But 
this isn't about love."

"You can say that again."

He watched me for a moment, earnest concern becoming 
calculating thoughtfulness. "Maybe I should give you 
two the weekend. Would that be fair?"

My heart quickened. "I would like that."

He nodded. "Yes, that seems fair to me. Tomorrow is 
Friday. She will be delivered to you, and you will both 
have the weekend off. Feel free to use my television 
room...the one closest to your quarters. The kitchen as 
well. Consider it a vacation."

"Thank you, sir." I somehow felt that I should not have 
to say such a thing to him. Upstairs, I suspected, my 
wife was hard at work.

The "vacation" was not all I had hoped it would be. 
Allison wanted nothing more than to avoid physical 
contact, beyond hugging or cuddling, and there seemed 
to be virtually nothing to talk about. We watched TV, 
wrapped up in a blanket together, and slept facing away 
from each other. She must have known this hurt me, for 
she apologized, but she explained that after weeks of 
forced sexuality and sleeping in the arms of a fat 
hairy man who used her, to be able to feel like a human 
rather than an attachment was glorious. We made love 
once, but that was all.

***

On the final day, we got up and had oatmeal for 
breakfast. Slaves always ate oatmeal for breakfast. 
Then, as we started to move towards the door for our 
daily walk, Michael entered the room. He wore boxers 
and a robe, which was open and trailing him like a 
cape. 

"Good morning," he smiled. "I hope you two have enjoyed 
this time. I'm afraid I have need for Allison, and we 
will have to cut this vacation short. We will do it 
again sometime, though, I think."

"That's not fair!" I shouted. "We still have one day!"

He froze, tilting his head, and his face turned red. 
"Excuse me, slave?"

I would not stand down. Not on this matter. "You 
promised a weekend. We have one day. I want to go for a 
walk with my WIFE, Michael."

He turned to Allison, her gaze had gone instinctively 
to the ground. "And what do you think, my pet? Do you 
think I am being unfair?"

She lifted her head only enough to glance at me, and 
then at him. She nodded softly.

Michael's hand suddenly swept the countertop, smashing 
the flower vase that sat atop it and sending glass 
sprawling across the floor. "Then I can see that once 
again, I have made a mistake! I told you once that I 
did not do favors for ungrateful slaves. Now I see that 
ungrateful is exactly what you are. So the favors end 
now." He snapped his fingers, and Allison rushed to 
him. She started to kneel, but he wrapped one hand 
about her throat and pulled her face to his. He looked 
into her eyes. 

"Do you remember C.J., Allison?" She barely moved, but 
let out a breathy sound that could only mean fear. 

"Who is C.J.?" I asked. Michael looked at me with 
contempt. 

"C.J. is a friend of mine. A friend who is a bit more 
demanding and perhaps a bit more," he grinned, a 
sadistic sneer, "playful with his pets. A friend who 
thinks I am too gentle with my own." His gaze went back 
to Allison. "From this day forward, I agree with him." 

All color left Allison's face. She shook her head as a 
tear rolled down her cheek.

"Goddamn it, Michael. You need to cut this shit out 
now!" I started for him. John the lackey must have been 
behind me the whole time with a stunner, because 
something caught me between the shoulder blades and for 
a brief moment, all I knew was pain. Then I knew 
nothing at all.

***

I awoke in my quarters, muscles aching and a small burn 
in the middle of my back. An alarm was beeping. It had 
been nearly 24 hours, and I was being summoned for my 
chores.

I was told that I was to clean the kitchen, first. 
Apparently, there was some broken glass waiting to be 
taken care of. I knelt there, sore and unable to fully 
clear my head, collecting the fragments off the tile. 
Halfway through the cleaning, my wife walked in.

I looked up as she opened the fridge. She was naked 
except for a pair of bikini briefs. She quietly took 
out all the ingredients to the tri-meat sandwiches 
Michael loved. She didn't look at me.

"Allison," I whispered. She ignored me.

"Allie!"

She sighed, and shook her head.

I wanted to cry. "Please," I whispered.

She looked over at me, at last, and tears welled up. 

"Are you okay?" I asked.

She watched me for a moment. Love, pain, yearning, and 
then, surprisingly a heated anger that seemed directed 
at me. Her face finally settled into a hurt contempt 
that left me terrified. She quietly picked up a pen and 
wrote on a napkin before continuing to make her 
master's lunch. When the sandwich was ready, she 
silently dropped the napkin next to me and left. Tears 
streaked her cheeks.

I picked up the napkin, and started to cry. It grew on 
me, coming in sobbing waves, until I could hardly 
breathe.

It said: "New rules. I am a sex slave. No part of me is 
safe. You are being sold."

Underneath, she had written in rushed and angry 
letters: "At least he never fucked you." 

END

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 43