PRIDES, BRIDES AND MEAT

©2005 by C. A. Smith

Part 1

To: Jason Moore

From: Curt Hollowell

Jason, I cannot stress this too strongly: that nothing less than the food supply for the entire human race depends on keeping the world's female population under tight control. We cannot afford to become squeamish, sentimental or fuzzy-minded on this issue. If we slip backwards into the dangerously out-of-date thinking of the pre-DED past, we invite disaster. My God, man! Think about it! Who in his right mind would turn over his weapon to the very animal he's about to harvest for meat? That's what we're talking about here! Allowing females any power at all, at any level of authority, opens the door to the collapse of our most important food source. The next step is world-wide starvation. Worse, if females ever gain the power to control their own destiny, there will be no turning back to the sanity and prosperity we enjoy today. The situation is that dire!

Trent Hamilton's appointment to the President's Advisory Council is absolutely critical! We must not under any circumstances allow those pussy-pampering, liberal asses on the left to seduce the President into bringing that fool Marcus into the Council. Trent will keep us on the right course. The survival course.

Frankly, Jason, it occurs to me that the reason for your waffling is that you've always been muzzy on history, on why things came to be the way they are. Let's put the situation in historical perspective.

When Dead Embryo Disease hit us, it hit fast and it hit all animal species. No one knows exactly where it originated, but within a year it had spread to humans. At first it was just the miscarriage of male embryos, but shortly male children and adults were dying as well. It's still not known why some males are immune, but it quickly changed the old 50-50 ratio of males to females to today's 3-97 ratio.

One thing Marcus and his ilk can't understand is why females failed to take over the powers of governance as their numbers grew and ours (males) declined drastically. Bleeding hearts like him never do get it. They never understand that in nature it's testosterone that provides the grit to maintain power and stability. Indeed, as the female population approached overwhelming, the clear-headed men still in power took whatever actions were necessary to force them out of government at every level. Without getting into the political nitty-gritty, the happy ending is that we now have a world that has returned to the natural order: men are in charge and females serve.

Moreover, the reality of today's world is that with man's traditional sources of meat nearly extinct, human females, in their vast overabundance, fill that vital gap. Despite the foolish arguments put forth by Marcus and friends, one need not be apologetic about cannibalism. Research has shown that it is well founded in our aboriginal past. It's as human a practice as marriage. Even the circumstances making it necessary are essentially the same. In antiquity, our ancestors utilized meat from their fellow humans to offset severe shortages of food due to various natural disasters. With the advent of DED we were once again faced with starvation, this time on a world-wide basis, but our great grandfathers had the good sense to avert disaster by making use of our excess females.

Clearly this sensible solution could not have been brought about without blocking women from having any kind of influence. The obvious practical step was to declare all females property, which effectively stripped them of any and all rights, except those granted by their owners. At first all titles to females were held by fathers, husbands and court appointed guardians; but soon a lively new market developed as females proved to be a hot salable commodity for meat, sex, cheap labor and breeding. The old practice of monogamy quickly gave way to the even older and more practical concept of polygamy, but without the encumbrance of marriage. Now, of course, we simply buy our women, although we still use the term “wife” to distinguish members of our pride from their calves.

In today's world the smart man buys as many females as he can afford and keeps them pregnant and productive. Females are money in the bank! They're 99% of our labor force, 90% of our meat supply and 100% of our breeding stock. Keeping them as property under male control is what keeps our economy, food supply and social order stable.

That's the historical background and the realities of today's world, realities that Marcus & Co. can't seem to grasp.

Now let's take a close look at Trent Hamilton. What kind of man is he? How do we know he's the man to put at the President's ear?

Well, I happen to know Trent very well, I can tell you that. Trent and I grew up together. Pull up any archived news report of the time and you'll find the names Curt Hollowell and Trent Hamilton linked as teammates in tennis, golf, swimming, squash, you name it. Trent was a typical boy, albeit more precocious than most. He began exercising his manhood at around nine or ten, putting it to any girl he could catch unattended and who was willing to follow him behind some bushes and spread her legs. By the time he was old enough to be admitted into slaughter houses to administer “Last Rites” to females in the holding pens (only the prettiest, of course), he was six foot three and had a “staff of authority” that would stretch any girl's sleeve to full capacity. Like most of us at that age, it was a huge turn-on for Trent to think that the next day he could well be enjoying fresh meat from the very girl he was screwing. By the time he finished college, he had (by his own reckoning) sent over nine hundred girls to the slaughtering deck with smiles on their faces.

The day Trent graduated from Harvard with a degree in T&A ( Technology and Administration), his father, himself a Council Member at the time, presented him with a starter pride of five lovely sixteen-year-old brides. Trent had them all pregnant within a year and before a second year had passed, added six more brides to his household. He didn't do this with his father's money, you understand; he was already building his own fortune at the helm of the family firm: TechnoGenetics.

I could go on and on about Trent and his accomplishments, but the best way to get a handle on the man is to take a peek into his personal, private thoughts. What follows is an excerpt he has allowed me to extract from his daily journal.

Part 2

 

“[TUES, 7/5] Sweetgrass gave birth to her fourth daughter last night, right in the middle of the fireworks display. Sage, who is herself about two weeks from dropping her third, helped deliver it. They named the calf Sparkler, inspired I guess by the pyrotechnics going on outside their window.

“This morning I took my monthly invoice of the household. I have 223 wives at the moment and 1,243 calves of whom 137 are of marketable age. 43 are Bride quality and I should be able to unload them within the next six months at a nice profit. They range in value from $35,000 for Sky who's 17, slim, has a lovely face and is really cute but has practically no boobs, to $100,000 for Dance, a stunning 16 year old blonde with a perfect figure, brilliant eyes and firm C-cup tits. The others should bring in decent bids at auction from the meat packers (in spite of the current downward fluctuation in prices), and I think a dozen or so may be snapped up as bargain brides by the blue collar guys, or as whole roasters by the caterers.

“What really pisses me off these days is the attitude of the meat packers. A year ago a 5' 8" 145 lb girl would easily bring in $6 to $8 K. Now the average bid is about $5 K unless they have big boobs. Meat packers generally figure a good size pair (size D and up) are worth about $1500, which helps when culling the pride of wives who have suckled nine or ten calves, as long as they're still in their twenties and firm. For girls sold as whole roasters, firm size C tits (or better) can be worth an extra $2 large because those buyers are looking to provide sex as well as meat for their guests and will pay more for well-endowed girls.

“I'm very careful about whom I sell my calves to as whole roasters. I remember being appalled at the horrendous cruelty perpetrated on helpless calves at some of the roasts I attended as a young man. One poor girl had her nipples and labia crushed with pliers. Another was tethered to a post by a thick ring through her tongue and chased around it with cattle prods until she fell and tore her tongue out. At a roast held at a fancy mansion in the Hamptons the guests had a dart throwing contest where they strung up the calf by her wrists and the contestants got points for hitting various body parts and extra points for a nipple, an eye, her navel or her cunt. I'm proud to say my Daddy used his influence on the President's Advisory Council to pass tough laws against cruelty to females for purposes of entertainment. Pain as punishment for misbehavior is one thing, but gratuitous cruelty for amusement is unacceptable. For example, if a girl purchased for whole roasting objects to being used for sex by the host and his guests, she should be punished in whatever way her owner sees fit. But if she's cooperative and deferential right up to her slaughter, there's no call for harsh treatment. Unfortunately, no matter how many laws we pass, there will always be unscrupulous men who will abuse their females in terrible ways.

“At any rate, we need regulations to deal with the giant breeding farms. They're driving down the price of meat calves by offering bulk deals to the meat packers that the ordinary householder like myself can't match. That's a recipe for economic disaster.

On top of that, most people have no idea what goes on at those huge commercial farms. To begin with, there are no “prides” as in private households. Females are simply considered livestock and treated as such. The breeding mothers and youngest calves are kept in crowded barn-like dorms. The inventory managers select future breeders from among the six-year-old s and they get to stay in the dorms with the mothers. The rest of the calves are put into “growth pens” where they're fed and exercised by automated equipment to assure “optimum meat quality” (meaning maximum meat per calf) until they're slaughtered on their sixteenth birthday. It's not what I'd call humane treatment. I mean, it's all well and good to treat females as livestock, but they are human, after all, and nearly as sentient as men. If I ever get on the President's Council, I'll lobby for a bill to restrict the breeding farms to no more than five-thousand head and insist on free-range living conditions.

“I've got to hand it to the President, though, for lowering the legal harvesting age to fifteen as of next year. That one year makes a big difference to the bottom line, especially for us family producers. A girl can eat up a lot of food (and profit) in a year. The sixteen year olds are harder to control, too. Besides, there's no need to wait that long. Fifteen-year-old tits may not be fully developed yet, but all the other cuts are well filled out and marvelously tasty. There's talk now of lowering the harvesting age to fourteen, but I think that's going too far. Brandon D. wants to lower it even more — to twelve or thirteen — but that's much too young. The meat may be sweeter and more tender, but many pubescent girls don't have enough of it, or it's useless fat. Furthermore, whatever minimum age is set, you can be sure the giant farms will harvest their entire stock at that age, forcing us all to do the same. They can make up for less meat per girl with sheer volume, but families can't, and many householders depend on the income from meat sales to survive. As far as I'm concerned, fifteen is as low as it should go.

“Of course, I can't fault the big corporations too much for trying to corner the market. Greed is what makes the world go round. What really fries my ass is the troublemaking of those liberal pussies on the Council (Marcus Z. being the worst) who constantly blather about how it's not right to treat all females as property, how some should be granted free citizen status, blah blah blah. Next thing you know he'll be demanding these “free” females be allowed to vote! The man's impossible. He can't stop romanticizing about the ancient past. He's got his head in his great grandfather's century and can't seem to come to terms with the realities of the present.

“Imagine the nightmare we'd be in if females grew up thinking they might be spared their turn on the slaughtering deck. There would be no end of domestic bickering and whining and squabbling over who gets to live and who gets to be meat. Before you know it, women would be taking their husbands to court over which daughters should be “free” and which kept as property. And I can testify from personal experience that most mothers don't have anything like an objective view on the subject. I just had a huge scene yesterday with Ermine, trying to make her understand that her firstborn girl, Wind, would bring in more on the auction block for meat than I could possibly get selling her privately as a bride. The girl is homely as a fence post. They get all emotional, these females, and just don't get the big picture. Imagine turning them loose on the legal system! It wouldn't surprise me that Marcus's lawyer pals are behind the “free female” nonsense.

“I'm also not in favor of giving a Head of Household the legal power to designate one of his pride exempt from automatic harvesting at fifty. Imagine the spectacle of a bunch of old hags in their fifties (and older!) running around the streets. God in heaven! Think of the adverse aesthetic effect that would have on our public recreational areas. It's bad enough that men who can't keep their household in decent physical shape are allowed to let their pudgy females run around naked on our beaches, but the idea of cluttering up the landscape with dried up old women is doubly repulsive.

“In fact, I'm definitely behind President Locklear's bill that will make it illegal for unsightly females to be naked in public. It's about time! Naturally Marcus Z. and his pussy buddies have the bill hung up at the moment, squabbling about the expense of policing it, and who would decide who's unsightly and who's not, etc, etc. But that's all just part of his ongoing effort to weaken male domination over females. The fines imposed on owners for letting their overweight women display their flab in public would certainly pay for review boards to screen arrested females and make the necessary determinations. He also argues, “What if an unsightly female takes off her clothes in public without her owner's permission? Why should he be exposed to an undeserved fine?” I say, why shouldn't he? Any owner of a fat, ugly female deserves a fine just for letting her get that way in the first place. Marcus even worries that a pregnant female who's big with child might get arrested. About that I have two things to say. First: an attractive, properly conditioned female who's pregnant, even in her ninth month, is a beautiful sight. Review boards can certainly distinguish between pregnant and fat. Second: pregnant or not, if she's ugly he should make her stay home or demand she drape herself. That's his responsibility as a property owner. Females are required by law to obey their owners. If a man can't discipline and control his females, he should sell or harvest them. Or pay the fine without whining when they misbehave in public.

“Uh oh. Sweetgrass has sent Shamrock to beg me come see her latest contribution to the household. I'd better go make appreciative noises. Sweetgrass will be ready for breeding again in a month and I want her in a good mood for it. I hate a grumpy lay.”

Part 3

That's Trent. Shows you what an upright kind of guy he is. Straight forward. No nonsense. Cards on the table. He's the ideal antidote for those pussy-whipped leftists who are starting to infect the Advisory Council. Trent understands that things are the way they are for a reason. He and President Locklear are in perfect sync on that.

There are those who say Trent is insensitive to the needs of his pride and his household, that he treats them more like slaves than esteemed wives and offspring. That's nonsense, of course. Trent knows the value of a happy home and how to achieve it. A year ago I asked Amanda, his First Wife at the time, to put those rumors to rest with a dose of truth. Here's her story in her own words as she told it to me (touched up just a bit to clean up the worst of her grammar).

* * *

“Master Trent is a prince among men, I can tell you that. And I should know. I was in his original pride — I'm the last one left, in fact — and have been his Household Enforcer for thirty-four years. He's had to schedule me for slaughter next week because of the fifty year rule, but I can look back on thirty-four years of tending to his every need, and not once during that time did he ever fail to thank me and tell me how grateful he was.

“It ain't easy being the H.E. All the other wives hate you because you make them keep their little brats in line. It ain't like I weren't constantly pregnant during my fertile years, same as them, and ain't had my own brats to deal with, but they don't think about that. All they care about is their own picky problems. I've been an easy target for them to bitch about to Master Trent. But he's stood by me the whole time and gone along with whatever punishment I doled out.

“Them bitches think that once I'm in their bellies they're gonna get away with a lotta stuff because Master's named Robin as my replacement and she ain't as tough as I am. Well, they're gonna find out that she ain't the pushover they think she is. She's a smart cookie and won't let them put nothin' past her. She even taught herself how to read some of Master's books. I gotta admit, though, Robin wouldn't a been my first choice. There's a young wife named Kitten who really gets off watchin' girls cry and scream. She's a pain slut herself, loves to be punished, so she don't feel no pity for ‘em. Now she'd be tough! But Robin ain't like that. Her main problem is gettin' her mind off that little button between her legs. Robin's one oversexed little nympho. When she sees a chance of gettin' her cunt stuffed, she can't keep her mind on business.

Actually, that's probably why Master has kept her around so long, like he did me. He has a soft heart for wives who can't get enough of his big dick. ‘Course I also dropped him lots of calves before my oven pooped out, and that counts, too. And I raised ‘em right. They was well mannered, perfectly fleshed out and pretty as pictures, so Master was able to sell most of ‘em as brides and get real good prices for ‘em. And I never asked for no favors, neither. All I ever asked of Master was his mouth on my tits and that big hard cock of his in my love hole.

“Even nowadays when Master's not up to gettin' laid as much as he used to be, he's been real generous to his pride, bringing in outside studs to scratch their itch and keep ‘em pregnant. I've talked to a lot of wives from other households and there ain't many with masters as considerate as that. Most masters are real possessive about their prides and don't want no other guys screwing them, which is real selfish when you stop to think about it. I mean, guys can only get it up so many times a day, right? And when they got twenty, thirty wives to service, they just can't do ‘em all as often as the girls need to stay pregnant. So what's the big deal if some other guy comes in to help out? I mean, most Masters don't think about it, but it ain't entirely a girl's fault if she don't drop a lot of calves when she only gets fucked once a month or so. And another thing, it would be real nice if more owners were like Master Trent and cared about keeping their pride happy. I mean, put yourself in our place: all day long we got nothin' but work, a ton of screamin', bitchin' kids and TV. It ain't like we can go off grounds anytime we feel like it and see somethin' new, maybe do some shoppin'. And the computer ain't much help when you can't read or write much.

“Life is short for females and about our only real pleasure is gettin' laid every now and then. I mean, doin' it with dildos and vibrators and other girls is okay, but it ain't as satisfyin' as the real thing. There's nothin' like a hard, warm cock rammin' away inside you, balls slappin' at your crotch, fingers twistin' your nipples! And finally that moment that sends you over the top when you feel hot man juice spurtin' into you! And then those times when you're way pregnant and ain't allowed to fuck, suckin' on a dildo ain't nowhere near as satisfyin' as putting the real thing in your mouth and gettin' him to squirt into the back of your throat, or spray it all over your face and tits. I love that!

“Course I don't get laid much these days, being as old as I am. Men gotta save their sperm for the young fertile girls, y'know? I woulda turned fifty next month, although everyone tells me I don't look it. I keep myself in real good shape. But Master Trent has done his best to see I ain't entirely left out. He runs ads on the web and in the paper. He won't tell me what they say, and I ain't too good at readin', outside of grocery labels, but mostly the ads bring in young boys — thirteen, fourteen, fifteen. They ain't old enough for admission to the slaughterhouses to fuck the girls in the holding pens, and most owners won't let them anywhere near their pretty virgins — not wantin' to spoil ‘em as bride material, y'know. So the boys have to make do with the homely calves, or me. But that's okay. A fuck is a fuck. It's better than nothin', which is what I'd get if Master Trent wasn't so good to me. And the boys keep comin' back, so they must get some satisfaction out of fucking an old bitch. Actually, I give ‘em real good lessons in how to drive a girl wild, which, if they're smart, will guarantee them a happy pride one day with lots of calves to sell and tons of great sex.

“Now in the old days, when Master Trent was puttin' it to me himself . . . Wow! We got off on each other like the fourth of July! It was awesome! ‘Course, we was both young and he was equipped like a big old bull — still is, I imagine — but he also took the time to stoke my furnace proper, if you know what I mean. He didn't just climb on top and plug in, like the young boys do. Shit, some a them spout their wad before they can even find the hole! He'd take his time, maybe start by lickin' and suckin' on my toes and fingers, workin' his way up my ankles and wrists, then up my legs and arms, real slow, drivin' me crazy! By the time he'd licked his way over my shoulder to my tits, and then up the inside of my thighs to my pussy lips, my ass would be in a fuckin' puddle! He'd spend a lot of time circling my nipples with licks and little nibbles, makin' me beg for him to get to the point, so to speak. Then he'd suck on me til I was milking his cock with my hand, tryin' to get it inside me. If I had a nursing baby at the time, he'd suck all the poor calf's milk right out of my tits. But he wouldn't plant that huge cock in my cunt until he'd slid down and started that same heavenly torture between my legs, endin' up at my clit where he'd flick it with his tongue and suck on it til I was screaming with orgasms! He liked to bury that long tongue of his deep inside me, too, and wiggle it around. God, what a feeling! I'm gettin' wet now, rememberin' it. After ages and ages of fantastic teasing, he'd finally slip it into me, real slow and easy at first, so as not to hurt me. Sometimes he'd caress my tits as he slid in and out, or lay down on top and suck on my mouth and tongue, or sit up and massage my whole body as his cock picked up speed. I'd be havin' orgasms like crazy by the time I could feel him start to come. I especially loved it when he'd grab my nipples and squeeze hard just as he started to come, pounding against my pussy, finally gushing inside me! Sometimes it hurt, but God, it was wonderful! I'd lock my legs around his back and hold him there, wriggling on his cock for as long as he let me.

“Hey! You're not goin' off and leave me all worked up like this, are you?”

* * *

It's hard to conduct a proper interview when the interviewee is unbuckling your belt and pulling down your pants. I've never had sex with such an old female before, but I must admit, she was incredible! And insatiable! (And, yes, Trent had given me permission in advance to fuck her. “She'll really appreciate it and I think you'll find she's a real treat,” he had said.)

Amanda told me later that afternoon, as we were recovering from our third go-round, that Trent had told her he would have let her live another twenty years if the law had not required she be harvested before her fiftieth birthday. She was proud of the fact that he would not be putting her on the auction block, that he'd promised to do it there at the estate in their own kitchen. That meant a lot to her because at auction she would only bring in a few dollars and would probably be ground up for hamburg. But that's the kind of decent, considerate guy Trent is.

Two weeks after the interview, at Amanda's request, he invited me back to the estate for her slaughter and banquet. She was dispatched in a sweet little ceremony in the main kitchen with Trent himself slitting her throat after a touching eulogy and a goodbye kiss. Three hours later she was served to senior members of the pride, with me as a special guest, her meat all boiled up nice and tender and enhanced with her favorite spices.

Part 4

Making sure that Amanda taken care of in a gracious and dignified manner out of respect for her years of faithful devotion to him is perfectly consistent with Trent's extraordinary character. As further testament to his thoughtful nature, here is an excerpt from his journal, written that same day.

* * *

“[THURS, July 28] This has not been a happy day for me, financially or personally. It came with a double dose of grief.

“This morning I had to slaughter one of my most promising assets, an adorable nine-year-old calf named Fire (#5316). She had been developing into an unusually gorgeous redhead, really cute with a lovely face and a body that was already hinting at perfect curves and excellent frontal development. Six years from now she would have been breathtaking and brought in a small fortune as a prime bride. Unfortunately, she was also a ball of uncontrolled energy, always dashing about roughhousing and getting into things. This morning she charged through the main kitchen door without looking and ran straight into Apple who had been deep frying a batch of pussy lips, nipples and tongues and was emptying a large fryer full of hot cooking oil. The entire cannister spilled all over the child, burning her horribly. When I arrived at the scene the girl was screaming and thrashing in agony. It was obvious she would be horribly disfigured, which made her worthless as bride material, and would need medical treatment far in excess of her future value as meat, so I cut her throat on the spot to put the poor child out of her misery. Apple cooked her up for dinner that night, but there was barely enough of her to feed six. What a waste!

“I hold Fire's mother, Dawn, directly responsible for this loss. She allowed a particularly valuable property to run around recklessly, especially in a dangerous area like the kitchen. Dawn is eight months pregnant so I can't have her strung up and flogged as she deserves, but I have instructed Robin, my new Household Enforcer, to have her tied face-down over an Ottoman and caned severely, forty hard strokes on the buttocks and the back of the thighs, after which she will be locked in the cages for two weeks to think about her bad judgement and irresponsibility. Sitting on that wire mesh with her sore ass and getting pissed on day after day should give her plenty to consider.

“As if that were not traumatic enough, this afternoon I had to attend to the slaughter of Amanda, the last of my original pride of wives and my Household Enforcer these last thirty-four years. Amazingly, she was almost as lovely today as when I first laid with her all those years ago when she had just turned sixteen. It's on days like this when I regret the termination-before-fifty law. But, of course, I understand the need for it. We can't have a world where four fifths of the population is sterile, ugly old women.

“I do regret, however, that I've been too damn busy lately to attend to my older wives. I can barely keep up with impregnating the newest ones. But I did take Amanda aside for a quick little “thank you ma'am,” as they used to say, just for old times sake. I guess I'm a sentimentalist. I have to say, it was fun playing “Plant the Flag” one last time with the old girl. And she certainly did enjoy it. We did it in the “Bag Room,” the pantry where we store stuff in sacks and bags. She was wearing only a loose robe for her snuff, so it was no problem burrowing under it with my hands to get her revved up. By the time I slipped it off her shoulders she was moaning and writhing around like a worm on a hook. She offered to go down on me, but I said, “No, this one's on me,” and went down on her. I laid her out over a couple of hundred-pound sacks of flour and gave her an old-fashioned eating out like I used to when Daddy first gave her to me. The little devil had obviously been hoping for it because she'd used her licorice flavored douche, my favorite. She wrapped her legs around me to pull me in tighter, like she used to as a teenager, and dug her fingers into my hair, massaging my head like a melon while she twisted and bucked and squirted girl juice on my face. Man did she come! I licked my way up her body like in the old days to get my dick into diving position and she was humping the tip of it while I was trying to slide it all the way in. She was wild! She must have come five more times before I shot my load. When I was finished, wiped out actually, she licked me clean then thanked me for letting her “go out with a bang.” That's pure Amanda. Always looking on the bright side. I guess that's how she was able to keep all these females and calves in line year after year without going crazy. I'll sure miss her.

“When I walked her to the slaughtering deck in the kitchen, she was still stark naked (at her request) and my semen was dribbling down the inside of her thighs. She had a big smile on her face. She wanted everyone to see she'd had one last grand fuck with the old man. She handed me the little rope, turned away from me and stuck her hands out behind her back so I could tie her wrists together. Chef Apple connected the shackles to her ankles and I picked her up and held her in my arms as Apple hauled on the block and tackle to draw her feet up. She was heartbreakingly sexy hanging there upside down, helpless, her hair all pulled into a neat bun, her hands tied behind her, those wonderful tits that had suckled more than a dozen calves stretched up and out. Apple slid the catch basin under her. Amanda had asked me to do the honors — the only favor she ever asked of me, she pointed out — so I gave a little speech recounting some of her many contributions to the household, kissed her one last time and drew the scalpel across her throat. I had purchased it new and ultra sharp to make sure it would only sting a little. She only flinched a bit, then mouthed “I love you,” and gazed right at me as her blood drained out, smiling right up to the moment her eyes went blank. What a class act!

“We had a beautiful celebration banquet that night in her honor, to which my ten senior wives and my old friend Curt Hollowell were invited. Because of Amanda's age, most of her cuts were boiled, but I had Apple slice off the breasts and roast them just for Curt and me. The kitchen made enough soup from the bones and leftovers to serve the rest of the pride.

“I know it sounds silly when I have two hundred plus other wives, especially since I'd kind of neglected Amanda in recent years, but the household seems to have a gaping hole in it now that she's gone. The other wives are much younger — in fact, the oldest now is thirty-five thanks to a welcome uptick in the used bride market — and some are very beautiful, like Robin who's twenty-nine. But there will never be another Amanda. She was unique.”

Part 5

You see? Here's a man with heart as well as a head. He's both compassionate and conservative. He treats his property well but knows how to run a tight, profitable ship.

“Well,” you may be saying, “what does any of this prove? Amanda was obviously in love with Trent and he had some sort of weird thing going for her, even though she was old and he should have turned her into meat long ago when she was no longer fertile.”

Good point. That, in fact, is exactly what he did with all the other original members of his pride. Trent's too sharp a businessman to clutter up the household with deadwood that's not contributing positively to the bottom line. So let's look at this with a clear eye. Amanda was more than a sentimental favorite. She was a really effective Household Enforcer, and that made her economically viable long after she was useless as a breeding wife. She was cheap labor, doing executive work for zero pay, just minimal food and clothing. Plus, she was loyal, obedient and reliable. Sounds like a good deal to me.

But let's expand our perception of Trent Hamilton. Let's hear from a man who has actually done business with him. Jeffrey Sanborn made a private purchase from Trent a year and a half ago. I recorded a conversation with him and his acquisition a while back. This is how it went.

* * *

Curt: What did you buy from Trent?

Jeff: A bride. This girl here. Her name is Clover.

Curt: Hi, Clover.

Clover: (A shy nod.)

Curt: Any complaints?

Jeff: Only the price. But not really. She was worth every penny. Look at her; she's a stunner! Except for her shape. She used to have a wasp waist, but she's seven months pregnant. But look at that incredible face, that long chocolate hair, those dark sexy eyes, those long elegant legs. The minute I saw her, I knew I had to have her. She's irresistible!

Curt: I agree with you there. But pregnant, you say. So she's a good investment, too.

Jeff: Well, yeah. But it took a while. I had my doubts. Still do.

Curt: What do you mean?

Jeff: For the first three months after I bought her, I spent every spare minute in the sack with her, ignoring all my other wives, but she didn't get pregnant. I began to wonder if I'd purchased a dud. So I called Trent and he said not to worry, that he'd send someone over and if she wasn't pregnant within forty-five days, he'd buy her back. The next day a guy named Vito shows up with a contract that says I have to give him half an hour with her in a locked room every day for a month, or until she's pregnant. If she doesn't test positive within 45 days, Trent will recall her and give me a full refund. So I says to Vito, ‘So what are you gonna do in there behind the locked door? You're gonna fuck her, right?' ‘Right,' he says, ‘plus I'm gonna give her a fertility shot.' ‘Why don't you give her the shot and I fuck her?' I says. He goes, ‘Okay by me, but it will void the guarantee if she don't get pregnant.' So I figure, what the hell. At least I'll know she's fertile if he gets her to produce a calf. And he did. Or one of us did. Anyway, she's expecting. If she can drop one every couple of years she'll be a good investment. If not, I'll have to decide if she's worth more to me as a fuck bunny or if I should sell her as a used bride. That market's been getting hotter by the day. But hey, I'll do business with Trent any day of the week. He's an honest man.

Curt: Clover, is that what the man did to you behind the locked door? Gave you a shot and fucked you?

Clover: (Nods. Looks down at the floor, avoiding my eyes.)

Curt: What? Are you shy?

Clover: (Shakes her head.)

Curt: What is it with this girl, Jeff? Can't she talk?

Jeff: Sure she can. She's just being good. She's well disciplined. None of the females in this household are allowed to speak when I'm home without my specific permission. Eliminates the noise and bedlam so a man can think.

Curt: Did you train her?

Jeff: Naw. All Trents girls come fully trained.

Curt: Is that the case, Clover? Are all the calves in Master Trent's household trained to remain silent in a man's presence unless given permission?

Clover: (Nods, looking at the floor.)

Jeff: You may speak now, Clover. Answer the man.

Clover: Thank you, Master Jeffrey. Yes sir, Master Curt. It's part of our regular schooling.

Curt: Admirable! But it seems to me I hear a lot of talking going on among the females when I'm there at Master Trent's estate.

Clover: Yes, sir. Master Trent doesn't have the same rule as we do here. But we're trained for it. One week out of every six we practice silence. We have to wear a special collar during our Silence Week so everyone will know why we don't say anything and we're not allowed to speak at all unless given permission, either by Mistress Amanda or any male.

Curt: And what happens if you do?

Clover: We're punished, sir.

Curt: How? What do they do to you?

Clover: Different things, sir. Depends.

Curt: Do you get whipped? Caned? Things like that?

Clover: Yes, sir.

Curt: I'm told there's a cage. Were you ever put in that?

Clover: Yes, sir. Once.

Curt: What was that like?

Clover: I hated it, sir! They cane you first, forty strokes, really hard. The pain is terrible! Then they cram you into a tiny cage inside a pitch black, soundproofed room. You can't stand up or lie down and it's totally silent. You never know what day it is or what time it is. You're given a nasty gruel to eat from a bowl and you have to go to the bathroom right there on the cage floor. If you're in the lower cage, the piss and shit falls on you from the girl above. Now and then they chain you to a wheel with your hands cuffed behind you and you're dragged around and around in circles for . . . I don't know, it seemed like hours . . . for exercise. You're always gagged so you can't talk to each other.

Curt: But that only happened to you once. You learned your lesson.

Clover: Yes, sir. But what happened wasn't my fault. I always tried to be a good girl because I didn't want to be sold for meat. I wanted to be a bride.

Curt: What happened?

Clover: A girl named Tree was mad at me, sir, because I wouldn't lie for her to get her out of trouble. She'd been stealing another girl's clothes. So when I was in the pastry kitchen on serving duty, she took the power spray hose in the sink and sprayed me with it. That ruined a whole lot of pastries I'd just laid out on the shelf, so I grabbed at the hose and wrestled it out of her hands. Just then Tree's mother came in. Tree immediately accused me of being the one who did the spraying. I yelled back that I was innocent, but of course the mother believed Tree, so I was the one who got punished.

Curt: Forty hard strokes with a cane and a week in a tiny cage being shit on seems pretty severe for ruining some pastry.

Clover: I was convicted by the Disciplinary Panel on six counts, sir. Fighting, unauthorized use of equipment, destroying property, endangering a household asset, disrespecting a wife and lying.

Curt: Endangering a household asset?

Clover: Yes, sir. They said the water in the hose could have been hot and Tree could have been scalded and scarred, which would lower her value.

Curt: I see. But most of the time you kept out of trouble because you wanted to be a bride, not meat.

Clover: Yes, sir.

Curt: Is the training in Master Trent's household different for girls being trained to be brides?

Clover: Not at first, sir. At some point Master Trent decides if a girl is a possible candidate. Most girls are, but some are too . . . uh . . . homely.

Curt: But most girls aren't sold as brides.

Clover: No, sir. When we go on the auction block, if no one buys us to be a bride, we end up at a meat factory or a restaurant.

Curt: And you?

Clover: I was sold privately, sir, to Master Jeffrey.

Curt: Does that mean you're more beautiful than the average girl?

Clover: (Blushing) I don't know, sir. You'll have to ask Master Jeffrey.

Jeff: Damn right she is! She's the prettiest one in my pride by far! I can hardly keep my tool in its box when she's around. Now if she'll just crank out enough calves to justify my investment I'll be a truly happy man.

Curt: And if she doesn't?

Jeff: Well, if I can't get a decent price for her on the used wife market, I can always sell her to a fancy restaurant or catering service. She'll certainly be pretty enough for whole roasting when she gets her figure back. And even if she doesn't, they can do a lot of reshaping with the way they stuff ‘em, y'know?

Curt: How would you feel about that, Clover?

Clover: (Looking frightened.) I'm really going to try to keep getting pregnant, sir. I really am, Master Jeffrey! I know I can do it. I know I can, sir. I promise!

Curt: Hope so, darlin'. You're my favorite. I'd really miss you. (Turning to me.) But at any rate, I can't fault Trent for Clover's failings. He's a straight shooter. A fine, honest businessman.

Part 6

In case you're thinking that Jeff Sanborn's experience is not typical of Trent Hamilton's clients, or that Trent does not always provide and stand by a guarantee of satisfaction with his merchandise, I've got a file cabinet full of signed printouts and affidavits to prove that it is. There are thousands of documents attesting to his scrupulous business and personal integrity, including testimonials from hundreds of private owners, dozens of restaurants and caterers, every major international auction house and all the top name meat packers.

Nevertheless, there are certain contenders for appointment to the President's Advisory Council who would lead you to believe Trent Hamilton treats his females inhumanely. They hope that by circulating certain rumors they can sufficiently smudge his reputation to jeopardize his appointment and improve their own prospects. This is a foolish strategy because not only do the facts reveal that the truth is the opposite of the rumors, but these men lay their own household practices open to a public scrutiny that will not be complimentary.

To put these rumors where they belong — in the trash can — I will offer my own observations of his household and an incident that reveals the true nature of the man. First of all, let it be known that my visits to the Trent Hamilton Estate, including the recent banquet featuring and honoring his original First Wife Amanda, had been rare and brief. I had never had an extended opportunity to observe how the Estate is set up and run. This account is of a visit specifically intended to enlighten me as to how one organizes a vast household such as the one over which Trent presides. Like most men, I had always contented myself with a much more modest household — four or five wives at a time — but I had been thinking of expanding. Furthermore, I had no great experience with the meat markets since up till then I had been able to sell off most of my daughters as brides. But Trent, with his large output of calves, has extensive experience in both areas and I thought it would be wise to see how an expert works them.

Personally, I'm willing to take a loss on my girls because it pains me to put them on the auction block as meat. Not that I'm a vegetarian — I enjoy girl meat as much as the next man — it's just that I'd rather see them enjoy a few more years of life. At the same time I agree with Trent that selling them to an unknown owner might well be condemning them to a fate worse than the slaughterhouse, because many men fail to distinguish between the need for good discipline and a taste for sadism. Like Trent, I understand that the function of the human female in today's world is to provide meat and produce calves along with the occasional son. I also understand that good order requires they be kept in their place and under control. But I also fully agree that there is no excuse to treat females badly just because one can.

I arrived at the Hamilton Estate on a Thursday and was met by Trent himself. He welcomed me warmly and introduced me to his new First Wife, Robin. Trent was in a hurry to leave because he was tending to the details surrounding an auction coming up the following Saturday in which several of his girls would be put up for bid, but he assured me that if his wives and girls failed to answer any questions satisfactorily, he'd do so at the auction.

Robin is a delightful female, a tawny Mediterranean beauty with the kind of body that's hard to look away from, that makes you want to run your hands over it just to make sure it's real. Her eyes are so dark they're almost black and draw you in mercilessly. Hers is the kind of beauty that makes a man forget who's boss and start asking for what is already his to demand, just for the joy of seeing her light up with pleasure. She's maddeningly desirable and bubbles with seemingly inexhaustible energy. On this day she was wrapped in a white and gold sarong, her bare arms adorned with the red and gold “slave” bracelet of the Household Enforcer, a job Trent automatically assigns to his First Wives. She's also surprisingly well spoken given that she's only had the normal female education: basic reading, hygiene, sex, cooking, birthing, child tending and household chores. At twenty-nine she's a bit old for a wife, especially one with less-than-stellar production stats. I asked her about that.

“It's true,” she admitted, rather shame-faced. “Master Trent added me to his pride thirteen years ago and I've only provided six babies in all that time.” Then she brightened: “But the first one was a son! And Master Trent is the father! Most wives never give their owner a son! I'm pretty sure he's been patient with me because of that. And I think I may be pregnant again, although I haven't had the test. It may be just wishful thinking.”

“Excellent,” I said. “I'll bet you're happy about that.”

“Happy? That's putting it mildly. I was getting really scared there. Master Trent's very kind, but how long can a man like him put up with an unproductive wife? Even if I am his First Wife now.”

“But he ‘put up with' his original First Wife for quite a long time, didn't he?”

“Oh yes! Amanda was a member of his original pride and he kept her right up to almost her fiftieth birthday. Isn't that something? We ate her in a big celebration right here at the Estate last month”

“I know. I was there, too.”

“Oh, that's right! That's where I've seen you before. It was beautiful, wasn't it? All the wives cried. I hope he does that for me when it's my time.”

“You said Master Trent is the father of your son, as though that were unusual. Why?”

“Because it is. Master Trent doesn't service all his wives, you know. My God, there's over two hundred of us! And he doesn't want to. Many of his new wives are his own calves because it's a lot cheaper to take brides from his own household than buy them, but of course he can't have sex with them. So he has them serviced by guests or paid studs.”

“He pays studs?”

She burst out in a high, tinkling laugh that made me think of rainbows. “No, no!

The studs pay Master Trent! Most of them are young boys who aren't old enough to own a pride, or older men who can only afford two or three wives and want some variety. They're all screened, of course, so the pride's not exposed to any diseases.”

“How about the wives who aren't his own offspring? Do they only have sex with Master Trent?”

“Oh no! When a wife is pregnant, Master will offer us to any guest or business associate who shows an interest. He's generous that way. Of course, that's only during our first six or seven months of pregnancy. When we're really big, we're forbidden any sex at all until we drop the calf. That's to protect it from damage.”

“How many sons has this household produced?”

“Forty-four, so far.”

“Where are they kept? I've seen a lot of girls running around doing various things, but I don't see any boys.”

“The boys' sector is on the other side of the Estate. We move them over there as soon as they're weaned and no longer suckling. We don't raise them with the females, of course.”

“Of course not. How long do their mothers stay with them?”

“For a year, or until the mother's eight months into her next pregnancy. But we break the connection very gradually. The mother's absences get longer a day at a time until the child hardly notices she hasn't come back at all.”

At that point the door opened and a girl slouched up to Robin with obvious reluctance. She had long blond hair and was dressed in the short blue smock worn by the calves in Trent's household to distinguish them from the wives who wear anything but blue smocks.

“And who are you?” Robin asked.

“I'm Petal, ma'am,” the girl answered, her voice barely audible.

“Well! It's about time. You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago. Can't you tell time?”

“Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry.”

“Why are you late, Petal?” Robin's chin was up and her tone was severe. The girl was clearly terrorized by her.

“I was scared, ma'am.”

“Well, you have reason to be. More so now than before. Get down on your knees and lock your hands behind your neck.” The girl dropped down instantly, putting her hands behind her neck and intertwining the fingers. “Keep your eyes on the floor and don't you dare twitch until I order you to move!”

“Yes, ma'am.” The girl was trembling now.

Robin turned back to me, her face wiped clean of any semblance of her normal effervescence. “I am also the Household Enforcer. Did you know that?”

“Yes, Master Trent mentioned it.”

She winked at me, but kept her face straight. “This calf has been very, very bad and must now be punished.” She turned back to the trembling girl. “Petal, tell our guest what you did!”

“I hit Mistress Peanut and yelled at her, sir.”

“That's one of the wives,” Robin explained to me in an aside. “You did a great deal more than that, didn't you, Petal?”

The girl nodded miserably.

“Speak up! Or would you like to have a bolt put through your tongue?”

“No! Please don't! I mean, yes, ma'am, I did!” she blubbered, tears beginning to trickle down her cheeks.

“Well? What else did you do? Say it!”

“I . . . I called her names.”

“What names, Petal? Tell us what you called one of Master Trent's wives!”

The girl began sobbing openly, her blond tresses hanging like a curtain around her bowed head. “I called her a bitch and a fat cow.”

“What else, Petal? There was more, wasn't there?”

“Yes, ma'am.” With a great effort she said, “I called her an ugly, cunt-faced cum bucket.”

“And that wasn't all you did, was it, Petal?”

“No, ma'am.” Her voice was only a squeak now as she was forced to add up her transgressions. “I scratched her and tore her dress off. But I didn't mean to! It was an accident.”

“Right. How old are you, Petal?”

“Sixteen, ma'am.”

“And do you know when you are scheduled for auction?”

“Next year?”

“Well, it was next year, Petal, to give your little boobs a chance to fill out more. But that's changed now. Master Trent has placed you on the list for this weekend. Which is too bad for you, because most of the buyers will be from the meat packers. You know you deserve a good caning, too, for what you've done, don't you Petal?”

“Yes . . . ma'am.” The girl was utterly stricken. Calves know from the age of three how many years they have, and as they approach their scheduled auction date and their probable end, they come to cherish every day. Petal had just been stripped of her last precious twelve months of life and now Robin was hinting at severe corporal punishment as well.

“Of course you do,” Robin was saying. “Well, the good news is, I can modify that part of your punishment so that we don't bruise your meat. Would you like that, Petal?”

She was wracked with sobs again but managed to say, “Yes, ma'am.”

“Stand up, Petal, and take off your smock.”

The girl scrambled clumsily to her feet and quickly stripped to the nude (Trent's calves wear nothing under their smocks) while Robin walked to a filing cabinet and withdrew from the top drawer a leather belt about an inch and a half wide. Petal saw what she had in her hand and squeezed her eyes shut.

Robin spoke slowly and menacingly. “Put your hands behind your neck again, Petal. I am going to deliver twenty blows with this belt and you are to count off each one, thank me, and ask for another until we have reached twenty. If you are unwilling to do that, I will have electrodes attached to your tits and cunt and do it that way. Which do you prefer, Petal?”

Her sobs were at once filled with despair and relief. “Please punish me with the belt, Mistress Robin.”

“Very well. We shall begin.”

What followed was an amazing display of discipline. Robin, in her role as Household Enforcer, seemed to spare nothing in the blows she delivered to the unfortunate Petal, who screamed and whimpered with every stroke, but who diligently caught her breath and thanked Robin for each painful blow and tearfully asked for the next. Whatever the electronic discipline Robin had threatened her with must be terrible for Petal to have willingly endured such pain in its place. She was lathered in sweat and her bottom and the backs of her thighs were on fire from the effects of the belt by the time it ended.

“Now, Petal,” Robin said smoothly, “what do you think we should do next with such a bad girl?”

Petal struggled to bring herself sufficiently under control to answer the question. After several attempts, she finally managed, “Mistress Amanda would have put me in the cage, ma'am, until it was time for the auction.”

“Ah, yes,” Savanna said, slipping me a playful glance, then narrowing her eyes at the girl. “But Mistress Amanda is no longer with us, is she? We ate her a few weeks ago, didn't we? You weren't at the Celebration Dinner, of course — that was for the senior wives — but Master Trent made sure there was enough soup from the leftovers so everyone could honor Mistress Amanda by sharing her body. You did partake of her soup, did you not, Petal?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“Good. So, what do you think is the proper way to deal with a girl who calls one of Master Trent's wives a fat, ugly, cunt-faced, cum-bucket cow, scratches her face and rips off her clothes?”

The girl broke down into a series of pathetic wails, crying out, “Please, ma'am, I didn't mean it! Please! I'll do anything you want! Please! Please! I'm so sorry! Please! I'll apologize and do whatever she'd like to make her happy, to make up for it. Please!”

“Very well,” Robin said. “Follow me. And keep your hands behind your neck.”

We left the room and headed down a hall to a door leading to the main exercise yard and gardens where a cross lay on the ground next to a sunken concrete socket it was obviously designed to fit into. One look at the cross was enough to make Petal turn pale. Three rather intimidating females stood near the cross glaring at the girl. They were tall (close to six feet, I'd guess), in their twenties or thirties, firmly muscled and wearing the uniform of the Household Security Guards: tight red T-shirt, very brief white shorts and red, calf-high boots with three-inch heels. Trent has a staff of eighteen guards, chosen from among the tallest and strongest members of his pride. He brings in studs to breed them and rotates their pregnancies so that no more than three of them are out of service at any time. He generally sends them to auction when they're in their mid thirties while their meat, though no longer prime, will still bring a decent price.

“Now then,” Robin said to Petal in an menacingly friendly voice, “lie down on the cross and stretch your arms out along the crossbeam.”

“Please, mistress . . .” Petal started to say. But Robin's narrowed eyes made it clear to her that she must either cooperate or face even worse consequences, although I couldn't imagine what. Weeping in fear, the girl knelt down, rolled to her back and stretched herself out along the cross.

Deft hands swiftly lashed her wrists down tightly near the ends of the crossbeam and to ring bolts that would keep them from sliding inward. A thin rectangular metal bar, which they referred to as a “sword,” was inserted edge upward between her legs into a slot in the post she was lying on, about an inch below her crotch, and bolted into place. It was no more than a quarter inch wide with sharp edges.

The tall guard strolled to the foot of the cross where the other two guards had seized Petal's ankles and bent her legs to a forty-five degree angle. They planted the soles of her feet on opposite sides of the post, opening up her legs and exposing her sex obscenely. The tall guard then proceeded to lash each foot and ankle tightly to the post and to another set of ring bolts, securing her in that lewd position.

The tall guard then returned to her right hand. She picked up a hammer and a couple of nails — not large, probably about ten or twelve penny — and placed the point of a nail in the palm of Petal's right hand. The girl's expression was sheer terror as the guard raised the hammer and drove the nail through her hand into the wood. She let out a yelp of pain and another for each of the five hammer blows it took to drive it into place. Then the guard moved to her left hand and repeated the nailing.

“That's awful!” I remarked to Robin.

“It's not as bad as it looks. Master Trent specifically required it to make sure she's in lots of pain during her ordeal. The nails won't be holding her weight, so they won't tear her hands up. They'll just hurt terribly when she pulls herself up off the sword. By tomorrow the wounds will be infected and then they'll really hurt! You'll notice we didn't put any nails through her feet. Master wants her to be able to walk normally on the auction stage.”

The three guards then lifted the cross, inserted the base of it into the top of the concrete socket and began righting it toward vertical. Petal let out a long howl of pain as her weight bore down on the edge of the so-called sword. When the cross was nearly perpendicular to the ground, the bottom of the post suddenly slipped fully into the socket, dropping the cross and the girl about three feet. She screamed as the sword bit into her vulva, drawing blood.

Robin cringed. “I don't think she'll be wanting to go home as anyone's bride now. Her pussy and hands are gonna be badly mauled by the time she's taken down.”

“When will that be?” I asked.

“Saturday morning, when she goes to auction.”

“My God! She's going to be up there two and a half days?”

“You bet!”

“Are you sure this won't kill her?”

“Shit, I hope not. I'll lose my job. Or worse. Master Trent ordered this and expects me to know how to do it without ruining her market value.”

“Robin, crucifixion was used for centuries as a particularly cruel way of executing people. They died!”

“Yeah, but Amanda showed me how to do it without killing the subject. In the olden days the prisoners hung from the nails, but Petal's hanging mostly from the ropes. The nails are for show and to make her suffer more as punishment. When Petal lifts herself off the sword to relieve the pain in her pussy, most of her weight will be supported by the ropes around her wrists and ankles. The nails are just to provide pain even when she's holding herself up off the sword. We're also going to be feeding her and giving her water, to keep her healthy. What killed people crucified in the olden days was hanging from their wrists with their arms stretched out wide. It's hard to breathe that way. You have to keep pushing yourself up, which is extremely painful with nails in your hands and feet. And in those days they whipped your back to shreds first which made scraping up and down on the post even more painful. Eventually you're too tired and dehydrated to keep it up, so you just hang there and suffocate. But Petal here is riding the sword most of the time so she shouldn't suffocate. Don't worry; my guards will keep their eye on her. If it looks like she can't make it, we'll take her down. There are other unpleasant ways to spend your last hours.”

“The meat packers won't mind that her vaginal lips are mangled?”

“Not really. There's not a lot of demand for cunt lips these days. They just adjust for it in their bids. It will definitely discourage bids from bride seekers, though, except maybe some old fart who can't get it up any more and just wants a pretty new wife on the cheap to give him head. But Petal's not all that pretty, so Master Trent didn't expect any bride bids anyway.”

I looked over at Petal. Once in place, the cross was not very tall. The girl's feet only cleared the ground by a couple of feet so she could easily be given water. She was straining to hold herself up off the of the cruel edge of the metal bar. Blood was trickling down her arms and sides from the open gashes in her hands. More blood coursed down the inside of her splayed open thighs and calves from the slice in her vulva, eventually dripping off her toes. She was grinding her teeth, scrunching her eyes and whimpering with the effort to hold herself up, but her arms and legs were trembling and she was having great difficulty exhaling. Finally she gave up and let herself drop down on the sword again, crying out pitifully at what must have been a terrible stab of pain.

“She's really suffering,” I noted.

Robin shrugged. “Could be a lot worse. I could have had her scourged like in the olden days, and used a cross with rough, splintery wood to slide up and down on. The meat packers don't care about skin all that much. There's plenty of good quality girl hide on the market. She got off easy. She'll be okay.”

“You've done this a lot, then?”

“Not really. Amanda crucified three girls and I helped with the last one. This is the first time I've done it on my own. The thing is, most of the females here behave themselves. Or at least they don't do anything that can't be punished with a simple whipping or a week in a cage. It's mostly the sixteen year old calves that get themselves in major trouble.”

“Why?”

“I think deep down they want to be listed for auction faster.”

“They want to be turned into meat?”

“Not really, but there's always the chance someone will buy them as a bride. Being a bride is every girl's dream. So they do something that will end the suspense.”

“But if she draws a punishment like this that leaves her maimed, she's no longer bride material. Why would she take that chance?”

“I'm afraid some girls, like Petal, don't think it through that far. That's why Master Trent told me to crucify her out here where everyone can see, as a lesson to the others.”

“Did you cause trouble so you'd be sent to auction early?”

She touched my nose flirtatiously with a delicate index finger. “No, gentle sir. I was always a good little girl. I was raised to be a bride and was purchased privately by Master Trent on my twelfth birthday.”

“He bedded you at twelve?” I was a bit shocked.

“No, Master Curt.” She cradled my face with both her hands. Her coquettish wiles were having an effect in my southern region that I knew must be vulgarly noticeable. She didn't look down but rubbed against me to confirm it, then smiled in coy triumph. “I was raised in the Trusiani household and displayed to Master Trent when I was first blooming at twelve. He bought me on the spot.” She ran a feathery finger around my lips and down my throat. She knew full well what she was doing to me. “He had me finish my training here and took me as a bride the day I turned sixteen.”

“Took you formally, you mean.”

“Took me the way a man takes a woman,” she said, patting my bulge to clarify the issue.

“Do you mean to imply he didn't once . . . uh . . . jump the gun during those four intervening years?”

She touched my lips with her finger as if I'd said something naughty. “I'm not merely implying, good sir. I'm telling you straight out that Master Trent made sure I remained a virgin right up to the day it was legal to take me as a wife. He is a most honorable man. It drove me crazy.”

“I'll bet.”

“He wanted me, too. I could tell from his eyes whenever he looked at me. I used to be very beautiful, you know,” she said softly, sliding her right hand under the top of her sarong to touch the nipple hidden there.

“Used to be?!” I croaked.

Just then the girl on the cross next to us let out a wail and began begging Robin to take her down, tearfully offering to shower her with specific bawdy personal services for as long as she wanted, until she was hauled off to auction.

Robin turned to the girl and patted her cheek. “Now, now, dear. The time for licking my cunt has come and gone. You just stay here and entertain the girls who come to watch you ride the sword while I show this sexy gentleman where Master Trent's pride is quartered.” She looked into my eyes and wet her lips. “And anything else he'd like to see.”

Part 7

Petal's pleadings for mercy faded behind us as Robin led me into the main building and through a labyrinth of hallways. Eventually we emerged into a large room, a good fifty by eighty feet, filled with overstuffed sofas, chairs and other furniture which, in turn, were filled with an army of outrageously beautiful females.

“My God! Is this Trent's pride?” I asked, rather breathlessly.

“Some of it,” Robin answered. “Do you find them tempting?”

I looked directly at her. I couldn't help but compare her to the other members of the pride and for the first time realized just how astonishing she was. In an auditorium-sized room filled with beautiful women, many of them almost half her age, this woman stood out. Her dark hair, bronze complexion and hypnotic eyes melted me into my shoes.

“Most of these females are available to you, courtesy of Master Trent, if you are so inclined,” she said, her eyes and voice setting me on fire.

“Actually,” I said, “there is a female here who appeals to me greatly. I wonder if she's one of those who are available .”

Robin moved closer to me. The back of her hand just happened to brush my pants in the exact spot that was holding back my growing excitement.. “And which one of us is that, Master Curt?”

“ You , mistress Robin.”

“As it happens,” she cooed, placing her dainty hands on my chest, “Master Trent ordered me specifically to see that you are given every courtesy, including my own body, if that is your desire.”

“That is, in fact,” I gasped, “my desire.”

“I am honored, Master Curt.” She let her fingers trail down the front of my shirt and over my belt. “Would you like to take me here in the Seraglio, or would you prefer a private setting?”

“Here in the Seraglio? Is that done?”

“All the time, Master Curt.”

“Trent has sex with members of his pride right here where everyone else can see?”

“Always! What's there to hide?” Her fingers had begun a maddening tattoo on my bulge. “Our purpose is to give him pleasure and add calves to his household. How it's done is no secret. When we do it here, others can join in the fun. Don't you do that with your pride?”

“Well, no. I've always assumed it would be demeaning to them to perform their most intimate act in public.”

She giggled softly and stepped up close to me where she began to sway from side to side, letting her bosom brush lightly against my chest. “You should teach them what Master Trent teaches us.” She raised her forearms and rested them on my shoulders which made the rubbing more intensely erotic. “The act that creates life is not shameful, something to be hidden behind doors. It's nature's most glorious gift and should be celebrated in the open, with joy, as nature intended.” I couldn't help but let my own arms creep around her and gather her closer, enjoying the full swell of her breasts as she talked. “Females have as much need for sex as men do,” she breathed. “And there are so few of you it's only fair you share your body with as many of us at a time as you can. Don't you agree?”

“It goes without saying,” I said, sliding my hands down the small of her back and over her hips and bottom. “You're sure Trent won't mind this?”

She gave me a cat's smile, tilted her head and nibbled at my chin. “I told you. Master Trent has instructed me to grant you full use of my body if it pleases you, and as an honored guest that means you may also make use of any of the lesser wives as well, except those in their eighth and ninth months. Come!”

She slipped smoothly from my embrace, took my left hand and led me to the center of the Seraglio where a great nest of colorful pillows were strewn thickly about for an obvious purpose. A bawdy theater in the round. A giant screen filled a quarter of one wall, the sound barely audible, claiming the desultory attention of some girls. Most, however, had turned their attention to Robin and me, apparently preferring to watch the live seduction scene in progress. I must say I have never beheld so many truly beautiful females all concentrated in one room. I don't know where Trent finds them all! Most were quite young, ranging from the teens to the mid twenties and every last one of them (except five or six who were ballooned with child) was in perfect shape — slender but not skinny, or lushly endowed but not fat. Trent's strict exercise and feeding programs obviously pay off.

The colorful and varied array of clothing was astonishing to me, too. Most owners of large prides tend to relegate them to an unimaginative, one-style-fits-all costume, either to help keep track of them in public or because they're too cheap to let them shop for their own clothes. Not Trent. Keeping track of his property is easy; every female who leaves the Estate has a transponder/collar locked on her neck. Then he simply turns her loose to indulge her individual taste in wearing apparel so he can sit back and enjoy the variety.

Having led me to the small mountain of pillows, Robin laced her fingers behind her neck, exactly as she had ordered Petal to do, arched her back and thrust her charms toward me. “Well, Master Curt,” she said, “what else would you like to see?”

Her white and gold sarong was held together in front by a matching silk sash tied in a slip knot. One end of the sash found its way into my fingers and I tugged on it ever so gently. The knot fell apart and the sash floated to the floor. At the same time the two halves of the sarong slowly parted, catching on the tips of her breasts but revealing a stunning cleavage, a smooth belly, and a cleanly shaved mound of Venus. Trent's pride, like his calves, are not allowed to wear undergarments. Robin smiled invitingly and arched her back even more so, causing the sarong material to slip aside a little more and giving me a glimpse of one dark burgundy aureola. As I reached to lift the material completely away, a voice chirped over my shoulder.

“Ooo, Robin! Has Master Trent given us a new toy to play with?”

Robin answered without taking her eyes off mine. “Master Curt is an honored guest, Kitten, and may not appreciate being called a toy. Are you offended, Master Curt? Should I have this strumpet punished for her impertinence?”

“I'm not at all offended, Robin. I think she merely wants to play.” I parted the two sides of Robin's sarong to reveal her magnificent tits fully, still amazingly firm and upright despite nursing six babies over the years.

Robin's eyes closed a little and her smile widened. “You are a very kind gentleman, although Kitten's rudeness deserves some kind of punishment. But I will let you decide what that should be. Right after you save me from perishing out of lust for you.”

“Who's this?” Another voice from behind. Still engrossed in admiring the gradual revelation of Robin's magnificent body, I had not bothered to turn my head to check out the would-be party crashers, but gentle hands had begun to investigate my own body. “Why don't you introduce us, Robin?”

Without unlocking her eyes from mine, Robin sighed and said, “Master Curt, this is Shadow. Shadow, Master Curt.”

“And I'm Kitten,” said the other voice. “I'm trembling at the thought of how you're going to punish me, Master Curt.” A tanned arm and shoulder came into my peripheral vision and slender fingers surrounded the top button of my shirt to set it free.

“I'll bet you are,” said the voice of Shadow. “Kitten is a pain slut, Master Curt, but I'm a pleasure slut. While you're punishing her, feel free to pleasure me.”

“Get in line,” said Robin, licking her lips.

“I'm Master Trent's Number Two,” chimed in Kitten. “I'm training to take Robin's place, so I have to do everything she does. Only I'm a lot younger, so my girl hole is a lot snugger than hers.”

“Kitten's nineteen, Master Curt,” countered Shadow, and has dropped two calves, so she's way stretched out. But I'm sixteen and still almost a virgin. I'm nice and tight.”

“I'm sure Master Curt will be happy to compare our pussies,” Robin sighed, “but you'll have to wait your turn. I'm too wet to wait.”

The tanned fingers — which turned out to belong to Shadow — had finished off the last of my shirt buttons and was now working on my belt buckle. At the same time Kitten's elegantly manicured fingers were exploring the new areas of my skin that Shadow was exposing.

“Mmm,” Kitten purred. “Nice hard muscles up here. I wonder if you're as hard further down.”

“Let's find out,” Shadow said, and pushed the lower half of my clothing down over my hips. “Oh my!” she chirped. “Look at that! We'll have to be careful. That thing could do a lot of damage to a poor defenseless girl with a real tight love sleeve.” She bounced it up and down in the palm of her hand, giggling.

Robin, whose breasts I had been lightly strumming with the tips of my own fingers, was breathing more erratically. Closing her eyes, she said, “Shadow, why don't we make Master Curt more comfortable by helping him out of all those clothes. I'm sure he'll find a way of showing his appreciation without injuring your teeny little, almost virginal, hole when it's your turn.”

I felt Shadow's soft cheek against the skin of my thigh as she carefully removed my shoes. Her warm lips and tongue traveled back and forth over my manhood as she spread open my pants around my ankles so I could step out of them. She took her time removing my socks, at the same time drawing my achingly swollen member into her mouth and lavishing it with wet attention.

As Shadow toyed with my penis, Kitten was distracting me from behind by kissing my shoulders, running her tongue down the length of my spine, giving my butt little love bites, licking at my scrotum and even leaning around me to take my own nipples between her teeth and tug on them. I made a mental note of what each girl was doing to me, since experience has shown me that females often do unto you what they'd like you to do unto them.

Still watching Robin, I had allowed my own right hand to slide down her belly into her slit. She moaned loudly and began a grinding motion with her hips to let me know she approved of the invasion. She was, indeed, excited. My fingers were instantly slippery with the essence of her rising passion.

She began to beg, pushing herself against my hand, her own fingers still interlocked behind her neck. “Now, please, Master Curt! Do it now! Now! Take me now before I explode!”

My response was to enfold her in my arms. Her reaction to that was to leap at me like an uncoiled spring, flinging her arms around my neck, her legs around my hips, hugging me ferociously to her! She planted her mouth on mine, forcing it open, making small animal noises as she buried her tongue in it, fencing with my own tongue, licking every interior surface. She was already coming and I was not far behind, so I knelt down and laid her out on the mound of cushions, inserting myself into her man-eating cavern. She met my every thrust with her own and went wild when my spunk spurted into her, as though she hadn't had sex for months, although she herself had told me that Trent keeps his pride well serviced. She screamed when her own grand orgasm hit her and dug her nails into my back, pounding me with her heels! When it was over, she collapsed on the pillows, her arms flung out to the side, panting, her eyes closed, her mouth open in silent joy. I could feel her heart pounding, gradually slowing as I laid a hand on her lovely breast.

Finally she opened her eyes and smiled brilliantly. “O Master Curt, you are a girl's dream come true. I could stay here forever with your magnificent staff inside me, coaxing it back to life over and over.”

“Then let's,” I offered.

“But it wouldn't be right,” she said, pouting. “I promised to let you play with Kitten and Shadow, too, and it wouldn't be fair.”

“No, it wouldn't!” Kitten agreed.

“It certainly wouldn't,” Shadow emphasized.

The two girls were instantly on me again, pulling me up into a kneeling position over Robin's thighs, kissing and caressing me all over, rubbing their bodies against mine in a variety of salacious ways.

For the first time I looked away from Robin to see what the bodies attached to the voices looked like. It was not a disappointing sight! None of Trent's pride that I had seen so far were less than outstandingly beautiful and I would rank these two near the top. I've read somewhere that many of the gorgeous actresses we see in starring movie roles these days have been rented from Trent's pride, and I can see why. They're that spectacular! My own pride, you understand, though far more modest in number, are nothing to sneeze at, but Trent's is every man's vision of heaven. These two girls in particular were stunning!

Shadow, who was gently massaging my testicles and sneakily working a finger between the underside of my cock and the wall of Robin's vagina, had a small round face capped by a frothing mane of dark brown hair. She had a cute button nose, dark smoldering eyes and was touching the tip of her tongue to her upper lip with blatant eroticism. Her body was small, darkly tanned and promised to be disproportionately endowed under a sleeveless, silk, Asian-style red dress that seemed spray painted to her figure. It consisted of a front and back panel held precariously together by four slip knots up each side and another on each shoulder and another on each side of the collar. It was all I could do to resist untying them all at once. The front panel had a large diamond cutout, the side points nearly reaching her nipples for a breathtaking display of cleavage.

Kitten was taller by about two inches and slimmer, with an oval face highlighted by bright blue eyes, plump lips that begged to be kissed and a river of long, straight, honey blonde hair highlighted with brighter, golden streaks. Her skin was pale and flawless, her legs long and elegantly sculpted. She was wearing a toga-like dress slung from her right shoulder and crenelated at the bottom. It was white with black and gold trim. She wore sandals laced three-quarters of the way up her calves with leather thongs. Enough of her young, upstanding left breast was exposed to convince any man with functioning balls that ripping the toga off would be an extremely good idea. Kitten had straddled Robin's belly in order to rub her wonderfully firm frontal assets against my naked chest and lick my face.

Between the two of them, I was rapidly recovering erectile function.

Robin's voice was like whipped cream on coffee. “Kitten, you owe Master Curt for your earlier insults. It's time for you to ask him for your punishment.” This was not at all the tone she had adopted with Petal. This was play.

Kitten drew back at once and hung her head. “Mistress Robin is right, Master Curt. I did a bad thing and deserve to be punished. Please do to me whatever you will, no matter how terrible it may be.”

“The usual punishment for that kind of bad behavior is a sound spanking or a whipping,” Robin offered helpfully. “Would you like me to find a whip for you?”

Robin was such a pretty picture lying on the pillows under both Kitten and me that I couldn't bear to disturb it, so I turned down her offer in favor of another idea. “No. In this case I prefer a different instrument. Kitten, stand up and take off your sandals.”

She did as she was told, but remained straddling Robin's body right in front of me, her tempting pelvis only a foot away from my face. As she was pulling off her second sandal, I gave my next order.

“Now you are to remove the leather thongs from the sandals and hand them to me, along with the sandals.”

She didn't know exactly what I had in mind but the possibilities were exciting her, although she tried not to show it. Soon both long leather thongs were in my left hand and the sandals in my right. I laid them down to either side of where I squatted atop Robin.

“Now, Kitten, you will get on your hands and knees across Robin's belly, facing to my left.”

She did as commanded, putting on an unconvincing show of contrition.

“Pull your dress up over your haunches and expose your pretty bottom.”

She had been waiting for this and adroitly flipped the bottom of her toga up over her hips, presenting her lovely young ass in all it's eager glory, anxiously waiting to be warmed. I planned to warm it more than she expected.

“Your punishment will be in four stages of which this is the first. I will give you ten spanks with my hand and you are to count them off. Ready?”

“Yes, Master.”

The first smack was loud enough to draw the eyes of the entire room and make Kitten gasp. I suspect she had anticipated a much more playful tap. Well, if she was really a pain slut, she was about to receive her heart's desire. Perhaps this would cool her ardor for pain. She dutifully counted “One,” and I continued with another heavy spank. And another. And another. By “Five” she was cringing, leaking tears and her voice distinctly lacked enthusiasm for the next blow. But she made it through all ten without begging for mercy. Her bottom was fiery red (as was my right palm) and her voice quivered as she thanked me for the spanking.

I gave her a moment to wipe her eyes and compose herself before asking, “Are you ready for the second part of your punishment?”

She inhaled deeply, said, “Yes, Master. Please continue my punishment.”

“This next part will be ten spanks with your sandal: five on the left cheek and five on the right. Again, you will count them, but this time you will ask for the next. Tell me when you're ready.”

“I'm ready, Master.” She closed her eyes and clamped her jaws shut, waiting for the expected pain.

I whacked her a good one on the left rump, which drew a screech. She whimpered “One,” and paused for the pain to subside a little. After a few seconds she said, “Please give me another.” I whacked her equally hard on the right cheek, bringing another screech and a barrage of tears. But she held on through all ten, counting each blow and asking for the next despite her obvious dread and suffering. I laid a hand on her bottom, now a vivid red; it was noticeably (and, no doubt, painfully) hot!

“Time for the third part of your punishment,” I announced blithely. “Or would you rather skulk off and watch TV?”

She turned tear glazed eyes to me. “No, no! Please continue to punish me as you see fit, Master.”

Shadow snickered behind me. She had been doing highly distracting things to my under parts throughout Kitten's ordeal. To Kitten I said, “I want you to remain on all fours but move sideways until your tits are directly above Robin's mouth.” She did. “Now I want you to lower your torso so she can bite your nipples if she so desires while I deliver your next ten strokes. But keep that pretty ass high up in the air!”

“Yes, Master.”

Robin smiled her appreciation for being included in the game, bared her teeth and took Kitten's left nipple gently (for the moment) between her teeth. I had doubled up the two lengths of leather thong to form a four-tailed whip. “Once again, Kitten, you will count the strokes. But this time you will also thank me for each before asking for the next. All ten. Understood?”

“Yes, Master,” she answered happily.

I raised my right arm and brought a searing blow down across her already sore behind. This time she screamed and buried her head into the pillows, clenching her fists and sobbing. Purple stripes flamed up across the scarlet flesh of her abused bottom.

Her crying had subsided to shudders before she was able to say, “One. Thank you, Master.” She bit her lip, screwing up her courage, and finally managed in a weak voice, “Please give me the next one.”

It was too much. I couldn't keep it up. The poor child was in hideous pain, but was obviously going to tough it through. So I lightened up a bit with the last nine blows. That gave her a chance to enjoy (if that's the word) whatever Robin was doing to her nipples with her teeth. Nevertheless, her bum was a latticework of purple stripes on red and Robin's shoulder awash with her tears when I finished.

“One last part to go,” I said cheerfully. “Unless, of course, you can't take it and prefer to quit in shame.”

“Please, Master,” she squeaked hoarsely, wiping her nose with the back of her hand, “allow me to receive the rest of the punishment I deserve.” She was a brave little soldier, I have to say.

“Very well. I want you to get up on your knees straddling Savanna and facing me. I want you to position yourself so that your cunt is over Robin's mouth, and I want you to lower yourself so she can take your pussy lips and clit between her teeth and bite them if it pleases her.”

Apparently the tit torture Robin had delivered was not all that terrible, because Kitten seemed more than a little eager to position herself exactly that way. In the meantime, Shadow was doing some positioning of her own. She was on her back behind me between Robin's legs and as I rose up on my knees she wriggled her head between my thighs and began to lick my balls and the underside of my fully reactivated rod. Trying to ignore this shameless ploy, I went about preparing for Kitten's next ordeal by discarding one of the two thongs and ordering Kitten to put her arms behind her back and grab her opposite elbows. This caused her naked breasts to thrust outward with their nipples (already reddened by Robin's nipping) an easy target. She stared at me with a mixture of fear and arousal.

“This time,” I said, controlling my voice despite Shadow's tongue, “you are not only to count the ten strokes and thank me for each one, you are to beg me to make the next one harder. Understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Her eyes went to the double-tailed whip, but as I raised my hand to strike, she scrunched them up.

I aimed the whip to strike her breasts horizontally, first one side, then the other. The sting of the leather thongs landed directly on the nipple with every stroke. The first stroke made her jump and grimace. The second one drew an “Oww!” From the third one on she screamed with each blow but still managed to count it, thank me for it and say, “Please do it again, Master, only harder.” Which I did, but not so hard as to cause actual injury, though it must have hurt like hell! She hesitated, cried a little and ground her teeth between each stroke, but through the magnifying pain she never faltered. I was impressed. She was trembling and weeping wretchedly by the time we reached ten.

“Well done,” I told her. “But you took altogether too much time after each stroke to ask for another. So, as an added punishment, I intend to rape you.” She smiled beatifically. “First, why don't you spend a few minutes recovering while I . . . .”

“Nooo!” she wailed, and launched herself at me, crushing her sore tits into me. “Do it now! Please! Rape me! Make it hurt more! Rape me hard!”

“No fair!” Shadow called out from under my testicles. “I'm the one who got him hard again. Me first!”

The protest merely made Kitten all the more frantic. “Rape me, Master, now, please! While it still hurts! Hurry! I need it! I need you in me, punishing me!”

As she pleaded, she dragged me over on top of her, got her legs around me and was pumping her pelvis at me. I glanced over at Robin who was laughing and nodding approval, her face slicked with the evidence of Kitten's intense arousal. Kitten had managed to locate my tool with her right hand and had tucked the swollen head into her cunt, so I gave a forceful heave and buried it in her up to the hilt. She yelped and I hoped I had not torn her, but she returned my thrust with a harder one of her own. We continued to pound away at each other, Kitten crying out with each slamming together of our bodies, her mouth wide open, her eyes rolling up into her head. Remembering that she had pulled at my nipples when we first met, I grabbed hers and pinched the hard nubs, aware that they must be super sensitized as a result of the whipping. It threw her into an even greater frenzy. After a minute or two of hammering and grinding and screaming, her nails digging into my back and sides, she surged over the top with a long howl of ecstacy and fell back panting on the pillows her body jerking in a series of aftershocks.

Shadow was back at me with a giggling frontal attack that knocked me over sideways . My manroot exited Kitten with a slurping pop. I found myself on my back looking up at a naked, sex crazed sixteen-year-old. Stripped of her red dress she was a dazzling sight with young, taut breasts, a wasp waist and a cloud of dark hair swirling about her face like a madwoman. Since Kitten's orgasm had been unilateral, I was still solidly (and now vertically) erect. Shadow took advantage of it like a rabid cat, impaling herself on it and riding it with joyous fervor, posting up and down like a deliciously fevered jockey. Even at my age I am capable of servicing two or three females a day, but I do require a little spacing. So even after fifteen minutes of Shadow's crafty teasing and a good two minutes of flat-out, energetic fucking with Kitten, I was still a ways from climaxing. Shadow made the most of it, mewling and twisting as she rode up and down, pulling my hands up to cup her fresh young tits, reaching under to squeeze my balls. It seemed to go on for an eternity of delight before the tide rose from my genitals to the roots of my hair and swept me away in my second huge orgasm of the afternoon. At the same time Shadow went berserk, her body shaking in uncontrollable spasms, her love chute running copiously with juices, both hers and mine. We seemed to deflate together, melting into each others arms, lying still, waiting for our pulse rates to slow down. Suddenly she propped herself up, looked down and me and laughed with a girlish glee.

“Thank you, Master Curt. That was delightful!” She leaned down and kissed me on the lips, but didn't linger. Then she was up and off. A typical sixteen-year-old, sexually gratified for the moment, but off for other amusements.

Kitten remained on the pillows, gazing at me hopefully and rubbing her quim seductively. She wanted a rerun. But I needed time to refill the well. Besides, it was Robin I wanted to spend time with, sexually or not. The two younger girls were beautiful and zesty, but Robin had a quality that touched my core. I smiled at Kitten and nodded non-committedly, but turned quickly to Robin. “Come. You promised to show me the cages where bad girls are punished. This is a good time.”

Her eyes sparkled. She knew she had promised no such thing. “Certainly, Master Curt,” she said, taking my hand so I could help her up. She led me out of the Seraglio, putting her sarong back on when we reached the corridor.

“Sorry,” she chuckled. “I should have warned you about our two tigresses. They don't get fresh man-meat very often and they're insatiable.”

It was odd being referred to as meat, like a female. She meant it as metaphorical drollery, of course, yet it reminded me that she and all other females live with the knowledge that they are, in fact, meat and will eventually find themselves on the slaughtering deck. It's a fact that must become frightening as a girl approaches sixteen, despite what the psychologists say (all of whom were raised as pampered males, like you and me). I am definitely not a bleeding heart and I like girl meat as much as the next person, but we men often tend to ignore that fact that even though females are known to be inferior and are happiest when properly trained as subservient wives and meat on the hoof, they still have feelings.

“Don't worry about it,” I told her. “I survived the ordeal pretty much intact.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she laughed. “You survived pretty good. In fact, I got the impression you didn't mind boffing them at all.”

“They were fun, I admit, and extraordinarily vigorous. But I would much rather have been boffing you.”

“Oh my! You're such a delightful flatterer, Master Curt. You brighten my whole day. I love your sweet words.”

“Oh come, you can't tell me Trent doesn't give you lavish compliments. Not such a lovely girl as you.”

“He used to, when he first bought me. But now I'm just a comfortable old glove he slips into now and then when he's cold. Which isn't very often these days. But I can't blame him. He's got all those other hot young fillies to attend to, and they're just as hungry for a good boffing as I am. But come; I did ‘promise' you a look at the cages, didn't I.” She gave me a smile that let me know she was lending life to my fiction to give me time to recharge, and that she'd be ready when I was ready for her. God, she was something!”

The route to the cages was downward. We were well below ground level when we came to an iron door and a security guard at a desk watching TV with softly muted sound. The guard snapped to attention at the sight of Robin, handed her a flashlight and opened the door for us. We stepped inside the chamber beyond and the door closed behind us but did not lock. It was pitch black except for the flashlight beam and reeked of body odor, urine and human feces. The flashlight beam raked across a dozen cage doors about three and a half feet square stacked six across and two high on one wall. The beam was reflected back by pale skin from eight of the cages, four on the floor and four above them. There was not a sound except for breathing. Robin trained her flashlight on a girl in the first cage on the lower tier. I could see a naked female form sitting awkwardly, cross legged, her hands cuffed behind her back and a ball gag in her mouth. She was wet and something brown had stained her shoulders, blond hair and thighs. She stared at the floor of the tiny cage. The light beam swept up to the cage above her. The girl there was also naked, cuffed, gagged and crammed uncomfortably into the small space, but appeared clean. The floor of her cage was coarse wire mesh and could not have been comfortable to sit on for any length of time. I had been warned not to speak so I did not. Robin led me back out of the chamber and the iron door was closed again and locked.

She explained. “The females in the upper cages change places with those below them every day. All the girls must empty their bladders and bowels on the floor of their cage. The difference is that the piss and shit from the upper level falls down on to the girls in the cages below them to make their punishment even more miserable.”

“On the other hand,” I observed, “the wire mesh floors of the upper cages must be painful to sit and sleep on for long periods.”

“There is that. But the girls on the lower level must sit and sleep in their own filth as well as what comes down from above. Either way, it's not a punishment most girls want to repeat.”

“Is it only calves who are put in the cages?”

“Oh no. The wives are perfectly capable of disruptive behavior or failure to control their brats or disobedience. Sometimes a sound whipping is just not enough.”

“That room stinks. Who has to go in there and take care of those girls?”

“Other girls. Cleaning and feeding the cagers is another level of punishment. The guards watch and make sure it's done right.”

“And if it's not?”

“The care giver becomes another cage dweller. Believe me, they make a real effort to do the job right!”

“How long do the girls stay caged?”

“Usually a week. Sometimes ten or fourteen days. Every day is an eternity.”

“I'll bet!”

“Don't you have cages in your household?”

“No. Nothing so drastic. But then, there are only fifty or so females in my household at any one time. At the first level of punishment they get assigned to scut work — cleaning toilets, changing diapers in the nursery, gutting girl carcasses in the kitchen, that sort of thing. If they balk or their attitude doesn't improve, we go to corporal punishment — flogging, caning and so forth. If that's not enough, they spend time chained to a wooden palette in an isolation cell until they're willing to crawl on their hands and knees at the end of a leash from the cell to a platform in the exercise yard, put on a blindfold, stick their neck and wrists into a set of stand-up stocks and ask for twenty strokes with a cane or twenty lashes with a singletail whip. The twenty strokes or lashes are delivered by up to twenty females they have harassed or insulted. Since she can't see who they are, they're free to whack her as hard as they like without fear of retaliation.”

“I like that. You let the girls participate in punishing their tormentors.”

“Exactly. And if the offender ever gets to that point again, the punishment doubles. Every girl gets to deliver two strokes or lashes.”

“Wow. Have you had any go back a second time?”

“Only two. One was a really rebellious thirteen year old. Even that didn't cure her, so I sold her to a meat farm. The other was a wife who had delivered a son and thought that exempted her from the house rules. Her third offense was so grievous — she punched a pregnant wife in the stomach and caused a miscarriage — I made an extreme example of her. I had her strung up on the slaughtering dock, head down as usual, but instead of cutting her throat I had the wife she'd punched gut her alive. Then I skinned her alive myself, starting with her legs, then her arms, then her torso. She lived through the whole ordeal until the kitchen crew began to filet her meat. I had the meat ground into hamburg which I sold to the local market, and had the scrap parts — head, neck, hands, feet and bones — fed to the perimeter guard dogs. It made a powerful impact on household behavior, I can tell you that.”

“Double wow! You really know how to dispense justice.”

“You don't think it was too harsh?”

“Not at all. But the best thing is, you let the other girls take part. That's amazingly thoughtful of you. Most men have absolutely no idea — don't even care to know — how it feels to have no control at all over your life, including how you live, who you live with, or whether you get to live at all. There's a word that no one uses any more that describes people living that kind of existence. They used to be called slaves. But now the word is females.”

“I hear what you're saying,” I said, “and that's why I treat my females with as much consideration as possible. But you are female and as such simply cannot understand the complexities of the world. Females are only slaves if they think of themselves that way. In fact, they have great value to humanity. Where nature has designed and wired males to think, protect and lead, it has designed females to provide meat and incubate future generations. To do this properly and efficiently, females must accept their place in the scheme of things gracefully and happily.”

“Which means accept that our value is in our meat and ability to make babies.”

“Precisely.”

“But what about our value as fuck toys for men?”

“Ah well, the joy of sex is a plus nature has provided to keep females productive.”

“Pregnant, you mean.”

“Correct. If done properly, both man and female achieve orgasm so that both have an incentive to repeat the act in the future.”

“Sometimes the immediate future,” she said slyly.

“Just as soon as the man recovers,” I said, stroking her cheek.

“But what if the man doesn't care whether the female enjoys it or not?”

“What of it?”

“What's her incentive to fuck him again and be productive?”

“Strictly speaking she doesn't need incentive. It's her duty. It's why she exists.”

“So when it comes down to it, our feelings don't really count, do they?”

“Well . . . not strictly speaking.”

“Right. It's not necessary to please meat. Or incubators.”

I didn't like the slightly seditious direction of this conversation, so I decided to steer it elsewhere before Robin said something she'd regret. “How about showing me more of Trent's estate?” I suggested.

She stared me down for a few seconds with those black magnetic eyes, then threw her head back and laughed heartily. “Don't worry,” she said. “I'm not going to poop on our party. I'm just a girl. What do I know about these things? Come on! Let me show you where we take bad girls who think they're better than meat.”

Part 8

Robin took me by the hand and led me to a huge room across the corridor from the terrible cages. I have a Discipline Room for my own household, but it's nothing like Trent's. His looked the way I imagine medieval torture chambers must have looked. There were no windows. The walls and floor were stone. It was filled with machinery and equipment designed to restrain, frighten and inflict a range of discomforts from irritation to agony. A pegboard on one wall was loaded with whips, floggers, canes, paddles, belts, shackles, lengths of chain and rope, gags of various types, hoods, cuffs, masks, mouth spreaders, leg spreaders, and other such devices. There were metal boxes with head holes, small cages, a rack, stocks of all kinds, a St. Andrews cross, and various evil looking constructions made out of pipes, chairs, rods and bars. Numerous chains and ropes dangled from pulleys hung from a grid about fifteen feet overhead.

“My God!” I said. “Do you use all this stuff?”

“Some,” she chuckled. “Amanda used a lot of it, or at least experimented with it.”

“Did Trent have this built and equipped?”

“Oh no. The original owner of the mansion built it about fifty years ago. It was designed by a famous dungeon architect. He also designed the cages across the hall. The original owner used it extensively, according to Master Trent, not just for discipline but for entertainment. Thank God Master Trent is not that kind of owner. He almost never watches his girls being punished. All he cares about is the results.”

“Were you ever punished here?”

She laughed. The sound of it and the brightness of her eyes made my overworked part stir again. “Oh yes, Master Curt, I've been punished here. Amanda was very strict and there was a time when I was a naughty little girl.”

“I find that hard to believe,” I teased, although it was not at all difficult to envision Robin as a little hellion. A cute little hellion, to be sure, but a handful for someone.

“Oh Master Curt,” she cooed, chucking my chin, “you're so sweet. If you're not careful, I'll insist you rape me , too.”

“None of that,” I said, kissing her chucking finger. “Tell me what bad things you did.”

“I sassed the wives and tormented some of the other girls and made myself a general pain in the ass.”

“You? That's hard to picture.”

She took my hand and placed it on her left breast. “That's because you're still thinking about these. Let's just say it took me a while to, uh, settle in.”

“But your future was secure. You'd already been purchased as a bride-to-be.”

“True, but I was also twelve. Twelve-year-olds are not always models of good sense. Girls who grow up knowing that they have little chance of living past sixteen often take a ‘what the hell, who cares' attitude toward the few years they have left.”

“But you knew when you came here that you would be a bride.”

“My basic attitude had been formed before I got here, though. Amanda had to straighten me out. She was a great disciplinarian. I think it was because there was always something strangely loving about the way she dealt with us girls, even when she was whipping us or locking us in these cages. By the time Master Trent took me as a bride, I loved her dearly.”

“Do all girls go through a bad attitude phase as they approach sixteen?”

“No. Some girls volunteer to be meat the day they turn sixteen.”

“Really? Why?”

“Mostly it's the girls who don't want to go to auction because they figure they won't be chosen as brides. They'd rather die here at home and be eaten by their friends than be taken off to a slaughterhouse. Then there are some girls who are actually turned on by the idea of being cooked and eaten, no matter who does it. Remember, we're taught from age one how glorious and exciting it is to give our bodies as nourishment to others. Me personally, the only nourishment I'm happy to give is my milk. Want some?”

“Definitely, but not here. I'm curious about those girls in the cages across the hall. What did they do?”

“Those girls will be on the auction block Saturday. It's too bad; they might have been sold as brides, but they fucked up. Literally. They snuck around and had sex with some of our studs, so they're no longer virgins. Master Trent is very honest about disclosing such things. They're going to be paraded around the grounds in disgrace Friday evening, dripping urine and shit, as a warning to calves hoping to be brides to guard their virginity.”

“But someone might still buy them at the auction as bargain brides if they're cleaned up.”

“Oh they'll be cleaned up, all right. And maybe someone will. I hope so. But even poor men would rather have a virgin. I've never been able to figure out what the big deal is about virgin brides. Men don't have any qualms about fucking the wives here, and they sure aren't virgins. But they won't buy a calf with a busted cherry.”

As Robin talked, I was meandering past the pegboard with its ominous display of implements. “So when you were naughty, how were you punished?”

“I was whipped twice and caned twice. The last time I was put in the Glass Maiden for two days. That cured me. That's it over there.”

She pointed to what looked like an ancient Egyptian mummy case, only transparent. It was shaped vaguely in the form of a human, or like a glass coffin styled to conform to the shape of a body positioned with arms at the sides and legs spread out a little. It was standing vertically and fully opened up. Like a coffin, it was hinged along one side, but both the lid and the bottom part were nearly identical. As we drew closer to it, I could see that all the inner surfaces — front, back and sides — were covered with spikes or nails of the same glassy material. A crotch-high inverted V was clearly designed to separate the legs. It, too, was covered with short nails. Metal cuffs were situated where they could be clamped around wrists and ankles.

“You were put in this thing?!” I asked, aghast.

“For two long, long days, preceded by three enemas so I won't shit in it.”

“But you have no scars.”

“It's not really glass. It's a semi-hard plastic and the points of the nails don't usually puncture the skin, unless you thrash around. But they hurt like hell if you so much as twitch. Would you like to see it demonstrated?”

“You're offering to get in it.”

“God, no! I think I can find a volunteer.” She walked over to one of the small iron boxes, threw back a dead bolt and lifted up one side of the box. To my amazement there was a teenage girl jammed inside. A blonde, probably thirteen or fourteen, shackled hand and foot, gagged, drenched in sweat and looking out at Robin with huge, blue terrified eyes.

Robin bent over and spoke to her. “Starling, you're scheduled for a long, hard whipping with a bull whip in about five hours. Have you ever been punished with a bull whip, dear?”

The girl shook her head, clearly frightened.

“I have to tell you, it will probably cut you up pretty badly. It's more painful than anything you've ever imagined. Most girls pass out three or four times before it's over, but we always stop and revive them so they don't miss anything. Now, you can wait in here for your whipping, or you can opt to get out of the box now and skip the whipping in exchange for eight hours in the Glass Maiden. If it were me, I'd choose the Glass Maiden in a flash. But it's up to you. Would you rather stay here and take your whipping?”

The girl shook her head vigorously.

“You prefer the Glass Maiden?”

The child's nod was almost imperceptible. Clearly she thought of it as the lesser of two extremely unpleasant evils.

“Good choice.” Robin pulled her out of the box and helped her struggle to her feet. “Come along, dear.” Hours jammed in the box had created so much pain and stiffness it was impossible for the girl to stand or walk on her own, so Robin helped her limp in shuffling circles, her ankle chain clanking, until her knees stopped shaking. They ended up standing in front of the Maiden, its jaws open like a hungry shark.

“Starling is five foot six and will just fit,” Robin announced for my benefit. She removed the girl's handcuffs and let her move her arms around for a minute to relieve her sore shoulders (making sure she left the gag in place), then removed the ankle cuffs as well. “Will you help me place her in the Maiden, Master Curt, please?”

“Of course,” I said.

We each took one of the girl's arms and backed her up to the bottom half of the case. “Step up into it,” Robin instructed her. The girl reached behind her blindly with her right foot, found the base of the Maiden and started to push herself up. But the base was also covered with plastic points and she yelped through her gag. Robin and I took advantage of that initial push, however, and lifted her the rest of the way into the case. She yelped louder when her back hit the nails behind her, but we swiftly locked the cuffs over her wrists before she could try to escape it. Then we locked the ankle cuffs as well. By now the girl was crying, mostly in fear I suspect.

“Oh don't be such a sissy,” Robin scolded. “I once spent two days in this thing. If I could survive two days, you should be able to last eight hours. Just take shallow breaths and try not to move.” With that she closed the top and the girl wailed, plastic spikes stabbing at nearly every inch of her body. There were plenty of holes in the case that would allow her to breathe. Unfortunately, every movement of her chest would be aggravate the pain from the myriad nail points.

“You were actually in that device for two full days?” I said.

“And it changed my whole attitude about social interaction,” she said with a crooked smile. “Would you like to see how the rack works, or have you seen enough?”

“See how the rack works? You have someone waiting to go on the rack?”

“Oh, I can always find a calf who needs punishment, if that's your interest.”

“No thanks. I think I'd rather see something more pleasant.”

“Many men find it pleasant watching females suffer.”

“I'm not one of them.”

She smiled, much more warmly this time, then stretched up and gave me a long, open-mouth kiss. I was fully hard again (and she knew it) when she slipped her tongue out of my mouth, extracted herself from my arms, took my hand and said, “Come, Master Curt. I need to check on Petal. Then, if you'd like, I can show you my private quarters. You might even like to sample my milk supply.”

I trailed after her, gripping her small hand, admiring the erotic sway of her hips and thinking about her delectable invitation. We wended our way back to the courtyard where a crowd of girls was gaping at Petal on the cross. Her suffering was now dramatically greater than when we had left her, her legs splayed wide lewdly, displaying her bloodied cunt on the blade. Her head lolled back and forth, eyes closed, mouth open and drooling. Her body was lathered in perspiration and she groaned continuously. Robin's expression had hardened the instant we stepped into the courtyard, no doubt for the benefit of the girls for whom Petal's ordeal was a lesson. Robin moved at once to the thickset guard on duty and spoke to her softly.

“Echo, how's she holding up. She doesn't look so good.”

“Aw, she's just playing for sympathy. Don't think she likes it up there.”

“Have you been giving her water?”

“I squeeze it into her mouth but she lets it run out.”

“She has to have water. Look at her sweat! And I can see a puddle where she's pissed.”

“Yeah. It was pretty funny. She ain't never pissed in public before.”

“We can't let her get dehydrated.”

“She'll drink when she's thirsty enough.”

“In a few hours it'll be time to feed her that mash, too. If she won't eat it, give her the liquified stuff with a straw. Master Trent wants her healthy for the auction Saturday. You understand, Echo?”

“Yeah, Mistress Robin. I'll get the shit down her bitchy throat one way or another.”

Robin's eyes narrowed at the guard who probably outweighed her by seventy pounds. “That's yes , not yeah . And if this female goes into shock during your watch and doesn't make it to the auction, you'll take her place. Got that, Echo?”

Fear flashed into the woman's eyes. “Yes, Mistress Robin.”

Robin took time to examine Petal more closely, obviously troubled by the girl's appearance. Was she faking most of it? Or was she really in greater distress than she should be after only a few hours? Robin finally snorted and walked away briskly.

“Think she's putting it on?” I asked as we headed for the dining hall.

“It's hard to believe she could be in serious trouble at this point. Crucifixions are supposed to last for days. And Master Trent specifically okayed a two-and-a-half-day crucifixion in light of what she did. But he also made me personally responsible to see that she doesn't lose her meat value. I really don't know what to do. She must eat and drink.”

“Have you ever crucified anyone before?”

“No. But Amanda said it was safe to leave a girl on the cross for up to five days if she was given the blade to rest on and kept fed and hydrated. The three Amanda did came through fine, except for damage to their pussy lips, hands and shoulders, which don't matter much at the auctions.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I guess maybe Echo is right, that Petal's just exaggerating her distress, hoping we'll take her down. I'll check her again this evening to see how she's doing.”

“So where to now?”

“To the dining hall, Master Curt, so you can see how well Master Trent feeds his pride.” She took my hand and led me back inside.

“Does the pride eat separately from the calves?”

“Yes. We all spend a lot of time riding herd on the calves, which is exhausting, so Master Trent allows us three peaceful meals a day. The calves are fed on different time schedules according to age and we have to supervise and maintain discipline. You can't eat and deal with hundreds of hyperactive young girls at the same time.”

The dining hall was located on the south side of the building and that side of the room was filled with windows that flooded the room with late afternoon sunlight. As one would expect for a household of this size, the hall was cavernous and fairly Spartan. There were dozens of long tables covered with linen and set up with place settings consisting of forks, knives, spoons and paper napkins. I counted ten chairs and settings to a side, twenty places at each table. Five tables had been set up for the pride, ten or fifteen of whom were already in line at the serving window.

“Where are the calves while the pride is eating?” I asked Robin as we picked up our plates.

“We keep them locked in their quarters for safekeeping. Except for those on kitchen duty, of course.”

Several teenage girls were hustling about in the kitchen and doling out food at the window.

“Who does the cooking?”

“Some of the wives are good cooks. They do it in rotation. Master Trent makes sure he has sufficient cooks among his pride to prepare decent meals. They have to be able to cope with specific diets for each wife as required by our dietician.”

“How do they do that?”

She showed me the bar code tattooed on the underpart of her left forearm. “The girl at the window scans this and it comes up on a screen. It tells her what to put on our tray.”

When we reached the window, I insisted Robin go first. She was scanned and given a bowl of mixed, sliced fruit, cooked broccoli and a three slices of broiled girl rump meat. I, as an honored male guest, was given a generous portion of sauteed girl breast, whipped potato seasoned with garlic and basil and my choice of vegetables, fruit and dessert. They obviously knew I was coming since the breast of girl was hot and perfectly cooked. The calf at the window was a striking beauty, dark and tawny like Robin. I asked about her when we reached a table Robin liked.

“Her name is Lynx. She's sixteen. Master Trent has been grooming her for a big showing at Atherton's Auction House in New York for prime brides. She should bring in a handsome profit.”

“Is he the sire?”

“Yes, out of Fox, a girl he bought at Atherton's seventeen years ago.”

“Is Fox still here?”

“No. Unfortunately, she developed breast cancer a few years ago. Master Trent had it taken out, but the doctor said it would spread, so he sold her for meat. It was really sad because she was so beautiful, just like Lynx.”

“That is sad. How old was she?”

“Thirty-four, thirty-five. Something like that.”

“Still fertile, then.”

“Oh yes.”

“I wonder why Trent didn't simply continue to breed her, especially if her calves were as beautiful as Lynx.”

“Master Trent doesn't mate with maimed females. He says it's a matter of principle. And studs won't, either. Master Trent says he had no choice. He had to send her to auction before the cancer popped up again, while she was still worth something as meat.”

“I see.” But I didn't. If Fox were as lovely as her daughter, I'd keep her around simply as a beautiful ornament. But then, I'm not the businessman Trent is. That's one of the reasons he's ideal for the Advisory Council. He's not distracted by sentimental arguments. In the end, the value of any female is what she can produce for profit, either via her womb or in the meat market.

As I was contemplating these truths, I happened to look up and see Shadow and Kitten smiling at me from the line at the window.

“Don't you dare,” Robin said.

I nearly dropped my fork. “What?!” I couldn't believe she'd said that.

“Don't you dare invite those two vixen to our room tonight. I want you all to myself tonight, Master Curt.”

Appalled, I said, “No female has ever given me an order. It's unheard of! I can't believe you did it.”

She dropped her eyes, pretending to be penitent. “Please forgive me, Master Curt. Or turn me in to Master Trent. He'll have me flogged, then caned, then stuffed into the cages for two weeks before selling me as meat. But it will be worth it for one night with you, having you all to myself.” She pouted and looked so pathetic (yet so incredibly desirable) that I couldn't help but forgive her. If any of my pride had committed such an offense I would have had them strung up and whipped, and left them hanging by their wrists overnight to consider the consequences of their insolence. But there was a quality to Robin's “don't you dare” that was irresistibly playful and sexually charged, as was her affected sorrow. “Please, Master Curt,” she whispered as the two girls drew near with their trays, “just us tonight. Please, please, please. You won't regret it, I promise.”

I sighed heavily. “I won't turn you in, but I may decide to punish you myself,” I warned.

She raised those magnificent eyes to mine and gave me a smile that made me instantly hard. “Whatever you choose to do to me I richly deserve. My body and heart are yours tonight, Master Curt.”

I hardly noticed the antics of Kitten and Shadow through the meal, although they tried their best to excite me. I was already overly excited by the extraordinary female next to me whose knee kept rubbing up against mine. The two younger girls sat opposite us chattering away with double entendres and saucy suggestions, but the beautiful and presumptuous woman on my right had captured me beyond their powers of temptation. I should have invited them to join us for the night just to spite Robin's cheeky demands on exclusivity, but the truth was that I craved only her that night. I couldn't let on, of course, so when we excused ourselves and left the disappointed horny duo behind and Robin led me to Trent's private reading room, I was prepared to upbraid her again.

She surprised me by standing before me with her hands at her sides and her head bowed, saying, “I was very bad at the dinner table and I'm really, really sorry, Master Curt. If you wish, I will take you to the Discipline Room and you may punish me severely in any way you wish, as I deserve.”

“Is that what you'd like?” I asked.

“No, Master Curt. I don't like pain. What I'd like is your forgiveness for my inexcusable behavior. But I will suffer whatever punishment you feel I should. I only beg that afterwards you'll let me find ways to please you in my own way. All through the night.” She kept her eyes cast down and spoke her words in such a fetchingly apologetic tone that I wanted to sweep her up and kiss her. But my sensible self (or maybe it's my cruel Doppelgänger) decided it would be best to teach her a lesson in proper etiquette before banging her.

“Yes,” I heard myself say. “Take me to the Discipline Room!”

“Certainly, Master Curt,” she said in that achingly submissive tone.”

In short order we found ourselves back in the Medieval torture chamber. Starling was still in the Glass Maiden, her cheeks glistening with tears.

“What do you wish to do to me, Master Curt?” Robin asked, assuming her wonderfully submissive pose: head bowed, eyes on the floor.

“Take off your clothes.”

“Yes, Master Curt.” She stripped naked and kicked everything aside.

“You admit you've been a bad girl, don't you?”

Robin's eyes flew up to mine, then dropped swiftly back. With that brief glance she realized I was not planning to hurt her seriously, that I was simply joining in her game. “Yes, Master Curt. Very bad.”

“I wish to string you up by your wrists.”

“Thank you, kind Master, for giving me the opportunity to suffer the consequences of my bad manners.”

She led me to a pair of padded cuffs at the end of ropes dangling from the overhead grid, and held out her wrists for me to attach them, keeping her eyes cast down in shame. I wrapped the cuffs around her wrists, secured them with their Velcro straps and traced the ropes through a set of pulleys to a cleat on the wall. Unwinding the ropes from the cleat, I pulled on them, raising first her arms, then her whole body until she was suspended off the floor by a few inches. I tied off the ropes on the cleat. She kept her head hung in humiliation.

“Are you ready for your punishment?” I asked, walking to the pegboard filled with torture implements.

“Yes, Master Curt. I was very bad. Please correct me.”

I surveyed the collection of whips, belts, canes, paddles, riding crops, cattle prods, nipple clamps, electric stims and other punitive tools. When she saw me place a hand on the bullwhip, her eyes widened and her confidence collapsed.

“Please, Master Curt,” she said in a voice edged with real fear, “please don't hurt me too much. I know what I said was terribly wrong, but I only said it because those two girls would have hogged you all night and I'd been looking forward all day to having you all to myself. I'm really, really sorry I offended you. Please have pity on me, sir. Please!”

Perhaps now that she was strung up and helpless she was regretting the trust she had shown earlier. “What about the girl in the Glass Maiden?” I asked, just to be mean. “Look how she's suffering. What pity did you show her?”

A look of abject guilt swept over her face, intensifying her fear. She looked so desperate I nearly laughed.

“I'll let her out!” she almost shouted. “I'll take her place. I'll do whatever you want! But please don't use the bullwhip on me, sir! Please Master Curt!”

I had no intention of using it, of course. I was merely impressing her with the power I had over her immediate fate, power she had placed in my hands when she offered up her wrists to the cuffs from which she now dangled.

“You don't like the bullwhip?”

“No, sir. It cuts and makes permanent scars. If Master Trent sees you've had to whip me, he'll send me to auction.”

“So you're telling me you don't really fear the pain?”

“Oh yes I do! I hate pain! But mostly it's that I'd hoped to live a few years longer. I really am sorry for what I said. I've never talked to a man like that before. I'd be ever so grateful to you, Master Curt, if it pleased you not to whip me with that, or hurt me too badly. I'd do whatever you want, all night long. Even things that make me cry and get sick.”

“You would, huh?”

“Anything at all! Please, sir!”

She looked up at me with those astonishing dark eyes and an expression so piteous that it was all I could do not to throw my arms around her and comfort her with soft words and kisses. I raised the bull whip, drew and snapped it forward. There was a loud crack and she screamed! Then realized it hadn't hit her.

“Anything at all, you said?”

“Yes, yes, yes! Please! Anything, and for as long as you want! I'll even ask Shadow and Kitten to join us and I won't complain if you fuck them all night and just use me for a toilet. Please! Please!”

Terror had now replaced all vestiges of playfulness. She was close to panic, writhing helplessly at the end of the ropes. I made a show of slowly coiling up the whip. I might have been preparing for an actual strike or to hang it up. She trembled, her eyes round with dread.

“Anything,” I mumbled as if contemplating the possibilities as I ambled over to the pegboard, hung up the bullwhip and plucked up a multi-tailed flogger, a whip used more for play than punishment. Her relief was so palpable I thought she might melt.

“I won't undermine your authority as Household Enforcer by freeing Starling and putting you in her place,” I said, “but you do deserve punishment for your unacceptable conduct, don't you?”

“Yes, Master Curt. Yes I do.” She lowered her eyes again, back into her role, reasonably confident that I did not intend to hurt her, her voice once again honied and seductive. “I'm deeply sorry for what I said. Please punish me, sir.”

Lining up on her left side to flog her — forehand to her backside, backhand to her front — I raised my whip hand once again. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips grimly together, hoping for a love tap but bracing for the worst. When it came, it was neither. I wielded the flogger hard enough to sting a little but not really hurt. She gasped at the shock of the blow, then opened her eyes and gave me a shy smile of approval. I continued to rain blows on her from all directions, walking round and round, whipping her rump, her belly, her thighs, her back, her breasts. I grabbed an ankle and pulled the leg up to expose her inner thighs and whipped them thoroughly, then whipped her cunt and nipples in a three-cornered flurry of blows. She writhed and squealed as her skin turned pink and then red under the assault of the flogger's many soft leather strips. But in truth, judging from the girl juice dribbling from her vaginal lips and the flickering smile that brightened her face, I think she could have endured her “punishment” happily all through the night.

Finally I stopped, not out of pity for her, but because my arm was tired and my hugely aroused southern zone was demanding a different kind of activity. As I stepped back, I was struck by the erotic sight of Robin's lovely form hanging limply, panting quietly from her body's involuntary reactions to the hundreds of whip blows. Moving to her, I ran my hands over the smooth, sweat-slicked shape of her, dwelling on the firm curves of her girl parts and the gentle swell of her tummy, rounded by carrying six of Trent's assets to term, with the possibility of a seventh underway. For some reason I couldn't resist touching my lips and tongue to that sweet belly. The taste of her moist skin was strangely exciting. I circled her, kissing and licking rings around her, enjoying the salty tang of her living flesh, thinking of the time, probably soon, when those shapely limbs, rumps and breasts would be carved into their various cuts and cooked. Curiously, the thought triggered an unexpected ache in my heart. I don't know why, but I was gripped by an illogical sorrow at the necessity of turning such a scintillating and beautiful woman into food. But all of us have moments of sentimental foolishness, I suppose.

Remembering her earlier suggestion that I taste her milk, I put my mouth over one of her hard nipples and began to suck. Sure enough, I began to draw a little milk. It was sweet and warm. I suckled it hungrily, then moved to the other tit and did the same. It was gloriously exciting and she moaned with pleasure as I sucked.

Knowing the pain in her shoulders must be considerable by now, I reluctantly gave up her teats and lowered her to the floor, removing the cuffs. She stood demurely, hands at her side, head bowed.

“Thank you for punishing me, Master Curt,” she said softly. “May I have your permission to ask if I'm forgiven?”

“You may and you are.” I kissed the top of her head.

“Oh THANK YOU, sir!” she shouted and leaped upon me, her arms wrapped around my neck, her legs around my waist, devouring my face with kisses and love nibbles. With her lips still lightly touching mine she asked, “May I show you to my quarters, now, Master Curt?” She wiggled her pussy against the lump in my pants.

“Immediately!” I said, afraid I was about to come. “But you'd better grab your sarong.”

“Why?” She teased, climbing down. “You can pull me around naked by my hair for all I care. I just want to please you.”

“You just want to fuck me.”

“God, YES!” She snatched up her sarong and wrapped it around her. Then lowering her chin and looking deferentially up at me through her dark lashes added, “Shall I ask Kitten and Shadow to join us, sir? I'm sure they will.”

I grinned back at her and traced the delicate shape of her left ear with one finger. “I'm sure they will, too. But tonight, sweet Robin, I believe I'll concentrate on just you.”

She pressed her breasts against me, cupped my face in her hands and drew me down for a long, probing kiss, through which she said, “Thank you, dear Master Curt. You won't regret it.”

And I didn't.

Although I almost didn't make it to her quarters because as we walked she persisted in caressing my swollen member through the fabric it was straining behind. “If you keep doing that,” I warned her, “I'll ejaculate before we get there.”

“If you feel yourself coming,” she answered, “let me know and I'll take it all in my mouth so you won't stain your pants.” The thought nearly put me over the edge.

Robin's “quarters” turned out to be a small room filled mostly with a large, frilly bed. Only the First Wife was accorded that much luxury. The remainder of the pride shared several large bunk rooms. Robin said Trent never visits her there, preferring to mate with his wives in the Seraglio where he can play with several at once. If it's evening, he then takes whoever strikes his fancy to his own luxurious suite for the rest of the night. Another practical advantage of that system is that he only fucks the wives who want it. Those who don't want sex stay out of the Seraglio until he's had his fun and selected his overnight partner. “I refuse to mate with wives who fuck only out of duty,” he told Robin once. “If I wanted to rape someone, I'd go to a slaughterhouse. Unhappy wives poison the whole pride.”

“And he never fucks deadwood wives who only do it out of duty,” she confided to me. “They have to hope they get knocked up by studs.”

Robin was about as distant from deadwood as it's possible to be! She had most of my clothes off before I could close the door behind us and was licking the end of my twitching member as she tore off my shoes and socks. “Uh-oh!” she said between licks. “I can taste your advance scouts. Hurry up!” She threw off her sarong, pushed me back on the bed and climbed atop, inserting me into her wet cave and plunging downward on the shaft just as a tremendous orgasm swept through me. She rode up and down furiously, head thrown back, keening with her own pleasure as I bucked up against her, emptying myself into her. When my own frantic spasms had stopped, she slowed down and tightened her envelope to milk my aftershocks, then slowly laid her body over me and placed her lips on mine for a long, languorous kiss.

“Forgive me, sir, for acting so aggressively,” she whispered, extending her kisses to my eyes and neck. “I'm very bad when I'm with you. I can't seem to help myself. I want you so much! Please punish me if you feel I deserve it.”

“Oh no you don't,” I murmured, countering her incessant kisses with my own. “You enjoy punishment too much.”

“Only when you do it, sweet sir.”

“You've got my number. You know I won't hurt you.”

“Do you know how rare that is in a man, these days?” she breathed in my ear before taking it into her mouth. She let it slide out between her lips. “I was really scared when you picked up the bullwhip. I was afraid I'd misjudged you. But you're a sweet and lovely man, just as I thought you were. Your pride is very, very, very lucky to have such a compassionate, forgiving and sexually irresistible Master. Please do with me tonight whatever you wish. Ask of me whatever you wish. I will not only be obedient, as is proper, but eager to please, because I want you so badly.”

The rest of the night brought little sleep, punctuated as it was with a quantity of unbridled and imaginative sex beyond anything I had imagined I was capable of performing. Before dawn arrived I had explored with hands, mouth and penis every inch of that lovely body, including all its delightful caverns, as she had done likewise with me. A few times we even left the room to try new positions in different places. One of those times I tied her to the rack in the Discipline Room, stretched her out just a little with her legs spread, whipped her into a sexual frenzy with the flogger, then climbed up on the rack and took her just as she started to come. It was a fantastic night!

In the morning at breakfast we discussed the day's agenda. We would tour the pride's bunk rooms, then the calves quarters.

“Officially they're supposed to be called the ‘Virgin Dorms,' but not all the calves are virgins, of course,” Robin said, sipping her allotted tomato juice.

“How does that happen?” I asked, as if I didn't know. I just wanted to hear her talk so I could enjoy the sweetness of her voice and the sensual way she moved her lips as she spoke.

“Oh, sometimes they sneak into one of the mating rooms where wives are entertaining guests or studs. The wives don't care as long as they get the first load of semen. Sometimes the studs sneak into the calves dorms, but the prettiest girls shun them if they're smart. Non-virgins are unlikely to be brides.”

Next on the tour was the Infirmary. “You'll see that Master Trent insists on a really clean and sterile environment. There are usually three or four births going on, and as many other wives miscarrying male embryos. That can be pretty messy.”

The Exercise Room would be next. “Master Trent demands we all keep in good shape, both calves and wives. Our exercise is individually designed to keep our bodies well shaped and our meat firm but not tough. Wives who have just dropped a calf have it the worst. They're required to get all their measurements down to the approved size within a month, or be put into a really grueling regimen. And if that doesn't do it, it's off to the auction block.”

“While we're here,” I said, “how about a look at your kitchen?”

“Certainly, Master Curt. Whatever you want is yours.”

Her smoldering look had me going again, but I forced myself to be businesslike. At least for now.

It happens that the kitchen crew was preparing a whole roast for my benefit as a special guest that evening and as we entered they were just bringing in the girl for slaughter. Her eyes were wide and terrified, which is pretty typical, but she offered no resistence or complaints as they led her to the slaughtering deck, a mark of good training. She was nicely shaped with an attractive face but somewhat thick. Not bride material but perfect as a whole roaster.

“Is she from this household?” I asked Robin.

“Yes. Her name is Rainbow. She's seventeen. Master Trent kept her around an extra year because she's been an especially effective nurse in the infirmary, but he selected her for this occasion in honor of your visit. She should be very tender and juicy.”

The crew had cuffed her ankles together, inserted the hook through the cuffs chain and hoisted her up until her head was at the level of our waists. Her arms were wired together behind her back, her dark blond hair already wrapped into a bun. As one of the girls on the crew slid the collection tub under the upside down girl, her eyes welled up and her lips began to tremble, but the chef approached quickly to put a merciful end to her terror with a quick slash across her throat. It took the girl about eight seconds to die. As soon the flow of blood slowed to a drip, the crew sliced open her belly and the gutting process began. A nice clean, humane slaughter. She would now be stuffed, spitted, basted and set to turn slowly over an open roasting pit for several hours before being presented whole at the banquet, still on the spit, to be carved and served.

After leading me through an inspection of the rest of the kitchen where veggies and fruits were being pared and chopped up for the evening extravaganza, and the cold storage rooms where quartered girls hung from hooks and various cuts of girl waited in trays to be sliced into smaller portions, Robin said she needed to check on Petal to see if she'd taken nourishment yet.

When we arrived at the cross in the exercise yard, Petal was hanging motionless and the guard was watching a palm TV. “Has she eaten anything, yet, Sequoia?” Robin asked the guard.

“Not since I been here,” the hefty guard replied, jumping to her feet.

Robin inspected the girl more closely, frowning. “How long have you been here?”

“About twenty minutes.”

Robin placed her hand on Petal's chest. Then her ear. Then felt for her pulse. “My God!” she said. “This girl is dead!” She turned on the guard in fury. “How could you not notice she's dead? Was she alive when you got here?”

The guard, suddenly afraid for her own life, turned pale. “She was just like that. Lake said she was sleeping. How was I to know?”

“How were you to know?! God Almighty! You could have checked! Get Lake and Echo! I want all three of you here in two minutes! Go! Master Curt, may I ask you to help me take her down?”

“Of course. But what's the problem? So she's dead. Butcher her and put her in cold storage with the rest of the meat.”

“I told you!” Robin shouted, obviously in a panic. “Master Trent made me personally responsible for seeing that she get to the auction alive and well.” She turned to me, chewing on a knuckle. “This is a disaster! I should have been down here checking on her last night! Those damn fools let her die!”

By the time we had removed the ropes and nails holding Petal to the cross and lowered her body to the ground, the three guards were running up to face their enraged and frightened boss.

“Echo!” she yelled. “When did you change watch?”

“At midnight, Mistress Robin,” the cringing guard answered.

“Was she alive? Did you check?”

“She was fine. Just bitching as usual.”

“Had she eaten or drunk anything?”

“No. She let it run out of her mouth. What could I do?”

Robin glared at her, then turned to the second guard. “Lake, how long were you on duty?”

“From midnight to eight, Mistress Robin. She was alive when I left.”

“How do you know?”

“She was moving, trying to get off the blade and groaning. And she wouldn't eat or drink for me, either.”

“So,” Robin said to Sequoia, her voice a dentist's drill, “Lake says Petal was moving and groaning. You just told me she was sleeping.”

“She's a liar!” the frightened guard shouted. “Lake's a fucking liar! Petal wasn't moving, she was just hanging there. And Lake told me she was sleeping.”

“That ain't true!” Lake screamed back. “Sequoia's the fucking liar! Petal was alive when I left at eight o'clock.”

“Take this carcass to the kitchen, you sorry bitches,” Robin screamed. “I'll deal with you later!”

The three guards picked up the dead girl and hustled her away, leaving Robin shaking with anger and dread. Tears began to flow down her cheeks.

“It can't be that bad,” I offered lamely. “Trent will understand.”

At that she burst into wracking sobs and collapsed to her knees. “He'll understand, all right,” she managed to say. “He'll understand that someone has to take her place on the auction block, and that someone is me.”

I knelt down and put my arms around her, trying to console her, trying to assure her that Trent would not do that to her.

There was no way to tell which of the two guards was lying, Lake or Sequoia. Another Household Enforcer might torture them both until one confessed, but Robin knew that that's no solution. The only thing it would prove is that one girl can stand more pain than the other. So Robin merely ordered them whipped, fifty strokes each with the bull whip, and put in the cages for two weeks.

Then, like the honorable wife she was, she called Trent and told him what happened. As she had predicted, he affirmed that she was personally responsible for costing him the loss of a valuable piece of property and ordered her to take Petal's place at the auction. He further ordered her to inform Kitten that she was now officially First Wife and Household Enforcer. He gave Robin the choice of being arrested by Security or turning herself in to Shipping and Receiving. Robin chose the latter.

Part 9

The phone call left Robin emotionally devastated. She spent the better part of an hour weeping quietly on my chest until she could pull herself together enough to carry out her orders. For me the worst part was that I couldn't offer any real comfort. I couldn't criticize Trent because as her owner he had every right to hold her accountable for her mistake and sell her as punishment. It would be Saturday before I could speak to him in person and try to talk him into a less harsh penalty, but by then Robin would be chained in the auction house holding pen awaiting her turn on the block and it would be too late to recall her. All I could do now was hold her and commiserate. Hardly adequate for a bright young woman facing death.

Finally she summoned the strength to find Kitten and deliver the news. It was as though she were an entirely different person, calmly reminding Kitten of her various new responsibilities, including attending to the unfortunate Starling still sandwiched in nails and the two guards waiting to be whipped and caged. Kitten was none too thrilled at the promotion. In the first place she and Robin were close friends (in spite of Kitten's fondness for teasing her about her age). More telling, this demonstration of the sudden and lethal consequences of slipping up made the acquisition of power and responsibility as a female far less appealing. They hugged each other and exchanged the traditional farewell kisses that females do when one of them goes to auction.

In spite of her protests, I insisted on accompanying Robin to the Shipping and Receiving Department where she would be prepared for shipment. She held my hand tightly as we walked. Once there, however, she begged me not to go in with her to witness her humiliation. She also pleaded with me not to attend her auction to see her final degradation, but I made no such promise. It was hard enough to leave her at the S&R door with a long parting kiss, but in deference to her deep sense of shame I did so.

I knew what she would be going through, having seen it often enough. Because she had turned herself in without complaint, she would be accorded the dignity of undressing herself, taking her own shower and administering her own enema. She would even be allowed to attach her own ankle chains in the holding pen. The Shipping and Receiving staff are all wives and calves themselves. I knew they would treat Robin as they want to be treated when it's their turn (which for some would be soon).

That night was the most miserable of my life. Shadow and Kitten tried to cheer me up, but even those two sex machines couldn't lift me out my funk. I have never been so deeply affected by the impending loss of a female. It defies logic. All females are meat; it's just a matter of when they'll be utilized. Yet the thought of Robin being slaughtered and butchered was the heaviest weight I have ever borne.

Saturday morning I watched Robin and three calves being loaded into the S&R van for shipment, being careful that she didn't see me. I followed the van in my own vehicle to the auction house and again watched surreptitiously as the four females were herded from the van into the holding pen there. It was a major auction house and there were at least three hundred females — calves and cast-off wives — all naked and chained to the parallel rails. Robin's group was led into the tagging office to be identified, checked in, examined for any unspecified damage and assigned an auction number which would be written on their left breasts with a black marker. They would then be returned to the pen where they would be placed in line according to their position in the auction.

As soon as she disappeared from sight, I went in search of Trent. It wasn't easy. A number of owners, including Trent, had entered girls in a preview for an upcoming bride auction. These were calves less than a month from turning sixteen. A couple of dozen rooms had been set aside for the showings and were crowded with men either hawking their stock or looking to replenish or expand their prides. These previews are an opportunity for an up-close, hands-on examination of the merchandise, which is a sensible precaution when you're buying the higher priced models. Trent, however, was not in any of the rooms. Hoping he was not circling through the rooms ahead of me, I decided to check out the bar. There he was, busy dickering with another owner over the price of a busty black girl named Tanna. I strolled up near his table where he could see me.

“Hey, Curt!” he called out. “Thought you were back at the ranch wetting your baton in my collection.”

“Was. Decided to come to the auction,” I said.

“Good enough! Looking for an upscale bride?”

“Actually, I'm looking for a bargain bride.”

Trent cocked an eyebrow. “Really? Out amongst the meat, you mean?”

“Exactly.”

“Why? Good Lord, man, I've seen your pride. You've got some beauties there. Why would you want to add dead weight? Or,” he winked at his trading companion, “have you got some kink I haven't heard about that calls for disposable cunt?” He and the other man laughed at the notion.

“No,” I chuckled, trying to keep things affable. “Nothing kinky. There's a particular female who strikes my fancy.”

“A meat calf?”

“No. An ex-wife.”

“Ah. You like used quim, do you?”

“This one is special. You know her.”

Now Trent raised both eyebrows. “I do?”

“Yup. Her name is Robin.”

He stared at me blankly for a moment. “My Robin?”

“That's the one.”

“I'll be damned.” He grew a broad smile. “She must have given you a real good time these last few days!” Then his smile drooped. “Too bad she got so sloppy with Petal. Robin was always so dependable. It broke my heart to have to sell her, but First Wives have to set an example. Petal was first quality meat and would have fetched a nice profit. Robin should have paid more attention to her duty. Say, it wasn't you distracted her, was it?” He smiled conspiratorially. Just between us men.

“I'm afraid it was. She spent the whole night with me.”

Trent guffawed as if that were the funniest thing he had ever heard. “I'll be damned! So now you want to save her by buying her.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, my man, she's one fine piece of cunt, I'll give you that. And you don't mind her being used and a bit long in the tooth?”

“Not in the least. It makes her more interesting.”

His eyebrows shot up even higher, then settled down to join the corners of his smile. “Well, I'm damned pleased for you, old friend. I hated to think of sweet little Robin hanging from the slaughtering track at some meat factory.” He checked his watch and glanced up at the tote board on the wall behind the bar. “Robin is number twenty-seven in the lineup and they've just started. She should be up in about an hour.”

“That soon!”

“Oh yeah. I make arrangements early to get a good position. Course, it was supposed to be Petal, not Robin.”

“Jesus!” I said. “I can't make financial arrangements in an hour, especially on Saturday. How much do you think she'll go for?”

“Oh, I'd guess two or three thousand. She's twenty-nine years old. Not exactly prime meat.”

“Do they take plastic here?”

“You know better than that, Curt. Auction houses are cash only.”

“God! What am I gonna do? I spent most of my liquid assets on a new bride from Carter House just last month. It's a little late to move money around.”

“How much cash can you put down?”

“Three thousand.”

“Well, let's hope that does it. I'd much prefer you gave her a home than have some slaughterhouse pick her up. In the meantime, have a drink. Have you ever tried this Kingfisher beer? It's brewed in India. Smooth as hell.”

Waiting out the next hour was hell. With a quarter hour to go I bolted for the holding pens. There was Robin chained to the second rail over, the number “27" written on her left breast. It took her bright eyes about two seconds to find me and lock on mine with a mixture of pleasure and horror. She turned away just as quickly, too ashamed of her condition to face me. I ached to assure her I was there to try to save her, but she wouldn't look at me. When she was one girl shy of being led up to the auction block, I went into the hall and signed out a bidding paddle.

A young girl with light brown hair and hazel eyes had just been led out on to the stage by a chain locked around her neck. Her ankles were shackled together, forcing her to shuffle a little and clank a lot, but her hands were free. Her handler led her in a circle so the bidders could see her from all angles.

An amplified anonymous voice said, “This is number twenty-six, gentlemen, and a fine specimen of girl flesh. She's sixteen, five foot five, and one hundred-twenty-eight pounds of lean, tender meat. Clean. Virginal. No bruises. 34-B tits. She was bred at Scotia Farms and comes guaranteed. Minimum bid is two-thousand dollars. Do I hear three-thousand?”

A paddle went up.

“Three thousand to the gentleman in the black hat. Do I hear thirty-one hundred?”

The bidding went on briefly and stopped at four-thousand three hundred dollars. I recognized the winning bidder. He works for the Merek Corporation. They sell everything from whole roasters to pre-cooked sausage under separate brand names. Their purchase was led off through a door at the left side of the stage.

The door on the right opened and another handler strode in with Robin at the end of her chain. Even stripped of all cosmetics and with her hair bound up for slaughtering (some meat packers process their purchases almost immediately to avoid feeding costs) she was a breathtaking beauty. I could hear crude comments circulating through the crowd around me speculating on what they could do with her in the way of getting extra value before cutting her throat.

“Number twenty-seven is a special value, gentlemen,” the announcer boomed, as if echoing their murmurs. “She's twenty-nine but, as you can see, don't look her age. She's perfectly formed and a real looker at five-three and one-hundred-fifteen pounds. She's perfect for whole roasting. And this here ain't no ordinary dim-witted calf; she's a trained and experienced enforcer. So if any of you gentlemen are getting grief from your pride and calves, this little charmer will get ‘em in line fast. Or if you have a playroom down in your cellar and enjoy scenes featuring a ravishing domme in latex, here's your chance to snap up a first rate bitch. She's real fertile, too, and got several years left as a breeder, after which she'll still make a gorgeous whole boiler. She's a product of the Hamilton Estate, so you know you can expect top quality. We'll start the bidding at two thousand. Do I hear two thousand?”

A flag went up in the rear. One of the meat packers. Two thousand would be a good value for them, too, even for 29 year old meat.

“Two there in the back. Do I hear three? This piece is more than meat, gentlemen. This lovely little plaything would be a perfect addition to a starter pride. Give your boy a real hot contrast to them bashful virgins! And a year from now she'll still be worth three as a down payment on fresh pussy. She's a win-win opportunity for any young man.”

Four paddles were up, including mine. One of the other three I recognized as a buyer for a meat company. The other two were strangers. That could be bad news. Best case: they might be guys doing what the auctioneer had suggested — looking for a cheap bride for themselves or an adolescent son. On the other hand: they could be fishing for an affordable whole roaster pretty enough for an outdoor barbeque. Worst case: they might be looking for an attractive female on the cheap for a live roast. Yes, live roasts are illegal, but the reality is that they aren't hard to find. As long as there's a flourishing demand for watching beautiful girls impaled on a spit and cooked alive, or put into a cauldron and boiled alive, there will always be men willing to supply them. In all honesty, I have to admit I attended a live roast once, years ago. Judging from what I saw, Robin, with her flawless tawny skin, pretty face and luscious figure, her elegantly tapered limbs and voluptuous breasts, would make perfect live meat. I am not, however, one who enjoys watching females in extreme agony and the thought of it happening to Robin made my stomach knot.

“Four bidders at three thousand. We got us a tie here, folks. Let's up the ante to four thousand. Who's in for four?”

The meat agent dropped his paddle. A twenty-eight year old is not worth four large to meat packers. His absence from the bidding, however was little comfort considering who the others might be.

“Five!” shouted the auctioneer. “This lovely morsel is well worth five, gentlemen.” All three paddles remained up. “Who'll go to six?”

One more paddle came down. Just two of us now. I glanced up at Robin on the stage. She had recognized me. Tears were pooling in her eyes. I had come to rescue her! I was her last hope. O God, I couldn't let her down!

“Seven! Do I hear seven?”

This was it! Six was my limit. It was all I had. If that other guy stayed in, Robin was gone. I couldn't look at her as I slowly lowered my arm. The other paddle remained up. I felt nauseated.

A hand landed on my shoulder. “Don't quit now, old friend, not if you want to save her.” It was Trent. “That's Andy Hartwig over there. He's not looking for a cut-rate bride. He's a caterer. Specializes in live roasts. He's looking for beautiful meat.”

“Jesus! I'm out! I've run out of funds.”

“No you haven't. You've got assets, haven't you? Fifteen year olds?”

“Yes, but there's no time to . . .”

The auctioneer's voice boomed out of the speakers. “I've got a bid for seven thousand from the gentleman in the red shirt. Do I hear eight?”

“I'll buy one of them,” Trent said. “Two thousand. Deal?”

“Sight unseen?”

“Sight unseen. Your choice of stock.”

“Deal!” I yelled, and shoved my paddle back up.

“I see we have one of the previous bidders back at eight thousand,” crowed the auctioneer. “Who'll go to nine?”

Both our paddles remained up.

“Ten?”

I sagged and dropped mine again.

Immediately Trent was in my ear. “You got another female or two, old friend?”

“Yes! Of course I do!” I spat desperately. Who would you like?”

Meanwhile, the auctioneer had tasted blood. “All right, gentlemen, let's cut to the chase. We've got a specimen here who's beautiful and sexy enough for the movies. A star for both bed and barbecue. Who's the lucky man who'll bid eleven thousand?”

“I want your best and prettiest,” Trent said. “Two thousand, and I get to chose her.”

Hartwig's paddle went up again, this time a bit more reluctantly.

The auctioneer pounced. “The gentleman in red bids eleven thousand!” He looked pointedly at me. “Going for eleven thousand.”

“Deal?” Trent asked urgently.

“Deal!” I gasped.

“Going . . .” The auctioneer's hammer rose.

“Then get your damned paddle up!”

“Twelve thousand!” I yelled, waving my paddle madly. I looked across anxiously at Hartwig. For one horrible, silent moment there was no movement, then his paddle came down. There was no way he could make a profit if the meat cost him twelve thousand. I nearly collapsed with relief and finally had the nerve to look up at Robin again. Her face had frozen into a suspended mix of terror and hope, unsure of whether it was over.

“SOLD to the gentleman with paddle number twenty-one,” announced the auctioneer with a definitive bang of the gavel, pointing me out to the collection agent.

Robin's tears were flowing as her handler led her off stage to the left. The look of happy gratitude and relief she threw back at me as she shuffled away in her leg irons made my own heart leap.

Trent and I settled up with the agent and I was given a receipt to collect my purchase.

“I'll be around next week to collect my merchandise,” he told me. “Remember, the best and the prettiest.”

“Whoever you choose, she's yours,” I assured him. “And I can't begin to thank you enough.”

“Happy to steal your finest assets anytime, old friend,” he laughed. “You just take care of that little beauty you just bought. She's got several good years left, and, frankly, she's worth more than mere money. This would have been a dark day for me. Now I can sell off my other girls and have a good night's sleep.”

“Thank you, again, Trent,” I said. “I plan to take excellent care of her. And maybe you can get that free-spending caterer over there to go after one of your other girls.”

“The thought had not escaped me,” he said with a smile. “I believe I'll mention to him. Jasmine in particular has just the body he needs to decorate a spit — buxom and beautifully shaped. And at sixteen her meat will be a lot more tender than Robin's would have been. She's also a mouthy little cunt, so if it happens that Andy is stocking up for one of his underground clients, it would be a suitable end for her. The beauty of it is, he always severs their vocal cords first thing so they don't sass any of the folks who've come to eat them, or disturb the neighborhood with their screams when they're gutted and cooked. She's up next, by the way. You'll see what I mean.” He started to turn, then stopped with an afterthought. “Oh, if you don't mind a little friendly advice from Robin's ex-owner, don't make her your Household Enforcer. She's too soft hearted. Put her in charge of the nursery or something. And I hope your joy stick's got a hell of a lot of stamina, or you plan to rent her out to studs, because she's one inexhaustible sex puppy.”

“Don't worry,” I said with a wink, “I'm prepared to deal with her sex drive, one way or another.”

He grinned and slapped me on the shoulder. “I'll bet your are, old friend! I'll bet you are. See you next week.” He headed off toward Andy Hartwig just as the girl Jasmine was led out on to the stage. She was somewhat plain of face — a poor comparison to Robin's exquisite loveliness — but was otherwise as Trent had described: richly endowed with firm D-size young breasts, flat tummy and a waist so narrow she might have been the product of corset training (but not likely, since she had been raised as meat). Her arms and legs were not as slim as Robin's but were pleasingly shaped and would provide, along with her breasts and nicely rounded rump, a good amount of tender young meat. Her defiant look would soon disappear, I thought, if Andy Hartwig bought her. But I didn't hang around to find out.

I rushed out to the acquisitions dock where a tough looking female had a tight grip on Robin's chain (as if she could run away in those leg irons). “Where would you like her loaded, sir?” the woman asked.

“You many remove the shackles and chain,” I told her. “I've purchased her as a bride.”

The woman's eyebrows shot up. A twenty-nine year old bride was as rare as hummingbird's fin. But she knew better than comment. Robin was so excited she could barely stand still long enough for the ankle cuffs to come off. The instant she was free she lunged toward me, stopped short and dropped to her knees and bowed her head, tears still running down her face.

“Thank you, Master Curt! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She bent down and began kissing the tops of my shoes.

“Oh for heaven's sake, stand up,” I said putting my hands in her arm pits and raising her to her feet (taking the opportunity to slide my thumbs over the prominent nubs of her nipples). I leaned down and kissed the number “27" on her breast. “You're mine now, Number Twenty-seven. All mine. I own you free and clear. Well, almost clear.”

She was trembling with eagerness to climb all over me, but I held her off. Then she did a classic double-take. “What do you mean almost?” Belatedly remembering to add, “. . . Master Curt.”

“I ran out of funds at six thousand dollars. Trent helped me out.”

“He gave you money?”

“He bought two of my girls for two thousand each.”

“Which ones?”

“One is my choice, the other is his.”

“He can chose anyone he wants?”

“That's right. That was the deal.”

“Do you have any idea who he'll choose?”

“Of course. Snowflake.”

“Snowflake. I remember her. She's gorgeous! My God! You sold him Snowflake for just two thousand dollars? She's prime bride! And she must be close to sixteen.”

“Sixteen next month.”

“O my God! She must be worth fifty, sixty thousand!”

“At least.”

“And you sold her for two?”

“No. I traded her for your life. And I'd do it again with ten others.”

That stopped her cold. She stood and stared at me as if shell shocked, her mouth slightly open, letting me drown in her fantastic eyes. “Oh Master Curt,” she said, moving slowly toward me, up against me, draping her arms over my shoulders, laying her head on my chest. When she pulled back again, she kept her hands behind my neck as though afraid I might escape. Her cheeks were wet with new tears, her expression a poignant picture of joy tempered by guilt. “Oh Master Curt,” she repeated, “I promise you I will do everything in my power to make sure you never regret this. I will try with every fibre of my being to make you happy, for as long as you allow me to live. I will happily accept anything it pleases you to do to me, no matter how terrible or painful, so long as it makes you happy. I will . . .”

“I will not require you to suffer pain,” I said softly. “Having saved you from a live roasting, do you think I would inflict pain on you?”

“What do you mean?”

“Andy Hartwig, the man who was bidding for you, caters parties that feature girls roasted alive.”

“No he doesn't.”

“Trent told me.”

“We've . . . I mean, Master Trent has dealt with Master Andy for years. He caters whole roasts, but he slaughters the girls humanely. I've been to several of his roasts.”

“But Trent said . . . .” Suddenly the light dawned. “I'll be damned. The old fox was goading me into bidding higher to save you. Or maybe to sell my best girl on the cheap to save you. Either way, it worked. And I'm grateful to him. I not only saved you, I have you as my own.”

Pleasure swept away all the guilt and doubt from Robin's face. Her lips, wet by her tears of happiness, were swiftly feeding upon mine. She broke off long enough to say, “I'm yours, my lovely darling sir, for as long as it pleases you to keep me. And if I ever fail to give you pleasure, dear Master, I beg you to punish me severely, up to and including selling me as a live roaster.”

“I plan to keep you,” I said around her rabid kisses, “exactly twenty years, unless your former Master is able to convince the President to change the law so that especially deserving and beautiful females can be allowed to live as long as their Masters desire their presence.”

“In that case,” she said, rubbing her extraordinary and still naked body against me and shoving her right hand rudely down inside my pants, “I shall redouble my efforts every year during these next twenty years, and maybe more, to make you the happiest man on earth!”

“Because you want to live to be eighty?”

“No, my darling Master. Because I love you. I know it sounds incredibly out of date, but I love you. I love you so much that I want to give you as much pleasure as it's possible for a human female to give before it's time to honor you with my meat, even if you have to boil me for hours to make me edible.”

Summary

So, Jason, you see why I'm so high on Trent Hamilton as the next appointee to the President's Advisory Council. Here's a man whois an exemplary blend of tough-minded businessman, no-nonsense Head of Household, compassionate Master and true friend.

He could have ignored my efforts to purchase Robin. He could simply have let her go to her punishment as a roast for one of Andy Hartwig's clients. By now she would have been cooked, eaten and forgotten by everyone except me. But he sympathized with my emotional affliction and did not simply dismiss it, as most men would, as a foolish and unhealthy throwback to the bad old days when men ignored the laws of nature by concentrating most of their affection on one female. Instead he responded to my agony and provided me with a way to buy her and keep her around for my own use.

Robin is convinced he took advantage of me (for which, she says, she loves me all the more). And, of course, the possibility had not eluded my own thoughts. In fact, when he came to pick up the two girls, I asked him straight out if he'd set the whole thing up with Andy Hartwig. He just laughed and said, “You'll never know, will you?” And he's right. I'll never know because it doesn't matter. We both got what we wanted. He got prime virgin pussy at a bargain price (which he has since sold for an obscene profit), and I got a female who sets me afire every time she comes close and has turned into the best damned Fitness Coordinator I've ever had.

In fact, since Robin has been in charge of diet and exercise for the females in my household, there's been a marked improvement in their body shapes, muscle tone and the quality of their meat. She convinced me to add fifteen new bargain brides to my pride and brought in top studs to impregnate them, so now I've got a rapidly expanding new crop of calves which she promises will be worth a fortune at my retirement.

The most amazing thing she's done is to work with the Education Coordinator to establish a whole new attitude among the females. There's now a 24-7 emphasis on instilling in each girl pride in her destiny, giving her joy in the knowledge that the highest and noblest calling of any female is to offer her body up to feed her fellow humans. To this end she has instituted the tradition of a gala congratulatory party (i.e. orgy) for every girl about to be sent to auction. As an extra incentive, any girl who volunteers herself for the next meat auction gets her own private suite for a full week, plus a daily massage, exemption from all chores, first crack at all the visiting boys and the right to plan all her meals for the week. It's working! These days the fifteen-year-olds can hardly wait to volunteer. They actually come to me and ask when's the next auction they can volunteer for!

Incidentally, in case you're wondering: Robin was pregnant with a boy, but the embryo miscarried, as most do. However, Trent tells me Shadow is about to deliver twins, and one of them is a boy (which practically guarantees her at least ten more years before she's sold for meat), and Kitten has earned a fearsome reputation in his household as the Enforcer from hell. In fact, she's having so much fun in the Punishment Room, he's afraid one day soon she'll go too far with some unlucky female and wind up on the auction block the way Robin did. If Andy H. happens to be there looking for a good buy (and Trent insists Andy really does cater to the live roasting market), I'm afraid poor Kitten's conversion to meat will not be a happy one. I'd also guess the chances of a love-besotted Romeo being on hand to save her are pretty slim.

But all this is human interest drivel. The important and critical thing here is that you sit down at your computer at once and fire off to the President a resounding endorsement of Trent Hamilton as his best choice for the Advisory Council before . . . .

Oh shit. Robin just came into the room wearing that incredibly sexy over-the- shoulder wrap that drives me wild. And she's got something in her hand. I hope it isn't . . . yes it is. It's my favorite toy. She's come up behind my chair. Now she's nibbling on my neck and right ear lobe. There's no way I can resist this, and she knows it. She's already undone my belt and her fingers are well on their way to discovering the success of her strategy. She's whispering in my ear, calling me her sweet, handsome Master and begging me to punish her for her impertinence so she can prove how much she loves me. She's opening my shirt now and kissing her way down my chest. I know where this is going and my rod is already up and waiting, ready to render the “punishment” she wants and so richly deserves. Call me old-fashioned and senile, but God! how I love her!

Gotta go now!

Your friend: Curt