In a society where mass slavery has persisted into the 21st Century, a prostitute-slave named Sara endures pain, humiliation and casual exploitation in the service of a Las Vegas casino.
In a society that otherwise resembles our own, mass slavery has persisted into the 21st Century. It is a common and accepted feature of public and private life. Males and females of all ethnic backgrounds are held thrall, without status or legal rights. They are quite literally living property, and may be bought, sold and used for any purpose, including: hard labor, breeding, menial work and sexual servitude.
This series of stories, which is not presented in any particular order, explores the daily life of a prostitute-slave named Sara. Purchased at auction by a Las Vegas casino, she is tasked with fulfilling the sexual urges of its clientèle, who pay for her favors along with room service and Wi-Fi access. Subject to their every whim, she has known both anguish and delight, but most often casual exploitation.
When she is not engaged by a guest, Sara must contend with capricious and underpaid corporate overseers and occasionally vicious slave stable politics.
After her shower, the dom at the dispatch counter directed Sara to one of the overseer's shared offices – number four. Inside, House Mistress Cruz was waiting behind a battered desk.
“Close the door,” she said.
“You put out for the house masters, don't you?” the overseer asked.
Sara did not answer. She put out – like every other slut in the stable – but she knew that the house masters themselves were technically breaking the rules by taking liberties. It was an open secret that none of the slaves ever spoke about, except among themselves. There was nothing to be gained by making trouble for a man who could send you to hell with a few keystrokes.
“You're not in trouble, Sara. We both know that you do, so just tell me the truth,” Cruz said.
“Yes, Mistress,” the slave replied.
“Good,” said Cruz. “It's important that we be able to trust each other.”
Sara felt a tremor of fear stirring in her gut. She did not understand the purpose of this conversation and, for a slave, uncertainty is the worst kind of danger.
“Since you service house masters, you will also service a house mistress – right?” Cruz asked.
“Yes, mistress,” said Sara, relieved to know the overseer's intentions.
However, that relief brought with it a vague sense of distaste. In spite of the rigorous training, the cruel mind games and the constant manipulation with drugs, Sara had never really felt anything but disgust at the thought of pleasuring a woman.
“Okay, then,” said Cruz, sounding relieved herself. “Dress off. Thong off. Everything else stays where it is.”
The slave quickly slid out of her dress and released the hooks that held her skimpy panties tight across her hips, leaving her black garter belt, stockings, high-heeled shoes and bra in place. Apart from the fact that house masters always wanted to see her breasts, this was quick becoming a typical encounter – an “inspection” that would end up with Sara on her knees or bent over the desk after a few minutes.
“Lean back against the desk and spread,” Cruz said.
Again, Sara obeyed. Then, Cruz knelt down in front of her, putting her face only inches from Sara's vulva. Fear sprang up inside the slave – this was completely unexpected. She felt intensely vulnerable and fought back the urge to close her legs.
Cruz stuck out her tongue and drew it up along Sara's labia, finishing with a swirl around her clitoris. Sara froze, concentrating on her breathing to hold back the fear. The thing that was happening to her felt unreal. She did not know what to do.
The overseer continued, licking the slave up and down with growing intensity. Then, she paused.
“Say, ‘Eat me,’” she said, looking up at Sara.
“Eat Sara,” the slave responded automatically.
Cruz caught one of the soft, wet folds of Sara's labia between her thumbnail and the tip of her forefinger – then squeezed. Sara winced, and looked down at her.
“Say, ‘Eat me,’” Cruz repeated.
“Eat... me,” Sara replied, forcing the unfamiliar word out past her lips.
Cruz resumed while the slave looked on, astonished.
“Make me do it,” the overseer said after another minute.
“Make me do it,” the overseer said again, taking the slave's hand and putting it on the back of her head.
Sara pushed the overseer's face back down between her legs and felt her start licking and sucking again. She continued to watch silently.
Pausing again, Cruz said, “Enjoy yourself.”
The slave's bewilderment yielded to a new understanding: she was playing out a scenario for the house mistress – that she herself was the “mistress” and the overseer kneeling in front of her was the “slave.” Sara had never even conceived of such a scenario, but at least she understood how to make this experience end.
Pushing the overseer's mouth down onto her clit, the slave feigned a sigh of pleasure and then fell into a familiar pattern of moans and gasps as she pretended to build towards orgasm. A few minutes later, she was crying out in mock ecstasy, her back arched, her tits jutting out. Then, she shuttered and trembled through her well-rehearsed finale.
Afterward, Cruz got back to her feet, wiping her mouth with a square of white fabric.
“That was pretty good for the first time, Sara,” she said. “As part of your lesbian conversion program, you learned how to actually get off with a woman, didn't you?”
“Yes, Mistress,” said Sara, embarrassed that her performance had been so easily detected.
“That is something you will need to do better next time,” said Cruz. “Even if you don't cum, I want to feel some real heat.”
“Yes, Mistress,” Sara nodded.
The truth was that she had felt nothing at all. The situation had come as such a bizarre shock that she only wanted it to end quickly – the possibility of taking any pleasure in it had never even occurred to her.
“Also, I want you to think about your experiences with guests. You must get worked pretty hard sometimes – maybe even by women. I want you to use some of those experiences next time. Make it like it is when you have kind of a rough night, understand?” asked Cruz.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Sara.
Cruz continued, “Obviously, you're not to talk about this to anyone about this, or even any of the other sluts in the stable. You're all damn little gossips, and I'm not going to have this getting around.
“If you give me what I need, I'm going to do nice things for you – good performance reviews, advanced training, maybe even less pills.”
“Thank you, Mistress,” said Sara.
With that, the overseer straightened her uniform, stepped behind the desk and sat down.
“You may dress yourself, Sara,” she said.
“Thank you, Mistress,” said the slave.
Standing under the shower, Sara was numb – unable to understand what she had just experienced. She wondered if maybe it could have been a dream, but as the reality of the situation settled in on her, she became afraid. What if this was some kind of test? What would be the correct choice? Tell another house master about what happened? Will herself to a genuine sexual response?
And if it was a test, did she want to pass it? Would taking real pleasure from an encounter like that confirm the lesbian conversion program was a success, and condemn her to servicing only women?
Sara considered every possibility as she dried off, dressed, applied her cosmetics and reported to the dispatch desk to be escorted up to a guest room for the night.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, ready slip down into the kneeling slave girl posture at the sound of a key in the door, a new possibility occurred to her: she could do as she was told. The next time the house mistress knelt down in front of her, she could close her eyes, imagine a well-trained, cut young buck eating her out and drink in the pleasure.
She felt a stirring between her legs as she considered the possibility: actual pleasure, even an orgasm, with her in complete control. Not only had she been given permission to indulge herself – she had been ordered to do it.
By the time the guest lifted her dress and slipped his hand under her thong, she was embarrassingly wet. He was delighted. It was a good night.
Three days later, Sara again found herself leaning back against the edge of the desk, her legs spread wide. House Mistress Cruz was on her knees, licking the slave's sex. Sara's first impulse was to deliver another theatrical orgasm, but the overseer was not as easy to trick as a testosterone-charged college athlete or a traveling businessman who wanted something he had seen in a porno that his wife wouldn't do for him.
For a moment, she ignored the tongue moving up and down her labia and teasing her clit. In her mind, she summoned up a buck to be her plaything. She imagined his short blond hair, his pretty blue eyes, his smile, his powerful arms and legs, his broad chest and his flat, firm tummy.
She could feel his breath as he leaned in close, stretching out his tongue to caress her vulva. She put her hands on the back of his head, pushing him down into her sex. He was well trained. He knew what she needed, and he gave it to her – anxious to feel her twitch, to know that she was satisfied.
In her imagining, her gaze traveled down between his legs. His thick cock strained upward, hungry for stimulation – her mouth, her vagina, her ass, even her hand – but she had already decided its fate: it would starve to death and fall flaccid once she had taken her pleasure from him.
She had seen more cocks than she could count in her short life, and she had worked each one of them to orgasm, pumped them or been pumped by them until they sprayed their hot, bitter loads down her throat, onto her face and her breasts, or up into her guts or her barren womb. She had pleasured every single cock she had ever seen – but not this one.
This young buck would get her off, and then he would look up at her, his face wet with her juices. He would thank her for giving him the opportunity to service her and then he would leave, his big cock sagging and unsatisfied.
“Eat it, bitch,” Sara gasped, grinding her hips against the overseer's face.
The kneeling woman tried to speak, but Sara kept her head pressed down firmly between her legs.
“Eat it! Eat Sara! Make her cum on your face!”
The overseer tongued her clit, until Sara felt a powerful, shuddering orgasm overtake her. She cried out, holding the woman's head like a vise. Then, it was done. Sara collapsed onto the desk, and House Mistress Cruz fell back onto the floor, coughing.
When they had both recovered, Sara began to gather up her clothes and Cruz dropped heavily into the worn chair behind the desk, wiping her face.
“That was an acceptable performance, Sara,” she croaked.
“Thank you, Mistress,” the slave answered, eyes low.
“However, next time I expect you to speak properly – not slavish. Do you understand?”
“When you’re finished getting dressed, you are dismissed.”
“Thank you, Mistress.”
Sara spent the next several days attempting to teach herself standard speech, not the self-effacing language of slaves. At first, she thought it would simply be a matter of replacing her name with “me.” That worked in a few instances – “Make me cum” – but not others: “Me wants you to pleasure me.” She sounded foolish to herself, especially when she spoke the words out loud to see how they felt in her mouth.
During that time, House Mistress Cruz made good on one of her promises: a pill disappeared from the slave’s daily dose of psychotropic drugs. Sara felt more alert and, to her delight, she was better able to concentrate and remember.
She began listening closely to the house masters and the guests that she serviced, trying to puzzle out the rules. One morning, fresh from the shower, she started a conversation with House Master Jessup, just to listen to how he spoke.
So intent was she on her study of language that she failed to consider how the acne-scarred, greasy-haired house master would react to her interest. Ten minutes later, she was kneeling in front of him, her lips sliding up and down his short cock, which tasted bitterly of urine.
“I want to see it, before you swallow it down,” he told her.
After he grunted out his seed, she pulled back, looking up at him for approval. Her jaw hung open, so he could see his own thick, milky cream pooling on her tongue. This was one of the most humiliating displays that she was required to perform.
“That's good, bitch – real good,” he said. “Now, make it disappear.”
She closed her mouth and tried to get it all down in one gulp. When she was done, she opened her mouth again to show him.
“Fucking awesome,” he said. “I wish I could get my girlfriend to do that. She doesn't even like to blow me. What a fucking cunt.”
With the House Mistress Cruz once again once again on her knees, servicing her, Sara reflected on one essential difference between slaves and their masters. Slaves – sluts, at least – did their work quickly, anxious to provide satisfaction, but not necessarily pleasure. A mouth full of cum or the wet, sticky feeling of a man's load dripping down between your legs was absolute proof that he was satisfied.
Also, after having had an orgasm, a master was much less likely to require you to do something painful or humiliating. No limp, spent cock had ever been forced up into a slave girl’s unprepared ass or choked her into unconsciousness.
Even during her previous encounter with Cruz, Sara had pushed herself to climax as quickly as possible, because it would end the uncertainty and fear of the situation – but now she wondered how much more she might have taken from this woman. Unlike a slave, who wants to deliver satisfaction, a master wants to receive pleasure – to prolong the experience, taking full advantage of the warm, wet, girl-shaped toy bouncing, bobbing and squirming on the end of his shaft.
Sara’s thoughts were interrupted by a sense that the house mistress growing impatient between her legs.
“Just do your work, cunt,” she said.
Cruz pulled away to warn the her, but the slave drew up her right leg and folded it across the back of the overseer’s head, pushing her face back down into her sex.
“I said, ‘Eat me,’” Sara told her, drawing on one of the phrases she had committed to memory.
With Cruz giving renewed attention to her clit, Sara closed her eyes let her head fall back with a sigh. She relaxed and let the pleasure wash over her, with no particular concern for channeling the rising heat into an orgasm.
“That's good, bitch – real good,” she said.
After another few minutes, the overseer’s attentions began to wane again – because of fatigue, Sara suspected. She reached down and put her left hand on her right ankle, pulling her leg back towards herself. Cruz, caught within its triangular embrace, looked up at the slave, her eyes wide. Sara regarded her coolly.
“Give me more,” she said. “I need more.”
Cruz rallied again, this time with a hint of desperation. Sara realized that she had probably taken about as much as the house mistress could give. She started moving her hips, deliberately grinding towards orgasm.
“Finish me, slut!” she snapped.
Then, Sara’s words yielded to orgasmic cries. A moment later, she was done.
Afterward, Cruz sat behind the desk, breathing heavily, while she watched the slave gather up her clothes and dress herself.
“You performed well today, Sara,” she said. “I expect you to maintain this level of intensity and also to determine the direction of these sessions yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, mistress. Thank you, mistress.”
After another week, Sara saw a big change in her daily pharmaceuticals, as she was switched over onto a training regimen. Within hours, she felt even more clear and alert. That evening, she was given a simple display assignment at the Scarab Club and put to bed before midnight in preparation for off-site training the next day.
That morning, House Master Crawford bound her wrists behind her back, then gagged and blindfolded her and loaded her into a cage in the back of a windowless van.
Sara was delighted. She had only been off-site a few times, and she was fascinated by the world beyond the tinted windows of Helios. On the nights that she was assigned to a guest with a room high up in the pyramid – especially on the northern face – she would gaze out across a wonderland of shining towers divided by a ribbon of traffic that stretched as far as she could see.
When she first saw it, she assumed that it went on forever: an endless, dazzling procession of sparkling jewels in the night. Then, during her basic cultural literacy training, she learned that this was just one of many cities, some separated by distances so vast that flying vehicles – airplanes – were necessary to travel between them. Her mind spun as she imagined city after city, each a glittering marvel of glass and steel.
Although her painted lips were stretched around the red rubber ball gag, she managed a small smile. She could see none of it, but she knew that she was out somewhere among those magical towers.
The classroom was almost full when Sara arrived. An attendant escorted her over to an empty seat in the front row. She looked up at the other slaves waiting for the class to begin. Immediately, she recognized that all of them wore the modest uniforms of guest service utilities from several major houses. The females dressed in flats with skirts below the knee and blouses or long dresses and the males wore shapeless pants and starchy, long-sleeved shirts.
In contrast, Sara’s dress made an ample show of her modest cleavage. Her short, tight skirt perfectly displayed every subtle movement and curve of her ass, while each step she took offered a peek at the lacy tops of her stockings.
She could sense the eyes of every intact male in the room tracking her with unblinking stares, their heads swiveling like security cameras. The females also noticed her, sneaking quick glances as they whispered among themselves, their eyes burning with envy and hate.
Sara slid uneasily into her place, anxious for the lesson to begin. She noticed that the back and the seat of her chair were upholstered with a fine metal mesh. The attendant handed her a paddle with a video display, a four-way knob and a few buttons, attached to a cord that vanished back under her chair.
A bald man with a creased face stepped up to a console at the front of the room. Sara studied him, assuming he was to be their instructor. Aged and fat, she could still see strength and purpose in his movements. His eyes worked quickly behind his glasses as his hands brought the console to life. She sensed sadness in him, and she decided that he could be a very dangerous man.
A finger tickled her ear from behind, interrupting her thoughts.
“Hey,” said a male voice. “This slave, name of Brad, has been at this school before. Brad knows where there is a little room where he and this little honey can go to during mealtime.”
Sara did not answer.
“C’mon, baby” the slave continued. “Brad knows how to work her love button and everything. He will make her cum, not like the jerks that she spreads for every night. What does the sweetie say?”
She continued to ignore him. He leaned down next to her ear.
“Listen,” he said. “This little slut is going to get Brad off, and she can either enjoy it, or...”
Brad abruptly yelped in pain.
“My name is Farnstrom,” said the man standing at the console. “You have been enrolled in an advanced cultural literacy course. For the duration of this course, you will be subject to electrical correction, either for failing to master the knowledge that will be provided to you, or for behavior that I deem inappropriate.
“Your results from the final exam will be reported back to your respective houses, and I suspect that you will face additional correction if you fail to demonstrate that you made good use of this opportunity.
“We will begin this morning with a study of the major cities of the C.A.S. and their unique features. This will be useful to you in establishing a rapport with the guests that you serve – or service,” he added, winking at Sara.
“As all of you should remember from your previous training, ‘C.A.S.’ is an acronym for the name of the nation-state where you are held thrall. Look down at your screen. You will see four different possible names that correspond with the letters C.A.S. You have eight seconds to identify the right one using the knob, or you will receive a correction.”
Sara lifted the paddle. It read:
1) Congress of American States
2) Charter of Absolute Sovereignty
3) Confederation of American States
4) Coalition of Appropriate Status
She twisted the knob around until it pointed at number three and watched the timer count down the last few seconds. When it reached zero, she heard Brad and several other slaves cry out behind her.
“I can already see this is going to be a long day for some of you,” said Farnstrom. “We will start close to home. Use your paddle to select the name of this city. You have seven seconds.”
Sara dialed in “2) Las Vegas.” Only three slaves cried out when time expired.
“For most of you, Las Vegas is the only city you have ever known, so you probably think every other city is pretty much like this one. Well, you’re wrong.
“Basically, what makes one city different from any other city is how it gets money out of people. Vegas does it the old-fashioned way: gambling, booze and tail like this fine specimen we’ve got sitting right here in the front row.”
Behind him, three huge screens sprang to life, flashing vibrant scenes from around the city: towering casinos, tumbling dice, a well-stocked bar, a winning blackjack hand, swimming pools, stacks of chips, a couple dancing, golf courses, a spinning roulette wheel and two half-naked, pouting house sluts – looking like they had been caught having sex with each other.
“Vegas sells illusions – lies, basically – to win its bread. It tells people that, if you come here, you can get rich off one spin of the wheel, you will be happy if you drink enough, and the pretty girl wants to suck your dick, no matter how old and fat you are,” Farnstrom said, his gaze settling on Sara. “We’ve got a volcano and a pirate ship and all kinds of shit, and people come from all over the world to see it – but none of it is real.”
Five days later, Sara sat quietly in her seat, using the paddle to review the week’s lessons. Around her, the other slaves were likewise engaged, taking advantage of two hours of study time that Farnstrom had granted them before the final exam.
Sara focused her attention on the first day’s subject – geography. The nearest major city to Las Vegas was Los Angeles – about 250 miles away, five hours by car or one hour in an airplane. She took note of the difference in spelling – “Los” versus “Las” – and closed her eyes to test her memory before reading further.
The city had a population of 9 million people and 4 million held thrall. Its best-known industry was the production of movies and TV shows, centered in a district called “Hollywood.” A famous local landmark was a huge sign built on a hillside that identified the district.
Farnstrom had said, “Los Angeles is kind of like Las Vegas – in that they make and sell illusions. But, unlike Las Vegas, they let you know what they are up to right from the get-go.”
Many other industries also operated in Los Angeles: recreation and tourism – another parallel with Las Vegas – but also aerospace, shipping, technology and fashion. The small screen showed a gritty, sprawling city beneath brown hills.
For Sara, it had been a good week. She had enjoyed discovering new vistas to explore, if only in her own mind, and also the clarity that came with the study drugs. However, there had been moments she would have preferred to avoid.
Every male slave that had not been castrated – and a few that she suspected had – hit on her at least once, their come-ons ranging from crude demands to sweet, selfless pleas. The female slaves watched her from a wary distance, standing together in tight clusters during breaks, muttering words like “bitch,” “cunt” and “slut” when she walked past.
Her estimate of Farnstrom had become more nuanced. She still believed he was a dangerous man. There was no hesitation when he burned a slave, no trace of compassion on his face while he watched them twitch and scream. Sara herself had endured corrections when she failed to grasp details or remember facts.
However, she came to appreciate his straight-forward style. He was not a sadist. He never administered a correction unfairly or capriciously. He explained the rules and then he followed them. Sara believed that a slave that was smart enough and diligent enough could make it through the entire class without a single correction.
No doubt Farnstrom had compounded her difficult relationship with the other slaves by continuing to call attention to her throughout the week. He commented on her looks, her skimpy clothes, her legs, her breasts, her ass, her mouth, her intact clitoris, her tasking as a house girl or any other attribute he could find a way to tie into his lesson with a crude joke – but there was no malice in it. In fact, it struck Sara as playful teasing – perhaps even something that resembled affection.
At the end of the first day, Sara had expected him to bluntly tell her which parts of her body he wanted to see wrapped around his cock. He did not. Indeed, not once did he even hint at the possibility of exploiting her.
During the ride back to Helios at the end of the fourth day, she found herself wishing that he would. He was no chiseled young buck trained to make her toes curl, but she trusted him and felt a measure of caring for this sad, plain-spoken man.
“That’s time,” said Farnstrom, ending the study session. “You will have three hours to complete the test. Unless you misbehave, you will not be subject to corrections during the testing period.
“However, I know that your houses have expectations with regards to your performance. They paid cash money to send you here, and I wouldn’t want to be in your skin when you get back if you don’t measure up.”
Cruz lay on her back on the desk, with Sara kneeling over her, straddling her face. The overseer was frantic, desperately working Sara’s clit with her tongue while the slave swayed on top of her, eyes closed.
Sara remembered a guest – a woman – who had casually explained that she was going to smother her. Fear rising, Sara had described her training, her experience with women, but the guest silenced her.
“I know all that, dear,” she said. “That’s why I picked you. The simple truth is that you can’t give me what I want just because I tell you. Your body will only provide the level of intensity I need if I get your adrenaline flowing, and that takes something extra. Some people use pain – I prefer asphyxiation.
“I’m sure that knowing this won’t make it any easier for you, but all I’m really doing is pressing buttons to get what I want – like on a vending machine.”
At the time, she simply took the woman for a sadist – and she did suffer that night. However, Cruz and her peculiar demands gave Sara an opportunity to test the woman’s claim.
She was right.
Sara could tell that Cruz had experience with women, although she was not as skilled as a slave that had completed the lesbian conversion program. However, after half a minute without any air, the overseer provided the best oral service Sara had ever received. Also, when her attentions began to lapse because of fatigue, smothering her provided a burst of new energy.
Trapped beneath her sex, Cruz seemed less like a woman, or even a slave, and more like an organic vibrator – press the button, receive pleasure. It was simple, effective and intoxicating.
Sara opened her eyes and looked down. Cruz was bright red. She was covered in sweat. Tears were streaming down the sides of her face. Her eyes were wild and unseeing. Sara could feel her body starting to spasm.
She lifted herself up a few inches, allowing Cruz to urgently suck in a few deep, ragged breaths.
“If you want to get me off, you need to get me off,” said Sara, recalling the words of the woman who had smothered her.
Then, the slave pressed her labia back down onto the overseer’s mouth, muffling her scream.
After another few weeks, Sara became convinced that this entire experience was some type of training – an elaborate mind-fuck that would somehow make her more pleasing to guests. It all made sense: less psychotropic drugs so she could remember the lesson, as well as the inexplicable way that Cruz behaved.
She had begun to suspect that Cruz was actually a slave herself, highly trained to play the part of a house mistress and then to make these strange demands. She could not imagine a woman allowing herself to be so thoroughly used, most especially by a slave.
Additional evidence arrived with House Master Gabriel, who stopped her in the hall as she was leaving her daily Pilates session. He was carrying a tablet.
“Hey, Sara,” he began. “Remember that guest you were with for two nights, starting on Friday? Uh, Martin?”
“Yes, master,” she nodded.
“Well, it turns out he was a Pharaoh’s Club member – forgot to check the box when he made his reservation, I guess. Anyway, he got pulled for a customer satisfaction survey. He gave you tens, all the way down – and look what he wrote under comments,” he said, holding out the tablet for her to see.
It was a single sentence: “This bitch just gets it.”
For Sara, that came as confirmation that her mind was once again being reshaped to “optimize the guest experience,” but she didn’t care. She didn’t care if it was a new mind game, or if she was truly being transformed into a lesbian. She was being offered pleasure and she was taking it, hungrily, like a food service drone swallowing down half-eaten scraps left over on a guest’s plate.
Even without Cruz, these had been good days for Sara. She had passed the advanced cultural literacy class, scoring 94.8 percent on the final exam – more than enough to spare her a correction when she returned to Helios. Only a few guests had abused her at all, and one in particular, a fat woman, had allowed her to pleasure herself with a vibrator while she was out playing the slots.
All that ended one morning at the dispatch desk. She felt her throat begin to tighten as she looked up at the assignment board. All of the spaces to the right of “2280” were blank – no room number, no guest name, no display station, no assigned training – no tasking at all. A gnawing fear settled into her gut.
“Sara is to see House Mistress Cruz, office seven,” said the dom at the desk, bringing her some relief.
The slave nodded and presented herself to the overseer, who instructed her to shut the door.
“I have been very pleased by your performance during the last few sessions,” she said.
“Thank you, mistress,” Sara answered, eyes low.
“We’re going to do something different today,” Cruz continued. “We will be off-site for the whole night. You will make this as much like a real guest experience as you can. Do you understand?”
“Go up to the toy store. You have been authorized to check out whatever you want. You should think about the bad nights you’ve had with with women, about the things they used and what they did to you with them.”
“When you have everything, meet me at the north maintenance elevator. Do you know where that is?”
Sara had never been inside a maintenance elevator before. It was worn and dented, and much larger than a typical elevator. The overseer had to use a plastic card she carried on a lanyard around her neck before the door would close and it began its ascent.
It brought Cruz and the slave to another unfamiliar space, with a high ceiling and bare, concrete walls. Pipes, some large enough for Sara to crawl through, ran out of sight in both directions.
The slave followed Cruz a short distance to a metal door set into the concrete wall.
The overseer unlocked it and ushered Sara inside. The space was no larger than a closet. One wall had been given over to pipes and gauges and valves. A black, square-bottom shopping bag with the Helios logo embossed in gold foil hung from a valve stem.
“Listen to me, Sara,” Cruz said, raising her voice to be heard over the hissing pipes. “I am going to leave you behind for a few minutes. There are clothes and shoes for you in that bag. Put them on in here.
“Also, there is a key for a room at Camelot. It’s the next casino up on The Strip. You know the one I’m talking about, right? You've seen it – it looks like a castle.”
“Good, I will be there waiting for you over there: tower four, room 528 – it’s written on the key.
“When you’re ready, go the rest of the way down the maintenance corridor. There will be an elevator off to your right that will take you up to the skybridge over Reno Street. Do you understand?”
With that, Cruz was gone. Sara stood alone for a moment, trying to absorb her unprecedented instructions. Then, with nothing to do but obey, she took down the bag and began to strip out of her skimpy uniform.