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.
TXR-92U-2280 – Call Name: Sara – Part III
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.
Continued from Part II
The first time the elevator opened onto the skyway, Sara could not muster the courage to step outside. After a moment, it closed and carried her back down to the maintenance corridor. For a time, she stood staring at a distorted image of herself in the scratched and battered metal doors.
It was not a slave who stared back at her – it was a woman.
In place of her strappy black heels, she wore a pair of casual cork wedges with tan leather accents. Her legs were covered by a pair of tattered jeans, which fit almost as snugly as the stockings they replaced. Beneath them: a simple white cotton thong, which peaked above her waistline in the back.
Her midriff was bare, below a tight, faded t-shirt with “I love Las Vegas” on the chest, except that the word “love” was replaced with a plump red heart. Underneath that, she wore a white shelf bra that showed off the natural shape of her breasts and bared her nipples, which stood out through the clingy t-shirt.
At her side, she held the shopping bag that contained her house dress and the toys that Cruz instructed her to bring.
Steeling herself, Sara pressed the button marked “S” again and the elevator lurched into motion. The doors parted, and she forced herself across the threshold. She nearly panicked when the doors closed behind her, and she looked back and realized that there was a lock in place of the call button. After taking a moment to control her breathing, she walked up a short flight of concrete steps which deposited her on the pedestrian bridge.
Sara had looked down on this bridge countless times, watching the people walk back and forth, imagining where they had been, where they were going and what wonders they had seen. She had never, ever dared to hope to walk across it herself.
Having lived virtually her entire life indoors, the sensations were overwhelming. The air was so hot and dry that she found it difficult to draw into her lungs. It was being carried along by gusts of wind, which brought with them scraps of paper and tiny particles of grit that she could feel impacting on her face and skin.
No longer diminished by the tinted windows of Helios, the sunlight was blinding. Even the white concrete surface of the walkway made her squint against the glare.
From beneath her feet, the roar of the traffic was continuous. She could actually feel the bridge tremble every time a heavy truck rumbled past.
Although her senses were under constant assault, it was a tiny change in the behavior of the people around her that stood out the most. When she was on display or just walking the floor of the casino, men would stare at her unabashed. Their eyes would settle on her cleavage or her ass, with no more regard than looking at a picture on the wall.
It was subtle, but that had changed. Rather than staring, men stole quick peeks at her or avert their eyes altogether — only to look back as she passed.
Women, who usually ignored her, looked on with a mixture of admiration and envy. She saw one woman actually drive her elbow into the ribs of the man next to her when his gaze lingered little too long. It all came together in a heady rush that flowed into her, fulfilling some part of her that she never knew was empty.
“Hey, baby!” said a young man who suddenly appeared out of the crowd. He had dark skin and curly hair.
“You love Las Vegas? Uh, yeah – me to! Do you want to go somewhere, maybe a club? I could buy you a drink... or dinner? Whatever you want... Where are you from, baby?”
Sara carefully set her face with a cool expression and a small smile. Her eyes flicked up and down his body, then she continued across the bridge. Another young man, standing next to him, burst out laughing.
“Ice cold!” he said. “Ouch, Fadi! She is just way, way, way out of your league!”
Sara walked on, smiling. Stepping into the shadow of Camelot, she was grateful for the relief from the blazing sun. Looking back over her shoulder at Helios, she was surprised by how small the pyramid looked. Before, its vast atrium and endless ranks of guest rooms had seemed like the entire world.
Turning back towards Camelot, she identified its cavernous entryway – a mighty stone arch beneath a huge banner that read: “Lords and Ladies, Welcome to Camelot! Enjoy the Many Pleasures our Castle has to Offer!”
Before she stepped inside, Sara looked further along The Strip in the direction she had been walking. In the distance, she could see a collection of glass towers, sparkling in the sun. Below them, rising from a pool of water was the mighty figure of a woman in long robes, rendered in a green patina – the Statue of Fortune.
It was another casino, The Big Apple, which Sara knew from her recent training had been built to resemble New York, a great city far, far away. She took one step towards it – one step towards that next unexplored marvel – and then she felt every prod that had ever been touched to her skin and triggered come upon her at once. She turned back and walked into the castle.
The space was bustling. Jugglers, musicians and acrobats performed all around her while the churning crowd pushed in a dozen different directions at once. Moving deeper into the air conditioned space, Sara spotted a utility in a brightly colored harlequin uniform. She approached him, mentally rehearsing the words she would speak.
“Boy,” she began.
“Yes, mistress?” he replied immediately, his eyes low.
“Take me to this room,” she said, holding out the card Cruz had provided.
Bowing his head, he took it from her.
“Yes, mistress,” he said. “May this boy carry your bag for you, mistress?”
She was about to decline what she took to be a very peculiar request – no one having ever offered to ease her burden – when she remembered who she appeared to be.
“Yes, boy,” she said, taking care not to thank him.
“Thank you, mistress.”
The utility led her across the casino floor to a bank of elevators. Up on the fifth floor, he steered her down a long hall and opened the door to room 528. He walked in ahead of her, putting the bag and the card down on a small table.
“Enjoy your stay at Camelot, mistress,” he said.
She let him go without another word.
Walking into the room, Sara felt the whole world turn inside out. Cruz was kneeling at the foot of the king-sized bed, wearing the house dress of a Helios slut. Everything was exactly as it should have been, and also completely, totally wrong. Sara reached out to the wall to keep her balance and focused on her breathing to steady herself.
Finding her center, she barked at Cruz: “Up, slave! Everything off, now!”
The overseer stood and started pulling off her scant coverings. She did it badly. During her training, Sara had been taught either to perform a striptease while undressing, or to simply make her clothes disappear. Cruz did neither, and she left everything in an untidy pile on the floor.
The overseer had never undressed during any of their previous sessions. Sara did not regard her as an unattractive woman, but seeing her naked it was obvious that she would never have been selected as a slut, if she had been a slave. She had a bit of a belly and her C-cup breasts drooped a little when they were released from her bra. Sara gestured for her to turn around. Her ass was broad and shapeless.
When Cruz turned back towards her, Sara stepped in close. She took a small patch of the overseer's thick pubic hair between her thumb and forefinger and ripped it out by the roots. Cruz gasped. Her body jerked back, away from the pain – a reflex that would have been trained out of a slave years earlier.
“Unacceptable!” Sara shouted, holding the hairs up for Cruz to see. “Shave!”
Cruz scurried off to the bathroom. When she heard the water start to run, Sara heaved a deep breath, trying to compose herself to continue the session. She pulled a heavy wooden chair away from the desk and set it up facing a full-length mirror on the wall.
The chair had worn, steel-reinforced eyelets set into its arms and legs. As Sara suspected, this was a “playroom,” set up specifically for guests who wanted to take full advantage of a slave during their stay. The bed would have similar mounting points to secure ropes or shackles, and the walls and door were no doubt soundproof to deaden any screams.
When Cruz returned, Sara had rigged the chair with heavy cuffs. Sara took her by the neck, inspected her shaved vulva, then bent her over the back of the chair. The slave locked her wrists and ankles in place, leaving her exposed.
With the overseer incapable of doing anything but waiting, Sara took her time undressing. She decided leave the shelf bra on, just because she could.
Next, she retrieved a strap-on dildo from the shopping bag, along with a bullet vibrator and a tube of lubricant. Cruz turned pale as she watched Sara in the mirror, buckling the nine-inch monster around her waist.
“Sara,” she swallowed. “That’s too big. Did you bring something smaller?”
The slave stepped up behind her, took one of the folds of her labia between the tip of her finger and her thumbnail and squeezed, hard. Cruz cried out.
“Say, ‘Mistress,’” Sara said, detached.
“Mistress,” Cruz stammered. “It’s too big. It won’t fit in my cunt.”
“It’s not going in your cunt,” Sara replied.
Sara saw the first glimmer of real fear in her eyes. She began pulling at her restraints.
“No, Sara! No! You can’t!”
Cruz shivered as Sara worked the cold lubricant into her waiting anus.
“It won’t hurt as much if you relax,” Sara advised her.
The overseer turned frantic.
“I haven’t... I mean... I can’t... Please, Sara!”
The slave pressed the tip of the dildo against the overseer's tight rear hole.
“You have to stop, Sara! Don’t do it! You’re going to hurt me!”
Unmoved, the slave slowly rocked her hips forward and watched the bulbous head disappear inside Cruz. She shrieked.
While she was picking out toys, it occurred to Sara that there might be consequences if she actually tore up the overseer's guts, so she picked out a dildo with a “sissy tip.”
To look at it, the dildo was indistinguishable from the cruel latex giants with hard rubber cores that had made Sara and countless other slaves tremble in fear of the agony they would soon be suffering. However, with a sissy tip, the head and the surface of the shaft were spongy, so that even without stretching, it was likely to cause some pain but no real damage.
Most often, sissy tips were used in public displays, to give guests the impression of a brutal reaming without the cost of sending a slave to the infirmary afterward. Sometimes, packets of fake blood would be inserted into the receiving slave, to enhance the effect.
Sara guessed – correctly, it seemed – that Cruz might not have much anal experience, so just seeing the size of the dildo in combination with the sensation of being penetrated would create the desired effect without really hurting her.
Sara leaned forward. The thick shaft pushed deeper into Cruz.
“Stop! Stop!” she cried. “It’s too big!”
With her hips finally pressed against the overseer's doughy ass, Sara pulled back then pressed forward again, establish a rhythm for herself. With the overseer wailing, she touched the controller for the bullet vibrator, which was riding in a pocket next to her clit. She sighed.
After a few dozen more strokes, the overseer's screams yielded to dull grunts at each full penetration, accompanied by the slap of Sara’s hips against her ass.
The slave quickened her pace. Each new thrust pressed the vibrator into her clit, delivering fresh burst of pleasure. Moments later, she was gasping, then crying out as she built towards a powerful climax.
On the cusp, she reached out and took a handful of the overseer's hair, jerking her head back so that she could watch in the mirror as Sara took her orgasm from her ruined ass. Their eyes met in the reflection, then Cruz watched as the slave spasmed and succumbed to bliss.
When she had recovered, Sara walked around to the front of the chair and put the soiled dildo in the overseer's face.
“Clean it up,” she said.
“No... No, I won’t,” Cruz said.
The slave grabbed the overseer's hair and pushed her mouth down towards the dildo. Cruz twisted away, her lips clamped shut.
Unperturbed, Sara retrieved several small items from the bag. The first was a fat, smooth metal cylinder with a rubber seal halfway between its rounded ends. She smeared it with lubricant, then pushed it inside the overseer's vagina.
“What is that?” Cruz asked, anxious, unable to see what was being done to her own body.
“A shock stick,” said Sara, screwing a clamp shut on the overseer's labia, trapping the metal object inside of her.
Cruz winced as she felt the clamp bite down on her delicate flesh.
“Sluts can’t be punished in their cunts!” she protested, terrified.
“Sluts can’t be punished in their cunts by the house. Guests can do whatever they want,” said Sara, pushing a button on the remote control.
For two seconds, the overseer's sex was transformed into pure, electric pain. The air exploded out of her lungs in an unformed scream as she endured the worst agony of her entire life.
Sara stepped back around in front of Cruz, brushing the tip of the dildo against her cheek.
“Clean it up,” she said.
“No...” Cruz panted. “No...”
Holding the controller where Cruz could see it, Sara triggered a three-second shock.
“Please don’t...” the overseer's words dissolved into a high-pitched shriek as she endured an even worse pain.
Sara touched the dildo to the overseer's lips.
“Clean it up,” she said.
“I can’t... Please...”
The slave readied a four-second shock.
“No! I’ll do it! I’ll do it!” Cruz blurted out. “Don’t burn me again, please! I’ll do it!”
Sara smiled and pushed her hips forward. Cruz made an awful retching sound as the head of the dildo slipped between her teeth. She kept her lips curled back to avoid touching the shaft, even as Sara pressed it against the back of her throat.
“I said, ‘Clean it up!’” Sara snapped. “Suck on it – use your lips and tongue.”
Seeing Sara’s finger moving towards the trigger on the remote control, Cruz surrendered with a terrible whimper. She wrapped her lips around Sara's filthy rubber cock and sucked it like a well-trained slut.
Sara had not intended to take pleasure from the overseer's oral service, but as she watched her head bobbing up and down between her legs, she felt her clit twitch. Surrendering to the urgings of her body, the slave viciously throat-fucked Cruz to orgasm, then tied her down on the bed, her legs spread wide.
She removed the vibrator from the strap-on, held it to the overseer's clit, then secured it with athletic tape. Turning it up to maximum, she straddled Cruz and pressed her sex down onto her face.
With Cruz working her clit, Sara built slowly towards her third orgasm of the evening, occasionally smothering the overseer to keep her focused and motivated.
Feeling Cruz shuddering beneath her, Sara rose a few inches up on her knees. Cruz gasped.
“I'm cumming! I'm cumming! Oh, gods! I'm cumming!” she cried. “Turn off the vibrator! It's too much! Too much! Please...”
Sara silenced the overseer by pressing herself back down onto her mouth – without touching the vibrator's controller.
Cruz had two more writhing orgasms before Sara was finally satisfied. Relaxed and happy, the slave climbed off the bed. The overseer looked desperate.
“Turn it off!” she begged. “Please, turn it off! I'm going to cum again... It's too much! Please...”
Unaffected, Sara started towards the bathroom.
“No!” the overseer cried after her. “Gods, no! I'm cumming! I... I... uh... Gods, please... No! Uh... I can't!”
The slave drew a hot bath for herself in the oversized tub and settled in for a nice, long soak. For Sara, a bath was a rare luxury – showers that spit needles of lukewarm water were all that the house provided for sluts.
Every few minutes, she would listen to Cruz have another orgasm – her pleas growing ever more frantic and, ultimately, incoherent. When she stopped making sounds altogether, Sara reluctantly climbed out of the tub and pulled on a plush robe that hung from a hook on the back of the bathroom door.
Walking back into the bedroom, she stood watching Cruz occasionally jerk against her restraints, her glassy eyes fixed on the ceiling. The bedding was saturated with her juices, which had created a large wet spot spreading out from around her hips. She did not notice Sara.
The overseer was in an entirely different place, her body nothing more than a fleshy sack overflowing with hormones that her brain had long since lost the ability to process. Like a primitive, single-celled amoeba, she could only perceive one type of stimulus – orgasm – and only offer one type of response: a feeble tug against the bonds that held her.
Seeing her pathetic display, Sara felt a wetness between her own legs. Retrieving another vibrator from the shopping bag, she sat down and got herself off while watching Cruz twitch.
Afterward, she released the overseer from her restraints, but all she could do was curl into a fetal position while the vibrator continued its relentless assault on her clit.
Sara took pity on her and shut off the vibrator. Suddenly denied the stimulation that had defined her existence for more than two hours, Cruz shuddered and then lay still.
The overseer shrieked in agony as the slave triggered the shock stick inside her vagina, still trapped behind her clamped labia. The jolt ripped Cruz out of her stupor, her limbs flailing.
“Up, bitch!” shouted Sara. “Kneeling spread!”
Cruz tried to lift herself up onto her knees, but collapsed back into her own spent juices. Sara administered another shock. She screamed again.
“On the floor, you filthy slut!” Sara snarled, pointing to a spot on the carpet in the middle of the room.
Desperate to avoid another flash of searing pain, the overseer threw herself off the side of the bed and crawled over to the slave’s feet. She knelt: legs spread, chin high, fingers interlaced behind her head so that her arms were held up and away from her body.
It was an intensely vulnerable posture, which Sara was mostly required to assume when she was being berated or punished.
Satisfied, the slave picked up the telephone.
“This is room 528 in tower four” she said. “My slut has wet the bed. I need it changed immediately.”
Sara watched Cruz blush furiously and bow her head, utterly humiliated. She hung up the phone.
“Eyes up, cunt,” she said, fingering the shock stick’s controller. “You can’t expect me to sleep in your filth just because you can’t control your own body.”
“Yes, mistress,” the overseer croaked softly, her eyes wet.
Moments later, there was a knock at the door. Still wearing the bathrobe, Sara opened it, admitting a male utility and three drones.
“Good evening, mistress,” said the utility, eyes low.
With practiced speed and robotic precision, the drones stripped off the saturated bedding and began to apply a fresh set. Sara noticed the utility’s gaze settle on Cruz, her heavy breasts and shaved vulva on open display.
Following a sudden impulse, Sara reached down and cupped the utility’s genitals through his trousers. He turned white as her hand moved expertly around his private parts. He was intact, but locked in chastity.
“Too bad,” she whispered into his ear, loud enough for Cruz to hear. “I was hoping maybe you could plug her for me – she seems to be leaking.”
The utility turned bright red and hung his head, humiliated. Cruz began to weep, her chest convulsing with silent sobs.
The drones finished their work and departed with the utility. Sara smiled, advancing on Cruz while lifting her robe to receive cunnalingus from her.
Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, the slave felt her guts churn. She realized that she had broken the one unspoken rule that all slaves have among themselves: never to increase the suffering of another slave – unless explicitly ordered to do so.
Her heart sank, thinking about how she had needlessly humiliated the utility – and she had even enjoyed it. Sitting down on the edge of the bed, she felt sick. Given the power of a mistress for just a few hours, she had become as cruel and capricious as any that she herself had ever serviced.
Without thinking, she picked up phone to have the utility called back so she could apologize, but she hung up again without speaking a word. It was absurd to even contemplate what she would say to him. She had done an awful thing, and she had no choice but to carry the guilt of it forward – like pain that lingers after a caning.
Returning to Helios, Sara did not see House Mistress Cruz for several days – and she was actually glad for it. The game, or whatever it was, had gone too far. She might not have believed it herself a week earlier, but there were some things that she would not trade for an orgasm.
When she looked up at the assignment board and saw that once again it was blank to the right of “2280,” there was no immediate rush of fear. Instead, she felt resigned. She looked towards the dom, waiting for the verbal instructions that she knew would come.
“Sara is to see House Master Gabriel, office five,” she said.
Startled, Sara felt her apprehension beginning to rise. Stepping into the office, Gabriel quickly closed the door behind her. She immediately sensed his agitation, and her fear rose further.
“Strip – naked,” he said.
Gabriel took advantage of the stable sluts as much as every other house master, but he was never demeaning or brusque. In fact, Sara usually regarded him as one of the most sympathetic overseers – willing to listen and not as quick as others to hand out punishment. She could sense none of that in him. He seemed angry – maybe even frightened.
Once she was undressed, Gabriel took a heavy leather collar and fastened it tight around her neck. It was not a costume piece – it was a serious restraint with a built-in choke.
“I don’t know what you did, Sara, but you’re in deep shit,” he said, concentrating on his work.
Next, he fixed cuffs around her wrists and ankles.
To her horror, he attached a leash to her collar, then led her out through the stable, naked except for her restraints. She could feel eyes on her as she walked, head bowed in shame. Other girls glanced at her sideways or looked away altogether. No one spoke. Sara was completely disgraced and terrified, knowing that this type of public humiliation was always a prelude to torture.
They stepped into an elevator and House Master Gabriel pressed the button for Sub-Level 9 – the deepest part of the entire complex.
“Please, master...” Sara began, as soon as the doors slid shut.
“Shut up!” he snapped. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”
The slave began to tremble, breathing exercises no longer sufficient to hold back her fear. She could feel the depth pressing down on her. The air turned cold.
The doors parted. She started to hyperventilate. House Master Gabriel tugged firmly on her leash, partially closing the choke around her throat, making her fight even harder for each breath. She was in a dimly lit corridor, walking past black-painted metal doors, each marked with a number stenciled in white. From behind each door, she could hear the sounds of slaves being tortured.
“Please, Master! Please, don’t! Don’t put any more in!” cried a female voice. “Brenda has learned! She won’t ever do it ever again! Please! It hurts so bad! Please!”
The slave’s pleas gave way to high-pitched shrieks, joining the chorus of agony that echoed all around them.
Sara was already feeling lightheaded when Gabriel opened the door to room 15. She could hear her heart pounding and darkness had begun to gather in her peripheral vision.
Yanked through the doorway by her collar, she froze. The room was dark, except for a pool of light centered on a reinforced gynecological examination table. There were anchor points for her wrist and ankle cuffs, as well as thick leather straps to hold her thighs, waist, chest and arms in place.
The table was surrounded on three sides by racks and trays displaying every conceivable means of inflicting pain: whips, paddles, canes, electrical wires with clips and probes, surgical instruments, inflatable plugs, tidy rows of sterilized needs, vacuum cylinders, specula, a pot of glowing coals with branding irons and other things – things that Sara hoped she would never understand.
A mirror hung overhead, so that she would be able to watch everything that was being done to her while she was strapped down on the table.
Shadowy figures stood just beyond the light. One of them, a tall, muscular man, walked towards her, extending his hand to take her leash.
Sara vomited, emptying her stomach onto the concrete floor.
The tall man took the leash from House Master Gabriel.
“Clean that up,” he said in a deep, commanding voice. “Also, bring me a chair.”
Several drones leapt to fulfill his orders – kneeling to mop up Sara’s watery vomit and setting a sturdy metal chair in the pool of light, facing the examination table.
As he stepped out of the shadows, Sara could see the man pulling her along clearly. His skin was dark – nearly black – and his head was shaved. He wore a tailored suit, polished leather shoes and an expensive watch.
He brought her over to the chair.
“Sit down, Sara,” he said.
She obeyed, head low, body quivering with fear.
He took a crisp white handkerchief from his pocket and used it to gently dab her chin, cleaning up slimy strings of vomit.
“Have this laundered and returned to my office,” he said, holding it up for a drone who immediately snatched it out of his hand.
Unhurried, he leaned back against the examination table, studying the slave. Feeling nausea welling up inside of her again, Sara sucked air through her teeth in short, shallow breaths.
“Sara, my name is Nigel Westin,” the man said. “I manage the stables here at Helios. I want you to listen very carefully to what I am about to tell you.
“As a house girl, you’re accustomed to the idea that certain parts of your body and certain types of punishment are off-limits for you. Those rules don’t apply to me. I can do anything to any part of you that I decide is necessary.”
Sara choked down an acrid swig of vomit that flooded into her mouth.
“Having said that, I have not brought you here to punish you,” he continued. “Whether or not you go up on this table is entirely up to you. I need you to answer some questions for me, and if you do that honestly and without reservation, I promise that this whole process will be completely painless.
“Do you understand what I am saying to you?”
She managed a faint nod.
“Good,” he smiled. “I’m going to ask you about House Mistress Cruz and the your activities with her over the past several months. Are you going to talk to me about that?”
She nodded again, stronger.
“I’m glad, Sara,” he said. “You’re a pretty girl, and I just hate seeing pretty girls get hurt. Before we start, I want to ask you a different question:
“Are you cold? I’m wearing a wool suit, and I’m freezing down here. This must be extremely uncomfortable for you.”
“Yes, master,” she answered, allowing a small smile to cross her lips.
He nodded, smiling himself.
“House Master Gabriel, please bring Sara a robe and some slippers,” he said, looking out into the darkness. “I think she is going to be a good girl for us.”
Sara told him everything that happened in explicit detail. He seemed to already know much of it, and she was fascinated when he showed her photographs and video of her journey from the Helios stable to the guest room in Camelot. Secretly, she was thrilled as she watched herself – not a slave, not a slut – but a carefree, beautiful young woman.
House Mistress Cruz never returned to the stable. Gabriel later told her that Cruz had been fired – which meant that she would no longer serve at Helios and she would have to find another place to work. Sara ventured that there could be worse fates than to be a woman, free, exploring fabulous Las Vegas.
“You’ve got a pretty easy life, Sara,” he said. “No parents nagging you to finish college, and you never have to figure out how you’re going to pay the rent.”
He opened the door to a luxurious suite at the apex of the pyramid, where the entire starting lineup for the NSU-LV men's basketball team was waiting for her to arrive. They paid to have the room, and Sara, for the entire night, just so that they could gang-bang her for a few hours ahead of their game against UC La Jolla that evening.