Two office girls, Julie Jo Johansson and Marcie Dumont, embark on a great adventure at Box M Ranch, which offers a BDSM Boot Camp. The advertisements say the camp is for anyone who wants to totally experience true master-slave relationships– from either side. I originally published this twenty-two-chapter book in 2016. This fourth chapter follows JJ and Marcie as they travel to Box M Ranch. The ride is definitely very much a part of the BDSM Boot Camp experience.
WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional, and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life.
All characters involved in sexual activity in this story are over the age of 18. If you are under the age of 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality, or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century.
Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2016 by The Technician.
Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.
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Chapter Four: The Trip to the Ranch
The bus was not what JJ expected. In fact, the bus was not what any of the recruits expected. There were no seats– at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, there were ten rows of large bicycle saddles– at least that is what they looked like. There were four in each row, mounted on poles about two feet high. In front of each row of saddles a long bar hung crossways at ceiling level. On top of each of the saddles were one or two shiny steel dildos.
The twenty-six naked women and four men stood in the aisle and between the strange seats. None of them knew what they were supposed to do, so they did nothing.
Sarge stepped onto the bus and growled, “What in the hell do you think you are doing, sluts?”
“You have a choice,” he barked back. “You can stand or sit for the six-hour ride to the ranch. It is your decision, but remember that choices always have consequences.”
He turned to one of the men and added, “You male sluts only need one prong, so if you decide you want to be seated for the ride, just pull up on the front dildo and it will release so it can swivel beneath the seat.” He then walked along the rows and reset all of the seats so that they all had two shiny metal dildos sticking up.
Marcie tapped JJ on the shoulder and nodded her head toward one of the rows. “You need to lubricate the prongs before you try to sit down,” she said quietly.
“What if I want to stand?” JJ whined back.
“That looks like the easy choice,” Marcie replied. “Trust me, it’s a trap of some sort. Standing will end up being much worse than sitting.”
“But those saddles look awfully thin and those metal things are really thick,” JJ said, continuing her whine.
“You are going to have a lot bigger things than that in you before this is over,” Marcie argued. Then her voice became slightly louder and very firm as she said, “Now wet those prongs and sit down!”
JJ whined softly but put her mouth over one of the metal dildos and began wetting it with her tongue. “You’d better be right about this,” she whined as she slowly settled herself down on the two prongs.
About half of the recruits chose to sit. Interestingly, most of them were near Marcie as she argued with JJ.
Once everyone was either sitting or standing holding the grab bars, Sarge and the other two men in camo walked up and down the aisle using wide belts to strap the seated recruits to the saddles. They then used smaller leather straps to bind the standing recruits’ hands to the grab bar.
Once everyone was in place, one of the camo men took his place in the driver’s seat while the other camo man and Sarge sat– one on each side– on regular bus-style seats at the very back of the bus.
JJ could barely see out the window, but it was obvious that the driver was not taking the nearby expressway. Instead, he wound through the streets, turning often, until he came to an old highway which seemed to go straight out into the desert areas south of town. About a half-hour later, he turned off the highway onto a back road that was narrow, bumpy, and in poor repair.
The bumps and bounces soon caused JJ to start her whining once again. “Why did you make me sit on this?” she cried to Marcie. “If we were standing, we could be comfortable.”
A woman standing across the aisle from Marcie and JJ heard her and started laughing. Then she turned toward them and said, “Remember, choices have consequences.”
“Yes, they do,” came a deep voice from the back of the bus. “And just about now we will see what happens when someone tries to avoid the proper choice.”
There was a loud click as a switch of some sort was tripped and all of the standing women– for some reason all of the men had chosen to sit– all of the standing women began yelping in unison as strong electric shocks tore through their bodies. Two of the women lost control of their bladders and the smell of piss soon filled the bus.
“That’s hooked up to the odometer,” Sarge explained. “Every ten miles it will turn on for two miles.” He laughed and said while still laughing, “It sort of helps me keep track of how much farther we have ‘til we get to the ranch.”
Marcie turned to JJ and smiled. “Trust me,” she mouthed without speaking aloud. JJ’s eyes were very wide as she slowly nodded her head.
The standing women yelped a total of thirty-two times before the bus finally arrived at the Box M Ranch. A couple of the standing women had figured out that if they pulled themselves off the floor when the shocks began, they could avoid the worst of it, but that meant that they were effectively doing a two-or-three-minute chin-up several times an hour.
Meanwhile, Marcie was trying to make the best of it. “I’m getting a little tender,” she told JJ, “but the vibrations are nice and if you move around just right it can...” She was rotating her pelvis as she spoke. Evidently, she found the right spot because she closed her eyes and gave a satisfied, “Aaaaahhhh” that caused several heads to turn around to watch her.
“The secret,” she explained to JJ, “is that you have to either remain totally in control or totally give over control. Either way, your body can relax and enjoy whatever sensations you are getting. If you fight it, you lose.”
“How can you say you’re in control?” JJ asked. “We were forced onto these seats and strapped in place.”
Marcie laughed. “JJ, oh my little JJ,” she began. “No one forced me to do anything. I chose to get on this bus. I chose to sit on this seat. I chose to allow them to strap me in place. ... And I choose to get pleasure from the vibrations. I am in control.” She smiled at JJ, “Once you learn that everything is a choice– and I mean everything– you will always be in control.”
“What if I don’t want to be in control?” JJ asked. Her voice sounded very afraid.
“That is also a choice,” Marcie said brightly. “Deciding to let someone else control you is your choice, and by that choice, you are actually remaining in control.”
JJ raised her hand and pointed a finger at Marcie. What she was about to say, however, was lost as Sarge shouted out, “Quiet in the ranks! We will be at the camp in just a few minutes.”
It was only a minute or two later when the bus turned onto an even smaller dirt road that ran alongside a high fence that looked like something out of an old black-and-white WWII movie. What looked like small telephone poles about twelve feet tall were buried in the ground every ten feet or so. Between the upright poles, similar poles ran horizontally a foot or so from the top and bottom. Two more poles were crossways, forming an X in the box formed by the upright and horizontal poles.
All of the recruits in the bus strained to examine the fence through the narrow gaps in the metal covering the windows. The best de***********ion of the fencing material, which was stretched tightly on both sides of the wooden pole framework, is that it was barbed-wire chain link. If you didn’t look closely at it, the fence appeared no different from what a person might have around their backyard, but close inspection showed barbs wound around the fence wire at about a one-inch spacing. Making the overall fence look even more formidable and evil was military-grade razor wire mounted to the upper surface of the top horizontal pole.
Towering above the fence at regular intervals were tall towers with open, wooden steps winding up to a covered observation deck of some sort. On the roof of the closest tower, a large security camera of some sort rotated slowly, following the bus as it rumbled along beside the fence.
After about ten minutes, the bus stopped in front of a set of huge wooden-framed gates that, except for the fact that the wood was square-cut rather than being left as poles, were the same as the individual sections of the fence.
Sarge stepped down from the bus and spoke with someone through the gates. A few moments later, the gates began to swing open, and he stepped back aboard the bus.
They now traveled down a barely visible dirt road. Through the small slits in the metal that covered the windows, JJ and Marcie could see that they appeared to be traveling through a very narrow canyon. After several miles, they appeared to have gotten through the canyon and were now in a wide, flat, open area surrounded by high hills. There were more bluffs and cliffs in the background, which seemed to encircle– or more accurately, box in– the open area.
Sarge walked once more to the front of the bus and turned to face the recruits. “When the bus stops,” he said in his normal loud growl, “you sluts will be processed in.”
Holding up his hand, he began counting off on his fingers. “That means, one, all hair will be removed from your body. You’ve already taken care of from the neck down, so we only have to deal with the hair on your head.” He put his right hand on the second finger of his left hand. “Two, you will be marked with an indelible permanent marker with your rank and name.” Moving to the third finger, he said, “Three, you will have a tracking beacon inserted under your skin.” He gave all of them a big smile and said, “That’s so if any of you are stupid enough to try to escape through the desert, we can find the body before the buzzards do.” He let that sink in before finishing with, “And four, my favorite, you will be thoroughly cleaned– inside and out.”
He paused once more and added, “Any of you female sluts who did not take the pills which were sent to you when you registered, please tell the doctor doing the implant, and he will give you an additional shot which, like the pill, both acts as birth control and temporarily stops your period. ... Do you understand that?”
“Sir, yes, Sir, Sarge,” shouted the women. The men felt no need to answer that question.
The bus came to a stop, and Sarge stepped down one step so that he stood in the open doorway. “I’m going to stand here for two minutes to let you think. Then I am going to step down onto the ground. Saunders will release you one at a time so you can get off the bus. If you are willing to be processed, you will turn to your left and form a line in front of the processing shed... facing out. If you can’t do that and want to call it quits at this point, you will turn to your right and drape yourself over the hitching rail. After you receive ten swats with a leather paddle, you will be taken back into town and dropped off at your motel. A limo will pick you up in the morning and take you back to the airport.”
He glared at the thirty recruits in the bus and shouted, “Do you understand that?”
“Sir, yes, Sir, Sarge,” they shouted back in unison.
Saunders, the other guard who had ridden in the back with Sarge, walked slowly down the aisle of the bus. He first released those who were sitting on the saddles. After they were all off the bus, he began releasing the others. Marcie and JJ were about in the middle as the line formed in front of the shed. Two girls near the end, both from those who had stood for the more than six-hour ride to the camp, turned right as they got off the bus.
One of the girls, a skinny blonde with hair down almost to her waist, said, “I can’t do this. This isn’t what I thought it was going to be.” She then draped herself over the hitching post as instructed.
The other girl, a rather stockily built black, said, “Fuck this shit,” and started walking back up the road toward the front gate.”
“You are free to leave,” said a rather pleasant male voice, “but it is four miles to the gate and then a very, very long way to the nearest town.” He paused and then said, “Plus, you don’t even know in which direction to start walking... if you somehow manage to get through the gate.”
A rather tall, more than middle-aged man, dressed all in black, stepped out of the shadows next to one of the buildings. His pants appeared to be black denim, but they were creased razor-sharp in the front and tailored to fit into the black shiny boots which enveloped his legs to just short of his knees. Soft leather gloves with a short gauntlet covered his hands. “I am Commander Mueller,” he said quietly as he tapped his left palm with the crop he was holding in his right. “I own Box M Enterprises.”
He smiled as he surveyed the recruits standing at attention in front of the processing shed. After a long pause, he said, “You were given three separate opportunities to walk away without punishment.” Turning toward the defiant black woman, his voice raised slightly in pitch as he added, “But you waited until now to voice your objections.”
He walked over to the blonde and softly stroked her back as she lay over the hitching post crying softly. “Did you want a punishment before you left,” he asked, “or has something come up that means more to you than what you will experience in your weeks here?”
The blonde raised herself up and pulled her hair through her hands before sobbing out, “I can’t give up my hair. ... I just can’t. I think I am a natural submissive and would be happy as a slave, but I can’t give up my hair.” She sniffled and continued, “I’ll do anything else... anything... anything at all... but I can’t give up my hair.” She stood facing him, crying softly.
“Before you leave,” Commander Mueller said softly as he wiped the tears from beneath her eyes with his gloved finger, “Sung Yi in our office will help you register with one of our other websites for submissives who are hoping to meet their perfect Master or Mistress. I am sure there is someone out there somewhere who will treasure your hair as much as you do. You may stay here in a special holding area until a match has been arranged.”
He gave her a quick smile and added, “We will waive all sign-up fees at Perfect Master, but you will still receive ten swats with the leather paddle.”
He pointed with his crop, and the blonde again draped herself over the rugged timber of the hitching post.
The stocky black girl was still standing where she had stopped, so he walked over to her and asked, “What is it for you that is more important than what you hoped to get out of this BDSM experience?”
She looked at him warily. There was anger in her voice as she spoke. “Sarge said they would permanently mark us.” She held up her arms and then ran her hands down her sides. “There ain’t no permanent marks on this body. No tats, no brands, no scarring, no piercings, no nothing! And I aim to keep it that way.” She spit on the ground. “Permanent marks are the sign of a slave, not a Master, and I aim to become a Master, not a slave.”
He began to laugh, and the girl looked like she was ready to launch herself at him. “Oh no,” he said, holding up his hands, palms toward the angry girl. “I’m not laughing at you.” He lowered his hands and said with a deep smile on his face, “I’m laughing at our board of directors who very closely oversee our policies and procedures.”
He turned toward the row of recruits– and Sarge– standing in front of the processing shed. “Sarge told me,” he continued, “that when working with new recruits, you have to explain everything down to the last minute detail, and you often have to explain it at least three times. But the board overruled him and made him take the explanation of the permanent marks out of his welcoming speech.”
He pointed his crop at the camo-clad figure and said, “Sarge, tell Miss...” He pointed at her with his other, open hand.
“Powers,” she said firmly, giving her last rather than first name.
“Tell Miss Powers what it was that you think you should have explained to them.”
Sarge stepped slightly forward and growled out, “The permanent marker will stain the top layers of your skin. It is permanent ink, but will start to wear off in about six weeks as your skin renews itself and will be very faded or gone by the time you leave– unless you decide to have a permanent brand or tattoo to replace it.”
“Thank you, Sarge,” the commander replied. Then, turning to Miss Powers, he said, “Does that resolve your problem? ... Do you wish to remain for the time being?”
“Sir, yes, Sir, Commander, it resolves my problem,” she replied.
“You will, of course,” he answered, “still receive ten with the paddle before being processed. Is that agreeable?”
The woman did not answer, but instead walked over to the hitching rail and joined the skinny white girl awaiting punishment.
The Commander walked over to the line of recruits in front of the shed. “Three months from now,” he said in his quiet but forceful voice, “those of you who endure will leave here in much better physical– and mental– shape than you are now. The temporary-permanent marks will have worn off of most of you by then. Some of you will have– by your own request– acquired permanent slave brands or tattoos to replace those temporary marks. Some of you will have– again by your own request– gone through the procedures to permanently remove all bodily hair. A special few will have attained the rank of trustee in training, and perhaps one or two very special ones among you will go on to become a Master or Mistress in training.”
He smiled as he looked directly over at Miss Powers, who was draped over the hitching rail with her head turned to face him.
“That is what is before you,” he said as he once again began walking. He stopped when he reached the center of the line of sluts and slapped the crop against his gloved hand. “But first,” he said firmly, “we have two punishments to mete out.” He made a military-style about-face and tucked the crop under his left arm. “Sergeant,” he said loudly, “do your duty.”
Sarge stepped forward. He was now carrying a black leather paddle that appeared to be about a foot in length, not counting the handle, which was about half again as long. He stepped up behind the black girl. “I’m doing you first,” he said, “because I think you will be an example to the other recruits.”
She said nothing as he then stepped slightly to the side and began swinging the paddle. The entire row of recruits flinched slightly when the loud “Thwack!” echoed through the compound. It was soon followed by nine more. Each “Thwack!” was exactly the same and each was delivered at precisely one-second intervals.
In ten seconds, it was all over. The black girl had said nothing. Her only acknowledgment of the multiple strikes of the paddle was a slight grunt which was lost under the loud “Thwack!”
“You did very well, Miss Powers,” Sarge said softly.
He then stepped over to the proper position for the long-haired blonde. Her scream on the first stroke was almost as loud as the “Thwack!” of the paddle striking her ass. Her scream continued into the next strike but became even louder with the next “Thwack!” By the tenth stroke, the “Thwack!” was almost not heard for the loud, wailing scream. She continued to scream and stomp her feet on the ground as she remained bent over the hitching post.
“I have a feeling you would have been going home soon anyway,” Sarge said derisively. “You are going to need a very special Master or Mistress to rein you in properly.” The blonde now had her hands on the ground in front of the hitching rail. She was sobbing loudly but did not attempt to raise herself.
Sarge left her there blubbering and turned back to the defiant black girl. He tapped her on the shoulder and pointed to the line of recruits in front of the shed. She pushed herself fully up and walked over to take her place at the end of the line.
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END OF CHAPTER
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The true rulers of this world, the credit card companies, have made it almost impossible to sell books with true BDSM themes. Erotic publishers will soon be a thing of the past. So I have pulled all of my books from the one publisher that I had left and have decided to share them with my on-line followers.