By OKLASH
You crawl in bed with me upon my beckon and I lay you down on your stomach. Your sobs of anguish have subsided to free-flowing tears, and you tremble as I lay close to you. I run one fingernail across the angry welts on your back. “Relax,” you hear me say, “and let go. The hard part is behind you for now.”
This moment is unscripted if perhaps preordained by that part of your soul that still resides in your past, where “freedom” was another word for “lost.”
By Scribe
I read all of the Discipline Technologies brochures. I love bondage, but my play was always short-term and less frequent than I wanted. The thought of long-term confinement really turned me on. My better judgment hesitated, but finally my dick convinced me to contact DT about joining their prison population.
I am single, retired, and well off enough that I could disappear for a while and pay for my incarceration. I emailed DT informing them of my interest. They wrote back saying all their cells were full. Both their main prison and slave factory and their satellite Prison by the Sea were filled to capacity and had long waiting lists. I couldn’t believe how many guys want to be confined and tormented and are willing to pay for the privilege.
The DT representative, however, wrote that they were ready to open a new, third prison. While the main facility was located in the Midwest and the Prison by the Sea was located on the West Coast, the new prison was built at an isolated location in Florida. The DT salesperson assured me that the new facility offered the long-term solitary confinement I was seeking. The cost was not inexpensive but was within what I could afford.
By Hunter Perez
The following day, John was asked to work a double shift because one of his fellow officers became ill. He didn’t get home until after midnight, but by then the lights were out at the home of his mysterious blond neighbor. The day after that, another officer became ill and John was pressed into another double shift. Again, he came home too late to catch a glimpse of the neighbor.
On that second night, another lemon yellow envelope addressed to “Mr. Cop” was among John’s mail. He tossed aside the magazines, catalogs and bills that accompanied the letter and tore open its envelope.
“Dear Mr. Cop,” the letter began. “Since I found the courage to contact you, I wanted to share my dreams about how our life together could unfold in a captor and captive relationship.”
By Hunter Perez
After Holmgren introduced me to Quinn, I saw neither of them for several weeks. I have no idea what became of Holmgren, but I heard a few uncomplimentary things about Quinn. The first complaints came from Charleson, who somehow got into an argument with Quinn over the merits of Emily Brontë’s “Wuthering Heights,” which Charleson adored and Quinn loathed – and to make matters worse, Quinn insulted Charleson’s character based on his taste in literature.
“He had the audacity to question my intelligence and the type of home I was raised in,” Charleson fumed in confidence to me one afternoon. “Just because I wasn’t college educated like him doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate fine writing.”
More concerns about Quinn arose at the rock quarry when O’Dwyer started quizzing me about Quinn.
Continue reading A Left Turn at Albuquerque Continued – Part 06
By Practicerestraint
The screen went blank and 502 stared at it dumbly.
“Over here, 502.”
The slave whipped around and saw a man standing at the entrance to his cell. The tall man was marked as a staff member: he wore a buckled leather cuff around his right wrist and a heavy, stainless steel chronograph on his left wrist. The name tag on his navy polo shirt read “Chris.” Khaki cargo pants tucked into Corcoran boots were held up with a wide black belt that had various items hanging from it. Chris’s muscular build, dark hair and goatee make 502 think of a dominant porn star ready to pounce on a submissive who would become his victim.
Chris pointed to the floor immediately in front of him. Moving quickly, 502 walked over and knelt in front of him.
By Joshua Ryan
Chapter 2: One’s Company
Roger let me know that he’d made not only the room arrangements but also an appointment for us with Major Timmons of the St. Bevons State Labour Program. “I confess that I have had the tour already, but I will enjoy meeting him again, and I am sure that you will enjoy it too. We will meet him at his office at 9:00 a.m. on the second day after your arrival. As for our own meeting, may I suggest 7 p.m., local time, on the day you arrive? I will make our dinner reservations for that hour in the restaurant of the King George Hotel. I think you will find the Oak Room more than passable. We can meet in the lobby.”
“Thank you—but how will we recognize each other? Should I carry a copy of ‘BDSM for Fun and Profit’?”
“Oh yes, that is a question. For purposes of recognition, my dear sir, I humbly request a photo of yourself. You will note that I am not yet requesting an exchange of names. After all, what, to the world, is a photograph without a name?”
By Wakeysub
Master West came and stood in front of me – he brushed his hand over my right pec and pulled at the hair. “This will have to go”. He glanced over at IslandMasterUK, who simply nodded. Master West went to the box at my feet and produced a small spray bottle. “This is our temporary solution”. He sprayed is across my chest and watched as it soaked in. It smelt like the same depilatory spray I’d been using on my pubes in the run-up to my trip. I could feel burning like my skin was on fire.
He took a cloth and wiped it across my chest. All the hair just melted away and left the skin red and tender behind. IslandMasterUK nodded and told him that he was to incorporate the permanent solution into my training plan. Master West went back to the box and returned with another spray bottle and a piece of plastic. IslandMasterUK stepped forward.
“Here on the Island we have two options for marking our slaves – there is a temporary solution and a permanent solution. The temporary solution is fine for slaves who visit for short term visits but given the length of your stay I have decided that you should be permanently marked with your number. We have developed a permanent chemical marking process, It allows us to achieve the darkest black tattoo which can never be removed or covered.
By Joshua Ryan
I’d almost forgot how to be a bitch, but next day, I felt it coming back.
Every morning, I woke up from a dream. Usually it was a nice dream about being back in a nice home, with nice things in it for me. Nice clothes and great food and lots of drinks and new electronics to play with and hot parties to go to and trips all the time to Paris and Rome. And in my dreams, everybody was nice to me too — even the other bitches like me. In dream time, an understanding man was always just going to get me a second cocktail. Then something would happen and I’d wake up in a bunk bed in a barracks full of workies, and I had to put on a workie suit and go to an ugly room where they gave me “chow” and climb into a truck and get taken out to a field and be worked all day with my leg locked to a chain attached to a gang of other former human beings.
So the last thing I needed was to open my eyes and find a dude standing next to my rack who was just full of joy and happiness to be doing all those things with me on this beautiful morning. That’s what he did — Lucky the Kid — every morning, and I couldn’t do anything about it. He was too pretty, and he “trusted” me too much, and if it wasn’t for me, he said, he “might never have gotten here!”
