STACI DAVIS: INVESTIGATIVE SLAVE
by Zebulon
This is a work of fiction. No reference to real persons is
intended. It contains strong, non-traditional sexual imagery
and language. If you don't like this kind of thing, don't read it.
This may be reposted anywhere as long as (1) proper
credit is given, (2) I am informed of where it is being posted,
and (3) I am allowed free access to the web site where it is
being posted.
Feedback is welcome. Zebulon@fastmail.ca
(MF, FF, Bond)
* * * * * Start of Part 1 * * * * *
Staci Davis was fantasizing again--admiring herself in the
mirror, imagining her face on TV. Staci had a Midwest
farmer's daughter's look about her. Long straw-colored
hair, a generous mouth, perfect teeth, hazel eyes, freckles.
She was quite pretty and knew it. It was late evening and
she was wearing only a long flannel robe. Her hands were
in the side pockets. She studied her reflection. For as long
as she could remember, people had complimented her on
her beauty.
Staci had decided at a very early age that her face
belonged on television. But as she had no talent or interest
in acting, she also decided that she would become a
television journalist. 'Staci Davis: Investigative Reporter.'
It had become an obsession. She earned a B.A. in
broadcasting with excellent grades and was immediately
accepted into a graduate program with one of the top media
schools in the country. The new semester would begin in
less than a week. She had just finished moving in the day
before.
She studied her reflection dreamily and contemplated the
future. First she would do an internship with a major
network and finish her Master's. She would apprentice for a
few years with a small station somewhere in the boonies.
Then she would get a job on an investigative news program.
She gave herself ten years--fifteen tops--to work her way up
to program anchor.
She shifted her weight and felt her tight body
moving under the robe. She had a great figure and knew
that as well. She was a little over average height with
wonderfully sexy curves. She had the kind of shape turned to look back at when they passed her on the street.
After her career was established, there would be a
special someone who would sweep her off her feet. She
tried to imagine him: a network executive--bright,
handsome, important. She couldn't his face. She
closed her eyes. Her robe had fallen open. One hand had
slipped upward and was caressing a breast. Long, elegant
fingers gently cupping and sliding over the tender flesh. She
trembled slightly at her own touch. Her other hand had
slipped down between her legs and insinuated itself in the
soft warm folds of flesh.
She couldn't visualize a face. She never could. But she
could clearly imagine her penthouse office and her lover
coming to her late in the evening after the day's taping was
over. He would take her up in his arms and smother her
face with warm kisses. The fingers at her crotch were
moving quickly now, but producing more friction than
results. Her dream lover fantasies were always forced and
never very satisfying. She imagined he had pulled open her
blouse--she wasn't wearing a bra--and he was kissing her
breast. She tweaked her own nipple at the thought and
received a feeble response. Staci sighed in disappointment
and frustration.
Then, as always happened in these fantasies, they were
interrupted. The door of her office shot open and the big
bad boss came striding in. He had known what they were
up to and had caught them in the act. Staci was suddenly
quite wet; the fingers between her thighs slipping easily over
her clitoris which swelled at the touch. Her nipples were
hard and erect; her eyes squeezed tightly shut; her breathing
heavy.
The boss strode up. Her lover looked helpless. She still
couldn't visualize his face, but she could clearly see the
boss's powerful and knowing smirk. He fired her lover on
the spot and phoned for a guard to escort him out of the
building. Her dream lover slunk out of the room like a
whipped dog. He was kind and gentle, and feeble and
guilty. He was a wimp. The door clicked quietly behind
him as he went.
Staci had pulled her blouse up with one hand in her
fantasy as the boss turned to confront her. She had pulled
the fabric of her robe roughly against her now aching breast.
Her other hand was still working furiously along the entire
length of her slit. "Now what are we going to do with
you?" the boss asked with an evil leer. She wanted to back
away from him as he approached but seemed frozen to the
spot. "I would fire you too," he said with sinister intent, "if
you weren't our top rated reporter." He was standing there;
towering over her. She was looking up into his eyes and
could feel his hot breath on her face. The feeling of helpless
vulnerability was fueling her fantasy. She wanted to say
'please, . . . please, . . . " Her mouth formed the words as he
reached out and pulled her dress back off her shoulders.
Staci's robe fell to the floor around her ankles. The boss
moved behind her, spread her legs apart, pulled one of her
arms up behind her back, and bent her over at the waist.
With his free hand he undid his pants. He removed an
enormous prick which he thrust into her from behind. She
could feel his powerful strokes as he held her wrist behind
her with one of his hands and reached around to her with the other. His balls were slapping roughly against
her clit as they both came together.
For a long moment, Staci stood frozen amid the
crumpled folds of the fallen robe. She was bent over,
puffing and grunting through the aftermath of her climax.
Her were bobbing in rhythm with her breathing. She
slowly extracted her one, love-soaked hand from her crotch
as she brought the other down from an achingly
uncomfortable position high up behind her back. She
straightened up. After a few moments she grabbed her robe
and hurried off to the bathroom.
In the shower, she washed herself thoroughly, taking
care to touch her sexual organs with the wash cloth only
and not her hand. She couldn't understand why her sexual
fantasies always ended this way. And why she could always
visualize her tormentor and never her lover.
* * * * *
Meanwhile, in South America, another heartbreakingly
beautiful was stepping up onto an auction block.
Taffany Johnson was a little shorter than average height.
She had delicious cocoa colored skin, a fabulous figure, and
an angelic face. Her was a Cajun beauty and her
father, a Nigerian immigrant who had landed in New York
and became a highly paid for mail-order clothing
catalogs. The genes had all said gorgeous and gorgeous she
was. She had disappeared from one day and despite
the frantic efforts of her would never be heard from
again.
At the moment, Taffany was wearing only a velvet collar
and an enticing smile. Another slave had led her in,
unclipped her leash, and stepped back. Taffany went into
her displaying ritual. She started in a ballet stance holding
her arms open and slowly turning so that all in the small,
elite audience could get a good look at her.
"That's the essence of a good display," an Mistress at
one of the tables was explaining to her protegee .
"When you take over my house, you'll have to design your
own displays. None of them are exactly the same. Each
should be tailored to the individual slave to show her to best
advantage." She paused to admire Taffany, who was now
standing on one foot with the other leg pulled straight up
almost against her ear. "This has got to be one of
Rene's trainees," she continued. "Notice the classical dance
influence on the routine?" Her protegee uh-huh'ed. "Rene
got his start as a dancer and choreographer. It shows in all
his work." Taffany, was still on one foot, leaning forward
with her body parallel to the ground. But now, her other
leg was bent up over her and she was gracefully holding her
ankle with one hand while the other was held out before her
like a prima ballerina in Swan Lake. Her breasts, which
were quite shapely if not overly large, hung down alluringly.
"Beautiful," muttered the Dom, almost to herself. And
then added, "The display should of course expose every
angle, nook, and cranny of the slave for public inspection,
but it should do more than that. It should display the grace, stamina, and trainablity as well. Notice the
expression on her face?" She looked over at her protegee.
"Yes, Mistress."
"How would you describe it?"
The Dom considered the question carefully before
answering. "Well, Mistress, it looks like she's enjoying
herself." Her tone sounded more like a question than
answer.
"Exactly!" the woman snapped with a satisfied grin.
"That shows how well trained and trainable this particular
slave is. You watch, she'll bring a fine price."
Taffany continued with her ritual, oblivious to the figures
seated at the four dozen small tables around her. At one, a
middle-eastern gentleman was studying her with intent
interest. At another a group of five orientals were
alternatively watching, conversing with each other, and
tapping figures into a tiny calculator. At still another a tall
brunette looked bored. She was interested only in short
blonds and had already bought two.
In the back, an important Mafioso figure from a Vegas-
based was watching with rapt interest. This was his
first visit to a Mart sponsored auction. He was flanked by
two bodyguards who were clearly more interested in the
body on stage than the body they were supposed to be
guarding. One was an enforcer who had been a loyal
retainer for years. The other was a fairly new member of
the who had demonstrated considerable ruthless
talent. He had been sent on this trip, partly as a reward.
Taffany concluded her routine and stood before the
assemblage with heavy breath and glistening skin. Her legs
were spread and her arms held out at her sides. She looked
over at her trainer who was beaming back at her. She had
obviously done well and was delighted to have pleased him.
A came up behind her. She got down on her
knees and brought one hand up between Taffany's legs from
behind. She reached into the dark, smoothly shaven crotch
and begin stimulating the brown skinned beauty. Taffany
was supposed to let herself be brought to orgasm so that the
audience could judge her sexual responsiveness. She
wished to again please her trainer so she closed her eyes,
shut out the crowd, and let herself enjoy the feelings which
began to wash over her. Within moments the talented
young submissive had brought her to a high state of sexual
excitement. Then the hand eased off and held her there
while the auction commenced. Taffany was breathing
deeply and trembling. Her standing proud and hungry,
the nipples stiff and swollen. As was permitted, Taffany
reached up and began massaging her own breasts. The only
restriction was to leave the timing of her orgasm strictly to
the submissive who was working her twat. And that
wouldn't happen until the bidding began to flag.
The auctioneer on one side of the stage began his
routine. There were five serious bidders and the numbers
they tossed out were impressive.
As the bidding progressed a thin aristocratic gentleman
sitting at a table in the very back of the room was joined by
a tall, well-muscled woman in a black jump suit. The was the head of security for the Mart and the woman was
his second in command, his Number Two. He had held the
number one spot for nearly twenty years. Before that he
had been the Number Two for his predecessor. He was the
fourth head of security since the system had been conceived.
The head of security had a second in command who he
personally selected and trained. By selecting a woman as
his second he had set quite a precedent. She was the first
woman to join the executive security hierarchy.
And, of course, Number Two had a Number Three who
she had selected from the elite corps of a dozen full time
enforcers. Together the three of them oversaw all of the
security operations including a handful of computer jocks
and half a hundred contract operatives. It was a large job
but quite satisfying. And the perks were, of course,
incredible.
As head of security, all the man's expenses were paid.
He didn't have or need any money of his own. When he had
ascended to the head security position, the Mart had opened
a Swiss account for him with over a million English pounds.
Since then, the regular yearly bonuses plus interest which
had been added to that account had added up to quite a nest
egg. When he retired the entire sum would be his without
strings. That plus an annual pension of another large chunk
of change. Money would not be a problem. And he would
retire soon. He was about to turn 61 and, as much as he
loved his work, he was getting tired. Besides it was time to
give Number Two her day. He had been just about her age
when he had taken over as the head of security. For the last
year she had pretty much done all of the real work anyway.
He was entirely satisfied with her competence and
reliability.
He hardly looked at her as she pulled out a chair. She
had a plain, slightly masculine face and wore an expression
of quiet resolve and power.
"Everything in order?" he asked absently as she sat.
"More or less," she answered. "Just the usual nonsense."
He glanced over to read her meaning. She shrugged.
We had to chase some kids away and a couple drove
up looking for a romantic dinner." She shook her head. "I
don't know why people can't read simple signs. It's not like
they weren't large enough." Then after a moment she
added, "He was a real Bozo, but his girlfriend was quite a
looker."
The thought to himself, 'Quite a looker? Hmmm.
Number Two didn't usually comment on the attractiveness
of strangers. She was far too professional to the during an auction--but if there was any way to track her
down later. . .' In the middle of this thought Number Two
added, "I've got Jason checking the car license anyway, just
to make sure." And the smiled.
By this time, the bidding was down to two: the middle-
eastern gent and the orientals. The bid was to the oriental
syndicate and from the look in the middle-easterner's face,
the figure had gotten high enough that he wouldn't be
entirely unhappy to lose. The orientals were arguing with
considerable animation and Taffany was going slightly crazy
with lust at the extended time spent teetering on the edge of
orgasm. The auctioneer look over to the owner and
repeated the last bid. The owner seemed to consider and
then made a series of quick gestures. The auctioneer
nodded and then addressed the orientals, "Gentlemen," he
said, "the last bid is not going to be accepted by the owner."
The middle-eastern buyer registered both disappointment
and relief. "As you know, there will be an auction in Hong
Kong later next year and Master Rene apparently feels he
can get a better price there."
The Mistress cackled with glee and slapped her
young protegee on the knee. "See I told you!"
"However," the auctioneer continued, "he indicates a
willingness to sell now if you will raise the bid by another
10,000."
As the orientals considered this, the auctioneer nodded
to the who was rubbing Taffany's twat, her
delicate hand now covered with the coco-colored girl's love
juices. She quickly changed her motions and Taffany came
explosively in front of the assembly. It was delectable to
watch as her rich bobbed and trembled. And
it was even more enticing to listen to the melodious sounds
of passion which erupted from her lips. The orientals caved
and the deal was struck.
* * * * * End of Part 1 * * * * *
STACI DAVIS: INVESTIGATIVE SLAVE
by Zebulon
This may be reposted anywhere as long as (1) proper
credit is given, (2) I am informed of where it is being posted,
and (3) I am allowed free access to the web site where it is
being posted.
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