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Message-ID: <39357asstr$1037653805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
Mime-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} {Gamera} Case of the Uncommon Whore (MF voy bdsm nc)
Date: Mon, 18 Nov 2002 16:10:05 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

                        DISCLAIMER

This is a piece of fiction. Its characters have not even
begun to contemplate such things, mostly because said
characters do not exist.  Any imagined resemblance to people
living or deceased is either the result of dementia on the
reader's part or that the reader is, in fact, a character
this story.  None of these are conditions to be proud of,
and it would not be wise to draw attention to one's self by
claiming any similarity.

It is assumed that readers of this story have the permission
of the state, mom, dad, and the pastor and are able to fully
tell the difference between real and make-believe.  If not,
ain't you ever heard of Disney, _The_Little_Mermaid_ is plenty
hot enough for you, little boy, jeeze.  Furthermore, the writer
is aware that he is bound for hell, but welcomes both praise
or/and well thoughts out, humourous insults on his writing
skill or lack there of. Note: he already knows he cannot
spell warth shet, though Jibsheets' Slut tried to find them all.

The events and descriptions of this story are the sole
property of Kenny N Gamera and should not be recorded,
reposted, or profited from in anyway without express written
permission of the person hiding behind that pen name.
Reposting and free archiving may be tolerated given the
writer's name and address remains attached.  Archiving by
Deja.Com, and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and encouraged.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

                Case of the Uncommon Whore
                        as told to
                      Kenny N Gamera

   My name is Kevin Michaels.  Bill collectors call me Mr.
Michaels.  Friends call me Mike.  Clients call me
infrequently.  I am a private detective; though, at times I
feel more like a pornographer.

   I am good with a camera, especially with using a zoom lens
at a distance.  I, therefore, do mostly divorce cases.
Usually, I work for lawyers  needing high quality shots for
evidence in the messier battles.  Occasionally, I do get a
client who wants me tail a spouse or someone else of whom
they are suspicious.  This is about one such client.

   I have an office/apartment above a bar in the low rent area
of town.  I have never had occasion to learn the bar's
name, because I have never had any difficulty finding it.
Nor have I ever had need to give directions; perspective
clients seem to find me without my needing to give them.  I
hardly ever use the office to meet clients, anyway.  Most
of my business seems to be accomplished downstairs in the
corner booth of the smoking section where I can safely give
myself a case of lung cancer to keep the serositis company.

   That day, I had been sitting at the bar sipping something
cheap and vaguely Scotch.  She walked up behind me looking
hot and a half in something very red, very short, and only
slightly tight.  She looked at my reflection in the bar
mirror and called me Mr. Michaels.

   Most of the bill collectors that I come across tend to look
a little less feminine and a lot more fatal, so I admitted
to being me for about the first time in a week. Assuming
hopefully that she was there to give me money,  I suggested
that we retire to the corner booth.  She declined.

   "Mr. Michaels, I would prefer the privacy of your office to
discuss this matter.  I want the whole affair handled as
discretely as possible."

   I shrugged and got off my stool.  Together, we went to the
door to the upstairs.  I held it open for her, which gave
me a chance to check her best side.  Her legs were slightly
thinner than average and shapely, as if they had done their
share of dancing.  I, also, got a glimpse of hose top when
her skirt rose a bit as she stepped up the stairs.
Climbing up the flights, the contents of that skirt came
alive.  Her fanny had a rounded shape, being neither too
large nor too small.

   "I see you found him downstairs," said Emily from the front
desk when we walked into the office.

   "Yes, your father was right where you said he'd be."

   "The office is this way." I waved towards it as I poured
myself some coffee to help clear some of the Scotch from my
system, "and Emily's not my daughter; she's my secretary."

   I got that look that people always give me with that
revelation.  It was nothing of that sort.  I had found her,
a cute thirteen year-old runaway, asleep in my bed one
morning after I had awakened on the couch in reception
area.  That has been the arrangement between us ever since,
with the addition of her answering the phone, doing the
general cleaning, and the like.  She claims that she owes
me because I had saved her from a some pimp who sounded a
lot like Leroy Watson, local white slaver and grand dragon
of the KKK.  That I could not remember anything about it
myself does not mean much; I miss a lot when I am out at
night.

   I passed my client into my office and went to my desk,
flopping down in my high back chair.  Some would call it
antique if it were not such a worthless piece of junk.  She
sat down in one of the equally ancient, surplus chairs at
the front of the desk.   She sat up straight with both of
her hands laid across her lap.  I chose to ignore her body
language and decided to get to business.

   "What can I do for you, Mrs....?"  I let the question drag
out to let her know that she had yet to share her name.

   "Miss.  Miss Loretta Van Derma. Mr. Michaels, I need you to
follow my brother's fiancée," she replied as I reminded
myself to check for a ring next time.

   I pushed a Barbie out of the way to get at a pad of paper
and one of those inexpensive, disposable automatic pencils.
I took notes as she told her story.  It would seem that the
young lady before me stood to inherent ,along with her
brother, a more than sizable portion of town from their
father, a local real estate baron.  Young Mr. Van Derma,
however, had fallen for a young woman from the other side
of the tracks.

   Miss Van Derma had grown up with the certain knowledge that
this must equal money-grubbing slut.  It also meant, I was
told, that her brother was endangering the "Family"
reputation and, more importantly, the family fortune.  I
was to follow the fiancée, Jennifer Wales, during the
course of her day and get evidence of her hooking on the
streets, dancing at a strip club, doing porno flicks, or
whatever trash like her did when not bleeding soft-hearted,
young heirs dry.

   Because I get enough business to keep my rent and bar tab
two months ahead if not enough to keep my other bills less
than two months behind, I was tempted to skip the case.
It sounded too much like one of those awful soaps that
Greta, the afternoon waitress downstairs, would watch
instead the Cubbies.

   She forced me to take it.

   "I am offering you a five thousand dollar retainer right
now, Mr. Michaels, with an additional ten thousand when you
produce evidence that I can show my father to convince him
that we must force my brother to end this farce."

   I agreed.  I felt as if I had sold my worthless soul to the
devil; however, fifteen grand meant that I could pay off a
few of the less important bills such as my credit cards.  I
would even have a couple of dollars left over to get Emily
the Barbie townhouse that she had been drooling over.

   I began that night.  It gave me a chance to get something
other a cheeseburger into Emily.  We ate at the all night
restaurant where Jennifer worked as a waitress on the
midnight shift.  We lucked out and got a table in the
section next to hers.  This would let us watch her at work,
but allow us to compare notes without being overheard.

   After we had ordered our dinner, Emily said, "she's very
pretty."

   It was clear why the younger Van Derma would want to make
her his wife.  Her eyes were a pistol blue that shined
whenever she would flash her lovely smile.  She had her
light brown hair with blond highlights cut to her
shoulders.  Her apron hid modest breasts but she could not
hide a nice compact ass.  Overall, she appeared to be just
as sweet as any college-aged girl could be.

   About the time my tuna melt and Emily's vegetarian stir fry
reached our table, Jennifer's fiancée arrived and went
right to an open table in her section.  She skillfully
managed her section while allowing herself time for
frequently stops to talk with him.  We lingered over apple
pie as we watched them flirt only as two young people can.

   Finally, he stood to leave. Whispering in her ear, he
handed her a slip of paper.  She lowered her head and
blushed.  It may have been the distance, but to me, she did
not appear to be smiling.

   The next day Emily stayed behind to watch her cartoons,
play, and man the phones.  I went to the local Bible
College to find out more about and resume following Miss
Wales.  Asking questions while she attended lectures, I
learned nothing that would suggest that she was anything
other than a nice little Christian girl, except maybe that
she was so kind herself.  She was devoid of many of the
biases that inflict many other "nice little Christians."

   She went to her classes and scored well on exams.  She
attended church and volunteered at a local soup kitchen.
At one of those meetings that the just say no types throw
on occasion, she had pledged her virginity to her husband.
All in all, nothing suggested anything other than her being
a proper and well behaved young woman.

   Her last class ended early afternoon.  I had timed my
travels so I waited outside when it let out.  I followed
her out of the building to her car, got to mine, and
continued to trail her out of the parking lot at a discrete
distance.  She never appeared to notice as she led me to a
small adult bookstore near the interstate.

   I drove past as she went into the lot.  I continued down
the block, turned around, and went to the store myself.  A
tall picket fence surrounded the lot to protect customers
from prying eyes plus to protect the prying eyes from what
was inside.  It was crowded with the same kind of car that
I drove, old and rusted, making it easy for me to hide
among them.  I pulled a small spy-type camera from under my
seat and went into the store.

   She stood in front of the counter looking over the toys
inside the display case with down turned eyes and shuffling
feet.  She wore a Bible College sweat shirt and a pair of
normal fit jeans.  Every guy who was not in a viewing booth
was looking at her, most likely not believing someone like
her would be there, but enjoying their luck to be
witnesses.  That made it easy for me to take pictures as I
feigned interest in a rack of European all-girl videos.

   She explained to the salesman what she needed in a voice
too soft for me to hear from where I stood.  He showed her
a number of large dildos.  Each was life-like in shape and
colour if not (from my limited experience) size.  She
showed little interest in any particular one.  She merely
closed her eyes as she selected the largest and blackest.
I "got bored" and left without being noticed while she
paid.

   I waited in my car for her to leave.  When she exited the
building, I took several shots of her to establish the
site.  She carried her purchase without a bag, so two
greasy rednecks who were going inside clearly saw what she
had.  Whatever they had said to her made her snap her head
away as if she had been slapped.

   I did not take any pictures of her as she sat crying in her
car.

   From there, she went straight to her apartment above the
garage of an elderly couple from her church.  I let her be
long enough to call Emily from a convience store payphone
to collect the day's messages and what not.  I left her
after a short while with instructions to make an
appointment with a lawyer friend who had called.

   Because I was going to be late with this case, I also asked
her to go to Father Martinez and Sister Marcie's for the
night.  I wished her a good night and we hung up.  I got
back from the payphone shortly before Jennifer left her
apartment again.

   This time she wore a white blouse and a very tight, short
black leather mini-skirt.  Underneath, she had white hose
and what my telephoto lens showed was a white garter belt,
that the skirt had no effect in hiding.  A set of black,
stiletto, three-inch heels finished the ensemble.  Though
it was clear she was hardly a complete amateur in heels,
she still walked with some difficulty as she made her way
to her car.

   Her make-up was the biggest transformation, however.  Last
night and earlier today what makeup she may have worn
merely accentuated her natural  prettiness.  Now, the
effect was stunning and it became clear to me that this
young lady could have modeled if she had wished.  Her smile
had disappeared, though, replaced by a flat expression, and
her face lost the glow it had the night before this.

   I followed her to a large home along the river in one of
the nicer (read: richer) and more isolated parts of town.
The hill across street was empty and not a difficult climb
even with my camera gear and the large electronic
microphone I had brought with me.  I quickly found her in a
second story picture window in front of a balcony.  She was
already stripped down to just a white bra and the garter
belt and hose.

   I shot a few exposures of her before I set up and adjusted
the microphone.  It used a laser beam to measure vibrations
in the windowpane caused by the sounds in a room.  The
first thing I heard was her pleading when I had it
connected.  I started the recorder and focused my camera on
the window to find a man had joined her, presumably the one
to whom she  begged.

    He was dressed  but hardly in a conservative manner.  He
had a white button down shirt made of what I would guess
was silk and black leather pants that either showed off his
features well or were made to enhance them and

matched the hood that hid his face.


   I took more exposures as he cuffed her wrists together.  He
lifting her arms above her shoulders with a careful motion.
Connecting the manacles to a dangling chain, he left her
feet on the floor.  Finishing this, the master finally
spoke to her.

   "Shut up, bitch.  I own your body, and it is mine to do
with as I please.  You have surrendered to me, and soon I
will break you."

   In answer, Jennifer's pleas turn to sobs.  He slapped her.

   "I said shut up, and that includes your incessant crying,
whore.  If you don't stop, I will be forced to gag you.  In
that case, you won't be able to complete your lesson
tonight, and I may be forced to take that precious cherry
of yours.

   "That,  slut, is the only thing which separates you from a
common whore, and who would marry a common whore."

   That last was a statement not a question, and it had venom
behind it.  It also frightened the girl who forced the last
of her sobs down her throat, but the look on her face was
not calm as I started a second roll of film.

   "Did you buy your new toy?"  She nodded her head.  "Good,
slave.  I won't ask if you followed your instructions.  We
will find out tomorrow night.  Now, I want you to spread
your legs while I ask Cynthia to help us see how well you
learned your last lesson."

   A stunning, large breasted, and very nude blond walked into
view of the window.  The hooded man fit the spread legs of
the hanging girl with a bar to keep them apart.

    Producing the dildo Jennifer had bought, Cynthia spread
her legs to introduce it to her own pussy.  She began to
stroke it in and out slowly of her cunt making it shiny
with her juices.  She did this without making a sound loud
enough to register on my equipment.

   "One day, my lively little whore, you a become the perfect
slave like Cynthia.  Cynthia,"  he asked as she withdrew
the dildo from her body, "have you prepared this slut's toy
for it."

   Cynthia nodded and took the fake dong and slowly began to
work it up the young woman's butt hole.  The grimace on
Jennifer's face was not just from the pain of having a
foreign object driven up the wrong way of her one way
street: it appeared that she was enjoying the violation of
the anal sex.

   "Now, slave, if you were a common whore, you could have
prepared this yourself.  But you are a most uncommon whore,
my slut.  Virgin in your fair cunt, but not in your filthy
asshole."

   After a few minutes of fucking the plastic rod into the
girl, Cynthia placed a chastity belt around Jennifer that
kept the dildo trapped in her ass.  A small padlock was
snapped in place and Cynthia tested it before handing her
master the key.  Cynthia then walked from view and I heard
a door close.

   "Do you enjoy having that cock up your ass," the master
asked to which she responded with a nod.

   He slapped her across the face.

   "Tell me out loud and tell me the truth, bitch.  Do you
enjoy having something up your asshole?"

   She replied softly so I barely heard her voice in my
headphones, "yes, Master.  I enjoy having this dildo in my
ass."

   He began to fondle her breast with his right hand.  "Soon
you will be married and on your wedding night your groom
will strip you of your maiden hood.  It will be so much
different than this.  It will be romantic and tender just
as in your dreams.  You want that don't you?"

   She nodded her head.

   "Do you want it more than this?"  He twisted her breast in
his hand.  She grimaced again but this time totally from
pain.  Still, she held her tongue.  "You learn quickly,
slave.  Soon, I may call you by your name, but not just
yet.  You have not earned that privilege."

   He turned her head by her chin so that she faced him.

   "Shall we began your next lesson?"

   She did not give a response, and he did not wait for one.
He clapped his hands, and I heard the door opened again.
Shortly, Cynthia returned to deal, this time leading a
tall, thin black man by a dog chain.  He was as undressed
as she and as silent.

   She directed him to a table upon which he laid.  His
equally long and thin cock stuck straight into the air.

Cynthia bent down and took the man's cock into her mouth.
She began, slowly at first, to bob up and down.  She picked
up speed and went further with each stroke.  The master
began a running commentary of what was happening and how it
felt for the man.

   Then he ordered Cynthia to stop.  Together, they released
Jennifer from the ceiling and helped her to the table.
Once there, he forced her head down to the cock.  She
opened her mouth wide and began to allow the dick to enter.
I quickly switched cameras and began to shoot pictures as
fast as I could.  When she began to gag, he released her
head so she could lift herself up.  On her own, she began
to repeat the procedure of the other slave, progressing
further down after a time.

   Eventually, the nameless black man began to tense.  The
master grabbed Jennifer's hair and pulled her up to catch
the first blast in her face.  Cynthia reached for the
spurting dick.  She directed it to soak the young woman's
face with cum.  With the last feeble squirt, she shook the
penis and helped the young man up from the table.  She then
led him from the room.

   "You have learned to deep throat well, slave.  The next
will be longer and much thicker.  That slave will take your
ass as well."

   Cynthia returned and the masked man addressed her.  "Clean
this slut and send it home.  I am finished with it."

   He turned back to Jennifer.  "Tomorrow, I will remove that
belt."

   I took this as my cue to leave.  After a few last shots of
Cynthia licking cum from Jennifer's tear streaked face, I
quickly packed my things.  I was able to leave before
Jennifer left the house.

   I made my way home before ten.  My pillow and blanket were
on the couch along with a note from Emily saying that she
had decided to stay tonight.  I got undressed down to my
shorts and went out quickly.  I was too tired to worry
about the obvious set up of which I had become part.

   In the morning while I dressed, I thought through the last
several day's events; events had happened way too quickly.
It would usually take a week of intense tailing to get the
first usable photograph; I got several rolls the next day.
People do not have normal sex, let alone kinky sex, in
front of an open picture window in real life.  Everything
last night seemed to have been on a stage.

   I would have bet that my current patron was behind this.
She hired some bondage freak to blackmail the poor girl
into some sort of sick relationship.  Then, I am brought in
to get the evidence to show to Daddy.  Daddy demands an end
to the relationship.  Jennifer confesses but in tears
claims that she was forced to everything.  The softhearted
younger Van Derma refuses to stop the wedding.  He is
disinherited, leaving my bitch of a client to collect the
whole fortune.

   I had to give her credit; she was damn good.

   While Emily ate her Fruit Loops, I called Miss Van Derma.
She seemed genuinely and pleasantly surprised with my quick
results and asked that I visit her family's home that night
with the tape and photos.  Against my better judgment, I
agreed mostly to get my money and as far away from her as I
could as soon as I could.

   I left Emily working on some homework assignment that
Sister Marcie wanted her to do.  I went to develop the
negatives in the closet I had converted into a darkroom .
I made two sets of prints: one to deliver tonight with the
negatives and a second set for a friend of mine who is a
collector of such things.  I basically use him an archive
of my casework.  After all, should someone turn up dead,
the police may need to see me in establishing a motive.  It
has not happen, yet one never knows in this business.

   About lunchtime, I sent Emily downstairs for her afternoon

cheeseburger.  I wrote out a report using my notes.  The
more adult

details were put down in a technical way as not to corrupt
Emily when

she would correct my atrocious spelling and grammar and
type it out.  Later, I left her to type and went downstairs
to meet with my

lawyer friend.

   He wasn't there so I went to the bar to get a coke from
Gus.  Getting a Pepsi, I went to my booth to light up while
I waited.  Hank was an old friend of mine from some war in
which I cannot recall taking part, except for some vague
images involving beer and olive drab.  Recovering, he does
not preach too much.  He mainly keeps throwing work my way
because I usually stay sober while on a case.  I was
looking forward to working on something routine, a thing
Hank never failed to produce.

   He noticed the soft drink in my hand, which forced me to
explain my current case.  As I told the short version of
the story, he listened with a furrowed brow.  Finally, I
reached the point where I had made tonight's appointment.
He interrupted.

   "Watch your ass with these people, Mike.  They play hard
ball."

   "That's about what I thought. 'Cause these kids are being
set up."  Hank nodded his head in agreement.  "I only hope
that I'm coming up on the winning side."



"Loretta Van Derma is supposed to be the meanest of them.
Greg is a damn nice guy.  We eat together at the club
fairly often.  He comes across as being a very genuine
person.  Still, I have never seen anyone fuck him over.  He
may not be mean, but he's smart."

   "Any chance he might find a way to get back at me," I
asked.

   Hank got a faraway look for a second, then answered, "He
wouldn't want to.  He'd go after his sister if he could,
but he wouldn't waste the energy on a pawn.  It's the old
man you've got to watch.  Hang low, and don't press for any
more money than her fee."

   He looked me in the eyes.  "He even thinks that he smells
blackmail, you're dead."

   After that, we settled down to his business.  It was as
routine as I could have hoped.  We set a price that was no
where near what I was promised by Miss Van Derma, but fair
for the work of establishing the habits of a cheating wife
and her boss.  As we shook hands, he wished me luck for
tonight and then left.

   I spent the rest of the afternoon impatiently waiting for
the time of my evening meeting.  There was little else to
do.  When I get like that, I usually arrive earlier than
scheduled.  I did again that night by about a half hour.  A
thin, small-chested girl in the classic French maid's
outfit greeted me at the door.  I followed her as she
wordless lead me to a very large sitting room.  She poured
me a scotch without my asking and left.

   I quickly gulped it down.  Resisting the urge to pour
myself another, I tried to work off my nerves by pacing
around.  I had hopes that someone would soon arrive and
relieve me of the delivery.  I wanted to leave before
anyone other than my client realized that I was there and
should wonder what my business was.

   After an unbearable time, my employer entered the room.
She wore faded jeans and a white blouse through which I
detected the signs of what could be a black bra.  She
walked past me, the pronounced movements of her buttock
still in evidence.  She turned and took a seat on a couch.
Across from it with a coffee table between them, stood a
loveseat into which I sat.

   "Mr. Michaels," she said.  "I understand that you have
found what I was looking for.  That was quick work."

   "Yes, Ma'am."

    I handed her the envelope containing the photographs, the
tape, and report.  She had me remain as she flipped through
the photographs with a big smile across her face.

   Finally, she looked up from the photos and announced,
"These are wonderful, Mr. Michaels.  This surpasses every
thing I could have hoped for in fact.  If I could ask you
to wait here, I'll be back in a moment.

   Again, I was left alone, but before I grew too restless,
another young

woman in a maid's costume came for me.  She led me down the
hall into a small room that appeared to be a

den.  There, I found Miss Van Derma

and two older gentlemen waiting for me.  One of them, a
frail, thin man whose doctor most likely made drink

Ensure, stood from his chair.

   "Mr. Michaels.  This is my father,

Darwin Van Derma," she gestured to the frail man.  Then she
nodded to the other.  "And his lawyer, Huxley Vogel."

   Van Derma held out his hand.  I took it. He and his dark
three piece suit looked as if they were parts of the same
organism.  Steel blue eyes judged me with one glance.  I
would guess that not one of the silver hairs on his head
had moved in the last century.  He was a man of metal.

   Vogel was a man of chocolate.  His large bulk reminded me
of a stereotypical happy German burgermeister.  His
handshake, however, felt firm in my grasp.

   "I've shown Daddy your photos and would like you to telling
him everything."

   After a mental "Aw crap," I told them the same short
version of the story that I had told Hank, excluding any
negative opinions that I held toward my client or what I
considered her motives.  Both of the gentlemen listened
stoically to my account while Miss Van Derma all but
bounced giggling in her chair.  I summed up then started to
recite a Hail Mary in my head.

   The elder Van Derma reached over to a table stand and
flipped a switch to an intercom.  "Cynthia.  Could you
bring Gregory and Jennifer here, dear?"  After releasing
the button, he added to us, "My wife will bring them here,
and this will be cleared up shortly."

   One man's shortly is another man's endless wait.  I had
gotten used to it by that point and just quietly watched as
Miss Van Derma gloated and the two men sipped the cocktails
that they had in hand when I had entered.  I kept myself
entertained with thoughts of all the terrible things that
would happen to me. Distracted by my imagination, I failed
to hear the door behind me open.

   I did hear Miss Van Derma gasp and cry out, "Mother."

   I turned around to discover the source of my client's
shock, the blonde from the night before, now dressed in
thigh-height vinyl boots with tall spike heels, a studded
dog collar, and nothing else.  She went directly to her
husband and knelt next to him, facing towards me.  She
turned her head up to her husband's face as her hand took
hold of her husband's crotch.

   "Greg and his slut will be here presently, Master," she
said before turning back to smile at me as the elder Van
Derma stroked her hair.

   A heartbeat later, I turned to a thud behind me.  I saw
Jennifer on the floor.  In addition to an outfit matching
that of her future mother-in-law, she had a gag in her
mouth and wore a hobble so she could barely walk;
evidently, she had tripped.  Greg Van Derma, who I could
now recognize as the man with the leather mask, held a
leash attached to her collar.  He used a riding crop in his
free hand to swat the fallen girl in the rump.

   He addressed his father in a formal tone, "My apologies,
Father.  This slut is not quite yet prepared in the ways of
a slave.  I will punish her properly after this meeting."

   The elder Van Derma replied, "Not too harshly, son.  One
cannot push a slave too hard while it is being broken.  You
want to retain something of the original essence.  But this
is not why you are here.

   "This gentleman," he gestured towards me, "has informed me
that you have progressed your slut faster in anal
intercourse than in oral intercourse."

   "Yes, father.  I much prefer a young slut's ass to its
throat.  I am sure when it has matured , it will bring me
more pleasure with its mouth, but I want its ass ready for
the near term."

   "Very good," said the older man as he leaned back and
relaxed.  "I was wondering, that is all.  She is your
property."

   His wife remained where she knelt, manipulating his
enlarged member.

During the exchange between father and son, I noticed that
Vogel had quietly stood.  He moved discreetly to a position
next to and behind Miss Van Derma.  He had the air of a
bored man during the interplay.

   He did seem amused by my stunned reaction, especially as

the elder Van Derma spasmed as he came in his pants.  Mrs.
Van Derma continued to knead as a wet spot

spread.

   In the after glow of his orgasm, he turned to his daughter
and asked, "And what had you hoped to gain by this."

   She jumped up and screamed, "I

want that whore out of this family.

Look at what she has done to you and Greg.  Look at what
she has done to mother.  She..."

   At this, the jolly burgermiester stood and slapped her
across the face so hard that she fell in her chair.  While
she was still in shock, Vogel snapped a pair of police
handcuffs on her wrists.  With this, the shock broke, and
she began to twist and shout.

   "Cynthia, help Huxley with your whelp."

   As I and the couple behind me watched, the slave-wife stood
calmly and went behind her daughter.  Producing a ball gag
from under the chair, she pushed it into the bound woman's
mouth during a particularly loud scream.  As Vogel held her
head still with a hand tight over each cheek, the mother
tightened the daughter's straps.

   Then, she gently pushed away the man's hands.  With an open
hand, she sharply struck her struggling offspring across
both cheeks.  The girl looked in horror at her mother but
was now still.  The older slave turned back towards her
husband.

   "It will listen now, Master."

   "Thank you, Cynthia.  Please take a chair.  Greg your slut
may take a chair as well.  Hux. Please place your new whore
on the floor.  I do not want it soiling the furniture."

   The bound woman was forced to the floor.

   "Now, my daughter, a word of explanation.  It was I who
trained your mare just as Greg is now training his own
slave.  A wife is for breeding.  In my case, I needed a son
for my heir.  Once Greg was born, I had your mare's tubes
tied and she became one of my toys.  My favourite, as
always because I love her as none other, but still a toy.

   "You were, however, born first.  I have no need for a
daughter, but fortunately, Huxley needs a brood mare for
his young son, who is quite taken by you."

   "Eugene will be pleased with his gift when he graduates
from law school next year," said Vogel as he roughly
fondled a breast.

   "You see, you are my retainer to Hux for the next four
years.  He will train you to be a proper slave for his
son."  Van Derma clapped his hands and two maids entered.
"Michele.  Alison.  Take Master Huxley's possession to his
care."

   As they lifted my former client by her arms, Vogel said to
the younger Van Derma. "Greg, despite what your father
said, your trainee has progressed very well if what I've
seen in the photos Mr. Michaels took is true.  When my new
bitch in ready to be trained to deep throat, I would like
to have your Jennifer's assistance."

   Jennifer's gag hid any smile, but her eyes gleamed in
vengeful pride when her master replied, "When she finishes
the rest of her training, she is yours."

   The defeated Miss Van Derma was lead away.

   "So Mr. Michaels."  The patriarch turned his attention to
me.  "How much did my daughter promise you."

   "Fifteen grand.  Five thousand when I took the case and the
rest when I delivered."

   He sighed, "She was a cheap bitch.  These photos are
excellent.  Easily as good as any a mutual friend of ours
has gotten from you.  I will give you a check for twenty
thousand for your troubles, Mr. Michaels.

   "And if my friend doesn't complain to me about how you
raped him for these pictures, I suggest that you get your
head examined."

   I drove away in a daze.  I was now out of debt with more
than a little left over.  The Van Dermas also had my card;
the devil had my pink slip.  I was looking forward to a
well earned and need drunk.



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