TXR-92U-2280 – Call Name: Sara Pt. 06

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.

***

When Sara stepped naked into the cosmetics station after her shower, she had expected to be alone. A high-rolling couple had held her over almost until evening, so her blind booking with a single male guest that night had been canceled. She was replaced with another slut and told to prepare herself for a display assignment instead.

The rest of the stable had washed and applied their cosmetics hours ago, so Sara was able to enjoy a warm, leisurely shower and thought she would have the long mirror and brilliant lights of the make-up counter all to herself.

She did not.

A tall slut with long, blond hair stood at the far end of the counter, applying mascara. Her call name was Jessica, and she was easy to hate. Even among a stable of sluts specifically bred and selected for their sex appeal, she was strikingly beautiful. She had a radiant smile, long legs, flawless skin and impossibly firm C-cup breasts. House Master Turner once told Sara that Jessica had received a 9.9 on her Moore-Fordham assessment -- the highest possible score.

Sara could not ever recall having seen Jessica bruised or bleeding. She seemed to effortlessly avoid being disgraced or humiliated. Between her legs, she was allowed to maintain a small, neatly trimmed patch of public hair. Sara envied every follicle. She would sometimes imagine that she was allowed to grow out her own, dark pubes. She thought it would make her look more like a woman -- not a slut, not fuck-meat -- and then maybe guests would abuse her less.

In spite of all that, Sara did not hate Jessica -- she admired her. Jessica was friendly and kind, and whatever the source of her mysterious immunity, she never used it to disadvantage another slut. Indeed, Sara had seen her try to protect other girls.

She walked towards Jessica, but stopped a few places short, not wanting to disturb her if she preferred her time alone.

"It is nice to see Sara," Jessica smiled, continuing her work.

"This slave is happy to see Jessica," Sara replied, a little giddy to be recognized, as she began dusting her face with foundation.

"Has Sara been photographed in the last few days?"

The question caught Sara off guard. She had been photographed -- and it was different from the regular updates for the Helios website. It had been an uncomfortable experience. Shadowy figures stood at the back of the room, whispering among themselves while Sara flaunted her body for the camera. However, nothing had happened since and she had already begun to forget about it.

"Yes, she was."

Jessica nodded.

"A lot of the best girls have been," she said. "This slave knows seven for sure, including herself and Sara."

The sinister implications of that statement were lost on Sara, who was overcome with joy at being counted among the 'best girls' by Jessica. Although she routinely received excellent performance evaluations, she felt awkward and alone among the other sluts, sensing that they resented her.

"Yes... What?" Sara stumbled, embarrassed that she did not actually grasp what Jessica was trying to tell her.

"All of the best girls are being photographed," Jessica repeated, unperturbed. "This slave has heard that they will be used for some kind of special tasking."

Sara's emotions swung from elation to fear: special tasking never meant less pain.

"What special tasking?"

"This slave doesn't know," said Jessica, finishing her make-up.

She turned and smiled at Sara.

"If Sara was a guest, would this slave be pleasing to her?"

Sara turned and looked at her. She could not imagine a more beautiful woman.

"If this slave was a guest, she would buy Jessica from the house and keep her all for herself. She would have three bucks in her stable tasked with making Jessica happy."

Jessica blushed.

"This slave hopes that Sara would take her pleasure from the bucks, too," she said.

"No, they would only service Jessica. Sara would have five more bucks all for herself!"

The slaves laughed together.

***

Along with ten other house girls, Jessica and Sara knelt under bright lights at the front of a posh guest lounge. House Master Crawford patrolled up and down the line of identically dressed sluts, clutching a prod, while House Master Davis and House Mistress Ballard stood nearby, watching. Davis pulled a phone out of his pocket and looked at it.

Her eyes trained at the floor, Sara heard the double doors leading into the room swing open, and several people enter. In her peripheral vision, she could see the overseers visibly stiffen. Crawford stepped away.

"Eyes up, sluts!" said a woman's voice.

Sara and the other girls raised their heads. A well-dressed woman wearing a pearl necklace with a tailored skirt and jacket stood over them.

"My name is Rebecca Endecott. I manage the Intimate Services Stables here at Helios. The house has been given a great opportunity -- we will be featured on six upcoming episodes of 'The Real Sluts of Las Vegas.'

"The show's producers have looked over all of the girls in our stables, and they have chosen the twelve of you for a closer look. From here, you will be taken one at a time for them to examine further. They will ask you questions and have you perform certain tasks.

"Six of you will be selected to appear on the show. Those of you who are not selected will be taken down to Sub-Level 9 and a correction will be provided for you."

"That is all. Eyes down, sluts!"

She handed a tablet to one of the overseers.

"House Master Davis, you may begin," she said.

Davis glanced down at the tablet.

"Okay, 0748 -- Alicia, up!" he barked.

Alicia gracefully lifted herself off the floor and followed him out through the double doors. Fear was already gnawing on Sara's guts. She closed her eyes and concentrated on her breathing, but it wasn't enough. Her heart started beating faster.

She reminded herself that she could be one of the six selected by these "producers." They were just a different kind of guest -- that was all -- and she always got good performance reviews from guests.

They would ask her questions and she would answer them. They would tell her to do things and she would do them. She recognized, even expected, that they would be painful and humiliating, but nothing could be worse than Sub-Level 9.

To avoid that, she would debase or hurt herself on command. If they told her to drink a bottle of cold spunk harvested from a dozen male utilities that had been locked in chastity for a month, she would swallow it down and beg for more. If they tasked her with touching a prod to her own sex and triggering it, she would burn herself and plead to do it again.

Sara told herself that she would, she could, do anything if it meant being spared the kind of corrections that were administered on Sub-Level 9. She used that idea to hold back the fear -- cataloging all of the miseries that she would willingly endure to keep herself safe.

"Next: 1465 -- Miranda!" House Master Davis called.

Sara was shocked by how long Alicia had been gone before House Master Davis returned for the next girl. A fresh surge of icy fear flowed through her veins as she tried imagine Alicia at that moment. What had happened to her? Was she bleeding? Was she happy? Was she in the elevator, descending to Sub-Level 9 with a collar tight around her neck?

Sara tried to push back against the terror inside of her again, but she was less successful than before. Her thoughts ran wild until she heard House Master Davis call out:

"Next: 2280 -- Sara! Up!"

The slave stood alone on stage in a small auditorium. Blinding spotlights made it impossible for her to see who was out in the audience. In the center of the stage stood a tall shape, draped with heavy black fabric. In her heart, she knew that there was something terrible inside.

To her surprise, she had been allowed to retain her clothes. She did not understand how anyone could evaluate her without seeing her naked.

"You are Sara, correct? 2280?" asked a man's voice.

"Yes, master," she answered quietly.

"Sara, we don't have a mic on you, so speak up, okay?"

"Yes, master," she said, louder.

"It says here in your profile on Helios' website that you are bisexual. If you got to choose, would you prefer to have sex with men or women?" asked a new voice -- a woman.

"Sara will do anything to please you, mistress," the slave replied.

The woman continued: "Sara, I'm sure that's what you're expected to say, but we need you to tell us how you really feel. If you don't, we're not going to use you. Understand?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Which is it: men or women?"

Sara stared out into the darkness. During the lesbian conversion program, she was trained to pleasure women and take pleasure from women. When it was done, she was told that she would service both men and women and enjoy them both the same -- and she pretended that it was true.

"Let's get the next girl in here... This one's a dud."

"Men, mistress. Sara prefers men," the slave answered quickly.

"Do you cum when you have sex with men?"

"Yes, mistress -- sometimes."

"Do you ever cum when you have sex with women?"

"Yes, mistress -- but not very often."

Another man added his voice to the conversation.

"If you were giving a man a blowjob, and he let you decide whether he was going to finish on your face or in your mouth, which would you choose?"

"Sara's face, master," the slave answered.

"Do you like it when men finish on your face?"

She was silent. She had been taught that she liked everything that was done to her, unless it was specifically intended to cause pain.

"Sara, you have to answer these questions."

"This slave does not like it when men cum on her face, master."

"Then why would you choose that?"

"She likes it even less when men cum in her mouth, master. She has to swallow it, and it makes her feel sick."

"Have you ever swallowed so much cum that it made you throw up?"

"Yes, master."

"Tell me about the last time that happened."

"The men Sara was servicing made her lick it up and swallow it again, master."

The woman asked the next question: "What would be the best night you could ever imagine having with a guest?"

"The guest would not abuse Sara, he would make her cum and he would give her a good performance review, mistress."

"That's not enough, Sara. You need to start giving us real answers, or we'll find another slut who will. Got it?"

Before the slave could answer, another woman out in the audience spoke up.

"Hang on, Barb. I think she's smart enough to get this if we just lay it out for her," she said. "Sara, we already know pretty much everything about you that everybody else thinks is important. We know you are beautiful. We know you have a perfect body. We know you will allow yourself to be hurt or humiliated if that's what it takes to make a guest happy.

"You wouldn't get to be a top-rated slut at a major Las Vegas casino if any of those things weren't true. That isn't what we need to hear from you. We need to hear about the things that no one knows about -- the things you keep inside.

"If you give us that, then maybe we'll pick you. If you can't, or you won't, or there isn't anything in there, then we're going to send you back to the stable and I'm sure that they will do something awful to you."

Sara considered the woman's words. She realized that these "producers" were much smarter than the guests and house masters that she usually serviced. They understood that her body had no more secrets to reveal. Sticky white seed had oozed out of every hole and over every inch of skin. Every single part of her had been used to give pleasure or receive pain more times than she could ever count -- except for her imagination.

The only part of her that had never been fucked was the place that she went when she closed her eyes: exploring the gleaming towers she could see beyond the tinted windows of Helios. Having that place all to herself made her feel special and safe and she did not want to give it up -- except that, back in the lounge, she had promised herself that she would do anything to avoid going down to Sub-Level 9.

She never considered that the anonymous people who held her fate in their hands would even know about that special place, much less demand that she give it over to them.

"What's it going to be, Sara?" asked the woman.

She answered: "The guest would have this slave dressed in a beautiful black gown with sequins, so that she sparkles. He would take her in a long car -- a limousine -- and show her all of the houses on The Strip.

"He would make the limousine stop at different houses and he would walk around inside of them with her. He would not use a lead or a collar, and all of the people who saw her would think that Sara was a beautiful woman and not a slut.

"When it was time to go back to Helios, Sara would be so grateful that she would offer him anything: her mouth, her vagina, her ass -- anything to make him happy. Instead, he would kneel in front of her inside the limousine.

"He would slide the gown up her legs and pleasure her with his mouth. Sara would cum over and over again, watching the houses go by outside the windows."

When she finished, it was quiet for a moment.

"That didn't hurt, did it, Sara?" the woman asked.

"It doesn't hurt when when this slave displays her ass, mistress -- it hurts when she gets fucked in her ass," the slave answered.

"See, Barb? I told you she was smart."

***

Sara continued answering their questions -- she actually enjoyed it. No one ever asked her about her tasking, about the different ways guests casually hurt and humiliated her or how she endured it. Yet, even while she felt a profound sense of freedom -- even catharsis -- she could not escape a growing dread.

She was giving these "producers" the keys to her soul -- her hopes and her fears, her dreams and her nightmares -- and she knew that they could use them to inflict completely new types of pain on her. The experience was even more disturbing because she sensed that they were not seeking satisfaction for themselves.

She was always the most comfortable when she understood what she needed to do to get a guest off. It allowed her to protect herself by channeling all of the their energy and attention towards their own orgasm. The producers' interests were much more remote, and therefore harder to understand and control.

Finally finished with their questions, one of the men sitting out in the audience said, "Okay, Sara, now we're going to see how well you follow instructions. It's very important that you do exactly what we tell you to do. Do you understand?"

"Yes, master," she answered.

"Behind you, there is a rope hanging down from the ceiling. Pull on it."

"Yes, master."

Sara found the rope next to the tall, black-draped object at the center of the stage. She tugged on it and the drapes fell away. Underneath, she saw a slut, bound between two tall posts by her wrists and ankles, so that her arms and legs were held tight and wide. She had short blond hair and big tits. A red ball gag with a thick leather strap filled her mouth. She glanced fearfully at Sara.

"Do you recognize this slave?"

"Yes, master. Her name is Chrissy. She completed the lesbian conversion program with Sara."

"Have you ever had sex with Chrissy?" asked one of the women.

"Yes, mistress."

"Did you cum?"

"Yes, mistress."

"Did she cum?"

"Yes, mistress."

Sara heard a noise behind her. She glanced back and saw an attendant wheeling a cart onto the stage. It carried a small cylinder with a red button on one end, surrounded by a dial with numbers on it. At the other end were two wires -- one red, one black -- connected to a pair of alligator clips.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: A portion of this story has been censored to comply with Literotica's editorial standards.

***

It had been a wonderful morning for Sara. After a week of safe and comfortable display assignments, she arrived at the dispatch desk to see "RSLV" written beside "2280" on the dingy white board behind the dispatch desk.

"That stands for 'Real Sluts of Las Vegas,'" House Master Turner explained while escorting her back to a small classroom behind the overseers' shared offices.

The space had been converted into a makeshift cosmetics studio and dressing room. A pair of attendants applied Sara's makeup and gave her a skimpy swimming suit to wear. She spent the next two hours outside, frolicking with Miranda, Jessica, Tiffany, Rachel and Jewel in a secluded pool surrounded by lush palm trees. The warm air felt good on her skin, but the shade kept the blinding, burning rays of the sun away.

A man with eyeglasses and a salt-and-pepper goatee that she heard identified as "the director" ordered the six sluts to pose together -- smiling, pouting, hands resting on each others' hips -- all for the unblinking gaze of three cameras that swept across their bodies.

Before it was over, Sara had sucked Tiffany's heavy breasts to firm peaks while Jewel knelt behind her, pressing her tongue into Sara's anus.

Afterward, she found herself in a luxurious suite near the apex of the pyramid. The director ordered Sara out of her house dress, panties and bra while half a dozen people rigged lights and attached cameras to sturdy, three-legged stands. A young man wearing jeans and a black t-shirt looked up from the equipment he was preparing and stared at her while she stripped, his cock swelling visibly inside his pants.

At the sound of a key in the door, Sara turned and watched House Master Turner lead in a pair of slaves. The first was a slut named Erika, who glanced around nervously at all of the unfamiliar activity in the room. Behind her was a lean, chiseled buck, wearing only a loincloth. Sara's heart skip a beat when the director ordered him to strip out of it, revealing his substantial male organ, locked in chastity.

"Have you got the key?" the director asked House Master Turner.

Turner dug it out of his pocket. The director took it and tossed it to Erika. "Work him up," he said.

"Yes, master," the slave replied.

She dropped to her knees and released the buck's meaty shaft from its plastic prison, then took it into her mouth. The buck closed his eyes and groaned quietly, obviously unaccustomed to being serviced by a well-trained slut.

Watching Erika's lips sliding up and down his swelling manhood, Sara felt an urgent heat rising between her legs.

"That's enough," said the director. "Randy, check and see if that one needs any attention."

A fat man with a full beard walked over to Sara.

"Spread," he said.

The slave opened her legs. She could feel her own wetness dripping down the insides of her thighs. Randy reached down and fingered her. He laughed. Turning back towards the director, he showed off his glistening fingertips.