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Failed Slave Strong sexual content. Chapter One Meg sat hunched in front of her computer, her hands pressed tight over her ears. So deep in anguish from an emotional cocktail composed mostly of dread and helplessness that the ridiculous futility of the gesture didn’t even register. The words she wanted to block out took shape on the computer screen, and it would have served better to cover her eyes, but at the moment she could no more look away than could have a wide-eyed corpse frozen rigid on an Arctic ice field. In the short month she’d visited these so-called chat rooms she’d seen this several times before, but this differed from the others, this time she knew the girl. <Horus>WHACK <bebe{H}>OWWWW Please Master please please <Horus>Count <bebe{H}> please please <Horus>Count you stupid slut. <bebe{H}>whimpers- three <Horus>WHACK <bebe{H}>OWWWWWWWWWWWW Oh please oh please sotp Master. <Horus>WHACK WHACK WHACK <Horus>You’re totally worthless. I don’t know why I bother with such a worthless slut. I beat you for your stupid typing mistakes and you do it again. Worthless cunt <bebe{H}>sobs- bebe is sorry Master. bebe will do better. bebe is sorry Meg’s eyes welled up with scalding tears that blurred, but unfortunately didn’t totally obscure, the words. Meg knew this girl, or more correctly, young woman. If what Bebe had confided to Meg could be believed, and she thought it could, then Bebe’s twentieth birthday was today. This sure as hell wasn’t a playful birthday spanking though. This was calculated to hurt and humiliate. Bebe was a submissive in every sense of the word, just as her uncapitalized name online advertised for all to see. The bondage practitioners label of “submissive” seemed more accurate than the Armstronger cults preferred label of “slave.” Submissive described her perfectly. Despite all logic and instinct that kept us from physically hurting ourselves, Meg knew that at this instant Bebe knelt at her computer desk and obediently lashed herself across her bare back with a whip thoughtfully sent to her for that purpose. Only a short time ago Meg would have thought the idea of an online beating ludicrous. Who would willing participate in such a thing? Now she knew. She thought she’d understood the power of words. She’d been wrong. Although even as a child Meg had known the lie of the sing song chant, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” and knew words could indeed hurt, she’d never understood they could cause real physical damage. Now as Bebe lashed her own back, she realized words could make blood flow, and the knowledge sickened and frightened her. She could only hope that the balance she’d observed in the world applied here too, and that if words could cut, they could also heal. She had to believe it was true. She wouldn’t contemplate otherwise. <Horus>GO. Get out of my sight and don’t come back online until Tuesday, and then only to check for messages from me. I might decide to sell you if anyone will have you. There are plenty of sluts more deserving of my {H} collar than you. In the slight pause that followed Meg had the fleet, yet fervent hope, that Bebe would tell the sadistic bastard to fuck off and die, but then Bebe said what Meg had known she would, what they both knew was the only thing she could say and not risk being shunned as a “failed” slave. <bebe{H}> Yes Master With that her name disappeared from the list of chat room occupants. “Son of a bitch,” Meg hissed as her anger rose sharply. Her muscles thawed as abruptly as they’d frozen and she brought her hands from her ears back down to the key board, she closed her eyes for a moment as she savored the warmth that infused her and that banished the cold knot from her stomach. The rush of anger felt powerful and hot, even the primal emotion of fear was no match for it, and she used it now to rid herself of that damning emotion. She had every reason to be afraid for Bebe. She knew the girl was unstable after suffering through a wretched childhood and a string of abusive relationships. Meg had never seen anyone so desperate to be wanted, unless it would be her own sister Kyla. Meg’s and her sister’s childhoods had been nothing to brag about either. An alcoholic mother and her endless parade of usually alcoholic, and often violent, boyfriends had seen to that, but whereas the constant attacks on her self-esteem had left Kyla a timid wreck with no sense of self-worth, they had the opposite effect on Meg. From an early age she’d noted her mother and “friends” weren’t to be believed or trusted, and their insults had pretty much rolled off her and made her determined to have a better life. Meg had noted that lack of a sense of self-worth in many of the women who came online as slaves, and Bebe was no exception. She feared the girl had no one to turn to if not allowed online. Who could she have that would possibly understand this? She’d landed here because of her loneliness and having no one else. Meg had heard rumors of attempted suicides among the women—and hints at one all too successful attempt that no one would talk about—and God help her, she believed them true. Meg took several steadying breaths. She’d always been level headed, and one of those kids who was 12 going on 35, she even had a profession, that of a nurse, that required a certain detached coolness. That these people could reduce her to a quivering mass of emotion didn’t bode well. She knew she couldn’t allow even a hint of her anger to show to those online. This was Thursday and the Meet would take place the weekend after next, she couldn’t blow it now. Kyla, she had to think of Kyla. She felt the familiar pang of guilt as she thought of her sister lost to this—this cult. Meg wanted to exit this foul place that the wonders of the technological age had let into her living room and began to type out a “beg” in hopes of being allowed to do so, but before she finished typing it the name Beowulf popped onto the bottom of her screen with a light flashing next to it. “Oh damn,” she whispered, “What does Beoweasel want?” She pretty well knew what he wanted, but still managed a slight smile at the use of the nick she’d given him. Most Armstrongers gave themselves ludicrously pompous names of mythical warriors, powerful beasts, philosophers, and Kings, which she found funny in itself. Her psych classes in nurses’ training had taught her humor was an excellent coping mechanism, and though her humor had proved lost on this bunch, it certainly helped her to manage in this bizarre world with it’s topsy turvy morals. She took another of her steadying breaths and clicked on Beowulf’s name. Another window appeared on her screen that she knew could only be seen by the two of them.
<Beowulf>Please me With a sigh Meg, aka lil‘meg{BW}, typed the all to familiar phrase: <lil‘meg{BW}> Yes Master.
Chapter 2 Another besides Meg viewed the sadistic scenes being played out in the Armstronger Haven “chat room” with, if possible, even more anger. On the other side of the country, about a third of the distance east from Meg as Beowulf was west, a man sat before his computer in a windowless, equipment-jammed office and watched the goings on in the AH. Nothing in his face or mannerisms betrayed his anger. Anyone who watched him as he brought the oversize mug of coffee to his lips would have thought him as relaxed as a man at his favorite cafe. He didn’t even grimace at the bitterness of the generic coffee brewed in an overworked coffee maker, though that had more to do with his long experience of bad coffee and didn’t really have anything to do with his remarkable self-control. His ability to mask his emotions had served him well in undercover work, not to mention the occasional game of poker. While some people’s anger burned fierce and hot, his stayed cool, even cold. The man, FBI Agent Eric Fuller, thought hot anger had its place, but he preferred to nurture a cooler emotion for the long term. A fiery anger burned too swiftly to be useful in the long haul, but cold anger was more patient—and more deceptive to those who saw it. After all, the cathedral-like beauty of an ice cave was no less dangerous than the burning, scorpion-infested sands of a desert. At the moment Fuller had several windows open on his computer screen, but no private messages linked him to Horus. Just as well, he thought, since he had the uncharacteristically hot-tempered urge to reach through the computer screen and throttle him by his scrawny neck. He’d be seeing the asshole in person soon enough because he’d made plans to do a surveillance on the upcoming Meet. He’d be hard pressed to keep his legendary cool and not punch the punk in the face on sight, if he managed to get that close that is. Actually, his cool exterior would be unlikely to slip, too much a part of him, but the punch might give away his anger, he conceded dryly to himself. Not only give away his anger, but likely give away his cover as just another tourist in the small town near the Armstrong compound—or maybe not. When you considered Horus’s charming personality a lot of people probably would like to punch him on sight, and there wouldn’t be any shortage of volunteers to hold him for you either. Too bad Fuller’s Chief had deemed a full scale undercover job unjustified and too dangerous or he’d have accepted the invitation to attend the Meet outright. The Armstronger compound was pretty isolated, so it would be difficult to have help nearby without attracting attention. Buck had somehow managed to buy the barracks of an old mineral mine that had closed in the 40’s. It was located in a sparsely populated area of the Sierra Nevada foothills over an hour drive from Sacramento. The town of Able, Red Bud’s county seat, was only about two miles away, but despite being the county seat it’s population was less than 2000 people, and it was the biggest town for 100 miles. Apparently some investors had at one time intended to turn the barracks into a hunting/fishing lodge and had kept up repairs on the building, at least enough to keep it from going completely derelict. They’d even gone so far as to partition off the top floor, which had been one big sleeping area, into a dozen or so individual rooms. The place still was pretty primitive though, being heated with two pot bellied stoves on the main floor, which was mostly one big dining room. There was a locker/shower room, but the plumbing was unreliable and Buck was apparently going to bring in porta potties for the Meet. It seems the biggest addition Buck had made so far was to add a privacy fence that enclosed the area behind the building. He was slowly working on it though, with what help and materials he could scrounge. He’d managed to get it partially rewired and was now working on the roof. In fact, those attending the upcoming Meet were expected to lend a hand for the roof repairs. At this rate it would take awhile, but Buck would eventually realize his dream of an Armstronger utopia, or Armstronger hell, depending on your point of view. Once the place was more livable he might be able to convince others to stay there. So far just him his two female “slaves” lived there full time. Fuller, known as Romulus in the Armstronger venue, tended to the task of keeping up his end of conversations in his Private Message windows. He particularly wanted to keep Buck happy. Although Fuller had rather quickly obtained the coveted Operator status, Buck still had the ultimate say and power in the channel, and he had the easily hurt feelings of a middle school girl. He could feel slighted at not getting immediate attention to his words. Fuller had once even seen him kick a long time friend from the room when he’d pointed out a mistake Buck had made in quoting “The Books”, as the series of sci-fi/fantasy books they based their beliefs on were reverently referred to.
<Buck>Horus has his shortcomings, but he sure knows how to train a slave, doesn’t he? <Romulus>Yes, I can see that
Keeping his answers short and agreeable seemed the best way to deal with this buffoon. The man liked to hear himself talk, that was for sure, but it made Fuller’s job easier.
<Buck>Did you know he trains bomb sniffing dogs? Doing good for himself since 9/ll and the demand grew. <Romulus>Didn’t know that. He picked the right business. Dogs? Christ, he hoped Horus treated them better than he did women. No doubt he did. Beating or harming a woman was one thing, a potentially valuable dog another. Still, Fuller wouldn’t trust the punk sadist with the care of a goldfish. Horus seemed to be one of the younger of the hard core lifestylers, and appeared transparently eager for acceptance with his older colleagues. His cloying, sugarcoated slime of brownnose rhetoric had even earned Buck’s disdain. Buck was the chat room’s owner and a shameless adulation seeker, but Horus laid it on too thick even for him. Still, Horus had entertainment value, and his belief in the so-called philosophy seemed real enough, so that he was tolerated. His zeal in torturing those who lacked the ability to defend themselves was obviously looked on as a point in his favor too, so most ridicule was saved for behind his back where he was dubbed “Armstrong Haven’s Official Brownnoser.” Not surprising that many Amstronger adherents were in their forties or older, considering that Stan Armstrong, writer of a series of 14 sci-fi/fantasy books, and unwitting founder of this sadist heaven, had been dead eight years, hadn’t had anything in print in 15, and whose last new book had been published 20 years before. They were dark depressing books about a postwar world made nearly lifeless by nuclear bombs and bio warfare. In them man had supposedly returned to his true savage nature, and women were allowed to live only as their sex slaves. Fuller was no anthropologist, but then again, neither was Armstrong, and his theory seemed more a misogynist dream than to have any bases in reality. Fuller couldn’t conceive of a less natural relationship between the sexes than in Armstrong’s misogynistic vision. As Fuller saw it the two sexes needed each other, and women were much more than sex slaves to men. They were men’s mates, and boy’s mothers. Necessary to a groups survival. What nature intended was the nurturing of the next generation, but Armstrong had neatly skirted the issue of children by making his apocalyptic hell a place where most were sterile. A dying, hellish place indeed. Working in law enforcement made Fuller acutely aware that women were capable of anything men were, up to and including violence. After all, they’re a different gender, not a different species. Sure, women were generally less aggressive and violent than men, and their smaller size made them less physically dangerous, but woe be the man that underestimates one and dismisses her as helpless. You evoke the law of the jungle, and buddy boy don’t be surprised if you get it. It would be a bad idea to ever turn your back on most women whom you’ve treated as brutally as was routinely portrayed in the world Armstrong created in his books. Jed, a man with boyish looks but steady courage, and a close friend from their first days of FBI training, stuck his head in the door. “Busy?” “A few windows open. Nothing I can’t handle.” “I’d never think otherwise,” Jed said with an easy smile, “but never hurts to ask. Still on for tomorrow aren’t we?” “It’s a date,” Fuller deadpanned. “Think he’ll show?” Fuller rubbed his chin as if in thought. “I’ll cover any bet you care to make to the contrary.” “Pass,” Jed laughed. “I never take another man’s bet.” “Smart guy. I need to find me some friends who are suckers.” “Well, looks like we got us one sucker. Wouldn’t call him a friend though. See you tomorrow.” “Tomorrow it is mi amigo.” Jed left, leaving Fuller alone with the glowing screen and his thoughts of the coming bust. When he’d requested this transfer to the computer crime department three months ago he’d though he’d be tracking terrorist activities, instead it was discovered he had a positive talent for impersonating prepubescent girls and attracting the slime that preyed on them. Oh, he’d taken some ribbing, but no one laughed at the results. There wasn’t a man or woman in the department who wouldn’t gladly slap the cuffs on the sick bastards that showed up thinking they’d been talking to a vulnerable 12-year-old Tiffany, instead of the 31-year-old, far from helpless, Fuller. Christ, he’d had enough of this for today. He had to be up early tomorrow to meet the scum pedophile. Fuller sighed. The anonymous nature of the Internet seemed to bring out every deviant on the planet. Even his real life undercover work hadn’t really prepared him for the low lifes he met in cyberspace. He wanted to be there himself tomorrow. This was personal. He wanted to see the look on the guys face when he found out who his little Tiffany really was. He’d never had bust that gave him such satisfaction. The computer crimes departments focus had mostly been on those who preyed on children, and they hadn’t much bothered with those practicing the kink of BDSM, Bondage Domination Sado Masochism. Hard to prosecute even when things had clearly gone too far. Even though the laws on assault and rape were quite clear, juries had a tendency to see it as the government spying into people’s bedrooms. Consenting adults, and all that.
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