“I know,” he said. “I arranged it that way.”
He poured another drink into their glasses.
“Sir?” she asked, too many things stopped making sense. “What’s going on?”
“Emmy,” he took her hand. “I am going to make you a slave.”
So many things hit Emmy all at once. Her desires, the pack of erotica, the show, they were all leading up to this. She wanted to be a slave, she felt it deep within her, she just did not think it could be real. She knew she was blushing, that her naked body was an open book to be read.
“Don’t say anything until I’m finished,” he ordered. The questions that had been boiling up inside her, suddenly vanished. She would listen.
“You,” he pointed at her, “are what is known as a Submissive. You are hardwired to be sexually submissive and need to be dominated. Kinsey ran the numbers for his third report and came up with a rough figure of one percent of women are truly submissive. This means you get off on being fucked, hurt, and controlled. This also means you will be fundamentally unhappy if these needs are not met.
“I am what we have started calling Readers of Personalities, or Ropers for short, and I can sense submissives. It is like being able to see an aura of the person, a color that most cannot see, People like me go out into the world, find submissive women, enslave them and either keep them for ourselves, or sell them. I have made decent money before doing that.
“Sometimes, if the female is deeply submissive, like you, some Ropers, like me, have the ability to program them. Usually, you must have sex first, but if the subject is submissive enough and you get them before they have a chance to develop defenses, it can be done with the barest of physical contact the first time. Like I did with you.
“I did not change anything about your personality. Those rape fantasies are all yours, the desire to be owned and used are from within you. I cannot make those changes. What I have been doing is making you more valuable as a slave. That is why you had no interest in dating or friends. That is why you did not make college plans; I already made them for you.
“There is a group called, for short, the Association. It is a governing body for slave ownership. There are papers filed for each enslavement, every slave is tracked. The owners must adhere to basic standards for humane slave treatment. Once you are a slave and enter the system, you can be sold or traded to anyone else who is a member and know you will be safe. They also make sure you hold up your end of the agreements and will track you down if you try to run away.
“Your parents know. Your father is a member of the Association and your mother, well, she left you a letter you can read later with her story.
“You will be going to Warm Springs Canyon College. It is a fully accredited, four-year program. All the students are slaves. You will be educated properly and returned to me when you are done. You will leave on Sunday and be driven there.
“Now, you need to sign these enslavement papers first, then we can finish the enrollment forms for WSCC. You may speak now.”
“Sir? What if I don’t want to be a slave? Do I have to sign?”
“I can make you sign and think it was your own idea,” her lover explained, “but I would rather you did it on your own and the Association would prefer it that way, too. You know this is what you want. All that time reading the Story of O, the Gor books; you know what slaves are and you know you were born to be one.”
Emmy stared at him; they had been preparing her for this for her whole life. She had been sent off to be enslaved and deflowered by this man as soon as she was old enough to do so. But, he was right. She always imagined herself as the one enslaved. She pictured herself in Roissy, or being thrown to a Gorean warrior’s henchmen and gangraped. She wanted this and he just gave her the course of her life.
The young woman took the second glass of whiskey and drained it in one gulp again. This time, shock and existential crisis overcame her inexperience with alcohol, and she barely batted an eye. So much made sense now, about her and about the world.
“You’ll be my owner? I’ll be your slave?” she asked for clarification.
He nodded.
Emmy was overwhelmed by the thought of Chester Bradley fucking her over and over. She never wanted anything more than that. Would it be like that if she didn’t sign? Then what? Would he still want her? Would she have to figure out what to do with her life? If she signed those papers, she could be a slave. Chester Bradley would fuck her all he wanted, and she would not have to get a career and navigate her own way in a fucked up world. If she signed herself away, she would be well taken care of.
“Where do I sign?” Emmy asked. She really hoped this was truly her and not him controlling her.
The enslavement papers were tedious. She half expected there to be fireworks, or have to sign in blood. Instead, Chester Bradley handed her a nice fountain pen (filled with blue ink, not blood), and she began to initial and sign. And she initialed and signed, and initialed and signed some more. In the end, she signed or initialed more than two dozen times and her thumb and forefinger were blue from the pen’s ink.
“We have been trying to shorten the form. Parts of it are a tad obsolete. One of the things you signed is an agreement not to enter the Austro-Hungarian Empire without notifying the equivalent of the Association in Budapest,” her now owner said and poured another round of drinks.
“Master?” She tried out the new form of address and found a new thrill as she said it.
“Yes, I that is what I am now,” he said. “I now have complete ownership over you and can do whatever I like to that perfect body of yours.
“Master? Are you going to brand me?” she nervously inquired.
“Yes, I am, dear,” he stacked the enslavement papers neatly and placed them in a thick, pre-stamped Manilla envelope. As time slowed and Emmy noticed every detail, she saw the envelope was addressed to a place in Indiana. “We need to finish the enrollment papers. Then, I am still trying to decide if I should fuck you in the ass first or brand you first.
“Now,” he said cheerily, “let’s get you enrolled in WSCC!”
It turned out that she was already accepted. The main qualification seemed to be merely being a slave. This plan had been in motion long before she got in the Lincoln to go to Manhattan. Emmy looked over the copy of her enrollment forms, and saw they were filled out in her Mother’s handwriting. Emmy saw her high school transcripts and there was no mention of that detention her freshman year that they swore would go on her permanent record. All that was left for her to do was fill out her date of enslavement and sign twice. It was over before she even got her hand warmed back up.
Her owner placed these papers in another pre-addressed and stamped envelope. He grabbed his keys and stood up.
“I need to get these out and in the mail. It is a holiday weekend, so I would like to make sure they get there before you arrive in the Sierras,” he walked to the door. “I will be back in a couple of minutes. Then, in some order or another: branding, collaring, and buttfucking.”