The Inspection

Tara put some additional touches on her latest painting. Life was good. Her studio here in the large ‘burb-house was larger than the one she had used back in school, larger even than her entire apartment back when she lived in the core city. The huge skylight illuminated the canvas, the white artist’s smock she wore, her curly black hair, and her chocolate skin where the smock didn’t cover it.

Currently, she was alone in the house, except for Fred, the robot. He beeped at her to remind her that the owner – the man she madly loved, and who loved her back – would soon return.

#Master Eric will arrive in 10 minutes# Fred’s display-screen read. Master Eric didn’t like machines that talked: He preferred them to beep and give a written display.

“OK,” Tara told the robot. “Give me a chance to clean this up.” She put away her paints, and stripped off her smock to stand nude except for the collar around her neck.

The good life had a price, and in Tara’s case the price was slavery. Master Eric had purchased her under the Horn-Steven’s act after she had been convicted of armed robbery. Never mind that she hadn’t even known of the robbery until after they arrested her – that didn’t matter. What mattered was that pretty young women could be sold for much more than violent young men. And so she had been monorailed: Her lawyer entered a guilty plea in her name, and the judge had her sold ‘down the freeway.’

Tara followed Fred to the living room, where she put on the blue satin apron she had dropped there that morning. It was a newly fashionable style, a copy of something that had enjoyed a brief fad back in the early part of the 21st century. After tying the apron strings, she sat on the carpeted floor and fastened chains on her wrists and ankles. They were heavy chains, of black iron, but the wrist- and ankle-cuffs were lined with baby-tanned leather, and custom-sized to her measurements. They fit snugly, and when Fred clicked the electronic locks shut, they were inescapable.

So Tara sat, helpless, for the few minutes until her Master arrived home. She couldn’t stand up, since the chains were attached to a ring set in the floor, and only had a foot or two of slack. She could only pull uselessly at her bonds and imagine the pleasant things her Master would do to her.

He arrived on the dot, carrying a long, thin cardboard box. He smiled at the sight of her, giving her a big white nerd-boy grin. Fred the robot beeped a reminder, and the Master spoke one word: “Witnessed.” With that, a document was transmitted to the appropriate authorities. Master Eric had locked Tara into those chains that morning, before he had left for the day, and the document affirmed that she was still so chained on his return. His orders to Fred, to release her in his absence, didn’t get mentioned in the report.

Business finished, he smiled again and let his eyes drink her in. She looked back at him with her own dark eyes and tugged at her bonds. This only served to highlight her helplessness as she sat there, barefoot and nearly nude. The chains confining her would hold a tiger, and the electronic locks could not be picked. She could only smile back at him and wait for whatever he chose to do to her.

He sat down beside her. His large white hands caressed the dark skin of her back, then moved to refasten the locks, reducing the pathetically small amount of slack in her chains even further. Now her wrists were forced to stay within inches of her ankles as his hands entertained her. They flowed down her arms to where her wrists were held by the iron in an unbreakable grip, a grip made softer but no less secure by the leather lining. They touched her naked feet, tracing the border where bittersweet chocolate gave way to the paler skin of her soles. They moved past the fetters on her ankles and up her legs, under the satin apron to her belly and her breasts. And as they did this, he kissed her ear, whispered into it how small and cute he found it, then leaned in to kiss her more thoroughly. She squirmed happily. His touch, and her utter inability to resist it, excited her.

At last he wrapped his arms around her in a hug. “I’d like to continue,” he said. “But we have an inspection tonight.”

“Oh, no! Already, Master?”

“I’m afraid so. Fred!”

*beep?*

“Start cleaning this room for an inspection.”

*beep!*

When the inspector arrived, an hour later, the room had been subtly changed. The fantasy posters were still on the walls, and the bookcases, the couch, and the X-cross were still in place, but the iron chains with their custom leather lining had been put away, exchanged for a set cast in institutional stainless steel. The silken cords, the fleece-lined leather restraints, and the lambswool duster had likewise been hidden. Instead, there was a coiled whip, some fierce-looking nipple clamps, lengths of rough jute rope, and heavy duty bit-gags scattered strategically about the room.

Tara had been fastened to the X-cross, attached at wrists and ankles. Her apron had been taken away so that she stood totally nude, except for her collar, and her back bore welts and scars that hadn’t been there an hour earlier. The make-up kit that Master Eric had used to create them had also been hidden away.

The doorbell rang, and Fred left to answer it. Moments later, the robot returned, escorting the inspector. She was a pale-skinned blonde, with her hair tied back in a tight bun and her feet jammed into ultra-high-heel shoes.

“Ms. Martin,” Master Eric said. “Before we begin, I wish to state for the record that I consider this inspection unnecessary. I ordered – and paid for – an 807a case. Not a 1411. An 807a case, I remind you, does not require either inspections or pain-infliction. You insisted on treating this disputed case as a 1411, and I have done so only under protest.”

“Nonsense!” Ms. Martin answered. “Putting this bitch in an 807 was obviously a computer error. I mean, who ever heard of an armed robber going into 807? Especially a Ebony one?”

“Are you suggesting,” Master Eric said coldly, “that prisoner-slaves are assigned to different programs based on their race?”

“Of course not. That would be illegal,” Ms. Martin said primly. “Prisoner-slaves are assigned according to their innate psychologies. And it just so happens that an 807 psychology is very rare among Ebonies.” She shrugged. “It’s just the way those people are. They’re incapable of showing any real affection.”

Tara wanted to shout at this, but she wouldn’t have dared to even if her mouth hadn’t been filled with a bright red ballgag.

“I hadn’t noticed,” Master Eric said drily. “But since you insist on an inspection, shall we carry on with it?”

“Lets. Start by giving a few shocks to the bitch.”

Tara stiffened. Master Eric held a slave prod in his hand – one that he had carefully neutered. It would make an ugly noise, but the tip would only buzz when pressed against skin, like an old-fashioned vibrator. She knew this; Master Eric had let her try it on his skin and her own, but she still felt irrationally nervous.

Master Eric stepped close and touched her with the tip of the prod, once, twice, three times. It made the ugly noise that usually accompanied a jolt of agony, but here the buzz only tickled. Tara remembered at the last second to jerk against her bonds and cry out as if in pain. The ballgag muffled the noise she made, and made it inarticulate, but of course it couldn’t silence her altogether.

Ms. Martin looked ugly when she smiled. “One more time.”

“On the count of three,” Master Eric told Tara. “One, two--”

“No,” Ms. Martin interrupted. “Hit her by surprise.”

Master Eric tapped Tara on the back of her knee. She jerked and squealed, then shuddered with suppressed giggles. That last touch had tickled, and she had to bite hard on the rubber ball in her mouth to keep her laughter hidden.

Ms. Martin went to the couch and sat down. “Take the bitch off the cross, and kneel her,” she said. Master Eric released Tara, removed her ballgag, and made her kneel by the stainless steel chains. He fastened them on her, and she winced when the last one pinched.

“Sorry,” he whispered in her ear, too faintly for the inspector to hear. Then he stood up, and back.

“Now, bitch,” Ms. Martin said. “Tell me--”

“I’ve ordered her not to speak,” Master Eric interrupted. “It’s part of the discipline I’ve put her under.” Tara bit her tongue and kept her gaze lowered. He had not given her any such order, but it was quick thinking on his part to stymie that blonde, that blonde... She’d have to look up a suitable insult, later.

“I see.” Ms. Martin leaned back in the couch. “Very well, I’ll pass you on this inspection, if you’ll agree to two conditions.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I’ll still pass you.” Ms. Martin smiled her ugly smile. “But you’ll still be subject to random inspections. If you just happen to come up for inspection tomorrow, and the next day, and the next, until you either push your 807 through or abandon it.” Her voice then turned whiny “I don’t see, though, why you would insist on an 807 for this bitch. Why don’t you send her back to be resold and get yourself a good slave? A White slave?”

“Personal preference,” Master Eric said casually. Silence fell, and dragged. Tara wanted to squirm, but didn’t for fear of her fetters pinching her again. As soon as this blonde was gone, Master would release her from them. Then he would tie her again, maybe with the silken cords – or at least she hoped so.

Master Eric broke the silence at last. “Very well, what are your conditions?”

Ms. Martin leaned forward. “First, you must bastinado her severely, so that she will be unable to walk even after you unbind her ankles. Second, you must feed her on pet food until she can walk again.”

“Done!” Master Eric said. Fred the robot beeped.

“You agree?” Ms. Martin asked. Tara bit back the same question. “OK, then, I’ll sign off on this inspection.”

“No need for that; I’ve had Fred send it in, signed by voiceprint.” His phone ringed, and he pulled it out of his pocket and listened briefly. “It’s for you.”

Ms. Martin listened, and her pale face turned even paler. “Yes sir,” she croaked, and closed the phone. “You bastard,” she hissed at Master Eric. “You slimeball!”

“I take it the 807a got fixed. It was waiting only on your signing off on the inspection.”

“You, you, you...”

“ Fred will show you out.” Master Eric said. He caught Tara’s eye, and they shared a silent cheer.

“But, but, but,” the ex-inspector blubbered as she followed the robot to the door. “How could you prefer this Ebony bitch to a White woman?” Master Eric didn’t bother answering, and the door closed on her.

Master Eric fell immediately to the floor beside Tara and unlocked her wrists and ankles. “I’m sorry,” he repeated as he gently massaged them. “Fred!” he called. “Bring the rubbing vodka!”

“Rubbing vodka, Master?” Tara asked.

“Tonight we celebrate by using Platinum Stoka as rubbing alcohol, to remove that makeup on your back. Then I’ll continue from where that inspection interrupted me.”

A short time later, Tara’s chocolate-brown skin was once again free of welts and scars. It also felt to Tara as if it were glowing. But she couldn’t be drunk, could she? Could one get drunk just from being bathed with vodka, even the good stuff? No, it more likely came from the way that Master Eric used his hands to tease her, and send happy shivers through her body, from the tips of her fingers to the tips of her toes.

Master Eric had used the silken cord to tie her, but not in the hogtie she had expected. Instead, he had her stretch out on the couch and tied her wrists and ankles. The wrist cords he then attached to hidden metal loops at one end of the couch, and the ankle cords to matching loops at the other end. He had then sat back to admire her, before applying the alcohol bath to remove the makeup from her back. Then he sat back to admire her some more, telling her how pretty the red and yellow cords were against her naked skin.

She struggled, knowing that it was expected, and knowing that it was futile. Or rather, she knew it would have effects other than escape. And so it proved: He knew how to tie her so that escape was impossible.

At last he untied her wrists, only to retie them behind her back. He tied her thumbs, as well.

“Master!” she protested, knowing what was to come next.

“Do I have to gag you again?”

“No, Master.”

He smiled at her. “Maybe I don’t have to, but I will anyway.” With that he popped the red ballgag back into her mouth and fastened it into place. “And now there’s nothing you can do to stop me from doing this... and this... and this...”

Tara mewed and squirmed as Master Edmond teased her nipples and ran a finger through her bellybutton. But too soon he stopped and did what Tara had feared. Although fear is not the right word for what Tara felt when Master Eric tied her two large toes together. It was such a small restraint, especially considering that her ankles were already bound, but it made her feel extraordinarily helpless and vulnerable.

Master Eric then took advantage of that helplessness by tapping the soles of her feet with the side of a pencil. It didn’t hurt – he would have had to strike a hundred times harder for that – and it didn’t tickle. What it did do was heighten and sweeten her sense of captivity. Her toes were tied... Her thumbs were tied... Her wrists and ankles were bound... She was gagged... She could squirm but not escape... She whimpered.

Immediately Master Eric moved to undo her gag. Her lips pursed, begging for a kiss. The worry cleared from his face, and he gave her that kiss, and more besides. He eeled from his clothes and stretched himself over her. It was a bit awkward, with her ankles bound together, but to stop and untie them would have ruined the moment.

Afterwards, Master Eric laughed, and held her close. She smiled and blessed the luck that had attracted him to her. He stroked her hair, and said: “Well, that was unexpected. We’ll have more, later.” They cuddled a while longer, or at least Master Eric cuddled: Tara could only receive cuddling with her wrists still tied behind her and her ankles still bound. At last the Master said: “I’d better undo those.” He untied her ankles, but left the rest of her bonds in place. “There. Can you walk?”

“No, master, not with my big toes still tied. Oh!” Tara suddenly saw. “That was a bastinado, and now I can’t walk, even with my ankles untied.”

“That’s right.” He kissed her. “And that’s the first condition. Now trust your master, and we’ll see about the second. Fred!” he called. “Food! Snack-stuff!”

Moments later, the robot brought a tray of raw vegetables with dip. Master Eric took one of the mushroom slices that he loved and she hated, dipped it, and ate it. Then he dipped a bit of carrot and fed it to his dark skinned slavegirl. She munched happily, liking carrots much more than mushrooms. He fed her another. “Did you know?” he said. “An old slang term for this is ‘rabbit food.’ So this fits the second condition.” She ate a third bit of carrot from his hand, smiling. “You’re my Ebony bunny,” he told her. “And I love you.”