ACT I – Chapter 1 – Introduction to the Facilities

Mistress H swung the horsetail mane crowning her black latex bodysuit. She took a deep breath in slowtime and drew herself up from the fuckchaise slower still, languid, hooded entirely but for small holes around her eyes, nose, and most generously around her mouth. She rubbed her nose for a moment and explosion of color and feeling throbbed in her head. She dipped down to lick the penis before her: tied off, blue. She squinted her eyes at the tormented sounds coming from her slave.

He was not meant to speak.

Mistress H applied her whip to the bluish cock in a flash. The manslave howled in agony, curling in on himself in sudden inescapable nausea. She tugged at his penis remorselessly with the slight claws jutting from the latex suit’s built-in manicure, raking just below the head.

She got up, rapidly disinterested in the manslave, and walked past the tray-bearing slutslave in the foyer. A silvery cocktail tray hung from their hapless nipples, braced against their belly.

Mistress H crossed the shag and gameskin rugs to her main bathroom. She closed the door behind her and pulled her hood off.

The Rancho of Mistress H sat just outside the city limits of Sacramento, California in the El Dorado Hills: a multi-building complex of red tiled arches and smooth terra cotta shaded by mesquite. It was a semi-sprawling single story campus of modest modern buildings: a main house with large bay windows, a guest house with a hatlike Mansard tiled roof, a tool shed and shop, and a large barn with a domed airplane hangar shape-- windowless and matte against the sun. Girded by a gated fence, the Rancho boasted 3 acres surrounded by sparsely occupied country roads and wineries.

Mistress H was a well kept secret. No one knew her by both H and her real name beside a privileged few that she worked with.

“Today I’m organizing the barn cleaning, Mistress,” simpered Sally with her clipboard. “Tanya’s updated us on the status of your latest order, the custom latex’s just arrived for her.”

“Good,” growled Mistress H.

“The males have been milked, but the females still need to begin their pumping sessions. Three is still the goal, my Queen?”

Mistress H nodded.

“Three it is. We’ll run them through three half hour sessions, with a balming after. Tomorrow I take ovulation temperatures.”

Mistress H wandered away from Sally to the minibar. She fixed herself a grapefruit fizz and loosened her house robe. The moments without her hood felt refreshing, almost too much so. She felt the tickle of tiny bubbles popping on her face from the surface of her drink.

“When are we breeding To and Fro?”

“To and Fro,” Sally consulted the clipboard rapidly, “They’re scheduled for insemination in early September. Fro’s ovulation appears regular at this stage, around this time.”

“And when are we putting down Rich?”

Once again Sally’s eyes dipped to the blue roster. “That’s this Friday.”

“Did David get back to you about a cameraman for Rich’s snuff?”

“He said he can’t make it out. And none of the gonzos will be around Sacramento this weekend.”

“That’s a shame.” Mistress H hissed, “Rich will still give a great meat yield.”

“He will, and we’ve got a confirmed buyer this month in Palm Springs. They want to fill their freezer.”

Mistress H sighed. She tossed her hair, feeling air waft between every voluminous blow-dried strand. The meat market had been slim pickings ever since L.A’s underground market exploded, dropping the value of central Cali flesh. Several differences with the nor-Cal meat market left the Sacramento sourcers between a rock and a hard place, forced to sell to the ever-rotating cabin dwelling riche. Crackdowns on international meat trade made the meat itself impossible to ship to Germany, their single biggest importer. The meat could only arrive as fully intact, living slaves flown into Germany.

“Frau Messerin has been corresponding with me via an intermediary.”

This piqued H’s attention.

“She said,” Sally’s voice quavered as she elaborated, “A very big contract is incoming.”

“When?” breathed H, reverent as a prayer.

“Three months,” tittered Sally in ecstasy. “It’s almost here…”

“Our chance to keep the stock rotating, just in time,” mused H with eyes locked on her mantelpiece painting of impressionistic agonies, “And maybe we’ll even find a home for our little princess.”

Sally chuckled darkly. Sweetie would be easy to sell in such a large transaction. She would be swept away in the din, and maybe, just maybe, removed for good from her Mistress’s longing gaze.

Mistress H snapped her fingers, offhandedly beckoning Sally while reclining on a plush chair. Sally got to work with her fingers, stimulating the Mistress by vigorously rubbing her clitoral hood. The Mistress swatted her hand and Sally retreated to fetch the handheld wand vibrator. She applied it penitently on her Mistress’ clit mound, grinding it in. H called for the nearest servant to bring the Bubblegum Shoot snuff photo album. The pictures of mayhem and dismemberment–– shot by quality cameras at a venue with pink balloons and blue swimming pools, glitter confetti shots, and big pink beach balls–– contrasted the strewn limbs, organs, and splatter patterns of the snuff acts. She delighted in that delicate balance of girly pink and gory red, enlivened by the rolled back eyes of slain Hondurans and Filipinos. In tallying the gore H had only counted one white arm, and this continually perplexed her. The coffee table album boasted 190 pages.

White victims were more prominent in all of her other snuff albums but were curiously absent in Bubblegum Shoot’s fever-dream vision. She liked how different this was from the other dungeon, barn, and abandoned house shoots housed in cheap grey and black albums. The slave that fetched the pink book held it open and straight ahead, flipping the page at predefined intervals. Sally ground the wand on H hard, enough to make her bite her lip. The slave flipped past the title page to the opening shot. Eight slaves stared at the ground, in front of a swimming pool. Four brown men and four brown women with downcast faces of submission to their fate. The slave flipped the page. A man was being raped on the stone-occluded concrete surrounding the pool, a machete held to his neck by the rapist behind him, his face pinned to the concrete painfully, the rapist seeming to support all his weight on victim’s head. The page opposite showed a woman running toward the cameraman, covering her breasts which were smeared in a smattering of orangeish blood. This shot had a tilt and action blur.

The slave turned the page.

A woman being chopped with a machete, her thrashing head tilted back into blue pool water. The man wielding the machete attempted to cut her neck while braced against the edge of the pool. The page opposite: a man standing with a pink and yellow patch where his penis used to be, the area oddly bloodless looking, shot somewhat from afar.

In the background of each and every shot were bubblegum pink balloons fading in from the black, almost neon against a misty night.

H could feel herself tense up, almost ready to come. Her pussy went into delectable pre-spasms.

The slave flipped the page.

On the fourth and fifth pages were a woman floating in the pool in two pieces, blood clouding the water in dreamy streaks and a man running blurry on the other page with another man’s hand just slipped out of a hole in his abdomen, a string of gore still connecting them. The devilish look on the face of the attacker sent H over the edge. She came, squirting onto Sally’s face. Sally’s eyes lit up with stars and she greedily sucked up all of the Mistress’s come from the chair fabric.

The next day H woke up to the sound of Yvette’s car pulling up the driveway. She looked out her heavy silk curtains at the ancient muscle car crawling up the drive, throwing dust behind it, neatly closed in behind the dropped security gate just as it parked. Yvette shambled out of the car drunkenly, hanging from the door for support. H checked her dainty gold watch: 8AM.

Yvette’s shaggy blonde hair poked out in greasy spikes, barely ruffled by the wind. She threw her weight behind every step, swinging and tottering her way up to the front door. Her struggle made the fifteen feet seem like fifteen miles.

H answered the door herself in her petally pink chemise. Yvette gawped, stunned.

“I thought—”

H raised a hand to silence her best friend. Yvette smiled sloppily and swung her way into the Rancho. A slave quickly accepted her clothes while she hopped around to strip. Another manslave led Yvette to the guest baths. She led him by the cock down into the deep jetted bubble bath.

Sally peered around the corner into the guest bath sneakily. She ducked back into the hallway, her face sour, and snapped her fingers. A nearby slutslave rushed to rally the day’s kitchen crew.

Yvette’s favorite breakfast of honeyed apple slices and rare breakfast steak waited for her in the drawing room. She sauntered over in nothing but a warm spa robe, baring her tits to the warm orange sunlight pouring through the drawing room windows. The manslave who received lashes to his half-dead penis yesterday rushed beneath the glass table to take her freshly bathed feet into his hands. He performed a gentle pedicure as she sawed off dainty slices of beefsteak.

“Is the manmeat good this season?” Yvette called to H.

“It’s acceptable,” H answered, annoyed.

“I want some next time I come by,” Yvette stabbed an apple slice, sliding it through a gob of honey before taking an excessive bite.

“Fine, then you tell me what you think,” H entered the drawing room in a sleek floor-length black dress, her hands on her hips, her long brown hair styled with flowing 60’s bangs.

Yvette unconsciously tugged at her own stubborn shags of blonde hair. “I will…” muttered Yvette ungraciously.

H rolled her eyes. “What’s the plan today, Yvette?” H stared into her with those intense dominatrix eyes that made Yvette avert her gaze, firmly demanding an answer. Yvette nibbled her lip.

“I kinda… Just wanted to hang out,” Yvette looked away, avoidant.

“And, let me guess, you just wanted to party.” Yvette pouted at her best friend, but H pressed on, “But partying costs… what?”

Yvette sighed in aggravation, finally turning to face H with narrowed eyes. “So what do you want me to do?”