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Pain Slaves

38300 words

Style: Interracial Bondage/BDSM, Male Dom - M/F, Fem Dom - F/F

FBI Special Agent Gwen Ryan is on assignment in Taiwan, where three American military women have mysteriously gone missing from the local base. Given her history, Gwen suspects White slavery, and her suspicions are only sharpened when she finds out the base commander is a religious fanatic given to performing corporal punishment on his own aide, the young, cute, earnest, shapely, and quite determinedly gay Lieutenant Anderson. Aided in her investigation by a young and irritating Taiwanese police woman - and the reluctant, but cowed and blackmailed Lieutenant, Gwen learns more than she ever wanted to about the harsh treatment Asian masters mete out to their unwilling slaves.

The fourth assignment for Gwen Ryan.

Price:  $5.95

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“You going to see General Ramsey?” she asked.
She shook her head and popped her gum. “Ramsey not going to like talking to be blonde girl.”
“I’m not big, you’re tiny,” I said.
“I just right size. I have nice tiny feet. Chinese men like tiny feet. I bet you have giant feet.”
“Shut up and turn in there or you’ll get one of my giant feet up your butt,” I said.
She sniffed and the Mercedes screeched to a stop at the rear of the central administration building. “Remember, no taxis here. You dump me you gotta walk two miles to motor pool and make eyes at Sergeant to get drive.”
I nodded and slammed the door behind me, then trotted across to the nearest entrance and let myself in. I found myself in one of those dull, drab, military halls, with shiny linoleum tiles on the floor and walls pained a dull shade of yellow. I pinned the FBI badge to my belt and nobody challenged me as I trotted up the stairs to the fourth floor and the General’s office. The last time I’d come, with Lorne, we’d used the elevator and gone through a guard, two receptionists and his secretary before getting to the great man’s door.
I emerged in a tiny hall which went behind his outer office, opened a door, and found myself in his secretary’s office. Or whatever they were called now. His aide, I think. Anyway, she wasn’t at her desk so I moved to his open door and peeked in. It was empty too. At first I was disappointed. But then, well, I never look a gift horse in the mouth.
I walked in, looking around carefully, hurried across the desk, and scanned the papers on it. They were in eat little piles according to priority. The priority that morning seemed to be cost overruns in a new warehouse being built on the base. I leafed through the papers, my eyes flicking towards the door, ears listening for the sound of military heels clicking on linoleum.
Nothing looked very interesting. It was the minutia of running any large organization, involving budgets and personnel. I turned away and moved to a cupboard to the side of the desk. I slid back the two doors and found a small closet with file cabinets on one side and shelves of forms on the other. I wrinkled my nose as I gazed at the cabinets, then tugged one open.
Heels clicked on the floor and I twisted, instantly decided I hadn’t the time to get out, and slid the doors closed. I heard movement out front, what sounded like female heels clicking on the floor nearby, near the desk. They started to walk away and then stopped.
“Anderson,” a male voice said, older and heavy with disapproval.
The female voice was young.
I heard the outer door close and licked my lips nervously. If I got caught in here I was in deep shit.
“You’re aware of my deep disappointment in you, Lieutenant,” the male voice growled.
“Yes, sir! I’m sorry, sir!” the female said, her voice stiff.
“I have told you before about the need for self-discipline. Evidently you require further demonstrations.
“I - sir I - .”
“Assume the position, Lieutenant,” I heard the man growl.
Frowning, I eased the doors apart and put my eye to the crack.
It was Ramsey and his aid. She was a young lieutenant, short, slender, with very short brown hair, almost boyishly short, with bangs cutting diagonally across her forehead from left to right, enormous blue-green eyes, a tiny snub nose, and small, pert mouth. She was wearing a long pale green uniform blouse over a darker green army skirt, cinched tight at the hips, the skirt descending to her knees. The uniform was cut in that utilitarian military fashion which did little to flatter a woman’s body, yet it was fairly easy to detect that she was slim and had a generous bust line.
Her face was small, and I had previously marked her, on meeting, as naive and desperately earnest. A young woman who was eager to please and very afraid, in the way of the young and inexperienced, of revealing her lack of polish and expertise.
She was standing rigidly at attention now, staring over the general’s shoulder. Her face was red, and I could see the tension in her and anxiety in her.
“But General I - .”
“Would you prefer I handle things formally, Lieutenant?” he demanded.
“No, sir,” she said in a small voice.
“Then stop being a child,” he said harshly. “You said five months ago you were strong enough to bear anything, that you would prove you were capable of wearing that uniform.”
“Yes, sir.”
He motioned towards his desk and she braced herself, then took a hesitant step forward. She pressed her knees against the side and then bent over.
“To the side, Lieutenant,” he ordered, tapping at her left hip.
She shifted to her right. This put her over the back of the general’s chair, which elevated her bottom more, even as her chest and belly were pressed against the slightly lower surface of his desk.
“The skirt, Lieutenant,” Ramsey said.
Ramsey was tall and broad shouldered. He was about sixty, with steel grey hair and a tough, square jawed face, the kind you see in recruiting posters. But he was a cold, harsh man with a face which looked permanently set into a scowl of disapproval.
He opened a drawer and took out a long, thin cane as the young lieutenant gripped the hem of the skirt and slid it up her legs. She bent forward, tugging the skirt higher, baring herself to the General. She was wearing a white thong which did nothing to detract from the attractiveness of a very tight round bottom. The general gazed at her, and I sensed his disapproval even from behind him.
He raised the cane and slid it between the girl’s slender thighs, then pressed it up against the small white patch of fabric which clung tightly to her mound.
“And is this military issue, Lieutenant?” he asked curtly.
I saw the cane trace the line of her sex where the material was pulling up into her cleft.



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