Maria In The Tack Shop

Maria and the Tack Shop

by Annie

Author note: this takes place in the "34th Amendment Universe", in which non-hereditary slavery for adults was re-legalized in the United States (and has varying legal status in other countries).

This story is a prequel to "

Coffee With Blushes

". You can read the stories in either order, and (if I did it right) it won't affect your enjoyment. You absolutely must read "Coffee", though, or face the Curse of the Non-Completist Reader. Beware!

----------

She pulled the door open.

Maria had overheard her suitemate Nina telling her boyfriend that she found some very "exciting" stuff at County Line Slave Tack and Tackle, and they should get together soon to play with them. Maria was interested. Just because her folks hated it so much, she had always been curious about slavery. Not that Maria had a boyfriend or girlfriend to share "exciting" toys with just now, but looking around sounded interesting. And scary. And, well, stimulating. What had Nina said, something about a chance to have a "Full Slave Experience?"

It was surprisingly like any outlet store. Unusually wide aisles, racks of miscellaneous stuff hanging from displays and the walls. Reasonably good lighting. Signs talking about how inexpensive everything was.

I guess stores all have the same needs, right? Customers have to see and maybe test out the merch

.

Cash registers near the door. There was a big open area in the middle, though. Did they do fashion shows of slave clothing or something? ... Auctions?

Everyone in the store, all men, turned to stare at her.

She stood there, not at all sure what to do. Leave? Glare back? After a few seconds, the men mostly turned back to examining merchandise, or seemingly just shooting the breeze with each other. Was this a hangout, like the games store near campus? A hangout for slave owners? Were they staring because she was an outsider, someone they hadn't seen before?

She walked slowly into the store, getting a feel for it. The décor, like their sign outside, was vaguely Old West themed. Lots of wood, and the product labels used a font that said "cattle brands", with lots of straight lines at 90° angles, circles, and all capital letters. Speak of the devil (maybe for real), there were actual iron cattle brands--no, slave brands--on the walls, where a chain restaurant would have a plow and a 1930s radio or something. The racks nearest the door had cowboy-ish stuff hanging on them, even. Whips, ropes, bridles. It probably wasn't meant for horses, was it? Was the owner of this place making a pretty subtle joke with the "tack shop" name and cowboy theme?

The next rack as she walked the perimeter had slave footwear. The rhinestone-encrusted sandals didn't fit a cowboy theme, but they did have boots. Wait, those boots had horseshoes on their toes. She picked up one, and realized it was designed so the wearer couldn't lower her heel to the ground. Effectively, it would make her a hoofed animal. No buttons or laces, it closed with a zipper, with a metal loop next to the zipper pull ...

Oh, so you can padlock the zipper and make it impossible to take off without a key. I wonder if I could try those on. Just to see how it feels

.

A voice startled her out of her thoughts. Some kind of midwestern accent, speaking loudly. "You looking for anything special, Missy?" It was a man in a COUNTY LINE (all caps, always) polo shirt, over blue jeans. He actually sounded kind of annoyed, for some reason. Maybe he didn't get many female customers? And why was her heart pounding?

"N-no, thanks. I've never been in one of these, I mean, in a tack shop before. I was curious about what you sell."

Why am I stuttering?

He sounded slightly less hostile. She noticed his name tag: RAOUL and in smaller letters MANAGER. "We sell basically anything you need to own, maintain, or train slaves. Best selection in the country. We think so, anyways. Competition might argue. Those boots, now, those are a specialty of ours. Part of our pony-training line. You ever think about being a ponygirl? Blonde, nice skin, good figure. You'd draw a pretty penny at auction, and ponies get good treatment." He grinned down at her. Big man, at least six feet, a foot or so taller than Maria. Not much older than her, definitely under 30. Big arms and broad shoulders, he looked strong. Beer belly, though. White guy, looking vaguely Hispanic or South Italian or something, darker European.

"I was

not

planning to sell myself, no. Just curious." Maria felt even more nervous, but she wasn't about to run away from a bad joke.

"Maybe a slave grading, girly?" Girly? Still, she was curious now.

"I didn't know you did grading. I only ever hear about it from big department stores, and people who go to actual slave traders. Is that what the big open space on the sales floor is for?"

"Yeah, department stores are for people with money. For poor folks, we do it for half the price of a Flower Valley, and they don't have to go uptown for it. Some college girls come here for our ... services sometimes, just for the thrill."

He saw the Darrow t-shirt

.

He was meeting her eyes squarely, almost staring her down. "Well, thank you, but I didn't come for a grading. My family has never owned a slave, and I just wanted the full experience of a slave tack shop." This place actually did look interest--

"Caleb!" He was shouting now. "We got a runner!" He grabbed her, taking her totally off guard, whirling her around and pulling on her wrists. Before she was quite sure what was happening, Maria was handcuffed and Raoul was covering her mouth with a very strong, not terribly clean hand, pinning her against his chest and the bulge of his belly. She struggled, but bound and held by a man three times her size, it didn't do very much.

Her angry, frightened shriek didn't even sound loud inside her head. It did attract attention. At least five of the male (they were all men!) customers came over to watch what was happening, grinning happily at the sight of her handcuffed and being held silent by the manager. They stayed back just about far enough to not be kicked, but they were actually forming a small crowd.

Another man, younger, taller, and thinner, wearing a County Line polo like Raoul's and glasses with thin, metal frames, came striding over with some kind of can in his hand. Raoul moved two fingers of the gagging hand neatly to close her nostrils, depriving her of air! Now she was really struggling, but he was still much stronger, and she was still handcuffed. It didn't work, and she was getting desperate for a breath. Caleb raised the can, which had some kind of a hose on it. Raoul suddenly removed his hand and she gasped hard, and Caleb sprayed a mist into her mouth and nose, spray hitting her face for two inhales before it stopped. She gasped and breathed, starving for oxygen, for a few seconds, then opened her mouth to scream for help. No sound came out.

Devoiced! She kept frantically trying to scream, trying to run, trying anything. It felt as if Raoul hardly even noticed she was struggling.

He said "runner"! He's thinks I'm a runaway slave!

Raoul was speaking. She could hear him over the pounding in her ears, barely. "Caleb, can you see how I knew she was a runaway?" He shoved her, staggering, into Caleb's bony chest. Caleb casually grabbed her, hands on her shoulders, and spun her, like a horrible parody of a fashion model.

"Let's see. No collar scar on her neck, you couldn't see a brand on her butt with those jeans on ..." He was groping her butt, using it to force her chest-first into him! "... couldn't see whip marks on her back, either..." Spun her around, tracing his fingers over her chest and back, her long blonde hair flipping around with the force of the spin. "... thin t-shirt, but not that thin. Nope, boss, I got nothing." Caleb had the same accent as Raoul, it sounded like. Lighter coloration, blond hair in an out-of-place looking long braid.

"Takes experience, amigo." The boss stepped up and just grabbed her left breast through the shirt then slid his fingers to grasp ... her nipple ring? He tugged, pretty hard--she tried to squeal, and nothing happened except a breath. "I could see this through the shirt. That was my tipoff. Two things: one, a free woman with knockers that big would wear a bra. Slaves are shameless. Two, this is a leash anchor. That gives me 90% certainty of a runaway slave." Maria was in pain, the pull on her breast making her bend over toward Raoul, awkward and unbalanced in the handcuffs, Caleb still holding her, his hands now on her thighs, kneading. She could feel tears leaking, running down her nose.

"Thought you got away, slave? Why did you come here? Tickle the wolf's tail, show how brave you were? You're caught now. We'll confirm your ID, then get the Slave Patrollers here. Caleb, I've got her. Grab your scanner." Caleb let go of her, but she was still bent over at the waist, held by the big hoop in her nipple. Raoul tugged her after him, saying "Heel!" The pain in her tit was dull unless he pulled, then agonizing.

He led her into that big open area in the middle of the floor. She couldn't see much. She was surrounded by a small mob of men, laughing and leering at her. Already short, she could see nothing past them, bent over as she was, struggling to keep up with the long-striding man, especially with her hands cuffed behind her. Every tug on her abused nipple made her try to whimper and produce no sound.

He stopped walking and raised his hand, letting her stand up. Then he kept raising it, painfully tugging her boob upward. "Looks like you already forgot how to obey, runner." She frantically shook her head. "Thanks, Caleb. Give her a scan."

Some kind of handheld device waved into her line of sight. An incongruous electronic chirp, two-tones descending. "Boss, she has no active slave registration chip. Let me repeat." The same double-chirp.

Raoul again, "I wonder if she got someone to pull it. That's a felony. Also, if this case leads to catching a bootleg chip-puller, that's double the reward you and I will be splitting for catching this one. OK, pull out her lip, you know how, right?"

Caleb grabbed her lower lip and drew it out from her teeth, hard enough to hurt: "No tattoo, either."

That's right, because I'm not a fucking slave!

"OK, we'll have to do the background check the slow way. Grab that ..." He trailed off.

The check will show I'm not a slave. Will they apologize? Can I sue them?

"OK, Caleb, how do you strip her and keep her restrained without risking her injuring herself when she tries to get away?"

They stepped away from her, she heard their voices retreat. She started to move away, hoping for she had no idea what, but the handcuffs seemed to be connected to something--the cash register podium. Caleb must have leashed her before he walked away. She couldn't go anywhere.

The two County Line employees came back. Caleb grabbed one forearm in each hand, and his boss unlocked and removed the cuffs from her wrists. As usual, struggling was useless. Caleb didn't even seem to notice.

Then Raoul stepped in front of her and grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and lifted it up, over her head and down her arms! Cold air hardened her nipples (had they already been hard?). Caleb slipped his hands down to her wrists, Raoul followed with his hands pushing the shirt, and moments later she was naked from the waist up. The cuffs went right back on, with her having not one moment of freedom. It didn't take them long to strip off her shoes, jeans, and panties after that. He just unbuckled her belt and pulled the whole mass of clothing down and off, while Caleb (who was very strong) held her up in the air by her armpits. It was so fast she didn't have time to think about fighting. Then Caleb plopped her right back down, facing away from him, still cuffed.

Something wrapped her left ankle! She ... dammit. She failed to squeak in surprise. She looked frantically down to see a heavy canvas cuff was on her, tightened up and buckled by hands reaching from behind, before she had time to react. Caleb used the chain on the cuff to haul her left foot a few inches off the ground, leaving her standing on the right foot only--and making it impossible to kick. With his right hand, he immediately fastened and buckled the matching cuff on her right ankle. The whole thing only took a couple of seconds. Her ankles had a rattling, loud piece of chain about a foot long binding them together.

Still from behind, a wide canvas belt was wrapped around her waist and buckled tight. The cuffs on her wrists were unanchored from the register stand and attached to it somehow, behind her back, so she could move even less.

"Nice job, Caleb. You've gotten some damn good technique with the restraints. We'll have to fill out the damn background check form. Takes longer than if we just visited the fucking Patrollers Office downtown, seems like."

Raoul turned Maria to face him, not exactly roughly, but irresistibly. He had a collar in his hand.

Oh, shit.

"Under the Chien-Pendleton Act, I, as a licensed slave grader, am authorized to detain suspected escapees until such time as the Patrollers clarify the status of the subject." He was clearly reciting by rote. "In order to humanely retain control of your person while this in-vess-ti-gayshun is con-duc-ted, you will be restrained. Since you do not have the required Slave Identification Chip, this temporary slave collar will be fitted. Should you attempt to leave the premises, it will disable you with electric shock." He raised the collar and stepped toward her. Stepping back in mincing steps just thumped her into Caleb, who held her still long enough for the collar to "Snap!" into place around her neck. Caleb also took the chance to slide his hands over her boobs. She still couldn't scream, or even weep aloud.

"Hey, Caleb, you checked out on fitting the collars?" Raoul seemed weirdly paternal. Was he training Caleb?

"Sure am, boss. Passed the test last week. Want me to ... handle ... this one?" Suddenly furious, she thought of stepping on his foot, the only thing she could really do, but she was barefoot and he was wearing work shoes. And she wasn't very heavy. It would just anger him.

Caleb did something behind her that involved metal-scraping-on-metal noises, and the collar tightened up until it was flush against her neck all the way around. It wasn't painful, but swallowing saliva really made her notice it. The whole process took only a minute, but it left her (to her shame) trembling with fear. Naked, chained, and collared, being treated as a slave. The crowd of men had backed off when Caleb and Raoul started doing official-sounding things, but now she saw and heard them discussing her price at auction.

Cowboy Hat: "I'd say she's easily Prime Minus. Only that low because she's so small. A short man might bid higher for her."

Overalls and rodeo ball cap: "Yeah, but she's a runner. You know that lowers the price. Probably couldn't pull more than, say, 20K after running."

Forearm Tattoo Of Nude Woman: "There are guys who like a little fight. I can see her pulling in 50K easy."

Raoul checked Caleb's work, running a finger around her neck, feeling the fit. "Perfect, Caleb. You want to do the next bit?

"Yeah, boss. Hey, there's people lining up to buy stuff. Should we clear the lines before we deal with Runner here?"

"Good catch, Cal." He turned to Maria. "We'll get back to you when business lets up. While you wait, why don't you go ahead and shop?" He grinned nastily at her. "Just don't get too far from that register." He pointed at a register on a table, nearly at the exact center of the store. "You get a warning shock, you move

back

toward it, you're getting too far and triggering the collar. You go another 10 feet or so, you get the in-ca-pass-it-ayt-ing shock. You won't like that. Anyway, enjoy your little shopping trip. Might be the last chance you ever get, slave girl. Gents, no damaging the merch, OK? "

With that, Caleb and Raoul just walked away. She stood there, heart pounding, sweating from sheer terror. Chained, collared, silenced, naked--slave naked!--and then they just walked away and what could she do?

She looked around wildly. Unfortunately--very unfortunately--she saw the men who had been watching walking toward her with not-very-encouraging smiles. She was surrounded, helpless ....

The hands cuffed behind forced her to thrust her chest out, and hands from the crowd reached in to stroke and pinch her. It was amazingly frustrating not to even be able to make angry noises. She did glare at the men, the slaver customers treating her like a trussed slave. It only encouraged them. Someone slapped her naked butt, hard, with a loud "crack!" sound. She jumped and almost fell forward.

A hand patted her butt. Another one stroked across her belly, moving down. Finally pushed into motion, she started hobbling, chained, not even able to see where she was going through the crowd, forced to take dainty steps. The men didn't try to stop her, but they were walking all around her, continuing to chat casually. "How's the sump pump holding with all this rain?" "If she was mine, I'd definitely get a welded-on leg cuff. Hard to run with one of those." "Yeah, I do like those inflatable gags for indoor slaves, but you can't leave them in all that long." "Personally, I only get Chinese or Japanese slaves for the bedroom. I just find they're more passive, less needy than White or Black girls." "Hey, these clamps are 50% off. I think I'll go over and buy these now."

She finally walked up to a set of shelves containing many kinds of riding crop. She had taken equestrian for P.E. freshman year, she recognized them. And she felt dread as a hand reached out to pick one up, and make it whistle through the air. Hands again, grabbing her by the hair and bending her over and show her ass to the person with the crop, who brought it down with a "Smat!" sound and she couldn't scream, and it hurt so much, and he hit the other cheek and tears were dripping again and the pain blazed in stripes across her butt and he kept hitting and hitting and ... it stopped.

"I like that one. It's perfectly balanced, you could swing it for an hour and not get tired. I'm going to take his one home and try it on Annie." The man in front of her let go of her hair, and she heard booted feet walking off toward the registers as she stood up.

Hand stroking her butt again, then clasping her left cheek. It hurt, after the beating. She couldn't even grunt, couldn't run. Right now she couldn't even see, because of the tears.

Hand coming toward her face, holding ... a bunch of tissues. Wiping the tears? Male voice, "That's what happens when you run, girl. Maybe a little harsh, but now you know." Hand held tissue to her nose. "Blow!" She did.

"Jeff, you're a big softie," said someone.

"Too cruel is worse than too soft, I think," said Jeff. "You lose the lesson. If you always punish, the slave isn't motivated. They have to know that disobeying gets them punished, and doing what they're told gets rewarded. A master can be strict and still be kind sometimes, and you end up with more responsive slaves."

Someone touched her stinging butt. The large hand rubbed some kind of cream on her. She desperately looked backward, awkward and unbalanced with her hands and arms so restricted. A blonde man, broad but shorter than Jeff, looking concerned. He was dressed in farmer overalls. "This is Crown Ointment. It'll take the sting out and make sure you don't get any infections." Was he glaring at the cash registers? She couldn't speak, so she tried to look grateful. The man nodded at her--the first time since this began that anyone acknowledged her trying to communicate.