Failed Slave-p

by Dolly Lamar

Meg Chapman finds herself in a world of Masters and Slaves, Domination and Submission—a world of Internet sex she never dreamed existed. Between her abusive childhood and her job as a nurse Meg thought she'd seen it all, and that nothing could surprise her. She was wrong. When her vulnerable sister Kyla goes looking for love in the wrongest of places and disappears after becoming involved in a sex-slave cult that trolls the Internet, then meets for real. Meg goes undercover in the cult in a desperate attempt to find her. Also on the hunt for a woman he believes kidnapped by the cult is FBI agent Eric Fuller. Although jaded from years of undercover work, Fuller is still stunned by what he sees of the cult. On their quest to find the missing women Meg and Fuller encounter a dangerous world where your darkest fantasies can become all too real.

ISBN 1-59431-413-6 Thriller / Suspense / Mystery Formats: Cover Art by Shelley Rodgerson



Failed Slave by Dolly Lamar

Strong sexual content.

Chapter One

Meg sat hunched in front of her computer, her hands pressed tight over her ears. So deep in anguish from an emotional cocktail composed mostly of dread and helplessness that the ridiculous futility of the gesture didn’t even register. The words she wanted to block out took shape on the computer screen, and it would have served better to cover her eyes, but at the moment she could no more look away than could have a wide-eyed corpse frozen rigid on an Arctic ice field. In the short month she’d visited these so-called chat rooms she’d seen this several times before, but this differed from the others, this time she knew the girl.

WHACK

OWWWW

Please Master please please

Count

please please

Count you stupid slut.

whimpers- three

WHACK

OWWWWWWWWWWWW Oh please oh please sotp Master.

WHACK WHACK WHACK

You’re totally worthless. I don’t know why I bother with such a worthless slut. I beat you for your stupid typing mistakes and you do it again. Worthless cunt

sobs- bebe is sorry Master. bebe will do better. bebe is sorry

Meg’s eyes welled up with scalding tears that blurred, but unfortunately didn’t totally obscure, the words. Meg knew this girl, or more correctly, young woman. If what Bebe had confided to Meg could be believed, and she thought it could, then Bebe’s twentieth birthday was today. This sure as hell wasn’t a playful birthday spanking though. This was calculated to hurt and humiliate. Bebe was a submissive in every sense of the word, just as her uncapitalized name online advertised for all to see. The bondage practitioners label of “submissive” seemed more accurate than the Armstronger cults preferred label of “slave.” Submissive described her perfectly. Despite all logic and instinct that kept us from physically hurting ourselves, Meg knew that at this instant Bebe knelt at her computer desk and obediently lashed herself across her bare back with a whip thoughtfully sent to her for that purpose. Only a short time ago Meg would have thought the idea of an online beating ludicrous. Who would willing participate in such a thing? Now she knew. She thought she’d understood the power of words. She’d been wrong. Although even as a child Meg had known the lie of the sing song chant, “Sticks and stones can break my bones, but names can never hurt me,” and knew words could indeed hurt, she’d never understood they could cause real physical damage. Now as Bebe lashed her own back, she realized words could make blood flow, and the knowledge sickened and frightened her. She could only hope that the balance she’d observed in the world applied here too, and that if words could cut, they could also heal. She had to believe it was true. She wouldn’t contemplate otherwise.

GO. Get out of my sight and don’t come back online until Tuesday, and then only to check for messages from me. I might decide to sell you if anyone will have you. There are plenty of sluts more deserving of my {H} collar than you.

In the slight pause that followed Meg had the fleet, yet fervent hope, that Bebe would tell the sadistic bastard to fuck off and die, but then Bebe said what Meg had known she would, what they both knew was the only thing she could say and not risk being shunned as a “failed” slave.

Yes Master

With that her name disappeared from the list of chat room occupants.

“Son of a bitch,” Meg hissed as her anger rose sharply. Her muscles thawed as abruptly as they’d frozen and she brought her hands from her ears back down to the key board, she closed her eyes for a moment as she savored the warmth that infused her and that banished the cold knot from her stomach. The rush of anger felt powerful and hot, even the primal emotion of fear was no match for it, and she used it now to rid herself of that damning emotion. She had every reason to be afraid for Bebe. She knew the girl was unstable after suffering through a wretched childhood and a string of abusive relationships. Meg had never seen anyone so desperate to be wanted, unless it would be her own sister Kyla. Meg’s and her sister’s childhoods had been nothing to brag about either. An alcoholic mother and her endless parade of usually alcoholic, and often violent, boyfriends had seen to that, but whereas the constant attacks on her self-esteem had left Kyla a timid wreck with no sense of self-worth, they had the opposite effect on Meg. From an early age she’d noted her mother and “friends” weren’t to be believed or trusted, and their insults had pretty much rolled off her and made her determined to have a better life. Meg had noted that lack of a sense of self-worth in many of the women who came online as slaves, and Bebe was no exception. She feared the girl had no one to turn to if not allowed online. Who could she have that would possibly understand this? She’d landed here because of her loneliness and having no one else. Meg had heard rumors of attempted suicides among the women—and hints at one all too successful attempt that no one would talk about—and God help her, she believed them true.

Meg took several steadying breaths. She’d always been level headed, and one of those kids who was 12 going on 35, she even had a profession, that of a nurse, that required a certain detached coolness. That these people could reduce her to a quivering mass of emotion didn’t bode well. She knew she couldn’t allow even a hint of her anger to show to those online. This was Thursday and the Meet would take place the weekend after next, she couldn’t blow it now. Kyla, she had to think of Kyla. She felt the familiar pang of guilt as she thought of her sister lost to this—this cult.

Meg wanted to exit this foul place that the wonders of the technological age had let into her living room and began to type out a “beg” in hopes of being allowed to do so, but before she finished typing it the name Beowulf popped onto the bottom of her screen with a light flashing next to it.

“Oh damn,” she whispered, “What does Beoweasel want?”

She pretty well knew what he wanted, but still managed a slight smile at the use of the nick she’d given him. Most Armstrongers gave themselves ludicrously pompous names of mythical warriors, powerful beasts, philosophers, and Kings, which she found funny in itself. Her psych classes in nurses’ training had taught her humor was an excellent coping mechanism, and though her humor had proved lost on this bunch, it certainly helped her to manage in this bizarre world with it’s topsy turvy morals. She took another of her steadying breaths and clicked on Beowulf’s name. Another window appeared on her screen that she knew could only be seen by the two of them.



Please me

With a sigh Meg, aka lil‘meg{BW}, typed the all to familiar phrase:

Yes Master.