Date: Wed, 30 Dec 2009 22:32:26 -0800 (PST)
From: Ronald Slimman <ronslimman@yahoo.com>
Subject: Submission--Part 8, My time with Randy

My time with Randy, Part 8

Assuming the Entity Identity

As we were driving to G.T.'s "Summer Night Festival ," Randy and Lola
explained the party's slave rules in more detail to me. Randy, at the wheel
of the car, began. He then rattled the do's and don'ts off like he had the
rules memorized:

"All slaves tonight are to be totally submissive in demeanor. And you can't
do or say anything without my permission as your master: No speaking unless
spoken to. If another master speaks to the you, you may only answer with
the permission of your master if I am nearby. If for whatever reason, I'm
not nearby, you may as a courtesy respond to a master, to G.T., or any of
his staff that will be running the show--never to another slave. And
whenever it is permissible to respond, you will always refer to that
someone as `sir." But never, ever call another slave `sir,' or by his
name. You will use his number, or simply refer to him as an `entity.'
Understand?"

"I get it, the first part that is. But `his number'?"

"Oh yes," Randy explained. "Each slave is officially a `non-person' at the
affair. He is simply an `entity`--a nothing. In talking about another
slave, you can't even refer to that entity as 'he' or 'him.' You simply
refer to his identifying number. His number will be on a large tag dangling
from his slave collar. Those permitted to address you will call you "5,"
"10," "21," whatever your number is. You'll get a chance to choose your
number when we arrive at the affair.  Also, slaves aren't allowed to
initiate talk with each other, as I said, or interact with each other in
any way without their masters' approvals. Neither will you take action,
including eating or drinking, whatever the case might be, without my
specific permission. You can only move about the place with my permission
to do so. And when you do mingle, with me or by yourself, unless I permit
you to walk erect you will travel about only on all fours while there. And
when walking with me, unless I say otherwise, you will be at the end of my
leash."

Randy then pointed down to the black leather bag on the seat between us
containing the leash. He had brought it along from his apartment. It now
contained not only the leash for the affair, but the butt plug, ball gag,
and a tube of lubrication Randy had earlier pulled from the glove
compartment of his car. Under my coat and not counting the shoes I had
borrowed, I was naked. I only wore my slave collar, cock strap, and nipple
clamps that earlier were part of the contents of the bag. With the
exception of the tube of lube, I would soon be wearing the remaining items
in that bag.

I was beginning to enjoy more the pleasure-pain sensation the nipple clamps
were causing me.

"Did I cover everything Lola?," Randy asked, turning his head toward the
back seat.

"You forgot about the punishment," Lola chimed in from the back, if Ron, or
any slave, violates the rules"

"Oh yeah. Then, you will then be turned over to the judge, jury, and
executioner for appropriate punishment."

"Executioner???" I was startled on hearing that word. What the hell was I
getting myself into?

Both Randy and Lola laughed at my reaction.

"Relax and don't drop a nut, Ron," Lola explained. "There's no real judge,
or jury, or executioner. The term `executioner' is used only in reference
to carrying out or "executing" the appropriate punishment. Using the word
though does add to the ambience of the event. And as for the judge, jury,
AND executioner, they all happen to be rolled into one dynamic little
package: li'l old me. And you better believe I'm good at it!" she
emphasized.

"She sure is," said Randy. "That's why G.T. has her play her role year
after year."

Lola piped in, "And not one slave I, let`s say, 'judged,' or his master,
has ever complained about the `justice` I`ve meted out for an infraction of
the rules."

Randy simply chuckled.

I now found myself really turned on for the party. And the sensual pressure
exerted by the clamps on my nipples, and from the cock strap, added to the
growing pleasure I felt with every movement I made in the car...

As we entered into the gated driveway of G.T.'s estate, one last question
came to mind: "Back at the apartment, you said all of us slaves would be
wearing gags to keep us quiet. How the hell do I communicate with you if my
mouth is plugged with the ball gag?"

"Oh right, I forgot about that." Randy said. "No sounds from you, just
point at your gag and nod your head. And I will remove the gag. The first
words out of your mouth, however, better be asking for my permission to
speak. That goes for anytime you wish to talk. And whatever you have to say
better be good. After a while, most masters will remove the gags from their
slaves. But the permission to speak rule is still always in effect."

As we traveled up a long winding road toward G.T.'s house, Lola said to
me. "Oh, one last thing Ron. While this probably will be an all-night
affair, possibly to dawn, the master-slave routine only lasts for a few
hours. After that, we all drop our roles, and act as we wish. It's then
that much more uninhibited fun can really begin," she added
enthusiastically.

We pulled up to an impressively large European-style mansion. The few steps
leading up to the front door had a narrow black carpet extending down and
into the driveway. Three guys stood in line, almost at military attention,
at the bottom of the steps. Each was stark naked except for black military
boots. And all had tags hanging from their slave collars, as Randy had
described to me.

"Who are these guys?" I asked.

"They're staff, car valets," Randy answered.

We exited the car on to the waiting carpet. Randy was carrying the black
bag that had been on the seat. He handed the car keys to one of the valet
slaves whose tag sported the letter "M."

"I thought all the tags would be numbered, Randy?" I asked. He explained
that all staff at the Festival had lettered tags instead of numbered ones,
to distinguish them from the slaves accompanying the guests. As the valet
drove off with his car, Randy said, "Well lets get the show on the road."
He took off my coat and handed it to Lola; he then removed the ball gag
from the bag, and put it on me, muffling any further word from me.

"On hands and knees, slave!" Randy ordered in front of the two remaining
valets who were taking it all in. I complied, as he took the butt plug out
of the bag, lubed it from the tube, then inserted into my posterior. Under
the gaze of the valets, I felt demeaned yet excited by what Randy was doing
to me.

After giving the bag and its contents to Lola, who placed them in a larger
carry-all, Randy bent down and snapped the leash on to my collar. He then
led me slowly up the stairs to the entrance of the mansion. At the top,
another letter-tagged, naked slave opened the door and pointed to a side
door along the entrance corridor. "Take those stairs down to the dungeon
please. And please watch your step going down them, it can be tricky"

Randy permitted me to stand as the three of us maneuvered our way down the
a winding stairwell. Its walls were covered with some simulated-type dark
stone to mimic the passageway of an underground cavern. Large flickering
wall lights imitating candles lit the way. At the bottom was a foyer, with
a coat check room to one side. The coat checker was another naked slave
bearing the letter "V" on his tag.

After checking our clothing and bags in, Randy led us to a table on which
were strewn blank tags and some black markers. There was also a sheet there
with a couple-dozen numbers listed in series order from "1" on. Most of the
numbers had already been crossed through.

"Choose an number, "Randy said, and handed me a blank tag and marker
pen. "Then cross out that number on the sheet."

I thought a while, then came up with what I thought was a bright idea: I
wrote down "69" on both sides of the tag. Randy looked at my number on the
tag, and laughed. He clipped the tag to my dog collar, and then took one of
the marker pens and wrote "69" on the number sheet and crossed it through.

"That's so no other wise-ass takes the same number," he said. Lola giggled
and shook her head when she saw what number I had picked.

We entered a cavernous room, the "dungeon" I guess, as the doorman had
called it. The room was enormous, possibly taking up the same area as the
mansion above. It was walled with the same dark grey stone as the stairway
and foyer. From the stone facing protruded a line of more flickering
imitation candles. These cast a bit more light than was in the stairway and
foyer--but not that much. In the dim light I could see an arrangement of
chairs around small tables in the immense room. Each was covered with the
same black tablecloth, amid which a large, real black candle provided some
local light. Most tables were already taken, and the low din of the guest's
conversations filled the room.

The table set-up ringed about a large, slightly elevated platform in the
middle of the room. The platform was well-lit by overhead spotlights. On
the platform I could make out a judge`s "bench," or high desk and a small
"dock" in front with a steel ring attached to its side. The dock, I
guessed, was where the prisoner would stand before Judge Lola seated on the
"bench." Off to one side stood an X-shaped wooden structure with manacles
hanging from its extremities. There was also on the platform a big roughly
hewn wooden chair with straps on its arm rests and on its front legs, and
nearby also a bed with strap-down belts. In one corner, there was some sort
of small cage-like thing hanging from a chain in the ceiling. To its side
sat an actual small kennel-like cage for keeping animals. And finally, set
toward the back, what looked like two large outdoor portable toilet
closets, with doors and all. On the black exterior of one of these
porta-john things was stenciled "The Black Box" in white, under which was a
small opening at waist height.

On the other, similar closet was written, "Implements of Justice." Hovering
over the platform were large video screens, and some sort of mysterious
rotating multi-faced scoreboard, on which rows of numbers, from "1" to
"50", kept flashing on and off as if being tested. I also discerned some
video cameras surrounding the platform. A few hung from the ceiling, while
others were set up near the edges of the platform. All faced into the
platform at various angles. It was obvious that the platform was a
performance stage, and the large screens were fed by the videocams to
provide additional viewing capability to those in the audience.

Randy led us to a table reserved for us that was close to the platform and
told me to go back down on all fours. "Now, 69," he then said, "we have to
get with the program."

But before I was able obey his command, Lola came over and wiped some drool
seeping out of my gag-stuffed mouth. "Try swallowing your saliva
continuously, darling entity. It will stop the drooling." She added, "Turn
around, I want to see how 69's butt plug is holding up." After examining
it, she patted my on my bare ass, and said, "Still in. 69's doing just
fine, so far." After having passed Lola's inspection I went down on my
hands and knees, doggy style, as Randy grunted satisfactorily and hung the
end of my leash on to the back of his chair."

Shortly, the final guests all arrived, and a voice came from the
loudspeakers that were probably in the walls and/or ceiling, though I
hadn't detected any. I couldn't observe what was going on, seeing only the
legs of tables, chairs, and leather-clad humans around me, along with a
leashed, almost naked slave nearby at a table across the way. He, or "the
entity" paid no attention to my existence.

A deep voice suddenly emanated from loudspeakers in the ceiling, "It's
G.T. speaking," Randy whispered to me. I remained silent on the floor
before him.

G.T. greeted his guests, thanked everyone for attending, went through
pleasantries, and closed with, "Let's enjoy our dinners."

A waiter brought plates of food to our table, serving them from a tray he
carried. He was barefoot and his "waiter's uniform" consisted only of what
looked like a long transparent raincoat. Underneath the covering he was
stark naked except for socks and black boots. From where I was peering up I
could see that his `raincoat' had the letter "S" painted in black on its
front and back.

I guessed that the plastic garment was being worn by all the waiter staff,
and served to keep unwanted ingredients like loose crotch hairs shed by the
waiters dropping into the soup de jour. The thought of that possibly
happening would certainly dampen a diner's appetite.

The smell of the food was wonderful. I was hungry, and thirsty, but nothing
was given to me. However, during the course of the ample meal being served,
Randy fed me choice scraps of morsels from his dinner plate. But he warned
me, "No using your hands." So my mouth would accept the morsels from his
fingers--I even licked them at times. I noticed the nearby slave was also
on his hands and knees and being fed as well by his master. However, unlike
Randy, the master of the other slave simply tossed scraps on the floor next
to his slave. The slave would gobble the bits of food up directly with his
mouth, doggy style, also careful to not use his hands.

My hunger was assuaged somewhat, but my thirst now became prominent.  As
Randy tried to feed me another bit of food, I refused it by shaking my
head, and pointing to my gag. He removed the gag.

I swallowed a few times, then said, "Master, I'm thirsty."

"Tsk, tsk," Randy answered mockingly, "Violation of the slave rules,
69. Bad entity!  69 didn't ask my permission to speak...But we'll worry
about that violation later."

He then called a waiter over and whispered something to him. I couldn't
hear what he was saying above the noise in the room.

Shortly, the waiter came back and placed what looked like an aluminum dog
bowl on the floor in front of me, and poured in a little water from a
pitcher he carried.

"Go ahead, lap up, 69--enjoy," Randy said.

I tried to suck up the liquid but couldn't, getting mostly bubbles and air
for my efforts. So I had to resort to lapping it up like any canine
would. I licked the bowl dry!

At the end of the meal, the waiters began serving liquor. Randy, poured
some of it into my bowl. I lapped at it. It tasted like scotch, and it was
particularly strong. But it felt good as it burned its way down my
gullet. The small amount Randy gave me was quickly gone. So he poured in
some more. It quickly began affecting me. The hands and knees doggy
position I sustained seemed to become more comfortable; the nipple clamps
felt even better, and I became more relaxed.

Suddenly, I heard Lola voice. "Well, Randy see you later. The show must go
on!"

"Break a leg," Randy replied.

Before she took off, Lola came over to me, petted my head and said, "Be a
good boy now, number 69, and don't be naughty, naughty, and pee on the rug
or scratch the furniture." She laughed heartily then disappeared.

Some time later, after the dinner tables were cleared, a cheer and clapping
went up from the crowd.  It reverberated off the walls of "the dungeon."
And, Lola's voice came over the loudspeakers. "Good evening masters and
also to your slaves, those numbered pieces of luscious meat." There was
laughter from the onlookers.

"69 must watch this," Randy said. " Stand up. It's going to be something an
entity wouldn't want to miss."

I stood up and looked toward the well lit platform, and there was Lola,
Nazi get-up and all and now also wearing a black mask over her eyes. She
had a portable microphone in her hand. Standing behind her were two of the
hunks I had met at Randy's party. They stood perfectly still and were
naked, collared, cock-belted, and nipple-clamped like I was. Tags also hung
from their collars. They, Lola, and objects on the stage also appeared in
different angles on the video screens, for better viewing by the whole
audience. Lola seemed to be in her element on stage. After a few words
"warming up" the audience, she finally said, "Let's get on with show!" The
audience clapped and cheered, as Lola looked up the at the lit scoreboard
on which a few numbers had been flashing. Other numbers slowly began
appearing.

"Those numbers on the light panel there, " Randy explained pointing upward,
"indicate the tables where slaves have violated the rules. If Lola calls a
table number, the master at that tablemust take his miscreant slave before
her to be judged and sentenced for the infraction. The two slave entities
with her on the stage are in fact the jury, as well as Lola's helpers in
carrying out the sentence. It is done immediately in front of everyone."
Randy then pointed to a little black box mounted in the middle of our table
with a big, red button on it. A number "4" was engraved in silver on the
box.

"That number," Randy continued, "is our table number. Every table here is
numbered differently but has a similar box. When the button on it is
pressed, that number lights up on the board there." He pointed toward the
scoreboard above Lola on the platform. "Usually there are quite a few
numbers on the board at one time indicating the table locations of slave
disobedience. And Lola picks out a particular table whose slave inhabitant
she wants to try, so to speak. It's great fun, lots of laughs, and along
with the audience, even the slave malefactors and their masters love what
Lola decrees. You'll see."

My attention turned back to Lola, who had completed her introduction. She
had mounted and now sat behind the high judge`s bench, and was pounding on
a gavel that must have been lying on it, " Court is now in session," she
declared into the microphone set there. "Let justice take its course."

Again, the crowd cheered. Some even pounded on their tables. Lola then
looked up from her perch, perused the overhead scoreboard and announced,
"This court sees that table 17 has experienced a violation of the rules.
Will the slave's master bring that malefactor before our bench."  There
were more cheers and table thumping from the audience. Randy pounded on the
table as well, contributing to the clamor...

To be continued in Part 8...

Ron Slimman Ronslimman@yahoo.com