BDSM Library - The Best Job in the World

The Best Job in the World

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Synopsis: The story of a Parole Officer, and why he loves his job. Note of caution: The racial slurs used in this story are for effect, and in no way reflect my personal beliefs or practices. If you don't have anything constructive to say about this piece of fiction, don't bother leaving your comments.

The Best Job in the World

 

"Jinigga!" I bellowed, "Get your black ass in here, cunt!"  My tall, big-titted  house slave

arrived moments later, dropping to her knees in front of me.

 

"I'm expecting a new one, either today or tomorrow.  Get the room ready," I instructed.

 

"Yassuh, Massa," the former attorney Lucille Belle Hayworth, Esquire, responded.  She

no longer answered that name, of course; not since I'd changed it to Jinigga - a cross

between jigaboo and nigger - a week after she'd been assigned to my case load.

Understand, I'm not really a racist or anything; the name was intended only to degrade

and humiliate her, and it wasn't as though I'd made her legally change it or anything.  It

was just what she was called now.  As she turned to resume her duties, her naked ass

peeked out from underneath the starched, frilly maid's uniform, the wiggle exaggerated

by the six inch spiked heels I made her wear.  As I watched, I couldn't think how

fortuitous it had been for me to find employment as a Parole Officer.  It was the best job

in the world.

 

Margaret Bell Hayworth, Esquire, was just like so many others before her, a recently

paroled felon assigned to my case load.  With nearly 20 years seniority, I was a

supervisory Parole Officer, and assigned clients to myself and my staff.  My case load

was about the same as everyone else's; a few less, because of my supervisory

responsibilities, but there was one major difference.  Many of the women coming out of

prison are, to put it politely, not exactly beauty pageant material.  Not all of mine were,

either, but at least none of them were dogs.  Most were fairly young - Jinigga, at 32, was

the oldest - and all had relatively long sentences hanging over them.  Most of all,

though, they were susceptible to coercion and bordering on beautiful.

 

Most people can't understand the power a Parole Officer wields.  With a single report -

whether true or not - any of us can send a parolee back to prison, sometimes for the

rest of his or her life.  All one of us would have to say is our client missed an

appointment, wasn't home during an after-hours home check, or was seen drinking a

beer.  When I thought there would be some noise about it, though, I simply tainted a

uranalysis specimen or planted drugs on them so there would be hard "evidence."

What happened then was they'd not only have their parole violated, but new street

charges as well.

 

Jinigga was a perfect example of how I worked it.  A former attorney, she'd made parole

after serving a little over two years of a ten year sentence for embezzlement.  She'd

been on my case load for about four years, with four to go.  My state might parole them

early, but ten years is ten years, whether in prison or on parole.

 

I can still remember the day Margaret Belle Hayworth, Esquire, strode confidently into

my office.  I'd already carefully read her case file - divorced, two girls, aged 10 and 14,

BA from Stanford and law degree from USF.  Corporate finances were her specialty,

and what got her into trouble.  Too greedy, got caught with her hand in the till.

Disbarred as the result of her felony, of course.  Although she appeared self-assured,

her case file showed a different side.  Two fights, for which she'd served a total of 18

days in segregation; nothing unusual there. The medical reports indicated both fights

were one-sided, with she receiving the brunt of it.  Her Case Manager had noted that

she'd been bulldogged out of her commissary purchases several times, and may have

been forced into sex with other inmates.  Again, nothing unusual, except for her size

and background.  Lucille was somewhat of an Amazon, standing 6'1" tall and 160

pounds.  She had dark ebony skin - little, if any Caucasian in her blood - and subtle

facial features.  She was also an athlete, captain of her university's women's Judo team,

and a Tae Kwon Do instructor.  She was large and had the ability to defend herself, but

in prison, apparently chose to submit rather than fight.  I hoped she'd do the same in

this situation.

 

I'd timed her appointment so that she'd arrive about fifteen minutes before everyone

else left for the weekend, then let her sit in the lobby for a half hour before using the

intercom to call her in.  Looking very professional and self-assured in her tailored suit, I

saw through her facade the moment she strode into my office.  Without a word, she

nodded at me and sat down in the padded chair I kept for clients.

 

"I didn't tell you to sit down," I growled quietly, glaring at her until she stood.  It was

necessary to make that first impression.  "Just stand and wait until I tell you otherwise."

 

My latest parolee did as she was told, her eyes glaring at me while I feigned reading

through her file.  Of course, I'd already seen it, but she didn't need to know that.  I

smiled inwardly - not showing it, naturally - when my peripheral vision caught her hands

shaking slightly, then saw that she'd lowered her eyes submissively.  I let her stew for

ten minutes - an eternity for her, I'm sure, before I set the file down.  I leaned back in my

padded chair and crossed my arms, glaring at her.

 

"Let's get one thing straight," I said, as I stood up.  As tall as she was, I still dwarfed her.

I was two full inches taller and a good 80 pounds heavier, mostly muscle.  I could see

she was intimidated.  "I've never had much use for smart-assed lawyers, particularly

smart-assed thieving lawyers.  Or nigger lawyers at all, for that matter."  She visibly

recoiled when I said that word, anger flaring in her eyes.  Oh, how I was going to enjoy

taking this one down.

 

"I'm going to tell you - just once - how things are going to be.  If you step out of line just

once - hell, if I even think you're thinking about stepping out of line - and your black ass

will be back in prison so fast you're head will spin.  Not only that, but you'll never see

those two little  pickaninnies of yours again, I'll see to that.  They won't be adopted by

some well-meaning liberal white couple, either; they'll end up in the hands of some big-

city pimp, who'll have them spreading their legs for anyone with two bucks to spend.

You have no idea how easy something like that is to arrange, Ms. Convicted Felon

Disbarred Attorney."  Like I said, I'm really not a racist, but used those words simply for

the shock effect.  It worked, because I could see the tears clouding her eyes as her

shoulders slumped in defeat.

 

"Please don't," she whimpered.  "My daughters..."

 

"You know I'm perfectly capable of that, don't you?"

 

"Yes," she answered.

 

"Yes, what, cunt?" I demanded.

 

"Yes, I understand....sir?" she replied, more a question than a statement.

 

"I'm assuming you think yourself to be a good mother, who looks out for the best

interests of her children, who makes sacrifices for them?"

 

"Yes, of course...sir," she answered.

 

"And a good mother would do anything to keep her daughters from becoming whores

for some pimp, right?"

 

"Yes, sir," she whimpered again.  "She would - that is, I would...I mean, I'll do anything

you want, just don't hurt my babies."

 

"Anything at all?" I inquired, raising an eyebrow.

 

"Yes, sir, anything.  It doesn't matter what."

 

"So if I told you to get on your knees and suck my cock right now or go back to jail,

you'd do it, right?"  She stared up at me, finally nodding slightly as tears filled her eyes.

She finally realized that the horrors of prison life were only the beginning.

 

"Good.  Now, for starters, you can drop that uppity New York nigger accent.  From not

on, it's not ‘yes, sir,' but ‘yassuh,' like a good house nigger."  She stared at me, like she

was going to start bawling again.  "Do you understand, bitch?" I asked harshly.

 

"Yes, I...uh...Yassuh," she answered, a tone of defeat in her voice.

 

"Yassuh...what?" I prompted.

 

"Yassuh...uh...sir?"

 

"Try again, cunt.  What would a good house nigger have said?"

 

"Uh...yassuh...Massa?"

 

"Give the darkie a watermelon!" I announced.  "You're not as stupid as I thought, it

would seem.  So, let's see if you can follow some simple instructions.  You know where

the Starlite Lounge is downtown?"

 

"Yes...uh...yassuh, Massa."

 

"Good.  Be there at nine o'clock tonight, in your finest slutwear.  You'll be..."

 

"Uh...pardon me...uh...Massa," she interrupted.  "Slutwear?"

 

"You know, slutwear.  Short skirt, low-cut top, fishnet stockings, heels, slutty makeup,

no panties or bra.  Like a slut looking for someone to fuck her brains out.  If you don't

have any appropriate clothing, go buy some.   You start your new job tonight as an

erotic dancer.  Get a girlfriend or someone to watch the brats, because you won't be

coming home until morning. You using any form of birth control?"

 

"Uh...nosuh, Massa," she responded, sobbing.

 

"Well, that's up to you," I said, shrugging my shoulders.  "Figure something out if you

don't want to get knocked up, because my friends and I don't wear condoms.  Nothing

permanent though, because I might want to eventually breed you."  I knew that would

get to her, and I was right.  She started bawling again.

 

"Oh, one more thing.  I expect to fuck a hairless pussy tonight.  It doesn't matter to me

whether it's yours or one of  your daughters', so you can either present me with yours or

one of theirs.  Let's see...the youngest is twelve, right?  I like ‘em young, so I'll take her

if you don't want to shave that twat of yours."

 

"Y-y-yassuh, Massa.  Please don't do that to my baby! She bawled, the tears flowing

freely now.

 

"So, I think you'd better get your ass out of here and start getting ready for our date,

shouldn't you?" I waited a moment, until reached for the doorknob, before continuing.

"Oh, and bring some cash.  You'll be paying for the room.  It's $58 for the room, and an

extra five if you want clean towels.  Personally, I don't care whether there are any

sheets or not, since I plan on cleaning myself off in your slutty mouth and kinky hair

anyway."

 

She ran out of the room crying, but I wasn't worried.  It was after five, and everyone had

made their Friday escape already.  I'd seen this before; she might think of reporting our

conversation, but it would just boil down to her word against mine.  She'd capitulate, just

like the rest.  They always did.  Oh, she might rebel, but I had a plan to head that off.

 

I didn't meet with her that night.  Instead, I arranged for her to get to know - in the

biblical sense - a few of my biker buddies.   They met up with her just a couple of blocks

form her apartment, forcing her off the road and then pulling her out of the car.  After

roughing her up a bit - just on general principles - they dragged her into a nearby

abandoned building and repeatedly raped her.  By their account - she was so

incoherent by the time it was over, she probably had no idea - she'd taken 41 loads of

cum in the next 10 hours.  They finished with her at 7:00 a.m., and dropped her off back

at her now-undriveable car.  It had been vandalized during the night - I had nothing to

do with that, believe it or not - and now it was sitting on blocks, all four wheels, the

stereo system and her purse containing her identification and money all gone.  In her

stupor, she didn't realize someone now had her name, address and the keys to her

apartment.

 

Lucille stumbled back to her residence and found me waiting in her living room, casually

sipping on a cup of coffee I'd made.  Her children were nowhere to be found; I'd had

them taken by Social Services because, as I stated in my summons, their mother was

about to be arrested for absconding from parole.

 

"Well," I said, "It looks like you had a fun time last night.  Too bad you didn't meet your

Parole Officer like you were told; it's back to prison for you."  I grabbed the abused

woman's hands and pulled them behind her back, quickly slapping the handcuffs on.

"I'll even bet your piss test comes back positive.  What are you using, meth?  Crack?

Yeah, you look like a crack whore, I'll be that's what it was.  You went out looking to

score some crack, and traded your worn-out fuckhole for it, didn't you?"

 

"No, I..." she stammered before I cut her off.

 

"Stupid cunt!" I yelled, whipping her around by the arm and pushing my face to hers,

spittle from my lips striking her.  "Is that how you're supposed to address me?"

 

"I...uh...please...I'm sorry...it wasn't my fault..."

 

"Bullshit, cunt!  It's never your fault, is it?  All you fucking convicts are alike.  ‘I'm

innocent, I'm innocent!'"I screamed in a falsetto voice.  "Bull-fucking-shit you are.

Anyone can see what you've been off doing, all covered in cum.  Shit, you don't even

have the self-respect to...fuck, what if your kids had been home?  What if I hadn't come

here and found you gone, and called Social Services?  Do you want them to see you

coming home drenched in semen like this?"

 

"Oh, my God!  Oh, my God!  My babies!" she cried, tripping as she tried to run up the

stairs.

 

"They're gone, cunt," I told her.  "Just like I said.  They're at Social Services, but as soon

as you go back to prison, they're adopted.  Hell, I even have someone lined up to take

them.  He likes young ones.  White dicks being shoved up hairless black pussies sell

well," I said almost casually.

 

"Please, no!" she screamed, falling to the floor and wrapping her arms around my

ankles.  "Please!  I'll do anything!"

 

"Not only will you do anything," I said quietly, looking down at her with an evil smile on

my face, "You'll do everything.  Everything I say, without question, without hesitation.

Otherwise, the brats get to learn all about fucking, first hand."

 

"Yes, I'll do whatever you say," she sobbed, completely broken now.

 

"Are you forgetting something? How did I tell you yesterday to address me?"

 

"Uh...master?"

 

"Almost right, bitch.  Let's hear it like a proper house nigger would say it, though."

 

"Massa."

 

"Say it again."

 

"Massa"

 

"Tell me yes, properly, like a good nigger."

 

"Uh...yassuh, Massa."

 

"Your name is Jinigga.  Tell me your name is Jinigga, in a good nigger voice."

 

"Uh...I's Jinigga, Massa?"

 

"Excellent, Jinigga.  And your two brats, their names are Jigglet and Nigglet.  Tell me,

like a good house nigger would, cunt, otherwise they get a visit from my friend."

 

"Uh...my chillin's be Jigglet and Nigglet," she replied, sobbing now.

 

"Good, except your not to refer to yourself except by your new name.  Try it again,

bitch."

 

"Jinniga's chillins be named Jigglet and Nigglet, Massa."

 

"Very good," I said, patting her on the head.  "Now strip off those clothes and go take a

shower.  Make sure your whore's cunt and asshole are completely clean, and brush

your teeth.  I'm not sure which of your holes I'm going to use, so get them all ready."

 

So that's how I came to be in possession of my very own house nigger and my first full-

time slave bitch.  I've had quite a few others, but the only one I've bothered to keep – so

far – is Jinniga. 

 

My favorite parolees to mess with are the young mothers, particularly the single ones.

My favorites are the young mothers.  They not only fear going back to prison, but also

having the little bastards they whelped being raised in foster care.  Like one of my latest

acquisitions,  Lucille Cower.

 

"Juicy Lucy," as I've come to call her, is a petite 19 year old with a possible 26 years

hanging over her head for being caught in a stolen car with a trunk load of marijuana.

She claimed she didn't know and was just hitchhiking, but the jury didn't buy it.  The

judge was a friend of mine, so after she'd served two years, I suggested a

reconsideration hearing,  His Honor remanded the felon to my custody, knowing he'd

have the opportunity to sample her wares for himself.  Too bad for her, not so bad for

me.

 

Anyway, Lucy is 5'6" tall, 128 pounds, with flame red hair, bright green eyes, and

freckles all over her body.  I know...I've seen them, both in surveillance video taken

when she was strip searched, and  in person.  With her hair in pigtails, wearing knee

socks and a short dress, she reminded me of one of those haughty high school

cheerleaders ho never even knew I existed.   Very cute.  Nice, firm knockers with large

nipples that easily harden.  She used to have a curly little bush, but I don't allow any of

my female parolees to keep that part of their anatomy covered with hair.

 

I still remember the day Lucy showed up in my office to check in for the first time. 

While she stood silently in front of my desk, I feigned reviewing her file, looking up

occasionally and making little "tsk" sounds.  I'd already studied the file at length, and

had decided well before she arrived that she was going to make a nice addition to my

stable.  Otherwise, she wouldn't have been on my case load.

 

"Hmmm," I commented, looking up at my new client.  "Based on your crime and risk

factors, I'm surprised you made parole at all, Lucy"  She cringed...I already knew she

hated that name.  "So, we're going to put you on an electronic leash, of sorts.  I'm sure

you're familiar with ankle bracelets; I see you wore one while you were out on bond,

before your trial."

 

"Yes, sir," she answered meekly, AI know what that is.  I promise, though, that I won't

run.  My baby..."

 

"Yes, your baby," I interrupted.  "We'll get to him in a moment, But first,  please take off

your shoe and sock, and roll up your pant leg so I can appl the ankle restraint.  You can

rest your foot on the chair," I said, motioning to the plain wooden chair sitting in the

corner.

 

She did as I asked, and what a cute little footsie it was.  The skin on her leg was smooth

and hairless, her toes carefully painted an alluring gloss pink.  I made a mental note to

keep her in pink, because that particular shade looked so sexy on her.  I locked the

device in place, and activated it.

 

"This one is a little different that what you wore at county," I informed her.  "This one has

GPS tracking, so I can tell exactly where you are at any time of the day or night, just by

logging on to my laptop computer.  The anti-tamper device is a little different, too.  If the

strap is broken, it will not only tell me that you're trying to remove it, but you will receive

a high-voltage, low amperage shock.  Not enough to kill you, but enough to render you

unconscious."  Pressing a button on my computer, I watched while my client's body

spasmed in a tonic-clonic episode.

 

"That was fifty percent," I told her after five seconds.  "You try to take it off, you get 100

percent until the system realizes you're unconscious, and you keep getting zapped

every time you wake up.  Understand?"

 

"Y-y-yes, s-s-sir," she mumbled, her body covered with sweat.  What I didn't tell her was

that she'd get much more than a shock if she attempted to tamper with the device.  A

small reservoir contained a lethal dose of medicinal quality heroin, which would be

injected via a spring-loaded needle.  She'd be dead of an apparent overdose before she

could fathom what had happened.

 

"Now, as to the second issue...your baby.  The one you delivered while shackled to your

bed at County General.  Your jail baby, the one who was inside that big belly you the

day you were arrested.  You want to get your baby back from foster care, and you can't

do that if you go back to prison, correct?"

 

"Yes, sir," she once again answered.

 

"Then you'll do whatever I tell you to do.  Otherwise, you go to back dykeville for

another 24 years, and lose your little brat forever.  He'll be sent to some orphanage, or

maybe some well-meaning Christian couple will raise him as their own, never telling him

that his mother was a felon.  Or maybe not.  I could arrange for him to be told the truth

at, say, fourteen years of age.  That'd probably really mess up his head.  But you don't

want that, do you?  You want to raise him yourself, right?  So tell me what you're going

to do."

 

"Whatever you tell me, sir," she hoarsely replied.

 

"Anything at all to keep your brat?"

 

"Anything, sir," she warily answered, rightly believing she wouldn't like where this was

going.

 

"Good.  So, from now on until your probation is over or you go back to prison, whichever

comes first, you belong to me.  Lock, stock, body and soul.  You do what I tell you to do,

when I tell you to do it.   No matter what.  You're going to be my willing, obedient little

slut and whore.  You'll fuck when, where, who and how I say.  You'll be the best little

slutty whore ever, because the result of anything less than perfect obedience is prison

and the loss of your dear baby.  Understand me, bitch?"

 

"Y-y-y-yes, sir," she whispered, barely audible.

 

"Good.  So we understand each other.  Now, time for your first test.  You fail, you go

back to prison this afternoon.  Time for me to inspect the merchandise, so stand up and

strip," I commanded.  She hesitated.  They always do.  So I zapped her.  She fell to the

floor as a ten  second jolt coursed through her body.

 

"That was seventy-five percent, Lucy.  Now, get up off the damned floor and get those

fucking clothes off so I can see that whore body of yours!"

 

This time she did as I commanded, sobbing from the humiliation and knowledge of what

was to come.  I made her stand there, naked, her legs spread and her hands clasped

behind her head, while I inspected her body.  I squeezed her young tits, pinched and

twisted her nipples to see how large and hard they'd get.  I made her hold her mouth

open so I could look inside, as though I was inspecting a horse for purchase.  I spread

her ass cheeks and peered at her wrinkled brown hole.  And, finally, I worked my hand

up and down her hair-covered slit, feeling her wetness before I jammed two fingers

inside her, causing her to flinch but not break position.

 

"You'll do, Juicy Lucy," I announced, bestowing her with her name.  "That's your name

from now on.  Juicy Lucy.  Say it."

 

"Ju-ju-juicy L-l-l-lucy, sir," she answered.

 

"Now, for the rules.  First, you go get a cell phone.  Make sure you get a plan with plenty

of minutes, because you're going to need them.  Second, as soon as you get home, you

go shave that bush of yours.  Third, no more panties or bras for you, unless I give them

to you.  Finally, from now on, you wear nothing but short dresses and heels.  Anything

that covers more than the top four inches of your thighs is too long, and no shoes that

don't have a heel at least four inches high.  Stockings and garter belts all the time,

except in the shower, even when you go to bed.  Except for that, you sleep naked.  In

fact, whenever you're home alone, you're to be naked.  Keep your cell phone with you,

and turned on, at all times.  If I call and you don't answer, you get zapped.  Whenever

your phone rings, you answer it by the third ring, saying, ‘This is Juicy Lucy, how many I

serve you, sir?'  Now, you say it."

 

"This is Juicy Lucy.  How may I serve you, sir?" she sobbed.  She'd still try to escape,

but just once, I knew.  I'd been through this before.

 

"Well, Juicy Lucy," I grinned sadistically, "The first thing you can do is get down on your

knees, get that slut mouth open and start sucking my cock."

 

She was an adequate little cock sucker, but she had a lot of work to do if she was going

to earn me any real money.  Not to worry, she'd get the practice she needed and would

soon be an expert, I thought, as I grabbed her ears and forced my cock down her throat.

She gagged and sputtered, and when my cum spewed out of the corners of her mouth, I

slapped her on the side of the head, knocking her naked ass to the ground.

 

"Never, never spit out any cum you're given, slut!" I yelled.  "When a man decides your

mouth is nice enough to cum in, you hold it until you're told to swallow.  Now, get your

ass out of here, get that phone and call me back within the next two hours with your

number, or you'll be back in prison in time for dinner."

 

She scrambled to her feet, grabbing the clothes scattered across the floor.

 

"You can wear the pants and shirt, Juicy, but that's it.  No panties or bras, because I

haven't provided you with any, and as punishment for not wearing a skirt, you go

barefoot.  Go home, get a short skirt or dress on, and a pair of sandals, then go get your

phone. Call me when you have it."

 

I watched her glare at me as she pulled her clothes on, leaving her undergarments,

shoes and socks in the middle of my office floor.  Once she left, I picked them up and

stuck them in my desk drawer, figuring I might have a use for them later.  Checking my

watch, I saw that it was time to close up for the day.  Maybe some home visits

tomorrow, I thought to myself.

 

When I arrived home, I was met at the door by my statuesque negress wearing nothing

but a leather collar and stilettos.  She greeted me by opening the door and kneeling

while I took off my coat.  In the four years since I'd owned her, my house slave had

turned into quite the submissive.          

 

"Hello, Jinigga," I said.  AI presume my dinner is ready?"

 

"Yassuh, Massa," the Ivy-league, former Wall Street attorney said in her best house

nigger accent.  "Jinniga fixed Massa's supper jes' lak Massa said, suh."

 

"Well, if it's any good, maybe I'll let you eat tonight."  She hadn't been permitted to eat

dinner the night before, and that was always her only meal of the day.  She was

overweight when she came to me as a new parolee, but now you could clearly see the

ribs showing.  She had access to food, but the surveillance cameras throughout the

house recorded her every move.  She knew if she was caught eating without

permission, she'd be punished by a beating, followed by a week of hunger.

 

"Massa, Jinniga needs to go pee from her nigger slit, please, Massa," she half-asked,

using one of only three phrases she was permitted to utter without permission.  The

others were to ask permission to speak, and to shit.

 

"Fine," I answered.  "Go get your bowl."

 

Jinniga scampered out to the back porch, returning with her combination food bowl /

water bowl / toilet.  My slave nigger used the same bowl to piss, shit, eat and drink with,

and she was permitted to wash it out just once a week.  I watched her set the bowl

down, then squat over it with her knees spread widely.

 

"Massa, may Jinniga piss from her nigger slit now, Massa?" she asked, still

embarrassed after four years of slavery to be begging permission to use her toilet.

 

"Maybe in a minute.  Why don't you put on a show for me?  Stay like that, and show me

how a nigger slut plays with her fuck hole?  One hand between your legs, the other on

your tits."

 

"Yassuh, Massa, A my slave responded dejectedly, knowing I'd stop her just before she

was about to cum.  Her left index finger flitted over her clitoris, causing little shivers of

pleasure to course over her body, while her right hand was busy kneading her dark,

largish knockers.  I sat quietly, eating my dinner, while the bitch worked herself into a

frenzy.

 

"Stop!" I commanded, seeing that she was near orgasm.  "You may now piss, but make

it quick.  Any splatters and you'll be licking them up."

 

"Yassuh, Massa.  Thank you, Massa," the girl replied automatically, moving her hand

from her crotch and releasing her full bladder into the bowl.  When she was done, she

returned to her knees, the urine-filled bowl in front of her.  I gave fleeting thought to

having her lap it like a dog, but decided not to.  I wasn't angry at her, and usually left

things like that as punishment.  I told her to go take her bowl outside and empty it.

 

I was finished with my meal by the time she returned, so I snapped a short leash to her

collar and began inspecting the house.  Jinniga crawled behind me, moving to a

squatting position every time I stopped.  She was not allowed to rest on her hands and

knees.  I was pleased with her work today, but still needed to review the surveillance

tapes.  My clothes were freshly washed and put away, the sheets on my bed changed,

and the house thoroughly dusted.  Yes, Jinniga would get dinner today.

 

As I was scraping the remains of my meal into Jinniga's dish, my phone rang.

 

"Hello?" I answered.

 

"Sir, this is Juicy Lucy.  How may I serve you?" my latest slut replied.

 

"Very good, Lucy," I said, looking at my watch.  "Fifteen minutes to spare.  Now, go find

yourself a skirt so short that your ass cheeks peek out from under it.  A matching halter

top.  If you can't find one, a bikini top.  Everything pink.  Garter belt, fishnet stockings

and sandals with heels at least five inches high.  Do your nails the same color as your

toes.  Lipstick, same shade.  Pigtails, lots of makeup, like a high school kid trying to look

like a slut.  Got it?"

 

"Yes, sir, but..."

 

"No buts," I interrupted.  "Four hours."  I gave her my address and told her not to be

late.  She had no car, I knew, but the bus stop was only a mile away.

 

"Sir, please...I beg you..."

 

"What is it, slut?" I asked impatiently.

 

"Sir, my older son, Sir..I have no one to care for him."

 

"Fine.  Bring him along.  It's time he learn how his mother makes her living, on her

knees.  Maybe I'll have your little bastard suck my cum from your holes after I fuck you."

With that, I slammed the phone down.  Shit.  My desire was gone...for now.  I'd have to

remember to take it out on the bitch's ass later.

 

"Okay, Jinniga, after you eat your dinner, you may bathe, and then use your vibrator to

get yourself off.  I won't be using you tonight."

 

"Yassuh, Massa," my house nigger replied, disappointed that she wouldn't be fucked,

but excited that she'd been given permission to cum.  I seldom let her orgasm when I

fucked her. 

 

I absented-mindedly watched my house nigger lay in her corner on the living room floor

and play with herself, not stopping her after her first or even second orgasm.  I didn't

really care how many times she came tonight, because I had no plans to fuck her.  Like

most women, she was a much better piece of ass when she'd been denied, and I'd

already decided this would be her last chance for the next month or so. Might as well let

her get her jollies now, since I was going to keep her in need for a while.

 

Three and a half hours had gone by when my doorbell rang.  My new slut was early.

Well, she'd learn the meaning of punctuality.  When I said four hours, I didn't mean

three hours and fifty nine minutes, or four hours and one minute, I meant exactly four

hours.  She would just have to wait, but I did turn the porch light on so she'd know I was

home.  Fifteen minutes went by before I sent my nigger out to give her a message.  She

held the door open while she spoke, her naked body clearly visible in the bright light to

anyone who might drive by.

 

"Massa says you to strip dem cloves off an' wait on yo' knees, bitch.  You put dem

cloves in de mailbox slot, cept'n fo' yo shoes.  Y'all waits fo' Massa until he ready fo'

you.  You gotsta learn be on time, not early o' late."  The door slammed in Lucy's face

before she could respond.

 

"Very good, Jinniga," I complimented.

 

"Thank you, Massa," she replied.  "Dat shore one fine lookin' white bitch.  Is de Massa

gwanna let his niggah have a crack at her, Massa?"

 

"Maybe later, Jinniga.  Go back to your corner and leave me alone.  Three more

orgasms, no more, and off to bed."

 

"Yassuh, Massa," my slave responded, smiling as she crawled back to her corner and

splayed her legs, pointing her shaved cunt at me.

 

 

Yes, being a Parole Officer was the best job in the world.

 

 

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