****** 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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