The Redhead in the Killer Kollar

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It was a little late for company to be arriving, especially on a Tuesday night, but since I’m the only house on this road, they had to be coming here. Well, actually, they could just be some punk-assed kids looking for a place to drink and have sex, but there are signs that say “Private Road” and “No Trespassing” at the entrance and then about every hundred yards the entire two miles back to the house where a final reminder says politely, “You are on PRIVATE Property.”

Then, just to keep my lawyers happy, there is another sign which they dictated. It says, “By coming onto this private property, you cede to the owner the right to record video and audio of your actions. This video is for security and legal purposes only and will not be shared unless directed to do so by the proper authorities.” That sign is in pretty small print, but since there is an icon of a camera on one side of it and a microphone on the other, I think everyone gets the point.

If it is just someone who has decided to ignore the signs and try to park under the trees at the end of the road past the front of the house, I very politely ask them to leave. Generally once I have explained things to them they never come back.

Despite what they may have told their friends– or in two or three cases, the police– I have never shown a weapon or threatened them in any way– the security videos prove that. But using my key fob to activate six different laser-guided automatic tracking systems seems to leave a permanent impression on their psyche. There is something about six red dots suddenly appearing right over your heart that gets your attention.

It would be a lot easier if I could put a gate just off the highway but the state won’t let me do that even though I own all the land on either side of the road. This used to be some sort of government-owned retreat center and the road was deeded over to the state. I offered to buy it back since I already do all maintenance on it anyway, but the folks at the Department of Transportation don’t think that way. They didn’t have any objection to me putting cameras and detection devices alongside the road, or if they did, they couldn’t do anything about it because their right of way ends two feet off the pavement.

My alarms chimed as soon as the vehicle started down the road. Video recording started when motion was detected at one-half mile. Video screens came to life in my office, living room, and several other places throughout the house a quarter mile later. The screens were four-way splits showing normal feed, night vision, infra-red, and a sound-echo radar view of my own design. There were two people in the car, one in front, the other in the back. The person at the wheel was wearing a latex mask of some sort to disguise his– or her– face. The thermal image which bled through the mask was stored for later comparison in facial recognition. Doing facial recognition on thermal patterns is a bit more process-time intensive, so it can’t be done in real time. I shifted my scrutiny to the person in the back. She was naked except for what appeared to be a metal collar around her neck. From her heat patterns, she was either very cold or very afraid. I was betting on both.

I put my defenses on standby and pulled my holster with my Glock 21 over my shoulders. The shoulder holster holds the weight relatively reasonably, but that giant cannon is primarily for show… or stopping automobiles. It also draws people’s attention away from the twin Glock 42s held in place on the back of my belt. Their thirty-eight bullet doesn’t pack the punch of the 21’s forty-five, but they are more accurate and less likely to cause collateral damage– especially when loaded with disintegrating ‘Sky Marshall Rounds’. A lightweight jacket covered everything as I stood just inside the front door watching the vehicle approach. Nothing would show unless… or until… I needed it.

I debated actually using the visible targeting lasers to let the driver know that he was covered, but it wasn’t necessary. He slowed almost to a stop and the naked female in the back seat launched herself out the door. As she did, for just an instant, there was a flash of another heat signature from the back seat. Evidently she had not been alone… and whoever was with her was using thermal cloaking of some sort that flashed open when they pushed the naked girl out of the car.

The girl– a deep bronze redhead who looked to be in her early twenties– rolled on the grass alongside the sidewalk that came up to the house. As soon as she skidded to a stop, she staggered to her feet and began walking toward my door. There wasn’t any reason to continue playing cat and mouse so I pressed a button on my watch and said, “Intruder lights.”

It was as if it had become daylight outside as hundreds of LED spotlights sprang to life around the house, in the yard, and all along the road. All of the spotlights pointed away from the house so any intruder would be blinded while I had a very clear view of them. The redhead lifted her hand to shield her eyes from the sudden glare. The driver of the car, already half-way back to the highway, floored it and roared off into the night.

The girl, who was obviously trembling with fright, stopped in front of the door. “W,” she said plaintively, “I have a message for you.”

After double-checking that no one was lurking in the bushes and that there were no drones flying overhead, I opened the door and said, “Come inside, Loraine.”

Loraine was a free-lance journalist that had crossed paths with me a couple of times in the past. I had often wondered, with that deep, flaming color, if she was a natural redhead, but I no longer had to speculate. The flaming triangle in her crotch was at least as intense as the red on her head. I motioned for her to step inside, but she remained almost at attention on the small concrete stoop outside my front door.

“I can’t,” she finally blurted out, obviously terrified to move forward. “If he loses the signal the collar will activate. It has a built-in knifewire garrote system that will cut my head off. He made me watch as he tested it on a dog.” She began repeating, almost mechanically, “I can’t come in… I can’t come in… I can’t come in…”

At that point the collar beeped three times and her eyes went wide. “No,” she moaned, almost shouting at the sky. “Not now!”

The collar triple beeped again and she dropped down onto her back and began furiously masturbating herself. It was obvious that she wasn’t trying for enjoyment, but rather was hurrying to force herself to orgasm. “Go, go, go, go,” she kept muttering to herself until suddenly she shuddered slightly and gave a small moan.

After a few moments, she stood back up, hung her head in shame, and said very softly, “The collar demands at least four orgasms a day. If I don’t do it, it will activate.”

“Can your Master hear me?” I asked.

She nodded her head.

“And see me?”

She nodded her head again.

“If I give him the name and password for my wifi can the collar work through that?”

She looked back at me with wide, puzzled eyes, but the collar gave a soft beep. “That’s a ‘yes,’” she said softly.

“Connect to ‘Partyguest,’” I said harshly. “That’s one word, capital P. The password is 007W.” I paused and then said more slowly, “That’s the numbers zero, zero, seven, then d-o-u-b-l-e-U, all lower case except the U.

“I was told you have an interesting sense of humor,” the collar said. The voice was high-pitched and tinny, but understandable.

“Glad you appreciate my attempts at humor,” I replied.

The collar beeped again and then said in a mechanical voice, “Connected to ‘Partyguest.’”

“Is it safe for her to come in?” I asked.

The collar beeped and Loraine said, “That’s a ‘yes.’”

“Can I get her a robe?”

The collar beeped twice and Loraine said, almost tearfully, “That’s a ‘no.’ I have to remain naked at all times.”

I again signaled for her to come in and she very timidly stepped through the door. I didn’t blame her. If I had a guillotine locked around my neck, I would be more than a tad cautious myself.

Once we were inside, I motioned for her to be seated in one of my leather recliners in the living room. “I figured the leather would be the most comfortable considering,” I said as I took a seat on the couch.

In response Loraine gave me a weak smile and sat down. Then I asked, “What is the message?”

“You will receive a list of five people that you are to invite to a special party this coming Saturday night,” she answered flatly.

“How?” I asked.

When she just stared at me blankly, I expanded my question. “How will I receive the list?” I said, trying very hard not to sound angry or frustrated.

“The names will be in a text to your private number.” she answered. “Detailed instructions will be in an email to your Fibonacci account.” She squinted and lowered her eyebrows. “I don’t know what that means,” she said.

“I do,” I answered. “I have a phone number that almost nobody knows. And I have a special numbered email account that I don’t give out to anybody. It is a Fibonacci sequence that begins with 9. All I have to remember is the first number and the rest is easy. It is 9,9,18,9,17,8,15,6,11 at… well, that’s not important. What’s important is it is a special account that is known by VERY few people. Whoever is pulling the strings is going out of their way to show that they know more about me than they should.”

The collar beeped to indicate that it– or whoever was controlling it– was still listening.

I took a deep breath to calm myself and then asked, “Can you talk about your captivity?”

Her collar gave a single beep and she slumped in the chair. “I screwed up,” she said, “I was going to get a big scoop on a human trafficking scheme that was trolling for victims in BDSM clubs. I had figured out that the girls– or guys– were tricked into thinking that they had lost some sort of bet or contest and were going to be a slave for a weekend.”

She shifted around on the recliner before continuing. “According to their friends, most of them were kind of looking forward to it. … But it isn’t just a weekend,” she said angrily. “They are never seen again.”

“And you thought you could troll the troll?” I said firmly.

It wasn’t really a question, but she answered me anyway. “I keep trying to decide if I am that stupid or that submissive,” she said quickly. “All of the victims were more or less submissive. They knew they had a weakness, but they weren’t weak enough to submit to a Master or Mistress. So, they had no protection.”

“Subs aren’t necessarily weak,” I said. “Many choose to give someone power over them, but they are not weak. They are often the more powerful one in a D/s relationship even though the Dominant seems to be in charge.”

“Maybe I should have come to you,” she said. “You know more about all this.” She sort of shrugged and said, “Besides, you are already part of the BDSM scene in the area.”

“And nationwide,” I said, “but you didn’t come to me and now you are an unwilling victim of someone who can kill you with the push of a button.”

That caused her to shiver slightly in fright. She remained silent for several minutes. Then she said softly, “I don’t know who my Master is, but he owns me. After they captured me, he showed me how the collar works and made me get down on my knees and submit to him.”

“So you’ve seen him?” I asked.

“Just a couple of henchmen… and they wore masks,” she replied, “I was kneeling in front of a video camera.”

“It looks like I need to check my private telephone for a text,” I said slowly, “and my supposedly hidden email account for additional instructions.” I waited for her to acknowledge that she had heard what I had said and then asked, “Do you need food… or water… or something else to drink?”

She shook her head no.

“Do you need to rest?” I asked.

When she nodded her head yes, I led her to a bedroom that was just off the kitchen. “You are safe in here,” I said as I opened the door for her. “And you can come into the kitchen if you need anything to eat or drink.” I adjusted the thermostat for her and said, “This room also has its own heater, so I can make it just a little bit warmer for you so you can sleep above the sheets.”

She smiled at my use of a very out-of-date slang for someone who slept in the nude, but she also said “Thank you, I’ve been cold for two weeks.”

I didn’t tell her that the room was also a saferoom and was entirely cut off from the rest of the house. Nor did I tell her that I could monitor– and record– everything she did in that room. In just a few moments she was fast asleep. From her thermal signature, I knew she wasn’t just faking sleep. She was out.

Once I knew that she– and the collar– couldn’t see or hear what I was doing, I sat down at the computer in my bedroom. My bedroom can also be used as a saferoom, but it is equipped with additional concealed armor and armament, the permits for which cost a significant amount in official and unofficial fees. The computer in my office-bedroom is also connected to several concealed antennas on the roof of my house which give me a direct connection to the internet backbone.

I messaged a couple of associates who had gray hat hacker skills. Some of the work they did for me and for others would be considered black hat hacking by the authorities, but they were doing it for good purposes– such as helping catch child pornographers and human traffickers. I have nothing against men or women who want to sell their sexual services or people who want to live out even the most extreme BDSM lifestyles, but pimps are pimps and anything non-consensual is forced slavery, pure and simple.

Boris and Natasha answered almost immediately. I don’t know their real names and I really don’t want to know them. But they are evidently either Rocky and Bullwinkle fans or they have seen the movie True Lies way too many times. I described what was happening and they answered, “On it. Priority Alpha.” Their responses are almost always short and cryptic. I pushed them about this once and they answered, “Big Brother searches for word usage. We starve that algorithm.”

There wasn’t anything else I could do until they reported back, so I grabbed my “special” phone off its charger and read the text. The list was five very important Masters and Mistresses who had purchased equipment from me over the past several years. I don’t know if the person controlling the collar knew that or was just gathering three Masters– including me– and three Mistresses together at the same party.

Checking my numbered email account gave me a set of instructions. The party was to be this coming Saturday night starting at eight pm and was to be at my house. The last line of the instructions really irritated me. It said, “I trust you can come up with some fabulous pretense to get all of them to attend.”

Pretense means lying. I never lie to my clients. I might not tell them the complete truth, but I have never outright lied to them. Using my now compromised special phone, I sent an individual text to everyone on the list at the phone numbers provided in the text to me. It was a simple text that said, “If you want an opportunity to see a demonstration of my new Orgasmatron Ultra please come to a special viewing dinner at my house this Saturday night at 8:00 pm. Please reply your answer to this text within 24 hours.”

I had planned to unveil my Orgasmatron Ultra at an upcoming national BDSM munch, but previewing for select Masters and Mistresses was not an unexpected thing for me to do. Within thirty minutes I had acceptance texts from all five people. Now all I– and Loraine– had to do was wait.

***

Loraine spent most of her time in her bedroom, except for those times when she would suddenly run out to wherever I was and throw herself on the ground in order to masturbate herself to one of the collar’s mandatory four orgasms. “He now demands I do it in front of you,” she said tearfully after the first time.

On Thursday afternoon, I was sitting on the back deck when she ran out of the house and jumped down to the grass before sliding onto her back and rubbing furiously at her crotch. When she was finished, she lay on the grass panting. She tried several times to look up at me, but each time turned her head away in shame.

“Would it be easier for you if you just got it all over with for the day at the same time?” I asked.

“It might allow me,” she said, “but I don’t know that I could physically do it. It’s hard enough getting the last one for the day done, let alone four at the same time.”

“Just a suggestion,” I said. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do or how to feel.”

She stood up and said, “Thanks. I already know I’m an idiot. And as far as how I feel, I feel scared to death. I know he’s going to kill me, I just don’t know when.”

“Hopefully, we will both know more after Saturday night,” I said. “I am going to need a volunteer to help demonstrate my Orgasmatron,” I said slowly. “Would you be willing? It might put a couple of O’s up on your scoreboard for the day.”

“What have I got to lose?” she said, and then answered her own question, “That’s right… my head.”

“I don’t make false promises,” I said, “but I do promise that I will do my best to get you out of this alive.”

She gave me that very weak smile that was now appearing a little more often and said, “I will tell him that I will do all four for him at once in front of everyone at your party.” Her hand came up to her throat and rested on the collar as she continued, “That will be terribly embarrassing for me. I think he will enjoy it.”

Her collar gave a single beep and she clenched her fists in anger. Then she took a couple of short, deep breaths and walked back into the house.

I made chili for us for supper that night and afterwards we sat in the kitchen and talked until late in the evening. It was a bit awkward for both of us because we knew that a third party– the Master of the collar– was listening to every word we said.

After she was once again sealed in her bedroom for the night, I went back to my computer to check with Boris and Natasha. “Bad news,” they had replied. “Volkov Kollar.”

The next message was the longest one I have ever received from them, “Vadim Volkov crazy Russian genius. Invented ‘Perfect Slave Collar’. No way to get to control panel with head in place. Vadim went totally nuts. Put collar on own neck. Dead. But he posted full design drawings on dark web. Will look further.”

I replied “Thx” and went downstairs to check on my Orgasmatron Ultra prototype. The Orgasmatron looks basically like a giant version of one of those old-fashioned kid’s bouncy horses held in place on a frame by four strong springs. Besides being larger, this horse has a built-in megavibrator and mounts for two dildos in the saddle area. There are also electrodes built into the saddle, the sides of the horse, and the handgrips which go through the head. A grommeted hole just behind the saddle allows electrode wires to run down through the body of the horse where they can connect to the cable which leads to the main control panel.

I had once told someone that I could give a dead body an orgasm with this device. Considering who would be demonstrating it Saturday night, I now regretted my choice of words.

Shortly after exiting my email program, my security monitors popped a warning that someone was trying to hack the computer system connected to the Partyguest wifi. I wasn’t surprised. Loraine’s Master probably knew that it would be useless, but one never knows for sure unless one tries. The router that is used for Partyguest is totally separate from my main system and router. They don’t even share common power lines. The Master of the collar might as well be connected to the McDonald’s down the road. I sent a tracer spike back in his direction– also probably a useless gesture, but I have a reputation to maintain.

I put the actions on Partyguest out of my mind. I did, however, start to wonder more seriously about the possibility that I might be the primary target of all of this. I had considered that possibility in the first place, but had set it aside as being driven by my personal paranoia. But as I often tell people, “Just because you are paranoid, that doesn’t mean that there aren’t people out there trying to get you.” One thing I was sure of, someone was going to a hell of a lot of trouble just to get me involved in this.

I ran the rocking horse through its paces just to reassure myself that all the systems were working properly. Then I walked back upstairs to sit out on the back deck and think. I had promised Loraine that I would do my best, but right now it was looking more and more like my best might not keep her from being killed in front of five of my clients on Saturday night. I just couldn’t understand by whom or why.

***

All day Friday I found myself having trouble looking Loraine in the eyes… Hell, I had trouble even looking directly at her. I was failing her, and I think she knew it. Friday evening I sat out on my back deck with my fourth double bourbon on the rocks in my hand. Drinking does not clear the mind, but it can numb the conscience.

Around eleven my drone alarm sounded. A drone of some sort was headed straight for my house. I checked the video on the monitor. It didn’t look large enough to be carrying much payload, but with modern explosive compositions, it didn’t take much. If it got any closer, I would fire the nets at it.

I have several automatic air cannons which can fire a fine wire net at an approaching drone. The net deploys in the air and snares the small craft without doing major damage… or more importantly, without setting off any ordinance it is carrying. The legality of downing a drone is somewhat unclear, but I would rather pay a fine than find out too late that the drone was armed or carrying explosives.

As it approached, I noticed that it did have red and green visibility lights and that they seemed to be blinking in a constant pattern. My Morse code is a little rusty, but I recognized the dash, dash, dash of an O and then remembered that an R was dot, dash, dot. The damned drone was blinking “Boris.”

I let it continue on its course. It flew directly over the patio and I heard a distinctive “Thunk!” as something hard hit the deck next to me. The drone then went straight up into the air and went dark..

My first thought was “Grenade!” but then the screen on the cellphone lit up and the device chirped lightly.

I picked it up and a voice I had never heard before said, “Listen carefully, we have only a short time before Big Brother trains his ears on this phone.” Boris then explained that there might be a way to defeat the collar. “All you need is your Orgasmatron and a supply of the anti-Parkinsons drug, rasagiline.” He then outlined the complete plan for me. It wasn’t the craziest plan I had ever heard, but it was definitely in the top two or three of those to which I had agreed.

After he had explained everything he asked if I had any questions. When I said no, he said, “In that case, you might want to throw the phone as far as you can into your backyard.”

I knew what was coming next and launched the phone into a high arc out into the grass. It exploded into a ball of fire just before it hit. I looked out at the phone now burning in the middle of my yard and said aloud, “I now know for sure that there are some people in this world who are more paranoid than I am.”

***

Saturday began uneventfully. The caterers arrived around two and set up two tents in the back yard. One was for our meal and a bit of socializing. The other, which remained empty until they left to go get the food, would hold the Orgasmatron Ultra. I also set up some special lighting that would be used for dramatic effect.

The caterers returned around five with four vans. After they emptied the first two vans, they parked them on the grass a little ways up from the house. Then two chefs– a male and a female– got busy setting up a very large grill. An additional van, with the same logos as the caterers, parked in the grass near the end of the road. The four men and two women who got out of that van were dressed in the same uniforms as the caterers, but they carried themselves totally differently. Two more individuals– I couldn’t see if they were male or female– parked the fourth van on the grass directly across from the driveway and stayed in place in the van. I had hired this security team before and knew that I could trust them to keep my guests safe from whatever might come from the outside, and if necessary, keep them safe from each other.

The meal– as expected– was spectacular. Steak and potatoes may sound mundane, but when the steak is at the exact degree of perfection and melts in your mouth, and the potatoes are air fried in a blend of spices and herbs that explodes with flavor in your mouth, and the asparagus– yes asparagus– has flavor you never thought you would taste… and enjoy, then the meal is anything but mundane. There was, of course, a recommended wine, but everyone– including me– was free to choose a diner drink suited to their own tastes. I chose a dark, creamy ale, which brought a huff of disgust from the chef, but smiles from those who knew me.

After supper, we adjourned to the demonstration tent while the caterers cleaned up the tables. We would return for a light dessert– and hopefully an order or two– after the demonstration. Two of the security men walked with us the few paces over to the second tent and then stood outside.

When we got into the demonstration tent, Loraine was already strapped in place on the Orgasmatron Ultra. Her hands were held on the handles at the horse’s head by wide strips of soft brown leather which coordinated with the dark tan color of the horse itself. Similar strips held her feet firmly in the stiff metal stirrups which were concealed with leather and made to appear as if they descended from the leather saddle.

She had somewhat of a leopard look from the multitude of small, light brown, circular electrode patches which covered her exposed skin. And since she was naked, there was a lot of exposed skin to be covered.

The horse was vibrating softly as we entered the tent. “Unlike many megavibrators,” I said once the six of us were in the tent, “the Orgasmatron is relatively quiet.” I held a small display in my hand and slid one of the indicators to maximum. Loraine gasped and groaned in response, but the noise level did not increase appreciably. I waited until she shuddered in orgasm and then returned the control to minimum. Loraine slumped slightly in the saddle and took several very deep breaths.

I smiled at the assembled clients and said, “I will let the automatic features of the Orgasmatron Ultra continue the demonstration for a moment,” and set the control panel down on a table. “You will notice,” I pointed out, “that there is also a wired control panel for those of you who like the feel of old-fashioned knobs and slide bars.”

There was a short buzz of conversation as the two Masters and three Mistresses discussed that feature. Then we stood and watched my masterpiece in action.

The horse began rocking. “The springs are special electro-conductive carbon steel fibers that can be made stronger or weaker depending on the voltage applied. By properly changing the voltage, the rocking effect can be created or varied.”

The horse began rocking harder and harder and Loraine squealed slightly as the twin vibrating dildos rocked slightly in and out of her cunt and ass.

“This alone,” I said “could bring most women… or men… to orgasm.” Loraine confirmed my comments with a guttural gasp. “But if that is all this unit could do,” I continued, “it wouldn’t be an Orgasmatron Ultra.” As if in response, Loraine let out a loud groan and convulsed in what was obviously her second orgasm.”

The computer-controlled voltage to the springs began varying the degree of rocking so that the horse was also starting to pitch from side to side. For a while, Loraine was tossed randomly around, then the horse got into proper sync and she began swinging around in the saddle almost as if she were a spinning top. Her head and upper body were making wide circles while her waist twisted against the saddle. The effect was to move the dildos within her cunt and ass in wobbling circles, massaging every inch of the inside of her vagina and rectum. No matter where her G-spot was hiding, the throbbing dildo was going to find it… and it did.

Another deep groan announced her third orgasm.

“The computer hasn’t even activated any of the special controls on the dildos,” I said softly to the gathered clients. Loraine panted heavily. Her eyes were staring straight ahead, but she seemed to have lost the ability to focus her vision.

“Notice what happens when I trigger the motors which control the dildos,” I said as I pressed a button on my control. “Each dildo can independently thrust, wobble, and spin or do any combination of the three at whatever intensity you desire,” I said firmly. Loraine once again began grunting and moaning to affirm what I had just said. Shortly thereafter, she shuddered and gasped as a fourth orgasm tore through her body.

“Now you would think that after four orgasms,” I said brightly, “most women would be nearing their limits, but…” I smiled broadly and pressed another button. “… both dildos are also equipped with autolubrication. A warm pH neutral fluid can be pumped through either dildo to allow continued thrusting or other stimulation without excessive irritation. Or,.. a sudden burst of warm liquid can simulate an ejaculation and trigger the appropriate response.”

Once again on cue, Loraine tilted back her head and gasped loudly as a fifth orgasm overwhelmed her.

“You have perhaps noticed,” I said, trying to keep a straight face, “that this young woman has a network of electrodes pasted throughout her body.”

I waited for the desired reaction from the five and then continued, “By correctly sequencing the pulses and appropriately varying their frequency and intensity, it is possible to erotically stimulate almost any female.”

The horse came to a total stop. The subdued humming of the internal vibrators stopped and the soft thrum of the dildos activating all faded away. Loraine sat staring forward, not knowing what would happen next. Then she sucked in her breath and began a soft “aaaahhh” as she swayed back and forth on the horse. Her swaying became faster and more frantic while at the same time her “aaaahhh” became more and more shrill. After approximately four minutes, she threw her head back and screamed loudly, obviously experiencing her sixth orgasm.

“Now,” I said firmly, “what happens when we combine all of these features at the same time. How many orgasms do you think we could wring out of one woman?”

“Nine,” said one of the Masters. “Ten,” said another. One of the Mistresses chuckled and said, “I’d go for an even dozen.”

“Why don’t we see,” I said as I again moved sliders on my control. The internal vibrator went to maximum and the horse once again began rocking and swaying; a soft rhythmic sound hinted that the dildos were both fully thrusting; and Loraine’s keening “aaaahhh” indicated that the sequenced electrical stimulation was coursing through the electrodes.

“Oh no… no… no,” she called out. “I can’t stand any more.” Then she grunted and screamed as orgasm seven shuddered her body. “No… no… no…” she called out again and then screamed as orgasm eight surged through her.

It was now time for my special lighting to kick in. Flashing strobe lights caused everything to appear as if we were watching a series of photographic images. Smoke and laser lights added to the surreal image of Lorraine’s body twisting and writhing on the horse as it wildly gyrated and bounced. It was a bit over the top, but over the top often means the difference between an interested client and a sale. For the same reason, a large display in front of the horse kept track as orgasm after orgasm overwhelmed her. The count slowly crept upward to ten, then twelve, then fourteen. It took a little longer before fifteen showed on the counter. Then, just as the counter flashed sixteen, all lights went out. Everything quit. The only light in the tent was the counter which continued to flash sixteen. When the lights came back on, the horse was empty.

“Let’s go back to our dessert,” I said as the lights came back up. “I would like to hear your reactions to what you just saw.”

A few minutes later, the caterers were serving Creme Brulee and a thick, very sweet, blackberry liqueur.

One of the Mistresses, Mistress Ramona, said, “Interesting.”

Considering how close to the vest most Masters and Mistresses play their hands, that was an outstanding endorsement.

Master Thomas nodded his head and said, “Very interesting.”

I knew that now I had at least one sale. I didn’t expect anyone to bring up the topic of price. My devices aren’t quite “If you have to ask, you can’t afford it,” but all of my clients know that my prices are fair and reasonable and the same for everyone, so there is no reason to ask. Besides, they knew that I was aware of what they were willing to spend or I wouldn’t have invited them to this party.

We sat silently sipping the blackberry liqueur. Questions about delivery, etc. could be handled by their staff.

The silence was broken by Mistress Melinda. She wasn’t one of my favorites, but I couldn’t say why. There was just something about her that caused the hair on the back of my neck to bristle slightly whenever she was around.

“What about Slave Loraine?” she said sweetly. “Is it possible to see her and get her perspective on your fabulous invention?”

The hair on the back of my head wasn’t bristling, it was waving. I hadn’t mentioned Loraine’s name.

“I will have her step in,” I said calmly… or at least as calmly as I could now that I knew who the Master of the Collar most likely was. I motioned to one of the caterers and asked him to have her come into the tent.

A few minutes later, Loraine stepped into the tent. A gentle round of applause met her as she walked up to the table. She was dressed in a light blue summer-style dress which helped highlight her hair. Except for a dark red lipstick, she wore no makeup… and no jewelry… NO jewelry.

I closely watched for Mistress Melinda’s reaction to the fact that there was no longer a collar around Loraine’s neck.

“I thought Loraine was a slave,” Mistress Melinda said cooly. “Wasn’t she wearing a collar earlier?”

“We removed that,” I said calmly, “as soon as she got off my Orgasmatron.”

“That’s all I needed to know,” Mistress Melinda, said curtly, pulling a nickle-plated revolver from her purse and pointing it at me. “You have discovered the secret to opening a Volkov Kollar.”

“Do you really think I will turn that information over to you?” I said firmly.

“Oh,” she replied, “that would be preferred. But you don’t really have to.” She held up her purse and said brightly, “The little electronic sniffers in here have picked up all signals for the past two hours, including the signal needed to open the collar.”

She gave me a very forced smile and said very smugly, “And besides, your security people are loyal to the highest bidder and tonight that happens to be me.”

A quick burst of six or eight bullets tore up the grass in front of her feet. “Sorry to disappoint you,” the chef said with a grimace, “but my people are loyal to me. They reported your generous offers almost as soon as you had made them.” He paused to look over at me and said even more firmly,”And I am loyal to W… regardless of the price.”

He was holding two Glock 18 fully-automatic pistols that had been concealed in special holsters beneath his expansive black apron. Either of these 9mm monsters could empty a standard 12- round clip in a half a second. The magazines on the two he was holding were specially designed. When inserted, it looked like a smaller version of the round canister from a 1920’s era Tommy Gun had been attached to the bottom of the pistol grip. Those spiral clips held 140 rounds, which extended your burst capability on full automatic to a grand total of seven seconds.

Mistress Melinda’s shoulders slumped. “I’m dead anyway,” she said flatly as she turned to aim at the chef.

I screamed “NO!” and dove to tackle her.

It wasn’t until I was on top of her on the ground that I could see the bright silver Volkov Kollar around her throat. “Clear,” I said loudly, as I pushed her weapon over onto the grass. And then even more loudly, I yelled to the other Masters and Mistresses, “Help me get her into the display tent! Now!”

Without knowing why I wanted it, they hurried to help me drag her toward the second tent. She was basically limp in our arms, quivering slightly as she waited for the knife wire to trigger. As we lay her on the grass that was the floor of the tent, I noted that– despite my instructions– one of the other Masters was armed and had pulled a small automatic from a concealed holster above his waist. I wasn’t angry. I couldn’t blame him. It’s what I would have done in his place.

I shook Mistress Melinda hard and said forcefully. “There is no electronic signal that can open the collar.”

She squirmed beneath me as if trying to escape and brought her hands up to her neck trying to tear the collar from her throat.

“This tent,” I said firmly, “is flooded with rf at the control frequency of your collar. It thinks it is still attached to whoever is controlling it, but their signals are swamped out. You are safe inside this tent.”

“But there has to be a key,” she said tearfully. “You got the collar off of Loraine.” She smiled at me with a strange mixture of fear and hope on her face and added, “… like I knew you would.”

“I couldn’t,” I replied. “But I knew someone who could.”

“So where is the key?” she asked.

“You’re lying in front of it,” I said. “Boris and Natasha went through all the code that controls the collar and found that there was no command that would open it or shut it down. That can only be done from the control panel on the neck side of the collar. There was a place in the memory for a True or False variable that would open the collar, but there was no way to access that part of memory. Volkov intended it to be the perfect slave collar. It was permanent and the only way to escape it was death.”

Mistress Melinda looked very confused. “But you opened Loraine’s collar?..” she sputtered. “There has to be a way.”

“It is very hard to explain,” I said, “but the memory slot that keeps track of how many orgasms you have had in a day is right next to the memory slot that says to open the collar. And your orgasm memory slot overflows if you have more than 15 orgasms in a day.”

“That’s impossible,” she said, her shoulder slumping even further. “I can have sex that many times, but there’s no way I would orgasm every time.”

“That’s where my Orgasmatron comes in,” I said, “… and a heavy dose of rasagiline.”

She looked at me even more confused and I said, “It’s a Parkinson’s drug with the side effect of giving women spontaneous orgasms.”

“I owe you,” she said.

“No,” I said, “you owe all the subs and switches that you tricked into slavery. The police and FBI will be here by the time you finish your horsey ride. You will give them names, dates, places, and anything else they need.”

“I only did it because of this,” she said, reaching up to her collar. She tried to smile and then said, “I thought a weekend as a sub would be interesting.”

As she began removing her clothing she said, “You know, he makes me remain nude at home and at other places. Having clothing on today was a privilege.”

As she climbed onto the horse, she nodded toward the other Masters and Mistresses and asked, “Do they have to watch?”

“Consider it to be part of your punishment for what you have done,” I answered as I began applying the small brown electrodes in the proper pattern all over her body. “As a matter of fact, I will use you as my demonstration video for the Orgasmatron … unless you object.”

“No,” she said softly, “I probably deserve even more.”

She placed her feet on the shiny stirrups concealed behind the leather covers and her hands on the shiny grips on either side of the horse’s head. I nodded to Lorraine and she stepped up and personally wound the leather around Melinda’s hands and feet to bind them in place.

“The program is automatic,” I said to Lorraine. “All you have to do is press the green start button.”

A few moments later the soft hum of the megavibrators and the slightly louder moan of Melinda’s arousal filled the tent.

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END OF STORY

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