I'm Dick. That's the name Miss Johnson, my owner, gave me. I'm 24 years old and I'm a product of Jane's; Caucasian type, Class B, and I'm mighty proud of it. Jane's, the most exclusive manufacturer of designer slaves with the famous slogan: "Jane's--a perfect slave for a perfect lady". I'm perfect. Almost perfect: The only little flaw that prevented me from becoming a Class A is the fact that I'm a Russian immigrant and never completely lost my accent. But that doesn't matter: Even a Jane's Class B is way better than everything any other supplier could ever deliver. And much more expensive, of course. We're the Rolls Royce of the slave-market.

Yesterday morning Miss Johnson told me that she would waste me this Saturday night. The day after tomorrow.

It's middle of the night and I can't sleep. I'm too excited. Only two days until I meet my destination. I'm lying in the small box in the basement of the house that has been my rest room since I belong to Miss Johnson. I let my thoughts run free...

My Mistress is a lawyer, a straight career woman who bought me two years, eight month and 12 days ago when she had been promoted. Now she'd climbed another step on the ladder, got the vice president position at the law office where she's working. Time to upgrade some status symbols, as she told me; time to buy a Jane's Class A. Time to celebrate.

I always knew that this day would come. The day when I had been delivered to her house was the day of her last promotion party. She had invited a small group of girl friends from the time of her law studies. All of them tough, successful women in their mid thirties on the way to the top, to the big money. They had a special ritual: Whenever one of them made a significant step in her career, she had to throw a party for the rest...and had to throw pieces of her former, less successful life into the fire. A symbol for their determination never to look back. What Miss Johnson threw on the fire that day were the two slaves she had used till that day. They were normal, cheap models of the $5000 class. Presenting me was the highlight of the evening--she had been the first amongst her friends who could afford a slave from Jane's.

I had been disgusted when I saw her former slaves being killed in the course of the party. What disgusted me was the slave's behavior. It was inexcusable: These worthless creatures didn't accept their fate. They showed no pride to obey the will of their Mistress. The greatest moment of their lives had come: They had the privilege of dying under their Mistresses eyes and they tried to save their lives! They begged and cried and tried to avoid the true purpose of their existences. In the end I had to help strap them down before they could be killed. The ladies seemed to have a lot of fun though. They were pretty sauced from all the champagne and in silly mood when they finally ripped out the last remaining slave's heart. They didn't even mind ruining their precious dresses with all the blood that was squirting. Well, all of them were hard working women who had to be cool and controlled all the day at work; they needed and deserved a wild and frolicsome party to celebrate their success every now and then. Why couldn't these low life slaves understand that and simply be proud of entertaining the ladies by their demises?

Miss Johnson had told me before about the running of that evening. And she had told me that I would go the same way when after her next promotion she was able to afford a Class A model. When she told me that, I felt her examining look on my face--of course I couldn't see it, as we are not supposed to look into our Mistresses face. I didn't show any emotion. I didn't show my excitement and joy. We don't show emotions. We function. But inside I was happy: The only disadvantage a Jane's slave has to accept is the fact that his high price normally entailed a long life. It was very unusual that a woman destroyed such an expensive product, so you had to face the fate to be resold for a smaller price after some time. Feeling like your heart was ripped out of your chest when the Mistress you love gives you away. Then losing worth year by year, becoming a cheap working slave in the end. I never had expected that I would get the chance to make the ultimate sacrifice for the first Mistress who bought me: My life. And I knew that her next promotion party, the last night of my life, would be a much more dignified celebration. No one would have to strap me.

Now the time has come. Do I feel fear now? Of course. I'm full of fear. I don't know which way she will kill me, but it will hurt. And I will be filled with panic when death nears. Do I want to avoid it? Not a second. I can't wait to go through this final process of fear and pain and love and devotion!

It would be very easy for me to save my life: I could simply leave her house and go away. No one would hold me back. No one would hunt and arrest me. I'm a free man--like each of the few slaves who survive the conditioning and training and the final examination at a training center of Jane's. By going through the final examination successfully, a slave proves that his transformation is complete. He gets released from the legal state of being a slave. The transmitter under his skull gets removed. It is no longer necessary: He now fully understands and accepts his destination. If I decided to betray my Mistress by leaving her, Jane's would simply pay the threefold of my original price to her. That's one of the guaranties Jane's grants to their customers--though they never had to fulfill it as yet: We are perfect. None of us ever failed. We serve until the end.

I'm full of eagerness and enthusiasm and I'm full of fear--and my greatest fear is that I might fail: Shrieking back, disappointing my Mistress in the crucial moment. I will take every moment of the remaining time to strengthen my will and my belief. The last thing I long to see before I die is the satisfaction and pleasure in the eyes of Miss Johnson. When she kills me I will be allowed to look into her face for the first time, exhaling my life while I glance into her brown eyes I only know from a photo as yet. Though she might not even be near me when I die. She might just tell me to go out of the house, climb into the waster and shoot myself. Then I will look into her eyes when she gives this order--before I go and obey.

Have I been lucky with this woman who bought me? Was Miss Johnson a good Mistress? It doesn't matter, there are no good or bad Mistresses for a Jane's slave: She's just my Mistress. We don't choose them. They buy us. We serve.

Is she pretty? Oh yes, she's very pretty. Majestic beautiful face, hazelnut hair, brown eyes, perfect body--but it doesn't matter: If she were as ugly as hell I would have served her with just the same devotion. Cause she's my Mistress.

Is she intelligent? No, she's not very intelligent. No education, no deeper interests. All she ever learned was her profession and how to make lots of money. I've studied ancient literature in Russia and I've read more books as a kid then she will ever read in her entire life. But it doesn't matter. Whether she was a Nobel Prize winner or the retarded daughter of a rich family: She's my Mistress. She bought me. I serve her.

Does she have a heart? No, not much of that. She's most indifferent regarding other people, she doesn't seem to feel much at all, and living beings are of no importance to her. It doesn't matter. Whether she's an angel or a devil: She is my Mistress and I serve her.

Is she a good fuck? I don't know. One of my qualifications is to be a perfect sex slave, but she doesn't have the habit of screwing her slaves. Besides, she's a lesbian. Every now and then she takes a girl home and fucks her, but I don't think sex is all that important to her. I would have been glad to satisfy her sexual needs, but I'm just as glad to stay away from her bed since this is what she wants. She decides. I serve.

Is she cruel? Not overly. Of course she has to punish the cheap slaves from time to time to maintain discipline. And I saw her killing a few of them--well, she is in a rage every now and then, I guess in times of trouble at her job. Sometimes she needs someone for working off her anger. She's working so hard, she has every right to do that, and after all that is one of the things a slave is for. Normally she relaxes and feels better after killing one of them and I think her happiness is of greater importance than a slave's life--though these cheap craps never get this idea. But that only happens rarely, four or five times for as long as I've served her.

Did she torment me a lot? Not overly. Of course in the beginning she was curious to play with her new expensive toy. She tested my perfection: Slowly bending and finally breaking my left pinky, glancing in my face, waiting for a plead that never came. At another day ordering me to stand with feet planted far apart and then kicking my balls. Seeing me growing pale while a wave of hot white pain literally made my head explode. Waiting to see whether I would flinch from her next kick. Of course I didn't. That's one of the things you learn very fast if you want to survive at Jane's training center: Diving in the waves of the most glowing pain without losing control. It doesn't hurt a bit less, it's still terrible, you're suffering like a dog, but the reward is the pride you feel when you satisfy your Mistress by your obedience. After her fifth kick I couldn't hold back my cries any longer, but still I didn't move until her ninth kick made me pass out. That's okay, you can't overcome the limits of your physical condition. She paid for the medical treatment of my ruptured balls, I was even allowed to rest some days in a hospital bed.

Does she make me work hard? Not at all. She only uses a few of my qualifications: Occasionally she uses me as a bodyguard, sometimes I'm her chauffeur, and I do her bookkeeping. Like I said she never used my fucking skills, though that's one of the arts we're famous for. She also never made use of my abilities as masseur; I guess she doesn't like to be touched by males. I supervise her other slaves and coordinate the house keeping, but that's very little work. Sometimes I cook for her and her guests and do the service. She doesn't really need me. In essence I'm just a status symbol for her.

All in all: Miss Johnson is a good-looking shallow woman, with a narrow intellectual horizon and little emotions. She is not even really enjoying the pain and fear she inflicts on her slaves--since she bought them she regards and treats them as things, lacking the empathy and fantasy to imagine their feelings. She's mostly the product of what TV serials and fashion magazines have taught her to be. I'm superior to her in almost every regard--aside from the only point that really matters: She is my Mistress.

Of course all these questions are of no importance to a Jane's slave. Of real interest is this question: How does she smell? The only physical altering Jane's applies to their slaves is an improvement of the sense of smell. We smell almost as well as dogs do. It's one of the keys to our conditioning. Impressions of smell are processed in the most basic and oldest parts of the brain. The most powerful parts where the strongest emotions live. It's the specific scent of his Mistress that chains a Jane's slave at her stronger than a chain of steel would do. Miss Johnson smells like heaven. They all do, each of them in her own way smells like heaven for her slave. My Mistress smells like the warm earth in summer after a scurry of rain, like honey and blood, like clear water...you can't describe in with words--when you learn to really smell after the operation, you discover that there are no adequate words in our language for the world of scents.

When I walk through her house I smell much more than I see: Her scent is everywhere, but with varying intensity. It's like an infrared picture: Zones of high intensity like her bed and darker zones like the basement or the garage. As long as I'm in her house her odor is around me all the time, it's as if she herself was all around me and I'm happy. I don't want to be at any other place in the world. When she is at home I can perceive her every moment, I don't have to see or hear her to know where she is. And though, as I said, we don't look into our Mistresses faces I always know about her state and mood: I smell her adrenaline when she's angry, I smell whether she's well or sick, I smell her happiness and power and the odd depressions she falls into when she has nothing to do at a weekend. I smell her estrogen--I know her cycle even better than she knows it herself.

Does smelling her make me randy? I'm randy all the time. It increases when I'm near one of the hot spots in the house, for example when I do her laundry. When she comes home in the evening my heart beats as strong as my dick throbs. We are not supposed to be visible when she is at home, she doesn't like to be bothered by our presence, we have to do the work while she's away and vanish in our boxes in the basement when she comes home--unless she calls for one of us. I always send one of the other slaves to watch the street in the evening and to alert us when her car appears, so we can rush down into our boxes before she opens the door.

Lying there in the darkness and silence (we may not disturb her by making any noises) I feel her presence heating the house and all I'm longing for is that she might call for me, allowing me to be near her for some moments. Of course I never bother her with letting her perceive my feelings. I'm totally inconspicuous like a good tool has to be. When she dismisses me and I have to return to my box for the night I nearly go mad with my hardon. Like I said: She never uses me sexually. And she never allowed me to masturbate. She also never forbid it. I don't think she ever wasted her time thinking about that, but a Jane's slave never masturbates unless his Mistress allows him to. And we never bother our Mistresses by asking for anything. Since I'm her property I'm always horny and never satisfied. I'm happy to dedicate this constant suffering to her--that she doesn't even have an idea about it makes it even better.

There was only one moment of relief in all the time: She had caught Sam, one the cheap slaves, peeping through the keyhole while she was taking showers in the morning. She caught him before he even had managed to stuff his dick back inside his trousers. She really freaked out big time! She shouted through the house and let us muster in the hallway. Besides me there were two other slaves in her service that time, Sam and Ben. We had to wait some time while she continued her morning toilette. Sam knew what was going to happen now and shivered with fear. Miss Johnson is not very sadistic, she wouldn't take much time for any subtle punishment; besides she didn't have much time before she had to head off to the office. She would use the standard method. One of the usual features cheap slaves like Bill were equipped with was an electro shock unit implanted in his balls. A convenient thing for the owner to punish the slave without damaging any important parts of him or making any mess. She just had to use the remote control, adjust the gauge and then pull the trigger as long as she liked.

She stormed into the hallway--on her high-heeled pumps she moved as perfectly as if she wore sneakers. Only louder on the stone floor. She was ready for work and looked impressive in her dark business suit and with her perfect hairdo. She looked stern and sexy and powerful and she smelled fresh and earthy with a strong admixion of bitterness--a normal human wouldn't have perceived it but I could. It was the increased level of adrenaline. She was still very angry. And she was in a hurry. The unit in her left hand, looking like a small TV remote control, made Sam grow even paler when he saw it. But before she looked after him she turned to me. I was responsible to supervise the low slaves, so Sam's misbehavior was also my fault. She couldn't use the unit on me because Jane's products don't have any crappy stuff like those shockers implanted. She just slapped me multiple times very hard and when she hit my right cheek with the back of her hand her rings tore some open wounds into my flesh.

Then she turned to Ben who stood beside me. He hadn't done anything wrong and wasn't overly anxious, aside the normal fear of every slave in the presence of an enraged owner. She told him in a matter of fact tone that he was to be castrated the next day--she would no longer tolerate any horny pigs in her house.

Finally she addressed Sam: "So you don't have your balls under control? I'll help you."

She raised the remote control and pushed the button. He folded immediately; first dully groaning then shrieking shrilly, he skipped through the hallway with his hands pressed between his legs. Miss Johnson looked pretty unimpressed, resting her thumb on the fire button. Then she threw a look at her wristwatch, frowned and increased the power level. It was as if she had hit a volume control: Sam's high-pitched shrieks grew even louder while he lost control over his legs and his bladder the same moment. He crashed onto the floor. Like a fish on the dry he was floundering, his legs wildly struggling with a dark spot in his lap quickly enlarging. Then he couldn't shout anymore, he seemed to lose his breath. The sudden silence was only disturbed by the dull noises of his extremities and his head unrhythmically crashing and crashing onto the marble floor. His distorted face was tomato red. Miss Johnson walked closer to him and studied him with cold interest. Her thumb still on the trigger. He choked and then spit blood--he had bitten off the tip of his tongue. She looked at her watch again and impatiently increased the power level once more. He couldn't take it anymore, he went limp and passed out.

All the time I stood there unmoving with my bleeding cheeks burning. I admired her so much, her coolness and power, the straight and at the same time casual manner in which she tortured him. She treated him like the crap he was--not even worthy to enjoy his suffering. She plainly destroyed him in the five minutes left before she had to drive to work. I became so horny that I nearly blasted off in my pants when I saw her now kicking his temples with the tip of her black pumps. He didn't wake, though his breathing proved that he was still alive.

"I'm sick of that bastard anyway...carry him to the garage!" She ordered.

Bill and I did as we were told. In the garage she commanded us to lay him on the ground with his head in front of the left rear wheel. We did so and his head tilted aside till his nose stuck in the deep profile of the wide tire. She looked at me and said: "Get rid of his cadaver. I don't want to see him when I come home tonight."

"Yes Madame."

She climbed into the car, the hem of her dress sliding a bit higher up her thigh, exposing more of her fabulous stocking covered legs for a second, the texture of the dress stretching round her divine rear. I relished the sight. Then the car door closed with a fat noise and the garage door opened. The engine started, humming deeply and powerful. She hit the accelerator in neutral, the engine roared. Sam woke up and started to move. Too late: She drove away. The little obstacle in front of the left rear wheel didn't hinder the car for more than half a second, and then she was on her way. Our Mistress didn't even look back. She must have felt the little bump when she drove over Sam's head. She knew that he was dying now. When she slipped onto the street I saw her beautiful profile and I couldn't hold back any longer: I blasted off like a whale.

Another slave who met his fate in Miss Johnson's house was Bill. Last winter when he removed the snow in front of her house he slipped and broke his leg. I heard him cry out and looked for him. Mistress wasn't at home, so she couldn't decide what to do and of course I'm not allowed to call for medical help--it's expensive and I can't spend her money without permission. Distracting her with a phone call while she was at office was only allowed in real urgent and important cases. So I dragged him inside the house to prevent him from freezing to death and laid him in his box. He cried all the time and his leg looked really strange: The shank was protruding in a remarkable angle.

She came home late that evening. She always has to work that hard, sometimes it is about midnight when she returns. I hope with her new position as vice president her life will get a bit easier--though I will never know it.

As I said: Normally we are not supposed to be visible when she comes home, but that night I had to speak with her to tell her about Bill, so I waited for her in the vestibule. She came in, dressed in one of her gray business suits with black stockings and black high-heeled pumps. I smelled her tiredness and biles strongly. She was on the edge and snarled at me: "What are you doing here?! And what is that hue from the cellar?"

I explained and she freaked out. "Can't you DUMB ASSES even remove some snow without fuckin' up?!"

I looked down and remained silent.

"I won't bother about that asshole tonight. Tell him to SHUT UP! If I hear a single noise from him this night I'm coming down and I'm gonna ROAST HIS BALLS!"

I went down and told him about her commands. He complained, called her a cold, merciless slut. I fought the temptation to bash him for his brazenness--of course I can not damage her property. How I despise these crappy $5000 assholes! They don't understand their place in life. They dishonor the title slave! That worthless shit would even run away and leave his Mistress if he could. That's why types like him had to be equipped with the shockers and the receiver that activated them as soon as he walked through the induction field around the owner's real estate. And the transmitter in the case he escaped. And the quick 'n dirty lobotomy that reduced his aggressiveness and willpower. Crap!

Well, he clenched his teeth, what else could he do? Though I heard his low whining all through the night. Next morning Miss Johnson left the house without any further comment on his case. Maybe she had forgotten, I thought. It isn't my duty to remind her of anything. Or entertain thoughts about her affairs. He remained lying in his box all the day, moaning and apparently fevered.

When she returned in the evening she brought Ms. Cooper along, one of her friends, a veterinarian. After they had some drinks I heard their pumps clicking down the steps to our room. When they entered our Mistress was laughing cheerfully, obviously about some joke her friend had cracked. She ordered me to pull Bill out of his box so Ms. Cooper could look at him. I did so and unfortunately I might have been a bit rough, anyway he cried out and returned from the dazed state he had fallen in the last hours. Ms. Cooper told me to take off his pants, then she bent down over the sniveling guy and took his broken leg. His screams sounded pathetic as she lifted it without much care. Our Mistress sniffed at his lack of discipline. The doctor moved the leg in different directions to examine the damage, causing him to howl like a demon with each of her movements.

"Hmm..." she said," spall fracture of proximal tibia...bad thing."

"Well what would the treatment cost?" asked Ms Johnson.

"Oh I can't say exactly, not my specialty...maybe 3000 for the operation, then at least three weeks in the hospital, hmmm...'bout 8000 for that, and to get this leg in full function again a few months of rehabilitation."

"Forget it. I could buy four specimen of his class for that money."

"Yeah, " the doctor said, carelessly dropping the leg and standing up, "It's not worth doing."

"SHIT!" Miss Johnson hissed and kicked into Bills chest, "your dopiness costs me $ 5000 for buying a new slave! Do you know HOW LONG I have to WORK for that?! Nearly ONE FULL WEEK!" She kicked him again, now cruelly aiming at his broken leg. His eyes flew open, his mouth formed a real heartbreaking cry, then he passed out. Silence again.

"Call me stupid," she asked Ms. Cooper, "but I never thought about what to do with a slave's corpse. You don't bury them at the cemetery, do you?"

The veterinarian laughed. "No, I don't think so. Then again: There are these pet cemeteries, why not also slave cemeteries? Some people are always sentimental enough to spend money on such things. But the normal procedure is to incinerate the cadavers. They have a pick up service, you can just call them and they'll fetch him tomorrow."

"Okay," And addressing me: "Take him to the garage. Don't want him to spread stench in my house. Hand him over when the service comes tomorrow."

Without a further look the women left our room and went upstairs. Obviously they had forgotten that Bill wasn't dead yet. Or it didn't make a difference for them. As I came to know next day it also didn't make a difference for the pick up service. Anyway: He was waste. He had always been, from my point of view.

Now I must stop my ramblings. I must sleep, have to work tomorrow.

Once again back in my box. This is the last night I spend here--tomorrow I'll face my destination.

While I served her at breakfast this morning Miss Johnson instructed me to do all necessary preparations for the party tomorrow, music, drinks, party-service etc. She had invited the same four friends like at her last promotion party. She spoke to me in the same cool and matter of fact manner she always does; of course she didn't get personal, asking me how I felt or things like that. And she didn't seem to worry that I might flunk. During the time I've served her I always have functioned perfectly. She got what she had paid for when she bought a Jane's and she didn't expect that to change now. She had learned that I'm a perfectly working tool and I don't think she ever took thought about my feelings. I guess she would be surprised to consider that I have any feelings at all.

As I said before, she's not a sadist. Killing me tomorrow has no sexual meaning for her, it's just the kick of destroying something very expensive. The thrill for her will be feeling her power and richness and success when she does it. Now she could even afford to destroy a $60,000 slave to celebrate her new position and to impress her girl friends! When she told me about my forthcoming death the day before yesterday she didn't intend to torment me with mortal fear. Telling me was plainly necessary since it's my task to do the preparations for the feast. As said: She doesn't regard me as a feeling being.

Her other two slaves, Jim and Ben, are also to be done and replaced tomorrow, but there is no necessity to inform them. That would only cause trouble. All this begging and crying and shit she has no interest in. They will learn about their Mistress's intentions tomorrow night. As she told me they would be killed at an early stage of the party and I had to help with that. My turn will come later.

I always felt a shower of happiness the few times I saw my Mistress killing one of her slaves. At Jane's we learn to believe that we all are to be consumed by our Mistresses. It feels so totally right to see them doing it. I experience it as an act that is sexual and spiritual at the same time. They are superior beings in the concept of creation. I don't know what makes them superior, but I've learned to perceive their superiority and to accept it. Serving them is the sense of our lives, satisfying them with our service is our happiness, being extinguished by them in the end is our fulfillment.

None of Miss Johnson's low class slaves ever had the slightest idea of all that. They just complained about their poor fate to become slaves for petty crimes, they tried to avoid work or did it sloppily, they feared their Mistress because they were in her hand but they didn't respect her. Their existences as slaves were just lousy errors and when they died they faded like dumb animals, without any spiritual cognizance...but maybe my disdain is a bit unfair. I was just like them before Jane's formed me and made a real slave out of me. I was a normal man with all the normal illusions and the normal disdain of women, before going through the hell of the training center brought me truth and enlightenment in the end.

I'm dreaming of my time at the training center...