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  Prima

  By

  Carolyn Faulkner

  ©2016 by Blushing Books® and Carolyn Faulkner

  All rights reserved.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Faulkner, Carolyn

  Prima

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-556-5

  Cover Design by ABCD Graphics & Design

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as Blushing Books' or the Author's advocating any non-consensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  About Carolyn Faulkner

  Ebook Offer

  Blushing Books Newsletter

  About Blushing Books

  Chapter One

  She was his. He stared at the faded black and white picture that stared boldly back at him from the computer screen. His woman.

  Not by any word of his own or hers, nor of any solemn declaration before a person of religious stature. Legally, it was true, though. He had the email bill of sale, which stated the obscene amount he had paid for her in fuel, batteries, and generators. He owned her; short of death she was his to do with as he pleased…and the State pleased that he should impregnate her.

  Well, if that happened, he thought, it happened, although he wasn't sure he could sire a child, and at her age, he wasn't sure she could conceive one, either.

  It had been the ad that had intrigued him while he was casually surfing what now passed for the World Wide Web. In truth, it had almost reverted to its origins as a method of communication between small clusters of universities and governmental workers. Nowadays, since the Cultural Retrofit – as he liked to call it with dark humor – it was a connection between clusters of survivors around the world, spotty at best and rife with talk of insurrection, revolution, and, of course, tons of spam.

  Like roaches, spam survived anything.

  What had caught his eye was not that the solicitation was flashy; it almost consciously wasn't. He had been casually surfing in the eBay listings for a woman, not thinking to find one he particularly wanted in this day and age. He thought they were all too young, with chronoages of twelve and thirteen or even younger, staring out at him with big, frightened eyes.

  But this one was different. The ad was wistfully sad and disillusioned. The author was obviously reluctant to give up his treasure, only – unlike the rest of the world, currently – it was abundantly clear that he did not look on this female as merely a commodity to be sold for great financial reward.

  The man shook his head. Women were at a premium now and fairly scarce. As had happened so many times in history after a devastating plague, society had returned to its patriarchal roots, and women were relegated to lives as virtual slaves. Although this time, it was worse than slavery. No 'freed slave' status existed for a female in this new world. They were valued for their ability to produce children and were expected to do so from an appallingly early age for whatever man – or in some cases, men – their father/uncle/brother sold them to. Females no longer had any rights. Joseph was old enough in chronoyears to remember the Before Time, the time of the super mom and the soccer mom, when women were women and men ran scared.

  Well, the plague had put an end to that. The ERA was long dead, he chuckled to himself. The pendulum had swung back with a vengeance, and women were in a worse situation now than they probably ever had been in the past, true and utter slaves with only one law that protected them: anyone whose actions resulted in the death of a woman of childbearing age – even by accident – would be killed. Killing a pregnant woman meant a slow, public death by torture.

  No, the seller in this ad was obviously what had once been known as a doting father. He probably found himself in dire need of money to fund a Patch habit or who owed bad debts incurred in the Circus Caesarea, betting dearly gotten meager wages on when – if – a pregnant slave would miscarry, miscarriages being so much more common in this day and age than live births.

  Beyond the sheer magnitude of the price, a lot of bidders were probably put off by several questions they were required to answer in order to be considered, regardles
s of the size of their bid. Questioning a man's qualifications to own a woman was unheard of; the only requirements were that he had the goods to back his bid if he won. But Joseph answered the queries truthfully. They were, as he'd expected, inquiries about his philosophies regarding the treatment of women as well as about his financial stability, and whether or not he owned a home or a vehicle.

  Still, there was something about her that tugged at his heart, which he ruthlessly suppressed. In some ways, he had always subscribed to the current philosophy that a woman was to be treated much as a child – kindly, and with care for her worth – but strictly. The days of children being put in 'time outs' or being restricted to a room full of toys were officially over, and Joseph heartily concurred with that. Nowadays, a wide range of spanking and punishment implements were available in nearly any retail establishment, even the corner store, and no man ever hesitated to physically correct either his child or his woman, regardless of where they were. As women were never given any money, no woman would ever technically own an implement, and they were not even allowed to discipline the children within their care. Joseph smiled wryly. It was much more likely that the well-made and readily available straps, tawses, canes, hairbrushes, and paddles owned the woman, making her dance to their terrible, stinging tunes at the slightest inclination of her owner.

  His woman, though, would be well-cared for, even coddled to a certain extent, especially in comparison to many of her sisters in slavery. Although his house was extremely isolated up in the hills, he was a wealthy man for these times. He owned a field of generators that had become a premium in the After Time, which he rented out as one part of many lucrative pies he had his big, thick fingers in. His house was humongous – three bedrooms, and he was the only occupant. That was practically unheard of nowadays, but he had electricity to burn, and he did. He owned one of the few automobiles that were still functional, due mainly to his incessant puttering. Gas was free for the taking to those who were willing to siphon it from the underground storage tanks of old gas stations – fewer people used it any longer – generally, those who did would be considered rich now. They were unwilling to get themselves dirty retrieving it, so he had become all too willing to support their habit with a little elbow grease, and he charged them exorbitantly for the honor. Funny, though, he still carried his old Texaco and Exxon credit cards in his wallet as reminders of the old days.

  He would see to his woman's every physical need and would scrupulously attend to some needs she likely didn't know she had. The ad had made a bold claim – that she was twenty-nine years old, uncut, and a State Certified virgin – license number available upon request. The first two statements may well have driven off a lot of potential bidders, but the last may have made some of them reconsider. A twenty-nine-year-old virgin. Unheard of, even in the Before Time! As to her uncut status, the State now practiced female circumcision at birth as readily as it had male circumcision in the nineteen fifties. It was only the older women who could enjoy sex nowadays, and the woman's age had probably worked for her in that she had not been cut since. It would be unwise for even the state to risk the possibility of killing a woman of childbearing age.

  Joseph's chronoage was thirty-eight, although he was well beyond that now. He didn't need or want a mindless, tittering twelve-year-old passing for a woman in his house or his bed. The ad had raised the hairs on the back of his neck when he'd read it, and he had frankly questioned its validity. It sounded a little too damned good to be true. So he called in a couple of favors from people he knew who were not as law abiding as he was, and they found out the whole story: the seller was an old man; it was his oldest daughter that he had to sell. He'd been right that the man had not wanted to part with the girl; she'd been his caretaker for many years. But he was reaching his End Time and wanted to see her safely placed. This was the only way he'd known how to do it.

  And Joseph's bid had won – it should have, considering how large it was. He shook his head thoughtfully and hoped she proved worth it. If she was anything less than what the ad said, however, he would be well within his rights to bring charges against the old man that would likely result in his meeting his maker even earlier than he'd planned.

  He'd know in a few hours. Female Express was bringing her to him. He'd paid extra to have her sent that way, and handled as 'Fragile,' as opposed to merely stuffed into a cattle-car with fifty or so other women, driven into what passed for a town and left, where she could easily be stolen. FemExpress would deliver her to his doorstep, and he would be able to see whether or not they had treated her as he'd requested before he signed for her, before the delivery man unlocked their special neon orange travel bracelets from her wrists.

  A loud knock interrupted his reverie. When he opened the front door, the first thing he noticed was that the picture on the internet had not done her justice. She was lovely. Not one to miss anything, he also took in the angry blue bruises beneath the tight cuffs and the way the label 'Fragile' had been plastered all over her faded blue cotton shift, so that there was barely any material showing through the warnings. Betraying her training, her eyes met his for a fleeting second before she looked down as she was required to. But in that tiny second, he had read her thoughts and feelings with amazing accuracy: fear and uncertainty, stubbornness and bravery all at the same time.

  As a man, even during the sickness and resolution and rebuilding, he had always been in control of his fate, his life. No one, not even his best boss in the Before Time, had really ever been able to tell him what to do. There were too many other opportunities, and when none had readily presented themselves, he had made his own. How horrible it must be to have known such freedom as she had, only to have it cruelly yanked away from her. Whatever – whoever she had been – nun, prostitute, CEO, or stay-at-home mom, she had become the property of either her husband, her father, or her nearest male relative within a matter of months after the devastation of the plague. And he could do with her as he saw fit – short of killing her. There was precious little in her life that was actually within her control, and this situation was entirely out of it.

  The armed guard asked him the required question, "Do you assume responsibility for this woman and any children you might breed on her?"

  When he stated clearly, "I do," the young man reclaimed the bracelets with absolutely no care for her at all, winked at Joseph, and patted the woman familiarly on her bottom before turning to leave. Anger burned through him so quickly that he didn't think but merely reacted, pulling the girl behind him and into his house in almost the same movement as he flattened the cocky asshole with one vicious punch.

  Joseph was no lightweight. He had been trained to fight in a short stint in the military, and had found he had a knack for it, despite his considerable size. When he'd boxed, it was as a heavyweight; there was no mistaking the bulk of those muscles, and a smart man would take it as a silent warning that they were visible even under the rough cloth of his shirt.

  But no one had ever accused Female Express of hiring geniuses.

  The embarrassed young man decided against striking back at the big behemoth, instead scrambling back to his truck and peeling out on the rough dirt driveway.

  She forgot herself again and met his eyes with her big round ones, remembering a second later that she wasn't allowed to do that, lowering them modestly to the ground. Joseph did not bother correcting her for something he considered at this stage to be a normal impulse and moved into the living room, closing the door behind them. He noticed that she had her hands clasped behind her, rubbing her wrists absently.

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Joseph ordered gruffly, "Follow me." It was probably an unnecessary statement, as a woman was required by law to walk several paces behind the man that owned her, but he didn't want to get to the kitchen and find she was still standing by the door with that sad, lost look. She complied obediently, watching his every move as he dug around in the old chest freezer and came up with a couple of big bags of frozen vegetables, one c
orn, one peas. He could see her curiosity was piqued, but she held her tongue.

  Joseph pulled a chair out from the eat-in kitchen table, commanding, "Sit."

  Again, she did exactly as she was told without a moment's hesitation. Her hands lay in her lap until he reached for them, the gentleness of his touch belying his size. She'd seen him deck that man with one well-aimed punch, but he was handling her like she was fine china, arranging her arms in front of her on the table then draping cold bags of veggies over each wrist. She started at the cold and would have pulled her hands away, but his sharp command to be still made her reconsider.

  She was biting her lip and looking frightened again when there was no need, so he began to talk to her as if he was talking to one of the animals he used to train when he was in the K-9 Corp of the Air Force. "Give it a few minutes on each side. It'll help reduce the swelling." That was why the cuffs were so tight. Joseph grimaced at the raw red and blue scrapes on her delicate flesh. She was so white, he could see the tiny veins beneath her skin. If he'd had that deliveryman in front of him after he'd had a chance to examine the evidence of her mistreatment more closely, the asshole wouldn't have gotten away so easily.

  No one touched or damaged his property. Ever.

  He almost couldn't believe she was here; his eyes trying to look everywhere on her at once, her eyes trying to look anywhere but at him. Suddenly, he asked, "What's your name?"

  "Prima, Sir," she answered quietly. Her voice was soft and strong. He had forgotten how pleasant a woman's voice was.

  The usual name for a first daughter. Joseph sat back and considered this, watching her closely. "What is your real name?" His voice was low and soft as he asked the illegal question, though he hardly had fear of legal reprisals within his own fortress.