Dallas Dunlap's Blog: Dallas's blog

My latest book: "Slave Girl at the End of the World" is now available in the Kindle Store.
Check it out, see what you think.
You folks know how much I like feedback and reviews/

Dallas

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/2...

This is an excerpt from the first book of my series "Slave Girl at the End of the World."
I'd welcome some feedback.

He emerged, carrying a heavy metal tray with iron handles, which bore a brown ceramic pitcher and five mugs. He had a towel over his arm. He set the tray on the rough table in front of the futon where the COs had been sitting. He took the towel and spread it on the floor beside the recliner. “You sit here,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” She sat on her heels.
He handed her a mug. Took a mug for himself, and sat on the recliner, reached over and fluffed her hair. “You look dehydrated. Drink up. Drink as much as you want.”
She nodded and cautiously took a sip. God! The taste! It was mint tea and honey on crushed ice. She gasped in pleasure. It was the best thing she’d tasted since the whole prison experience started.
“This is good,” she said. Then remembered: “Sir.”
He chuckled. “You’ll get used to it.”
She gulped the fluid down, looked around not knowing what to do with the empty mug. Her owner placed his own drink on a side table, stood up and walked over to refill her mug.
The women returned and took their seats. “Serve yourselves, ladies,” Terry said.
He returned to his seat and handed Denise her refill.
“So, the slave gets her drink brought to her but we don’t?” One of the COs jibed.
“Maybe if you showed him your tits, he’d be nice to you, too,” the Sheriff said as she took her seat directly across from Terry.
Everyone laughed. Denise blushed furiously.
When everyone seemed to be through with their drinks, Terry announced, “I was about to start supper. If y’all care to stay…”
The Sheriff shook her head. “I’ve got to get back to town. I was going to take these two to the restaurant then get them set up in the boarding house.”
“Okay.” He produced a shoulder bag from beside the chair. “You folks deserve a tip. That must have been a harrowing flight.”
He gave the two COs two currency bills each. “Two hundred dollars?” one of them exclaimed. “Federal money? That’s worth…?”
“It’s worth two hundred dollars, face value,” he snapped. “Don’t forget to split it with the pilot. “And, Sheriff, as always…” He handed her a hundred dollar bill.
Denise didn’t know what two hundred dollars was worth. Apparently, a lot.
The Sheriff stood up and sighed. “I got to read this.” She took a piece of paper from her pocket.
“Denise Marie Sager,” she intoned, “I am Claire Higgins, Sheriff of Narvaez County, Florida, and the chief law enforcement officer of the county. I am turning custody of you over to Terence McNally, your new owner. You have been found guilty of four counts of felony murder and sentenced to death by hanging. However, your life has been spared because of your sale to Terrence McNally, of Ruffin, Florida. Therefore, you are no longer a citizen of the United States and no longer a person under the laws of the state of Washington, nor the state of Florida, nor of the United States. You are entirely the property of Terrence McNally, who may use whatever force he deems necessary to enforce his will on you. As you have been convicted of a capital crime, he may kill you or have you killed if he desires. He may use corporal punishment or torturous treatment as he sees fit.
“There are restrictions on Terrence McNally as your owner. He must pay the animal registration fee and secure registration tags to your body. He must ensure that you are never clothed, or your body concealed in any way. He must ensure that you are securely restrained whenever you step outside his residence, and he must ensure that you are securely confined within his residence. You may not step outside unless you are leashed and accompanied by your owner or someone to whom he has delegated authority over you.
“As you are a capital offender and not a person before the law, the penalty for being off your owner’s property without a leash and unaccompanied is death, which may be administered summarily. No trial or hearing is necessary.”
She looked down at the girl. “Do you understand?”
Denise nodded. “Yes, ma’am,” she whispered.
The Sheriff turned to McNally. “That’s some good tasting mint. Are you selling it?”
McNally grinned. “I’ve planted it all around the property. Cut a few sprigs, take it home, and sprout it in water.”
“Hell,” she replied. “I can’t grow nothing. No green thumb at all.”
After the officers left, McNally turned his attention to his slave, who was shivering like a puppy in a new house full of people. He motioned her to stand. “Did they explain what you’re supposed to do here?”
“Sort of,” Denise replied softly.
“Still shy about being naked?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied. She started to cry.
She was surprised when he put his arm around her and hugged her to him. “It’s okay, little girl,” he said. “You’ll get used to it. I know this isn’t the life you’d choose for yourself, but it’s not going to be that bad. And it is life. Don’t you think?”
Denise was soothed by this strange man’s hand stroking her hair. She hadn’t expected this. She felt vaguely stirred by the feel of the man holding her tight against him, by the smell of him – the smell of sweat, and of what must be soap. For the first time in the past few years, she felt – what? – Safe?
“Yes,” she whimpered.

Comments? Suggestions?

This is the opening of the 2nd book of my next series: "Slave Girl at the End of the World."
Comments? Criticisms? Feedback really helps me.


It was a hot day. The courthouse across the street was undulating in air so humid that fish could almost swim in it. Foot high steam columns rose from the ancient brick streets, returning the moisture from the recent rain back to the smothering air.
The clouds which had brought the rain had already moved on. The sky was barely blue, almost white, so that anyone who wanted to see clearly had to pull down his straw hat and squint.
Still, a lot of people were on the street…scarcely dressed women in wraparound skirts, their chests covered by bandeaus. Stark naked women, wearing only heavy shoes, straw hats, and chains. Some of these naked slaves were locked into well fitted steel or aluminum cuffs with chains long enough that they could do useful work and shackled at the ankles with enough chain that they could do errands for their owners. Others were more tightly bound and led on leashes by their mistresses. These women – girls, really – usually bore marks from whippings.
The slave owners were women. The slaves were women. The male sex was approaching extinction. The Plague which had killed almost two thirds of humanity had taken ninety-seven percent of men.
Many of the slaves had elaborate decorative tattoos. All had “dog tags” depending from their labia and ear lobes. And all bore “P” or “O” tattooed on their left shoulders. The P of course, stood for “prisoner.” The girl had come to slavery by sentence of a judge. Nobody knew what “O” stood for – probably “owned.” The “O” girls had sold themselves into slavery in exchange for food and shelter. Or they had been acquired by the Bank in settlement of debt. Or sold by their parents for whatever reason.
Terrence McNally was, of course, a man. He wore a short sleeve khaki shirt and cargo shorts and, naturally, a broad brimmed straw hat. Occasionally a woman would approach him as he leaned against the wall. They would exchange pleasantries and some of the girls would offer their bodies to him. He would smile and answer ruefully that he had a young wife he had to please but thanks for the offer. Maybe they could get it on another time?
Claire Higgins walked up to join him. She was a heavy-set woman with cropped bleached blonde hair, greenish eyes, a wide pudgy face, and a florid complexion. She was the county Sheriff and something of a political boss. She was also huffing like a tired dog after a chase and her clothes were soaked with sweat.
She blinked her eyes against the glare. “Shit weather today,” she observed.
McNally smiled. “Don’t worry. It’ll warm up later.”
People in the street were moving around and McNally could see why. They were making way for two women seated in a two wheeled cart, being pulled by a naked woman who was harnessed and her wrists cuffed to a cross piece attached to the cart shafts. Another naked girl was pushing the cart from behind, her hands similarly bound. The girls were wearing crude moccasins and straw hats – conical hats, the simplest type to make.
The cart stopped near the grocery storefront. The two passengers got off the cart, fanning themselves with fans made of thin plywood. The slaves who provided the motive power were gray under the sunburn, their skin pale and moist, their breath panting.
McNally, as was his habit, had a two-quart military canteen on a strap, sitting beside his shoulder bag on the sidewalk. He picked it up and walked out to the cart. He wordlessly offered the water to the girl who’d been pulling the cart. When she had drunk her fill, he let the pusher drink the remaining water.
One of the passengers saw him from the sidewalk. “Nothing for us?” she complained.
“I didn’t see you hauling a load,” McNally retorted. "There’s plenty of water inside though.”
The woman glared at him.
He returned to stand beside his shoulder bag. “Still coddling the slaves, I see,” Sheriff Higgins said with a chuckle.
“Am I?” McNally asked as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “My girls back at the farm don’t think so.”
Higgins shrugged. “Slaves pulling rickshaws in the twenty-first century,” she remarked. “I never thought I’d see that in America.”
“Don’t worry,” McNally said. “That will only last until the tires wear out and nobody remembers how to make them.”
Claire Higgins spat on the sidewalk. “We’ll come up with something…As long as the young’uns pop out enough babies to keep us from going extinct.”

Comm

Below is the opening of the 2nd book of my next series.
Comments? Criticism? I really appreciate feedback.


It was a hot day. The courthouse across the street was undulating in air so humid that fish could almost swim in it. Foot high steam columns rose from the ancient brick streets, returning the moisture from the recent rain back to the smothering air.
The clouds which had brought the rain had already moved on. The sky was barely blue, almost white, so that anyone who wanted to see clearly had to pull down his straw hat and squint.
Still, a lot of people were on the street…scarcely dressed women in wraparound skirts, their chests covered by bandeaus. Stark naked women, wearing only heavy shoes, straw hats, and chains. Some of these naked slaves were locked into well fitted steel or aluminum cuffs with chains long enough that they could do useful work and shackled at the ankles with enough chain that they could do errands for their owners. Others were more tightly bound and led on leashes by their mistresses. These women – girls, really – usually bore marks from whippings.
The slave owners were women. The slaves were women. The male sex was approaching extinction. The Plague which had killed almost two thirds of humanity had taken ninety-seven percent of men.
Many of the slaves had elaborate decorative tattoos. All had “dog tags” depending from their labia and ear lobes. And all bore “P” or “O” tattooed on their left shoulders. The P of course, stood for “prisoner.” The girl had come to slavery by sentence of a judge. Nobody knew what “O” stood for – probably “owned.” The “O” girls had sold themselves into slavery in exchange for food and shelter. Or they had been acquired by the Bank in settlement of debt. Or sold by their parents for whatever reason.
Terrence McNally was one of those scarce beings: a man. He wore a short sleeve khaki shirt and cargo shorts and, naturally, a broad brimmed, a straw hat. Occasionally a woman would approach him as he leaned against the wall. They would exchange pleasantries and some of the girls would offer their bodies to him. He would smile and answer ruefully that he had a young wife he had to please but thanks for the offer. Maybe they could get it on another time?
Claire Higgins walked up to join him. She was a heavy-set woman with cropped bleached blonde hair, greenish eyes, a wide pudgy face, and a florid complexion. She was the county Sheriff and something of a political boss. her clothes were soaked with sweat. She was huffing like a tired dog after a long chase.
She blinked her eyes against the glare. “Shit weather today,” she observed.
McNally smiled. “Don’t worry. It’ll warm up later.”
People in the street were moving around and McNally could see why. They were making way for two women seated in a two wheeled cart, being pulled by a naked woman who was harnessed and her wrists cuffed to a cross piece attached to the cart shafts. Another naked girl was pushing the cart from behind, her hands similarly bound. The girls were wearing crude moccasins and straw hats – conical hats, the simplest type to make.
The cart stopped near the grocery storefront. The two passengers got off the cart, fanning themselves with fans made of thin plywood. The slaves who provided the motive power were gray under the sunburn, their skin pale and moist, their breath panting.
McNally, as was his habit, had a two-quart military canteen on a strap, sitting beside his shoulder bag on the sidewalk. He picked it up and walked out to the cart. He offered the water wordlessly to the girl who’d been pulling the cart. When she had drunk her fill, he let the pusher drink the remaining water.
One of the passengers saw him from the sidewalk. “Nothing for us?” she complained.
“I didn’t see you hauling a load,” McNally retorted. “There’s plenty of water inside though.”
The woman glared at him.
He returned to stand beside his shoulder bag. “Still coddling the slaves, I see,” Sheriff Higgins said with a chuckle.
“Am I?” McNally asked as he wiped sweat from his forehead. “My girls back at the farm don’t think so.”
Higgins shrugged. “Slaves pulling rickshaws in the twenty-first century,” she remarked. “I never thought I’d see that in America.”
“Don’t worry,” McNally said. “That will only last until the tires wear out and nobody remembers how to make them.”
Claire Higgins spat on the sidewalk. “We’ll come up with something…As long as the young’uns pop out enough babies to keep us from going extinct.”

So, what do you think?

I just purchased and read Svalbard's "Spanked on the Rails 2: Female Management."


Here is my Amazon review:
So, Emily is going to Syracuse to university there, and to save money she is going Comfort Class which, unbeknownst to her, involves her being available to serve meals and provide entertainment to other passengers while nude and in chains.
So far, just fun erotica.
En route, she meets a psychology professor who specializes in Female Management - which is a thing in this alternative world. He offers to help Emily finance her studies if she takes his class and becomes one of his "research assistants."
Once at uni, stuff gets real. Emily finds that her expected financial aid isn't available and so she has no choice but to take up the Professor's offer.
IOW, the novella turns dark fast.
So, to avoid any further spoilers:
This is very well written. The protagonist (Emily) and important ancillary characters are well developed. We understand their goals and emotions. The writer is economical but in his descriptions of settings. So the reader has a good idea of who the characters are and where they are.
When the work enters a suspenseful phase, the writer is able to make us care about Emily and so maintains the suspense.
Good job.
Should you buy the book? Yes. It's well worth the money.

Hi, folks:
I've had a problem with the "Story of Nikki" series. Someone decided that the cover of the 2nd book "The Contract" violated Amazon's community guidelines.

I don't know why. IMHO, it was a tasteful nude on a black background. I did considerable computer work rendering the the Nikki figure and I was proud of her.

Nevertheless, in an age when the art of Michelangelo and Botticelli gets pixelated on TV, I guess I have to go along.
My KDP account was shut down and sales were blocked, so I had to promise to follow (the rather nonspecific) guidelines. Then I had to unpublish the book, black bar the cover image, and republish.
Which erased the ratings and reviews.

So, I'm asking the reviewers to do me a solid and repost their reviews on the book's detail page. Also, anyone else can help me out a lot by rating my book(s.)
It's hard to make a dent as an indie author among millions of other books.

Thanks for your support.

"La Esclava: The 4th Book in the Story of Nikki:"
is now available for preorder.
The book will be released on April 17.

Click here to view the detail page:
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0F3XSWX7K?...