(http://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/8/89/Marie-Claire_avatar_02.jpg)<br/><span class="bbc_font" style="font-family: trebuchet ms;"><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 18pt;">Marie-Clare Lisson</span></span><br/><strong>Location:</strong>Three brief stops then out on the open road.<br/><strong>With:</strong>Maman-cunt, Boxstey.<br/><br/><hr/><br/><div class="floatright">(http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ed6OOCmG0FE/Tw-71R5AQCI/AAAAAAAAB2c/QbnoXFkhqps/s640/2013+Porsche+Boxster.jpg)</div>Leaving the BAF offices behind (http://elliquiy.com/forums/index.php?topic=142205.msg6569428#msg6569428), I tooled Boxstey around some bends,and onto the Grand Prix circuit. Of course being public roads at normal times, I couldn't really let Boxstey go, but he was aching to let rip, so I ignored the speed limit and just drove. I had to serve as I went through the tunnel to avoid a surrey being pulled by a really pretty pony-girl, but then I reached where I was heading and pulled up.<br/><br/>The price of petrol had come down a lot since the slave law - hell the price of everything had come down now we didn't have to pay people to do the menial jobs, but it was still bloody expensive. Still, Papa had an account at this filling station and I filled Boxstey up, charging the fuel to him.<br/><br/>The slave pumping the fuel glanced at the noises coming from the car's boot, but she didn't even shrug. That form of slave transport was quite common, after all. My next stop was a charcuterie I favoured. I actually paid cash here, because Papa didn't come and until today I hadn't been old enough to open an account of my own. M. Vernie, the owner, congratulated me on my freedom and I thanked him with a smirk at his daughter who was glancing at me enviously, her collar very much in evidence. I bought some sandwiches, some cold sausage and a meat pie, along with a bottle of coke and a package of cheese-puffs, then headed back to the car.<br/><br/>My third stop was a small slave outfitters just over the border in France. Oh, I could have gone to Emperium, where Papa had an account too, but for some reason, I wanted this to be something that only Maman-cunt and I shared. The shop slave looked at me oddly, and vanished into the back. An older woman, collarless and presumably the owner, came out and said, gently, "I'm sorry, Mam'selle, may I see your licence please?" I produced it proudly and she relaxed and smiled. "Bon anniversaire<sup>1</sup>Mam'selle, and congratulations on your freedom. How may I serve you?"<br/><br/><div class="floatleft">(http://raafayawan.files.wordpress.com/2011/04/col-de-turini-2.jpg)</div>I smiled back and bought a few hundred euros worth of slave training gear. Maman-cunt needed to learn to obey me, without the benefit of the burly BAF thugs.<br/><br/>After that, I drove up into the mountains. I hadn't realised how much fun driving was, and I just kept on driving and driving, feeding the car around the twisty mountain roads, whipping through tunnels, down-shifting for the hairpins and the steeper sections of the road, exploding past slower moving traffic. The wind whipped my hair and the adrenalin pumped in my veins, as I finally pulled up into a small, secluded lay-by. I vanished into the bushes for a moment and came back feeling much more human.<br/><br/>First things first, after all. But now I raided the bag of items I'd bought at the slavery shop and pulled out a rather intriguing item called an electro-lash. The lash itself was rubber, but with a number of thin wires on the surface. It was supposed to plug into a mains transformer but interestingly came with an adaptor for a car's cigar lighter socket. I plugged it in and had a couple of practice swings, then opened the boot. "Hello Maman-cunt", I smiled at her. "If you agree to behave I won't hurt you - much. If you don't..." I lashed her across her exposed flesh and pressed the button that sent 12 volts through it.<br/><br/>"Now, are you hungry, Maman-cunt? I am. If you behave I will let you get out of the boot and have some food. If you don't..." I hit her with the 12 volt whip again, as hard as I could. "Which would you prefer?"<br/><br/><hr/>1] Happy birthday.