“Shit, you’re going to bruise,” Mistress Stefania said.
I laid on the rubber padding outside my cage while Stefania examined first my nipples and then my butt cheeks and the backs of my legs. Marta appeared, carrying a plastic tote with a Red Cross on the side, and set it next to Stefania.
“Gracias,” Stefania said, and started looking through the tote.
Marta took a couple of steps backward, and knelt beside Ariel.
“Tu eres …Oh-kay?” Marta asked.
“Si, gracias,” Ariel said, not sounding very convincing. Marta handed her a tube of something and mimed rubbing it onto her nipples.
“Assholes,” Stefania muttered. “Took my attention away for five God-damned minutes and they beat both of you black and blue. I should have had them arrested for damaging private property.”
She was applying something to my throbbing butt cheeks when Master David appeared and squatted down next to us.
“She gonna be okay?” He asked.
“No permanent injuries that I can see,” Stefania replied. “But she’s gonna bruise like crazy.”
“That’s wooden paddles alright,” Master David shook his head. “Well, do your best then cage them for the remainder of Field Day. Maybe some rest will reduce any swelling and discoloration, which will hopefully reduce complaints from our patron. She needs to be ready for Wednesday night.”
“Yes, sir,” Mistress Stefania said.
------------------------------------------------
That evening I felt better. I took a shower with Ariel and Vanessa, who was appalled at the damage to our skins and asked what had happened. We gave her the short version of what happened; she took each of our hands and told us she was sorry so sweetly that I hugged her — then spontaneously kissed her on the lips. And not a quick peck, for the record. When I drew back I looked at Ariel, who was looking at me wide-eyed, so I kissed her too.
With a little tongue.
She responded in kind, then kissed Vanessa, hard and deep.
When we were finished, we looked at each other and just broke out in hysterical giggles. No idea why, it just seemed like the most appropriate response.
Am I sexually attracted to Ariel? Maybe a bit, I’m not sure. Am I sexually attracted to Vanessa? Not really, no. Do I feel a strong bond with them, as sister slaves? Most definitely, yes. Do I feel intense emotions toward them that seem to be somewhere between romantic love and familial affection? Apparently so: in some ways I am closer to them than to anyone else I have ever known.
It appeared to me that they felt likewise.
It had been a weird day, and the week ahead was going to get weirder.
------------------------------------------------
“My niece forwarded this to me, and I knew you’d want to see it right away,” Green said, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
The night of my ass-beating I was back in the conference bedroom with Master Green, who had some news of his own.
Green opened the ClickChat app and thumbed open a video. He motioned me over to his side and we watched it together.
The video was a short collection, like a montage, of some of my experiences in slavery, including crawling into a cage in the back of a truck, sucking off a teenager on the side of an interstate highway, getting pounded during Field Day, and a brief clip of me getting whipped by Master David for spilling a bucket. The voiceover was a brief (and inaccurate) recounting of how I “volunteered” into slavery because I’m really a sex-crazed slut, and how afterwards I was being trained to be an enthusiastic sex object, much to the delight of my “ex-fiancee” Jared (making an appearance that lingered like a case of syphilis) who mentions that I was an “anti-sex,” “man-hating” feminist who’s being taught to be a “real woman” now.
The best part? A brief title at the end mentioned a new “reality show” coming soon, over a clip of me sucking off Jared on Field Day, while he grips my head and calls me a “stupid skank.”
“I’m hardly an expert on these things,” Green said, “But according to my niece this has gone viral. Everyone she knows is looking forward to watching it. Apparently some people on Tweeter or whatever the hell it is deduced your location from background clues, and that’s why you had a fan club show up in the bleachers. Probably explains why the newest batch of slaves recognize you, too. I have to imagine at least some of the staff know about it too.”
“This is not exactly what I thought was going on,” I admitted, “But it’s pretty close. I think our plan still works.”
“Yeah, me too. Out of my own curiosity,” Green said, “How you plan to come back from this?”
“You mean, as a journalist or as a woman?” I asked.
Green nodded. “Both. Either.”
“I don’t know,” I said, “I don’t think I can, and even if it’s possible I’m not sure I want to try.”
“I did ask Shondra if she or any of her friends knew who you were, your real name or anything like that, and she said no, most people were calling you Skankarella,” Green said, smiling grimly. “So at least there’s that.”
“I overheard Master David mention that I needed to be ready for Wednesday,” I said, changing the subject. “I imagine that’s when the deed will be done. Amy, and by extension Leslie, know about my glasses, so we’ll have to rely on other means to record what happens.”
“I think we’ve got it covered, and don’t worry — I’ll be keeping a close eye on you,” Green said, leaning forward slightly in his chair. “I’ll say again, it looks like you were right, our problems intersect, and without you spelling it out for me I’d probably still be stumbling around in the dark. So thank you, Frankie.”
I looked into his broad, stern face, and saw it had softened a bit, and he was sincere. I was genuinely touched, and smiled at him.
And I wanted his cock in me so bad I almost swooned.
------------------------------------------------
Sunday, and we got a new class of trainees. The six women went into the last remaining set of cages, under the “Cat Food & Supplies” sign, so they became the Cat class. All white girls this time: several of them looked terrible in my eyes - on the skinny side of thin, pale, dark under-eye bags, stringy hair, awful tattoos, marks and sores - and even scars! - on their skin (I swear one had a fresh Caesarian scar), giving them the appearance of either recovering drug addicts or recently-convicted criminals. Would love to know more about each of them.
The one I wanted to know about the most was number six: a tall, fit, attractive blonde woman who walked erect and carried herself well (unlike the stooped posture of her classmates), bright, clear skin that was missing the bad tattoos and scarring. Easily the most attractive slave in the school. What the hell is she doing here?
They were escorted by Mistress Christine, the Amazonian trainer I’d seen yesterday helping out at Field Day, and a short, burly Italian-looking man with an upturned mustache whom I immediately nicknamed Mario the Plumber. I also realized my brain was referring to the tall blonde slave as Princess Peach.
Oh, stop it. I’m the one telling this story, I’ll call them what I want.
Mistress Stefania warned us about the week ahead, our last one in obedience school. The focus would be on two things: deportment and anal sex.
(Show of hands — who here did not see that coming?)
Anyway, we drilled in “slave speech” (which is mostly about referring to yourself in the third person, like “Master, may this slave be of service?”), casting our eyes down, remaining quiet, using proper posture, correct submissive behavior, and service, service, service.
I was alarmed to realize that it was all coming naturally to us now: even bubbly, chatty, energetic little Tracy was falling into the role of a quiet, submissive slave.
Speaking of roles, another thing that changed: we were required to call each other “sister,” even when we weren’t actually training. We did drills of mundane chores, like when we sorted and folded a truckload of laundry from the nearby HCI market, working together as a team (under close supervision, of course), and when we did anything we had to announce it to another trainee by calling her “sister” (“Here are six folded towels, sister”) and the trainee had to respond in kind (“Thank you, sister”).
I neglected to mention earlier that our “reward” for finishing Week Two was a second feeding in the evenings, with individual water bottles and bags of kibble we can eat with our hands (the noon meal still used the trough). Now that slaves from Bird class do the sweeping up, my new evening chore is gathering our kibble and distributing it; each trainee is expected to thank me, “sister,” and I had to reply “This slave is pleased to be of service, sister.” We do it so much now that it’s starting to roll off our tongues naturally.
I’m not going to lie: it all feels perfectly natural. I’d go so far as to say it feels comfortable… and even kind of nice. No worries, no anxiety, no problems, just “Master, may this slave be of service?”
Of course, the other thing was learning about anal sex. This was the most instruction we’d received on a sex act since we started, the reason given that it was the one that, done improperly, was most likely to damage our owner’s property.
Thus I got to wear a butt plug every day, starting Sunday after our shower and routine hose enema. I started off with the smallest one available (apparently only Vanessa and I were anal sex virgins), and got to increase it in size each day at shower time.
The first time we got to help each other insert the plugs (Ariel inserted mine and Vanessa’s) but subsequently we were ordered to do it ourselves while a trainer watched us.
Another item checked off on my ever-diminishing bucket list: shoving things up my own ass while someone else watches and gives me a score. It could only be better if they used those numbered cards like in the Olympics.
I hated wearing the plug, but what could I do? Besides, I knew it was for my own benefit as well as that of my future owner…
Huh. That came out wrong.
------------------------------------------------
That evening I visited Mistress Stefania for another one of our “tutoring sessions.” Once in her room, I asked her if I could remove her clothes for her, but she declined; instead, she ordered me to wait (on my knees with my hands resting on my thighs) while she sat fully clothed on a chair, facing me, taking swigs from a flask.
After a while, Stefania closed the flask and set it down, then leaned forward and began unlacing her boots. I shuffled forward on my knees to take over, but she waved me back.
After she took her boots off, she started removing the rest of her uniform. First her heavy equipment belt, then unbuckling her trouser belt and lowering her pants, taking plenty of time to unveil her bare legs. She draped the pants over the back of the chair, then sat down and pulled off her socks by the toes, one at a time. When she stood back up, she slowly unbuttoned her uniform shirt, then let it fall off by throwing her shoulders back so it slid off of her and onto the chair; that act caused her breasts to arch forward, straining nicely against her athletic bra.
Once she was down to her underwear, she reached for her equipment belt and removed a small item, about the size and shape of a pen light. Mistress Stefania stepped toward me and placed a hand on the top of my head, tilting it forward. I heard a soft pop, and then something I hadn’t felt in weeks.
My collar was gone.
I heard the soft clunk of Stefania placing my collar and (I guess?) the unlocking tool on the nearby table top, then her hand was under my chin, tilting my face up so that I was looking into hers. She released my chin, pulled off her bra, slid down her panties, and stood before me completely nude.
“Stand up,” she said, softly.
It didn’t sound like an order, but I did it anyway.
Stefania stepped up close to me, her skin pebbly with goosebumps, her dark nipples brushing against my chest. She placed a hand on the side of my face, then leaned in and gave me a deep, passionate kiss.
------------------------------------------------
We lay in Stefania’s bed, intertwined in each others bodies. I rested my head on Stefania’s belly, facing the pussy I’d spent so much time with this evening, catching my breath while Esteffi (that’s what she preferred to be called, she told me) rubbed my back and played with my hair.
We’d each orgasmed several times — Esteffi was an extraordinarily talented cunnilinguist, as well as a good teacher — and were a bit worn out, so we relaxed in each other’s company, enjoying the quiet and the afterglow.
The first sex I’d had with an equal partner since I’d started this stupid adventure, and I really needed it. Like I’ve said before, I’m not into girls but… now I’m not so sure. The line is blurring. I don’t know if I’d ever seek out a woman on my own, but I know I just like Esteffi, and I find her attractive on a number of different levels, which is, well, rather odd for me. I feel a connection to Steffi not unlike what I feel with my boyfriend Lee.
Which is interesting, I suddenly realized, because my relationship with both of them started with me naked, bound, and on my knees in front of them, each having near total power over me.
That bears further exploration to say the least.
“Thanks,” I said.
“Thanks?” Esteffi asked.
“I needed that,” I replied.
Steffi snorted. “Believe me, we both did.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s been a tough couple of weeks, and it’s about to get tougher,” she said. “For both of us.”
Alarm bells in my head, but exterior calm.
“How so?” I asked, casually.
Esteffi sighed. “I’m going to have to do something I don’t want to do, and that thing includes you.”
I remained silent, hoping she would continue.
“There are some ladies coming to see you, day after tomorrow, and I think it’s going to be bad,” Esteffi said.
“Why?”
“Because I think they want to purchase you, and convert you to a long-term indenture or possibly even a full life slave,” she said, “and they want me to help.”
I froze in near panic, but kept my outside relatively calm. “Why do you think that?” I asked. “And who are they, anyway?”
“I only know one of them, because she’s been blackmailing me for months,” Esteffi said, her voice low and strained. She had stopped moving her hands, resting one on my waist and the other on my head.
“She’s the wife of the local DA, and she has some videos of me… doing things,” Esteffi continued. “If I don’t cooperate with her and the other trainers, I could find myself in a collar. You may have seen her, she sits with that group of housewives on the bleachers in the mornings, you know the ones, they pretend to be researching slave ownership or something but they’re actually just living out their own sex fantasies second-hand. Anyway, she gets to know which members of the group are genuinely interested in owning a slave and not just filling up a scrapbook, then sits with them until they find a slave the member likes, and Leslie offers to get it for the woman ‘wholesale.’”
Leslie, I thought. No surprise there. Like I told Marla the other night, sometimes I hate it when I’m right.
“Wholesale?” I asked. “What does that mean?”
“In this case it means that the slave is sold for a fixed rate, not at an auction, and usually below the going market value for the slave’s grade. It’s a hell of a deal that permits buyers to own high-grade slaves for low-grade prices.”
“They can’t do that,” I said, another notch tightening on the invisible belt around my guts. “Aren’t all of the slaves in the school already owned?
“They’re careful to select slaves who are owned by a corporation or an institution or some other non-human legal entity, or by HCI themselves, so there aren’t a lot of questions,” Esteffi said.
“HCI owns slaves?”
“They have a brokerage - it’s small, but highly respected in the industry - that takes low-grade slaves that were either unsold or selling below reserve and upgrades them — through training, for instance — so they can be re-graded and auctioned again for a higher price.” She sighed. “That was originally my career goal, to make it into the brokerage.”
“I still don’t understand,” I said. “How does this Leslie person just pick a slave out of the class and sell her when she doesn’t own her?”
“It’s a peculiarity of a certain New Mexico law, having to do with how the terms of contracts are interpreted and how property rights are enforced; I’m told the law, which was written many years before Restoration, was originally intended to help clean up broken down, abandoned cars on the side of public roads,” Esteffi said with a wry chuckle.
“Here’s how it works,” she continued: “If the school declares the slave to be in ‘default’ of the training contract, then the non-present owner is in breach and according to the terms, has a set amount of time - but no less than twenty-four hours - to claim the slave. The catch is that the clock starts ticking not from when the owner is notified, but from when the slave is declared in default. Because of how it’s handled internally, no one makes a serious effort to get ahold of the owner, most of the time just sending a single email long after the fact, or an after-hours voicemail. Inevitably, the slave is not retrieved in time and is considered abandoned property. The ‘abandoned’ slave is quickly condemned by an administrative judge based almost entirely on the statement of the trainers and the school staff - he or she has no reason not to believe the experts and declare the slave abandoned - and the slave is taken into custody by the county government. The DA’s office sells the unclaimed goods — the slave — at a fixed price that’s a fraction of what she would have sold for at auction, and can do so legally because the law was written to dispose of cars quickly, not have them sit in an impound lot for months. The DA, of course, sells the slave to the person his wife made the agreement with, and he and his wife pocket the money minus a share for the county and a share for the trainers, which is still a nice sum for no investment and little risk.”
I let out a long exhale. “How can they get away with that?”
“I think partly because Leslie and her husband are very careful about picking their targets, and because most big organizations, or more likely their employees, don’t want to get into a legal fight with the county, especially one where it might look like they were the ones who screwed up. Besides, they can just write off the loss of the slave on their taxes,” Esteffi replied. “It seems pretty crooked from start to finish, except for the enslavement papers. Those are legal.”
“And no one does anything about it?” I asked.
I felt Esteffi shrug. “I have no idea what would happen if anyone appealed a case, but that hasn’t happened yet. I think their success is a combination of luck, political power, lack of witnesses willing to testify — or able to testify, because they’re slaves — and the fact that they’re taking advantage of a gigantic corporation with a reputation for sloppy record keeping and being extremely shy about negative publicity. It also doesn’t hurt that they have nearly every staff member here on their payroll.”
“Except you,” I said.
“Except me,” Esteffi agreed. “This is my first full-time trainer job since I finished school. I know it’s a cliché, but I really did get into the profession to help women. I was naive, and I think they saw that, so when the other trainers told me about ‘private viewings’ and ‘third-party sales’ being completely normal and legitimate, I believed them. Then one day Leslie knocked on my apartment door, showed me video of myself helping to sell slaves illegally, and explained how things would be from now on. She keeps trying to give me a ‘cut’ but I won’t take it. The other trainers know about the blackmail, and use it to their advantage too — the things I’ve had to do, sometimes I feel like a slave myself — and because all the trainers are in on it, I don’t know how many other people are too, so I don’t know who to trust. I don’t want any part of this, but I can’t see a way out.”
I slid off her belly and lay beside her, then raised up on one elbow so I could look into her face.
“I can,” I said.
------------------------------------------------
Wednesday night (at least I think it was Wednesday) I had my meeting with Leslie.
I was taken out of my cage after lights out (I’ve had to accept that I will never get a full night’s sleep as long as I’m here) by Esteffi — Mistress Stefania — and led to the same lounge where I’d seen Janet audition on Marta’s data pad weeks ago.
Waiting for me there was Leslie, seated on the couch with one leg crossed over the other and her hands clasping her knee, dressed in stylish upper-middle-class housewife finery but with hideously expensive shoes and pearls.
I was surprised to see that she was alone.
“Down,” Mistress Stefania commanded, followed by “Present.” I dropped to my knees in front of Leslie, spread my legs wide apart, clasped my hands behind my head (untrained slaves clasp behind their necks, but that’s a no-no as it interferes with access to the collar, the proper way involves pointing your thumbs downward, parallel to your neck. Leslie appeared to notice that and smiled a little - I was strangely pleased by this), put my elbows back causing my breasts to jut forward, and cast my gaze down at the floor.
I knew Stefania was behind me and to my left but I couldn’t see her, so I was left with the illusion that I was alone in the room with Leslie, kneeling in an embarrassing manner, displaying my naked body in a suggestive way to a woman who looked at me appraisingly but impersonally, like a scientist examining a bug staked out on a dissection board.
After letting me stew for a bit she spoke.
“Slave Frankie,” Leslie said, carefully enunciating each word. “Doesn’t sound quite right, does it? Too masculine. I like Slave Francesca a bit better, but it doesn’t roll off the tongue very easily. We’ll need to come up with something better. Perhaps a stripper name like Slave Destinee? Or we could try another variation of your free name, like Slave Fran or Slave Fanny.” She let out a tiny laugh. “Did you know that in England, the word fanny is a slang term for a vagina, much like we use the word pussy?” She looked at the ceiling in thought for a moment. “Yes, I like Slave Fanny, but I’ll need to run it past our marketing team first.”
“I wanted to take a moment and meet you myself. My name is Leslie, Leslie Briggs-Schneider. I know your friend, Amy,” Leslie continued. “Or should I say, your colleague? She’s told me all about your mission here, you intrepid little girl reporter, you. She’s showed me some of the eyeglass video of your time here, and I even got to see some of the video from your trip on the slave transport. Very impressive!”
“So impressive that I recalled a friend of mine in Los Angeles,” she continued. “She’s a producer for NTV, making reality shows. She shot one here in Albuquerque just last year, some sort of thing about a bunch of very attractive but rather stupid young people living together in a house and competing for money. I spent some time with her and learned a little about the reality TV business, which gave me an idea. You know what makes for great reality TV?”
A villain? I thought, but remained silent, not moving; I’m sure it was a rhetorical question.
“Drama!” She said, grinning. “Drama is what gets people hooked and keeps them coming back. My friend taught me that if there’s no naturally occurring drama, then you have to manufacture it. So I asked myself, `What is the one thing a new slave does not want to encounter?’ The answer was obvious: someone from her previous life who holds a grudge!”
Yep, so far she’s confirming my hypothesis.
“I told my husband about my idea and he used some of the investigators at his office to look into your background. Did I mention that he’s the District Attorney for Bernalillo County?”
No, and I’m surprised you waited this long to do so, I thought, continuing to sit silently.
“Well he is, he’s very popular, and very powerful I might add. His investigators discovered your former fiancee Jared Fleischman, and I gave him a call. He was only too delighted to fly here from Florida and visit you!”
That’s it, I thought, I’m going to have to kill Leslie with my bare hands. Right after I tear Jared’s throat out with my teeth, of course.
“I showed a bit of the video of your encounter with Jared to my producer friend, and she loved it!
She immediately agreed with my idea that it could be made into a reality show, and she and her production company wanted right of first refusal on it, but to do that I had to have something to bring to the table besides the idea.”
“That’s when I got a call from Jared, who told me about his friend Chet who wanted to spend his own quality time with you, and could I arrange head-of-line privileges for him like I had for Jared? Well, of course I could — I’m very good friends with Mayleen Metcalfe, wife of the HCI general manager — and when the two of them arrived Amy and I met with them and I made my own proposal: that we form JAL Productions, LLC, and turn your experiences into a pilot project. Everyone thought it was a great idea, and so we filed the paperwork. I even had business cards made up!”
Out of my peripheral vision I could see Leslie take something out of her purse and slide it with the toe of her shoe across the floor until it was in front of my downward-gazing face. Sure enough: “JAL Productions, Leslie Foster, President.”
She was so proud of herself, positively giddy at the prospect of getting into show business by completely humiliating me and destroying my life.
“Ma’am?” I said. “This slave requests permission to speak.”
“Look at me,” Leslie said, “and say whatever you like.” She glanced at Esteffi, behind me, and added, “With all proper respect, of course.”
“Yes ma’am, thank you, ma’am. This slave understands that she is owned by a news organization, who might not want this slave’s experiences to be turned into a reality show. Has Mistress considered that?”
Leslie laughed. “Of course I have, you silly girl! Both Mr. Fleischman and my husband are excellent lawyers, and they have a plan to turn your situation to our advantage. But don’t you worry about that, we’ll take care of it. Instead, how about a little reunion!” She took out her phone, sent a text, and a moment later the door at the back of the room opened and in walked a rather sheepish looking Amy.
“Hi Miss—, um, Frankie,” Amy said, initially hesitating to look directly into my eyes. She was dressed well, and her hair looked its best yet - whatever salon she was going to was doing right by her - and she looked, well, good.
“Good evening, Ma’am,” I said, not looking directly at either of them.
“I guess Leslie has told you where this is all headed,” Amy said, “Even though Jared objected, saying that telling you up front was a bad idea. But I insisted, and we outvoted him two to one.” She gave a weak smile. “It’s important that you know what’s happening and why,” she continued, quietly. “I at least owe you that much.”
“Ma’am?” I asked, looking directly at Amy.
“You know I want a career in media more than anything else,” Amy said. “When I started talking to Leslie and she told me about her idea — you know, reality show production company and everything — I realized it might be my only chance to avoid being a tech monkey for the rest of my life. With journalist jobs getting harder to come by, this seemed like a golden opportunity. And the money is amazing…”
Amy trailed off, then shifted her gaze back at me. “Our Hollywood partners were telling us that this concept has been tried before in different ways, but none successfully. The key is to find someone who can maintain her focus while enduring harsh treatment and humiliation.” Amy smiled. “I showed how you took a vicious whipping in stride, and were able to keep your wits about you during the truck transport story, and everyone agreed that you are the ideal candidate.”
“Ma’am?” I said, holding my voice steady. “What if this slave chose not to cooperate?”
Amy lost her smile. “Jared has a solution,” she said. “One I’m not completely comfortable with, but I got outvoted two to one,” glancing sideways at Leslie, whose smile remained undimmed. “This whole plan rests on our ability to control you. I have no doubt that CNS will not be willing to sell you, but because they do not actually own you, there is another option—”
Leslie cleared her throat, and Amy stopped speaking.
Honestly, I pretty much guessed what they were up to, but I pretended to be surprised.
“M-ma’am?” I stammered, and did a pretty good job I think. “How can that happen? This slave is not actually lawfully enslaved, just committed to obedience school training for the rest of the month. This slave would never consent to voluntary enslavement.”
“That’s the beauty of it!” Leslie interjected. “You won’t have to do anything! We’ll handle everything, you just continue on as you are, go to courtesan school, and then prepare to travel to a bunch of other places for variety of interesting experiences! That should appeal to your foreign-correspondent’s sense of adventure.”
Condescend much? I thought. But to be fair, as a free woman it was her right to talk to slaves in any way she wished, and in her mind I am no exception.
“This is such a wonderful opportunity for us all,” Leslie gushed. “I hope you’re as excited as I am!”
------------------------------------------------
Back in my cage, my mind went over and over my encounter with the conspirators.
A long-lost voice sounded in my ears: “Frankie? Frankie, can you hear me?”
I tried sub-vocalizing a reply. I can hear you. But how can I hear you, I’m not outside?
“I dropped a relay booster in the room we were just in,” Amy said. “I figured it might be enough to get a signal through.”
Okay. So what do you want?
“To tell you I’m sorry. I admire you, in so many ways, and I’m sorry it had to come down to this.”
Uh-huh. Anything else?
“Well, I just wanted to let you know that if there’s anything I can do to help you through this, I will. At the very least, I won’t let Jared harm you.”
Hm. Thanks for that, ma’am. How about not letting him enslave me permanently?
Amy gasped. “What? What makes you think that Jared—“
It’s obviously the only way ensure your control over me, I replied. I don’t know how he plans to accomplish it, but it’s the only way to be sure, and that appeals to his legal lizard brain.
“I know you’re angry at me, and at how this all worked out—“
‘Worked out.’ ’Come down to this.’ You make it sound like an act of God or fate, like a cancer diagnosis, instead of the deliberate actions of humans, including one who was supposed to be my protector.
A brief silence, then: “Frankie, women end up in slavery against their will all the time, it’s the way of the world now, at least you’re better prepared to handle it than most. I promise that I will make sure you are well treated—“
Spare me the justifications, Amy. I promise that you have no idea who you’re dealing with, but I promise that Jared is eyeing you for a collar, too.
“Leslie wouldn’t go along with that, we’re partners—“
Think very carefully about the role she’s playing here, and what you bring to the table versus what she does, then see if you can still say that with a straight face. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a busy day tomorrow.
“Frankie, I—“
I took off the glasses and the earpieces, and wrapped my blanket a bit tighter around me.
A short time later, a gentle scratching on my foot made me look up at the cage door. My unlikely friend Marta, the house slave, was smiling at me in the semi-darkness. She unlocked the door and I crawled out.
End Part 1.
