Gotcha
By D. Night
Copyright (2023) by D. Night
All depicted characters are age eighteen or older.
Part 1 of 4
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“—so I told him that if he wanted, I could make some arrangements he’d like.” Carla said.
The other women at the table laughed along with her, one of them shaking her head in the process. Around them, maybe half the tables in the large dining room were occupied. Senior waitstaff in white linen supervised a handful of naked slaves as dishes were served or retrieved at the tables. Sunlight streamed in past the lush green lawn beyond the windows lining the room, showing golfers in one direction, and tennis courts in another.
“And he went for that?” Sophia asked, her short blonde hair bouncing as she chuckled and leaned forward.
“Well I knew where a few bodies were buried.”
“Comes in handy.” Wendy said. She was also a blonde, but had it twisted up in a tight bun behind her so her long strand earrings glittering with diamonds showed more clearly.
“Wendy, stop.” Carla said, batting her hand at the woman with the earrings.
“You remember that commerce bill they wanted to pass a few years ago?” Wendy said, looking at Sophia.
“Stop.” Carla said, but she was smiling. She had red hair, angular cheekbones, and spoke with a soft, well-mannered accent of poise. Her clothing was elegant with subtle style, tailored slacks paired with an elbow length blouse, both beige. “Unless you must.”
Wendy grinned. “The one that was going to add a few mills to the property tax to fund local counties in need? Carla is who got that stopped too.”
“Oh this I gotta hear.” Sophia said, looking at Carla with interest.
“Me too.” Lenora said, shaking her head so her artfully arranged brunette strands shifted around her cheeks prettily.
Carla laughed. “Well it’s—what?”
Sophia was looking over her shoulder. “What on Earth?”
The other women followed her eyes, turning their heads. A pair of Travis county sheriff’s deputies were entering the dining room. Both were ignoring Everett as the club’s day manager trailed after them with a pale face while speaking urgently. They brushed right past the maître d’ without pausing.
“Why are they here?” Wendy said.
“Don’t they have any decorum?” Lenora said, shaking her head.
Carla frowned as she studied the scene. Whatever was going on, Everett looked quite upset. It also looked like the deputies were making a beeline straight for her table, which made even less sense. She and the girls had just come in from the courts for lunch after a shower and a soak. They’d been at the club since practically dawn. Maybe the house had been broken into by hooligans?
“Gentlemen if you’d just allow me to make a few calls, I’m sure we could arrange for a more satisfactory location to discuss this matter in.” Everett was saying they drew closer.
“Carla Mariner.” the lead deputy said when he was still five steps clear of the table Carla and the others were seated at.
“Yes?” Carla asked, furrowing her brow at him.
“Stand up.”
“What on Earth for?”
“Because I told you to.” the deputy said, patting the hand stunner on his belt.
“Who do you think you are?” Wendy asked in a shocked tone.
“Where do you think you are?” Sophia said, her words tumbling across Wendy’s.
“Gentlemen, please, this is not—” Everett said desperately, wringing his hands together like he was hoping that would help.
“Anyone not wearing a badge and a gun, shut up.” the second deputy said in a loud voice. The entire restaurant, already looking at them, was now fascinated as they watched the confrontation. Even the slaves tending to the tables, trained to ignore anything that might transpire during service, had halted with trays or drinks in hand.
Carla rose to her feet. She was feeling a rage she hadn’t let past her carefully managed exterior in years, but it was coming out now. She stared at the deputy with calm disdain, holding her temper in check through force of will but still feeling it starting to leak at the edges. “Do you know who I am?”
“Carla Mariner.” the deputy said. He smiled at her as his partner unfolded a sheaf of paper and looked from it to Carla a couple of times.
“Yeah, it’s her.” the second one said with a nod.
“Deputy … Tucker.” Carla said, making a show of looking at his nametag. “There’s been some sort of mistake, obviously. But I’m sure we can sort out whatever’s—”
“Maybe we should make sure?” the second deputy said as Tucker continued grinning at Carla. It was not a friendly smile he was offering.
“Guess you’re right. We’d never hear the end of it if she somehow wasn’t.” Tucker said. He held his hand out to Carla. “ID, now.”
“I’d think in civilized company you’d say please.” Carla said in a brittle tone. She started running through her mental roster of Austin city council members, then decided she’d just skip that and go straight to the mayor as soon as she was rid of these cretins.
“I’m sure. Don’t worry, you’ll be all sorts of civil soon enough. Now ID or I’ll empty your purse myself.”
“She’s Carla Mariner.” Wendy said in an even frostier voice. “Perhaps you saw her picture in the paper last week? At the governor’s press conference for—”
“So you’ll vouch that she’s Carla Mariner?”
“Of course she is.” Sophia said.
“What is this about?” Carla said, waving her hand at her tablemates. “You’re behaving quite rudely.”
“Just doing our jobs.” the second deputy said with a shrug.
“Yeah, too bad more days can’t be like this one.” Tucker said, now showing his teeth as smile widened past his mirth’s ability to hide. “Strip off and we’ll get going.”
“Excuse me?” Carla said loudly. She felt like she needed her phone in hand, dialing someone who could put an end to this, but his words had frozen her in place with shock.
“What’s the meaning of this?” a man from one of the other tables asked. He was on his feet, reaching inside his jacket. Both deputies looked at him, but only the second turned to face him. With his hand on his gun.
“I very much hope you’re not reaching for a weapon sir.”
“My identification.” the man said in a flat voice. His hand came out of his jacket, slowly, with a wallet that he opened to show a circled star badge. “Gordon Crawford, Rangers. Captain Crawford. What’s going on Deputy Porter.”
Tucker finally looked away from Carla when his partner, Porter, looked at him rather than answer Crawford. “Sir, this slave is being taken into custody for processing and shipping on behalf of her owner—” Tucker started before he was interrupted.
“Slave!” Carla shouted. She wasn’t the only one. Everyone at Carla’s table repeated the word, echoing others around the room.
“Got the paperwork right here.” Porter said, offering it to Crawford.
“Are you out of your mind?” Carla demanded of Tucker as Crawford, his expression narrow but controlled, took the pages and started looking through them. “I’m worth more than you two combined will see in the next twenty years. Half the state senate walks out of meetings to take my calls. I wrote parts of the latest Slave Commerce act that just passed. I’m—”
“Carla,” Crawford said quietly.
When she broke off and looked at him, she saw he was shaking his head. “What?”
“This is legit.”
“Give me those.” Carla said, snatching the papers out of his hand. Her picture, a little blurry from faxing but fully recognizable as her, was on the top sheet. She stared at it utterly perplexed, then flipped back a page and scanned it. An order for slave retrieval was right there, signed court letterhead and everything. With her name clear as day. Carla Katherine Mariner. “This is a … I know Judge Jeffreys. He’d never sign this.”
“Next page.” Crawford said quietly.
Carla shuffled the papers and stared at them. It was a different format from the other order, with a strange court and judge’s name listed, but it directed that the person formerly known as Carla Katherine Mariner, now a slave, be taken into custody and remanded to the court she’d never heard of. She looked up after studying the address. “I’ve never even been to Connecticut, so I can’t be who this is about. This is a mistake.”
“You can take that up with the judge. He’ll be in session for mandated explanations to newly enslaved at one thirty.” Tucker said. He was grinning again. “And he said he would nail our asses to the wall if we didn’t have you before him for that session.”
“Fine.” Carla said, turning to take her purse off the arm of her chair. “I’ll call my lawyer—”
“Actually, you can leave that there. And I believe I told you to strip, slave.” Tucker’s teeth flashed again as she whirled back to him.
“Excuse me?” Carla asked, turning back to him. Fixing him with her best ‘bug’ stare. Two different lieutenant governors had wilted under that stare. She’d lost count of how many state legislators over the years. These … common men just looked back at her apparently quite unmoved.
“Did I stutter?” Tucker said. “If you wrote parts of the slavery laws of this great state of ours, you should know them pretty well. Slaves have no property, no rights, and sure as hell have no cause for mouthing off. Clothes, now.”
“Oh give her a chance to bluster some more.” Porter said. “Then we can do it for her.”
“I am not stripping and walking out of here naked with you.” Carla said, drawing herself up. “I’m sure this can be sorted out in court. I’ll even let you drive. So stop showboating and blustering so I can take this up with the judge.”
“I, I, I … you sure say I a lot.” Tucker said.
“Especially for someone who’s just a slave.” Porter said with a nod.
“You need to be more polite.” Carla shot back.
“Carla, don’t make things worse.” Crawford said.
“This is ridiculous. I’m a member of society. The governor owes me a favor. You cannot expect me to just march out of here—”
She stopped in astonishment as both deputies drew hand stunners. Tucker touched the trigger of his, making an arc crackle between the metal prongs.
“Texas law allows for immediate apprehension and control of all slaves on the loose. The law does not permit slaves any property. Any property. You don’t have rights, you don’t have favors, you don’t have jack shit except a headache and bruises if you don’t stop fucking around and get your damn clothes off.” Tucker said. He wasn’t smiling now.
“Gordon, do something.” Carla said, turning to Crawford.
Before Crawford could say anything, Tucker jabbed the stunner into her side and pressed the trigger again. Carla shrieked and went down in a heap, convulsing even after she was out of contact with the device. The pain was unimaginable, like every nerve in her body had just been set afire. An instant later the pain was gone, but her limbs felt twitchy and she could hear her heart hammering away in her ears as she tried to restart her breathing.
“Captain, if you have some relationship with this slave, you’d better convince her to accept the facts now.” Tucker said without looking from the twitching woman at his feet.
Crawford looked annoyed, not angry, as he knelt next to Carla and put his hand on her back. “Carla, I’ll call Joseph. He should be able to sort this mess out.”
Porter shrugged. “We were in the room when Judge Jeffreys was arguing with the court in Connecticut before he sent us here. This is a done deal, but sure, call whoever you want. That’ll set the Judge into a right fine mood I’m sure.”
“Last chance.” Tucker said, nudging Carla with his shoe. “Or we’ll use a knife.”
Carla dragged herself to her knees, her face pale. She looked at Crawford like he was a life preserver, but he just shook his head.
“This is legal.” he whispered. “There’s nothing I can do.”
“This is insane.” she whispered back.
“Yeah, well, you and the legislature shoulda thought of that before you wrote slave handling and processing procedures into law.” Crawford said. “They will strip you by force, and I guarantee you won’t like it.”
“I’ll sue.” Carla said, her voice rising again. “You’re making a permanently life altering mistake deputies.”
“That’s it.” Tucker said, glancing at Porter.
The other deputy traded his stunner for handcuffs. “Captain sir, please step back.”
“Get your fucking hands off me!” Carla screamed as Porter grabbed her arms. He wrestled them behind her back and cuffed them there with loud metallic clicks that echoed through the large, frozen dining room. Porter started to reach for something else on his belt, but Carla began kicking her legs as she screamed.
“Let me go, let me go! Help! Somebody help!” The handcuffs were cold on her wrists, and hurt as she tried to twist away, tried to open her arms. She felt the heel of her fashion week shoe bounce off a hard plate beneath the deputy’s shirt. Then he jerked her back into place, rattling her head for a moment.
“Here.” Tucker said over the noise. Porter reached up without looking away from Carla and accepted a zip tie from Tucker. She tried to struggle clear, but they were controlling her despite her efforts. Then he collapsed his body over her legs and secured her ankles with the ease of practice.
“Got her?” Tucker asked.
“Just hold her shoulders.” Porter grunted as he got the zip tie cinched down. He reached for his belt again, this time coming out with a long rectangular piece of wood that ended in a blunt, curved hook. Steel glinted in the inside curve of the hook. He caught the hook against the top of Carla’s fawn colored pants and jerked downward sharply.
“Don’t fucking touch—stop!” Carla yelled at the top of her lungs as she felt plastic touch her skin.
Fabric parted as the blade cut through it without pause. Carla was still trying to kick, but Porter had his weight on her legs. Tucker had squatted down and had her upper body pinned to the hundred dollar a yard carpet of the dining room. She wasn’t struggling so much as wiggling now, with two men on her.
“I can’t get through to Joseph.” Wendy said, her phone in her hand. “Carla, it’s just going to voice mail.”
“I’ll call my lawyer.” Sophia said. She took her phone out as Carla continued screaming and Porter kept tearing at her clothes with the hooked knife. “Gordon, what court—”
“It’ll be the one on Guadalupe. District court.” Crawford said as Porter shifted so his weight was on Carla’s upper legs, clearing the way to rip the knife down the lower halves of her pants legs. They fell away, leaving her nearly bare from the waist down with only panty hose and underwear left. Porter hooked the knife into the waistband of both and pulled down the outside of her right leg.
Carla felt like the ceiling was tumbling down on her as she felt the room air hitting her exposed skin. The back of her pants were already down, torn away by the knife being wielded by the deputy that was now ripping at what little was left.
“This is outrageous.” Sophia said, staring as Carla’s flesh was revealed.
“This is legal.” Tucker grunted. “You and your country club buddies made it that way. Now shut up or we’ll haul you in for obstruction.”
Sophia went pale, and she got up from the table. Ignoring how Tucker’s eyes went immediately to her, she turned her back on him and put the phone to her face. “Yes, Susan Beeman’s office please. No I won’t hold, it’s a fucking emergency.”
Porter had cut the other half of Carla’s panties and hose by now, and shifted to strip her heels off her feet, followed by the remains of the hose. Carla tried to buck him off when she felt where the knife was going, but she had little leverage with him more or less sitting on her calves and the other gorilla holding her shoulders down. The horror of exposure spread to her hips and bottom as everything below her waist was removed.
Before she’d been angry. Now she was scared. Everyone was watching. Everyone was going to know. This story would be making the rounds for the next century, at least. The day a member was stripped in the East Dining Room.
The hook knife slit down the back of Carla’s expensive blouse, catching it, and the slip and bra beneath it in a single pass. Carla screamed like she was being strangled. “Stop, stop this now!”
“Shut up.” Tucker said. He was grinning again. He held Carla up off the carpet as she tried to twist away from him, his hands staying right in place. She couldn’t wiggle free from him as they kept her controlled and Porter continued wielding that horrid knife.
He ran it down first one arm, then the other, before finally sticking it back in his belt. She felt the last of her clothes falling away as she tried to break free and Turner pressed her back into place. Her breasts were rubbing against the ruined bra and parts of the carpet now. Her back was cold in the air conditioning.
“Okay.” Porter said.
Tucker used one arm to keep holding Carla flat, and reached into one of the cargo pockets on the leg of his tactical-style uniform trousers. His hand came out with a collar that he passed to Porter. The other deputy took it and jingled a key ring off his belt to unlock it, then slipped it into place around Carla’s neck.
“You don’t know what you’re doing.” Carla screamed as the collar clicked closed. “Get that fucking thing off me!”
“I am required by law to inform you that the collar you’re wearing can and will be used to deliver debilitating shocks designed to force compliance with all lawful orders.” Porter said in the slightly sing-song voice of someone who’d said the same thing many times.
The recitation continued. “Additionally, we are authorized to use other means to force your compliance with our lawful orders which include, but are not limited to, physical abuse designed to inflict pain without permanent injury. Failure to follow our instructions will result in forced compliance. Do you understand slave?”
“I understand you two are finished.” Carla said, trying to muster her rage. It was all she had between her and this nightmare. She was afraid it wasn’t enough, but she reached for it and tried to fan the flames brighter than they’d ever been.
“Guess that’s a yes.” Tucker said, pushing to his feet. “Stand her up.” Porter caught Carla’s other arm and lifted with him. She was suddenly standing between them, her clothes in shreds on the floor. Slave naked. Everett stared at her breasts like he’d never seen any before. Everyone in the entire room, including the fucking staff who managed real slaves, was looking at her bare everything.
“You low brow cretins are going to fucking pay, I swear on everything I’ve ever done on this Earth.” Carla shouted as she felt eyes roaming across her while she struggled.
“Uh huh.” Porter said. His fingers were on one of her ears. Removing the earring there. She’d already lost her necklace and couldn’t remember when.
She knew she’d been slacking off on hitting the tanning salon, but winter had been busy. Beyond her neck and forearms, her body was pale. Her makeup didn’t descend past her neck, since she was dressed for lunch not sex. Her skin was pale and showed signs of middle age that she never revealed without careful management by makeup and angles. Not even to Joseph. Not the handful of freckles scattered across her chest, not the other handful of age spots that dotted her back and flanks and belly. She knew she didn’t look nubile and fresh with youth, but she still felt she had a nice enough body.
Now everything was on display to the entire room. Her breasts bounced as she tried to tear herself out of the grasp the deputies had on her. She could feel eyes on them, and saw Everett’s dropping to the subtle plastic surgery scars on the underside and wanted to die. Porter was on the second earring now, and she didn’t even care where the first had gone. She just wanted clothes back.
Then Everett’s eyes, and others, were on her hips. Below her hips. She felt her body starting to shut down a little, as she realized they were all seeing her mousy brown pubic hair, neatly trimmed but utterly not a match for her salon red locks. And, below that, her fully displayed vulva. Carla stared at Everett, who even here made less in a year than she did in two months, and looked away before his eyes came back to her face. After he’d gotten a good look.
“We better hurry.” Porter said as his industrious fingers slipped her wedding band off.
“Let me go!” Carla screeched desperately. She dug her heels into the carpet when they tried to move her. “Stop it! I’m not fucking hopping out of here you shitheads!”
Tucker traded another glance with Porter, but he shook his head very, very slightly. Tucker sighed and gave a shrug. “Okay, pick her up.”
The deputies lifted her by the arms and began carrying her out of the dining room. Carla screamed all the way out, and could be heard in the hallway leading to the club’s front doors by everyone in the dining room.
Every twist and pull she tried did nothing to dislodge the men holding her, as they carried her past a foursome in straight off the links. Several couples were at the unmanned greeting podium near the main entrance. They all stared as Carla was manhandled right past them, slave naked and carrying on so it was impossible to even affect to not see her bare ass and bouncing boobs as they went by.
In the rotunda out front the deputies’ cruiser was parked front and center. Tucker held her while Porter opened the rear door, then both men rotated her horizontally and slid her into the back seat like so much luggage. Carla felt her breasts dragging across the cheap vinyl seat surface and winced, then tried to roll over and sit up. Porter had his hands on her cuffed legs though, as he stood in the doorway facing Tucker.
“Flip first.” Porter said.
What the hell were they talking about? Carla didn’t know, but she didn’t like it. She didn’t like any of this.
“You got the last one.” Tucker said.
“Oh no, we’re fucking flipping this time. I ain’t missing some society pussy just because I got some off a washed out debt deadbeat we hooked earlier. You know same as me whoever we go pick up after this will be the same low grade pussy as that one was, so call it.”
Carla kicked her legs at him, trying to make him let her go. Porter just slapped at her calves, hard enough to leave prints on her white skin. “Ow!” she yelled, kicking again.
“Slave, you’re fucking pissing me off. Cut it out or face the music.” Porter said as he dug a hand into his pocket.
Carla froze, afraid of the remote he was about to brandish. The collars came with a remote. It was in the legislation for all law enforcement and public slave handling protocols; an efficient way of forcing impartial compliance. Cleaner than a beating. And, coincidentally, making contracts for those collars and associated support equipment available to bidders eager to supply the government and houses.
Bidders who knew people who voted on such things. Bidders who knew how to be grateful for being granted the opportunity to submit such bids.
Instead, his hand came out with a quarter.
“Fine, heads.” Tucker said.
“Tails.” Porter said, flipping the coin into the air. He missed the catch and she watched both men look at the ground as metal rang against the rotunda paver bricks.
“Happy?” Tucker said.
“No, but I’ll drive.”
“We got time, you know I won’t be that long.”
Carla realized they were arguing over who was going to use her while they ferried her back to the courthouse. That was in the slavery acts too. Maybe, maybe a member of the general public couldn’t just walk up to a slave and start using them, but a designated individual in charge of one certainly could.
She was at their mercy, she realized in horror. That made her start kicking again.
“Whatever.” Porter said, bending to pick something up before he walked around the back of the car.
Tucker leaned into the back seat of the car. Carla tried to ward him off with her legs, but he folded them up to make room. After he was in the seat and had the door closed he leaned over to Carla and grabbed her forehead, forcing her to look at him.
“Listen up slave.” Tucker said. “This is the last time, the very last time, I’m going to explain this to you. Apparently you know all the rules about slaves. I heard you lobbied for many of them, and helped write at least some. So you know slaves have no rights, no nothing. You’re chattel. Livestock. A fucktoy. I’m a free man, and you’re a piece of meat.”
“I’m a free woman.”
“No, that ended when you got yourself collared by whoever the hell Eagle Equities is.”
“I’ve never heard of them.”
“Well then you’ve done fucked up missy.” Tucker said with a chuckle. “Because whoever they are they laid a whole heap of documents in front of the court up in Connecticut or wherever. They fired them off to Judge Jeffreys, who signed off on your seizure.”
“This is a mistake.”
“Sure, I bet the judge will be shocked to hear that. Every single slave that kneels before him says the same damn thing. It ain’t right, I ain’t done nothing, let me go, you can’t do this.” Tucker shook his head and let his hand drop to her breast.
“Let. Go. Of. Me.” Carla said in a tone that cracked like a tree shedding branches in an ice storm.
“For someone who thinks you’re so special, you sure are touched in the head.” Tucker said, shaking his. He was still manipulating Carla’s breast, squeezing it while he watched, rubbing his thumb across her nipple every time he relaxed his fingers. Then he’d squeeze again.
“I can’t mark you permanently unless you give me cause, like trying to escape or somehow managing to injure me or someone else. But short of that, or something worse, I can do whatever the hell I want. You should know if you’re so dialed into Slaving realities.”
Carla was trying to wiggle free, to yank herself out of his grip. It wasn’t working; his hand kept fondling her. His skin was rough, and his touch harsh; there was no smooth, tender, almost hesitant feeling in how he handled her. She stared daggers at him, then blinked as she found herself sprawled against the door. Her cheek was burning.
“That’s for insolence.” Tucker said.
He’d slapped her, Carla realized. Not hard enough to damage, but more than hard enough to hurt. She struggled back upright, but his hand caught her chin and held her in place.
“Go on, glare at me again slave.” Tucker said, leaning in close. His breath smelled like coffee and peppers. “Judge won’t tolerate it, so really I’m doing you a favor sorting out your spunk before we plunk you down before him.”
Carla froze as his hand left her breast and started sliding down the front of her body. She thought about trying to squirm free, but his other hand tightened on her jaw until she winced from the pressure.
With her hands cuffed behind her, and legs secured in the ziptie, she had no leverage, nowhere to go, no nothing. She couldn’t even scream, because who was going to come to her aid? He was supposed to; he was a fucking cop, but here he was stroking her pussy like she was a twenty dollar whore he’d picked up from a cheap motel.
“Sometimes, some days, court’s so packed us deputies have to help the bailiffs. Especially when some uppity sort like you gets dragged in with a collar they don’t like wearing. Ever seen someone whipped? Sure you have, you rich folks love laying down the law on poor defenseless slaves. Makes you feel big don’t it? Special. Important. Like you have power.”
Tucker’s fingers were rubbing her to distraction. Carla wanted him to stop, but her body was starting to lubricate as he began working her. She kept her eyes closed, afraid of what might happen if he saw the anger and terror she knew was still in them.
“Yeah, you sure like having all that power.” Tucker said. “Weren’t enough to just be rich, like before. Couldn’t just be content with hiring someone, and knowing they’d scramble to keep you happy to keep the job. Nope, you folks had to go and rewrite the fucking Constitution, and drag the whole country into a new order where people are property.
“Couldn’t find workers you said; ever think paying people nothing was the reason? Nope, you just went and legalized slavery; now they can’t complain, and have to work no matter what. But didn’t stop there neither? Men can work, but put a woman on ten and twelve hour days on oil field or farm and she’ll likely start falling apart in weeks. Bodies aren’t up to that kind of physical use.
“So you changed the laws about sex and sexual use. Said it was a needed boost to the economic underpinnings of the nation. The only way to tap value that was untapped. And now here you are, untapped value.”
Carla gasped as his fingers slid up into her, wiggling and flexing. Forcing her to feel him inside her, feel her body clenching against him as if trying to force him out. He kept exploring, and she heard him chuckle.
“Well I’ll tap that value.”
“She ready?” Porter asked from the front seat. The car had been in motion for a while. Carla could hear other traffic just beyond the windows. She knew that even if this wasn’t a police cruiser, no one would intervene. The collar alone was enough to make that a felony; any white knights would be risking being collared themselves.
“Ready enough.”
She opened her eyes as he let her go, his hands leaving her body. There was a click of metal, then her ankles were free. He closed the knife and put it away, then his zipper came down with a loud sound. Carla couldn’t help look as he hiked his hips up and skinned his trousers and underwear down past his knees. His cock was already stiff, standing up amid a tangle of brown pubic hair.
“Stay away from me.” Carla said, her eyes fixed on his penis.
“No, I don’t think I will.” Tucker said. He moved his hands to Carla’s shoulders and spun her in the seat, pulling her toward him so he had room to push her down flat.
“This is a mistake.” Carla said again. “Please stop.”
Tucker rubbed his dick up and down Carla’s cunt and laughed. “Uh huh.”
Carla gasped as Tucker thrust his hips and slid himself into her.
“Let’s say there was some mistake.” Tucker said as he started pumping. He was hot and hard in her, rubbing up one side of her on the way in, then down the other on the way out as his hips shifted and rolled while he fucked her.
“There ain’t, cause we heard a good chunk of the judge’s argument with whoever the hell he was going at it with in Connecticut.” Tucker said as he got going. “But let’s say there was. Me and my partner here were still sent out on a judge’s order. Even if an hour from now he rescinds it, right now you’re a slave. Which means I can do this all the way to the courthouse.”
Carla was wiggling, trying to squirm forward toward the door, to extract herself from being impaled on his cock. Tucker just kept moving, fucking her with slow, deliberate motion. Drawing sensations out of her despite her desperate desire for it all to just stop.
“You better not.” Porter said without looking over his shoulder.
“Just drive slow.” Tucker said as he thrust himself as deep as he’d fit, drawing a strangled gasp from Carla. “You know I won’t be but a few minutes.”
“It’s almost one.” Porter complained.
“Yeah, well, we’re only fifteen from the courthouse. I’ll dump a load in this rich cunt, then you can pull over and I’ll drive the rest of the way and you can have your piece.”
“Man, then I’ll be finishing when we get to the damn lot. I don’t want to be on camera, giving George and the guys in surveillance an eyeful.”
“So I’ll circle the block a few times.” Tucker said as he kept moving. Beneath him, Carla was panting as he fucked her.
“Can you at least not come in her.” Porter groused.
“Shut up, I’m busy.”
“You come in her, with her mouthing off like she’s been so I can’t use that instead, and you owe me.”
“Just drive.” Tucker said. He was starting to pant as he kept his dick moving, beginning to speed up some. His hips were rolling into Carla rhythmically, drawing gasps from her like she was a fish on a hook he was playing with on a Saturday afternoon. Joseph never fucked her like this. No one ever had. No one ever fucked her; they had sex with her.
Until now. Because the deputy was fucking her like she was there to be used.
“Yeah, our lieutenant was pretty pissed slave.” Porter said as Tucker pounded Carla in the back seat. “He heard where we were headed to pick you up and wanted to do it himself, but we said the Judge had given direct orders; us without delay. LT, he worked his way through the ranks see. Grew up poorer than dirt. Most expensive cunt he’s ever seen is in the movies.”
Tucker laughed abruptly. “Yeah, he sure was upset when he heard the judge wasn’t going to let him slide himself into the pickup to get a piece of this.”
“He might just be in court this afternoon.” Porter said, laughing himself. “You hear that slave? You’re gonna be real popular. Probably a decent bit of why the judge was so bent out of shape. He likes things orderly. Slaves in, slaves out, no fuss. Gonna be a whole lotta fuss this session I bet.”
“Probably.” Tucker grunted.
“Damn, you close?” Porter said, looking at his watch.
“Shut, the fuck, up.” Tucker said, breathing hard as he got the words out.
Porter sighed. “Slave, you do my partner right. One thing that weren’t on your paperwork was a grade, so you’re kind of unexplored cunt. Funny how you really rich chicks manage to not get graded. Guess that’s only for pleebs. Already got money, I guess you don’t need to grade yourself for a loan or nothing huh?
Carla was out of room on the back seat to try and wiggle clear in. Her head was pressed against the driver’s side passenger door. Atop her, Tucker’s hips were moving at a fast clip now. She could feel him speeding up, and tried to buck him off. Tucker pressed her down against the seat, and fucked her like that, with her cheek squashed down, for almost half a minute. Then, with a groan, he pulled his wet dick out of her pussy and stroked it twice before he erupted hot, white splashes of jism all over her back.
“Ahh.” Tucker said as he rubbed his hand on his shaft, milking more splashes out. Carla felt it dripping, oozing, across her skin. More slime was welling out of her pussy as she lay trapped beneath him. She felt her insides quivering with sensation that felt good even as her mind raged at it.
“Finished?” Porter asked, checking to the right of the car and moving over into the breakdown lane.
“Gimmie a damn minute.” Tucker snapped, still masturbating himself on Carla.
Porter stopped the car on the side of the highway and put it in park. After a few more long moments Tucker sighed and shook his head like he was working out cobwebs. “Not bad.”
“Where’d you do it?”
“Back. Hand me the damn wipes.”
“You clean just yourself off and then come up here, and I get back there and she’s covered in your goo, you and me are gonna have a little talk later.” Porter said as he reached up to some pockets attached to the car’s ceiling.
“Just give ’em over.”
Tucker wiped his cock and hand clean with a couple of wet wipes, then used them to scrape up his semen from Carla’s back. She was laying there, breathing heavily, eyes closed. Tucker balled them up and dropped them on the floor, then used a third to polish her skin. Carla felt cold again as her flesh tingled while the alcohol in the wipes evaporated. “There, clean. Happy?”
“My turn.” Porter said, opening his door.
* * * * *
(story continues)
Gotcha by D.Night
Gotcha by D.Night
Last edited by dnight on Sun Jan 29, 2023 3:53 am, edited 3 times in total.
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Gotcha
Part 2 of 4
* * * * *
Carla didn’t resist when they hauled her out of the police cruiser at the courthouse. Porter looked at her as they set her on her feet. “Now you remember that collar, and where you are. Judge don’t tolerate no carrying on, no screaming or nothing else. Certainly not no fighting or cussing. See this?”
Her eyes went to a little remote he held up.
Porter nodded. “Yeah, just like the law dictates. Every bailiff and deputy in the building’s got one. Emergency button will flash every collar within twenty feet, or the trigger here, that just nails whoever’s within five. You want to feel it or you gonna believe me and just behave?”
Carla nodded jerkily. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was about to be marched through a state courthouse buck naked like a pauper, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Even after Joseph and the lawyers finished sorting this out, she’d still have to live with everything that’d happened. The club, the backseat, now this. She hoped the courtroom would be sealed.
“Alright, then walk with my partner there.” Porter said, turning to precede them to the doors of the building. Police had their own parking lot behind the courthouse; even judges and court staff had to park in the deck beneath it.
Carla wished they’d walk her quicker as they crossed the hot concrete, being baked by the Texas sun, but Tucker had her arm in a grip of iron. Moving steadily, calmly. As they walked, she could feel juices from her double fucking sliding slowly along the inside of her pussy. Some moisture was already welling up on her labia, where she could feel it starting to squish and ooze out as she walked.
She wanted to die, but instead she was being frog marched without pause.
Inside the courthouse, she came across her first bystanders. People lined up near doors or lingering on benches, waiting for their own sessions to start. They were clothed though. Dealing with a non-humiliating court matter. Not her. She was being walked with her tits and pussy hanging out for them all to see. Some looked. Then she noticed some didn’t, and couldn’t decide if that was better, or worse.
Porter glanced at his watch again and swore. “Stairs.”
Tucker looked at his. “Yeah, gotta move.”
They took her up two flights of stairs. The stairs were dirty, and grit abraded her carefully pumiced feet as she was made to climb. Carla was panting by the time they reached the third floor. A drip from her cunt had landed on her thigh, and she could feel it smearing on the other one as she was hustled down a long corridor. Past more bystanders.
Up ahead she saw Sofia, still in the lovely silk skirt and blouse combo from lunch, standing next to a tall woman with greying brown hair and a skirt suit that screamed try-hard-with-money. Carla took a breath.
The deputies recognized Sofia too. Tucker shook Carla’s arm once to get her attention. “Shut up.” he said in a low voice. “Slaves don’t talk unless spoken to by their master. Right now that’s us two.”
Carla wanted to die all over, but her eyes wouldn’t leave Sofia’s. This was a nightmare, and it was already happening. It was too late to wake up. There were at least half a dozen things she could do to get compensation and retribution after the lawyers sorted all this stupid shit out. After she had the collar off. Sofia was the only face in sight that might be in a position to even try to help her get to that revenge she wanted.
“Carla, we’ll be in there.” Sofia said as Tucker and Porter walked her past with her breasts bouncing lewdly. “Don’t worry. I got Susan here with me, she’ll take care of this.”
“Just cooperate Mrs Mariner.” the try-hard in the skirt with Sofia said. “I’ve talked with Marty Fisler, and he’s on his way too. We’ll sort things out.”
Carla wondered where Marty was. And if he could really do all that much to help; he was a political lawyer, specializing in policy and financial matters. Not slavery law. But she knew him at least. And he her.
Then she realized, if he was there, he’d see her with her body bared too, and couldn’t decide if that would be better or worse than not having him there. She wanted to ask Sofia what Beeman’s specialty was, but the deputies kept her moving like an animal being herded. And she knew they both had remotes that would turn her collar into a torture device.
Porter waved a keycard at a lock near the end of the hallway and held it open for Tucker to walk Carla through. Inside was another hallway, where she was walked to a door near the end that revealed a courtroom set up for the legally mandated explanation hearing to the newly enslaved.
A lot of other naked people, most women, some men, were already on their knees on the floor. In a line down both walls, each one leashed by a chain stretching from their collar to a hook on the wall. Every one of them in cuffs, metal or leather, heads down. A bailiff was watching them, but looked up when the door opened. She nodded and pointed at a spot, and Tucker led Carla over.
“Now you stay there on your knees.” Tucker said as he pushed her down next to a Hispanic woman who was blank faced and silent. The darker skinned woman had large breasts with big nipples, and a scar just under her collarbone from some since healed injury. She didn’t look up as Carla was placed next to her.
Porter handed Tucker a chain, which was clipped onto her collar. While Porter connected his end to the wall hook, Tucker leaned down. “But go ahead and back talk like you were when we picked you up. Bailiffs might like a little piece of you too. Slaves can get held for contempt. It starts with a whipping before you even hit the cell. It’s fun, try it.”
Then he patted her breasts like she was a dog, and walked away. Leaving her there on the floor. Carla’s knees were starting to hurt by the time she heard people begin filing into the courtroom. Voices drew her attention, and she looked up.
“Eyes and heads down.” the female bailiff snapped, and pain erupted on Carla’s arm as a riding crop – for horses – landed on it. The bailiff brandished the implement at Carla with a scowl as their gazes met. “Want another slave? I said down.”
Carla looked down quickly, her cheeks burning. She could feel eyes on her. The room sounded crowded, and more seemed to be joining. The buzz of conversation was muddled, but she was certain she heard her name a few times. She kept looking down. She could see the feet of the bailiff strolling back and forth sometimes and didn’t want another whack from the crop.
Finally she heard a different woman raise her voice from across the room. “Quiet please, the session is about to start. I said quiet! Silence all cellphones or it’s a two hundred dollar fine and an overnight stay in jail for contempt. If your phone goes off, that’s you spending the night.” Carla heard rustling, then the same woman spoke again. “All rise for Judge Jeffreys.”
Carla almost looked up, but she kept her head down. The bailiff hadn’t turned from her or the other slaves lined up along the wall. None of the slaves made to get up. Carla knew from laws she’d helped craft slaves were not people. A dog wouldn’t be expected to rise for the judge. Neither was she.
There was a long pause, and she heard a chair creak and roll across wood, then a voice she knew spoke.
“Be seated.” Jeffreys said.
Another pause, longer this time, that went on well after the rustle of feet and people sitting had faded. Carla heard whispering, but no yelling. No one objected or said to be quiet. Finally she heard the woman who’d called the room to order speak again.
“Case number 104-178144, Eagle Equities repossession and extradition regarding Slave 5416-678-9743 and Slave 5416-678-9744, the persons formerly known as Joseph and Carla Mariner.”
Carla gasped and looked up, eyes and head swiveling frantically around the room. Joseph was here? Where was he? She didn’t see him. The crop landed on her thigh with a stinging crack, and the bailiff glared at her. Carla looked down, her cheeks burning as another pair of shoes walked over to the bailiff standing over her. A moment later those shoes stepped in next to her, and she felt her leash being disconnected from the hook.
“Up, heel.” a man said. Carla staggered unsteadily to her feet, it was hard without her hands and arms to help, and followed the jerking of the chain over to one of the tables positioned at the front of the court. As she was led to it, she saw Joseph being brought over from the opposite wall.
He was as naked as she was, collared, hands behind his back. He was staring at her like he thought she was a ghost. He looked so pale. Did she look that bad? He’d been crying. His penis was swaying as he was tugged along on a chain, same as her breasts were bouncing. Both of them on display for the entire room to see.
“Down.” the man holding her chain said, and pushed on her shoulder. Carla went back to her knees next to the table. A moment later, Joseph was pushed down next to her.
“Shut up.” a different man said in a bailiff’s uniform said, leaning down next to them. “Judge is fucking pissed. Ten lashes for any slave who speaks out of turn, understand?”
Joseph nodded quickly, so Carla closed her mouth and did the same. She looked at her husband in terror, but all he could do was stare back at her silently. They were both doing that when she heard Jeffreys.
“I understand an attorney is present on this matter?”
“Yes your honor.” a woman said. It was Beeman, from the hallway. Carla listened, unwilling to find out what the penalty for looking up with the judge talking was. “Susan Beeman for the former Mariners Your Honor.”
“Mrs Beeman, have you reviewed anything about this case, or are you just barging in here hoping to wave a wand and do a little magic act?”
“Your Honor, the former Mariners dispute the facts of the case in every respect.”
“Oh, ain’t that grand.” Jeffreys said. “As if the same story doesn’t show up each and every time someone is collared. This time though, I don’t even have to listen to you make an argument. I can just save us both a whole heap of trouble right now. Did you pass the Bar, or is your diploma a forgery?”
“I am a member of the Texas Bar Your Honor.” Beeman said, her voice composed despite the judge’s obvious irritation.
“Then explain to me the Full Faith and Credit Clause of the Constitution of these here United States.”
Carla felt her insides starting to congeal like icy mud. That was the very tool she and other lobbyists had advised the Southern states to use to ram recognition of the amended Constitution’s ensuing Slavery Laws down the throats of the states that hadn’t voted in favor of Slavery. Like Connecticut.
“Under Article Four, Section One, courts shall respect the laws and rulings of other courts, even across state lines Your Honor.”
“Very good.” Jeffreys said. Papers rustled loudly. “I have here a stack of court records and filings on 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. I have spent most of my lunch hour arguing about it all with Judge Holloway up in Connecticut. And he informed me of the following. Feel free to take notes, but write fast because I have a full docket and this has taken up too much of my day already.”
Carla’s heart was sinking. Beside her, Joseph was shifting on his knees. She heard him sniffle like he was choking back a sob.
“Your honor, neither of the currently collared persons I represent in this matter have a Slave Registration Number, so it is—”
“They have them now, so ordered by Judge Holloway.” Jeffreys said. “Now quiet so we can get through this.” Papers rustled, and Carla heard Beeman trading barely audible whispers with someone next to her at the table. Then the judge spoke again.
“One, in their previous identities 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four had a mortgage for a little less than ten million dollars on an estate here in Austin. Two, Eagle Equities purchased that mortgage as a block of others they also purchased approximately seven months ago. Three, after that purchase, in their former identities, 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four and every other mortgage holder in that block were notified by registered mail of changes in their mortgage terms.
“Four, those changes concerned default clauses. Specifically, the addition of enslavement clauses in the event of a default. Five, the estate of 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four’s previous identity is currently six months in arrears on said mortgage, to the tune of more than three hundred and forty thousand dollars. Six, neither 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four are slave graded so their value is unknown. And Seven, the stock now known as 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four had ignored four good-faith efforts by Eagle Equities to arrange with their prior identities to bring their payments up to date.”
Jeffreys rattled off the entire lineage in a clearly annoyed drawl, spitting words at times. Then papers slapped together loudly before he spoke again. “Under Full Faith and Credit, I am bound by law to process the asset repossession and extradition Judge Holloway has ordered based on filings Eagle Equity has laid before him.”
“Your Honor, the Mariners estate has a net worth in excess of six million dollars, exclusive of equity in the property. Their mortgage was held for tax reasons, not because of lack of available funds.”
“Then they shoulda paid it one would think.”
“My firm has empowered me to write a check right now to bring their mortgage up to date Your Honor.” Beeman said. “And another one to both courts to compensate them for lost time and resources in dealing with this matter.”
“Well Judge Holloway ain’t prepared to take any checks, because Eagle Equity don’t think they’ll clear.”
“My firm will stand for the check and write it on our account.”
“Still no.” Jeffreys said. “The balance on the property is still more than six million dollars. Holloway says his litigants are unwilling to proceed unless their debtors are properly slave graded and a full valuation is established on them and the estate they leave behind. After that, and the probate clears, they might be willing to consider options that get them their money.”
“Your Honor, the former Mariners have no current legal standing. Their assets will go to Slave Probate, which could take months to sort out with dockets what they are these days.”
“Ms Beeman, what does the name plate on my desk here say?”
“Judge Rudolph Jeffreys Your Honor.”
“Below that.”
“District Court Judge.”
Something that sounded like a hand slapped on something that sounded wood. Carla wanted to look up, wanted to jump to her feet and beg, scream, but was afraid to even breathe.
“I spend five days a week, every afternoon, processing Collar explanations to folks just like 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four here.”
“Your Honor—” Beeman began, but the hand on wood sound came again.
“No, I don’t want to hear it. The only difference here is how many zeroes are on the numbers in the documents. None of these other collared folks in my court here owed millions, but they’re in the same boat as 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. They done fucked up, simple as singing in the rain.”
“Your Honor, this is a clerical error on the part of Eagle Equities. It is unlawful to collar the former Mariners.” Beeman said. She sounded worried.
Carla was worried. Carla was so worried she felt like her bladder was about to let go. She and Joseph were not broke. Their checking account had more than half a million dollars in it. How could the mortgage be in arrears? This was obviously a huge mistake that was patently obvious. To everyone except the law apparently.
“And I raised that point with Judge Holloway.” Jeffreys said. “He’s satisfied as to the documents presented to him that there are serious questions as to the debt, its validity, and the ability of the estate of 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four to settle it in a timely manner now that it has been called. So you can locate co-counsel with the Connecticut bar and take it up with him.”
“Your Honor—”
This time the sound was a gavel, not a hand. It hammered down with a sharp rap that carried. Beeman stopped talking immediately. Carla jumped, so did Joseph. He was now crying. She glanced sideways at him, but his eyes were buried in his chest. At the apex of his thighs she could see his penis resting there, out for everyone to see like a little worm.
“Ms Beeman, my hands are tied. You are welcome to trot on up to Connecticut, but for today you are done. Sit down.”
Carla burst into tears. She heard whispering at the table above her, frantic and angry. Every inch of her skin was crawling, and every piece of her insides was frozen. She flinched as a crop landed on her backside, hard enough that it felt like fire had been poured on her skin. She looked up to see a bailiff at her side, glaring at her. He pointed forward, and she looked where his finger was indicating.
Judge Jeffreys, who she’d had lunch with three or four times a year for the last decade, was also glaring at her. She swallowed at the look of fury in his eyes.
“97 forty-three and 97 forty-four, you used to be Joseph and Carla Mariner?”
“Answer.” the bailiff with the crop said in a whisper. He patted it on their backs in rapid succession, just bouncing it back and forth against them.
Carla heard Joseph croak something out that didn’t even really qualify as a grunt. It was just an inarticulate strangled noise. Carla opened her mouth and tried to answer. “Yes.” she said, her voice cracking like lake ice in the spring.
“Federal and State law requires I explain your situation to you. Here it is. You have defaulted on a debt. Your debtor is reclaiming assets to recover some or all of that loss. You are among those assets. While there is a possibility that, should sufficient recompense be made available you might see your terms in collar shortened or ended, that is not a guarantee. In any event, you will be remanded to your current Owners, Eagle Equities of Connecticut, where they will determine your disposition and use while collared.”
Carla stared at Jeffreys, through him. She could hardly focus, but was afraid to blink or look away. The tears kept falling, welling up and sliding down her cheeks as she kept her eyes on him. She was afraid the floor was going to open up and chomp her into bits, and that would just get her in more trouble. She couldn’t even imagine what more trouble might be.
“Slaves new to the collar are often confused. That gets them into trouble. This appearance before you’re transferred to your Owner is designed to help adjust you to your new reality. So listen closely.
“You are slaves. You are no longer Joseph or Carla Mariner. You have no rights. You have no recourse. You are livestock under the Constitution and laws of both the United States and Texas. Laws that you assume apply to you as a person do not as chattel.
“For example, I cannot order my bailiffs to bend Counselor Beeman here over the railing there and lay a strap across her body just because she annoyed me. As slaves, you two can be beaten, compelled, used sexually, used for work, used for any purpose allowed for under the Slavery Acts. Law enforcement not only will decline to intervene, but is empowered to support these activities should the Owner need such support from the rule of law.”
Carla’s tears were making her vision blur now, dampening her cheeks in several fat rivulets that just kept falling. This was a nightmare. How could this happen. She felt trapped.
“This is your new reality, until your collar is removed by your current or future owner. My advice to all who find themselves in your position is to embrace this reality or it will consume you. Settle in and let the ride happen, because if you don’t it never works out well for the slave.”
Jeffreys studied them for a moment. Carla couldn’t stop crying. She tried to plead with her eyes, but Jeffreys was looking at her like she was nothing. Like he hadn’t traded Christmas cards with her for years. She noticed he was looking at her breasts, and almost wanted covering instead of the collar’s removal, his gaze felt so clinging as he examined her as a thing, not a person.
“Bailiff, remove these two and ship them out according to the court’s instructions.” Robert said, tapping his gavel again. “Clerk, call the next case.”
“Up.” a bailiff said, grabbing Carla’s arm. “Stand there.” She stood swaying as he yanked Joseph up next to her. She looked at the defense table. Beeman was there with two younger people, a man and a woman, also in suits. They were conferring with each other with a look no one ever wanted to see on a lawyer supporting them.
Panic.
Behind the table, on the public side of the bar, she saw Sophia standing there looking at her with a shocked expression. Carla had that one moment to try and make a connection that might, somehow, end this nightmare, then she was being yanked into motion by the chain on her collar.
“Heel.” she heard the bailiff say. She stumbled after him, next to her husband, cuffed and naked like every slave was when appearing before a court. She kept crying as she was pulled out into the hallway and deeper into the courthouse.
* * * * *
Story Continues
Part 2 of 4
* * * * *
Carla didn’t resist when they hauled her out of the police cruiser at the courthouse. Porter looked at her as they set her on her feet. “Now you remember that collar, and where you are. Judge don’t tolerate no carrying on, no screaming or nothing else. Certainly not no fighting or cussing. See this?”
Her eyes went to a little remote he held up.
Porter nodded. “Yeah, just like the law dictates. Every bailiff and deputy in the building’s got one. Emergency button will flash every collar within twenty feet, or the trigger here, that just nails whoever’s within five. You want to feel it or you gonna believe me and just behave?”
Carla nodded jerkily. She couldn’t believe this was happening. She was about to be marched through a state courthouse buck naked like a pauper, and there wasn’t a thing she could do about it. Even after Joseph and the lawyers finished sorting this out, she’d still have to live with everything that’d happened. The club, the backseat, now this. She hoped the courtroom would be sealed.
“Alright, then walk with my partner there.” Porter said, turning to precede them to the doors of the building. Police had their own parking lot behind the courthouse; even judges and court staff had to park in the deck beneath it.
Carla wished they’d walk her quicker as they crossed the hot concrete, being baked by the Texas sun, but Tucker had her arm in a grip of iron. Moving steadily, calmly. As they walked, she could feel juices from her double fucking sliding slowly along the inside of her pussy. Some moisture was already welling up on her labia, where she could feel it starting to squish and ooze out as she walked.
She wanted to die, but instead she was being frog marched without pause.
Inside the courthouse, she came across her first bystanders. People lined up near doors or lingering on benches, waiting for their own sessions to start. They were clothed though. Dealing with a non-humiliating court matter. Not her. She was being walked with her tits and pussy hanging out for them all to see. Some looked. Then she noticed some didn’t, and couldn’t decide if that was better, or worse.
Porter glanced at his watch again and swore. “Stairs.”
Tucker looked at his. “Yeah, gotta move.”
They took her up two flights of stairs. The stairs were dirty, and grit abraded her carefully pumiced feet as she was made to climb. Carla was panting by the time they reached the third floor. A drip from her cunt had landed on her thigh, and she could feel it smearing on the other one as she was hustled down a long corridor. Past more bystanders.
Up ahead she saw Sofia, still in the lovely silk skirt and blouse combo from lunch, standing next to a tall woman with greying brown hair and a skirt suit that screamed try-hard-with-money. Carla took a breath.
The deputies recognized Sofia too. Tucker shook Carla’s arm once to get her attention. “Shut up.” he said in a low voice. “Slaves don’t talk unless spoken to by their master. Right now that’s us two.”
Carla wanted to die all over, but her eyes wouldn’t leave Sofia’s. This was a nightmare, and it was already happening. It was too late to wake up. There were at least half a dozen things she could do to get compensation and retribution after the lawyers sorted all this stupid shit out. After she had the collar off. Sofia was the only face in sight that might be in a position to even try to help her get to that revenge she wanted.
“Carla, we’ll be in there.” Sofia said as Tucker and Porter walked her past with her breasts bouncing lewdly. “Don’t worry. I got Susan here with me, she’ll take care of this.”
“Just cooperate Mrs Mariner.” the try-hard in the skirt with Sofia said. “I’ve talked with Marty Fisler, and he’s on his way too. We’ll sort things out.”
Carla wondered where Marty was. And if he could really do all that much to help; he was a political lawyer, specializing in policy and financial matters. Not slavery law. But she knew him at least. And he her.
Then she realized, if he was there, he’d see her with her body bared too, and couldn’t decide if that would be better or worse than not having him there. She wanted to ask Sofia what Beeman’s specialty was, but the deputies kept her moving like an animal being herded. And she knew they both had remotes that would turn her collar into a torture device.
Porter waved a keycard at a lock near the end of the hallway and held it open for Tucker to walk Carla through. Inside was another hallway, where she was walked to a door near the end that revealed a courtroom set up for the legally mandated explanation hearing to the newly enslaved.
A lot of other naked people, most women, some men, were already on their knees on the floor. In a line down both walls, each one leashed by a chain stretching from their collar to a hook on the wall. Every one of them in cuffs, metal or leather, heads down. A bailiff was watching them, but looked up when the door opened. She nodded and pointed at a spot, and Tucker led Carla over.
“Now you stay there on your knees.” Tucker said as he pushed her down next to a Hispanic woman who was blank faced and silent. The darker skinned woman had large breasts with big nipples, and a scar just under her collarbone from some since healed injury. She didn’t look up as Carla was placed next to her.
Porter handed Tucker a chain, which was clipped onto her collar. While Porter connected his end to the wall hook, Tucker leaned down. “But go ahead and back talk like you were when we picked you up. Bailiffs might like a little piece of you too. Slaves can get held for contempt. It starts with a whipping before you even hit the cell. It’s fun, try it.”
Then he patted her breasts like she was a dog, and walked away. Leaving her there on the floor. Carla’s knees were starting to hurt by the time she heard people begin filing into the courtroom. Voices drew her attention, and she looked up.
“Eyes and heads down.” the female bailiff snapped, and pain erupted on Carla’s arm as a riding crop – for horses – landed on it. The bailiff brandished the implement at Carla with a scowl as their gazes met. “Want another slave? I said down.”
Carla looked down quickly, her cheeks burning. She could feel eyes on her. The room sounded crowded, and more seemed to be joining. The buzz of conversation was muddled, but she was certain she heard her name a few times. She kept looking down. She could see the feet of the bailiff strolling back and forth sometimes and didn’t want another whack from the crop.
Finally she heard a different woman raise her voice from across the room. “Quiet please, the session is about to start. I said quiet! Silence all cellphones or it’s a two hundred dollar fine and an overnight stay in jail for contempt. If your phone goes off, that’s you spending the night.” Carla heard rustling, then the same woman spoke again. “All rise for Judge Jeffreys.”
Carla almost looked up, but she kept her head down. The bailiff hadn’t turned from her or the other slaves lined up along the wall. None of the slaves made to get up. Carla knew from laws she’d helped craft slaves were not people. A dog wouldn’t be expected to rise for the judge. Neither was she.
There was a long pause, and she heard a chair creak and roll across wood, then a voice she knew spoke.
“Be seated.” Jeffreys said.
Another pause, longer this time, that went on well after the rustle of feet and people sitting had faded. Carla heard whispering, but no yelling. No one objected or said to be quiet. Finally she heard the woman who’d called the room to order speak again.
“Case number 104-178144, Eagle Equities repossession and extradition regarding Slave 5416-678-9743 and Slave 5416-678-9744, the persons formerly known as Joseph and Carla Mariner.”
Carla gasped and looked up, eyes and head swiveling frantically around the room. Joseph was here? Where was he? She didn’t see him. The crop landed on her thigh with a stinging crack, and the bailiff glared at her. Carla looked down, her cheeks burning as another pair of shoes walked over to the bailiff standing over her. A moment later those shoes stepped in next to her, and she felt her leash being disconnected from the hook.
“Up, heel.” a man said. Carla staggered unsteadily to her feet, it was hard without her hands and arms to help, and followed the jerking of the chain over to one of the tables positioned at the front of the court. As she was led to it, she saw Joseph being brought over from the opposite wall.
He was as naked as she was, collared, hands behind his back. He was staring at her like he thought she was a ghost. He looked so pale. Did she look that bad? He’d been crying. His penis was swaying as he was tugged along on a chain, same as her breasts were bouncing. Both of them on display for the entire room to see.
“Down.” the man holding her chain said, and pushed on her shoulder. Carla went back to her knees next to the table. A moment later, Joseph was pushed down next to her.
“Shut up.” a different man said in a bailiff’s uniform said, leaning down next to them. “Judge is fucking pissed. Ten lashes for any slave who speaks out of turn, understand?”
Joseph nodded quickly, so Carla closed her mouth and did the same. She looked at her husband in terror, but all he could do was stare back at her silently. They were both doing that when she heard Jeffreys.
“I understand an attorney is present on this matter?”
“Yes your honor.” a woman said. It was Beeman, from the hallway. Carla listened, unwilling to find out what the penalty for looking up with the judge talking was. “Susan Beeman for the former Mariners Your Honor.”
“Mrs Beeman, have you reviewed anything about this case, or are you just barging in here hoping to wave a wand and do a little magic act?”
“Your Honor, the former Mariners dispute the facts of the case in every respect.”
“Oh, ain’t that grand.” Jeffreys said. “As if the same story doesn’t show up each and every time someone is collared. This time though, I don’t even have to listen to you make an argument. I can just save us both a whole heap of trouble right now. Did you pass the Bar, or is your diploma a forgery?”
“I am a member of the Texas Bar Your Honor.” Beeman said, her voice composed despite the judge’s obvious irritation.
“Then explain to me the Full Faith and Credit Clause of the Constitution of these here United States.”
Carla felt her insides starting to congeal like icy mud. That was the very tool she and other lobbyists had advised the Southern states to use to ram recognition of the amended Constitution’s ensuing Slavery Laws down the throats of the states that hadn’t voted in favor of Slavery. Like Connecticut.
“Under Article Four, Section One, courts shall respect the laws and rulings of other courts, even across state lines Your Honor.”
“Very good.” Jeffreys said. Papers rustled loudly. “I have here a stack of court records and filings on 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. I have spent most of my lunch hour arguing about it all with Judge Holloway up in Connecticut. And he informed me of the following. Feel free to take notes, but write fast because I have a full docket and this has taken up too much of my day already.”
Carla’s heart was sinking. Beside her, Joseph was shifting on his knees. She heard him sniffle like he was choking back a sob.
“Your honor, neither of the currently collared persons I represent in this matter have a Slave Registration Number, so it is—”
“They have them now, so ordered by Judge Holloway.” Jeffreys said. “Now quiet so we can get through this.” Papers rustled, and Carla heard Beeman trading barely audible whispers with someone next to her at the table. Then the judge spoke again.
“One, in their previous identities 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four had a mortgage for a little less than ten million dollars on an estate here in Austin. Two, Eagle Equities purchased that mortgage as a block of others they also purchased approximately seven months ago. Three, after that purchase, in their former identities, 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four and every other mortgage holder in that block were notified by registered mail of changes in their mortgage terms.
“Four, those changes concerned default clauses. Specifically, the addition of enslavement clauses in the event of a default. Five, the estate of 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four’s previous identity is currently six months in arrears on said mortgage, to the tune of more than three hundred and forty thousand dollars. Six, neither 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four are slave graded so their value is unknown. And Seven, the stock now known as 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four had ignored four good-faith efforts by Eagle Equities to arrange with their prior identities to bring their payments up to date.”
Jeffreys rattled off the entire lineage in a clearly annoyed drawl, spitting words at times. Then papers slapped together loudly before he spoke again. “Under Full Faith and Credit, I am bound by law to process the asset repossession and extradition Judge Holloway has ordered based on filings Eagle Equity has laid before him.”
“Your Honor, the Mariners estate has a net worth in excess of six million dollars, exclusive of equity in the property. Their mortgage was held for tax reasons, not because of lack of available funds.”
“Then they shoulda paid it one would think.”
“My firm has empowered me to write a check right now to bring their mortgage up to date Your Honor.” Beeman said. “And another one to both courts to compensate them for lost time and resources in dealing with this matter.”
“Well Judge Holloway ain’t prepared to take any checks, because Eagle Equity don’t think they’ll clear.”
“My firm will stand for the check and write it on our account.”
“Still no.” Jeffreys said. “The balance on the property is still more than six million dollars. Holloway says his litigants are unwilling to proceed unless their debtors are properly slave graded and a full valuation is established on them and the estate they leave behind. After that, and the probate clears, they might be willing to consider options that get them their money.”
“Your Honor, the former Mariners have no current legal standing. Their assets will go to Slave Probate, which could take months to sort out with dockets what they are these days.”
“Ms Beeman, what does the name plate on my desk here say?”
“Judge Rudolph Jeffreys Your Honor.”
“Below that.”
“District Court Judge.”
Something that sounded like a hand slapped on something that sounded wood. Carla wanted to look up, wanted to jump to her feet and beg, scream, but was afraid to even breathe.
“I spend five days a week, every afternoon, processing Collar explanations to folks just like 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four here.”
“Your Honor—” Beeman began, but the hand on wood sound came again.
“No, I don’t want to hear it. The only difference here is how many zeroes are on the numbers in the documents. None of these other collared folks in my court here owed millions, but they’re in the same boat as 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. They done fucked up, simple as singing in the rain.”
“Your Honor, this is a clerical error on the part of Eagle Equities. It is unlawful to collar the former Mariners.” Beeman said. She sounded worried.
Carla was worried. Carla was so worried she felt like her bladder was about to let go. She and Joseph were not broke. Their checking account had more than half a million dollars in it. How could the mortgage be in arrears? This was obviously a huge mistake that was patently obvious. To everyone except the law apparently.
“And I raised that point with Judge Holloway.” Jeffreys said. “He’s satisfied as to the documents presented to him that there are serious questions as to the debt, its validity, and the ability of the estate of 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four to settle it in a timely manner now that it has been called. So you can locate co-counsel with the Connecticut bar and take it up with him.”
“Your Honor—”
This time the sound was a gavel, not a hand. It hammered down with a sharp rap that carried. Beeman stopped talking immediately. Carla jumped, so did Joseph. He was now crying. She glanced sideways at him, but his eyes were buried in his chest. At the apex of his thighs she could see his penis resting there, out for everyone to see like a little worm.
“Ms Beeman, my hands are tied. You are welcome to trot on up to Connecticut, but for today you are done. Sit down.”
Carla burst into tears. She heard whispering at the table above her, frantic and angry. Every inch of her skin was crawling, and every piece of her insides was frozen. She flinched as a crop landed on her backside, hard enough that it felt like fire had been poured on her skin. She looked up to see a bailiff at her side, glaring at her. He pointed forward, and she looked where his finger was indicating.
Judge Jeffreys, who she’d had lunch with three or four times a year for the last decade, was also glaring at her. She swallowed at the look of fury in his eyes.
“97 forty-three and 97 forty-four, you used to be Joseph and Carla Mariner?”
“Answer.” the bailiff with the crop said in a whisper. He patted it on their backs in rapid succession, just bouncing it back and forth against them.
Carla heard Joseph croak something out that didn’t even really qualify as a grunt. It was just an inarticulate strangled noise. Carla opened her mouth and tried to answer. “Yes.” she said, her voice cracking like lake ice in the spring.
“Federal and State law requires I explain your situation to you. Here it is. You have defaulted on a debt. Your debtor is reclaiming assets to recover some or all of that loss. You are among those assets. While there is a possibility that, should sufficient recompense be made available you might see your terms in collar shortened or ended, that is not a guarantee. In any event, you will be remanded to your current Owners, Eagle Equities of Connecticut, where they will determine your disposition and use while collared.”
Carla stared at Jeffreys, through him. She could hardly focus, but was afraid to blink or look away. The tears kept falling, welling up and sliding down her cheeks as she kept her eyes on him. She was afraid the floor was going to open up and chomp her into bits, and that would just get her in more trouble. She couldn’t even imagine what more trouble might be.
“Slaves new to the collar are often confused. That gets them into trouble. This appearance before you’re transferred to your Owner is designed to help adjust you to your new reality. So listen closely.
“You are slaves. You are no longer Joseph or Carla Mariner. You have no rights. You have no recourse. You are livestock under the Constitution and laws of both the United States and Texas. Laws that you assume apply to you as a person do not as chattel.
“For example, I cannot order my bailiffs to bend Counselor Beeman here over the railing there and lay a strap across her body just because she annoyed me. As slaves, you two can be beaten, compelled, used sexually, used for work, used for any purpose allowed for under the Slavery Acts. Law enforcement not only will decline to intervene, but is empowered to support these activities should the Owner need such support from the rule of law.”
Carla’s tears were making her vision blur now, dampening her cheeks in several fat rivulets that just kept falling. This was a nightmare. How could this happen. She felt trapped.
“This is your new reality, until your collar is removed by your current or future owner. My advice to all who find themselves in your position is to embrace this reality or it will consume you. Settle in and let the ride happen, because if you don’t it never works out well for the slave.”
Jeffreys studied them for a moment. Carla couldn’t stop crying. She tried to plead with her eyes, but Jeffreys was looking at her like she was nothing. Like he hadn’t traded Christmas cards with her for years. She noticed he was looking at her breasts, and almost wanted covering instead of the collar’s removal, his gaze felt so clinging as he examined her as a thing, not a person.
“Bailiff, remove these two and ship them out according to the court’s instructions.” Robert said, tapping his gavel again. “Clerk, call the next case.”
“Up.” a bailiff said, grabbing Carla’s arm. “Stand there.” She stood swaying as he yanked Joseph up next to her. She looked at the defense table. Beeman was there with two younger people, a man and a woman, also in suits. They were conferring with each other with a look no one ever wanted to see on a lawyer supporting them.
Panic.
Behind the table, on the public side of the bar, she saw Sophia standing there looking at her with a shocked expression. Carla had that one moment to try and make a connection that might, somehow, end this nightmare, then she was being yanked into motion by the chain on her collar.
“Heel.” she heard the bailiff say. She stumbled after him, next to her husband, cuffed and naked like every slave was when appearing before a court. She kept crying as she was pulled out into the hallway and deeper into the courthouse.
* * * * *
Story Continues
Last edited by dnight on Sun Jan 29, 2023 4:19 am, edited 2 times in total.
Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Gotcha
Part 3 of 4
* * * * *
Carla looked up as the door was rolled up. She was on her knees, bent almost double in a small metal cage. There wasn’t enough room for her to unfold more than a few inches from the enforced fetal position. The cage was in the back of a moving truck, and wasn’t the only one. Carla had lost count at around twenty, as cages were stacked atop and in front of hers.
Each cage held a collared slave, nude, cuffed, and gagged. The gag was leather with a cloth pad on the inside that smelled sour and foul. The cloth filled her mouth, swallowing any noise she tried to make. Was it really necessary for the gag to be so disgusting? Wasn’t it enough that she was enroute to an unknown fate she had zero control over? She and the others had to be silenced with something that couldn’t even be bothered to have been washed?
She had managed to stop crying, but now she was afraid it was because she’d dehydrated herself. Her mouth was so dry. Her wrists hurt in the cuffs, leather now not metal, but no less painful. They were tight on her skin. The small of her back protested the cramped bend. Her knees were killing her, and she felt her thighs burning. Her lower legs she could hardly feel through the pins and needles of blocked circulation.
How could this be legal? She kept running through the laws in her head. Which stated the health and viability of slaves had to be safeguarded. That it wasn’t permissible for owners, wranglers, or anyone else to abuse a slave in a way that might lower their economic value. Yet here she was, on the verge of blood clots and tissue damage simply because smaller cages apparently stacked better in the truck.
She had no idea where Joseph was. They’d been separated in the jail attached to the courthouse. He’d been led away like someone who was already dead, he was so lifeless and lethargic. Carla had been led through a different door, and shoved into a small shower.
There, she was scrubbed by a bailiff with a long ‘brush’ that was just a trimmed mop from a big box home improvement store. Sprayed with water that was so cold it raised goose bumps and shivers. Then spritzed with soap from a bottle and scrubbed some more. When she balked at spreading her legs so the broom could work up her thighs, and between them, the collar had delivered a shock that dropped her to her knees right there in the bathroom.
After she staggered back to her feet, she spread her legs. She’d rather deal with the humiliation than the pain. She stood there as the brush spread soap around, and worked over her genitals. The bailiff, who was at least twenty years younger than her, grinned the whole time. Then the spray was back, leaving her shivering from more than the bailiff’s greedy eyes and residual tremors from the painful collar reminder.
That hadn’t been the worst. Carla had just been put in a cell by herself when several men, some bailiffs, some sheriff’s deputies, crowded in with big grins and eager hands. She was bent, spread, and held between three of them. She’d heard the jokes about ‘air tight’ and even laughed a couple of times when a drunk state senator or representative brought it up as a way to break in a slave.
Now she was the one taking three dicks at once. The one at her mouth didn’t stop there, he went deep. She spent the entire encounter gagging and gasping, desperate for air, as behind her two more thrust at her ass and pussy. She finally was able to catch her breath after the guy face fucking her came and coated her throat with slime. He pulled out while she gasped and choked, then a different man took his place and pressed his own cock in.
She kept hearing things like “hurry up” and “we don’t have long” as they used her like a slave. Then a fourth man came into the cell and started yelling.
For a moment, for one brief moment, she thought maybe he was going to at least tell them off for daring to touch her, use her. But no, he was just angry they were making him late. The truck was here; that’d been all he said.
Then she was brushed off with a ratty towel and hauled to a loading dock to be placed in the cage before being loaded into the truck by a forklift. The line of slaves, either already caged or waiting to be put in one, stretched off the dock and back inside the courthouse. Most were young, under thirty; only a few were approaching or in middle age like her. They all looked defeated and terrified.
It wasn’t until she was stacked up in the truck with the other slaves in their cages that she realized the bailiff in the shower had cleaned her up just so his fellow slavers could use her fresh. After they had, well, how she was left was apparently her problem to deal with. Except she had no means or opportunity to do anything. That had started her crying again, until the tears ran out. While her pussy dripped and asshole ached.
She had no idea how long she’d been in the truck by now. More than an hour, easily. Traffic noise was still audible outside the walls of the truck, but it was fainter. She blinked as sunlight splashed across the stacks of cages as the truck’s door was raised, and she saw a man and a woman in rough work clothes and high-visibility vests on the lift gate. The man had a sheet of paper in his hands.
“You see’em?” the woman in the hardhat asked.
The man pointed at a cage near where he and the woman stood. “Um, well, here’s 97 forty-three.”
That was one of the numbers from court. Carla craned her neck, but there were caged slaves between her and where the workers were pointing. She couldn’t see Joseph.
“The other’s the same lot?”
“Yeah, same; 97 forty-four.”
“Family.” the woman said casually, like it was nothing new. She turned to a pallet jack on the lift gate behind her and rolled it forward while the man started examining cages deeper in the truck. Carla finally saw Joseph, crunched down the same as her and the other caged slaves, as the pallet jack lifted his cage and moved it to the lift gate.
“Figures.” the man said when his eyes fell on the shipping label affixed to the front of Carla’s cage. She stared at him, but he was looking at the label, not her. “They buried it.”
“Fuckers at the damn … is it so hard to look at the manifest and load the first off last?” the woman swore before she engaged the lift with a whine of motors.
“We’ll need the forklift.”
“I’m getting it.” the woman said.
Carla watched as Joseph was carted off to who knows where. Around her, the gagged slaves were quiet. Even when a little forklift came back and started repositioning caged slaves. They lifted a whole stack in front of her clear, then removed three that were atop hers and set them aside before the forklift could finally slide into the handling slots on hers and pull it out.
Joseph was on a loading dock that smelled like urine and oil, like a mechanic’s shop that doubled as a bathroom. He looked at her with red eyes over the gag plastered across the lower half of his face just before her cage was dropped roughly atop his. Carla looked back, wondering again if she looked as defeated and terrified as he did.
The forklift picked his cage up, with hers along for the ride now, and trundled off into a warehouse. She heard lots of engines, in the distance. Then some whooshing noises that suddenly clicked together in her head; airport. They were at an airport. Not a good sign.
Carla didn’t know anyone in Connecticut. None of her friends were up there either. Would Sophia or anyone else really invest in having a lawyer, even one already in Connecticut, appear to sort this mess out?
She could only hope. But it was frustrating in a way she’d never envisioned to have absolutely no control at all over it, over anything. She and her husband were being shipped like so much meat. Like slaves.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The woman driving the forklift took the turns fast enough that Carla swayed against the wire of her cage as the vehicle rotated around shelves designed to hold crates and boxes just like hers. Some of the shelves had caged slaves already on them. Some just held boxes, but she saw a few labels. Logos for slaving industry equipment and supplies flashed before her eyes, while caged slaves eyed her as she and Joseph were whisked past.
Finally the forklift left the shelves behind and entered a cleared space that had a conveyor belt leading outside. A big weird curved box was on the belt, and workers were milling about it as they took cages from the shelves, removed the slaves, and made them back into larger cages built into the big box. Carla wasn’t sure but it looked like multiple slaves fit into the bigger container, not just one per.
* * * * *
Story Continues
Part 3 of 4
* * * * *
Carla looked up as the door was rolled up. She was on her knees, bent almost double in a small metal cage. There wasn’t enough room for her to unfold more than a few inches from the enforced fetal position. The cage was in the back of a moving truck, and wasn’t the only one. Carla had lost count at around twenty, as cages were stacked atop and in front of hers.
Each cage held a collared slave, nude, cuffed, and gagged. The gag was leather with a cloth pad on the inside that smelled sour and foul. The cloth filled her mouth, swallowing any noise she tried to make. Was it really necessary for the gag to be so disgusting? Wasn’t it enough that she was enroute to an unknown fate she had zero control over? She and the others had to be silenced with something that couldn’t even be bothered to have been washed?
She had managed to stop crying, but now she was afraid it was because she’d dehydrated herself. Her mouth was so dry. Her wrists hurt in the cuffs, leather now not metal, but no less painful. They were tight on her skin. The small of her back protested the cramped bend. Her knees were killing her, and she felt her thighs burning. Her lower legs she could hardly feel through the pins and needles of blocked circulation.
How could this be legal? She kept running through the laws in her head. Which stated the health and viability of slaves had to be safeguarded. That it wasn’t permissible for owners, wranglers, or anyone else to abuse a slave in a way that might lower their economic value. Yet here she was, on the verge of blood clots and tissue damage simply because smaller cages apparently stacked better in the truck.
She had no idea where Joseph was. They’d been separated in the jail attached to the courthouse. He’d been led away like someone who was already dead, he was so lifeless and lethargic. Carla had been led through a different door, and shoved into a small shower.
There, she was scrubbed by a bailiff with a long ‘brush’ that was just a trimmed mop from a big box home improvement store. Sprayed with water that was so cold it raised goose bumps and shivers. Then spritzed with soap from a bottle and scrubbed some more. When she balked at spreading her legs so the broom could work up her thighs, and between them, the collar had delivered a shock that dropped her to her knees right there in the bathroom.
After she staggered back to her feet, she spread her legs. She’d rather deal with the humiliation than the pain. She stood there as the brush spread soap around, and worked over her genitals. The bailiff, who was at least twenty years younger than her, grinned the whole time. Then the spray was back, leaving her shivering from more than the bailiff’s greedy eyes and residual tremors from the painful collar reminder.
That hadn’t been the worst. Carla had just been put in a cell by herself when several men, some bailiffs, some sheriff’s deputies, crowded in with big grins and eager hands. She was bent, spread, and held between three of them. She’d heard the jokes about ‘air tight’ and even laughed a couple of times when a drunk state senator or representative brought it up as a way to break in a slave.
Now she was the one taking three dicks at once. The one at her mouth didn’t stop there, he went deep. She spent the entire encounter gagging and gasping, desperate for air, as behind her two more thrust at her ass and pussy. She finally was able to catch her breath after the guy face fucking her came and coated her throat with slime. He pulled out while she gasped and choked, then a different man took his place and pressed his own cock in.
She kept hearing things like “hurry up” and “we don’t have long” as they used her like a slave. Then a fourth man came into the cell and started yelling.
For a moment, for one brief moment, she thought maybe he was going to at least tell them off for daring to touch her, use her. But no, he was just angry they were making him late. The truck was here; that’d been all he said.
Then she was brushed off with a ratty towel and hauled to a loading dock to be placed in the cage before being loaded into the truck by a forklift. The line of slaves, either already caged or waiting to be put in one, stretched off the dock and back inside the courthouse. Most were young, under thirty; only a few were approaching or in middle age like her. They all looked defeated and terrified.
It wasn’t until she was stacked up in the truck with the other slaves in their cages that she realized the bailiff in the shower had cleaned her up just so his fellow slavers could use her fresh. After they had, well, how she was left was apparently her problem to deal with. Except she had no means or opportunity to do anything. That had started her crying again, until the tears ran out. While her pussy dripped and asshole ached.
She had no idea how long she’d been in the truck by now. More than an hour, easily. Traffic noise was still audible outside the walls of the truck, but it was fainter. She blinked as sunlight splashed across the stacks of cages as the truck’s door was raised, and she saw a man and a woman in rough work clothes and high-visibility vests on the lift gate. The man had a sheet of paper in his hands.
“You see’em?” the woman in the hardhat asked.
The man pointed at a cage near where he and the woman stood. “Um, well, here’s 97 forty-three.”
That was one of the numbers from court. Carla craned her neck, but there were caged slaves between her and where the workers were pointing. She couldn’t see Joseph.
“The other’s the same lot?”
“Yeah, same; 97 forty-four.”
“Family.” the woman said casually, like it was nothing new. She turned to a pallet jack on the lift gate behind her and rolled it forward while the man started examining cages deeper in the truck. Carla finally saw Joseph, crunched down the same as her and the other caged slaves, as the pallet jack lifted his cage and moved it to the lift gate.
“Figures.” the man said when his eyes fell on the shipping label affixed to the front of Carla’s cage. She stared at him, but he was looking at the label, not her. “They buried it.”
“Fuckers at the damn … is it so hard to look at the manifest and load the first off last?” the woman swore before she engaged the lift with a whine of motors.
“We’ll need the forklift.”
“I’m getting it.” the woman said.
Carla watched as Joseph was carted off to who knows where. Around her, the gagged slaves were quiet. Even when a little forklift came back and started repositioning caged slaves. They lifted a whole stack in front of her clear, then removed three that were atop hers and set them aside before the forklift could finally slide into the handling slots on hers and pull it out.
Joseph was on a loading dock that smelled like urine and oil, like a mechanic’s shop that doubled as a bathroom. He looked at her with red eyes over the gag plastered across the lower half of his face just before her cage was dropped roughly atop his. Carla looked back, wondering again if she looked as defeated and terrified as he did.
The forklift picked his cage up, with hers along for the ride now, and trundled off into a warehouse. She heard lots of engines, in the distance. Then some whooshing noises that suddenly clicked together in her head; airport. They were at an airport. Not a good sign.
Carla didn’t know anyone in Connecticut. None of her friends were up there either. Would Sophia or anyone else really invest in having a lawyer, even one already in Connecticut, appear to sort this mess out?
She could only hope. But it was frustrating in a way she’d never envisioned to have absolutely no control at all over it, over anything. She and her husband were being shipped like so much meat. Like slaves.
This wasn’t supposed to happen.
The woman driving the forklift took the turns fast enough that Carla swayed against the wire of her cage as the vehicle rotated around shelves designed to hold crates and boxes just like hers. Some of the shelves had caged slaves already on them. Some just held boxes, but she saw a few labels. Logos for slaving industry equipment and supplies flashed before her eyes, while caged slaves eyed her as she and Joseph were whisked past.
Finally the forklift left the shelves behind and entered a cleared space that had a conveyor belt leading outside. A big weird curved box was on the belt, and workers were milling about it as they took cages from the shelves, removed the slaves, and made them back into larger cages built into the big box. Carla wasn’t sure but it looked like multiple slaves fit into the bigger container, not just one per.
* * * * *
Story Continues
Last edited by dnight on Sun Jan 29, 2023 4:22 am, edited 1 time in total.
Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Gotcha
Part 4 of 4
* * * * *
A woman was waiting at the edge of a square painted on the concrete in red. Next to the conveyor belt. Unlike the workers, she was dressed for the office in heels, hose, a skirt to her knees, and a pretty blouse with a broach at her collar. Young, maybe mid-twenties, a bit plain but pretty enough to turn a few heads.
Carla studied her as the forklift rolled right up to her and stopped. Then her eyes widened. Cindy! Joseph’s secretary at the bank. What was Cindy—she’d come to save them! This nightmare was ending.
The forklift reversed away, then came back and picked up Carla’s cage to set it next to Joseph’s. Then Carla heard the machine’s electric motors shut off behind her. She heard the woman driving it speak again. “These the right ones?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cindy said. She opened her purse and pulled out some money. At least one of the bills was a hundred dollar one. Cindy gave it all to the forklift driver with a smile.
“Okay, ten minutes.” the driver said. “Maybe longer, but the flight’s in the system to start loading pretty soon.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t miss it.” Cindy said.
Carla felt her stomach drop out of her abdomen, and plummet into the Earth below. Cindy was … what was she doing?
“Hello Mr and Mrs Mariner.” Cindy said, turning to the stacked cages as the forklift driver walked off.
“Are you comfortable? Not that it matters. Neither of you cared about slaves before now, did you? Except, you did, but only because of money. They had value, you wanted to take that, and so the two of you have spent years lobbying and manipulating the system to let you do exactly that. Take people.”
Carla heard Joseph trying to talk through the gag, but it was thick, and strapped on tight. She could just hear mumbles, not words. His eyes were wide, and she saw shock in them. Not anger, or sadness, but abject shock.
Cindy smiled as she moved closer to the cages, her heels clicking on the concrete. They were alone; no one else was within thirty feet, and the warehouse had airplanes outside, engines in here, stuff banging around. Just her and two slaves, who didn’t even count as people anymore.
“Wage garnishment, taking the house or the car, taking other assets … it wasn’t enough was it? No, rich people were still losing out. Some poor folks were just so poor, had fallen on such hard times, there was nothing left to squeeze out. So you and a bunch of other rich assholes decided if all that was left was the body, well you’d take that too.”
“But that wasn’t enough either. Maybe slavery’s got some societal purpose, and maybe it doesn’t, but the laws you two helped craft take it to a whole other level. You dehumanize people. Just because you can. People, even actual deadbeat debtors or felons, could be collared with some dignity, but that’d be inefficient. That wouldn’t scare anyone else. It wouldn’t put the fear of missing a payment, of committing a crime, into the rest of us would it?”
Cindy shook her head and let her fingertips bump along the thick wire on the front of the cages. From Joseph’s, to Carla’s, and back again. Smiling tightly. Drinking in their wide eyed stares. She reached into Joseph’s cage and ran her hand across the back of his shoulders and neck.
“No, the laws just had to be crafted to break people. It wasn’t enough to send a letter, tell people they should report to here or there or wherever for a collar. Even the sex, that could still be handled the way every other kind of sex is couldn’t it? Privately, behind closed doors? Not a collared naked slave on their knees in a restaurant giving head while everyone watches?
“But no, every slave has to be naked. Stripped right on the spot. Available for sucking and fucking by anyone else. Agriculture Department’s office, bank office, roadside, in a bar, wherever. Send out a cop or a slave catcher, they slap cuffs on them and tear off all their clothes on the spot. March them out in front of their coworkers, their friends, their family, anyone. Slave naked, that’s what the law calls it right? All slaves have to be naked, so that’s the term.”
Cindy stroked Joseph a few times, dragging her nails across his back. Carla could see little lines being left in his flesh; not cuts, but compression marks. Then Cindy extracted her hand and moved to Carla’s cage, reaching in to start stroking and touching her too.
“Even in court.” Cindy said. “Every court in the world has formality, laws, rituals. Decorum. Not ours, not anymore. Now even being accused of something is cause for a person to not be a person anymore. They’re a witness, or a suspect, and they lose all rights as a person. Stripped down the same as an actual felon or debtor, hauled out into the street, down to the courthouse, and made to squat there on their knees like a naked animal.”
Cindy shook her head again. Carla was wincing as she felt the woman’s fingernails now. It hurt as they were drawn across her skin. Lines of fire, digging deep through her. She tried to press herself lower, but Cindy’s hand stayed in contact.
“Why? Why is that so important? It has to happen out in public? It just has to be used to terrorize, to strip not just clothes but dignity?” Cindy said as she toyed with Carla. “Law says it does. Case law says it does. Bet you wish you’d built some actual safeguards into the system now huh? Now that it’s not just a little nobody, but your pale asses hanging out for everyone to pinch and see.”
Carla heard Joseph yelp as Carla reached into his cage with her other hand. A moment later Carla felt the secretary’s painted fingernails close on her bottom and squeeze painfully. She jumped, but managed to hold the scream in as Cindy chuckled.
“And atop all that, after all that efficient economic change, it still wasn’t enough. Third-party rule, that’s what it’s called right? You convinced the legislature it ‘wasn’t fair to buyers’ or to the slaving industry that takes their cut from each collar going through their facility to the block, to reverse a sale they thought was valid. Just because somebody tricked or trapped someone else into a collar, well that’s the slave’s problem. Can’t stop the profit right?”
Joseph was shaking his head again, trying to talk. Cindy just laughed. Carla stared at the woman. Why was Cindy so angry. But it wasn’t just anger. There was some in there, but also pleasure. No, glee. Cindy was delighted. How could she be so wantonly cruel? Carla pulled on her cuffs, but they held firm, trapping her hands behind her back. The cage was locked anyway, but at least she’d be able to try to fend Cindy off.
“Too much lost tax revenue, too messy to reverse a transaction. To investigate it the way we would with an assault or kidnapping or even a simple theft or breach of contract. Easier to just ignore it, ignore common sense or anything else. Certainly to ignore the decorum justice used to have. One big gotcha game.
“Same as how the system treats slave grading as a cruel gotcha. The laws could state grading is a simple process, if abjectly humiliating, with clear rules. They just don’t. A person could check themselves in, get a grade after being fondled and humiliated, but then leave. Nope, the whole system is built with gotchas. Doesn’t matter that a power of attorney isn’t legally required for grading. The houses, anyone, are allowed to say it is.
“What does a slave wrangler who processes dozens slaves a day in an auction house think when someone walks in for grading with someone else needlessly holding them on a leash and offering a power of attorney? They don’t think ‘well gosh, that’s not necessary.’ No, they start angling for a commission. There’s a sale to be made, and fuck the person being graded right?”
Cindy rattled Carla’s cage with her hand, pulling it so it swayed some. Next to her, Carla could hear Joseph still trying to talk. The cloth swallowed every word, reducing it to so much nothing. She thought he might be trying to plead, but it was incoherent. Barely even any emotion. Just animal noises.
“Everything about the system you’ve helped build and profit from is designed to entrap people. To support the narrative that slavery’s normal and common and not really a big deal. Someone messes up, gets maneuvered into a collar, well too bad. Court doesn’t care, wranglers don’t care, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. The moment a collar goes on, you’re not a person anymore. Pretty neat how that removes every bit of legal standing you or anyone else might have to appeal or protest what feels like a sentence huh?”
Cindy reached into her purse and extracted some folded paper. She straightened the pages out, then shuffled them apart. Holding one up to each cage, so Joseph could see one, and Carla the other. Carla stared at it.
It was a bill of sale. From Eagle Equities to NaturaTraining of New Haven Connecticut. Listing one Caucasian female, age forty-four, height five foot six, weight … Carla’s head began to swim like she was mired in molasses as she recognized her description. Up at the top was a long number in blocks separated with hyphens, ending in 97 forty-four. That’s what the judge had been calling them, what the workers had. 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. She must be 97 forty-four.
At the bottom was a comment block for notes. There, in neatly typed text, was ‘Purchased sight unseen.’ There were other things on the page, but some of them seemed like codes, or made no sense. What was pony evaluation? Or obedience processing? First refusal to original seller?
Next to her, Joseph was rocking the cage back and forth like he wanted to try to tear it apart. Or knock it over. Cindy was smiling again, when she lowered the pages and folded them back into her purse. Carla felt sick. The third-party rule. Whatever the hell was going on, unless NaturaTraining of New Haven was in on it, they’d just sealed her and Joseph into collars. Irrevocably.
By laws she herself had helped write and put before the legislature for passage.
Carla smiled as she reached back into the cages and began stroking the slaves. Carla would have bitten her if she’d had her teeth available. She would’ve broken the woman’s fingers if her hands were free. Instead, she had to kneel there scrunched up like a poodle in a small cage while Cindy fondled her one of her breasts like it was fun to play with.
“And then the law started looking the other way when people began cheating.” Cindy said as her fingers stroked along Carla’s boob. “Loan officer decides to change the terms, or call the loan in for no good reason, and they can. And because it’s a loan backed by a collar, suddenly someone who was just trying to go to college is naked and being cornholed. It’s only a few years, right? What’s the big deal? Everyone does it.”
Cindy was glaring at Joseph now. She kept fondling Carla as she turned and reached into his cage. Carla heard Joseph yell again as Cindy did something to him.
“Everybody in my graduating class at high school had to go get graded.” Cindy said. “What do you know about it? Born with enough money to have power, you and your wife with the ear of politicians and Congressional representatives, what do you know about what that does to someone?
“Here’s your choice kid. Go work a lifetime of minimum wage jobs, never taking a credit card, or a loan even for a car much less a house. Or trot your ass into an auction house and put up with a day or two of being groped and fondled and fucked for all to see. Hell, it’s fucking sport for a lot of folks; go down to the auction house and see the show. Hope you find someone you know, and get to play with them some while they’re just trying endure the nightmare.”
Cindy’s fingers closed around Carla’s nipple, and twisted hard. Carla yelped into the gag and felt her back press painfully into the wire above her as she tried to rear back. Tried to pull herself out of reach. Cindy’s fingers just closed tighter, working her boob back and forth by the nipple.
“Three of my classmates, all of them girls of course, were gotcha grabbed that day by a family member or the wranglers. Paperwork got mixed up or had an error, oh well. The collar stayed on, and they had to just take it. Lost years. But that’s the system, right? It’s just the way it is. The way you wanted it.”
Cindy finally let Carla’s tit go, and Carla panted into the gag as her abused flesh struggled to rebound, complaining to her about pain. She couldn’t even massage some feeling into herself after the rough handling. She wished her bug stare would work, because she wanted Cindy to feel every inch of it. The woman just kept talking as she patted Carla’s hip like they were friends.
“Then my sister, after three years with one to go on an economics degree, got snapped up by our bank Joseph.” Cindy said, her voice suddenly very, very quiet. And very, very angry. “Do you remember when I asked you to look into it? Do you remember what you said? I do. ‘There’s nothing to be done, she signed the papers.’ I will never forget how disinterested you were when you said that on the way out to lunch.”
Cindy glared at Joseph. “She was a solid B student Joseph. But Franklin down in loan processing decided she was cute and sexy and needed to be collared. Of course he had a reason. Pointed to her grades, and the job market, and said she was ‘unlikely’ to not fall into default within a few years. Jeanie would never land a top, top job that could pay the loan off fast without a 3.9 or better GPA right?”
Joseph yelled something swallowed by the gag as Cindy’s hand went into the cage low. Very low. Right about at his waist. Carla couldn’t see what she was doing, but by the way Joseph was squirming it looked painful.
“Her value to the bank would be less if she wasn’t a nubile twenty-one year old. She’d graduate, then maybe around twenty-seven, twenty-eight, might have fallen behind on her payments with a less than crème de la crème salary. Almost like the loans are designed that way huh? So she could finish her degree after she paid off her loan with three or four years of her ass.
“She was getting a gift, you said Joseph. She could face years of loan repayments, and still default anyway. Or she could take advantage of her youth, her grade that relies only on her sex appeal, and cash it in now. Well the bank sure as hell cashed her in. Franklin had himself a nice little visit with her in the office for more than an hour. Then he walked her naked over to the Agriculture Department himself to process her in for sale.”
Joseph was thrashing inside the cage again. Carla could hear it thumping against the floor. She heard Cindy laugh, and by Joseph’s gagged protests figured the woman was still doing whatever it was she’d been doing to drag such a reaction out of her husband.
“She ended up in West Texas thirty hours later, on some shitheel redneck well-to-do’s cattle farm. Primed for six nights a week in the rancher’s bed, days spent following him around slave naked like a pet. For him and the cowboys to grope and fondle and ogle. Friday nights she was going to be his performance incentive for the hands so they’d work hard to get a chance to romp with the pet fuck bunny.
“All because she was cute and had a good slave grade she didn’t want, but needed to pay for college since we didn’t grow up rich.”
Cindy straightened from her crouch and stretched her back out. Carla hated the woman more now. Her back was killing her. Carla felt like she might never be able to stand upright, she was so cramped and squished in the cage.
“The bank makes more money when loan officers look for the cute ones and plays gotcha with them. I see the reports, I run the numbers. I see everything that goes across your desk Joseph. That’s my job. Guess it’s too bad for you I wasn’t the cute one, like Jeanie. Because you route your personal business to the office too.”
Carla froze as Cindy laughed. Her mind was whirling. Joseph did all the business at the office, professional and personal. At the bank. Where Carla was his secretary. Their checking account statements went to his office. Their car title renewals went to the office. Their doctor appointment reminders went to his fucking office.
“You dump everything on me Joseph. I sign for dozens of things a day, get signatures for dozens more from you the same way. Initial here, sign that. You toss papers at me and say handle it, deal with it. Fetch this, go get that. Tell the pool cleaner more chlorine, pick up the dry cleaning. I mail the checks, run your errands. Everything.
“You left it all to me Joseph. And I never get a Christmas bonus. You scowl and make me feel guilty when I need a morning off to go to the doctor. Last year when my car broke down you threatened to fire me if I didn’t find a way to keep running all your errands anyway. I had to rent a car Joseph. I ate beans and rice in the pitch dark for three months to pay off the repair and rental bill, but I guess I found a way because you didn’t fire me.”
Cindy kicked Joseph’s cage with the sole of her shoe, making it rattle. Then she kicked again, this time getting the toe of her shoe through a hole in the wire so it impacted against his ass pressed up against the cage wall. He yelled again, the gag still swallowing every last note.
“Then I asked you for one thing. Keep my sister out of a collar. I never said a word about the other girls, and it’s always girls that somehow need to be called in on one day’s notice to settle or collar. Never guys, never male students being told it’s time to cover the loan paying for their degree or submit to a term buck ass naked for a few years of fucking and sucking. Always a girl Joseph.
“But I let it slide. Just Jeanie. Just my little sister. Do this one thing for me. But no, that wasn’t policy. That ruined the narrative you run past the board, past the other bank officers, past all those people interested in the way they want it to play out. So she became a wealthy rancher’s fuck bunny and here you are.”
Cindy smiled, her cheeks lifting without joy. Dripping with intent, with malice. “I do your signature better than you do. You make me do it for you all the time. Then I notarize it ten or fifteen times a week and file it with the court, with the SEC, with lots of people. Everything’s on file in your office, in the cabinets and on the computer. Every letter, every fax, every email, every call that’s logged; they’re all accounted for. You saw them, you received them, you returned those calls, sent those responses.
“The bank just wanted their money Joseph. You took out the mortgage. It’s a legal debt. Sure you thought you had a sweetheart deal, one only the rich get. One that was just money, just a plain old fashioned loan the way it used to be. Before you and yours changed the laws to fuck the rest of us. Not figuratively, literally.”
Carla couldn’t believe this. She was not getting out of this collar. Neither was Joseph. They might not even be together for much longer. Even a middle aged man had value as a worker. She, a woman … her value was between her legs. That’s what she’d told more than a few state senators; men had money, and men wanted the slave women.
Men would pay a male slave to work, but they only paid a female one to fuck. And the way Cindy was talking, Carla couldn’t see a way even a Supreme Court Justice could find a legal argument to nullify her collar.
And those Justices had approved every piece of the Slavery acts brought before them.
“Assets are bought and sold all the time. Jeanie got bought off that rancher a few days after he settled her in on his ranch. Not before she saw more cock than a hen in the chicken coop, but she got bought. Money traded hands and she was off to a new owner. Just like your mortgage. It got bought too.”
Cindy laughed again, and her leg lashed out into Joseph’s cage a second time. Then she turned and kicked at Carla’s too. Carla tried to squeeze back, but the cage was so small. There was no room. She felt Cindy’s shoe sink into her thigh close to the hip and winced.
“Those owners properly notified you of the changes they were making. You had plenty of grace, unlike what us little people get. Jeanie was yanked in on seventy-thousand dollars in tuition and related expenses with no notice and collared that day because she didn’t have it. You had six months before the collar came looking to settle the score. Oh, didn’t you see those letters?”
Cindy smiled, turning back to Joseph’s cage. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s all a mistake. Let me help you put that out of your mind. Jeanie had a roommate at UT. It is a nationally recognized university after all, even with the barbaric bullshit that goes on in this state. Jeanie’s roommate was Emily Walker-Reis. Maybe you’ve heard of her father?”
Carla felt like everything, every single piece of her and the world, was just folding into a singularity. Into a tiny little ball of nothing with her at the center. Pushing, crushing. Holding her in place. Simon Walker-Reis was a billionaire. Some tech something or another. He had the kind of money people at the club wished for. His company had more money than most countries.
“Emily called me wondering where Jeanie was, why she wasn’t in class. When I told her, well, she went crying to daddy. Emily was pretty pissed about her friend being snapped up Joseph. But her daddy could do what mine and Jeanie’s couldn’t; he could fix things. And when Emily wanted more than just her friend back, well daddy fixed that too.”
Cindy stepped back a few feet, staring down at the two caged, collared, naked slaves watching her with wide eyes. Hands cuffed behind their backs, pressed down on their knees. Helpless to anything but just watch.
“The one thing us little people learn early and often, us poor collared peasant stock. There’s always a bigger fish. Not you though. No, you think you’re the big foot, the power, the cream of the crop. You shook your head at me when I asked you to please sort out Jeanie’s loan situation. Not because she was behind, but just because she was cute and about to be snapped up. You thought there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to stop you.
“Well Emily’s a bigger fish than you Joseph. Her father’s company is a bigger fish than the bank you helped run. Jeanie’s finishing out her last year with Emily at Yale. They transferred because they wanted to get away from here. She graduates in June. I have a job waiting for me. Eagle Equity has a fantastic benefits package for all its paid employees.”
Cindy suddenly smiled. “The slaves, not so much.” She pointed her hand at Carla and Joseph, fingers shaped into a gun that she ‘fired.’ “Gotcha.”
And she turned and started walking away. Carla felt Joseph raging against the cage next her, but Carla just stared as Cindy left the cargo handling warehouse. Her world was over. Completely over. The woman who’d apparently ended it was walking away, free and clear.
Then she saw workers walking alongside the belt, next to one of the weirdly shaped boxes.
“Alright, these two.” one of the loaders said as the big multi-compartmentalized box stopped next to him. Carla could see other slaves through little barred windows already in it. Peering out at her and Joseph curiously. “And they’re not trained, so be prepared to force compliance.”
“Right.” another worker said, drawing a shock prod from a loop on his belt before approaching the cages Carla and Joseph crouched in. Carla found she still had some tears left as they began falling again.
* * * * *
The End
Part 4 of 4
* * * * *
A woman was waiting at the edge of a square painted on the concrete in red. Next to the conveyor belt. Unlike the workers, she was dressed for the office in heels, hose, a skirt to her knees, and a pretty blouse with a broach at her collar. Young, maybe mid-twenties, a bit plain but pretty enough to turn a few heads.
Carla studied her as the forklift rolled right up to her and stopped. Then her eyes widened. Cindy! Joseph’s secretary at the bank. What was Cindy—she’d come to save them! This nightmare was ending.
The forklift reversed away, then came back and picked up Carla’s cage to set it next to Joseph’s. Then Carla heard the machine’s electric motors shut off behind her. She heard the woman driving it speak again. “These the right ones?”
“Yes, thank you.” Cindy said. She opened her purse and pulled out some money. At least one of the bills was a hundred dollar one. Cindy gave it all to the forklift driver with a smile.
“Okay, ten minutes.” the driver said. “Maybe longer, but the flight’s in the system to start loading pretty soon.”
“Don’t worry, they won’t miss it.” Cindy said.
Carla felt her stomach drop out of her abdomen, and plummet into the Earth below. Cindy was … what was she doing?
“Hello Mr and Mrs Mariner.” Cindy said, turning to the stacked cages as the forklift driver walked off.
“Are you comfortable? Not that it matters. Neither of you cared about slaves before now, did you? Except, you did, but only because of money. They had value, you wanted to take that, and so the two of you have spent years lobbying and manipulating the system to let you do exactly that. Take people.”
Carla heard Joseph trying to talk through the gag, but it was thick, and strapped on tight. She could just hear mumbles, not words. His eyes were wide, and she saw shock in them. Not anger, or sadness, but abject shock.
Cindy smiled as she moved closer to the cages, her heels clicking on the concrete. They were alone; no one else was within thirty feet, and the warehouse had airplanes outside, engines in here, stuff banging around. Just her and two slaves, who didn’t even count as people anymore.
“Wage garnishment, taking the house or the car, taking other assets … it wasn’t enough was it? No, rich people were still losing out. Some poor folks were just so poor, had fallen on such hard times, there was nothing left to squeeze out. So you and a bunch of other rich assholes decided if all that was left was the body, well you’d take that too.”
“But that wasn’t enough either. Maybe slavery’s got some societal purpose, and maybe it doesn’t, but the laws you two helped craft take it to a whole other level. You dehumanize people. Just because you can. People, even actual deadbeat debtors or felons, could be collared with some dignity, but that’d be inefficient. That wouldn’t scare anyone else. It wouldn’t put the fear of missing a payment, of committing a crime, into the rest of us would it?”
Cindy shook her head and let her fingertips bump along the thick wire on the front of the cages. From Joseph’s, to Carla’s, and back again. Smiling tightly. Drinking in their wide eyed stares. She reached into Joseph’s cage and ran her hand across the back of his shoulders and neck.
“No, the laws just had to be crafted to break people. It wasn’t enough to send a letter, tell people they should report to here or there or wherever for a collar. Even the sex, that could still be handled the way every other kind of sex is couldn’t it? Privately, behind closed doors? Not a collared naked slave on their knees in a restaurant giving head while everyone watches?
“But no, every slave has to be naked. Stripped right on the spot. Available for sucking and fucking by anyone else. Agriculture Department’s office, bank office, roadside, in a bar, wherever. Send out a cop or a slave catcher, they slap cuffs on them and tear off all their clothes on the spot. March them out in front of their coworkers, their friends, their family, anyone. Slave naked, that’s what the law calls it right? All slaves have to be naked, so that’s the term.”
Cindy stroked Joseph a few times, dragging her nails across his back. Carla could see little lines being left in his flesh; not cuts, but compression marks. Then Cindy extracted her hand and moved to Carla’s cage, reaching in to start stroking and touching her too.
“Even in court.” Cindy said. “Every court in the world has formality, laws, rituals. Decorum. Not ours, not anymore. Now even being accused of something is cause for a person to not be a person anymore. They’re a witness, or a suspect, and they lose all rights as a person. Stripped down the same as an actual felon or debtor, hauled out into the street, down to the courthouse, and made to squat there on their knees like a naked animal.”
Cindy shook her head again. Carla was wincing as she felt the woman’s fingernails now. It hurt as they were drawn across her skin. Lines of fire, digging deep through her. She tried to press herself lower, but Cindy’s hand stayed in contact.
“Why? Why is that so important? It has to happen out in public? It just has to be used to terrorize, to strip not just clothes but dignity?” Cindy said as she toyed with Carla. “Law says it does. Case law says it does. Bet you wish you’d built some actual safeguards into the system now huh? Now that it’s not just a little nobody, but your pale asses hanging out for everyone to pinch and see.”
Carla heard Joseph yelp as Carla reached into his cage with her other hand. A moment later Carla felt the secretary’s painted fingernails close on her bottom and squeeze painfully. She jumped, but managed to hold the scream in as Cindy chuckled.
“And atop all that, after all that efficient economic change, it still wasn’t enough. Third-party rule, that’s what it’s called right? You convinced the legislature it ‘wasn’t fair to buyers’ or to the slaving industry that takes their cut from each collar going through their facility to the block, to reverse a sale they thought was valid. Just because somebody tricked or trapped someone else into a collar, well that’s the slave’s problem. Can’t stop the profit right?”
Joseph was shaking his head again, trying to talk. Cindy just laughed. Carla stared at the woman. Why was Cindy so angry. But it wasn’t just anger. There was some in there, but also pleasure. No, glee. Cindy was delighted. How could she be so wantonly cruel? Carla pulled on her cuffs, but they held firm, trapping her hands behind her back. The cage was locked anyway, but at least she’d be able to try to fend Cindy off.
“Too much lost tax revenue, too messy to reverse a transaction. To investigate it the way we would with an assault or kidnapping or even a simple theft or breach of contract. Easier to just ignore it, ignore common sense or anything else. Certainly to ignore the decorum justice used to have. One big gotcha game.
“Same as how the system treats slave grading as a cruel gotcha. The laws could state grading is a simple process, if abjectly humiliating, with clear rules. They just don’t. A person could check themselves in, get a grade after being fondled and humiliated, but then leave. Nope, the whole system is built with gotchas. Doesn’t matter that a power of attorney isn’t legally required for grading. The houses, anyone, are allowed to say it is.
“What does a slave wrangler who processes dozens slaves a day in an auction house think when someone walks in for grading with someone else needlessly holding them on a leash and offering a power of attorney? They don’t think ‘well gosh, that’s not necessary.’ No, they start angling for a commission. There’s a sale to be made, and fuck the person being graded right?”
Cindy rattled Carla’s cage with her hand, pulling it so it swayed some. Next to her, Carla could hear Joseph still trying to talk. The cloth swallowed every word, reducing it to so much nothing. She thought he might be trying to plead, but it was incoherent. Barely even any emotion. Just animal noises.
“Everything about the system you’ve helped build and profit from is designed to entrap people. To support the narrative that slavery’s normal and common and not really a big deal. Someone messes up, gets maneuvered into a collar, well too bad. Court doesn’t care, wranglers don’t care, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it. The moment a collar goes on, you’re not a person anymore. Pretty neat how that removes every bit of legal standing you or anyone else might have to appeal or protest what feels like a sentence huh?”
Cindy reached into her purse and extracted some folded paper. She straightened the pages out, then shuffled them apart. Holding one up to each cage, so Joseph could see one, and Carla the other. Carla stared at it.
It was a bill of sale. From Eagle Equities to NaturaTraining of New Haven Connecticut. Listing one Caucasian female, age forty-four, height five foot six, weight … Carla’s head began to swim like she was mired in molasses as she recognized her description. Up at the top was a long number in blocks separated with hyphens, ending in 97 forty-four. That’s what the judge had been calling them, what the workers had. 97 forty-three and 97 forty-four. She must be 97 forty-four.
At the bottom was a comment block for notes. There, in neatly typed text, was ‘Purchased sight unseen.’ There were other things on the page, but some of them seemed like codes, or made no sense. What was pony evaluation? Or obedience processing? First refusal to original seller?
Next to her, Joseph was rocking the cage back and forth like he wanted to try to tear it apart. Or knock it over. Cindy was smiling again, when she lowered the pages and folded them back into her purse. Carla felt sick. The third-party rule. Whatever the hell was going on, unless NaturaTraining of New Haven was in on it, they’d just sealed her and Joseph into collars. Irrevocably.
By laws she herself had helped write and put before the legislature for passage.
Carla smiled as she reached back into the cages and began stroking the slaves. Carla would have bitten her if she’d had her teeth available. She would’ve broken the woman’s fingers if her hands were free. Instead, she had to kneel there scrunched up like a poodle in a small cage while Cindy fondled her one of her breasts like it was fun to play with.
“And then the law started looking the other way when people began cheating.” Cindy said as her fingers stroked along Carla’s boob. “Loan officer decides to change the terms, or call the loan in for no good reason, and they can. And because it’s a loan backed by a collar, suddenly someone who was just trying to go to college is naked and being cornholed. It’s only a few years, right? What’s the big deal? Everyone does it.”
Cindy was glaring at Joseph now. She kept fondling Carla as she turned and reached into his cage. Carla heard Joseph yell again as Cindy did something to him.
“Everybody in my graduating class at high school had to go get graded.” Cindy said. “What do you know about it? Born with enough money to have power, you and your wife with the ear of politicians and Congressional representatives, what do you know about what that does to someone?
“Here’s your choice kid. Go work a lifetime of minimum wage jobs, never taking a credit card, or a loan even for a car much less a house. Or trot your ass into an auction house and put up with a day or two of being groped and fondled and fucked for all to see. Hell, it’s fucking sport for a lot of folks; go down to the auction house and see the show. Hope you find someone you know, and get to play with them some while they’re just trying endure the nightmare.”
Cindy’s fingers closed around Carla’s nipple, and twisted hard. Carla yelped into the gag and felt her back press painfully into the wire above her as she tried to rear back. Tried to pull herself out of reach. Cindy’s fingers just closed tighter, working her boob back and forth by the nipple.
“Three of my classmates, all of them girls of course, were gotcha grabbed that day by a family member or the wranglers. Paperwork got mixed up or had an error, oh well. The collar stayed on, and they had to just take it. Lost years. But that’s the system, right? It’s just the way it is. The way you wanted it.”
Cindy finally let Carla’s tit go, and Carla panted into the gag as her abused flesh struggled to rebound, complaining to her about pain. She couldn’t even massage some feeling into herself after the rough handling. She wished her bug stare would work, because she wanted Cindy to feel every inch of it. The woman just kept talking as she patted Carla’s hip like they were friends.
“Then my sister, after three years with one to go on an economics degree, got snapped up by our bank Joseph.” Cindy said, her voice suddenly very, very quiet. And very, very angry. “Do you remember when I asked you to look into it? Do you remember what you said? I do. ‘There’s nothing to be done, she signed the papers.’ I will never forget how disinterested you were when you said that on the way out to lunch.”
Cindy glared at Joseph. “She was a solid B student Joseph. But Franklin down in loan processing decided she was cute and sexy and needed to be collared. Of course he had a reason. Pointed to her grades, and the job market, and said she was ‘unlikely’ to not fall into default within a few years. Jeanie would never land a top, top job that could pay the loan off fast without a 3.9 or better GPA right?”
Joseph yelled something swallowed by the gag as Cindy’s hand went into the cage low. Very low. Right about at his waist. Carla couldn’t see what she was doing, but by the way Joseph was squirming it looked painful.
“Her value to the bank would be less if she wasn’t a nubile twenty-one year old. She’d graduate, then maybe around twenty-seven, twenty-eight, might have fallen behind on her payments with a less than crème de la crème salary. Almost like the loans are designed that way huh? So she could finish her degree after she paid off her loan with three or four years of her ass.
“She was getting a gift, you said Joseph. She could face years of loan repayments, and still default anyway. Or she could take advantage of her youth, her grade that relies only on her sex appeal, and cash it in now. Well the bank sure as hell cashed her in. Franklin had himself a nice little visit with her in the office for more than an hour. Then he walked her naked over to the Agriculture Department himself to process her in for sale.”
Joseph was thrashing inside the cage again. Carla could hear it thumping against the floor. She heard Cindy laugh, and by Joseph’s gagged protests figured the woman was still doing whatever it was she’d been doing to drag such a reaction out of her husband.
“She ended up in West Texas thirty hours later, on some shitheel redneck well-to-do’s cattle farm. Primed for six nights a week in the rancher’s bed, days spent following him around slave naked like a pet. For him and the cowboys to grope and fondle and ogle. Friday nights she was going to be his performance incentive for the hands so they’d work hard to get a chance to romp with the pet fuck bunny.
“All because she was cute and had a good slave grade she didn’t want, but needed to pay for college since we didn’t grow up rich.”
Cindy straightened from her crouch and stretched her back out. Carla hated the woman more now. Her back was killing her. Carla felt like she might never be able to stand upright, she was so cramped and squished in the cage.
“The bank makes more money when loan officers look for the cute ones and plays gotcha with them. I see the reports, I run the numbers. I see everything that goes across your desk Joseph. That’s my job. Guess it’s too bad for you I wasn’t the cute one, like Jeanie. Because you route your personal business to the office too.”
Carla froze as Cindy laughed. Her mind was whirling. Joseph did all the business at the office, professional and personal. At the bank. Where Carla was his secretary. Their checking account statements went to his office. Their car title renewals went to the office. Their doctor appointment reminders went to his fucking office.
“You dump everything on me Joseph. I sign for dozens of things a day, get signatures for dozens more from you the same way. Initial here, sign that. You toss papers at me and say handle it, deal with it. Fetch this, go get that. Tell the pool cleaner more chlorine, pick up the dry cleaning. I mail the checks, run your errands. Everything.
“You left it all to me Joseph. And I never get a Christmas bonus. You scowl and make me feel guilty when I need a morning off to go to the doctor. Last year when my car broke down you threatened to fire me if I didn’t find a way to keep running all your errands anyway. I had to rent a car Joseph. I ate beans and rice in the pitch dark for three months to pay off the repair and rental bill, but I guess I found a way because you didn’t fire me.”
Cindy kicked Joseph’s cage with the sole of her shoe, making it rattle. Then she kicked again, this time getting the toe of her shoe through a hole in the wire so it impacted against his ass pressed up against the cage wall. He yelled again, the gag still swallowing every last note.
“Then I asked you for one thing. Keep my sister out of a collar. I never said a word about the other girls, and it’s always girls that somehow need to be called in on one day’s notice to settle or collar. Never guys, never male students being told it’s time to cover the loan paying for their degree or submit to a term buck ass naked for a few years of fucking and sucking. Always a girl Joseph.
“But I let it slide. Just Jeanie. Just my little sister. Do this one thing for me. But no, that wasn’t policy. That ruined the narrative you run past the board, past the other bank officers, past all those people interested in the way they want it to play out. So she became a wealthy rancher’s fuck bunny and here you are.”
Cindy smiled, her cheeks lifting without joy. Dripping with intent, with malice. “I do your signature better than you do. You make me do it for you all the time. Then I notarize it ten or fifteen times a week and file it with the court, with the SEC, with lots of people. Everything’s on file in your office, in the cabinets and on the computer. Every letter, every fax, every email, every call that’s logged; they’re all accounted for. You saw them, you received them, you returned those calls, sent those responses.
“The bank just wanted their money Joseph. You took out the mortgage. It’s a legal debt. Sure you thought you had a sweetheart deal, one only the rich get. One that was just money, just a plain old fashioned loan the way it used to be. Before you and yours changed the laws to fuck the rest of us. Not figuratively, literally.”
Carla couldn’t believe this. She was not getting out of this collar. Neither was Joseph. They might not even be together for much longer. Even a middle aged man had value as a worker. She, a woman … her value was between her legs. That’s what she’d told more than a few state senators; men had money, and men wanted the slave women.
Men would pay a male slave to work, but they only paid a female one to fuck. And the way Cindy was talking, Carla couldn’t see a way even a Supreme Court Justice could find a legal argument to nullify her collar.
And those Justices had approved every piece of the Slavery acts brought before them.
“Assets are bought and sold all the time. Jeanie got bought off that rancher a few days after he settled her in on his ranch. Not before she saw more cock than a hen in the chicken coop, but she got bought. Money traded hands and she was off to a new owner. Just like your mortgage. It got bought too.”
Cindy laughed again, and her leg lashed out into Joseph’s cage a second time. Then she turned and kicked at Carla’s too. Carla tried to squeeze back, but the cage was so small. There was no room. She felt Cindy’s shoe sink into her thigh close to the hip and winced.
“Those owners properly notified you of the changes they were making. You had plenty of grace, unlike what us little people get. Jeanie was yanked in on seventy-thousand dollars in tuition and related expenses with no notice and collared that day because she didn’t have it. You had six months before the collar came looking to settle the score. Oh, didn’t you see those letters?”
Cindy smiled, turning back to Joseph’s cage. “I know what you’re thinking. It’s all a mistake. Let me help you put that out of your mind. Jeanie had a roommate at UT. It is a nationally recognized university after all, even with the barbaric bullshit that goes on in this state. Jeanie’s roommate was Emily Walker-Reis. Maybe you’ve heard of her father?”
Carla felt like everything, every single piece of her and the world, was just folding into a singularity. Into a tiny little ball of nothing with her at the center. Pushing, crushing. Holding her in place. Simon Walker-Reis was a billionaire. Some tech something or another. He had the kind of money people at the club wished for. His company had more money than most countries.
“Emily called me wondering where Jeanie was, why she wasn’t in class. When I told her, well, she went crying to daddy. Emily was pretty pissed about her friend being snapped up Joseph. But her daddy could do what mine and Jeanie’s couldn’t; he could fix things. And when Emily wanted more than just her friend back, well daddy fixed that too.”
Cindy stepped back a few feet, staring down at the two caged, collared, naked slaves watching her with wide eyes. Hands cuffed behind their backs, pressed down on their knees. Helpless to anything but just watch.
“The one thing us little people learn early and often, us poor collared peasant stock. There’s always a bigger fish. Not you though. No, you think you’re the big foot, the power, the cream of the crop. You shook your head at me when I asked you to please sort out Jeanie’s loan situation. Not because she was behind, but just because she was cute and about to be snapped up. You thought there wasn’t a thing anyone could do to stop you.
“Well Emily’s a bigger fish than you Joseph. Her father’s company is a bigger fish than the bank you helped run. Jeanie’s finishing out her last year with Emily at Yale. They transferred because they wanted to get away from here. She graduates in June. I have a job waiting for me. Eagle Equity has a fantastic benefits package for all its paid employees.”
Cindy suddenly smiled. “The slaves, not so much.” She pointed her hand at Carla and Joseph, fingers shaped into a gun that she ‘fired.’ “Gotcha.”
And she turned and started walking away. Carla felt Joseph raging against the cage next her, but Carla just stared as Cindy left the cargo handling warehouse. Her world was over. Completely over. The woman who’d apparently ended it was walking away, free and clear.
Then she saw workers walking alongside the belt, next to one of the weirdly shaped boxes.
“Alright, these two.” one of the loaders said as the big multi-compartmentalized box stopped next to him. Carla could see other slaves through little barred windows already in it. Peering out at her and Joseph curiously. “And they’re not trained, so be prepared to force compliance.”
“Right.” another worker said, drawing a shock prod from a loop on his belt before approaching the cages Carla and Joseph crouched in. Carla found she still had some tears left as they began falling again.
* * * * *
The End
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imreadonly2
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
This was really well done, and I loved the premise of the loopholes that are used to snare the little people being used on someone who helped design the trap. It has a delicious sense of cosmic justice, and it kept my interest as I was waiting to see the reason for their enslavement.
In the real world, we almost always setup a special red carpet for the rich, so they can fly First Class or better yet, on a private jet, and avoid the struggles the rest of us have to deal with. Whether it's top notch legal talent to defend you in court, a college or "medical" deferment for the draft, or a legacy / donation to get you into that Ivy League school, there is always a fast lane that money can buy. If enslavements started hitting rich people, you know the laws would have to be changed immediately, the way the tax code is constantly changed. That being said, there are certainly man examples of justice being visited in some measure on the wealthy, and one can certainly see this happening a few times before the rules were adjusted. It's an interesting and thought provoking premise, and a great read. Thank you for sharing this with us!
In the real world, we almost always setup a special red carpet for the rich, so they can fly First Class or better yet, on a private jet, and avoid the struggles the rest of us have to deal with. Whether it's top notch legal talent to defend you in court, a college or "medical" deferment for the draft, or a legacy / donation to get you into that Ivy League school, there is always a fast lane that money can buy. If enslavements started hitting rich people, you know the laws would have to be changed immediately, the way the tax code is constantly changed. That being said, there are certainly man examples of justice being visited in some measure on the wealthy, and one can certainly see this happening a few times before the rules were adjusted. It's an interesting and thought provoking premise, and a great read. Thank you for sharing this with us!
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Well done. I liked the twist of the tables being turned on the upper class and their realization that they are being caught in the loop holes that they so often took advantage of.
I look forward to your next story.
I look forward to your next story.
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
An exploration into the world of the rationalization behind the slave trade. Very well done.
About halfway in, I realized that just a very few enslavements of people like this would lead to something new. "Slave Trusts". They'd work like insurance. Slaves aren't people anymore, but trusts are legal persons. A person could set up a trust with the purpose of protecting and caring for the former person who set the trust up...a sort of "insurance policy" against "unforeseen enslavement". The trust could purchase the former person and see to their health and maintenance. The slave would have to be naked and restrained like any other slave, but they could be confined to a large mansion that the trust owns.
Of course, this would only be available to the wealthy, most debt slaves would never accumulate enough money to fund a trust that could purchase them. And you'd better be very careful about who you appointed to become a trustee...
About halfway in, I realized that just a very few enslavements of people like this would lead to something new. "Slave Trusts". They'd work like insurance. Slaves aren't people anymore, but trusts are legal persons. A person could set up a trust with the purpose of protecting and caring for the former person who set the trust up...a sort of "insurance policy" against "unforeseen enslavement". The trust could purchase the former person and see to their health and maintenance. The slave would have to be naked and restrained like any other slave, but they could be confined to a large mansion that the trust owns.
Of course, this would only be available to the wealthy, most debt slaves would never accumulate enough money to fund a trust that could purchase them. And you'd better be very careful about who you appointed to become a trustee...
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Great story. An ending I did not see coming. Right up to the end, I felt sorry for Carla. But, we all know situations where we wish we were like Cindy, and able to get even with the Rich and Powerful. Well done.
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GypsieCowboy
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GypsieCowboy
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
well my previous comment disappeared half of what I had written and thus may not make total sense.
I am not good with high technology and find navigating this site, which I have been on for years now, very difficult. Which is why I stopped posting stories and pretty much stopped commenting. It was very difficult for me to figure out how to thank D.N. for this story and to comment on it. but I did so. because this story is Hellaciously wonderful!
~G.C.
I am not good with high technology and find navigating this site, which I have been on for years now, very difficult. Which is why I stopped posting stories and pretty much stopped commenting. It was very difficult for me to figure out how to thank D.N. for this story and to comment on it. but I did so. because this story is Hellaciously wonderful!
~G.C.
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
To everyone who likes Gotcha, I’m glad. It’s always a thrill when you write something others like, no other way to say it. So thank you.
First, except for a couple of issues I’ll get to later, I consider Southwest Shipping a top tier erotica story among those I’ve ever read El Jefe. And I look through a lot of them. If it wasn’t for the issues, it would easily be in my internal argument for the single finest piece of erotic fiction I’ve come across. Even with them, I still consider it a well written story you should be proud of.
Second, I’m a D-type. I prefer dominance. I like stories about women in bondage, submitting. I like female characters who show submission, who defer to others above them. Over the years I’ve come to realize the bondage is just dressing up submission, and it’s the submission I enjoy more than just the tying up. But a woman in chains, ropes, straps, will always get me hot. A woman bowing her head and saying “Yes Master, Yes Mistress” will always make me extremely hot if she means it, if she believe it, if she lives it.
Third, I know porn stories are just that; porn. Erotica. Written to fantasize with, to get lost in, to titillate. They’re not reality, they’re porn. I get that. I write erotica and actual porn, and I read a lot of it. It’s been one of my consistent hobbies for over thirty years; erotica. Most of what I look at is atrociously, horribly bad and gets about ten seconds of “oh, not good” and another thirty maybe of skimming to confirm “yeah, total crap,” but I do look through a lot of it. Every now and again I find something worth reading and remember why I keep looking.
Southwest Shipping was one of those.
One of the reasons I wrote Gotcha is because I stumbled across this site when I did one of my “time to Google the web looking for stuff again” sessions. I landed here because another of my interests is Ponygirls.
Side note, I am super tired of “ponygirl” stories that are just an excuse to put her in elaborate bondage and then fuck her, without any actual ponygirl activities happening. Ponygirls should be put on a lead and run, hitched to a cart and worked. Petted, praised, punished if naughty, all from whether or not if she works like a good ponygirl should.
Seriously. It would be so nice if people would stop saying they’re writing ponygirl stuff if they never actually write ponygirl material into the stories. Describing the tack, then describing her being fucked, is not a ponygirl story. End of side note.
But anyway, I landed here and found the “Slavery Universe” that has built up on this site, and over to or from other sites as well, however the case may be.
And it just bugged the shit out of me. Like a lot. So much that I had to write Gotcha to get it out of my head because it was distracting me from other work.
The concept of a slavery universe is not new. Others have been written, and others will continue to be written because it’s a key area of fantasy in BDSM erotica. What bugs me about this universe is the contributors who’ve piled into it have tried to dress slavery up like it’s normal, it’s legal, and it’s no big deal. Which has also come up in stories before, and will again.
But this universe has gone way overboard in my opinion. Most slavery universes have the decency and honesty to just admit they’re depicting a dystopia. That it’s might makes right, that it’s men (or whoever, but usually men) taking over and taking what they want, the one thing they want most, from women.
The universe here is dressed up to seem modern and civilized until you think for more than two seconds about it. The “third party rule,” the “collars can’t be judicially reviewed” rule are by far the most ridiculous additions to the universe. How does that even possibly work except as a dystopic creation. This insanity combines with the ability to “trick” people into collars with no consequences.
Branding? As a judicial punishment, sure I buy that. But in these stories, gotcha girls, women who have been tricked or trapped into collars, are branded as marketing and counting coup by the auction houses. Look, she came through our facility, now we’re going to scar her for life physically as well as in the other ways too.
That it’s legal to trick women into collars? How it’s normal, and no one’s ever punished, how she’s not released immediately with grounds to sue the auction house, handler, and whoever else involved right into the bedrock? No, she’s just stuck, and that’s funny and cool apparently.
That combination of no review, no consequences, gleeful delight in the suffering, turns this story universe into something I just cannot really accept or enjoy. Because it’s so unreal to try to contemplate any circumstances where a modern society that isn’t a regressive dystopic hellscape would let these rules come into play. Not just rules, not just guidelines; laws, as so many of the stories take more gleeful delight in pointing out.
For the record, I can see scenarios where a modern society brings back a version of slavery. Prisoners are basically slaves anyway in today’s practice, most societies just dance around it and like to try and pretend it’s not really like that even though it mostly is most of the time. Debt slavery could come back. Voluntary indenture could come back. Even sexual use of slaves could be permitted, though thinking it would be normalized in public is just more insanity.
Making slavery non-hereditary would go a long way to making it palatable to modern society; setting slavery up so it’s either a judicially approved punishment (for crime or debt) or a choice a citizen makes to submit to would also probably make it acceptable to many after they got past their initial shock at the concept.
I seriously doubt any modern society will let people be paraded around naked in public though, or fucked in public. Even the American South gave slaves clothes. So do countries in the Middle East and Africa.
But the lack of laws, common-sense laws, normal laws, access to the court system, access to review, penalties and consequences for those who abuse the system to trap people into collars … that’s where the stories stop being interesting and start making me roll my eyes right out of my skull.
I read other stories where women are kidnapped into slavery. Those stories have the decency to depict the slavers as evil dickheads, abusive and harsh. Those women can hold out hope for rescue or escape, which offers something of an outlet for the reader. You can read it marveling at what she’s going through, but also wonder or even see ways she might get out of it and have an end to her slavery.
Not in this slave universe. Here, if she escaped, she’d be hunted down, have the shit beaten and fucked out of her , and be handed back over to her owner. Who’d beat and fuck some more shit out of her. The entire country in this universe thinks slavery is no big deal.
Women just turn 18 and are like “welp, time to go get graded, and three out of ten of the girls I graduated with left the auction house naked for the next few years.” Jill doesn’t show back up in class at college and they know it’s because she was gotcha’d but they all just shrug and move on. No fathers or families or friends go looking for vengeance.
Worse, nearly every single story takes a “she likes it” tack. She’ll moan and squirm in humiliation for a few pages or paragraphs, then decide she finds it super sexy and hot to have no agency, no hope, no recourse but to stay naked on her knees fucking and sucking. Never mind that she was a professional with a college degree, now she’s just a worthless fucktoy who’s found her true calling. Twenty-four seven sexual submissive with nothing else to offer.
That really doesn’t make the story better to me. Since she was usually tricked or trapped into the collar in the first place, that just makes it worse. At least if she were fighting it, that would be believable. If she hated it, that would believable. But every woman in these stories just finds it amazing, wonders why they didn’t take a collar sooner and spend their life as a naked fucktoy.
Sexual submission is hot, but not when she’s reduced to an animalistic state without hope. That’s just inhuman. If she craves submission, that’s hot. If she can engage in it sometimes, and other times gets a “break” in the real world from being on her knees serving her dominants, that’s hot too. Total abject humiliation and dehumanization is usually just horrifying to me, not hot.
Even ponygirls aren’t reduced to that; ponygirls are praised and cherished, pampered. They’re driven and forced to work, but not savagely, heartlessly. They’re not cast aside like trash, they're rewarded for good behavior, for acting as they and you want them to.
People usually hate when you treat animals poorly, for a reason; we find it inhumane. It works this way in storytelling too; abusing innocent characters creates negative reactions in the audience.
Ponygirls are a specific kind of submission, and you still treat your submissives with care and consideration even though you also make demands of them. In my view anyway, because I don’t enjoy harsh, brutal dominance. Strict, demanding, yes at times, but not inhumane treatment.
Again, I enjoy erotica. I know it’s stories. I find being dominant over a submissive incredibly hot. But the raw nature of the “world building” I stumbled across just blew a bunch of damage into my calm that wouldn’t ease up. So I wrote Gotcha to help enhance my calm.
It also prompted me to map out my own slave universe though, one that I’m almost finished writing a very large story in. So despite all my annoyance alluded to above, that irritation has borne fruit for me. Despite how upsetting I found most of the stories, they pushed me into doing what writers do; writing some stories of my own that fix what’s bothering me, what won’t let me sleep until I get it out of my head and on the page.
The two issues I have with Southwest Shipping:
One, Natalie is an intelligent professional, who consulted a lawyer, and somehow falls right into the exact same trap every other woman in this universe does (aka, power of attorney, yippee). I despise the power of attorney gotcha most of the stories use. That she didn’t assign hers to the lawyer is very annoying; it makes Natalie stupid, not intelligent, not capable.
That one I can mostly let go since there’s mostly no story if she doesn’t go for the ride. But it does interfere with being able to enjoy most of the story. I have to keep telling myself “pretend she really is that stupid” which takes some of the fun out of it for me.
The second issue though, completely ruined my ability to enjoy almost anything about the wrap up. The whole wrap up of the story is my second issue.
Natalie's repossessed by the authorities for the investigation, okay fine. She has to fuck and suck and humiliate while in jail, less fine but that’s the society so whatever. But Will is clothed in court, not naked and collared. Yet Miranda and Kate are bare assed on their knees. All before any of them were convicted.
You’re not the only author (and you I consider an author) in this universe who’s done that. You’re just the only contributor who actually wrote a good story along with doing it. That a women is accused of something but is immediately, prior to conviction, stripped and collared and paraded around, while men still have due process, is just very questionable. But moving on.
Then, still part of my second part, after things are “cleared up,” Natalie is not immediately released to Will, her owner (or the designated person representing her owner, Southwest Shipping). Instead, she’s held in court for some more fucking and sucking, for days, and finally paraded out in front of the nation for a highly publicized penalty being issued to a highly public socialite rich girl who’s fallen hard from grace while committing actual crimes.
Miranda being convicted and branded, perfect sense. A rare example of actual consequences in the slave universe here. Of course she’s a woman, so it’s super hot to have her face pornographic consequences. More importantly, it’s enjoyable for Miranda to be humiliated, restrained, beaten, branded, all of it, because she deserves it. Unlike most collared characters in these stories, Miranda is an evil piece of shit who deserves comeuppance. Her fate was enjoyable because of it.
Natalie being tricked into thinking she’s about to be branded, not cool, no sense. Natalie being forced to be on camera, part of every news story, shown as if she’s about to be branded before (psyche) she just gets a front row seat for Miranda’s branding, not cool, absolutely zero sense.
Natalie was found to be innocent of everything that was going on in the case. Yet she’s held in custody, not returned to her owner immediately. She’s threatened and abused even after that point in the legal process. Everyone who watches the news, every ex-classmate, colleague, friends, her parents, everyone who knows her name and recognizes it in the headlines, will get to watch her being bent over, buck naked, receiving and performing cunnilingus, live in front of the entire nation when she did nothing wrong and committed no crime.
Just to hang on to her for the story’s twist. And because the site here focuses on humiliation.
Not enjoyable, not deserved. Feels like a punishment. Feels like several bridges far too far. Innocent characters being punished rarely feels enjoyable, and Natalie is an innocent character throughout. Like most collared characters in the slavery universe here. If I accept that she’s dumb enough to be trapped in a collar, that just makes her more innocent, and makes the ending that much worse accordingly.
The writing was good, but I feel like you gave into the trap of the world other contributors have built to play a little gotcha game. It really hurts me to have to say it, because again, I look through a lot of erotica, and SWS is one of the best I’ve found. So much of it is solidly good until it just skews some.
Also, I saw a little mention I think a lot of readers probably skipped over and didn’t think much about. I think it was your attempt to maybe try to normalize slavery for women in the universe, but I wonder if you thought it out? You mention “widowmaker” and how that’s why it’s 4:1 women to men.
I’m not so sure that would mean female slaves retain value. Or that women would need to collar to be attractive to men. I think the reality of that gender disparity would make the society matriarchal, and very probably result in heavy pushback from women against men turning their country into a dystopia. Or, rather, with slavery, the dystopia that would result would be male slaves being valued, since most women can’t find a man (or a dick) when they want one. And most men, rather than most women, would live in fear of the collar.
Regarding your comment about Slave Trusts … sure, a logical extension. The main in-universe issue with it is how an owner would have to want to sell the slave back. I can easily see scenarios where an abolitionist group (for example, but it could be anyone) runs around tricking and trapping rich people, abusers, corrupt judges and cops, into collars and then purposefully refuses to sell.
Most people would sell, because most people are greedy and usually have a price. But it is possible, especially for a story purpose, for someone to have gone after a specific person, and then hang on to them no matter what’s offered. Axe to grind, etc.
The objection I have about Trusts as a reader is it again removes any sense of justice or “deserves it” from the stories. One more world building tool to make sure only stupid, poor, defenseless characters get caught up in a collar with no hope to get out. With Trusts in place, some “stupid” rich girl just gets bought back and she goes on with her life. The poor, as you note, wouldn’t have that option.
It already occurred to me, before your comment, before I even wrote Gotcha, how the universe here literally makes any crime basically only a couple of days in jail stripped and fucking (and in Texas, branded) for any rich person. Literally, not figuratively. Whatever they do, as long as they have family, a friend, or a lawyer with access to prepared funds (like a Trust, to use your description), when the gavel falls they’re bought and move on with their life.
No prison, no punishment. They just go back to living large at home; it only costs them money. Maybe they end up going for four, six, ten times what a normal slave in their position would go for, but if they’re rich enough, what do they care? Several million, even several tens of millions, for the right to commit murder, fraud, whatever? Might as well be a license to do it at will.
They can even have a second lawyer, again properly funded, who oversees the others to ensure the deal is kept. And apply consequences should those people try to take advantage of the criminal’s lack of legal standing to object if they break the deal and don’t buy them back.
One more way this slave universe is incredibly dystopian. I don’t really see how the universe doesn’t devolve to a feudal state. It’s just that the contributors seem to want to focus on the “early days” when it’s still supposedly genteel and happy rather than realistic and harsh.
Anyway, as you can see, the world building that’s gone into the stories here just bothers me. But it led me to some interesting storytelling of my own so I think it worked out in the end. And it gave me Southwest Shipping, which while uncomfortable to read at times still has its moments.
Your praise for Gotcha means a lot to me, because I have thought a lot about Southwest Shipping. I hope the fact that I voiced issues with SWS doesn't result in you hating me.
I need to point a few things out up front, because of what I want to say later.
First, except for a couple of issues I’ll get to later, I consider Southwest Shipping a top tier erotica story among those I’ve ever read El Jefe. And I look through a lot of them. If it wasn’t for the issues, it would easily be in my internal argument for the single finest piece of erotic fiction I’ve come across. Even with them, I still consider it a well written story you should be proud of.
Second, I’m a D-type. I prefer dominance. I like stories about women in bondage, submitting. I like female characters who show submission, who defer to others above them. Over the years I’ve come to realize the bondage is just dressing up submission, and it’s the submission I enjoy more than just the tying up. But a woman in chains, ropes, straps, will always get me hot. A woman bowing her head and saying “Yes Master, Yes Mistress” will always make me extremely hot if she means it, if she believe it, if she lives it.
Third, I know porn stories are just that; porn. Erotica. Written to fantasize with, to get lost in, to titillate. They’re not reality, they’re porn. I get that. I write erotica and actual porn, and I read a lot of it. It’s been one of my consistent hobbies for over thirty years; erotica. Most of what I look at is atrociously, horribly bad and gets about ten seconds of “oh, not good” and another thirty maybe of skimming to confirm “yeah, total crap,” but I do look through a lot of it. Every now and again I find something worth reading and remember why I keep looking.
Southwest Shipping was one of those.
One of the reasons I wrote Gotcha is because I stumbled across this site when I did one of my “time to Google the web looking for stuff again” sessions. I landed here because another of my interests is Ponygirls.
Side note, I am super tired of “ponygirl” stories that are just an excuse to put her in elaborate bondage and then fuck her, without any actual ponygirl activities happening. Ponygirls should be put on a lead and run, hitched to a cart and worked. Petted, praised, punished if naughty, all from whether or not if she works like a good ponygirl should.
Seriously. It would be so nice if people would stop saying they’re writing ponygirl stuff if they never actually write ponygirl material into the stories. Describing the tack, then describing her being fucked, is not a ponygirl story. End of side note.
But anyway, I landed here and found the “Slavery Universe” that has built up on this site, and over to or from other sites as well, however the case may be.
And it just bugged the shit out of me. Like a lot. So much that I had to write Gotcha to get it out of my head because it was distracting me from other work.
The concept of a slavery universe is not new. Others have been written, and others will continue to be written because it’s a key area of fantasy in BDSM erotica. What bugs me about this universe is the contributors who’ve piled into it have tried to dress slavery up like it’s normal, it’s legal, and it’s no big deal. Which has also come up in stories before, and will again.
But this universe has gone way overboard in my opinion. Most slavery universes have the decency and honesty to just admit they’re depicting a dystopia. That it’s might makes right, that it’s men (or whoever, but usually men) taking over and taking what they want, the one thing they want most, from women.
The universe here is dressed up to seem modern and civilized until you think for more than two seconds about it. The “third party rule,” the “collars can’t be judicially reviewed” rule are by far the most ridiculous additions to the universe. How does that even possibly work except as a dystopic creation. This insanity combines with the ability to “trick” people into collars with no consequences.
Branding? As a judicial punishment, sure I buy that. But in these stories, gotcha girls, women who have been tricked or trapped into collars, are branded as marketing and counting coup by the auction houses. Look, she came through our facility, now we’re going to scar her for life physically as well as in the other ways too.
That it’s legal to trick women into collars? How it’s normal, and no one’s ever punished, how she’s not released immediately with grounds to sue the auction house, handler, and whoever else involved right into the bedrock? No, she’s just stuck, and that’s funny and cool apparently.
That combination of no review, no consequences, gleeful delight in the suffering, turns this story universe into something I just cannot really accept or enjoy. Because it’s so unreal to try to contemplate any circumstances where a modern society that isn’t a regressive dystopic hellscape would let these rules come into play. Not just rules, not just guidelines; laws, as so many of the stories take more gleeful delight in pointing out.
For the record, I can see scenarios where a modern society brings back a version of slavery. Prisoners are basically slaves anyway in today’s practice, most societies just dance around it and like to try and pretend it’s not really like that even though it mostly is most of the time. Debt slavery could come back. Voluntary indenture could come back. Even sexual use of slaves could be permitted, though thinking it would be normalized in public is just more insanity.
Making slavery non-hereditary would go a long way to making it palatable to modern society; setting slavery up so it’s either a judicially approved punishment (for crime or debt) or a choice a citizen makes to submit to would also probably make it acceptable to many after they got past their initial shock at the concept.
I seriously doubt any modern society will let people be paraded around naked in public though, or fucked in public. Even the American South gave slaves clothes. So do countries in the Middle East and Africa.
But the lack of laws, common-sense laws, normal laws, access to the court system, access to review, penalties and consequences for those who abuse the system to trap people into collars … that’s where the stories stop being interesting and start making me roll my eyes right out of my skull.
I read other stories where women are kidnapped into slavery. Those stories have the decency to depict the slavers as evil dickheads, abusive and harsh. Those women can hold out hope for rescue or escape, which offers something of an outlet for the reader. You can read it marveling at what she’s going through, but also wonder or even see ways she might get out of it and have an end to her slavery.
Not in this slave universe. Here, if she escaped, she’d be hunted down, have the shit beaten and fucked out of her , and be handed back over to her owner. Who’d beat and fuck some more shit out of her. The entire country in this universe thinks slavery is no big deal.
Women just turn 18 and are like “welp, time to go get graded, and three out of ten of the girls I graduated with left the auction house naked for the next few years.” Jill doesn’t show back up in class at college and they know it’s because she was gotcha’d but they all just shrug and move on. No fathers or families or friends go looking for vengeance.
Worse, nearly every single story takes a “she likes it” tack. She’ll moan and squirm in humiliation for a few pages or paragraphs, then decide she finds it super sexy and hot to have no agency, no hope, no recourse but to stay naked on her knees fucking and sucking. Never mind that she was a professional with a college degree, now she’s just a worthless fucktoy who’s found her true calling. Twenty-four seven sexual submissive with nothing else to offer.
That really doesn’t make the story better to me. Since she was usually tricked or trapped into the collar in the first place, that just makes it worse. At least if she were fighting it, that would be believable. If she hated it, that would believable. But every woman in these stories just finds it amazing, wonders why they didn’t take a collar sooner and spend their life as a naked fucktoy.
Sexual submission is hot, but not when she’s reduced to an animalistic state without hope. That’s just inhuman. If she craves submission, that’s hot. If she can engage in it sometimes, and other times gets a “break” in the real world from being on her knees serving her dominants, that’s hot too. Total abject humiliation and dehumanization is usually just horrifying to me, not hot.
Even ponygirls aren’t reduced to that; ponygirls are praised and cherished, pampered. They’re driven and forced to work, but not savagely, heartlessly. They’re not cast aside like trash, they're rewarded for good behavior, for acting as they and you want them to.
People usually hate when you treat animals poorly, for a reason; we find it inhumane. It works this way in storytelling too; abusing innocent characters creates negative reactions in the audience.
Ponygirls are a specific kind of submission, and you still treat your submissives with care and consideration even though you also make demands of them. In my view anyway, because I don’t enjoy harsh, brutal dominance. Strict, demanding, yes at times, but not inhumane treatment.
Again, I enjoy erotica. I know it’s stories. I find being dominant over a submissive incredibly hot. But the raw nature of the “world building” I stumbled across just blew a bunch of damage into my calm that wouldn’t ease up. So I wrote Gotcha to help enhance my calm.
It also prompted me to map out my own slave universe though, one that I’m almost finished writing a very large story in. So despite all my annoyance alluded to above, that irritation has borne fruit for me. Despite how upsetting I found most of the stories, they pushed me into doing what writers do; writing some stories of my own that fix what’s bothering me, what won’t let me sleep until I get it out of my head and on the page.
The two issues I have with Southwest Shipping:
One, Natalie is an intelligent professional, who consulted a lawyer, and somehow falls right into the exact same trap every other woman in this universe does (aka, power of attorney, yippee). I despise the power of attorney gotcha most of the stories use. That she didn’t assign hers to the lawyer is very annoying; it makes Natalie stupid, not intelligent, not capable.
That one I can mostly let go since there’s mostly no story if she doesn’t go for the ride. But it does interfere with being able to enjoy most of the story. I have to keep telling myself “pretend she really is that stupid” which takes some of the fun out of it for me.
The second issue though, completely ruined my ability to enjoy almost anything about the wrap up. The whole wrap up of the story is my second issue.
Natalie's repossessed by the authorities for the investigation, okay fine. She has to fuck and suck and humiliate while in jail, less fine but that’s the society so whatever. But Will is clothed in court, not naked and collared. Yet Miranda and Kate are bare assed on their knees. All before any of them were convicted.
You’re not the only author (and you I consider an author) in this universe who’s done that. You’re just the only contributor who actually wrote a good story along with doing it. That a women is accused of something but is immediately, prior to conviction, stripped and collared and paraded around, while men still have due process, is just very questionable. But moving on.
Then, still part of my second part, after things are “cleared up,” Natalie is not immediately released to Will, her owner (or the designated person representing her owner, Southwest Shipping). Instead, she’s held in court for some more fucking and sucking, for days, and finally paraded out in front of the nation for a highly publicized penalty being issued to a highly public socialite rich girl who’s fallen hard from grace while committing actual crimes.
Miranda being convicted and branded, perfect sense. A rare example of actual consequences in the slave universe here. Of course she’s a woman, so it’s super hot to have her face pornographic consequences. More importantly, it’s enjoyable for Miranda to be humiliated, restrained, beaten, branded, all of it, because she deserves it. Unlike most collared characters in these stories, Miranda is an evil piece of shit who deserves comeuppance. Her fate was enjoyable because of it.
Natalie being tricked into thinking she’s about to be branded, not cool, no sense. Natalie being forced to be on camera, part of every news story, shown as if she’s about to be branded before (psyche) she just gets a front row seat for Miranda’s branding, not cool, absolutely zero sense.
Natalie was found to be innocent of everything that was going on in the case. Yet she’s held in custody, not returned to her owner immediately. She’s threatened and abused even after that point in the legal process. Everyone who watches the news, every ex-classmate, colleague, friends, her parents, everyone who knows her name and recognizes it in the headlines, will get to watch her being bent over, buck naked, receiving and performing cunnilingus, live in front of the entire nation when she did nothing wrong and committed no crime.
Just to hang on to her for the story’s twist. And because the site here focuses on humiliation.
Not enjoyable, not deserved. Feels like a punishment. Feels like several bridges far too far. Innocent characters being punished rarely feels enjoyable, and Natalie is an innocent character throughout. Like most collared characters in the slavery universe here. If I accept that she’s dumb enough to be trapped in a collar, that just makes her more innocent, and makes the ending that much worse accordingly.
The writing was good, but I feel like you gave into the trap of the world other contributors have built to play a little gotcha game. It really hurts me to have to say it, because again, I look through a lot of erotica, and SWS is one of the best I’ve found. So much of it is solidly good until it just skews some.
Also, I saw a little mention I think a lot of readers probably skipped over and didn’t think much about. I think it was your attempt to maybe try to normalize slavery for women in the universe, but I wonder if you thought it out? You mention “widowmaker” and how that’s why it’s 4:1 women to men.
I’m not so sure that would mean female slaves retain value. Or that women would need to collar to be attractive to men. I think the reality of that gender disparity would make the society matriarchal, and very probably result in heavy pushback from women against men turning their country into a dystopia. Or, rather, with slavery, the dystopia that would result would be male slaves being valued, since most women can’t find a man (or a dick) when they want one. And most men, rather than most women, would live in fear of the collar.
Regarding your comment about Slave Trusts … sure, a logical extension. The main in-universe issue with it is how an owner would have to want to sell the slave back. I can easily see scenarios where an abolitionist group (for example, but it could be anyone) runs around tricking and trapping rich people, abusers, corrupt judges and cops, into collars and then purposefully refuses to sell.
Most people would sell, because most people are greedy and usually have a price. But it is possible, especially for a story purpose, for someone to have gone after a specific person, and then hang on to them no matter what’s offered. Axe to grind, etc.
The objection I have about Trusts as a reader is it again removes any sense of justice or “deserves it” from the stories. One more world building tool to make sure only stupid, poor, defenseless characters get caught up in a collar with no hope to get out. With Trusts in place, some “stupid” rich girl just gets bought back and she goes on with her life. The poor, as you note, wouldn’t have that option.
It already occurred to me, before your comment, before I even wrote Gotcha, how the universe here literally makes any crime basically only a couple of days in jail stripped and fucking (and in Texas, branded) for any rich person. Literally, not figuratively. Whatever they do, as long as they have family, a friend, or a lawyer with access to prepared funds (like a Trust, to use your description), when the gavel falls they’re bought and move on with their life.
No prison, no punishment. They just go back to living large at home; it only costs them money. Maybe they end up going for four, six, ten times what a normal slave in their position would go for, but if they’re rich enough, what do they care? Several million, even several tens of millions, for the right to commit murder, fraud, whatever? Might as well be a license to do it at will.
They can even have a second lawyer, again properly funded, who oversees the others to ensure the deal is kept. And apply consequences should those people try to take advantage of the criminal’s lack of legal standing to object if they break the deal and don’t buy them back.
One more way this slave universe is incredibly dystopian. I don’t really see how the universe doesn’t devolve to a feudal state. It’s just that the contributors seem to want to focus on the “early days” when it’s still supposedly genteel and happy rather than realistic and harsh.
Anyway, as you can see, the world building that’s gone into the stories here just bothers me. But it led me to some interesting storytelling of my own so I think it worked out in the end. And it gave me Southwest Shipping, which while uncomfortable to read at times still has its moments.
Your praise for Gotcha means a lot to me, because I have thought a lot about Southwest Shipping. I hope the fact that I voiced issues with SWS doesn't result in you hating me.
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Well, to start, I don't have a problem with any of that. It's not the perfect story, it's just as good as a story as I could write at that time of my life.
I had started to write a very different story and made some fairly radical plot changes halfway through. I'm satisfied with the way it worked out.
Note that Will wasn't Natlie's owner, Miranda was. Legally, Southwest Shipping sold Natalie to Miranda while Will was a criminal suspect in the Harris County Jail. So, Harris County had custody of Miranda's property.
That's half a dodge, Will was certainly in on Miranda's punishment. By then he was quite aware that Natalie had found her inner submissive and thought she would appreciate having a "front row seat" to the denouement. He guessed right, but it wasn't hard to figure out. She'd already insisted on finishing the "labors", so what was a little mindfuck? By then she was "all in" with her new life as part owner of a slaving business by day and FINO by night. A lot of the story is about how Natalie comes to accept that she is a slave, no matter how she got there. And if her owner wanted to use her for a elaborate set piece, a cruel joke against the woman who wronged them both, that is just something slave-Natalie would have to accept. It might not have worked, but it did.
Why was Will clothed in court? Because he was no longer the subject of a criminal investigation. He went straight from the hospital in Montgomery County (the closest one to Southwest Shipping) to the Montgomery County Jail. The next morning he was transferred to the Harris County Jail, and spent a long day there, naked with a green collar. I presume he was released sometime the day after that, when DA Anderson figured out what was really going on. I'm sure she thought about going over to the Four Seasons and popping Miranda right then and there but decided to lure her to the courthouse and take her into custody there. There was likely an undercover officer at the Four Seasons, keeping tabs on Miranda lest she make a break for the airport.
Prior to conviction, it's nude and in a green collar, no sexual use allowed. That's for free people. Slaves are just property and can be "exercised" as the County sees fit. Natalie wasn't "innocent" or "guilty", she was "slave". She couldn't be released directly to Will until the terms of Miranda's conviction were final; up until that moment she was still Miranda's property. At the first court appearance, Kate was in a green collar and hadn't been used sexually yet, although she was well down the path of making a plea deal.
Kate and Miranda were nude and collared prior to the second court appearance. Both were subject to jail discipline as criminal suspects, recall that Miranda got her ass beat for breaking courtroom decorum. After the second court appearance, they were convicted slaves, subject to use like any other.
As for Natalie during Miranda's branding, she cares much less that her parents see her on TV, naked and branded, than she does about whether she will get a circle-star brand of her own. And she doesn't get one, that would be a bridge too far. Ten seconds after it happened, she realizes that it was all just a mind fuck, and a good one at that. And she'll always have the memory of Miranda licking her ass. For all we know, there was an announcement made to the crowd (and on TV) that this was all staged as Miranda's crime was directed as much against Natalie as it was against Will. That won't help Natalie in Boston society, but as mentioned above, she's already moved past that.
Regarding the Widowmaker...having the numbers doesn't necessarily mean you have the power. As I mentioned, in the Ottoman world (and in the Barbary states), women outnumbered men...but only because there was constant importation of slaves, and female slaves were more prized than male, the exact opposite of chattel slavery in the US and the rest of the New World. After the war and the plague, why would women allow that?
They wouldn't. This is a matter of elite women conspiring with elite men to keep the lower classes from getting what's theirs. Elite women don't have to worry about being trapped in debt slavery, sucking and fucking to pay off their debts, it's "everyone else". Nobody wants to enslave men, since they're already in short supply. Men "catch a break", since they already have what everyone else wants, and can leverage it for preferential treatment. A man can still end up in a collar if he screws up badly enough, but it takes some doing. And women often set each other up for a fall, since that means less competition for the few eligible males. It isn't a happy world...unless you're a man, an upper-class woman, or very submissive (and lucky).
One thing I considered including but didn't was foreign female slaves. As much as it sucks to be an American slave, it's so much worse if you're from a country that lost the war.
I had started to write a very different story and made some fairly radical plot changes halfway through. I'm satisfied with the way it worked out.
Note that Will wasn't Natlie's owner, Miranda was. Legally, Southwest Shipping sold Natalie to Miranda while Will was a criminal suspect in the Harris County Jail. So, Harris County had custody of Miranda's property.
That's half a dodge, Will was certainly in on Miranda's punishment. By then he was quite aware that Natalie had found her inner submissive and thought she would appreciate having a "front row seat" to the denouement. He guessed right, but it wasn't hard to figure out. She'd already insisted on finishing the "labors", so what was a little mindfuck? By then she was "all in" with her new life as part owner of a slaving business by day and FINO by night. A lot of the story is about how Natalie comes to accept that she is a slave, no matter how she got there. And if her owner wanted to use her for a elaborate set piece, a cruel joke against the woman who wronged them both, that is just something slave-Natalie would have to accept. It might not have worked, but it did.
Why was Will clothed in court? Because he was no longer the subject of a criminal investigation. He went straight from the hospital in Montgomery County (the closest one to Southwest Shipping) to the Montgomery County Jail. The next morning he was transferred to the Harris County Jail, and spent a long day there, naked with a green collar. I presume he was released sometime the day after that, when DA Anderson figured out what was really going on. I'm sure she thought about going over to the Four Seasons and popping Miranda right then and there but decided to lure her to the courthouse and take her into custody there. There was likely an undercover officer at the Four Seasons, keeping tabs on Miranda lest she make a break for the airport.
Prior to conviction, it's nude and in a green collar, no sexual use allowed. That's for free people. Slaves are just property and can be "exercised" as the County sees fit. Natalie wasn't "innocent" or "guilty", she was "slave". She couldn't be released directly to Will until the terms of Miranda's conviction were final; up until that moment she was still Miranda's property. At the first court appearance, Kate was in a green collar and hadn't been used sexually yet, although she was well down the path of making a plea deal.
Kate and Miranda were nude and collared prior to the second court appearance. Both were subject to jail discipline as criminal suspects, recall that Miranda got her ass beat for breaking courtroom decorum. After the second court appearance, they were convicted slaves, subject to use like any other.
As for Natalie during Miranda's branding, she cares much less that her parents see her on TV, naked and branded, than she does about whether she will get a circle-star brand of her own. And she doesn't get one, that would be a bridge too far. Ten seconds after it happened, she realizes that it was all just a mind fuck, and a good one at that. And she'll always have the memory of Miranda licking her ass. For all we know, there was an announcement made to the crowd (and on TV) that this was all staged as Miranda's crime was directed as much against Natalie as it was against Will. That won't help Natalie in Boston society, but as mentioned above, she's already moved past that.
Regarding the Widowmaker...having the numbers doesn't necessarily mean you have the power. As I mentioned, in the Ottoman world (and in the Barbary states), women outnumbered men...but only because there was constant importation of slaves, and female slaves were more prized than male, the exact opposite of chattel slavery in the US and the rest of the New World. After the war and the plague, why would women allow that?
They wouldn't. This is a matter of elite women conspiring with elite men to keep the lower classes from getting what's theirs. Elite women don't have to worry about being trapped in debt slavery, sucking and fucking to pay off their debts, it's "everyone else". Nobody wants to enslave men, since they're already in short supply. Men "catch a break", since they already have what everyone else wants, and can leverage it for preferential treatment. A man can still end up in a collar if he screws up badly enough, but it takes some doing. And women often set each other up for a fall, since that means less competition for the few eligible males. It isn't a happy world...unless you're a man, an upper-class woman, or very submissive (and lucky).
One thing I considered including but didn't was foreign female slaves. As much as it sucks to be an American slave, it's so much worse if you're from a country that lost the war.
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
Wow!
So... look at all of us arguing philosophy!
I came here to read a new story and got a lecture. Also, an extremely critical dissection of what’s been happening around here. It’s all good stuff in my opinion because that’s what good writers are supposed to do – critique each other. I would love to join in, but first I want D. Night to know that I thought his story was really good… and so is his critique of our fun little legal slavery universe. D. Night, the vast majority of your comments are entirely on point, but you’ve missed a very BIG point, which is “porn logic”. This universe operates on porn logic which, as we all know, is entirely illogical, immoral, and filthy. So there’s that.
I have had a number of long discussions regarding most of the points you’re raised here with several of the other writers on the site. I’ve even taken many of the positions you have. So I’m not actually arguing against you, merely pointing out that good fantasy stories require willing suspension of disbelief on the part of the reader. So yes, we all know that this is an inherently dystopian universe. But sometimes dystopias make the best settings for really compelling stories.
One other thing before I address a few selected points you made. Everyone approaches the legal slavery milieu in a different way. Sometimes we set up different rules in different stories in order to have different effects. Sometimes those differences can be explained away by changing jurisdiction. For example, Oklahoma is going to have different enslavement laws from Texas. It just does. That’s real-world stuff. If you want to do something different from previously established canon, simply change the jurisdiction.
For example, in Gentleman Mariner’s “Westbound”, all the slaves are required to have one day per week when they can be visited by friends and family. Is that Canon? Is that the rule? Have we seen it happen in ONE other story? Nobody cares, it’s the rule in that story by that author. He put it there for a reason. Accept it and move on. In two of Avicia’s stories, her main character is unjustly enslaved and, after a period in the collar, things are sorted out. Why? Because it made for a better story. Read her stories, she's really good.
D. Night, you seem to have glommed onto the things you hate about certain stories and decided that they are universal, which is not true. My stories differ from the other writers around here in a lot of ways, and that’s fine. I follow the main in-universe rules and make up whatever I want outside of that. It’s fun and I’m having a good time. I would be pleased if you read my stories, enjoyed them, and then wrote all kinds of critical commentary about how much you hate me for writing them. It will be fun.
Zee!
So... look at all of us arguing philosophy!
I came here to read a new story and got a lecture. Also, an extremely critical dissection of what’s been happening around here. It’s all good stuff in my opinion because that’s what good writers are supposed to do – critique each other. I would love to join in, but first I want D. Night to know that I thought his story was really good… and so is his critique of our fun little legal slavery universe. D. Night, the vast majority of your comments are entirely on point, but you’ve missed a very BIG point, which is “porn logic”. This universe operates on porn logic which, as we all know, is entirely illogical, immoral, and filthy. So there’s that.
I have had a number of long discussions regarding most of the points you’re raised here with several of the other writers on the site. I’ve even taken many of the positions you have. So I’m not actually arguing against you, merely pointing out that good fantasy stories require willing suspension of disbelief on the part of the reader. So yes, we all know that this is an inherently dystopian universe. But sometimes dystopias make the best settings for really compelling stories.
One other thing before I address a few selected points you made. Everyone approaches the legal slavery milieu in a different way. Sometimes we set up different rules in different stories in order to have different effects. Sometimes those differences can be explained away by changing jurisdiction. For example, Oklahoma is going to have different enslavement laws from Texas. It just does. That’s real-world stuff. If you want to do something different from previously established canon, simply change the jurisdiction.
For example, in Gentleman Mariner’s “Westbound”, all the slaves are required to have one day per week when they can be visited by friends and family. Is that Canon? Is that the rule? Have we seen it happen in ONE other story? Nobody cares, it’s the rule in that story by that author. He put it there for a reason. Accept it and move on. In two of Avicia’s stories, her main character is unjustly enslaved and, after a period in the collar, things are sorted out. Why? Because it made for a better story. Read her stories, she's really good.
D. Night, you seem to have glommed onto the things you hate about certain stories and decided that they are universal, which is not true. My stories differ from the other writers around here in a lot of ways, and that’s fine. I follow the main in-universe rules and make up whatever I want outside of that. It’s fun and I’m having a good time. I would be pleased if you read my stories, enjoyed them, and then wrote all kinds of critical commentary about how much you hate me for writing them. It will be fun.
Zee!
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
I saw this trust idea this in "Dark Erotic Fiction' multiauthor series.ElJefe wrote: ↑Fri Feb 24, 2023 1:50 pm An exploration into the world of the rationalization behind the slave trade. Very well done.
About halfway in, I realized that just a very few enslavements of people like this would lead to something new. "Slave Trusts". They'd work like insurance. Slaves aren't people anymore, but trusts are legal persons. A person could set up a trust with the purpose of protecting and caring for the former person who set the trust up...a sort of "insurance policy" against "unforeseen enslavement". The trust could purchase the former person and see to their health and maintenance. The slave would have to be naked and restrained like any other slave, but they could be confined to a large mansion that the trust owns.
Of course, this would only be available to the wealthy, most debt slaves would never accumulate enough money to fund a trust that could purchase them. And you'd better be very careful about who you appointed to become a trustee...
(original blog is now offline, some authors used darkeroticfiction.wordpress.com or for-pay websites).
It usually worked here. Usually. Trust slave could be under any conditions specified by trust (including suck cocks in Suck Bar). DEF setting also have another alternative - asset slave of company (rights and limitation are defined by asset contract and could be in favor of slave. This is mostly used for important employes. It's also usually but not always works).
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Lensman2000
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Re: Gotcha by D.Night
I am drawn to stories of power imbalance, Stockholm Syndrome and the surreal and Kafkaesque world many characters endure in the stories I've found here. I do agree, however, with your assessment of the dystopian world normalized in most fiction on this site. The comeuppance meted out to this callus, entitled pair has many readers cheering. But, it takes a more socially powerful billionaire to take them down and bring this small measure of justice. It's business as usual. So it goes.
I hope other contributors here will branch out to variations of institutionalized humiliation, consensual or non-consensual BDSM, submissive grooming, etc. There is a world of possibilities - just in fiction, of course.
I hope other contributors here will branch out to variations of institutionalized humiliation, consensual or non-consensual BDSM, submissive grooming, etc. There is a world of possibilities - just in fiction, of course.
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